 | The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale |  |
297
ON MISS WILLIS.
TO LAURA.
When Laura enforces her empire, with ease,
Her beauty to charm, and her talents to please;
When, diffusing love's gentle, yet mighty controul,
Her eye strikes each inmost recess of the soul;
In life's drama I still find my delicate part;
But I thank the hard steel that environs my heart;
The steel that has grown, by salabrious time,
Who corrects the wild ardour of love, and of rhyme:
(Oh! skreen me, old God! from the shafts of the fair;
And give to my verse a more dignified air!)
But should that unfortunate steel have one pore;
Her fire will pervade me, and life is no more:
For who would live longer in exquisite pains;
From new joys interdicted by rusty old chains!
Her beauty to charm, and her talents to please;
When, diffusing love's gentle, yet mighty controul,
Her eye strikes each inmost recess of the soul;
In life's drama I still find my delicate part;
But I thank the hard steel that environs my heart;
The steel that has grown, by salabrious time,
Who corrects the wild ardour of love, and of rhyme:
(Oh! skreen me, old God! from the shafts of the fair;
And give to my verse a more dignified air!)
But should that unfortunate steel have one pore;
Her fire will pervade me, and life is no more:
For who would live longer in exquisite pains;
From new joys interdicted by rusty old chains!
Then take the bright Stella; yes, take all her glow
(Sincerely my numbers for ever shall flow!)
Take her mirth (as enchanting as Venus's laugh!)
From whose sallies her lovers ebriety quaff;
Take her smiles that the sneer of old virgins defy;
Take the rose of her cheek, and the jet of her eye;
Take, in her, of enjoyment as luscious a store
As the prophet ere promised his soldiers before;—
If hate would relent, and but give me the other;
And make me in flesh as in spirit, thy brother:
Would give me concentered all feminine charms
(For my head is ambitious, ambitious, my arms!)
Give me graces external, but graces refined;
Where each attitude speaks, from the force of the mind;
Where sense in each word, common sense must descry;
Where an oracle guides, in each glance of her eye:
Where virtue corrects lighter passion's alarms;
All Pallas's wisdom, with Venus's charms.
(Sincerely my numbers for ever shall flow!)
Take her mirth (as enchanting as Venus's laugh!)
From whose sallies her lovers ebriety quaff;
298
Take the rose of her cheek, and the jet of her eye;
Take, in her, of enjoyment as luscious a store
As the prophet ere promised his soldiers before;—
If hate would relent, and but give me the other;
And make me in flesh as in spirit, thy brother:
Would give me concentered all feminine charms
(For my head is ambitious, ambitious, my arms!)
Give me graces external, but graces refined;
Where each attitude speaks, from the force of the mind;
Where sense in each word, common sense must descry;
Where an oracle guides, in each glance of her eye:
Where virtue corrects lighter passion's alarms;
All Pallas's wisdom, with Venus's charms.
'Midst the world's motley freaks, which all opposites blend,
I should know what the power of Olympus intend,
With regard to myself:—were I perfectly free;
Young, handsome, and wealthy, and worthy of thee!
But thy soul is exalted; it flows in a strain
Too good to be proud, and too great to be vain;
Then, superiour to scarlet, to nonsense, and youth;
It frowns not on learning; on talents; on truth:
It, surely, was formed, human ills to redress;
Whom fortune had cursed, with it's favours to bless;
To soften the woes of life's jacobine scene;
Not to spurn my grey hairs, if my laurels are green.
I should know what the power of Olympus intend,
With regard to myself:—were I perfectly free;
Young, handsome, and wealthy, and worthy of thee!
But thy soul is exalted; it flows in a strain
Too good to be proud, and too great to be vain;
299
It frowns not on learning; on talents; on truth:
It, surely, was formed, human ills to redress;
Whom fortune had cursed, with it's favours to bless;
To soften the woes of life's jacobine scene;
Not to spurn my grey hairs, if my laurels are green.
Monmouth, Nov. 16th, 1704.
| The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale | |