Friendship Poetry

• To A Friend
  I ask but one thing of you, only one,
  That always you will be my dream of you;
  That never shall I wake to find untrue
  All this I have believed and rested on,
  Forever vanished, like a vision gone
  Out into the night. Alas, how few
  There are who strike in us a chord we knew
  Existed, but so seldom heard its tone
  We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.
  The world is full of rude awakenings
  And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground,
  Yet still our human longing vainly clings
  To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.
  O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!
  In Friendship - 480 days ago
• The Eagle, The Sow, And The Cat
  

  THE Queen of Birds, t'encrease the Regal Stock,
  Had hatch'd her young Ones in a stately Oak,
  Whose Middle-part was by a Cat possest,
  And near the Root with Litter warmly drest,
  A teeming Sow had made her peaceful Nest.
  (Thus Palaces are cramm'd from Roof to Ground,
  And Animals, as various, in them found.)
  When to the Sow, who no Misfortune fear'd,
  Puss with her fawning Compliments appear'd,
  Rejoicing much at her Deliv'ry past,
  And that she 'scap'd so well, who bred so fast.
  Then every little Piglin she commends,
  And likens them to all their swinish Friends;
  Bestows good Wishes, but with Sighs implies,
  That some dark Fears do in her Bosom rise.
  Such Tempting Flesh, she cries, will Eagles spare?
  Methinks, good Neighbour, you should live in Care:
  Since I, who bring not forth such dainty Bits,
  Tremble for my unpalatable Chits;
  And had I but foreseen, the Eagle's Bed
  Was in this fatal Tree to have been spread;
  I sooner wou'd have kitten'd in the Road,
  Than made this Place of Danger my abode.
  I heard her young Ones lately cry for Pig,
  And pity'd you, that were so near, and big.
  In Friendship this I secretly reveal,
  Lest Pettitoes shou'd make th' ensuing Meal;
  Or else, perhaps, Yourself may be their aim,
  For a Sow's Paps has been a Dish of Fame.
  No more the sad, affrighted Mother hears,
  But overturning all with boist'rous Fears,
  She from her helpless Young in haste departs,
  Whilst Puss ascends, to practice farther Arts.
  The Anti-chamber pass'd, she scratch'd the Door;
  The Eagle, ne'er alarum'd so before,
  Bids her come in, and look the Cause be great,
  That makes her thus disturb the Royal Seat;
  Nor think, of Mice and Rats some pest'ring Tale
  Shall, in excuse of Insolence, prevail.
  Alas! my Gracious Lady, quoth the Cat,
  I think not of such Vermin; Mouse, or Rat
  To me are tasteless grown; nor dare I stir
  To use my Phangs, or to expose my Fur.
  A Foe intestine threatens all around,
  And ev'n this lofty Structure will confound;
  A Pestilential Sow, a meazel'd Pork
  On the Foundation has been long at work,
  Help'd by a Rabble, issu'd from her Womb,
  Which she has foster'd in that lower Room;
  Who now for Acorns are so madly bent,
  That soon this Tree must fall, for their Content.
  I wou'd have fetch'd some for th' unruly Elves;
  But 'tis the Mob's delight to help Themselves:
  Whilst your high Brood must with the meanest drop,
  And steeper be their Fall, as next the Top;
  Unless you soon to Jupiter repair,
  And let him know, the Case demands his Care.

  Oh! May the Trunk but stand, 'till you come back!
  But hark! already sure, I hear it crack.
  Away, away---The Eagle, all agast,
  Soars to the Sky, nor falters in her haste:
  Whilst crafty Puss, now o'er the Eyry reigns,
  Replenishing her Maw with treach'rous Gains.
  The Sow she plunders next, and lives alone;
  The Pigs, the Eaglets, and the House her own.

  Curs'd Sycophants! How wretched is the Fate
  Of those, who know you not, till 'tis too late!

  
  In Friendship - 480 days ago
• Part Of The Fifth Scene In The Second Act Of Athalia
  

  Enter, as in the Temple of Jerusalem,
  ATHALIA, MATHAN, ABNER

  [Mathan]
  WHY, to our Wonder, in this Place is seen,
  Thus discompos'd, and alter'd, Juda's Queen?
  May we demand, what Terrors seize your Breast,
  Or, why your Steps are to this House addrest,
  Where your unguarded Person stands expos'd
  To secret Foes, within its Walls inclos'd?
  Can it be thought that you remit that Hate?

  
  [Athalia]
  No more! but Both observe what I relate:
  Not, that I mean (recalling Times of Blood)
  To make you Judges of the Paths I trod,
  When to the empty'd Throne I boldly rose,
  Treating all Intercepters as my Foes.
  'Twas Heav'ns Decree, that I should thus succeed,
  Whose following Favour justifies the Deed,
  Extending my unlimited Command
  From Sea to Sea o'er the obedient Land:
  Whilst your Jerusalem all Peace enjoys,
  Nor now the' encroaching Philistine destroys,
  Nor wandring Arab his Pavilion spreads,
  Near Jordan's Banks, nor wastes his flow'ry Meads.
  The great Assyrian, Terror of your Kings,
  Who bought his Friendship with their holiest Things,
  Yields that a Sister, of his pow'rful Race,
  Should sway these Realms, and dignify the Place.
  Nor need we add the late insulting Foe,
  The furious Jehu does this Sceptre know,
  And sinks beneath the Load of conscious Fears,
  When in Samaria he my Actions hears.
  Distrest by Foes, which I've against him rais'd,
  He sees me unmolested, fix'd, and pleas'd;
  At least, till now thus glorious was my State;
  But something's threatned from relaxing Fate,
  And the last Night, which should have brought me Rest,
  Has all these great Ideas dispossest.
  A Dream, a Vision, an apparent View
  Of what, methinks, does still my Steps pursue,
  Hangs on my pensive Heart, and bears it down
  More than the weight of an objected Crown,
  My Mother (be the Name with Rev'rence spoke!)
  Ere chearful Day thro' horrid Shades had broke,
  Approach'd my Bed, magnificent her Dress,
  Her Shape, her Air did Jesabel confess:
  Nor seem'd her Face to have refus'd that Art,
  Which, in despight of Age, does Youth impart,
  And which she practis'd, scorning to decay,
  Or to be vanquish'd ev'n in Nature's way.
  Thus all array'd, in such defying Pride
  As when th' injurious Conqu'ror she descry'd,
  And did in height of Pow'r for ill-got Pow'r deride.
  To me she spake, these Accents to me came:
  "Thou worthy Daughter of my soaring Fame,
  "Tho' with a more transcendent Spirit fill'd,
  "Tho' struggling Pow'rs attempt thy Life to shield,
  "The Hebrew's God (Oh, tremble at the sound!)
  "Shall Thee and Them, and all their Rights confound.
  A pitying Groan concludes, no Word of Aid.
  My Arms I thought to throw about the Shade
  Of that lov'd Parent, but my troubled Sight
  No more directed them to aim aright,
  Nor ought presented, but a heap of Bones,
  For which fierce Dogs contended on the Stones,
  With Flakes of mangled Flesh, that quiv'ring still
  Proclaim'd the Freshness of the suffer'd Ill;
  Distain'd with Blood the Pavement, and the Wall,
  Appear'd as in that memorable Fall–

  
  [Abner]
  Oh! just avenging Heaven!– [aside.

  [Mathan]
  Sure, Dreams like these are for Prevention given.

  
  In Friendship - 480 days ago
• Friendship Between Ephelia And Ardelia
   Eph. What Friendship is, ARDELIA shew.
  Ard. 'Tis to love, as I love You.
  Eph. This Account, so short (tho' kind)
  Suits not my enquiring Mind.
  Therefore farther now repeat;
  What is Friendship when complete?
  Ard. 'Tis to share all Joy and Grief;
  'Tis to lend all due Relief
  From the Tongue, the Heart, the Hand;
  'Tis to mortgage House and Land;
  For a Friend be sold a Slave;
  'Tis to die upon a Grave,
  If a Friend therein do lie.
  Eph. This indeed, tho' carry'd high,
  This, tho' more than e'er was done
  Underneath the rolling Sun,
  This has all been said before.
  Can ARDELIA say no more?
  Ard. Words indeed no more can shew:
  But 'tis to love, as I love you.
  In Friendship - 480 days ago
• An Epistle From A Gentleman To Madam Deshouliers
  

   URANIA, whom the Town admires,
  Whose Wit and Beauty share our Praise;
  This fair URANIA who inspires
  A thousand Joys a thousand ways,
  She, who cou'd with a Glance convey
  Favours, that had my Hopes outdone,
  Has lent me Money on that Day,
  Which our Acquaintance first begun.

  Nor with the Happiness I taste,
  Let any jealous Doubts contend:
  Her Friendship is secure to last,
  Beginning where all others end.

  And thou, known Cheat! upheld by Law,
  Thou Disappointer of the craving Mind,
  BASSETTE, who thy Original dost draw
  From Venice (by uncertain Seas confin'd);
  Author of Murmurs, and of Care,
  Of pleasing Hopes, concluding in Despair:
  To thee my strange Felicity I owe,
  From thy Oppression did this Succour flow.
  Less had I gained, had'st thou propitious been,
  Who better by my Loss hast taught me how to Win.
  Yet tell me, my transported Brain!
  (whose Pride this Benefit awakes)
  Know'st thou, what on this Chance depends?
  And are we not exalted thus in vain,
  Whilst we observe the Money which she lends,
  But not, alas! the Heart she takes,
  The fond Engagements, and the Ties
  Her fatal Bounty does impose,
  Who makes Reprisals, with her Eyes,
  For what her gen'rous Hand bestows?

  And tho' I quickly can return
  Those useful Pieces, which she gave;
  Can I again, or wou'd I have
  That which her Charms have from me borne?

  Yet let us quit th' obliging Score;
  And whilst we borrow'd Gold restore,
  Whilst readily we own the Debt,
  And Gratitude before her set
  In its approved and fairest Light;
  Let her effectually be taught
  By that instructive, harmless Slight,
  That also in her turn she ought
  (Repaying ev'ry tender Thought)
  Kindness with Kindness to requite.

  
  In Friendship - 480 days ago
• A Tale Of The Miser And The Poet
  
  A WIT, transported with Inditing,
  Unpay'd, unprais'd, yet ever Writing;
  Who, for all Fights and Fav'rite Friends,
  Had Poems at his Fingers Ends;
  For new Events was still providing;
  Yet now desirous to be riding,
  He pack'd-up ev'ry Ode and Ditty
  And in Vacation left the City;
  So rapt with Figures, and Allusions,
  With secret Passions, sweet Confusions;
  With Sentences from Plays well-known,
  And thousand Couplets of his own;
  That ev'n the chalky Road look'd gay,
  And seem'd to him the Milky Way.
  But Fortune, who the Ball is tossing,
  And Poets ever will be crossing,
  Misled the Steed, which ill he guided,
  Where several gloomy Paths divided.
  The steepest in Descent he follow'd,
  Enclos'd by Rocks, which Time had hollow'd;
  Till, he believ'd, alive and booted,
  He'd reach'd the Shades by Homer quoted.
  But all, that he cou'd there discover,
  Was, in a Pit with Thorns grown over,
  Old Mammon digging, straining, sweating,
  As Bags of Gold he thence was getting;
  Who, when reprov'd for such Dejections
  By him, who liv'd on high Reflections,
  Reply'd; Brave Sir, your Time is ended,
  And Poetry no more befriended.
  I hid this Coin, when Charles was swaying;
  When all was Riot, Masking, Playing;
  When witty Beggars were in fashion,
  And Learning had o'er-run the Nation,
  But, since Mankind is so much wiser,
  That none is valued like the Miser,
  I draw it hence, and now these Sums
  In proper Soil grow up to {1} Plumbs;
  Which gather'd once, from that rich Minute
  We rule the World, and all that's in it.
  But, quoth the Poet,can you raise,
  As well as Plumb-trees, Groves of Bays?
  Where you, which I wou'd chuse much rather,
  May Fruits of Reputation gather?
  Will Men of Quality, and Spirit,
  Regard you for intrinsick Merit?
  And seek you out, before your Betters,
  For Conversation, Wit, and Letters?
  Fool, quoth the Churl, who knew no Breeding;
  Have these been Times for such Proceeding?
  Instead of Honour'd, and Rewarded,
  Are you not Slighted, or Discarded?
  What have you met with, but Disgraces?
  Your PRIOR cou'd not keep in Places;
  And your VAN-BRUG had found no Quarter,
  But for his dabbling in the Morter.
  ROWE no Advantages cou'd hit on,
  Till Verse he left, to write North-Briton.
  PHILIPS, who's by the Shilling known,
  Ne'er saw a Shilling of his own.
  Meets {2} PHILOMELA, in the Town
  Her due Proportion of Renown?
  What Pref'rence has ARDELIA seen,
  T'expel, tho' she cou'd write the Spleen?
  Of Coach, or Tables, can you brag,
  Or better Cloaths than Poet RAG?
  Do wealthy Kindred, when they meet you,
  With Kindness, or Distinction, greet you?
  Or have your lately flatter'd Heroes
  Enrich'd you like the Roman Maroes?
  No–quoth the Man of broken Slumbers:
  Yet we have Patrons for our Numbers;
  There are Mecænas's among 'em.
  Quoth Mammon,pray Sir, do not wrong 'em;
  But in your Censures use a Conscience,
  Nor charge Great Men with thriftless Nonsense:
  Since they, as your own Poets sing,
  Now grant no Worth in any thing
  But so much Money as 'twill bring.
  Then, never more from your Endeavours
  Expect Preferment, or less Favours.
  But if you'll 'scape Contempt, or worse,
  Be sure, put Money in your Purse;
  Money! which only can relieve you
  When Fame and Friendship will deceive you.
  Sir, (quoth the Poet humbly bowing,
  And all that he had said allowing)
  Behold me and my airy Fancies
  Subdu'd, like Giants in Romances.
  I here submit to your Discourses;
  Which since Experience too enforces,
  I, in that solitary Pit,
  Your Gold withdrawn, will hide my Wit:
  Till Time, which hastily advances,
  And gives to all new Turns and Chances,
  Again may bring it into use;
  Roscommons may again produce;
  New Augustean Days revive,
  When Wit shall please, and Poets thrive.
  Till when, let those converse in private,
  Who taste what others don't arrive at;
  Yielding that Mammonists surpass us;
  And let the Bank out-swell Parnassus.
  
  In Friendship - 480 days ago