Volume III Part 16 (1/2)
The poetical Works of this Lady consist chiefly in the Song of the Three Children Paraphrased, some Pindaric Odes, Familiar Epistles, and Songs.
We shall select as a specimen, a Dialogue between Lucinda and Marissa, occasioned by the death of her Ladys.h.i.+p's Daughter, in the early bloom of her youth. It is of a very melancholy cast, and expressive of the grief me must have felt upon that tender occasion. Her ladys.h.i.+p has informed us in her preface to her poems, that she generally chose subjects suited to her present temper of mind. 'These pieces (says she) were the employments of my leisure hours, the innocent amus.e.m.e.nts of a solitary life; in them the reader will find a picture of my mind, my sentiments all laid open to their view; they will sometimes see me chearful, pleased, sedate, and quiet; at other times, grieving, complaining, and struggling with my pa.s.sions, blaming myself, endeavouring to pay homage to my reason, and resolving for the future with a decent calmness, an unshaken constancy, and a resigning temper, to support all the troubles, all the uneasiness of life, and then, by unexpected emergencies, unforeseen disappointments, sudden, and surprising turns of fortune, discomposed, and shock'd, 'till I have rallied my scattered fears, got new strength, and by making unwearied resistance, gained the better of my afflictions, and restored my mind to its former tranquility. Would we (continues her ladys.h.i.+p) contract our desires, and learn to think that only necessary, which nature has made so; we should be no longer fond of riches, honours, applauses, and several other things, which are the unhappy occasions of much mischief to the world; and doubtless, were we so happy as to have a true notion of the dignity of our nature, of those great things for which we were designed, and of the duration and felicity of that state to which we are hastening, we should scorn to stoop to mean actions, and blush at the thoughts of doing any thing below our character.' In this manner does our auth.o.r.ess discover her sentiments of piety. We now shall subjoin the specimen;
DIALOGUE.
MARISSA.
O my Lucinda! O my dearest friend!
Must my afflictions never, never end!
Has Heav'n for me, no pity left in store, Must I! O must I ne'er be happy more!
Philanda's loss had almost broke my heart, From her alas! I did but lately part: And must there still be new occasions found To try my patience, and my soul to wound?
Must my lov'd daughter too be s.n.a.t.c.h'd away, Must she so soon the call of fate obey?
In her first dawn, replete with youthful charms, She's fled, she's fled, from my deserted arms.
Long did she struggle, long the war maintain, But all th' efforts of life, alas! were vain.
Could art have saved her, she had still been mine, Both art and care together did combine: But what is proof against the will divine?
Methinks I still her dying conflict view, And the sad sight does all my grief renew; Rack'd by convulsive pains, she meekly lies, And gazes on me with imploring eyes; With eyes which beg relief, but all in vain, I see but cannot, cannot ease her pain.
She must the burden una.s.sisted bear, I cannot with her in her tortures share: Would they were mine, and me flood easy by; For what one loves, sure 'twere not hard to die.
See how me labours, how me pants for breath, She's lovely still, she's sweet, she's sweet in death!
Pale as she is, me beauteous does remain, Her closing eyes their l.u.s.tre still retain: Like setting suns with undiminish'd light, They hide themselves within the verge of night.
She's gone, she's gone, she sigh'd her soul away!
And can I, can I any longer stay?
My life alas has ever tiresome been, And I few happy easy days have seen; But now it does a greater burden grow, I'll throw it off, and no more sorrow know, But with her to calm peaceful regions go.
Stay, thou dear innocence, r.e.t.a.r.d thy flight, O stop thy journey to the realms of light; Stay 'till I come: to thee I'll swiftly move, Attracted by the strongest pa.s.sion, love.
LUCINDA.
No more, no more let me such language hear, I can't, I can't the piercing accents bear: Each word you utter stabs me to the heart, I could from life, not from Marissa part: And were your tenderness as great as mine, While I were left, you would net thus repine.
My friends are riches, health, and all to me; And while they're mine I cannot wretched be.
MARISSA.
If I on you could happiness bestow, I still the toils of life would undergo, Would still contentedly my lot sustain, And never more of my hard fate complain: But since my life to you will useless prove, O let me hasten to the joys above: Farewel, farewel, take, take my last adieu, May Heaven be more propitious still to you, May you live happy when I'm in my grave, And no misfortunes, no afflictions have: If to sad objects you'll some pity lend And give a sigh to an unhappy friend, Think of Marissa, and her wretched state, How's she's been us'd by her malicious fate; Recount those storms which she has long sustain'd, And then rejoice that she the part has gain'd; The welcome haven of eternal rest, Where she shall be for ever, ever bless'd; And in her mother's, and her daughter's arms Shall meet with new, with unexperienc'd charms, O how I long those dear delights to taste; Farewel, farewel, my soul is much in haste.
Come death; and give the kind releasing blow, I'm tir'd of life, and overcharg'd with woe: In thy cool silent, unmolested shade O let me be by their dear relics laid; And there with them from all my troubles free, Enjoy the blessing of a long tranquillity.
LUCINDA.
O thou dear sufferer, on my breast recline Thy drooping head, and mix thy tears with mine: Here rest awhile, and make a truce with grief: Consider; sorrow brings you no relief.
In the great play of life, we must not chuse, Nor yet the meanest character refuse.
Like soldiers we our general must obey, Must stand our ground, and not to fear give way, But go undaunted on'till we have won the day.
Honour is ever the reward of pain, A lazy virtue no applause will gain.
All such as to uncommon heights would rise, And on the wings of fame ascend the skies, Must learn the gifts of fortune to despise; They to themselves their bliss must still confine, Must be unmoved, and never once repine: But few to this perfection can attain, Our pa.s.sions often will th' ascendant gain, And reason but alternately does reign; Disguised by pride we sometimes seem to bear A haughty port, and scorn to shed a tear; While grief within still acts a tragic part, And plays the tyrant in the bleeding heart.
Your sorrow is of the severest kind, And can't be wholly to your soul confin'd, Losses like yours may be allowed to move A gen'rous mind, that knows what 'tis to love.
These afflictions;-- Will teach you patience, and the careful skill To rule your pa.s.sions, and command your will; To bear afflictions with a steady mind, Still to be easy, pleas'd, and still resign'd, And look as if you did no inward sorrow find.