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'st inspire one tender thought,
When Princes, at my feet did lye.
When thou cou'd'st 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.
In vain, alas! in vain I strive
With errors, which my soul do please and vex,
For superstition will survive,
Purer Religion to perplex.
Oh! tell me you, Philosophers, in love,
That can its burning feaverish fits controul,
By what strange Arts you cure the soul,
And the fierce Calenture remove?