Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea

Fair tree! for thy delightful shade 'Tis just that some return be made; Sure some return is due from me To thy cool shadows, and to thee. When thou to birds dost shelter give, Thou music dost from them receive; If travellers beneath thee stay Till storms have worn themselves away, That time in praising thee they spend And thy protecting pow'r commend. The shepherd here, from scorching freed, Tunes to thy dancing leaves his reed; Whilst his lov'd nymph, in thanks, bestows Her flow'ry chaplets on thy boughs. Shall I then only silent be, And no return be made by me? No; let this wish upon thee wait, And still to flourish be thy fate. To future ages may'st thou stand Untouch'd by the rash workman's hand, Till that large stock of sap is spent, Which gives thy summer's ornament; Till the fierce winds, that vainly strive To shock thy greatness whilst alive, Shall on thy lifeless hour attend, Prevent the axe, and grace thy end; Their scatter'd strength together call And to the clouds proclaim thy fall; Who then their ev'ning dews may spare When thou no longer art their care, But shalt, like ancient heroes, burn, And some bright hearth be made thy urn.

Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of spring! This moment is thy time to sing, This moment I attend to praise, And set my numbers to they lays. Free as thine shall be my song; As they music, short, or long. Poets, wild as thee, were born, Pleasing best when unconfined, When to please is least designed, Soothing but their cares to rest; Cares do still their thoughts molest, And still th' unhappy poet's breast, Like thine, when best he sings, is placed against a thorn. She begins, Let all be still! Muse, they promise now fulfill! Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet Can thy words such accents fit, Canst thou syllables refine, Melt a sense that shall retain Still some spirit of the brain, Till with sounds like these it join. 'Twill not be! then change thy note; Let division shake thy throat. Hark! Division now she tries; Yet as far the Muse outflies. Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune; Trifler, wilt thou sing till *June*? Till thy business all lies waste, And the time of building's past! Thus we poets that have speech, Unlike what they forests teach, If a fluent vein be shown That's transcendant to our own, Criticize, reform, or preach, Or censure what we cannot reach.

O King of terrors, whose unbounded sway All that have life must certainly obey; The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine, Nor would ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline. My name is on thy roll, and sure I must Increase 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, unprepared, 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 die, and thine to kill. Gently thy fatal scepter on me lay, And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.

A Pindaric Poem

Love, thou art best of Human Joys, Our chiefest Happiness below; All other Pleasures are but Toys, Musick without Thee is but Noise, And Beauty but an empty show. Heav’n , who knew best what Man wou’d move, And raise his Thoughts above the Brute; Said, Let him Be, and Let him Love; That must alone his Soul improve, Howe’er Philosophers dispute.

Good Heav’n, I thank thee, since it was designed I should be framed, but of the weaker kind, That yet, my Soul, is rescued from the love Of all those trifles which their passions move. Pleasures and praise and plenty have with me But their just value. If allowed they be, Freely, and thankfully as much I taste, As will not reason or religion waste, If they’re denied, I on my self can live, And slight those aids unequal chance does give. When in the sun, my wings can be displayed, And, in retirement, I can bless the shade.

In such a night, when every louder wind Is to its distant cavern safe confined; And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings, And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings; Or from some tree, famed for the owl’s delight, She, hollowing clear, directs the wand’rer right: In such a night, when passing clouds give place, Or thinly veil the heav’ns’ mysterious face; When in some river, overhung with green, The waving moon and the trembling leaves are seen; When freshened grass now bears itself upright, And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose, And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows; Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes When scatter’d glow-worms, but in twilight fine, Shew trivial beauties, watch their hour to shine; Whilst Salisb’ry stands the test of every light, In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright: When odors, which declined repelling day, Through temp’rate air uninterrupted stray; When darkened groves their softest shadows wear, And falling waters we distinctly hear; When through the gloom more venerable shows Some ancient fabric, awful in repose, While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal, And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale: When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads, Comes slowly grazing through th’ adjoining meads, Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear, Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear: When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, And unmolested kine rechew the cud; When curlews cry beneath the village walls, And to her straggling brood the partridge calls; Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep, Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep; When a sedate content the spirit feels, And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals; But silent musings urge the mind to seek Something, too high for syllables to speak; Till the free soul to a composedness charmed, Finding the elements of rage disarmed, O’er all below a solemn quiet grown, Joys in th’ inferior world, and thinks it like her own: In such a night let me abroad remain, Till morning breaks, and all’s confused again; Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed, Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.

This to the crown and blessing of my life, The much loved husband of a happy wife; To him whose constant passion found the art To win a stubborn and ungrateful heart, And to the world by tenderest proof discovers They err, who say that husbands can’t be lovers. With such return of passion as is due, Daphnis I love, Daphnis my thoughts pursue; Daphnis my hopes and joys are bounded all in you. Even I, for Daphnis’ and my promise’ sake, What I in women censure, undertake. But this from love, not vanity, proceeds; You know who writes, and I who ’tis that reads. Judge not my passion by my want of skill: Many love well, though they express it ill; And I your censure could with pleasure bear, Would you but soon return, and speak it here.

Did I, my lines intend for public view, How many censures, would their faults pursue, Some would, because such words they do affect, Cry they’re insipid, empty, and uncorrect. And many have attained, dull and untaught, The name of wit only by finding fault. True judges might condemn their want of wit, And all might say, they’re by a woman writ. Alas! a woman that attempts the pen, Such an intruder on the rights of men, Such a presumptuous creature, is esteemed, The fault can by no virtue be redeemed. They tell us we mistake our sex and way; Good breeding, fashion, dancing, dressing, play Are the accomplishments we should desire; To write, or read, or think, or to inquire Would cloud our beauty, and exhaust our time, And interrupt the conquests of our prime; Whilst the dull manage of a servile house Is held by some our outmost art, and use. Sure ’twas not ever thus, nor are we told Fables, of women that excelled of old; To whom, by the diffusive hand of Heaven Some share of wit, and poetry was given. On that glad day, on which the Ark returned, The holy pledge, for which the land had mourned, The joyful tribes, attend it on the way, The Levites do the sacred charge convey, Whilst various instruments, before it play; Here, holy virgins in the concert join The louder notes, to soften, and refine, And with alternate verse complete the hymn divine. Lo! the young Poet, after God’s own heart, By Him inspired, and taught the Muses’ art, Returned from conquest, a bright chorus meets, That sing his slain ten thousand in the streets. In such loud numbers they his acts declare, Proclaim the wonders of his early war, That Saul upon the vast applause does frown, And feels its mighty thunder shake the crown. What, can the threatened judgment now prolong? Half of the kingdom is already gone; The fairest half, whose influence guides the rest, Have David’s empire o’er their hearts confessed. A woman here, leads fainting Israel on, She fights, she wins, she triumphs with a song, Devout, majestic, for the subject fit, And far above her arms, exalts her wit; Then, to the peaceful, shady palm withdraws, And rules the rescued nation, with her laws. How are we fall’n, fall’n by mistaken rules? And education’s, more than nature’s fools, Debarred from all improvements of the mind, And to be dull, expected and designed; And if some one would soar above the rest, With warmer fancy, and ambition pressed, So strong th’ opposing faction still appears, The hopes to thrive can ne’er outweigh the fears, Be cautioned then my Muse, and still retired; Nor be despised, aiming to be admired; Conscious of wants, still with contracted wing, To some few friends, and to thy sorrows sing; For groves of laurel thou wert never meant; Be dark enough thy shades, and be thou there content.

Eph. What Friendship is, Ardelia show. Ard. ’Tis to love, as I love you. Eph. This account, so short (tho’ kind) Suits not my inquiring mind. Therefore farther now repeat: What is Friendship when complete? Ard. ’Tis to share all joy and grief; ’Tis to lend all due relief From the tongue, the heart, the hand; ’Tis to mortgage house and land; For a friend be sold a slave; ’Tis to die upon a grave, If a friend therein do lie. Eph. This indeed, tho’ carried high, This, tho’ more than e’er was done Underneath the rolling sun, This has all been said before. Can Ardelia say no more? Ard. Words indeed no more can show: But ’tis to love, as I love you.