 | The Feminiad |  |
The Feminiad.
A Poem.
Usurp the muse's tributary bay;
In kingly state on Pindus' summit sit,
Tyrant of verse, and arbiter of wit?
By Salic law the female right deny,
And view their genius with regardless eye?
To sing the glories of a sister-quire!
Rise, rise, bold swain; and to the list'ning grove
Resound the praises of the sex you love;
Tell how, adorn'd with every charm, they shine,
In mind and person equally divine,
Till man, no more to female merit blind,
Admire the person, but adore the mind.
And constant patron, Richardson! attend!
Thou, who so oft with pleas'd, but anxious care,
Hast watch'd the dawning genius of the fair,
With wonted smiles wilt hear thy friend display
The various graces of the female lay;
And aid the gen'rous cause espous'd by thee.
By sounds like these, her undisputed reign:
“Woman! she cry'd, to thee, indulgent heav'n
“Has all the charms of outward beauty giv'n:
“Be thine the boast, unrival'd, to enslave
“The great, the wise, the witty, and the brave;
“Deck'd with the Paphian rose's damask glow,
“And the vale-lilly's vegetable snow,
“Be thine, to move majestic in the dance,
“To roll the eye, and aim the tender glance,
“Or touch the strings, and breathe the melting song,
“Content to emulate that airy throng,
“Who to the fun their painted plumes display,
“And gaily glitter on the hawthorn spray,
“Careless of ought but music, joy, and love.”
The freeborn sons of Britain's polish'd isle?
Could they, like fam'd Ulysses' dastard crew,
Attentive listen, and enamour'd view,
Nor drive the Syren to that dreary plain,
In loathsome pomp, where eastern tyrants reign,
Where each fair neck the yoke of slav'ry galls,
Clos'd in a proud seraglio's gloomy walls,
And taught, that level'd with the brutal kind,
Nor sense, nor souls to women are assign'd.
At Freedom's call, thro' Wisdom's sacred grove,
And, as with lavish hand each sister Grace
Shapes the fair form and regulates the face,
Adorns, improves, and beautifies the mind.
Ev'n now fond fancy in our polish'd land
Assembled shows a blooming, studious band:
With various arts our rev'rence they engage,
Some turn the tuneful, some the moral page,
These, led by Contemplation, soar on high,
And range the heav'ns with philosophic eye;
While those, surrounded by a vocal choir,
The canvas tinge, or touch the warbling lyre.
Here, like the stars' mixt radiance, they unite
To dazzle and perplex our wand'ring sight:
The Muse each charmer singly shall survey;
Thus may she best their vary'd charms display,
And tune to each her tributary lay.
So when, in blended tints, with sweet surprize
Assembled beauties strike our ravish'd eyes,
Or spring, great Kneller! from a hand like thine,
On all with pleasing awe at once we gaze,
And, lost in wonder, know not which to praise,
But, singly view'd, each nymph delights us more,
Disclosing graces unperceiv'd before.
To chase the mist from dark Opinion's eye:
Nor mean we here to blame that father's care,
Who guards from learned wives his booby heir,
Since oft that heir with prudence has been known,
To dread a genius that transcends his own:
The wise themselves should with discretion chuse,
Since letter'd nymphs their knowlege may abuse,
And husbands oft experience to their cost
The prudent housewife in the scholar lost:
Their own high talents, and their sex despise,
With haughty mien each social bliss defeat,
And sully all their learning with conceit:
Of such the parent justly warns his son,
And such the Muse herself will bid him shun.
Tho' grac'd by nature, and by art refin'd,
Pleas'd with domestic excellence, can spare
Some hours from studious ease to social care,
And with her pen that time alone employs
Which others waste in visits, cards and noise;
From affectation free, tho' deeply read,
“With wit well natur'd, and with books well bred?
With such (and such there are) each happy day
Must fly improving, and improv'd away;
And Wisdom's voice approve the chosen fair.
In search of genius, to the Lesbian grove,
Tho' Sappho there her tuneful lyre has strung,
And amorous griefs in sweetest accents sung,
Since here, in Charles's days, amidst a train
Of shameless bards, licentious and profane,
The chaste Orinda rose; with purer light,
Like modest Cynthia, beaming thro' the night:
Fair Friendship's lustre, undisguis'd by art,
Glows in her lines, and animates her heart;
Friendship, that jewel, which, tho' all confess
Its peerless value, yet how few possess!
A verdant chaplet of her odorous leaves,
Her praise, re-echo'd by the Muse's throng,
Will reach far distant times, and live as long
As Cowley's wit, or fam'd Roscommon's song.
Thy horrors, Spleen! which all, who paint, must feel?
My praises would but wrong her sterling wit,
Since Pope himself applauds what she has writ.
From the bleak mountains of her native North?
While round her brows two sisters of the nine
Poetic wreaths with philosophic twine!
Thy Locke delighted culls the choicest flow'rs
To deck, his great successful champion's head,
And Clarke expects thee in the laurel shade.
Tho' long, to dark, oblivious want a prey,
Thy aged worth past unperceiv'd away,
Yet Scotland now shall ever boast thy fame,
While England mourns thy undistinguish'd name,
And views with wonder, in a female mind,
Philosopher, Divine, and Poet join'd!
O'er Vice's friends and Virtue's female foes;
Of modern Manley, Centlivre, and Behn;
And grieves to see One nobly born disgrace
Her modest sex, and her illustrious race.
Tho' harmony thro' all their numbers flow'd,
And genuine wit its ev'ry grace bestow'd,
Nor genuine wit nor harmony excuse
The dang'rous sallies of a wanton Muse:
Nor can such tuneful, but immoral lays,
Expect the tribute of impartial praise:
As soon might Phillips, Pilkington and V---
Deserv'd applause for spotless virtue gain.
With strains seraphic swells the vernal gale?
With what sweet sounds the bord'ring forest rings?
For sportive Echo catches, as she sings,
Each falling accent, studious to prolong
The warbled notes of Rowe's ecstatic song.
Old Avon pleas'd his reedy forehead rears,
And polish'd Orrery delighted hears.
See with what transport she resigns her breath,
Snatch'd by a sudden, but a wish'd for, death!
Releas'd from earth, with smiles she soars on high
Amidst her kindred spirits of the sky,
Where Faith and Love those endless joys bestow,
That warm'd her lays, and fill'd her hopes below.
Or from the Muse her modest virtues screen;
Here, sweetly blended, to our wond'ring eyes,
The Peeress, Poetess and Christian rise:
And tho' the Nine her tuneful strains inspire,
We less her genius, than her heart admire,
Pleas'd, 'midst the Great, One truly Good to see,
And proud to tell that Somerset is she.
A grateful tribute from all female hands;
One, who to shield them from the worst of foes,
In their just cause dar'd Pope himself oppose.
By Irwin touch'd with Truth's celestial spear.
By her disarm'd, ye witlings! now give o'er
Your empty sneers, and shock the sex no more.
Attack'd her country, flew to its relief;
Beneath her lance the bravest warriors bled,
And fear dismay'd the host which great Æneas led.
Why starts this tear unbidden from my eye?
What breast from sighs, what eye from tears refrains,
When, sweetly-mournful, hapless Wright complains?
And who but grieves to see her gen'rous mind,
For nobler views and worthier guests design'd,
Wan with the gloom of superstitious care?
In pity-moving lays, with earnest cries,
She call'd on heav'n to close her weary eyes,
And, long on earth by heart-felt woes opprest,
Was borne by friendly Death to welcome rest.
Has Poetry's successive Progress trac'd,
From ancient Greece, where first she fix'd her reign,
To Italy, and Britain's happier plain.
Praise well-bestow'd adorns her glowing lines,
And manly strength with female softness joins.
So female charms and manly virtues grace,
By her example form'd, her blooming race,
There new Cornelias and new Gracchi rise.
O that you now, with genius at command,
Would snatch the pencil from my artless hand,
And give your sex's portraits, bold and true,
In colours worthy of themselves and you!
By Cynthia's beams, thro' Brackley's glimm'ring grove;
Where still each night, by startled shepherds seen,
Young Leapor's form flies shadowy o'er the
Those envy'd honours Nature lov'd to pay
The bryar-bound turf, where erst her Shakespear lay,
There o'er the hallow'd ground she fondly strows
The choicest fragrance of the breathing spring,
And bids each year her fav'rite linnet sing.
Tread the dull mazes of scholastic ground;
Brackley unenvying views the glitt'ring train,
Of learning's gaudy trappings idly vain;
For, spite of all that vaunted learning's aid,
Their fame is rival'd by her rural maid.
Sweet Philomela trills her mellow lays,
We to the natives of the sultry line
Their boasted race of Parrots pleas'd resign:
For tho' on citron boughs they proudly glow
With all the colours of the watry bow,
But thro' the grove harsh discord they prolong,
Tho' rich in gaudy plumage, poor in song.
Whose rude o'erhanging cliffs and barren sand
May challenge all the myrtle-blooming bow'rs
Of fam'd Italia, when at evening hours
Thy own Eliza muses on the shore,
Serene, tho' billows beat, and tempests roar.
Eliza, hail! your fav'rite name inspires
My raptur'd breast with sympathetic fires;
Ev'n now I see your lov'd Ilyssus lead
His mazy current thro' th' Athenian mead;
And join in Attic bow'rs th' Aönian maids;
Beneath the spreading Plane with Plato rove,
And hear his morals echo thro' the grove.
Joy sparkles in the sage's looks, to find
His genius glowing in a female mind;
Newton admiring sees your searching eye
Dart thro' his mystic page, and range the sky;
By you his colours to your sex are shown,
And Algarotti's name to Britain known.
While, undisturb'd by pride, you calmly tread
Thro life's perplexing paths, by Wisdom led;
And, taught by her, your grateful Muse repays
Her heav'nly teacher in Nocturnal Lays.
As sings the fable, stole celestial fire,
In look, in form, in speech resembling Man;
But in each eye a living lustre glow'd,
That spoke the heav'nly source from whence it flow'd.
Where the slow Ouze his lazy current leads:
There, while the stream soft-dimpling steals along,
And from the groves the green-hair'd Dryads throng,
O bear me swift to some embow'ring spray,
For Clio's self, or Flavia, tunes a lay,
Sweet as the darkling Philomel of May.
The charms of Cynthia and the joys of Spring:
See! Night's pale goddess with a grateful beam
Paints her lov'd image in the shadowy stream,
While round his vot'ry Spring profusely show'rs
“A show of blossoms and a wild of flowers.
O happy nymph, tho' Winter o'er thy head,
Blind to that form, the snow of age shall shed;
Tho' life's short spring and beauty's blossoms fade,
Still shall thy reason flourish, undecay'd;
Time, tho' he steals the roseate bloom of youth,
Shall spare the charms of virtue and of truth,
And on thy mind new charms, new bloom bestow,
Wisdom's best friend, and only Beauty's foe.
Unsung, unhonour'd in my votive strain.
The fairy ground that Phillips trod before,
Exalts her chymic wand, and swift behold
The basest metals ripen into gold.
Beneath her magic touch with wond'ring eye
We view vile copper with pure sterling vye;
Nor shall the Farthing, sung by her, forbear
To claim the praises of the smiling fair;
Till chuck and marbles shall no more employ
The thoughtless leisure of the truant boy.
See how his waves in still attention glide:
And, hark! what songstress shakes her warbling throat?
Is it the nightingale, or Delia's note?
On their soft wings the vocal accents bear;
Thro' Sunbury's low vale the strains rebound,
Ev'n neighbouring Chertsey hears the chearful sound,
And wond'ring sees her Cowley's laurel'd shade.
Transported listen to the tuneful maid.
O may those nymphs, whose pleasing pow'r she sings
Still o'er their suppliant wave their fost'ring wings!
O long may Health and soft-ey'd Peace impart
Bloom to her cheek, and rapture to her heart!
Beneath her roof the Red-breast shall prolong,
Unchill'd by frosts, his tributary song;
For her the Lark shall wake the dappled morn'
And Linnet twitter from the blossom'd thorn.
Sing on, sweet maid! thy Spenser smiles to see
Kind Fancy shed her choicest gifts on thee,
That shades his tomb, inscribe thy rural lay.
The Muse's pupil from her tend'rest years;
Improving tasks her peaceful hours beguile,
The sister Arts on all her labours smile,
And while the Nine their votary inspire,
“One dips the pencil, and one strings the lyre.”
O may her life's clear current smoothly glide,
Unruffled by Misfortune's boist'rous tide!
So while the charmer leads her blameless days
With that Content which she so well displays,
Her own Honoria we in her shall view,
And think her allegoric vision true.
That fruitful floats on Bansted's airy plain,
Careless I sung, while Summer's western gale
Breath'd health and fragrance thro' the dusky vale.
When from a neighbouring hawthorn, in whose shade
Conceal'd she lay, up-rose th' Aönian maid:
Pleas'd had she listen'd; and, with smiles, she cry'd,
“Cease, friendly swain! be this thy praise and pride,
“That thou, of all the num'rous tuneful throng,
“First in our cause hast fram'd thy gen'rous song.
“The flow'ry paths of Fame, by Science led!
“Employ by turns the the needle and the pen,
“And in their fav'rite studies rival men!
“May all our sex your glorious track pursue,
“And keep your bright examples still in view!
“And smooth the wrinkles of declining age,
“Secure to bloom, unconscious of decay,
“When all Corinna's roses fade away.
“For ev'n when love's short triumph shall be o'er,
“When youth shall please, and beauty charm no more,
“When man shall cease to flatter; when the eye
“Shall cease to sparkle, and the heart to sigh,
“In that dread hour, when parent dust shall claim
“The lifeless tribute of each kindred frame,
“Ev'n then, shall Wisdom for her chosen fair
“The fragrant wreaths of virtuous fame prepare;
“Those wreaths which flourish in a happier clime,
“Beyond the reach of Envy, and of Time.
“While here, the immortalizing Muse shall save
“Your darling names from dark Oblivion's grave;
“Of every polish'd, wise and virtuous age;
“To latest times our annals shall adorn,
“And save from Folly thousands yet unborn.”
The propriety of this address will be owned by all who are acquainted with this author's three celebrated pieces, Pamela, Clarissa; and Sir Charles Grandison.
Mrs. Catherine Phillips, the celebrated Orinda, was distinguish'd by most of the wits of King Charles's reign, and died young; lamented by many of them in commendatory verses prefix'd to her poems. Her pieces on Friendship are particularly admir'd.
Anne, Countess of Winchelsea, a lady of great wit and genius, wrote (among others) a poem, much admir'd, on the Spleen, and is prais'd by Mr. Pope, &c. under the poetical name of Ardelia.
Mrs. Catherine Cockburn, was the wife of a clergyman, lived obscurely, and died a few years ago in an advanced age in Northumberland; her works on dramatical, philosophical, and sacred subjects have been lately collected and generally admired. In 1702 she receiv'd a letter of thanks from Mr. Locke, for defending his writings against Dr. Holdsworth of Oxford, and, in 1747, she with equal spirit defended Dr. Clarke's principles against Dr. Rutherforth of Cambridge.
The first of these wrote the scandalous memoirs call'd Atalantis, and the other two are notorious for the indecency of their plays.
These three ladies have endeavour'd to immortalize their shame, by writing and publishing their own memoirs.
The character of Mrs. Rowe and her writings is too well known to be dwelt on here. It may be sufficient to say, that without any previous illness she met at last with that sudden death for which she had always wished.
Frances, Countess of Hertford, now Dutchess Dowager of Somerset, Mrs. Rowe's illustrious friend and patroness, lamented her death in some verses prefix'd to her poems and was author of the letters in her collection sign'd Cleora.
Anne, Viscountess Irwin, sister to the present Earl of Carlisle, with equal judgment and spirit espoused her sex's cause; and, in a poetical epistle to Mr. Pope, has rescued them from the aspersions cast on them by that satyrist in his Essay on the Characters of Women.
Mrs. Wright, sister to the famous Westleys, has publish'd some pieces, which, tho' of a melancholy cast, are wrote in the genuine spirit of poetry.
This lady is author of a poem call'd the Progress of Poetry, publish'd in a miscellany, call'd the Flower Piece, in 1731; wherein the characters of the best Grecian, Roman and English poets are justly and elegantly drawn.
Mrs. Leapor, daughter to a Northamptonshire gardener, has lately convinced the world of the force of unassisted nature, by imitating and (perchance) equalling some of our most approved poets by the strength of her own parts, the vivacity of her own genius, and a perpetual pursuit after knowlege. And greater without doubt would have been her progress, if the length of her life had borne any proportion to the extent of her abilities.
Miss Eliza C--- is equal'd by few of either sex for strength of imagination, soundness of judgment, and extensive knowlege. Tho' mistress of the ancient and modern languages, an excellent poet, and a natural and moral philosopher; so great is her unaffected modesty, 'tis to be fear'd that even this impartial praise will offend her. She has translated, from the Italian, Algarotti's Dialogues on light and colours, and has an admirable nocturnal ode to Wisdom, in Dodsley's Miscellanies.
These two ladies live at H---d---n. The one is equally to be admir'd for the beauties of her mind and person. The latter will be acknowleged by every beholder, as will the former by every one who has read her elegant Odes to Cynthia and the Spring.
The other has happily imitated Mr. Phillips's Splendid Shilling, in a burlesque poem called the Copper Farthing.
These two ladies live at H---d---n. The one is equally to be admir'd for the beauties of her mind and person. The latter will be acknowleged by every beholder, as will the former by every one who has read her elegant Odes to Cynthia and the Spring.
The other has happily imitated Mr. Phillips's Splendid Shilling, in a burlesque poem called the Copper Farthing.
Of this lady I shall say little more than that the happiness of her genius is only excell'd by the goodness of her heart. The Muses have attended her in the few poetical excursions she has made, viz. her Odes to Peace, Health, and the Robin Red-breast, which are here alluded to; and she has been celebrated in a sonnet by Mr. Edwards, author of the Canons of Criticism.
| The Feminiad | |