A new collection of Original poems Never Printed in any miscellany. By the Author of Sir Walter Raleigh [i.e. George Sewell] |
 |
ANSWER TO Mrs. SINGER's VERSES ON BEAUTY;
|
 |
 | A new collection of Original poems |  |
9
ANSWER TO Mrs. SINGER's VERSES ON BEAUTY;
Occasion'd by these LINES:
Thou lovely, flattering, transitory Thing,
From what immense Perfection dost thou spring?
Silvia
, why question'st thou in Words divine,
From what fair Centre Beauty draws its Line;
How that Line runs, or how affects the Soul,
Whether it dwells in scatter'd Parts, or whole?
Notions sublime! which human Wit in vain
Trying to trace, finds nothing but the Pain.
From what fair Centre Beauty draws its Line;
How that Line runs, or how affects the Soul,
Whether it dwells in scatter'd Parts, or whole?
10
Trying to trace, finds nothing but the Pain.
Plato will tell (whoso can Plato read)
From some First Pattern Beauty must proceed;
'Tis infinite Idea, boundless Scheme,
And coexistent with the Mind Supreme.
From that Original this lovely Frame
Of low, subordinate Perfection came.
Bold reach of Wit! but yet what Tongue shall say,
That the High Being in himself saw Clay;
That Purity immense reflecting drew
The Flower that fades, the sickly Charms we view?
That Saints, and Chloes were together laid
In his mix'd Plan, who the Creation weigh'd?
From some First Pattern Beauty must proceed;
'Tis infinite Idea, boundless Scheme,
And coexistent with the Mind Supreme.
From that Original this lovely Frame
Of low, subordinate Perfection came.
Bold reach of Wit! but yet what Tongue shall say,
That the High Being in himself saw Clay;
That Purity immense reflecting drew
The Flower that fades, the sickly Charms we view?
That Saints, and Chloes were together laid
In his mix'd Plan, who the Creation weigh'd?
And yet the Schools, and all the learned Tribe!
To Plato with Church-Confidence subscribe.
Dream on, ye Sophists,—I had rather lose
All Creeds, than One Infinity abuse.
To Plato with Church-Confidence subscribe.
11
All Creeds, than One Infinity abuse.
You cry, resolve me,—or my Scheme avow,
That Beauty's there, my Thoughts with yours allow,
But whisper—Human Science knows not how.
That Beauty's there, my Thoughts with yours allow,
But whisper—Human Science knows not how.
Then lower tune the tenor of the Song,
And see what Charms to human Forms belong.
Tell me what Gesture is, what Air, what Grace,
Are they diffus'd, or are confind to Place.
And see what Charms to human Forms belong.
Tell me what Gesture is, what Air, what Grace,
Are they diffus'd, or are confind to Place.
When Delia leans, reclin'd in pensive Mood,
Why dost thou swell, my Heart, why throb, my Blood?
Yet when she rises, all these Motions cease,
And Rebel Nature lies compos'd in Peace.
When bold Thalestris sets the mettled Steed,
And passing cuts the Sight with wingy speed,
Why dance my Eye-balls, and pursue her still,
Till lost, I curse the Cloud, or envious Hill?
Yet with indifference I behold her mov'd
In the gay Coach,—and wonder how I lov'd.
Cælia does all things with a graceful Ease,
Yet in Myrtilla all these things displease.
Why dost thou swell, my Heart, why throb, my Blood?
Yet when she rises, all these Motions cease,
And Rebel Nature lies compos'd in Peace.
When bold Thalestris sets the mettled Steed,
And passing cuts the Sight with wingy speed,
12
Till lost, I curse the Cloud, or envious Hill?
Yet with indifference I behold her mov'd
In the gay Coach,—and wonder how I lov'd.
Cælia does all things with a graceful Ease,
Yet in Myrtilla all these things displease.
These Eyes ne'er saw thee, Sylvia, yet I find
I could behold thee till these Eyes grew blind;
I'm touch'd with Sympathy unfelt before,
Long to be near, and languish to adore:
Like Zealots, who their Heav'n in Fancy paint,
I form, and worship low my absent Saint.
I could behold thee till these Eyes grew blind;
I'm touch'd with Sympathy unfelt before,
Long to be near, and languish to adore:
Like Zealots, who their Heav'n in Fancy paint,
I form, and worship low my absent Saint.
Appear, Fair Angel, stand reveal'd to Sight,
All cloath'd in Glory of thy native white;
What tho' too fierce the Flame, too strong the Fire,
I'll look—and dare like Semele expire.
All cloath'd in Glory of thy native white;
What tho' too fierce the Flame, too strong the Fire,
I'll look—and dare like Semele expire.
| A new collection of Original poems | |