BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.
[We have rather accidentally met with these two poems, The Belles of Williamsburg, and the Sequel to the Belles of Williamsburg, both written and circulated in that place in 1777. These pieces are believed to have been either composed by two different gentlemen, or to have been the joint production of both. As we cannot, however, assign to each his due share, we do not think ourselves at liberty to mention their names—which (although the authors in question are now no more,) are still distinguished names in Virginia.]
THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.
Wilt thou, advent'rous pen, describe
The gay, delightful, silken tribe,
That maddens all our city;
Nor dread, lest while you foolish claim
A near approach to beauty's flame,
Icarus' fate may hit ye.
With singed pinions tumbling down,
The scorn and laughter of the town,
Thou'lt rue thy daring flight;
While every miss with cool contempt,
Affronted by the bold attempt,
Will, tittering, view thy plight.
Ye girls, to you devoted ever,
The object still of our endeavor
Is somehow to amuse you;
And if instead of higher praise,
You only laugh at these rude lays,
We'll willingly excuse you.
Advance then each illustrious maid,
In order bright to our parade,
With beauty's ensigns gay;
And first, two nymphs who rural plains
Forsook, disdaining rustic swains,
And here exert their sway.
Myrtilla's beauties who can paint?
The well turned form, the glowing teint,
May deck a common creature;
But who can make th' expressive soul
With lively sense inform the whole,
And light up every feature.
At church Myrtilla lowly kneels,
No passion but devotion feels,
No smiles her looks environ;
But let her thoughts to pleasure fly,
The basilisk is in her eye
And on her tongue the Syren.
More vivid beauty—fresher bloom,
With teints from nature's richest loom
In Sylvia's features glow;
Would she Myrtilla's arts apply,
And catch the magic of her eye,
She'd rule the world below.
See Laura, sprightly nymph, advance,
Through all the mazes of the dance,
With light fantastic toe;
See laughter sparkle in her eyes—
At her approach new joys arise,
New fires within us glow.
Such sweetness in her look is seen,
Such brilliant elegance of mien,
So jauntie and so airy;
Her image in our fancy reigns,
All night she gallops through our veins,
Like little Mab the fairy.
Aspasia next, with kindred soul,
Disdains the passions that control
Each gentle pleasing art;
Her sportive wit, her frolic lays,
And graceful form attract our praise,
And steal away the heart.
We see in gentle Delia's face,
Expressed by every melting grace,
The sweet complacent mind;
While hovering round her, soft desires,
And hope gay smiling fan their fires,
Each shepherd thinks her kind.
The god of love mistook the maid,
For his own Psyche, and 'tis said
He still remains her slave;
And when the boy directs her eyes
To pierce where every passion lies,
Not age itself can save.
With pensive look and head reclined,
Sweet emblems of the purest mind,
Lo! where Cordelia sits;
On Dion's image dwells the fair—
Dion the thunderbolt of war,
The prince of modern wits.
Not far removed from her side,
Statira sits in beauty's pride,
And rolls about her eyes;
Thrice happy for the unwary heart,
That affectation blunts the dart
That from her quiver flies.
Whence does that beam of beauty dawn?
What lustre overspreads the lawn?
What suns those rays dispense?
From Artemisia's brow they came,
From Artemisia's eyes the flame
That dazzles every sense.
At length, fatigued with beauty's blaze,
The feeble muse no more essays
Her picture to complete;
The promised charms of younger girls,
When nature the gay scene unfurls,
Some happier bard shall treat.
SEQUEL TO THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG.
Ye bards that haunt the tufted shade,
Where murmurs thro' the hallowed glade,
The Heliconian spring—
Who bend before Apollo's shrine,
And dance and frolic with the nine,
Or touch the trembling string—
And ye who bask in beauty's blaze,
Enlivening as the orient rays
From fair Aurora's brow,
Or those which from her crescent shine,
When Cynthia with a look benign,
Regards the world below—
Say, why, amidst the vernal throng,
Whose virgin charms inspired your song
With sweet poetic lore,
With eager look th' enraptured swain,
For Isidora's form in vain,
The picture should explore.
Shall sprightly Isidora yield,
To Laura the distinguished field,
Amidst the vernal throng?
Or shall Aspasia's frolic lays
From Leonella snatch the bays,
The tribute of the song?
Like hers I ween the blushing rose,
On Sylvia's polished cheek that glows,
And hers the velvet lip,
To which the cherry yields its hue,
Its plumpness and ambrosial dew
Which even Gods might sip.
What partial eye a charm can find,
In Delia's look, or Delia's mind,
Or Delia's melting grace,
Which cannot in Miranda's mien,
Or winning smile or brow serene,
A rival beauty trace?
Sweet as the balmy breath of spring,
Or odors from the painted wing
Of Zephyr as he flies,
Brunetta's charms might surely claim,
Amidst the votaries of fame,
A title to the prize.
What giddy raptures fill the brain,
When tripping o'er the verdant plain,
Florella joins the throng!
Her look each throbbing pain beguiles,
Beneath her footsteps Nature smiles,
And joins the poet's song.
Here even critic Spleen shall find,
Each beauty that adorns the mind,
Or decks the virgin's brow;
Here Envy with her venomed dart,
Shall find no vulnerable part,
To aim the deadly blow.
Could such perfection nought avail?
Or could the fair Belinda fail
To animate your lays?
For might not such a nymph inspire
With sportive notes the trembling lyre
Attuned to virgin praise?
The sister graces met the maid,
Beneath the myrtle's fragrant shade,
When love the season warms;
Deluded by her graceful mien,
They fancied her the Cyprian queen,
And decked her with their charms.
Say then why thus with heedless flight,
The panegyric muse should slight
A train so blythe and fair,
Or why so soon fatigued, she flies
No longer in her native skies,
But tumbles through the air.