 | Poetical works [1797] |  |
Yet some there were, among the sounder few,
Of those who less presum'd, and better knew,
Who durst assert the juster ancient cause,
And here restor'd Wits fundamental laws—
Such late was WALSH, the Muse's Judge and friend,
Who justly knew to blame or to commend;
To failings mild, but zealous for desert;
The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.
Pope's Essay on Criticism.
Of those who less presum'd, and better knew,
Who durst assert the juster ancient cause,
And here restor'd Wits fundamental laws—
Such late was WALSH, the Muse's Judge and friend,
Who justly knew to blame or to commend;
To failings mild, but zealous for desert;
The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.
Pope's Essay on Criticism.
Go, little book, and to the world impart
The faithful image of an amorous heart:
Those who love's dear deluding pains have known,
May in my fatal stories read their own;
Those who have liv'd from all its torments free,
May find the thing they never felt, by me.
The Author to his Book.
The faithful image of an amorous heart:
Those who love's dear deluding pains have known,
May in my fatal stories read their own;
Those who have liv'd from all its torments free,
May find the thing they never felt, by me.
The Author to his Book.
29
THE DESPAIRING LOVER.
Distracted with care
For Phyllis the fair,
Since nothing could move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,
Resolves in despair
No longer to languish,
Nor bear so much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above
Would soon finish his woes.
For Phyllis the fair,
Since nothing could move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,
Resolves in despair
No longer to languish,
Nor bear so much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above
Would soon finish his woes.
When in rage he came there,
Beholding how steep
The sides did appear,
And the bottom how deep;
His torments projecting,
And sadly reflecting,
That a lover forsaken
A new love may get,
But a neck, when once broken,
Can never be set;
And that he could die
Whenever he would;
But that he could live
But as long as he could:
How grievous soever
The torment might grow,
He scorn'd to endeavour
To finish it so.
But bold, unconcern'd,
At thoughts of the pain,
He calmly return'd
To his cottage again.
Beholding how steep
The sides did appear,
And the bottom how deep;
His torments projecting,
And sadly reflecting,
That a lover forsaken
A new love may get,
But a neck, when once broken,
Can never be set;
And that he could die
Whenever he would;
But that he could live
But as long as he could:
How grievous soever
The torment might grow,
He scorn'd to endeavour
To finish it so.
But bold, unconcern'd,
At thoughts of the pain,
He calmly return'd
To his cottage again.
30
PHILLIS'S RESOLUTION.
[I]
When slaves their liberty require,They hope no more to gain,
But you not only that desire
But ask the power to reign.
II
Think how unjust a suit you make,Then you will soon decline;
Your freedom, when you please, pray take,
But trespass not on mine.
III
No more in vain, Alcander, crave,I ne'er will grant the thing
That he who once has been my slave
Should ever be my king.
31
AN EPISTLE TO A LADY WHO HAD RESOLVED AGAINST MARRIAGE.
Madam, I cannot but congratulateYour resolution for a single state;
Ladies, who would live undisturb'd and free,
Must never put on Hymen's livery:
Perhaps its outside seems to promise fair,
But underneath is nothing else but care.
If once you let the Gordian knot be ty'd,
Which turns the name of virgin into bride;
That one fond act your life's best scene foregoes,
And leads you in a labyrinth of woes,
Whose strange meanders you may search about,
But never find the clue to let you out.
The married life affords you little ease,
The best of husbands is so hard to please:
This in wives' careful faces you may spell,
Though they dissemble their misfortunes well.
No plague's so great as an ill-ruling head,
Yet 'tis a fate which few young ladies dread:
For Love's insinuating fire they fan,
With sweet ideas of a god-like man.
Chloris and Phyllis glory'd in their swains,
And sung their praises on the neighbouring plains;
Oh! they were brave, accomplish'd, charming men,
Angels till marry'd, but proud devils then.
Sure some resistless power with Cupid sides,
Or we should have more virgins, fewer brides;
For single lives afford the most content,
Secure and happy, as they're innocent:
Bright as Olympus, crown'd with endless ease,
And calm as Neptune on the Halcyon seas:
Your sleep is broke with no domestic cares,
No bawling children to disturb your prayers;
No parting sorrows to extort your tears,
No blustering husband to renew your fears
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Love and its idle deity despise:
Suppress wild Nature, if it dares rebel;
There's no such thing as “leading apes in hell.”
CLELIA TO URANIA.
AN ODE.
[I]
The dismal regions which no sun beholds,Whilst his fires roll some distant world to cheer,
Which in dry darkness, frost, and chilling cold,
Spend one long portion of the dragging year,
At his returning influence never knew
More joy than Clelia, when she thinks of you.
II
Those zealots, who adore the rising sun,Would soon their darling deity despise,
And with more warm, more true devotion run,
To worship nobler beams, Urania's eyes;
Had they beheld her lovely form divine,
Where rays more glorious, more attracting, shine.
III
But, ah! frail mortals, though you may admireAt a convenient distance all her charms,
Approach them, and you'll feel a raging fire,
Which scorches deep, and all your power disarms:
Thus, like th'Arabian bird, your care proceeds
From the bright object which your pleasure breeds.
33
LOVING ONE I NEVER SAW.
Thou tyrant God of Love, give o'er,And persecute this breast no more:
Ah! tell me why must every dart
Be aim'd at my unhappy heart?
I never murmur'd or repin'd,
But patiently myself resign'd
To all the torments, which through thee
Have fell, alas! on wretched me:
But Oh! I can no more sustain
This long continued state of pain,
Though 'tis but fruitless to complain.
My heart, first soften'd by thy power,
Ne'er kept its liberty an hour:
So fond and easy was it grown,
Each nymph might call the fool her own:
So much to its own interest blind,
So strangely charm'd to womankind,
That it more belong'd to me,
Than vestal-virgins hearts to thee.
I often courted it to stay;
But, deaf to all, 'twould fly away.
In vain to stop it I essay'd,
Though often, often, I display'd
The turns and doubles women made.
Nay more, when it has home return'd,
By some proud maid ill us'd and scorn'd,
I still the renegade carest,
And gave it harbour in my breast.
O! then, with indignation fir'd
At what before it so admir'd;
With shame and sorrow overcast,
And sad repentance for the past,
A thousand sacred oaths it swore
Never to wander from me more;
After chimeras ne'er to rove,
Or run the wild-goose chase of love.
Thus it resolv'd ------
34
The resolutions it had made:
Then how 'twould flutter up and down,
Eager, impatient, to be gone;
And, though so often it had fail'd,
Though vainless every heart assail'd,
Yet, lur'd by hope of new delight,
It took again its fatal flight.
'Tis thus, malicious deity,
That thou hast banter'd wretched me:
Thus made me vainly lose my time,
Thus fool away my youthful prime!
And yet, for all the hours I've lost,
And sighs, and tears, thy bondage cost,
Ne'er did thy slave thy favours bless,
Or crown his passion with success.
Well—since 'tis doom'd that I must find
No love for love from womankind;
Since I no pleasure must obtain,
Let me at least avoid the pain:
So weary of the chace I'm grown,
That with content I'd sit me down,
Enjoy my book, my friend, my cell,
And bid all womankind farewel.
Nay, ask, for all I felt before,
Only to be disturb'd no more.
Yet thou (to my complainings deaf)
Will give my torments no relief;
But now, e'en now, thou mak'st me die,
And love I know not whom, nor why,
In every part I feel the fire,
And burn with fanciful desire;
From whence can love its magic draw?
I doat on her I never saw:
And who, but lovers, can express
This strange, mysterious tenderness?
And yet methinks, 'tis happier so,
Than whom it is I love to know:
Now my unbounded notions rove,
And frame ideas to my love.
35
Diviner both in face and mind,
Than ever nature did bestow
On any creature here below.
I fancy thus Corinna walks,
That thus she sings, she looks, she talks,
Sometimes I sigh, and fancy then,
That, did Corinna know my pain,
Could she my trickling tears but see,
She would be kind, and pity me.
Thus thinking I've no cause to grieve,
I pleasingly myself deceive;
And sure am happier far than he
Who knows the very truth can be.
Then, gentle Cupid, let me ne'er
See my imaginary fair:
Lest she should be more heavenly bright
Than can be reach'd by fancy's height:
Lest when I on her beauty gaze,
Confounded, lost in an amaze;
My trembling lips and eyes should tell,
'Tis her I dare to love so well;
She, with an angry, scornful eye,
Or some unkind, severe reply,
My hopes of bliss should overcast,
And my presuming passion blast.
If but in this thou kind wilt prove,
And let me not see her I love,
Thy altars prostrate I'll adore,
And call thee tyrant-god no more.
53
SONGS.
SONG.
[Though Celia's born to be ador'd]
[I]
Though Celia's born to be ador'd,And Strephon to adore her born,
In vain her pity is implor'd,
Who kills him twice with charms and scorn.
II
Fair saint, to your blest orb repair,To learn in heaven a heavenly mind;
Thence harken to a sinner's prayer,
And be less beauteous, or more kind.
SONG.
[Of all the torments, all the cares]
Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst.
By partners, in each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst.
By partners, in each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are labouring in my breast;
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.
Are labouring in my breast;
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.
A SONG TO PHYLLIS.
[I]
Phyllis, we not grieve that nature,Forming you, has done her part;
And in every single feature
Shew'd the utmost of her art.
II
But in this it is pretendedThat a mighty grievance lies,
54
Whilst you wound us with your eyes.
III
Love's a senseless inclination,Where no mercy's to be found;
But is just, where kind compassion
Gives us balm to heal the wound.
IV
Persians, paying solemn dutyTo the rising sun, inclin'd,
Never would adore his beauty,
But in hopes to make him kind.
| Poetical works [1797] | |