James Hammond

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An Elegy To A Young Lady

In the Manner of OVID


Oh! say, thou dear Possessor of my Breast!
Where is my boasted Liberty and Rest?
Where the gay Moments which I once have known?
Oh, where that Heart I fondly thought my own?
From Place to Place I solitary roam:
Abroad uneasy, nor content at home.
I scorn the Beauties common Eyes adore,
The more I view them, feel thy Worth the more.
Unmov'd I hear them speak, or see them fair,
And only think on thee--who art not there.
In vain wou'd Books their formal Succour lend:
Their Wit and Wisdom can't relieve their Friend.
Wit can't deceive the Pain I now endure,
And Wisdom shows the Ill without the Cure.
When from thy Face I waste the tedious Day,
A thousand Schemes I form, and Things to say:
But when thy Presence gives the Time I seek,
My Heart's so full, I wish, but cannot speak;
And cou'd I speak with Eloquence and Ease,
(Till now not studious of the Art to please)
Cou'd I, at Woman who so oft exclaim,
Expose, nor blush, thy Triumph, and my Shame?
Abjure those Maxims I so lately priz'd,
And court that Sex I foolishly despis'd?
Own thou hast soften'd my obdurate Mind,
And thou reveng'd the Wrongs of Womankind.
Lost were my Words, and fruitless all my Pain,
In vain to tell thee what I write in vain;
My humble Sighs shall only reach thy Ears,
And all my Eloquence shall be my Tears.
And now (for more I never must pretend)
Hear me not as thy Lover, but thy Friend:
Thousands will sain thy little Heart ensnare,
For, without Danger, none like thee are fair:
But wisely chuse who best deserves thy Flame,
So shall the Choice itself become thy Fame:
And not despise, though void of winning Art,
The plain and honest Courtship of the Heart.
The skilful Tongue in Love's persuasive Lore,
Tho' less it feels, will please and flatter more;
And meanly learned in that guilty Trade,
Can long abuse a fond, unthinking Maid;
And since their Lips, so knowing to deceive,
Thy unexperienc'd Youth might soon belicvd;
And since their Tears in false Submission dress'd,
Might thaw the icy Coldness of thy Brcast;
Oh! shut thine Eyes to such deceitful Woe,
Caught by the Beauty of thy outward Show:
Like me, they do not love, whate'er they seem,
Like me-with Passion founded on Esteem.


The

ANSWER

to the foregoing Elegy:

By the Author of the Verses to the Imitator of Horace
.


Too well these Lines that fatal Truth declare,
Which long I've known, yet now I blush to hear--


But say, What hopes thy fond, ill-sated Love?
What can it hope, tho' mutual it should prove?
This little Form is fair in vain for you;
In vain for me, thy honest Heart is true.
For would'st thou fix Dishonour on my Name,
And give me up to Penitence and Shame!
Or gild my Ruin with the Name of Wise,
And make me a poor Virtuous Wretch sor Lise?


Could'st thou submit to wear the Marriage-Chain,
(Too sure a Cure for all thy present Pain)
No Safron Robe for us the Godhead wears,
His Torch inverted, and his Face in Tears;
Tho' ev'ry soster Wish were amply crown'd,
Love soon would cease to smile, when Fortune frown'd.


Then would thy Soul my fond Consent deplore,
And blame what it sollicited before:
Thy own exhausted, would reproach my Truth,
And say, I had undone thy blinded Youth;
That I had damp'd Ambition's nobler Flame,
Eclips'd thy Talents, and obscur'd thy Name:
To Madrigales and Odes that Wit consin'd,
That might in Senates or in Courts have shin'd;
Gloriously active in thy Country's Cause,
Asserting Freedom, and enacting Laws.


Or say at best, that negatively kind,
You inly mourn'd, and silently repin'd:
The jealous Demons in my own fond Breast,
Would all these Thoughts incessantly suggest,
And tell what Sense must feel, tho' Pity had supprest.


Yet added-Grief my Apprehension fills,
(If there can be Addition to those Ills
When they shall cry, whose harsh Reproof I dread,
'Twas thy own Deed; thy Folly on thy Head.


Age knows not to allow for thoughtless Youth,
Nor pities Tenderness, nor honours Truth:
Holds it romantick to confess a Heart;
And says, those Virgins act the wiser Part,
Who Hospitals and Bedlams would explore,
To find the Rich, and only dread the Poor;
Who legal Prostitutes for Interest's sake,
Clodios and Timons to their Bosom take;
And (if avenging Heav'n permit Increase)
People the World with Folly and Disease.


Those, Titles, Deeds, and Rent-Rolls only wed,
Whilst the best Bidder mounts their venal Bed;
And the grave Aunt and formal Sire approve
This Nuptial Sale, this Auction of their Love.


But if Regard to Worth or Sense is shewn,
That poor degenerate Child her Friends disown,
Who dares to deviate, by a virtuous Choice,
From her great Name's hereditary Vice.


These Scenes my Prudence ushers to my Mind,
Of all the Storms and Quicksands I must find,
If I imbark upon this Summer-Sea,
Where Flatt'ry smooths, and Pleasure gilds the Way.


Had our ill Fate ne'er blown thy dang'rous Flame
Beyond the Limits of a Friend's cold Name,
I might, upon that score, thy Heart receive,
And with that guiltless Name my own deceive.
That Commerce now in vain you recommend,
I dread the latent Lover in the Friend:
Of Ignorance I want the poor Excuse,
And know I both must take, or both refuse.


Hear then the safe, the firm Resolve I make,
Ne'er to encourage one I must forsake.
Whilst other Maids a shameless Path pursue,
Neither to Honour, nor to Int'rest true;
And proud to swell the Triumphs of their Eyes,
Exult in Love from Lovers they despise;
Their Maxims all revers'd, I mean to prove,
And tho' I like the Lover quit the Love.

FINIS

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