The Widow Gordon's Petition
To the Right Hon. the Lady Carteret.
Weary'd with long Attendance on the Court,
You, Madam, are the Wretch's last Resort.
Eternal King! if here in vain I cry,
Where shall the Fatherless and Widow fly?
How blest are they, who sleep among the Dead,
Nor hear their Childrens piercing Cries for Bread!
When your lov'd Off--spring gives your Soul Delight,
Reflect how mine are irksome to my Sight:
O think, how must a wretched Mother grieve,
Who hears the Want she never can relieve!
An Evil preys upon my helpless Son,
(How many Ways the Wretched are undone!)
Cruel Distemper! to assault his Sight,
And rob him of his only Joy, the Light!
His Anguish makes my weary'd Eyes o'erflow,
And loads me with unutterable Woe.
No friendly Voice my lonely Mansion cheers;
All fly th' Infection of the Widow's Tears:
Ev'n those, whose Pity eas'd my Wants with Bread,
Are now, O sad Reverse! my greatest Dread.
My mournful Story will no more prevail,
And ev'ry Hour I dread a dismal Jail:
I start at each imaginary Sound,
And Horrors have encompass'd me around.
Tremble, ye Daughters, who at Ease recline,
Lest you should know a Misery like mine.
Ye now, unmov'd, can hear the Wretched moan;
And feel no Wants, yourselves oppress'd by none;
Fly from the Sight of Woes ye will not share,
And leave the helpless Orphan to despair.
But know, that dreadful Hour is drawing near,
When you'll be treated, as you've acted here:
To you no more the Wretched shall complain;
'Twill be your Turn to weep, and sue in vain.
Not so the Fair, with godlike Mercy blest,
Who feels another's Anguish in her Breast;
Who never hears the Wretched sigh in vain,
Herself distress'd till she relieves their Pain.
This Fame reports, fair Carteret, of you;
This blest Report encourag'd me to sue.
O Angel--Goodness, hear, and ease my Moan,
Nor let your Mercy fail in me alone!
So at the last Tribunal will I stand,
With my poor Orphans, plac'd on either Hand;
There, with my Cries, my Saviour I'll assail;
(For at His Bar the Widow's Tears prevail)
That she, who made the Fatherless her Care,
The Fulness of celestial Joys may share;
That she a Crown of Glory may receive,
Who snatch'd me from Destruction, and the Grave.
poem by Mary Barber
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Written For A Gentlewoman In Distress, To Her Grace Adelida, Dutchess Of Shrewsbury.
Might I inquire the Reasons of my Fate,
Or with my Maker dare expostulate;
Did I, in prosp'rous Days, despise the Poor,
Or drive the friendless Stranger from my Door?
Was not my Soul pour'd out for the Distress'd?
Did I not vindicate the Poor oppress'd?
Did not the Orphan's Cry with me prevail?
Did I not weep the Woes I could not heal?
Why then, Thou gracious, Thou all--pow'rful God,
Why do I feel th' Oppressor's Iron Rod?
Why thus the Scorners cruel Taunts endure,
Who basely fret the Wounds, they will not cure?
O Thou, whose Mercy does to All extend,
Say, shall my Sorrows never, never, end?
Let not my Tears for ever, fruitless, flow;
Commiserate a Wretch, o'erwhelm'd with Woe;
No longer let Distress my Bosom tear:
O shield me from the Horrors of Despair!
Forgive me, Madam, that I thus impart
The Throbs, the Anguish, of a breaking Heart.
Oft, when my weary'd Eyes can weep no more,
To sooth my Woes, I read your Letters o'er.
Goodness, and Wit, and Humour, there I find;
And view with Joy those Pictures of your Mind;
With Pleasure on the lov'd Resemblance gaze,
Till peaceful Slumbers on my Eye--lids seize.
Then, then, Imagination glads my Sight
With transient Images of past Delight;
My aking Heart of ev'ry Care beguiles;
Then Talbot lives, and Adelida smiles.
Delightful Forms! why will you fleet away,
And leave me to the Terrors of the Day?
In vain from Reason I expect Relief;
For sad Reflection doubles ev'ry Grief.
Some of my Friends in Death's cold Arms I see;
Others, tho, living, yet are dead to me?
Of Friends, and Children both, I am bereft,
And soon must lose the only Blessing left;
A Husband form'd for Tenderness and Truth,
The lov'd, the kind Companion of my Youth;
With him, thro' various Storms of Fate I pass'd;
Relentless Fate!--And must we part at last?
O King of Terrors, I invoke thy Pow'r;
Oh! stand between me and that dreadful Hour;
From that sad Hour thy wretched Suppliant save;
Oh! shield me from it!--Hide me in the Grave!
poem by Mary Barber
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The Despair
Beneath this gloomy shade,
By Nature only for my sorrows made,
I'll spend this voyce in crys,
In tears I'll waste these eyes
By Love so vainly fed;
So Lust of old the Deluge punished.
Ah wretched youth! said I,
'Ah, wretched youth!' twice did I sadly cry:
'Ah, wretched youth!' the fields and floods reply.
When thoughts of Love I entertain,
I meet no words but 'Never,' and 'In vain.'
'Never' alas that dreadful name
Which fuels the infernal flame:
'Never,' My time to come must waste;
'In vain,' torments the present and the past.
'In vain, in vain!' said I;
'In vain, in vain!' twice did I sadly cry;
'In vain, in vain!' the fields and floods reply.
No more shall fields or floods do so;
For I to shades more dark and silent go:
All this world's noise appears to me
A dull ill-acted comedy:
No comfort to my wounded sight,
In the suns busy and imperti'nent Light.
Then down I laid my head;
Down on cold earth; and for a while was dead,
And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled.
'Ah, sottish Soul' said I,
When back to its cage again I saw it fly;
'Fool to resume her broken chain!
And row her galley here again!'
'Fool, to that body to return
Where it condemn'd and destin'd is to burn!
Once dead, how can it be,
Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee,
That thou should'st come to live it o're again in me?'
poem by Abraham Cowley
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A Hymn
Eternal power of earth and air,
Unseen, yet seen in all around,
Remote, but dwelling everywhere,
Though silent, heard in every sound.
If e'er thine ear in mercy bent
When wretched mortals cried to thee,
And if indeed thy Son was sent
To save lost sinners such as me.
Then hear me now, while kneeling here;
I lift to thee my heart and eye
And all my soul ascends in prayer;
O give me - give me Faith I cry.
Without some glimmering in my heart,
I could not raise this fervent prayer;
But O a stronger light impart,
And in thy mercy fix it there!
While Faith is with me I am blest;
It turns my darkest night to day;
But while I clasp it to my breast
I often feel it slide away.
Then cold and dark my spirit sinks,
To see my light of life depart,
And every fiend of Hell methinks
Enjoys the anguish of my heart.
What shall I do if all my love,
My hopes, my toil, are cast away,
And if there be no God above
To hear and bless me when I pray?
If this be vain delusion all,
If death be an eternal sleep,
And none can hear my secret call,
Or see the silent tears I weep.
O help me God! for thou alone
Canst my distracted soul relieve;
Forsake it not -- it is thine own,
Though weak yet longing to believe.
O drive these cruel doubts away
And make me know that thou art God;
A Faith that shines by night and day
Will lighten every earthly load.
If I believe that Jesus died
And waking rose to reign above,
Then surely Sorrow, Sin and Pride
Must yield to peace and hope and love.
And all the blessed words he said
Will strength and holy joy impart,
A shield of safety o'er my head,
A spring of comfort in my heart.
poem by Anne Brontë
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The Blind Slave Boy
Come back to me, mother! why linger away
From thy poor little blind boy, the long weary day!
I mark every footstep, I list to each tone,
And wonder my mother should leave me alone!
But there’s no one to joy or to sorrow with me;
For each hath of pleasure and trouble his share,
And none for the poor little blind boy will care.
My mother, come back to me! close to thy breast
Once more let thy poor little blind one be pressed;
Once more let me feel they warm breath on my cheek,
And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak!
O mother! I’ve no one to love me – no heart
Can bear like thine own in my sorrows a part;
No hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind,
O! none like a mother can cherish the blind!
Poor blind one! No mother thy wailing can hear,
No mother can hasten to banish thy fear;
And for one paltry dollar hath sold thee, poor child!
Ah! who can in language of mortals reveal
The anguish that none but a mother can feel,
When man is his vile lust of mammon hath trod
On her child, who is stricken and smitten of God!
Blind, helpless, forsaken, with strangers alone,
She hears in her anguish his piteous moan,
As he eagerly listens—but listens in vain,
To catch the loved tones of his mother again!
The curse of the broken in spirit shall fall
On the wretch who hath mingled this wormwood and gall,
And his gain like a mildew shall blight and destroy,
Who hath torn from his mother the little blind boy!
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Julia to Ovid
Written at Twelve Years of Age, in imitation of Ovid's Epistles.
Are love and pow'r incapable to meet?
And must they all be wretched who are great?
Enslav'd by titles, and by forms confin'd,
For wretched victims to the state design'd.
What rural maid, that my sad fortune knows,
Would quit her cottage to embrace my woes?
Would be this cursed sacrifice to pow'r,
This wretched daughter of Rome's emperour?
When sick with sighs to absent Ovid given,
I tire with vows the unrelenting Heaven,
Drown'd in my tears, and with my sorrows pale,
What then do all my kindred gods avail?
Let proud Augustus the whole world subdue,
be mine to place all happiness in you;
With nobler pride I can on throes look down,
Can court your love and can despise a crown, --
O Love! thou pleasure never dearly bought!
Whose joys exceed the very lover's thought;
Of that soft passion, when you teach the art,
In gentle sounds it steals into the heart;
With such sweet magic does the soul surprise,
'Tis only taught us better by your eyes.
O Ovid! first of the inspired train,
To Heaven I speak in that enchanting strain,
So sweet a voice can never plead in vain.
Apollo will protect his favourite son,
And all the little Loves unto thy succour run.
The Loves and Muses in thy prayer shall join,
And all their wishes and their vows be thine;
Some god will soften my hard Father's breast,
And work a miracle to make thee blest.
* * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * *
Hard as this is, I even could this bear,
But greater ills than what I feel, I fear.
My fame -- my Ovid -- both for ever fled,
what greater evil is there left to dread!
Yes, there is one . . . . . . . . . . .
Avert it, Gods, who do my sorrows see!
Avert it, thou, who art a god to me!
When back to Rome your wishing eyes are cast,
And on the lessening towers you gaze your last --
When fancy shall recal unto your view
The pleasures now for ever lost to you,
The shining court, and all the thousand ways
To melt the nights and pass the happy days --
Will you not sigh, and hate the wretched maid,
Whose fatal love your safety has betray'd?
Say that from me your banishment does come,
And curse the eyes that have expell'd you Rome?
Those eyes, which now are weeping for your woes,
The sleep of death shall then for ever close.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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The Doubter's Prayer
Eternal Power, of earth and air!
Unseen, yet seen in all around,
Remote, but dwelling everywhere,
Though silent, heard in every sound.
If e'er thine ear in mercy bent,
When wretched mortals cried to Thee,
And if, indeed, Thy Son was sent,
To save lost sinners such as me:
Then hear me now, while, kneeling here,
I lift to thee my heart and eye,
And all my soul ascends in prayer,
Oh, give me - give me Faith! I cry.
Without some glimmering in my heart,
I could not raise this fervent prayer;
But, oh! a stronger light impart,
And in Thy mercy fix it there.
While Faith is with me, I am blest;
It turns my darkest night to day;
But while I clasp it to my breast,
I often feel it slide away.
Then, cold and dark, my spirit sinks,
To see my light of life depart;
And every fiend of Hell, methinks,
Enjoys the anguish of my heart.
What shall I do, if all my love,
My hopes, my toil, are cast away,
And if there be no God above,
To hear and bless me when I pray?
If this be vain delusion all,
If death be an eternal sleep,
And none can hear my secret call,
Or see the silent tears I weep!
Oh, help me, God! For thou alone
Canst my distracted soul relieve;
Forsake it not: it is thine own,
Though weak, yet longing to believe.
Oh, drive these cruel doubts away;
And make me know, that Thou art God!
A faith, that shines by night and day,
Will lighten every earthly load.
If I believe that Jesus died,
And, waking, rose to reign above;
Then surely Sorrow, Sin, and Pride,
Must yield to Peace, and Hope, and Love.
And all the blessed words He said
Will strength and holy joy impart:
A shield of safety o'er my head,
A spring of comfort in my heart.
poem by Anne Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Olney Hymn 19: Contentment
Fierce passions discompose the mind,
As tempests vex the sea,
But calm, content and peace we find,
When, Lord, we turn to Thee.
In vain by reason and by rule
We try to bend the will;
For none but in the Saviour's school
Can learn the heavenly skill.
Since at His feet my soul has sate,
His gracious words to hear,
Contented with my present state,
I cast on Him my care.
'Art thou a sinner, soul?' He said,
'Then how canst thou complain?
How light thy troubles here, if weigh'd
With everlasting pain!
'If thou of murmuring wouldst be cured,
Compare thy griefs with mine!
Think what my love for thee endured,
And thou wilt not repine.
''Tis I appoint thy daily lot,
And I do all things well;
Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot,
And rise with me to dwell.
'In life my grace shall strength supply,
Proportion'd to thy day;
At death thou still shalt find me nigh,
To wipe thy tears away.'
Thus I, who once my wretched days
In vain repinings spent,
Taught in my Saviour's school of grace,
Have learnt to be content.
poem by William Cowper
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Contentment
(Phillipians, iv.11)
Fierce passions discompose the mind,
As tempests vex the sea,
But calm, content and peace we find,
When, Lord, we turn to Thee.
In vain by reason and by rule
We try to bend the will;
For none but in the Saviour's school
Can learn the heavenly skill.
Since at His feet my soul has sate,
His gracious words to hear,
Contented with my present state,
I cast on Him my care.
"Art thou a sinner, soul?" He said,
"Then how canst thou complain?
How light thy troubles here, if weigh'd
With everlasting pain!
"If thou of murmuring wouldst be cured,
Compare thy griefs with mine!
Think what my love for thee endured,
And thou wilt not repine.
"'Tis I appoint thy daily lot,
And I do all things well;
Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot,
And rise with me to dwell.
"In life my grace shall strength supply,
Proportion'd to thy day;
At death thou still shalt find me nigh,
To wipe thy tears away."
Thus I, who once my wretched days
In vain repinings spent,
Taught in my Saviour's school of grace,
Have learnt to be content.
poem by William Cowper
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The Dream
It was the morning; through the shutters closed,
Along the balcony, the earliest rays
Of sunlight my dark room were entering;
When, at the time that sleep upon our eyes
Its softest and most grateful shadows casts,
There stood beside me, looking in my face,
The image dear of her, who taught me first
To love, then left me to lament her loss.
To me she seemed not dead, but sad, with such
A countenance as the unhappy wear.
Her right hand near my head she sighing placed;
'Dost thou still live,' she said to me, 'and dost
Thou still remember what we _were_ and are?'
And I replied: 'Whence comest thou, and how,
Beloved and beautiful? Oh how, how I
Have grieved, still grieve for thee! Nor did I think
Thou e'er couldst know it more; and oh, that thought
My sorrow rendered more disconsolate!
But art thou now again to leave me?
I fear so. Say, what hath befallen thee?
Art thou the same? What preys upon thee thus?'
'Oblivion weighs upon thy thoughts, and sleep
Envelops them,' she answered; 'I am dead,
And many months have passed, since last we met.'
What grief oppressed me, as these words I heard!
And she continued: 'In the flower of youth
Cut off, when life is sweetest, and before
The heart that lesson sad and sure hath learnt,
The utter vanity of human hope!
The sick man may e'en covet, as a boon,
That which withdraws him from all suffering;
But to the young, Death comes, disconsolate;
And hard the fate of hope, that in the grave
Is quenched! And yet, how vain that knowledge is,
That Nature from the inexperienced hides!
And a blind sorrow is to be preferred
To wisdom premature!'--'Hush, hush!' I cried,
'Unhappy one, and dear! My heart is crushed
With these thy words! And art thou dead, indeed,
O my beloved? and am I still alive?
And was it, then, in heaven decreed, that this,
Thy tender body the last damps of death
Should feel, and my poor, wretched frame remain
Unharmed? Oh, often, often as I think
That thou no longer livest, and that I
Shall never see thee on the earth again,
Incredible it seems! Alas, alas!
What _is_ this thing, that they call death? Oh, would
That I, this day, the mystery could solve,
And my defenceless head withdraw from Fate's
Relentless hate! I still am young, and still
Feel all the blight and misery of age,
Which I so dread; and distant far it seems;
But, ah, how little different from age,
The flower of my years!'--'We both were born,'
She said, 'to weep; unhappy were our lives,
And heaven took pleasure in our sufferings.'
'Oh if my eyes with tears,' I added, 'then,
My face with pallor veiled thou seest, for loss
Of thee, and anguish weighing on my heart;
Tell me, was any spark of pity or of love
For the poor lover kindled in thy heart,
While thou didst live? I, then, between my hope
And my despair, passed weary nights and days;
And now, my mind is with vain doubts oppressed.
Oh if but once compassion smote thee for
My darkened life, conceal it not from me,
I pray thee; let the memory console me,
Since of their future our young days were robbed!'
And she: 'Be comforted, unhappy one!
I was not churlish of my pity whilst
I lived, and am not now, myself so wretched!
Oh, do not chide this most unhappy child!'
'By all our sufferings, and by the love
Which preys upon me,' I exclaimed, 'and by
Our youth, and by the hope that faded from
Our lives, O let me, dearest, touch thy hand!'
And sweetly, sadly, she extended it.
And while I covered it with kisses, while
With sorrow and with rapture quivering,
I to my panting bosom fondly pressed it,
With fervent passion glowed my face and breast,
My trembling voice refused its utterance,
And all things swam before my sight; when she,
Her eyes fixed tenderly on mine, replied:
'And dost thou, then, forget, dear friend, that I
Am of my beauty utterly deprived?
And vainly thou, unhappy one, dost yield
To passion's transports. Now, a last farewell!
Our wretched minds, our feeble bodies, too,
Eternally are parted. Thou to me
No longer livest, nevermore shall live.
Fate hath annulled the faith that thou hast sworn.'
Then, in my anguish as I seemed to cry
Aloud, convulsed, my eyes o'erflowing with
The tears of utter, helpless misery,
I started from my sleep. The image still
Was seen, and in the sun's uncertain light
Above my couch she seemed to linger still.
poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Wednesday, the Tête à Tête
DANCINDA.
"NO, fair DANCINDA, no; you strive in vain
"To calm my care and mitigate my pain ;
"If all my sighs, my cares, can fail to move,
"Ah! sooth me not with fruitless vows of love."
Thus STREPHON spoke. DANCINDA thus reply'd :
`What must I do to gratify your pride?
`Too well you know (ungrateful as thou art)
`How much you triumph in this tender heart;
`What proof of love remains for me to grant?
Yet still you teize me with some new complaint.
Oh ! would to heav'n ! -- but the fond wish is vain --
Too many favours had not made it plain !
But such a passion breaks thro' all disguise,
Love reddens on my cheek and wishes in my eyes.
Is't not enough (inhuman and unkind !)
I own the secret conflict of my mind ?
You cannot know what secret pain I prove,
When I with burning blushes own I love.
You see my artless joy at your approach,
I sigh, I faint, I tremble at your touch ;
And in your absence all the world I shun ;
I hate mankind, and curse the cheering sun.
Still as I fly, ten thousand swains pursue ;
Ten thousand swains I sacrifice to you.
I shew you all my heart without disguise :
But these are tender proofs that you despise --
I see too well what wishes you pursue ;
You wou'd not only conquer, but undo :
You, cruel victor, weary of your flame,
Would seek a cure in my eternal shame ;
And not content my honour to subdue,
Now strive to triumph o'er my virtue too.
Oh ! LOVE, a God indeed to womankind,
Whose arrows burn me and whose fetters bind,
Avenge thy altars, vindicate thy fame,
And blast these traytors that profane thy name,
Who by pretending to thy sacred fire,
Raise cursed trophies to impure desire.
Have you forgot with what ensnaring art
You first seduc'd this fond uncautious heart ?
Then as I fled, did you not kneeling cry,
Turn, cruel beauty ; whither wou'd you fly ?
Why all these Doubts ? why this distrustful fear ?
No impious wishes shall offend your ear :
Nor ever shall my boldest hopes pretend
Above the title of a tender friend ;
Blest, if my lovely Goddess will permit
My humble vow, thus sighing at her feet.
The tyrant Love that in my Bosom reigns,
The God himself submits to wear your chains ;
You shall direct his course, his ardour tame,
And check the fury of his wildest flame.
Unpractis'd youth is easily deceiv'd ;
Sooth'd by such sounds, I listen'd and believ'd :
Now quite forgot that soft submissive fear :
You dare to ask what I must blush to hear.
Cou'd I forget the honour of my race,
And meet your wishes, fearless of disgrace ;
Cou'd passion o'er my tender youth prevail,
And all my mother's pious maxims fail ;
Yet to preserve your heart (which still must be,
False as it is, for ever dear to me)
This fatal proof of love I wou'd not give,
Which you contemn the moment you receive.
The wretched she, who yields to guilty joys
A man may pity, but he must despise.
Your ardour ceas'd, I then shou'd see you shun
The wretched victim by your arts undone.
Yet if I cou'd that cold indifference bear,
What more wou'd strike me with the last despair,
With this reflection wou'd my soul be torn,
To know I merited your cruel scorn.
Has Love no pleasures free from guilt or fear ?
Pleasures less fierce, more lasting, more sincere ?
Thus let us gently kiss and fondly gaze,
Love is a child, and like a child it plays.
O STREPHON, if you wou'd continue just,
If Love be something more than brutal lust,
Forbear to ask what I must still deny,
This bitter pleasure, this destructive joy,
So closely follow'd by the dismal train
Of cutting shame, and guilt's heart-piercing pain.
She paus'd ; and fix'd her eyes upon her fan ;
He took a pinch of snuff, and thus began ;
Madam, if Love -- but he cou'd say no more,
For Mademoiselle came rapping at the door.
The dangerous moments no adieus afford ;
Begone, she cries, I'm sure I hear my Lord.
The lover starts from his unfinish'd loves,
To snatch his hat, and seek his scatter'd gloves :
The sighing dame to meet her dear prepares,
While STREPHON cursing, slips down the back-stairs.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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Town Eclogues: Wednesday
DANCINDA.
" NO, fair DANCINDA, no ; you strive in vain
" To calm my care and mitigate my pain ;
" If all my sighs, my cares, can fail to move,
" Ah ! sooth me not with fruitless vows of love."
Thus STREPHON spoke. DANCINDA thus reply'd :
`What must I do to gratify your pride ?
`Too well you know (ungrateful as thou art)
`How much you triumph in this tender heart ;
`What proof of love remains for me to grant ?
Yet still you teize me with some new complaint.
Oh ! would to heav'n ! -- but the fond wish is vain --
Too many favours had not made it plain !
But such a passion breaks thro' all disguise,
Love reddens on my cheek and wishes in my eyes.
Is't not enough (inhuman and unkind !)
I own the secret conflict of my mind ?
You cannot know what secret pain I prove,
When I with burning blushes own I love.
You see my artless joy at your approach,
I sigh, I faint, I tremble at your touch ;
And in your absence all the world I shun ;
I hate mankind, and curse the cheering sun.
Still as I fly, ten thousand swains pursue ;
Ten thousand swains I sacrifice to you.
I shew you all my heart without disguise :
But these are tender proofs that you despise --
I see too well what wishes you pursue ;
You wou'd not only conquer, but undo :
You, cruel victor, weary of your flame,
Would seek a cure in my eternal shame ;
And not content my honour to subdue,
Now strive to triumph o'er my virtue too.
Oh ! LOVE, a God indeed to womankind,
Whose arrows burn me and whose fetters bind,
Avenge thy altars, vindicate thy fame,
And blast these traytors that profane thy name,
Who by pretending to thy sacred fire,
Raise cursed trophies to impure desire.
Have you forgot with what ensnaring art
You first seduc'd this fond uncautious heart ?
Then as I fled, did you not kneeling cry,
Turn, cruel beauty ; whither wou'd you fly ?
Why all these Doubts ? why this distrustful fear ?
No impious wishes shall offend your ear :
Nor ever shall my boldest hopes pretend
Above the title of a tender friend ;
Blest, if my lovely Goddess will permit
My humble vow, thus sighing at her feet.
The tyrant Love that in my Bosom reigns,
The God himself submits to wear your chains ;
You shall direct his course, his ardour tame,
And check the fury of his wildest flame.
Unpractis'd youth is easily deceiv'd ;
Sooth'd by such sounds, I listen'd and believ'd :
Now quite forgot that soft submissive fear :
You dare to ask what I must blush to hear.
Cou'd I forget the honour of my race,
And meet your wishes, fearless of disgrace ;
Cou'd passion o'er my tender youth prevail,
And all my mother's pious maxims fail ;
Yet to preserve your heart (which still must be,
False as it is, for ever dear to me)
This fatal proof of love I wou'd not give,
Which you contemn the moment you receive.
The wretched she, who yields to guilty joys
A man may pity, but he must despise.
Your ardour ceas'd, I then shou'd see you shun
The wretched victim by your arts undone.
Yet if I cou'd that cold indifference bear,
What more wou'd strike me with the last despair,
With this reflection wou'd my soul be torn,
To know I merited your cruel scorn.
Has Love no pleasures free from guilt or fear ?
Pleasures less fierce, more lasting, more sincere ?
Thus let us gently kiss and fondly gaze,
Love is a child, and like a child it plays.
O STREPHON, if you wou'd continue just,
If Love be something more than brutal lust,
Forbear to ask what I must still deny,
This bitter pleasure, this destructive joy,
So closely follow'd by the dismal train
Of cutting shame, and guilt's heart-piercing pain.
She paus'd ; and fix'd her eyes upon her fan ;
He took a pinch of snuff, and thus began ;
Madam, if Love -- but he cou'd say no more,
For Mademoiselle came rapping at the door.
The dangerous moments no adieus afford ;
Begone, she cries, I'm sure I hear my Lord.
The lover starts from his unfinish'd loves,
To snatch his hat, and seek his scatter'd gloves :
The sighing dame to meet her dear prepares,
While STREPHON cursing, slips down the back-stairs.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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Esau
Poor Esau repented too late
That once he his birth-right despised;
And sold, for a morsel of meat,
What could not too highly be prized:
How great was his anguish when told,
The blessing he sought to obtain,
Was gone with the birth-right he sold,
And none could recall it again!
He stands as a warning to all,
Wherever the gospel shall come;
O Hasten and yield to the call,
While yet for repentance there's room!
Your season will quickly be past,
Then hear and obey it today;
Lest when you seek mercy at last,
The Saviour should frown you away.
What is it the world can propose?
A morsel of meat at the best!
For this are you willing to lose
A share in the joys of the blest?
Its pleasures will speedily end,
Its favor and praise are but breath;
And what can its profits befriend
Your soul in the moment of death?
If Jesus for these you despise,
And sin to the Saviour prefer;
In vain your entreaties and cries,
When summoned to stand at his bar:
How will you his presence abide?
What anguish will torture your heart?
The saints all enthroned by his side,
And you be compelled to depart.
Too often, dear Saviour, have I
Preferred some poor trifle to thee;
How is it thou dost not deny
The blessing and birth-right to me?
No better than Esau I am,
Though pardon and heav'n be mine;
To me belongs nothing but shame,
The praise and the glory be thine.
poem by John Newton
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To The Right Honble. The Lady Dowager Torrington,
When you command, the Muse obeys,
Proud to present her humble Lays.
Of writing I'll no more repent,
Nor think my Time unwisely spent;
If Verse the Happiness procures
Of pleasing such a Soul as yours.
Endless Anxiety, I find,
Hath dire Effects upon the Mind:
A Life of unsuccessful Care
Too often sinks us to Despair.
From such a Life as this, I chuse
To snatch some Moments for the Muse;
To slight Mortality, and soar
To Worlds where Anguish is no more;
Forget Ierne's wretched State,
Tho' doom'd to share her cruel Fate;
Destin'd to pass my joyless Days,
Where Poverty, relentless, preys;
And form'd, unhappily, to grieve
For Miseries I can't relieve.
From giving Wealth my Hands are ty'd;
That great Felicity's deny'd.
Yet have I sometimes the Delight,
To help a Wretch by what I write;
To make some happier Bosoms melt;
And heal the Woes they never felt.
To Torrington, whose gen'rous Breast
Delights in raising the Diftress'd,
Adding new Honour to her Blood,
By all the Ways of doing Good,
How needless is the Poet's Art;
Since He, that made, enlarg'd her Heart?
poem by Mary Barber
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Elegy
'DARK gathering clouds involve the threatening skies,
The sea heaves conscious of the impending gloom,
Deep, hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise;
They come--the Spirits of the Tempest come!
'Oh! may such terrors mark the approaching night
As reign'd on that these streaming eyes deplore!
Flash, ye red fires of heaven, with fatal light,
And with conflicting winds ye waters roar!
'Loud and more loud, ye foaming billows, burst!
Ye warring elements, more fiercely rave!
Till the wide waves o'erwhelm the spot accurst
'Where ruthless Avarice finds a quiet grave!' '
Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and streaming hair,
While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech,
A wretched maid--the victim of despair,
Survey'd the threatening storm and desert beech.
Then to the tomb where now the father slept
Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow,
Frantic she turn'd--and beat her breast and wept,
Invoking vengeance on the dust below.
'Lo! rising there above each humbler heap,
Yon cypher'd stones his name and wealth relate,
Who gave his son--remorseless--to the deep,
While I, his living victim, curse my fate.
'Oh, my lost love! no tomb is placed for thee,
That may to strangers' eyes thy worth impart;
Thou hast no grave but in the stormy sea,
And no memorial but this breaking heart.
'Forth to the world, a widow'd wanderer driven,
I pour to winds and waves the unheeded tear,
Try with vain effort to submit to Heaven,
And fruitless call on him--'who cannot hear.'
'Oh! might I fondly clasp him once again,
While o'er my head the infuriate billows pour,
Forget in death this agonizing pain,
And feel his father's cruelty no more!
'Part, raging waters! part, and show beneath,
In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form;
Now, while the demons of despair and death
Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm:
'Lo! by the lightning's momentary blaze,
I see him rise the whitening waves above,
No longer such as when in happier days
He gave the enchanted hours--to me and love.
'Such, as when daring the enchafed sea,
And courting dangerous toil, he often said
That every peril, one soft smile from me,
One sigh of speechless tenderness o'erpaid.
'But dead, disfigured, while between the roar
Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear,
And seem to say--Ah, wretch! delay no more,
But come, unhappy mourner--meet me here.
'Yet, powerful Fancy, bid the phantom stay,
Still let me hear him!--'Tis already past;
Along the waves his shadow glides away,
I lose his voice amid the deafening blast.
'Ah, wild delusion, born of frantic pain!
He hears not, comes not from his watery bed;
My tears, my anguish, my despair are vain,
The insatiate ocean gives not up its dead.
' 'Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll;
Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail;
Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul,
Despair, and Death, and Desolation, hail!'
The Ocean hears--The embodied waters come--
Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweep
Tear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb,
And bear the injured to eternal sleep.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Ode To Death
FRIEND of the wretched! wherefore should the eye
Of blank Despair, whence tears have ceased to flow,
Be turn'd from thee?--Ah! wherefore fears to die
He, who compell'd each poignant grief to know,
Drains to its lowest dregs the cup of woe?
Would Cowardice postpone thy calm embrace,
To linger out long years in torturing pain?
Or not prefer thee to the ills that chase
Him, who too much impoverish'd to obtain
From British Themis right , implores her aid in vain!
Sharp goading Indigence who would not fly,
That urges toil the exhausted strength above?
Or shun the once fond friend's averted eye?
Or who to thy asylum not remove,
To lose the wasting anguish of ungrateful love?
Can then the wounded wretch, who must deplore
What most she loved, to thy cold arms consign'd,
Who hears the voice that soothed her soul no more,
Fear thee , O Death!--Or hug the chains that bind
To joyless, cheerless life, her sick, reluctant mind?
Oh, Misery's cure! who e'er in pale dismay
Has watch'd the angel form they could not save,
And seen their dearest blessing torn away,
May well the terrors of thy triumph brave,
Nor pause in fearful dread before the opening grave!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Ode to the Modern Work-Man
O, wretched modern work-man
The years, they pass you by
Everything you believe
Is nothing but a lie.
O, wretched modern work-man
From your neckties to your socks
You’re nothing but a slave
To pictures in a box.
O, wretched modern work-man
You live for the Public Eye
Your life is but a parody
Whose foundation is a lie.
O, wretched modern work-man
You strive, and save, and yearn
To keep up with the Kamaus
Spending more than you earn.
O, wretched modern work-man
You’re nothing but a slave
Your dreams are dead and buried
Lying in a shallow grave.
O, wretched modern work-man
You strangled your own dreams
You smothered your own happiness
Your hand stifled its screams.
O, wretched modern work-man
For the camera so aesthetic
Beneath the plastic smile
You’re pitiful and pathetic.
O, wretched modern work-man
You work yourself half to death
Chasing pounds and shillings
To swell another’s wealth.
O, wretched modern work-man
You lived your whole life as a show
Yet the only Watcher who mattered
Didn’t like what He saw.
O, wretched modern work-man
When you finally died
Your surname, and hospital bill
Were all you left behind…
Epistle from Arthur Grey, the Footman, to Mrs. Murray, after His Condemnation for Attempting to Comm
Read, lovely nymph, and tremble not to read,
I have no more to wish, nor you to dread;
I ask not life, for life to me were vain,
And death a refuge from severer pain.
My only hope in these last lines I try --
I would be pitied, and I then would die.
Long had I liv'd as sordid as my fate,
Nor curs'd the destiny that made me wait
A servile slave: content with homely food,
The gross instinct of happiness pursued:
Youth gave me sleep at night and warmth of blood.
Ambition yet had never touch'd my breast;
My lordly master knew no sounder rest;
With labour healthy, in obedience blest.
But when I saw -- oh! had I never seen
That wounding softness, that engaging mien!
The mist of wretched education flies,
Shame, fear, desire, despair, and love arise,
The new creation of those beauteous eyes.
But yet that love pursu'd no guilty aim;
Deep in my heart I hid the secret flame:
I never hop'd my fond desire to tell,
And all my wishes were to serve you well.
Heav'ns! how I flew when wing'd by your command,
And kiss'd the letters giv'n me by your hand.
How pleas'd, how proud, how fond I was to wait,
Present the sparkling wine, or change the plate!
How, when you sung, my soul devour'd the sound,
And ev'ry sense was in the rapture drown'd!
Though bid to go, I quite forgot to move;
-- You knew not that stupidity was love!
But oh! the torment not to be express'd,
The grief, the rage, the hell, that fir'd this breast,
When my great rivals, in embroidery gay,
Sate by your side, or led you from the play!
I still contriv'd near as I could to stand
(the flambeau trembling in my shaking hand);
I saw, or thought I saw, those fingers press'd,
For thus their passion by my own I guess'd,
And jealous fury all my soul possess'd.
Like torrents, love and indignation meet,
And madness would have thrown me at your feet.
Turn, lovely nymph (for so I would have said),
Turn from those triflers who make love a trade;
This is true passion in my eyes you see;
They cannot, no -- they cannot love like me;
Frequent debauch has pall'd their sickly taste,
Faint their desire, and in a moment past;
They sigh not from the heart, but from the brain;
Vapours of vanity and strong champagne.
Too dull to feel what forms like yours inspire,
After long talking of their painted fire,
To some lewd brothel they at night retire;
There, pleas'd with fancy'd quality and charms,
Enjoy your beauties in a strumpet's arms.
Such are the joys those toasters have in view,
And such the wit and pleasure they pursue;
-- And is this love that ought to merit you?
Each opera night a new address begun,
They swear to thousands what they swear to one.
Not thus I sigh -- but all my sighs are vain --
Die, wretched Arthur, and conceal thy pain:
'Tis impudence to wish, and madness to complain.
Fix'd on this view, my only hope of ease,
I waited not the aid of slow disease;
The keenest instruments of death I sought,
And death alone employ'd my lab'ring thought.
This all the night -- when I remember well
The charming tinkle of your morning bell!
Fir'd by the sound, I hasten'd with your tea,
With one last look to smooth the darksome way --
But oh! how dear that fatal look has cost!
In that fond moment my resolves were lost.
Hence all my guilt, and all your sorrows rise --
I saw the languid softness of your eyes;
I saw the dear disorder of your bed;
Your cheeks all glowing with a tempting red;
Your night-clothes tumbled with resistless grace,
Your flowing hair play'd careless down your face
Your night-gown fasten'd with a single pin;
-- Fancy improv'd the wondrous charms within!
I fix'd my eyes upon that heaving breast,
And hardly, hardly, I forbore the rest:
Eager to gaze, unsatisfied with sight,
My head grew giddy with the near delight!
-- Too well you know the fatal following night!
Th'extremest proof of my desire I give,
And since you will not love, I will not live.
Condemn'd by you, I wait the righteous doom.
Careless and fearless of the woes to come.
But when you see me waver in the wind,
My guilty flame extinct, my soul resign'd,
Sure you may pity what you can't approve,
The cruel consequence of furious love.
Think the bold wretch, that could so greatly dare,
Was tender, faithful, ardent, and sincere;
Think when I held the pistol to your breast, --
Had I been of the world's large rule possess'd, --
That world had then been yours, and I been blest;
Think that my life was quite below my care,
Nor fear'd I any hell beyond despair. --
If these reflections, though they seize you late,
Give some compassion for your Arthur's fate:
Enough you give, nor ought I to complain:
You pay my pangs, nor have I died in vain.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Epistle from Arthur Grey, the Footman, to Mrs. Murray, after His Condemnation for Attempting to Commit Violence.
Read, lovely nymph, and tremble not to read,
I have no more to wish, nor you to dread;
I ask not life, for life to me were vain,
And death a refuge from severer pain.
My only hope in these last lines I try --
I would be pitied, and I then would die.
Long had I liv'd as sordid as my fate,
Nor curs'd the destiny that made me wait
A servile slave: content with homely food,
The gross instinct of happiness pursued:
Youth gave me sleep at night and warmth of blood.
Ambition yet had never touch'd my breast;
My lordly master knew no sounder rest;
With labour healthy, in obedience blest.
But when I saw -- oh! had I never seen
That wounding softness, that engaging mien!
The mist of wretched education flies,
Shame, fear, desire, despair, and love arise,
The new creation of those beauteous eyes.
But yet that love pursu'd no guilty aim;
Deep in my heart I hid the secret flame:
I never hop'd my fond desire to tell,
And all my wishes were to serve you well.
Heav'ns! how I flew when wing'd by your command,
And kiss'd the letters giv'n me by your hand.
How pleas'd, how proud, how fond I was to wait,
Present the sparkling wine, or change the plate!
How, when you sung, my soul devour'd the sound,
And ev'ry sense was in the rapture drown'd!
Though bid to go, I quite forgot to move;
-- You knew not that stupidity was love!
But oh! the torment not to be express'd,
The grief, the rage, the hell, that fir'd this breast,
When my great rivals, in embroidery gay,
Sate by your side, or led you from the play!
I still contriv'd near as I could to stand
(the flambeau trembling in my shaking hand);
I saw, or thought I saw, those fingers press'd,
For thus their passion by my own I guess'd,
And jealous fury all my soul possess'd.
Like torrents, love and indignation meet,
And madness would have thrown me at your feet.
Turn, lovely nymph (for so I would have said),
Turn from those triflers who make love a trade;
This is true passion in my eyes you see;
They cannot, no -- they cannot love like me;
Frequent debauch has pall'd their sickly taste,
Faint their desire, and in a moment past;
They sigh not from the heart, but from the brain;
Vapours of vanity and strong champagne.
Too dull to feel what forms like yours inspire,
After long talking of their painted fire,
To some lewd brothel they at night retire;
There, pleas'd with fancy'd quality and charms,
Enjoy your beauties in a strumpet's arms.
Such are the joys those toasters have in view,
And such the wit and pleasure they pursue;
-- And is this love that ought to merit you?
Each opera night a new address begun,
They swear to thousands what they swear to one.
Not thus I sigh -- but all my sighs are vain --
Die, wretched Arthur, and conceal thy pain:
'Tis impudence to wish, and madness to complain.
Fix'd on this view, my only hope of ease,
I waited not the aid of slow disease;
The keenest instruments of death I sought,
And death alone employ'd my lab'ring thought.
This all the night -- when I remember well
The charming tinkle of your morning bell!
Fir'd by the sound, I hasten'd with your tea,
With one last look to smooth the darksome way --
But oh! how dear that fatal look has cost!
In that fond moment my resolves were lost.
Hence all my guilt, and all your sorrows rise --
I saw the languid softness of your eyes;
I saw the dear disorder of your bed;
Your cheeks all glowing with a tempting red;
Your night-clothes tumbled with resistless grace,
Your flowing hair play'd careless down your face
Your night-gown fasten'd with a single pin;
-- Fancy improv'd the wondrous charms within!
I fix'd my eyes upon that heaving breast,
And hardly, hardly, I forbore the rest:
Eager to gaze, unsatisfied with sight,
My head grew giddy with the near delight!
-- Too well you know the fatal following night!
Th'extremest proof of my desire I give,
And since you will not love, I will not live.
Condemn'd by you, I wait the righteous doom.
Careless and fearless of the woes to come.
But when you see me waver in the wind,
My guilty flame extinct, my soul resign'd,
Sure you may pity what you can't approve,
The cruel consequence of furious love.
Think the bold wretch, that could so greatly dare,
Was tender, faithful, ardent, and sincere;
Think when I held the pistol to your breast, --
Had I been of the world's large rule possess'd, --
That world had then been yours, and I been blest;
Think that my life was quite below my care,
Nor fear'd I any hell beyond despair. --
If these reflections, though they seize you late,
Give some compassion for your Arthur's fate:
Enough you give, nor ought I to complain:
You pay my pangs, nor have I died in vain.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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Occasion'd By Seeing Some Verses Written By Mrs. Constantia Grierson, Upon The Death Of Her Son.
This mourning Mother can with Ease explore
The Arts of Latium, and the Grecian Store:
Was early learn'd, nay more, was early wise;
And knew the Pride of Science to despife;
Left Men to take assuming Airs from thence;
And seem'd unconscious of superior Sense.
Yet, ah! how vain to guard the Soul, we see,
Are the best Precepts of Philosophy!
See Nature triumph o'er the boasted Art,
Ev'n in a Solon's, and Constantia's Heart.
See how she mourns her Son's untimely Doom,
And pours her Woes o'er the relentless Tomb.
Soften, kind Heav'n, her seeming rigid Fate,
With frequent Visions of his blissful State:
Oft let the Guardian Angel of her Son
Tell her in faithful Dreams, His Task is done;
Shew, how he kindly led her lovely Boy
To Realms of Peace, and never--fading Joy.
Then, for a while, reverse his happy Fate;
Shew him still here, still in this wretched State:
Shew the false World, seducing him from Truth;
And paint the slipp'ry, dang'rous Paths of Youth:
Shew him, in riper Years, beset with Snares,
Weary'd with struggling thro' unnumber'd Cares:
Convey him thence to Life's remotest Stage,
To feel the dire Calamities of Age;
Oppress'd with Sorrows, with Distempers torn,
Or rack'd with Guilt, much harder to be borne.
Raise the Distress; and let her darling Care,
Distracted in the Horrors of Despair,
The dreadful Scene of Judgment op'ning see,
And, trembling, plunge into Eternity.
Then ask her, Would she call him down from Bliss,
To hazard such a dismal Doom as this?
That she may learn to be resign'd from thence,
And bless the Guardian Hand, that snatch'd him hence.
poem by Mary Barber
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To The Honble. Miss Carteret, Now Countess Of Dysert.
Fair Innocence, the Muses lovelicst
On Acts of Mercy sound thy rising Fame.
Let others from frail Beauty hope Applause:
Plead thou the Fatherless, and Widow's Cause.
Fly to your Mother; let each winning Grace
Engage Compassion for my helpless Race.
So shall the wond'ring World be taught from thence,
Beauty is but your second Excellence.
poem by Mary Barber
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