The Works of Richard Savage ... With an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author, by Samuel Johnson. A New Edition |
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TO MRS. ELIZA HAYWOOD,
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 | The Works of Richard Savage |  |
156
TO MRS. ELIZA HAYWOOD,
ON HER NOVEL, CALLED, THE RASH RESOLVE.
Doom'd to a fate which damps the poet's flame.
A muse, unfriended, greets thy rising name!
Unvers'd in envy's, or in flatt'ry's phrase,
Greatness she flies, yet merit claims her praise;
Nor will she, at her with'ring wreath, repine,
But smile, if fame and fortune cherish thine.
A muse, unfriended, greets thy rising name!
Unvers'd in envy's, or in flatt'ry's phrase,
Greatness she flies, yet merit claims her praise;
Nor will she, at her with'ring wreath, repine,
But smile, if fame and fortune cherish thine.
The sciences in thy sweet genius charm,
And, with their strength, thy sex's softness arm.
In thy full figures, painting's force we find,
As music fires, thy language lifts the mind.
Thy pow'r gives form, and touches into life
The passions imag'd in their bleeding strife:
Contrasted strokes, true art and fancy show,
And lights and shades in lively mixture flow.
Hope attacks Fear and Reason, Love's control,
Jealousy wounds, and Friendship heals the soul:
Black Falshood wears bright Gallantry's disguise,
And the gilt cloud enchants the fair-one's eyes.
Thy dames, in grief and frailties lovely shine,
And when most mortal half appear divine.
If, when some godlike, fav'rite passion sways,
The willing heart too fatally obeys,
Great minds lament what cruel censure blames,
And ruin'd Virtue gen'rous pity claims.
And, with their strength, thy sex's softness arm.
In thy full figures, painting's force we find,
As music fires, thy language lifts the mind.
Thy pow'r gives form, and touches into life
The passions imag'd in their bleeding strife:
Contrasted strokes, true art and fancy show,
And lights and shades in lively mixture flow.
Hope attacks Fear and Reason, Love's control,
Jealousy wounds, and Friendship heals the soul:
Black Falshood wears bright Gallantry's disguise,
And the gilt cloud enchants the fair-one's eyes.
Thy dames, in grief and frailties lovely shine,
And when most mortal half appear divine.
157
The willing heart too fatally obeys,
Great minds lament what cruel censure blames,
And ruin'd Virtue gen'rous pity claims.
Eliza, still impaint Love's pow'rful Queen!
Let Love, soft Love! exalt each swelling scene.
Arm'd with keen wit, in fame's wide lists advance!
Spain yields in fiction, in politeness, France.
Such orient light, as the first poets knew,
Flames from thy thought, and brightens ev'ry view!
A strong, a glorious, a luxuriant fire,
Which warms cold wisdom into wild desire!
Thy Fable glows so rich thro' ev'ry page,
What moral's force can the fierce heat assuage?
Let Love, soft Love! exalt each swelling scene.
Arm'd with keen wit, in fame's wide lists advance!
Spain yields in fiction, in politeness, France.
Such orient light, as the first poets knew,
Flames from thy thought, and brightens ev'ry view!
A strong, a glorious, a luxuriant fire,
Which warms cold wisdom into wild desire!
Thy Fable glows so rich thro' ev'ry page,
What moral's force can the fierce heat assuage?
And yet—but say, if ever doom'd to prove
The sad, the dear perplexities of love!
Where seeming transport softens ev'ry pain,
Where fancy'd freedom waits the winning chain!
Varying from pangs to visionary joys,
Sweet is the fate, and charms as it destroys!
Say then—if Love to sudden rage gives way,
Will the soft passion not resume its sway?
Charming and charm'd, can Love from Love retire?
Can a cold convent quench th' unwilling fire?
Precept, if human, may our thoughts refine,
More we admire! but cannot prove divine.
The sad, the dear perplexities of love!
Where seeming transport softens ev'ry pain,
Where fancy'd freedom waits the winning chain!
Varying from pangs to visionary joys,
Sweet is the fate, and charms as it destroys!
Say then—if Love to sudden rage gives way,
Will the soft passion not resume its sway?
Charming and charm'd, can Love from Love retire?
Can a cold convent quench th' unwilling fire?
Precept, if human, may our thoughts refine,
More we admire! but cannot prove divine.
| The Works of Richard Savage | |