Classic Poem

Ecloga the 10th

This my last Labour, gentle Goddess, aid,
To Worthy due, by Flavia hapless made;
Be such the Song, that she the Bard approve,
And listen to the honest Planter's Love.
To Worthy who their Measures can refuse?
The best in Maryland deserves the Muse.
So shall thy Bard acknowledge still thy Sway,
And when thou bid'st the Song, attune the Lay.
Begin — his gen'rous Passion let us sing,
While warbling Mock-Birds usher in the Spring
Nor think the cheerful, spritely Labour vain
The waving Woods will echo back the Strain!

What Groves, my jolly Girls, your forms conceal,
When Worthy burns with Love, without Avail?
What tow'ring Hills such grateful Prospects shew,
Or what meandring Rills so sweetly flow,
Your unkind absence from the Youth t'excuse,
Not Woods themselves their gen'rous Plaints refuse;
E'en Mountains sympathize with him in Grief,
And stony Rocks can wish him kind Relief.
His faithful Overseer his Task forgets,
And every Slave at his misfortune frets:
Poor Brother Philip comes to sooth his Pains:
All kindly ask what Nymph his suit disdains.
E'en Thickscull, 'mongst his Neighbors wondrous wise,
Gives him a helping hand, & bravely cries;
" Pho Man!" why makst thou such a mighty Pother,
" Scorn the false Jade, & briskly court another."
Kind neighbor Twanhum, by his Tresses known,
To join his honest Grief with his rides down;
Good Parson Saygrace his lov'd Bumbo leaves,
Tho' he small Comfort to the Lover gives;
Saygrace whose fiery Phiz more brightly shines,
Than Lay'rs of Gold in rich Peruvian Mines.
" Where will this end? he cries, too cruel love,
" No skill what'er can from our Hearts remove:
" As well teach deists faith, & Lawyers Truth,
" Give Sense to Coxcombs, & to old Maids Youth."
He sorrowful returns — Yet, gentle Swains,
In doleful Ditties sing my am'rous Pains;
Some little Ease my harrass'd Soul may feel
My hapless Tale in Rhime to hear you tell.
O that an Overseer I'ad only been,
This cruel Creature I shou'd ne'er have seen;
Some Convict-Girl full well had serv'd my Turn,
Black Bess at least with equal Flame wou'd burn;
And what tho' black she is — The Crabs brave food,
Tho' it's Form's hideous, yet the meat is good:
O Flavia, by this Riv'let's purling stream,
These woods, these flow'ry Meads (thy Charms my Theme)
O blest with Thee, with that dear Shape & Face,
Be me disclaimed, Eternity might pass.
Now furious Love boils up my heated Blood,
And I cou'd revel in a purple Flood,
Cou'd feast on murders & in rapes delight,
And 'gainst my dearest Friend for madness fight.
Thou far from me the greatest Woes wou'dst dare,
Rather than live with me in safety here:
O Cruel! Still let not thy haughty Scorn
Bring on thy pitiless Soul a like Return:
Now, now, of Lover's fatal Woes I sing,
And Charms, of Sorrows like my own, the Spring.
Yes — in the Woods midst Bears & Wolves I'll roam,
And think no more of Flavia & of Home:
There shall the Trees my fatal Passion wear,
The Marks of my fond love their Barks shall bear.
Meanwhile, Scotch-Irish shall my socials be,
Wild as they are, quite good enough for me
Or 'gainst the grizley Bear my Rage I'll vent,
To trace his Haunts in Freezing Cold content.
Now over Rocks & ecchoing Woods I fly,
The friendly Indians all my arms supply,
As if by this my Soul a Cure cou'd gain,
And Heav'n had taught me thus to ease my Pain.
Now neither Nymphs nor Songs can yield me Peace,
And all the Charms the woodland's gave me, cease;
Not all my Cares can change the Tirant-Boy;
My Summer's Thirst Patuxent may alloy;
Winter's most piercing Cold I might endure;
But Love still governs all, & will not know a Cure.

Enough has Worthy mourn'd — enough I've sung,
Due Thanks, ye Planters, to my Lays belong;
No more my Pipe with spritely Strains shall swell;
Go mind your Hogs & Crops, — & so farewel.