The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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SYLVIA: A CHARACTER. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
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SYLVIA: A CHARACTER.
Inscribed to Miss MONTGOMERY.
For every Station of a Woman fit,
Sylvia has Spirit, sparkling Eyes, and Wit:
Nor let her Want of Stature raise a Strife;
In less of Matter there is more of Life.
Thus, Diamonds, lessen'd into Brilliants, rise,
And gain in Lustre, what they lose in Size.
Once, we must own, deluded by the Throng,
She lean'd to Folly; but she lean'd not long:
Prancing, and pert, she bounc'd into the World;
She talk'd, she titter'd, toss'd the Head, and curl'd;
By Nature lively, she grew wild by Art;
(‘For, sure, it was so pretty to be smart:’)
But, soon recovering, flush'd with Mirth, and Youth,
Contented she came Home to Sense, and Truth;
Of every foreign, idle Grace disarm'd,
She grew herself; she reason'd, and she charm'd:
Yet, though she reasons, she can trifle still,
With equal Spirit, and superior Skill;
Though with some Change of Manners, and of Stiles;
(For Folly laughs, but Wisdom only smiles)
The Pertness fled, the Sprightliness remains;
She, then, diverted; now, she entertains;
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With lively Humour, and with easy Sense;
With nice Reflections on her present cast,
Or graceful Censures on her Follies past.
Shy to decide, though ready to discern,
Fond to improve, and not asham'd to learn,
For Reason, with the Charms of Fancy grac'd,
She feels a Relish, and she shews a Taste:
Her Life, by Principles, and Truth, she steers;
Not turn'd by every Whistle that she hears,
Like Half the Sex, from Matrons down to Girls,
With Eyes that twinkle, and an Head that twirls,
With Soul and Body every in a Dance,
The Slave of Fashion, or the Sport of Chance;
Now, light, and giddy; now, demure, and prim;
All Pride, and Passion, Prejudice, and Whim:
Her Heart, still regularly taught to beat,
Is warm with Nature's, not with Passion's Heat;
With her own Sorrows apt to swell, or flow
With generous Softness for another's Woe,
Which Friendship, Piety, Compassion move,
And every tender Sentiment, but Love:
Yet Love may get Admittance, too, but slow;
As yet a Stranger, only, not a Foe:
Her Heart is to be won; but, at her Price,
And is not so insensible, as nice.
Thus, every Virtue shining in its Place,
And, every Virtue follow'd by a Grace,
She claims our Praises. Are our Praises due?
The Picture charms us—Is the Picture true?
All Poets rant; their Fancy is their Law;
They colour brightly what they falsely draw:
Or, grant that one in twenty speaks his Mind,
He may not flatter; but, he may be blind:
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And many flourish well, who reason ill.
Sylvia, your Worth the Writer's Fame ensures:
He drew the Picture; make that Picture your's:
Shew to the Women, how their Glories sink;
Shew to the Men, that Women dare to think;
'Till all confess, discovering whom I paint,
The Image faithful, though the Copy faint.
| The Shamrock | |