To a Friend in Praise of the Invention of Writing Letters
Anne Finch

Blest be the Man! his Memory at least,
Who found the Art, thus to unfold his Breast;
And taught succeeding Times an easy way
Their secret Thoughts by Letters to convey;
To baffle Absence, and secure Delight,
Which, till that Time, was limited to Sight.
The parting Farewel spoke, the last Adieu,
The less’ning Distance past, then loss of View,
The Friend was gone, which some kind Moments gave,
And Absence separated, like the Grave.
The Wings of Love were tender too, till then
No Quill, thence pull’d, was shap’d into a Pen,
To send in Paper-sheets, from Town to Town,
Words smooth as they, and softer than his Down.
O’er such he reign’d, whom Neighbourhood had join’d,
And hopt, from Bough to Bough, supported by the Wind.
When for a Wife the youthful Patriarch sent,
The Camels, Jewels, and the Steward went,
A wealthy Equipage, tho’ grave and slow;
But not a Line, that might the Lover shew.
The Rings and Bracelets woo’d her Hands and Arms;
But had she known of melting Words, the Charms
That under secret Seals in Ambush lie,
To catch the Soul, when drawn into the Eye,
The Fair Assyrian had not took this Guide,
Nor her soft Heart in Chains of Pearl been ty’d.

     Had these Conveyances been then in Date,
Joseph had known his wretched Father’s State,
Before a Famine, which his Life pursues,
Had sent his other Sons, to tell the News.

     Oh! might I live to see an Art arise.
As this to Thoughts, indulgent to the Eyes;
That the dark Pow’rs of distance cou’d subdue,
And make me See, as well as Talk to You;
That tedious Miles, nor Tracts of Air might prove
Bars to my Sight, and shadows to my Love!
Yet were it granted, such unbounded Things
Are wand’ring Wishes, born on Phancy’s Wings,
They’d stretch themselves beyond this happy Case,
And ask an Art, to help us to Embrace.

From Anne Finch, Miscellany Poems, on Several Occasions (London, 1713), 215-17.

Source: Eighteenth Century Collections Online

“I shall keep your Correspondence as Misers do their Gold”
Mary Masters

A shining Treasure from the World conceal’d,
A Treasure only to my self reveal’d:
Like them, I too shall frequently retire,
Count my rich Store, and secretly admire;
They George’s Image in his Coin approve,
Thy pictur’d Mind I in thy Letters love.
But here, indeed, we something disagree,
‘Tis Money pleases them, and Paper me.

From Mary Masters, Familiar Letters (London, 1755), 91-92.

Source: Microfilm; Woodbridge, CT: Research Publications, Inc.

On seeing Mrs Eliz. Owen, now Lady Longueville,
in an embroider’d Suit, all her own Work
Jane Brereton

Sure, this glorious Lady’s the fair Queen of May!
Tho’ a Goddess, e’en Flora was never so gay,
With her Robe adorn’d, with the brightest of Flow’rs,
Which enamel the Meads, or encircle the Bow’rs.
Had Eliza been seen by the Folks of old Rome,
They had sworn ‘twas the Goddess appear’d in her Bloom;
At the Sight of her Garments with Flow’rets strew’d o’er,
From gazing, and wond’ring—they’d bow and adore.

     Behold, with what Skill she has damask’d the Rose!
The charming Carnation how crimson’d it glows!
There, the Lilly discloses its snowy white Head,
And here, their rich Purple the Violets spread;
In fine Party-colours the Tulip is shown,
The Jonquills, the Jess’mines appear newly blown.
Th’ Auricula, there, its Perfection displays;
And here, bright Anemonies gloriously blaze.

     So fair a Creation, the Work of her Hands,
First attracts my Regard, then my Wonder commands:
So verdant the Ground is, the Flow’rs are so gay,
In the Midst of December, you’d swear it was May!
When thus we behold her, we needs must confess,
Her Fancy and Judgment are seen in her Dress;
In her Converse, good Sense, and good Humour we find,
And own her fine Outside excell’d by her Mind.

From Jane Brereton, Poems on Several Occasions (London, 1744), 37-38.

Source: Microfilm; Woodbridge, CT: Research Publications, Inc.

To—
Elizabeth Carter

The Midnight Moon serenely smiles,
     O’er Nature’s soft Repose;
No low’ring Cloud obscures the Sky,
     Nor ruffling Tempest blows.

Now ev’ry Passion sinks to Rest,
     The throbbing Heart lies still:
And varying Schemes of Life no more
     Distract the lab’ring Will.

In Silence hush’d, to Reason’s Voice,
     Attends each mental Pow’r:
Come dear Emilia, and enjoy
     Reflexion’s fav’rite Hour.

Come: while the peaceful Scene invites,
     Let’s search this ample Round,
Where shall the lovely fleeting Form
     Of Happiness be found?

Does it amidst the frolic Mirth
     Of gay Assemblies dwell?
Or hide beneath the solemn Gloom,
     That shades the Hermit’s Cell?

How oft the laughing Brow of Joy
     A sick’ning Heart conceals!
And thro’ the Cloister’s deep Recess,
     Invading Sorrow steals.

In vain thro’ Beauty, Fortune, Wit,
     The Fugitive we trace:
It dwells not in the faithless Smile,
     That brightens Clodio’s Face.

Perhaps the Joy to these deny’d,
     The Heart in Friendship finds:
Ah! dear Delusion! gay Conceit
     Of visionary Minds!

Howe’er our varying Notions rove,
     Yet all agree in one,
To place it’s Being in some State,
     At Distance from our own.

O blind to each indulgent Aim,
     Of Pow’r supremely wise,
Who fancy Happiness in ought
     The Hand of Heav’n denies!

Vain is alike the Joy we seek,
     And vain what we possess,
Unless harmonious Reason tunes
     The Passions into Peace.

To temper’d Wishes, just Desires
     Is Happiness confin’d,
And deaf to Folly’s Call, attends
     The Music of the Mind.

From Elizabeth Carter, Poems on Several Occasions (London, 1766), 65-67.

Source: Eighteenth Century Collections Online

Letter to Miss E. B. on Marriage
Mary Savage

How oft my dearest friend we find,
Precepts to mend all woman kind:
For every He that writes will say,
‘Tis his, to mark the surest way,
To form the tender virgin’s mind,
And teach the wife, a path to find;
In which she may as easy walk,
As blind horse, in a mill may stalk:
Provided she will but attend,
To what he says; who is her friend:
And were he blest but with a wife,
Would best of husbands make for life.

     First take says he—a man of sense,
Who neither breeding wants, nor pence,
Then (mind your part,) to him allow,
Obedience, as you’re bound by vow;
No secrets have, nor in your mind,
Let jealous thoughts a harbour find;
Be always chearful, neat, and tight,
Nor ever soar above your height;
But keep within the female sphere,
And always think his judgment clear;
If passion in his eye should roll,
Or pow’r of wine his sense controul;
Answer him mild, upbraid him not,
But kindly let it be forgot:
His friends with chearfulness receive,
Each character he draws, believe,
Let home and children be your care,
For every wish should center there.

     To each fair female, blest with sense,
Here’s nought advanc’d to give offence.
For you (I doubt not) understand,
That love had first the greatest hand,
In bringing these good folks together,
Else rules would be more light than feather;
Which passion’s blast, would puff away,
And in their place, disgust would stay.

     But is it all our debt to pay,
And have we nothing left to say?
Must every she, that’s in the state,
Submission find for self and mate?
And would it be a sin ‘gainst heav’n,
To say the sex’s faults are even?
And beg, (our errors clearly shown,)
They’d condescend to mend their own,
And mind the maxims of their schools,
Example teaches more than rules;
But here ‘tis fit, I should make known,
Altho’ I write to you alone,
That what I say, is not confin’d,
To one; but meant to all mankind;
No single character I draw,
Nor dare to think my words a law,
But observation oft will teach,
What wisdom’s pow’r may fail to reach.

     Mankind should hope in wedlock’s state,
A friend to find as well as mate:
And e’er the charms of person fails,
Enquire what merit there remains,
That by the help of their wise pate,
Be taught thro’ life to bless the state;
And oft they’d find by their own fire,
What they in others so admire.
But as ‘tis law, that each good wife,
Should true submission, show for life;
What’s right at home they often slight,
What’s right abroad, shines very bright.

     Each female would have regal pow’r,
But every male wants something more;
And that same balsam to the mind,
Which both would in compliance find,
Is to this very time, and hour,
Miscall’d by them, the want of pow’r,
Then right of privilege they claim,
For every fair, to vow a flame,
Which we are bound, with partial eye,
To find of true platonick dye;
For they’ve so fix’d the certain rule,
How far with ladies they may fool,
That ‘tis impossible they can,
Go wrong—tho’ not a man,
Among them all would patience find,
If lady-wife should be inclin’d,
To praise each swain, whose face or wit,
Might chance her sprightly mind to hit.

     Then there’s a something in the mind,
That is not only just—but kind;
That’s fix’d to neither taste, nor sense,
Nor to be taught by eloquence;
But yet is that which gives a grace,
To every feature of the face;
And is the surest chance for ease,
I mean a strong desire to please.
But own I must, (tho’ tis with shame,)
Both parties are in this to blame;
They take great pains to come together,
Then squabble for a straw, or feather;
And oft I fear a spark of pride,
Prevails too much on either side.

     Then hear my girl—if ‘tis your lot
To marry, be not this forgot;
That neither sex must think to find,
Perfection in the human kind;
Each has a fools cap—and a bell—
And what is worse, can’t always tell,
(While they have got it on their head,)
How far astray they may be led.
Let it be then your mutual care,
That never both at once may wear,
This fatal mark of reason’s loss,
That whirlwind like the soul does toss.
Obtain this point, and friendship’s pow’r,
Will rise and bless each future hour.

From Mary Savage, Poems on Various Subjects and Occasions, Vol. 2 (London, 1777), 4-12.

Source: Eighteenth Century Collections Online

Upon the Same: To my Infant Niece; her little Sister dying the Instant she was born
Mary Masters

How wonderful art Thou, O Lord, most high!
Who dares thy active Providence deny?
Whate’er occurs beneath the rising Sun,
By thy Permission or Command is done.
My Soul adores, and magnifies thy Pow’r,
For precious Mercies, I receive each Hour.
Blessings on me, or on my Friends bestow’d,
Excite perpetual Praises to my God.
Who could the cruel Pangs of Child-birth bear,
If not supported by thy tender Care?
Those wond’rous Agonies of Nature shew,
An Act of Justice and of Goodness too:
Thy Justice, which the Suff’ring did ordain,
Thy Goodness, that relieves the mighty Pain.

     My Sister, lately from these Torments freed,
(For so thou hadst indulgently decreed)
Forgets, how great, how vast her Sorrows were,
And in a Mother’s Fondness sinks her Care.
By thy preserving Pow’r the Infant lives,
And Pleasure to its joyful Parents gives:
Its little Sister dies, by thy Command,
An equal Blessing from thy bounteous Hand.
From This recall’d, to That thou givest Breath;
Then blessed be the Lord of Life and Death.

From Mary Masters, Poems on Several Occasions (London, 1733), 138-39.

Source: Eighteenth Century Collections Online

Hymn I
Elizabeth Singer Rowe

The glorious armies of the sky
     To thee, O mighty king!
Triumphant anthems consecrate,
     And hallelujahs sing.

But still their most exalted flights
     Fall vastly short of thee;
How distant then must human praise
     From thy perfections be!

Yet how, my God, shall I refrain,
     When to my ravish’d sense
Each creature in its various ways
     Displays thy excellence?

The active lights that shine above,
     In their eternal dance,
Reveal their skilful maker’s praise
     With silent elegance.

The blushes of the morn confess
     That thou are much more fair:
When in the east its beams revive
     To gild the fields of air;

The fragrant, the refreshing breath
     Of ev’ry flow’ry bloom,
In balmy whispers owns from thee
     Their pleasing odours come.

The singing birds, the warbling winds,
     And waters murm’ring fall,
To praise the first almighty cause
     With diff’rent voices call.

Thy num’rous works exalt thee thus,
     And shall I silent be?
No, rather let me cease to breathe,
     Than cease from praising thee.

From Elizabeth Singer Rowe, The Miscellaneous Works in Prose and Verse of Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe, 2 vols. (London, 1739), 1:29-30.

Source: Eighteenth Century Collections Online

To Death
Anne Finch

O King of Terrors, whose unbounded Sway
All that have Life, must certainly Obey;
The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are Thine,
Nor wou’d ev’n God (in Flesh) thy Stroke decline.
My Name is on thy Roll, and sure I must
Encrease thy gloomy Kingdom in the Dust.
My soul at this no Apprehension feels,
But trembles at thy Swords, thy Racks, thy Wheels;
Thy scorching Fevers, which distract the Sense,
And snatch us raving, unprepar’d from hence;
At thy contagious Darts, that wound the Heads
Of weeping Friends, who wait at dying Beds.
Spare these, and let thy Time be when it will;
My Bus’ness is to Dye, and Thine to Kill.
Gently thy fatal Sceptre on me lay,
And take to thy cold Arms, insensibly, thy Prey.

From Anne Finch, Miscellany Poems, on Several Occasions (London, 1713), 122.

Source: Myra Reynolds, ed. The Poems of Anne: Countess of Winchilsea (1903; New York: AMS Press, 1974), 270.

Sonnet, To The Strawberry
Helen Maria Williams

The Strawberry blooms upon its lowly bed,
Plant of my native soil!—the Lime may fling.
More potent fragrance on the zephyr’s wing;
The milky Cocoa richer juices shed;
The white Guava lovelier blossoms spread—
But not like thee to fond remembrance bring
The vanish’d hours of life’s enchanting spring,
Short calendar of joys for ever fled!—
Thou bidst the scenes of childhood rise to view,
The wild-wood path which fancy loves to trace;
Where veil’d in leaves, thy fruit of rosy hue
Lurk’d on its pliant stem with modest grace—
But ah! when thought would later years renew,
Alas, successive sorrows croud the space!

From Helen Maria Williams, from Paul and Virginia (London, 1795), 67.

Source: Eighteenth Century Collections Online

Constantinople: To [William Feilding]¹
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

Give me, Great God (said I) a Little Farm
In Summer shady and in Winter warm,
Where a clear Spring gives birth to a cool brook
By nature sliding down a Mossy rock,
Not artfully in Leaden Pipes convey’d
Nor greatly falling in a forc’d Cascade,
Pure and unsulli’d winding through the Shade.
All-Bounteous Heaven has added to my Prayer
A softer Climat and a Purer air.
        Our frozen Isle now chilling winter binds,
Deform’d with rains and rough with blasting winds,
The wither’d woods grown white with hoary froast
By driving Storms their verdent Beauty’s lost,
The trembling Birds their leafless coverts shun
And seek in Distant Climes a warmer Sun,
The water Nimphs their Silenc’d urns deplore,
Even Thames benum’d, a river now no more;
The barren meadows give no more delight,
By Glistening Snow made painfull to the Sight.
        Here Summer reigns with one Eternal Smile,
And Double Harvests bless the happy Soil.
Fair, fertile, fields! to whom indulgent Heaven
Has every charm of every Season given,
No killing Cold deforms the beauteous year,
The Springing flowers no comeing winter fear,
But as the Parent rose decayes and dyes
The infant buds with brighter collours rise
And with fresh Sweets the Mother’s-Scent Supplies.
Near them the Vi’let glows with odours blest
And blooms in more than Tyrian Purple drest,
The rich Jonquills their golden gleem display
And shine in glory emulating day.
These chearfull groves their Living Leaves retain,
The streams still murmur undefil’d by rain,
And rising green adorns the fruitfull plain.
The warbling Kind uninterrupted Sing,
Warm’d with enjoyment of perpetual Spring.
        Here from my Window I at once survey
The crouded City, and Resounding Sea,
In Distant views see Asian Mountains rise
And lose their Snowy Summits in the Skies.
Above those Mountains high Olympus tow’rs
(The Parliamental seat of heavenly Pow’rs).
New to the sight, my ravish’d Eyes admire
Each gilded Crescent and each antique Spire,
The Marble Mosques beneath whose ample Domes
Fierce Warlike Sultans sleep in peacefull Tombs.
Those lofty Structures, once the Christian boast,
Their Names, their Glorys, and their Beautys lost,
Those Altars bright with Gold, with Sculpture grac’d,
By Barbarous Zeal of Savage Foes defac’d:
Sophia alone her Ancient Sound retains
Thô unbeleiving Vows her shrine prophanes.
Where Holy Saints have dy’d, in Sacred Cells
Where Monarchs pray’d, the Frantic Derviche dwells.
How art thou falln, Imperial City, low!
Where are thy Hopes of Roman Glory now?
Where are thy Palaces by Prelates rais’d;
Where preistly Pomp in Purple Lustre blaz’d?
Where Grecian Artists all their Skill display’d
Before the Happy Sciences decay’d,
So vast, that youthfull Kings might there reside,
So splendid, to content a Patriarch’s pride,
Convents where Emperours profess’d of Old,
The Labour’d Pillars that their Triumphs told
(Vain Monuments of Men that once were great!)
Sunk undistinguish’d in one common Fate!
        One Little Spot the small Fenar contains,
Of Greek Nobillity, the poor remains,
Where other Helens show like powerfull Charms
As once engag’d the Warring World in Arms,
Those Names which Royal Auncestry can boast
In mean Mechanic arts obscurely lost,
Those Eyes a second Homer might inspire,
Fix’d at the loom, destroy their useless Fire.
        Greiv’d at a view which strikes upon my Mind
The short-liv’d Vanity of Humankind,
In Gaudy Objects I indulge my Sight
And turn where Eastern Pomp gives Gay Delight.
See; the vast Train in Various Habits drest,
By the bright Scimetar and sable vest,
The Vizier proud, distinguish’d o’re the rest.
Six slaves in gay Attire his Bridle hold,
His Bridle rich with Gems, his stirrups Gold,
His snowy Steed adorn’d with Lavish Pride,
Whole troops of Soldiers mounted by his Side,
These toss the Plumy Crest, Arabian Coursers guide.
With awfull Duty, all decline their Eyes,
No Bellowing Shouts of noisie crouds arise,
Silence, in solemn state the March attends
Till at the Dread Divan the slow Procession ends.
        Yet not these prospects, all profusely Gay,
The gilded Navy that adorns the Sea,
The rising City in Confusion fair,
Magnificently form’d irregular,
Where Woods and Palaces at once surprise,
Gardens, on Gardens, Domes on Domes arise,
And endless Beauties tire the wandring Eyes,
So sooths my wishes or so charms my Mind
As this retreat, secure from Human kind,
No Knave’s successfull craft does Spleen excite,
No Coxcomb’s Tawdry Splendour shocks my Sight,
No Mob Alarm awakes my Female Fears,
No unrewarded Merit asks my Tears,
Nor Praise my Mind, nor Envy hurts my Ear,
Even Fame it selfe can hardly reach me here,
Impertinence with all her tattling train,
Fair sounding Flattery’s declicious bane,
Censorious Folly, noisy Party rage,
The thousand Tongues with which she must engage
Who dare have Virtue in a vicious Age.

Source: Robert Halsband and Isobel Grundy, eds. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993), 206-210.

1. Also known as “Verses Written in the Chiask at Pera, overlooking Constantinople, December 26, 1718.”

In Memory of the Rt. Hon. Lord Aubrey Beauclerk, Who was slain at Carthagena
Mary Jones

(Written in the year 1743, at the request of his Lady.)

Shall so much worth in silence pass away,
And no recording muse that worth display?
Shall public spirit like the private die,
The coward with the brave promiscuous lie?
The hero’s toils should be the muses care,
In peace their guardian, and their shield in war:
Alike inspir’d, they mutual succours lend;
The Muses His, and He the Muses friend.

     To me the solemn lyre you reach in vain,
The simple warbler of some idle strain.
What tho’ the hero’s fate the lay demands,
What tho’ impell’d and urg’d by your commands;
Yet, weak of flight, in vain I prune the wing,
And, diffident of voice, attempt to sing.

     What dreadful slaughter on the western coast!
How many gallant warriors Britain lost,
A British muse would willingly conceal;
But what the muse would hide, our tears reveal.
Pensive, we oft recal those fatal shores,
Where Carthagena lifts her warlike tow’rs.
High o’er the deep th’ embattl’d fortress heaves
Its awful front, its basis in the waves;
Without impregnable by nature’s care,
And arm’d within with all the rage of war.

     Deep in oblivion sink th’ ill-omen’d hour,
That call’d our legions to the baneful shore!
Where death, in all her horrid pomp array’d,
O’er the pale clime her direful influ’nce shed.
Want, famine, war, and pestilential breath,
All act subservient to the rage of death.
Those whom the wave, or fiercer war would spare,
Yield to the clime, and sink in silence there:
No friend to close their eyes, no pitying guest
To drop the silent tear, or strike the pensive breast.

     Here Douglas fell, the gallant and the brave!
Here much-lamented Watson found a grave.
Here, early try’d, and acting but too well,
The lov’d, ennobled, gen’rous Beauclerk fell.
Just as the spring of life began to bloom,
When ev’ry grace grew softer on the tomb;
In all that health and energy of youth,
Which promis’d honours of maturer growth;
When round his head the warriour laurel sprung,
And temp’rance brac’d the nerve which valour strung;
When his full heart expanded to the goal,
And promis’d victory had flush’d his soul,
He fell!—His country lost her earliest boast;
His family a faithful guardian lost;
His friend a safe companion; and his wife,
Her last resource, her happiness in life.

    O ever honour’d, ever happy shade!
How well hast thou thy debt to virtue paid!
Brave, active, undismay’d in all the past;
Compos’d, intrepid, steady to the last.
When half thy limbs, and more than half was lost
Of life, thy valour still maintain’d it’s post:
Gave the last signal¹ for thy country’s good,
And, dying, seal’d it with thy purest blood.

     Say, what is Life? and wherefore was it giv’n?
What the design, the purpose mark’d by Heav’n?
Was it in lux’ry to dissolve the span,
To raise the animal, and sink the man?
In the soft bands of pleasure, idly gay,
To frolic the immortal gift away?
To tell the tale, or flow’ry wreath to bind,
Then shoot away, and leave no track behind?
Arise no duties from the social tie?
No kindred virtues from our native sky?
No truths from reason, and the thought intense?
Nothing result from soul, but all from sense?

     O thoughtless reptile, Man!—Born! yet ask why?
Truly, for something serious—Born to die.
Knowing this truth, can we be wise too soon?
And this once known, sure something’s to be done—
To live’s to suffer; act, is to exist;
And life, at best, a trial, not a feast:
Our bus’ness virtue; and when that is done,
We cannot sit too late, or rise too soon.

     “Virtue!—What is it?—Whence does it arise!”
Ask of the brave, the social, and the wise;
Of those who study’d for the gen’ral good,
Of those who fought, and purchas’d it with blood;
Of those who build, or plant, or who design,
Ev’n those who dig the soil, or work the mine.
If yet not clearly seen, or understood;
Ask the humane, the pious, and the good.
To no one station, stage, or part confin’d,
No single act of body, or of mind;
But whate’er lovely, just, or fit we call,
The fair result, the congregate of all.

     The active mind, ascending by degrees,
Its various ties, relations, duties sees:
Examines parts, thence rising to the whole,
Sees the connexion, chain, and spring of soul;
Th’ eternal source! from whose pervading ray
We caught the flame, and kindled into day.
Hence the collected truths coercive rise,
Oblige as nat’ral, or as moral ties.
Son, brother, country, friend demand our care;
The common bounty all partake, must share.
Hence virtue in its source, and in its end,
To God as relative, to Man as friend.

     O friend to truth! to virtue! to thy kind!
O early call’d to leave these ties behind!
How shall the muse her vary’d tribute pay,
Indulge the tear, and not debase the lay!
Come, fair example of heroic truth!
Descend, and animate the British youth:
Now, when their country’s wrongs demand their care,
And proud Iberia meditates the war:
Now, while the trumpet sounds her shrill alarms,
And calls forth all her gen’rous sons to arms;
Pour all thy genius, all thy martial fire
O’er the brave youth, and ev’ry breast inspire.
Say, this is virtue, glory, honour, fame,
To rise from sloth, and catch the martial flame.
When fair occasion calls their vigour forth,
To meet the call, and vindicate its worth:
To rouse, to kindle, animate, combine,
Revenge their country’s wrongs, and think on Thine.

     Go, happy shade! to where the good, and blest
Enjoy eternal scenes of bliss and rest:
While we below thy sudden farewel mourn,
Collect thy virtues, weeping o’er the urn;
Recal their scatter’d lustre as they past,
And see them all united in the last.

So the bright orb, which gilds the groves and streams,
Mildly diffusive of his golden beams;
Drawn to a point, his strong concenter’d rays
More fulgent glow, and more intensely blaze.

     And Thou! late partner of his softer hour,
Ordain’d but just to meet, and meet no more;
Say, with the virtues how each grace combin’d!
How brave, yet social! how resolv’d, yet kind!
With manners how sincere! polite with ease!
How diffident! and yet how sure to please!
Was he of ought but infamy afraid?
Was he not modest as the blushing maid?
Asham’d to flatter, eager to commend;
A gen’rous master, and a steady friend.
Humane to all, but warm’d when virtuous grief,
Or silent modesty, imply’d relief.
Pure in his principles, unshaken, just;
True to his God, and faithful to his trust.

     Beauclerk, farewel!—If with thy virtues warm’d,
And not too fondly, or too rashly charm’d,
I strive the tributary dirge to pay,
And form the pinion to the hasty lay;
The feeble, but well-meaning slight excuse:
Perhaps hereafter some more gen’rous muse,
Touch’d with thy fate, with genius at command,
May snatch the pencil from the female hand;
And give the perfect portrait, bold and free,
In numbers such as Young’s, and worthy Thee.

From Mary Jones, Miscellanies in Prose and Verse (Oxford, 1750), 36-44.

Source: Eighteenth Century Collections Online

1. After both his legs were shot off. See the account of his death in the prose-inscription in Westminster-Abby, written by the author, under his Lady’s directions. The verse by Dr. Young. (Author’s note)

A Walk by the Water
Charlotte Smith

Let us walk where reeds are growing,
     By the alders in the mead;
Where the crystal streams are flowing,
     In whose waves the fishes feed.

There the golden carp is laving,
     With the trout, the perch, and bream;
Mark! their flexile fins are waving,
     As they glance along the stream.

Now they sink in deeper billows,
     Now upon the surface rise;
Or from under roots of willows,
     Dart to catch the water-flies.

´Midst the reeds and pebbles hiding,
     See the minnow and the roach;
Or by water-lillies gliding,
     Shun with fear our near approach.

Do not dread us, timid fishes,
     We have neither net nor hook;
Wanderers we, whose only wishes
     Are to read in nature’s book.

From Charlotte Smith, Conversations Introducing Poetry (London, 1804), 14-15.

Source: Stuart Curran, ed. The Poems of Charlotte Smith (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 180.

The Disaster
Mary Savage

By Sparrows drawn, there’s now no chance,
To see your car-born friend advance.
A dire disaster—hang the cat;
Far better had she kill’d a rat.
Supinely seated in my chair,
And building castles in the air,
Contriving how to form the traces,
And where to fix the springs and braces,
To make my car secure and tight,
And guide the little flutt’rers right;
A buzzing fly sports round my head,
And strait the airy castle fled.

     My son with arm of mighty force,
Soon stopt the fly’s progressive course,
The trembling insect fast he held,
With joy elate his bosom swell’d,
And thus he spoke to Dick and Phill,
I give this victim to your will.
Then op’d the cage, that each might vie,
To seize the half expireing fly;
With wings out spread to try their chance,
The little chirpers soon advance:
With tail erect, and back raised high,
The cat appeared—her sparkling eye,
As green as is the emerald’s dye:
With out stretch’d paw, and lofty bound,
She gave poor dick a fatal wound.

     Oh! dire mishap oh! fell despair
His fleeting breath was lost in air;
Struck with the sight, fix’d pale and dumb,
(Like coward when he hears a drum.)
The youth remain’d—but kindled rage,
Glows on my cheeks—and war I wage;
While puss exulting o’er the prey,
Essays in vain to break away;
With hand of force, I grip’d her throat,
(Her life was then not worth a groat.)
Unfeeling wretch, declare I say,
Deep mischief brooding, where you lay;
Unloose thy hold, release the corse,
Nor tear those limbs with brutal force;
´Twas impious theft, that prompts the deed,
But impious theft, shall ne’er succeed;
Nor shalt thou bear the prize away,
Grimalkin hold—I charge thee stay.
Life now no longer swells his breast,
Yet safe entoomb’d my bird shall rest.

     But Cailif vile, live thou disgrac’d.
Nor ever more of sparrow taste,
Thy share of toast, and cream shall fail,
Or e’er in mirth pursue thy tail.
No tender mouse shall grace thy dish,
Nor shalt thou ever taste of fish;
At dreary eve of winters day,
Warm by the fire each cat shall lay,
Whilst thou shut out, shall mew in vain,
Expos’d to storms of wind and rain;
Through pools of wet be forc’d to tramp,
Thy limbs benumb’d with painful cramp.

     With trembling nerves and glaring eye,
She heard my threats without reply.

     Firm in my hand I held her still,
To show I had to power to kill;
Then rais’d her high, to strike the blow,
And lay the sprawling victim low;
But rage subsides—to give her pain,
Would not bring back poor dick again.
Grimalkin go—thy life I spare,
But never more my friendship share.

     His mate poor Phill, in silence mourns,
And pensive to the cage returns.
While I lament the fatal day,
That snatch’d my flatt’ring hopes away;
For never yet in one horse chair,
Did god or goddess mount in air;
And shall a mortal dare to fly,
With single sparrow thro’ the sky,
No—rather let me wait my doom
And in my husband’s chariot come.

From Mary Savage, Poems on Various Subjects and Occasions, Vol. 2 (London, 1777), 79-85.

Source: Eighteenth Century Collections Online

Apollo’s Edict
Mary Barber

Ierne’s now our royal Care:
We lately fix’d our¹ Vice-roy there.
How near was she to be undone,
Till pious Love inspir’d her Son!
What cannot our Vice-gerent do,
As Poet, and as Patriot too?
Let his Success our Subjects sway,
Our Inspirations to obey:
Let beaten Paths no more be trac’d;
But study to correct your Taste.

     No Simile shall be begun
With rising, or with setting Sun;
And let the secret Head of Nile
Be ever banish’d from your Isle.

     When wrtetched Lovers live on Air,
In Pity the Chameleon spare:
And when you’d make a Hero grander,
Forget he’s like a Salamander.

     No Son of mine shall dare to say,
Aurora usher’d in the Day.

     You all agree, I make no Doubt,
The Prophet’s Mantle’s quite worn out.

     The Bird of Jove shall toil no more,
To teach the humble Wren to soar.

     Your tragic Heroes shall not rant,
Nor Shepherds use poetic Cant.
Simplicity alone can grace
The Manners of the rural Race.

     When Damon’s Soul shall take its Flight,
(Tho’ Poets have the second Sight)
No Trail of Light shall upwards rise,
Nor a new Star adorn the Skies:
For who can hope to place one there,
So glorious as² Belinda’s Hair?
Yet, if his Name you eternize,
And must exalt him to the Skies;
Without a Star it may be done—
So Trickell mourn’d his Addison.

     If Anna’s happy Reign you praise,
Say not a Word of Halcyon-Days:
Nor let my Vot’ries shew their Skill,
In apeing Lines from Cooper’s-Hill;
For, know, I cannot bear to hear
The Mimickry of deep, yet clear.

     Whene’er my Viceroy is address’d,
Against the Phoenix I protest.

     When³ Kelly’s Beauties you survey,
Forget they’re like the Milky Way.

     When Poets soar in youthful Strains,
No Phaeton, to hold the Reins.

     CUPID shall ne’er mistake another,
Not ev’n⁴ Eliza, for his Mother;
Nor shall his Darts at Random fly,
From Magazines in Rochford’s Eye.

     When⁵ Boyle’s exalted Genius shines,
Distinguish’d in your noblest Lines;
With his own Worth your Patron grace,
And let Mæcenas sleep in Peace.

     When you describe a lovely Girl,
No Coral Lips, or Teeth of Pearl.

     With Women Compounds I am cloy’d,
Which only pleas’d in Biddy Floyd.
For foreign Aid what need they roam,
Whom Fate hath amply bless’d at Home?
Unerring Heav’n, with bounteous Hand,
Has form’d a Model for your Land;
Whom Jove endow’d with ev’ry Grace,
The Glory of the Granard Race;
Now destin’d by the Pow’rs divine,
The Blessing of another Line.
Then, would you paint a matchless Dame,
And raise her to immortal Fame;
Invoke not Cytherea’s Aid,
Nor borrow from the Blue-ey’d Maid,
Nor need you on the Graces call;
Take Qualities from⁶ Donegal.

From Mary Barber, Poems on Several Occasions (London, 1734), 105-110.

Source: Eighteenth Century Collections Online

1.Dr. Swift. (Author’s notes)

2.Rape of the Lock.

3.Mrs. Frances-Arabella Kelly.

4.Mrs. Elizabeth Penifeather.

5.John Earl of Orrery.

6.Countess Dowager Donegal, Daughter to the late Earl of Granard.

Sonnet: To the Insect of the Gossamer
Charlotte Smith

          Small viewless aeronaut, that by the line
     Of Gossamer suspended, in mid air
     Float’st on a sun-beam—Living atom, where
     Ends thy breeze-guided voyage? With what design

          In æther dost thou launch thy form minute,
     Mocking the eye? Alas! before the veil
     Of denser clouds shall hide thee, the pursuit
     Of the keen Swift may end thy fairy sail!

          Thus on the golden thread that Fancy weaves
     Buoyant, as Hope’s illusive flattery breathes,
     The young and visionary Poet leaves
     Life’s dull realities, while sevenfold wreaths

Of rainbow light around his head revolve.
Ah! soon at Sorrow’s touch the radiant dreams dissolve.

From Charlotte Smith, Conversations Introducing Poetry, chiefly on Subjects of Natural History, For the Use of Young Persons, Vol. 2 (London, 1819), 7-8.

Source: Women Writers Online

The Portrait
Elizabeth Tollet

Votiva pateat veluti descripta tabella
Vita ——-  ——–  ——–  ———- Hor.

On what wou’d I my Wishes fix?
‘Tis not upon a Coach and Six:
‘Tis not your rich Brocades to wear;
‘Tis not on Brilliants in my Ear.
‘Tis not to hurry up and down
To Tunbridge, Epsom, Kensington;
Much less to rub my wakeful Eyes
At Basset, till the Sun shou’d rise:
Had I a Foe I meant to curse,
Nay, Rival, I’d not wish her worse.
For once, to tell you what’s the Lot
I like, I’ve told you what ‘tis not;
A lazy Life I first wou’d choose,
A lazy Life best suits the Muse:
A few choice Books of ev’ry Sort;
But none that meddle with the Court.
Small Thoughts for Cloaths; ‘tis all a Case:
They’ll neither mend nor spoil my Face.
Money! Enough to serve my Ends:
An Hackney to go see my Friends;
That I may laugh if Fops pass by,
And they not know my Livery.
Friends that in any Dress would come;
To whom I’d always be at home:
My Table still shou’d cover’d be,
On this Side Books, on that Bohea;
While we sip on, and ne’er debate
Matters of Scandal, or of State.
For Horace tells us, as you know,
‘Tis sweet to fool it a propos.

                Dulce est desipere in loco.     Hor.

From Elizabeth Tollet, Poems on Several Occasions (London, 1755), 33-34.

Source: Eighteenth Century Collections Online