Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr John Hopkins |
 | I. |
| I. |
| II. |
|
| III. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
|
|
| III. |
|
| III. |
| I. |
|
Jupiter and Semele.
|
| II. |
|
|
| III. |
|
 | Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses |  |
71
Jupiter and Semele.
Beginning with the Description of Fame and her Palace.
A Place there is in the Capacious Air,
Where all things done, tho' far remote, appear,
Fame's lofty Palace, whose tall Tow'rs outvie
The lowly Clouds, and reach the Blewest Sky.
The Airy Queen in her high Mansions dwells,
Knows all is said, and more than all she tells.
Whate'er is done, whate'er is spoke she hears,
A hundred Ears, a thousand Tongues she bears.
Wing'd round about, thro' all her Tow'rs she flies,
Descends to Earth, and Mounts again the Skies.
Her Royal Arms two diff'rent Trumpets hold,
Brass in the left, and in the right hand, Gold.
From place to place with flying hast she roams,
And Sounds them loudly wheresoe'er she comes.
Ten thousand ways lead to her Spacious Court,
Millions of rumours to her Hall resort.
A while they talk of things they scarcely know,
wander a while, and then away they go.
Her Friendly Gates are wide expanded still,
And with strange News her large Appartments fill.
All built of Ringing Brass, her House resounds,
Reports things told, and every Word rebounds.
Within, no silence, yet the noise not loud,
But like the Murm'ring Voices of a Crowd.
Such as from far the rowling Billows cause,
Or as spent thunder with a fainting noise.
With secret Whispers all the Palace Rings,
Of unknown Authors, and of doubtful things.
Here, truths, with lies confus'dly mixt, are told,
And the New Words still differ from the old.
Millions of Tales, yet each, in telling, grows,
For every Author adds to what he knows.
So, in a Crowd, the Snow is rowl'd by all,
And grows a Mountain which was first a Ball.
Rash, foolish Errour has her lodgings here,
Vain, short liv'd Joy, and sad dejected Fear.
These wait on Fame, from her their being have,
And, when she pleases, lose the Life she gave.
Where all things done, tho' far remote, appear,
Fame's lofty Palace, whose tall Tow'rs outvie
The lowly Clouds, and reach the Blewest Sky.
The Airy Queen in her high Mansions dwells,
Knows all is said, and more than all she tells.
Whate'er is done, whate'er is spoke she hears,
A hundred Ears, a thousand Tongues she bears.
Wing'd round about, thro' all her Tow'rs she flies,
Descends to Earth, and Mounts again the Skies.
Her Royal Arms two diff'rent Trumpets hold,
Brass in the left, and in the right hand, Gold.
From place to place with flying hast she roams,
And Sounds them loudly wheresoe'er she comes.
Ten thousand ways lead to her Spacious Court,
Millions of rumours to her Hall resort.
A while they talk of things they scarcely know,
wander a while, and then away they go.
72
And with strange News her large Appartments fill.
All built of Ringing Brass, her House resounds,
Reports things told, and every Word rebounds.
Within, no silence, yet the noise not loud,
But like the Murm'ring Voices of a Crowd.
Such as from far the rowling Billows cause,
Or as spent thunder with a fainting noise.
With secret Whispers all the Palace Rings,
Of unknown Authors, and of doubtful things.
Here, truths, with lies confus'dly mixt, are told,
And the New Words still differ from the old.
Millions of Tales, yet each, in telling, grows,
For every Author adds to what he knows.
So, in a Crowd, the Snow is rowl'd by all,
And grows a Mountain which was first a Ball.
Rash, foolish Errour has her lodgings here,
Vain, short liv'd Joy, and sad dejected Fear.
These wait on Fame, from her their being have,
And, when she pleases, lose the Life she gave.
From her, wrong'd Juno knew her Bed defil'd,
Knew, how lew'd Semele was great with Child.
Inrag'd, she cries, my plaints are all in vain,
Poor, slighted Goddess! Will you still complain?
Sway we a Scepter, and is Heav'n our seat,
Or am I more than Titularly great?
When thus a Mortal bears a Rival's Name,
And by her Issue would Divulge her shame.
What she brings forth my Thund'rer did beget,
Such as our Love has scarce effected yet.
But if his Sister, and his Wife I be,
My Just revenge shall Act what's worthy me.
Then, leaves her Throne, and in a Colour'd Cloud,
Descended where her Rival's Palace stood.
Her Skin all wrinkled, and her Hair was gray,
Who with her creeping Feet, grop'd out her ling'ring way.
Crooked her Limbs, her Voice was Weak, and Hoarse,
In all respects she seem'd her Rival's Nurse.
Long would she talk, whene'er she mention'd Jove,
And Cry, Pray Heavens none else has wrong'd your Love.
Yet, truth, I fear, for Maids have thus been won,
Deceiv'd by Cheats, and by their Wiles undone.
If he be Jove, let him some wonder do,
That may convince you he is truely so.
In all his glories let him Act his Love,
Deckt with those Ensigns which his Godhead prove.
Such, and so mighty, as when Juno's Charms
Move him to clasp her in his burning Arms.
Thus she advis'd, and set her Thoughts on Fire,
Who wildly Rages with a fierce desire.
And begs of Jove a favour, yet unknown,
He bids her ask, he will refuse her none.
He swears by Styx, which, thro' obscure aboads,
Spreads his dull Streams, rever'd by all the Gods.
Pleas'd with her high, destructive Pow'r to move,
She must be lost by her Ambitious Love.
Tells him to her's he shall no Charms prefer,
But, as he is to Juno, be to her.
Within her Arms he must his glories shew,
And as he's Heaven's, be Love's great Thund'rer too.
In hast, he sought to stop her fatal Tongue,
For oh! On that he knew her ruine hung.
Too late alas! His vain atempt he made,
For she had ask'd, and must be now obey'd.
The God was griev'd he had so rashly sworn,
He knew his Love, his Semele must burn.
Wrapt in dark Clouds, he sadly Mounts his Throne,
And show'rs his sorrows in loud Tempests down.
Drest in his thunder, but of mildest Flame,
To those Appartments, where she lodg'd, he came.
Her great success she sadly now bewailes,
For Oh! more Fires than those of Love she Feels.
Her high presumption, and it's fate she Mourns,
And in those bright embraces, which she urg'd, she Burns.
Knew, how lew'd Semele was great with Child.
Inrag'd, she cries, my plaints are all in vain,
Poor, slighted Goddess! Will you still complain?
73
Or am I more than Titularly great?
When thus a Mortal bears a Rival's Name,
And by her Issue would Divulge her shame.
What she brings forth my Thund'rer did beget,
Such as our Love has scarce effected yet.
But if his Sister, and his Wife I be,
My Just revenge shall Act what's worthy me.
Then, leaves her Throne, and in a Colour'd Cloud,
Descended where her Rival's Palace stood.
Her Skin all wrinkled, and her Hair was gray,
Who with her creeping Feet, grop'd out her ling'ring way.
Crooked her Limbs, her Voice was Weak, and Hoarse,
In all respects she seem'd her Rival's Nurse.
Long would she talk, whene'er she mention'd Jove,
And Cry, Pray Heavens none else has wrong'd your Love.
Yet, truth, I fear, for Maids have thus been won,
Deceiv'd by Cheats, and by their Wiles undone.
If he be Jove, let him some wonder do,
That may convince you he is truely so.
In all his glories let him Act his Love,
Deckt with those Ensigns which his Godhead prove.
74
Move him to clasp her in his burning Arms.
Thus she advis'd, and set her Thoughts on Fire,
Who wildly Rages with a fierce desire.
And begs of Jove a favour, yet unknown,
He bids her ask, he will refuse her none.
He swears by Styx, which, thro' obscure aboads,
Spreads his dull Streams, rever'd by all the Gods.
Pleas'd with her high, destructive Pow'r to move,
She must be lost by her Ambitious Love.
Tells him to her's he shall no Charms prefer,
But, as he is to Juno, be to her.
Within her Arms he must his glories shew,
And as he's Heaven's, be Love's great Thund'rer too.
In hast, he sought to stop her fatal Tongue,
For oh! On that he knew her ruine hung.
Too late alas! His vain atempt he made,
For she had ask'd, and must be now obey'd.
The God was griev'd he had so rashly sworn,
He knew his Love, his Semele must burn.
Wrapt in dark Clouds, he sadly Mounts his Throne,
And show'rs his sorrows in loud Tempests down.
Drest in his thunder, but of mildest Flame,
To those Appartments, where she lodg'd, he came.
75
For Oh! more Fires than those of Love she Feels.
Her high presumption, and it's fate she Mourns,
And in those bright embraces, which she urg'd, she Burns.
| Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | |