On Mrs. MONTAGU. Ann Yearsley (née Cromartie) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. N22108 Yearsley, Ann, 1753-1806. Poems, on several occasions. By Ann Yearsley, a milkwoman of Bristol [poems only]. The second edition. London printed for T. Cadell, in the Strand 1785 pp. 101-106. xxxii, 127p.

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On Mrs. MONTAGU Elizabeth Montagu (1718-1800), author, critic, philanthropist, and Hannah More's patron. . Why boast , O arrogant , imperious man , Perfection so exclusive ? are thy powers Nearer approaching Deity ? can'st thou solve Questions which high Infinity propounds , Soar nobler flights , or dare immortal deeds , Unknown to woman , if she greatly dares To use the powers assign'd her ? Active strength , The boast of animals , is clearly thine ; By this upheld , thou think'st the lesson rare That female virtues teach ; and poor the height Which female wit obtains . The theme unfolds Its ample maze , for Montagu befriends The puzzled thought , and , blazing in the eye Of boldest Opposition , strait presents The soul's best energies , her keenest powers , Clear , vigorous , enlighten'd ; with firm wing Swift she o'ertakes his Muse , which spread afar Its brightest glories in the days of yore ; Lo ! where she , mounting , spurns the stedfast earth , And , failing on the cloud of science , bears The banner of Perfection . — Ask Gallia's mimic sons how strong her powers , Whom , flush'd with plunder from her Shakespeare's page , She swift detects amid their dark retreats ; ( Horrid as Cacus in their thievish dens ) Regains the trophies , bears in triumph back The pilfer'd glories to a wond'ring world . So Stella boasts , from her the tale I learn'd ; With pride she told it , I with rapture heard . O , Montagu ! forgive me , if I sing Thy wisdom temper'd with the milder ray Of soft humanity , and kindness bland : So wide its influence , that the bright beams Reach the low vale where mists of ignorance lodge , Strike on the innate spark which lay immers'd , Thick clogg'd , and almost quench'd in total night — On me it fell , and cheer'd my joyless heart . Unwelcome is the first bright dawn of light To the dark soul ; impatient , she rejects , And fain won'd push the heavenly stranger back ; She loaths the cranny which admits the day ; Confus'd , afraid of the intruding guest ; Disturb'd , unwilling to receive the beam , Which to herself her native darkness shews . The effort rude to quench the cheering flame Was mine , and e'en on Stella cou'd I gaze With sullen envy , and admiring pride , Till , doubly rous'd by Montagu , the pair Conspire to clear my dull , imprison'd sense , And chase the mists which dimm'd my visual beam . Oft as I trod my native wilds alone , Strong gusts of thought wou'd rise , but rise to die ; The portals of the swelling soul , ne'er op'd By liberal converse , rude ideas strove Awhile for vent , but found it not , and died . Thus rust the Mind's best powers . Yon starry orbs , Majestic ocean , flowery vales , gay groves , Eye-wasting lawns , and Heaven-attempting hills , Which bound th'horizon , and which curb the view ; All those , with beauteous imagery awak'd My ravish'd soul to extacy untaught , To all the transport the rapt sense can bear ; But all expir'd , for want of powers to speak ; All perish'd in the mind as soon as born , Eras'd more quick than cyphers on the shore , O'er which the cruel waves , unheedful , roll . Such timid rapture as young See the Minstrel . Edwin seiz'd , When his lone footsteps on the Sage obtrude , Whose noble precept charm'd his wond'ring ear , Such rapture fill'd The Author . Lactilla's vacant soul , When the bright Moralist , in softness drest , Opes all the glories of the mental world , Deigns to direct the infant thought , to prune The budding sentiment , uprear the stalk Of feeble fancy , bid idea live , Woo the abstracted spirit from its cares , And gently guide her to the scenes of peace . Mine was that balm , and mine the grateful heart , Which breathes its thanks in rough , but timid strains .