A common love, by other persons shown,
Meets with a full return; but mine has none:
Nay, scarce believ'd, though from deceit as free
As angels flames can for archangels be.
A passion feign'd, at no repulse is griev'd,
And values little if it be n't receiv'd:
But, love sincere resents the smallest scorn,
And the unkindness does in secret mourn.
"Sometimes I please myself, and think you are
Too good to make me wretched by despair:
That tenderness, which in your soul is plac'd,
Will move you to compassion sure at last.
But, when I come to take a second view
Of my own merits, I despond of you:
For what can Delia, beauteous Delia, see,
To raise in her the least esteem for me:
I've nought that can encourage my address;
My fortune's little, and my worth is less:
But, if a love of the sublimest kind
Can make impression on a generous mind;
If all has real value that 's divine,
There cannot be a nobler flame than mine.
"Perhaps you pity me; I know you must,
And my affection can no more distrust:
But what, alas! will helpless pity do?
You pity, but you may despise me too.
Still I am wretched if no more you give,
The starving orphan can't on pity live:
He must receive the food for which he cries,
Or he consumes; and, though much pity'd, dies.
"My torments still do with my passion grow;
The more I love, the more I undergo.
But suffer me no longer to remain
Beneath the pressure of so vast a pain.
My wound requires some speedy remedy:
Delays are fatal, when despair is nigh.
Much I've endur'd, much more than I can tell;
Too much, indeed, for one that loves so well.
When will the end of all my sorrows be?
Can you not love? I'm sure you pity me.
But, if I must new miseries sustain,
And be condemn'd to more and stronger pain,
I'll not accuse you, since my fate is such,
I please too little, and I love too much."
Strephon, no more," the blushing Delia said;
"Excuse the conduct of a timorous maid:
Now I'm convinc'd your love 's sublime and true,
Such as I always wish'd to find in you.
Each kind expression, every tender thought,
A mighty transport in my bosom wrought:
And though in secret I your flame approv'd,
I sigh'd, and griev'd, but durst not own I lov'd.
Though now-O Strephon! be so kind to guess,
What shame will not allow me to confess."
The youth, encompass'd with a joy so bright,
Had hardly strength to bear the vast delight.
By too sublime an ecstasy possest,
He trembled, gaz'd, and clasp'd her to his breast;
Ador'd the nymph that did his pain remove,
Vow'd endless truth, and everlasting love.
STREPHON'S LOVE FOR DELIA JUSTIFIED.
IN AN EPISTLE TO CELADON.
ALL men have follies, which they blindly trace Through the dark turnings of a dubious maze.
But happy those, who, by a prudent care,
Retreat betimes from the fallacious snare.
The eldest sons of Wisdom were not free
From the same failure you condemn in me:
They lov'd, and, by that glorious passion led,
Forgot what Plato and themselves had said.
Love triumph'd o'er those dull, pedantic rules,
They had collected from the wrangling schools,
And made them to his noble sway subunit,
In spite of all their learning, art, and wit:
Their grave, starch'd morals, then unuseful prov'd;
These dusty characters he soon remov'd;
For, when his shining squadrons came in view,
Their boasted Reason murmur'd, and withdrew;
Unable to oppose their mighty force
With phlegmatic resolves, and dry discourse.
If, as the wisest of the wise have err'd,
go astray, and am condemn'd unheard,
My faults you too severely reprehend,
More like a rigid censor than a friend.
Love is the monarch passion of the mind,
Knows no superior, by no laws confin'd,
But triumphs still, impatient of control,
O'er all the proud endowments of the soul.
You own'd my Delia, friend, divinely fair,
When in the bud her native beauties were;
Your praise did then her early charms confess,
Yet you'd persuade me to adore her less.
You but the non-age of her beauty saw,
But might from thence sublime ideas draw,
And what she is, by what she was, conclude;
For now she governs those she then subdued.
Her aspect noble and mature is grown,
And every charm in its full vigour known.
There we may wondering view, distinctly writ,
The lines of goodness, and the marks of wit:
Each feature, emulous of pleasing most,
Does justly some peculiar sweetness boast;
And her composure 's of so fine a frame,
Pride cannot hope to mend, nor Envy blame.
When the immortal beauties of the skies
Contended naked for the golden prize,
The apple had not fall'n to Venus' share,
Had I been Paris, and my Delia there;
In whom alone we all their graces find,
The moving gaiety of Venus, join'd
With Juno's aspect, and Minerva's mind.
View both those nymphs whom other swains
You'll value charming Delia still the more.
Dorinda's mien 's majestic, but her mind
Is to revenge and peevishness inclin'd:
Myrtilla 's fair; and yet Myrtilla 's proud:
Chloe has wit; but noisy, vain, and loud:
Melania doats upon the silliest things;
And yet Melania like an angel sings.
But in my Delia all endowments meet,
All that is just, agreeable, or sweet;
All that can praise and admiration move,
All that the wisest and the bravest love.
In all discourse she 's apposite and gay,
And ne'er wants something pertinent to say;
For, if the subject 's of a serious kind,
Her thoughts are manly, and her sense refin'd;
But if divertive, her expression 's fit,
Good language, join'd with inoffensive wit;
So cautious always, that she ne'er affords
An idle thought the charity of words.
The vices common to her sex can find
No room, ev'n in the suburbs of her mind;
Concluding wisely she 's in danger still,
From the mere neighbourhood of industrious ill.
Therefore at distance keeps the subtle foe,
Whose near approach would formidable grow ;
While the unwary virgin is undone,
And meets the misery which she ought to shun.
Her wit is penetrating, clear, and gay;
But let true judgment and right reason sway;
Modestly bold, and quick to apprehend;
Prompt in replies, but cautious to offend.
Her darts are keen, but level'd with such care,
They ne'er fall short, and seldom fly too far:
For when she rallies, 'tis with so much art,
We blush with pleasure, and with rapture smart.
O, Celadon! you would my flame approve,
Did you but hear her talk of love.
That tender passion to her fancy brings
The prettiest notions, and the softest things;
Which are by her so movingly exprest,
They fill with ecstasy my throbbing breast.
"Tis then the charms of eloquence impart
Their native glories unimprov'd by art:
By what she says I measure things above,
And guess the language of seraphic love.
To the cool bosom of a peaceful shade,
By some wild beech or lofty poplar made,
When evening comes, we secretly repair
To breathe in private, and unbend our care:
And while our flocks in fruitful pastures feed,
Some well-design'd, instructive poem read;
Where useful morals, with soft numbers join'd,
At once delight and cultivate the mind:
Which are by her to more perfection brought,
By wise remarks upon the poet's thought;
So well she knows the stamp of eloquence,
The empty sound of words from solid sense.
The florid fustian of a rhyming spark,
Whose random arrow ne'er comes near the mark,
Can't on her judgment be impos'd, and pass
For standard gold, when 't is but gilded brass.
Oft in the walks of an adjacent grove,
Where first we mutually engag'd to love,
She smiling ask'd me, "Whether I'd prefer
An humble cottage on the plains with her,
Before the pompous building of the great;
And find content in that inferior state?"
Said I, "The question you propose to me,
Perhaps a matter of debate might be,
Were the degrees of my affection less
Than burning martyrs to the gods express.
In you I've all I can desire below,
That Earth can give me, or the gods bestow;
And, blest with you, I know not where to find
A second choice, you take up all my mind.
I'd not forsake that dear, delightful plain,
Where charming Delia, Love and Delia reign,
For all the splendour that a court can give,
Where gaudy fools and busy statesmen live.
Though youthful Paris, when his birth was known
(Too fatally related to a throne)
Forsook Oenone, and his rural sports,
For dangerous greatness, and tumultuous courts;
Yet Fate should offer still its power in vain ;
For what is power to such an humble swain?
I would not leave my Delia, leave my fair,
Though half the globe should be assign'd my share."
And would you have me, friend, reflect again,
Become the basest and the worst of men?
O, do not urge me, Celadon; forbear;
I cannot leave her, she's too charming fair!
Should I your counsel in this case pursue,
You might suspect me for a villain too:
For sure that perjur'd wretch can never prove
Just to his friend, who 's faithless to his love.
As those who hope hereafter Heaven to share,
A rigorous exile here can calmly bear,
And, with collected spirits, undergo
The sad variety of pain below;
Yet, with intense reflections, antedate
The mighty raptures of a future state:
While the bright prospect of approaching joy
Creates a bliss no trouble can destroy:
So, though I'm toss'd by giddy Fortune's hand,
Ev'n to the confines of my native land;
Where I can hear the stormy ocean roar,
And break its waves upon the foaming shore:
Though from my Delia banish'd; all that 's dear,
That's good, or beautiful, or charming here:
Yet flattering hopes encourage me to live,
And tell me Fate will kinder minutes give;
That the dark treasury of times contains
A glorious day, will finish all my pains:
And, while I contemplate on joys to come,
My griefs are silent, and my sorrows dumb.
Believe me, nymph, believe me, charming fair,
(When truth 's conspicuous, we need not swear;
Oaths will suppose a diffidence in you,
That I am false, my flame fictitious too)
Were I condemn'd by Fate's imperial power,
Ne'er to return to your embraces more,
I'd scorn whate'er the busy world could give;
'T would be the worst of miseries to live:
For all my wishes and desires pursue,
All I admire, or covet here, is you.
Were I possess'd of your surprising charms,
And lodg'd again within my Delia's arms;
Then would my joys ascend to that degree,
Could angels envy, they would envy me.
Oft, as I wander in a silent shade,
When bold vexations would my soul invade,
I banish the rough thought, and none pursue,
But what inclines my willing mind to you.
The soft reflections on your sacred love,
Like sovereign antidotes, all cares remove;
Composing every faculty to rest,
They leave a grateful flavour in my breast.
Retir'd sometimes into a lonely grove,
I think o'er all the stories of our love.
What mighty pleasure have I oft possess'd,
When, in a masculine embrace, I prest
The lovely Delia to my heaving breast!
Then I remember, and with vast delight,
The kind expressions of the parting night:
Methought the Sun too quick return'd again,
And day seem'd ne'er impertinent till then.
Strong and contracted was our eager bliss;
An age of pleasure in each generous kiss:
Years of delight in moments we compris'd;
And Heaven itself was there epitomis'd.
But, when the glories of the eastern light
O'erflow'd the twinkling tapers of the night;
"Farewell, my Delia, O farewell!" said I,
"The utmost period of my time is nigh:
Too cruel Fate forbids my longer stay,
And wretched Strephon is compell'd away.
But, though I must my native plains forego,
Forsake these fields, forsake my Delia too;
No change of fortune shall for ever move
The settled base of my immortal love."
"And must my Strephon, must my faithful swain,
Be forc'd," you cry'd, “to a remoter plain !
The darling of my soul so soon remov'd!
The only valu'd, and the best belov'd!
Though other swains to me themselves address'd,
Strephon was still distinguish'd from the rest :
Flat and insipid all their courtship seem'd;
Little themselves, their passions less, esteem'd:
For my aversion with their flames increas'd,
And none but Strephon partial Delia pleas'd.
Though I'm depriv'd of my kind shepherd's sight,
Joy of the day, and blessing of the night,
Yet will you, Strephon, will you love me still?
However, flatter me, and say you will.
For, should you entertain a rival love,
Should you unkind to me, or faithless prove,
No mortal e'er could half so wretched be;
For sure no mortal ever lov'd like me."
"Your beauty, nymph," said I, "my faith secures;
Those you once conquer, must be always yours:
For hearts, subdued by your victorious eyes,
No force can storm, no stratagem surprise;
Nor can I of captivity complain,
While lovely Delia holds the glorious chain.
The Cyprian queen, in young Adonis' arms,
Might fear, at least, he would despise her charms;
But I can never such a monster prove,
To slight the blessings of my Delia's love.
Would those who at celestial tables sit,
Blest with immortal wine, immortal wit,
Choose to descend to some inferior board,
Which nought but scum and nonsense can afford?
Nor can I e'er to those gay nymphs address,
Whose pride is greater, and whose charms are less :
Their tinsel beauty, may, perhaps, subdue
A gaudy coxcomb, or a fulsome beau;
But seem at best indifferent to me,
Who none but you with admiration see.
"Now, would the rolling orbs obey my will,
I'd make the Sun a second time stand still,
And to the lower world their light repay,
When conquering Joshua robb'd them of a day:
Though our two souls would different passions
His was a thirst of glory, mine of love.
It will not be; the Sun makes haste to rise,
And take possession of the eastern skies;
Yet one more kiss, though millions are too few;
And, Delia, since we must, must part, adieu."
As Adam, by an injur'd Maker driven
From Eden's groves, the vicinage of Heaven,
Compell'd to wander, and oblig'd to bear
The harsh impressions of a ruder air,
With mighty sorrow, and with weeping eyes,
Look'd back, and mourn'd the loss of Paradise,
With a concern like his did I review
My native plains, my charming Delia too;
For I left Paradise in leaving you.
If, as I walk, a pleasant shade I find,
It brings your fair idea to my mind:
"Such was the happy place," I sighing say,
"Where I and Delia, lovely Delia, lay;
When first I did my tender thoughts impart,
And made a grateful present of my heart."
Or, if my friend, in his apartment, shows
Some piece of Van Dyck's, or of Angelo's,
In which the artist has, with wondrous care,
Describ'd the face of one exceeding fair;
Though, at first sight, it may my passion raise,
And every feature I admire and praise;
Yet still, methinks, upon a second view,
'Tis not so beautiful, so fair as you.
If I converse with those whom most admit
To have a ready, gay, vivacious, wit;
They want some amiable, moving grace,
Some turn of fancy that my Delia has:
For ten good thoughts amongst the crowd they vent,
Methinks ten thousand are impertinent.
Let other shepherds, that are prone to range,
With each caprice, their giddy humours change:
They from variety less joys receive,
Than you alone are capable to give.
Nor will I envy those ill-judging swains
(What they enjoy 's the refuse of the plains)
If, for my share of happiness below,
Kind Heaven upon me Delia would bestow;"
Whatever blessings it can give beside,
Let all mankind among themselves divide.
A PASTORAL ESSAY
ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN MARY, ANNO 1694.
As gentle Strephon to his fold convey'd
A wandering lamb, which from the flocks had stray'd,
Beneath a mournful cypress shade he found
Cosmelia weeping on the dewy ground.
Amaz'd, with eager haste he ran to know
The fatal cause of her intemperate woe;
And, clasping her to his impatient breast,
In these soft words his tender care exprest.
Why mourns my dear Cosmelia? Why appears
My life, my soul, dissolv'd in briny tears?
Has some fierce tiger thy lov'd heifer slain,
While I was wandering on the neighbouring plain!
Or, has some greedy wolf devour'd thy sheep?
What sad misfortune makes Cosmelia weep?
Speak, that I may prevent thy grief's increase,
Partake thy sorrows, or restore thy peace.
Do you not hear from far that mournful bell?
Tis for I cannot the sad tidings tell.
Oh, whither are my fainting spirits fled?
'Tis for Cælestia-Strephon, oh-she 's dead!
The brightest nymph, the princess of the plain,
By an untimely dart, untimely slain!
Dead! 'Tis impossible! She cannot die :
She's too divine, too much a deity:
'Tis a false rumour some ill swains have spread,
Who wish, perhaps, the good Cælestia dead.
Ah! no; the truth in every face appears;
For every face you meet 's o'erflow'd with tears.
Trembling, and pale, I ran through all the plain,
From flock to flock, and ask'd of every swain;
But each, scarce lifting his dejected head,
Cry'd, "Oh, Cosmelia! Oh, Calestia 's dead!"
A PASTORAL ESSAY ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN MARY.
Something was meant by that ill-broading croak
Of the prophetic raven from the oak,
Which straight by lightning was in shivers broke.
But we our mischief feel, before we see;
Seiz'd and o'erwhelm'd at once with misery.
Since then we have no trophies to bestow,
No pompous things to make a glorious show,
(For all the tribute a poor swain can bring,
In rural numbers, is to mourn and sing)
Let us, beneath the gloomy shade, rehearse
Calestia's sacred name in no less sacred verse.
Calestia dead! Then 'tis in vain to live;
What's all the comfort that the plains can give;
Since she, by whose bright influence alone
Our flocks increas'd, and we rejoic'd, is gone;
Since she, who round such beams of goodness spread
As gave new life to every swain, is dead?
In vain we wish for the delightful spring;
What joys can flowery May or April bring,
When she, for whom the spacious plains were spread
With early flowers and cheerful greens, is dead?
In vain did courtly Damon warm the earth,
To give to summer fruits a winter birth;
In vain we autumn wait, which crowns the fields
With wealthy crops, and various plenty yields;
Since that fair nymph, for whom the boundless store
Of Nature was preserv'd, is now no more.
Farewell for ever then to all that 's gay:
You will forget to sing, and I to play.
No more with cheerful songs, in cooling bowers,
Shall we consume the pleasurable hours:
All joys are banish'd, all delights are fled,
Ne'er to return, now fair Calestia 's dead.
If e'er I sing, they shall be mournful lays
Of great Cælestia's name, Cælestia's praise:
How good she was, how generons, how wise!
How beautiful her shape, how bright her eyes!
How charming all; how much she was ador'd,
Alive; when dead, how much her loss deplor'd!
A noble theme, and able to inspire
The humblest Muse with the sublimest fire.
And since we do of such a princess sing,
Let ours ascend upon a stronger wing;
And, while we do the lofty numbers join,
Her name will make the harmony divine.
Raise then thy tuneful voice; and be the song
Sweet as her temper, as her virtue strong.
When her great lord to foreign wars was gone,
And left Cælestia here to rule alone;
With how serene a brow, how void of fear,
When storms arose, did she the vessel steer!
And when the raging of the waves did cease,
How gentle was her sway in times of peace!
Justice and Mercy did their beams unite,
And round her temples spread a glorious light;
So quick she eas'd the wrongs of every swain,
She hardly gave them leisure to complain :
Impatient to reward, but slow to draw
Th' avenging sword of necessary Law:
Like Heaven, she took no pleasure to destroy;
With grief she punish'd, and she sav'd with joy.
When godlike Belliger, from war's alarms,
Return'd in triumph to Cælestia's arms,
She met her hero with a full desire;
But chaste as light, and vigorous as fire:
Such mutual flames, so equally divine,
Did in each breast with such a lustre shine,
His could not seem the greater, her's the less:
Both were immense, for both were in excess.
Oh, godlike princess! Oh, thrice happy swains!
Whilst she presided o'er the fruitful plains!
Whilst she, for ever ravish'd from our eyes,
Did for your peace her constant thoughts employ
To mingle with the kindred of the skies,
The nymph's good angel, and the shepherd's joy!
All that was noble beautify'd her mind;
There Wisdom sat, with solid Reason join'd:
There too did Piety and Greatness wait;
Meekness on Grandeur, Modesty on State:
Humble amidst the splendours of a throne;
Plac'd above all, and yet despising none.
And when a crown was forc'd on her by Fate,
She with some pains submitted to be great.
Her pious soul with emulation strove
To gain the mighty Pan's important love:
To whose mysterious rites she always came,
With such an active, so intense a flame;
The duties of religion seem'd to be
No more her care than her felicity.
Virtue unmix'd, without the least allay,
Pure as the light of a celestial ray,
Commanded all the motions of the soul
With such a soft, but absolute control,
That, as she knew what best great Pan would please,
She still perform'd it with the greatest ease.
Him for her high exemplar she design'd,
Like him, benevolent to all mankind.
Her foes she pity'd, nor desir'd their blood;
And, to revenge their crimes, she did them good:
Nay, all affronts so unconcern'd she bore,
(Maugre that violent temptation, power)
As if she thought it vulgar to resent,
Or wish'd forgiveness their worst punishment.
Next mighty Pan, was her illustrious lord,
His high vicegerent, sacredly ador'd:
Him with such piety and zeal she lov'd,
The noble passion every hour improv'd:
Till it ascended to that glorious height,
"Twas next (if only next) to infinite.
This made her so entire a duty pay,
She grew at last impatient to obey;
And met his wishes with as prompt a zcal
As an archangel his Creator's will.
Mature for Heaven, the fatal mandate came,
With it a chariot of ethereal flame;
In which, Elijah like, she pass'd the spheres;
Brought joy to Heaven, but left the the world in tears.
Methinks I see her on the plains of light,
All glorious, all incomparably bright!
While the immortal minds around her gaze
On the excessive splendour of her rays;
And scarce believe a human soul could be
Endow'd with such stupendous majesty.
Who can lament too much! O, who can mourn
Enough o'er beautiful Calestia's urn!
So great a loss as this deserves excess
Of sorrows; all 's too little that is less.
But, to supply the universal woe,
Tears from all eyes, without cessation, flow:
All that have power to weep, or voice to groan,
With throbbing breasts, Cælestia's fate bemoan;
While marble rocks the common griefs partake,
And echo back those cries they cannot make.
Weep then (once fruitful vales) and spring with yew!
Ye thirsty, barren mountains, weep with dew!
Let every flower on this extended plain
Not droop, but shrink into its womb again,
Ne'er to receive anew its yearly birth!
Let every thing that's grateful leave the Earth!
Let mournful cypress, with each noxious weed,
And baneful venoms, in their place succeed!
Ye purling, querulous brooks, o'ercharg'd with grief,
Haste swiftly to the sea for more relief;
Then tiding back, each to his sacred head,
Tell your astonish'd springs, Celestia 's dead!
Well have you sung, in an exalted strain,
The fairest nymph e'er grac'd the British plain.
Who knows but some officious angel may
Your grateful numbers to her ears convey !
That she may smile upon us from above,
And bless our mournful plains with peace and love!
But see, our flocks do to their folds repair;
For night with sable clouds obscures the air:
Cold damps descend from the unwholesome sky,
And safety bids us to our cottage fly.
Though with each morn our sorrows will return;
Each ev'n, like nightingales, we 'll sing and mourn,
Till Death conveys us to the peaceful urn.
TO HIS FRIEND,
UNDER AFFLICTION.
NONE lives in this tumultuous state of things,
Where every morning soon new troubles brings,
But bold inquietudes will break his rest,
And gloomy thoughts disturb his anxious breast.
Angelic forms, and happy spirits, are
Above the malice of perplexing care:
But that's a blessing too sublime, too high,
For those who bend beneath mortality,
If in the body there was but one part
Subject to pain, and sensible of smart,
And but one passion could torment the mind;
That part, that passion, busy Fate would find:
But, since infirmities in both abound,
Since sorrow both so many ways can wormd,
'Tis not so great a wonder that we grieve
Sometimes, as 'tis a miracle we live.
The happiest man that ever breath'd on Earth,
With all the glories of estate and birth,
Had yet some anxious care, to make him know,
No grandeur was above the reach of woe.
To be from all things that disquiet, free,
Is not consistent with humanity.
Youth, wit, and beauty, are such charming things,
O'er which, if Affluence spreads her gaudy wings,
We think the person who enjoys so much,
No care can move, and no affliction touch;
Yet could we but some secret method find
To view the dark recesses of the mind,
We there might see the hidden seed of strife,
And woes in embryo ripening into life:
How some fierce lust, or boisterous passion, fills
The labouring spirit with prolific ills;
Pride, Envy, or Revenge, distract the soul,
And all right Reason's godlike powers control;
But if she must not be allow'd to sway,
Though all without appears serene and gay,
A cankerous venom on the vitals preys,
And poisons all the comforts of his days.
External pomp and visible success
Sometimes contribute to our happiness;
But that which makes it genuine, refin'd,
Is a good conscience and a soul resign'd.
Then, to whatever end affliction 's sent,
To try our virtues, or for punishment,
We bear it calmly, though a ponderous woe,
And still adore the haud that gives the blow:
For, in misfortunes this advantage lies;
They make us humble, and they make us wise;
And he that can acquire such virtues, gains
An ample recompense for all his pains.
Too soft caresses of a prosperous fate
The pious fervours of the soul abate;
Tempt to luxurious ease our careless days,
And gloomy vapour round the spirits raise.
Thus lull'd into a sleep, we dozing lie,
And find our ruin in security;
Unless some sorrow comes to our relief,
And breaks th' enchantment by a timely grief.
But as we are allow'd, to cheer our sight,
In blackest days, some glimmerings of light,
So, in the most dejected hours, we may
The secret pleasure have to weep and pray;
And those requests the speediest passage find
To Heaven, which flow from an afflicted mind:
And while to him we open our distress,
Our pains grow lighter, and our sorrows less.
The finest music of the grove we owe
To mourning Philomel's harmonious woe;
And while her grief 's in charming notes express'd,
A thorny bramble pricks her tender breast;
In warbling melody she spends the night,
And moves at once compassion and delight.
No choice had e'er so happy an event,
But he that made it did that choice repent,
So weak 's our judgment, and so short 's our sight,
We cannot level our own wishes right:
And if sometimes we make a wise advance,
T' ourselves we little owe but much to chance.
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