Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Twas vain, my friend, to urge the kind request,
Or hope one spark of fancy in my breast;
While plagu'd with doubts, with diagrams and rules,
The heavy, learned lumber of the schools:
As soon amidst destruction's thund'ring train,
While cannons roar'd, and thousands strew'd the plain,
Cou'd you have scorn'd the horrors of the war,
Sate down unmov'd, and sung of Kitty C---.
But now the task with pleasure I pursue,
And joy to please myself in pleasing you:
For if you deem compliance forms the song,
Mere complaisance—you do the muses wrong:
Much more mistake my bosom's kindling flame,
Which ne'er was languid to so sweet a theme.
Nor be it said, a poet wanted fire,
Where all the graces, all the nine conspire,
(Fair flesh and blood, not fancy's fabled throng)
To warm the heart and animate the song.

Chance 'twill sound strange, (then whisper'd let it be.
It matters not who hears, save you and me:)
Boeotian fens, where fogs and dulness reign,
That they the graces, and the nine contain:
That beauty there enslaves the willing heart,
Without the prudish elegance of art;
That modest virtue scorns dissembling there,
Tremble ye belles, and all ye beaux despair!

What tho' no mall with mincing steps they pace,
Nor glitter in the box with borrow'd grace;
What, though unlearn'd t' elaborate a sigh,
While in soft strains the softer eunuchs die:
What tho' to midnight masks they never come,
Rush to the rout, or riot at the drum:
Far diff'rent scenes those happy plains engage,
The joys without the follies of the age.

Is there a sport? that sport fair virtue guides;
Is there a pleasure? innocence presides:
Beauty bright blooming leads the train along,
And sweet good-nature smiles thro' all the throng;
In human shapes they joy the heart to warm,
Each steals a J---k---n's, or a B---th's form.

Why were we born a moment's bliss to share,
And pine away whole ages in despair?
Why was I blest amidst that happy train,
So short the blessing, and so long the pain?
Thus while I write my sick'ning fancy mourns,
Each fair idea to my view returns:
E'en now I see the lovely nymphs advance
Form the gay ranks, and glide along the dance;
E'en now, admiring each bright maid, I trace,
And wrapt in wonder cou'd for ever gaze.
But why, ah why—the blushing lover spare,
Too well thou know'st—ah! why was Delia there?
Alas, how chang'd! from what fair glory lost,
The maiden's envy, and the matron's boast!
From clime to clime by busy censure borne,
Contempt's best theme, and sense and reason's scorn:
Or forc'd, or willing, wav'ring wild, to wed,
And blooming wither in an old man's bed.

Yet wherefore censure? 'tis in fact to praise;
(The modish manner of our modern days:)
Yet hence, gallants, that hapless beauty spare,
A tear is due from kind compassion there.

Blest were the bards of old who never strove
Bright maids to celebrate, or chaunt their love;
But to their aid some willing godhead came,
And by his loving dignify'd the dame;
Who lov'd Europa, so extoll'd her charms,
He brought the very thund'rer to her arms:
So chaste was Daphne when her lover woo'd,
He made her fly, when e'en sir Phœbus su'd:
Nor cou'd the beauteous Ariadne plain,
But straight kind Bacchus flew to sooth her pain.
But since plain sense got footing on our ground,
These gallant tales no more admission found:
Our squeamish stomachs such rank lies exclude,
And downright truth must be our only food:
Think then—so rare true worth on modern soil,—
How very hard the poets find their toil.

But this with me, you'll answer, nothing weighs,
Speak downright truth, you'll speak the noblest praise:
Censure cries out, and growling drops her pen,
“Reverse each character, 'tis censure then.”
See fiction blushing from her pencil run,
And own her gaiest tints by B---th's charms outdone.

But soft, my friends, or e'er we speak the rest,
Indulge our wish, and make the country blest:
Those nymphs together let us once more view,
Who fire our fancies and our flames renew:
Those nymphs! whom youthful Clodio's self has seen,
Fam'd for the step precise and upright mien!

Whom ev'n he saw—and in their chorus join'd,
To ease the wond'rous workings of his mind!
Alas how vain!—the fickle damsel flown,
And all his hopes of dear ten thousand gone!
Alas how vain!—ye virgins, aid his pain,
'Tis hard to triumph o'er so meek a swain!

Peace to his soul!—while I my wish renew,
Once more in Lincoln's fens my friend to view:
Then shall the muse with double ardour soar,
Now graces celebrate, now charms explore;
Then might I hope!—bright beauties, hear my pray'er—
Conceive the rest—'tis sigh'd and lost in air.