 | A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes |  |
EPISTLES in the Manner of Ovid.
MONIMIA to PHILOCLES. By the Same.
Since language never can describe my pain,
How can I hope to move when I complain?
But such is woman's frenzy in distress,
We love to plead, tho' hopeless of redress.
How can I hope to move when I complain?
But such is woman's frenzy in distress,
We love to plead, tho' hopeless of redress.
Perhaps, affecting ignorance, thou'lt say,
From whence these lines? whose message to convey?
Mock not my grief with that feign'd cold demand,
Too well you know the hapless writer's hand:
But if you force me to avow my shame,
Behold it prefac'd with Monimia's name.
From whence these lines? whose message to convey?
Mock not my grief with that feign'd cold demand,
Too well you know the hapless writer's hand:
But if you force me to avow my shame,
Behold it prefac'd with Monimia's name.
Lost to the world, abandon'd and forlorn,
Expos'd to infamy, reproach, and scorn,
To mirth and comfort lost, and all for you,
Yet lost, perhaps, to your remembrance too,
How hard my lot! what refuge can I try,
Weary of life, and yet afraid to die!
Of hope, the wretch's last resort, bereft,
By friends, by kindred, by my lover, left.
Oh! frail dependence of confiding fools!
On lovers oaths, or friendship's sacred rules,
How weak in modern heats, too late I find,
Monimia's faln, and Philocles unkind!
To these reflections, each slow wearing day,
And each revolving night a constant prey,
Think what I suffer, nor ungentle hear
What madness dictates in my fond despair;
Grudge not this short relief, (too fast it flies)
Nor chide that weakness I myself despise.
One moment sure may be at least her due,
Who sacrific'd her all of life for you.
Without a frown this farewel then receive,
For, 'tis the last my hapless love shall give;
Nor this I wou'd, if reason cou'd command,
But what restriction reins a lover's hand?
Nor prudence, shame, nor pride, nor int'rest sways,
The hand implicitly the heart obeys:
Too well this maxim has my conduct shewn,
Too well that conduct to the world is known.
Expos'd to infamy, reproach, and scorn,
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Yet lost, perhaps, to your remembrance too,
How hard my lot! what refuge can I try,
Weary of life, and yet afraid to die!
Of hope, the wretch's last resort, bereft,
By friends, by kindred, by my lover, left.
Oh! frail dependence of confiding fools!
On lovers oaths, or friendship's sacred rules,
How weak in modern heats, too late I find,
Monimia's faln, and Philocles unkind!
To these reflections, each slow wearing day,
And each revolving night a constant prey,
Think what I suffer, nor ungentle hear
What madness dictates in my fond despair;
Grudge not this short relief, (too fast it flies)
Nor chide that weakness I myself despise.
One moment sure may be at least her due,
Who sacrific'd her all of life for you.
Without a frown this farewel then receive,
For, 'tis the last my hapless love shall give;
Nor this I wou'd, if reason cou'd command,
But what restriction reins a lover's hand?
Nor prudence, shame, nor pride, nor int'rest sways,
The hand implicitly the heart obeys:
Too well this maxim has my conduct shewn,
Too well that conduct to the world is known.
Oft have I writ, and often to the flame
Condemn'd this after-witness of my shame;
Oft in my cooler recollected thought,
Thy beauties, and my fondness half forgot,
(How short those intervals for reason's aid!)
Thus to myself in anguish have I said.
Condemn'd this after-witness of my shame;
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Thy beauties, and my fondness half forgot,
(How short those intervals for reason's aid!)
Thus to myself in anguish have I said.
Thy vain remonstrance, foolish maid, give o'er,
Who act the wrong, can ne'er that wrong deplore.
Then sanguine hopes again delusive reign,
I form'd thee melting, as I tell my pain.
If not of rock thy flinty heart is made,
Nor tygers nurs'd thee in the desart shade,
Let me at least thy cold compassion prove,
That slender sustenance of greedy love:
Tho' no return my warmer wishes find,
Be to the wretch, tho' not the mistress, kind;
Nor whilst I court my melancholy state,
Forget 'twas love, and thee, that wrought my fate.
Without restraint habituate to range,
The paths of pleasure; can I bear this change?
Doom'd from the world unwilling to retire,
In bloom of life, and warm with young desire,
In lieu of roofs with regal splendor gay,
Condemn'd in distant wilds to drag the day;
Where beasts of prey maintain their savage court,
Or human brutes (the worst of brutes) resort.
Yes, yes, the change I cou'd unsighing see,
For none I mourn, but what I find in thee,
There center all my woes, thy heart estrang'd,
I weep my lover, not my fortune, chang'd;
Bless'd with thy presence, I could all forget,
Nor gilded palaces in huts regret,
But exil'd thence, superfluous is the rest,
Each place the same, my hell is in my breast;
To pleasure dead, and living but to pain,
My only sense to suffer, and complain.
Who act the wrong, can ne'er that wrong deplore.
Then sanguine hopes again delusive reign,
I form'd thee melting, as I tell my pain.
If not of rock thy flinty heart is made,
Nor tygers nurs'd thee in the desart shade,
Let me at least thy cold compassion prove,
That slender sustenance of greedy love:
Tho' no return my warmer wishes find,
Be to the wretch, tho' not the mistress, kind;
Nor whilst I court my melancholy state,
Forget 'twas love, and thee, that wrought my fate.
Without restraint habituate to range,
The paths of pleasure; can I bear this change?
Doom'd from the world unwilling to retire,
In bloom of life, and warm with young desire,
In lieu of roofs with regal splendor gay,
Condemn'd in distant wilds to drag the day;
Where beasts of prey maintain their savage court,
Or human brutes (the worst of brutes) resort.
Yes, yes, the change I cou'd unsighing see,
For none I mourn, but what I find in thee,
There center all my woes, thy heart estrang'd,
I weep my lover, not my fortune, chang'd;
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Nor gilded palaces in huts regret,
But exil'd thence, superfluous is the rest,
Each place the same, my hell is in my breast;
To pleasure dead, and living but to pain,
My only sense to suffer, and complain.
As all my wrongs distressful I repeat,
Say, can thy pulse with equal cadence beat?
Can'st thou know peace? is conscience mute within?
That upright delegate for secret sin;
Is nature so extinguish'd in thy heart,
That not one spark remains to take my part?
Not one repentant throb, one grateful sigh?
Thy breast unruffled, and unwet thy eye?
Thou cool betrayer, temperate in ill!
Thou nor remorse, nor thought humane can'st feel:
Nature has form'd thee of the rougher kind,
And education more debas'd thy mind,
Born in an age when guilt and fraud prevail,
When Justice sleeps, and Int'rest holds the scale;
Thy loose companions a licentious crew,
Most to each other, all to us untrue,
Whom chance, or habit mix, but rarely choice,
Nor leagu'd in friendship, but in social vice,
Who indigent of honour, or of shame,
Glory in crimes which others blush to name;
By right or wrong disdaining to be mov'd,
Unprincipled, unloving, and unlov'd.
The fair who trusts their prostituted vows,
If not their falshood, still their boasts expose;
Nor knows the wisest to elude the harm,
Ev'n she whose prudence shuns the tinsel charm
They know to slander, though they fail to warm:
They make her languish in fictitious flame,
Affix some specious slander on her name,
And baffled by her virtue, triumph o'er her fame.
Say, can thy pulse with equal cadence beat?
Can'st thou know peace? is conscience mute within?
That upright delegate for secret sin;
Is nature so extinguish'd in thy heart,
That not one spark remains to take my part?
Not one repentant throb, one grateful sigh?
Thy breast unruffled, and unwet thy eye?
Thou cool betrayer, temperate in ill!
Thou nor remorse, nor thought humane can'st feel:
Nature has form'd thee of the rougher kind,
And education more debas'd thy mind,
Born in an age when guilt and fraud prevail,
When Justice sleeps, and Int'rest holds the scale;
Thy loose companions a licentious crew,
Most to each other, all to us untrue,
Whom chance, or habit mix, but rarely choice,
Nor leagu'd in friendship, but in social vice,
Who indigent of honour, or of shame,
Glory in crimes which others blush to name;
By right or wrong disdaining to be mov'd,
Unprincipled, unloving, and unlov'd.
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If not their falshood, still their boasts expose;
Nor knows the wisest to elude the harm,
Ev'n she whose prudence shuns the tinsel charm
They know to slander, though they fail to warm:
They make her languish in fictitious flame,
Affix some specious slander on her name,
And baffled by her virtue, triumph o'er her fame.
These are the leaders of thy blinded youth,
These vile seducers laugh'd thee out of truth;
Whose scurril jests all solemn ties profane,
Or Friendship's band, or Hymen's sacred chain;
Morality as weakness they upbraid,
Nor e'en revere Religion's hallow'd head;
Alike they spurn divine and human laws,
And treat the honest like the christian cause.
Curse on that tongue whose vile pernicious art
Delights the ear but to corrupt the heart,
That takes advantage of the chearful hour,
When weaken'd Virtue bends to Nature's pow'r,
And would the goodness of the soul efface,
To substitute dishonour in her place.
These vile seducers laugh'd thee out of truth;
Whose scurril jests all solemn ties profane,
Or Friendship's band, or Hymen's sacred chain;
Morality as weakness they upbraid,
Nor e'en revere Religion's hallow'd head;
Alike they spurn divine and human laws,
And treat the honest like the christian cause.
Curse on that tongue whose vile pernicious art
Delights the ear but to corrupt the heart,
That takes advantage of the chearful hour,
When weaken'd Virtue bends to Nature's pow'r,
And would the goodness of the soul efface,
To substitute dishonour in her place.
With such you lose the day in false delights,
In lewd debauch you revel out the nights,
(O fatal commerce to Monimia's peace!)
Their arguments convince because they please;
Whilst sophistry for reason they admit,
And wander dazzled by the glare of wit,
Wit that on ill a specious lustre throws,
And in false colours ev'ry object shows,
That gilds the wrong, depreciating the right,
And hurts the judgment, while it feasts the sight;
So in the prism to the deluded eye
Each pictur'd trifle takes a rainbow dye,
With borrow'd charms the shining prospect glows,
And truth revers'd the faithless mirror shows,
Inverted scenes in bright confusion lie,
The lawns impending o'er the nether sky;
No just, no real images we meet,
But all the gaudy vision is deceit.
In lewd debauch you revel out the nights,
(O fatal commerce to Monimia's peace!)
Their arguments convince because they please;
Whilst sophistry for reason they admit,
And wander dazzled by the glare of wit,
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And in false colours ev'ry object shows,
That gilds the wrong, depreciating the right,
And hurts the judgment, while it feasts the sight;
So in the prism to the deluded eye
Each pictur'd trifle takes a rainbow dye,
With borrow'd charms the shining prospect glows,
And truth revers'd the faithless mirror shows,
Inverted scenes in bright confusion lie,
The lawns impending o'er the nether sky;
No just, no real images we meet,
But all the gaudy vision is deceit.
Oft I revolve in this distracted mind
Each word, each look, that spoke my charmer kind;
But oh! how dear their memory I pay!
What pleasures past can present cares allay?
Of all I love for ever dispossess'd:
Ah! what avails to think I once was bless'd?
Hard disposition of unequal fate!
Mix'd are our joys, and transient are their date;
Nor can reflection bring them back again,
Yet brings an after-sting to ev'ry pain.
Each word, each look, that spoke my charmer kind;
But oh! how dear their memory I pay!
What pleasures past can present cares allay?
Of all I love for ever dispossess'd:
Ah! what avails to think I once was bless'd?
Hard disposition of unequal fate!
Mix'd are our joys, and transient are their date;
Nor can reflection bring them back again,
Yet brings an after-sting to ev'ry pain.
Thy fatal letters, oh immoral youth,
Those perjur'd pledges of fictitious truth,
Dear as they were no second joy afford,
My cred'lous heart once leap'd at ev'ry word,
My glowing bosom throbb'd with thick-heav'd sighs,
And floods of rapture gush'd into my eyes:
When now repeated (for thy theft was vain,
Each treasur'd syllable my thoughts retain)
Far other passions rule, and diff'rent care,
My joys and grief, my transports and despair.
Those perjur'd pledges of fictitious truth,
Dear as they were no second joy afford,
My cred'lous heart once leap'd at ev'ry word,
My glowing bosom throbb'd with thick-heav'd sighs,
And floods of rapture gush'd into my eyes:
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Each treasur'd syllable my thoughts retain)
Far other passions rule, and diff'rent care,
My joys and grief, my transports and despair.
Why dost thou mock the ties of constant love?
But half its joys the faithless ever prove,
They only taste the pleasures they receive,
When sure the noblest is in those we give.
Acceptance is the heav'n which mortals know,
But 'tis the bliss of angels to bestow.
Oh! emulate, my love, that task divine,
Be thou that angel, and that heav'n be mine.
Yes, yet relent, yet intercept my fate:
Alas! I rave, and sue for new deceit.
As soon the dead shall from the grave return,
As love extinguish'd with new ardor burn.
Oh! that I dar'd to act a Roman part,
And stab thy image in this faithful heart,
Where riveted for life secure you reign,
A cruel inmate, author of my pain:
But coward-like irresolute I wait
Time's tardy aid, nor dare to rush on fate;
Perhaps may linger on life's latest stage,
Survey thy cruelties, and fall by age:
No—grief shall swell my sails, and speed me o'er
(Despair my pilot) to that quiet shore
Where I can trust, and thou betray no more.
Might I but once again behold thy charms,
Might I but breathe my last in those dear arms,
On that lov'd face but fix my closing eye,
Permitted where I might not live to die,
My soften'd fate I wou'd accuse no more;
But fate has no such happiness in store.
'Tis past, 'tis done—what gleam of hope behind,
When I can ne'er be false, nor thou be kind?
Why then this care?—'tis weak—'tis vain—farewel—
At that last word what agonies I feel!
I faint—I die—remember I was true—
'Tis all I ask—eternally—adieu!—
But half its joys the faithless ever prove,
They only taste the pleasures they receive,
When sure the noblest is in those we give.
Acceptance is the heav'n which mortals know,
But 'tis the bliss of angels to bestow.
Oh! emulate, my love, that task divine,
Be thou that angel, and that heav'n be mine.
Yes, yet relent, yet intercept my fate:
Alas! I rave, and sue for new deceit.
As soon the dead shall from the grave return,
As love extinguish'd with new ardor burn.
Oh! that I dar'd to act a Roman part,
And stab thy image in this faithful heart,
Where riveted for life secure you reign,
A cruel inmate, author of my pain:
But coward-like irresolute I wait
Time's tardy aid, nor dare to rush on fate;
Perhaps may linger on life's latest stage,
Survey thy cruelties, and fall by age:
No—grief shall swell my sails, and speed me o'er
(Despair my pilot) to that quiet shore
Where I can trust, and thou betray no more.
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Might I but breathe my last in those dear arms,
On that lov'd face but fix my closing eye,
Permitted where I might not live to die,
My soften'd fate I wou'd accuse no more;
But fate has no such happiness in store.
'Tis past, 'tis done—what gleam of hope behind,
When I can ne'er be false, nor thou be kind?
Why then this care?—'tis weak—'tis vain—farewel—
At that last word what agonies I feel!
I faint—I die—remember I was true—
'Tis all I ask—eternally—adieu!—
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FLORA to POMPEY.
By the Same.
Pompey, when he was very young, fell in love with Flora, a Roman courtezan, who was so very beautiful that the Romans had her painted to adorn the temple of Castor and Pollux. Geminius (Pompey's friend) afterwards fell in love with her too; but she, prepossessed with a passion for Pompey, would not listen to Geminius. Pompey, in compassion to his friend, yielded him his mistress, which Flora took so much to heart, that she fell dangerously ill upon it; and in that sickness is supposed to write the following letter to Pompey.
Ere death these closing eyes for ever shade,
(That death thy cruelties have welcome made)
Receive, thou yet lov'd man! this one adieu,
This last farewel to happiness and you.
My eyes o'erflow with tears, my trembling hand
Can scarce the letters form, or pen command:
The dancing paper swims before my sight,
And scarce myself can read the words I write.
(That death thy cruelties have welcome made)
Receive, thou yet lov'd man! this one adieu,
This last farewel to happiness and you.
My eyes o'erflow with tears, my trembling hand
Can scarce the letters form, or pen command:
The dancing paper swims before my sight,
And scarce myself can read the words I write.
Think you behold me in this lost estate,
And think yourself the author of my fate:
How vast the change! your Flora's now become
The gen'ral pity, not the boast of Rome.
This form, a pattern to the sculptor's art,
This face, the idol once of Pompey's heart,
(Whose pictur'd beauties Rome thought fit to place
The sacred temples of her gods to grace)
Are charming now no more; the bloom is fled,
The lillies languid, and the roses dead.
Soon shall some hand the glorious work deface,
Where Grecian pencils tell what Flora was:
No longer my resemblance they impart,
They lost their likeness, when I lost thy heart.
And think yourself the author of my fate:
How vast the change! your Flora's now become
The gen'ral pity, not the boast of Rome.
This form, a pattern to the sculptor's art,
This face, the idol once of Pompey's heart,
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The sacred temples of her gods to grace)
Are charming now no more; the bloom is fled,
The lillies languid, and the roses dead.
Soon shall some hand the glorious work deface,
Where Grecian pencils tell what Flora was:
No longer my resemblance they impart,
They lost their likeness, when I lost thy heart.
Oh! that those hours could take their turn again,
When Pompey, lab'ring with a jealous pain,
His Flora thus bespoke: “Say, my dear love!
“Shall all these rivals unsuccessful prove?
“In vain, for ever, shall the Roman youth
“Envy my happiness, and tempt thy truth?
“Shall neither tears nor pray'rs thy pity move?
“Ah! give not pity, 'tis akin to love.
“Would Flora were not fair in such excess,
“That I might fear, tho' not adore her less.”
When Pompey, lab'ring with a jealous pain,
His Flora thus bespoke: “Say, my dear love!
“Shall all these rivals unsuccessful prove?
“In vain, for ever, shall the Roman youth
“Envy my happiness, and tempt thy truth?
“Shall neither tears nor pray'rs thy pity move?
“Ah! give not pity, 'tis akin to love.
“Would Flora were not fair in such excess,
“That I might fear, tho' not adore her less.”
Fool that I was, I sought to ease that grief,
Nor knew indiff'rence follow'd the relief:
Experience taught the cruel truth too late,
I never dreaded, till I found my fate.
'Twas mine to ask if Pompey's self could hear,
Unmov'd, his rival's unsuccessful pray'r;
To make thee swear he'd not thy pity move;
Alas! such pity is no kin to love.
Nor knew indiff'rence follow'd the relief:
Experience taught the cruel truth too late,
I never dreaded, till I found my fate.
'Twas mine to ask if Pompey's self could hear,
Unmov'd, his rival's unsuccessful pray'r;
To make thee swear he'd not thy pity move;
Alas! such pity is no kin to love.
'Twas thou thyself (ungrateful as thou art!)
Bade me unbend the rigour of my heart:
You chid my faith, reproach'd my being true,
(Unnat'ral thought!) and labour'd to subdue
The constancy my soul maintain'd for you;
To other arms your mistress you condemn'd,
Too cool a lover, and too warm a friend.
Bade me unbend the rigour of my heart:
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(Unnat'ral thought!) and labour'd to subdue
The constancy my soul maintain'd for you;
To other arms your mistress you condemn'd,
Too cool a lover, and too warm a friend.
How could'st thou thus my lavish heart abuse,
To ask the only thing it could refuse?
Nor yet upbraid me, Pompey, what I say,
For 'tis my merit that I can't obey;
Yet this alledg'd against me as a fault,
Thy rage fomented, and my ruin wrought.
Just gods! what tye, what conduct can prevail
O'er fickle man, when truth like mine can fail?
To ask the only thing it could refuse?
Nor yet upbraid me, Pompey, what I say,
For 'tis my merit that I can't obey;
Yet this alledg'd against me as a fault,
Thy rage fomented, and my ruin wrought.
Just gods! what tye, what conduct can prevail
O'er fickle man, when truth like mine can fail?
Urge not, to gloss thy crime, the name of friend,
We know how far those sacred laws extend;
Since other heroes have not blush'd to prove
How weak all passions when oppos'd to love:
Nor boast the virtuous conflict of thy heart
When gen'rous pity took Geminius' part;
'Tis all heroic fraud, and Roman art.
Such flights of honour might amuse the crowd,
But by a mistress ne'er can be allow'd;
Keep for the senate, and the grave debate,
That infamous hypocrisy of state:
There words are virtue, and your trade deceit.
We know how far those sacred laws extend;
Since other heroes have not blush'd to prove
How weak all passions when oppos'd to love:
Nor boast the virtuous conflict of thy heart
When gen'rous pity took Geminius' part;
'Tis all heroic fraud, and Roman art.
Such flights of honour might amuse the crowd,
But by a mistress ne'er can be allow'd;
Keep for the senate, and the grave debate,
That infamous hypocrisy of state:
There words are virtue, and your trade deceit.
No riddle is thy change, nor hard t'explain;
Flora was fond, and Pompey was a man:
No longer then a specious tale pretend,
Nor plead fictitious merit to your friend:
By nature false, you follow'd her decree,
Nor gen'rous are to him, but false to me.
Flora was fond, and Pompey was a man:
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Nor plead fictitious merit to your friend:
By nature false, you follow'd her decree,
Nor gen'rous are to him, but false to me.
You say you melted at Geminius' tears,
You say you felt his agonizing cares:
Gross artifice, that this from him could move,
And not from Flora, whom you say you love:
You could not bear to hear your rival sigh,
Yet bear unmov'd to see your mistress die.
Inhuman hypocrite! nor thus can he
My wrongs, and my distress, obdurate, see.
He, who receiv'd, condemns the gift you made,
And joins with me the giver to upbraid,
Forgetting he's oblig'd, and mourning I'm betray'd.
He loves too well that cruel gift to use,
Which Pompey lov'd too little to refuse:
Fain would he call my vagrant lord again,
But I the kind ambassador restrain;
I scorn to let another take my part,
And to myself will owe or lose thy heart.
You say you felt his agonizing cares:
Gross artifice, that this from him could move,
And not from Flora, whom you say you love:
You could not bear to hear your rival sigh,
Yet bear unmov'd to see your mistress die.
Inhuman hypocrite! nor thus can he
My wrongs, and my distress, obdurate, see.
He, who receiv'd, condemns the gift you made,
And joins with me the giver to upbraid,
Forgetting he's oblig'd, and mourning I'm betray'd.
He loves too well that cruel gift to use,
Which Pompey lov'd too little to refuse:
Fain would he call my vagrant lord again,
But I the kind ambassador restrain;
I scorn to let another take my part,
And to myself will owe or lose thy heart.
Can nothing e'er rekindle love in thee?
Can nothing e'er extinguish it in me?
That I could tear thee from this injur'd breast!
And where you gave my person, give the rest,
At once to grant and punish thy request.
That I could place thy worthy rival there!
No second insult need my fondness fear;
He views not Flora with her Pompey's eyes,
He loves like me, he doats, despairs, and dies.
Can nothing e'er extinguish it in me?
That I could tear thee from this injur'd breast!
And where you gave my person, give the rest,
At once to grant and punish thy request.
That I could place thy worthy rival there!
No second insult need my fondness fear;
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He loves like me, he doats, despairs, and dies.
Come to my arms, thou dear deserving youth!
Thou prodigy of man! thou man with truth!
For him, I will redouble every care,
To please, for him, these faded charms repair;
To crown his vows, and sharpen thy despair.
Thou prodigy of man! thou man with truth!
For him, I will redouble every care,
To please, for him, these faded charms repair;
To crown his vows, and sharpen thy despair.
Oh! 'tis illusion all! and idle rage!
No second passion can this heart engage;
And shortly, Pompey, shall thy Flora prove,
Death may dissolve, but nothing change her love.
No second passion can this heart engage;
And shortly, Pompey, shall thy Flora prove,
Death may dissolve, but nothing change her love.
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ARISBE to MARIUS Junior.
From Fontenelle. By the Same.
When Marius was expelled from Rome by Sylla's faction, and retired into Africa, his son (who accompany'd him) fell into the hands of Hiempsal king of Numidia, who kept him prisoner. One of the mistresses of that king fell in love with Marius junior, and was so generous to contrive and give him his liberty, though by that means she sacrificed her love for ever. 'Twas after he had rejoin'd his father, that she writ him the following letter.
I
Of all I valued, all I lov'd, bereft,Say, has my heart this little comfort left?
That you the mem'ry of its truth retain,
And think with grateful pity on my pain?
II
Tho' but with life my sorrows can have end,(For death alone can join me to my friend)
Yet think not I repent I set you free,
I mourn your absence, not your liberty.
III
Before my Marius left Numidia's coast,Each day I saw him; scarce an hour was lost:
Now months and years must pass, nay life shall prove
But one long absence from the man I love.
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IV
Painful reflection! poyson to my mind!Was it but mortal too, it would be kind:
But mad with grief I search the palace round,
And in that madness dream you're to be found.
V
Would'st thou believe it? to those walls I flyWhere thou wert captive held; there frantick cry,
These fetters sure my vagrant's flight restrain'd;
Alas! these setters I myself unchain'd.
VI
The live-long day I mourn, I loath the light,And wait impatient each returning night:
What, tho' the horrid gloom augment my grief?
'Tis grateful still, for I disclaim relief.
VII
That coz'ner hope intrudes not on my woe;One only interval my sorrows know;
When dreams, the kind reversers of my pain,
Bring back my charming fugitive again.
VIII
Yet there's a grief surpassing all the rest;A jealous dæmon whispers in my breast,
Marius was false, for liberty alone
The show of love the hypocrite put on.
93
IX
Then I reflect (ah! would I could forget!)How much your thoughts on war and Rome were set.
How little passion did that conduct prove!
Too strong thy reason, but too weak thy love.
X
Thy sword, 'tis true, a father's cause demands;But 'twas a mistress gave it to thy hands:
To love, and duty just, give each their part,
His be the arm, and mine be all thy heart.
XI
But what avail these thoughts? fond wretch, give o'er!Marius, or false, or true, is thine no more:
Since Fate has cast the lot, and we must part,
Why should I wish to think I had his heart?
XII
Yes: let me cherish that remembrance still;That thought alone shall soften ev'ry ill;
To tell my soul, his love, his truth was such,
All was his due, nor have I done too much.
XIII
Deceitful comfort! let me not persuadeMy cred'lous heart its fondness was repaid;
It makes my soul with double anguish mourn
Those joys, which never, never must return.
94
XIV
Perhaps ev'n you what most I wish oppose,And in the Roman all the lover lose:
I'm a Numidian, and your soul disdains
To bear th'inglorious weight of foreign chains.
XV
Can any climate then so barb'rous prove,To stand excluded from the laws of Love?
His empire's universal, unconfin'd,
His proxy beauty, and his slaves mankind.
XVI
Nor am I a Numidian but by name,For I can int'rest for my love disclaim:
My virtue shows what 'twas the gods design'd,
By chance on Africk's clay they stamp'd a Roman mind.
XVII
Not all the heroes which your Rome can boast,So much for fame, as I for you have lost:
Yourself I lost: oh! grateful, then confess,
My tryal greater, tho' my glory less.
XVIII
Yes, partial gods! inflicters of my care!Be witness what I felt, what grief, what fear!
When full of stifled woes the night he fled,
No sigh I dar'd to breathe, no tear to shed.
95
XIX
Whilst men of faith approv'd, a chosen crew,Firm to their trust, and to their mistress true,
With care too punctual my commands obey,
And in one freight my life and thee convey.
XX
The harder task was mine; condemn'd to bearWith brow serene, my agonizing care;
To mix in idle talk, to force a smile,
A king and jealous lover to beguile.
XXI
Think in that dreadful interval of fate,All I held dear, thy safety in debate,
Think what I suffer'd, whilst my heart afraid
Suggests a thousand times, that's all betray'd.
XXII
A thousand times revolving in my mindThe doubtful chance; oh! Love! said I, be kind:
Propitious to my scheme, thy vot'ry aid,
And be my fondness by success repaid.
XXIII
Now bolder grown, with sanguine hopes elate,My fancy represents thy smiling fate;
The guards deceiv'd, and ev'ry danger o'er,
The winds already waft him from the shore.
96
XXIV
These pleasing images anew impartLife to my eyes, and gladness to my heart;
Dispel the gloomy fears that cloud my face,
And charm the little flutterer to peace.
XXV
But now the king, or tasteless to my charms,Or weary of an absent mistress' arms,
His own apartment seeks, and grateful rest;
That courted stranger to the careful breast.
XXVI
Whilst I, by hopes and fears alternate sway'd,Impatient ask the slaves if I'm obey'd.
'Tis done, they cry'd, and struck me with despair;
For what I long'd to know, I dy'd to hear.
XXVII
Fantastick turn of a distracted mind;I blam'd the gods for having been too kind;
Curs'd the success they granted to my vows,
And this assistant hand that fill'd my woes.
XXVIII
Such was my frenzy in that hour of care,And such th'injustice of my bold despair;
That even those, ungrateful I upbraid,
Whose fatal diligence my will obey'd.
97
XXIX
Scarce, Marius, did thyself escape my rage;(Most lov'd of men!) when fears of black presage
Describe thy heart so fond of liberty,
It never gave one parting throb for me.
XXX
At every step you should have turn'd your eye,Dropt a regretful tear, and heav'd a sigh;
The nature of the grace I shew'd was such,
You not deserv'd it, if it pleas'd too much.
XXXI
A lover would have linger'd as he fled,And oft in anguish to himself have said,
Farewel for ever! Ah! yet more he'd done,
A lover never would have fled alone.
XXXII
To force me from a hated rival's bed,Why comes not Marius at an army's head?
Oh! did thy heart but wish to see that day,
'Twould all my past, and future woes o'er-pay.
XXXIII
But vain are all these hopes: preserve thy breastFrom falshood only, I forgive the rest:
Too happy, if no envy'd rival boast
Those joys Arisbe for her Marius lost.
98
ROXANA to USBECK.
From Les Lettres Persannes. By the Same.
Roxana, one of Usbeck's wives, was found (whilst he was in Europe) in bed with her lover, whom she had privately let into the seraglio. The guardian eunuch who discovered them, had the man murdered on the spot, and her close guarded till be received instructions from his master how to dispose of her. During that interval she swallowed poyson, and is supposed to write the following letter whilst she is dying.
Think not I write my innocence to prove,
To sue for pity, or awake thy love:
No mean defence expect, or abject pray'rs;
Thou know'st no mercy, and I know no tears:
I laugh at all thy vengeance has decreed,
Avow the fact, and glory in the deed.
To sue for pity, or awake thy love:
No mean defence expect, or abject pray'rs;
Thou know'st no mercy, and I know no tears:
I laugh at all thy vengeance has decreed,
Avow the fact, and glory in the deed.
Yes, tyrant! I deceiv'd thy spies and thee:
Pleas'd in oppression, and in bondage free:
The rigid agents of thy cruel laws
By gold I won to aid my juster cause:
With dextrous skill eluded all thy care,
And acted more than jealousy could fear:
To wanton bow'rs this prison-house I turn'd,
And bless'd that absence which you thought I mourn'd.
But short those joys allow'd by niggard Fate,
Yet so refin'd, so exquisitely great,
That their excess compensated their date.
Pleas'd in oppression, and in bondage free:
The rigid agents of thy cruel laws
By gold I won to aid my juster cause:
With dextrous skill eluded all thy care,
And acted more than jealousy could fear:
To wanton bow'rs this prison-house I turn'd,
And bless'd that absence which you thought I mourn'd.
99
Yet so refin'd, so exquisitely great,
That their excess compensated their date.
I die: already in each burning vein
I feel the poys'nous draught, and bless the pain:
For what is life unless its joys we prove?
And where is joy, depriv'd of what we love?
I feel the poys'nous draught, and bless the pain:
For what is life unless its joys we prove?
And where is joy, depriv'd of what we love?
Yet, ere I die, this justice I have paid
To my dear murder'd lover's injur'd shade:
Those sacrilegious instruments of power,
Who wrought that ruin these sad eyes deplore,
Already with their blood their crimes attone,
And for his life have sacrific'd their own.
To my dear murder'd lover's injur'd shade:
Those sacrilegious instruments of power,
Who wrought that ruin these sad eyes deplore,
Already with their blood their crimes attone,
And for his life have sacrific'd their own.
Thee, tho' restraint and absence may defend
From my revenge, my curses still attend:
Despair like mine, barbarian! be thy part,
Remorse afflict, and sorrow sting thy heart.
From my revenge, my curses still attend:
Despair like mine, barbarian! be thy part,
Remorse afflict, and sorrow sting thy heart.
Nor think this hate commencing in my breast,
Tho' prudence long its latent force suppress'd;
I knew those wrongs that I was forc'd to bear,
And curs'd those chains Injustice made me wear.
Tho' prudence long its latent force suppress'd;
I knew those wrongs that I was forc'd to bear,
And curs'd those chains Injustice made me wear.
For could'st thou hope Roxana to deceive
With idle tales, which only fools believe?
Poor abject souls in superstition bred,
In ign'rance train'd, by prejudice misled;
Whom hireling dervises by proxy teach
From those whose false prerogative they preach.
Didst thou imagine me so weak of mind,
Because I murmur'd not, I ne'er repin'd,
But hugg'd my chain, and thought my jaylor kind?
That willingly those laws I e'er obey'd,
Which Pride invented, and Oppression made?
And whilst self-licens'd through the world you rove,
To quicken appetite by change in love;
Each passion sated, and each wish possess'd
That Lust can urge, or Fancy can suggest:
That I should mourn thy loss with fond regret,
Weep the misfortune, and the wrong forget?
With idle tales, which only fools believe?
Poor abject souls in superstition bred,
In ign'rance train'd, by prejudice misled;
Whom hireling dervises by proxy teach
From those whose false prerogative they preach.
100
Because I murmur'd not, I ne'er repin'd,
But hugg'd my chain, and thought my jaylor kind?
That willingly those laws I e'er obey'd,
Which Pride invented, and Oppression made?
And whilst self-licens'd through the world you rove,
To quicken appetite by change in love;
Each passion sated, and each wish possess'd
That Lust can urge, or Fancy can suggest:
That I should mourn thy loss with fond regret,
Weep the misfortune, and the wrong forget?
Could I believe that heav'n this beauty gave,
(Thy transient pleasure, and thy lasting slave;)
Indu'd with reason, only to fulfil
The harsh commands of thy capricious will?
No, Usbeck, no, my soul disdain'd those laws;
And tho' I wanted pow'r t'assert my cause,
My right I knew; and still those pleasures sought,
Which Justice warranted, and Nature taught:
On Custom's senseless precepts I refin'd,
I weigh'd what heav'n, I knew what man design'd,
And form'd by her own rules my free-born mind.
(Thy transient pleasure, and thy lasting slave;)
Indu'd with reason, only to fulfil
The harsh commands of thy capricious will?
No, Usbeck, no, my soul disdain'd those laws;
And tho' I wanted pow'r t'assert my cause,
My right I knew; and still those pleasures sought,
Which Justice warranted, and Nature taught:
On Custom's senseless precepts I refin'd,
I weigh'd what heav'n, I knew what man design'd,
And form'd by her own rules my free-born mind.
Thus whilst this wretched body own'd thy pow'r,
Doom'd, unredress'd, its hardships to deplore;
My soul subservient to herself alone,
And Reason independent on her throne,
Contemn'd thy dictates, and obey'd their own.
Yet thus far to my conduct thanks are due,
At least I condescended to seem true;
Endeavour'd still my sentiments to hide,
Indulg'd thy vanity, and sooth'd thy pride.
Tho' this submission to a tyrant paid,
Whom not my duty, but my fears obey'd,
If rightly weigh'd, would more deserve thy blame,
Who call it Virtue, but prophane her name:
For to the world I should have own'd that love,
Which all impartial judges must approve:
You urg'd a right to tyrannize my heart,
Which he solliciting, assail'd by art,
Whilst I, impatient of the name of slave,
To force refus'd, what I to merit gave.
Doom'd, unredress'd, its hardships to deplore;
My soul subservient to herself alone,
And Reason independent on her throne,
Contemn'd thy dictates, and obey'd their own.
101
At least I condescended to seem true;
Endeavour'd still my sentiments to hide,
Indulg'd thy vanity, and sooth'd thy pride.
Tho' this submission to a tyrant paid,
Whom not my duty, but my fears obey'd,
If rightly weigh'd, would more deserve thy blame,
Who call it Virtue, but prophane her name:
For to the world I should have own'd that love,
Which all impartial judges must approve:
You urg'd a right to tyrannize my heart,
Which he solliciting, assail'd by art,
Whilst I, impatient of the name of slave,
To force refus'd, what I to merit gave.
Oft, as thy slaves this wretched body led
To the detested pleasures of thy bed;
In those soft moments, consecrate to joy,
Which extacy and transport should employ;
Clasp'd in your arms, you wonder'd still to find
So cold my kisses, so compos'd my mind:
But had thy cheated eyes discern'd aright,
You'd found aversion, where you sought delight.
To the detested pleasures of thy bed;
In those soft moments, consecrate to joy,
Which extacy and transport should employ;
Clasp'd in your arms, you wonder'd still to find
So cold my kisses, so compos'd my mind:
But had thy cheated eyes discern'd aright,
You'd found aversion, where you sought delight.
Not that my soul incapable of love,
No charms could warm, no tenderness could move;
For him, whose love my every thought possess'd,
A fiercer passion fill'd this constant breast,
Than truth e'er felt, or falshood e'er possess'd.
No charms could warm, no tenderness could move;
For him, whose love my every thought possess'd,
A fiercer passion fill'd this constant breast,
Than truth e'er felt, or falshood e'er possess'd.
102
This stile unusual to thy pride appears,
For truth's a stranger to the tyrant's ears;
But what have I to manage or to dread?
Nor threats alarm, nor insults hurt the dead;
No wrongs they feel, no miseries they find;
Cares are the legacies we leave behind:
In the calm grave no Usbecks we deplore,
No tyrant husband, no oppressive pow'r.
Alas! I faint—Death intercepts the rest:
The venom'd drug is busy in my breast:
Each nerve's unstrung: a mist obscures the day:
My senses, strength, and ev'n my hate decay:
Tho' rage awhile the ebbing spirits stay'd,
'Tis past—they sink beneath the transient aid.
Take then, inhuman wretch! my last farewel;
Pain be thy portion here, hereafter, hell:
And when our prophet shall my fate decree,
Be any curse my punishment, but thee.
For truth's a stranger to the tyrant's ears;
But what have I to manage or to dread?
Nor threats alarm, nor insults hurt the dead;
No wrongs they feel, no miseries they find;
Cares are the legacies we leave behind:
In the calm grave no Usbecks we deplore,
No tyrant husband, no oppressive pow'r.
Alas! I faint—Death intercepts the rest:
The venom'd drug is busy in my breast:
Each nerve's unstrung: a mist obscures the day:
My senses, strength, and ev'n my hate decay:
Tho' rage awhile the ebbing spirits stay'd,
'Tis past—they sink beneath the transient aid.
Take then, inhuman wretch! my last farewel;
Pain be thy portion here, hereafter, hell:
And when our prophet shall my fate decree,
Be any curse my punishment, but thee.
103
EPILOGUE design'd for Sophonisba, And to have been spoken by Mrs. Oldfield.
By the Same.
Before you sign poor Sophonisba's doom,In her behalf petitioner I come;
Not but our author knows, whate'er I say,
That I could find objections to his play.
This double marriage for her country's good,
I told him never would be understood,
And that ye all would say, 'twas flesh and blood.
Had Carthage only been in madam's head,
Her champion never had been in her—bed:
For could the ideot think a husband's name
Would make him quit his interest, friends and fame;
That he would risque a kingdom for a wife,
And act dependent in a place for life?
Yet when stern Cato shall condemn the fair,
Whilst publick good she thunder'd in your ear,
If private interest had a little share.
You know, she acted not against the laws
Of those old-fashion'd times; that in her cause
104
And Massinissa woo'd her sword in hand.
But did not take the way to whet that sword;
Heroes fight coldly when wives give the word.
She should have kept him keen, employ'd her charms
Not as a bribe, but to reward his arms;
Have told him when Rome yielded she would yield,
And sent him fresh, not yawning, to the field.
She talk'd it well to rouse him to the fight,
But like Penelope, when out of sight,
All she had done by day, undid by night.
Is this your wily Carthaginian kind?
No English woman had been half so kind.
What from a husband's hand could she expect
But ratsbane, or that common fate, neglect
Perhaps some languishing soft fair may say,
Poyson's so shocking—but consider pray,
She fear'd the Roman, he the marriage chain;
All other means to free them both were vain.
Let none then Massinissa's conduct blame,
He first his love consulted, then his fame.
And if the fair one with too little art,
Whilst seemingly she play'd a patriot-part,
Was secretly the dupe of her own heart;
Forgive a fault she strove so well to hide,
Nor be compassion to her fate deny'd,
Who liv'd unhappily, and greatly dy'd.
| A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | |