Posts tagged ‘1712’

Thursday, 23 March 2017

Eclogue XI. Eune from “Nereides: or, Sea-Eclogues” by William Diaper

Eune a wanton Nymph, and Triton Swain
Agreed a while to leave the boundless Main;
And near the Shore unseen they chose to kiss,
Where no Sea-Rival might disturb the Bliss.
There, all that Love could yield, the Youth enjoy’d;
‘Till with fierce Joys, and eager Transports cloy’d
She look’d, and sigh’d; his Lips she gently prest;
Then murmuring fell, and slept upon his Breast;
While pleasing Dreams past Scenes of Love repeat,
And cooling Breezes fan the Summer’s Heat.
Thus as she lay entranc’d, the wanton Air
Play’d on her Mouth, and sported with her Hair;
The Boy less kind, thus as she sleeping lay,
Rose unperceiv’d, and stole unheard away.
(For Men once satiate, when the Rage is o’er,
Will curse that Beauty, which they now adore.)
The ebbing Tide had left the sandy Plain,
When Eune wak’d, and look’d, but look’d in vain.
Sad Thoughts, and black Despair pierc’d thro’ her Soul,
With Tears she saw the distant Billows rowl.
She found her self forsaken, and alone,
The Triton absent, and the Water gone.
Grievous she moan’d her Fate, and weeping said,

Is thus my Love, my easy Love betray’d?
Such Scorn we may expect, nay we deserve,
When wanton Souls from steddy Vertue swerve.
But ah! inconstant Melvin, and ingrate,
When Love was ceas’d, you might have shown your Hate;
You might have kill’d me with those faithless Hands,
Rather than leave me thus on parching Sands.
Well may you follow the inconstant Sea,
The Waves are false, and you are false as they.
By both betray’d, with gnawing Hunger pin’d,
I must unpity’d die, and — die for being kind.
Farewell, ye Sister-Nymphs, believe no more,
Nor trust the Youth, nor trust the hated Shore.
Farewell ye distant Waves; you I forgive,
Well might you fickle prove, and Eune leave,
When he, who lov’d so much, yet cou’d deceive.
Farewell ye sportive Fish, and beauteous Shells,
And shining Pearls, that grow in rocky Cells,
Whose polish’d Orbs on Twigs of Coral strung
Around my Neck the perjur’d Melvin hung.
Farewell, ye Songs, that once were thought to please,
My Voice shall calm no more the list’ning Seas.
Unhappy Fate of the soft yeilding Maid!
Whoever loves, is sure to be betray’d.

Thus the despairing Nymph complain’d alone,
‘Till faint with Grief, and tir’d with piteous Moan,
When kinder Sleep again with calm Surprize
Sooth’d all her Pain, and clos’d her willing Eyes,
And now returning Waves by slow degrees
Move on the Beach, and stretch the widen’d Seas.
Melvin approaches with the rising Tide,
And in his Arms enfolds his sleeping Bride.
Eune a wake, with Wonder view’d around;
The Sea was near, and the lost Lover found.
Ah! do I now, or did I dream before,
Cries the fond Nymph, when on the barren Shore
Left by the Sea, and you so long I mourn’d;
How were you gone, or whence are you return’d?
Vain Dreams (reply’d the wily Youth) deceive
Your wand’ring Thoughts, and false Impressions leave.
He said, and kist the Nymph; she kist again:
He prest her close, and she forgot her Pain.


Date: 1712

By: William Diaper (1685-1717)

Saturday, 27 February 2016

On The Spectator’s Critique On Milton by Laurence Eusden

Look here, ye Pedants, who deserve that name,
And lewdly ravish the great Critick’s fame.
In cloudless beams of light true judgement plays,
How mild the censure, how refin’d the praise!
Beauties ye pass, and blemishes ye cull,
Profoundly read, and eminently dull.
Though Linnets sing, yet Owls feel no delight;
For they the best can judge, who bestl can write.
O! had great Milton but surviv’d to hear
His numbers try’d, by such a tuneful ear;
How would he all thy just remarks commend!
The more the Critic, own the more the Friend.
But, did he know once your immortal strain,
Th’ exalted pleasure would increase to pain:
He would not blush for faults he rarely knew,
But blush for glories thus excell’d by you.

From: Nichols, John, A Select Collection of Poems: with Notes Biographical and Historical, Volume IV, 1780, J. Nichols: London, p. 157.

Date: 1712

By: Laurence Eusden (1688-1730)

Saturday, 25 October 2014

Love by George Granville

To Love is to be doom’d, in Life, to feel
What after Death the Tortur’d meet in Hell.
The Vulture dipping in Prometheus Side
His bloody Beak, with his torn Liver dy’d,
Is Love: The Stone that labours up the Hill,
Mocking the Lab’rer’s Toil, returning still,
Is Love: Those Streams where Tantalus is curst
To sit, and never drink, with endless Thirst,
Those loaden Boughs that with their Burthen bend
To court his Taste, and yet escape his Hand,
All this is Love, that to dissembled Joys
Invites vain Men, with real Griefs destroys.

From: Granville, George, Poems Upon Several Occasions, 1712, J. Tonson: London, pp. 19-20.

Date: 1712

By: George Granville (1666/7-1735)

Saturday, 29 March 2014

Divine Ode by Joseph Addison

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue æthereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim:
Th’ unwearied Sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator’s pow’r display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the ev’ning shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wond’rous tale,
And nightly to the list’ning Earth
Repeats the story of her birth:
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though, nor real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
The Hand that made us is divine.

From: Green, George Washington (ed.), The Works of Joseph Addison, including the whole contents of BP. Hurd’s edition, with letters and other pieces not found in any previous collection; and Macaulay’s essay on his life and works, in Six Volumes, Volume 1, 1870, J P Lippincott & Co: Philadelphia, pp. 202-203.

Date: 1712

By: Joseph Addison (1672-1719)