« السابقةمتابعة »
Practis'd to lisp, and hang the head aside, Gods ! shall the ravisher display your hair,
Methinks already I your tears survey,
Already see you a degraded toast, Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise ; And all your honour in a whisper lost! Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted shades, How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend ? Or bright, as visions of expiring maids.
"Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires : Expos'd through crystal to the gazing eyes, Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes,
And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays, And crystal domes, and angels in machines. On that rapacious hand for ever blaze !
Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seen, Sooner shall grass in Hyde-park Circus grow, Of bodies chang'd to various forns by Spleen. And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow! Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out, Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all !* A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks ;
She said ; then raging to sir Plumc repairs, Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pye talks ; And bids her beau demand the precious hairs : Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works, (Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain, And maids, turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks. And the nice conduct of a clouded cane)
Safe past the Gnome through this fantastic band, With earnest eyes, and mund unthinking face, A branch of healing spleen-wort in his hand, He Orst the snuff-box open'd, then the case, Then thus address'd the power" Hail, wayward And thus broke out - My Lord, why, what the Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen : [queen!
“ devil? Parent of vapours, and of female wit,
* Zds! damn the Lock! 'fore Gad, you must be Who give th’ hysteric, or poetic fit,
“ civil! On various tempers act by various ways,
“ Plague on't ! 'tis past a jest-nay pr’ythee, pox! Make some take physic, others scribble plays; “ Give her the hair”-he spoke, and rapp'd his box Who cause the proud their visits to delay,
It grieves me much (reply'd the peer again) And send the godly in a pet to pray.
Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain; A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains, But by this Lock, this sacred Lock, I swear, And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. (Which never more shall join its parted hair ; But, oh! if e'er thy Gnome could spoil a grace, Which never more its honours shall renew, Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,
Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew) Like citron-waters, matrons' cheeks inflame, That while my nostrils draw the vital air, Or change complexions at a losing game;
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." If e'er with airy horns I planted heads,
He spoke, and, speaking, in proud triumph spread Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,
The long-contended honours of her head. Or caus'd suspicion where no soul was rude,
But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not so; Or discompos'd the head-dress of a prude,
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease,
Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease: Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears; Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin: On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head, That single act gives half the world the spleen.” Which, with a sigh, she rais'd ; and thus she saida The goddess with a discontented air
“ For ever curs'd be this detested day,
Oh bad I rather unadmir'd remajn'd
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. Where none learn ombre, none c'er taste bobea !
Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found, There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye, Her eyes dejected, and her hair inbound.
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. Full o'er their heads the swelling bay he rent, What mov'd my inind with youthful lords to roam? And all the l'uries issued at the vent.
Oh had I stay'd, and said my prayers at home! Belinda burns with inore than mortal irc,
'Twas this, the morning omens seein'd to tell, And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 94 Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; "Owretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cry'd, The tuttering china shook without a wind, (While Hampton's ochoes, wretched inaid ! reply'd) Nay Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind ! “ Was it for this you took such constant care A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of Fate, The boilkin, comb, and essence, to prepare? In mystic visions, now believ'd too late! For this your locks in paper durance bound, See the poor reinnants of these slighted hairs ! For this with torturing irons wreath'd around ? My hand shall rend what er 'n thy rapine spares: For this with fillets strain'd your tinder head, These in two sable ringlets taught to break, And bravely bore the double loads of lead / Once gave new beauties to the snowy beck;
The Sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone,
'Gainst Pallas, Mars ; Latona Herines arms; And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ;
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms; Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal sheers demands, Jove's thunder roars, Heaven trembles all around, And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands. Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound : Oh hadst thou, cruel ! been content to seize Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these !”
way, And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel on a sconec's height 53
Clapp'd his glad wings, and sate to view the fight CANTO V.
Propp'd on their bodkin-spears, the sprites survey Sue said : the pitying audience melt in tears ; The growing combat, or assist the fray. But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the baron's ears. While through the press enrag'd Thalestris flick In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,
And scatters death around from both her eyes, For who can move when fair Belinda fails? A beau and witling perish'd in the throng, Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,
One dy'd in metaphor, and one in song. While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain.
“O cruel nymph! a living death I bear," Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan; Cry'd Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began.
A mournful glance sir Fopling upwards cast, “Say,why are beauties prais'd and honour'd most, “ 'Those eyes are made so killing" was his last. The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast ? Thus on Mxander's flowery margin lies Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford, 'Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. Why angels call’d, and angel-like adord ?
When bold sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; beaux ?
Sbe smil'd to see the doughty hero slain, Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows ? But, at her smile, the beau reviv'd again. How vain are all these glories, all our pains,
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains :
Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair ; That men may say, when we the front-box grace,
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side ; Behold the first in virtue as in face!
At length the wits inount iip, the hairs subsido. Oh! if to dance all night and dress all day,
See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies, Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old-age away;
With more than usual lightning in her eyes: Who would not scorn what housewife's cares pro
Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try, duce,
Who sought no more than on his foe to die. Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
But this bold lord, with manly strength endu'da. To patch, nay ogle, may becoine a saint; She with one finger and a thumb subdued : Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, But since, alas! frail beauty must decay ;
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; Curld or uncurl'd, since Lorks will turn to grey;
The Gnomes direct, to every atorn just, Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, The pungent grains of titillating dust. And she who scorns a man, must die a maid;
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, What then remains, but well our power to use,
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lose? “Now meet thy fate," incens'd Belinda cry's, And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. When airs, and tights, and screams, and scolding (The same, his ancient personage to deck, Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; (fail. Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.” In three seal-rings; which after, melted down,
Forin'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown >
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, " To arms, to arms!” the fierce virago cries, 37 | The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, All side in parties, and begin th' attack ;
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) Pans clap, silks rustle, and wugh
whalebones crack; Thou by some other shalt be laid as low.
“ Boast not my fall (he cry'd, insulting foe! Heroes' and beroines' shouts confus’dly rise, And base and treble voices strike the skies.
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind : No common weapon in their hands are found;
All that I dread is leaving you behind ! Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.
Rather than so, ah let me still survive, So when bold Homer makes the gods engage,
And burn in Cupid's flames--but burn alive." And heavenly breasts with human passions rage;
“ Restore the Lock," she cries; and all around, “Restore the Lock!" the vaulted roofs rebounds Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain
Roard for the handkerchief that caus'd his paino Ver. 7. Then grave Clarissa, &c.] A new cha- But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, racter introduced in the subsequent editions, to
And chiefs conten till all the prize is lost! open more clearly the moral of the poem, in a
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain, parody of the speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus in in every place is sought, but sought in vain : Homer. Ver. 37. To arms, to arms!) From hence the
VARIATION first edition goes on to the conclusion, except a very few short insertions added, to keep the ma
Ver. 53. Triumphant Umbriel] These four linea chinery io view to the end of the poem.
added, for the reason before mentioned.
With such a prize no mortal must be blest, Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; So Heaven decrees ! with Heaven who cán con- The glorious fault of angels and of gods : test?
Thence to their images on Earth it flows, Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Since all things lost on Earth are treasur'd there. Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age, There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, Dull zullen prisoners in the body's cage: And beaux in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases : Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; And lovers' hearts with ends of ribband bound; Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep, The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep. The smiles of haplots, and the tears of hejrs,
From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a fea, Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.
As into air the purer spirits flow, But trust the Muser-she saw it upward rise, And separate from their kindred dregs below; Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes : So flew the soul to its congenjal place, (So Rome's great founder to the Heavens with Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. drew,
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, To Proculus alone confess'd in view)
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood A sudden star, it shot through liquid air,
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
These cheeks now fading at the blast of Death ; Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright,
Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before, The Heaven bespangling with disheveli'd light. And those love-darting eyes must foll no more. The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, 131 | Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball, And pleas'd pursue its progress through the skies. Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: This the beau-monde shall from the Mall sure
On all the line à sudden vengeance waits, vey,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; And hail with music its propitious ray,
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, This the blest lover shall for Venus take,
(While the long funerals blaoken all the way) And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. “Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steeld, This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, And curst with hearts unknowing how to yield.” When next he looks through Galileo's eyes ;
Thus unlamented pass the proud away, And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.
So perish all, whose breast ne'er leam'd to glow, Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy
For others good, or melt at others woe ravish'd hair,
What can atone (ah ever-injur'd shade!) Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ? Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, No friend's complaint, no kind domestic teat Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost, Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier : For, after all the murders of your eye,
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closid, When, after millions slain, yourself shall die ; By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
By foreigu hands thy humble grave adorn'd, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
What though no friends iŋ sable weeds appear, And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.
Grieve for an þour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressid, What beckoning ghost, along the moon-light And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : shade,
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ? There the first roses of the year shall blow ; 'Tis she ! --but why that bleeding bosom gord, While angels with their silver wings o'ershade Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ?
The ground now sacred by thy reliques made. On ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, Is it, in Heaven, a crime to love too well ?
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and famci To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
To whom related, or by whom begot ;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Above the vulgar flight of low desire ?
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue,
Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, VARIATION.
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, Ver. 131. The Sylphs behold,] These two lines and the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, added for the same reason, to keep in view the Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, machinery of the poem.
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
And, did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.
There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale, TO MR. ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO.
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail; To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, Such rage without betrays the fire within ; To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; In some close corner of the soul, they sin; To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold : Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice. For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage, The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns, Commanding tears to stream through every age; Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crama Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, Would you enjoy soft nights, and solid dinners ? And foes to Virtue wonder'd how they wept. Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
Well, if our author in the wife offends, (sinners The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
He has a husband that will make amends : In pitying Love, we but our weakness show, He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving, And wild Ambition well deserves its woe.
And sure such kind good creatures may be living. Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse : He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, Plu—Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife : [life? Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, Yet if a friend, a night or so, should need her, Wbat Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : He'd recommend her as a special breeder. No common object to your sight displays, To lend a wife, few here would scruple make; But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys, But, pray, which of you all would take her backy A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, Though with the stoic chief our stage may ring, And greatly falling with a falling state.
The stoic husband was the glorious thing. While Cato gives his little senate laws,
The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true, What bosom beats not in his conntry's cause? And lov'd his country—but what's that to you? Who sees him act, but envies every deed? Those strange exainples ne'er were made to fit ye, Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? But the kind cuckold might instruct the city : Ev'n when proud Cæsar 'midst triumphal cars, There many an honest man may copy Cato, The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Who ne'er saw naked sword, or look'd in Plato Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
If, after all, you think it a disgrace, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state ; That Edward's miss thus perks it in your face ; As her dead father's reverend image past,
To see a piece of failing flesh and blood, The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast ; In all the rest so impudently good ; The triumph ceas'd, tears gush'd from every eye; Faith let the modest matrons of the town The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by; Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet douce Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd, And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend : be worth like this approv'd, And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd.
SAPPHO TO PHAON. With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued; Sax, lovely youth, that dost my heart command Your scene precariously subsists too long
Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand ? On French translation, and Italian song.
Must then her name the wretched writer prove, Dare to bave sense yourselves ; assert the stage,
To thy remembrance lost, as to thy love? Be justly warm'd with your own native rage :
Ask not the cause that I new numbers chuse, Such plays alone should win a British ear,
The lute neglected, and the lyric Muse;
Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow, .
By driving winds the spreading flames are bornie
Phaon to Etna's scorching fields retires,
While I consume with more than Etna's fires TO MR. ROWE'S JANE SHORE.
DESIGNED FOR MRS, OLDFIELD. PRoDicious this! the frail-one of our play From her own sex should mercy find to-day !
ECQUID, ut inspecta est studiosæ litera dextra, You might have held the pretty head aside,
Protinus est oculis cognita nostra tuis ? Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd, An, nisi legisses auctoris noinina Sapphûs, " The play may pass--but that strange creature Hoc breve nescires unde movetur opus? Shore,
Forsitan et quare mea sint alterna requiras. I can't-indeed now I so hate a whore !"
Carmina, cum lyricis sim magis apta modis. Juist as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, Flendus amor meus est : elegeïa flebile carmen , And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;
Non facit ad lacrymas barbitos ulla meas. So from a sister sinner you shall hear,
Uror, ut, indomitis ignem exercentibus Euris, U How strangely you expose yourself, my dear!" Fertilis accensis messibus ardet ager. But let me die, all raillery apart,
Arva Phaon celebrat diversa Typhoïdos Ætar, Our sex are still forgiving at their heart i
Me calor Ætnæo non minor igne coquit.
No more my soul a charm in music finds, Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ,
No time the dear remembrance can remove,
And all my words were music to your ear.
You stopp'd with kisses my enchanting tongue,
And in tumultuous raptures dy'd away.
Have pity, Venus, on your poet's pains !
Shall fortune still in one sad tenour run,
And still increase the wocs so soon begun?
Ignobly burnid in a destructive fame:
And all a mother's cares distract my breast. And glossy jet is pair'd with shining white.
Alas, what more could Fate itself impose, If to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign,
But thee, the last and greatest of my woes?
No more my robes in waving purple flow,
Hæc quoque laudabas; omnique à parte place-
bam, Proveniunt; vacuæ carmina mentis opus.
Sed tunı præcipuè, cum fit amoris opus.
Crebraqne mobilitas, aptaque verba joco;
Non oculis grata est Atthis, ut ante, meis ; Plurimus in lasso corpore languor erat.
Improbe, multarum quod fuit, unus habes. Quid mihi cum Lesbo? Sicelis esse volo.
At vos erronem tellure remittite nostrum,
Nisiades matres, Nisiadesque nurus.
Quæ dicit vobis, dixcrat ante mihi.
(Nam tua sum) vati consule, diva, tuæ. At mihi Pegasides blandissima carinina dictant; An gravis inceptun peragit fortuna tenorem? Jam canitur toto nomen in orbe meum.
Et manet in cursu semper acerba suo? Nec plus Alcæus, consors patriaque lyræque, Sex mihi natales ierant, cum lecta parcntis
Laudis habet, quamvis grandius ille sonet. Ante diem lacrymas ossa bibere meas. Si mihi difficilis forman natura negavit ;
Arsit inops frater, victus meretricis amore; Ingenio formæ damna rependo meæ.
Mistaque cum turpi damna pudore tulit. Sum brevis ; at nomen, quod terras impleat omnes, Factus inops agili peragit freta carula remo: Est mihi; mensuram nominis ipsa fero.
Quasque malè amisit, nunc male qurrit opes : Candida si non sum, placuit Cepheia Perseo Me quoque, quod monui bene multa fideliter, odit Andromede, patriæ fusca colore suæ :
Hoc mihi libertas, hoç pia lingua dedit. Et variis albæ junguntur sepe columbæ,
Et tanquam desint, que me sine fine fatigcat, Et piger à viridi turtur amatur ave.
Accumulat curas filia parva meas. Si, nisi quæ facies poterit te digna videri,
Ultima tu nostris accedis causa querelis :
Non agitur vento nostra carina suo.
Nec premit articulos lucida gemma meos.
Non Arabo noster rore capillus olet