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. []-39. [8],139,[1]p.; 8⁰.

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TO DELLA CRUSCA . I HATE the tardy Elegiac lay — Choose me a measure jocund as the day ! Such days as near the ides of June Meet the Lark's elab'rate tune , When his downy fringed breast Ambitious on a cloud to rest He soars aloft ; and from his gurgling throat Darts to the earth the piercing note — Which softly falling with the dews of morn ( That bless the scented pink , and snowy thorn ) Expands upon the Zephyr's wing , And wakes the burnish'd finch , and linnet sweet to sing . And be thy lines irregular and free , Poetic chains should fall before such Bards as thee . Scorn the dull laws that pinch thee round , Raising about thy verse a mound , O'er which thy Muse , so lofty ! dares not bound . Bid her in verse meand'ring sport ; Her footsteps quick , or long , or short , Just as her various impulse wills — Scorning the frigid square , which her fine fervor chills . And in thy verse meand'ring wild , Thou , who art FANCY's favourite Child , May'st sweetly paint the long past hour , When , the slave of Cupid's power , Thou could'st the tear of rapture weep , And feed on Agony , and banish Sleep . Ha ! didst thou , favour'd mortal , taste All that adorns our life's dull waste ? Hast THOU known Love's enchanting pain — Its hopes , its woes , and yet complain ? Thy senses , at a voice , been lost , Thy mad'ning soul in tumults tost ? Ecstatic wishes fire thy brain — These , hast thou known , and yet complain ? Thou then deserv'st ne'er more to FEEL ; — Thy nerves be rigid , hence , as steel ! Their fine vibrations all destroy'd , Thy future days a tasteless void ! Ne'er shalt thou know again to sigh , Or , on a soft idea die ; Ne'er on a recollection gasp , Thy arms , the air-drawn charmer , never grasp . Vapid Content her poppies round thee strew , Whilst to the bliss of TASTE thou bidst adieu ! To vulgar comforts be thou hence confin'd , And the shrunk bays be from thy brow untwin'd . Thy statue torn from Cupid's hallow'd nitch , But in return thou shalt be dull , and rich ; The Muses hence disown thy rebel lay — But thou , in Aldermanic gown , their scorn repay ; Crimson'd , and furr'd , the highest honours dare , And on thy laurels tread — a PLUMP LORD MAYOR ! ANNA MATILDA .