University of Virginia Library

To a Lady Lamenting her Lover, who was Drown'd.

Nor Pen, nor Pencil, can describe thy Woe,
Scarce thy Dear Eyes can their own sorrows show.
Such Floods of Tears from their fair Springs run o'er,
In such vast streams you pour your Liquid store,
As might have drown'd the Swain, had he escap'd before.
Those Gales of sighs, which thus your Bosom fill'd,
Cause vaster blasts, than what your Lover kill'd.
Yet sure those show'rs, which o'er your Cheeks we find,
Might be of force to have suppress'd the Wind.
Those Sunny smiles which late adorn'd your form,
Are now Eclips'd, and you are all a storm.
Sad, gloomy Clouds spread o'er your Lovely Eyes,
So fell the Youth, by Just such angry Skies.
Thus, while those Tempests in your looks appear,
A harder fate, than what he felt, we bear,
And with worse Deaths, you wreck beholders here.
Since once the Seas o'er all the Lands did flow,
And the Waves roll'd, wherever Winds could blow,
Blaming Jove's Promise, your complains are found,
For, in his loss, you think the World is drown'd.
This may consistent with your Notions be,
For the Lov'd Youth was all the World to thee.
But while your Eyes spread all your Face with rain,
Not Earth, but Heav'n endures the Deluge then.
For you, the Youth bore such a gen'rous Fire,
As nought but Oceans could have made expire.
His height of Passion, like Leander's, flew,
And he would cross a Hellespont for you.
Instead of Lamps to guide him in the Night,
With your fair Eyes you should have shown him light.
So had he safely thro' the Billows rode,
To his Dear Hero's more secure abode.
As in the Floods he drew his Liquid Death,
Thy name he utter'd with his latest Breath.
Love's Mother first is said from Seas to rise,
And now the Son of Love in the rough Oceans lies.
How, ah! how wretched did the Lover prove,
Tho' he was blest with kind returns of Love!
Since he is drown'd, you scorn our fond desires,
His Waters so have quench'd all other's Fires.
Hibernia's Seas may now insult their Coast,
Their swelling Billows may their Trophies boast,
By them, was your O Neil------
By them, to me, was my Amasia lost.
Thus, only thus, Lov'd Youth, thy fall could come,
Nought but rude Winds would have Proclaim'd thy Doom.
Alas! what pity can rough Oceans bear,
Which dash those Creatures which themselves did rear!
What tender softness can vast rocks receive!
The Flames of Love will not in Surges live.
The sweet Endowments of thy gen'rous Mind,
Boundless, and flowing as the Floods we find,
Free as the Air thy Wit, and Fleeting as the Wind.
In all the ills you suffer'd, all the while,
Your Soul was Calm, and you appear'd to smile.
No Tempest shook your Courage, pleas'd within,
Your Conscience rais'd no rowling Waves of Sin,
Your Death was gentle, as your Life had been.
In that loud storm to have so husht a Mind,
Shew'd Pow'r almost as great—
As it has been, to have appeas'd the Wind.
Thy Vertues mounted to so vast a score,
As all the Waves could hardly number o'er.
For thy vast loss the Seas outragious grow,
They chafe with Foam, while the blasts fiercly blow,
And swell'd with griefs, in wond'rous weeping flow.
Ev'n in the Calmest Seasons of the Year,
The Billows heave their Breasts, and panting they appear.
But you, fair Nymph, Lament in such a strain,
As might have Power to make him live again.
You, Orpheus like, for, sure you Charm as well,
Might raise the Youth, from his low, watry Hell.
So much you Mourn him, he is envy'd more,
Now in his Death, than in his Life before.
Your Passion for him, our despair did move,
But ah! your Sorrow melts us into Love.
Who would not hast to visit shades below,
Could he but hope you would Lament him so?
Those Tears you shed, you think are all his due,
To him you gave the Eyes, which shed them too.
All my desires but from your Sorrows came,
Strange! that those Waters should produce a Flame!
Thus prove those Floods, which issue at your Eyes,
That Love at first did from the Surges rise.