 | Lycidus |  |
112
To Damon.
To inquire of him if he cou'd tell me by the Style, who writ me a Copy of Verses that came to me in an unknown Hand, by Mrs. A. B.
Oh, Damon, if thou ever wers't
That certain friend thou hast profest,
Relieve the Pantings of my heart,
Restore me to my wonted rest.
That certain friend thou hast profest,
113
Restore me to my wonted rest.
Late in the Silvian Grove I sat,
Free as the Air, and calm as that;
For as no winds the boughs opprest,
No storms of Love were in my breast.
A long Adieu I'd bid to that
Ere since Amintas prov'd ingrate.
And with indifference, or disdain,
I lookt around upon the Plain.
And worth my favor found no sighing Swain:
But oh, my Damon, all in vain
I triumph'd in security,
In vain absented from the Plain.
The wanton God his Power to try
In lone recesses makes us yeild,
As well as in the open feild;
For where no human thing was found
My heedless heart receiv'd a wound
Assist me, Shepherd, or I dye,
Help to unfold this Mystery.
Free as the Air, and calm as that;
For as no winds the boughs opprest,
No storms of Love were in my breast.
A long Adieu I'd bid to that
Ere since Amintas prov'd ingrate.
And with indifference, or disdain,
I lookt around upon the Plain.
And worth my favor found no sighing Swain:
But oh, my Damon, all in vain
I triumph'd in security,
In vain absented from the Plain.
The wanton God his Power to try
In lone recesses makes us yeild,
As well as in the open feild;
For where no human thing was found
My heedless heart receiv'd a wound
114
Help to unfold this Mystery.
No Swain was by, no flattering Nymph was neer,
Soft tales of Love to whisper to my Ear.
In sleep, no Dream my fancy fir'd
With Images, my waking wish desir'd.
No fond Idea fill'd my mind;
Nor to the faithless sex one thought inclin'd;
I sigh'd for no deceiving youth,
Who forfeited his vows and truth;
I waited no Assigning Swain
Whose disappointment gave me pain.
My fancy did no prospect take
Of Conquest's I design'd to make.
No snares for Lovers I had laid,
Nor was of any snare afraid.
But calm and innocent I sate,
Content with my indifferent fate.
(A Medium, I confess, I hate.)
For when the mind so cool is grown
As neither Love nor Hate to own,
The Life but dully lingers on.
Soft tales of Love to whisper to my Ear.
In sleep, no Dream my fancy fir'd
With Images, my waking wish desir'd.
No fond Idea fill'd my mind;
Nor to the faithless sex one thought inclin'd;
I sigh'd for no deceiving youth,
Who forfeited his vows and truth;
I waited no Assigning Swain
Whose disappointment gave me pain.
My fancy did no prospect take
Of Conquest's I design'd to make.
No snares for Lovers I had laid,
Nor was of any snare afraid.
But calm and innocent I sate,
Content with my indifferent fate.
(A Medium, I confess, I hate.)
115
As neither Love nor Hate to own,
The Life but dully lingers on.
Thus in the mid'st of careless thought,
A paper to my hand was brought.
What hidden charms were lodg'd within,
To my unwary Eyes unseen,
Alas! no Human thought can guess;
But ho! it robb'd me of my peace.
A Philter 'twas, that darted pain
Thrô every pleas'd and trembling vein.
A stratagem, to send a Dart
By a new way into the heart,
Th'Ignoble Policie of Love
By a clandestin means to move.
Which possibly the Instrument
Did ne're design to that intent,
But only form, and complement.
While Love did the occasion take
And hid beneath his flowres a snake
O're every line did Poyson fling
In every word he lurk't a sting.
So Matrons are, by Demons charms,
Thô harmless, capable of harms.
A paper to my hand was brought.
What hidden charms were lodg'd within,
To my unwary Eyes unseen,
Alas! no Human thought can guess;
But ho! it robb'd me of my peace.
A Philter 'twas, that darted pain
Thrô every pleas'd and trembling vein.
A stratagem, to send a Dart
By a new way into the heart,
Th'Ignoble Policie of Love
By a clandestin means to move.
Which possibly the Instrument
Did ne're design to that intent,
But only form, and complement.
While Love did the occasion take
And hid beneath his flowres a snake
116
In every word he lurk't a sting.
So Matrons are, by Demons charms,
Thô harmless, capable of harms.
The verse was smooth, the thought was fine,
The fancy new, the wit divine.
But fill'd with praises of my face and Eyes,
My verse, and all those usual flatteries
To me as common as the Air;
Nor cou'd my vanity procure my care.
All which as things of course are writ
And less to shew esteem than wit.
But here was some strange somthing more
Than ever flatter'd me before;
My heart was by my Eyes misled:
I blusht and trembl'd as I read.
And every guilty look confest
I was with new surprise opprest.
From every view I felt a pain
And by the Soul, I drew the Swain.
Charming as fancy cou'd create
Fine as his Poem, and as soft as that.
I drew him all the heart cou'd move
I drew him all that women Love.
And such a dear Idea made
As has my whole repose betray'd.
Pigmalion thus his Image form'd,
And for the charms he made, he sigh'd and burn'd.
The fancy new, the wit divine.
But fill'd with praises of my face and Eyes,
My verse, and all those usual flatteries
To me as common as the Air;
Nor cou'd my vanity procure my care.
All which as things of course are writ
And less to shew esteem than wit.
But here was some strange somthing more
Than ever flatter'd me before;
My heart was by my Eyes misled:
I blusht and trembl'd as I read.
And every guilty look confest
I was with new surprise opprest.
From every view I felt a pain
And by the Soul, I drew the Swain.
117
Fine as his Poem, and as soft as that.
I drew him all the heart cou'd move
I drew him all that women Love.
And such a dear Idea made
As has my whole repose betray'd.
Pigmalion thus his Image form'd,
And for the charms he made, he sigh'd and burn'd.
Oh thou that know'st each Shepherds Strains
That Pipes and Sings upon the Plains;
Inform me where the youth remains.
The spightful Paper bare no name,
Nor can I guess from whom it came,
Or if at least a guess I found,
'Twas not t'instruct but to confound.
That Pipes and Sings upon the Plains;
Inform me where the youth remains.
The spightful Paper bare no name,
Nor can I guess from whom it came,
Or if at least a guess I found,
'Twas not t'instruct but to confound.
128
Hurried by our fantastick wild desire
We loath the present, absent things admire,
Those we adore, and fair Idea's frame,
And those enjoy'd we think wou'd quench the flame
In vain, the Ambitious feaver still returns
And with redoubled fire more fiercely burns.
Our boundless vast desires can know no rest,
But travel forward still and labour to be blest.
Philosophers and Poets strove in vain
The restless anxious Progress to restrain,
And to their loss soon found their Good supream
An Airy notion and a pleasing Dream.
For happiness is no where to be found,
But flys the searcher, like enchanted ground.
Are we then masters or the slaves of things?
Poor wretched vassalls, or terrestial Kings?
Left to our reason, and by that betray'd,
We lose a present bliss to catch a shade.
Unsatisfy'd with Beauteous natures store
The universal Monarch Man is only poor.
We loath the present, absent things admire,
Those we adore, and fair Idea's frame,
And those enjoy'd we think wou'd quench the flame
In vain, the Ambitious feaver still returns
And with redoubled fire more fiercely burns.
Our boundless vast desires can know no rest,
But travel forward still and labour to be blest.
Philosophers and Poets strove in vain
The restless anxious Progress to restrain,
And to their loss soon found their Good supream
An Airy notion and a pleasing Dream.
For happiness is no where to be found,
But flys the searcher, like enchanted ground.
Are we then masters or the slaves of things?
Poor wretched vassalls, or terrestial Kings?
Left to our reason, and by that betray'd,
We lose a present bliss to catch a shade.
129
The universal Monarch Man is only poor.
| Lycidus | |