Anne Kingsmill Finch

How gayly is at first begun Our Life's uncertain Race! Whilst yet that sprightly Morning Sun, With which we just set out to run Enlightens all the Place.

How smiling the World's Prospect lies How tempting to go through ! Not Canaan to the Prophet's Eyes, From Pisgah with a sweet Surprize, Did more inviting shew.

How promising's the Book of Fate, Till thoroughly understood! Whilst partial Hopes such Lots create, As may the youthful Fancy treat With all that's Great and Good.

How soft the first Ideas prove, Which wander through our Minds! How full the Joys, how free the Love, Which do's that early Season move; As Flow'rs the Western Winds!

Our Sighs are then but Vernal Air; But April–drops our Tears, Which swiftly passing, all grows Fair, Whilst Beauty compensates our Care, And Youth each Vapour clears.

But oh! too soon, alas, we climb; Scarce feeling we ascend The gently rising Hill of Time, From whence with Grief we see that Prime, And all its Sweetness end.

The Die now cast, our Station known, Fond Expectation past; The Thorns, which former Days had sown, To Crops of late Repentance grown, Thro' which we toil at last.

Whilst ev'ry Care's a driving Harm, That helps to bear us down; Which faded Smiles no more can charm, But ev'ry Tear's a Winter-Storm, And ev'ry Look's a Frown.

Till with succeeding Ills opprest, For Joys we hop'd to find; By Age too, rumpl'd and undrest, We gladly sinking down to rest, Leave following Crouds behind.

The Tree of Knowledge we in Eden prov'd; The Tree of Life was thence to Heav'n remov'd: Hope is the growth of Earth, the only Plant, Which either Heav'n, or Paradise cou'd want.

Hell knows it not, to Us alone confin'd, And Cordial only to the Human Mind. Receive it then, t'expel these mortal Cares, Nor wave a Med'cine, which thy God prepares.

This is to the crown and blessing of my life, The much loved husband of a happy wife; To him whose constant passion found the art To win a stubborn and ungrateful heart, And to the world by tenderest proof discovers They err, who say that husbands can't be lovers. With such return of passion, as is due, Daphnis I love, Daphinis my thoughts pursue; Daphnis, my hopes and joys are bounded all in you. Even I, for Daphnis' and my promise' sake, What I in woman censure, undertake. But this from love, not vanity proceeds; You know who writes, and I who 'tis that reads. Judge not my passion by my want of skill: Many love well, though they express it ill; And I your censure could with pleasure bear, Would you but soon return, and speak it here.

NO better Dog e'er kept his Master's Door Than honest Snarl, who spar'd nor Rich nor Poor; But gave the Alarm, when any one drew nigh, Nor let pretended Friends pass fearless by: For which reprov'd, as better Fed than Taught, He rightly thus expostulates the Fault.

To keep the House from Rascals was my Charge; The Task was great, and the Commission large. Nor did your Worship e'er declare your Mind, That to the begging Crew it was confin'd; Who shrink an Arm, or prop an able Knee, Or turn up Eyes, till they're not seen, nor see. To Thieves, who know the Penalty of Stealth, And fairly stake their Necks against your Wealth, These are the known Delinquents of the Times, And Whips and Tyburn. testify their Crimes.

But since to Me there was by Nature lent An exquisite Discerning by the Scent; I trace a Flatt'rer, when he fawns and leers, A rallying Wit, when he commends and jeers: The greedy Parasite I grudging note, Who praises the good Bits, that oil his Throat; I mark the Lady, you so fondly toast, That plays your Gold, when all her own is lost: The Knave, who fences your Estate by Law, Yet still reserves an undermining Flaw. These and a thousand more, which I cou'd tell, Provoke my Growling, and offend my Smell.

O Man! what Inspiration was thy Guide, Who taught thee Light and Air thus to divide; To let in all the useful Beams of Day, Yet force, as subtil Winds, without thy Shash to stay; T'extract from Embers by a strange Device, Then polish fair these Flakes of solid Ice; Which, silver'd o'er, redouble all in place, And give thee back thy well or ill-complexion'd Face. To Vessels blown exceed the gloomy Bowl, Which did the Wine's full excellence controul, These shew the Body, whilst you taste the Soul. Its colour sparkles Motion, lets thee see, Tho' yet th' Excess the Preacher warns to flee, Lest Men at length as clearly spy through Thee.

Fair tree! for thy delightful shade 'Tis just that some return be made; Sure some return is due from me To thy cool shadows, and to thee. When thou to birds dost shelter give, Thou music dost from them receive; If travellers beneath thee stay Till storms have worn themselves away, That time in praising thee they spend And thy protecting pow'r commend. The shepherd here, from scorching freed, Tunes to thy dancing leaves his reed; Whilst his lov'd nymph, in thanks, bestows Her flow'ry chaplets on thy boughs. Shall I then only silent be, And no return be made by me? No; let this wish upon thee wait, And still to flourish be thy fate. To future ages may'st thou stand Untouch'd by the rash workman's hand, Till that large stock of sap is spent, Which gives thy summer's ornament; Till the fierce winds, that vainly strive To shock thy greatness whilst alive, Shall on thy lifeless hour attend, Prevent the axe, and grace thy end; Their scatter'd strength together call And to the clouds proclaim thy fall; Who then their ev'ning dews may spare When thou no longer art their care, But shalt, like ancient heroes, burn, And some bright hearth be made thy urn.

Good Heav'n, I thank thee, since it was design'd I shou'd be fram'd, but of the weaker kinde, That yet, my Soul, is rescu'd from the Love Of all those Trifles, which their Passions move. Pleasures, and Praise, and Plenty haue with me But their just value. If allow'd they be, Freely, and thankfully as much I tast, As will not reason, or Religion wast. If they're deny'd, I on my selfe can Liue, And slight those aids, unequal chance does give. When in the Sun, my wings can be display'd, And in retirement, I can bless the shade.

On the Banks of the Severn a desperate Maid (Whom some Shepherd, neglecting his Vows, had betray'd,) Stood resolving to banish all Sense of the Pain, And pursue, thro' her Death, a Revenge on the Swain. Since the Gods, and my Passion, at once he defies; Since his Vanity lives, whilst my Character dies; No more (did she say) will I trifle with Fate, But commit to the Waves both my Love and my Hate. And now to comply with that furious Desire, Just ready to plunge, and alone to expire, Some Reflection on Death, and its Terrors untry'd, Some Scorn for the Shepherd, some Flashings of Pride At length pull'd her back, and she cry'd, Why this Strife, Since the Swains are so Many, and I've but One Life?