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FROM POPE'S SATIRES.
Ah, thoughtless ! how could I forget ?
FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES AD
DRESSED TO ARBUTHNOT BY POPE.
Shut up the door, good John! fatigued, I said,
in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can
hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they
glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge ; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free. Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.
Is there a mortal much bemused in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk foredoomed his father's soul to cross, ; Who pens a stanza, when he should engross, – Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls ? All fly to Twick’nham, and in humble strain Apply to me to keep them, mad or vain. What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped ; If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead. Seized, and tied down to judge, how wretched I; Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: To laugh were want of goodness and of grace ; And to be grave exceeds all power of face. I sit with sad civility; I read With honest anguish and with aching head, And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, “ Keep your piece nine years."
Nought is there under beaven's wide hollowness That moves more dear compassion of the mind, Than beauty brought t' unworthy wretchedness Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks un
I, whether lately through her brightness blind,
Feel my heart pierced with so great agony
And now it is empassioned so deep
these lines with tears do steep, To think how she, through guilefull handeling, Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, Though fair as ever living wight was fair, Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting,
Is from her knight divorced in despair;
Yet she, most woefull lady, all this while
wrought, Had her abandon'd: she of nought affray'd, Through woods and wasteness wide him daily
sought, Yet wished tidings none of him unto her brought.
One day, nigh weary of the irksome way,
HYMN TO THE SEA.
From her fair head her fillet she undight,
And made a sunshine in the shady place;
It fortunèd, out of the thickest wood
His bloody rage assuaged with remorse,
Instead thereof, he kist her weary feet,
HYMN TO THE SEA.
Who shall declare the secret of thy birth,
Ere beast or happy bird
Through the vast silence stirred, Roll back the folded darkness of the primal night?
HYMN TO THE SEA.
Corruption-like, thou teemedst in the graves
Whose ancient awful form,
With inly-tossing storm, Unquiet heavings kept - a birth-place and a tomb.
Till the life-giving Spirit moved above
What time the mighty word
Through thine abyss was heard, And swam from out thy deeps the young day
Thou and the earth, twin-sisters as they say,
With her to lie and play
The summer hours away,
but thee no husband dares to tame; Thy wild will is thine own,
Thy sole and virgin throneThy mood is ever changing—thy resolve the same.
Sunlight and moonlight minister to thee;