[Page] THE HISTORY OF LOVE.
A POEM: IN A Letter to a Lady.
By Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS.
Est quo (que) Carminibus meritas celebrare Puellas Dos mea,—Ovid.
—Utinam modo dicere possem, Carmina digna dea, certè est dea carmina digna.
Ibid.
LONDON: Printed by J. Dawks, for Jacob Tonson at the Judges Head, near the Inner-Temple-Gate in Fleetstreet. M DC XC V.
To Her GRACE THE DUTCHESS OF GRAFTON.
Madam,
BEauty, as it is both the Theme, and Inspirer of Poetry, so it ought to be the Patroness too; [Page] and a Poem of Love should in Justice be sacred to none but the lovelyest: it would therefore be adoring a false Deity, should I offer up this at any Shrine but Yours.
As it is the best I can do, and writ on the most pleasing Subject, I was resolv'd to lay it at the Feet of the most Beautiful, and had I been my self at a loss where to fix, the Universal Opinion of the World would have directed me, and pointed out your Grace for the Patroness; while the Poem shall last, (and a Poem of Love ought to last longer than any other) succeeding Ages [Page] shall read, that your Grace was the Ornament of this Age.
'Tis an innocent and harmless Ambition in Poets, whose only design in all they do, is the pleasing others, and in doing that, please themselves best; and as Beauty is the chief Object they bend their Studies to delight; all Poets ought to aspire to please your Grace in particular.
That Ambition, is the best Excuse I can make for my presumption in this Dedication; since I am unknown to your Grace, and perhaps, even unheard of yet; but what is my Crime, is at the [Page] same time my Plea for Pardon; or rather it is my Merit. The Athenians, when they Dedicated an Altar to the unknown God, shew'd more Devotion, and directed their Devotion to a truer Deity, than when they Adored the many they knew.
That I might be sure of something Acceptable in this Offering, and not fail to Delight in a Poem of Love, where all ought to be delightful, I have taken all the most moving tender Things, that Ovid and Tibullus said to their Mistresses, to say to Mine; nor will I allow it to be a Theft, since I doubt [Page] not, as it was their Love that inspir'd them with those Thoughts, Mine would have infus'd the same into me; and no man that thinks naturally of Love, can avoid running into the same Thoughts with them.
I have borrow'd the Examples to every Passion, from those Stories which I thought the most pleasing in Ovid, where certainly the most pleasing were to be met with: Some few places in every Story I have Translated, but for the most part, I have only kept him in View; I have gone on with him, and left him, where I [Page] thought it proper, and by that means have avoided the Absurdities of his Metamorphoses; save only that of Pigmalion's Statue, but that was a Metamorphoses that pleas'd me.
It was a delightful Surprize, to see Life breath'd into an inanimate Beauty, as it would be a killing Affliction to see it taken away from one already animated: It would occasion as much Joy and Wonder, to have a Dutchess of GRAFTON made by Art, (if Art could do it) as it would cause Consternation to have the Gods unmake one. But those Miracles [Page] of Art are now ceas'd; and none but the Heavenly Artist could have Drawn You, who has Drawn You so, that he has left the Painter, and the Poet at a loss to Copy You.
As to the Succcess of this POEM, I hope I am secure, since it is Sacred in general to the Fair Sex, and committed in particular to the Protection of the Fairest; if they are once pleas'd, who will dare to find fault? or disoblige them, by disliking what they approve? Under the shelter of your Graces Patronage, I shall stand, like Aeneas, guarded by the Goddess [Page] of Love, and no Diomedes shall be found as desperate as the first to Wound me thro' You. Thus, as all Dedicating Poets, who write more to raise their own Reputation than their Patrons, I have taken the most effectual means to Establish mine; and doubt not to make a strong Party, since every Lover will defend what is sacred to the Lovely.
Your Graces
most Devoted,
most Humble Servant,
Charles Hopkins.
[Page] THE History of Love,
A POEM: IN A LETTER TO A LADY.
The HISTORY OF LOVE.
A POEM: In a Letter to a LADY.
YE Woods, and Wilds, serene and blest retreats,
At once the Lovers, and the Muses seats.
To you I fly, to You, ye sacred groves,
To tell my wondrous tale of wond'rous Loves.
[Page 4] Thee, Delia, thee, shall every Shepherd sing,
With thy dear name the neighbouring Woods shall ring.
No Name but thine shall on their Barks be found,
With none but thine, shall ecchoing Hills resound.
My Verse, thy matchless Beautyes shall proclaim,
Till thine outrivals Sacharissa's Fame.
My Verse, shall make thee live while Woods shall grow,
While Stars shall shine, and while the Seas shall flow.
While there remains alive a tender Maid,
Or Amorous Youth, or Love-sick Swain to read.
Others may artfully the Passions move,
In me alone 'tis natural to love:
While the World sees me write in such a strain,
As shows, I only feel, what others feign.
[Page 5] Thou darling of my Youth, my Life's delight,
By day my Vision, and my Dream by Night.
Thou, who alone dost all my Thoughts infuse,
And art at once, my Mistress, and my Muse.
Inspir'd from thee, flows every sacred line,
Thine is the Poetry, the Poet thine.
Thy Service shall my only business be,
And all my life employ'd in pleasing thee.
Crown'd with my Songs of thee, each day shall move,
And every listning Sun hear nought but Love.
With flowing numbers, every page shall roll,
Where, as you read my Verse, receive my Soul.
Should Sense, and Wit, and Art, refuse to join,
In all I write, and fail my great design.
Yet with such Passion shall my Lines be crown'd,
And so much softness in my Poem found;
[Page 6] Such moving tenderness, the World shall see,
Love could have been describ'd by none but me,
Let Dryden from his works with Justice claim,
Immortal Praise; I from my Sacred Flame,
Draw all my Glory, challenge all my Fame.
Believe me Delia, Lovers have their Wars,
And Cupid has his Camp, as well as Mars.
That Age which suits a Soldier best, will prove
The fittest for the sharp Fatigues of Love.
None but Young Men the toils of War can bear,
None but Young Men can serve and please the fair.
Youth, with the Foe maintains the vig'rous fight,
Youth, gives the longing Maid the full delight.
On either hand, like hardship it sustains,
Great are Souldiers, great the Lovers pains.
Th' event of War, no Gen'ral can foreknow,
And that, alas! of Love is doubtful too.
[Page 7] In various Fields, whatever Chance shall fall,
The Souldier must resolve to bear it all.
With the like constancy must Lovers wait,
Enduring bad, and hoping better Fate.
Thro' doubts, and fears, desires, and wishes toss't,
Undaunted, they must strain to reach the coast.
All will a while look hideous to their eye,
The threatning storm still thickning in the Sky,
No sight of Land, no friendly Harbour nigh.
Yet thro' all this, the vent'rous Lover steers,
To reap the Golden Crop that Beauty bears.
So the bold Mariners the Seas explore,
Tho' Winds blow hard, and Waves like Thunder roar,
Rather than live in Poverty on Shoar.
Embolden'd thus, let every Youth set Sail,
And trust to Fortune for a prosperous gale:
[Page 8] Let them launch boldly from the lazy Shore,
Nor fear a Storm which will at last blow o're.
Set all the Reins to all their Passions free,
Give Wings to their Desires; and love like me.
Happy that Youth, who when his Stars incline
His Soul to Love, can make a choice like mine.
Admiration.
Thee, Delia, all that see thee must admire,
And mankind in its own despight desire.
As a Blind Man, restor'd to suddain Sight,
Starts in a-maze at the first flash of Light.
So was I struck, such suddain wonder knew,
When my eyes dazel'd with the sight of you.
I saw whatever could enflame desire,
Parch up the Veins, and set the Blood on fire.
[Page 9] From every Charm, the pointed Lightning came,
And fast, as they dispers'd, I caught the Flame.
Like Stars your glittering eyes were seen to shine,
And roll with motions that were all divine.
Where Majesty, and softness, mingled meet,
And shew a Soul, at once, sublime, and sweet.
I gaz'd, and as I gaz'd, from every view,
New Wonders, I descryed, new Passion drew.
Nor were the Charms less powerful of your Tongue,
My ravish'd Soul on every accent hung,
Glow'd when you spoke, and melted when you Sung.
Those Lips unopen'd, cannot fail to move,
But Silently are eloquent in Love;
That Face, and Neck, those Shoulders, Hands, and Arms,
Each Limb, each Feature, has peculiar Charms.
[Page 10] Each of it self might singly win a Soul,
And never need th'assistance of the whole.
On this one Part a Poets praise might dwell,
Did not this other part deserve as well.
Beauty is surely near allyed to Wit,
Of which none can the just description hit;
By their own selves they may be shewn the best,
And only are in being seen, exprest.
Beautye's true Charms, no Poem can present,
Which but imperfectly are done in Paint.
That too, comes short of life, and only takes
Faint images of those which nature makes.
THE STORY OF PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA: In Imitation of part of that in the Fourth Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES.
PRopitious chance led Perseus once to view
The fairest Piece that ever Nature drew;
Chain'd on a rocky Shore, the Virgin stood,
Naked, and whiter than the foaming Flood;
[Page 12] Whom, as he cours'd the confines of the Sky
Amaz'd he saw, and kept his wond'ring Eye
So fix'd, he had almost forgot to sly.
Had not the Winds dispers'd her flowing Hair,
And held it waving in the liquid Air;
Or had not streams of Tears apace roll'd down
Her lovely Cheeks, he would have thought her Stone.
Strait he precipitates his hasty flight,
Impatient to attain a nearer sight.
Now, all at once, he feels the raging Fires,
Sees all the Maid, and all he sees, admires.
With awe and wonder, mixt with love and fear,
He stands as motionless as shame made her.
Urg'd on at last, but still by slow degrees,
Loth to offend, he draws to what he sees.
Oh! Why, he cryes, most matchless Fair-one, why
Are you thus us'd? Can you be doom'd to dye?
[Page 13] Have you done any Guilt? that guilt relate.
How can such Beauty merit such a Fate?
I am thy Champion, and espouse thy Cause;
In thy defence, the Thund'rer's Off-spring draws.
Say, if thou'rt rescued by the Son of Jove,
Say, for thy Life, wilt thou return thy Love?
The bashful Virgin no return affords,
But sends ten thousand Sighs, instead of Words:
With Grief, redoubled with her Shame, she mourns,
She weeps, he joys, she blushes, and he burns.
In Chains extended at her length she lay,
While he with transport took a full survey.
Fain would her Hands her conscious Blushes hide,
But that the Fetters which they wore, deny'd.
What could she do? all that she could, she did;
For drown'd in floods of Tears, her Eyes she hid.
[Page 14] Much urg'd to speak, she turn'd her bashful look
Far as she could aside, and trembling spoke:
My Mother, conscious of her Beauty, strove
(Alas! too conscious) with the Wife of Jove:
Who by a cruel, and unjust Decree,
To punish her, takes this revenge on me.
Here am I doom'd a dreadful Monster's prey,
Who now, now, now is issuing from the Sea.
Haste, generous Youth, our common Foe subdue;
And if you save my Life, I live for you.
Thus spoke the Maid, half dying with her fears,
When, lo! the Monster from the Sea appears.
The dauntless Heröe mounts his flying Horse,
And o'r the Waves directs his airy course.
Let him, alone, his Victory pursue;
For dreadful War has nothing here to do.
This short Account will Love-sick Swains suffice;
He slew his Foe, and strait receiv'd his Prize.
[Page 15] Thrice happy Youth, too fortunately blest;
Who only came, and conquer'd, and possest.
None of the pangs of Love your bliss annoy'd;
You but beheld, admir'd, and so enjoy'd.
Desire.
All other Lovers longer Toils sustain;
Desires, Hopes, Jealousies, an endless Train.
THE STORY OF PIGMALION: Imitated from the Tenth Book OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.
How thou art envied, let Pigmalion prove;
Who by a Miracle obtain'd his Love:
Who living in an Age, when Women led
The lewdest Lives, all Shame, and Honour fled;
For a long tune, declin'd the Nuptial-Bed.
[Page 17] He saw them all debauch'd with monstrous Crimes,
No Virtuous Maid, no Delia, bless the Times.
Had she liv'd then, his skill had ne'r been shown,
Nor the strange Miracle that crown'd it, known.
There had he fix'd, not form'd his fancy'd Maid;
Nor fondly been by his own Art betray'd.
The Nymph in polish'd Ivory glitter'd bright,
So smooth, she seem'd too slipp'ry for his sight.
So curious was her shape, so just her frame,
So quick her Eyes appear'd, so full of flame,
They would have roll'd, if not restrain'd by shame.
From his strange Art, the Statue had receiv'd
Such lively strokes, one would have thought it liv'd.
[Page 18] Ev'n he himself could hardly, hardly know,
But doubted long, whether it liv'd, or no.
Yet from her as she was, he gather'd Fires;
And fierce, and boundless were his mad Desires.
He felt her Flesh, (his Fancy thought it such,)
And fear'd to hurt her with too rude a touch.
He kiss'd her, with belief so strong and vain,
That he imagin'd how she kiss'd again.
Now makes his Court, his mad Addresses moves
And tells a long, sond tale, how well he loves.
Presents her now, with all he thought might please,
With precious Gums distill'd from weeping trees
Small Singing Birds, who strain their Tunefu Throats,
And hov'ring round, repeat their pretty Notes
With sweetest Flowers he crowns her lovely head
And lays her on the softest, downy Bed.
[Page 19] In richest Robes his charming Idol dress't,
Bright sparkling Gems, adorn her neck, and Breast,
And she—look'd well in all, but look'd when Naked best.
Now Venus, kept her Feast, a goodly train,
Of Love-sick Youths, frequent, and fill her Fame.
The Snow-white Heifers, fall by sacred strokes,
While with rich Gums the loadned Altar smoaks.
Among the rest the hopeless Lover stands,
Tears in his eyes, his Off'rings in his hands,
More furious than before he feels his Fires,
Ev'n his despair redoubles his desires.
A long, long time, his Oraisons deferr'd,
He durst not pray, lest he should not be heard.
Till urg'd by Love; his tim'rous Silence broke,
Thus (but still tim'rously) at last he spoke.
[Page 20] If you, ye Sacred Powers that rule above,
And you great Goddess of propitious Love.
If all we want, is plac'd within your power,
And you can give whatever we implore.
Exert Your Godhead now, now lend your aid,
Give me the Wife I wish, one like he said,
But durst not say, give me my Ivory Maid.
This finish'd; thrice auspicious Flashes rise,
And wreaths of curling Smoak, ascended thrice.
Half hoping now, and yet still half afraid,
With doubtful joy he seeks his Ivory Maid.
Doats more than ever on her fancyed charms,
And closely clasps her in his longing arms.
When all at once, with joy and wonder sill'd,
He feels her stubborn sides begin to yield.
Soft, was her Bosom grown, her throbbing Breast,
Heav'd with her Breath, swell'd gently to be prest
[Page 21] Surpriz'd, and glad, he feels her oft, and oft;
And more, and more, perceives her warm and soft.
Warm were her Lips, and every pointed Kiss,
With melting touches, met, and moisten'd his.
Her Blood now circled, and her Pulses beat,
And life at last enjoy'd a setled Seat.
Slowly she lifts, her new, and fearful sight,
And sees at once, her Lover, and the Light.
An unborn Maid, both Life, and Lover found,
And he too, had his desperate wishes crown'd.
Desperate indeed; what prospect could he see,
Or how at first, hope any more than me?
Hope.
THE STORY OF Hippomanes AND ATALANTA: In Imitation of part of that in the Tenth Book OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.
HIppomanes alone with Hope inspir'd,
Might well rejoyce to find his wishes fir'd,
Since well assur'd of all his wish desir'd.
[Page 23] His Passion was all Life, all Soul, and Flame,
He dauntless to the Fatal Barriers came.
With Joy his vanquish'd Rivals he beheld,
Assur'd to win, where all besides had fail'd.
He saw the lovely Nymph out-fly the Wind,
And leave her Breathless Suitors far behind;
Saw Atalanta, swift as Lightning, pass,
Yet soft as Zephirs, sweep along the Grass.
He knew the Law, whose Cruelty decreed,
That every Youth, who lost the Race should bleed.
Yet, if like them, he could not run so fast,
He saw her worth the dying for, at last.
Her every charm, his praise, and wonder mov'd,
And still the more he prais'd, the more he lov'd.
Now had he view'd the last unhappy strife,
And seen the vanquish'd Youth resign his Life.
[Page 24] When with his Love transported from his place,
Lest any other first should claim the Race.
Rising he runs regardless of their Fate,
And presses where the panting Virgin sate.
With eyes all sparkling with his Hope, and love,
And such a look, as could not fail to move.
Tell me he cryes, why barb'rous Beauty, why
Are you so pleas'd to see these wretches dye?
Why have you with my feeble Rivals strove,
Betray'd to Death by their too daring Love.
With me, a less unequal Race begin,
With me, exert your utmost speed to win,
By my defeat, you will your Conquests crown,
And in my sall, establish, your renown.
Then undisturb'd you may your Conquests boast,
For none will dare to strive, when I have lost.
Thus while the Prince his bold defyance spoke,
She eyes him with a soft relenting look.
[Page 25] Already does his distant fate deplore,
Concern'd for him, tho' ne're concern'd before▪
Doubtful she stands, and knows not what to choose,
And cannot wish to win, nor yet to loose.
But murmurs to her self: Ye powers divine,
How hard, alas! a destiny is mine?
Why must I longer such a Law obey,
And daily throw so many Lives away?
Why must I by their Deaths my Nuptials shun?
Or else by marrying be my self undone?
Why must I still my cruelty pursue?
Why must a Prince, so charming, perish too?
Such is his Youth, his Beauty, Valour such,
Ev'n to my self I seem not worth so much?
Fly lovely Stranger, e're 'tis yet too late,
Fly from thy too, ah! too, too certain fate.
[Page 26] I would not send thee hence, I would not give,
Such a Command; couldst thou but stay, and live.
Thou with some fairer Maid, wilt happyer be,
The fairest Maid, might be in Love with thee.
So many Suitors have already bled,
Who rashly vent'red for my Nuptial Bed.
I fear least thou should'st run like them in vain,
Should'st lose like them, and ah! like them be slain.
Yet why should he alone my pity move?
It is but pity sure; it is not love.
I wish bold Youth, thou wouldst the race decline,
Or rather wish, thy Speed could equal mine.
Would thou hadst never seen this fatal place,
Nor I, alas! thy too, too charming face.
Were I by rigorous Fate allow'd to wed,
Thou shouldst alone enjoy, and bless my Bed.
Were it but left to my own partial choice,
Thou of all mankind shouldst obtain my voice.
[Page 27] 'Twas here she paus'd, when urg'd with long delay,
The Trumpets sound to hasten them away:
Strait at the Summons is the Race begun,
And side by side, for some short time they run.
While the Spectators from the Barriers cry,
Fly prosp'rous Youth, with all thy vigour fly,
Make haste, make haste, thy utmost speed enforce,
Love give thee wings to win the Noble course.
See how unwillingly the Virgin flyes,
Pursue, and save thy Life, and seize the prize.
'Tis doubtful yet, whether the general Voice
Made the glad Youth, or Virgin most rejoice.
Oft, in the swiftest fury of the Race,
TheNymph would slacken her impetuous pace,
And halt, and gaze, and almost fasten on his face.
[Page 28] Then fleet away again, as swift as wind,
Not without Sighs to leave him so behind.
By this; he saw his Strength would ne'r prevail,
But still he had a Charm that could not fail.
From his loose Robe a Golden Apple drawn,
VVith force he hurl'd, along the Flowery Lawn.
Strait at the sight the Virgin could not hold,
But starts aside to catch the rolling Gold.
He takes the wish'd occasion, passes by,
VVhile all the Field, resounded Shouts of Joy.
This she recovers with redoubled haste,
Till he far off the second Apple cast.
Again the Nymph diverts her near pursuit,
And running back secures the Tempting Fruit;
But her strange speed recovers her again,
Again the foremost in the Flowery Plain.
[Page 29] Now near the Goal he summons all his might,
And prays to Venus to direct him right,
VVith his last Apple to retard her flight.
Tho' sure to lose if she the race declin'd,
For such a Bribe the Victory she resign'd.
Pleas'd that she lost, to the glad Victors arms,
She gives the Prize, and yields her Dear-bought Charms.
He by resistless Gold the Conquest gain'd,
In vain he ran, till that the Race obtain'd.
Possess'd of that, he could not but subdue,
For Gold, alas! would conquer Delia too.
Yet oh! thou best Belov'd, thou lovelyest Maid,
Be not by too much Avarice betray'd.
Prize thy self high, no easy purchase prove,
Nor let a Fool with Fortune buy thy Love.
[Page 30] Like Atalanta's Conquerour let him be,
Brave, Generous, Young, from every failing free
And to compleat him, let him Love like me.
VVhat pains against my wretched self I take?
Even I my self, my Jealousyes awake.
Such men there are, blest with such Gifts Divine,
Who if they knew thee would be surely thine.
Jealousy.
How wretched then, alas! should Daphnis grow?
Gods! how the very thought distracts him now?
Ev'n now, perhaps some Youth with happyer Charms,
Lies folded in the faithless Delia's Arms.
Ev'n now, the Favours you denyed me, seem,
To be too prodigally heap'd on him.
Close by your side, all languishing he stands,
And on your Panting Bosom warms his Hands.
[Page 31] Strait in your Lap he lays his envyed Head,
And makes the Shrine of Love his Sacred Bed.
Then glows his Ravish'd Soul with pointed Flames,
And thoughts of Heav'nly Joys, fill all his Dreams.
Let not your Passion be to me reveal'd,
But if you love, keep him you love conceal'd.
THE STORY OF Cephalus and Procris, Imitated from the Tenth Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES.
FRom Cephalus's Tragick Story, read
What fatal mischiefs Jealousy may breed.
Hear that unhappy wretched Huntsman tell,
How by his hands his much lov'd Procris fell.
[Page 33] Hear him lamenting his mischance complain,
In the soft Ovid's sadly charming strain:
Happy a while, thrice happy was my Life,
Blest in a Beautiful and Vertuous Wife.
Love join'd us first, and Love made Life so sweet,
We prais'd the Gods, that 'twas our lot to meet.
Our Breasts glow'd gently with a mutual Flame,
The same were our desires, our fears the same.
Whate'r one did, the other would approve,
For one our liking was, as one our love.
Then happy days were crown'd with happier nights,
And some few months roll'd on in full delights.
Joys crouded to appear, and pleasures ran,
A while in circles, e're our Woes began.
[Page 34] Till I one fatal morn the Chace pursu'd,
Of a Wild Boar thro' an adjacent Wood.
Where, as I hunted eager on my Prey,
Aurora stop'd me in my hasty way.
You may believe I do not, dare not feign,
(For Mis'ry never made a Man so vain.)
She tho' a Goddess, strait began to move
A fruitless suit, and vainly talk'd of Love.
Tho' she look'd bright as when she shines on high
In all the gloryes of a Morning Sky.
Tho' earlier than the Sun's, her beams display,
And show the first approaches of the day.
I told her, Procris all my Soul possest,
That she alone reign'd Sovereign of my Breast,
Which never would admit another Guest.
Enjoy thy Procris then, the Goddess cry'd.
Whom thou shalt one day wish th' hadst ne' [...] enjoy'd.
[Page 35] Stung with her words, with doubts, and fears oppress't,
A suddain Jealousy destroys my rest,
Mads all my Brain, and Poysons all my Breast.
I thought the Sex all false, ev'n Procris too,
Again I thought, she could not but be true.
Her Youth, and Beauty, kindled anxious cares,
But her known Chastity condemn'd my fears.
But then my absence does again revive,
And keep the Tort'ring Fancy still alive.
I thought her Faith too firmly fixt to fall,
Yet a true Lover is afraid of all.
I knew not what to think, but strait I go,
Resolv'd to cure, or to compleat my Woe.
An Habit different from my own I took,
While with curst aid Aurora chang'd my look.
To Athens strait, unknown by all I came,
[...]'n to my self, I scarce could seem the same.
[Page 36] Hardly I got admission to my House,
But far, far harder, to my weeping Spouse.
The House it self from ought of Blame was free,
And ev'ry place exprest its grief for me.
A dismal Silence reign'd thro' every room,
To mourn my loss, already safe at home.
Ev'n that sad Pomp of Woe, some Charms could boast,
But when my Procris came, she charm'd m [...] most.
Black were her Robes, her Solemn Pace was slow
Her Dress was careless, yet becoming too.
A vertuous Grief dwelt deeply in her Face,
But matchless Beauty gave that Grief a grace.
Whole showers of Tears her streaming eyes [...] fall,
Yet something wondrous lovely shone thro' all
[Page 37] Scarce could I at the Charming sight forbear
From running to embrace my Mournful Fair,
Scarce hold, from telling whom she saw (tho' alter'd) there.
But yet at length my sirst Design pursued,
With words I flatter'd, and with gifts I woo'd.
All the most moving Arguments I us'd,
Oft pray'd, and press't, but was as oft refus'd.
She said another had before engross't,
All her affection, and my Suit was lost.
Would any but a Mad-man farther try?
But ah! that Mad, that desperate Fool was I.
I grew the more industrious to destroy,
Her matchless Truth, and ruin all my Joy.
Redoubled Presents, and redoubled Vows,
I made, and offer'd, to betray my Spouse.
At last, her staggering Faith began to yield,
And I'ad just won the long disputed Field.
[Page 38] Thy falshood strait I cryed, too late I see,
False to thy Cephalus, for I am He.
Since you are Perjur'd, since my Procris grew,
Forsworn, and false, what Woman can be true?
She at these words almost of Sense bereav'd,
With sad confusion found her self deceiv'd.
Fix'd on the ground she kept her down-cast eye,
And Silent with her Shame, made no reply.
But to the Mountains like an Huntress hyes,
And for my sake from all mankind she flyes.
Which when I found, abandon'd, and alone,
My dearer half thro' my own Folly gone.
Love fiercer than before began to burn,
Till I was raging for my Wifes return.
My Prayers dispatch'd with eagerness, & haste,
That she would pardon all offences past,
Found her as kind, as she was truly Chaste.
[Page 39] She came, and crown'd my Joys a second time,
Forgot my Jealousy, forgave my Crime.
'Twas then I thought my greatest Miseries o're,
But Fate it seems had worse, far worse in store.
Soon as each early Sun began to rise,
To glad th'enlighten'd earth, and gild the Skies.
I with his first appearance, rise, and trace
The Woods, and Hills, that yielded Game to chase.
Alone I Hunt, a long, and tedious way,
And seldom fail to kill sufficient Prey.
Then spent with Toil, to cooler Shades retreat,
And seek a Refuge from the Scorching heat.
Where Pleasant Valleys breath a freer Air,
For my refreshment I address this Prayer.
Come Air, I cry, joy of o'relabour'd Swains,
Come, and diffuse thy self thro' all my Veins.
Breathe on my Burning Lips, and Feverish Breast,
And reign at large an ever grateful Guest.
[Page 40] Glide to, my Soul, and every vital part,
Distill thy self upon my panting heart.
By chance I other Blandishments bestow,
Or Destiny decreed it should be so.
As, O thou greatest pleasure of the Plains,
Thou who asswagest all my raging pains.
Thou, who dost Natures richest Sweets excite,
And mak'st me in these Desart Woods delight.
Breathless, and Dead without thee should I be,
For all the Life I have, I draw from thee.
While this I Sung, some one who chanc'd to hear, (Prayer,
Thought her a Nymph, to whom I made my
And told my Procris of her Rival Air.
She kind, good Soul, half dying at the news,
Would now condemn me, now again excuse.
Now hopes 'tis all a falshood, now she fears,
Suspects my Faith, as I suspected hers.
[Page 41] Resolv'd at last to trust no busy tongue,
But be her self the Witness of her wrong.
When the next day with fatal haste came on,
And I was to my lov'd diversion gone.
She rose, and sought the solitary shade,
Where after Hunting, I was daily laid.
Close in a Thicket undiscern'd she stood,
When I took shelter in the Shady Wood.
Then stretching on the Grass my fainting weight,
Come much lov'd Air, I cry, oh! come abate
With thy sweet Breath this most immod'rate heat.
At this a sudden noise invades my ear,
And rustling Boughs, show'd something living there.
[Page 42] I rashly thinking it some Savage Beast,
Threw my unerring Dart with heedless haste
Which pierc'd, Oh! Gods, my Procris thro' the Breast.
She at the Wound, with fearful Shriekings fell,
And I alas! knew the dear voice too well.
Thither, distracted with my grief, I flew,
To give my Dying Love, a sad adieu.
All Bloody was her lately Snowy Breast,
Her Soul was hastening to Eternal Rest.
With Rage I tore my Robe, which close I bound,
To stop the Blood, about the gaping Wound.
What pardons did I beg? what Curses frame,
For my Damn'd Fate, that was alone in blame?
When weakly raising up her Dying head,
With a faint Voice these few sad words she said.
[Page 43] Draw nearer yet, dear Author of my Death,
Hear my last Sighs, and snatch my parting Breath.
But e're I Dye, by all that's Sacred swear,
That you will never let my Rival, Air,
Prophane my Bed, or find reception there.
This I Conjure you by your Nuptial Vow,
The Faith you gave me then, renew me now.
By all your Love, if any Love remain,
And by that Love, which dying I retain.
Assure me but of this before I go,
And I shall bless thee for the fatal blow.
To her sad Speech abruptly I replyed,
In haste to shew her Errour e're she dyed.
Quickly I ran the Tragick Story o're,
Which made her pleas'd, amidst the Pangs she bore:
[Page 44] That done, she rolls in death her dizzy eyes,
And with a Sigh, which I receiv'd, she dies.
Here did the Youth his doleful Tale conclude,
A Tale too doleful to be long pursued.
But this ill chosen instance will not do,
Unless my Delia could be Jealous too.
But she, whene're I wooe some other fair,
Shews no resentment, and betrays no care.
She sees me court another as unmov'd,
As she has always seen her self belov'd.
That dreadful thought redoubles all my fear,
That drowns my hopes, and drives me to despair.
Despair.
No Foreign instance need of this be shown,
To draw it best, I must describe my own.
[Page 45] Tho' of this kind all Ages can produce
Examples proper for the Mourning Muse;
Yet all to me, must the first place resign,
None ever was so just, so deep as mine.
All day and night I sing, and all day long,
I Love, and I Despair, makes all my Song.
Revolving, days the same sad Musick hear,
Unchang'd those Notes, I Love, and I Despair.
To me, as to the Eccho, Fate affords
No power of Speech but for those doleful words.
Some glimps of Sun, some chearful Beams appear
Ev'n thro' the gloomyest season of the Year.
My clouded life admits no dawn of Light,
No ray can pierce thro' my eternal Night.
All there is dismal as the Shades beneath,
And all is dark as Hell, and sad as Death.
My anxious hours roll heavily away,
Depriv'd of Sleep by night, and Peace by day.
[Page 46] My Soul no respit from her Suff'rings knows,
And sees no end of her Eternal woes.
In a long line they run for ever on,
And still encrease, and lengthen as they run.
By flight to lose my ills in vain I try,
From my despairing self I cannot fly.
Where e're I go, I bear about my Flame,
In Cities, Countreys, Seas, 'tis still the same.
Scorch'd with my burning pains, I shun my house,
And strive in open Air to seek repose.
My Flames, like Torches shook in open Air,
Grow, with dilated heat, more furious there.
Now to the most retir'd, remotest place,
Ev'n to obscurity, I sly for ease.
Retirement still foments the raging fire, (spire
And Trees, and Fields, and Floods and Verse con-
To spread the flame and heighten the desire.
[Page 47] Wildly I range the Woods, and trace the Groves,
To every Oak I tell my hopeless Loves.
Torn by my Passion, to the Earth I fall,
I Kneel to all the Gods, I pray to all.
Nothing but Eccho answers to my Prayer,
And she speaks nothing but Despair, Despair.
From Woods and Wilds, I no relief receive,
But wander on, to try what Seas can give.
Deep thro' the Tide, not knowing where I walk,
To the deaf VVinds, not knowing what, I talk:
Mad as the foaming Main, aloud I rave,
While every Tear keeps time with ev'ry VVave.
THE STORY OF Orpheus and Euridice, Imitated from the Tenth Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES.
SO in old times, the Mournful Orpheus stood,
Drowning his Sorrows in the Stygian Flood.
VVhose lamentable Story seems to be
The nearest instance of a wretch like me.
[Page 49] Already had he past the Courts of Death,
And charm'd with sacred Verse, the powers beneath.
While Hell, with silent admiration hung
On the soft Musick of his Harp and Tongue,
And the black Roofs restor'd the wond'rous Song.
No longer Tantalus essay'd to sip
The Springs that fled from his deluded Lip.
Their Urn the fifty Maids no longer fill,
Ixion lean'd, and list'ned on his Wheel,
And Sysiphus's Stone, for once stood still.
The Rav'nous Vulture had forsook his Meal,
And Titius felt his growing Liver heal.
Relenting Fiends to torture Souls forbore,
And Furies wept, who never wept before.
All Hell in harmony was heard to move,
With equal sweetness as the Spheres aLove.
[Page 50] Nor longer was his charming prayer deny'd,
All Hell consented to release his Bride.
Yet could the Youth but short possession boast,
For what his Poem gain'd, his passion lost:
E're they restor'd her back to him, and Life,
They made him on these Terms receive his Wife:
If till he quite had pass'd the shades of Night,
And reach'd the confines of aetherial Light;
He turn'd to view his Prize; his wretched Prize
Again was doom'd to vanish from his Eyes.
Long had he wander'd on, and long forborn
To look, but was at last compell'd to turn.
And now arriv'd where the Sun's piercing Ray
Struck thro' the gloom, and made a doubtful day.
Backwards his Eyes the impatient Lover cast
For one dear look, and that one look his last.
[Page 51] Straight from his sight flyes his unhappy Wife,
Who now liv'd twice, and twice was robb'd of Life.
In vain, to catch the fleeting shade he sought,
She too in vain, bent backwards to be caught.
Gods! what tumultuous raging passions toss't
His anxious Heart, when he perceiv'd her lost,
How wildly did his dreadful Eye-balls roul?
How did all Hell at once oppress his Soul?
To what sad height was his distraction grown?
How deep his just despair? how near my own?
In vain with her he labour'd to return,
All he could do was to fit down and mourn,
In vain, (but ne'er before in vain) he sings
At once the saddest, and the sweetest things.
Stay dear Euridice he crys, ah! stay,
Why fleets the lovely shade so sast away?
[Page 52] Why am not I permitted to pursue,
Why will not rig'rous Hell receive me too?
Already has she reach'd the farther shoar,
And I alas! allow'd to pass no more;
Imprison'd closer in the dismal coast,
She's now, for ever, ever, ever lost.
No Charms a second time can set her free,
Hell has her now again; would Hell had me.
From all his pains let Titius be releas'd,
And in his stead unhappyer Orpheus plac'd.
He feels no torture, Ple refuse to bear,
Her loss is worse than all he suffers there.
Is this your Bounty then? ye Powers below!
And these the short-liv'd Blessings you bestow?
Why did you such a cruel Covenant make?
Which you but too well knew I needs must break.
[Page 53] Ah! by this Artifice, too late, I sind
Your envious nature never was inclin'd
To be intirely good, or throughly kind.
Had you persisted to resuse the grant,
I should not then have known the double want.
This was contriv'd by some malicious power,
To swell my Woes, and make my Mis'ries more.
Plung'd in despair far deeper than at first,
And blest a short, short while, to be for ever curs't.
Ah! yet again relent, again restore
My wretched Bride, be bounteous as before.
Ah! let the force of Verse as powerful be
O're you, as was the force of Love o're me.
And the dear forfeit once again resign,
Which but for too much Love had still been mine.
By that immense and awful sway you bear,
That silent horror that inhabits here.
[Page 54] By these vast Realms, and that unquestion'd right,
By which you rule this Everlasting Night.
By these my Tears and prayers, which once could move,
Once more I beg you to release my Love.
Let her a little while with me remain,
A little while, and she is yours again.
The date of mortal Life is finish'd soon,
Swift is the Race, and short the time to run.
Inevitable Fate your Night secures,
And she, and I, and all, at last are yours.
So sung the charming Youth in such a strain,
But sung, and charm'd the second time in vain.
No longer could he move the Powers below,
Lost were his Numbers then, as mine are now.
Torn with despair he leaves the Stygian Lakes,
And back to light a loathsom Journy takes.
[Page 55] No Light could chear him in his cruel woes,
Who bears about his Grief where'ere he goes.
In sacred Verse his sad complaints he vents,
And all the Day, and all the Night laments.
Incessantly he sings, whose moving Song
Draws Trees, and Stones, and listning Herds along.
The Sylvan Gods, and Wood-Nymphs stood around,
And melting Maids were ravish'd at the sound.
All heard the wondrous Notes, and all that heard,
With utmost Art addrest the mournful Bard.
Not all their Charms his Constancy could move,
Who sled the thoughts of any second Love.
When mad to see him slight their raging Fire,
To Mortal hate, converting fierce desire,
With their own Hands, they made the Youth expire.
[Page 56] Such proofs my Delia would I gladly give,
For thee I'de dye, without thee will not live.
I've felt already the severest smart
Death can inflict, for it was death to part.
The Parting.
What Souls about to leave their Bodies bear,
Forc'd to forsake their long-lov'd Mansions there.
The dying anguish, the convulsive pain,
And all the racking tortures they sustain.
And most of all, the doubt, the dreadful fear,
When thrust out thence, to go they know not where.
My Soul, such pangs, such sad distractions knew,
Forc'd by despairing Love to part with you.
Fix'd on that Face where I could ever dwell
Charm'd into silence by some Magick Spell,
I sigh'd and shook, and could not say fare well.
[Page 57] Down my sad Cheeks, did Tears in torrents roll,
And Deaths cold damp sate heavy on my Soul.
My trembling Eyes swam in a native Flood,
As fast as they wept Tears, my Heart wept Blood.
All signs of desperate grief possess't my face,
My sinking Feet seem'd rooted to their place,
And scarce could bear me to the last embrace.
Gods! where was then my Soul? that parting kiss,
Was both the last and dearest Taste of Bliss.
Ah! since that fatal time I could not boast,
Of Love, or Life, or Soul; all, all is lost.
VVhen the last Moment that I had to stay
Call'd me like one condemn'd to Death away.
VVith staggering Steps, I did my Path pursue,
Yet ost I tarn'd to take another view,
Oft ga [...]'d, and sigh'd, and murmur'd out adieu.
THE PARTING OF Achilles and Deidamia.
A Chilles had a long time lain disguis'd like a Woman, in the Court of Nicomedes King of Bythinia, making use of that Habit, the better to carry on his Amours with Deidamia, Nicomedes's Daughter, but he was at last discovered by the Subtilty of Ulysses; who putting a Sword into his hands, which he wielded too dexterously for a Woman, so betray'd him, and carryed him to the Trojan War, the Greeks having been warn'd by the Oracle, that Troy should never be taken, unless Achilles assisted at the Siege.
THUS young Achilles in Bythinia's Court,
Had made a private and a long resort.
[Page 59] Dress't like a Maid, the better to improve,
With his fair Princess, undiscover'd Love.
Where Hours and Days, he might secure receive,
The mighty Bliss that mutual Love could give.
Where in full Joys the Youthful Pair remain'd,
And nought a while, but Laughing Pleasures reign'd.
Till at the last, the Gods were envious grown,
To see the Bliss of Man surpass their own.
All Greece was now with Helen's Rape alarm'd,
And all its Princes, to revenge her arm'd.
When spiteful Powers, foretold them, their descent
Would be in vain, unless Achilles went.
In vain, they might the Phrygian Coasts invade,
Scale Troy in vain, no on-set could be made,
That should succeed without that Hero's aid.
[Page 60] And now Ulysses by a crafty slight,
Had found him out in his Disguises spight.
Who tho' betray'd by his unhappy Fate,
Had too much sense of Honour to retreat.
Which, when his charming Deidamia knew,
She to her late Discover'd I over flew.
On his dear Neck, her Snowy Arms she hung,
And streaming Tears, a while, restrain'd her Tongue.
But at the last, her dismal Silence broke,
These mournful words, the weeping Princess spoke.
Whither, ah! whither would Achilles slee?
From all he's dearest to, from love, and me?
Are not my Charms the same? the same their power?
Have I lost mine? or, has Bellona more?
[Page 61] Oh! let me not so poorly be forsook,
But view me, view me, with your usual look.
Would you, unkind, from these Embraces break?
Is Glory grown so strong? or I so weak?
Glory is not your only Call I fear,
You go to meet some other Mistress there.
Go then, ingrateful, tho' from me you fly,
You'll never meet with one, so fond as I.
But some Camp Mistress lavish of her Charms,
Devoted to a Thousand Rival Arms.
Then will you think, when she is common grown,
On Deidamia who was all your own.
Thus will I chasp thee to my panting Breast,
And thus detain thee to my Bosom press't.
And while I fold thee thus, and thus dispense
These Kisses to restore thy wand'ring sense,
What dismal sound of War shall snatch thee hence.
[Page 62] What tho'the Gods have order'd you should go,
Or Greece return inglorious from her Foe?
Have not the self same cruel Gods, decreed
That if you went, you should as surely Bleed?
Then since your Fate is destin'd to be such,
Ah! think, can any Troy be worth so much?
Let Greece, what e're she please for Vengeance give,
Secure at home shall my Achilles live.
Troy, built by Heavenly hands, may stand, or fall,
You never shall obey the fatal call.
Your Deidamia swears you shall not go,
Life would be dear to you, if she were so.
If not your own, at least my safety prize,
For with Achilles, Deidamia dyes.
All this, and more, the lovely mournful Maid
Told the sad Youth, who Sigh'd at all she said.
[Page 63] Yet would he not his resolution break,
Where all his Fame and Honour lay at stake.
Now would he think on Arms, but when he gave,
A side-long glance on her he was to leave.
Then his tumultuous Thoughts began to jar,
And Love, and Glory held a doubtful War.
Till with a deep-drawn Sigh, and mighty course
Of Tears, which nothing else but Love could force.
To the Dear Maid he turns his wat'ry eyes,
And to her sad Discourse, as sad replyes.
Thou late best Blessing of my Joyful Heart,
Now grown my grief, since I must now depart.
Behold the Pangs I bear, look up, and see
How much I grieve to go; and comfort me.
Curse on that cunning Traytor's smooth deceit,
VVhose craft has made me to my ruin, great.
[Page 64] Curse on that Artifice by which I fell,
Curse on these hands for wielding Swords so well.
Tho'I should ne'r so fit for Battel prove,
All my Ambition's to be fit for Love.
In his soft VVars, I would my Life beguile,
VVith thee contend in the transporting toil,
Ravish'd to read my Triumph in thy smile.
Boldly I'd strive, yet ev'n when Conquering, yield
To thee the glory of the Bloodless Field.
VVith liquid Fires, melt thy rich Beautyes down,
Rifle thy Wealth, yet give thee all my own.
So should our Wars be Rapture and Delight,
But now I'm summon'd to another Fight.
'Tis not my fault, that I am forc'd away,
But when my Honour calls, I must obey.
[Page 65] Durst I not Death, and every Danger brave,
I were not worthy of the Bliss I have.
More hazards, than another, would I meet,
Only to lay more Lawrels at your feet.
Oh! do not fear, that I should faithless prove,
For You, my only Life, have all my Love.
The thought of You shall help me to subdue,
I'le conquer faster to return to You.
But if my Honours should be laid in Dust,
And I must fall, as Heaven has said I must.
Ev'n in my Death, my only grief, will be,
That I for ever shall be snatch'd from thee.
That, that alone, occasions all my Fears,
Shakes my resolves, and melts me into Tears.
My beating Heart pants to thee, as I speak,
And wishes, rather than depart, to break.
Feel how it trembles with a Panick fright,
Sure it will never fail me thus in Fight.
[Page 66] I cannot longer hold this fond Discourse,
For now the Trumpets Sound our sad Divorce.
Sound every Trumpet there, beat every Drum,
Use all your Charms to make Achilles come.
Farewel, alas! I have not time to tell
How wondrous loath I part, once more farewell.
Remember me, as I'll remember you,
Like me be constant, and like me be true;
Gods! I shall ne'r be gone; Adieu, adieu,
Adieu.
Absence.
Happy that Am'rous Youth, whose Mistress hears,
His swelling Sighs, and sees his falling Tears.
What Savage Maid, her Pity can deny
A breaking Heart, and a still streaming Eye.
[Page 67] Absent, alas! he spends them all in vain,
While the Dear Cause is ignorant of his pain.
Yet wretched as he is, he might be blest,
Would he himself contribute to his rest.
Would he resolve to struggle thro' the Net,
And, but a while, endeavour to forget.
But his Mad Thoughts run ev'ry passage o're;
And anxious Memory makes his Passion more.
Perplexing Memory that renews the Scene
Of his past Cares, and keeps him still in pain.
Keeps a poor Wretch perpetually opprest,
And never lets unhappy Lovers rest.
Lets them no Pangs, no cruel Sufferings lose,
But heaps their past, upon their present Woes.
Such was Leanders Memory, when remov'd,
And sunder'd by the Seas, from all he lov'd.
[Page 68] The gather'd Winds, had wrought the Tempest high,
Toss'd up the Ocean, and obscur'd the Sky.
And at this time, with an impetuous sway,
Pour'd forth their Forces, and possess'd the Sea.
When the Bold Youth stood raging on the Beach,
To view the much lov'd Coast he could not reach.
His restless eyes ran all the distance o're,
And from afar discern'd his Hero's Tower.
Thrice, Naked in the Waves his Skill he try'd,
And strove, as he was us'd, to stem the Tide.
But tumbling Billows threatned present wrack,
And rising up against him, dash'd him back.
Then like a gallant Soldier, forc'd to go
Full of brave Wrath from a prevailing Foe.
[Page 69] Again to Town he makes his sad resort,
To see what Ships would loosen from the Port.
Finding but one durst Launch into the Seas,
He writes a Letter, fill'd with Words like these.
LEANDER'S Epistle to HERO, In Imitation of Part of that OF OVID.
REad this; yet be not troubled when you read,
Your Lover comes not, in his Letters stead.
On you, all Health, all Happiness, attend,
Which I would much, much rather bring than send.
[Page 71] But now, those envious Storms obstruct my way,
And only this bold Bark, durst put to Sea.
I too had come, had not my Parents Spyes
Stood by to watch me with suspicious eyes.
How many tedious days and nights, are past
Since I was suffer'd to behold you last.
Ye spightful Gods, and Goddesses, who keep
Your wat'ry Courts within the spacious deep.
Why at this time, are all the Winds broke forth,
Why swell the Seas beneath the furious North.
'Tis Summer now, when all should be serene,
The Sky's unclouded, undisturb'd the Main,
Winter is yet unwilling to appear,
But you invert the Seasons of the Year▪
Yet let me once attain the wish'd for Beach,
Out of the now Malicious Neptune's reach.
Then blow ye Winds; ye troubled Billows roar,
Roll on your angry VVaves, and lash the Shore.
[Page 72] Ruffle the Seas, drive the Tempestuous Air,
Be one continued Storm to keep me there.
Ah! Hero, when to you my course is bent,
I seem to slide along a sinooth descent.
But in returning thence, I clamber up,
And scale, methinks, some lofty Mountain's top.
Why, when our Souls by mutual Love are joyn'd,
Why are we sunder'd by the Sea and Wind?
Either, make my Abidos your retreat,
Or let your Sestos be my much lov'd Seat.
This Plague of Absence, I can bear no more,
Come what can come, I'll shortly venture o'r.
Not all the rage of Seas, nor force of Storms,
Nothing but Death shall keep me from thy Arms.
Yet may that Death, at least so friendly prove,
To float me to the Coast of her I love.
[Page 73] Let not the Thought occasion any fear,
Doubt not, I will be soon, and safely, there.
But till that time, let this employ your Hours,
And shew you, that I can be none but Yours.
Mean-while the Vessel from the Land withdrew,
When Heaven took Pity on a Love so true.
The Winds to blow, the Waves to toss forbore,
In leaps the ravish'd Youth, and ventures o'r,
With a smooth passage to the farther Shoar.
Now to the Port the prosperous Lover drives,
And safely after all his toils arrives.
Dissolv'd in Bliss, he lyes the live-long night,
Melts, languishes, and dyes in vast delight.
But that delight my Muse forbears to sing,
She knows the weakness of her Infant wing.
[Page 74] As when the Painter strove to draw the chief
Of all the Grecians, in his height of Grief;
In every Limb the well-shap'd Piece excell'd,
But coming to the Face his Pencil fail'd.
There modestly he staid, and held, for fear
He should not reach the Woe he fancied there;
But round the mournful Head a Veil he threw,
That Men might guess, at what he could not shew.
So when our pleasure rises to excess,
No Tongue can tell it, and no Pen express.
Love will not have his mysteries reveal'd,
And Beauty keeps the joys it gives conceal'd.
And till those Joys my Delia lets me know,
To me they shall continue ever so.
Ah! Delia, would Indulgent Love decree,
Thy faithful slave that Heaven of Bliss with thec.
[Page 75] What then should be my Verse? what daring flights
Should my Muse take? reach what Coelestial heights?
Now in despair, with drooping Notes she sings,
No dawn of hope to raise lier on her Wings.
In the warm Spring the warbling Birds rejoyce,
And in the smiling Sun-shine tune their Voice.
Bask'd in the Beams, they strain their tender Throats,
Where chearful light, inspires the charming Notes;
Such, and so charming should my numbers be,
If you, my only light would smile on me.
Your influence, would inspire as moving airs,
And make my Song, as soft, and sweet as theirs,
Would you but once auspiciously incline
To raise his Fame, who only writes for thine.
[Page 76] I'de sing such Notes, as none but you could teach,
And none but one, who loves like me can reach.
Secure of you, what raptures could I boast?
How wretched shall I be when you are lost?
Ah! think what pangs despairing Lovers prove,
And what a bless'd Estate were mutual Love.
How might my Soul be with your favour rais'd?
And how in pleasing you, my self be pleas'd?
With what delight? what transport could I burn?
Did but my Flames receive the least return.
How would one tender look? one pitying smile,
Or one kind word from you, reward my toyl?
It must, and would your tend'rest pity move,
Were you but once convinc'd, how well I Love.
By every power, that reigns and rules on high,
By Love, the mightiest power of all the Sky.
By your dear self, my last great Oath, I swear,
That neither Life, nor Soul, are half so dear.
[Page 77] What need I these superfluous Vows repeat?
Already sigh'd so often at your Feet.
You know my passion is sincere, and true,
I love you to excess; you know I do.
No Tongue, no Pen, can what I feel express,
Ev'n Poetry it self must make it less.
You haunt me still, where ever I remove,
There's no retreat, secure from Fate, or Love.
My Soul from yours, no distance can divide,
No Rocks, nor Caves, can from your Presence hide.
By day, your lovely Form fills all my sight,
Nor do I lose you, when I lose the light,
You are the charming Phantom of the Night.
Still your dear Image dances in my view,
And all my restless Thoughts run still on you.
You only, are the sleeping Poets Dream,
And when a wake, you only are his Theme.
[Page 78] Were I by some yet harder Fortune, hurl'd
To the remotest parts of all the World.
The coldest Northern Clime, the Torrid Zone,
Should hear me sing of you, and you alone.
That pleasing task should all my hours employ,
Spent in a charming melancholy joy.
The Chorus of the Birds, the whisp'ring Boughs,
And murm'ring Streams, should joyn to sooth my Woes.
My Thoughts of you, should yield, a sad delight,
While Joy and Grief contend like Day and Night.
With Smiles and Tears, resembling Sun and Rain,
To keep the Pleasure, I'de endure the Pain.
If such content, my troubled Soul could know,
Such satisfaction mix'd with so much woe.
[Page 79] If but my Thoughts could keep my wishes warm,
Ah! how would your transporting Presence charm?
How pleasant would these pathless wilds appear,
Were you alone my kind Companion here?
What should I then have left me to deplore?
Oh! what Society to wish for more?
No Country thou art in, can Desart be,
And Towns are desolate, depriv'd of thee.
Banish'd with thee; I could an Exile bear,
Banish'd from thee; the Banishment lyes there.
I to some lonely Isle with thee could fly,
Where not a Creature dwells but thou and I.
Where a wide spreading Main around us roars,
Besprinkling with its Foam, our desart Shores.
[Page 80] Where Winds, and Waves, in endless Wars engage,
And high - wrought Tides roll with Eternal rage.
VVhere Ships far off their fearsul courses steer
And no bold Vessel ever ventur's near.
Should rising Seas swell over every Coast,
VVere Mankind in a second Deluge lost.
Did only two of all the VVorld survive,
Only one Man, one VVoman left alive:
And should the Gods, that Lot to us allow,
VVere I Deucalion, and my Pyrrha, thou.
Contentedly I should my Fate embrace,
And would not beg them to renew our Race,
All my most ardent wishes should implore,
All I should ask from each indulgent Power,
VVould be to keep thee safe and have no more.
[Page 81] Your Cruelty occasions all my smart,
Your kindness, could restore my bleeding Heart:
You work me to a Storm, you make me calm,
You give the VVound, and can infuse the Balm.
Of you I boast, of you alone, complain,
My greatest pleasure, and my greatest pain.
VVhen e'r you grieve, I can no comfort know,
And when you first are pleas'd, I must be so:
VVhile you are well, there's no Disease I feel,
And I enjoy no Health, when you are Ill.
VVhat e'r you do my Actions does direct,
Your Smile can raise me, and your Frown deject.
VVhom e'r you Love, I by the self same Fate,
Love too; and hate what ever wretch, you hate.
VVith yours, my wishes and my passions joyn,
Your humour, and your interest, all is mine.
[Page 82] I share in all; nor can my Fortunes be
Unhappy, let but Fortune smile on thee.
You can preserve, you only can destroy,
Encrease my sorrow, or create my joy.
From you, and you alone, my doom I wait,
You are the Star, whose influence rules my Fate.
On yours my Being, and my Life depend,
And mine shall last no more, when yours must end.
No toyl would be too great, no task too hard,
Were you at last to be my rich reward.
In serving you, I'd spend my latest breath,
Brave any danger, run on any death.
I live but for your sake, and when I dye,
All I shall pray for, is, may you be by.
No Life, like like living with thee can delight,
No Death can please like dying in thy sight:
[Page 83] Oh! when I must by Heavens severe Decree,
Be snatch'd from all that's dear, be snatch'd from thee.
May'st thou be present to dispel my fear,
And soften with thy Charms the Pangs I bear.
While, on thy Lips I pour my parting Breath,
Look thee all o're, and clasp thee close in Death.
Sigh out my Soul, upon thy panting Breast,
And with a Passion not to be express't,
Sink at thy Feet into Eternal Rest.
FINIS.
THE STORY OF Narcissus and Eccho, From the Third Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES.
THE Vocal Nymph this lovely Huntsman view'd,
As he into the Toils his Prey pursu'd.
[Page 88] Tho' of the power of Speaking first debarr'd,
She could not hold from answering what she heard.
The Jealous Juno by her wiles Betray'd,
Took this revenge on the Deceitful Maid.
For when she might have seiz'd her faithless Jove,
Often in am'rous Thefts of lawless Love:
Her tedious talk would make the Goddess stay,
And give her Rivals time to run away;
Which when she found, she cry'd for such a wrong,
Small be the power of that deluding tongue.
Immediately the deed confirm'd the Threats,
For Eccho, only what she hears repeats.
Now at the sight of the Fair Youth she glows,
And follows silently where e'r he goes.
[Page 89] The nearer she pursu'd, the more she mov'd,
Thro' the dear track he trod, the more she lov'd.
Still her approach enflam'd her fierce desire,
As Sulph'rous Torches catch the Neighb'ring Fire,
How often would she strive, but strive in vain,
To tell her Passion and confess her Pain?
A thousand tender things her thoughts suggest,
With which she would have woo'd, but they supprest
For want of Speech, lay buried in her Breast.
Begin she could not, but she staid to wait
Till he should speak, and she his Speech repeat.
Now several ways his young Companions gone,
And for some time Narcissus left alone.
VVhere are you all? at last she hears him call,
And she strait answers him, Where are you all?
[Page 90] A-round he lets his wandring eye-sight roam,
But sees no Creature whence the Voice should come:
Speak yet again he cryes, is any nigh?
Again the mournful Eccho, answers, I,
VVhy come not you? says he, appear in view,
She hastily returns, Why come not you?
Once more the Voice the astonish't Huntsman try'd,
Louder he call'd, and louder she reply'd.
Then let us join, at last Narcissus said,
Then let us join, reply'd the ravish't Maid.
Scarce had she spoke, when from the VVoods she sprung,
And on his Neck with close Embraces hung.
But he with all his Strength unlocks her fold,
And breaks unkindly from her feeble hold.
[Page 91] Then proudly cries, Life shall this Breast forsake,
E'r you loose Nymph, on me your Pleasure take.
On me your Pleasure take, the Nymph replies,
While from her the disdainful Hunts-man flies.
Repuls'd, with speed she seeks the gloomyest Groves,
And pines to think on her rejected Loves.
Alone laments her ill requited flame,
And in the closest Thickets shrouds her shame.
Her rage to be refus'd, yields no relief,
But her fond Passion is encreas'd by Grief.
The thoughts of such a slight all Sleep suppress't,
And kept her languishing for want of Rest:
Now pines she quite away with anxious Care,
Her Skin contracts, her Blood dissolves to Air,
Nothing but Voice and Bones she now retains,
Th [...] turn to Stones, but still the Voice remains:
[Page 92] In Woods, Caves, Hills, for ever hid she lies,
Heard by all Ears, but never seen by Eyes.
Thus her and other Nymphs, his proud disdain,
With an unheard of Cruelty had slain.
Many on Mountains, and in Rivers born,
Thus perish'd underneath his haughty Scorn:
When one who in their Sufferings bore a share
With suppliant hands address't this humble Prayer.
Thus may he Love himself, and thus despair.
Nor were her Pray'rs at an ill hour preferr'd,
Rhamnusia the Revengeful Goddess, heard.
Nature had plac'd a Crystal Fountain near,
The Water deep, but to the bottom clear.
Whose Silver Spring ascended gently up,
And bubbled softly to the Silent top.
[Page 93] The surface smooth, as Icy Lakes appear'd,
Unknown by Herdsman, undisturb'd by Herd.
No bending Tree above its surface grows,
Or scatters thence its Leaves, or broken Boughs;
Yet at a just convenient distance stood,
All round the peaceful Spring a stately Wood,
Thro' whose thick tops no Sun could shoot his Beams,
Nor view his Image in the Silver Streams:
Thither from Hunting and the scorching Heat,
The wearied Youth was one day led by Fate.
Down on his Face to Drink the Spring he lies;
But as his Image in that Glass he spies,
He drinks in Passion, deeper at his Eyes.
His own reflection works his wild Desire;
And he himself sets his own self on Fire.
Fix'd as some Statue, he preserves his place,
Intent his Looks, and motionless his Face.
[Page 94] Deep thro' the Spring his Eye-Balls dart their Beams,
Like Midnight Stars that twinckle in the Streams.
His Iv'ry Neck the Christal mirrour shows,
His waveing Hair above the surface flows,
His Cheeks reflect the Lilly and the Rose.
His own Perfection all his Passions mov'd,
He loves himself, who for himself was lov'd;
Who seeks is sought, who kindles the desires
Is scorch'd himself, who is admir'd, admires,
Oft would he the deceitful Spring embrace,
And seek to fasten on that lovely Face.
Oft with his down-thrust Arms he thought to fold,
About that Neck that still deludes his hold.
He gets no Kisses from those coz'ning Lips,
His Arms grasp nothing, from himself he slips.
[Page 95] He knows not what he views, and yet pursues,
His desperate Love, and burns for what he views.
"Catch not so fondly at a fleeting shade,
"And be no longer by your self betray'd;
"It borrows all it has from you alone,
"And it can boast of nothing of its own:
"With you it comes, with you it stays, and so
"Would go away, had you the power to go.
Neither for Sleep nor Hunger, would he move,
But gazing still, augments his hopeless Love:
Still o'r the Spring he keeps his bending Head,
Still with that flattering Form his Eyes he fed,
And silently surveys the treacherous Shade.
To the deaf Woods, at length his Grief he vents,
And in these words the wretched Youth laments.
[Page 96] Tell me, ye Hills and Dales and Neighbouring Groves,
You that are conscious of so many Loves;
Say, have you ever seen a Lover pine
Like me, or ever know a Love like mine?
I know not whence this suddain Flame should come;
I like and see, but see I know not whom:
What grieves me more, no Rocks, nor rouling Seas,
No strong-wall'd Cities, nor untrodden Ways,
Only a slender, Silver Stream destroys,
And casts the Bar between our sundred Joys.
Even he too seems to [...]el an equal Flame,
The same his Passion, h [...]s desires the same:
As oft as I my long [...]ps decline
To joyn with his, [...] to meet with mine.
[Page 97] So near our Faces, and our Mouths approach,
That almost to our selves, we seem to touch:
Come forth who e'r thou art, and do not fly
From one so passionately fond as I;
I've nothing to deserve your just disdain,
But have been lov'd, as I love you in vain.
Yet all the signs of mutual Love you give,
And my poor hopes in all your Actions live:
When in the Stream, our Hands I strive to joyn,
Yours straight ascend, and half-way grasp at mine.
You Smile my Smiles; when I a Tear let fall,
You shed another, and consent in all:
And when I speak, your lovely Lips appear
To utter something, which I cannot hear.
Alas! 'tis I my self, too late I see,
My own deceitful Shade has ruin'd me.
[Page 98] With a mad Passion for my self I'm curs't,
And bear about those Flames I kindled first.
In so perplex'd a Case, what can I do?
Ask, or be ask'd? shall I be woo'd, or wooe?
All that I wish, I have, what would I more?
Ah! tis my too great plenty makes me poor.
Divide me from my self, ye Powers Divine!
Nor let his Being intermix with mine.
All that I love, and wish for, now retake,
A strange Request for one in Love to make!
I feel my strength decay with inward Grief,
And hope to lose my Sorrows with my Life:
Nor would I mourn my own untimely Fate,
Were he I love, allow'd a longer Date:
This makes me at my cruel Stars repine,
That his much dearer Life must end with mine.
[Page 99] This said, again he turns his watry Face,
And gazes wildly in the Crystal Glass,
While streaming Tears from his full Eye-lids fell,
And drop, by drop, rais'd Circles in the Well:
The several Rings, larger, and larger spread,
And by degrees dispers'd the fleeting shade;
Which when perceiv'd, Oh whither would you go?
He crys, ah! whither, whither, fly you now?
Stay lovely Shade, do not so cruel prove,
In leaving me, who to distraction Love:
Let me still see what ne'r can be possess't,
And with the sight alone my Frenzy feast,
Now frantick with his Grief, his Robe he tears,
And Tokens of his Rage his Bosom bears:
[Page 100] The cruel Wounds on his pure Body show,
Like Crimson mingling with the whitest Snow:
Like Apples with Vermilion-circles, stripe,
Or a fair Bunch of Grapes not fully ripe.
But when he looks, and sees the Wounds he made,
Writ on the Bosom of the charming Shade;
His Sorrow would admit of no Relief,
But all his Sense was swallow'd in his Grief.
As Wax, near any kindled Fuel plac'd,
Melts, and is sensibly perceiv'd to waste:
As Morning Frosts are found to Thaw away,
When once the Sun begins to warm the day,
So the fond Youth dissolves in hopeless Fires,
And by degrees Consumes in vain desires:
His lovely Cheeks, now lost their white and red,
Diminish'd was his Strength, his Beauty fled;
[Page 101] His Body from it's just Proportions fell,
Which the scorn'd Eccho lately lov'd so well.
Yet tho' her first resentments she retain'd,
And still remembred how she was disdain'd;
She sigh'd, and when the wretched Lover cry'd,
Alas, alas, the woful Nymph reply'd:
Then when with cruel Blows, his Hands would wound
His tender Breast, she still restor'd the sound.
Now hanging o'er the Spring his drooping Head,
With a sad sigh these dying words he said,
Ah! Boy, belov'd in vain, thro' all the Plain,
ECCHO resounds, Ah! Boy, belov'd in vain:
Farewel he crys, and with that Word he dy'd,
Farewel, the miserable Nymph reply'd.
Now pale and breathless, on the Grass he lyes,
For Death had shut his self-admiring Eyes.
[Page 102] Now wafted over to the Stygian Coast,
The Waters there reflect his wandring Ghost:
In loud laments, his weeping Sisters mourn,
VVhich Eccho, makes the Neighb'ring Hills return.
All signs of desperate Grief the Nymphs express,
Great is the Moan, yet is not Eccho's less.
THE STORY OF Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, From the Fourth Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES.
THE lovely Salmacis the Fountain own'd'
A Nymph with every blooming Beauty crown'd.
Unpractis'd in the Chase, untaught to throw
The thrilling Dart, or bend the stubborn Bow.
[Page 104] Never engag'd in Races on the Plain,
Nor ever mingling with Diana's Train.
Oft would her Sisters say, rise, rise for shame,
And joyn with us in some laborious Game.
Seize on a Quiver, or a pointed Spear,
Hunt the wild Boar, or chase the tim'rous Deer;
No Quiver would she feize, no Javelin shake,
No Toyl indure, in no Fatigue partake.
But in her Fountain is her sole delight,
For there she Bathes by day, and Rests by night,
Still in that liquid Glass her self she dress't,
And learn'd from thence, what look became her best.
Now in thin Lawn, her lovely Limbs aray'd,
Stretch'd at their length, on the sost Moss were laid,
Thro' the transparent Robes, to the full view display'd.
[Page 105] Now languishing she lyes, and gathers Flowers,
Pluck'd from the blooming sides of Neighb'ring Bowers.
Thus was she busied, when she chanc'd to spy
The lovely Son of Hermes passing by.
At the first sight, she found her Wishes fir'd,
And the fair Youth, as soon as seen, desir'd.
Yet would she not approach, tho' mad to meet,
Tho' she could scarce hold back her eager Feet,
Till she might first her utmost skill bestow,
To make her Beauties to advantage show.
Use all her Art to let her Charms appear,
Who without Art, might well be reckon'd fair.
At last attir'd she comes, at once she breaks.
Into these moving words, and meltingly she speaks
Such charms, dear Youth, dwell in your lovely
I cannot think you born of Humane Race. (Face,
[Page 106] If then a God, descended from above,
You are not sure, less than the God of Love.
But if you spring not from a Race divine,
If come from any of a mortal Line,
Happy, thrice happy, must thy Parents be,
And all thy Kindred bless't, and proud of thee.
Blest were that Womans Breasts who fed thee first,
In whose fond Arms, thy Infancy was Nurss't.
But more,——Oh! infinitely more than all the rest,
Must the fair Partner of thy Bed be bles't?
If there be such, let us the Bliss divide,
Too great to be by any one enjoy'd.
If not already bound by Nuptial Vows,
Seal them with me, make me the joyful Spouse, (ness made
Here stop'd the Love-sick Nymph; whose bold-
The bashful Youth blush, for the things she said.
[Page 107] Still Lovelier in his Blushes, look'd the Boy.
Still her desires grew fiercer to en [...]y.
So blushes Fruit upon the Sunny-side,
So Iv'ry shews with deep Vermilion dy'd.
So in Eclipses looks the labouring Moon,
When stain'd with red, her strugling Face is shewn.
Nearer, and nearer, now the Virgin mov'd,
Ready to seize upon the Swain she lov'd.
Disdainfully he flies her fond Embrace,
And cryes with Bashful Anger in his Face,
Forbear loose Nymph, or I'll forsake the place.
She, at that Menace from the Man she lov'd,
Reply'd, 'tis yours, fair Youth, and so remov'd.
Yet at some distance, in a Thicket hid,
The Maid observ'd what e'r the Charmer did.
[Page 108] Who now believing that he was not seen,
With [...] Steps trips o'r the Flowery Green.
Now to the Banks o [...] that delightful Stream,
Which the Fair Nymph that lov'd him, own'd, he came,
Dipt in his Feet, and thence by small degrees,
Pleas'd with the warmth, he waded to the Knees.
Then back unto the Banks again he goes,
Down on the ground his Silken Garments throws,
And to the ravish'd Maid, all, all the Man he shows.
His Naked Charms her wondring Sight amaz'd,
Who now with more impatient longings gaz'd.
Her eyes shoot Fires, and shine with sparkling Flames,
As when the Sun plays on the Silver Streams,
Or when a Crystal Glass reflects the Beams.
[Page 109] Mad to possess her Bliss, about to fly,
To seize, and fasten on the Lovely Boy, (Joy.
She burns with the delay of the Transporting
Now from the Flowery Bank, on which he stood,
The lovely Youth leap'd down into the Flood.
His skilful Arms support his Snowy Limbs,
Still glit'ring thro' the Streams in which he swims.
Like Ivory Statues which the Life surpass,
Or Lillys cover'd with a Crystal Glass.
He's mine, he's mine, the ravish'd Virgin cries,
And strait disrob'd of all, impatient flyes,
And plunging in the Flood, pursues her Joys.
Now o'r his Neck her circling Arms she cast,
Now threw them lower, o'r his strugling waste.
Her twining Limbs on every side she wound,
Look'd him all o'r, and clasp'd him all around.
"So when a towring Eagles Talons bear,
"A Snake close grip'd, and hissing thro' the air.
[Page 110] "About his Neck the Curling Serpent clings,
"And fetters with his Tail his spacious Wings.
Still, tho' detain'd, the Boy the Bliss denyes,
Still struggles to resist the Virgins Joys.
In vain you strive, she cryes, this proud disdain,
Foolish, ingrateful Youth, is all in vain.
Grant ye good Gods, no day, no time may see
Me sever'd from this Youth, or him from me.
To the Maids Prayer propitious Gods inclin'd,
Strait into one their different forms were twin'd,
And as they mingled Souls, their Bodies join'd.
THE PASSION OF Scylla for Minos, From the Eighth Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES,
A Tower with sounding Walls erected stands,
The sacred Fabrick of Apollo's Hands.
His Harp laid by, the Strings their Airs dispense,
And vocal Stones receiv'd their vertue thence.
[Page 112] This Scylla, in the time of Peace, ascends,
And thence her look o'er all the Lawns extends,
Now with delight she views the spacious Town,
Now, pleas'd with dropping little Pebbles down,
Strikes a sweet Musick from the warbling Stone.
In times of Wars the self-same prospect yields,
The pleasing horror of the bloody Fields.
Long had they now in equal Balance hung,
And doubtful Victory depended long.
This gave her leisure to discern and know,
The several Leaders of the Neighb'ring Foe.
Minos their General, most of all she knew,
More than a vertuous Virgin ought to do.
Whether his Helmet glitter'd from afar,
And with its waving Feathers threatned War.
[Page 113] Whether his Hands, his shining Sword would wield,
Or his strong Arm raise his refulgent Shield.
Whate'er she saw him do, she prais'd, and lov'd,
And kept him still in view, where'er he mov'd.
Whene'er he shook a Spear, or cast a Dart,
She knew not which excell'd, his Strength, or Art,
Whene'er he drew a Shaft, she'd swear, that so
Ev'n Phoebus would himself discharge his Bow.
But when his naked Visage he disclos'd,
His charming Face to publick view expos'd.
When on his foaming Horse he rode the Plains,
Ruling with skilful Hands the stubborn Reins.
Then like Tempestuous Seas, her Passions roll,
Mad her sick-Brain, and rack her troubled Soul.
[Page 114] Happy, she calls the Courser which he press't;
Happy, the Launce he couch'd within his Rest,
Happy, the Vamplate that secur'd his Breast.
Now, would she think of flying to the Foe,
And would have gone, had she a way to go.
Now, headlong from the Tower her self have sent,
And ventur'd Life, to reach her Lovers Tent.
Open the Brazen Gates, when Love inspir'd,
Or act whate'er the Foe she lov'd, desir'd.
Silent she sate with a distracted look,
Till Passion gave her leave, and then she spoke.
In this unhappy War, and fatal strife,
I know not which to yield to, Joy or Grief.
Tho' 'tis my Fate, to love my Country's Foe,
I had not seen him, had he not been so.
[Page 115] Yet might they let their fierce contentions fall,
And making Peace, make me the Pledge for all.
Minos, and I once joyn'd, our Wars might cease,
And that Alliance fix a lasting Peace.
Well might your Mothers Charms a God subdue,
If ever she could Charm, dear Youth, like you.
Happy! thrice happy! had I Wings to fly,
To yonder Tents, where the lov'd Foe does lye.
I'd tell the dear disturber of my rest,
All that I feel, could it be all expres't,
And pour my Soul into the Charmers Breast.
Give all I can to make him once my own,
All he should ask; all;—but my Fathers Crown.
This Love shall cease, these fierce desires shall dye,
E'er I by Treachery my wish enjoy.
[Page 116] Yet when a generous Foe disputes the Field,
It is not safest to resist, but yield.
The tragick Dest'ny of his darling Son,
Has brought at last these Fatal Mischiess on.
In a just Cause, his vengeful Sword he draws,
Strong is his Army, to maintain his Cause.
Needs must my charming Hero prosperous prove,
Then let him owe his Conquest to my Love.
Thus thousands will be sav'd, who else must bleed,
And daily perish, if the Wars proceed.
Minos will thus be safe; and I be blest,
Else he may chance to perish with the rest.
Some rash unknowing Hand, his Spear may dart,
Against my too, too vent'rous Hero's Heart.
For who without concern, his Wounds could see?
Or who would wound him, if he knew'twas he?
'Tis then resolv'd; least such a Chance should fall
On him I Love so well, I'le hazard all.
[Page 117] My Country, and my Self, one Gift I'll joyn,
And make the Merit of his Conquest mine.
To Will is nothing, when we can't fullfil,
For wretched want of power; the things we Will.
The Gates are kept with a sufficient Guard,
And every night my Fathers sees them barr'd.
'Tis he destroys my Bliss; 'tis him I fear;
Would he were with the dead, or I were there.
Might I (not inj'ring him) my Bliss pursue?
Indulgent Gods! but why invoke I you?
We our own Gods, have power our selves to bless,
And from our selves derive our own success.
The only way to prosper, is to dare,
For Fortune listens not to lazy Prayer.
Others enflam'd with such a fierce desire,
Have forc'd thro' all to quench their raging Fire.
Shall any other then, more res'lute prove?
Thro' Fire and Sword, I'd force my way to love.
[Page 118] Yet to assist me here, I need not call
For Fire, or Sword; my Fathers Hair is all.
That, that must Crown my joys, and make me blest,
Beyond whatever else can be possest,
Beyond what can be by my words exprest.
[Page] A Pastoral Elegy ON THE DEATH OF DELIA.
Quam referent Musa, vivet, dum robora tellus,
Dum coelum stellas, dum vehit amnis aquas.
Tibullus.
A Pastoral Elegy ON THE DEATH OF DELIA.
Daphnis, and Thyrsis.
Thyr.
STAY wretched Swain, lye here, and here lament,
Press not too far, your Strength, already spent.
[Page 122] Long, has distracting Sorrow made you rove
Thro' every desart Plain, and dismal Grove,
Still silent with excess of Grief, and Love.
Feebly your Trembling Legs, beneath you go,
And bend o'erburd'ned with their Load of Woe.
Stay, and this Melancholy Grotto choose,
A proper Mansion for a mourning Muse.
Lay your tir'd Limbs extended on the Moss,
And tell the listning Woods of Delia's loss:
Here, the sad Muse need no disturbance fear,
For not a living thing inhabits here.
Musick may give your Sorrows some relief,
And I by list'ning to you, share your grief.
Daph.
What Musick now can my sad numbers boast?
What Muse invoke? alas! my Muse is lost.
[Page 123] Long since my useless Pipe was thrown aside,
My Reeds were broke that hour that Delia dyed.
From her alone their Inspiration came,
She gave the Verse, and was the Verses Theme.
For ever should my Sorrows keep me Dumb,
Silent as Death, and hush'd as Delia's Tomb,
Did not the force of Love unlock my Tongue,
Lest her dear Beautyes should remain unsung.
Her Charms let every Muse conspire to tell,
And that once done, let every Muse farewell.
This the last Tribute of my Verse I bring,
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.
Be still ye Winds, or in soft whispers blow,
Ye purling Streams, with gentler Murmurs flow,
Let Lambs forbear to bleat, and Herds to low.
[Page 124] Let all in easy mournful Numbers move,
Let all be soft, and artless as my Love.
Oh! she was every way Divinely fair,
Charming in Person, and in Soul sincere.
She was, alas! more than the Muse can tell,
Well worthy Love, and was belov'd as well.
She was, alas! these Tears that saying draws,
Oh! 'tis a cruel, killing word; She was.
Now she no more must tread the Flowery Plains,
No more, be gaz'd at by admiring Swains.
No more, the choicest Flowers, and Daisies choose,
Or pluck the Pasture for her tender Ewes.
Say, ye poor Flocks, how often have ye stood?
And from her lovely hands receiv'd your Food.
[Page 125] Now; ye no more, from those fair hands must feast,
Those hands, which gave the Flowers a sweeter taste.
Mourn her, by whom ye were so often fed,
And cry with me, the Shepherdess is dead.
This the last tribute of my Verse I bring
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.
Weep for her loss; relenting Heav'n, and keep
Time with our Tears; Heaven seems apace to Weep.
In murm'ring drops the mournful Rain distills,
And Sable Clouds wrap round the sides of Hills.
The Goat forbears to browze, the tender Ewe,
Will drink no longer of the falling Dew.
[Page 126] No morning Larks their mounting-Wings display,
Or cheer with warbling Airs the dusky day.
On dropping Boughs, sad Nightingals complain,
Join in my Songs, but Sing like me, in vain.
In doleful Notes the murm'ring Turtles coo,
Each of them seems t'have lost a Delia too.
The melting Air in Mists, its Sorrows shews,
And cold damp Sweat the face of Earth bedews.
With Tears, the River - Gods enlarge their Spring,
Swans in sad strains on swelling Waters Sing,
In Sighs, the God of Winds his Passion vents,
And all, all Nature, for her Loss laments.
This, the last Tribute of my Verse, I bring,
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.
[Page 127] How often, on the Banks of Silver Thames,
My eyes on hers, and hers upon the Streams,
Has she stood List'ning when I told my Flames?
How often, has a suddain, sidelong look,
Seem'd to confess her Pity when I spoke?
Pity I had, though I could never move,
In her cold Breast the least return of Love.
Pity from her, more welcome did receive,
Than all the Love another Fair could give.
And it was some, some small relief to see
She lov'd not others, tho' she lov'd not me.
Say, gentle Thames, how often have I stood,
Viewing her dear reflection in your Flood?
When on her Face I durst not gaze for fear;
How often have I look'd, and found it there?
How often, have I wish'd my Verse might prove
Smooth as your Stream, whene'r I writ of Love?
[Page 128] Say, how your courteous Waves would never flow
O'er any any Path where she was us'd to go.
Now let your River, like my Eyes, run o'er,
Insult with fuller Tides the desart Shore,
And drown those Banks, where Delia walks no more.
This the last Tribute of my Verse I bring,
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.
Blew Violets, and Blushing Roses fade,
Fold your Silk Leaves, and hang your drooping head,
Shut up your sweets, and seem like Delia, dead.
Let Spring run backwards, and the Vintage blast,
Let constant Showers, lay all the Country waste.
Let Flames unto the center downwards tend,
And let the Floods, untoss'd by Winds, ascend.
[Page 139] Let all things change, and wear another Face,
Let Nature not appear the same she was.
Let Fowl to dwell beneath the Waters try,
And let the Watery Herd attempt to fly,
Let Wolves protect the Flocks upon the Plains,
Let bashful Virgins woo disdainful Swains.
Let Savage Death, its cruelty pursue,
And since my Delia's Dead; let me dye too.
This the last Tribute of my Verse I bring,
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.
See, where the God of Love, all sad appears,
His smoaking Torch extinguish'd with his Tears.
Well may he weep for his declining Power,
His Charm is done, since Delia is no more.
[Page 130] Thro' her he Conquer'd, and thro' her he reign'd;
Her Beauties his decaying sway sustain'd,
And she now gone, his Empire is disdain'd.
See, where Diana with a stately Train
Os goodly Nymphs, descends upon the Plain,
Each of them weeps, and leans upon her Bow,
And mourns her fellow Delia wanting now.
The Goddess grieves to see her Train decreast,
And swelling sighs, shake every Virgin Breast.
Unhurt, they let the Stags beside them pass,
Nor follow Boars that tempt them to the Chase.
In several forms of woe, their Grief they vent,
And all with me for Delia's loss lament.
This the last Tribute of my Verse I bring,
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.
[Page 131] Look yonder, where the lovely Nymph is laid,
I'll go, and on her Earth recline my Head,
Choak with my Sighs, and hasten to the Dead.
Come hither all ye Swains, with Garlands come,
Pour out your Richest Perfumes on her Tomb.
Let Myrtles on her Grave unplanted grow,
In ready Wreaths for every Lovers brow.
Let Flowers unknown before, be daily seen
To raise their Heads above the spacious Green,
Millions of blooming Sweets, her Earth surround,
And balmy Gums distil upon the ground.
Here let the tuneful Muse for ever cease,
To give unutterable sorrow place.
Let Sighs, and streàming Tears resume their course,
And my sad Eyes, be their Eternal Source.
[Page 132] I'll go, and choose some melancholy Cave,
As undisturb'd and secret, as the Grave.
I'll feast my Eyes with nothing fair on Earth,
Nor shall my Ears hear any sound of Mirth.
Farewel ye charming Choristers that dwell
In sacred Groves, ye warbling Birds, farewel.
Adieu ye Nymphs, adieu ye fellow Swains,
Ye Silver Streams, sweet Swans, and flowery Plains.
Farewel all happy Days, and smiling Hours,
Refreshing Valleys, and delightful Bowers.
Adieu to every Grotto, every Grove,
Adieu to Poetry, adieu to Love.
FINIS.