 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
150
DAPHNE
Eclogue 2d.
Argument
Pompey, a Negro Slave, is in love with Daphne, a fellow Slave that has gained the good Graces of her Master—He therefore in this Eclogue complains of her Cruelty, says all he can in his own Favour, & importunes her to come & live with him; till at last perceiving the Vanity of her Pretensions, he acknowledges his Folly, & is resolv'd to Trouble himself no more about her.
For Daphne's Charms did hapless Pompey
burn,
In vain, She scorn'd to make him a Return;
The planter lov'd too well the coal-black Maid,
Joy of his Eyes, & Partner of his Bed:
The gloomy Woods were all the Slave's Relief,
His toil once o'er, he'd solace there his Grief;
To echoing hills wou'd tell his piteous Tale,
And grumble to the trees—without Avail.
In vain, She scorn'd to make him a Return;
The planter lov'd too well the coal-black Maid,
Joy of his Eyes, & Partner of his Bed:
The gloomy Woods were all the Slave's Relief,
His toil once o'er, he'd solace there his Grief;
To echoing hills wou'd tell his piteous Tale,
And grumble to the trees—without Avail.
O cruel Daphne, must I die indeed,
Nor thou my Songs, my Cares, my Passion heed?
Our fleecy Flocks the breezy Cool enjoy;
Secure midst bushy Brakes the Lizards lie,
Kind Nell delicious Huomine prepares
For weary Cesar, & for lusty Mars.
But I, pursuing charming Thee in vain,
Constant with chirping Grashopper complain.
Nor thou my Songs, my Cares, my Passion heed?
Our fleecy Flocks the breezy Cool enjoy;
Secure midst bushy Brakes the Lizards lie,
Kind Nell delicious Huomine prepares
For weary Cesar, & for lusty Mars.
But I, pursuing charming Thee in vain,
Constant with chirping Grashopper complain.
The haughty Airs of proud Mulatto Bess,
Was't not enough to bear—without redress?
True; she was yellow;—lovely black art thou;
Yet both coneur my Wonted Peace t'undo.
Trust not too much, my Tyrant, to thy Charms;
The whites are sometimes welcome to our Arms:
My Mistress oft invites me to her Bed,
And, if thou'rt cruel still, she'll sure succeed.
Was't not enough to bear—without redress?
True; she was yellow;—lovely black art thou;
Yet both coneur my Wonted Peace t'undo.
Trust not too much, my Tyrant, to thy Charms;
The whites are sometimes welcome to our Arms:
My Mistress oft invites me to her Bed,
And, if thou'rt cruel still, she'll sure succeed.
O crudelis Alexi, nihil mea carmina curas;
Nil nostri miserere; mori me denique coges:
Nunc etiam pecudes umbras & frigora captant,
Thestylis & rapido fessis messoribus aestu
Nunc viridis etiam occultant spineta lacertos,
Allia serpyllumque herbas contundit olentis.
At mecum raucis, tua dum vestigia lustro,
Sole sub ardenti resonant asbusta cicadis.
Nonne fuit satius tristes Amaryllidis iras
Atque superba puti fastidia?
Quamvis ille niger, quamvis tu candidus esses.
O formose puer, nimium ne crede colori,
Alba liqustra cadunt. Vaccinia nigra leguntur.
Nil nostri miserere; mori me denique coges:
Nunc etiam pecudes umbras & frigora captant,
Thestylis & rapido fessis messoribus aestu
Nunc viridis etiam occultant spineta lacertos,
Allia serpyllumque herbas contundit olentis.
At mecum raucis, tua dum vestigia lustro,
Sole sub ardenti resonant asbusta cicadis.
Nonne fuit satius tristes Amaryllidis iras
Atque superba puti fastidia?
Quamvis ille niger, quamvis tu candidus esses.
O formose puer, nimium ne crede colori,
Alba liqustra cadunt. Vaccinia nigra leguntur.
151
Daphne, indeed you shun you don't know who;
A thousand Things at your Command I'll do.
Fullrich am I in Poultry, Turkies, Geese;
Cotton I gather, white as any Fleece;
Potatoes sweet shall be thy Winter-Fare,
And most delicious Fruits thy Summer's Share.
I sing as well as ever Negro sung.
Nor Sambo has a Banjar better strung.
A thousand Things at your Command I'll do.
Fullrich am I in Poultry, Turkies, Geese;
Cotton I gather, white as any Fleece;
Potatoes sweet shall be thy Winter-Fare,
And most delicious Fruits thy Summer's Share.
I sing as well as ever Negro sung.
Nor Sambo has a Banjar better strung.
Nor am I so deform'd—alate I stood,
And view'd my shape in Choptank's Silver Flood
My Master's self, tho' we were judg'd by thee,
Can't boast a Body, Shape, or Limbs like me.
And view'd my shape in Choptank's Silver Flood
My Master's self, tho' we were judg'd by thee,
Can't boast a Body, Shape, or Limbs like me.
O might this humble Hut thy Charms receive;
With me the Piggies to their Accorns drive.
Our haughty Lord, tho' now so wondrous great,
Once on Tobacco, & on Hogs did wait:
First toil'd like me, was next an Overseer;
So by Degrees grew what you've found him here.
Nor think it Scorn to use this gentle Hoe;
Once in his Life, twas more than he wou'd do.
With me the Piggies to their Accorns drive.
Our haughty Lord, tho' now so wondrous great,
Once on Tobacco, & on Hogs did wait:
First toil'd like me, was next an Overseer;
So by Degrees grew what you've found him here.
Nor think it Scorn to use this gentle Hoe;
Once in his Life, twas more than he wou'd do.
O tantum libeat mecum tibi sordida rura
Atque humilis habitare casas,
Haedorumq gregem viridi compellere hybisco.—
Mecum una in sylvis imitabere Pana canendo.
Pan primus calamos cera conjungere plures.
Instituit—
Nec te paeniteat calamo trivisse labellum
Haec eadem ut Sciret, quid non faciebat Amintas?
Atque humilis habitare casas,
Haedorumq gregem viridi compellere hybisco.—
Mecum una in sylvis imitabere Pana canendo.
Pan primus calamos cera conjungere plures.
Instituit—
Nec te paeniteat calamo trivisse labellum
Haec eadem ut Sciret, quid non faciebat Amintas?
Besides, within the Woods I lately found
Two lovely Fawns, with White all Spotted round,
These have I kept for thee—Nell oft in vain
Has beg'd 'em of me; she'll her Suit obtain,
Since thou the Giver & the Gift disdain.
Two lovely Fawns, with White all Spotted round,
These have I kept for thee—Nell oft in vain
Has beg'd 'em of me; she'll her Suit obtain,
Since thou the Giver & the Gift disdain.
Come beauteous Girl—For thee each Brother slave
A Garland, mint of fairest Flow'rs shall weave,
For thee myself will Nuts & Peaches get,
And Apples sweeter than thou'st tasted yet,
The Cedars too, their fragrant Boughs shall lend,
Thee from the Summer's Heat, or Winter's Cold to fend.
A Garland, mint of fairest Flow'rs shall weave,
For thee myself will Nuts & Peaches get,
And Apples sweeter than thou'st tasted yet,
The Cedars too, their fragrant Boughs shall lend,
Thee from the Summer's Heat, or Winter's Cold to fend.
Ah, Pompey! she thy scoundrel—Presents scorns;
Thy Lord with nobler Gifts her Love returns;
What wou'd I have?—how wretched is my Lot?
The Hogs into my Cotton Patch have got.
Surely our Huts you scorn'st not; lest you're mad;
Our Master's self at first no better had.
Thy Lord with nobler Gifts her Love returns;
What wou'd I have?—how wretched is my Lot?
The Hogs into my Cotton Patch have got.
Surely our Huts you scorn'st not; lest you're mad;
Our Master's self at first no better had.
152
The Wolf with greedy Eyes the Lamb pursues,
The Gentle Lamb the Glade with rapture views.
I follow thee, My Daphne; thee alone;
All follow that they want to make their own.
See my returning Mates—their Toil is done,
The Shadows now attend the setting Sun:
Yet I'm burnt up with Love—What yet could prove
Sufficient Guard against the Flames of Love.
The Gentle Lamb the Glade with rapture views.
I follow thee, My Daphne; thee alone;
All follow that they want to make their own.
See my returning Mates—their Toil is done,
The Shadows now attend the setting Sun:
Yet I'm burnt up with Love—What yet could prove
Sufficient Guard against the Flames of Love.
Ah Pompey, say! thy Mind what Frenzy sways?
And yet no Boughs support thy drooping Peas:
Why rather does thou not those Things prepare
Which both for thy wants & ease more needful are?
Another court, since thou must do without her;
Make no more Rant, nor vex thyself about her.
And yet no Boughs support thy drooping Peas:
Why rather does thou not those Things prepare
Which both for thy wants & ease more needful are?
Another court, since thou must do without her;
Make no more Rant, nor vex thyself about her.
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |