The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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The Hopeless Lover.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
The Hopeless Lover.
In a Vision to Cælia.
'Twas now the Time when all Remains of Day
By the thick Shades of Night were chast away:
Silence and gentle Sleep fill'd ev'ry Breast,
And Nature's self seem'd to retire to rest.
Nothing but Fancy (for she ever wakes,
And, unconfin'd, her roving Journey takes
O'er Hills, o'er Dales, o'er Flow'ry Meads and Lakes:
Sometimes she mounts aloft where Angels dwell,
And in a Trice shoots down from thence to Hell,
There all the Tortures of the Damn'd does view,
And almost makes us think we feel 'em too.)
Nothing beside was free; and 'twas her Will
To shew the Pastimes of her Antick Skill.
Wrapt deep in Sleep I lay, the Scene she drew;
And this was that presented to my View.
By the thick Shades of Night were chast away:
42
And Nature's self seem'd to retire to rest.
Nothing but Fancy (for she ever wakes,
And, unconfin'd, her roving Journey takes
O'er Hills, o'er Dales, o'er Flow'ry Meads and Lakes:
Sometimes she mounts aloft where Angels dwell,
And in a Trice shoots down from thence to Hell,
There all the Tortures of the Damn'd does view,
And almost makes us think we feel 'em too.)
Nothing beside was free; and 'twas her Will
To shew the Pastimes of her Antick Skill.
Wrapt deep in Sleep I lay, the Scene she drew;
And this was that presented to my View.
I look'd, and Lo! I saw a Nymph as fair
As Guardian Angels in Idea are
Her Mien so graceful, and her Eyes so bright,
Their Lustre did supply the absent Light.
Musing, I on the dazling Object gaz'd,
At once delighted, and at once amaz'd.
But witness for me Heav'n, for you know best,
What a Confusion seiz'd my trembling Breast,
When drawing nearer for a stricter View
(Not thinking that beauteous Form I knew)
I found 'twas Cælia, causer of my Smart,
Cælia! the cruel Empress of my Heart.
Whose Eyes methought at my approach shot Flame,
Arm'd with that direful Weapon, sharp Disdain.
Backward I stept, grim Horror seiz'd my Heart,
And stab'd it round in every Vital Part;
Nor had I Strength to bear the painful Wound,
But fainted, and fell Speechless to the Ground,
Beyond the Reach of Human Pow'r to save,
Had not these Words recall'd me from the Grave.
As Guardian Angels in Idea are
Her Mien so graceful, and her Eyes so bright,
Their Lustre did supply the absent Light.
Musing, I on the dazling Object gaz'd,
At once delighted, and at once amaz'd.
But witness for me Heav'n, for you know best,
What a Confusion seiz'd my trembling Breast,
When drawing nearer for a stricter View
(Not thinking that beauteous Form I knew)
I found 'twas Cælia, causer of my Smart,
Cælia! the cruel Empress of my Heart.
Whose Eyes methought at my approach shot Flame,
Arm'd with that direful Weapon, sharp Disdain.
Backward I stept, grim Horror seiz'd my Heart,
And stab'd it round in every Vital Part;
Nor had I Strength to bear the painful Wound,
But fainted, and fell Speechless to the Ground,
Beyond the Reach of Human Pow'r to save,
Had not these Words recall'd me from the Grave.
43
Amyntor, Rise and hear your Cælia speak,
I bring the Cure, the only Cure you seek.
Despair no more (that Bane of all Delight)
Shall break your Peace by Day, or Rest by Night,
But chas'd by me, take everlasting Flight.
Rise, and to meet thy coming Joy prepare
This happy Hour for ever ends your Care.
I bring the Cure, the only Cure you seek.
Despair no more (that Bane of all Delight)
Shall break your Peace by Day, or Rest by Night,
But chas'd by me, take everlasting Flight.
Rise, and to meet thy coming Joy prepare
This happy Hour for ever ends your Care.
Reviv'd with this dear Language up I sprung;
But Fear had barr'd all Utt'rance from my Tongue:
A thousand Doubts roll'd in my troubl'd Breast
While I stood trembling to expect the rest:
Kind tho' she seem'd, her Eyes commanded Death,
And my pale Fate hung hov'ring o'er her Breath.
But Fear had barr'd all Utt'rance from my Tongue:
A thousand Doubts roll'd in my troubl'd Breast
While I stood trembling to expect the rest:
Kind tho' she seem'd, her Eyes commanded Death,
And my pale Fate hung hov'ring o'er her Breath.
Dear Youth (continued she) the Scorn I've shown
Was only to confirm you more my own:
For if your Passion were from Interest pure,
I knew 'twoud the severest Test endure.
'Twas this to be assured of made me feign
All the sharp Rigours of unjust Disdain.
And who alas! will blame me that reflects
How many of our frail believing Sex
Are lost (be they as vertuous as they can)
By the fair specious Arts of faithless Man?
How oft d'ye vow y'are our eternal Slaves?
Yet Tyrants grow and drive us to our Graves.
When once possest for what you feign'd to burn,
You treat us with Neglect, Disdain and Scorn,
And mighty Love to rude Contempt does turn.
Such Thoughts as these made me with Caution move,
And on a sure Foundation build my Love:
For who e'er gain'd it, I well knew wou'd find
'Twas not the Passion of a fickle Mind,
Changing as Tydes, and Wav'ring with the Wind;
But fix'd like Fate, from whence its Essence came,
Ever to last, and always be the same,
And so, Amyntor, so to you I give
A Heart which for you only wish'd to live.
Was only to confirm you more my own:
For if your Passion were from Interest pure,
I knew 'twoud the severest Test endure.
'Twas this to be assured of made me feign
All the sharp Rigours of unjust Disdain.
And who alas! will blame me that reflects
How many of our frail believing Sex
Are lost (be they as vertuous as they can)
By the fair specious Arts of faithless Man?
How oft d'ye vow y'are our eternal Slaves?
Yet Tyrants grow and drive us to our Graves.
When once possest for what you feign'd to burn,
You treat us with Neglect, Disdain and Scorn,
And mighty Love to rude Contempt does turn.
Such Thoughts as these made me with Caution move,
And on a sure Foundation build my Love:
For who e'er gain'd it, I well knew wou'd find
'Twas not the Passion of a fickle Mind,
Changing as Tydes, and Wav'ring with the Wind;
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Ever to last, and always be the same,
And so, Amyntor, so to you I give
A Heart which for you only wish'd to live.
Charm'd with the tuneful Sound her Accents bore,
I was all Joy! as all Despair before.
Not the least Mark of Sorrow did remain,
This one blest Moment cancell'd all my Pain.
So a just Martyr'd Saint thro' Heaven does range,
And so does wonder at his happy Change!
At last the Transport giving Way I spoke,
And in these Words the pleasing Silence broke.
I was all Joy! as all Despair before.
Not the least Mark of Sorrow did remain,
This one blest Moment cancell'd all my Pain.
So a just Martyr'd Saint thro' Heaven does range,
And so does wonder at his happy Change!
At last the Transport giving Way I spoke,
And in these Words the pleasing Silence broke.
Thou truest Image of the Pow'rs above,
For They like You will frown on him they love,
But when thro' much Adversity h'has past,
Like You, they bounteously reward at last:
For Perseverance wins their Love divine,
And Perseverance too has gain'd me Thine.
Y'ave sav'd me from Despair! and rais'd me to
A Pitch of Joy where yet my Wishes never flew!
Surprising turn!—Oft have I sent my Cries
(With Care kept waking) echoing to the Skies.
How oft (the constant Mourner of the Grove)
Have I sat weeping my improsp'rous Love?
How oft did I to senseless Trees complain?
Whose whistling Leaves breath'd back my Woes again.
Hard Stones of Adamant e'en seem'd to hear,
And in Compassion oft wou'd drop a Tear;
You, harder yet, ne'er lent a pitying Ear.
So moving was each tender Sigh and Groan,
E'en Philomel has ceas'd her Midnight Moan,
And thought my Griefs more piercing than her own.
Unkind, relentless Cælia (wou'd I cry)
Must I thus scorn'd and thus unpity'd die?
What is it that my humble Love requires?
Only a Sigh just as your Slave expires:
Without Reluctance then to Death I'd go,
Meet him half way, and bless the coming Blow;
Her Frowns can't reach me when I lie so low.
Such were the Words my wild Despair let fall
Such were my Griefs—but this o'er pays 'em all.
For They like You will frown on him they love,
But when thro' much Adversity h'has past,
Like You, they bounteously reward at last:
For Perseverance wins their Love divine,
And Perseverance too has gain'd me Thine.
Y'ave sav'd me from Despair! and rais'd me to
A Pitch of Joy where yet my Wishes never flew!
Surprising turn!—Oft have I sent my Cries
(With Care kept waking) echoing to the Skies.
How oft (the constant Mourner of the Grove)
Have I sat weeping my improsp'rous Love?
How oft did I to senseless Trees complain?
Whose whistling Leaves breath'd back my Woes again.
Hard Stones of Adamant e'en seem'd to hear,
And in Compassion oft wou'd drop a Tear;
You, harder yet, ne'er lent a pitying Ear.
So moving was each tender Sigh and Groan,
E'en Philomel has ceas'd her Midnight Moan,
And thought my Griefs more piercing than her own.
Unkind, relentless Cælia (wou'd I cry)
Must I thus scorn'd and thus unpity'd die?
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Only a Sigh just as your Slave expires:
Without Reluctance then to Death I'd go,
Meet him half way, and bless the coming Blow;
Her Frowns can't reach me when I lie so low.
Such were the Words my wild Despair let fall
Such were my Griefs—but this o'er pays 'em all.
Thus I, me thought, my Passion's Progress mourn'd,
When Cælia, weeping, this Reply return'd,
Amyntor! How shall I your Peace restore?
Or how reward the Pangs for me you bore?
My Love, I fear is a Return too small,
Take with it then, my Life! my Soul! my All!
Here she sunk speechless down into my Arms,
Melting! and melting me too with her Charms!
When Cælia, weeping, this Reply return'd,
Amyntor! How shall I your Peace restore?
Or how reward the Pangs for me you bore?
My Love, I fear is a Return too small,
Take with it then, my Life! my Soul! my All!
Here she sunk speechless down into my Arms,
Melting! and melting me too with her Charms!
What shou'd I do? All over Warmth I prest
Her close, and held her panting to my Breast
Ah! Fair, I cry'd, (while in that Union join'd)
Y'ave own'd I'm true, and now I own you're kind,
What then, at last, but the dear Joy remains?
That now we reap the Fruit of all our Pains?
You must not, can't, you shan't deny the Bliss—
O come!—I han't the Leisure for a Kiss.
Her close, and held her panting to my Breast
Ah! Fair, I cry'd, (while in that Union join'd)
Y'ave own'd I'm true, and now I own you're kind,
What then, at last, but the dear Joy remains?
That now we reap the Fruit of all our Pains?
You must not, can't, you shan't deny the Bliss—
O come!—I han't the Leisure for a Kiss.
See here the Fate that over Love does reign!
How short the Pleasure, and how long the Pain!
For O! no sooner had the accursed Sound
Of these last Words unwary Utt'rance found,
But the fair Vision took her unseen Flight,
And swiftly vanish'd thro' the Shades of Night.
Awak'd, I started up and gaz'd around,
But not one Glimpse of the lov'd Shadow found:
My Arms I clos'd and thought it yet was there,
But nothing now was to be clasp'd but Air:
'Twas gone! 'twas gone! and with it fled away
All the dear Hope I had of future Joy!
How short the Pleasure, and how long the Pain!
For O! no sooner had the accursed Sound
Of these last Words unwary Utt'rance found,
But the fair Vision took her unseen Flight,
And swiftly vanish'd thro' the Shades of Night.
Awak'd, I started up and gaz'd around,
But not one Glimpse of the lov'd Shadow found:
My Arms I clos'd and thought it yet was there,
But nothing now was to be clasp'd but Air:
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All the dear Hope I had of future Joy!
Eternally relentless Pow'rs above!
Must all my constant Service fruitless prove?
And never, never pierce the Heart I love?
Must I for ever in these Pangs remain,
Doom'd to love on, and doom'd to love in vain?
But 'tis your Will—and I shou'd not complain.
Yet O (if hapless Love may dare contend)
Had you but let the Vision know no End,
That, wrapt with the imaginary Charms,
I might have slept whole Ages in her Arms;
In vain of more substantial Blessings free,
That dear Illusion had been Heav'n to me!
But the same Minute we expect Relief,
To find a sure and still encreasing Grief,
Is of all human Curses, sure the chief:
For know, O Cælia, O disdainful Fair!
I must still love thee, tho' I still Despair.
Must all my constant Service fruitless prove?
And never, never pierce the Heart I love?
Must I for ever in these Pangs remain,
Doom'd to love on, and doom'd to love in vain?
But 'tis your Will—and I shou'd not complain.
Yet O (if hapless Love may dare contend)
Had you but let the Vision know no End,
That, wrapt with the imaginary Charms,
I might have slept whole Ages in her Arms;
In vain of more substantial Blessings free,
That dear Illusion had been Heav'n to me!
But the same Minute we expect Relief,
To find a sure and still encreasing Grief,
Is of all human Curses, sure the chief:
For know, O Cælia, O disdainful Fair!
I must still love thee, tho' I still Despair.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |