Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sure thou at least did never prove
“The pangs, the bliss that wait on love,”
Nor felt within thy throbbing heart,
The witching anguish of his dart;
Nor round thy brow his myrtle worn,
Nor pluck'd his rose of many a thorn;
Or, trust me, thou would'st ne'er suppose,
That one who felt his pleasing woes,

Whose heart confess'd his thrilling joy,
Could calmly sit and “paint the boy.”
Could analyse with judgment true,
Each charm, each imperfection too!
Could with a cold and critic eye,
This beauty point, this fault decry;
And with a cognoscenti air,
Or technic term, her thoughts declare,
Then careless add, “now pr'ythee, mind me,
“I'll paint thee boy, just as I find thee;”
Then seize the pencil,—“steady, pray,
“Your head a little more this way;
“Aye;—there's the contour of the face,
“The winning glance, the childish grace,
“How many ambush'd mischiefs lie
“Beneath that artful, down-cast eye?
“Those vermil lips, how full of guile,
“What murder lurks beneath that smile?
“Amidst these simple tresses fair,
“How many varied ills repair?
“These azure, downy wings, still sure
“T'expand when once thy prey's secure;

“Thy blushing form's celestial glow,
“Warm as th'emotions you bestow,
“That gazing on thee one supposes
“Thou, like thy mother, fed'st on roses!
“Now get thee gone;—thy portrait's finish'd,
“I've nothing added, nor diminish'd.”
And could I thus dismiss the child,
Resist his looks, seducing, mild,
His soft, persuasive eloquence,
That sweetly steals upon the sense;
Could I, had love possessed my mind,
Thus faults and charms alternate find:
Ah no!—my eyes had then been dim,
Or nought but beauties seen in him;
Unfinish'd, then, the sketch I'd part,
To strain the model to my heart;
Thus to evince his magic skill,
Obey his royal master's will,

And paint the monarch's fav'rite maid,
Apelles daringly essay'd,
Nor felt the dang'rous part he play'd!
But ah! too soon ensnared, amaz'd,
He faintly drew, but eager gaz'd;
While from each charm that met his view,
A thousand latent arrows flew,
Each beauty he attempts to trace,
But wounds him with some lurking grace!
In vain he'd seek her eyes, her lips,
Love revels there, here nectar sips;
Then wanders to her smiling air,
Still love intrusive wantons there;
Till thro' each glance love slyly stole,
Beneath his art into his soul,
Confused and lost he vainly tried,
The pencil's magic point to guide;
The living tint no longer glows,
Nor on the cavas life bestows;
The likeness baffled all his art,
But liv'd intense within his heart!

And thus we read Pygmalion paid
Love's tribute to his iv'ry maid;
While, as beneath his chissel grew
Each charm, he gaz'd, and languish'd too;
To Venus then preferr'd a prayer,
To animate his lifeless fair;
His ardent prayer the goddess grants,
With life the beauteous statue pants!
But I, with many a critic stricture,
Have coldly finish'd off my picture,
As calm and as impartial too,
As if my good grand-sire I drew;
Nor has a single soft emotion
Betrayed me to the god's devotion!
Nay more, to him and thee I vow,
E'en yet I scorn his twanging bow,
Nor has his keen and subtle dart,
E'en graz'd my cold and tranquil heart:
Ne'er did the imp my mind employ,
His spell my bosom's peace destroy,

Ne'er from his torch a spark I stole,
The muse and friendship fill my soul!
But with indiff'rence many an hour,
I've laughed at all his vaunted power;
And if he erst has been my theme,
'Twas but my fancy's idle dream,
Not always what we write we feel,
For poets best in fiction deal!

It was said of the Venus of Apelles, that her flesh looked as if she fed on roses.

Apelles, at the desire of Alexander the Great, drew the picture of Pancaste, his mistress; but becoming passionately attached to the original, during the performance of his task, he received her from the hands of his generous master.

Pygmalion, the son of Cilix, who became enamoured of an ivory statue of his own execution. See Ovid's Met.