ANNE KILLIGREW1661 (?)-1685
1661 (?)-1685
We are Diana’s virgin train,Descended of no mortal strain;Our bows and arrows are our goods,Our pallaces, the lofty woods,The hills and dales, at early morn,Resound and eccho with our horn;We chase the hind and fallow deer,The wolf and boar both dread our spear,In swiftness we outstrip the wind,An eye and thought we leave behind;We fauns and shaggy satyrs awe,To sylvan pow’rs we give the law:Whatever does provoke our hate,Our javelins strike, as sure as fate;We bathe in springs, to cleanse the soil,Contracted by our eager toil;In which we shine like glittering beamsOr christal in the christal streams;Though Venus we transcend in form,No wanton flames our bosomes warm!If you ask where such wights do dwell,In what bless’t clime, that so excel?The poets onely that can tell.
We are Diana’s virgin train,Descended of no mortal strain;Our bows and arrows are our goods,Our pallaces, the lofty woods,The hills and dales, at early morn,Resound and eccho with our horn;We chase the hind and fallow deer,The wolf and boar both dread our spear,In swiftness we outstrip the wind,An eye and thought we leave behind;We fauns and shaggy satyrs awe,To sylvan pow’rs we give the law:Whatever does provoke our hate,Our javelins strike, as sure as fate;We bathe in springs, to cleanse the soil,Contracted by our eager toil;In which we shine like glittering beamsOr christal in the christal streams;Though Venus we transcend in form,No wanton flames our bosomes warm!If you ask where such wights do dwell,In what bless’t clime, that so excel?The poets onely that can tell.
We are Diana’s virgin train,Descended of no mortal strain;Our bows and arrows are our goods,Our pallaces, the lofty woods,The hills and dales, at early morn,Resound and eccho with our horn;We chase the hind and fallow deer,The wolf and boar both dread our spear,In swiftness we outstrip the wind,An eye and thought we leave behind;We fauns and shaggy satyrs awe,To sylvan pow’rs we give the law:Whatever does provoke our hate,Our javelins strike, as sure as fate;We bathe in springs, to cleanse the soil,Contracted by our eager toil;In which we shine like glittering beamsOr christal in the christal streams;Though Venus we transcend in form,No wanton flames our bosomes warm!If you ask where such wights do dwell,In what bless’t clime, that so excel?The poets onely that can tell.
We are Diana’s virgin train,
Descended of no mortal strain;
Our bows and arrows are our goods,
Our pallaces, the lofty woods,
The hills and dales, at early morn,
Resound and eccho with our horn;
We chase the hind and fallow deer,
The wolf and boar both dread our spear,
In swiftness we outstrip the wind,
An eye and thought we leave behind;
We fauns and shaggy satyrs awe,
To sylvan pow’rs we give the law:
Whatever does provoke our hate,
Our javelins strike, as sure as fate;
We bathe in springs, to cleanse the soil,
Contracted by our eager toil;
In which we shine like glittering beams
Or christal in the christal streams;
Though Venus we transcend in form,
No wanton flames our bosomes warm!
If you ask where such wights do dwell,
In what bless’t clime, that so excel?
The poets onely that can tell.
Next heaven, my vows to thee, O sacred Muse!I offered up, nor didst thou them refuse.O Queen of verse, said I, if thou’lt inspire,And warm my soul with thy poetic fire,No love of gold shall share with thee my heart,Or yet ambition in my breast have part,More rich, more noble I will ever holdThe Muse’s laurel than a crown of gold.An undivided sacrifice I’ll layUpon thine altar, soul and body pay;Thou shalt my pleasure, my employment be,My all I’ll make a holocaust to thee.The deity that ever does attendPrayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.I writ, and the judicious prais’d my pen:Could any doubt ensuing glory then?What pleasing raptures fill’d my ravish’d sense,How strong, how sweet, Fame, was thy influence!And thine, false hope, that to my flatter’d sightDidst glories represent so near and bright!By thee deceiv’d, methought each verdant treeApollo’s transform’d Daphne seemed to be;And every fresher branch, and every boughAppear’d as garlands to empale my brow.The learn’d in love say, thus the wingèd boyDoes first approach, drest up in welcome joy;At first he to the cheated lover’s sightNought represents but rapture and delight,Alluring hopes, soft fears, which stronger bindTheir hearts, than when they more assurance find.Embolden’d thus, to fame I did commit(By some few hands) my most unlucky wit.But ah, the sad effects that from it came!What ought t’ have brought me honour, brought me shame!Like Aesop’s painted jay, I seem’d to all,Adorn’d in plumes, I not my own could call:Rifled like her, each one my feathers tore,And, as they thought, unto the owner bore.My laurels thus another’s brow adorn’d,My numbers they admir’d but me they scorn’d:Another’s brow that had so rich a storeOf sacred wreaths that circled it before;Where mine quite lost (like a small stream that ranInto a vast, and boundless ocean)Was swallow’d up with what it join’d, and drown’d,And that abyss yet no accession found.Orinda (Albion’s and her sex’s grace)Ow’d not her glory to a beauteous face;It was her radiant soul that shone within,Which struck a lustre thro’ her outward skin;That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye,Advanc’d her height and sparkled in her eye.Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame,But higher ’mong the stars it fix’d her name;What she did write, not only all allow’d,But every laurel to her laurel bow’d!The envious age, only to me alone,Will not allow what I do write my own;But let them rage and ’gainst a maid conspire,So deathless numbers from my tuneful lyreDo ever flow; so, Phoebus, I by theeInspir’d divinely, and possest may be;I willingly accept Cassandra’s fate,To speak the truth, altho’ believ’d too late.
Next heaven, my vows to thee, O sacred Muse!I offered up, nor didst thou them refuse.O Queen of verse, said I, if thou’lt inspire,And warm my soul with thy poetic fire,No love of gold shall share with thee my heart,Or yet ambition in my breast have part,More rich, more noble I will ever holdThe Muse’s laurel than a crown of gold.An undivided sacrifice I’ll layUpon thine altar, soul and body pay;Thou shalt my pleasure, my employment be,My all I’ll make a holocaust to thee.The deity that ever does attendPrayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.I writ, and the judicious prais’d my pen:Could any doubt ensuing glory then?What pleasing raptures fill’d my ravish’d sense,How strong, how sweet, Fame, was thy influence!And thine, false hope, that to my flatter’d sightDidst glories represent so near and bright!By thee deceiv’d, methought each verdant treeApollo’s transform’d Daphne seemed to be;And every fresher branch, and every boughAppear’d as garlands to empale my brow.The learn’d in love say, thus the wingèd boyDoes first approach, drest up in welcome joy;At first he to the cheated lover’s sightNought represents but rapture and delight,Alluring hopes, soft fears, which stronger bindTheir hearts, than when they more assurance find.Embolden’d thus, to fame I did commit(By some few hands) my most unlucky wit.But ah, the sad effects that from it came!What ought t’ have brought me honour, brought me shame!Like Aesop’s painted jay, I seem’d to all,Adorn’d in plumes, I not my own could call:Rifled like her, each one my feathers tore,And, as they thought, unto the owner bore.My laurels thus another’s brow adorn’d,My numbers they admir’d but me they scorn’d:Another’s brow that had so rich a storeOf sacred wreaths that circled it before;Where mine quite lost (like a small stream that ranInto a vast, and boundless ocean)Was swallow’d up with what it join’d, and drown’d,And that abyss yet no accession found.Orinda (Albion’s and her sex’s grace)Ow’d not her glory to a beauteous face;It was her radiant soul that shone within,Which struck a lustre thro’ her outward skin;That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye,Advanc’d her height and sparkled in her eye.Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame,But higher ’mong the stars it fix’d her name;What she did write, not only all allow’d,But every laurel to her laurel bow’d!The envious age, only to me alone,Will not allow what I do write my own;But let them rage and ’gainst a maid conspire,So deathless numbers from my tuneful lyreDo ever flow; so, Phoebus, I by theeInspir’d divinely, and possest may be;I willingly accept Cassandra’s fate,To speak the truth, altho’ believ’d too late.
Next heaven, my vows to thee, O sacred Muse!I offered up, nor didst thou them refuse.O Queen of verse, said I, if thou’lt inspire,And warm my soul with thy poetic fire,No love of gold shall share with thee my heart,Or yet ambition in my breast have part,More rich, more noble I will ever holdThe Muse’s laurel than a crown of gold.An undivided sacrifice I’ll layUpon thine altar, soul and body pay;Thou shalt my pleasure, my employment be,My all I’ll make a holocaust to thee.The deity that ever does attendPrayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.I writ, and the judicious prais’d my pen:Could any doubt ensuing glory then?What pleasing raptures fill’d my ravish’d sense,How strong, how sweet, Fame, was thy influence!And thine, false hope, that to my flatter’d sightDidst glories represent so near and bright!By thee deceiv’d, methought each verdant treeApollo’s transform’d Daphne seemed to be;And every fresher branch, and every boughAppear’d as garlands to empale my brow.The learn’d in love say, thus the wingèd boyDoes first approach, drest up in welcome joy;At first he to the cheated lover’s sightNought represents but rapture and delight,Alluring hopes, soft fears, which stronger bindTheir hearts, than when they more assurance find.Embolden’d thus, to fame I did commit(By some few hands) my most unlucky wit.But ah, the sad effects that from it came!What ought t’ have brought me honour, brought me shame!Like Aesop’s painted jay, I seem’d to all,Adorn’d in plumes, I not my own could call:Rifled like her, each one my feathers tore,And, as they thought, unto the owner bore.My laurels thus another’s brow adorn’d,My numbers they admir’d but me they scorn’d:Another’s brow that had so rich a storeOf sacred wreaths that circled it before;Where mine quite lost (like a small stream that ranInto a vast, and boundless ocean)Was swallow’d up with what it join’d, and drown’d,And that abyss yet no accession found.Orinda (Albion’s and her sex’s grace)Ow’d not her glory to a beauteous face;It was her radiant soul that shone within,Which struck a lustre thro’ her outward skin;That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye,Advanc’d her height and sparkled in her eye.Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame,But higher ’mong the stars it fix’d her name;What she did write, not only all allow’d,But every laurel to her laurel bow’d!The envious age, only to me alone,Will not allow what I do write my own;But let them rage and ’gainst a maid conspire,So deathless numbers from my tuneful lyreDo ever flow; so, Phoebus, I by theeInspir’d divinely, and possest may be;I willingly accept Cassandra’s fate,To speak the truth, altho’ believ’d too late.
Next heaven, my vows to thee, O sacred Muse!
I offered up, nor didst thou them refuse.
O Queen of verse, said I, if thou’lt inspire,
And warm my soul with thy poetic fire,
No love of gold shall share with thee my heart,
Or yet ambition in my breast have part,
More rich, more noble I will ever hold
The Muse’s laurel than a crown of gold.
An undivided sacrifice I’ll lay
Upon thine altar, soul and body pay;
Thou shalt my pleasure, my employment be,
My all I’ll make a holocaust to thee.
The deity that ever does attend
Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.
I writ, and the judicious prais’d my pen:
Could any doubt ensuing glory then?
What pleasing raptures fill’d my ravish’d sense,
How strong, how sweet, Fame, was thy influence!
And thine, false hope, that to my flatter’d sight
Didst glories represent so near and bright!
By thee deceiv’d, methought each verdant tree
Apollo’s transform’d Daphne seemed to be;
And every fresher branch, and every bough
Appear’d as garlands to empale my brow.
The learn’d in love say, thus the wingèd boy
Does first approach, drest up in welcome joy;
At first he to the cheated lover’s sight
Nought represents but rapture and delight,
Alluring hopes, soft fears, which stronger bind
Their hearts, than when they more assurance find.
Embolden’d thus, to fame I did commit
(By some few hands) my most unlucky wit.
But ah, the sad effects that from it came!
What ought t’ have brought me honour, brought me shame!
Like Aesop’s painted jay, I seem’d to all,
Adorn’d in plumes, I not my own could call:
Rifled like her, each one my feathers tore,
And, as they thought, unto the owner bore.
My laurels thus another’s brow adorn’d,
My numbers they admir’d but me they scorn’d:
Another’s brow that had so rich a store
Of sacred wreaths that circled it before;
Where mine quite lost (like a small stream that ran
Into a vast, and boundless ocean)
Was swallow’d up with what it join’d, and drown’d,
And that abyss yet no accession found.
Orinda (Albion’s and her sex’s grace)
Ow’d not her glory to a beauteous face;
It was her radiant soul that shone within,
Which struck a lustre thro’ her outward skin;
That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye,
Advanc’d her height and sparkled in her eye.
Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame,
But higher ’mong the stars it fix’d her name;
What she did write, not only all allow’d,
But every laurel to her laurel bow’d!
The envious age, only to me alone,
Will not allow what I do write my own;
But let them rage and ’gainst a maid conspire,
So deathless numbers from my tuneful lyre
Do ever flow; so, Phoebus, I by thee
Inspir’d divinely, and possest may be;
I willingly accept Cassandra’s fate,
To speak the truth, altho’ believ’d too late.
When I am dead, few friends attend my hearse,And for a monument I leave my verse.
When I am dead, few friends attend my hearse,And for a monument I leave my verse.
When I am dead, few friends attend my hearse,And for a monument I leave my verse.
When I am dead, few friends attend my hearse,
And for a monument I leave my verse.