תמונות בעמוד

Oh, had I rather unadmir'd remain'd

Since painted, or not painted, all Mall fade, In some lone ille, or diftant northern land; And Me who fcorns a man must die a maid; Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, What then remains, but well our power to use; Where none learn Ombre, none e'er taste bohea! And keep good humour still, whate'er we lose? 3 There kept my charms concealid from mortal eye, And trult me, dear! good-humour can prevail, Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.

When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding What mov'd my mind with youthful lords to roam ? fail, Oh, had I stay'd, and said my prayers at home! 160 Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; 'Twas this, the morning omens fecm'd to tell, Charms strikes the fight, but merit wins the soul. Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued; The tottering china shook without a wind, Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude. Nay Poll sat mute, and Shock was moll unkind : To arms, to arms! the fierce Virago cries, A lylph too warn'd me of the thrcats of fate, And swift as lightning to the combat flies. Ía mystic visions, now believ'd too late :

All fide in parties, and begin th' attack; (crack; See the poor remnants of these flighted hairs! Fans clap, filks ruftle, and tough whalebones My hand thall rend, what ev’n thy rapine spares : Heroes and heroines thouts confus’dly rise, 41 These in two fable ringlets taught to break, And bass and treble voices strike the skies. Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; 170 No common weapon in their hands are found; The fifter.lock now fits uncouth, alone,

Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. And in its fellow's fate foresees its own;

So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal sheers demands, And heavenly breasts with human passions rage; And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands, 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona Hermes arms; Oh, hadīt thou, cruel! been content to seize And all Olympus rings with loud alarms; Hairs less in fight, or any hairs but these ! Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around,

Blue Neptune itorms, the bellowing deeps resound: Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way,


And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!

Triumphane Umbriel on a sconce's height Sue said : the pitying audience melt in tears ; Clapp'd his glad wings, and sat to view the fight : But fate and Jove had stopp'd the baron's cars. Propp'd or their bodkin spears, the sprites survey In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,

The growing combat, or aslilt the fray. For who can move when fair Belinda fails?

While through the press enrag'd Thalestris flics, Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,

And scatters death around from both her eyes, While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain. A beau and witling perilh'd in the throng, Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan ; One dy'd in metaphor, and one in fong. Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began. “O cruel nymph: a living death I bear," 60 Say, why are not beauties prais'd and honour'd Cry'd Dapperwit, and funk belide his chair. moft,

A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards caft, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toal? 10 “ Those eyes are made so killing"--was his last. Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford, Thus on Mæander's flowery margin lies Why angels call’d, and angel like ador'd ? Th' expiring (wan, and as he fings he dies. Why round on coaches crowd the white-glov'd When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, beaux ?

Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows ? She smil'd to see the doughty hero lain, How vain are all these glories, all our pains, But, at her smile, the beau reviv'u again. Unless good sense preserve what beauty guins :

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, That men may say, when we the fronc-box grace, Weighs the mens wies againt the lady's hair Behold the first in virtue as in face!

The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; Oh! if to dance all night and dreis all day, At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. Charm'd the small pox, or chac'd old age away; 20

See, fierce Belinda on the Baron Alies, Who would not scorn what housewife's cares pro

With more than usual lightning in her eyes : duce,

Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try's Or who would learn one carthly thing to use? Who fought 110 more than on his soe to die. To patch, nay ogle, may become a fumt;

But this bold lord, with manly ftrength endued, Nor could it sure be such a fin to paint.

She with one finger and a thumb subdued : 85
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay ;
Curld or uncurl'd, lince Lucks will turn to grey;

Ver. 37. To arms, to arms !) From hence the

first edition goes to the conclusion, except a very Ver. 9. Then grave Clarifa, &c.) A new cha- few short intertions added, to keep the machinery Tader introduced in the tublequent cditions, to open in view to the end of the poem. more clearly the moral of the poem, in a parody of

Vir. 53. Triumphant Umbriel] These four lines the speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus in Huiner. added, for the reason before nientioned.



Jut where the breath of life his nostrils drew, The courtier's proniises, and fick man's prayers, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120 The Gnomes direct, to every atom just,

Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, The pungent grains of titillaring dust.

Dry'd butterflies, and tones of casuistry. Sadden, with itarting tears each eye o'erflows, But trust the muse-- he saw it upward rise, Aed the high dome re-echoes to his nose. Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes :

Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd, (So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side.

To Proculus alone confess'd in view) (The fame, his ancient personage to deck, A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, Her great-great-grandfire wore about his neck, 90 And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. In three fcal-rings; which after, melted down, Not Berenice's locks firit rose so bright, Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown : The heaven bespanglingwith dishevell d light. 130, Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; And pleas'd pursue its progrefs through the skies. Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, This the Beau-monde shall from the Mall survey, Which long the wore, and now Belinda wears.) And hail with music ics propitious ray.

Boait not my fall (he cry'd), insulting foe! This the blest lover shall for Venus take, Thou by some other înalt be laid as low. And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind : This partridge foon fall view in cloudless skies, All that I dread is leaving you behind ! too When next he looks through Galilæo's eyes; Rather than fo, ah! let me still survive,

And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom And burn in Cupid's fames--but burn alive. The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 140

Reftore the Lock, she cries; and all around, Then cease, bright nymph: co mourn thy saRestore the Lock! the vaulted roofs rebound.

vish'd hair, Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain

Which adds new glory to the mining sphere!
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain. Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,
But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, Shall draw such envy as the lock you loit.
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! For, after all the murders of your eye,
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with When, after millions Nain, yourself thall die;

When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
In every place is sought, but fought in vain : 110 And all those treffes shall be laid in duit,
With such a prize no mortal must be blest, This Lock, the muse shall confecrate cu lame,
So heaven decrees! with heaven who can contest? And ’midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 150

Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere, Since all things loft on earth are treasur'd there. There heroes wits are kept in ponderous vases,

VARIATIONS. And beaux in snuff-boxes and iweezer cases : Ver. 131. The Sylphs behoid] These two lines There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, added for the same reason, to keep in view the naAnd lovers hearts with ends of ribband bound; | chinery of che poem.

Vol. VIII.



No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear

Pleas'd thy pale gholt, or grac'd thy mournful To the memory of an Unfortunate Lady.

bier: What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight By foreign hands thy decent límbs compos'a,

by foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, shade,

By foreiga hands thy humble grave adorn'd, Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ?

By ftrangers honour'd, and by stranger's mourn'd! 'Tis the '-but why that bleeding bosom gor'd,

What though no friends in (able weeds appear ; Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?

Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,

And bear about the mockery of woc 1s it, in heaven, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,

To midnight dances, and the public show?

What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, To act a lover's or a Roman's part?

Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? Is there no bright reverfion in the sky,

What though no sacred earth allow thee room, For those who greatly think, or bravely die ? Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire

Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb ?

Yet Shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd, Above the vulgar flight of low desire?

And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft: Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;

There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, The glorious fault of angels and of gods :

There the fir roses of the year shall blow;
Thence to their images on earth it Hows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.

While angels with their filver wings o'ershade

The ground now facred by thy relics made. Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,

So, peaceful refts, without a stone, a name, Dull fullen prisoners in the body's cage :

What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,

How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;

To whom related, or by whom begot; Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,

A heap of duft alone remains of thee, And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.

'Tis all thou art, and all the proud fhall be! From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)

Pocis themselves must fall, like those they sung, Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying iky.

Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. As into air the purer fpiri:s flow,

Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays, And separate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the foul to its congenial place,

Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;

Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,

Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!

The muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more! Sce on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These checks now fading at the blait of death; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,

PROLOGUE Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall : On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, MR. ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO. (While the long funerals blacken all the way) Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies steel'd, To wake the soul by tender Atrokes of art, And curft with hearts unknowing how to yield. To raise the genius, and to mend the heart ; Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day !

Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: So perilh all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage, For others good, or melt at others woe.

Commanding tears to stream through cvery age; What can atone (oh, ever injur'd thade !) Tyrants no more their favage nature kepc, Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid? And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.


Qur anthor (huns hy vulgar springs to move There are, 'tis true, who tell another cale, The bero's glory, or the virgin's love ;

That virtuous ladies envy while they rail; In piżying Love, we but our weakness show, Such rage without betrays the fire within; And wild Ambition well deserves its woe.

In some close corner of the foul, they fin; Here tears thall how from a more generous cause, Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice, Soch tears as patriots fhed for dying laws :

Amidft their virtues a reserve of vice.
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, The godly danie, who fleshly failings damns,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
Virtue confess'a in human shape he draws, Would you enjoy soft nights, and foliul dinners :
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with
No common objed to your sight displays,

But what with pleasure heaven itself surveys, Well, if our author in the wife offends,
A brave man struggling in the forms of fate, He has a husband that will make amends :
And greatly falling with a falling state.

He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,
While Cato gives his little senate laws,

And sure such kind good creatures may be living, Whar bofom beats not in his country's cause? In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows, Who sees him act, but envies every deed ? Stern Caco's self was no selentless spouse : Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? Plu–Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his Ev'o when preud Cæsar 'midlt triumphal cars,

life? The fpoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife : Ignobly vain, and impotently great,

Yet if a friend, a night or so, thould need her, Shew'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate ; He'd recommend her as a special breeder. As her dead father's reverend image past,

To lend a wife, few here would scruple niake;
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast; But, pray, which of you all would take her back ?
The triumph ceas'', tears gufh'd from every eye ; Though with the stoic chief our stage may ring,
The world's great victor pars d unheeded by ; The ftoic husband was the glorious thing.
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd, The man had courage, was a fage, 'ris true,
And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword. And lov'd his country-but what's that to you?

Britons, attend : be worth like this approv'd, Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye.
And thow you have the virtue to be mov'd. But the kind cuckold mighe instrud the city :
With honek fcorn the first fam'd Cato view'd There many an honest man may copy Cato,
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she sub Who ne'er saw naked sword, or look'd in Plato.

If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
Your scene precariously fubfifts too long

That Edward's miss thus perks it in your face ; Da French traoslation, and Italian song.

To fee a piece of failing flesh and blood, Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage, In all the sest su impudently good; Ek jual warm'd with your own native rage : Faith let the modeft matrons of the town Such plays alone should win a British ear, Come here in crowds, and I are the trumpet down. As Cato's felf had not disdain d to hear.






PRODIGious this! the frail-one of our play
From her own sex fhuuid mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head afide,
Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd,
The play may país—but that ftrange creature,

I can't-indeed now I so hate a whore !
Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks siis stars he was not born a fool;
So from a filter finner you shall hear,
" How ftrangely you expose yourself, my dear!"
But let me die, all raillery apart,
Our ses are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive

Say, lovely youth, that dost my heart command,
Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand?
Must chen her nanie the wretched writer prave,
To chy remembrance lost, as to thy love?
Ask not the cause that I new numbers choose,
The lute neglected, and the lyric mufe;
Love taught my tears in sadder nutes to flow,
And tun d my heart to elegies of woe,
I burn, I burn, as when through ripen'd corn
By driving windsthespreading fames are borre.
Phaon to Etna's scorching fields retires,
While I consume with more than Ætna's fores!
No more my soul a charni in music tinds,
Music has charms alone for peaceiul minds.
Soft fecnes of folicude no more can please,
Love enters there, and I'm my own disease.
No more the Lesbian dames niy poslion move,
Once the dear objects of my guiley love;
All other loves are lost in only chine,
Ah, youth ungrateful to a fianie like mine!
Whom would not all those blooming charms furn

Those heavenly looks, and dear deluding eyes?

The harp and how would you like Phæbus bear, For whom Mould Sappho use such arts as these?
A brighter Phæbus Phaon might appear; He's gone, whom only she desir'd to please!
Would you with ivy wreathe your flowing hair, Cupid's light darts my tender bosom move,
Not Bacchus' self with Phaon could compare : Stijl is there cause for Sappho fill to love :
Yet Phoebus lov'd, and Bacchus sele the flanie, So from my birth the sisters fix'd my doom,
One Daphne warm’d, and one the Cretan dame; And gave to Venus all my life to come;
Nymphs that in verse no more could rival me, Or, while my muse in melting notes complains,
Than ev'n those gods contend in charms with | My yielding heart keeps measure to my strains.

By charms like thine which all my soul have won, The mufes reach me all their softest lays,

Who might not-ah! who would not be undone? And the wide world resounds with Sappho's praise. For those Aurora Cephalus might scorn, Though great Alcxus more sublimely fings, And with fresh blushes paint the conscious morn: And itrikes with 'older rage the founding strings, For those might Cynthia lengthen Phaon's Sleep, No leis renown attends the moving lyre,

And bid Endymion nightly tend his sheep: Which Venus tunes, and all her loves inspire; Venus for those had sapt thee to the skies, To me what nature has in charms deny’d, But Mars on thee might look with Venus' eyes. Is well by wit's more lasting flames fupply'd. O scarce a youth, yet scarce a tender boy! Though short my fiature, yet my name extends O usesul time for lovers to employ! To heaven itself, and earth's remoteft ends. Pride of thy age, and glory of thy race, Prown as I am, an Ethiopian danse

Come to these arms, and melt in this embrace ! Inspir'd young Perseus with a generous fame: The vows you never will return, receive ; Turtles and doves of differing hues unite,

Ard take at least the love you will not give. And gloffy jet is pair'd with shining white. See, while I write, my words are lost in tears! It to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign, The less my sense, the more my love appears. But such as nierit, such as equal thine,

Sure 'twas not much to bid one kind adieu ; By rone, alas! by none thou canst be mov'd! (At least to feign was never hard to you :) Phaon alope by Phaon must be lov'd!

Farewell, my Lesbian love, you might have said ; Yul once thy Sappho could thy cares employ, Or coldly thus, Farewell, oh Lesbian maid! Oncc in her arms you centr'd all your joy : No tear did you, no parting kiss receive, No time the dear remembrance can remove, Nor knew I then how much I was to grieve. For, oh! how valt a memory has love!

No lover's gift your Sappho could confer, My music, then, you could for ever hear,

And wrongs and woes were all you left with her. And all my words were music to your ear. No charge I gave you, and no charge could give, You supp'd with kisses my enchanting tongue, Bet this, Be mindful of our loves, and live. And found my kisses (wecter than my tong. Now by the Nine, those powers ador'd by me, In all I pleas’d, but most in what was belt; And Love, the god that ever waits on thee, And the last joy was dearer than the rest.

When first I heard (from whom I hardly knew) Then with each word, cach glance,each motion fir’d, That you were fled, and all my joys with you, You still enjoy'd, and yet you fill defir'd, Like some sad statue, speechless, pale i food, Till all diffoving in the trance we lay,

Grief chill'd my brealt, and stopp'd my freezing And in tumultuous raptures dy'd away.

blood; The fair Sicilians now thy soul inflame;

No figh to rise, no tear had power to flow, Why was I born, ye gods! a Lesbian dame? Fix'd in a stupid lethargy of woe : Bu ah, beware, Sicilian nymphe ! nor boast But when its way th' impetuous passion found, 'That wandering heart which I so lately loft ; I rend my trelles, and my breast I wound; Nor be with all those tempting words abus'd, I rave, then weep; I curse, and then complain ; Those tempting words were all to Sappho us'd. Now swell to rage, now melt in tears again. And you that rule Sicilia's harry plains,

Not fiercer pangs distract the mournful dame, Hlave pity, Venus, on your poet's pains !

Whose first-born infant feeds the funeral flame. Shall fortune fill in one fad tenor run,

My fcornful brother with a smile appears, And still increase the woes so soon begun? Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears : laur'd to forrow from my tender years,

His hated image ever haunts my eyes; My parent's a shes drank my early tears :

Aud why this grief? thy daughter lives, he cries, My brother next, neglecting wealth and fame, Stung with my love, and furious with despair, Ignobly burn'd in a deftrudive Haine :

All torn my garments, and my bosom bare, an infant daughter late my griefs increas'd, My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim; And all a mother's cares diftract my brcalt. Such inconfiftent things are love and shame: Alas, what more could fate itfeli impote,

'Tis thou art all my care and my delight, But thec, the last and greatest of my woes? My daily longing, and my dream by night: No more my robes in waving purple flow, O night, more pleasing than the brightest day, Nor on my hand the sparkling diamonds glow; When fancy gives what absence takes away, No more my locks in ringlets curld diffuse And, dress'd in all its visionary charms, The costly sweetness of Arabian dews,

Restores my fair deserter to my arms ! Nor braids of gold the varied treffes bind, Then round your neck in wanton wreaths I twine; That fly disorder'd with the wanton wind : Then you, niethinks, as fondly circle mine :

« הקודםהמשך »