University of Virginia Library

To Mr ---

To you, dear Youth, did Sylvius oft complain,
I took delight to tell you all my pain.
I did a Melancholy Pleasure feel,
Breathing the Thoughts of my bewitching ill.
But now, my Muse no more such suff'rings Sings,
My flowing Sorrows damp her Flagging Wings.
Her Tow'ring flight oft Lov'd Amasia bore,
But ah! That Lovely Fair must now be Sung no more
Gods! Let the Happy, who your Blessings know,
Adore your Pow'r, to keep them ever so.
O with what Justice may the Wretch repine!
Amasia's Dead! She's Dead! and dy'd not mine!
Yet do I live, and the Earth's surface Tread?
Meanly survive, when dear Amasia's Dead!
God's! Can I say she dy'd—can I believe
She was not born, that she might ever live!
Eccho my Plaints, ye Groves, and Vales around,
Let the Word Death from all the Hills rebound,
That I, at last, may Credit the repeated sound.
From hollow Rocks, in Murmurs be it made,
For nought, but hardest Rocks, should speak Amasia Dead.
With Sickly Voice, let fainting Ecchoes try
But to reflect Amasia's Name, and die.
Let each return in so much softness break,
As if the very Ecchoes fear'd to speak.
As if they dreaded, least some place might hear,
That would send back the sound, to be repeated there.
Ah! Grieve, dear Youth, think on your Sylvius woe,
Mourn, Mourn, my Friend, if you are truly so.
I ask you not to share in what I feel,
Oh! no—I would be greatly Wretched, and engross my ill.
But bear your part, upon a Friendly score,
To make the mighty Pomp of Sorrow more.
Let meaner Souls in sighs, and Tears complain,
And, with their fond indulgence, soften pain.
Whilst I, with lofty Pride, my suff'rings bear,
And with a sort of Joy, pursue Despair.
What off'rings, Gods! Should at her Shrine be paid.
Had the dear, fatal Charmer dy'd a Maid!
But ah! For Gold she gave up all her Charms,
And, meanly sold, fled to my Rival's Arms.
Hymen incens'd, far off took speedy flight,
Death, with his Torches, did her Nuptials Light.
Oh! Had she liv'd, I might some Blessings know,
I should be Happy still, if she were so.
Her, in my Rival's Arms I could adore,
With Flames as Sacred, as I felt before,
Love her as much, and let her know it more.
But now what satisfaction can there be?
Nought but Despair is left, for Wretched me;
Death is a Rival, more unkind than he.
You kept (False Muse) Amasia in my view,
Thy Fairy Pleasures I'll no more pursue,
To fancy'd Dreams of Happy Loves—Adieu.
All that I hop'd from Poetry to find,
Was to gain praise, to make Amasia kind.
But now, what other Mistress can I choose,
Worthy my Love, and to deserve my Muse?
Now, many shining Nymphs may Justly claim
Some small pretence to an immortal Fame,
And, who deserves it best, shall bear Amasia's Name.
So, when some great, some mighty Conqu'ror dies,
Many, less noted Heroes, share the prize,
And he's Nam'd Cæsar, who does highest rise.
Thus the Pellæan Monarch born away,
Made room for Princes, to divide the sway.
If any fair, henceforth, has Pow'r to move,
With my Amasia's Charms she must renew my Love.
I From my Joys of Paradise am hurl'd,
Condemn'd—Condemn'd alone to wander thro' the World.
Farewel, to all that please the ravish'd view,
Farewel, to Love, with my Amasia too,
To Shades, and seats of bliss, and Golden Dreams, Adieu.