To speak of thee no Muse will I invoke,
Thou onely canst inspire what shou'd be spoke;
For all their wealth the Nine have given to thee,
Thy rich and flowing stream has left them dry:
Cupid may throw away his useless Darts,
Thou'st lent him one will massacre more Hearts
Than all his store, thy Pen disarms us so,
We yield our selves to the first beauteous Foe;
The easie softness of thy thoughts surprise,
And this new way Love steals into our Eyes;
Thy gliding Verse comes on us unawares,
No rumbling Metaphors alarm our Ears,
And puts us in a posture of defence;
We are undone and never know from whence.
So to th' Assyrian Camp the Angel flew,
And in the silent Night his Millions slew.
Thou leadst us by the Soul amongst thy Loves,
And bindst us all in thy inchanting Groves;
Each languishes for thy Aminta's Charms,
Sighs for thy fansied Raptures in her Armes,
Sees her in all that killing posture laid,
When Love and fond Respect guarded the sleeping Maid,
Persues her to the very Bower of Bliss,
Times all the wrecking joys and thinks 'em his;
In the same Trance with the young pair we lie,
And in their amorous Ecstasies we die.
You Nymphs, who deaf to Love's soft lays have been,
Reade here, and suck the sweet destruction in:
Smooth is the stream and clear is every thought,
And yet you cannot see with what you're caught;
Or else so very pleasing is the Bait,
With careless heed you play and leap at it:
She poisons all the Floud with such an art,
That the dear Philter trickles to the Heart,
With such bewitching pleasure that each sup
Has all the joys of life in every drop.
I see the Banks with Love-sick Virgins strow'd,
Their Bosoms heav'd with the young fluttering Gods;
Oh, how they pant and struggle with their pain!
Yet cannot wish their former health again:
Within their Breasts thy warmth and spirit glows,
And in their Eyes thy streaming softness flows;
Thy Raptures are transfus'd through every vein,
And thy blest hour in all their heads does reign;
The Ice that chills the Soul thou dost remove,
And meltst it into tenderness and Love;
The flints about their Hearts dance to thy lays,
Till the quick motion sets 'em on a Blaze.
Orpheus and you the stones do both inspire,
But onely you out of those flints strike fire,
Not with a sudden Spark, a short liv'd Blaze,
Like Womens Passions in our Gilting days;
But what you fire burns with a constant flame,
Like what you write, and always is the same.
Rise, all ye weeping Youth, rise and appear,
Whom gloomy Fate has damn'd to black Despair;
Start from the ground and throw your Mourning by,
Loves great Sultana says you shall not die:
The dismal dark half year is over past,
The Sea is op'd, the Sun shines out at last,
And Trading's free, the storms are husht as death,
Or happy Lovers ravisht out of breath;
And listen to Astræa's Harmony,
Such power has elevated Poetry.
T. C.
To the Lovely Witty ASTRÆA, on her Excellent Poems.
Oh, wonder of thy Sex! Where can we see,
Beauty and Knowledge join'd except in thee?
Such pains took Nature with your Heav'nly Face,
Form'd it for Love, and moulded every Grace;
I doubted first and fear'd that you had been
Unfinish'd left like other She's within:
I see the folly of that fear, and find
Your Face is not more beauteous than your Mind:
Whoe'er beheld you with a Heart unmov'd,
That sent not sighs, and said within he lov'd?
I gaz'd and found, a then, unknown delight,
Life in your looks, and Death to leave the sight.
What joys, new Worlds of joys has he possest,
That gain'd the sought-for welcome of your Breast?
Your Wit wou'd recommend the homeliest Face,
Your Beauty make the dullest Humour please;
But where they both thus gloriously are join'd,
All Men submit, you reign in every Mind.
What Passions does your Poetry impart? }
It shews th'unfathom'd thing a Woman's Heart, }
Tells what Love is, his Nature and his Art, }
Displays the several Scenes of Hopes and Fears,
Love's Smiles, his Sighs, his Laughing and his Tears.
Each Lover here may reade his different Fate,
His Mistress kindness or her scornfull hate.
Come all whom the blind God has led astray,
Here the bewildred Youth is shew'd his way:
Guided by this he may yet love and find
Ease in his Heart, and reason in his Mind.
Thus sweetly once the charming W——lr strove
In Heavenly sounds to gain his hopeless Love:
All the World list'ned but his scornfull Fair,
Pride stopt her ears to whom he bent his prayer.
Much happier you that can't desire in vain,
But what you wish as soon as wish'd obtain.
Upon these and other Excellent Works of the Incomparable ASTRÆA.
Ye bold Magicians in Philosophy,
That vainly think (next the Almighty three)
The brightest Cherubin in all the Hierarchy
Will leave that Glorious Sphere
And to your wild inchantments will appear;
To the fond summons of fantastick Charms,
As Barbarous and inexplicable Terms:
As those the trembling Sorcerer dreads,
When he the Magick Circle treads:
And as he walks the Mystick rounds,
And mutters the detested sounds,
The Stygian fiends exalt their wrathfull heads;
And all ye bearded Drudges of the Schools,
That sweat in vain to mend predestin'd fools,
With senseless Jargon and perplexing Rules;
Behold and with amazement stand,
Behold a blush with shame and wonder too,
What Divine Nature can in Woman doe.
Behold if you can see in all this fertile Land
Such an Anointed head, such an inspired hand.
II.
Rest on in peace, ye blessed Spirits, rest,
With Imperial bliss for ever blest:
Upon your sacred Urn she scorns to tread,
Or rob the Learned Monuments of the dead:
Nor need her Muse a foreign aid implore,
In her own tunefull breast there's wonderous store.
Had she but flourisht in these times of old,
When Mortals were amongst the Gods inrolld,
She had not now as Woman been Ador'd,
But with Diviner sacrifice Implor'd;
Temples and Altars had preserv'd her name
And she her self been thought Immortal as her fame.
III.
Curst be the balefull Tongue that dares abuse
The rightfull offspring of her God-like Muse:
And doubly Curst be he that thinks her Pen
Can be instructed by the best of men.
The times to come (as surely she will live,
As many Ages as are past,
As long as Learning, Sense, or wit survive,
As long as the first principles of Bodies last.)
The future Ages may perhaps believe
One soft and tender Arm cou'd ne'er atchieve
The wonderous deeds that she has done
So hard a prize her Conqu'ring Muse has won.
But we that live in the great Prophetesses days
Can we enough proclaim her praise,
We that experience every hour
The blest effects of her Miraculous power?
To the sweet Musick of her charming tongue,
In numerous Crowds the ravisht hearers throng:
And even a Herd of Beasts as wild as they
That did the Thracian Lyre obey,
Forget their Madness and attend her song.
The tunefull Shepherds on the dangerous rocks
Forsake their Kinds and leave their bleating Flocks,
And throw their tender Reeds away,
As soon as e'er her softer Pipe begins to play.
No barren subject, no unfertile soil
Can prove ungratefull to her Muses Toil,
Warm'd with the Heavenly influence of her Brain,
Upon the dry and sandy plain,
On craggy Mountains cover'd o'er with Snow,
The blooming Rose and fragrant Jes'min grow:
When in her powerful Poetick hand,
She waves the mystick wand,
Streight from the hardest Rocks the sweetest numbers flow.