The "placid current" of the mind may be bestorm'd so that "th' ideal billows, raging, rise"
— Williams, John [pseud. Anthony Pasquin] (1754-1818)
Place of Publication
London; Edinburgh
Publisher
Printed for J. Strahan ... and the Author; W. Creech [etc.]
Date
1789?
Metaphor
The "placid current" of the mind may be bestorm'd so that "th' ideal billows, raging, rise"
Metaphor in Context
Is there no eminent revenge above,
For violated oaths and perjur'd love?
Shall ruthless man our miseries begin,
Yet wanton irresponsive to the sin?
The brilliant reptile marshall'd every art,
To brave the prejudice and seize my heart.
False as Amphissian waves his accents flow'd,
Which hide Destruction 'neath the liquid road:
With cruel skill he bent the servile knee,
And stood, like Ruin, 'twixt my good and me.
His toils, like furies in th' Æolian wind,
Bestorm'd the placid current of my mind;
And made th' ideal billows, raging, rise,
Till their rude vehemence had brav'd the skies:
So quick th' Enormities ingulph'd me in,
I look'd a Demon ere I knew the sin.
Once Hope, in garish raiments, cheer'd my eye,
Renerv'd my wish, and check'd the unborn sigh:
Ah, sweet Seducer! whither art thou flown?
While social Demons seize thy silver throne;
'Tis thine to sprinkle manna o'er the mind,
'Tis thine to temper the ferocious wind,
'Tis thine to renovate the fancy's springs,
Raise the worn maid, and glad despairing kings.
For violated oaths and perjur'd love?
Shall ruthless man our miseries begin,
Yet wanton irresponsive to the sin?
The brilliant reptile marshall'd every art,
To brave the prejudice and seize my heart.
False as Amphissian waves his accents flow'd,
Which hide Destruction 'neath the liquid road:
With cruel skill he bent the servile knee,
And stood, like Ruin, 'twixt my good and me.
His toils, like furies in th' Æolian wind,
Bestorm'd the placid current of my mind;
And made th' ideal billows, raging, rise,
Till their rude vehemence had brav'd the skies:
So quick th' Enormities ingulph'd me in,
I look'd a Demon ere I knew the sin.
Once Hope, in garish raiments, cheer'd my eye,
Renerv'd my wish, and check'd the unborn sigh:
Ah, sweet Seducer! whither art thou flown?
While social Demons seize thy silver throne;
'Tis thine to sprinkle manna o'er the mind,
'Tis thine to temper the ferocious wind,
'Tis thine to renovate the fancy's springs,
Raise the worn maid, and glad despairing kings.
Categories
Date of Entry
07/12/2004
