Early Unpublished Poems of Elizabeth Craven
These poems are transcribed from a manuscript volume in the possession of one of Elizabeth Craven's direct descendants. The spine says in gold leaf “Poems Lady Craven”. The leather-bound volume was given by Craven to her friend Lord Macartney, whose bookplate survives inside the front cover.
Though the cover is damaged, the handwritten pages are in good condition and perfectly legible. It was mentioned by Broadley in 1914, when he said it was in the possession of another member of the family, Lady Helen Forbes née Craven. She had bought it, from a dealer, as there is a price and brief description pencilled inside: "Most of the poems are unpublished. £5 5s”.
From her it was handed down to the present owner.
On the first page we find a Dedicatory “Sonnet to the Right Hon Lady Craven, on her Poetical Works, by the Revd Mr Jenner”.
I saw fair Craven sit in state...
This poem is not a sonnet in the true sense, having 16 lines mostly shorter than a pentameter. It was published in The Monthly Mirror, London 1801, p.151.
There is an 8-page dedication that it says was written for a copy of these poems given to the Duchess of Marlborough in March 1774. The volume can be dated 1775 or later as that is the date of the poem To My Harp.
Most of the poems were written far earlier, even before her marriage, or shortly after it, and among these are several of merit that deserve to be published. Among these are an early poem dedicated to Craven's sister, Lady Granard. It gives a touching picture of the affection of these two sisters, neither of them happily married, providing sympathy and support for each other during a visit Georgiana made to Coombe Abbey - a visit it seems her husband or Elizabeth's curtailed. While it is still an apprentice poem it is original and poignant.
More accomplished are The Waxbill, an elegy on the death of a pet bird, and To My Harp, a poem of gratitude to the instrument she played and loved. Its sentiments are comparable to those of the celebrated German romantic poem An Die Musik, by Franz von Schober, set to music by Schubert fifty years later.
These poems are transcribed below.
To the Countess of Granard.
“The following I wrote to the Countess of Granard when she was in Ireland, and I at Combe Abbey alone. The story of the swans thus far is really true; there were ten bred from one only pair; and on my arrival at Combe they came and settled upon the piece of water just finisht before my window. Oct. 1772."
Four weeks I’ve passed alone – and from that chair
Where oft I pensive sit, and sighing trace
The hours that we have pass’d together here,
The recollective Tear steals down my Face.
The Chair is just before a window plac’d,
From whence the River’s beauteous turns I see;
And ever has its limpid stream been grac’d
With swans more fair, and far more bless’d than me.
Think not, my Sister, that like savage Men,
They drive each other from their fav’rite spot,
Though there are always Eight and sometimes
Ten,
By one or other, none is e’er forgot.
They all are sprung from one contented pair,
Which, on my my coming here, by chance I found;
And all together have resolvd this year,
To prove a truth that’s moral as it’s sound.
Like us, their hearts are led to single out
For each, an Object dearer than the rest;
With this, they soar in air, or swim about,
Or close together on the banks they rest.
Whole hours I often have observ’d one pair,
In conversation resting on the grass:
The others seem as if they did not hear,
Nor will they see, tho’ close to them they pass.
But I watched Men, exactly the reverse,
Ne’er see a friendship but they try to move
The social tie; or, what is ten times worse,
They often call it by the name of Love.
At other times I see them sally forth
In quest of food, and to each other call,
And let each other share of all they’re worth;
To every Swan good luck can’t always fall.
The rav’nous heron astonisht quits the shore,
In awful silence fly th’embodied geese,
The fish look up with wonder, and adore
Their friendly harmony, their charming peace.
With heartfelt sighs I then compare their fate
To mine, who in their social joys delight;
Yet think that I’m alone, whilst they are eight;
With them ’tis sunshine but with me ’tis night.
Could all that I’m related to but know
The mutual want we of each other feel,
The strength that from united Parents flow,
The things we ought to hide that we reveal!
But here my sorrow makes expression fail,
And lest it should infect your filial heart,
To you I leave the moral of the Tale,
In it you bear with me an equal part.
Oh come my sister from Hibernia’s plain,
’Tis friendship only will detain you here,
And let us like the happy swans remain,
One ever envied, re-united pair.
The Wax-Bill. An Elegy.
"I was regretting the loss of a favourite Bird, a Waxbill, who died for grief at the loss of his Mate: and one winter’s evening, reading by the light of a Fire, I was struck with the following Ideas --- and hope, those who read these Lines, will not think my Waxbills too sentimental. It is not through my fault that they think in a more refined manner than men. Whoever has seen their form and colour will find their thoughts of a suitable [i.e. matching] delicacy."
Perch’d on the turning leaf a little spright
Sate hov’ring, whilst its rosy wings
Transparent spread around a glimmering light,
Like the first blush Aurora brings.
Like that of glow-worms in some happy Eve,
When Cynthia, fav’ring lovesick tears,Veils her chaste head, in pity to relieve
The Maiden’s blush, the Lover’s fears.
When thus its Coral bill my thoughts address’d,
In strains melodious, like in soundTo Lilliputian words; each note express’d
Sweet tenderness, and sense profound.
“Kind Mistress, cease to weep my early Grave,
I come approving smiles to move;
A life of joy eternal heaven gave
To us, who liv’d in perfect love.
Recall to mind that heavy low’ring morn,
When from my panting, glowing side
By too severe decree of fate, was torn
My beauteous, gentle, blooming bride.
Her down was like the fragrant rose’s leaves,
Her eyes celestial sparks of fire;Her manner like the Cyprian Queen’s; who gives
A name divine to soft desire.
O think what sorrowing madness seiz’d my
head,
To find this sweet perfection gone;
My wonted rosy-feather’d pillow – fled;
Myself condemned to sigh alone.
How often hast thou seen us nobly scorn,
Man’s greatest gift, your Briton’s pride,
Fair Liberty, when each returning morn
Display’d our Portal, open’d wide?
Say, whilst in wiry palace closely pent
Forbid, like other Birds, to soar,
Did’st thou not hear us warbling sweet
content,
Without a wish for blessings more?
We liv’d alone to Love – the artful hand
That set the snare, could never part
Our souls, united by divine command,
Each acted by the other’s heart.
Did not, when first my hapless Mate I sought,
each ling’ring moment Torture yield?
Still from my aching sight, each wire, I thought,
The object of my Love concealed.
In piteous haste I scatter’d every seed
thy bounteous hand to me could give;
At every fruitless search my heart would bleed,
And tell me, ’twas a pain to live.
With fury then I flew around my Cage,
In mournful cries I spent the day,
And struck my head against the top with rage,
Then sigh’d my little soul away.
Weep not for me; for those flow pity’s tear
Whose fates the wish’t for grave deny,
Unhappy men, for many a tedious year,
Lose what they love, yet dare not die.
Weep for such woe attending human kind,
compassion there is misery’s need,
If such fond hearts amongst your race you find,
whose memory only sorrows feed;
Whose every breath but indicates a sigh;
whose every look sad tears reveal,
Unmov’d by each remaining tie
The want of death alone they feel.
Perhaps on Zephyr’s wings I’ve flown to thee,
fill’d with aerial, grateful mirth.
For know, I’m blest as Gnome or Sylph can be,
And thank thee for thy care on earth.
Could thou but half th’aereal pleasures share, ---
But hold” – and here it ceas’d its song.
Its little self dissolved away in air,
While on my ear the accents hung.
To My Harp. 1775.
Harmonious soother of each lonesom hour,
The tuneful Muse, on whom depends thy power,
Shall sing in strains, improv’d by hearing thine,
That Power, which Poets justly call divine.
For oft when Solitude, best nurse to Love,
Makes time with absence heavy-laden move,
Thy chearful notes can sooth an aching heart,
Thy gentle sounds the voice of Love impart,
And ease a wretched lover’s sad alarms;
In thine still fondly dream another’s charms:
Thy softest notes shall chear his care to rest,
And calm the tumults of his sighing breast:
While each soft note that vibrates on the ear,
Shall represent a sweeter sound by far
Than any heavenly music e’er could prove,
The well-known voice of what we fondly love.
But not to Love alone thou art confin’d,
To thee shall bend the stern imperious mind,
Though arm’d with studied reason, learning, sense,
For Study ne’er at Music took offence.
Harmoniously the Statesman’s soul unbend,
And sink the Courtier in the tender friend.
Make him forget while list’ning to thy tones,
The cry of faction, or his country’s groans.
Now stop gigantic Power’s hasty stride,
And stem the current of oppression’s tide.
In vain ambitious pride that power denies
At whose approach each selfish passion dies;
Whose pleasing magic melts the human heart,
And bids each feeling act a better part.
The gallant soldier list’ning to thy strains,
(That still may haunt him o’er the bloody plains),
Shall pity blend with courage in the Field,
To thine the Trumpet’s martial sound must yield.
Be thine the care to sing his glorious deeds,
Whilst for his Country’s good he nobly bleeds.
Oft may the Hero thy soft influence greet,
And lay his Laurels at the Muse’s feet! ---
But chiefly to the dead, unfeeling mind
Thy softest notes direct – to that unkind,
Inhuman heart, where sorrow never dwelt,
Whom foreign woes to pity ne’er could melt –
That coldly scorns the pleasing anxious care
Which Friendship bids each social virtue wear;
Teach it that feeling it would fain deny,
Nor let misfortune unreliev’d pass by;
While yet amaz’d it seeks, but seeks in vain,
That joy with which it saw another’s pain.
Now, as the list’ning birds distend their throats,
In sounds as wild as theirs, display thy notes,
And teach the sons of men like them to prize
The charms of Liberty, which gilds their skies,
And makes the neighb’ring grove a Paradise;
Where unconfin’d and chearful as they rove,
They daily sing of Liberty and Love.---
Far hence the thoughtless Boor, whose ruthless
hand
The warbling airy throng in vain withstand,
With piercing notes, expressive of their fears,
While he perchance their downy palace tears;
The trembling mother of her sons despoils,
And mars the sweets of all her chearful toils;
With thrilling plaintive voice she rends the skies,
The feather’d male alone can sooth her cries:
A safer shrub receives the faithful pair,
In soft endearments they forget their care,
And while another nest employs their Minds,
Commit their sorrow to the passing winds[.]
Then laws on laws still heap deluded Man,
Destroy with prejudice kind Nature’s plan;
Make slaves of Heav’ns best gift fair woman kind,
Suppress each soft o’erflowing of the mind.
While thus ye act, reflection is a Jest,
And riches are but Poverty at best;
Your boasted Justice, but the source of Care;
Your scenes of Joy, but masks for sad despair.
Ungrateful men impute alone to Fate
The various scenes of woe themselves create;
And every bird that wings of every bush
Shall make the wayward sons of reason blush,
Still forc’d to envy what they would condemn,
And own that birds are far more blest than men.
Some few, indeed, escape this just decree,
Alive to Music and humanity,
Unhappy Lovers, weeping Friends there are,
And such shall be the Muse’s tenderest Care,
Avaunt each noisy Bacchanalian crew,
Such gentle sounds ye never felt or knew.
Still be each wind, let none but Zephyrs move,
To waft thy notes along the peaceful grove
Whose grateful shade adorns sweet Benham’s
plains,
Where listening Dryads shall applaud thy
strains.
The Mistress of that grove shall owe to thee
Each generous thought, improv’d by harmony.
Perchance indeed may some unthought of woe
Her placid scheme of happiness o’erthrow;
Then will she fly to thee for soft relief, [1]
For Harmony can mitigate each Grief.
But, should kind fate her every wish fulfill,
Thy strings, high tuned to joy, shall chearful still,
In sprightly cadence with her fingers move,
Each note expressing Friendship, Joy and Love.
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