The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
ODE TO A HANDSOME WIDOW. |
|
|
|
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
296
ODE TO A HANDSOME WIDOW.
See yonder cloud, that mopes with mournful shade,
Black! black, as tho' it never would be bright!
Sol, like a bridegroom comes, a jovial blade,
Clasps her with warmth, and lo, her darkness, light!
The dress of Cloud soon alters! for, behold,
Her gloomy sables change to pink and gold!
Black! black, as tho' it never would be bright!
Sol, like a bridegroom comes, a jovial blade,
Clasps her with warmth, and lo, her darkness, light!
The dress of Cloud soon alters! for, behold,
Her gloomy sables change to pink and gold!
Daughter of sorrow, thus perchaunce 'twill be,
If I mistake not Nature, soon with thee.
If I mistake not Nature, soon with thee.
Pale as the pale rain-loaded lily's look,
And languid as the willow o'er the brook,
Exalt once more that drooping form to joy;
Too long the lute of Woe, with dying sound,
And melting lullaby thine eye hath drown'd;
The trump of Rapture should his voice employ;
The sprightly Fiddle rouse his sister Dance,
And bid thy cold heart glow with Love's romance.
And languid as the willow o'er the brook,
Exalt once more that drooping form to joy;
Too long the lute of Woe, with dying sound,
And melting lullaby thine eye hath drown'd;
The trump of Rapture should his voice employ;
The sprightly Fiddle rouse his sister Dance,
And bid thy cold heart glow with Love's romance.
Thy lifted eyes too eloquently mourn,
Deep-swimming in the silent fount of tears;
And then thy voice so musically lorn,
Accusing Fate's too cruel, cruel shears,
Wakes all the soft emotions of my heart,
That sympathising fain would mirth impart.
Deep-swimming in the silent fount of tears;
And then thy voice so musically lorn,
Accusing Fate's too cruel, cruel shears,
Wakes all the soft emotions of my heart,
That sympathising fain would mirth impart.
But grief for spouses lasts not ladies long;
Yet very poignant!—yes, though short, 'tis strong,
When first the best of husbands breathes his last:
And if his all be left them!—what a storm
Of sighs and tears their beauty to deform!
Grief seems as ever he would ride the blast.
Yet very poignant!—yes, though short, 'tis strong,
When first the best of husbands breathes his last:
And if his all be left them!—what a storm
Of sighs and tears their beauty to deform!
Grief seems as ever he would ride the blast.
Yet soon, 'tis said, the winds of Woe are still;
And tears, from torrents, sink a prattling rill.
And tears, from torrents, sink a prattling rill.
297
Think what a pair of sparkling eyes are thine,
And do not drown their Cupids in the brine;
And think too on thy pretty dimpled cheek—
Think of thy flaxen hair, whose beauties flow
In broad luxuriance o'er thy breast of snow;
And think too of that soft and polish'd neck.
Think of thy lips, that kisses can impart,
So ready from their ruby beds to start!
And do not drown their Cupids in the brine;
And think too on thy pretty dimpled cheek—
Think of thy flaxen hair, whose beauties flow
In broad luxuriance o'er thy breast of snow;
And think too of that soft and polish'd neck.
Think of thy lips, that kisses can impart,
So ready from their ruby beds to start!
Thus speak those lips, ‘We will be kiss'd again.’
And in the same sweet fascinating strain,
Thy polish'd bosom says, ‘I will be press'd;’
And then thy cheek, the loveliest of our isle,
Exclaims, ‘I will resume the cheerful smile,
My bloom shall make some future lover blest.’
And in the same sweet fascinating strain,
Thy polish'd bosom says, ‘I will be press'd;’
And then thy cheek, the loveliest of our isle,
Exclaims, ‘I will resume the cheerful smile,
My bloom shall make some future lover blest.’
O listen to thy locks from Fashion hurl'd—
‘We will look Christian-like—we will be curl'd;
We will not imitate a cow's strait tail:’
And then thy all-subduing taper waist,
So full of rich desires, and then so chaste,
Whist others are so marvellously frail—
‘I will be clasp'd by some smart swain, I say,
Not, like a cabbage-stalk, be flung away.’
‘We will look Christian-like—we will be curl'd;
We will not imitate a cow's strait tail:’
And then thy all-subduing taper waist,
So full of rich desires, and then so chaste,
Whist others are so marvellously frail—
‘I will be clasp'd by some smart swain, I say,
Not, like a cabbage-stalk, be flung away.’
Thy heart too speaks! ‘Though now, alas! forlorn,
There seems no reason for eternal sighing:
Owl-like, a little let me mope and mourn,
But not be ever swelling, groaning, dying.’
There seems no reason for eternal sighing:
Owl-like, a little let me mope and mourn,
But not be ever swelling, groaning, dying.’
Hark! from thy hand, which thou dost wretched wring—
‘Give me,’ a finger cries, ‘another ring.’
Oh! canst thou hear it on such wishes dwell,
And not indulge it with the bagatelle?
‘Give me,’ a finger cries, ‘another ring.’
Oh! canst thou hear it on such wishes dwell,
And not indulge it with the bagatelle?
Daughter of Grief, then hamper not thy charms,
Who, really grown rebellious, pant for arms;
Give way then to the roving mutineers—
And shouldst thou say ‘Lord! who will take 'em in?’
Trust me, I'll entertain 'em, ev'ry skin—
My bosom's open to the pretty dears.
Who, really grown rebellious, pant for arms;
Give way then to the roving mutineers—
And shouldst thou say ‘Lord! who will take 'em in?’
Trust me, I'll entertain 'em, ev'ry skin—
My bosom's open to the pretty dears.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |