University of Virginia Library

LETTER I.

[Tho' to Thee 'tis nothing rare]

Dear Hannah,

Tho' to Thee 'tis nothing rare,
That I pronounce I'm fond, and Thou art fair—
That Love, attending Time, thro' many a round,
Unfluctuating still my Faith hath found—
And still my Mind, were every Fair-one free,
Would feel thy charm the same, and fix on Thee.
Should such positions meet the Public's eyes,
All would pronounce them mere poetic lies;
For each, while beastly lusts their bosom sway;
Would judge the rest were all as vile as they.
And it must needs appear exceeding strange,
In eight and twenty Years to feel no change!
Strange! in a foolish, fickle, World, like this,
Which boasts in change alone, its choicest bliss;
But, if a change in Us, unlike our Betters,
As facts will prove before I close these Letters.
A Letter to a Wife! the subject Love!—
This must seem stranger still to Folks above,
Whose wandering hearts in countless channels stray,
Ere Hymen hails their eight and twentieth day.
But 'tis not so with Us, in deed, or will,
As Heav'n hath witness'd and can witness still—
Thou ever lov'd, and ever loving Wife!
Substantial image in the dream of Life!
Chief sweetner of my Being's mawkish cup,
Which prompts me, maugre dregs, to drink it up!
Thou swell'st each joy, and soften'st every woe:
Heav'n's noblest bounty in my lot below!
Except that purer bliss, which still descends
On true Believers, from their best of Friends!
Twelve tedious weeks have, slowly, crawled along,
Since thy transporting presence made me young;
When my responsive, palpitating, heart,
In all thy raptures bore its ready part;
When each fond nerve in lesser joys would join,
And strike its tones in unison with thine!
If twittering Red-breast caught thy listening ear,
To me no Nightingale was half so dear!
But if thy tongue attun'd the vocal strain,
Whole woodland choirs might urge each song in vain!
The faintest flow'rs that sprigg'd the gloomy glades,
Or, void of scent, peep'd pale thro' sickly shades,
I found, when pluck'd, and on thy bosom plac'd,
All Flora's pride by Thee and them disgrac'd,
Tho' Summer-sweets from grove and field were fled,
Thy opening lips their essenc'd odours shed—
Tho' rose and lily long had left the year,
I view'd thy face and found both blooming there—
Tho' fogs, autumnal, shut out half the day,
Thy azure eyes could look that loss away;
And when discarded quite, with wintry shrowd,
Thy vernal charms still shone without a cloud.
If whistling winds were thy enamour'd theme,
I sigh'd no more for Summer's fanning stream;
Or shew'd'st affection for a show'ry sky,
I never wish'd a single hour of dry.
When grinding Gout convuls'd my tortur'd toe,
'Twas rapture, even then, with Thee to go;
For tho' each grating step provok'd a groan,
'Twas happier, far, than pining here, alone—
And oft, while here, when seated near thy side,
I dar'd the Despot's amplest pow'r deride;
For while my eye survey'd thy matchless charms,
My heart forgot, or spurn'd his dire alarms—
Or, where the Tyrant struck his ruffian fangs,
Thy hand's soft stroke asswag'd the sharpest pangs,
While each calm'd tendon took a quiet nap,
So sweetly lull'd within thy cradling lap!
The fell Fiend, now, with tenfold rage returns—
Deep-agonizing gnaws, and throbs, and burns.
Without controul dissects his destin'd prey,
Whilst Thou, Physician fair! art far away;
Anatomizing still with tenter'd claw,
He leaves each tender nerve to torment raw,
But while his talons tear each morbid part,
Thy absence wrings, much more, my wretched heart!
No soothing Friend, sweet antidote! is nigh,
While wintry horrors Nature's charms destroy;
December calling up tempestuous trains,
With warlike arms to persecute the plains—
Keen barbed blasts, with meteors dense at night,
The welkin chill, and chase the short-liv'd light!
No smiling leaf appears—no fragrant flow'r—
No song survives to glad the gloomy bow'r;
But tragic rooks bedim the dusky spray,
And caw, with clamorous plaint, for lingering day!
The pilfering frosts, and furious hostile floods,
Bedrench the dales, and pillage hills and woods;
Dark desolation shrowds the ghastly ground,
While storms, undenn'd, howl horrid mischiefs round,
And thou, my gentle Hannah! art not near,
Smiling again to Spring the pliant Year!
Imprison'd fast in dismal monkish cell,
With owls, and bats, and spectres, doom'd to dwell;
Coop'd like a recluse swine, in cloister'd stye,
Cut off from every sweet and social joy!
Or shackled savage, in sequestered den,
Expung'd from all the chearful haunts of men;
Except such haunts as beasts of prey approve,
Hermits affect, or sots and dullards love.
Such fate we servile Slaves must, frequent feel,
While scourg'd with scorpion whips of biting steel,
Which, proud of pow'r, all petty Tyrants wield,
Rejoic'd to make we sturdy Truants yield;
Yet Nature's common claims start, uncontroul'd,
Tho' Will and Sense are prodigally sold—
Sold to some selfish Arbiter of Earth,
To proud to estimate Man's genuine worth,
Whose Liberty and Time are truck'd for nought,
The Soul's fair commerce! merchandize of thought!
'Tis Esau's curse; who, like our abject troop,
His birthright bartered for a mess of soup!
Men, thus degraded, must assume new shapes,
As camels—asses—lap-dogs—pointers—apes.
Bear heavy burdens—learn to fetch and carry—
Play monkey tricks—but never, never marry!
For Wives will claim affection, thought, and time;
And Children aggravate the deadly crime—
Spontaneous impulse must be thrust aside,
The love of Offspring, and of tender Bride;
Friend—Husband—Father—all mere mock repute—
In bondage duteous; but, at home—a Brute—
A Despot's dupe! a Family's fell rod!
Fulfil his office, but forget his God!
His actions must be shap'd—his air, and mien—
A plain repeater! copying machine!
His words and looks conform to mimic laws,
Like puppets—magpies—parrots—jays, and daws.
Go back to pupillage; and, promptly, learn,
Head, eyes, and ears, and arms, and legs, to turn—
Soft sentiments and accents fitly form
To mould and tone, or meet perpetual storm.
The head, like barber's block, propp'd up by pride,
With freestone curl, or crape, on either side;
And lengthen'd cones of hair, which downward shoot
Like parsnip, radish, beet, or carrot root—
With store of stiffening filth to roll behind,
Like stuccoed tails of greasy, grunting, kind;
Forg'd full in lumps, and ballasted with lead,
Appendage fit for dolt's unfurnish'd head—
Or, plaited, powder'd, swell'd in antic taste,
Like twisted vermicelli, or puff-paste:
The rest with roasted frizz, and flow'r, bedight,
Like foppish furze-bush on hoar-frosty night—
I look, and look again, but scarcely can,
In conscience, call such mongrel creature, Man.
None suffers Nature, now, in genuine way,
To grizzle aged heads, alone, with grey—
Let Youth's and puberty's loose tresses flow,
With varied tinctures, and with vivid glow—
Lank, pencill'd locks, without a curve, descend,
Or curls, in endless combinations, bend;
To give Diversity her beauteous range,
And keep Identity from treacherous change;
But all from Heav'n's establish'd order start,
And spoil their charms by childish tricks of Art.
Were comeliness Mankind's conspiring aim
To fix fond Admiration's rambling flame—
With Beauty's blaze to kindle warm desire;
Fan transient Lust; or feed Love's lasting fire;
All would pursue pure Nature's simple plan,
Woman be Woman still, and Man be Man;
Age still appear as Age, and Youth as Youth,
With unaffected traits like rapturing Truth:
For Nature only shapes those magic charms,
That furnish Beauty's most resistless arms—
Those lines and colours, innocence and grace,
Which throw enchantment o'er Thy form and face;
Knit the sure knots with which those nets are wrought,
That fetter fancy, and entangle thought—
That spread the spell, and modulate the lure,
Which fascinate each eye, each heart secure.
Taste, wonderous Talisman! with perfect ease,
Preserves the sure, the happy, pow'r to please—
Variety, with wild, bewitching, air,
Tho' changeful, chaste; tho' fanciful yet, fair;
With pure Simplicity, sweet Sister-twins!
The one securing what the other wins;
Attending constant, in their Mother's train,
Still help her conquests and enlarge her reign—
But handmaid, Art, leads Nymphs and Swains astray,
Thro' many a devious, many an irksome, way—
By flattering prospect fluttering Hope's betray'd,
Whose visions vanish, and whose objects fade.
Art wantonly invents, with varied whim,
To tinge the features, and the form to trim;
Till by ambiguous care, and endless cost,
All Nature's hues, and lineaments, are lost—
While Love lies vexing o'er her vanquish'd charms,
And throws away, with tears, his useless arms;
Or, to the rural plain, impatient, hies,
To fix his reign, and feast on fadeless joys,
Where thy bright beauties, Hannah, long have blown,
To crown his altar, and confirm his throne.
To tell how heads, and arms, and legs, we train,
A well-known simile will best explain—
Hast Thou not seen, in March, or April, morns,
When buds and blooms begin to deck the thorns;
Behind the clean, colloquial, bird-cage walk,
Where beaux and belles recline, or strut and talk;
(Why call'd so Antiquaries may discuss,
Who o'er mere trifles make a tedious fuss)
Near that fam'd structure, whence the worshipp'd Pair,
Brought forth to view, made Ignorance gape and stare,
With reverential wonder, to behold,
Two Mortals glare with frippery and gold—
Or, to keep up the price of kingly pride,
Fools' empty tongues, and vulgar eyes, avoid;
Box'd up in close sedans, with curtain'd glasses,
To scape the peeps of twice ten hundred asses.
Which sacred Personages, when within,
By close economy shun beastly sin;
Abstemious eat and drink, while, free from fear,
They stock the Earth, like Us, each teeming year—
Near that said Mansion, on the grassy plain,
Expos'd to heat, and cold, and wind, and rain,
Spruce ranks of brick-dust-colour'd beaux are seen,
Like Statues stiffly stuck athwart the green;
While, full before their face, with martial wand,
And high majestic air, their Masters stand:
Whose churlish looks, by strong mysterious charm,
Move every jointless leg, and awkward arm;
Or oaths and threats, miraculous like blows,
New hinge the knees—articulate the toes—
Full shoulders flatten—bloat the hollow breast—
Till, like proud puppets, swivell'd, wir'd, and dress'd,
They fiercely look—whirl round—and roll their quids,
Just as the conjuring Shewman bluffly bids.
Thus we must manage heads, and hands, and feet,
As our sublime Commanders deem most meet.
Must skip like apes—like prudes look pure and prim,
To tickle haughty pride, or flatter whim;
And when harsh act, or speech, or look, reprove,
With patience listen, and with promptness move.
The tortur'd heart may swell—or burst—or break—
No trammell'd tongue those throbbing pangs must speak
But looks must fondly fawn, and lips must lie,
The supple back must bend, and feet must fly,
And hands, alert, perform their tasks, with speed,
Tho' eyes are drown'd, and bosom throb and bleed.
Should honest office, e'er so kindly meant,
In jot or tittle fail the full intent,
No virtuous views explain'd, or clearly known,
Can for such slips, or slight mistakes, atone;
But while on treacherous Memory's boggy ground,
No wholesome herb, or scented flow'r, be found,
Yet, like the trench the Grecian barber made,
And there fool Midas' fatal trust betray'd;
If ever dubious deed, or sentence quaint,
Or ought that scandal's blighting breath can taint;
Or just resentment, rationally stirr'd,
Produce one louring look, or waspish word,
Forth from the spongey soil, like pointed reed,
With dog-rose thorny smile, sharp sounds proceed,
In lie, or libel, two-edg'd taunt, or jeer,
At every change of sky throughout the year;
While Treachery cheats, or stabs, fair Friendship's trust,
Like Judas' devilish kiss, or Joab's jealous thrust.
Despots, tho' cruel, deem it monstrous queer,
Respectful duty should to dulness veer,
Then turn to strong dislike; while, weakly, they
Hope Tools, chastiz'd, more chearful will obey—
Think base Plebeians never know they're hurt,
But bear Pow'r's stripes, and still look more alert—
That beaten Slaves will fawn on Fools above,
And persecuted Louts, like Spaniels love—
As soon might Earth's antipodes unite,
As cruelty kind sentiments excite.
As soon an Angel from a Fiend be born,
As kindness flow from insolence and scorn:
Affection springs, alone, from tender ties—
Love only will from genuine love arise—
Benevolence must ever mutual be—
The Soul's delightful reciprocity!
Man, godlike Man! tho' sunk to servile state,
Feels not, like burden'd Beasts, the force of fate,
To tame obedience by keen lashes broke,
And go more freely, gall'd by bloody stroke—
Not like the mean domestic breed of Dogs,
That crouching, fawn, and lick the hand that flogs—
Nor like the Worm that slinks to sly retreat,
And scarcely turns when trampled under feet;
But basely twists while Tyrants bait their hook,
By which tom-culls or minnies may be took—
Still, tho' thro' Time by Providence depress'd,
He feels true dignity expand his breast;
And, knowing his descent, his heavenly birth,
Spurns Earth, and all that appertains to Earth!
Can arbitrary influence e'er controul
The in-born bias of Man's soaring Soul?
Can Mammon's votaries vainly hope to bind,
In shining shackles, his immortal Mind?
Put on some tinkling bells, and tinsel chains,
And hope he'll trudge with joy, 'mid griefs and pains?
Hope, tho' degraded to Man's meanest shape,
'Mid scoff and ridicule he'll act the ape?
That prison'd Minds will cease to pine, and mope,
'Tis Fools' absurd philosophism to hope.
Not bulls from Popes, or warrants back'd by Kings,
The Martyr's burning piles, or Miscreants' strings,
Can faithful Souls by fear, or force, subdue,
Who know their crimes are cross'd, and Heav'n is true—
For tho' imperious Popes, or Kings, may kill,
No earthly pow'r can bind the free-born Will:
'Tis like the thwarting elements at strife,
Or adverse interests torturing Man and Wife—
'Tis oil with water join'd, or fire with phlegm,
What Dolt would ever dream of mixing them?
Sooner might foolish Coachman hope to force,
The kind esteem of beaten, batter'd, horse—
Or pert Postilion, mad with megrims, think,
By whips and wales to make the creature drink:
I may by dint of discipline, compel
The fear-struck animal to travel well,
But never can by any force, or fright,
Produce pure love, or prompt an appetite.
Search Laws, reveal'd, or Nature's system, through,
Heav'n works, in all, with order strict, and true.
No Reptile, Insect, Fish, Bird, Beast, or Man,
By fraudful force, or stratagem, e'er can
Produce each other; but in form and mien,
The parents' portrait's in the offspring seen.
No beauteous Couples of the northern race,
With tropic black their progeny disgrace;
Nor Sires of sable hue, and woolly hair,
Produce the flaxen, or the fresh and fair:
So human Minds beget on human Minds
Similitudes in colours, shapes, and kinds;
In fellow Souls producing mental tone,
Of lusts—affections—passions—like their own—
O'er the whole frame their tranquil traits diffuse,
Or force contortions, vile, and heighten'd hues;
Depicting lights and shades, in face and form,
The smiling sunshine, or the frowning storm.
If Reason, with her tutor'd pencil, trace
Mild lineaments and lights, o'er form and face,
The soft attraction each beholder feels,
While, to each heart, she makes her mute appeals;
O'er all, around, the living lustre breaks,
And each calm countenance approval speaks:
So the smooth surface of the tranquil stream,
Enlighten'd by the Sun's celestial beam,
To all things, near, a faithful mirror holds,
And each clear form in earth and sky unfolds;
Delighted, every eye the vision views,
Distinctly trac'd, in sizes, shapes, and hues;
But when a passing cloud obscures the light,
No more enchanting landscapes charm the sight—
Or, when the winds in ruffling breezes blow,
And break the surface of the lake below,
A wild confusion every object blends,
And all the fairy fascination ends;
So, when perturbing passion stirs the breast,
No more the troubled form and features rest,
But every eye perceives the alter'd frame,
And every sentient heart partakes the same.
If Anger's brushes draw the harden'd lines,
No more the heavenly portrait, placid, shines;
But, Necromancer like, o'er magic book,
The vengeful visage, the malignant look,
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and flaming eye,
Transfer infection to each stander by,
Till every face is like a fiend's impress'd,
By fire and fury gender'd thro' the breast—
Or when fierce Hatred fires the tortur'd soul,
While bosom roars, and burning eye-balls roll,
Each neighbouring breast will feel the imp inspire,
Each blazing eye betray infernal fire,
Till foes and friends with canine fury yelp,
Stab, to revenge, or fiercely curse to help—
But Love, celestial Love! sweet Grace, divine!
Makes all hearts melt; all angel-faces shine;
And looks—longs—labours; sighs, and weeps, and bleeds,
Less to supply her own than others needs.
Nor christian Providence, nor pagan Chance,
In loving-kindness, or in casual dance,
Nor blindfold pow'rs of Fortune, or of Fate,
Make Hate engender Friendship, Friendship Hate;
Nor all the pow'rs below, or pow'rs above,
Can make malignant Passions procreate Love,
Can devilish Spite, in her delirious pet,
Meekness, and modest Gentleness, beget?
Humility be natural child of Pride?
Or Vice or Virtue bring forth ought beside?
Base Lust may fondly bid, or foully bribe,
And gain gross favours from her sister-tribe;
But Love, pure Love! can ne'er be bought, or sold,
By thirst for fame, or hunger after gold—
She feels no force in pow'r, or pomp, or pelf,
But simply barters, blessed Self for Self!
Sometimes, mayhap, the smiling, artless, Maid,
May be by serpent wile, or wit, betray'd—
May be, a time, enclos'd in Treachery's trap—
Recline her harmless head in Cunning's lap—
But ne'er by frowns, or threats, or ravings, rude,
The independent Paragon's subdued:
If trapp'd by trick, or snar'd by subtle lies,
She breaks her bonds, or ponders—pines—and dies—
She never cringes like a servile Slave,
But Freedom finds, or greets a welcome grave—
She seeks no service but her heavenly Sire's,
Who, kindles, fans, and feeds, her sacred fires;
His semblance bearing tho' in small degree,
And feels, tho' always serving, always free!
Shall noise and nonsense, giddy pomp and glare,
The simple, systematic, Swain ensnare?
Falshood and flattery, turpitude and pain,
Cajole his judgment? rend his heart in twain?
Seduce from guileless chat with modest maid,
To seek some vile, corrupt, and jilting Jade?
Despise the graceful garb, and comely coif,
With all the pure felicities of life,
For false and vicious lust, and vulgar lore,
With twice-dy'd, cast-off, cloaths bedizen'd o'er;
Head puff'd like owl's, with pigeon's bloated breast,
In ribbons, lappets, wires, and gauzes dress'd?
Have patience, Hannah; while I truly trace
The crafty city-crowd, and rural race—
No highly pencill'd picture's my design,
But just to sketch the clear, and bold, outline;
It calls a veteran Cowper's tutor'd hand,
To make each figure strong, and fitly, stand,
In high and rich relief, distinct and true;
My Muse's aim's a far inferior view,
Wrought rough and rude, for fellow-Rustic's eye,
To hint some caution; urge my Peers to fly,
And shun that gulph, the sober Boor's disgrace,
Where hiss'd Religion hides her hated face—
Where pure Morality her laws conceals,
Still stifling what she knows, and what she feels—
Where modest Merit hangs her bashful head,
While whooted Truth, and Liberty, lie dead.
How proudly would they trace Titanian Sire,
In wrath destroy'd by Heav'n's electric fire;
Or prouder still from ant'deluvian birth,
Close-dated down from giant Sons of Earth:
But, sad to tell! what must such claim confound,
That impious, proud, pragmatic, brood was drown'd!
Their title's clear to Ham's obscene descent,
Who sham'd his Father, drunk within his tent—
But, maugre all! Dan Pryor's honest boast,
Must level down this huge gigantic host,
Whose riven hearts, with indignation, grieve,
That all, alike, descend from grandam Eve!
Ah! did they feel that far superior claim,
Thy nobler boast, and mine, my dove-ey'd Dame!
Deriv'd from that great Being, most sublime!
Who rules all Worlds! continues thro' all Time!
Unbounded fountain, whence all blessings flow;
All bliss above! all wealth and pow'r below!
By titles, names, and epithets, disgrac'd,
On highest Angels, or Archangels plac'd;
Degraded more, compar'd with earthly things,
Whether the Lord of Lords, or King of Kings!
Him, tho' the King of all created hosts,
Him! Friend, and Father, each true Christian boasts,
While Mammon's offspring, haughtily disclaim
The real substance, yet usurp the Name.
No longer, then, let Bodies, equal born,
In fellow-dust dissolv'd, alike forlorn;
Nor let Fame, Wealth, or Titles, Pomp, or Pow'r,
The shadowy pageants of a passing hour!
Tempt the mistaken Soul to swell with pride,
Or humble Want and Worth with scorn deride;
God's only Son, when He, in lowly guise,
To bless rebellious Creatures, left the skies,
To preach repentance; urge regenerate birth;
And shew fall'n Man his fullest hopes on Earth—
His Spirit calling, still, to quit the dust;
To mortify false pride, and banish lust—
He, guiltless of all guile, and free from sin,
With Love, while striving, sinful Souls to win,
Was persecuted still by cruel Pow'r,
And vengeful Envy, to life's latest hour;
Then crucify'd and kill'd, with devilish Hate,
By whom?—the worldly Wise, and worldly Great!
Perhaps, my Hannah! Fraud, or hostile Force,
In Law's chicane, or conquering Bastard's course,
Have stol'n from peaceful, pristine, Ancestry,
What should, in right, attach to Thee and Me:
Then be it so; our blessedness consists,
Not in a Norman Plunderer's pilfering lists—
To blaze in herald registers enroll'd—
In large domains, or magazines of gold—
But interests and honours, still far high'r,
Christ's riches ours! His Father for our Sire!
And, tho' of earthly pomp and pow'r devoid,
Of golden treasures, and dominions wide,
Still we've a title, with all christian Clowns,
To heavenly Kingdoms, and celestial Crowns,
Unbounded glory, in the World above,
And here, below, the noblest bliss of Love!
If Genius haply lie in Penury's lot,
'Tis faintly notic'd, or 'tis soon forgot;
For hungry Ostentation constant craves
Fresh treats of flattery from her feudal slaves—
Claims myrrh and frankincense as rightful dues,
From priestly censer of the servile Muse—
As meagre bitterns, ever-sateless, roar,
And, while with dainties gorg'd, still gape for more.
When Flattery's food from Vanity's withdrawn,
And Cooks and Scullions, o'er their office yawn;
Pride thinks their scanty wages never earn'd,
Their care's all scouted; prompt attention spurn'd;
Till, pinch'd with hunger, Petulance discards
Each frail purveyor, even it's household Bards.
The nicest dish ne'er long affords delight
To puling Pride's fastidious appetite;
But Fancy must thro' Art and Nature rove,
Drain every lake, and river; plain, and grove;
Then bring the boundless spoils, as deem'd most meet,
And lay them, humbly, at the Harpy's feet—
Fantastic Taste still want of change bewails,
And, as it loath'd the Manna, loaths the Quails.
To Pride's imperious, stiffneck'd, Jewish train,
Their Maker wills, commands, and works, in vain;
All Wealth's and Fashion's Children, Slaves of Art!
Push God and Nature out from head and heart;
Adoring Titles, Honours, Pow'r, and Pelf,
But chiefly worshipping the idol, Self:
Like Chaldee's King, or Hebrew Priest, of old,
Rearing gigantic Gods, or Calves of gold,
Till heavenly vengeance doom their Pride, and Lust,
To bite Earth's bitter herbs, and drink the golden dust.