Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sweet smiling Arbitress of Love,
Queen of the soft Idalian grove;
Whom Golgos and the Erycian height,
And thy fair fanes of gold delight—
How lov'd the down-shod Hours have led
Thy own Adonis from the dead,
To all thy ardent wishes dear;
Restor'd—to bless the closing year!
Still, tho' they move on lagging wing,
The Hours some balmy blessing bring!

Hail, daughter of Dione, hail,
Whose power from dark Avernus' vale

Caught Berenice to the blest,
And with ambrosia fill'd her breast!
For thee, bright Goddess of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
The child of Berenice comes,
Arsinoe; (Helen-like she blooms)
With nature's luxuries to adorn
Thy lov'd Adonis' festal morn!
Lo! fruits, whate'er creation yields,
Lo! the ripe produce of the fields
And gardens, mingling many a dye,
In silver baskets round him lie!
See, richly cas'd in glowing gold,
Yon' box of alabaster hold
The sweets of Syrian groves; and stor'd
With honey'd cakes, the luscious board!
Observe, whatever skims the air,
Or lives on earth, assembled there!
And green shades, arch'd with anise, rise,
Where many a little Cupid flies,
Like the young nightingales that love,
New-fledg'd, to flutter thro' the grove—

Now perching, now with short essay
Borne on weak wing from spray to spray!
Of gold—of ebon what a store!
And see two ivory eagles soar
Severing the dark cloud where, above,
They bear young Ganymede to Jove!

Behold that tapestry diffuse
The richness of the Tyrian hues!
Ev'n they who tend Milesian sheep
Would own, 'tis softer far than sleep!

Amid this bed's relieving shade,
Mark rosy-arm'd Adonis laid!
And from that couch survey the bride
Bend o'er his cheek with blushes dy'd,
His chin's soft down; as fond to sip
New rapture from the ruby lip!
Now let her joy—But ere the morn
Shall dry the dews that gem the thorn,
His image to the shore we'll bear,
With robes unzon'd, and flowing hair—

With bosoms open'd to the day;
And warble thus the choral lay:

‘Thou—thou alone, dear youth, 'tis said,
‘Canst leave the mansions of the dead;
‘And, passing oft the dreary bourne,
‘Duly to earth's green seats return!
‘Such favour not the Atridæ knew,
‘Nor who the fleecy flocks o'erthrew!
‘Nor Hector, his fond mother's joy;
‘Nor Pyrrhus, proud of plunder'd Troy!
‘Nor ev'n Patroclus great and good;
‘Nor they who boast Deucalion's blood;
‘Nor Pelops' sons; nor, first in fame,
‘The high Pelasgians blazon'd name.’

Propitious, O Adonis, hear;
Thus bring delight each future year!
Kind to our vows Adonis prove,
And greet us with returning love!