TO REUBEN. 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. []-49. [8],139,[1]p.; 8⁰.

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TO REUBEN . MIDST the proud fervor of the day , Whilst the sun darts a torrid ray , The humble daisey sinks its head , And faints upon its lowly bed ; But when moist eve hath quench'd his fire , And treads the fields in cool attire , The daisy spreads again her bloom , And offers up her mild perfume . Thus your resuscitating praise , Breathed life upon my dying lays . REYNOLDS ADMIRES ! flatt'ry so sweet With blushing vanity I meet , But Bard polite ! how hard the task Which with such elegance you ask . When DIDO bad ENEAS tell The woes he knew to paint so well — Did he not tell the queen , she tore His closing wounds , and drew fresh gore , From stabs that time had almost heal'd ? — Such , REUBEN , such , the thorn conceal'd , Within your verses' flow'ry spell , Which barb'rous ! dares my pen compel . Yet how describe the various god , T'whom Proteus' self's a heavy clod ? Differing in each differing heart , Scorning to play a constant part . A tyger ! — tyrant ! — such is he , Whom painted with bandeau you see , With downy wings , and childish face , As though of the blest Cherub's race — But oh ! a serpent in disguise , And as the lynx , his piercing eyes ! A raging fire , a deadly pain , That gentlest heart-strings most will strain ; A fever , tempest , madness he — Of all life's ills — A DREAD EPITOME ! Ha ! dost thou fear , and wilt thou run ? The little monster try to shun ? And wilt thou , REUBEN , too succeed — And shall thy bosom never bleed ; Never his poison'd rankling dart Quiver within thy tender heart ? Oh , hapless man ! — oh , wretched fate ! Fly to Love's altar ere too late , And deprecate the doom accurst , Or bid that heart with sorrow burst . Welcome the deadly fiery pain , That gentlest heart-strings most will strain — MADNESS IS HIS — but 'tis replete With all that makes life's blessings sweet ; — A TYRANT he , but oh ! his chains Are richer than an empire's gains ! Sweet , the delirium which by love is spread , Whate'er the paths his raptur'd vot'ries tread ! He paints the mist which hangs upon the eve , With colours dearer than the Sun can give ; 'Tis he who lends the nightingale its trills , When her rich pipe the Empyrean fills , Oh , 'tis the softness in his heart Which makes the Lover in her song take part , And faint upon each touching pause , And lengthen out each added clause , Till rapt attention , strain'd too high , Rolls down its gushing tear , and breathes its gentle sigh . Charming to Love is MORNING's hour , When , from her chrystal roseate tower , She sees the Goddess HEALTH pursue The skimming breeze thro' fields of dew : Charming , the flaming hour of noon , When the sunk Linnet's fading tune , Allures him to the beechy grove — Or when some crag'd grotesque alcove Sounds in his ear its tinkling rill , And tempts him to its moss grown sill ; Most charm'd when on his tranced mind Is wisper'd in the passing wind , The name of her , whose name is bliss ; Or when he all unseen can kiss The fringed bank where late she lay , Hidden from th' imperious day . Oh , ye rapt glades , which glist'ring Luna decks , Whose stretching shadows her refulgence checks ! Oh , ye soft floods , that hang upon the peak Of lofty rocks , and bound in wanton freak , Where thirsty meads your rushing streamlets crave , And crowd their flowers around to drink your wave — What are ye all , should Love withhold the dart , Which wakes nice feelings in the torpid heart ? Where is the heart , that would such feelings fly , Or fear th' inchanting , MAD'NING CUP to try ? Must I speak more of love ? the boundless theme Might run beyond the edge of life's short dream : His spells are blessings — witch'ries so sublime They triumph o'er distress , and fate , and time . Wouldst ask the joys of love ? — Oh ! change the prayer , Thou little know'st his power , to fasten there ! Let the mean bosom crave its love's return , Thine shall with more distinguish'd ardors burn : To know the passion — yes , be that thy strain , Invoke the god of the mysterious pain ! Whate'er thy nature — gentle , fiery , rough — To LOVE — learn but TO LOVE — and thou hast bliss enough ! ANNA MATILDA .