Poems (Sewell)/Verses on Caprice
VERSESON CAPRICE.
Caprice! thou mimic of Opinion!
Whence is thy absolute dominion?
With all the noise we make about thee,
There is no living here without thee.
How many schemes to thee are owing,
From whence there's no advantage flowing?
Nay, even in a lucky season,
Shou'd skittish Fancy bow to Reason—
Shou'd she contrive some fairy palace,
That's inaccessible to malice,
Where ev'ry pleasure was uniting—
All that's luxuriant and inviting;
Then wou'dst thou come, an envious spright,
To haunt the mansion of delight;
Thy baleful presence, past expressing,
Would poison each distinguish'd blessing:
And such a gloom thou wou'dst dispense.
The swain who rears his cottage fence,
Or gaily whistles o'er the plain—
The meanest of the rustic train!
Is happier in his humble lot;
For oh, Caprice! he knows thee not!
Thy doubts, perplexities, and fears,
Have never reach'd his wond'ring ears:
And yet, perhaps, the village maid,
To whom his constant vows are paid,
Has caus'd him many an anxious doubt,
Where courtiers wou'd have found thee out:
When artful Strephon gain'd a smile,
How did thy spirits sink the while!
That gaudy ribbon for her hair,
That's plac'd with such becoming care,
Some toy, perhaps, that heart might soften,
Which thou hast tried, poor swain, so often.
Oh vile Caprice! thou friend to art!
Thou narrow passage to the heart:
Oh thou, whom chance alone can hit,
Nor grace, nor elegance, nor wit;
Shall Love, that pure exalted passion,
Which triumphs o'er the laws of fashion—
Despotic, generous, and free!
Shall haughty Love submit to Thee?
Friendship, that ever precious flame,
Which e'en with reverence I name;
That gentle balm to wounded peace!
Shall Friendship yield to vile Caprice?
And all its soft endearing pow'r
Pass—like a dissipated hour?
Alas! 'tis what Experience teaches,
The keenest monitor that preaches:
The sacred truths that she imparts,
Are stamp'd for ever on our hearts;
They're written—not to cold opinion—
But where our feelings have dominion;
And from each stroke of silent sorrow,
A nameless energy they borrow.
Whence is thy absolute dominion?
With all the noise we make about thee,
There is no living here without thee.
How many schemes to thee are owing,
From whence there's no advantage flowing?
Nay, even in a lucky season,
Shou'd skittish Fancy bow to Reason—
Shou'd she contrive some fairy palace,
That's inaccessible to malice,
Where ev'ry pleasure was uniting—
All that's luxuriant and inviting;
Then wou'dst thou come, an envious spright,
To haunt the mansion of delight;
Thy baleful presence, past expressing,
Would poison each distinguish'd blessing:
And such a gloom thou wou'dst dispense.
The swain who rears his cottage fence,
Or gaily whistles o'er the plain—
The meanest of the rustic train!
Is happier in his humble lot;
For oh, Caprice! he knows thee not!
Thy doubts, perplexities, and fears,
Have never reach'd his wond'ring ears:
And yet, perhaps, the village maid,
To whom his constant vows are paid,
Has caus'd him many an anxious doubt,
Where courtiers wou'd have found thee out:
When artful Strephon gain'd a smile,
How did thy spirits sink the while!
That gaudy ribbon for her hair,
That's plac'd with such becoming care,
Some toy, perhaps, that heart might soften,
Which thou hast tried, poor swain, so often.
Oh vile Caprice! thou friend to art!
Thou narrow passage to the heart:
Oh thou, whom chance alone can hit,
Nor grace, nor elegance, nor wit;
Shall Love, that pure exalted passion,
Which triumphs o'er the laws of fashion—
Despotic, generous, and free!
Shall haughty Love submit to Thee?
Friendship, that ever precious flame,
Which e'en with reverence I name;
That gentle balm to wounded peace!
Shall Friendship yield to vile Caprice?
And all its soft endearing pow'r
Pass—like a dissipated hour?
Alas! 'tis what Experience teaches,
The keenest monitor that preaches:
The sacred truths that she imparts,
Are stamp'd for ever on our hearts;
They're written—not to cold opinion—
But where our feelings have dominion;
And from each stroke of silent sorrow,
A nameless energy they borrow.
But stop, my rambling muse, I pray,
Lest headstrong Fancy lose her way;
But where, O Fancy, can we send thee,
Where wild Caprice will not attend thee?
Caprice—the friend of all digression;
She loves a freedom of expression,
And often sees a grace prevailing,
Where careful critics spy a failing.
Oh! did she sit in judgment here,[1]
The muse might then have less to fear;
The conscious verse she did inspire,
Though cold in all poetic fire,
Might win the prize of transient glory,
And wond'ring bards might tell the story.
Lest headstrong Fancy lose her way;
But where, O Fancy, can we send thee,
Where wild Caprice will not attend thee?
Caprice—the friend of all digression;
She loves a freedom of expression,
And often sees a grace prevailing,
Where careful critics spy a failing.
Oh! did she sit in judgment here,[1]
The muse might then have less to fear;
The conscious verse she did inspire,
Though cold in all poetic fire,
Might win the prize of transient glory,
And wond'ring bards might tell the story.
- ↑ The Committee at Bath-Easton.