Or lest they unheeded should fall at her feet,
Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and I swear
The next time I visit thy moss-cover'd seat,
I'll pay thee each drop with a genuine tear.
So may'st thou, green willow, for ages thus toss
Thy branches so lank o'er the slow-winding stream,
And thou, stony grotto, retain all thy moss,
While yet there's a poet to make thee his theme. Nay more, may my Delia still give you her charms, Each evening, and sometimes the whole evening long Then, grotto, be proud to support her white arms, Then, willow, wave all thy green tops to her song.
TEACH me, kind Hymen! teach-for thou
Must be my only tutor now-
Teach me some innocent employ
That shall the hateful thought destroy,
That I this whole long night must pass
In exile from my love's embrace.
Alas! thou hast no wings, oh Time!
It was some thoughtless lover's rhyme,
Who, writing in his Chloe's view,
Paid her the compliment through you;
For had he, if he truly loved,
But once the pangs of absence proved,
He'd cropt thy wings, and in their stead,
Have painted thee with heels of lead
But 'tis the temper of the mind,
Where we thy regulator find:
Still o'er the gay and o'er the young,
With unfelt steps you flit along ;
As Virgil's nymph o'er ripen'd corn,
With such ethereal haste was borne,
That every stock with upright head
Denied the pressure of her tread;
But o'er the wretched, oh, how slow
And heavy sweeps thy scythe of woe!
Oppressed beneath each stroke they bow,
Thy course engraven on their brow.
A day of absence shall consume
The glow of youth, and manhood's bloom;
And one short night of anxious fear
Shall leave the wrinkles of a year.
For me, who, when I'm happy, owe
No thanks to fortune that I'm so ;-
Who long have learned to look at one
Dear object, and at one alone,
For all the joy and all the sorrow
That gilds the day or threats the morrow-
I never felt thy footsteps light,
But when sweet love did aid thy flight;
And, banish'd from his blest dominion,
I cared not for thy borrow'd pinion.
True, she is mine, and since she's mine,
At trifles I should not repine;
But oh! the miser's real pleasure
Is not in knowing he has treasure:
He must behold his golden store,
And feel and count his riches o'er.
Thus I, of one dear gem possess'd
And in that treasure only blest,
There every day would seek delight,
And clasp the casket every night.
DAMON TO DELIA.
ASK'ST thou how long my love shall stay
When all that's new is past;
How long? Ah, Delia, can I say
How long my life will last?
Dry be that tear-be hush'd that sigh,
At least I'll love thee till I die.
And does that thought afflict thee too,
The thought of Damon's death;
That he who only lives for you
Must yield his faithful breath?
Hush'd be that sigh-be dried that tear, Nor let us lose our Heaven here.
DELIA TO DAMON.*
THINK'ST thou, my Damon, I'd forego
This tender luxury of woe;
The reply was written by Mrs. Sheridan.
Which better than the tongue imparts
The feelings of impassion'd hearts.
Blest if my sighs and tears but prove
The winds and waves that waft to love.
Can true affection cease to fear?
Poor is the joy, not worth a tear.
Did passion ever know content?
How weak the passion words can paint.
Then let my sighs and tears but prove
The winds and waves that waft to love.
The Cyprian bird with plaintive moan
Thus makes her faithful passion known.
So Zephyrus breathes on Flora's bowers,
And charms with sighs the Queen of flowers;
Then let my sighs and tears but prove
The winds and waves that waft to love.
EPILOGUE TO HANNAH MORE'S PLAY, THE FATAL FALSEHOOD.
SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS.
UNHAND me, gentlemen, by heaven, I say,
I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way.
Forth let me come-a Poetaster true,
As lean as Envy, and as baneful too;
On the dull audience let me vent my rage,
Or drive these female scribblers from the stage:
For scene or history, we've none but these,
The law of Liberty and Wit they seize,
In Tragic-Comic-Pastoral-they dare to please.
Each puny bard must surely burst with spite,
To find that women with such fame can write :
But, oh, your partial favour is the cause,
Who feed their follies with such full applause;
Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame,
And ridicule each fair pretender's aim;
Where the dull duties of domestic life,
Wage with the Muse's toils eternal strife.
What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious déshabille behold her sit,
A letter'd gossip and a housewife wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse.
Round her strew'd room, a frippery chaos lies,
A chequer'd wreck of notable and wise.
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass;
Unfinished here an epigram is laid,
And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid.
There new born plays foretaste the town's applause,
There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.
A moral essay now is all her care,
A satire next, and then a bill of fare.
A scene she now projects, and now a dish,
Here Act the first, and here "Remove with Fish."
Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,
That soberly casts up a bill for coals;
Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.
Sappho, 'tis true long versed in epic song,
For years esteemed all household studies wrong;
When dire mishap, through neither shame nor sin,
Sappho herself, and not her Muse, lies in.
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower,
And matron Juno claims despotic power;
Soon gothic hags the classic pile o'erturn,
A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn,
Nor books nor implements escape their rage,
They spike the inkstand and they rend the page;
Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake,
Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake,
And Aristotle's only saved-to wrap plumcake.
Yet, shall a woman tempt the tragic scene?
And dare-but hold-I must repress my spleen;
I see your hearts are pledged to her applause,
While Shakespeare's spirit seems to aid her cause ;
Well pleased to aid-since o'er his sacred bier
A female hand did ample trophies rear,
And gave the greenest laurel that is worshipped there.
NEAR Avon's ridgy bank there grows
A willow of no vulgar size,
That tree first heard poor Silvio's woes,
And heard how bright were Laura's eyes,
Its boughs were shade from heat or show'r,
Its roots a moss-grown seat became ;
Its leaves would strew the maiden's bow'r,
Its bark was shatter'd with her name!
Once on a blossom-crowned day
Of mirth-inspiring May
Silvio, beneath this willow's sober shade
In sullen contemplation laid,
Did mock the meadow's flowery pride,
Rail'd at the dance and sportive ring ;-The tabor's call he did deride,
And said, It was not Spring.
He scorn'd the sky of azure blue,
He scorn'd whate'er could mirth bespeak;
He chid the beam that drank the dew,
And chid the gale that fann'd his glowing cheek,
Unpaid the season's wonted lay,
For still he sigh'd, and said it was not May. "Ah, why should the glittering stream
Reflect thus delusive the scene?
Ah, why does a rosy-ting'd beam,
Thus vainly enamel the green?
To me nor joy nor light they bring,
I tell thee, Phoebus, 'tis not Spring.
"Sweet tut'ress of music and love,
Sweet bird, if 'tis thee that I hear,
Why left you so early the grove,
To lavish your melody here?
Cease, then, mistaken thus to sing,
Sweet nightingale ! it is not Spring.
"The gale courts my locks but to tease,
And, Zephyr, I call'd not on thee;
Thy fragrance no longer can please,
Then rob not the blossoms for me:
But hence unload thy balmy wing,
Believe me, Zephyr, 'tis not Spring.
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