 | Poetical Trifles |  |
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THE HEATHEN SYSTEM.
A VERY MORAL TALE.
If, as our weary steps we bend,
Through life's dull journey, to our end,
Pleasure still hovering in our view,
The phantom flies as we pursue;
Let us, amid this state of grief,
Of hopes, of fears, of cares below,
In fancied blessings seek relief,
From the sharp pangs of real woe.
Through life's dull journey, to our end,
Pleasure still hovering in our view,
The phantom flies as we pursue;
Let us, amid this state of grief,
Of hopes, of fears, of cares below,
In fancied blessings seek relief,
From the sharp pangs of real woe.
Time quickly flies, why should we waste
A serious thought on moments past,
Or cloud with unavailing sorrow
The flattering prospects of to-morrow?
Enough for us, if fancy's ray
Brighten the visions of to-day,
Pleas'd with our follies, we'll despise
The sober miseries of the wise.
A serious thought on moments past,
Or cloud with unavailing sorrow
The flattering prospects of to-morrow?
Enough for us, if fancy's ray
Brighten the visions of to-day,
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The sober miseries of the wise.
Oh! how I love the heathen system,
It beats all others beyond odds;
Sure every Miss had run, and kiss'd 'em,
Could they have seen those charming gods;
For still they found each other joy
Would quickly tire, would quickly cloy;
Woman alone was ever new,
Tho' true, 'twas strange,—tho' strange, 'twas true:
Examples I could give you plenty,
But one may serve as well as twenty.
It beats all others beyond odds;
Sure every Miss had run, and kiss'd 'em,
Could they have seen those charming gods;
For still they found each other joy
Would quickly tire, would quickly cloy;
Woman alone was ever new,
Tho' true, 'twas strange,—tho' strange, 'twas true:
Examples I could give you plenty,
But one may serve as well as twenty.
Jove, as the antient Poets tell us,
Oft by his freaks made Juno jealous,
Nay, scandalous reports have said,
That whether widow, wife, or maid,
Or black, or fair, or young, or old,
Or easy temper'd, or a scold,
Or fat, or lean, or short, or tall,
He found a something in them all.
Oft by his freaks made Juno jealous,
Nay, scandalous reports have said,
That whether widow, wife, or maid,
Or black, or fair, or young, or old,
Or easy temper'd, or a scold,
Or fat, or lean, or short, or tall,
He found a something in them all.
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Yet still, to gain Amphitryon's bride,
In vain his every art he plied,
At length her husband's form he tried:
Her Husband's!—start not, gentle dame,
'Twas then no very odious name;
Husbands, few ages then had past,
Were sometimes fond, wives sometimes chaste.
But whether, by his shape deceiv'd,
The incautious fair his tale believ'd,
Or whether she in private knew
The false Amphitryon from the true,
And, as I rather apprehend,
Wink'd at the change, and took his friend;
Suffice it, all in order went,—
The lover pleas'd, the wife content.
In vain his every art he plied,
At length her husband's form he tried:
Her Husband's!—start not, gentle dame,
'Twas then no very odious name;
Husbands, few ages then had past,
Were sometimes fond, wives sometimes chaste.
But whether, by his shape deceiv'd,
The incautious fair his tale believ'd,
Or whether she in private knew
The false Amphitryon from the true,
And, as I rather apprehend,
Wink'd at the change, and took his friend;
Suffice it, all in order went,—
The lover pleas'd, the wife content.
I own, indeed, 'twas somewhat odd
She found no difference in the God;
For Jove, to get the business done,
Combin'd three winter's nights in one;
Three nights in mutual joys they past,
Each night more blissful than the last,
And curs'd the hours that flew too fast.
Three nights, you say? Why faith that's true,
'Twas more than mortal man could do,
But for a God, you know—Agreed.
Well, to my story I proceed.
She found no difference in the God;
For Jove, to get the business done,
Combin'd three winter's nights in one;
Three nights in mutual joys they past,
Each night more blissful than the last,
And curs'd the hours that flew too fast.
Three nights, you say? Why faith that's true,
'Twas more than mortal man could do,
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Well, to my story I proceed.
Miss Danaë, by guards secur'd,
Was in a brazen tower immur'd;
But, as an author of great fame
(I can't just recollect his name)
Has somewhere said, who seeks to bind
By force, or fraud, a woman's mind,
With locks, and bolts, and bars, and chains,
But gets his labour for his pains.
Was in a brazen tower immur'd;
But, as an author of great fame
(I can't just recollect his name)
Has somewhere said, who seeks to bind
By force, or fraud, a woman's mind,
With locks, and bolts, and bars, and chains,
But gets his labour for his pains.
So Jove, who each expedient knew,
Soon forc'd his easy passage through;
In heavy Shower of potent Gold
His soft, prevailing tale he told,
And, by his aid, the yielding fair
Soon bless'd her father with an heir.
Soon forc'd his easy passage through;
In heavy Shower of potent Gold
His soft, prevailing tale he told,
And, by his aid, the yielding fair
Soon bless'd her father with an heir.
Next, for no pleasures could he see,
Except in sweet variety,
Beneath a Swan's soft plumes conceal'd,
His glowing passion he reveal'd;
Flutt'ring he sought fair Leda's breast,
The Fair the beauteous bird caress'd!
Trembling, with well-dissembled fear,
He seem'd to seek for shelter there;
Then twin'd him round her snowy charms,
And found his heaven in her arms.
Except in sweet variety,
Beneath a Swan's soft plumes conceal'd,
His glowing passion he reveal'd;
Flutt'ring he sought fair Leda's breast,
The Fair the beauteous bird caress'd!
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He seem'd to seek for shelter there;
Then twin'd him round her snowy charms,
And found his heaven in her arms.
Next, in a milk-white Bull's disguise,
At fair Europa's feet he lies;
Borne on his back she quits the shore,
And trembling hears the hoarse waves roar;
To be at sea, a-pick-a-pack,
Riding upon a white bull's back,
Was droll enough; but 'twas more odd
To see the Bull chang'd to a God!
At fair Europa's feet he lies;
Borne on his back she quits the shore,
And trembling hears the hoarse waves roar;
To be at sea, a-pick-a-pack,
Riding upon a white bull's back,
Was droll enough; but 'twas more odd
To see the Bull chang'd to a God!
Her tongue in vain prepar'd to chide,
Her smiling eyes her tongue bely'd;
Pity began her heart to move,
His fault was only—too much love.
What could she do?—no succour nigh,
No friend to help, no foe to pry;
Jove gain'd his pardon, and, 'tis said,
Found all his trouble overpaid.
Her smiling eyes her tongue bely'd;
Pity began her heart to move,
His fault was only—too much love.
What could she do?—no succour nigh,
No friend to help, no foe to pry;
Jove gain'd his pardon, and, 'tis said,
Found all his trouble overpaid.
Now, as a parson in the pulpit,
Who long has teaz'd you with his dull fit,
Yet wisely knowing dinner nigh,
Contracts his sermon, to apply,
In pity to your heads, I'll try,
Like epilogues to modern scenes,
To tell you what my story means.
Who long has teaz'd you with his dull fit,
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Contracts his sermon, to apply,
In pity to your heads, I'll try,
Like epilogues to modern scenes,
To tell you what my story means.
'Tis this---In spite of cynic rules,
And all the moral cant of schools,
If, in the web of life intwin'd,
Some mingled threads of love we find,
O let unskilful hands forbear,
Lest with rude touch the work they tear,
And wound some kindred virtue there.
And all the moral cant of schools,
If, in the web of life intwin'd,
Some mingled threads of love we find,
O let unskilful hands forbear,
Lest with rude touch the work they tear,
And wound some kindred virtue there.
Not with the cumbrous farce of state,
The splendid dulness of the great,
Not in the stern, unsocial hour
Of gloomy pomp, or friendless pow'r,
Nor with wisdom's empty name,
Nor in heaps of hoarded treasure,
Nor 'mid the “dangerous paths of fame,”
Dwells the fleeting nymph—coy Pleasure.
Love, love alone true joys can give,
“'Tis only when we love, we live.”
The splendid dulness of the great,
Not in the stern, unsocial hour
Of gloomy pomp, or friendless pow'r,
Nor with wisdom's empty name,
Nor in heaps of hoarded treasure,
Nor 'mid the “dangerous paths of fame,”
Dwells the fleeting nymph—coy Pleasure.
Love, love alone true joys can give,
“'Tis only when we love, we live.”
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