Posts tagged ‘1793’

Tuesday, 5 June 2018

If Sober, and Inclin’d to Sport by Callimachus

If sober, and inclin’d to sport,
To you, my fair one, I resort;
The still-forbidden bliss to prove,
Accuse me then, and blame my love.
But if to rashness I incline,
Accuse me not, but blame the wine:
When Love and Wine at once inspire,
What mortal can control his fire.
Of late I came, I know not how,
Embrac’d my fair, and kiss’d her too;
It might be wrong; I feel no shame,
And, for the bliss, will bear the blame.

From: Callimachus and Tytler, H. W., The Works of Callimachus, translated into English verse. The Hymns and Epigrams from the Greek; with the Coma Berenices from the Latin of Catallus; with the original text , and notes carefully selected from former commentators, and additional observations, 1793, T. Davison: London, p. 248.
(https://archive.org/details/worksofcallimach00call)

Date: 3rd century BCE (original in Greek); 1793 (translation in English)

By: Callimachus (310/305 BCE-240 BCE)

Translated by: Henry William Tytler (1752-1808)

Advertisements
Sunday, 30 July 2017

The Head-Ach, or An Ode to Health by Jane Cave Winscom

Inserted in the Bristol Newspaper by the AUTHOR, May 25, 1793.

O HEALTH! thou dear invaluable guest!
Thy rosy subjects, how supremely blest!
Hear the blith milk-maid and the plough-boy sing,
Nor envy they the station of a king;
While Kings thy sweets to gain would gladly bow,
Resign their crowns and guide the rustic’s plough:
Thou pearl surpassing riches, power or birth!
Of blessings thou the greatest known on earth!
Thy value’s found like that of bards of yore,
We know to prize thee when thou art no more!

Ah! Why from me; art thou for ever flown?
Why deaf to ev’ry agonizing groan?
Not one short month for ten revolving years,
But pain within my frame its sceptre rears!
In each successive month full twelve long days
And tedious nights my sun withdraws his rays!
Leaves me in silent anguish on my bed,
Afflicting all the members in the head;
Through ev’ry particle the torture flies,
But centers in the temples, brain and eyes;
The efforts of the hands and feet are vain,
While bows the head with agonizing pain;
While heaves the breast th’ unutterable sigh,
And the big tear drops from the languid eye.
For ah! my children want a mother’s care,
A husband too, should due assistance share;
Myself for action form’d would fain thro’ life
Be found th’ assiduous–valuable wife;
But now, behold, I live unfit for aught;
Inactive half my days except in thought,
And this so vague while torture clogs my hours,
I sigh, Oh, ‘twill derange my mental powers!
Or by its dire excess dissolve my sight,
And thus entomb me in perptual night!

Ye sage Physicians, where’s your wonted skill?
In vain the blisters, bolusses and pill;
Great Neptune’s swelling waves in vain I try’d,
My malady its utmost power defy’d;
In vain the British and Cephalic Snuff,
All Patent Medicines are empty stuff;
The launcet, leech, and cupping swell the train
Of useless efforts, which but gave me pain;
Each art and application rain has prov’d,
For ah! my sad complaint is not remo’v’d.

Live’s one on earth possess’d of sympathy,
Who knows what is presum’d a remedy?
O send it hither! I again would try,
Tho’ in the attempt of conqu’ring I die.
For thus to languish on is worse than death,
And I have hope if Heav’n recall my breath.

From: Cave, Jane. Poems on various subjects, entertaining, elegiac, and religious, by Miss Cave, now Mrs. Winscom. The fourth edition, corrected and improved, with many additional poems, never before published, 1794, N. Biggs: Bristol, pp. 152-155.
(http://find.galegroup.com.rp.nla.gov.au/ecco/infomark.do?&source=gale&prodId=ECCO&userGroupName=nla&tabID=T001&docId=CW113705350&type=multipage&contentSet=ECCOArticles&version=1.0&docLevel=FASCIMILE)

Date: 1793

By: Jane Cave Winscom (?1754-1812)

Thursday, 8 June 2017

No Libel to Think by “T.G.”

In a state of oppression, we’ll sigh our complaints;
It may seal our destruction, to tell out our wants;
For we’ve freedom enough, while we’ve freedom to think.

We may speak (it is true) if we mind what we say;
But to speak all we think, will not suit in our day:
Tho’ our tongues be cut out, or chain’d fast with this link,
Who dares say we’re not free, while we’ve freedom to think?

They tell us our state is both perfect and pure,
The ills we point out do not want any cure;
To believe such a doctrine, our reason must sink;
So we’ll think as we please, while we’ve freedom to think.

Can a man clothe his back, or eat his own bread?
Can he marry his wife, or bury his dead?
All such matters as these, will make his coin chink –
We can think of such things while we’ve freedom to think.

Can a man use his eyes, his hands, or his tongue,
But must pay for the services these members have done?
And yet more than all these are just on the brink;
What strange thoughts we have when we’ve freedom to think!

From the sole of the foot, to the crown of the head,
They stamp us, and tax us, both living and dead!
And yet at such hardship they wish us to wink;
But we cannot do this —  while we’ve freedom to think.

When the sunshine of LIBERTY breaks on our sight,
The reform of abuses we’ll claim as our RIGHT:
“The Friends of Reform” is the toast we will drink,
And we’ll think of our Rights —  while we’ve Freedom to THINK!

From: http://printprotestpoetry.group.shef.ac.uk/?page_id=111

Date: 1793

By: “T.G.” (fl. 1793)

Friday, 9 December 2016

Lines 310-375 from Canto III of “The Hasty Pudding” by Joel Barlow

I leave them to their feast. There still belong
More useful matters to my faithful song.
For rules there are, though ne’er unfolded yet,
Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate.

Some with molasses grace the luscious treat,
And mix, like bards, the useful and the sweet,
A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise,
A great resource in those bleak wintry days,
When the chill’d earth lies buried deep in snow,
And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow.

Blest cow! thy praise shall still my notes employ,
Great source of health, the only source of joy;
Mother of Egypt’s god,—but sure, for me,
Were I to leave my God, I’d worship thee.
How oft thy teats these pious hands have press’d!
How oft thy bounties prove my only feast!
How oft I’ve fed thee with my favorite grain!
And roar’d, like thee, to see thy children slain!

Ye swains who know her various worth to prize,
Ah! house her well from winter’s angry skies.
Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer,
Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer;
When spring returns, she’ll well acquit the loan,
And nurse at once your infants and her own.

Milk then with pudding I should always choose;
To this in future I confine my muse,
Till she in haste some further hints unfold,
Good for the young, nor useless to the old.
First in your bowl the milk abundant take,
Then drop with care along the silver lake
Your flakes of pudding; these at first will hide
Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide;
But when their growing mass no more can sink,
When the soft island looms above the brink,
Then check your hand; you’ve got the portion due,
So taught my sire, and what he taught is true.

There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear
The nice distinction, yet to me ’tis clear.
The deep bowl’d Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop
In ample draughts the thin diluted soup,
Performs not well in those substantial things,
Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings;
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace,
The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space.
With ease to enter and discharge the freight,
A bowl less concave, but still more dilate,
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size,
A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes.
Experienced feeders can alone impart
A rule so much above the lore of art.
These tuneful lips that thousand spoons have tried,
With just precision could the point decide.
Though not in song; the muse but poorly shines
In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines;
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose egg shell,
Which in two equal portions shall divide
The distance from the centre to the side.

Fear not to slaver; ’tis no deadly sin:—
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend the ready napkin; or like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee;
Just in the zenith your wise head project,
Your full spoon, rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall,
The wide mouth’d bowl will surely catch them all!

From: http://www.bartleby.com/400/poem/608.html

Date: 1793

By: Joel Barlow (1754-1812)

Friday, 1 April 2016

On a Painter by Margaretta V. Bleecker Faugères

The following Lines were occasioned by Mr. Robertson’s refusing to paint for one Lady, and immediately after taking another Lady’s likeness.

When Laura appear’d, poor Apelles complain’d,
That his sight was bedimm’d, and his optics much pain’d;
So his pallet and pencil the artist resign’d,
Lest the blaze of her beauty should make him quite blind.
But when fair Anna enter’d the prospect was chang’d,
The paints and the brushes in order were rang’d;
The artist resum’d his employment again,
Forgetful of labor, and blindness, and pain;
And the strokes were so lively that all were assur’d
What the brunette had injur’d the fair one had cur’d.
Let the candid decide which the chaplet should wear,
The charms which destroy, or the charms which repair.

From: Faugeres, Margaretta V. and Bleecker, Ann Eliza, The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker, in Prose and Verse. To which is added A Collection of Essays, Prose and Poetical, by Margaretta V. Faugeres, 1793, T. and J. Swords: New York, p. 345.
(https://archive.org/stream/posthumousworksi00bleerich#page/344/mode/2up)

Date: 1793

By: Margaretta V. Bleecker Faugères (1771-1801)

Thursday, 31 March 2016

On a Great Coxcomb by Ann Eliza Schuyler Bleecker

(recovering from an Indisposition)

Narcissus (as Ovid informs us) expir’d,
Consum’d by the flames his own beauty had fir’d;
But N—o (who like him is charm’d with his face,
And sighs for his other fair-self in the glass)
Loves to greater excess than Narcissus—for why?
He loves himself too much to let himself die.

From: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/On_a_great_coxcomb

Date: 1793 (published)

By: Ann Eliza Schuyler Bleecker (1752-1783)

Saturday, 17 January 2015

Cupid’s Apology by John Anketell

As Venus and Cupid were taking a walk,
The mother began to her son thus to talk:
“Dear Cupid, pray tell me how comes it that I
“Am so oft deceiv’d by a beardless, blind boy?”
Quoth he, “Because women rush into men’s arms,
“Before they display half the force of their charms.
“Would they act more shily, and quit such odd pranks,
“I’d get much less scolding and you much more thanks.”

From: Anketell, John, Poems on Several Subjects, 1793, William Porter: Dublin, p. 166.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=QbY_AAAAYAAJ)

Date: 1793

By: John Anketell (?1750-1824)

Monday, 14 July 2014

Sonnet to Rational Liberty by William Fordyce Mavor

On reading the horrid acts of the Paris Mob.

Dearer than life, than love more sweet,
Of every joy the source, the zest!
Thee, LIBERTY! I fondly greet,
Thy genuine spirit fires my breast.

No tyrant’s frown, no traitor’s harlot smile,
My free born soul shall awe, my sense
shall ne’er beguile.
Rais’d on the throne of LAW and RIGHT,
O ever shield thy favourite land!
While Anarchy, with wild affright,
Flies to GALLIA’s frantic strand.
O check these scenes of dire uproar—
Revenge thy prostituted name!
And far, O far, from BRITAIN’S shore
Drive the foul deeds that clothe thy charms with shame.

From: http://www.rc.umd.edu/editions/warpoetry/1793/1793_4.html

Date: 1793

By: William Fordyce Mavor (1758-1837)