Page images
PDF
EPUB

All that of myself is mine, Lovely Amoret! is thine: Sacharissa's captive fain

Would untie his iron chain,

And those scorching beams to shun, To thy gentle shadow run.

If the soul had free election
To dispose of her affection,

I would not thus long have borne
Haughty Sacharissa's scorn:

But 'tis sure some pow'r above,
Which controls our wills in love!
If not love, a strong desire
To create and spread that fire
In my breast, solicits me,
Beauteous Amoret! for thee.

"Tis amazement more than love,
Which her radiant eyes do move :
If less splendour wait on thine,
Yet they so benignly shine,
I would turn my dazzled sight
To behold their milder light:
But as hard 'tis to destroy
That high flame, as to enjoy;
Which how easily I may do,
Heav'n (as easily scal'd) does know!
Amoret! as sweet and good

As the most delicious food,
Which but tasted does impart
Life and gladness to the heart.
Sacharissa's beauty's wine,
Which to madness doth incline;
Such a liquor as no brain
That is mortal can sustain.
Scarce can I to Heav'n excuse
The devotion which I use
Unto that adored dame;
For 'tis not unlike the same
Which I thither ought to send;
So that if it could take end,

It would to Heaven itself be due,
To succeed her and not you;
Who already have of me
All that's not idolatry;

Which, though not so fierce a flame,
Is longer like to be the same.

Then smile on me, and I will prove
Wonder is shorter-liv'd than love.

OF LOVE.

ANGER, in hästy words or blows,

Itself discharges on our foes:

And sorrow, too, finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief:
So every passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despis'd,
Where he endeavours to be priz'd.
For women (born to be controll'd)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the generous steed' opprest,
Not kneeling did salute the beast;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tam'd the' unruly horse.
Unwisely we the wiser East

Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill:
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses bright and young,

And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferr'd to quench his present flame,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,

All to one female idol bend,

While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.
All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke
Of mighty Love: that conquering look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pitied now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink
Of some smooth stream about to drink,
Surveying there his armed head,
With shame remembers that he fled
The scorned dogs, resolves to try
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He straight resumes his wonted care,
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.

THE BATTLE OF THE SUMMER-ISLANDS.

CANTO I.

What fruits they have, and how Heav'n smiles
Upon those late-discover'd isles!

AID me, Bellona! while the dreadful fight

Betwixt a nation and two whales I write. Seas stain'd with gore I sing, adventrous toil! And how these monsters did disarm an isle.

Bermuda, wall'd with rocks, who does not know? That happy island where huge lemons grow, And orange trees, which golden fruit do bear, The' Hesperian garden boasts of none so fair; Where shining pearl, and coral, many a pound, On the rich shore, of ambergris is found. The lofty cedar, which to Heav'n aspires, The prince of trees! is fuel for their fires : The smoke by which their loaded spits do turn, For incense might on sacred altars burn: Their private roofs on odorous timber borne, Such as might palaces for kings adorn. The sweet palmettos a new Bacchus yield, With leaves as ample as the broadest shield, Under the shadow of whose friendly boughs They sit, carousing where their liquor grows. Figs there unplanted through the fields do grow, Such as fierce Cato did the Romans show, With the rare fruit inviting them to spoil Carthage, the mistress of so rich a soil. The naked rocks are not unfruitful there, But at some constant seasons, every year Their barren tops with luscious food abound, And with the eggs of various fowls are crown'd. Tobacco is the worst of things, which they To English landlords, as their tribute, pay. Such is the mold that the blest tenant feeds On precious fruits, and pays his rent in weeds. With candied plantains and the juicy pine, On choicest melons and sweet grapes they dine, And with potatoes fat their wanton swine. Nature these cates with such a lavish hand Pours out among them, that our coarser land Tastes of that bounty, and does cloth return, Which not for warmth, but ornament, is worn: For the kind Spring, which but salutes us here, Inhabits there, and courts them all the year. Ripe fruits and blossoms on the same trees live; At once they promise, what at once they give. So sweet the air, so moderate the clime, None sickly lives, or dies before his time.

}

Heav'n sure has kept this spot of earth uncurst,
To show how, all things were created first.
The tardy plants in our cold orchards plac'd,
Reserve their fruit for the next age's taste:
There a small grain in some few months will be
A firm, a lofty, and a spacious tree.
The palma-christi, and the fair papà,
Now but a seed, (preventing Nature's law)
In half the circle of the hasty year

Project a shade, and lovely fruits do wear.
And as their trees, in our dull region set,
But faintly grow, and no perfection get,
So in this northern tract our hoarser throats,
Utter unripe and ill-constrained notes,
While the supporter of the poets' style,
Phœbus, on them eternally does smile.
Oh how I long my careless limbs to lay
Under the plantain's shade, and all the day
With amorous airs, my fancy entertain,
Invoke the Muses, and improve my vein !
No passion there in my free breast should move,
None but the sweet and best of passions, love.
There while I sing, if gentle Love be by,

That tunes my lute, and winds the string so high,
With the sweet sound of Sacharissa's name
I'll make the listening savages grow tame.
But while I do these pleasing dreams indite,
I am diverted from the promis'd fight.

CANTO II.

Of their alarm, and how their foes
Discover'd were, this Canto shows.

THOUGH rocks so high about this island rise,
That well they may the numerous Turk despise,
Yet is no human fate exempt from fear,
Which shakes their hearts, while through the isle
they hear

« PreviousContinue »