What, bend the stubborn knee at last,
Confess the days of wisdom past,
He that could bow to every shrine,
And swear the last the most divine:
Like Hudibras all subjects bend,
Had Ovid at his fingers end;
Could whistle ev’ry tunc of love,
(You’d think him Ovid’s self or Jove)
Now feels the inexorable dart
And yields Cornelia all his heart!
Say what the charms that plague you so ?
I’ll venture barely common - No.
Within the circle of her eye;
A thousand sweet delusions lye;
Withal the oval of her face
Love’s wily charms and winning grace.
Besides in all she does or says
An air that even Stoics praise.
Mere rant th’ effusion of a brain
Oppress’d with love[’s] distempered train.
T’is true, her eye is well enough.
But why of such superior stuff?
Why call it better than her neighbours,
Because more hearts may crown its labors.
Talk as you please, of grace and wiles,
Of lips and looks and winning smiles.
She’s but, - Sweet Sir, nay do not fret.
She’s but - a beautiful brunette.
But ah, why trifle thus with love,
A certain fate that all must prove?
Dipp’d in the cup of tears and bliss,
Love’s subtle arrows never miss.
The best defended feel their smart;
E’en he who laughs life’s cares away
May only boast a later day.
perhaps ‘ere now some thoughtless fair
But opes her eyes to give despair.
‘To Colonel Hamilton’, Poems by Colonel Samuel Blachley Webb, January 1780. Webb was teasing Hamilton’s wooing of a young belle named Cornelia Lott. Rake that he was, by around the time the poem was written, Hamilton had moved on to another woman. (via publius-report)
Hamilton you whore
“Whistled past the graveyard” indeed. The anecdote of the Hamilton bust is like a perfect example. He chose to handle the appearance of it by going right up and loudly commenting in a lighthearted manner. It feels like an exaggerated overcompensation, going above and beyond to prove how little it bothered him. Or maybe at that point he really was past caring.
Then there’s the substance of what Burr was actually saying. ‘There was the poetry’? Was he referring to some kind of romantic aspect of Hamilton’s nature? Or his physical appearance?
Burr, y u so confusing?
- as he might have written in the fall of 1782 after learning of the death of the latter.
My Dear Laurens,
I wrote once,
back in the year 1779,
that “though I am cold in my professions,
I am warm in my friendships,”
I wished that it might be in my power,
by my devoted actions rather than words,
to convince you that I loved you.
I thought I hardly knew the value you had
taught my heart to set upon you before you left for the war.
In truth, I did not know it until the event of this greater leaving.
Indeed, my friend, it was not well done.
You know of my strong desire to
free from any, particular,
to keep my happiness independent of the caprice of others.
My friend, you should not have taken advantage of my
and steal into my affections without my consent.
But, as you did, and so thoroughly,
and as we are generally indulgent with those we love,
I did not scruple to pardon you then,
nor do I intend to do so now.
Did my last letter reach you too late?You might have found it amusing.
- my resentment of your marriage –
The Great Alexander Hamilton,
acting the part of a jealous lover
in the face of an unkind god.
There is one comfort I suppose:
At least you and I can both rest knowing
the history books shall likely never mention it.
(source: the edge of the rain)
B. Franklin, Printer
(Like the Cover of an Old Book
Its Contents torn Out
And Stript of its Lettering and Gilding)
Lies Here, Food for Worms.
But the Work shall not be Lost;
For it will (as he Believ’d) Appear once More
In a New and More Elegant Edition
Revised and Corrected
By the Author."
Life’s visions are vanished, it’s dreams are no more.
Dear friends of my bosom, why bathed in tears?
I go to my fathers; I welcome the shore,
which crowns all my hopes, or which buries my cares.
Then farewell my dear, my lov’d daughter, Adieu!
The last pang in life is in parting from you.
Two Seraphs await me, long shrouded in death;
I will bear them your love on my last parting breath.
Thomas Jefferson wrote this poem for his daughter, Martha Jefferson Randolph, when he was dying.
;_______; THIS IS SO SAD.
For the sweet babe, my doating heart
Did all a Mother’s fondness feel;
Carefull to act each tender part
And guard from every threatning ill.
But what alass! availd my care?
The unrelenting hand of death,
Regardless of a parent’s prayr
Has stoped my lovely Infant’s breath -
With rapture number Oer thy Charms,
While on thy harmless sports intent,
Or prattling in my happy arms -
No More thy self Important tale
Some embryo meaning shall convey,
Which, should th’ imperfect accents fail,
Thy speaking looks would still display -
Thou’st gone, forever gone - yet where;
Ah! pleasing thought; to endless bliss.
Then, why indulge the rising tear?
Canst thou, fond heart, lament for this?
Let reason silence nature’s strife,
And weep Maria’s fate no more;
She’s safe from all the storms of life,
And Wafted to a peacefull Shore.
In yonder mead my love I found
Beside a murmur’ing book reclin’d:
Her pretty lampkins dancing round
Secure in harmless bliss.
I bad the waters gently glide,
And vainly hush’d the heedless wind,
Then, softly kneeling by her side,
I stole a silent kiss.
She wak’d and rising sweetly blush’d
By far more artless than the dove:
With eager haste I onward rush’d,
And clasp’d her in my arms;
Encircled thus in fond embrace
Our panting hearts beat mutual love -
A rosy-red o’er spread her face
And brighten’d all her charms.
Silent she stood, and sigh’d consent
To every tender kiss I gave;
I closely urg’d - to church we went,
And hymen join’d our hands.
Ye swains behold my bliss complete;
No longer then your own delay;
Believe me love is doubly sweet
In wedlocks holy bands.
Content we tend our flocks by day,
Each rural pleasures amply taste;
And at the suns retiring ray
Prepare for new delight:
When from the field we haste away,
And send our blithsome care to rest,
We fondly sport and fondly play,
And love away the night.
Alexander Hamilton to Mercy Otis Warren on her play “The Ladies of Castille”
Speaking of poetry, I would have killed to see those poems Hamilton wrote when he was a young man, but were lost during the Revolution.
Once upon a time… Il était une fois…