A new collection of Original poems Never Printed in any miscellany. By the Author of Sir Walter Raleigh [i.e. George Sewell] |
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ON BEAUTY:
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 | A new collection of Original poems |  |
5
ON BEAUTY:
By Mrs. SINGER.
Victorious
Beauty, by what potent Charm
Dost thou the Soul of all its force disarm?
We bless thy Chains, abhor our Liberty,
And quit the uncontested Field to Thee.
Whether we rash or calm Designs pursue,
Thine is the soft Temptation still in view;
For thee we search the wide Creation round,
But thou art no where in Perfection found;
Some Blemish still remains on mortal Pride,
And crowding Years its airy Boasts deride.
Dost thou the Soul of all its force disarm?
We bless thy Chains, abhor our Liberty,
And quit the uncontested Field to Thee.
Whether we rash or calm Designs pursue,
Thine is the soft Temptation still in view;
6
But thou art no where in Perfection found;
Some Blemish still remains on mortal Pride,
And crowding Years its airy Boasts deride.
Triumphant Beauty sits in Flavia's Eyes,
But while we gaze the trembling Lustre dies:
Thyrsis compleatly form'd with every Grace,
A faultless Shape, and an enchanting Face,
In all his Motions each becoming Air,
Greatness, and native Elegance appear,
Careless and free, in Life's deluding Bloom,
But envious Death threatens a hasty Doom;
Some gentle Mistress full of Love and Truth,
Shall soon lament the dear unrival'd Youth.
“Thou lovely, flattering, transitory Thing,
“From what immense Perfection dost thou spring?
To what compleat Original return,
While we thy vain Appearance only mourn?
Howe'er our doating Thoughts mistake the way
To certain Bliss, thine is a friendly Ray,
That points the Passage to unblemish'd Day.
Ye heavenly Forms in all your Pride appear,
And shew us what immortal Beauties are,
What Life, what rosy Bloom your Faces wear!
Put on each smiling Grace, and conquering Charm,
And all the force of mortal Love disarm;
For still our restless Thoughts take glorious Aims,
Howe'er seduc'd by these inferior Flames,
The leading Passion, the supreme Desire,
To things Divine and Infinite aspire.
But while we gaze the trembling Lustre dies:
Thyrsis compleatly form'd with every Grace,
A faultless Shape, and an enchanting Face,
In all his Motions each becoming Air,
Greatness, and native Elegance appear,
Careless and free, in Life's deluding Bloom,
But envious Death threatens a hasty Doom;
Some gentle Mistress full of Love and Truth,
Shall soon lament the dear unrival'd Youth.
“Thou lovely, flattering, transitory Thing,
“From what immense Perfection dost thou spring?
7
While we thy vain Appearance only mourn?
Howe'er our doating Thoughts mistake the way
To certain Bliss, thine is a friendly Ray,
That points the Passage to unblemish'd Day.
Ye heavenly Forms in all your Pride appear,
And shew us what immortal Beauties are,
What Life, what rosy Bloom your Faces wear!
Put on each smiling Grace, and conquering Charm,
And all the force of mortal Love disarm;
For still our restless Thoughts take glorious Aims,
Howe'er seduc'd by these inferior Flames,
The leading Passion, the supreme Desire,
To things Divine and Infinite aspire.
Eternal Excellence, 'tis only thee
We search through Nature's bright Variety;
Our eager Wishes with impetuous Force,
To thee unknown, keep on their restless Course;
'Tis thee we seek and love, for thee we pine,
The powerful Charm, the soft Attraction's thine;
To thee, these Sighs, these tender Vows ascend,
Th'unseen Divinity we still intend;
Sick of these fading Toys our Thoughts press on
To Joys untasted, Excellence unknown.
We search through Nature's bright Variety;
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To thee unknown, keep on their restless Course;
'Tis thee we seek and love, for thee we pine,
The powerful Charm, the soft Attraction's thine;
To thee, these Sighs, these tender Vows ascend,
Th'unseen Divinity we still intend;
Sick of these fading Toys our Thoughts press on
To Joys untasted, Excellence unknown.
Thou great Original of all that's fair,
Whose Glories no Similitude can bear;
Before the darting Splendor of thy Eyes,
The Pride of all created Beauty dies.
Whose Glories no Similitude can bear;
Before the darting Splendor of thy Eyes,
The Pride of all created Beauty dies.
| A new collection of Original poems | |