"My sons, if rich, might wield / The fan emblaz'd with Psyche and her boy / O'er some enchantress, whose contagious sighs / Would blast the best impression of their souls."
— Yearsley, Ann (bap. 1753, d. 1806)
Work Title
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed for G. G. and J. Robinson
Date
1796
Metaphor
"My sons, if rich, might wield / The fan emblaz'd with Psyche and her boy / O'er some enchantress, whose contagious sighs / Would blast the best impression of their souls."
Metaphor in Context
If I were rich, my boys might learn to breathe
Tones that ensnare the soul, shaking her pow'rs
With tremor much too exquisite. What boots
The languishment ideal, melting woe
So irresistible, when shades we love
Are heard by Fancy in melodious air?
Let those who feel declare.--Too oft the dance
In frightful labyrinth leaves the blooming maid,
Where virtue is no visitant. The moon
Then rises blushing, the fair wand'rer weeps
Neglected home, dreads her offended sire
Whose sole delight she was at morn, despairs,
And steals reluctantly to shades of vice,
Whence drop black poisons in the Tuscan grape
On her pale lip.--My sons, if rich, might wield
The fan emblaz'd with Psyche and her boy
O'er some enchantress, whose contagious sighs
Would blast the best impression of their souls.
The splendour of the virtuous mind appears
Brightest, when soaring to some unknown world,
Fearless of crowds beneath, or you would live
Virtuous unwisely. You are good and rich;
I poor--a vot'ry of wild fancy. When
You listen to my song, I am not poor;
You have not wealth enough to buy my joys:--
The chains of care fall off my pensive mind,
When through the winds your spirit hails me.--Thought,
Wondrous unwearied trav'ller, boldly roams
Around the spacious globe, attempts the skies
And heav'n, to find the object of its search;
Forms silent treaties, everlasting leagues
Between courageous independent minds,
Who fly far o'er the earth, and only bend
To virtue. Thought bears on eternal spring,
Colours to form our blessings, buds of hope
For souls serene, who taste pure joy, and live.
What bliss lives not in store of Thought! Our woes
Triumph at seasons, when we weary Thought
Down to our feebleness. For you it holds
The chart of moral worlds, unfolds the sphere
Of Truth!--Behold, my friend, yon eager throng
Driving each other o'er the sultry scene!
None mourn their neighbour's overthrow. In haste
To be more busy than their fellows, all
Forget their point, or know not when they pass'd
Their Sun's meridian. Morn was spent in vain,
Noon with impatience; ev'ning's cooler hour
Came not with contemplation. Glitt'ring forms
They chase! Ah see the shadows onward glide,
Elude them!--From the world the hunters fall.
Tones that ensnare the soul, shaking her pow'rs
With tremor much too exquisite. What boots
The languishment ideal, melting woe
So irresistible, when shades we love
Are heard by Fancy in melodious air?
Let those who feel declare.--Too oft the dance
In frightful labyrinth leaves the blooming maid,
Where virtue is no visitant. The moon
Then rises blushing, the fair wand'rer weeps
Neglected home, dreads her offended sire
Whose sole delight she was at morn, despairs,
And steals reluctantly to shades of vice,
Whence drop black poisons in the Tuscan grape
On her pale lip.--My sons, if rich, might wield
The fan emblaz'd with Psyche and her boy
O'er some enchantress, whose contagious sighs
Would blast the best impression of their souls.
The splendour of the virtuous mind appears
Brightest, when soaring to some unknown world,
Fearless of crowds beneath, or you would live
Virtuous unwisely. You are good and rich;
I poor--a vot'ry of wild fancy. When
You listen to my song, I am not poor;
You have not wealth enough to buy my joys:--
The chains of care fall off my pensive mind,
When through the winds your spirit hails me.--Thought,
Wondrous unwearied trav'ller, boldly roams
Around the spacious globe, attempts the skies
And heav'n, to find the object of its search;
Forms silent treaties, everlasting leagues
Between courageous independent minds,
Who fly far o'er the earth, and only bend
To virtue. Thought bears on eternal spring,
Colours to form our blessings, buds of hope
For souls serene, who taste pure joy, and live.
What bliss lives not in store of Thought! Our woes
Triumph at seasons, when we weary Thought
Down to our feebleness. For you it holds
The chart of moral worlds, unfolds the sphere
Of Truth!--Behold, my friend, yon eager throng
Driving each other o'er the sultry scene!
None mourn their neighbour's overthrow. In haste
To be more busy than their fellows, all
Forget their point, or know not when they pass'd
Their Sun's meridian. Morn was spent in vain,
Noon with impatience; ev'ning's cooler hour
Came not with contemplation. Glitt'ring forms
They chase! Ah see the shadows onward glide,
Elude them!--From the world the hunters fall.
Categories
Provenance
Searching "soul" and "impression" in HDIS (Poetry)
Citation
Only 1 entry in ESTC
Ann Yearsley, The Rural Lyre: a Volume of Poems Dedicated to the Right Honourable the Earl of Bristol, Lord Bishop of Derry (London: Printed for G. G. and J. Robinson, 1796). <Link to ESTC><Link to Google Books>
Ann Yearsley, The Rural Lyre: a Volume of Poems Dedicated to the Right Honourable the Earl of Bristol, Lord Bishop of Derry (London: Printed for G. G. and J. Robinson, 1796). <Link to ESTC><Link to Google Books>
Date of Entry
05/18/2005
Date of Review
07/20/2011
