Philomela Or, Poems By Mrs. Elizabeth Singer, [Now Rowe,] ... The Second Edition |
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 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. | CHAP. V. |
| VI. |
 | CHAP. V. Philomela |  |
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CHAP. V.
The Night her blackest Vestments had put on,
And all the fair Remains of Day were gone;
When my dear Lord, as he had oft before,
With Speed, and Love, approach'd the bolted Door:
Arise, my Love, he cries, and with a Voice,
Divinely charming, pleads his Entrance thus;
My Spouse, my Sister, and my fairest Love,
(Believing, sure, that Dialect would move;)
Arise, for laden with the Midnight Dew,
Disorder'd, all my streaming Tresses flew:
I knew the Voice, the moving Eloquence;
But ah! deluded by my drowsy Sense;
Careless, and soft, upon a mossy Bed,
I lean'd supine, with Od'rous Roses spread;
And long, with weak Excuses, did delay,
Amazing him at my unwonted Stay.
Mov'd with his Patience, my relenting Breast,
Forgetting now to say, I am undress'd,
Unto the Door, at length, I rush'd in spite
Of Darkness, and the Terrors of the Night;
With Rage, to break the guilty Bars I try'd,
Which Entrance to my Lord so long deny'd:
But found the dear resenting Charmer fled,
I curs'd my Sloth, and curs'd my conscious Bed.
Yet then such fragrant Sweetness fill'd the Air
From his dear Hands, I thought he'ad still been there.
I call'd aloud, still hoping he was near,
And louder still, but Ah! he would not hear.
Then thro' the Streets, distracted with my Grief,
I wildly roving, begg'd of All, Relief.
At last I met th' ungentle Watch, and they
Deride my Tears, and force my Veil away.
Ye tender Virgins! you that know the Pain
A Breast so soft as mine must needs sustain,
Robb'd of the once kind Partner of my Fires,
And still dear Object of my rack'd Desires;
I charge you, if you meet my absent Love,
With all the Rhet'ric of our Sex to move
His deafned Ears; and tell him, with a Sigh,
Deep as my Wounds, ah tell him how I die.
Perhaps that Tragic Word may force the dear
Relentless Author of my Grief to hear.
Daughters of Jerusalem.
And all the fair Remains of Day were gone;
When my dear Lord, as he had oft before,
With Speed, and Love, approach'd the bolted Door:
Arise, my Love, he cries, and with a Voice,
Divinely charming, pleads his Entrance thus;
My Spouse, my Sister, and my fairest Love,
(Believing, sure, that Dialect would move;)
Arise, for laden with the Midnight Dew,
Disorder'd, all my streaming Tresses flew:
I knew the Voice, the moving Eloquence;
But ah! deluded by my drowsy Sense;
Careless, and soft, upon a mossy Bed,
I lean'd supine, with Od'rous Roses spread;
And long, with weak Excuses, did delay,
Amazing him at my unwonted Stay.
13
Forgetting now to say, I am undress'd,
Unto the Door, at length, I rush'd in spite
Of Darkness, and the Terrors of the Night;
With Rage, to break the guilty Bars I try'd,
Which Entrance to my Lord so long deny'd:
But found the dear resenting Charmer fled,
I curs'd my Sloth, and curs'd my conscious Bed.
Yet then such fragrant Sweetness fill'd the Air
From his dear Hands, I thought he'ad still been there.
I call'd aloud, still hoping he was near,
And louder still, but Ah! he would not hear.
Then thro' the Streets, distracted with my Grief,
I wildly roving, begg'd of All, Relief.
At last I met th' ungentle Watch, and they
Deride my Tears, and force my Veil away.
Ye tender Virgins! you that know the Pain
A Breast so soft as mine must needs sustain,
Robb'd of the once kind Partner of my Fires,
And still dear Object of my rack'd Desires;
14
With all the Rhet'ric of our Sex to move
His deafned Ears; and tell him, with a Sigh,
Deep as my Wounds, ah tell him how I die.
Perhaps that Tragic Word may force the dear
Relentless Author of my Grief to hear.
What thy Beloved is, we first would know,
Fairest of Women! thou dost charge us so.
What Charms unequall'd in him dost thou see,
Impatient Fair! to raise these Storms in thee?
Bride.
Commencing all Perfection, he is such
Your most exalted Thoughts can hardly touch,
Unsully'd Heaps of Snow are not so white,
He's fairer than condensed Beams of Light.
His Rosy Cheeks of such a lucent Dye,
As Sol ne'er gilded on the Morning Sky.
His Head like polish'd Gold, his graceful Hair,
Dark as the Plumes that jetty Ravens wear.
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How soft! how sweet! how pow'rfully they move!
He breathes more Sweetness than the Infant Morn,
When Heav'nly Dews the flowry Plains adorn,
The fragrant Drops of rich Arabian Gums,
Burnt on the Altar, yield not such Perfumes.
His Hands, surpassing Lilies, grac'd with Gems,
Fit to inrich Celestial Diadems.
His Breast smooth Ivory, enamel'd all
With Veins, which Saphirs 'twere unjust to call,
Divine his Steps, with his Majestic Air,
Not e'en the lofty Cedars can compare.
So sweet his Voice, the list'ning Angels throng
With silent Harps to his melodious Tongue,
He's altogether Lovely,—This is He,
Now, Virgins Pity! tho' you envy Me.
| CHAP. V. Philomela | |