 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
198
WORTHY
Ecloga the 10th
Argument
Worthy, a young Maryland Gentleman, had long courted Flavia, & was kindly receiv'd by her, so far, that he gain'd her consent, & only waited proper Time for the Ceremony. Being oblig'd the meanwhile to make a Voyage to England & a richer match offering, Flavia very prudently accepted of it & left poor Worthy to his fruitless complaints. This Poem was writ, it seems, at the very Time the affair was in agitation, Worthy being an Intimate Friend of the Authors.
This my last Labour, gentle Goddess, aid,
To Worthy due, by Flavia hapless made;
Be such the Song, that she the Bard approve,
And listen to the honest Planter's Love.
To Worthy who their Measures can refuse?
The best in Maryland deserves the Muse.
So shall thy Bard acknowledge still thy Sway,
And when thou bid'st the Song, attune the Lay.
Begin—his gen'rous Passion let us sing,
While warbling Mock-Birds usher in the Spring
Nor think the cheerful, spritely Labour vain
The waving Woods will echo back the Strain!
To Worthy due, by Flavia hapless made;
Be such the Song, that she the Bard approve,
And listen to the honest Planter's Love.
To Worthy who their Measures can refuse?
The best in Maryland deserves the Muse.
So shall thy Bard acknowledge still thy Sway,
And when thou bid'st the Song, attune the Lay.
Begin—his gen'rous Passion let us sing,
While warbling Mock-Birds usher in the Spring
Nor think the cheerful, spritely Labour vain
The waving Woods will echo back the Strain!
What Groves, my jolly Girls, your forms conceal,
When Worthy burns with Love, without Avail?
What tow'ring Hills such grateful Prospects shew,
Or what meandring Rills so sweetly flow,
Your unkind absence from the Youth t'excuse,
Not Woods themselves their gen'rous Plaints refuse;
E'en Mountains sympathize with him in Grief,
And stony Rocks can wish him kind Relief.
His faithful Overseer his Task forgets,
And every Slave at his misfortune frets:
Poor Brother Philip comes to sooth his Pains:
All kindly ask what Nymph his suit disdains.
E'en Thickscull, 'mongst his Neighbors wondrous wise,
Gives him a helping hand, & bravely cries;
‘Pho Man!’ why makst thou such a mighty Pother,
‘Scorn the false Jade, & briskly court another.’
Kind neighbor Twanhum, by his Tresses known,
To join his honest Grief with his rides down;
Good Parson Saygrace his lov'd Bumbo leaves,
Tho' he small Comfort to the Lover gives;
Saygrace whose fiery Phiz more brightly shines,
Than Lay'rs of Gold in rich Peruvian Mines.
‘Where will this end? he cries, too cruel Love,
‘No skill what'er can from our Hearts remove:
‘As well teach deists faith, & Lawyers Truth,
‘Give Sense to Coxcombs, & to old Maids Youth.’
He sorrowful returns—Yet, gentle Swains,
In doleful Ditties sing my am'rous Pains;
Some little Ease my harrass'd Soul may feel
My hapless Tale in Rhime to hear you tell.
O that an Overseer I'ad only been,
This cruel Creature I shou'd ne'er have seen;
Some Convict-Girl full well had serv'd my Turn,
Black Bess at least with equal Flame wou'd burn;
And what tho' black she is—The Crabs brave food,
Tho' it's Form's hideous, yet the meat is good:
O Flavia, by this Riv'let's purling stream,
These woods, these flow'ry Meads (thy Charms my Theme)
O blest with Thee, with that dear Shape & Face,
Be me disclaimed, Eternity might pass.
Now furious Love boils up my heated Blood,
And I cou'd revel in a purple Flood,
Cou'd feast on murders & in rapes delight,
And 'gainst my dearest Friend for madness fight.
Thou far from me the greatest Woes wou'dst dare,
Rather than live with me in safety here:
O Cruel! Still let not thy haughty Scorn
Bring on thy pitiless Soul a like Return:
Now, now, of Lover's fatal Woes I sing,
And Charms, of Sorrows like my own, the Spring.
Yes—in the Woods midst Bears & Wolves I'll roam,
And think no more of Flavia & of Home:
There shall the Trees my fatal Passion wear,
The Marks of my fond Love their Barks shall bear.
Meanwhile, Scotch-Irish
shall my socials be,
Wild as they are, quite good enough for me.
Or 'gainst the grizley Bear my Rage I'll vent,
To trace his Haunts in Freezing Cold content.
Now over Rocks & ecchoing Woods I fly,
The friendly Indians all my arms supply,
As if by this my Soul a Cure cou'd gain,
And Heav'n had taught me thus to ease my Pain.
Now neither Nymphs nor Songs can yield me Peace,
And all the Charms the woodland's gave me, cease;
Not all my Cares can change the Tirant-Boy;
My Summer's Thirst Patuxent may alloy;
Winter's most piercing Cold I might endure;
But Love still governs all, & will not know a Cure.
When Worthy burns with Love, without Avail?
What tow'ring Hills such grateful Prospects shew,
Or what meandring Rills so sweetly flow,
Your unkind absence from the Youth t'excuse,
Not Woods themselves their gen'rous Plaints refuse;
E'en Mountains sympathize with him in Grief,
And stony Rocks can wish him kind Relief.
His faithful Overseer his Task forgets,
And every Slave at his misfortune frets:
Poor Brother Philip comes to sooth his Pains:
All kindly ask what Nymph his suit disdains.
199
Gives him a helping hand, & bravely cries;
‘Pho Man!’ why makst thou such a mighty Pother,
‘Scorn the false Jade, & briskly court another.’
Kind neighbor Twanhum, by his Tresses known,
To join his honest Grief with his rides down;
Good Parson Saygrace his lov'd Bumbo leaves,
Tho' he small Comfort to the Lover gives;
Saygrace whose fiery Phiz more brightly shines,
Than Lay'rs of Gold in rich Peruvian Mines.
‘Where will this end? he cries, too cruel Love,
‘No skill what'er can from our Hearts remove:
‘As well teach deists faith, & Lawyers Truth,
‘Give Sense to Coxcombs, & to old Maids Youth.’
He sorrowful returns—Yet, gentle Swains,
In doleful Ditties sing my am'rous Pains;
Some little Ease my harrass'd Soul may feel
My hapless Tale in Rhime to hear you tell.
O that an Overseer I'ad only been,
This cruel Creature I shou'd ne'er have seen;
Some Convict-Girl full well had serv'd my Turn,
Black Bess at least with equal Flame wou'd burn;
And what tho' black she is—The Crabs brave food,
Tho' it's Form's hideous, yet the meat is good:
O Flavia, by this Riv'let's purling stream,
These woods, these flow'ry Meads (thy Charms my Theme)
O blest with Thee, with that dear Shape & Face,
Be me disclaimed, Eternity might pass.
Now furious Love boils up my heated Blood,
And I cou'd revel in a purple Flood,
Cou'd feast on murders & in rapes delight,
And 'gainst my dearest Friend for madness fight.
Thou far from me the greatest Woes wou'dst dare,
Rather than live with me in safety here:
O Cruel! Still let not thy haughty Scorn
Bring on thy pitiless Soul a like Return:
Now, now, of Lover's fatal Woes I sing,
And Charms, of Sorrows like my own, the Spring.
Yes—in the Woods midst Bears & Wolves I'll roam,
And think no more of Flavia & of Home:
There shall the Trees my fatal Passion wear,
The Marks of my fond Love their Barks shall bear.
200
Wild as they are, quite good enough for me.
Or 'gainst the grizley Bear my Rage I'll vent,
To trace his Haunts in Freezing Cold content.
Now over Rocks & ecchoing Woods I fly,
The friendly Indians all my arms supply,
As if by this my Soul a Cure cou'd gain,
And Heav'n had taught me thus to ease my Pain.
Now neither Nymphs nor Songs can yield me Peace,
And all the Charms the woodland's gave me, cease;
Not all my Cares can change the Tirant-Boy;
My Summer's Thirst Patuxent may alloy;
Winter's most piercing Cold I might endure;
But Love still governs all, & will not know a Cure.
Enough has Worthy mourn'd—enough I've sung,
Due Thanks, ye Planters, to my Lays belong;
No more my Pipe with spritely Strains shall swell;
Go mind your Hogs & Crops,—& so farewel.
Due Thanks, ye Planters, to my Lays belong;
No more my Pipe with spritely Strains shall swell;
Go mind your Hogs & Crops,—& so farewel.
My friend here has finish'd, but has left out not imitated the seventh Eclogue of Virgil; What can be Reason; I'm at a Loss; But tis most likely that he died before he had finish'd his Design, for certainly had he liv'd longer, he would have imitated that & left these Poems, he has done, more perfect than they are.
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |