Frances Greville

Frances Greville Poems

Frances Greville Biography

Frances Greville (c 1724-1789) was an Irish poet and celebrity in Georgian England. She was born in Longford, Ireland in the mid-1720s; by the early 1740s, she was in London, accompanying Sarah Lennox, Duchess of Richmond. Horace Walpole's poem The Beauties (1746) mentions her as among the most prominent women of court. Frances married Fulke Greville of Wilbury House (Wiltshire) in 1748. Greville was a gambler and a dandy, but that he loved his wife is witnessed by her presence (under the character of "Flora" in his Maxims, Characters, and Reflections (1756). Frances is believed to have contributed to the volume herself. Frances Greville's own career as an amateur poet was marked by one resounding success: the "Prayer for Indifference." This poem, first published in the Edinburgh Chronicle, offers an attack on the cult of sensibility. It was reprinted regularly in the following decades, often paired with a poem in praise of sensibility. Her output otherwise was light, and mostly within the confines of Vers de société. She spent the 1760s and 1770s in travel. Her husband was named envoy to Bavaria in 1764. She spent her age in conversation, befriending Charles and Frances Burney, as well as Richard Brinsley Sheridan, who dedicated his The Critic to her. Her daughter became a prominent Whig hostess. Frances died in 1789.)

The Best Poem Of Frances Greville

A Prayer For Indifference

Oft I've implor'd the gods in vain,
And pray'd till I've been weary;
For once I'll seek my wish to gain
Of Oberon, the Fairy.

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite,
Who lurk'st in woods unseen,
And oft by Cynthia's silver light,
Trip'st gaily o'er the green:

If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd,
As ancient stories tell,
And for the Athenian maid who lov'd,
Thou sought'st a wondrous spell;

O deign once more t'exert thy power!
Haply some herb or tree,
Sovereign as juice of western flower,
Conceals a balm for me.

I ask no kind return of love,
No tempting charm to please;
Far from the heart those gifts remove,
That sighs for peace and ease:

Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know,
That, like the needle true,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe,
But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound,
'Tis pain in each degree;
'Tis bliss but to a certain bound,
Beyond, is agony.

Then take this treacherous sense of mine,
Which dooms me still to smart;
Which pleasure can to pain refine,
To pain new pangs depart.

O haste to shed the sovereign balm,
My shatter'd nerves new string;
And for my guest, serenely calm,
The nymph Indifference bring!

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear,
See Expectation fly!
And Disappointment in the rear,
That blasts the promis'd joy!

The tear which Pity taught to flow
The eye shall then disown;
The heart that melts for others' woe
Shall then scarce feel its own.

The wounds which now each moment bleed,
Each moment then shall close;
And tranquil days shall still succeed
To nights of calm repose.

O Fairy Elf! but grant me this,
This one kind comfort send,
And so may never-fading bliss
Thy flowery paths attend!

So may the glow-worm's glimmering light
Thy tiny footsteps lead
To some new region of delight,
Unknown to mortal tread!

And be thy acorn goblet filled
With heaven's ambrosial dew,
From sweetest, freshest flowers distilled,
That shed fresh sweets for you!

And what of life remains for me
I'll pass in sober ease;
Half pleased, contented will I be,
Content but half to please.

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