University of Virginia Library

Hippomenes and Atalanta.

To Shady Woods fair Atalanta fled,
Resolv'd to shun the fatal Marriage Bed.
Warn'd by Apollo, she prepares to flee
From every Suitor not so swift as she.
Replies to all, she must be first outrun,
Or else she Lives to be enjoy'd by none.
Declares besides, who thro' presumption tries
To Conquer her, if unsuccessful, dies.
Thus, many swains Love's, and Death's pangs did bear,
Their hazard noble, as the Maid was fair.
Whilst others fear'd to seek the Beauteous prize,
What her Eyes urg'd, her fatal tongue denies.
Now some bold Youth, who long a Flame had born,
Nor could expect, or hope a kind return,
Prefer'd her Conquest far before her scorn.
And begs a race, nor does he know to fear,
'Tis less, much less to die, than languish in Despair.
Here Young Hippomenes by chance appears,
And of the Lover, and his Flame, he hears.
It first his pity, then his Anger mov'd,
He crys the Maid is too, too much belov'd.
But in the race, when he her form beheld,
He was with fonder Admiration fill'd.
He gaz'd with wonder, nor could Justly tell,
Which did, her Beauty, or her speed, excel.
Swift as a Scythian shaft the Virgin flew,
Scarce could her Lover within sight pursue.
With a Wing'd hast she nimbly seem'd to fly,
Her Feet outran the quick Spectator's Eye.
Now growing warm he still admires her more,
Her motion fann'd those Fires, which her Eyes caus'd before.
Whilst the fond Winds bear back the purple strings
Which bind her Legs, and seem like looser wings.
Tossing her Hair on her fair Shoulders spread,
And all her snowy skin grows Beauteous Red.
Carnation Curtains so on Walls display'd,
Die their pure whiteness with a fainting shade.
All this he sees, and he admires it all,
And almost fears that thus himself must fall.
Praises the Maid, and is Enamour'd grown,
Wishes she now may be o'ercome by none.
He is resolv'd his better fates to try,
And must enjoy her, or he vows to die.
Thus while he Thought; the fatal race was run,
And the lost Lover's Life fair Atalanta won.
The bold Spectator from the Crowd appears,
And humbly bowing Darts his Eyes at hers.
His Love he does above his Life esteem,
And owns the Conquest she has gain'd of him.
Tells her she must her Victory pursue,
And, as with Beauty, kill with swiftness too.
Demands a race, not fainting, or afraid,
But slights all dangers for the Beauteous Maid.
Bids her contend with him, nor seek to raise
By meaner Conquests, but a meaner praise.
Sprung from great Neptune, he assures her so,
She will be Victor in her overthrow.
The Boy she hears, and does his Beauties view,
She would not have him his designs pursue,
And scarce, ah! scarce she wishes to subdue.
What God she says would such a Youth destroy,
Who thro' these dangers would my Charms enjoy!
What! what's his Mien! what is he all I see!
Such sparkling glories so despis'd for me!
Must those bright looks, those shining Beauties fall,
My Merit never could reward them all.
Ah! Charming Boy! shun my deluding Bed,
You cannot Conquer; and I must not Wed.
Your worth you know not, and you doat on mine,
There is no Virgin who would not be thine.
In vain, I speak, and I advise in vain,
In vain alas! you hear of Numbers slain.
O I could wish you would the danger shun,
Or, since resolv'd, would you could faster run.
Thou, Beauteous Boy! art the dear Youth alone,
To whom my Charms should be intirely known,
And should be mine, were I my self my own.
Would Heav'n had Order'd that I ne'er had been,
Or that you ne'er had Atalanta seen.
Thus far her new born Passion urg'd the Maid,
He hears it all, and as he hears, is glad.
Perceives her Flames, tho' to her self unknown,
And hopes e'er long to Crown them with his own.
The Numerous Crowds do now impatient grow,
With Murmurs of a race, and swarm to know.
The eager Boy calls Venus to his Aid,
That, as he Loves, he may enjoy the Maid.
From her, three Golden Apples he receives,
Who tells the use of the Rich Fruit she gives.
Now both the Lovers at the Barrier stand,
And the loud Trumpets Sound on either Hand.
They start at once, who might be safely born
O'er Autumn Fields, nor hurt the standing Corn.
A thousand Cries rise from the Noisy Crowd,
The Goal is yours, hast, hast, they shout aloud.
Ill with his Feet the Boy's desires comply,
He sees the maid, but ah! he sees her fly.
How did she stay, when she might oft o'ergo,
And look, and grieve, that she out-strip'd him so?
Now the tir'd Youth one of the Apples threw,
In quest of which the greedy Virgin flew.
Behind her far the rowling Gold was thrown,
Which she admires, for which she Deigns to run.
The glowing Youth now swiftly passes by,
And the loud Field resounds with shouts of Joy,
Yet soon again she overtakes the Boy.
The other two with greater force he throws,
By which the Virgin does the Conquest lose.
For each she turns, and lets her Lover run,
Who now was foremost, when the race was done,
And Atalanta by the Youth was won.