Part 27 (2/2)

My love were due, if not to those Who, leaving grandeur, came To s.h.i.+ne on age in mean recess, And light me to my theme!

A theme themselves! A theme, how rare!

The charms, which they display, To triumph over captive heads, Are set in bright array:

With his own arms proud man's o'ercome, His boasted laurels die: Learning and genius, wiser grown, To female bosoms fly.

This revolution, fix'd by fate, In fable was foretold; The dark prediction puzzled wits, Nor could the learn'd unfold:

But as those ladies'(53) works I read, They darted such a ray, The latent sense burst out at once, And shone in open day:

So burst, full ripe, distended fruits, When strongly strikes the sun; And from the purple grape unpress'd Spontaneous nectars run.

Pallas, ('tis said,) when Jove grew dull, Forsook his drowsy brain; And sprightly leap'd into the throne Of wisdom's brighter reign;

Her helmet took; that is, shot rays Of formidable wit; And lance,-or, genius most acute, Which lines immortal writ;

And gorgon s.h.i.+eld,-or, power to fright Man's folly, dreadful shone, And many a blockhead (easy change!) Turn'd, instantly, to stone.

Our authors male, as, then, did Jove, Now scratch a damag'd head, And call for what once quarter'd there, But find the G.o.ddess fled.

The fruit of knowledge, golden fruit!

That once forbidden tree, Hedg'd-in by surly man, is now To Britain's daughters free:

In Eve (we know) of fruit so fair The n.o.ble thirst began; And they, like her, have caus'd a fall, A fall of fame in man:

And since of genius in our s.e.x, O Addison! with thee The sun is set; how I rejoice This sister lamp to see!

It sheds, like Cynthia, silver beams On man's nocturnal state; His lessen'd light, and languid powers, I show, whilst I relate.

Part II.

But what in either s.e.x, beyond All parts, our glory crowns?

”In ruffling seasons to be calm, And smile, when fortune frowns.”

Heaven's choice is safer than our own; Of ages past inquire, What the most formidable fate?

”To have our own desire.”

If, in your wrath, the worst of foes You wish extremely ill; Expose him to the thunder's stroke, Or that of his own will.

What numbers, rus.h.i.+ng down the steep Of inclination strong, Have perish'd in their ardent wis.h.!.+

Wish ardent, ever wrong!

'Tis resignation's full reverse, Most wrong, as it implies Error most fatal in our choice, Detachment from the skies.

By closing with the skies, we make Omnipotence our own; That done, how formidable ill's Whole army is o'erthrown!

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