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A57734
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Poems on several occasions written by Philomela.
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Rowe, Elizabeth Singer, 1674-1737.
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1696
(1696)
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Wing R2062; ESTC R7317
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37,949
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176
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move a Soft Sensaetion of Delight Or force my lingring Blood a swifter pace Or Paint new Smiles and Blushes on my Face I 've rent the Charming Idol from my heart And banisht all from thence that took his part No more the Smiling Beaux shall tempt me on To Gaze and Sigh and think my self undone Whilst Love like some Fierce Torrent unconfin'd Breaks in o'f-spreads and swallows up my Mind And with its black ungrateful streams controul All the Diviner Rays within my Soul No No I will I will no more admire And urge the Sparks of the now dormant Fire Nor for a wild Fantastick Extasy Change the Dear Ioys of this blest Liberty Free as a wandring Zephir through the Air Methinks I range and hate my former Sphear I meet the Noblest Forms yet scorn to pay A Fond Devotion to well-moulded Clay Nor would I even for my late splendid Chain Forgo this Charming Liberty again Which with so sweet a Calmness fill my Breast As cannot be in Words no not in thine Exprest A Pastoral on the QVEEN Phillis WHy Philomela sleep those chearful Strains With which so much you gratify'd the Plains When every murmuring stream and pretty spring Of some soft Tale would stop to hear thee Sing In Notes that all the Nymphs and Shepherds mov'd And Theron too had he been by had Lov'd But ah unwellcome Alteration now No pleasant Smile or Wreath adorns thy Brow About the Plains thy Flocks neglected stray And thou as careless and forlorn as they In hollow Rocks and Cypress Shades alone Dost Teach the Mournful Dove a sadder Mone For all I heard from thee when listning by Were broken Notes of some sad Elegy But such a great and unaffected Air Thy Solitary Lamentations were I find no selfish Grief or Interest Cou'd draw those Generous Murmurs from thy Breast 'T is sure the Publick Loss thou dost condole 'T is that which yet lies pressing on thy Soul Philomela 'T is that indeed our common loss and care Which in my Breast claims this unvulgar share Too sadly claims it Oh! the Queen the Queen Has left the World but Heaven How black a Scene Her Exit makes it Oh Illustrious Saint By Death from our most warm Caresses rent Could I but speak thy Worth But that 's a Theme Too mighty for my boldest Thoughts to Stem Ev'n my own Grief I have no words to Paint Nor find my Love an Elegant Complaint My Lyre it self no more can give me ease Nor the strong Tumults of my Soul appease No more can give my swelling Breast relief Then Fate reverse the Subject of my Grief 'T is all in vain Alass the Royal Shepherdess is gone And with her the Whole Sex's Glory flown Oh! Could not all those Heavenly Virtues Save Divine Maria from th' Insatiate Grave Nor her's and our Dear Hero's Moving Tears Nor all the poor Lamenting Nations Fears No no they could not She resigns Her Breath The Charming QVEEN a Trophy falls to Death A Farewel to LOVE WEll since in spight of all that Love can do The dangerous steps of Honour thou l't pursue I 'll just grow Wise and Philosophick too I 'll bid these tender silly things Farewel And Love with thy great Antidote expel I 'll tread the same Ambitious Paths with thee And Glory too shall be my Deity And now I 'll once release my Train of Fools In Sheer good Nature to the Loving Souls For Pity's-sake at last I 'll set at rights The vain conceits of the presumptuous Wights For tho' I shake off Therons Chains yet he Is all that e'er deserv'd a Smile from me But he 's unjust and false and I a part Would not accept tho' of a MONARCH's heart And therefore flattering hopes and wishes too With all Loves soft Concomitants adieu No more to its Imperious Yoke I 'll bow Pride and Resentment fortify me now My Inclinations are reverst nor can I but abhor the Slavery of Man How e'er the empty Lords of Nature boast O're me their Fond Prerogative is lost For Uncontroul'd I thus resolve to rove And hear no more of Hymen or of Love No more such Wild Fantastick things shall Charm My Breast nor these Serener Thoughts Alarm No more for Farce I 'll make a Lover Creep And look as Scurvy as if he had bit a Sheep Nor with Dissembled Smiles indulge the Fops In pure Revenge to their Audacious hopes Tho' at my Feet a thousand Victims lay I 'd proudly spurn the Whining Slaves away Deaf as the Winds or Theron would I prove And hear no more of Hymen or of Love Like bright Diana now I 'll range the Woods And haunt the silent Shades and silver Floods I 'll find out the Remotest Paths I can To shun th' Offensive Hated Face of Man Where I 'll Indulge my Liberty and Bliss And no Endimyon shall obtain a Kiss Now Cupid Mourn the inlargement of my fate Thou 'st lost a Politician in thy State I could have taught thee hadst thou lost thy Armâ— To fool the World with more delusive Châ—â—â—â— I could have made thy Taper burn more bright And wing thy Shafts with an unerring flight 'T was I directed that successful dart That found its way to the Great 's heart 'T was I that made the lovely Fl n bow A proud contemner of thy Laws till now I Sung thy Power and Inspir'd the Swains Or thou hadst been no Deity on the Plains Yet think no more my freedom to surprize VVhich nothing can controul but Theron's eyes And every flattering Smile and every Grace VVith all the Air of that Bewitching Face My Pride and Resolutions may deface For from those eyes for ever I 'll remove To shun the Sight of what I would not love And then tho every Cyclop stretcht his Art To form the little angry God a dart I 'll yet defy his rage to touch my Heart For tho my years compel me to disdain Of the false Charmer meanly to complain 'T is yet some satisfaction to my Mind I for his sake abandon all Mankind My Prouder Muse to love no more a slave Shall Sing the Gust the Fortunate and Brave And twine her Promis'd Wreaths for Theron's Brow The Hero not the faithless Lover now More Blooming Glories mayst thou still acquire And urge my Breast with a more active fire May New Successes wait upon thy Sword And deathless Honour all thy Acts record May all thou dost thy Character compleat And like thy self be loyal still and great 〈◊〉 in an equal Orb as free I move And think no more of Hymen or of Love FINIS ADVERTISEMENT THe Young Lady who is the Author of this BOOK Living at a Great Distance from London 't was Impossible She shou'd see the Sheets as they came from the PRESS and is therefore no ways Accountable for the Printer's Errata's BOOKS lately Printed for John Dunton POEMS on several Occasions Written by Philomela The first and second Volumes of the French Book of Martyrs published