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 |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ELEGY.
TO JULIA.
Detained in Italy by contrary Winds, he expresses his Desire for sailing for England.
Far from my Julia's arms I lonely sigh,
And wish to clasp thy beauties, but in vain;
The surly winds my only wish deny,
Yet would I dare the dangers of the main.
And wish to clasp thy beauties, but in vain;
The surly winds my only wish deny,
Yet would I dare the dangers of the main.
Ye winds and waves, how cruel to combine!
O let my pray'rs your rude rude pity prove;
Think of the gloomy moments that are mine!
Alas! ye know not what it is to love!
O let my pray'rs your rude rude pity prove;
Think of the gloomy moments that are mine!
Alas! ye know not what it is to love!
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To stately structures now I urge my way,
And weakly think the minutes to beguile;
But anxious Love will not be led astray:
Love goads my bosom for the virgin's smile.
And weakly think the minutes to beguile;
But anxious Love will not be led astray:
Love goads my bosom for the virgin's smile.
Now where the painter shows his mimic art,
I strive to free my soul from Love's alarms;
Lo, ev'ry Venus but augments my smart,
And to my view presents thy brighter charms.
I strive to free my soul from Love's alarms;
Lo, ev'ry Venus but augments my smart,
And to my view presents thy brighter charms.
To Music now fatigu'd I yield my ear,
But Music cannot the dull hours control;
With cold indifference ev'ry chord I hear,
While not a sound descends into my soul.
But Music cannot the dull hours control;
With cold indifference ev'ry chord I hear,
While not a sound descends into my soul.
Oft as I mark the tribes of air, I cry,
‘How with your pinions would I mount the wind!
Oh! with what rapture lifted, cleave the sky,
And, turn'd to Britain, leave my cares behind!’
‘How with your pinions would I mount the wind!
Oh! with what rapture lifted, cleave the sky,
And, turn'd to Britain, leave my cares behind!’
In wishes thus, I daily waste my breath,
Chain'd by the tempest to this hated shore;
When shall I leave, alas! this land of death,
For life and thee, to part, my love, no more?
Chain'd by the tempest to this hated shore;
When shall I leave, alas! this land of death,
For life and thee, to part, my love, no more?
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |