"Nor hope the Conquest of that stubborn Heart"

— Hoyland, Francis (1727-1786)

Place of Publication
London and York
Printed for W. Bristow and C. Etherington
"Nor hope the Conquest of that stubborn Heart"
Metaphor in Context
Say, Galatea, say my lovely Maid,
Why thus with Scorn are all my Vows repaid?
Thy Skin is whiter than the whitest Cheese,
And softer than the Lambkin's downy Fleece:
Less gamesome o'er the Mead young Heifers run,
Less harsh the Grapes, ere purpled by the Sun.
Oft as I slumber, you forsake the Main,
And wildly wanton o'er the verdant Plain;
I wake, and quick my fearful Fair-one flies,
As when a Lamb the hoary Wolf espies.
Then first my Bosom caught this am'rous Flame,
When with my Mother to these Fields you came;
Your Bus'ness was to pluck the Flowrets gay
From yonder Hill; I joyful led the Way:
From that same Hour I never knew Repose,
While you, inhuman, triumph o'er my Woes.
I guess, dear Nymph, the Cause of all your Scorn,
No winning Charms my homelier Face adorn;
One black continued Arch from Ear to Ear
My Eye-brow spreads, horrid with shaggy Hair;
And stern the Ball, that solitary glows
Amid my Front; and flat and large my Nose.
But, tho' my Features are not form'd for Love,
Vast is my Wealth, and surely Wealth may move:
A thousand Ewes I feed in yonder Vales,
Whose teeming Udders crown the foaming Pails;
What Loads of Cheeses on my Shelves appear
Thro' all the varying Seasons of the Year!
Beside the tuneful Pipe I handle well,
And all th' harmonious Family excel:
Full oft I warble to the Ev'ning Wind,
And with thy Beauties feast my flatter'd Mind.
For thee twelve pregnant Does I feed with Care;
For thee four Cubs I ravish'd from the Bear;
Haste to my Arms! they all are thine, my Fair;
Haste to my Arms! and, while the distant Roar
Of bursting Billows thunders on the Shore,
Let us, entranc'd in amorous Delight,
Within my peaceful Bow'r consume the Night.
Blest rural Scene! Here tow'rs the Cypress Grove,
And there the Laurel Shades invite to Love;
Here clasping Ivy creeps; the Vineyard there
Bends with the blushing Burden of the Year;
Here murm'ring glides the silver-sparkling Rill,
Nectareous Draught, from Ætna's snowy Hill:
'Tis more delightful sure to dwell with me,
Than bear the stormy Regions of the Sea.
But if less happy in a pleasing Frame,
My rougher Look forbids a mutual Flame,
Behold my Fires of Oak, that, blazing high,
Are still renew'd with Fuel, ne'er to die!
Yes, and in Flames my very Soul shou'd burn,
Nay, this broad Orb, from it's deep Socket torn,
And I for Thee wou'd deem the Forfeit small,
So dearly as I love the precious Ball.
O, that kind Nature had my Frame supply'd
With oary Fins to cleave the liquid Tide!
To visit Thee I oft wou'd quit the Land,
And, if deny'd thy Lips, wou'd kiss thy Hand:
Lilies and Poppies I to the Thee wou'd bear,
Ev'n all the blooming Produce of the Year.
When next some Sailor anchors in the Bay,
My Limbs shall learn to cut the wat'ry Way;
Then shall I know what Joys my Nymph detain,
And what the dear Amusements of the Main.
O, quit the Waves, and, list'ning to my Lays,
Forget thy pearly Grots, and native Seas!
Like me, for thy sweet Sake who pining sit,
Move not, nor mark the Minutes, as they fleet.
Together we will tend the fleecy Breed,
Together milk them, and together feed,
The dripping Cheese with Hands united press,
Or mix the Rennet with the curdling Mass.
My Mother most I blame; who daily sees
My Care-worn Limbs consuming by Degrees,
And never (O unkind!) by Pity won,
Spoke once in Favour of her dying Son:
But with dissembled Woes I'll wound her Ear,
'Till she shall all my real anguish share.
O wretched Polypheme! O silly Swain!
What Frenzy seizes thy distemper'd Brain?
Recal thy Prudence, act the wiser Part,
Nor hope the Conquest of that stubborn Heart:
Hie to thy Cell, the pliant Oziers weave,
And to thy Lambs the verdant Cyons give.
The ancient Maxim of the Swain is wise,
"Milk her that's near, pursue not her that flies."
Tho' this with proud Disdain rejects thy Love,
A fairer Galatea kind may prove.
Oft to my Cave the Girls by Night resort,
And loud invite me to their Revel-Sport;
And when I kindly with their Call comply,
A universal Titter tells their Joy.
However Sea-Nymphs may despise my Flame,
On Earth sure Polypheme's no vulgar Name.
Searching "conque" and "heart" in HDIS (Poetry)
Only 1 entry in ESTC (1763).

See Poems and Translations by Francis Hoyland, A.B. (London: Printed for W. Bristow, in St. Paul’s Church-Yard; and C. Etherington, in York, 1763). <Link to ESTC>
Date of Entry

The Mind is a Metaphor is authored by Brad Pasanek, Assistant Professor of English, University of Virginia.