Poems (Sewell)/Celia
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CELIA.A SOLILOQUY OF OTHER TIMES.
The clock had struck-the wish'd—for hour was past,
And many a longing look had Celia cast:
The scanty ringlets o'er her shoulders flow'd—
No more her head sustain'd the pleasing load;
No more the curls, in tow'ring heaps aspir'd,
Nor vain delusive hopes her bosom fir'd.
The treach'rous Frizeur had forgot the time,—
And what could ere excuse so black a crime?
The hopeless Celia, on a couch reclin'd,
Thus spoke the tortures of her restless mind:—
"Unhappy day!" she cried, "that he shou'd! miss—
A base deceiver!—on a day like this!
A day, on which I hoped to shine confest,
The envied mistress of Lothario's breast.
Thou matchless garment! which in grief-I see,
Where are the triumphs I atchieve in thee?
That edifice, I form'd with so much care;
And now, I view with anguish and despair,
Those waving plumes, of variegated dyes,
Those flow'rs my industry has taught to rise;
Those ribbons that affect the golden ray,
And all prepar'd for this important day!
How shall my aching eyes support the sight?
Hide them, oh BETTY! in the darkest night;
And leave thy mistress to that piercing woe,
Which vulgar souls, like thine, shall never know.
"Tormenting thought! Intolerable grief!
Which seeks for tears, but ne'er can find relief.
Shall Cynthia then! (Oh most tormenting thought!)
Enslave those hearts my beauty shou'd have caught?
Why does the glowing red my cheeks adorn,
While these deserted tresses hang forlorn?
Why do my eyes display their killing fire,
When none, alas! are present to admire?
When none, alas! are present to repine,
And own their meaner charms must yield to mine,
Now will Semanthe glory in my fall,
And shew her visage, like a painted wall!—
One fatal night, my labours shall undo;
The gay Philander may forget me too!
Forget his tender sighs—the oaths he swore—
And wretched Celia be his flame no more.
Another now may flirt the conscious fan
And hear the vows of that perfidious man:
Mere empty vows! that ne'er express'd a flame,
Or touch'd the heart, from whence he said they came;
For men are false, deceitful, and unjust—
Where is the constancy a nymph may trust
She who retires, by cruel fate condemn'd,
Submits to rivals that she once contemn'd:
Ah! did I ever think, or once foresee,
That dire necessity reserv'd for me?
And many a longing look had Celia cast:
The scanty ringlets o'er her shoulders flow'd—
No more her head sustain'd the pleasing load;
No more the curls, in tow'ring heaps aspir'd,
Nor vain delusive hopes her bosom fir'd.
The treach'rous Frizeur had forgot the time,—
And what could ere excuse so black a crime?
The hopeless Celia, on a couch reclin'd,
Thus spoke the tortures of her restless mind:—
"Unhappy day!" she cried, "that he shou'd! miss—
A base deceiver!—on a day like this!
A day, on which I hoped to shine confest,
The envied mistress of Lothario's breast.
Thou matchless garment! which in grief-I see,
Where are the triumphs I atchieve in thee?
That edifice, I form'd with so much care;
And now, I view with anguish and despair,
Those waving plumes, of variegated dyes,
Those flow'rs my industry has taught to rise;
Those ribbons that affect the golden ray,
And all prepar'd for this important day!
How shall my aching eyes support the sight?
Hide them, oh BETTY! in the darkest night;
And leave thy mistress to that piercing woe,
Which vulgar souls, like thine, shall never know.
"Tormenting thought! Intolerable grief!
Which seeks for tears, but ne'er can find relief.
Shall Cynthia then! (Oh most tormenting thought!)
Enslave those hearts my beauty shou'd have caught?
Why does the glowing red my cheeks adorn,
While these deserted tresses hang forlorn?
Why do my eyes display their killing fire,
When none, alas! are present to admire?
When none, alas! are present to repine,
And own their meaner charms must yield to mine,
Now will Semanthe glory in my fall,
And shew her visage, like a painted wall!—
One fatal night, my labours shall undo;
The gay Philander may forget me too!
Forget his tender sighs—the oaths he swore—
And wretched Celia be his flame no more.
Another now may flirt the conscious fan
And hear the vows of that perfidious man:
Mere empty vows! that ne'er express'd a flame,
Or touch'd the heart, from whence he said they came;
For men are false, deceitful, and unjust—
Where is the constancy a nymph may trust
She who retires, by cruel fate condemn'd,
Submits to rivals that she once contemn'd:
Ah! did I ever think, or once foresee,
That dire necessity reserv'd for me?
Oh false Frizerio! like thy sex thou art!
'Tis thy neglect, alone, has reach'd my heart:
How shou'd a constant lover meet our view,
When e'en thy int'rest cou'd not keep thee true?
How can we hope that honour shou'd prevail,
When selfish schemes and golden prospects fail?"
But hark, he comes!-the powder'd beau appears!
Transported Celia dries her artless tears.
Now all is joy and flutter, noise and haste,
And Betty seeks the magazine of taste:
Soon is the fabrick built, with nicest care,
With pins and powder, paste and borrow'd hair:
Next must the plume, its graceful aid impart,
Till Nature wonders at the work of Art!
And all must own, as simp'ring Betty told her,
No nymph con'd equal-and no coach could hold her.
'Tis thy neglect, alone, has reach'd my heart:
How shou'd a constant lover meet our view,
When e'en thy int'rest cou'd not keep thee true?
How can we hope that honour shou'd prevail,
When selfish schemes and golden prospects fail?"
But hark, he comes!-the powder'd beau appears!
Transported Celia dries her artless tears.
Now all is joy and flutter, noise and haste,
And Betty seeks the magazine of taste:
Soon is the fabrick built, with nicest care,
With pins and powder, paste and borrow'd hair:
Next must the plume, its graceful aid impart,
Till Nature wonders at the work of Art!
And all must own, as simp'ring Betty told her,
No nymph con'd equal-and no coach could hold her.