Part 5

O King of Terrors, whose unbounded sway All that have life, must certainly obey, The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine, Nor wou’d ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline. My name is on thy roll, and sure I must Encrease thy gloomy kingdom in the dust. My soul at this no apprehension feels, But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels; Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense, And snatch us raving, unprepar’d from hence; At thy contagious darts, that wound the heads Of weeping friends, who wait at dying beds. Spare these, and let thy time be when it will; My bus’ness is to dye, and thine to kill. Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay, And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.

LADY GRISEL BAILLIE

1665-1746

_48. Werena my Heart’s licht_

There ance was a may, and she lo’ed na men; She biggit her bonnie bow’r doun in yon glen; But now she cries, Dool, and a well-a-day! Come doun the green gait and come here away!

When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea, He said he saw naething sae lovely as me; He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things— And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

He had a wee titty that loe’d na me, Because I was twice as bonny as she; She raised sic a pother ’twixt him and his mother That werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

The day it was set, and the bridal to be: The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee; She maned and she graned out o’ dolour and pain, Till he vow’d he never wad see me again.

His kin was for ane of a higher degree, Said—What had he do wi’ the likes of me? Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie— And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

They said I had neither cow nor calf, Nor dribbles o’ drink ring through the draff, Nor pickles o’ meal rins thro’ the mill e’e— And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

His titty she was baith wylie and slee: She spied me as I cam owre the lea; And then she ran in, and made a loud din— Believe your ain e’en, and ye trow not me.

His bonnet stood ay fu’ round on his brow, His auld ane look’d ay as well as some’s new But now he lets ’t wear ony gait it will hing, And casts himself dowie upon the corn bing.

And now he gaes daund’ring about the dykes, And a’ he dow do is to hund the tykes: The live-lang nicht he ne’er steeks his e’e— And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

Were I but young for thee, as I hae been, We should hae been gallopin’ doun on yon green, And linkin’ it owre the lily-white lea— And wow, gin I were but young for thee!

_49. The Ewe-Buchtin’s Bonnie_

The ewe-buchtin’s bonnie, baith e’enin’ and morn, When owr blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn; While we’re milking, they’re lilting, baith pleasant and clear; But my heart’s fit to break when I think on my dear.

O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn, To raise up their flocks o’ sheep soon in the morn; On the bonnie green banks they feed pleasand and free, But alas, my dear heart, all my sighing’s for thee!

HON. MARY MONK

?-1715

_50. On a Favourite Dog_

Press gently on him, earth, and all around Ye flowers spring up, and deck th’ enamelled ground, Breathe forth your choicest odours, and perfume With all your fragrant sweets his little tomb.

_51. Epitaph on a Gallant Lady_

O’er this marble drop a tear Here lies fair Rosalind: All mankind was pleased with her And she with all mankind.

_52. Verses, written on her Death-bed at Bath to her Husband in London_

Thou who dost all my worldly thoughts employ, Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy, Thou tenderest husband and thou dearest friend, To thee this first, this last adieu I send! At length the conqueror death asserts his right, And will for ever veil me from thy sight; He wooes me to him with a cheerful grace, And not one terror clouds his meagre face; He promises a lasting rest from pain, And shews that all life’s fleeting joys are vain; Th’ eternal scenes of heaven he sets in view, And tells me that no other joys are true. But love, fond love, would yet resist his power, Woud fain awhile defer the parting hour; He brings thy mourning image to my eyes, And would obstruct my journey to the skies. But say, thou dearest, thou unwearied friend! Say, should’st thou grieve to see my sorrows end? Thou know’st a painful pilgrimage I’ve past; And should’st thou grieve that rest is come at last? Rather rejoice to see me shake off life, And die as I have liv’d, thy faithful wife.

ELIZABETH (SINGER) ROWE

1674-1737

_53. From Her Elegy on Her Husband, who died Young_

Lost in despair, distracted and forlorn, The lover I, and tender husband mourn. Whate’er to such superior worth was due, Whate’er excess the fondest passion knew, I felt for thee, dear youth; my joys, my care, My prayers themselves were thine, and only where Thou wast concern’d, my virtue was sincere. Whene’er I begg’d for blessings on thy head, Nothing was cold or formal that I said. My warmest vows to Heav’n were made for thee, And love still mingled with my piety. O! thou wast all my glory, all my pride; Thro’ life’s uncertain paths my constant guide. Regardless of the world, to gain thy praise Was all that could my just ambition raise. ... List’ning to him, my cares were charm’d to rest, And love and silent rapture fill’d my breast, Unheeded, the gay moments took their flight, And time was only measur’d by delight. I hear the lov’d, the melting accent still, And still the warm, the tender transport feel: Again I see the sprightly passions rise, And life and pleasure kindle in his eyes. My fancy paints him now with ev’ry grace, But ah! the dear resemblance mocks my fond embrace, The flatt’ring vision takes its hasty flight, And scenes of horror swim before my sight; Grief and despair in all their terrors rise; A dying lover pale and gasping lies. Each dismal circumstance appears in view, The fatal object is for ever new, ... Why did they tear me from thy breathless clay? I should have stay’d and wept my life away. Yet, gentle shade! whether thou now dost rove, Thro’ some blest vale, or ever-verdant grove, One moment listen to my grief, and take The softest vows that ever love can make. For thee, all thoughts of pleasure I forgo, For thee my tears shall never cease to flow; For thee at once I from the world retire, To feed in silent shades a hopeless fire. My bosom all thy image shall retain, The full impression there shall still remain: As thou hast taught my kinder heart to prove The noblest height, and elegance of love; That sacred passion I to thee confine, My spotless faith shall be for ever thine.

_54. To a Friend who Persuades me to Leave the Muse_

Forgo the charming Muses! No, in spite Of your ill-natur’d prophecy I’ll write; And for the future paint my thoughts at large, I waste no paper at the Hundred’s charge: I rob no neighb’ring geese of quills, nor slink, For a collection, to the church for ink: Beside, my Muse is the most gentle thing That ever yet made an attempt to sing: I call no lady punk, nor gallants fops, Nor set the married world an edge for ropes; Yet I’m so nat’rally inclin’d to rhyming, That undesign’d, my thoughts burst out a-chiming; My active genius will by no means sleep, Pray let it then its proper channel keep. I’ve told you, and you may believe me too, That I must this, or greater mischief do; And let the world think me inspir’d or mad, I’ll surely write whilst paper’s to be had.

CATHARINE COCKBURN

1679-1749

_55. Song—The Vain Advice_

Ah, gaze not on those eyes! forbear That soft enchanting voice to hear: Not looks of basilisks give surer death, Nor syrens sing with more destructive breath.

Fly, if thy freedom thou’dst maintain; Alas! I feel, th’ advice is vain! A heart, whose safety but in flight does lie, Is too far lost to have the power to fly.

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU

1689-1762

_56. Verses addressed to the Imitator[2] of the First Satire of the Second Book of Horace_

In two large columns on thy motley page, Where Roman wit is strip’d with English rage; Where ribaldry to satire makes pretence; And modern scandal rolls with ancient sense: Whilst on one side we see how Horace thought; And on the other how he never wrote: Who can believe, who view the bad and good, That the dull copyist better understood That Spirit, he pretends to imitate, Than heretofore that Greek he did translate?

Thine is just such an image of _his_ pen, As thou thyself art of the sons of men: Where our own species in burlesque we trace, A sign-post likeness of the human race, That is at once resemblance and disgrace. If _he_ has thorns, they all on roses grow; Thine like rude thistles, and mean brambles show, With this exception, that tho’ rank the soil, Weeds as they are they seem produc’d by toil. Satire should, like a polish’d razor keen, Wound with a touch, that’s scarcely felt or seen. Thine is an oyster-knife that hacks and hews; The rage but not the talent to abuse; And is in _hate_, what _love_ is in the stews. ’Tis the gross _lust_ of hate, that still annoys, Without distinction, as gross love enjoys: Neither to folly, nor to vice confin’d; The object of thy spleen is human kind: It preys on all, who yield or who resist; To thee ’tis provocation to exist....

If none do yet return th’ intended blow, You all your safety to your dullness owe: But whilst that armour thy poor corps defends, ’Twill make thy readers few, as are thy friends; Those, who thy nature loath’d, yet lov’d thy art, Who lik’d thy head, and yet abhorr’d thy heart; Chose thee, to read, but never to converse, And scorn’d in prose, him whom they priz’d in verse; Even they shall now their partial error see, Shall shun thy writings, like thy company, And to thy books shall ope their eyes no more, Than to thy person they wou’d do their door.

FOOTNOTES

[2] Pope, who had libelled her.

_57. An Answer to a Love-Letter_

Is it to me, this sad lamenting strain? Are heaven’s choicest gifts bestowed in vain? A plenteous fortune, and a beauteous bride, Your love rewarded, gratify’d your pride: Yet leaving her—’tis me that you pursue Without one single charm, but being new. How vile is man! how I detest their ways Of artful falsehood, and designing praise! Tasteless, an easy happiness you slight, Ruin your joy, and mischief your delight, Why should poor pug (the mimic of your kind) Wear a rough chain, and be to box confin’d? Some cup, perhaps, he breaks, or tears a fan While roves unpunish’d the destroyer, man. Not bound by vows, and unrestrain’d by shame, In sport you break the heart, and rend the fame. Not that your art can be successful here, Th’ already plunder’d need no robber fear: Nor sighs, nor charms, nor flatteries can move, Too well secur’d against a second love. Once, and but once, that devil charm’d my mind; To reason deaf, to observation blind; I idly hop’d (what cannot love persuade?) My fondness equal’d, and my love repaid: Slow to distrust, and willing to believe, Long hush’d my doubts, and did myself deceive; But oh! too soon—this tale would ever last; Sleep, sleep my wrongs, and let me think them past. For you, who mourn with counterfeited grief, And ask so boldly like a begging thief, May soon some other nymph inflict the pain, You know so well with cruel art to feign. Though long you sported with Dan Cupid’s dart, You may see eyes, and you may feel a heart. So the brisk wits, who stop the evening coach, Laugh at the fear which follows their approach; With idle mirth, and haughty scorn despise The passenger’s pale cheek and staring eyes: But seiz’d by Justice, find a fright no jest, And all the terror doubled in their breast.

_58. In Answer to a Lady Who Advised Retirement_

You little know the heart that you advise; I view this various scene with equal eyes: In crowded courts I find myself alone, And pay my worship to a nobler throne. Long since the value of this world I know, Pity the madness, and despise the show: Well as I can my tedious part I bear, And wait for my dismission without fear. Seldom I mark mankind’s detested ways, Not hearing censure, nor affecting praise; And, unconcern’d, my future fate I trust To that sole Being, merciful and just.

FANNY GREVILLE

18th century.

_59. Prayer for Indifference_

I ask no kind return in Love; No tempting charm to please; Far from the heart such gifts remove, That sighs for peace and ease.

Nor ease, nor peace, that heart can know, That, like the needle true, Turns at the touch of joy or woe; But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound ’Tis pain in each degree; ’Tis bliss but to a certain bound, Beyond—is agony.

LAETITIA PILKINGTON

1712-1750

_60. Written on her Death-Bed_

My Lord, my Saviour, and my God, I bow to thy correcting rod; Nor will I murmur or complain, Tho’ every limb be fill’d with pain; Tho’ my weak tongue its aid denies; And daylight wounds my wretched eyes.

ALISON COCKBURN

1712-1794

_61. The Flowers of the Forest_

I’ve seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling, I’ve tasted her favours, and felt her decay; Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, But soon it is fled,—it is fled far away.

I’ve seen the forest adorn’d of the foremost, With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay; Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming, But now they are wither’d and a’ wede away.

I’ve seen the morning, with gold the hills adorning, And the red storm roaring, before the parting day; I’ve seen Tweed’s silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams, Turn drumly and dark, as they roll’d on their way.

O fickle Fortune! why this cruel sporting? Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day? Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me, Since the flowers of the forest are a’ wede away.

MARY MASTERS

c. 1733

_62. To One who Questioned her being the Author of some Verses_

Search but those strains, you think so much excel, Scan ev’ry verse, and try the numbers well: You’ll plainly see, in almost ev’ry line, Distinguishing defects to prove them mine.

_63. Answer to a Panegyrick by one who supposed her handsome_

My songs th’ attentive nymphs with pleasure hear, Because in me no rival charms they fear. My shape erroneous, and my stature low Can to the eye no dang’rous beauty show. The list’ning youths who at a distance hear, Secure of freedom, may approach more near. All I can boast, is this one single grant, Just sense enough to know how much I want.

JUDITH MADAN

c. 1750

_64. Written in her brother’s Coke upon Littleton_

O thou, who labour’st in this rugged mine, Mayst thou to gold th’ unpolished ore refine! May each dark page unfold its haggard brow! Doubt not to reap, if thou can’st bear to plough. To tempt thy care, may, each revolving night, Purses and maces swim before thy sight! From hence in times to come, advent’rous deed! May’st thou essay to look and speak like Mead! When the black bag and rose no more shall shade With martial air the honours of thy head; When the full wig thy visage shall enclose, And only leave to view thy learned nose. Safely may’st thou defy beaux, wits, and scoffers, While tenants, in fee-simple, stuff thy coffers.

ELIZABETH CARTER

1717-1806

_65. Epitaph on an Infant_

Though infant years no pompous honours claim, The vain parade of monumental fame, To better praise the last great day shall rear The spotless innocence that slumbers here.

MARY LEAPOR

1722-1746

_66. Upon her Play being returned to Her Stained with Claret_

Welcome, dear wanderer, once more! Thrice welcome to thy native cell! Within this peaceful humble door Let thou and I contented dwell!

But say, O whither hast thou rang’d? Why dost thou blush a crimson hue? Thy fair complexion’s greatly chang’d: Why, I can scarce believe ’tis you.

Then tell, my son, O tell me, where Didst thou contract this sottish dye? You kept ill company, I fear, When distant from your parent’s eye.

Was it for this, O graceless child, Was it for this you learn’d to spell? Thy face and credit both are spoil’d; Go drown thyself in yonder well.

I wonder how thy time was spent: No news (alas!) hast thou to bring? Hast thou not climb’d the Monument? Nor seen the lions, nor the King?

But now I’ll keep you here secure: No more you view the smoaky sky: The court was never made (I’m sure) For idiots, like thee and I.

_67. Hope (Where it may reasonably be cherished)_

If trifling Hope has any room to plead, ’Tis that where Nature’s simple dictates lead: So the wet hind, who travels o’er the plain Through the cold mire and the afflicting rain; Tho’ his low roofs with trickling showers run, May hope next morn to see the chearful sun: Or when keen hunger at the evening tide Drives home the shepherd to his rustick bride, His honest reason haply might not stray, Tho’ he should dream of dumpling all the way.

_68. Of Friendship_

Of all companions I would choose to shun Such, whose blunt truths are like a bursting gun.

MARY JONES

?-1778

_69. An Epistle to Lady Bowyer_