Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr John Hopkins |
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The Complaint.
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 | Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses |  |
The Complaint.
Tir'd of the Town, and the Wild tumults there,Pensive I Walk'd, to Breath the Vernal Air.
Along the Banks of Silver Thames I stray'd;
Alike both wander'd, thro' the grateful Mead.
Only, more Calm the River gilded by,
Shook by no Storm, it murmur'd not, as I.
Beneath a shade, form'd of a Shrubby Wood,
I lay, and look'd on the adjacent Flood.
The Beamy Sky All-lustrous from above,
With wav'ring Light seem'd on the Streams to move.
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Yet Plunging in, I had been ever lost.
Thus to those Wretches whom their Crimes pursue,
Ev'n Heav'n shows false, and Damns them in the view.
Strait, was the Sun o'ercast with sullen Clouds,
And gloomy Mists sat heavy on the Floods.
The Tempest gather'd, and from Pole to Pole,
The light'nings Flash, and the loud Thunders roll.
Whole Heav'n was darken'd—Calm I lay a while,
And with a Pleasing sadness, seem'd to smile.
But now, the Sun forc'd out his Glorious way,
Dispell'd the gloom, and made the Skies look gay,
Clad thick in brightest Beams, and Flashing on the Day.
On Airy Wings the gloomy Mists were fled,
And gladsome Sun-shine glided every Shade,
But that, where Sylvius, where the Wretch was lay'd.
A thick, dark Fog spread horrid, all around,
And dull'd the Springing Beauties of the ground.
On both sides, near, I saw delightful Groves,
And happy Lovers, Whisp'ring tender Loves.
The Odorous Bow'rs, their Scenes of bliss, so nigh
I heard the Swains protest, the Virgins sigh.
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Gay looks of Pleasure die, when Joys are past.
The Wretch his Courtship needs must purchase hate,
For Beauty yields, but to the rich, and great.
I saw—unenvying saw their rais'd delight,
Blest both their day, and my own gloomy Night,
That grateful Fog, which fenc'd me from their sight.
Hear me, I Cry'd, ye Heavens! Auspicious hear,
Kind Eccho too, part in my Sorrows bear.
In that low Vale try there thy utmost Skill;
Now, if thou can'st, redouble all my ill.
In vain, in vain—alas! What speaks the wrong,
In vain, in vain thou cry'st—'tis all thy Song.
Be dumb—I'll now a new Narcissus be,
Fond of my grief, as of his Beauty he.
More blest than him I shall appear in woe;
In this respect none will my Rival grow.
In all the Crowd of that imperious Town,
Find me that gen'rous Soul, find one alone,
Willing to Join in any other's moan.
Of all the shining Beauties, where's the Maid,
That sells her Love, where only Love is paid.
| Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | |