"Rack'd with my griefs, my Anxious Soul survives, / Dash'd like a ship which with the Billows drives."
— Hopkins, John (b. 1675)
Author
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed by Tho. Warren
Date
1700
Metaphor
"Rack'd with my griefs, my Anxious Soul survives, / Dash'd like a ship which with the Billows drives."
Metaphor in Context
Distracted now thro' every den I rove,
Search each recess, and visit every Grove,
Swift thro' confusion to find out my Love.
Thro' Woods, and Wilds, in Caves I Search in vain,
To Heav'n I look, and thro' the Fields complain,
But all unkindly answer not again.
Next, to some Brook; or shady Vale I fly,
Thinking my fair may in some grotto lye.
In vain! alass! my weary Limbs I bear,
I only find thou art a stranger there.
Then, stung with Passion, and o'ercome with Pain.
To Heav'n I loudly of my wrongs complain.
The panting Beasts which thro' the Forests rove,
Have now no longer any Power to move,
But stand amaz'd to hear my tale of Love.
Then, all confusion, all despair, I rise,
And throw my Arms to the regardless Skies.
Thence to the Ocean's Sandy banks I run,
View both the rising, and declining Sun.
Like that, my Thought a constant motion bears,
And when I rest, I set in Seas of Tears.
Rais'd with my griefs, and overcome with woes,
I sadly sigh to every Wind that blows.
Wild with despair, I view the Billows round,
Thinking some wave may with my love be crown'd,
While my complaints o'er all the shores resound.
Tell me, I cry, ye Surges, tell me true,
Is not Amasia hid in some of you?
No thought alas! can my Mind's Storms appease,
No second Venus will arise from Seas.
Then, fierce as Whirlwinds on the strands I Walk,
And loud as Thunder to my self I talk;
When from my Eyes I shed a gentle show'r,
And lay those Tempests I had rais'd before.
Rack'd with my griefs, my Anxious Soul survives,
Dash'd like a ship which with the Billows drives.
Thence, to the plains my fainting Limbs I bear,
Lost still in Love, and lost in Errour there.
In a deep Vale, where a thick Covert grows,
I fondly strive to be at soft repose.
But there I find, nor Sea, nor Cave, nor Wood,
Nor Stars, nor Heav'n it self can do me good.
Wild Thoughts distract me in those grateful bow'rs'
I take each gentle Breeze's Voice for yours.
Whilst by Succession day and night return,
I, greatly curs'd, must never cease to mourn.
Yet Groves like these did once the Joys improve,
Of blest Adonis, and the Queen of Love.
So might I rifle my Amasia's Charms,
And clasp my Goddess in my burning Arms.
How strangely blest might she her Sylvius see,
And make her self more happy, blessing me.
Securely close, and from all Cities far,
Remote from tumults, and the noise of War.
In secret shades she might my Passion crown;
There my Amasia might be all my own.
As boist'rous Storms endear the distant shore:
And hardship always shews our Joys the more.
So should she make me Court her even there,
And e'er she blest me, let me tast despair.
Whilst peaceful silence Reigns thro' all the bow'rs,
And ev'n no Whispers can be heard, but ours.
There we shall ne'er fear any watchful Spies.
None but the Moon sees where Amasia lies.
Such Thought as these my waking wishes fly,
Tho' none, Amasia loves so fixt as I.
Ev'n tho' you hate me most, I Love you still,
Nor would be cur'd of my Tormenting ill.
My very pain yields me some pleasure now,
I joy to smart, since 'tis impos'd by you.
A greater bless Lives in my deep despair,
Than in the Smiles of any other Fair.
Search each recess, and visit every Grove,
Swift thro' confusion to find out my Love.
Thro' Woods, and Wilds, in Caves I Search in vain,
To Heav'n I look, and thro' the Fields complain,
But all unkindly answer not again.
Next, to some Brook; or shady Vale I fly,
Thinking my fair may in some grotto lye.
In vain! alass! my weary Limbs I bear,
I only find thou art a stranger there.
Then, stung with Passion, and o'ercome with Pain.
To Heav'n I loudly of my wrongs complain.
The panting Beasts which thro' the Forests rove,
Have now no longer any Power to move,
But stand amaz'd to hear my tale of Love.
Then, all confusion, all despair, I rise,
And throw my Arms to the regardless Skies.
Thence to the Ocean's Sandy banks I run,
View both the rising, and declining Sun.
Like that, my Thought a constant motion bears,
And when I rest, I set in Seas of Tears.
Rais'd with my griefs, and overcome with woes,
I sadly sigh to every Wind that blows.
Wild with despair, I view the Billows round,
Thinking some wave may with my love be crown'd,
While my complaints o'er all the shores resound.
Tell me, I cry, ye Surges, tell me true,
Is not Amasia hid in some of you?
No thought alas! can my Mind's Storms appease,
No second Venus will arise from Seas.
Then, fierce as Whirlwinds on the strands I Walk,
And loud as Thunder to my self I talk;
When from my Eyes I shed a gentle show'r,
And lay those Tempests I had rais'd before.
Rack'd with my griefs, my Anxious Soul survives,
Dash'd like a ship which with the Billows drives.
Thence, to the plains my fainting Limbs I bear,
Lost still in Love, and lost in Errour there.
In a deep Vale, where a thick Covert grows,
I fondly strive to be at soft repose.
But there I find, nor Sea, nor Cave, nor Wood,
Nor Stars, nor Heav'n it self can do me good.
Wild Thoughts distract me in those grateful bow'rs'
I take each gentle Breeze's Voice for yours.
Whilst by Succession day and night return,
I, greatly curs'd, must never cease to mourn.
Yet Groves like these did once the Joys improve,
Of blest Adonis, and the Queen of Love.
So might I rifle my Amasia's Charms,
And clasp my Goddess in my burning Arms.
How strangely blest might she her Sylvius see,
And make her self more happy, blessing me.
Securely close, and from all Cities far,
Remote from tumults, and the noise of War.
In secret shades she might my Passion crown;
There my Amasia might be all my own.
As boist'rous Storms endear the distant shore:
And hardship always shews our Joys the more.
So should she make me Court her even there,
And e'er she blest me, let me tast despair.
Whilst peaceful silence Reigns thro' all the bow'rs,
And ev'n no Whispers can be heard, but ours.
There we shall ne'er fear any watchful Spies.
None but the Moon sees where Amasia lies.
Such Thought as these my waking wishes fly,
Tho' none, Amasia loves so fixt as I.
Ev'n tho' you hate me most, I Love you still,
Nor would be cur'd of my Tormenting ill.
My very pain yields me some pleasure now,
I joy to smart, since 'tis impos'd by you.
A greater bless Lives in my deep despair,
Than in the Smiles of any other Fair.
Categories
Provenance
Searching in HDIS (Poetry)
Citation
Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses. A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr. John Hopkins. (London: Printed by Tho. Warren, 1700). <Link to EEBO>
Date of Entry
05/31/2005
