Poetry By English Women Read online

  from The Female Advocate Or, An Answer to a Late Satyr*

  Blasphemous wretch! How canst thou think or say

  Some cursed or banished fiend usurped the sway

  When Eve was formed? For then’s denied by you

  God’s omnipresence and omniscience too:

  Without which attributes he could not be

  The greatest and supremest deity:

  Nor can Heav’n sleep, though it may mourn to see

  Degen’rate man speak such vile blasphemy.

  When from dark chaos Heav’n the world did make,

  And all was glorious it did undertake; [10]

  Then were in Eden’s garden freely placed

  Each thing that’s pleasant to the sight or taste,

  ’Twas filled with beasts and birds, trees hung with fruit,

  That might with man’s celestial nature suit:

  The world being made thus spacious and complete,

  Then man was formed, who seemed nobly great.

  When Heav’n surveyed the works that it had done,

  Saw male and female, but found man alone,

  A barren sex, and insignificant,

  Then Heav’n made woman to supply the want, [20]

  And to make perfect what before was scant:

  Surely then she a noble creature is,

  Whom Heav’n thus made to consummate all bliss.

  Though man had being first, yet methinks she

  In nature should have the supremacy;

  For man was formed out of dull senseless earth,

  But woman had a much more noble birth:

  For when the dust was purified by Heaven,

  Made into man, and life unto it was given,

  Then the almighty and all-wise God said, [30]

  That woman of that species should be made;

  Which was no sooner said, but it was done,

  ’Cause ’twas not fit for man to be alone.

  Thus have I proved woman’s creation good,

  And not inferior, when right understood,

  To that of man’s; for both one maker had,

  Which made all good; then how could Eve be bad?

  But then you’ll say, though she at first was pure,

  Yet in that state she did not long endure.

  ’Tis true; but yet her fall examine right; [40]

  We find most men have banished truth for spite:

  Nor is she quite so guilty as some make,

  For Adam most did of the guilt partake;

  While he from God’s own mouth had the command,

  But woman had it at the second hand:

  The Devil’s strength weak woman might deceive

  But Adam only tempted was by Eve:

  She had the strongest tempter, and least charge;

  Man’s knowing most, doth make his sin more large.

  But though that woman man to sin did lead, [50]

  Yet since her seed hath bruised the Serpent’s head:

  Why should she thus be made a public scorn,

  Of whom the great almighty God was born?

  Surely to speak one slighting word, must be

  A kind of murmuring impiety:

  But yet their greatest haters still prove such

  Who formerly have loved them too much;

  And from the proverb are they not exempt,

  Too much familiarity has bred contempt.

  They make all base for one’s immodesty; [60]

  Nay, make the name a kind of magic spell,

  As if ’twould conjure married men to Hell.

  Woman! By Heaven, the very name’s a charm,

  And will my verse against all critics arm […]

  … I am not sorry you do females hate,

  But rather deem ourselves more fortunate,

  Because I find, when you’re right understood,

  You are at enmity with all that’s good,

  And should you love them, I should think they were

  A-growing bad, but still keep as you are: [70]

  I need not bid you, for you must I’m sure,

  And in your present wretched state endure;

  ’Tis as impossible you should be true,

  As for a woman to act like to you,

  Which I am sure will not accomplished be,

  Till heaven’s turned hell, and that’s repugnancy;

  When vice turns virtue, then ’tis you shall have

  A share of that which makes most females brave;

  Which transmutations I am sure can’t be;

  So thou must lie in vast eternity, [80]

  With prospect of thy endless misery,

  When woman, your imagined fiend, shall live

  Blessed with the joys that Heaven can always give.

  The Liberty*

  Shall I be one of those obsequious fools,

  That square their lives by Custom’s scanty rules;

  Condemned for ever to the puny curse,

  Of precepts taught, at boarding-school, or nurse,

  That all the business of my life must be

  Foolish, dull, trifling, formality.

  Confined to a strict magic complaisance,

  And round a circle of nice visits dance,

  Nor for my life beyond the chalk advance:

  The devil Censure stands to guard the same, [10]

  One step awry, he tears my vent’rous fame.

  So when my friends, in a facetious vein,

  With mirth and wit, a while can entertain;

  Though ne’er so pleasant, yet I must not stay,

  If a commanding clock bids me away:

  But with a sudden start, as in a fright,

  I must be gone indeed, ’tis after eight.

  Sure these restraints, with such regret we bear,

  That dreaded censure, can’t be more severe,

  Which has no terror, if we did not fear; [20]

  But let the bug-bear tim’rous infants fright,

  I’ll not be scared from innocent delight:

  Whatever is not vicious, I dare do,

  I’ll never to the idol Custom bow,

  Unless it suits with my own humour too.

  Some boast their fetters of formality,

  Fancy they ornamental bracelets be,

  I’m sure they’re gyves, and manacles to me.

  To their dull fulsome rules, I’d not be tied,

  For all the flattery that exalts their pride: [30]

  My sex forbids I should my silence break,

  I lose my jest, ’cause women must not speak.

  Mysteries must not be with my search prophaned,

  My closet not with books, but sweet-meats crammed,

  A little china, to advance the show,

  My Prayer Book, and Seven Champions, or so.

  My pen if ever used employed must be

  In lofty themes of useful housewifery,

  Transcribing old receipts of cookery:

  And what is necessary ’mongst the rest, [40]

  Good cure for agues, and a cancered breast;

  But I can’t here write my Probatum est.

  My daring pen will bolder sallies make,

  And like my self, an unchecked freedom take;

  Not chained to the nice order of my sex,

  And with restraints my wishing soul perplex:

  I’ll blush at sin, and not what some call shame,

  Secure my virtue, slight precarious fame.

  This courage speaks me brave, ’tis surely worse

  To keep those rules which privately we curse: [50]

  And I’ll appeal to all the formal saints,

  With what reluctance they endure restraints.

  The Emulation*

  Say tyrant Custom, why must we obey

  The impositions of thy naughty sway;

  From the first dawn of life, unto the grave,

  Poor womankind’s in every state, a slave.

  The nurse, the mistress, parent and the swain,

 
For love she must, there’s none escape that pain;

  Then comes the last, the fatal slavery,

  The husband with insulting tyranny

  Can have ill manners justified by law;

  For men all join to keep the wife in awe. [10]

  Moses who first our freedom did rebuke,

  Was married when he writ the Pentateuch;

  They’re wise to keep us slaves, for well they know,

  If we were loose, we soon should make them, so.

  We yield like vanquished kings whom fetters bind,

  When chance of war is to usurpers kind:

  Submit in form; but they’d our thoughts control,

  And lay restraints on the impassive soul:

  They fear we should excel their sluggish parts,

  Should we attempt the sciences and arts. [20]

  Pretend they were designed for them alone,

  So keep us fools to raise their own renown;

  Thus priests of old their grandeur to maintain,

  Cried vulgar eyes would sacred laws prophane.

  So kept the mysteries behind a screen,

  Their homage and the name were lost had they been seen:

  But in this blessed age, such freedom’s given,

  That every man explains the will of heaven;

  And shall we women now sit tamely by,

  Make no excursions in philosophy, [30]

  Or grace our thoughts in tuneful poetry?

  We will our rights in learning’s world maintain,

  Wit’s empire, now, shall know a female reign;

  Come all ye fair, the great attempt improve,

  Divinely imitate the realms above:

  There’s ten celestial females govern wit,

  And but two gods that do pretend to it;

  And shall these finite males reverse their rules?

  No, we’ll be wits, and then men must be fools.

  ELIZABETH SINGER ROWE 1674–1737

  Born in Ilchester, Somerset, eldest daughter of Elizabeth (Portnell) and Walter Singer, a dissenting preacher (who met when he was imprisoned for Nonconformity). Well educated; began writing verse at twelve; was patronized by the family of Henry Thynne of Longleat; first in print in 1693. In 1710 married Thomas Rowe, thirteen years her junior, who died of consumption in 1715; her elegy on his death inspired Pope’s Eloisa to Abelard. Later suppressed the erotic element in her verse, as she became more pious in her retirement in Frome; became a celebrated writer of uplifting prose, and of lifeless devotional verse. She seems not to have been a cheery old lady: when told that she looked well and should live long, she replied ‘that it was the same as telling a slave his fetters were like to be lasting, or complimenting him on the walls of his dungeon’.

  Poems on Several Occasions. Written by Philomela (London, 1696); T. Rowe (ed.), The Miscellaneous Works in Prose and Verse of Mrs Elizabeth Singer (London, 1739); Henry F. Stecher, Elizabeth Singer Rowe: The Poetess of Frome. A Study in Eighteenth-Century English Pietism (Frankfurt: M. Peter Lang; Bern: Herbert Land, 1973).

  To Celinda

  I

  I can’t, Celinda, say, I love,

  But rather I adore,

  When with transported eyes I view

  Your shining merits o’er.

  II

  A frame so spotless and serene,

  A virtue so refined;

  And thoughts as great, as e’er was yet

  Grasped by a female mind.

  III

  There love and honour dressed in all

  Their genuine charms appear, [10]

  And with a pleasing force at once

  They conquer and endear.

  IV

  Celestial flames are scarce more bright,

  Than those your worth inspires,

  So Angels love and so they burn

  In just such holy fires.

  V

  Then let’s my dear Celinda thus

  Blest in our selves contemn

  The treacherous and deluding arts,

  Of those base things called men. [20]

  The Expostulation

  I

  How long, great God, a wretched captive here,

  Must I these hated marks of bondage wear?

  How long shall these uneasy chains control

  The willing flights of my impatient soul?

  How long shall her most pure intelligence

  Be strained through an infectious screen of gross, corrupted sense?

  II

  When shall I leave this darksome house of clay;

  And to a brighter mansion wing away?

  There’s nothing here my thoughts to entertain,

  But one tired revolution o’er again: [10]

  The sun and stars observe their wonted round,

  The streams their former courses keep: no novelty is found.

  III

  The same curst acts of false fruition o’er,

  The same wild hopes and wishes as before;

  Do men for this so fondly life caress,

  (That airy huff of splendid emptiness?)

  Unthinking sots: kind Heaven let me be gone,

  I’m tired, I’m sick of this dull farce’s repetition.

  from To one that persuades me to leave the Muses*

  Forgo the charming Muses! No, in spite

  Of your ill-natured prophecy I’ll write,

  And for the future paint my thoughts at large,

  I waste no paper at the Hundred’s charge:

  I rob no neighbouring geese of quills, nor slink

  For a collection to the church for ink:

  Besides my Muse is the most gentle thing

  That ever yet made an attempt to sing:

  I call no lady punk, nor gallants fops,

  Nor set the married world on edge for ropes; [10]

  Yet I’m so scurvily inclined to rhyming,

  That undesigned my thoughts burst out a-chiming;

  My active Genius will by no means sleep,

  And let it then its proper channel keep.

  I’ve told you, and you may believe me too,

  That I must this, or greater mischief do;

  And let the world think me inspired, or mad,

  I’ll surely write while paper’s to be had;

  Since Heaven to me has a retreat assigned,

  That would inspire a less harmonious mind. [20]

  All that a poet loves I have in view,

  Delightsome hills, refreshing shades, and pleasant valleys too,

  Fair spreading valleys clothed with lasting green,

  And sunny banks with gilded streams between,

  Gay as Elysium, in a lover’s dream,

  Or Flora’s mansion, seated by a stream,

  Where free from sullen cares I live at ease,

  Indulge my Muse, and wishes, as I please,

  Exempt from all that looks like want or strife,

  I smoothly glide along the plains of life, [30]

  Thus Fate conspires, and what can I do to’t?

  Besides, I’m vehemently in love to boot,

  And that there’s not a willow sprig but knows,

  In whose sad shade I breathe my direful woes,

  But why for these dull reasons do I pause,

  When I’ve at hand my genuine one, because!

  And that my Muse may take no counter spell,

  I fairly bid the boarding schools farewell:

  No young impertinent shall here intrude,

  And vex me from this blissful solitude […] [40]

  … Japan, and my esteemed pencil too,

  And pretty Cupid, in the glass, adieu,

  And since the dearest friends that be must part,

  Old governess farewell with all my heart.

  Now welcome all the inspiring tender things

  That please my Genius, suit my make and years,

  Unburdened yet with all but lover’s cares.

  To Orestes

  To vex thy soul with these un
just alarms,

  Fie dear mistrustful, canst thou doubt thy charms,

  Or think a breast so young and soft as mine

  Could e’er resist such charming eyes as thine?

  Not love thee! witness all ye powers above,

  (That know my heart) to what excess I love,

  How many tender sighs for thee I’ve spent,

  I who ne’er knew what serious passion meant,

  Till to revenge his slighted votaries,

  The God of Love, couched in thy beauteous eyes, [10]

  At once inspired and fixed my roving heart,

  Which till that moment scorned his proudest dart.

  And now I languish out my life for thee,

  As others unregarded do for me;

  Silent as night, and pensive as a dove,

  Through shades more gloomy than my thoughts I rove,

  With downcast eyes as languishing an air,

  The emblem I of love, and of Despair.

  from A Paraphrase on the Canticles*

  CHAPTER II

  (1)

  At thy approach, my cheek with blushes glows,

  And conscious warmth, which with Thee comes and goes;

  Like the pale lily joined to Sharon’s rose;

  And thorns to them I sooner would compare

  Than other beauties to my darling fair.

  (2)

  And I as soon would rank a fruitful tree

  With barren shrubs, as mortal clod with thee.

  Beneath thy shade, blest, to my wish, I sate,

  And of thy royal banquet freely eat;

  Whilst o’er my head a banner was displayed: [10]

  In which, oh melting sight, the God of Love did bleed.

  Excess of pleasure will my soul destroy;

  I’m ev’n oppressed with the tyrannic joy:

  Oh therefore turn thy lovely eyes away;

  (Yet do not, for I die unless they stay.)