 | Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose |  |
35
To Serena.
Why should these eyes, which envy's self must praise,
Where Cupids dance, and I could ever gaze,
In nightly watchings waste their heav'nly rays?
Till all their Rival lights, that gild the sky,
With paler beams confess the morning nigh;
While sleep, from your unpity'd Lover fled,
Waits on their lids his balmy dews to shed;
And pleasing dreams stand ready, to display
Their conquests gain'd on each triumphant day.
Where Cupids dance, and I could ever gaze,
In nightly watchings waste their heav'nly rays?
Till all their Rival lights, that gild the sky,
With paler beams confess the morning nigh;
While sleep, from your unpity'd Lover fled,
Waits on their lids his balmy dews to shed;
And pleasing dreams stand ready, to display
Their conquests gain'd on each triumphant day.
When envious Spies to needful rest retire,
In that still hour propitious to desire,
You lonely reading bear the damps of night,
Broke feebly by your watchful taper's light:
O! would your pity place the Signal there,
To light your slave to his relenting Fair;
Like Hero's torch the constant Lamp should prove
Guide of my way, and emblem of my love.
But cares less soft your soaring thoughts pursue,
And follow knowledge, as I follow you:
By ardent thirst of endless science led,
The paths of learn'd Antiquity you tread,
And slight the dying, to caress the dead.
In that still hour propitious to desire,
You lonely reading bear the damps of night,
Broke feebly by your watchful taper's light:
O! would your pity place the Signal there,
To light your slave to his relenting Fair;
Like Hero's torch the constant Lamp should prove
Guide of my way, and emblem of my love.
But cares less soft your soaring thoughts pursue,
And follow knowledge, as I follow you:
By ardent thirst of endless science led,
The paths of learn'd Antiquity you tread,
And slight the dying, to caress the dead.
'Tis true, a mind like yours, completely wrought,
With native sense and modest goodness fraught,
Above your Sex's narrow views may rise,
And, being humble, venture to be wise:
Alike the Critic Lady's airs you hate,
Her learned pride, and Philosophic prate,
And theirs whose modish malice sparing none,
By scandal would for ignorance atone;
Who count their unread volumes in a row,
Bought, like their Watches, less for use than show.
With native sense and modest goodness fraught,
36
And, being humble, venture to be wise:
Alike the Critic Lady's airs you hate,
Her learned pride, and Philosophic prate,
And theirs whose modish malice sparing none,
By scandal would for ignorance atone;
Who count their unread volumes in a row,
Bought, like their Watches, less for use than show.
But why should Satire interpose, to raise
Fidelio's passion, or Serena's praise?
So fierce my flame, its object You so bright;
No fewel needs the fire, nor shade the light.
Fidelio's passion, or Serena's praise?
So fierce my flame, its object You so bright;
No fewel needs the fire, nor shade the light.
Our Province, Learning, well deserves your care,
More graceful still, like Virtue in the Fair;
When turn'd upon ourselves, our boasted arms
Assist the conquest of your softer charms.
More graceful still, like Virtue in the Fair;
When turn'd upon ourselves, our boasted arms
Assist the conquest of your softer charms.
Would wisdom with success her lights impart,
And, to convince the reason, gain the heart,
Lodg'd in your purer clay, her power she'd try,
And suit the Temple to the Deity;
In your bright form the gazing world surprize,
Flow from your lips, and sparkle in your eyes;
While you unfold the treasures of your breast,
Fruits of the silent hours you steal from rest;
Your easy sense in tuneful speech convey,
Read half the night, and charm us all the day.
And, to convince the reason, gain the heart,
Lodg'd in your purer clay, her power she'd try,
And suit the Temple to the Deity;
In your bright form the gazing world surprize,
Flow from your lips, and sparkle in your eyes;
While you unfold the treasures of your breast,
Fruits of the silent hours you steal from rest;
Your easy sense in tuneful speech convey,
Read half the night, and charm us all the day.
37
So some fair River to our longing sight
By turns is lost, by turns salutes the light;
And here immers'd in earth, the God explores
Her wealthy bowels, and her secret stores;
And there arising from beneath the ground,
With fruitful moisture glads the vales around;
Serene and pure the silver waters glide,
And deal their kindly wealth on either side:
Their lulling murmurs sooth the Lover's care,
And Beauty smiles to view her image there.
By turns is lost, by turns salutes the light;
And here immers'd in earth, the God explores
Her wealthy bowels, and her secret stores;
And there arising from beneath the ground,
With fruitful moisture glads the vales around;
Serene and pure the silver waters glide,
And deal their kindly wealth on either side:
Their lulling murmurs sooth the Lover's care,
And Beauty smiles to view her image there.
But, whether, taught by History, you climb
The glorious steep ascent of antient time,
Where Rome above her conquer'd world is known,
Plac'd in a fairer light of virtues, like your own;
Or should you in Romance the suff'rings mourn
Of some feign'd Lover, while the true you scorn;
If the soft Muse your softer thoughts engage,
To view your Sex's triumphs on the stage;
Where Masinissa, the dear boon deny'd,
Disdains a crown, to perish with his Bride;
Where Cleopatra the lost world supplies;
Where Borgia raves, and poor Varanes dies;
Be kind, Serena; tell the Fav'rite name,
Elected Yours from all the Sons of Fame.
As you can kill, so could you but revive,
Whom would you chuse again for You to live?
Say where he shines on Honour's summit high?
His steps I'll follow, and his heights I'll try;
Love that inspires the thought, shall lend the wings to fly.
If Cymon to humanity could rise,
And light his soul at Iphigenia's eyes,
Why should not I, improv'd alike, proclaim
As fair a Nymph, and as divine a flame?
The glorious steep ascent of antient time,
Where Rome above her conquer'd world is known,
Plac'd in a fairer light of virtues, like your own;
Or should you in Romance the suff'rings mourn
Of some feign'd Lover, while the true you scorn;
If the soft Muse your softer thoughts engage,
To view your Sex's triumphs on the stage;
Where Masinissa, the dear boon deny'd,
Disdains a crown, to perish with his Bride;
Where Cleopatra the lost world supplies;
Where Borgia raves, and poor Varanes dies;
Be kind, Serena; tell the Fav'rite name,
Elected Yours from all the Sons of Fame.
As you can kill, so could you but revive,
Whom would you chuse again for You to live?
38
His steps I'll follow, and his heights I'll try;
Love that inspires the thought, shall lend the wings to fly.
If Cymon to humanity could rise,
And light his soul at Iphigenia's eyes,
Why should not I, improv'd alike, proclaim
As fair a Nymph, and as divine a flame?
But, oh! in vain I beg the blissful grant,
Whom Study rivals, and whom books supplant.
Would that were all! but, to yourself unkind,
You waste your spirits to enrich your mind.
Then, dear Serena, timely warn'd, withhold
A soul too active for so fine a mold;
Pursue your game, but of your speed abate;
Lest death on knowledge, as of old, should wait:
Or should a toil, too rugged for the Fair,
Preventing age, your tender charms impair,
Think, quickly think, how dear would be the boast
Of tedious wisdom, purchas'd at the cost
Of love neglected, and of beauty lost.
So when Apollo gave his Daphne chace,
And the coy Nymph declin'd his loath'd embrace,
In rough, uneven, pathless ways she trod,
Deaf to the prayer of the pursuing God;
By flints and thorns her tender body bled;
Her strength forsook her, and her colour fled;
Chang'd in her form, the Laurel wreath she bore;
But own'd the Lily and the Rose no more.
Whom Study rivals, and whom books supplant.
Would that were all! but, to yourself unkind,
You waste your spirits to enrich your mind.
Then, dear Serena, timely warn'd, withhold
A soul too active for so fine a mold;
Pursue your game, but of your speed abate;
Lest death on knowledge, as of old, should wait:
Or should a toil, too rugged for the Fair,
Preventing age, your tender charms impair,
Think, quickly think, how dear would be the boast
Of tedious wisdom, purchas'd at the cost
Of love neglected, and of beauty lost.
So when Apollo gave his Daphne chace,
And the coy Nymph declin'd his loath'd embrace,
In rough, uneven, pathless ways she trod,
Deaf to the prayer of the pursuing God;
By flints and thorns her tender body bled;
Her strength forsook her, and her colour fled;
Chang'd in her form, the Laurel wreath she bore;
But own'd the Lily and the Rose no more.
| Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose | |