But never told How hard they were to get, how difficult to hold. Thus by the arts of this most sly Deluder was I caught, To her betwitching bondage brought. Eternal constancy we swore, A thousand times our vows were doubled o'er: And as we did in our entrancements lie, I thought no pleasure e'er was wrought so high, No pair so happy as my Muse and I. * * * * But in this most transporting height, I round me look'd, and found myself alone; gone; I try'd if I a verse could frame: Oft I in vain invoked my Clio's name. The more I strove, the more I fail'd, I chafed, I bit my pen, curst my dull skull, and rail'd, Resolved to force m' untoward thought, and at the last prevail'd. A line came forth, but such a one, No travelling matron in her child-birth pains, Was more astonish'd at th' unlook'd-for shape Than I was at the hideous issue of my brains. And swore I'd never write again, Has robb'd me of my dearest store, My precious time, my friends, and reputation too; And left me helpless, friendless, very proud, and poor. ANNE KILLEGREW. London, 1660-1685. Dryden has immortalized this Lady. She was the daughter of Dr. Henry Killegrew, Master of the Savoy, and Prebendary of Westminster. Her paintings promised as much as her poetry; her genius was acknowledged and rewarded; but the small-pox early terminated a life of industry, and virtue, and happiness. The Complaint of a Lover. SEEST thou younder craggy rock, Whose head o'erlooks the swelling main, Where never shepherd fed his flock, Or careful peasant sow'd his grain ? No wholesome herb grows on the same, Deep underneath a cave does lie, The entrance hid with dismal yew, Where Phebus never shew'd his eye, Or cheerful day yet pierced through. In that dark melancholy cell, (Retreate and sollace to my woe) Love, sad Despair, and I, do dwell, The springs from whence my griefs do flow. Treacherous love that did appear, (When he at first approach't my heart), Drest in a garb far from severe, Or threatening ought of future smart. So innocent those charms then seern'd, Ah! who would them have deadly deem'd? Beneath those sweets concealed lay When I in tears have spent the night, Who never saw a sadder sight, In all the courses he has run, Sleep, which to others ease does prove, And in them too she does disdain. Sometimes t' amuse my sorrow, I Ah! gentle nymph come ease my care. Thou who, times past, a lover wert, Come flatter then, or chide my grief; Catch my last words, and call me fool; she loves, for my relief; Or say, My passion either sooth, or school. |