The Fair Circassian, A Dramatic Performance :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Fair Circassian, A Dramatic Performance

Done from the Original By a Gentleman-Commoner of Oxford. The Second Edition Corrected. To which are added Several Occasional Poems. By the same Author [i.e. Samuel Croxall]

Croxall, Samuel

OCCASIONAL POEMS

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OCCASIONAL POEMS

THE MIDSUMMER WISH.

------Quis me gelidis in vallibus Hæmi
Sistat, & ingenti ramorum protegat umbrâ!
Virg.

[_]

Written when the Author was at Eton School.

Waft me, some soft and cooling Breeze,
To Windsor's shady kind Retreat,
Where Silvan Scenes, widespreading Trees,
Repel the Dogstar's raging Heat.

Where tufted Grass and mossy Beds
Afford a rural calm Repose;
Where Woodbinds hang their dewy Heads,
And fragrant Sweets around disclose.

Old Oozy Thames that flows fast by
Along the smiling Valley plays;
His glassy Surface chears the Eye,
And thro' the flowry Meadow strays.

His fertile Banks with Herbage green,
His Vales with golden Plenty swell,
Where-e'er his purer Streams are seen
The Gods of Health and Pleasure dwell.

Let me thy clear thy yielding Wave
With naked Arm once more divide,
In Thee my glowing Bosom lave,
And cut the gently-rolling Tide.

Lay me, with Damasc Roses crown'd,
Beneath some Osier's dusky Shade,
Where Water-Lillies deck the Ground,
Where bubling Springs refresh the Glade.

Let dear Lucinda too be there,
With azure Mantle slightly drest.
Ye Nymphs, bind up her flowing Hair,
Ye Zephyrs, fan her panting Breast.

O haste away, fair Maid, and bring
The Muse, the kindly Friend to Love;
To Thee alone the Muse shall sing,
And warble thro' the vocal Grove

SYLVIA.

Were I invited to a Nectar Feast
In Heaven, and Venus nam'd me for her Guest;
Tho' Mercury the Messenger should prove,
Or her own Son, the mighty God of Love;
At the same Instant let but honest Tom
From Sylvia's dear terrestrial Lodging come,
With Look important say------desires------at Three
Alone------your Company------to drink some Tea.
Tho' Tom were mortal, Mercury divine;
Tho' Sylvia gave me Water, Venus Wine;
Tho' Heaven was here, and Bowstreet lay as far
As the vast Distance of the utmost Star;
To Sylvia's Arms with all my Strength I'd fly;
Let who would meet the Beauty of the Sky.

To SYLVIA.

Still let us love, my Sylvia, and be wise;
Look grave sometimes, but in our Hearts despise
The Things which formal Hypocrites advise.
The Sun, whose flagging Beams decline at Night,
Rises each Morn with fresh recruited Light:
But We, when once we've spent our scanty Day,
Must bid good Night to Pleasure, Love and Play,
And sleep a whole Eternity away.
Then, while You live, be constant to employ
Each ebbing Moment in the Affairs of Joy;
When Privacy permits, and Youth requires,
Exert your Strength, and light up all your Fires;
Wrestling detain the Angel of Delight,
And force a Blessing e'er he takes his Flight.
Ten Thousand Kisses let your Lips prepare,
The balmy Prelude to the Lover's War,
Thick as the whirling Sands on Libya's Coast,
Suck'd in Confusion, and in Rapture lost.

O Venus, grant thy Suppliant such a Death;
O'erwhelm'd in Storms like This to lose his Breath.

Or when the fated Point of Time draws nigh,
Stretch'd on thy sacred Altar let me lye,
Sylvia the Priestess, and the Victim I.
As under Ida's Shades, Almighty Jove,
Bath'd in the Sweets of soft ambrosial Love,
Exhausted lay on Juno's panting Breast,
Godlike dissolving to immortal Rest.

To SYLVIA.

Sylvia , for ever lovely, dearest Maid,
With You compar'd, the Lilly and the Rose
O'erwhelm'd in Grief recline their dewy Head,
Nor This so pure, nor That so blooming shows;
In every Clime your opening Beauties bring
Flora's whole Wardrobe, a perpetual Spring,

Unlock the Tresses of your burnisht Hair,
Loose let the Ringlets o'er your Shoulders spread;
Thus mix'd We view them more distinctly fair,
Like Trails of golden Wire on Ivory laid.
So Phœbus o'er the yielding Æther streams,
And streaks the silver Clouds with brighter Beams.

So finely turn'd your polisht Eyebrows rise,
As model'd by young Cupid's heavenly Bow;
And sure his fatal Shafts are in your Eyes,
Which at the gazing World in sport You throw.
O Nymph, to ease your Lover's throbbing Smart,
Yield, and prepare for a revenging Dart.

Your honied Lips, like fair Vermilion bright,
Moist as Dione's with a balmy Sweet,
Pouting for Kisses, swell to give Delight,
And part commodiously with mine to meet.
O come, like Doves, my Sylvia, let us bill,
Foin, thrust, and parry with ingenious Skill.

But stop! for so excessive is the Bliss,
It shoots like Poison thro' my vital Blood,
With pleasing Pain You stab at every Kiss,
O Gods! and torture while You're kindly Good.
Too lovely Maid! regard my cruel Case,
And heal Me with a full compleat Embrace.

What rosy Odours your soft Bosom yields!
Heaving and falling gently as You breathe:
Like Hills that rise amidst fair fertile Fields,
With round smooth Tops and flowery Vales beneath.
So swell the candid Alps with fleecy Snow,
While Myrtles bud, and Violets bloom below.

Your Speech like Music flows in charming Strains,
Your fragrant Kisses with Delight I taste,
Your Touch like Lightning trembles thro' my Veins
And 'wakes my Fancy to a fresh Repast.

Raptures on Raptures, an eternal Round,
And Joys on Joys successively abound.

If the fam'd Pow'rs such full Fruition share
In Transports which their Appetites refine,
If Love and Pleasure are the Business there,
What Bliss have They more exquisite than mine?
Sylvia, like Heaven, does every Sense improve,
And melts down every Passion into Love.

Heathen Priestcraft.

FROM THE First Book of Ovid's Fastorum.

I grant that ever since the World began
The Gods claim'd Worship from their Creature Man.
But then, in Offerings frugal as in Food,
Their Altars stood unstain'd with Victim Blood;
They offer'd best who practis'd to be Good.
As yet no foreign Ship with Spices fraught
Had Myrrh and Frankincense from India brought.
Far off conceal'd along Euphrates Shore
Those balmy Shrubs their fragrant Blossoms bore.
Unvalu'd the rich Cordial Crocus grew,
Or only valued for it's purple Hue.
The Priest their Virtues first perceiv'd, and then
The Gods requir'd 'em at the Hands of Men.
Before, green Potherbs of good savory Smell,
The Product of each Garden, serv'd as well;
Or branching Laurel, crackling as it blaz'd,
In blueish Fumes the angry Gods appeas'd.

Fresh Garlands, woven from the flowery Bank,
Were deem'd Oblations of sufficient Rank:
Violets, if twisted in among the rest,
Brib'd high, and ev'n pronounc'd the Suppliant blest.

Sharp Tools to kill and carve the slaughter'd Beast,
Were since invented by some Butcher Priest;
Who wisely finding that the Flesh was good,
Feign'd that the Gods must be appeas'd with Blood.
Ceres in Wrath demands the routing Swine,
Bacchus the Goat, for nibbling of his Vine.
The Sheep and Ox, accus'd of no Offence.
Would seem to dye without the least Pretence:
But our discreet Divines declare that these
Do, best of all, the Pow'rs immortal please,
That the Gods leave their Heaven for such a Treat;
True; For broil'd Cutlets are delicious Meat.

But yet sometimes, to shift the artful Scene,
Some Gods are honour'd with a Beast unclean:
If all which they requir'd were good to eat,
'Twou'd make Mankind suspect it all a Cheat;
Some Rites indifferent must be duly mixt,
To Shuffle with the rest, and come betwixt:
Thus argues the designing crafty Priest,
And thus conceals and carries on the Jest.

Therefore a Dog at Trivia's Altar dies;
Or a dead Horse may be a Sacrifice;
Such as the Persians offer to the Sun,
Because He's active and well-made to run.
For, whether all the jugling Pranks they do
Are advantageous to themselves, or no,
The Priesthood still give Reasons for each Trick,
And make 'em all significant alike.
Gallant Priapus, Gardian of our Fruit,
An Ass requires, that aukward heavy Brute.
But hear the Cause his reverend Clergy give;
'Tis no unpleasant Legend, as I live.

When ancient Greece triennial Honours paid
To Bacchus with the Ivy-circled Head,
Each rural Deity was made a Guest,
And chear'd with mirthful Pleasantries the Feast.
Pan and his Crew of lustful Satyrs came,
Whose youthful Blood burnt with Venereal Flame:
For the bright Nymphs, from every Stream and Grove
Assembled there, inspir'd their Hearts with Love.
There old Silenus came, in usual State,
Astride his Ass, ridiculously great.
There the rough

Priapus.

Patron of the Gardens too
With well-hung Ensign marcht expos'd to View;

And came where all the Company was laid
On mossy Beds beneath a spreading Shade.
Their Wine by Bacchus was supplied alone,
But each was crown'd with Garlands of his own.
A limpid Brook roll'd thro' the matted Grass,
At once to cool and qualify the Glass.
The woody Nymphs, Part with loose flowing Hair,
Their snowy Necks, and heaving Breasts all bare,
Part drest, and with embreded Tresses crown'd,
Their shapely Legs in Silver Buskins bound,
With Lilly Hands, the fragrant Dinner drest,
And added to the Flavour of the Feast.
The gentle Breeze that wav'd their thin Attire,
Fan'd in the rural Gods an amorous Fire.
There Pan, his Brow begirt with mountain Pines,
Ogling, in Sighs his captive Heart resigns.
Silenus too with untam'd Lust was stung,
Whose everlasting Lewdness keeps him Young.
But stiff Priapus, Warden of the Groves,
With Lotis smitten, only Lotis loves:
On her his Wishes and his Eyes are fixt,
And all his Talk with double Meanings mixt.
But Beauty's often temper'd with Disdain,
The Fair with Scorn regards her Lover's Pain:
She aws the Letcher with a distant Pride,
And haughty Smiles his public Flame deride.

Now Night advanc'd, and Wine and Revels done,
Easy Repose with gentle Sleep came on.
The burning God observ'd where, tir'd with Play,
Lotis beneath a shady Maple lay;
Stretcht out supine upon a grassy Bed,
Upon a flowry Turf reclin'd her Head.
He rose, and, silent as the Steps of Death,
On Tiptoe softly stealing, held his Breath:
Till he had crept into the blissful Bow'r
That gave his utmost Wishes to his Pow'r.
And now, afraid lest every moving Air,
Ev'n her own Breath might wake the slumb'ring Fair,
The neighb'ring Turf with tender Care he prest;
Still lay the Nymph o'erwhelm'd in downy Rest:
O'erjoy'd the God her Vesture upward drew,
And to the Goal with furious Vigour flew;
When the grave Pad of old Silenus bray'd
And most unluckily his Plot betray'd.
The Nymph was wak'd, and strove with all her Might
To stop the eager Dotard's fond Delight,
And, rolling sidelong from his hot Embrace,
Scream'd out and fill'd with loud Alarms the Place.
The Silver Moon, just breaking from a Cloud,
Show'd where the God in strange Confusion stood,
Too well provided for the Feats of Love,
And quite expos'd to all the laughing Grove.

For this the Ass was victim'd, and from hence
All Asses suffer for that One's Offence.

The feather'd Warblers, whose melodious Lay
Gladdens the Shade from every leafy Spray,
With Love and Innocence securely blest,
Might hope to 'scape the bloody-minded Priest.
But these they say the Gods command to kill,
As Creatures that reveal the heavenly Will;
When in swift Flight they stretch their painted Wing,
Or when they raise their trilling Voice and sing.
Thus from her Mate the spotless Turtle torn
Is often to the flaming Altar born.
Thus Geese for Io's splendid Feast are carv'd,
Tho' once a Goose the Capitol preserv'd.
Nor ought avails the Cock his coral Crest,
His shining Plumes, and glossy varying Breast,
Since his shrill Note, which Wakes the Morning Light,
Offends the gloomy Goddess of the Night.

Thus says the Priest, providing at his Wish
A roasted Goose, that very special Dish.
And, to reward his sacerdotal Toil,
For him the Cock, for him the Pidgeons broil.

THE NAKED TRUTH.

From the second Book of Ovid's Fastorum.

Of the gay Silvan God that widely roves
O'er fair Arcadia's Plains, and shady Groves,
That haunts each gurgling Spring, and flow'ry Dale,
Where opening Tempè spreads it's happy Vale,
Where green Cyllenè rears her lofty Head
And streaming Ladon cuts the grassy Mead,
Of Faunus is my Song. Assist my Verse,
O woody Saint, while I thy Rites rehearse.

Rome, for strict Piety of old renown'd,
With Flowrets sweet thy verdant Altars crown'd,
With Thee her wide Pantheon pleas'd to grace;
Tho' now inferiour Saintlings fill the Place.
At thine, the giddy People in a Crowd,
As now at their Processions, star'd and bow'd.
On Faunus' Feast they sanctified the Day
With Rubric, Temple, Carnival and Play.

But sure their Cult indecently they paid,
And Nature's Privacies too much display'd;
Uncloath'd thy Priests their mystic Measures trod,
And naked honour'd Thee their naked God.
Forgive the Muse, if ludicrously bold
The wanton Maid thy Secrets dares unfold;
If She, jocose, the fabled Cause relates,
To see his Clergy cloath'd why Faunus hates.

'Twas Summer; Phœbus, with declining Ray,
Began to slope the tedious sultry Day;
When Faunus, circled with his horned Throng,
On the soft Turf securely lay along.
Here from the Chace fatigued, and faint with Heat,
Under the Shade he sought a cool Retreat.
No sunny Beams here pierc'd the leafy Trees,
Which nor excluded quite the fanning Breeze;
The fanning Breeze among the Branches blew,
And open'd, to the North, a distant view.
From hence the goatish Deity descry'd
Alcides walking with his Lydian Bride,
When starting, with an amorous Look he gaz'd,
And while he lookt, her blooming Beauty prais'd.
O happy Hercules! he sighing said,
Who uncontroul'd enjoy so bright a Maid;

Stop, and with one dear Sight a Rival bless,
Let me admire the Nymph whom You possess:
And You, brown Mountain Goddesses, whose Charms
Fade in the Light which now my Bosom warms,
No more with ill-plac'd Love I'll kneel to You;
Adieu, brown Mountain Goddesses, adieu.

Thus, as she walkt, her Air and gay Attire
Fed the quick Flames of his prevailing Fire.
Her snowy Neck embrown'd with flowing Hair,
Like Light in Shades appear'd more brightly fair.
Embroider'd Gold her Purple Mantua grac'd,
A golden Girdle bound her slender Waste.
A gilt Umbrella Hercules upheld,
Which from the Fair the scorching Beams repell'd.
Now Time, insensibly beguil'd with Talk,
Brings Evening on, and finishes their Walk:
Hesper's bright Lamp flames in the ruddy West,
And shews the busy World 'tis Time to rest.
Down the descending Mount they take their Way,
And winding Vineyards o'er the Vale survey:
And now are at their cooly Grot arriv'd,
By Nature imitating Art contriv'd.
The Roof with unhewn Pumice vaulted hung,
Round the rough Entrance clasping Ivy clung.

Near which a purling Spring that down distill'd
A Cistern, hollow'd with it's dropping, fill'd.

Here, while the Servants, with officious Haste,
Prepar'd for Supper, and the Side board plac'd,
The sprightly Nymph a frolic Fancy try'd,
And drest her rough Alcides like a Bride.
A Crimson Pall, varied with Purple Hue,
Of finest Silk she o'er his Shoulders threw;
Then with her scanty Girdle wou'd have brac'd
The ample Circuit of his brawny Waste;
And giggled much his Limbs so large to find,
As in her widen'd Plaits were scarce confin'd.
Her self put on the Lion's shaggy Hide,
The weighty Quiver rattled at her Side;
Then graspt the Club the mighty Hero bore,
Which never felt so soft a Touch before.
Thus, for a Whim preposterously clad,
They supt and went to Bed in Masquerade:
But lay that Night apart, that they might rise
Chastly to pay their Morning Sacrifice:
A Tribute due to Bacchus the Divine,
The Author of all Good, Love, Mirth, and Wine.

Now all was husht, for now 'twas Midnight Hour,
When Faunus ventur'd to the rosy Bow'r.

Love, whose insinuating tickling Dart
To Action can excite ev'n Woman's Heart,
Drove the hot Lover from his shady Home
On dangerous Attempts abroad to roam,
Thro' all the gloomy Horrors of the Night,
Scorning unmanly Fear and pale Affright.
And now, the Entry to the Grotto found,
He spread his bawdy Hands, and gropt around.
Here first, embalm'd in Wine, the Servants lay,
Careless, and snor'd the live-long Night away.
The blundring God, his Hopes from hence advanc'd,
To find their quaffing Lord as deep entranc'd,
Arm'd with a greater Boldness ventur'd in,
And thought to act secure the luscious Sin.
First, by good Hap, the blissful Bed He found,
Which with Success his Wishes might have crown'd.
But when will sublunary Creatures dare
To trust their Wants with Providence's Care?
Each on his own Discretion still relies,
And most mistakes when most he thinks he's wise.
Thus far the God; who, had he not believ'd
His own Surmises, ne'er had been deceiv'd.
For when He touch'd the tawny Lion's Hair,
The rugged covering of the comely Fair,
Struck with a sudden Dread he started back,
As when the Shepherd in the thorny Brake
Treads unawares upon a sleeping Snake.

Then, creeping forward to th' adjoining Couch,
Whose Silk with Softness met his gentle Touch,
He mounted on the Side that next him lay,
His Spear advanc'd and ready for the Fray.
But lifting up the Clothes, and feeling there,
He found huge Legs all rough with thickset Hair.
Surpriz'd, and groping farther, still in vain,
His curious Search alarm'd the sturdy Swain,
Whose backstroke Fist recoiling at his Head
Tumbled the Silvan from the lofty Bed.
The Noise disturb'd the Nymph, who in a Fright
Call'd up the Slaves, and bid them bring a Light.
A Light was brought; which soon discover'd All;
Poor Faunus bruis'd and groaning with his Fall;
Who scarce could raise his batter'd Limbs from Ground:
A Ridicule to all the drunken Vassals round.
Loud laught the well-begotten Son of Jove,
The Lydian Damsel laught, to see her Love
With uncouth Pain distort his Satyr's Face,
Asham'd and limping from th' unlucky Place.

The God, by Clothes thus fatally beguil'd,
His Hopes betray'd, his amorous Fancy foil'd,
Hates all Attire; and hence his wanton Priests
Admit the naked only to his Feasts.

Then, to refresh and purify the Heart,
Divines would only view each outward Part:
But modern Rome, to scour us all from Sin,
Appoints a prying Priest to peep within,
Both bent to know the Secrets of Mankind,
The Body Those perus'd, but These the Mind.

ON FLORINDA,

Seen while she was bathing.

'Twas Summer, and the clear resplendent Moon,
Shedding far o'er the Plains her full-orb'd Light,
Among the lesser Stars distinctly shone,
Despoiling of its Gloom the scanty Night,
When, walking forth, a lonely Path I took
Nigh the fair Border of a purling Brook.

Sweet and refreshing was the Midnight Air,
Whose gentle Motions husht the silent Grove;
Silent, unless when prick'd with wakeful Care
Philomel warbled out her Tale of Love:
While blooming Flowers, which in the Meadows grew,
O'er all the Place their blended Odours threw.

Just by, the limpid River's chrystal Wave,
Its Eddies gilt with Phœbe's silver Ray,
Still as it flow'd a glittering Lustre gave
With glancing Gleams that emulate the Day;
Yet, oh! not half so bright as those that rise
Where young Florinda bends her smiling Eyes.

Whatever pleasing Views my Senses meet,
Her intermingled Charms improve the Theme;
The warbling Birds, the Flowers that breathe so sweet,
And the soft Surface of the dimpled Stream,
Resembling in the Nymph some lovely Part,
With Pleasures more exalted seize my Heart.

Wrapt in these Thoughts I negligently rov'd,
Imagin'd Transports all my Soul employ,
When the delightful Voice of Her I lov'd,
Sent thro' the Shades a Sound of real Joy.
Confus'd it came, with giggling Laughter mixt,
And Echo from the Banks replied betwixt.

Inspir'd with Hope, upborn with light Desire,
To the dear Place my ready Footsteps tend,
Quick, as when kindling Trails of active Fire
Up to their native Firmament ascend:
There shrouded in the Briars unseen I stood,
And thro' the Leaves survey'd the neighbouring Flood.

Florinda, with two Sister Nymphs, undrest,
Within the Channel of the cooly Tide,
By bathing sought to sooth her Virgin Breast,
Nor could the Night her dazling Beauties hide;
Her Features, glowing with eternal Bloom,
Darted, like Hesper, thro' the dusky Gloom.

Her Hair bound backward in a spiral Wreath
Her upper Beauties to my Sight betray'd,
The happy Stream, concealing Those beneath,
Around her Waste with circling Waters play'd;
Who, while the Fair One on his Bosom sported,
Her dainty Limbs with liquid Kisses courted.

A Thousand Cupids with their infant Arms
Swam padling in the Current here and there;
Some, with Smiles innocent, remark'd the Charms
Of the regardless undesigning Fair;
Some, with their little Eben Bows full-bended
And levell'd Shafts, the naked Girl defended.

Her Eyes, her Lips, her Breasts exactly round,
Of Lilly Hue, unnumber'd Arrows sent;
Which to my Heart an easy Passage found,
Thrill'd in my Bones and thro' my Marrow went:
Some bubling upward thro' the Water came,
Prepar'd by Fancy to augment my Flame.

Ah Love! how ill I bore thy pleasing Pain!
For while the tempting Scene so near I view'd,
A fierce Impatience throb'd in every Vein,
Discretion fled, and Reason lay subdued;
My Blood beat high, and with it's trembling made
A strange Commotion in the rustling Shade.

Fear seiz'd the timorous Naiads, all aghast
Their boding Spirits at the Omen sink,
Their Eyes they wildly on each other cast
And meditate to gain the farther Brink;
When in I plung'd, resolving to asswage
In the cool Gulph Love's importuning Rage.

Ah, stay Florinda! (so I meant to speak)
Let not from Love the loveliest Object fly!
But e'er I spoke, a loud combining Squeak
From shrilling Voices pierc'd the distant Sky:
When strait, as each was their peculiar Care,
Th' immortal Powers to bring Relief prepare.

A golden Cloud descended from above,
Like that which whilom hung on Ida's Brow,
Where Juno, Pallas, and the Queen of Love,
As then to Paris, were conspicuous now.
Each Goddess seiz'd her fav'rite Charge, and threw
Around her Limbs a Robe of azure Hue.

But Venus, who with Pity saw my Flame
Kindled by her own Amoret so bright,
Approv'd in private what she seem'd to blame,
And bless'd me with a Vision of Delight:
Careless she dropt Florinda's Veil aside,
That nothing mought her choicest Beauties hide.

I saw Elysium and the milky Way
Fair-opening to the Shades beneath her Breast;
In Venus' Lap the struggling Wanton lay,
And, while she strove to hide, reveal'd the rest.
A Mole, embrown'd with no unseemly Grace,
Grew near, embellishing the sacred Place.

So pleas'd I view'd, as One fatigued with Heat
Who near at Hand beholds a shady Bower,
Joyful, in Hope amidst the kind Retreat
To shun the Day-star in his Noontide Hour;
Or as when parcht with droughty Thirst he spies
A mossy Grott whence purest Waters rise.

So I Florinda—but beheld in vain:
Like Tantalus, who in the Realms below
Sees blushing Fruits, which to increase his Pain,
When he attempts to eat, his Taste forego.
O Venus, give me more, or let me drink
Of Lethe's Fountain, and forget to think.

FINIS.