"Thou'lt weep, I know thy gentle Soul, my Fair, / No senseless Steel, no rugged Flint dwells there."
— Whaley, John (bap. 1710, d. 1745)
Work Title
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed for the Author, and Sold by R. Manby, and H. S. Cox
Date
1745
Metaphor
"Thou'lt weep, I know thy gentle Soul, my Fair, / No senseless Steel, no rugged Flint dwells there."
Metaphor in Context
Let num'rous Acres others Hopes employ,
Let Heaps of hoarded Gold give others Joy,
Whom neigh'bring Fear for ever keeps awake,
Or whose short Slumbers early Trumpets break;
Let Ease, by Poverty begot, be mine,
While on my Hearth the scanty Faggots shine,
And my own Hand sets down the swelling Vine.
Let but each Year afford me fresh supplies,
And faithful to my Hopes my Crops arise;
For to each Stock or Stone I bend my Brow,
That bears the hallow'd, tho' neglected, Bough;
And the first Fruit with which my Branches nod,
Falls ever sacred to the rural God.
Nor be the Gift to Ceres' Temple small,
But the full Sheaf hang trembling on the Wall;
And in the Garden let Priapus stand
To scare the Birds with his red threat'ning Wand.
Ye too, once Guardians of a happier Plain,
Now scarce employ'd to watch my small Domain,
Ye Lares, yet ye shall your Rites obtain.
Then the fat Calf before your Altars bled,
Suffice it now that the Lamb's Blood be shed;
An ample Victim from my lessen'd Mead.
The Lamb; round whom the rustick Lad and Lass
Shall briskly trip it o'er th' unbending Grass,
And Io! Ceres, sing, and crown the sparkling Glass,
Content I live now on the humble plain,
Nor envy toilsome Riches got with Pain;
While the Palm guards me from the Dog Star's Heat,
And the cool Stream runs murm'ring at my Feet.
Without a Blush I oft bear home the Lamb
Shiv'ring and cold forsaken of its Dam;
Nor sometimes scorn to hold the Plowman's Rein,
And force the Oxen thro' the stubborn Plain.
Oh! spare ye Wolves, and Thieves, my little Stock,
Your Appetites require the rich Man's Flock.
To Shepherd Pan I sacrifice each Year,
And the next Shrine to peaceful Pales rear,
On humble Tables serv'd, and earthen Ware:
On earthen Ware, such was the Ancients Way,
And such they fashion'd of the yielding Clay.
I ask nor Gold nor Silver on my Board,
Nor Barns with Corn by thrifty Grandsires stor'd,
Let my small Table be but neatly spread,
And give me, Gods, a clean, tho' homely Bed;
And in my Arms when charmig Delia lies,
Let the Sea roar and blust'ring Winds arise,
Her Breasts my Port, my Guardian Stars her Eyes.
How sweet those furious Blasts and Tempests prove,
That make each Kiss come warmer from my Love?
How do thick Show'rs improve my silent Joy,
And aid the Sleep they threaten to destroy?
This be my Fate.--Wealthy the Wretch shou'd be
That bears the Wind, and Rain, and raging Sea.
Rather be lost all Wealth; all India burn
Than any Nymph should for my Absence mourn,
In dreadful War let great Messalla shine,
And on the Land or Main his Battles join;
Me the soft Fair agreeably detains,
A Captive blest I triumph in her Chains.
Thee only Delia, thee I seek, not Fame,
To live with thee I'll bear a Coward's Name:
May I thy Face in my last Hour behold,
May I thy Hand with dying Farewel hold;
Thou'lt weep and place me, Delia, on the Pyre,
And with thy Tears a while retard the Fire:
Thou'lt weep, I know thy gentle Soul, my Fair,
No senseless Steel, no rugged Flint dwells there.
From that sad Dirge no Youth unmov'd shall go,
No Nymph not bear away a friendly Woe.
But mod'rate then thy Sorrow, Oh my Fair,
Nor strike in Grief thy swelling Breasts, nor dare
To violate thy Cheeks or flowing Hair.
Let Heaps of hoarded Gold give others Joy,
Whom neigh'bring Fear for ever keeps awake,
Or whose short Slumbers early Trumpets break;
Let Ease, by Poverty begot, be mine,
While on my Hearth the scanty Faggots shine,
And my own Hand sets down the swelling Vine.
Let but each Year afford me fresh supplies,
And faithful to my Hopes my Crops arise;
For to each Stock or Stone I bend my Brow,
That bears the hallow'd, tho' neglected, Bough;
And the first Fruit with which my Branches nod,
Falls ever sacred to the rural God.
Nor be the Gift to Ceres' Temple small,
But the full Sheaf hang trembling on the Wall;
And in the Garden let Priapus stand
To scare the Birds with his red threat'ning Wand.
Ye too, once Guardians of a happier Plain,
Now scarce employ'd to watch my small Domain,
Ye Lares, yet ye shall your Rites obtain.
Then the fat Calf before your Altars bled,
Suffice it now that the Lamb's Blood be shed;
An ample Victim from my lessen'd Mead.
The Lamb; round whom the rustick Lad and Lass
Shall briskly trip it o'er th' unbending Grass,
And Io! Ceres, sing, and crown the sparkling Glass,
Content I live now on the humble plain,
Nor envy toilsome Riches got with Pain;
While the Palm guards me from the Dog Star's Heat,
And the cool Stream runs murm'ring at my Feet.
Without a Blush I oft bear home the Lamb
Shiv'ring and cold forsaken of its Dam;
Nor sometimes scorn to hold the Plowman's Rein,
And force the Oxen thro' the stubborn Plain.
Oh! spare ye Wolves, and Thieves, my little Stock,
Your Appetites require the rich Man's Flock.
To Shepherd Pan I sacrifice each Year,
And the next Shrine to peaceful Pales rear,
On humble Tables serv'd, and earthen Ware:
On earthen Ware, such was the Ancients Way,
And such they fashion'd of the yielding Clay.
I ask nor Gold nor Silver on my Board,
Nor Barns with Corn by thrifty Grandsires stor'd,
Let my small Table be but neatly spread,
And give me, Gods, a clean, tho' homely Bed;
And in my Arms when charmig Delia lies,
Let the Sea roar and blust'ring Winds arise,
Her Breasts my Port, my Guardian Stars her Eyes.
How sweet those furious Blasts and Tempests prove,
That make each Kiss come warmer from my Love?
How do thick Show'rs improve my silent Joy,
And aid the Sleep they threaten to destroy?
This be my Fate.--Wealthy the Wretch shou'd be
That bears the Wind, and Rain, and raging Sea.
Rather be lost all Wealth; all India burn
Than any Nymph should for my Absence mourn,
In dreadful War let great Messalla shine,
And on the Land or Main his Battles join;
Me the soft Fair agreeably detains,
A Captive blest I triumph in her Chains.
Thee only Delia, thee I seek, not Fame,
To live with thee I'll bear a Coward's Name:
May I thy Face in my last Hour behold,
May I thy Hand with dying Farewel hold;
Thou'lt weep and place me, Delia, on the Pyre,
And with thy Tears a while retard the Fire:
Thou'lt weep, I know thy gentle Soul, my Fair,
No senseless Steel, no rugged Flint dwells there.
From that sad Dirge no Youth unmov'd shall go,
No Nymph not bear away a friendly Woe.
But mod'rate then thy Sorrow, Oh my Fair,
Nor strike in Grief thy swelling Breasts, nor dare
To violate thy Cheeks or flowing Hair.
Categories
Provenance
Searching "soul" and "steel" in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO.
Citation
2 entries in ESTC (1745).
A Collection of Original Poems and Translations. By John Whaley, M. A. Fellow of King’s-College, Cambridge. (London: Printed for the Author, and sold by R. Manby, and H.S. Cox, on Ludgate-Hill, 1745). <Link to ESTC>
A Collection of Original Poems and Translations. By John Whaley, M. A. Fellow of King’s-College, Cambridge. (London: Printed for the Author, and sold by R. Manby, and H.S. Cox, on Ludgate-Hill, 1745). <Link to ESTC>
Date of Entry
06/12/2005
