STANZAS TO DELLA CRUSCA. Hannah Cowley (née Parkhouse) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T90094 K073164.000 Cowley, Mrs. (Hannah), 1743-1809. The Poetry of Anna Matilda. London printed by John Bell, British Library, Strand, Bookseller to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. M DCC LXXXVIII. 1788 pp. []-32. [8],139,[1]p.; 8⁰.

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STANZAS TO DELLA CRUSCA . HUSH'D , be each ruder note ! — soft silence spread , With ermine hand , thy cobweb robe around ; Attention ! pillow my reclining head , Whilst eagerly I catch the golden sound . Ha ! What a tone was that , which floating near , Seem'd Harmony's full soul — whose is the lyre ? Which seizing thus on my enraptur'd ear , Chills with its force , yet melts me with its fire . Ah dull of heart ! thy Minstrel's touch not know , What Bard but DELLA CRUSCA boasts such skill ? From him alone , those melting notes can flow — He , only knows adroitly thus to trill . Well have I left the Groves , which sighing wave Amidst November's blast their naked arms , Whilst their red leaves fall flutt'ring to their grave , And give again to dust May's vernal charms . Well have I left the air-embosom'd hills , Where sprightly Health in verdant buskin plays ; Forsaken fallow meads , and circling mills , And thyme-dress'd heaths , where the soft flock yet strays . Obscuring smoak , and air impure I greet , With the coarse din that Trade and Folly form , For here the Muse's Son again I meet — I catch his notes amidst the vulgar storm . His notes now bear me , pensive , to the Plain , Cloth'd by a verdure drawn from Britain's heart ; Whose heroes bled superior to their pain , Sunk , crown'd with glory , and contemn'd the smart . Soft , as he leads me round th' ensanguin'd fields , The laurel'd shades forsake their grassy tomb , The bursting sod its palid inmate yields , And o'er th' immortal waste their spirits roam . Obedient to the Muse the acts revive Which Time long past had veil'd from mortal ken , Embattled squadrons rush , as when alive , And shadowy falchions gleam o'er shadowy men . Ah , who art thou , who thus with frantic air Fly'st fearless to support that bleeding youth ; Binds his deep gashes with thy glowing hair , And diest beside him , to attest thy truth ? " His Sister I ; an orphan'd pair , we griev'd " For Parents long at rest within the grave , " By a false Guardian of our wealth bereav'd — " The little ALL parental care could save . " Chill look'd the world , and chilly grew our hearts , " Oh ! where shall Poverty expect a smile ? " Gross , lawless Love , assumed its ready arts , " And all beset was I , with Fraud and Guile . " My Henry sought the war , and drop'd the tears " Of love fraternal as he bade farewell ; " But fear , soon made me rise above my fears — " I follow'd — and Fate tolls our mutual knell . " Chaste Maiden rest ; and brighter spring the green That decorates the turf thy bloom will feed ! And oh , in softest mercy 'twas I ween , To worth like thine , a Brother's grave's decreed . The dreadful shriek of Death now darts around , The hollow winds repeat each tortur'd sigh , Deep bitter groans , still deeper groans resound , Whilst Fathers , Brothers , Lovers , Husbands die ! Turn from this spot , blest Bard ! thy mental eye ; To hamlets , cities , empires bend its beam ! 'Twill there such multiplying deaths descry , That all before thee'll but an abstract seem . Why waste thy tears o'er this contracted Plain ? The sky which canopies the sons of breath , Sees the whole Earth one scene of mortal pain , The vast , the universal BED OF DEATH ! Where , do not Husbands , Fathers , dying moan ? Where , do not Mothers , Sisters , Orphans weep ? Where , is not heard the last expiring groan , Or the deep throttle of the deathful Sleep ! If , as Philosophy doth often muse , A state of war , is natural state to man , Battle's the SICKNESS bravery would choose — Noblest DISEASE in Nature's various plan ! Let vulgar souls stoop to the fever's rage , Or slow , beneath pale atrophy depart , With Gout and Scrophula weak variance wage , Or sink , with sorrow cank'ring at the heart ; These , be to common Minds , th' unwish'd decree ! The FIRM select an illness more sublime ; By languid pains , scorn their high souls to free , But seek the Sword's swift edge , and spurn at Time . ANNA MATILDA .