Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr John Hopkins |
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To Mr ---
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 | Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses |  |
To Mr ---
To you, dear Youth, now Banish'd from the Swains,
Your Rural Friend, in Rural Notes, complains,
From my blest Groves, those long Lov'd Mansions, hurl'd,
Urg'd by misfortunes, I must view the World.
But with as much regret, to see it, fly,
As they to leave it, who are doom'd to die.
From these dear Shades unwillingly I go,
As Men, Condemn'd to visit Shades below.
Since my late ills, which will be ever new,
Still Fresh misfortunes your lost Friend pursue.
Amasia's fall struck me to deep Despair,
And now Fate's utmost Malice I can bear.
Inur'd to Storms, now let the Billows roar,
With full spread Sails, I'll shun the lazy shore,
He who has once been Wreck'd—
Has felt the worst, and cannot suffer more.
Just o'er my Head the breaking Clouds have gone,
The Bolts have struck; then sure their fury's done,
I fear no Flashes now—let the Heav'ns thunder on.
By grave Acquaintance, whom the world calls Friends,
I am advis'd to quit my purpos'd ends.
But now, long Planted in the Muses Land,
I can no other Language understand.
All Worldly gains beyond my reach must prove,
For I am bent on Poetry, and Love.
Should frowning Heav'n it's usual Storms abate,
(Which I can't think, without a wrong to Fate,)
My Joys would grow, as now my Sorrows, great.
But should no Fortunes, no success attend
The bold, aspiring Fondness of your Friend.
Trust me, no disappointment shall I find,
Nor be deceiv'd, unless the Gods grow kind.
In vain you move me with your Charming strain,
And tell of Fancy'd, Gen'rous Nymphs, in vain.
The British Beauties sure have noble Souls,
But still 'tis Gold, 'tis Gold, my Friend, controuls.
No Charming Fair will hear the suppliant sue,
Who speaks not Golden Words, 'tis Gold must woe,
And all Despair, who want it, all—but you.
O should some Beauty, in her Heav'nly bloom,
To the Embraces of your Sylvius come.
Some bright, dear Maid, fram'd of a nobler mould,
Who scorns to sell her Charms for sordid Gold,
Above her Sex's meanest Pride, and generously bold.
Blest by our Nuptials, sure, we both should grow,
I, tho' the Husband, still the Lover too;
A Mistress, so Divine, should be for ever so.
My loftiest Muse should Sing her Matchless Fame,
The Fires of Love should yield my fancy Flame,
She should for ever live—
Nam'd my Amasia, and adorn the Name.
Your Rural Friend, in Rural Notes, complains,
From my blest Groves, those long Lov'd Mansions, hurl'd,
Urg'd by misfortunes, I must view the World.
But with as much regret, to see it, fly,
As they to leave it, who are doom'd to die.
170
As Men, Condemn'd to visit Shades below.
Since my late ills, which will be ever new,
Still Fresh misfortunes your lost Friend pursue.
Amasia's fall struck me to deep Despair,
And now Fate's utmost Malice I can bear.
Inur'd to Storms, now let the Billows roar,
With full spread Sails, I'll shun the lazy shore,
He who has once been Wreck'd—
Has felt the worst, and cannot suffer more.
Just o'er my Head the breaking Clouds have gone,
The Bolts have struck; then sure their fury's done,
I fear no Flashes now—let the Heav'ns thunder on.
By grave Acquaintance, whom the world calls Friends,
I am advis'd to quit my purpos'd ends.
But now, long Planted in the Muses Land,
I can no other Language understand.
All Worldly gains beyond my reach must prove,
For I am bent on Poetry, and Love.
Should frowning Heav'n it's usual Storms abate,
(Which I can't think, without a wrong to Fate,)
My Joys would grow, as now my Sorrows, great.
But should no Fortunes, no success attend
The bold, aspiring Fondness of your Friend.
171
Nor be deceiv'd, unless the Gods grow kind.
In vain you move me with your Charming strain,
And tell of Fancy'd, Gen'rous Nymphs, in vain.
The British Beauties sure have noble Souls,
But still 'tis Gold, 'tis Gold, my Friend, controuls.
No Charming Fair will hear the suppliant sue,
Who speaks not Golden Words, 'tis Gold must woe,
And all Despair, who want it, all—but you.
O should some Beauty, in her Heav'nly bloom,
To the Embraces of your Sylvius come.
Some bright, dear Maid, fram'd of a nobler mould,
Who scorns to sell her Charms for sordid Gold,
Above her Sex's meanest Pride, and generously bold.
Blest by our Nuptials, sure, we both should grow,
I, tho' the Husband, still the Lover too;
A Mistress, so Divine, should be for ever so.
My loftiest Muse should Sing her Matchless Fame,
The Fires of Love should yield my fancy Flame,
She should for ever live—
Nam'd my Amasia, and adorn the Name.
Give my respects to those few Friend we know,
To those few Friends, whom I found always so.
My real Service, and Chief Thoughts commend,
Who Serves no Mistress, best can Serve his Friend.
Born on my Muses Wings, I hast to you,
Leave these low Vales, and glory's heights pursue,
Adieu, my Friend—
To those few Friends, whom I found always so.
172
Who Serves no Mistress, best can Serve his Friend.
Born on my Muses Wings, I hast to you,
Leave these low Vales, and glory's heights pursue,
Adieu, my Friend—
Adieu, dear Shades, Adieu.
| Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | |