 | The Last Poems of Philip Freneau |  |
11
The Fortunate Blacksmith
Young Vulcan long had aim'd a dart
At fair Priscilla's iron heart,
And, after all, with much ado,
Hard work he had to pierce it through.
At fair Priscilla's iron heart,
And, after all, with much ado,
Hard work he had to pierce it through.
He swore, when he the maid caress'd,
She carried anvils in her breast;
“A heavy sledge, at least, said he,
Come hither friends, and pity me!”
She carried anvils in her breast;
“A heavy sledge, at least, said he,
Come hither friends, and pity me!”
What power shall melt this flinty maid;
This nymph of steel we should have said,
What bellows shall its torrent cast
To put love's furnace in a blast!
This nymph of steel we should have said,
What bellows shall its torrent cast
To put love's furnace in a blast!
It made her blush, it hurt her pride
In steel or iron to confide;
To love, to wed a hammering lad,
The world, she guess'd, would think her mad.
In steel or iron to confide;
To love, to wed a hammering lad,
The world, she guess'd, would think her mad.
He often threatened to be off,
And drown him in the tempering trough,
His life he purposed to destroy,
And yet the nymph continued coy.
And drown him in the tempering trough,
His life he purposed to destroy,
And yet the nymph continued coy.
“A man that wrought at such a trade!
I cannot bear an iron blade”
She wanted Gold, that dearer ore,
Which every nymph is hunting for.
I cannot bear an iron blade”
She wanted Gold, that dearer ore,
Which every nymph is hunting for.
At length, he drew a Lottery Prize!
The iron melted in her eyes.
The anvil from her breast she shoved,
And said, your suit is now approv'd
The iron melted in her eyes.
The anvil from her breast she shoved,
And said, your suit is now approv'd
12
The arrow that the nymph did win
Was headed with a silver pin—
And now approach'd the wedding day;
To church the lovers took their way:
Was headed with a silver pin—
And now approach'd the wedding day;
To church the lovers took their way:
The envy, she, of every maid,
And he, an honour to his trade,
While through the streets the note resounds,
A blacksmith with a thousand pounds!
And he, an honour to his trade,
While through the streets the note resounds,
A blacksmith with a thousand pounds!
The Bride will look as black as night!
May Spanish dollars make her white,
May blacksmiths from this union rise
And not their father's trade despise.
May Spanish dollars make her white,
May blacksmiths from this union rise
And not their father's trade despise.
| The Last Poems of Philip Freneau | |