Lucasta [60]
III. Ah, my fair murdresse! dost thou cruelly heal With various pains to make me well? Then let me be Thy cut anatomie, And in each mangled part my heart you'l see.
<66.1> Original has AWAKES.
LUCASTA AT THE BATH.
I. I' th' autumn of a summer's day, When all the winds got leave to play, LUCASTA, that fair ship, is lanch'd, And from its crust this almond blanch'd.
II. Blow then, unruly northwind, blow, 'Till in their holds your eyes you stow; And swell your cheeks, bequeath chill death; See! she hath smil'd thee out of breath.
III. Court, gentle zephyr, court and fan Her softer breast's carnation wan; Your charming rhethorick of down Flyes scatter'd from before her frown.
IV. Say, my white water-lilly, say, How is't those warm streams break away, Cut by thy chast cold breast, which dwells Amidst them arm'd in isicles?
V. And the hot floods, more raging grown, In flames of thee then in their own, In their distempers wildly glow, And kisse thy pillar of fix'd snow.
VI. No sulphur, through whose each blew vein The thick and lazy currents strein, Can cure the smarting nor the fell Blisters of love, wherewith they swell.
VII. These great physicians of the blind, The lame, and fatal blains of Inde In every drop themselves now see Speckled with a new leprosie.
VIII. As sick drinks are with old wine dash'd, Foul waters too with spirits wash'd, Thou greiv'd, perchance, one tear let'st fall, Which straight did purifie them all.
IX. And now is cleans'd enough the flood, Which since runs cleare as doth thy blood; Of the wet pearls uncrown thy hair, And mantle thee with ermin air.
X. Lucasta, hail! fair conqueresse Of fire, air, earth and seas! Thou whom all kneel to, yet even thou Wilt unto love, thy captive, bow.
THE ANT.<67.1>
I. Forbear, thou great good husband, little ant; A little respite from thy flood of sweat! Thou, thine own horse and cart under this plant, Thy spacious tent, fan thy prodigious heat; Down with thy double load of that one grain! It is a granarie for all thy train.
II. Cease, large example of wise thrift, awhile (For thy example is become our law), And teach thy frowns a seasonable smile: So Cato sometimes the nak'd Florals saw.<67.2> And thou, almighty foe, lay by thy sting, Whilst thy unpay'd musicians, crickets, sing.
III. LUCASTA, she that holy makes the day, And 'stills new life in fields of fueillemort,<67.3> Hath back restor'd their verdure with one ray, And with her eye bid all to play and sport, Ant, to work still! age will thee truant call; And to save now, th'art worse than prodigal.
IV. Austere and cynick! not one hour t' allow, To lose with pleasure, what thou gotst with pain; But drive on sacred festivals thy plow, Tearing high-ways with thy ore-charged wain. Not all thy life-time one poor minute live, And thy ore-labour'd bulk with mirth relieve?
V. Look up then, miserable ant, and spie Thy fatal foes, for breaking of their<67.4> law, Hov'ring above thee: Madam MARGARET PIE: And her fierce servant, meagre Sir JOHN DAW: Thy self and storehouse now they do store up, And thy whole harvest too within their crop.
VI. Thus we unt[h]rifty thrive within earth's tomb For some more rav'nous and ambitious jaw: The grain in th' ant's, the ant<67.5> in the pie's womb, The pie in th' hawk's, the hawk<67.6> ith' eagle's maw. So scattering to hord 'gainst a long day, Thinking to save all, we cast all away.
<67.1> A writer in CENSURA LITERARIA, x. 292 (first edit.)--the late E. V. Utterson, Esq.--highly praises this little poem, and says that it is not unworthy of Cowper. I think it highly probable that the translation from Martial (lib. vi. Ep. 15), at the end of the present volume, was executed
<66.1> Original has AWAKES.
LUCASTA AT THE BATH.
I. I' th' autumn of a summer's day, When all the winds got leave to play, LUCASTA, that fair ship, is lanch'd, And from its crust this almond blanch'd.
II. Blow then, unruly northwind, blow, 'Till in their holds your eyes you stow; And swell your cheeks, bequeath chill death; See! she hath smil'd thee out of breath.
III. Court, gentle zephyr, court and fan Her softer breast's carnation wan; Your charming rhethorick of down Flyes scatter'd from before her frown.
IV. Say, my white water-lilly, say, How is't those warm streams break away, Cut by thy chast cold breast, which dwells Amidst them arm'd in isicles?
V. And the hot floods, more raging grown, In flames of thee then in their own, In their distempers wildly glow, And kisse thy pillar of fix'd snow.
VI. No sulphur, through whose each blew vein The thick and lazy currents strein, Can cure the smarting nor the fell Blisters of love, wherewith they swell.
VII. These great physicians of the blind, The lame, and fatal blains of Inde In every drop themselves now see Speckled with a new leprosie.
VIII. As sick drinks are with old wine dash'd, Foul waters too with spirits wash'd, Thou greiv'd, perchance, one tear let'st fall, Which straight did purifie them all.
IX. And now is cleans'd enough the flood, Which since runs cleare as doth thy blood; Of the wet pearls uncrown thy hair, And mantle thee with ermin air.
X. Lucasta, hail! fair conqueresse Of fire, air, earth and seas! Thou whom all kneel to, yet even thou Wilt unto love, thy captive, bow.
THE ANT.<67.1>
I. Forbear, thou great good husband, little ant; A little respite from thy flood of sweat! Thou, thine own horse and cart under this plant, Thy spacious tent, fan thy prodigious heat; Down with thy double load of that one grain! It is a granarie for all thy train.
II. Cease, large example of wise thrift, awhile (For thy example is become our law), And teach thy frowns a seasonable smile: So Cato sometimes the nak'd Florals saw.<67.2> And thou, almighty foe, lay by thy sting, Whilst thy unpay'd musicians, crickets, sing.
III. LUCASTA, she that holy makes the day, And 'stills new life in fields of fueillemort,<67.3> Hath back restor'd their verdure with one ray, And with her eye bid all to play and sport, Ant, to work still! age will thee truant call; And to save now, th'art worse than prodigal.
IV. Austere and cynick! not one hour t' allow, To lose with pleasure, what thou gotst with pain; But drive on sacred festivals thy plow, Tearing high-ways with thy ore-charged wain. Not all thy life-time one poor minute live, And thy ore-labour'd bulk with mirth relieve?
V. Look up then, miserable ant, and spie Thy fatal foes, for breaking of their<67.4> law, Hov'ring above thee: Madam MARGARET PIE: And her fierce servant, meagre Sir JOHN DAW: Thy self and storehouse now they do store up, And thy whole harvest too within their crop.
VI. Thus we unt[h]rifty thrive within earth's tomb For some more rav'nous and ambitious jaw: The grain in th' ant's, the ant<67.5> in the pie's womb, The pie in th' hawk's, the hawk<67.6> ith' eagle's maw. So scattering to hord 'gainst a long day, Thinking to save all, we cast all away.
<67.1> A writer in CENSURA LITERARIA, x. 292 (first edit.)--the late E. V. Utterson, Esq.--highly praises this little poem, and says that it is not unworthy of Cowper. I think it highly probable that the translation from Martial (lib. vi. Ep. 15), at the end of the present volume, was executed