by Paul Keegan
ISAAC WATTS Man Frail, and God Eternal
Our God, our Help in Ages past,
Our Hope for Years to come,
Our Shelter from the Stormy Blast,
And our eternal Home.
Under the Shadow of thy Throne
Thy Saints have dwelt secure;
Sufficient is thine Arm alone,
And our Defence is sure.
Before the Hills in order stood,
Or Earth receiv’d her Frame,
From everlasting Thou art God,
To endless Years the same.
Thy Word commands our Flesh to Dust,
Return, ye Sons of Men:
All Nations rose from Earth at first,
And turn to Earth again.
A thousand Ages in thy Sight
Are like an Evening gone;
Short as the Watch that ends the Night
Before the rising Sun.
The busy Tribes of Flesh and Blood
With all their Lives and Cares
Are carried downwards by thy Flood,
And lost in following Years.
Time like an ever-rolling Stream
Bears all its Sons away;
They fly forgotten as a Dream
Dies at the opening Day.
Like flow’ry Fields the Nations stand
Pleas’d with the Morning-light;
The Flowers beneath the Mower’s Hand
Ly withering e’er ’tis Night.
Our God, our Help in Ages past,
Our Hope for Years to come,
Be thou our Guard while Troubles last,
And our eternal Home.
1720
ALLAN RAMSAY Polwart on the Green
At Polwart on the Green
If you’ll meet me the Morn,
Where Lasses do conveen
To dance about the Thorn
5
A kindly Welcome you shall meet
Frae her wha likes to view
A Lover and a Lad complete,
The Lad and Lover you.
Let dorty Dames say Na,
10
As lang as e’er they please,
Seem caulder than the Sna’,
While inwardly they bleeze;
But I will frankly shaw my Mind,
And yield my Heart to thee;
15
Be ever to the Captive kind,
That langs na to be free.
At Polwart on the Green,
Among the new mawn Hay,
With Sangs and Dancing keen
20
We’ll pass the heartsome Day,
At Night if Beds be o’er thrang laid,
And thou be twin’d of thine,
Thou shalt be welcome, my dear Lad,
To take a Part of mine.
JOHN GAY My Own EPITAPH
Life is a jest; and all things show it,
I thought so once; but now I know it.
1722
ALEXANDER POPE To Mr. Gay, Who Wrote Him a Congratulatory Letter on the Finishing His House
Ah friend, ’tis true – this truth you lovers know –
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow,
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens:
Joy lives not here; to happier seats it flies,
And only dwells where WORTLEY casts her eyes.
What are the gay parterre, the chequer’d shade,
The morning bower, the ev’ning colonade,
But soft recesses of uneasy minds,
To sigh unheard in, to the passing winds?
So the struck deer in some sequester’d part
Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart;
There, stretch’d unseen in coverts hid from day,
Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away.
JONATHAN SWIFT A Satirical Elegy. On the Death of a Late Famous General
His Grace! impossible! what dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that Mighty Warrior fall?
And so inglorious, after all!
Well, since he’s gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now:
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He’d wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the news-papers we’re told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
’Twas time in conscience he should die.
This world he cumber’d long enough;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that’s the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink.
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widow’s sighs, nor orphan’s tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his herse.
But what of that, his friends may say,
He had those honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he dy’d.
Come hither, all ye empty things,
Ye bubbles rais’d by breath of Kings;
Who float upon the tide of state,
Come hither, and behold your fate.
Let pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing’s a Duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn’d to that dirt from whence he sprung.
(1764)
WILLIAM DIAPER from the Greek of Oppian’s Halieuticks
[The Loves of the Fishes]
Strange the Formation of the Eely Race,
That know no Sex, yet love the close Embrace.
Their folded Lengths they round each other twine.
Twist am’rous Knots, and slimy Bodies joyn;
Till the close Strife brings off a frothy Juice,
The Seed that must the wriggling Kind produce.
Regardless They their future Offspring leave,
But porous Sands the spumy Drops receive,
That genial Bed impregnates all the Heap,
And little Eelets soon begin to creep.
Half-Fish, Half-Slime they try their doubtful strength,
And slowly trail along their wormy Length.
What great Effects from slender Causes flow!
Congers their Bulk to these Productions owe:
The Forms, which from the frothy Drop began.
Stretch out immense, and eddy all the Main.
Justly might Female Tortoises complain,
To whom Enjoyment is the greatest Pain,
They dread the Tryal, and foreboding hate
The growing Passion of the cruel Mate.
He amorous pursues, They conscious fly
Joyless Caresses, and resolv’d deny.
Since partial Heav’n has thus restrain’d the Bliss,
The Males they welcome with a closer Kiss,
Bite angry, and reluctant Hate declare.
The Tortoise-Courtship is a State of War.
Eager they fight, but with unlike Design,
Males to obtain, and Females to decline.
The conflict lasts, till these by Strength o’ercome
All sorrowing yield to the resistless Doom.
Not like a Bride, but pensive Captive, led
To the loath’d Duties of an hated Bed.
(… )
Then from the teeming Filth, and putrid Heap,
Like Summer Grubs, the little Slime-Fish creep.
Devour’d by All the passive Curse they own,
Opprest by ev’ry Kind, but injure none.
Harmless they live, nor murd’rous Hunger know,
But to themselves their mutual Pleasures owe;
Each other lick, and the close Kiss repeat;
Thus loving thrive, and praise the luscious Treat.
When they in Throngs a safe Retirement seek,
Where pointed Rocks the rising Surges break,
Or where calm Waters in their Bason sleep,
While chalky Cliffs o’erlook the shaded Deep,
The Seas all gilded o’er the Shoal betray,
And shining Tracks inform their wand’ring Way.
As when soft Snows, brought down by Western Gales,
Silent descend and spread on all the Vales;
Add to the Plains, and on the Mountains shine,
While in chang’d Fields the starving Cattle pine;
Nature bears all one Face, looks coldly bright,
And mourns her lost Variety in White,
Unlike themselves the Objects glare around,
And with false Rays the dazzled Sight confound:
So, when the Shoal appears, the changing Streams
Lose their Sky-blew, and shine with silver Gleams.
1724
LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU Epistle from Mrs. Y[onge] to her Husband
Think not this Paper comes with vain pretence
To move your Pity, or to mourn th’offence.
Too well I know that hard Obdurate Heart;
No soft’ning mercy there will take my part,
Nor can a Woman’s Arguments prevail,
When even your Patron’s wise Example fails,
But this last privelege I still retain,
Th’Oppress’d and Injur’d allways may complain.
Too, too severely Laws of Honour bind
The Weak Submissive Sex of Woman-kind.
If sighs have gain’d or force compell’d our Hand,
Deceiv’d by Art, or urg’d by stern Command,
What ever Motive binds the fatal Tye,
The Judging World expects our Constancy.
Just Heaven! (for sure in Heaven does Justice reign
Thô Tricks below that sacred Name prophane)
To you appealing I submit my Cause
Nor fear a Judgment from Impartial Laws.
All Bargains but conditional are made,
The Purchase void, the Creditor unpaid,
Defrauded Servants are from Service free,
A wounded Slave regains his Liberty.
For Wives ill us’d no remedy remains,
To daily Racks condemn’d, and to eternal Chains.
From whence is this unjust Distinction grown?
Are we not form’d with Passions like your own?
Nature with equal Fire our Souls endu’d,
Our Minds as Haughty, and as warm our blood,
O’re the wide World your pleasures you persue,
The Change is justify’d by something new;
But we must sigh in Silence – and be true.
Our Sexes Weakness you expose and blame
(Of every Prattling Fop the common Theme),
Yet from this Weakness you suppose is due
Sublimer Virtu than your Cato knew.
Had Heaven design’d us Tryals so severe,
It would have form’d our Tempers then to bear.
And I have born (o what have I not born!)
The pang of Jealousie, th’Insults of Scorn.
Weary’d at length, I from your sight remove,
And place my Future Hopes, in Secret Love.
In the gay Bloom of glowing Youth retir’d,
I quit the Woman’s Joy to be admir’d,
With that small Pension your hard Heart allows,
Renounce your Fortune, and release your Vows.
To Custom (thô unjust) so much is due,
I hide my Frailty, from the Public view.
My Conscience clear, yet sensible of Shame,
My Life I hazard, to preserve my Fame.
And I prefer this low inglorious State,
To vile dependance on the Thing I hate –
– But you persue me to this last retreat.
Dragg’d into Light, my tender Crime is shown
And every Circumstance of Fondness known.
Beneath the Shelter of the Law you stand,
And urge my Ruin with a cruel Hand.
While to my Fault thus rigidly severe,
Tamely Submissive to the Man you fear.
This wretched Out-cast, this abandonn’d Wife,
Has yet this Joy to sweeten shamefull Life,
By your mean Conduct, infamously loose,
You are at once m’Accuser, and Excuse.
Let me be damn’d by the Censorious Prude
(Stupidly Dull, or Spiritually Lewd),
My hapless Case will surely Pity find
From every Just and reasonable Mind,
When to the final Sentence I submit,
The Lips condemn me, but their Souls acquit.
No more my Husband, to your Pleasures go,
The Sweets of your recover’d Freedom know,
Go; Court the brittle Freindship of the Great,
Smile at his Board, or at his Levée wait
And when dismiss’d to Madam’s Toilet fly,
More than her Chambermaids, or Glasses, Lye,
Tell her how Young she looks, how heavenly fair,
Admire the Lillys, and the Roses, there,
Your high Ambition may be gratify’d,
Some Cousin of her own be made your Bride,
And you the Father of a Glorious Race
Endow’d with Ch—l’s strength and Low – r’s face.
(1972)
1725
EDWARD YOUNG from Love of Fame. Satire V
The languid lady next appears in state,
Who was not born to carry her own weight;
She lolls, reels, staggers, ’till some foreign aid
To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.
Then, if ordain’d to so severe a doom
She, by just stages, journeys round the room:
But knowing her own weakness, she despairs
To scale the Alps – that is, ascend the stairs.
My fan! let others say who laugh at toil;
Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconick style.
And that is spoke with such a dying fall,
That Betty rather sees, than hears the call:
The motion of her lips, and meaning eye
Piece out the Idea her faint words deny.
O listen with attention most profound!
Her voice is but the shadow of a sound.
And help! O help! her spirits are so dead,
One hand scarce lifts the other to her head.
If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o’er,
She pants! she sinks away! and is no more.
