Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea - (1661-1720)

Anne Finch

331 x 355 - 46k - jpg

www.uni-erfurt.de

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Adam Posed

Could our First Father, at his toilsome Plough,

Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow,

Clothed only in a rude, unpolished Skin,

Could he a vain Fantastic Nymph have seen,

In all her Airs, in all her antic Graces,

Her various Fashions, and more various Faces;

How had it posed that Skill, which late assigned

Just Appellations to Each several Kind!

A right Idea of the Sight to frame;

T'have guest from what New Element she came;

T'have hit the wavering Form, or given this Thing a Name.

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Friendship Between Ephelia and Ardelia

Eph. What Friendship is, Ardelia show.

Ard. 'Tis to love, as I love you.

Eph. This Account, so short (tho' kind)

Suits not my inquiring mind.

Therefore farther now repeat;

What is Friendship when complete?

Ard. 'Tis to share all joy and grief;

'Tis to lend all due relief

From the tongue, the heart, the hand;

'Tis to mortgage house and land;

For a friend be sold a slave;

'Tis to die upon a grave,

If a friend therein do lie.

Eph. This indeed, tho' carried high,

This, tho' more than e'er was done

Underneath the rolling Sun,

This has all been said before.

Can Ardelia say no more?

Ard. Words indeed no more can show:

But 'tis to love, as I love you.

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The Introduction

Did I, my lines intend for public view,

How many censures, would their faults pursue,

Some would, because such words they do affect,

Cry they're insipid, empty, uncorrect.

And many, have attained, dull and untaught

The name of wit, only by finding fault.

True judges, might condemn their want of wit,

And all might say, they're by a woman writ.

Alas! a woman that attempts the pen,

Such an intruder on the rights of men,

Such a presumptuous creature, is esteemed,

The fault, can by no virtue be redeemed.

They tell us, we mistake our sex and way;

Good breeding, fashion, dancing, dressing, play

Are the accomplishments we should desire;

To write, or read, or think, or to enquire

Would cloud our beauty, and exhaust our time;

And interrupt the conquests of our prime;

Whilst the dull manage, of a servile house

Is held by some, our outmost art, and use.

Sure 'twas not ever thus, nor are we told

Fables, of women that excelled of old;

To whom, by the diffusive hand of Heaven

Some share of wit, and poetry was given.

On that glad day, on which the ark returned,

The holy pledge, for which the land had mourned,

The joyful tribes, attend it on the way,

The Levites do the sacred charge convey,

Whilst various instruments, before it play;

Here, holy virgins in the concert join,

The louder notes, to soften, and refine,

And with alternate verse, complete the hymn divine.

Lo! the young Poet, after God's own heart,

By Him inspired, and taught the Muses Art,

Returned from conquest, a bright chorus meets,

That sing his slain ten thousand in the streets.

In such loud numbers they his acts declare,

Proclaim the wonders, of his early war,

That Saul upon the vast applause does frown,

And feels, its mighty thunder shake the crown.

What, can the threatened judgment now prolong?

Half of the kingdom is already gone;

The fairest half, whose influence guides the rest,

Have David's empire, o're their hearts confessed.

A woman here, leads fainting Israel on,

She fights, she wins, she triumphs with a song,

Devout, majestic, for the subject fit,

And far above her arms, exalts her wit,

Then, to the peaceful, shady palm withdraws,

And rules the rescued nation with her laws.

How are we fall'n, fall'n by mistaken rules?

And Education's, more than Nature's fools,

Debarred from all improvements of the mind,

And to be dull, expected and designed;

And if some one, would Soar above the rest,

With warmer fancy, and ambition pressed,

So strong, th' opposing faction still appears,

The hopes to thrive, can ne're outweigh the fears,

Be cautioned then my Muse, and still retired;

Nor be despised, aiming to be admired;

Conscious of wants, still with contracted wing,

To some few friends, and to thy sorrows sing;

For groves of laurel, thou wert never meant;

Be dark enough thy shades, and be thou there content.

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A Nocturnal Reverie

In such a night, when every louder Wind

Is to its distant cavern safe confined;

And only gentle Zephyr fans his Wings,

And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;

Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight,

She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right:

In such a night, when passing clouds give place,

Or thinly veil the heavens' mysterious face;

When in some river, overhung with green,

The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;

When freshened grass now bears it self upright,

And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,

Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble rose,

And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows;

Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,

Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes:

When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine,

Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;

Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light,

In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:

When odours, which declined repelling day,

Thro' temp'rate air uninterrupted stray;

When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,

And falling waters we distinctly hear;

When thro' the gloom more venerable shows

Some ancient fabric, awful in repose,

While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,

And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:

When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads,

Comes slowly grazing thro' th' adjoining Meads,

Whose stealing pace and lengthened shade we fear,

Till torn up forage in his teeth we hear:

When nibbling sheep at large pursue their Food,

And unmolested kine rechew the cud;

When curlews cry beneath the village-walls,

And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;

Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep,

Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep;

When a sedate content the spirit feels,

And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;

But silent musings urge the mind to seek

Something, too high for syllables to speak;

Till the free soul, to a composedness charmed,

Finding the elements of rage disarmed,

O'er all below a solemn quiet grown,

Joys in th' inferiour world and thinks it like her own:

In such a night let me abroad remain,

Till morning breaks, and all's confused again;

Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renewed,

Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.

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On Myself

Good Heav'n, I thank thee, since it was designed

I should be framed, but of the weaker kind,

That yet, my soul, is rescued from the love

Of all those trifles, which their passions move.

Pleasures, and praise, and plenty have with me

But their just value. If allowed they be,

Freely, and thankfully as much I taste,

As will not reason, or religion waste.

If they're denied, I on my self can live,

And slight those aids, unequal chance does give.

When in the sun, my wings can be displayed,

And in retirement, I can bless the shade.

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Death

O King of terrors, whose unbounded sway

All that have life, must certainly obey;

The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are thine,

Nor would ev'n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline.

My name is on thy roll, and sure I must

increase thy gloomy kingdom in the dust.

My soul at this no apprehension feels,

But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels;

Thy scorching fevers, which distract the sense,

And snatch us raving, unprepared from hence;

At thy contagious darts, that wound the heads

Of weeping friends, who wait at dying beds.

Spare these, and let thy time be when it will;

My bus'ness is to dye, and thine to kill.

Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay,

And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.

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FONTE: Poetry Anthology - Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea

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