"Kings may our Hands with Iron Fetters bind, / With Chains severer, you secure the Mind."

— Oldmixon, John (1672/3-1742)

Work Title
Place of Publication
Printed, and are to be sold by John Nutt
"Kings may our Hands with Iron Fetters bind, / With Chains severer, you secure the Mind."
Metaphor in Context
Thus the bright God, who gilds the Chrystal Skies;
Chac'd the Coy Nymph, and thus his Daphne flies,
To the fierce Wolf she gives her fleecy Train,
Of nothing fearful, but the Deathless Swain.
She leaves her little Lambs, her bleating Ewes
Hasts to the Village, and the God pursues.
He Sings, he Sighs, he follows her in vain,
Her Home she leaves, and hyes her to the Plain
As fast as Daphne from Apollo flew,
From me you fly, and I as fast pursue.
If the Nymph heard him touch his Golden Lyre,
Nor caught the Flame of his Immortal Fire.
What Hopes, you'll listen to my Songs or me,
A Mortal I, and you as proud as She.
At Court, they tell me, when I seek you there,
At Penshurst, I may find our absent Fair.
To Penshurst, I pursue the flying Dame,
And ever Chacing, ever miss the Game.
To Court, she hastens from the Beechen Shade,
And shuns the Flowry Walks her Hands have made.
The Mountain sports, the Circle at the Green,
The Subjects of the May, her self the Queen.
The merry Maids she leaves, the jolly Swains,
And the gay Pleasures of her Native Plains.
To her self Cruel, she consents to be,
If else she fears, she must be kind to me.
Your Eyes too much ador'd, your Charms desir'd,
To shine in Solitude, and Live retir'd.
How poor the Service of such humble Swains,
When Princes are ambitious of your Chains?
Illustrious, like your Beauty, you aspire,
To Conquest, and to set the World on Fire.
Thus like the Sun, beneath the burning Line,
You rather to destroy, than bless us, shine.
So fierce, and yet so Beauteous you appear,
We wish at once to see you, and we Fear.
Jove, will not long your Tyranny endure,
Whose Dart's as Fatal, as his Vengeance sure.
You brav'd his Fury, and was once compell'd,
Tho vainly you resisted him, to yield.
In Arms Rebellious, you again appear,
And press amid the thickest of the War.
Where Show'rs of Darts, & pointed Arrows rain,
The Danger you despise, the Fight maintain,
And ride, a Cruel Pleasure! o'er the slain.
You see the Ruins that your Eyes have made,
And triumph o'er the Dying, and the Dead.
Death, in your soft envenom'd Glances lies,
And he that gazes of their Poyson dyes.
Happy, to perish by a quick Despair,
Whose Life you think so little worth your Care.
The killing Smart, contented, he'd endure,
Were your Eyes ready as to hurt, to cure.
Which like our Indian Plant, at once conceal,
To wound, the Venom, and the Balm to heal.
Proud of your Fortune, your survey the Spoils,
And rule severely, whom you won with Smiles.
As Monarchs, giddy with too much Success,
By War grow Cruel, who were born for Peace.
Love may at last, the destin'd Hero send,
The Charm to finish, and our Bondage end.
Brave, Young, and Great, for such the Knight must be,
Who wins the Dame, and sets the Captives free.
As you, your Slaves, so he may you controul,
And haughty like your self, command your Soul.
Thus the fierce Amazon in Phrygian Fields,
Rush'd thro' wing'd Squadrons, and by brazen Shields.
Her Arms, her Eyes, the Victor Greeks destroy,
And singly she suspends the Fate of Troy.
Till Pyrrhus meets her, and her Conquests Bounds,
Charms with his Youth, and with his Valour wounds.
Far as the Glory of our English Name,
Carlisle is worship'd, and the first in Fame.
From France, from Italy and Spain they come,
To see this Wonder, and receive their Doom
Europe and Asia of your Beauties ring,
Of these, a happy Theam, the Poets sing,
And Foreign Incense to your Altars bring.
Voiture, the Gallant, who so well has sung,
In their own Language, and adorn'd their Tongue.
Of Proud Iberian Dames, whose matchless Eyes,
Wou'd shine like Stars, and better light the Skies.
To you confesses, they with Shame must yield,
By yours, their Beauty and their Pride excell'd.
Tho vain and partial, is his Nations Vice,
Who every thing, but what is French despise,
Carlisle compells him to be just and wise.
Montausier Cruel, as he says She's Fair.
And Paulet gentle, as her Friend's severe.
Both wou'd by your superior Brightness seem,
As much eclips'd, as other look by them.
Carlisle he saw, yet own'd he ne'er had seen,
Yet far, in search of Beauties he had been,
A Dame so perfect, and shou'd ne'er agen.
Tho in French Authors we are us'd to meet,
Of Words full plenty in a Dearth of Wit.
Voiture's Complaint, is yet as just as new,
That Words are wanting, when he speaks of you.
Weak as their Langurge is, it serves to paint,
Their Images imperfect, and as faint.
But when like you, a Goddess they behold,
The Subject seems in their Surprize, too bold.
In English Numbers, and her Native Tongue,
Soft as her Graces, like our Passion strong,
An English Beauty can be only sung.
Their Ladies shining with dissembled Light,
Thus War their Heroes, and their Poets write.
Their Courage is as false as their Desire,
And Vanity in both mistook for Fire.
To Love, to Fight, no better Reasons move,
Than hopes to have it said, they Fight and Love.
In Treason, or in Numbers safe, they dare,
And as they Love, thro' Wantonness they war.
If Rich their Master and his Slaves appear,
They neither matter what indeed they are.
The Province bought, his dreadful Arms invade,
The King's a Conq'ror, and the Muse well paid.
With Pomp, and many Words, his deeds are writ,
The Monarch's Conquests, like the Poets wit.
More Nations have not, were his Fable true,
By the Great Lewis, been enslav'd than you.
The Court you chose, a proper Scene to shew,
How far the Fairest are excell'd by you.
Where sighing Princes at your Feet are seen,
And suppliant Crouds adore you as their Queen.
For such they think you are, or shou'd have been.
By Laws confin'd, an Empire you despise,
And uncontroul'd, command us with your Eyes.
Kings may our Hands with Iron Fetters bind,
With Chains severer, you secure the Mind
Monarchs to save their Subjects, shou'd employ,
The Pow'r, which first they did from them enjoy.
Carlisle, like Lewis, Conquers to destroy.
Too well our want, and your Desert you know,
We're still but paying, what you say we owe.
Deaf to our Praise, our Services you scorn,
They're a just Debt, and merit no Return.
Were you less fair, you fewer Slaves wou'd find,
And ev'n to those, to keep 'em, must be kind.
But when such Numbers to your Temple croud,
Our warm Devotion makes the Goddess proud.
She sees 'em, unconcern'd, before her fall,
Thinks 'tis their Duty, and despises all,
In Courts you hope, and Cities to maintain,
And spread the Terror of your Tyrant Reign. [...]
(pp. 131-39)
Searching "mind" and "chain" in HDIS (Poetry)
John Oldmixon, Amores Britannici: Epistles Historical and Gallant (London: John Nutt, 1703). <Link to Google Books> <Link to ECCO>
Date of Entry

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