reason cou’d resolve me which to choose, as I was one day meditating
what to do in this extremity, a Woman presented herself to me, whose
Beauty was infinitely transcending all I had ever beheld; she had a
noble and Majestick meen, a most Divine Air, and her charms cast so
great a Lustre that I was dazzl’d with Gazing on her; she struck me
with so profound a respect at the first sight of her Glory’s, that I
cou’d not forbear throwing myself at her feet, imploring I might be
eternally permitted to Adore her; and to become her slave. When raising
me from the ground, and looking on me with Eyes more Majestick than
kind, she said to me in a loud voyce:
Fly, _Lysidus_, this hated Place,
Too long thou’st bin a slave to Love.
Thy youth has yet a nobler Race
In more Illustrious paths to move.
Glory your fonder flame controuls,
Glory, the life of generous Souls.
Once you must Love to learn to live,
‘Tis the first lesson you shou’d learn;
Useful instructions Love will give,
If you avoid too much concern:
Loves flame, thô in appearance bright,
Deceives with false and glittering light.
But, _Lysidus_, the time is come
You must to Beauty bid adieu;
Recal your wandering passions home.
And only be to Glory true;
She is a Mistress that will last
When all Loves fires are gone and past.
Those words, repeated to me with an Air haughty and imperious, toucht
me to the very Soul, and made me blush a thousand times with shame
to behold myself in that ridiculous state, almost reduc’d to the
same tenderness for _Bellinda_ and _Bellimante_ I had before had for
_Silvia_; but I soon found my error and in an instant became more
in Love with Glory than I had ever been in my life. Insomuch that I
resolv’d to leave _Irresolution_ and follow her. I confess at first it
gave my heart som little pain to withdraw and dis-ingage it from so
long and so fond a custom, and I was more than once forc’d to parley
thus with my intractable and stubborn heart.
Oh! fond remembrance! do not bring
False notions to my easy heart.
And make the foolish tender thing
Think, that with Love it cannot part;
Or dy when er’e the charming God
Forsak’s his old and kind abode.
And thou, my heart, be calm and Pleas’d,
For better hours thou now shalt see,
Of all thy Anxious torments eas’d
From all thy toyles and slavery free,
From Beauties Pride and peevish scorns,
From Wits Intregueing false returns.
‘Tis Honour now thou shalt persue,
Her dictates only shalt obey;
Yet Beauty en Passant may view
And be with all loves Pleasures Gay,
Quench when you please resistless fires,
But make no business of desires.
Thus, my dear _Lysander_, following Glory, I soon arriv’d at the extent
of the Island of _Love_, and there I incounter’d a thousand Beauties,
Attractions, Graces and Agreements; all which endeavor’d anew, but in
vain, to engage me. I past by ‘em all without any regard only sight,
as I beheld ‘em with the remembrance, how once the meanest of those
Beauties wou’d have charm’d me. I lookt back on all those happy shades,
who had been conscious of my softest pleasures, and a thousand times
I sighing bid ‘em farewell; the Rivers, Springs and Fountains had my
wishes that they might still be true and favor Lovers, as they had a
thousand times done me. These dear remembrance, you may believe, stay’d
some time with me, yet I wou’d not for an Empire have return’d to ‘em
again, nor have liv’d that life over anew I had so long and with so
much pleasure persu’d.
After this I took a Vessel and put off from that shore, where, thô I
had met with many Misfortunes, I had also receiv’d a thousand joys:
While it was in view I found myself toucht with some regret, but being
sail’d out of sight of it, I sigh’d no more, but bid adieu to fond Love
for ever.
All you Beauties and Attractions,
That make so many hearts submit;
Soft inspirers of affection,
Mistresses of dear bought wit;
To whose Empire we resigning
Prove our homage justly due,
After all our sighs and whining
Dear delight we bid adieu.
After all your fond _Caprices_,
All your Arts to seem Divine,
Painting, Patching and your Dresses,
Easy votaryes to incline;
After all your couzening _Billets_,
Sighs and tears, but all untrue,
To your Gilting tricks and quillets,
I for ever bid adieu.
A MISCELLANY OF POEMS.
_On the Honourable Sir_ Francis Fane, _on his Play call’d the_
Sacrifice, _by Mrs._ A. B.
Long have our Priests condemn’d a wicked Age, }
And every little criticks sensless rage }
Damn’d a forsaken self-declining stage: }
Great ‘tis confest and many are our crimes,
And no less profligate the vitious times,
But yet no wonder both prevail so ill,
The Poets fury and the Preachers skill;
While to the World it is so plainly known
They blame our faults with great ones of their own,
Let their dull Pens flow with unlearned spight
And weakly censure what the skilful write;
You, learned Sir, a nobler passion shew,
Our best of rules and best example too.
Precepts and grave instructions dully move,
The brave Performer better do’s improve,
Ver’st in the truest Satyr you excel
And shew how ill we write by writing well.
This noble Piece which well deserves your name
I read with pleasure thô I read with shame.
The tender Laurels which my brows had drest
Flag, like young Flowers, with too much heat opprest.
The generous fire I felt in every line
Shew’d me the cold, the feeble, force of mine.
Henceforth I’le you for imitation chuse
Your nobler flights will wing my Callow Muse;
So the young Eagle is inform’d to fly }
By seeing the Monarch Bird ascend the sky. }
And thô with less success her strength she’l try, }
Spreads her soft plumes and his vast tracks persues
Thô far above the towring Prince she views:
High as she can she’ll bear your deathless fame,
And make my song Immortal by your name.
But where the work is so Divinely wrought,
The rules so just and so sublime each thought,
When with so strict an Art your scenes are plac’d
With wit so new, and so uncommon, grac’d,
In vain, alas! I should’st attempt to tell
Where, or in what, your Muse do’s most excel.
Each character performs its noble part,
And stamps its Image on the Readers heart.
In _Tamerlan_ you a true Hero drest,
A generous conflict wars within his breast,
This there the mightyest passions you have shew’d
By turns confest the Mortal and the God.
When e’re his steps approach the haughty fair
He bows indeed but like a Conqueror,
Compell’d to Love yet scorns his servial chain,
In spight of all you make the Monarch reign.
But who without resistless tears can see
The bright, the innocent, _Irene_ die?
_Axalla’s_ life a noble ransom paid,
In vain to save the much-lov’d charming maid,
Nought surely cou’d but your own flame inspire
Your happy Muse to reach so soft a fire.
Yet with what Art you turn the pow’rful stream
When trecherous _Ragallzan_ is the theam:
You mix our different passions with such skill,
We feel ‘em all and all with pleasure feel.
We love the mischief, thô the harms we grieve,
And for his wit the villain we forgive.
In your _Despina_ all those passions meet,
Which womans frailties perfectly compleat.
Pride and Revenge, Ambition, Love and Rage,
At once her wilful haughty Soul engage;
And while her rigid Honour we esteem,
The dire effects as justly must condemn.
She shews a virtue so severely nice
As has betray’d it to a pitch of vice.
All which confess a God-like pow’r in you
Who cou’d form woman to herself so true.
Live, mighty Sir, to reconcile the Age
To the first glories of the useful Stage.
‘Tis you her rifl’d Empire may restore
And give her power she ne’re cou’d boast before.
_To_ Damon.
_To inquire of him if he cou’d tell me by the Style, who writ me a Copy
of Verses that came to me in an unknown Hand, by Mrs._ A. B.
Oh, _Damon_, if thou ever wert
That certain friend thou hast profest,
Relieve the Pantings of my heart,
Restore me to my wonted rest.
Late in the _Silvian_ Grove I sat,
Free as the Air, and calm as that;
For as no winds the boughs opprest,
No storms of Love were in my breast.
A long Adieu I’d bid to that
Ere since _Amintas_ prov’d ingrate.
And with indifference, or disdain,
I lookt around upon the Plain
And worth my favor found no sighing Swain.
But oh, my _Damon_, all in vain
I triumph’d in security,
In vain absented from the Plain.
The wanton God his power to try
In lone recesses makes us yeild,
As well as in the open feild;
For where no human thing was found
My heedless heart receiv’d a wound.
Assist me, Shepherd, or I dye,
Help to unfold this Mystery.
No Swain was by, no flattering Nymph was neer,
Soft tales of Love to whisper in my Ear.
In sleep, no Dream my fancy fir’d
With Images, my waking wish desir’d.
No fond Idea fill’d my mind;
Nor to the faithless sex one thought inclin’d;
I sigh’d for no deceiving youth,
Who forfeited his vows and truth;
I waited no Assigning Swain
Whose disappointment gave me pain.
My fancy did no prospect take
Of Conquest’s I design’d to make.
No snares for Lovers I had laid,
Nor was of any snare afraid.
But calm and innocent I sate, }
Content with my indifferent fate. }
(A Medium, I confess, I hate.) }
For when the mind so cool is grown }
As neither Love nor Hate to own, }
The Life but dully lingers on. }
Thus in the mid’st of careless thought,
A paper to my hand was brought.
What hidden charms were lodg’d within,
To my unwary Eyes unseen,
Alas! no Human thought can guess;
But ho! it robb’d me of my peace.
A Philter ‘twas, that darted pain
Thrô every pleas’d and trembling vein.
A stratagem, to send a Dart
By a new way into the heart,
Th’ Ignoble Policie of Love
By a clandestin means to move.
Which possibly the Instrument }
Did ne’re design to that intent, }
But only form, and complement. }
While Love did the occasion take
And hid beneath his flowres a snake,
O’re every line did Poyson fling,
In every word he lurk’t a sting.
So Matrons are, by _Demons_ charms,
Thô harmless, capable of harms.
The verse was smooth, the thought was fine,
The fancy new, the wit divine.
But fill’d with praises of my face and Eyes,
My verse, and all those usual flatteries
To me as common as the Air;
Nor cou’d my vanity procure my care.
All which as things of course are writ
And less to shew esteem than wit.
But here was some strange somthing more
Than ever flatter’d me before;
My heart was by my Eyes misled:
I blusht and trembl’d as I read.
And every guilty look confest
I was with new surprise opprest.
From every view I felt a pain
And by the Soul, I drew the Swain.
Charming as fancy cou’d create
Fine as his Poem, and as soft as that.
I drew him all the heart cou’d move,
I drew him all that women Love.
And such a dear Idea made
As has my whole repose betray’d.
_Pigmalion_ thus his Image form’d,
And for the charms he made, he sigh’d and burn’d.
Oh thou that know’st each Shepherds Strains }
That Pipes and Sings upon the Plains; }
Inform me where the youth remains. }
The spightful Paper bare no name,
Nor can I guess from whom it came,
Or if at least a guess I found,
‘Twas not t’instruct but to confound.
_To_ Alexis _in Answer to his Poem against Fruition_.
ODE. _by Mrs._ B.
Ah hapless sex! who bear no charms,
But what like lightning flash and are no more,
False fires sent down for baneful harms,
Fires which the fleeting Lover feebly warms
And given like past Beboches o’re,
Like Songs that please (thô bad,) when new,
But learn’d by heart neglected grew.
In vain did Heav’n adorn the shape and face
With Beautyes which by Angels forms it drew:
In vain the mind with brighter Glories Grace,
While all our joys are stinted to the space
Of one betraying enterview,
With one surrender to the eager will
We’re short-liv’d nothing, or a real ill.
Since Man with that inconstancy was born,
To love the absent, and the present scorn,
Why do we deck, why do we dress
For such a short-liv’d happiness?
Why do we put Attraction on,
Since either way ‘tis we must be undon?
They fly if Honour take our part,
Our Virtue drives ‘em o’re the field.
We lose ‘em by too much desert,
And Oh! they fly us if we yeild,
Ye Gods! is there no charm in all the fair
To fix this wild, this faithless, wanderer?
Man! our great business and our aim,
For whom we spread our fruitless snares,
No sooner kindles the designing flame,
But to the next bright object bears
The Trophies of his conquest and our shame:
Inconstancy’s the good supream
The rest is airy Notion, empty Dream!
Then, heedless Nymph, be rul’d by me
If e’re your Swain the bliss desire;
Think like _Alexis_ he may be
Whose wisht Possession damps his fire;
The roving youth in every shade
Has left some sighing and abandon’d Maid,
For ‘tis a fatal lesson he has learn’d,
After fruition ne’re to be concern’d.
_To_ Alexis, _On his saying, I lov’d a Man that talk’d much, by Mrs._ B.
_Alexis_, since you’ll have it so
I grant I am impertinent.
And till this moment did not know
Thrô all my life what ‘twas I ment;
Your kind opinion was th’ unflattering Glass,
In which my mind found how deform’d it was.
In your clear sense which knows no art,
I saw the error of my Soul;
And all the feebless of my heart,
With one reflection you controul,
Kind as a God, and gently you chastise,
By what you hate, you teach me to be wise.
Impertinence, my sexes shame,
(Which has so long my life persu’d,)
You with such modesty reclaim
As all the Woman has subdu’d,
To so divine a power what must I owe,
That renders me so like the perfect--you?
That conversable thing I hate
Already with a just disdain,
Who Prid’s himself upon his prate
And is of word, (that Nonsense,) vain;
When in your few appears such excellence,
They have reproacht, and charm’d me into sense.
For ever may I listning sit,
Thô but each hour a word be born:
I wou’d attend the coming wit,
And bless what can so well inform:
Let the dull World henceforth to words be damn’d,
I’m into nobler sense than talking sham’d.
A PASTORAL PINDARICK.
_On the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Earle of_ Dorset _and_
Middlesex, _to the Lady_ Mary Compton.
_A Dialogue._
_Between_ Damon _and_ Aminta.
_By Mrs._ Behn.
_Aminta._
Whither, young _Damon_, whither in such hast,
Swift as the Winds you sweep the Grove,
The Amorous God of Day scarce hy’d so fast
After his flying Love?
_Damon._
_Aminta_, view my Face, and thence survey
My very Soul and all its mighty joy!
A joy too great to be conceal’d,
And without speaking is reveal’d;
For this eternal Holyday.
A Day to place i’th’ Shepherds Kalendar,
To stand the glory of the circling year.
Let its blest date on every Bark be set,
And every Echo its dear name repeat.
Let ‘em tell all the neighbouring Woods and Plains,
That _Lysidus_, the Beauty of the Swains,
Our darling youth, our wonder and our Pride,
Is blest with fair _Clemena_ for a Bride.
Oh happy Pair! Let all the Groves rejoyce,
And gladness fill each heart and every voyce!
_Aminta._
_Clemena!_ that bright maid for whom our Shepherds pine,
For whom so many weeping Eyes decline!
For whom the Echos all complain,
For whom with sigh and falling tears
The Lover in his soft despairs
Disturbs the Peaceful Rivers gliding stream?
The bright _Clemena_ who has been so long
The destinie of hearts and yet so young,
She that has robb’d so many of content
Yet is herself so Sweet, so Innocent.
She, that as many hearts invades,
As charming _Lysidus_ has conquer’d maids,
Oh tell me, _Damon_, is the lovely fair
Become the dear reward of all the Shepherds care?
Has _Lysidus_ that prize of Glory won
For whom so many sighing Swains must be undon?
_Damon._
Yes, it was destin’d from Eternity,
They only shou’d each other’s be,
Hail, lovely pair, whom every God design’d
In your first great Creation shou’d be joyn’d.
_Aminta._
Oh, _Damon_, this is vain Philosophie,
‘Tis chance and not Divinity,
That guides Loves Partial Darts;
And we in vain the Boy implore
To make them Love whom we Adore.
And all the other powers take little care of hearts,
The very Soule’s by intr’est sway’d,
And nobler passion now by fortune is betray’d;
By sad experience this I know,
And sigh, Alas! in vain because tis true.
_Damon._
Too often and too fatally we find
Portion and Joynture charm the mind,
Large Flocks and Herds, and spacious Plains
Becoms the merit of the Swains.
But here, thô both did equally abound,
‘Twas youth, ‘twas wit, ‘twas Beauty gave the equal wound;
Their Soules were one before they mortal being found.
_Jove_ when he layd his awful Thunder by
And all his softest Attributes put on,
When Heav’n was Gay, and the vast Glittering Sky
With Deities all wondering and attentive shone,
The God his Luckyest heat to try
Form’d their great Soules of one Immortal Ray,
He thought, and form’d, as first he did the World,
But with this difference, That from _Chaos_ came,
These from a beam, which, from his God-head hurl’d
Kindl’d into an everlasting flame.
He smiling saw the mighty work was good,
While all the lesser Gods around him gazing stood.
He saw the shining Model bright and Great
But oh! they were not yet compleat,
For not one God but did the flames inspire,
With sparks of their Divinest fire.
_Diana_ took the lovely Female Soul,
And did its fiercer Atoms cool;
Softn’d the flame and plac’d a Chrystal Ice
About the sacred Paradise,
Bath’d it all or’e in Virgin Tears,
Mixt with the fragrant Dew the Rose receives,
Into the bosom of her untoucht leaves,
And dry’d it with the breath of Vestal Prayers, }
_Juno_ did great Majestick thought inspire }
And _Pallas_ toucht it with Heroick fire. }
While _Mars_, _Apollo_, _Love_ and _Venus_ sate,
About the Hero’s Soul in high debate,
Each claims it all, but all in vain contend,
In vain appeal to mighty _Jove_,
Who equal Portions did to all extend.
This to the God of wit, and that to Love,
Another to the Queen of soft desire,
And the fierce God of War compleats the rest,
Guilds it all or’e with Martial fire;
While Love, and Wit, Beauty and War exprest
Their finest Arts, and the bright Beings all in Glory drest.
While each in their Divine imployments strove }
By every charm these new-form’d lights t’improve, }
They left a space untoucht for mightyer Love. }
The finishing last strokes the Boy perform’d;
Who from his Quiver took a Golden Dart
That cou’d a sympathizing wound impart,
And toucht ‘em both, and with one flame they burn’d.
The next great work was to create two frames
Of the Divinest form,
Fit to contain these heavenly flames.
The Gods decreed, and charming _Lysidus_ was born,
Born, and grew up the wonder of the Plains, }
Joy of the Nymphs and Glory of the Swains. }
And warm’d all hearts with his inchanting strains; }
Soft were the Songs, which from his lips did flow,
Soft as the Soul which the fine thought conceiv’d.
Soft as the sighs the charming Virgin breath’d
The first dear night of the chast nuptial vow.
The noble youth even _Daphnis_ do’s excel,
Oh never Shepherd pip’d and sung so well.
_Aminta._
Now, _Damon_, you are in your proper sphear,
While of his wit you give a character.
But who inspir’d you a Philosopher?
_Damon._
Old _Colin_, when we oft have led our Flocks
Beneath the shelter of the shad’s and Rocks,
While other youths more vainly spent their time,
I listen’d to the wonderous Bard;
And while he sung of things sublime
With reverend pleasure heard.
He soar’d to the Divine abodes
And told the secrets of the Gods.
And oft discours’d of Love and Sympathy;
For he as well as thou and I
Had sigh’t for some dear object of desire;
But oh! till now I ne’re cou’d prove
That secret mystery of Love;
Ne’re saw two hearts thus burn with equal fire.
_Aminta._
But, oh! what Nymph e’re saw the noble youth
That was not to eternal Love betray’d?
_Damon._
And, oh! what swain e’re saw the Lovely maid,
That wou’d not plight her his eternal faith!
Not unblown Roses, or the new-born day
Or pointed Sun-beams, when they gild the skys,
Are half so sweet, are half so bright and gay,
As young _Clemena’s_ charming Face and Eyes!
_Aminta._
Not full-blown flowrs, when all their luster’s on
Whom every bosom longs to wear,
Nor the spread Glories of the mid-days sun
Can with the charming _Lysidus_ compare.
_Damon._
Not the soft gales of gentle breez
That whisper to the yeilding Trees,
Nor songs of Birds that thrô the Groves rejoyce,
Are half so sweet, so soft, as young _Clemena’s_ voyce.
_Aminta._
Not murmurs of the Rivulets and Springs,
When thrô the glades they purling glide along
And listen when the wondrous shepherd sings,
Are half so sweet as is the Shepherds song.
_Damon._
Not young _Diana_ in her eager chase
When by her careless flying Robe betray’d,
Discovering every charm and every Grace,
Has more surprising Beauty than the brighter maid.
_Aminta._
The gay young Monarch of the cheerful _May_
Adorn’d with all the Trophies he has won,
Vain with the Homage of the joyful day
Compar’d to _Lysidus_ wou’d be undone.
_Damon._
_Aminta_, cease; and let me hast away,
For while upon this Theam you dwell,
You speak the noble youth so just, so well,
I cou’d for ever listning stay.
_Aminta._
And while _Clemena’s_ praise becoms thy choyce,
My Ravisht soul is fixt upon thy voyce.
_Damon._
But see the Nymphs and dancing swains
Ascend the Hill from yonder Plains,
With Wreathes and Garlands finely made,
To crown the lovely Bride and Bridegrooms head,
And I amongst the humbler throng
My Sacrifice must bring
A rural Hymeneal Song,
_Alexis_ he shall pipe while I will sing.
Had I been blest with Flocks or Herd
A nobler Tribute I’d prepar’d,
With darling Lambs the Altars I wou’d throng;
But I, alas! can only offer song.
Song too obscure, too humble verse
For this days glory to reherse,
But _Lysidus_, like Heav’n, is kind,
And for the Sacrifice accepts the Humble mind.
If he vouchsafe to listen to my Ode
He makes me happyer than a fancy’d God.
_On Desire._
_A Pindarick. By Mrs._ B.
What Art thou, oh! thou new-found pain?
From what infection dost thou spring?
Tell me.--oh! tell me, thou inchanting thing,
Thy nature, and thy name;
Inform me by what subtil Art,
What powerful Influence,
You got such vast Dominion in a part
Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart,
That fame and Honour cannot drive yee thence.
Oh! mischievous usurper of my Peace;
Oh! soft intruder on my solitude,
Charming disturber of my ease,
Thou hast my nobler fate persu’d,
And all the Glorys of my life subdu’d.
Thou haunt’st my inconvenient hours;
The business of the Day, nor silence of the night,
That shou’d to cares and sleep invite,
Can bid defyance to thy conquering powers.
Where hast thou been this live-long Age
That from my Birth till now,
Thou never could’st one thought engage,
Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage
That made it all its humble feebles know?
Where wert thou, oh, malicious spright,
When shining Honour did invite?
When interest call’d, then thou wert shy,
Nor to my aid one kind propension brought,
Nor wou’d’.t inspire one tender thought,
When Princes, at my feet did lye.
When thou cou’d’.t mix ambition with thy joy,
Then peevish _Phantôm_ thou wer’t nice and coy,
Not Beauty cou’d invite thee then
Nor all the Arts of lavish Men;
Not all the powerful Rhetorick of the Tongue
Not sacred Wit you’d charm thee on;
Not the soft play that lovers make,
Nor sigh cou’d fan thee to a fire,
Not pleading tears, nor vows cou’d thee awake,
Or warm the unform’d somthing--to desire.
Oft I’ve conjur’d thee to appear
By youth, by love, by all their powrs,
Have searcht and sought thee every where,
In silent Groves, in lonely bowrs:
On Flowry beds where lovers wishing lye,
In sheltering woods where sighing maids
To their assigning Shepherds hye,
And hide their blushes in the gloom of shades:
Yet there, even there, thô youth assail’d,
Where Beauty prostrate lay and fortune woo’d,
My heart insensible to neither bow’d,
The lucky aid was wanting to prevail.
In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphear
But thou in crowds wer’t stifl’d there,
Int’rest did all the loving business do,
Invites the youths and wins the Virgins too.
Or if by chance some heart thy empire own
(Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone.
Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate
Thy mighty force thrô every part,
What God, or Human power did thee create
In my, till now, unfacil heart?
Art thou some welcome plague sent from above
In this dear form, this kind disguise?
Or the false offspring of mistaken love,
Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove,
With the bright peircing Beautys of _Lysanders_ Eyes?
Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now;
And found to whom thou dost thy being owe,
‘Tis thou the blushes dost impart,
For thee this languishment I wear,
‘Tis thou that tremblest in my heart
When the dear Shepherd do’s appear,
I faint, I dye with pleasing pain,
My words intruding sighing break
When e’re I touch the charming swain
When e’re I gaze, when e’re I speak.
Thy conscious fire is mingl’d with my love,
As in the sanctifi’d abodes
Misguided worshippers approve
The mixing Idol with their Gods.