« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
My breeding and my politesse,
You'll plead perhaps to my request, To be admitted as a guest, Your hearing's bad :-But why such fears ? I speak to eyes, and not to ears ; And for that reason wisely took The form you see me in, a book. Attack'd, by slow-devouring moths, By rage of barb’rous Huns and Goths, By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes, By Creech's rhimes and Dunster's prose ; I found my boasted wit and fire In their rude hands almost expire: Yet still they but in vain assail'd, For, had their violence prevail'd, And in a blast destroy'd my fame, They would have partly miss'd their aim; Since all my spirit in thy page Defies the Vandals of this age. 'Tis yours to save these small remains From future pedant's muddy brains, And fix my long-uncertain fate, You best know how :—Which way: Translate.
RIGHT HON. THE LADY
MARGARET CAVENDISH HARLEY,
Presented with a Collection of Poems.
BY SOAME JENYNS, ESQ:
The tuneful throng was ever beauty's care,
From Oxford's house, in these dull busy days, Alone we hope for patronage, or praise ; He to our slighted labors still is kind, Beneath his roof ware ever sure to find (Reward sufficient for the world's neglect) Charms to inspire, and goodness to protect :
animate our lays,
Illustrious maid ! in whose sole person join'd Every perfection of the fair we find, Charms that might warrant all her sex's pride, Without one foible of her sex to hide : Good-nature, artless as the bloom that dies Her cheeks, and wit as piercing as her eyes. Oh HARLEY! could you but these lines approve, These children sprung from idleness, and love, Could they (but ah how vain is the design!) Hope to amuse your hours, as once they've mine, Th’ ill-judging world's applause, and critic's blame Alike I'd scorn; your approbation's fame.
SENT WITH A PRESENT OF
SHELLS AND STONES DESIGNED FOR
By the Same.
With gifts like these, the spoils of neighb'ring
shores, The Indian swain his sable love adores, Off'rings well suited to the dusky shrine Of his rude goddess, but unworthy mine: And yet they seem not such a worthless prize, If nicely view'd by philosophic eyes: And such are yours, that nature's works admire With warmth like that, which they themselves in.
To such how fair appears each grain of sand, Or humblest weed, as wrought by nature's hand ! How far superior to all human pow'r Springs the green blade, or buds the painted flow'r!