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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=499098" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Poem: To The Memory of Mrs. Oldfield</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oldfield's no more!-And can the Muse forbear,<br>O'er Oldfield's Grave to shed a grateful Tear?<br>Shall she, the Glory of the British Stage,<br>Pride of her Sex, and Wonder of the Age;<br>Shall she, who living charm'd th'admiring Throng,<br>Die undistinguish'd, and not claim a Song?<br>No. Feeble as it is, I'll boldly raise<br>My willing Voice to celebrate her Praise,<br>And with her Name immortalize my Lays.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Had but my Muse her Art to touch the Soul,<br>Charm ev'ry Sense, and ev'ry Pow'r controul.<br>I'd paint her as she was-the Form divine,<br>Where ev'ry lovely Grace united shine;<br>A Mein, majestick as the Wife of Jove,<br>An Air, as winning as the Queen of Love;<br>In every Feature rival Charms should rise,<br>And Cupid hold his Empire in her Eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>O! she was more than Numbers can express,<br>Creation's Darling in her fairest Dress.<br>A Form so charming, with such Beauties fraught,<br>As might have nigh excus'd the Want of Thought;<br>And yet a Mind with such Perfections stock'd,<br>As made the Beauties of her Form o'er look'd.<br>A Soul with ev'ry Elegance refin'd,<br>By Nature, and the Converse of Mankind,<br>Wit, which could strike assuming Folly dead;<br>And Sense-which temper'd every thing she said;<br>Judgment, which ev'ry little Fault could spy;<br>But Candor, which would pass a Thousand by.<br>That native Force-that Energy of Mind,<br>Which left the toiling Pedant far behind.<br>Such finish'd Breeding, so polite a Taste,<br>Her Fancy always for the Fashion past:<br>So sweetly serious, so discreetly gay,<br>None went unpleas'd, or unimprov'd away.<br>And yet so negligent she seem'd of Fame,<br>As if she thought Applause beneath her Aim.<br>Disdaining Flattery, she was still sincere;<br>Warm to approve, and modestly severe.<br>Whilst every social Virtue fir'd her Breast,<br>To help the Needy, succour the Distrest,<br>A Friend to all in Misery she stood.<br>And her chief Pride was plac'd in doing Good.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But say, ye Few, ye happy Few, who e'er<br>Enjoy'd the private Friendship of the Fair;<br>Who saw the Charmer in a nearer Light,<br>All open, free, and unreserv'dly bright;<br>Who felt the Raptures which her Smiles bestow'd,<br>And prov'd the Joys which from her Converse flow'd:<br>Oh speak her friendly, affable, and mild,<br>Brave, generous, firm, by no false Shows beguil'd.<br>With ev'ry Art and Talent form'd to please,<br>The Scholars Learning, and the Ladies Ease;<br>The Gay, the Grave, the Florid and Serene,<br>Mix'd in her Soul, and sparkling in her Mein.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Thrice happy Churchill! who her Love could gain,<br>For whom so many Thousands sigh'd in vain;<br>Whose wondrous Charms made every one her Slave<br>Dear to the Wise, the Witty, and the Brave.<br>And justly did she judge to place her Name<br>With thine, the greatest in the Books of Fame.<br>Thus join'd, Advantages to each accrue,<br>Renown to her, Beauty and Wit to you.<br>Renown should ever on the Fair One wait,<br>And Beauty be the Portion of the Great,<br>From such a Pair we well may hope to see<br>Another Malbro', Charles, appear in thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But now, my Muse, the arduous Task engage,<br>And show the Charming Figure on the Stage,<br>Describe her Look, her Action, Voice and Mein,<br>The gay Coquette, soft Maid, or haughty Queen,<br>So bright she shone in every different Part,<br>She gain'd despotick Empire o'er the Heart,<br>Knew how each various Motion to controul,<br>Sooth every Passion, and subdue the Soul:<br>As she, or gay, or sorrowful apears,<br>She claims our Mirth, or triumphs in our Tears:<br>Whilst from her Eyes delusive Sorrows flow,<br>Our Breasts are touch'd with undissembled Woe;<br>Or if Ambition calls her forth to Arms,<br>The Thirst of Glory every Bosom warms;<br>No Souls so senseless but what felt her Flame,<br>Nor Breast so savage but her Art could tame.<br>Ev'n the Pert Templer, and the City Prig,<br>Who come to Plays to show their Wit-or Wig.<br>The snarling Critick, and the sneering Beau,<br>Who neither Sense of Worth, or Manners know,<br>Aw'd by her Looks their Brutish Din forbear,<br>And for a while a little Human are,<br>So Orpheus charm'd the Savages of old,<br>And all Hell's Furies with his Harp controul'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Painters may sketch the Image of a Face,<br>And Sculptors Form and Attitude express;<br>Poets the Graces of the Mind relate,<br>And Hist'ry tells the Actions of the Great.<br>Still each wants something to compleat the Whole,<br>The Poet wants a Form, the Painter Soul.<br>But Oldfield all the Heroine display'd,<br>Show'd how she look'd, she mov'd, she wept, she pray'd<br>And was herself the Character she play'd,<br>When Cleopatra's Form she chose to wear,<br>We saw the Monarch's Mien, the Beauty's Air;<br>Charm'd with the Sight, her Cause we strait approve,<br>And like her Lover, gave up all for Love;<br>Antony's Fate, instead of Cæsar's, chuse,<br>And wish for her, we had a World-to lose.<br>But when a more familiar Part did please,<br>Letitia's Artifice, or Townley's Ease<br>Each Beauty in the finest Light she plac'd,<br>Improv'd each Charm, and every Action grac'd.<br>Nay, so enchanting was her lovely Frame,<br>She spoilt, against her Will, the Poet's Aim;<br>Making those Follies which we should despise,<br>When seen in her, seem Virtues in our Eyes.<br>So, when with Cytherea's Girdle bound,<br>The homeliest Hag, a shining Fair is found.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But now the gay delightful Scene is o'er,<br>And that sweet Form must glad the World no more;<br>Relentless Death has stop'd the tuneful Tongue,<br>And clos'd those Eyes, for all but Death too strong;<br>Blasted that Face where every Beauty bloom'd,<br>And to eternal Rest the graceful Mover doom'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Calm and serene she met the fatal Hour,<br>Smil'd at Death's Terrors, and contemn'd its Power.<br>Sustain'd unmov'd the cruel Scourge of Pain.<br>Whilst blund'ring Doctors try'd their Art in vain;<br>(Those lawful Executioners, whose Skill<br>Is shown not when they cure-but when they kill.)<br>She only griev'd to see her Churchill grieve,<br>And for his Sake alone desir'd to live?<br>Her long-imprison'd Soul rejoyc'd to see<br>The wish'd-for Moment come to set it free;<br>Then bravely strugling leapt its Bounds of Day,<br>And to the Place from whence it came, impetuous wing'd its Way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Thus subterranean Fire in Ætna pent,<br>Which long in vain has labour'd for a Vent,<br>(When once some weaker Part begins to yield<br>Its long resisted Enemy the Field)<br>Grows more enrag'd, with double Fury plays,<br>And once got Air, it mounts into a Blaze.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>O'ercharg'd with Sorrow at the Thought-the Muse<br>Drooping-no more her airy Flight pursues;<br>With Oldfield all her flattering Hopes are fled,<br>In her the Muses dearest Friend is dead:<br>For lo! the sinking Stage attends her Fall,<br>Whilst Opera, Farce, and Trick prevail o'er all,<br>Wilks, Nature's Master, soon, by Years opprest,<br>And tir'd with Bus'ness, must retire to Rest;<br>And Cibber, baulk'd by the ungrateful Town,<br>Will lay th'unprofitable Burthen down,<br>Mourn then ye Muses, all your Sorrows vent;<br>Your Shafts are useless, and your Bows unbent.<br>Now weep, ye Forrests; droop, ye shady Bowers;<br>Be dry, ye Fountains; sicken all ye Flowers;<br>The Night of universal Ign'rance comes,<br>In Darkness e'ry pleasing Scene entombs;<br>With Oldfield the last Glympse of Light is fled,<br>Wit, Nature, Sense, with her their Exits made:<br>The Goddess Dulness lifts her cloudy Head,<br>And smiles to see her dark Dominions spread,<br>Chaos o'er all his Leaden Scepter rears,<br>And not one Beam throughout the Gloom appears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Finis</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Richard+Savage">Richard Savage</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=499098" data-title="A Poem: To The Memory of Mrs. Oldfield de Richard Savage" data-description="Oldfield's no more!-And can the Muse forbear,
O'er Oldfield's Grave to shed a grateful Tear?
Shall she, the Glory of the British Stage,
Pride of her Sex, and Wonder of the Age;
Shall she, who living charm'd th'admiring Throng,
Die undistinguish'd,..."></div>
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