A Collection of Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hecuba (the Wife of Priam King of Troy) being with Child (afterwards call'd Paris) dreamed she was deliver'd of a Firebrand: Priam consulting the Oracle thereupon, was answer'd, The Child should be the Cause of the Destruction of Troy; wherefore Priam commanded it should be deliver'd to wild Beasts assoon as born; but Hecuba, (mov'd with the natural Affection of a Mother for her Infant) to evade the barbarous Execution of this Order, got Paris privately convey'd to Mount Ida, there to be secretly foster'd by the Shepherds, where, when he was grown up, he fell

in Love with the Nymph OEnone. But an Apple being presented to the Goddesses Juno, Pallas, and Venus, bearing this Inscription, Detur pulchriori, (Let it be given to the fairest,) and a Contest thereupon arising, Jupiter appoints Paris for an Umpire to decide the Controversy: Each of the Goddesses therefore tempts him into her Favour by a promis'd Reward; Juno offers him Empire, Pallas Wisdom, and Venus the Enjoyment of the most beautiful Woman. The last won his Voice; and soon after being known and own'd for King Priam's Son, he sails into Greece, falls in Love with Helen, the Wife of King Menelaus, and carries her to Troy. OEnone hearing this, and raving to be so abandon'd and deceiv'd, writes the following Epistle to him, in which she Expresses a great Variety and Struggle of Passions.

No injur'd Prince, his Vengeance here proclaims;
But a weak Nymph of broken Vows complains.
Then safely read; or claims your Grecian Fair,
As all your Love, so all your Time and Care?
Unhappy Change! and can such Baseness wait
On noble Minds? O curse of being great!
There was a Time when Paris' self was known
A lovely Swain, whom I durst call my own.
There was a Time when I an harmless Maid,
He prest me to his Breast, and sigh'd and said,

“How long, my charming Nymph! must Paris burn,
“In ardent Love for you, without return?
“Hence let my Tongue no more of you complain,
“The truest Lover, make the happiest Swain.
“Feel here my Heart, what throbbing beats my Breast,
“Look on my Eyes, and there my Flame's confest:
“Thro' ev'ry Vein the swift Destruction flies,
“O yield OEnone, or your Paris dies!
Won with your Words, and gazing on your Charms,
I blush'd, and sigh'd, and dropt into your Arms.
Ah, then no fatal Pomp around you shone,
Nor known to be the mighty Priam's Son:
But o'er the Lawn, an exile Shepherd stray'd,
And I a fam'd and celebrated Maid;
Yet fam'd and celebrated as I was,
I met your Love, and stoop'd to your Embrace:
And while you sought no other Bed but mine,
OEnone saw the golden Hours of Time.
In flow'ry Shades we spent the Summer's Day,
In pleasing Dalliance, and delightful Play:
Or stray'd along the Margin of a Stream,
Or laid upon a Bank, and prest the Green:

Amidst our Flocks our am'rous Toys exprest,
Clasp'd Arm in Arm, and Breast repos'd on Breast;
Ev'n Winter's bleaky Months unheeded fled,
Nor knew we half the Storms, the Season shed.

With you I rose ere Phœbus shot a Ray,
To rouse the Stag, and chace the savage Prey:
Companion of your Sport, as of your Love,
The Deer surpris'd, adown the Hills we drove;
Well pleas'd, you smil'd, as in the flying Chace,
You heard me name the Hounds, and chear their Race:
And when the Game was o'er, you would relate,
How well I manag'd, and my Words repeat;
How swift I sped along the Forest-green,
And as you told, give Kisses in between.

On ev'ry stately Tree you carv'd my Name,
And cut out Records of your lasting Flame;
Each lofty Beech, a Protestation wears,
Which still grows larger with the length of Years.
Upon the flow'ry Banks of Xanthus grows
(Well known for Beauty, and for shady Boughs,)
A lofty Popular, may the Tree ne'er fade,
Nor be the Trunk by length of Years decay'd;

But shoot and flourish in perpetual Bloom,
Thro' present Times, and Ages yet to come:
For Paris cut these Verses in the Rind,
And vow'd he 'grav'd the Copy of his Mind.
“When for OEnone, Paris leaves to burn,
“The Streams of Xanthus to their Source shall turn.
Now turn ye Streams, thou Xanthus, backwards flow!
His Faith is perjur'd, and destroy'd his vow.
O rather, lovely Youth! return again,
Come sooth my woes, and mitigate my pain!
Nay, sooner Xanthus will revolve his Course,
And roll his Streamlets backwards to their Sourse.
Sure never Innocence or Love like mine,
Met such Delusion and Deceit as thine!
Nor know I justly where to cast the blame;
On Venus, or on Paris to complain:
'Twas she first sought our Blisses to divide,
And you, false Youth! too easily comply'd.
And can a heav'nly Pow'r so cruel be?
Or can the tender Queen of Love be she?
Where shall the Gods for Justice be rever'd,
If Innocence be doom'd to this Reward?

Within our Breasts a mutual Rapture sprung,
And Love was always sweet, and always young:
Our Nights all Joy, indulgent ev'ry Day,
Each Moment smil'd, each Minute danc'd away.
When from the bright celestial Thrones above,
Minerva, Venus, and the Spouse of Jove,
Together naked; left the blest Abodes,
Prefering Paris to th' immortal Gods:
When all unveil'd, their Beauties met your view,
The Prize contended, to be fix'd by you;
Not Wit, nor Empire, could invite your Choice,
But the fair Grecian Lady won your Voice.
When this you told, a sudden Horrour ran
Thro' all my Blood, and thrill'd in ev'ry Vein,
As sudden, Paleness did my Cheeks surprize,
And Floods of Tears stood trembling in my Eyes;
The dire Portents, how much I had to grieve,
What Woes to suffer, and what Days to live.
You stood and gaz'd, nor Words had I to speak,
While the pale Roses faded from my Cheek:
Then full of Love, you snatch'd me to your Breast,
And sigh'd, and thousand tender Things exprest;

Then swore by Jove, and ev'ry Power above,
Nor Fate, nor Time, should once divide our Love.
Sooth'd by the pleasing Musick of your Tongue,
All ravish'd, to your panting Breast I clung.
But soon my Bliss on hasty Wing I view'd;
Again it fled, no more to be renew'd:
When envious Fame your high Descent made known,
And to the World proclaim'd you Priam's Son.
From Groves, and Plains, and Grottos, you retir'd,
In Courts and Palaces to be admir'd;
And soon in Courts and Palaces were taught,
To break your Vows, and set your Oaths at nought,
And all the Truth and Honesty, we priz'd
In Groves, and Plains, and Grottos, you despis'd.
For now a Fleet of Ships at Anchor ride,
Bound in the Bay, and wanton with the Tide;
These wait the Gale, my Paris to convey,
O'er curling Surges, and a length of Sea.
O charming Youth! how then you seem'd to grieve,
When of your weeping Love, you took your Leave;
When on each Breast, did I, did you, incline,
You wept, I wept, you mixt your Tears with mine.

Nor be asham'd that then you shed a Tear,
OEnone lov'd, or griev'd to part from her;
Your Passion then was spotless as your Fame,
Not such a Love you bear the Grecian Dame:
About my Neck your circling Arms you threw,
As Vines on Elms, about my Neck they grew:
Whatever melting Grief could do, you did;
Whatever tender Love could say, you said;
You wept, and kist, and swore eternal Truth,
And call'd all Heav'n a Witness, perjur'd Youth!
How then you feign'd a Tempest on the Sea,
To lengthen Time, and spin your Stay with me;
You fancy'd Storms inclement, swept the Skie,
Which none could see but you, nor feel but I;
The Sailors smil'd the dear Deceit to View;
For all was calm, and scarce a Zephir blew:
'Till often call'd, and 'sham'd so long to stay,
You wrench'd aside, and tore yourself away:
Gods! at that Moment what my Heart sustain'd,
How sad, how griev'd, how agoniz'd, how pain'd!
I stood, a marble Statue, in my Woe,
Nor could I speak, nor Tears had Pow'r to flow;

But while mine Eyes your Gally kept in view,
To grieve and gaze was all that I could do;
'Till ply'd with Oars, and shot before the Wind,
You disappear'd, and left my Sight behind;
Yet still o'er swelling Seas and widen'd Main,
My Eyes pursu'd you, but pursu'd in vain.

Now drown'd in Tears I fall upon the Shore,
And all th' immortal Pow'rs of Heav'n implore,
That prosp'rous Breezes and indulgent Gales,
May gently heave you on, and swell your Sails,
And kindly o'er the rising Surges born,
You soon and safely to my Arms return.
My Pray'r was heard, but some indignant God,
Rejected half, and half my Pray'r bestow'd;
For soon your Gally measur'd back the Sea,
And you return'd, but not return'd to me.

A rugged Rock there is, whose awful Brow
Nods from the Skie, and shades the Deep below;
Against whose Sides, the justling Billows meet,
And break, and roar, and tumble at it's Feet;
This craggy Steep I daily us'd to climb,
While you were absent, to beguile the Time;

There mark the Track, you steer'd along the Main,
Or point what Place you must appear again.
My Eyes ran all th' expanded Prospect o'er,
Joyn'd Land to Land, and measur'd Shore to Shore.
At last, a Vessel rising to my View,
Revives old Transports, and solicits new.
Soft flutt'ring Pangs around my Bosom rove,
And my fond Soul springs full of you and Love.
Swift o'er the Waves, it leaves the Seas behind,
Spread full the Sails, and belly'd with the Wind:
When lo, as nearer to my Sight it drew,
A gawdy Scene of Splendour struck my view!
The Stern and Poop with gold and Silver glow,
And shed long Gleams upon the Deep below:
The Cords and Shrouds in figur'd Colours shone,
And flutt'ring Pendants glitter'd in the Sun.
But on the Deck, the Fate of all appear'd,
What my Heart boded, and my Bosom fear'd:
Stretch'd o'er, a Canopy that flam'd with Gold,
And golden Carpets lay beneath unrol'd;
There sat, in stately Pomp, the Grecian Queen,
Deluding smil'd, and languish'd in her Mein;

Her purple Dress flew loose with graceful Pride,
And a bright Azure stream'd on ev'ry Side:
Upon her Breast th' enamour'd Paris lay,
And raptur'd, sunk, and softly dy'd away;
While wanton, she his Bosom trifled bare,
Or dally'd with the Ringlets of his Hair.
Stung with the View, and maden'd at the Deed,
I furious, tore the Tresses from my Head;
Wild, down the rugged Precipice I ran,
And publish'd my Disorder o'er the Plain,
The Rocks and Caverns doubl'd to my Cries,
And all Mount Ida clamour'd with my Voice;
O Paris, faithless Paris! loud I cry'd,
O Paris, faithless Paris! they reply'd.
Soon as that lovely Name, forever dear!
Return'd in wand'ring Echoes on my Ear;
My Rage abated, but not so my Grief,
O sad Distraction! Pain beyond Belief!
All bath'd in Tears, I sought the Shades and Groves,
The conscious Witnesses of all our Loves;
There mark'd the Places, where my Paris stray'd,
And kist the Grove, and wept within the Shade;

Then fell upon the Turf, which oft we prest,
There wept again, and sigh'd, and mourn'd, and kist.

Say lovely Youth, for you have still my Heart,
Is all in vain, and fruitless ev'ry Art?
Will no fresh Spark re-kindle your Desire,
Can nothing fan to Life, your ancient Fire?
And must I ne'er expect your kind Return,
But sigh neglected, and neglected burn?
Is Paris deaf to his OEnone's Sighs,
And can she ask of him what he denies?
O wretched Change, O Perjury abhor'd!
And O yet lovely still, and still ador'd!
Is this my Fate, and am I then to find,
No calmer Pause, nor respite of the Mind;
But still the Furies, boundless in their Reign,
To spin one long continu'd thread of Pain:
Good Heav'n! declare what is my great Offence,
Or cease to punish spotless Innocence.

I've try'd all Arts my Passion to controul,
And still the giddy Tumult of my Soul;
But all in vain, no Charm has Strength to bind,
In lasting Chains, my wild disorder'd Mind;

Soon my weak-guarded Breast is touch'd a-new,
And all my Heart is full of Love and you;
The fiery Sparks begin to glow again
In ev'ry Pulse, and leap in ev'ry Vein.
Nor think, O Prince! so mean a Thought of me,
That my Heart swells to share a Throne with thee;
When with your Love compar'd, my Thoughts despise
The Pomp of Courts, and Empire's gawdy Joys:
Lay me but nearest to the Man I love,
I would not change to be the Wife of Jove.
When you a Swain, and trod behind the Plough,
I lov'd you then as dear, as much as now;
Then, you would press my Hand, and smiling own,
My Charms were such as might adorn a Throne:
O had you still that lovely Shepherd been,
And I remain'd your joyous rural Queen!
O had you ne'er of Grecian Beauties heard,
Nor wanton Venus' tempting gift prefer'd!
Still o'er these Lawns you'd rov'd a blissful Swain,
Nor I had Reason, justly to complain;
Then, yet your Flute had warbl'd thro' the Shade,
And Birds hung list'ning to the Tunes you play'd:

For while you watch'd your fleecy Wantons here,
And rais'd the various Products of the Year;
No Swain like you, could Charm with so much Ease,
Nor had that nat'ral Elegance to please;
Your Song, your Dance, the Virgins Bosoms fir'd,
While Shepherds gaz'd, and envy'd, and admir'd.
Alas! your Soul to-greater State was born,
Than range the Fields, or pipe beneath a Thorn;
And yet more blest those Fields might prove to you,
If you the Fate which threatens near, pursue.
For think not, Paris! that the Grecian Lord
Will stay his Vengeance, or restrain his Sword;
Ere long, his Wrongs shall tumult in Alarms,
And Troy behold all Greece approach in Arms.

Cassandra's Vision I shall still retain,
When the warm God-head run in ev'ry Vein;
In views of future Times, her Soul was fir'd,
And thus she told me what the Pow'r inspir'd.
No more OEnone, plough thy fruitless Plain,
O'er barren Wilds of Sand thou throw'st thy Grain;
For lo! a fatal Hiefer sails from Greece,
Which shall destroy thy Hopes, thy Joys, and Peace;

Nor only shall thy private Store destroy,
But Piram's House, and sink in Flames all Troy.
She comes! O righteous Heav'n, her Course restrain,
Or drive her back, or plunge her in the Main!
She said, and fled, nor yet her Mind was cool,
The God kept still Possession in her Soul.

I try'd to search the mystick Speech, in vain;
But you and Helen now disclose it plain:
My Hopes, my Joys, my Peace, are all destroy'd,
And Paris in another Bed enjoy'd!
Hence, endless Pain and Woe reside with me,
For my dear All is fled away in thee.
Nor stops the Mischief here, the Gods and Fate,
O'er Illion's Towers with red Destruction wait:
The Domes are fir'd, the pompous Palace burns,
And all the Land in Disolation mourns.
This is the Dow'r, the faithless Helen brings,
The Fall of Cities and the Blood of Kings:
Avert it, perjur'd Paris! and restore
The lawless Woman on the Spartan Shore.
Return within my peaceful Arms again,
Appease the Gods, and quench th' impending Flame.

Or if all this appear in your Esteem,
The Words of Women, and an idle Dream,
Yet can you hope the Grecian Dame will prove,
A lasting Passion, and a constant Love?
As thine, she once Atrides' Bosom prest,
As fondly clasp'd him, and as warmly kist;
And as he lies alone, forsaken now,
The like new Change of Fortune waits on you.
Fair as she is, no steady Soul she knows,
For ev'ry new deluding Youth she glows:
With ev'ry blooming Object, loves to play,
And melt in loose lascivious Trance away.
With Theseus, once the lovely Faithless sail'd,
And feigning Rage, the Flight a Rape mis-call'd,
Who can believe her Honour kept unfoil'd,
When Love beat high, and Theseus' Vigour boil'd?
Could Theseus with the blushing Wanton play,
And let the Moments idly creep away?
This, Madness unexampl'd, must believe,
Nor can the empty Sound of Rape, deceive;
She willing fled with him, as now with thee,
And the next Youth shall bear her o'er the Sea.

Not thus OEnone set her Heart on you,
But burns with constant Love, and keeps her Vow.
No plunder'd Beauties to your Arms I brought,
But spotless Innocence, in Deed and Thought.
My Virgin-Breast, no brutal Wishes mov'd,
But tender, melted, bled, ador'd, and lov'd;
Nor thought I it a Crime to meet your Arms,
And knew you but a Shepherd full of Charms:
Yet still there something more than Shepherds know,
Shone thro' your Airs, and dwelt upon your Brow;
When raptur'd, you the Flow'ry Garland made,
And mingl'd Pinks and Dasies in the Braid;
Then clasp'd me in your Arms, you'd smiling own,
The Head which wore it, well deserv'd a Crown;
But while with you in Groves and Shades retir'd,
No other Crowns, my ravish'd Breast desir'd.
To view these happy Hours approach again,
Were worth an Empire, or an Age of Pain!
But O that charming Day's forever fled;
What Tears I weep, and what I've yet to shed!
The circling Hours, in painful Moments fly,
Nor sees the Sun, a greater Wretch than I;

While I of violated Faith complain,
And call on Paris to return, in vain.
More light thy Faith, more vain thy empty Vows,
Than Leaves which drop in Autumn from the Boughs,
Or idle Straws which wand'ring Zephirs bear,
Toss to and fro, and trifle in the Air.

O Phebus! what avails it me to know
The various Plants, their Virtues, where they grow!
In vain my Skill, in vain my Searches prove,
I cannot find a Cure for raging Love.
Not all the Virtues of the flow'ry Plain,
Can fix one Faithless, wand'ring Heart, again:
Nor thou thy self; the glorious God of Day,
Can sooth my Torments, or my Woes Allay.

Paris alone enjoys the mighty Pow'r,
To cure my Heart, and all my Joys restore.
Then fairest, loveliest, dearest Youth! return,
Bring Life, and Love, and Day, and Night, and Morn;
For curs'd from thee, I none of these enjoy,
But sigh, and mourn, and weep, and faint, and die.
O come, O snatch you from the Grecian Fair!
Ere Troy be plung'd in Flame, in Blood and War;

Ere some curs'd Spear, more fatal than the rest,
Pierce at thy Heart, and wallow thro' thy Breast.
Make haste, forsake your beauteous Fugitive,
Be mindful of your Country's Good, and live.