Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

High in Achaia, splendid from afar,
A City flourish'd; Calydon its Name,
Wash'd by Evenus' chalky Flood; the Seat
Of Meleager, from the slaughter'd Boar
Glorious. A Virgin here, amazing, shone,
Callirhoe the fair: her Father's Boast!
For, ah! she never knew a Mother's Smile;
Nor learn'd what Happiness from Marriage springs.
In Flow'r of Youth, and purer than the Snow,
Which, with a silver Circle, crown'd the Head
Of the steep neighbour Mountain; but averse
To Hymen's Rites, the lovely Foe of Man.
O why will Beauty, cruel to itself,
No less than others, violate the Laws
Which Nature dictates, and Itself inspires!

A thousand Lovers from th' Olenian Hill,
From rough Pylene, and from Pleuron's Towr's,
Their Passion pleaded. But Coresus, chief,
The Calydonian Priest of Bacchus, form'd
By Venus' self for Love; in Beauty's Pride;
Young, bounteous, affable. What tender Arts,
What winning Carriage, and respectful Suit,
Almost to zealous Adoration swell'd,
Did he not practise? But in vain, And now
Drew near the Orgial Festival, and Rites
Lyæan. Poor Coresus, to approve
The Wonders of his Love and dear Regard,
By Scorn unquench'd, and growing by Neglect,
(In Hopes to soften her, at least adorn)
Presented to this Murdress of his Peace
The ritual Ornaments, by Virgins worn
Upon the solemn Feast. The Ivy-Spear,
With winding Green, and viny Foliage gay,
Curl'd by his Hand: a Mitre for his Head,
Curious aumail'd with imitated Grapes,
Of blushing Rubies form'd: the Pall of Lawn,

Flow'r'd with the Conquests of the purple God:
The Cista, Silver; and the Cymbals, Gold:
And Piny Torch (O were it Hymen's!) ting'd
With spicy Gums, to feed the ready Flame.

Open'd the Festival—Loose to the Winds,
Dishevel'd, bare, the Virgins give their Necks
And wanton Hair. Evœ! they mad'ning cry,
And shake their Torches. Evœ! Io! rends
The Air, and beats the echoing Vault of Heav'n.
The Hills, the Vales with Io! Evœ! ring.

The Temple opens to the sacred Throng;
When foremost enters, as in Dress and Charms,
Callirhoe, so in Speed. Their Lovers wait,
With burning Expectation, to enfold
His beauteous Mistress each. High on a Throne
Coresus blaz'd in Jewels and in Gold,
More charming in Himself. Quick with his Eye
He catch'd Callirhoe, and, descending, clasp'd
With eager Transport her reluctant Waist.

A thousand Vows he breath'd, and melting Things
He spoke and look'd; but to the Rocks and Wind.
What cou'd he more? Yes more he did: for what,
What can't a Lover, like Coresus, do?
Neglectful of his Dignity he sunk
(Still Love disdains what Dignity demands,
O'er Jupiter himself supreme) he sunk,
And trembled at her Feet, with prostrate Zeal,
As to his God. He dy'd upon her Hand
With sighing Languishment: He gaz'd his Soul
At every ardent Glance into her Eyes;
Most eloquently silent! O'er his Cheek
The gushing Tears, in big, round drops, diffus'd
The Dews of Passion, and the Brain's soft Show'r,
Potent to warm the most obdurate Breast,
Tho' cold as Marble. Idle were his Tears,
His Glances, Languishment and prostrate Zeal.

Disdainful—frowning: “Hence, (she cry'd) nor dare
To interrupt my Progress in the Rites
With thy capricious Rudeness. Shall the Priest

The Mysteries of Bacchus thus profane,
In his own Temple too? And rather pay
To Venus his Devotion, than his God?”
Then, haughty as away she turn'd, he grasp'd
Her Knees; upon her Garments flowing train
Shivering he hung: and with beseeching Eyes,
Thus, from th' Abundance of his Heart, complain'd.

“If Pity be no Stranger to thy Breast,
(As sure it should not to a Breast like thine,
Soft as the Swanny Down!) relenting, hear;
In Feelingness of Spirit, mildly lend
Attention to the Language of my Heart,
Sick with o'er-flowing Tenderness and Love.
I love thee with that Innocence of Truth,
That Purity of Passion, and Desire
Unutterable, of bequeathing up
My Heart, my Life, my All into thy Hands,
Into thy gentle Custody;—that All,
My Heart, my Life, are Bitterness and Weight
Of Agony without thee. Since I first,

(By Bacchus' self I swear,) beheld that Face,
And nameless Magick of those radiant Eyes,
All the Foundation of my Peace gave way:
While Hopes and Fears rose up in bosom-War
To desolate the Quiet of my Days.
Thy dear Idea was my fancy's Dream;
It mingled with my Blood; and in my Veins
Throb'd, undulating, as my Life were stung.
I live but on the Thought of Thee; my Breast
Bleeds in me, with Distress to see Thee frown.
O smile! by thy dead Mother's reverend Dust,
By all thy Bowels are most fond of, smile,
And chase these heavy Clouds of Grief away.
I beg by Bacchus; for His Sake be kind.”

Here, interrupted by the swelling Storm
Of Passion labouring in his Breast, his Words
Gave way for Sighs and Tears to speak the Rest.
She, in contempt'ous Derision, smil'd,
To which her Frowns were innocent: and thus:
“Thy staggering Pow'r, and Thee I scorn alike;

Him I despise, for chusing Thee his Priest;
Thee, for thy Arrogance, and Courtship vile.”

Indignant he, in wrathful Mood (alarm'd
More at his God revil'd, than scorn for him)
First casting on the Ground his Mitred-Crown,
With Hands and Eyes uplifted, ardent, pray'd.

“Offspring of Jove, Evœ Lyæus, hear!
If e'er these Hands with Ivy Wreaths thy Brow
Circled, and twining Tendrils of the Vine:
If e're my grateful Tongue, big with thy Praise,
Evœ Lyæus! Io Bacchus! sung:
If e'er thy Servant on thy Altars pour'd,
Copious, the purple Wave of offer'd Wine,
And, busy, fed the consecrated Fire
With Fat of Ass, or Hog, or mountain-Goat;
Devoutly lavish in the Sacrifice:
Avenge thy Priest; this cursed Race destroy:
Thy Honours violated thus, avow;
Till they confess this staggering Pow'r a God.”

He pray'd.—Loud Peals of Thunder shook the Fane:
The Image, nodding, his Petition seal'd;
And Bacchus gave the Calydonian Race
To Madness, and unutterable Woes.

The frantick Crowd, as if with Wine possest,
And the strong Spirit of the flaming Grape,
To and fro' reel, and stagger to and fro',
In Dithyrambic Measures, wild, convolv'd.
They toss their Cymbals, and their Torches shake,
Shrieking, and tear their Hair, and gash their Flesh,
And howl, and foam, and wheel the rapid Dance
In giddy Maze: with Fury then o'erborn,
Euthusiastick, whirling in Despair,
Flat, drop down dead; and Heaps on Heaps expire.

Amaz'd, confounded at the raging Pest,
The venerable Fathers, in debate,
To speed enquiring Deputies, resolv'd,
To high Dodona's Grove; with vocal Oaks

Umbrageous, aged, vast, the struggling Day
Excluding: the prime Oracle of Greece!

Obsequious, they haste: enquire: return:
And thus the Counsels of the God disclose.

“The Rage of Bacchus for his injur'd Priest,
Coresus, by Callirhoe's Scorn repuls'd,
Your City wastes: and with funereal Fires
Your Streets shall redden, formidably bright,
Till by Coresus' Hand the cruel Maid
A Sacrifice be offer'd up: or One,
Free, uncompell'd, embrace the destin'd Steel,
Devoted in her Stead; and bleed for Her.
So you'll appease the God; the Plague be stay'd.”

They said. Staring Affright, and dumb Amaze
The Fathers seize: but chief, Æneùs, thee,
Callirhoe's old miserable Sire!
Tenfold Affliction to the Grave weighs down
Thy silver'd Hairs. But Fate and Heav'n require.

Soon through the City spred the News, and soon
Wounded Callirhoe's Ear. Her Spindle drops
Neglected from her Hand. Prone on the Floor,
She falls, she faints; her Breath, her Colour fled:
Pale, cold and pale. Till, by assisting Care,
The fragrant Spirit hovers o'er her Lips,
And Life returning streams in rosy Gales;
Rekindled only to Despair. She knew
The Virgins envy'd; and the injur'd Youth
Stung with her Scorn, wou'd wanton in her Wounds,
Nor one, one offer up the willing Breast
A Victim for her Life. And now the Crowd,
Impatient of their Miseries, besiege
The marble Portal; burst the bolted Gates;
Demand Callirhoe; furious to obey
The Oracle, and pacify the God.

What Pangs, unhappy Maid, thy bosom tear,
Sleepless, and sad? relenting now too late,
Thy stubborn Cruelty. Coresus' charms
Blaze on thy Mind; his unexampled Love,

His every Virtue rising to thy Thought.
Just in his Fury, see the pointed Steel
Waves, circling, o'er thy throbbing Breast: He strikes;
He riots in thy Blood with dire Delight;
Insatiate! He gluts his Heart of Rage
With thy warm gushing Life; and Death enjoys,
Redoubling Wound on Wound, and Blow on Blow.

Thus pass'd her Hours. And now the dewy Morn
The Mountains tip'd with Gold, and threatned Day.
Without the City Gates, a Fountain wells
Its living Waters, clear as shining Glass:
Haunt of the Nymphs! A Cypress' aged Arms
Threw round a venerable Gloom, and seem'd
Itself a Grove. An Altar on the Brink
Convenient rose: for holy Custom wills
Each Victim to be sprinkled with its Streams,
New from Pollution, worthier of the God.
Fierce for the Sacrifice, Coresus here
Waited; and, stimulated with Revenge,

100

He curs'd and chid the lazy-circling Hours
Too slow, as if injurious to his Hate.

But soon the gath'ring Crowd and Shouts proclaim
Callirhoe near. Her weeping Damsels lead
The destin'd Offering, lovely in Distress,
And sparkling through her Tears. A Myrtle Crown
With Roses glowing, and selected Green,
Th' ambrosial Plenty of her golden Hair
Entwine: in looks, a Venus; and a Grace
In Motion. Scarce the Flow'rs of sixteen Springs
The Fields had painted, since Æneùs first
Fondled his Babe, and blest her on his Knee.
Ev'n Mountain-Clowns, who never Pity knew,
Relented, and the hardest Heart wept blood,
Subdu'd by Beauty, tho' the fatal Source
Of all their Misery. What Tumults then
Roll in thy Breast, Coresus! while thy Hands
The purifying Waters on her Head
Pour'd trembling; and the sacred Knife unsheath'd!

101

Wiping the silver-streaming Tears away,
She with a Look nor chearful, nor dismay'd,
But languishingly sweet, her ruby Lips
Soft-op'ning, thus began: “Father and Friends,
Wound me not doubly with your tender Grief:
I was not born alone for you. My Life
I gladly offer for my Country's Weal:
'Tis Glory thus to die. Receive my Blood,
Dear native Soil! O may it Health restore
And Peace; and Bacchus' Wrath be now appeas'd.
And thou, Coresus, whom I most have wrong'd,
Look no so fiercely on me, while the Steel
My once-lov'd Bosom launces; drop a Tear;
One Sigh in Mercy heave, and drop one Tear,
And I will thank Thee for thy Blow. For, oh
I never hated Thee: but Female-Pride,
Our Sex's Curse! forbade me to comply,
Too easy won!—Then pity me, Coresus;
O pity; and, if possible, forgive.”

102

He answer'd not: but, ardent, snatch'd the Knife,
And, running o'er her Beauties, strangely wild,
With Eyes which witness'd huge Dismay and Love,
“Thus, thus I satisfy the Gods!” He cry'd,
And bury'd in his Heart, in his own Heart,
The guilty Blade. Then, reeling to her Arms,
He sunk, and groaning, “O Callirhoe!”—dy'd.

Heav'n rings with Shouts, “Was ever Love like this?”
Callirhoe shriek'd; and from the gaping Wound,
Quick as the Light'nings Wing, the reeking Knife
Wrench'd: in an Agony of Grief and Love,
Her Bosom piercing, on his Bosom fell,
And sigh'd upon his Lips her Life away.
Their Blood uniting in a friendly Stream,
With bubbling Purple stain'd the Silver-Flood,
Which to the Fountain gave Callirhoe's Name.