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. []-71. [8],139,[1]p.; 8⁰.

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To DELLA CRUSCA . YES , on the mountain's haughty swell , And in the prostrate dell , And where the Dryades fling their shades — There may'st thou meet the Maid serene , Or trace her on the zephyr'd green Whilst Day's carnation gently fades . Doth Nature make the prospect vast , With rocks o'erhang , and rivers cast Tumbling headlong to their base ? Do seas stretch out their foamy plains , Compelling with their chrystal chains Wide Continents t' embrace ? All these attract the smooth-brow'd fair ; — Or where can Art evince her powers , Where , Science strew immortal flowers , And gay Indifference — haste not there ? Whilst PASSION narrows up the heart , TASTE can no ray of bliss impart , One strong idea grasps the mind — Extends itself thro' all the soul , Thro' ev'ry vein its furies roll , And tears with fangs unkind . When NEWTON trod the starry roads , And view'd the dwellings of the Gods , And measur'd every Orb — Did silly Love his steps attend , His mighty purposes suspend , Or his grand mind absorb ? When intellectual LOCKE explor'd The Soul's sad vacuum , where no hoard Of budding young ideas lay — Oh tell , thus rob'd in Wisdom's stole , Did Love's coarse torch his view control , Or light him in the darksome way ? Ha ! DELLA CRUSCA , cease to feign , Thy cheek with red repentance stain , For having feign'd so long ; Quick seize thy Lyre , sweep each bold string , O'er every chord thy music fling — To calm INDIFFERENCE raise the Song ! Propitiate first , then with her haste O'er the Globe's peopled , motley waste ; Watch CHARACTER where'er it runs ; Drink newer air , see fiercer suns : Seek the bland realms where first the Morn Pours dawn-light from her beamy horn ; — Pours scent and colours o'er the vale , And wakes its song , and wakes its tale . Mark how CONFUCIUS' feeble race , ( Whose records vast fail not to trace ) To Imitation still confine Their powers , nor deviate from its line . Their fourteen thousand glowing springs Passing thro' their yearly rings , Not one suggestion left behind , No Art , nor Virtue more refin'd ; Philosophy no inroads made , But mute , within its awful shade Its thoughts occult arrang'd — Whilst Learning , blindfold in its pen , This costly precept gave to men — " BE WISE , but be unchang'd . " Haste ! — leave th' insipid herd — away ! Where EGYPT's sons imbrown the day , For their primeval Wisdom form'd her wreath , And Science first was taught to breathe . Oh linger here ! the Classic clime Demands , and will reward thy time . Here shalt thou seek th' immortal Dome Where Pleasure triumph'd over ROME ; And tread were CLEOPATRA trod , And moisten with thy tear the sod Where Taste and Love their banners wav'd , Snatching from the grave Old Time — Whose life fast-fading Rapture , sav'd , And Phoenix-like renew'd its prime . Then find the myrtled tomb , The now unenvied Lover's home ; But , lest thy pensive steps should stray , To guide thee in th' unknown way , The Moon her bright locks quick unshrouds ; Her veil of gossamour thin clouds , Dissolves to air , and her soft eye Through the palm grove's haughty shade , And the lofty aloed glade , Shall guide thee where thy long-ow'd sigh Breath'd o'er the mingling Lover's dust , Shall gratify their hov'ring souls Beyond an EMPIRE's votive Bust . Is a soft willow bending near , Whose drooping leaves speak grief sincere ? Its drooping leaves , ah ! instant seize , The happy violence will please — Bend its tender flaccid boughs ( Murm'ring soft mysterious vows ) Into garlands — leave them there , OFFERINGS to the love-lost pair ! These duties paid , with ling'ring look , With heart by silent sorrow shook , The marbled desart next explore Where Beauty's glance , and Learning's lore , Ages long past the soul beguil'd — Oh think ! in that unletter'd wild LONGINUS wrote , ZENOBIA smil'd ! Where now a humbled column lies Stream'd radiance from impassion'd eyes ; The roof where odious Night Birds rest , Once shelter'd Wit , once echo'd Jest ; Where Peasants cumbrous oxen stall , THERPSICHORE swam through the ball ; Serpents convolve , where music trill'd , And lost Palmyra's fate's fulfill'd . Doth splendid scenes thy light heart prize ? Fly to Italia's downy skies ! Where Fancy's richest strokes abound , Where NATURE's happiest points are found ; The pleasures here — a rosy band ! Link'd to her car with flow'ry chains , Bear their rapt Goddess o'er the plains , And strew their glories o'er her land . The dulcet groves , burst with rich notes , Flung from a thousand trembling throats , The glossy rivers as they fly — Their curv'd embroider'd bounds between , Whose glowing tints be-gem the green , Bear on their curls th' ecstatic sigh ; — The breeze detain'd rests its pure wing , To hear blest Love its triumphs sing . And ah ! be Italy ne'er nam'd , Without a pause to those so fam'd — The glorious MEDICIS ! Oh SCULPTURE ! lift thy pillar high , And grave the name amidst the sky ! Its base , let marble sorrows tend , And chissel'd woes in high relief , Look their unutterable grief , And mute Despair its tresses rend ! Blest POETRY ! compel thy lyre To sound the loud immortal praise Of those who cherish'd thy proud bays , And fed thy near extinguish'd fire ! Thy pencil , PAINTING ! dip in shades ! To last till Europe's Glory fades — Thy trophy'd canvas shall be Fame To those who nurs'd thy infant Art , And bear to mightier shores the Name ! Swiftly , my DELLA CRUSCA , turn To where the Medicean Urn , The once proud City hallows still , There thy fine taste may drink its fill . — To FLORENCE fly — O , no ! for ever shun her tempting skies , For there , if right I ween , the Maid INDIFFERENCE dies ! ANNA MATILDA .