Poems on Several Occasions With Imitations from Horace, Ovid, Martial, Theocritus, Bachylides, Anacreon, &c. To which is prefix'd A Discourse on Criticism, and the Liberty of Writing. In a letter to a Friend. By Samuel Cobb ... The Third Edition. To which is added, Poems on the Duke of Marlborough, Prince Eugene, the Electoral Prince of Hannover, with other Poems. Never before Printed |
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THE FAIR INFIDEL. |
 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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THE FAIR INFIDEL.
Fair
Seraphina has a wondrous Art,
To wound and charm the most obdurate Heart.
But then the Nymph, to Unbelief inclin'd,
In Love's Religion has a Jewish Mind.
Hence she derides Melander's amorous Pains,
And binds the Slave, yet never sees the Chains.
All Ovid's Tales of no such Changes tell,
A Goddess turn'd into an Infidel!
To wound and charm the most obdurate Heart.
But then the Nymph, to Unbelief inclin'd,
In Love's Religion has a Jewish Mind.
Hence she derides Melander's amorous Pains,
And binds the Slave, yet never sees the Chains.
All Ovid's Tales of no such Changes tell,
A Goddess turn'd into an Infidel!
The fam'd Descendants from the Queen of Love,
Obtain'd Protection, when Tarpeian Jove
With Sacrifice was anciently implor'd,
And Victims offer'd where they most ador'd.
This I have done, but to compleat my Grief,
Gain no Assistance, nor create Belief;
As if my Vows were nought but empty Sound,
And all the Victim bled without a Wound.
With Unconcern she hears my purest Sighs;
She sees the fragrant Incense mount the Skies:
But thinks the first from false Devotion came,
And vows the Altar smoak'd without a Flame.
Obtain'd Protection, when Tarpeian Jove
106
And Victims offer'd where they most ador'd.
This I have done, but to compleat my Grief,
Gain no Assistance, nor create Belief;
As if my Vows were nought but empty Sound,
And all the Victim bled without a Wound.
With Unconcern she hears my purest Sighs;
She sees the fragrant Incense mount the Skies:
But thinks the first from false Devotion came,
And vows the Altar smoak'd without a Flame.
Say, cruel Charmer, is't a thing so new,
That Beauty should the Power of Man subdue,
In all its Lightning drest, and Arm'd like You?
The hardy Soldier, exercis'd in Wars,
Proud of pitch'd Battles, and his glorious Scars,
Won, when the Gallick Fury he withstood,
And waded for his Liberty in Blood;
Would court his Fetters, if he saw your Charms,
Dispirited, and useless in his Arms.
The Wise believe it Interest and Gain,
To lose their Freedom, and embrace your Chain:
A Slavery which Kings would proudly own,
And for their Passion Abdicate a Throne.
To fall, like Me, fair Seraphina's Prize,
And croud the numerous Triumphs of her Eyes.
That Beauty should the Power of Man subdue,
In all its Lightning drest, and Arm'd like You?
The hardy Soldier, exercis'd in Wars,
Proud of pitch'd Battles, and his glorious Scars,
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And waded for his Liberty in Blood;
Would court his Fetters, if he saw your Charms,
Dispirited, and useless in his Arms.
The Wise believe it Interest and Gain,
To lose their Freedom, and embrace your Chain:
A Slavery which Kings would proudly own,
And for their Passion Abdicate a Throne.
To fall, like Me, fair Seraphina's Prize,
And croud the numerous Triumphs of her Eyes.
Still not believe the Truth of my Desire?
Has ever Hear flow'd from a painted Fire?
Say, at a sudden View, what means the Smart.
Which smites my Liver? Why recoils my Heart?
Why, when by chance I hear your sacred Name,
My Visage changes with a generous Shame?
As in discolour'd Summer-Fruits we find,
The Tracks of Lightning or a blighting Wind,
So Heav'nly Love has a peculiar Art
To paint the Face by Touches from the Heart.
Has ever Hear flow'd from a painted Fire?
Say, at a sudden View, what means the Smart.
Which smites my Liver? Why recoils my Heart?
Why, when by chance I hear your sacred Name,
My Visage changes with a generous Shame?
108
The Tracks of Lightning or a blighting Wind,
So Heav'nly Love has a peculiar Art
To paint the Face by Touches from the Heart.
To shun the Converse of all Human Race,
I court the Woods and each forsaken Place.
All Nature hears me, and believes my Tale,
The Winds, the Hills, and every humble Vale.
If in the Groves, my melancholy Choice,
I talk to Trees, and Things depriv'd of Voice,
Soft Echoes pity my unhappy Care,
And, if I would consent, would blame the Fair.
The Leaves around are to my Plaints inclin'd,
Shook by my frequent Sighs, a mournful Wind!
The Myrtle seems to listen and to learn,
And nodding signifies a dumb Concern.
The Laurel, once a cruel Nymph, like You,
Wishes that Phœbus had been half so true.
She had not then refus'd, nor coyly fled,
But blest his Heart, and ne'er adorn'd his Head.
I court the Woods and each forsaken Place.
All Nature hears me, and believes my Tale,
The Winds, the Hills, and every humble Vale.
If in the Groves, my melancholy Choice,
I talk to Trees, and Things depriv'd of Voice,
Soft Echoes pity my unhappy Care,
And, if I would consent, would blame the Fair.
The Leaves around are to my Plaints inclin'd,
Shook by my frequent Sighs, a mournful Wind!
The Myrtle seems to listen and to learn,
And nodding signifies a dumb Concern.
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Wishes that Phœbus had been half so true.
She had not then refus'd, nor coyly fled,
But blest his Heart, and ne'er adorn'd his Head.
Round me the Birds a solemn Chorus make,
And, prattling, witness her unkind Mistake.
Young warbling Philomels, when I complain,
Learn a new Lesson, and improve their Strain.
But she alone, while I this Song rehearse,
Denies the Witness, nor believes my Verse.
And, prattling, witness her unkind Mistake.
Young warbling Philomels, when I complain,
Learn a new Lesson, and improve their Strain.
But she alone, while I this Song rehearse,
Denies the Witness, nor believes my Verse.
So lov'd Apollo, when Cassandra's Pride,
Or not believ'd, or, if believ'd, deny'd.
The God, revengeful of the Phrygian Dame,
Blasted the Credit of his Delphick Flame.
But Miseries, like Mine, are doubly great;
Like His, my Passion; and like Her, my Fate.
Or not believ'd, or, if believ'd, deny'd.
The God, revengeful of the Phrygian Dame,
Blasted the Credit of his Delphick Flame.
But Miseries, like Mine, are doubly great;
Like His, my Passion; and like Her, my Fate.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |