 | The Works of Mr. John Oldham |  |
122
THE DREAM.
Written, March 10. 1677.
Late as I on my Bed reposing lay,
And in soft sleep forgot the Toils of Day,
My self, my Cares, and Love, all charm'd to Rest,
And all the Tumults of my waking Breast,
Quiet and calm, as was the silent Night,
Whose stillness did to that bless'd sleep invite;
I dreamt, and strait this visionary Scene
Did with Delight my Fancy entertain.
And in soft sleep forgot the Toils of Day,
My self, my Cares, and Love, all charm'd to Rest,
And all the Tumults of my waking Breast,
Quiet and calm, as was the silent Night,
Whose stillness did to that bless'd sleep invite;
I dreamt, and strait this visionary Scene
Did with Delight my Fancy entertain.
I saw, methought, a lonely Privacy,
Remote alike from man's, and Heavens Eye,
Girt with the covert of a shady Grove,
Dark as my thoughts, and secret as my Love:
Hard by a Stream did with that softness creep,
As 'twere by its own murmurs husht asleep;
On its green Bank under a spreading Tree,
At once a pleasant, and a shelt'ring Canopy,
There I, and there my dear Cosmelia sate,
Nor envied Monarchs in our safe Retreat:
So heretofore were the first Lovers laid
On the same Turf of which themselves were made.
A while I did her charming Glories view,
Which to their former Conquests added new;
A while my wanton hand was pleas'd to rove
Through all the hidden Labyrinths of Love;
Ten thousand Kisses on her Lips I fix'd,
Which she with interfering Kisses mix'd,
Eager as those of Lovers are in Death,
When they give up their Souls too with the Breath.
Remote alike from man's, and Heavens Eye,
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Dark as my thoughts, and secret as my Love:
Hard by a Stream did with that softness creep,
As 'twere by its own murmurs husht asleep;
On its green Bank under a spreading Tree,
At once a pleasant, and a shelt'ring Canopy,
There I, and there my dear Cosmelia sate,
Nor envied Monarchs in our safe Retreat:
So heretofore were the first Lovers laid
On the same Turf of which themselves were made.
A while I did her charming Glories view,
Which to their former Conquests added new;
A while my wanton hand was pleas'd to rove
Through all the hidden Labyrinths of Love;
Ten thousand Kisses on her Lips I fix'd,
Which she with interfering Kisses mix'd,
Eager as those of Lovers are in Death,
When they give up their Souls too with the Breath.
Love by these Freedoms first became more bold,
At length unruly, and too fierce to hold:
See then (said I) and pity, charming Fair,
Yield quickly, yield; I can no longer bear
Th' impatient Sallies of a Bliss so near:
You must, and you alone these storms appease,
And lay those Spirits which your Charms could raise;
Come, and in equal Flouds let's quench our Flame,
Come let's—and unawares I went to name
The Thing, but stopt and blusht methought in Dream.
At length unruly, and too fierce to hold:
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Yield quickly, yield; I can no longer bear
Th' impatient Sallies of a Bliss so near:
You must, and you alone these storms appease,
And lay those Spirits which your Charms could raise;
Come, and in equal Flouds let's quench our Flame,
Come let's—and unawares I went to name
The Thing, but stopt and blusht methought in Dream.
At first she did the rude Address disown,
And check'd my Boldness with an angry Frown,
But yielding Glances, and consenting Eyes
Prov'd the soft Traitors to her forc'd Disguise;
And soon her looks, with anger rough e're while,
Sunk in the dimples of a calmer smile:
Then with a sigh into these words she broke,
And printed melting Kisses as she spoke:
Too strong, Philander, is thy pow'rful Art
To take a feeble Maids ill-guarded Heart:
Too long I've struggled with my Bliss in vain,
Too long oppos'd what I oft wish'd to gain,
Loath to consent, yet loather to deny,
At once I court, and shun Felicity:
I cannot, will not yield;—and yet I must,
Lest to my own Desires I prove unjust:
Sweet Ravisher! what Love commands thee, do;
Tho I'm displeas'd, I shall forgive thee too,
Too well thou know'st—and there my hand she press'd,
And said no more, but blush'd and smil'd the rest.
And check'd my Boldness with an angry Frown,
But yielding Glances, and consenting Eyes
Prov'd the soft Traitors to her forc'd Disguise;
And soon her looks, with anger rough e're while,
Sunk in the dimples of a calmer smile:
Then with a sigh into these words she broke,
And printed melting Kisses as she spoke:
Too strong, Philander, is thy pow'rful Art
To take a feeble Maids ill-guarded Heart:
125
Too long oppos'd what I oft wish'd to gain,
Loath to consent, yet loather to deny,
At once I court, and shun Felicity:
I cannot, will not yield;—and yet I must,
Lest to my own Desires I prove unjust:
Sweet Ravisher! what Love commands thee, do;
Tho I'm displeas'd, I shall forgive thee too,
Too well thou know'st—and there my hand she press'd,
And said no more, but blush'd and smil'd the rest.
Ravish'd at the new grant, fierce eager I
Leap'd furious on, and seiz'd my trembling Prey;
With guarding Arms she first my Force repell'd,
Shrunk, and drew back, and would not seem to yield;
Unwilling to o'recome, she faintly strove,
One hand pull'd to, what t'other did remove:
So feeble are the struglings, and so weak
In sleep we seem, and only seem to make:
Forbear! (she said) ah, gentle Youth, forbear,
(and still she hug'd, and clasp'd me still more near)
Ah! will you? will you force my Ruin so?
Ah? do not, do not, do not;—let me go.
Leap'd furious on, and seiz'd my trembling Prey;
With guarding Arms she first my Force repell'd,
Shrunk, and drew back, and would not seem to yield;
Unwilling to o'recome, she faintly strove,
One hand pull'd to, what t'other did remove:
So feeble are the struglings, and so weak
In sleep we seem, and only seem to make:
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(and still she hug'd, and clasp'd me still more near)
Ah! will you? will you force my Ruin so?
Ah? do not, do not, do not;—let me go.
What follow'd was above the pow'r of Verse,
Above the reach of Fancy to rehearse:
Not dying Saints enjoy such Extasies,
When they in Vision antedate their Bliss;
Not Dreams of a young Prophet are so bless'd,
When holy Trances first inspire his Breast,
And the God enters there to be a Guest.
Let duller Mortals other Pleasures prize,
Pleasures which enter at the waking Eyes,
Might I each Night such sweet Enjoyments find,
I'd wink for ever, be for ever blind.
Above the reach of Fancy to rehearse:
Not dying Saints enjoy such Extasies,
When they in Vision antedate their Bliss;
Not Dreams of a young Prophet are so bless'd,
When holy Trances first inspire his Breast,
And the God enters there to be a Guest.
Let duller Mortals other Pleasures prize,
Pleasures which enter at the waking Eyes,
Might I each Night such sweet Enjoyments find,
I'd wink for ever, be for ever blind.
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