Posts tagged ‘1746’

Wednesday, 8 May 2019

A Soliloquy Written in June, 1746 by William Hamilton

Mysterious inmate of this breast,
Enkindled by thy flame;
By thee my being’s best express’d,
For what thou art I am:

With thee I claim celestial birth,
A spark of Heaven’s own ray;
Without thee sink to vilest earth,
Inanimated clay.

Now in this sad and dismal hour
Of multiplied distress,
Has any former thought the power
To make thy sorrows less?

When all around thee cruel snares
Threaten thy destined breath,
And every sharp reflection bears
Want, exile, chains, or death;

Can aught that pass’d in youth’s fond reign
Thy pleasing vein restore,
Lives Beauty’s gay and festive train
In Memory’s soft store?

Or does the Muse? ‘Tis said her art
Can fiercest pangs appease;
Can she to thy poor trembling heart
Now speak the words of peace?

Yet she was wont at early dawn
To whisper thy repose,
Nor was her friendly aid withdrawn
At grateful evening’s close.

Friendship, ’tis true, its sacred might,
May mitigate thy doom;
As lightning shot across the night,
A moment gilds the gloom.

O God! thy Providence alone
Can work a wonder here,
Can change to gladness every moan,
And banish all my fear.

Thy arm, all powerful to save,
May every doubt destroy;
And, from the horrors of the grave,
New raise to life and joy.

From this, as from a copious spring,
Pure consolation flows;
Makes the faint heart midst sufferings sing,
And midst despair repose.

Yet from its creature, gracious Heaven!
Most merciful and just,
Asks but, for life and safety given,
Our faith and humble trust.

From: Hamilton, William, The Poems of William Hamilton, 1822, C. Whittingham: London, pp. 108-109.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=LyBAAAAAYAAJ)

Date: 1746

By: William Hamilton (1704-1754)

Sunday, 20 November 2016

Bars Fight by Lucy Terry Prince

August ’twas the twenty-fifth,
Seventeen hundred forty-six;
The Indians did in ambush lay,
Some very valiant men to slay,
The names of whom I’ll not leave out.
Samuel Allen like a hero fout,
And though he was so brave and bold,
His face no more shalt we behold
Eteazer Hawks was killed outright,
Before he had time to fight, –
Before he did the Indians see,
Was shot and killed immediately.
Oliver Amsden he was slain,
Which caused his friends much grief and pain.
Simeon Amsden they found dead,
Not many rods distant from his head.
Adonijah Gillett we do hear
Did lose his life which was so dear.
John Sadler fled across the water,
And thus escaped the dreadful slaughter.
Eunice Allen see the Indians coming,
And hopes to save herself by running,
And had not her petticoats stopped her,
The awful creatures had not catched her,
Nor tommy hawked her on the head,
And left her on the ground for dead.
Young Samuel Allen, Oh lack-a-day!
Was taken and carried to Canada.

From: http://www.berfrois.com/2011/12/bars-fight-lucy-terry/

Date: ?1746

By: Lucy Terry Prince (c1730-1821)

Monday, 19 May 2014

Ode to Blue-Eyed Ann by Tobias George Smollett

When the rough north forgets to howl,
And ocean’s billows cease to roll;
When Lybian sands are bound in frost,
And cold to Nova-Zembla’s lost;
When heavenly bodies cease to move,
My blue-eyed Ann I’ll cease to love!

No more shall flowers the meads adorn,
Nor sweetness deck the rosy thorn,
Nor swelling buds proclaim the spring,
Nor parching heats the dog-star bring,
Nor laughing lilies paint the grove,
When blue-eyed Ann I cease to love.

No more shall joy in hope be found,
Nor pleasures dance their frolic round,
Nor love’s light god inhabit earth,
Nor beauty give the passion birth,
Nor heat to summer sunshine cleave,
When blue-eyed Nanny I deceive.

When rolling seasons cease to change,
Inconstancy forgets to range;
When lavish May no more shall bloom,
Nor gardens yield a rich perfume;
When Nature from her sphere shall start,
I’ll tear my Nanny from my heart.

From: http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/s/smollett/tobias/poems/complete.html

Date: 1746

By: Tobias George Smollett (1721-1771)

Thursday, 2 January 2014

XII Mon. February [1746] hath xxviii days by Benjamin Franklin

Man’s rich with little, were his Judgment true,
Nature is frugal, and her Wants are few;
Those few Wants answer’d, bring sincere Delights,
But Fools create themselves new Appetites.
Fancy and Pride seek Things at vast Expence,
Which relish not to Reason nor to Sense
Like Cats in Airpumps, to subsist we strive
On Joys too thin to keep the Soul alive.

From: https://tspace.library.utoronto.ca/html/1807/4350/poem3259.html

Date: 1746

By: Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790)

Saturday, 8 June 2013

Ode to Pleasure by Thomas Warton (the Younger)

Sister of Youth and laughing Joy,
Sweet PLEASURE, Sorrow-soothing Queen,
Daughter of Venus, ever young,
And Bacchus wreath’d with Ivy green;
Whom on their Laps the rosy-bosom’d Hours,
And all the Graces nurst beneath Idalian Bow’rs.

O lead me to thy blissful Vale!
Where Hope and Health in sprightly Round,
Leisure with Freedom Hand in Hand,
In Dance fantastic beat the Ground;
Where’er they tread while fairest Flowers arise,
Embroid’ring all the Green with ever-varying Dies.

Let the stern Pedant love to waste
In studious Search the tedious Night,
Attentive to the learned Page,
By musing Taper’s glimmering Light,
Whose pensive Ear no wakeful Sounds alarm,
Save the lone Owl, slow Clock, or Bell-man’s drowsy Charm.

Me let the chearful Dance engage,
Swift-urg’d along the lighted Dome;
While with new Warmth the Virgin glows,
Her Cheek all flush’d with fresher Bloom;
Motion and Musick tend’rest Thoughts inspire,
And all her yielding Soul relents to soft Desire.

Let the sage Hermit shun Mankind,
With pale-ey’d Penitence to dwell,
To freeze at Midnight Hours of Pray’r
Within a solitary Cell;
Penurious on the verdant Herb to sup,
And of the chilling Stream to drain the Beechen Cup.

Be mine, amid the social Band,
The Raptures of Champaign to taste,
Whose vig’rous Juice new Relish gives
To mutual Converse, Reason’s Feast,
While old Anacreon seems to rise, and say,
“Begone, ye Toils of Life; ye busy Cares, away!”

From: http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/TextRecord.php?action=GET&textsid=38046

Date: 1746

By: Thomas Warton (the Younger) (1728-1790)

Thursday, 6 June 2013

Ode to Music by Joseph Warton

Queen of every moving measure,
Sweetest source of purest pleasure,
Music; why thy powers employ
Only for the sons of joy?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
Bid be still the throbbing hearts
Of those, whom death, or absence parts,
And, with some softly whisper’d air,
Smooth the brow of dumb despair.

From: http://poetry.poetryx.com/poems/8032/

Date: 1746

By: Joseph Warton (1722-1800)

Wednesday, 24 April 2013

Make the Extended Skies Your Tomb by James Hervey

Make the extended Skies your Tomb,
Let Stars record your Worth:
Yet know, vain Mortals, all must die,
As Nature’s sickliest Birth.

Wou’d bounteous Heav’n indulge my Pray’r,
I frame a nobler Choice;
Nor, living, wish the pompous Pile,
Nor dead regret the Loss.

In thy fair Book of Life divine,
My God, inscribe my Name:
Then let it fill some humble Place,
Beneath the slaughter’d Lamb.

The Saints, while Ages roll away,
In endless Fame survive;
Their Glories, o’er the Wrongs of Time,
Greatly triumphant, live.

From: Hervey, James, Meditations Among theTombs. In a Letter to a Lady, 1746, J and J Rivington and J Leake:London and Bath, pp. 48-49.
(https://play.google.com/books/reader?id=1thbAAAAQAAJ&printsec=frontcover&output=reader&authuser=0&hl=en&pg=GBS.PA48)

Date: 1746

By: James Hervey (1714-1758)

Saturday, 28 April 2012

Ode to Fear by William Collins

Thou, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown;
Who see’st appalled the unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between:
     Ah Fear! Ah frantic Fear!
     I see, I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start, like thee disordered fly.
For lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fixed behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep;
And with him thousand phantoms joined,
Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind;
And those, the fiends who, near allied,
O’er nature’s wounds and wrecks preside;
Whilst Vengeance in the lurid air
Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare,
On whom that ravening brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild like thee?

From: http://www.litgothic.com/Texts/ode_to_fear.html

Date: 1746

By: William Collins (1721-1759)