But Death, obdurate, both destroy'd
The perfect fruit, and opening bud:
First seiz'd the sweets we had enjoy'd,
Then robb'd us of the coming good.
See, see, she wakes, Sabina wakes!
And now the sun begins to rise;
Less glorious is the morn that breaks
From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.
With light united, day they give,
But different fates ere night fulfil
How many by his warmth will live!
How many will her coldness kill!
Fair Amoret is gone astray;
Pursue and seek her, every lover;
I'll tell the signs by which you may
The wandering shepherdess discover.
Coquet and coy at once her air,
Both studied, though both seem neglected; Careless she is with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
With skill her eyes dart every glance,
Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them;
For she'd persuade they wound by chance,
Though certain aim and art direct them.
She likes herself, yet others hates
For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.
The Rev. THOMAS YALDEN, D.D. (1670-1736)
For many unsuccessful years
At Cynthia's feet I lay;
Battering them often with my tears
I sigh'd, but durst not pray.
No prostrate wretch, before the shrine
Of some lov'd saint above,
E'er thought his goddess more divine
Or paid more awful love.
Still the disdainful nymph look'd down
With coy insulting pride;
Receiv'd my passion with a frown,
Or turn'd her head aside.
Then Cupid whisper'd in my ear,
"Use more prevailing charms;
You modest, whining fool, draw near,
And clasp her in your arms.
"With eager kisses tempt the maid,
From Cynthia's feet depart;
The lips he briskly must invade,
That would possess the heart."
With that I shook off all the slave,
My better fortunes tried ;
When Cynthia in a moment gave
What she for years denied.
This poem has also been attributed-erroneously, I think-to Prior.
Go, lovely pair of roses, go,
This clad in scarlet, that in snow.
Go say to my ungentle fair,
(If on your forms she deigns to gaze),
You dare not hope to rival her,
Or match the glories of her face;
But that you're humbly sent, to prove
A youth undone by Beauty and her love.
The sickly white in this pale rose
My wan and meagre looks disclose :
But that which shines so fiercely bright,
Whose head in painted flames aspires,
And blushes so with purple light,
It seems to send forth real fires,
Tell her, that rose's ruddy fires impart
The flames her eyes have kindled in my heart.
I saw Lucinda's bosom bare,
Transparent was the skin,
As through a crystal, did appear
A beating heart within.
The beating heart transfix'd I saw,
And yet the heart was stone;
I saw it bleed, and by the wound
I thought it was mine own.
But O! when I perceiv'd it was
Enshrin'd within your breast,
I knew 'twas yours: for mine, alas!
Was never yet so blest!
* Of this writer I know nothing. His poems were written, he says in his preface, when he was a young man. He did not publish them till 1713, but possibly they were written in the Restoration period.
COLLEY CIBBER, Poet Laureate (1671-1757)
O, say, what is that thing call'd light,
Which I can ne'er enjoy?
What is the blessing of the sight?
O, tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Then make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I wake, or play;
And could I ever keep awake,
It would be always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hopeless woe :
But, sure, with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy ;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy!
The Rt. Hon. JOSEPH ADDISON, M.P. (1672-1719)
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display ;
And publishes, to every land,
The work of an almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth :
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though nor real voice, nor sound,
Amidst their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine.”
Paraphrase on Psalm XXIII
The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my want supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks He shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering steps He leads;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.
Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For Thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
|