The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison :: :: University of Virginia Library

Select Epistles from OVID.

Sapho to Phaon.

The Argument.

I have often, and very justly I think, ranked this beautiful Epistle of Ovid's, among his Masterpieces, both for its refined Touches, and softest Strokes of Nature; the Diction is sweet and harmonious, the Sentiments delicate and tender; and in short, such as a Lady of Sapho's amorous Disposition, as her celebrated Ode represents her, might very justly, and very happily be supposed to write.

In the Design of this Epistle, Sapho kindly upbraids her Lover Phaon (who had left her and fled to Sicily) for his cruel and abrupt departure, and by very passionately deploring his absence, endeavours to regain his Affections; concluding with this Resolution, either to recover his Love, or abate her own, by throwing herself from a Rock in Leucadia, famous for relieving Persons in her Distress.

Is then this Hand to Phaon's Eyes unknown?
Is Sapho then so soon forgotten grown!
Can no Remembrance of a former Flame,
What not my Love! reflect the Writer's Name?
Nor tho' unusual Strains my Measures tell,
Enquire a Cause you sure must know too well:
Alas! no more the Lute, no more the Lyre,
Untun'd by Griefs, my Love-sick Soul inspire:

Mix'd with my Tears, my mournful Numbers flow,
And my sad Numbers breathe the Voice of Woe.
Alas! I burn—but Sighs my Flame inspire,
As Winds thro' kindled Corn diffuse the Pire.
To glowing Ætna faithless Phaon goes,
While more than Ætna in my Bosom glows.
Mellifluous Musick now no more can please,
Musick can only charm a Mind at ease;
Soft soothing Arts on me unartful prove,
For as they soothe, they fan the Flames of Love;
In vain, my kind Companions, once so dear!
With study'd Wiles, amuse my gloomy Care;
In vain their friendly Avocations please,
Love turns the very Med'cine to Disease:
Love's warmer Fires the former Friend controul,
For Phaon, dearest Phaon! fills my Soul!
Phaon!—so sweet he smiles, then sighs such Darts,
That surely 'tis an Heaven to lose our Hearts!
Like Bacchus, wou'd the Charmer bind his Brow;
Like Phœbus, tune the Lyre, or twang the Bow;

Bacchus at his, might feel fresh Blushes rise,
And Phœbus trust his Arrows to his Eyes.
Yet both these Gods, the Power of Love confess'd,
And human Beauties warm'd their Heavenly Breast;
Beauties, that ne'er like me, soft Measures knew,
To court those Gods, as I have courted you:
Yet, tho' my Numbers flow, surpass'd by none,
Or to sublime Alceus yield alone,
Tho' ev'ry Muse inspire my softer Strain,
While Phaon's deaf, alas! I sing in vain!
What tho' perhaps my Face can boast no Arts,
No Female Magick of alluring Hearts;
Yet Nature, for that transient Power declin'd,
With Wit's superiour Power improv'd my Mind:
Short tho' my Stature, yet my lofty Name
O'er the wide World distends my deathless Fame;
If fair I am not, yet a swarthier Face
Cou'd charm young Perseus to a dear Embrace.
The jetty Turtle seeks the silver Dove,
Yet both, you know, are call'd the Birds of Love.

With various Colours, various Colours join,
And Vivids with Cerulæan Azure shine:
But if such Nymphs, as not your Equals prove,
You ne'er can love, alas! you ne'er can love.

Nor should I think too humbly of these Charms,
That once could win a Phaon to my Arms;
That once—for ah! how Love records each Joy!
That once alone could Phaon's Soul employ!
Ev'n Trifles then, like Magick Charms could move,
And ev'ry Trifle was a Charm of Love:
Whene'er my Musick breath'd, you bless'd the Song,
And o'er my rising Neck enamour'd hung;
With speaking Eyes confess'd the pleasing Pain,
And with a dying Softness drank the Strain:
At ev'ry Note, you led away a Heart,
At ev'ry Look, receiv'd a double Dart;
'Till panting at the flowing Joy we sigh'd,
Mix'd our warm Souls, and into Life we dy'd!

The soft Sicilians now thy Soul subdue,
Gods that I were a soft Sicilian too!
Nor boast, ye Nymphs! the Conquest of your Eyes,
Tho' glorious, yet delusive is the Prize!
If ye, like me, the Tempter's Oaths believe,
Too soon they'll conquer, and too soon deceive!
Prov'd by my Fate, experienc'd are his Arts,
And constant only, in destroying Hearts.

Oh Venus! since Sicilia owns thy Power,
To these fond Arms, the roving Youth restore;
Indulgent to my Strains, afford a Cure,
Or teach my Soul her Sorrows to endure.
With my first Years, began my early Grief,
And must Misfortunes lengthen with my Life!
Corroding Sorrows canker'd all my Bloom,
Sprung from my Parents too untimely Tomb.
My Brother next opprobrious to our Race,
His Fame polluted by a lewd Embrace:

A Pyrate now, repairs his squander'd Wealth,
And what by Lust he lost, regains by Stealth.
Oft with a Sister's Care, the Youth I warn'd,
But he my Care, with haughty Taunts return'd;
A much-lov'd Daughter's Fate distracts me now,
Adds Grief to Grief, and Misery to Woe!
Yet, these Afflictions, Reason might controul,
Did not more deep Afflictions sting my Soul;
Did not thy Wrongs, the last, the greatest prove,
For neither Death, nor Fortune wound like Love.

No more my Robes the costly Fair display,
No more my Fingers dart a Diamond Day;
No more my flowing Looks enstarr'd, exhale
The clouding Odours of Arabia's Gale;
But, all disorder'd with the ruffling Air,
Denote a Mind disorder'd more with Care:
On whom should these alluring Arts be shown
But him I love? And him I love is gone!

What killing Arrows wound my tender Heart?
Yet, such is Love, I bless the killing Dart.
For so the Fates my vital Thread ordain,
And sure they spun it from a Lover's Chain!
What Arts I try to chase my Cares away?
How all my Actions all those Arts betray!
In vain I touch the Lute, or sweep the Lyre,
Soft Musick but indulges soft Desire:
Harmonious Charms in vain my Fancy move,
For ah! far stronger are the Charms of Love,
Far stronger are thy soft enchanting Charms!
Who would not die to clasp thee in her Arms!—
For thee, Aurora, Cephalus might scorn,
Nor blush to paint her Passion on the Morn;
Cynthia, for thee, Endymion might despise,
And gild her Crescent with thy brighter Eyes:
Venus would place thee with the Gods above,
Would not thy Charms supplant the God of Love.
Oh dear enchanting Youth! transporting Boy!
The Bloom of Life, the Spring of Love enjoy:

To my soft Breast in Tides of Transports flow,
There Phaon,—take the Love you won't bestow.
See! while I write, my Eyes in Torrents stream,
To kiss, and mingle with dear Phaon's Name!
Dear Phaon! Yet this Phaon left me tho'—
Can Lovers leave a melting Mistress so?
Could no deceitful Sigh, no lying Tear,
Express at least a counterfeited Fear!
If not your Love, your Gratitude to shew,
You might have utter'd formally, Adieu.
Nor could that Accent, like this Silence wound,
Thy soothing Tongue had soften'd the harsh Sound.
No Kiss you breath'd, the Lover's last Relief,
No Kiss receiv'd, nor left me aught but Grief!
No Gift I gave, nor cou'd my Gifts impart,
So pure a Token as my love-sick Heart!
No binding Vows we join'd, our Faith to prove,
Alas! I trusted to the Bonds of Love!
Nor, had I known your Flight, had utter'd more
Than—Live, and love your Sapho, as before.

By ev'ry Muse that e'er my Mind possess'd,
By Love, that Guardian of thy cruel Breast,
When doubtful Fame at first proclaim'd thee gone,
Such swift cold Shiv'rings thro' my Pulses run,
My startled Soul alarm'd by Grief, like you
Had nearly fled, her Phaon to pursue;
Speechless a-while I bore the desp'rate Strife,
And seem'd a frozen Monument of Grief:
'Till Storms of Sighs that long imprison'd lay,
Burst out, and stream'd in Tides of Tears away.
Distracted, griev'd, I beat my lab'ring Breast,
And each Extravagance of Grief express'd.
Less pang'd, the widow'd Parent makes her Moan,
Less griev'd, deplores her dead, her darling Son.
My Brother too, if such his Nature shows,
With an insulting Pride enjoys my Woes;
With scornful Comfort counterfeits Relief,
Intruding breaks, and aggravates my Grief.
“Thy Daughter lives (he cries) then why these Cares?
“And whence this Female Flood of idle Tears?

At this, I rave, my wounded Bosom tear,
And raging, to the World my Wrongs declare;
Accuse thy Crimes, regardless of my Fame,
For Love, alas! is ever blind to Shame!
And what is Fame, or all, compar'd to thee?
Thou! thou art Fame, Life, Love, ah!—All to me!
Thy dear Idea all my Soul employs,
Streams in my Tears, and sparkles in my Joys:
Thy dear Idea wounds my lonesome Days,
By Night, my Griefs, with kinder Dreams repays:
When bound in those soft Banes, I taste thy Charms,
And sink incircled in thy softer Arms:
Then, then I feel thee to my Soul return!
Phaon, the same in all, except thy Scorn.
Then Phaon! then, thy balmy Lips I press;
And then, thy balmy Lips repeat the Kiss!
Repeated Kisses animate Desire,
And breath'd in Whispers blow the rising Fire;
'Till kindling at a Soul-dissolving Sigh,
Fainting, o'er-power'd I pant—and melting die

Away in Joys, that only Lovers know,
In Joys, that only can from Phaon flow:
In Joys, that soon their Author's Arts betray;
Like Phaon, charm!—like Phaon flit away!
Wing'd with the Dawn, they take their hasty Flight,
And the Morn blushes at the dear Delight;
When I, again deceiv'd, again betray'd,
With study'd Slumbers court the fleeting Shade;
In vain,—the Sun emergent, pours the Day,
And the deluding Phantom melts away.
A Stranger to the balmy Joys of Rest,
Raving I rise, and beat my throbbing Breast;
Frantic, to some Night-shaded Grot repair,
Wild as my Thoughts, and dark as my Despair:
The Grot that once our mutual Pleasures knew,
In plaintive Echoes murmurs to my Woe;
O'er the rough Rocks, my musing Eyes I roll,
There view the savage Image of my Soul;
See Nature's Hand her simple Works impart,
Superiour to the Mimickries of Art.

How thick-brow'd Rocks with mossy Horror frown,
And wildly emulate the polish'd Stone;
O'er-arching Forests crown the solemn Scene,
And wave with gloomy Pleasure o'er the Plain.
Oft, as I sigh my former Joys, explore
Embrown'd with Shades the dear frequented Bower;
Each Bank, the Treasury of Love survey,
But find, alas! the Treasure lost away;
Press the dear Place, where dearer Phaon lay,
And sigh, and weep, and slumber out the Day:
Bath'd with my Eyes, the Grass my Anguish wears,
Imbibes my Woes, and seems to weep my Tears.
As livery'd with Grief, the Groves appear,
And seem, like me, to shiver with Despair;
The Groves in leafy Tears, their Phaon weep,
And the sad Birds their Songs in Sorrow steep;
No tuneful Notes amuse the silent Plains,
No Sounds, but Philomela's mournful Strains;
With Philomela's Strains, I murmur mine,
And to her Tereus, faithless Phaon join.

To Slumber sacred, and serene Repose,
In silver Sounds a crystal Current flows;
A flow'ry Lotos shades the velvet Green,
Fans the cool Streams, and paints the floating Scene;
Here, as I late repos'd my weary Head,
An azure Nereid rose, and rising said,
“Unhappy Nymph! by Love betray'd, arise,
“And boldly seek the fam'd Leucadian Seas;
“A Rock there stands by great Apollo's Fane,
“A Charm for those, who love like thee, in vain:
“Deucalion once by Pyrrha's Scorn oppress'd,
“Here quench'd his Flame and freed his lab'ring Breast;
“The Flame reviv'd, in Pyrrha's Bosom burn'd,
“And all her Scorn to softer Passion turn'd:
“Like him resolv'd, perform the lofty Leap,
“Nor dread the Dangers of the distant Deep.
She said, and sinking in the circling Flood,
From my dim Eyes the streaming Sorrow flow'd.

I fly, Oh Nymph! I fly the Charm to prove,
Strong are my Fears! but stronger is my Love!
Resolv'd, I fly, enflam'd by fierce Disdain;
Assuage I may, but not increase my Pain!
With the soft Gales, oh Love! be kinder now,
Hover thy Wings, and ease my Fall below:
Decreas'd by Cares, nor let my guiltless Blood
With blushing Stains pollute the sacred Flood!
Then shall my Lyre Apollo's Temple grace,
And, grateful, wear inscrib'd this votive Verse;
“This Lyre on Phœbus, Sapho's Hand bestow'd,
“A tuneful Off'ring on a tuneful God;
“May the same God, with kind indulgent Power,
“Protect the sacred Lyre he tun'd before!

Yet, why oh Phaon! must I seek the Main,
When you alone, that caus'd, can ease my Pain;
Shall the rough Rock, and savage Ocean prove
More soft than one, by Nature form'd for Love!

Thy stronger Charms have Magick to prevail,
Where all those Charms, and ev'n their God can fail.
Methinks, thou could'st not rather see me lie,
Dash'd on sharp Rocks, than on thy Bosom sigh!
Could'st thou thus doom these tender Breasts of mine,
From panting, growing, melting into thine:
These Breasts that once could all thy Soul employ,
And beating kindle dear Alarms to Joy!
Alas! in vain they charm'd, that charm'd no more,
Now swell'd with Griefs, that swell'd with Joy before!
Ye Lesbian Nymphs, no more my Lays require,
Lost is the Poet's, in the Lover's Fire!
No more my Voice with wonted Musick sings,
No more my Hand awakes the warb'ling Strings:
Since my dear Phaon, since my Love Divine—
Ah me! my Tongue would still pronounce thee mine:
Since from these Arms the faithless Phaon fled,
Dull are my Strains, and all my Fancy's dead.
But, oh! ye Nymphs, engage his quick Return,
Then shall my Breast with wonted Ardour burn;

Transporting Strains revive my lofty Lyre,
And Love the long-neglected Lute inspire.

How canst thou, Phaon, so obdurate prove,
Deaf to each Charm, and ev'ry Art of Love!
Alas! in vain, I fear, my Prayers I sigh,
Like me, I fear my Prayers in Silence die!
Waft them, ye Gales, to wand'ring Phaon's Ear,
And with them, join to waft the Wand'rer here.
Swift as the Gales, my ling'ring Love convey,
How my Soul suffers by this long Delay!
Fair Beauty's Queen shall smooth her Parent Seas,
Lull the loud Winds, and smile the Waves to Peace:
Love, Love himself the flying Course shall guide,
Swell the soft Sails, and waft the floating Tide.

But if poor Sapho must for ever mourn,
And if You Phaon never will return;

If endless Absence must increase my Pain,
O! let one Line confirm that cold Disdain!
Despairing, then those kinder Rocks I'll try,
And there, forget to love, or learn to die.

OEnone to Paris.

The Argument.

When Hecuba was with Child of Paris, she had a Dream of her being delivered of a Firebrand: Priam, upon this, consulting the Oracle, was told, that, the Infant she went with, should cause the Destruction of Troy; Priam therefore resolved at its Birth, that it should be torn to pieces by wild Beasts. Hecuba privately conveys away the Boy to Mount Ida, leaving him to the Shepherds care. Here, in process of Time, he became enamoured with the Nymph OEnone. But at last, being found out, he went upon an Expedition to Greece, and carried Hellen to Troy; OEnone hearing thereof, writes him this Epistle.

These Lines my lovely faithless Swain peruse,
If yet your Bride such Liberty allows;
No Rage they threaten from resenting Greece,
No News relate obnoxious to your Peace,

For poor OEnone now, tho' once so dear,
Below your Grandeur, is below your Care!
Yet hear, tho' deaf to Love, yet hear her Moan;
And listen to those Joys, you deign'd to crown.

What cruel Gods thus emulous could prove,
Destroy our Happiness, and blast our Love!
What Guilt of mine could call their Vengeance down!
If Love can be the Crime, the Crime's their own:
Ills when deserv'd, in Patience find Relief;
But, when thus hardly borne, dissolve to Grief!

Yet, once there was a Time, when Ida's Plain
Confess'd no Title but the lovely Swain;
When I, the fairest of the rural Fair,
Warm'd your young Breast, and was your only Care;
When you, a Shepherd, with the Shepherds strove,
And innocently won me into Love:
Sooth'd with those harmless unaffected Charms,
Heedless, I caught the Passion from your Arms.

In my dear Paris center'd all my Joy,
And all OEnone fill'd my faithful Boy.
How happy then we languish'd out the Day!
Toy'd in soft Shades, and slept in new-made Hay.
How happy then we languish'd out the Night!
New Joys returning with returning Light!
Fresh as the Morn, I join'd the Sylvan Chace,
And tun'd the Chorus of the latrant Race;
With you the Groves I rang'd, the Fields beset,
And watch'd the Motions of the swelling Net:
With you retiring to the breezy Shade,
Cool Fruits, and slaking Streams our Thirst allay'd.
There, on each Tree you carv'd our mutual Names,
And with the living Letters grew our Flames:
While Love, recording with a keener Dart,
Engrav'd each Token deeper on my Heart!

Close by a Stream, and bord'ring on a Grove,
A Beech now bears this Token of our Love;

Long may it bear! long stand the Test of Years!
And flourish by the Sanction of this Verse!
“When Paris his OEnone falsly leaves,
“Xanthus! like him be false, reverse thy Waves.
Reverse thy Waves, O Stream! return again,
And murm'ring, mourn with me my faithless Swain!

Curst be that Day! my blooming Hope's Annoy!
Date of my Griefs, and Period of my Joy!
When the bright Powers descended from the Skies,
To learn the Judgment of your brighter Eyes.
This when you told, my dead'ning Heart was struck,
And all my Soul with sudden Horror shook:
Each Sage, consulted warn'd some Change too near,
Increas'd my Sorrows, and confirm'd my Fear!

But when prepar'd, your Fleet at Anchor lay,
To bear my fond, believing Heart away;
How spoke those parting Eyes! O ne'er reprove
The noble Tenders of a virtuous Love!

How lock'd in Folds these clasping Arms I cast!
Nor Vines, nor Ivy circle Elms so fast!
Nor Elms when shook with Winds o'ercharg'd with Dew,
Whispers such Sighs, or drop such Tears as you.
What Sighs! what Tears! what Tenderness express'd
Your Soul dissolving on my panting Breast!
What kind! what dear—enchanting Sorrows fell,
To sooth, and soften that harsh Sound, Farewel!
Still the harsh Sound sunk deeper in our Heart,
And still we met a thousand Times to part!
The Sailors wonder'd at your tedious Stay,
But Love still fram'd Excuses for Delay.

'Till now, at last the long-expecting Gales,
Rais'd by our Sorrows, fill'd the swelling Sails,
With slow reluctant Feet our Way we bend,
And sadly-loving on each other lean'd;
With melancholy Steps approach'd the Shore,
Stop'd at each dear Recess; now dear no more!

Survey'd each solitary Scene of Love,
And bid adieu to ev'ry lonesome Grove;
The lonesome Groves, as if they sorrow'd too,
Wav'd by the Gales, submissive bow'd, Adieu!

And now the last, dear parting Kiss was given,
And now the last, dear Vow was breath'd to Heaven;
When to the Shore the hast'ning Vessel row'd,
And dancing off, seem'd lighter with its Load:
My streaming Eyes the floating Fleet pursue,
Their Griefs increasing at the less'ning View;
But when the pleasing Prospect sunk in Air,
My melting Heart I view'd, and view'd thee there;
Each Power I weary with imploring Cries,
Swell with my Tears the Floods, the Winds with Sighs:
In soft-beseeching, plaintive Murmurs mourn,
And court the Nereids for your quick Return.
The list'ning Nereids soon my Swain restore,
But ah! how chang'd from what he was before!

How chang'd his Manners, and how chang'd his Name!
Ev'n nothing but those Eyes remain the same;
Those dear-deluding Eyes, those blooming Charms
Are still the same to all—except these Arms!

Beat by the Tides, and crown'd with waving Woods,
A lofty Mountain rises o'er the Floods;
Here daily with expecting Looks I sat,
By turns dejected, and by turns elate;
From hence, at last, I saw your Streamers play,
Waft o'er the Floods, and drink the beamy Day;
So gay, so bright, the fierce Effulgence shone,
The Sails emerging seem'd a rising Sun:
Struck by the Splendour of the pompous Show,
My gazing Eyes could scarce believe 'twas you;
But more confounded, more amaz'd, I see
A Rival-Beauty sit, and sit by thee;
With those soft Locks her wanton Fingers play'd,
Her Head reclining on your Bosom laid.

Stung to the Soul, with Fury fir'd, I stood,
Now thought to quench it in the roaring Flood;
Now to the plaintive Groves my Griefs I pour,
And sigh my Sorrows in a silent Shower.

How shall I mourn those dear enchanting Charms!
How curse the cruel Rival of these Arms!
O! may those Charms to her as fatal prove!
O! may she mourn like me neglected Love!

Tho' now far-distant Nations learn your Fame,
Tho' foreign Ladies catch the flying Flame;
Yet when an humble Swain your Flocks you fed,
No Princess, but OEnone, knew your Bed;
No gaudy Title plum'd the golden Dart,
'Twas Love and Innocence surpriz'd my Heart;
When melting in the Circle of these Arms,
You swore you sought no Glory like such Charms;
No Pomps, no Dignities desir'd to prove,
Unless to raise your Merits to my Love:

Of all those Dignities I ask no part,
Desire to share in nothing but your Heart!
For that alone, I wish indulgent Fate,
High as my Love, would raise my humble State;
Then should no Rival the vain Triumph boast,
But Pomp regain the glorious Prize it lost!
Nor need your Royal Parents blush to own,
A Daughter much more virtuous than their Son.

Say, do your silken Sofa's gentle prove
Softer than these sweet sylvan Scenes of Love?
Say, can your Hellen, bright in guilty Charms,
Like innocent OEnone please your Arms?
Can study'd Sounds indulge a purer Dream,
Than the wild Musick of this purling Stream?
Here, no rude Fears the slumbring Soul annoy,
No fierce Alarms intrude but those of Joy!
Yet these, and more than these, must sure affright
The false Possessor of another's Right:

Tho' sweet her Charms, those Charms must be restor'd,
When Justice rouzes their avenging Lord.

But, does your Sire approve your loose Desires?
Does sage Antenor's Wisdom fan your Fires?
Should Troy assist, and second your Resolve,
Yet would a prudent Prince his Land involve?
Would any warlike Chief his Weapon draw
To brave the Gods, and violate the Law?

But soon your Fair, your boasted Fair, may change,
Condemn her Choice, and chuse again to range,
Some fond Variety may long to prove,
And turn, like you, a Commoner in Love;
Like you, Atrides once enjoy'd her Charms;
You too, like him, may mourn deserted Arms.
And should your Force the ravish'd Bride regain,
Her Innocence can ne'er return again.

O bless'd Andromache! whose kinder Fate
Bestows a Spouse, as virtuous, as he's great;
From her firm Loyalty I copy'd mine,
O could her Hector's so in Paris shine!
But faithless Paris, wanton as the Wind,
Light as the Leaves, enjoys a fickle Mind;
Quick as the Winds his wand'ring Thoughts are past,
And, like the Leaves, are turn'd with ev'ry Blast!

Too well my fatal Fortunes now unfold
What once prophetical Cassandra told;
When swell'd, and lab'ring with Divinity,
Full of the God she cry'd, and cry'd to me.

Cease, Nymph, to plough these barren Lands, O cease,
These barren Lands shall yield no kind Increase,
The Grecian Heifer shall your Hopes destroy,
Despoil your Cares, and prove the Bane of Troy!

She comes! good Heaven divert her fatal Way—
Sink! sink the Ship! and plunge it in the Sea:
What Flames of Rage! what Deluges of Blood!
O! quench them! drown them in the whelming Flood.

She said: her Servants the mad Priestess caught,
And left my gloomy Soul involv'd in Thought;
Ah! now too plain the Fates the Heifer seize,
For Hellen reaps the Harvest of the Seas.

Fair tho' she be, would any, but a Whore,
With one unknown forsake her Native Shore,
Neglect her Honour, disregard her Life,
And stain the Duty of a virtuous Wife?
But lost to ev'ry Sense of honest Fame,
She nothing but reiterates her Shame:
Debauch'd by Theseus, blushes now no more,
And laughs at Scruples she might fear before.

When young, with him she stole a base Escape;
Tho' her Friends smooth the Story with a Rape;
Pretend the Ravisher restor'd her Charms
Untouch'd, untasted from his longing Arms:
Let those that will believe the specious Art—
Her Eyes had Power, he a Lover's Heart!
And she that once but yields to loose Desires,
For ever burns in those unlawful Fires.
But I, because a Stranger to those Thoughts,
Must mourn my Virtues, as I mourn my Faults.
Should I, like you, my plighted Faith betray,
Well might you spare the Crime, who lead the Way!

How sacred, how inviolate my Love!
How clear my Honour! witness every Grove!
Mov'd by their fruitless Hopes, the rural Train
Declare their Passion, but declare in vain:
For me, the Sylvan Powers forsake their Shades,
And kindly court me to their cooling Glades;

With ever-living Wreaths adorn their Hair,
And for my sake, the Lover's Garland wear.
Ev'n He, the God whose Rays the World inspire,
Despair'd to set my virtuous Breast on fire,
With ev'ry soothing Blandishment he try'd,
But Honour ev'ry Blandishment defy'd.
Despis'd his Proffers with disdainful Eyes,
And scorn'd the Lover in the sordid Price;
'Till Flame increasing, as his Flatt'ry fail'd,
The baffled Lover in the God prevail'd:
Nor could his Strength an easy Conquest boast,
I lost reluctant, what at last I lost.
With streaming Eyes atton'd the base Abuse,
And hope'd the Author could the Crime excuse:
Mov'd by my Wrongs, and influenc'd by my Grief;
The grateful God administred Relief;
Inspir'd each wise, medicinary Power,
To sooth my Sorrows, and my Soul restore;
Disclos'd each Secret, open'd ev'ry Art;
Taught to save Life—but not a Lover's Heart!

Here, all his Secrets, all his Arts must fail!
Nor could the God his own Distemper heal.

But charming Paris! lovely, faithless Swain!
'Tis you alone can give, and ease that Pain!
Your Arts alone beyond the Gods can prove,
And speak a greater God, at least in Love!
O haste my Paris! my Complaints regard,
My Sorrows pity, and my Truth reward!
In loose, unlawful Flames no longer burn,
But, where you left your Innocence return;
There let our early sacred Passions shine,
Rejoin their Lustre, and commence Divine.

Paris to Hellen.

The Argument.

Paris being gone to Sparta in quest of Hellen, whom Venus had promised him as the Reward of his Judgment in assigning to her the Prize of Beauty, was there nobly entertained by her Husband Menelaus; who being sent for to take Possession of the Effects of his Grandfather Atreus, at Crete, earnestly recommends Paris to Hellen's Care. During his absence, Paris commences her Suitor, and writes her the following Epistle.

All Health to thee, fair Nymph! thy Paris sends
All Health to thee, on whom, his own depends:
Must I then speak? and must my Tongue reveal
A Secret, which my Eyes too plainly tell?

O! could I hide the Wish I fear to name!
Would rather kinder Fortune guide my Flame!
My Flame! that, spite of all Restraints, displays
Its rising Force, and ev'n it self betrays;
In private, prompts my tim'rous Tongue to prove,
To thee, my beauteous, charming Nymph, I love:
I love! may no severe Reproof controul,
The true, the tender Message of my Soul!
May no fierce Passions that soft Bosom fire,
But such as kindle, such as feed Desire.

How bless'd these Lines obey my soft Command,
To see that Face, and touch that melting Hand!
Yet, if my Hopes, and Promises are true,
I, soon, like them, may kiss those Fingers too:
For know, fair Nymph, to justify my Flame,
'Twas by the Gods, the Gods Command, I came;
Else, nor my Pride, nor Vanity could dare,
To whisper at your Feet a dying Prayer.

Led by the Promise of the Queen of Charms,
I come to court her Image to my Arms:
For this, the Goddess brought me thro' the Sea,
And calm'd old Ocean as she led the way;
For this, soft Cupids fann'd the wasting Gales,
And with kind Whispers swell'd the silken Sails.
Still may such gracious Powers controul the Main,
Still kind to Voyagers, like me remain!
And as they lull'd the Roarings of the Deep,
O! may they lull my raging Fears asleep;
Compose my troubled Soul to peaceful Rest,
And guide my Heart to harbour in your Breast.

Led by no Error, by no Tempest tost,
I landed on the Confines of your Coast;
No mercenary Prospects I pursue,
Prospects too far below a Lover's View!
The Fates, already, have bestow'd me Store
So large, that only you can make it more.

Nor came I here a gazing Spy to prove,
For what could I discover, blind with Love?
For thee, bright Nymph! for those dear Charms I came,
The Gift, the Promise of the Cyprian Dame;
Thy lovely Person, tho' unseen, I knew,
My Wishes, all my Soul was fix'd on you:
Nor wonder, how, so far, my Breast was fir'd,
When Fate, and Love, with Eyes like yours conspir'd;
To reconcile your Faith, my Story hear;
Believe the Wonder, and the Gods revere.

E'er yet my labouring Mother brought me forth,
Whilst I lay strug'ling for the Pangs of Birth;
By the Delusion of a mighty Dream,
She thought, her Offspring prov'd a Torch on flame:
Amaz'd, the Vision to my Sire she told,
And thus, the summon'd Seers the Fates unfold.
“That I to Troy a future Flame should prove—
How well the Prophets pointed at my Love?

My Parents, mov'd by superstitious Care,
To shun the Danger, and avert their Fear,
Committed me to the Ideän Swains,
Doom'd to the simple Pleasure of the Plains;
But soon, my growing Years disclos'd a Mind
Superior to those humble Ends design'd;
Intrinsically great, my Virtues shone,
And, tho' eclips'd, they seem'd to claim a Throne.

A tow'ring Hill there stands in Ida's Grove,
Unbrowz'd its Turf, and dark with Shades above;
Here, as with musing Eyes, I once survey'd,
Troy's Turrets rising thro' the misty Shade;
A sudden Sound of Feet, I seem'd to hear,
And quick Commotions echo'd on my Ear;
When to my Sight a Form Divine appear'd,
And Maija's Son, the Form Divine declar'd;
My wond'ring Eyes confess'd the Heav'nly Power,
Known by the Wand, and Silver Plumes he wore.

But soon I saw, descending from above,
Saturnia, Pallas, and the Queen of Love;
Aw'd by superior Majesty, I stood,
And, trembling, heard the missionary God,
Who thus bespoke my Fears—“Shepherd! be bold—
“These Rivals for their orient Fruit, behold;
“Here—to the fairest Form adjudge the Prize;
“The brightest Present to the brightest Eyes;
“In this, obey th' Almighty Mandate given—
He said, and rising, slowly sail'd to Heaven.

And now, my Strength restor'd, my Thoughts renew'd,
Distinctly each cœlestial Fair I view'd;
On each, my Eyes, alternately, were cast,
And ev'ry Look was vanquish'd by the last.
Alike, they all deserv'd my voting Voice,
But one, and only one, must win my Choice;
Now this I found, now that, now ev'ry Part,
The momentary Tenant of my Heart.

On ev'ry Side persuasive Gifts assail'd,
To buy my Favour, where my Judgment fail'd.
Great Juno laid whole Empires at my Feet,
Minerva proffer'd deathless Wreaths of Wit;
While thus the sweet-enchanting Queen of Smiles,
(Securely laughing at their vainer Wiles.)

“Shall such unworthy Gifts thy Kindness move?
“Thy tender Soul was surely tun'd to Love!
“To me, my Swain, to me, thy Smiles incline,
“And Hellen, fairest Hellen shall be thine;
“My Wishes crown'd, enjoy her brighter Charms,
“And reign a greater Monarch in her Arms.

So soft she spoke, so sweetly glanc'd her Eyes,
Transported, I resign'd the glitt'ring Prize;
Deceiv'd, the baffled Deities withdrew,
Back to her Skies the lovely Victress flew.

And now the Fates, to call my Glories forth,
Disclos'd the long-hid Secret of my Birth;
With Joy receiv'd, in princely Pomp I shone,
And Acclamations hail'd the Royal Son;
What Numbers flow'd, fair Beauty's Judge to see!
And not a Lady languish'd but for me:
Soft Nymphs, enamour'd at the passing Show,
Yielding, confess'd the Flames I feel for You:
Ev'n Princesses with rival Ardour strove,
To warm my Bosom, and to win my Love;
For me they sicken'd, and for me they sigh'd,
But for imagin'd Hellen, were deny'd:
For You alone, my Soul conceiv'd Desire,
Unknown, ador'd, and burn'd in fancy'd Fire;
Your dear Idea all my Bosom charm'd,
Amaz'd me waking, and when slumb'ring warm'd;
No wonder then those Eyes so potent prove,
Whose very Thoughts could melt my Mind to love.

Now, fir'd with Hopes, impatient of Delay,
And all in Transport for the happy Day,
With eager Haste, the neighb'ring Groves I fell'd,
To fit my Voyage, and my Fleet to build;
Quick to my Wish, the naval Streamers rise,
And swelling Streamers flutter in the Skies;
Gay painted Figures gild the Poops below,
And wanton in the Waters as they flow:
Here, Venus views each wave-reflected Grace,
And smiles her Parent-Ocean into Peace;
Young, flutt'ring Cupids round the Goddess play,
Court the cool Breeze, and quiver in the Sea.

And now prepar'd to seek your happy Shore,
With ardent Prayers my Friends my Stay implore;
Condemn my Rashness, urge the stormy Main,
Foretel my Dangers, but foretel in vain:
My Sister too, prophetically bold,
Fore-warn'd my Fate, and thus my Fortune told.

“O! whither does my Brother run? (she cry'd)
“Blind to those Flames, to which these Waters guide!
“Those fatal Flames! that with him shall return,
“And, spite of quenching Oceans Ilion burn!

How right her Prophecies your Eyes exprest?
How right, divin'd the Flames that burn my Breast?

But while these fabling Fears in vain withstand,
The favouring Winds convey me to your Land;
When now fulfilling Heaven's Decree, your Spouse
Receiv'd me at your hospitable House;
With free Reception, kindly entertain'd,
And shew'd me all the Glories of the Land:
But all with cold Indifference, I view,
Blind was my Sight to ev'ry Thing, but You:
But when your fair-fam'd Beauties struck my Eyes,
Sure Heaven with Wonder witness'd my Surprize;
What secret Transports trickled thro' each Part,
Beam'd on my Eyes, and trembled to my Heart!

From Vein to Vein, the dancing Message flew,
And all my panting Soul confess'd 'twas You.

So look'd the heart-enchanting Queen of Love,
When with the rival Goddesses she strove:
But had your self been there, those brighter Eyes,
From each contending Power, had gain'd the Prize.
Those radiant Eyes, the mighty Boast of Fame,
Each Land eclipse, and all the World inflame;
What Nymph, but you, can boast so sweet a Face?
How fair the Nymph, that claims the second Place!
Shines there on Earth a Form so heavenly fair,
But thine would suffer by the low Compare?
Struck from Report, thy Beauties I receiv'd,
Amaz'd, admir'd, but doubtfully believ'd;
Yet now I find Report but wrong'd your Frame,
So vast your Charms! so weak the Voice of Fame!

Well might that Face omniscient Theseus fire,
Well might it such a glorious Theft inspire;

When those amazing Beauties shone expos'd,
And all the real Goddess stood disclos'd:
Ne'er was his boasted Wisdom better show'd
Than when he snatch'd you from the gazing Crowd;
But such a Prize so calmly to restore,
Confess'd his Folly, as his Wit before.
Should Paris thus resign those sacred Charms,
Should Paris thus remit them from his Arms;
Sooner should Heaven with Light'ning blast me dead!
And level triple Thunders at my Head!
If wrested from my Arms, the Joys were forc'd,
I'd make them mine, at least enjoy them first;
Ravish so lasting Token of my Bliss,
And steal Eternities in every Kiss.
O! try my Courage! prove your faithful Swain,
And learn, that Paris never boasts in vain.
Not ev'n 'till Death, my Passion shall expire,
And then Love's Flames shall light my funeral Pyre.

When Beauty's doubtful Cause by me was try'd,
And the fair Rivals crown'd the fount-ful Ide,
For Thee, the Pomp of Empires I despis'd,
And thy dear Charms beyond all Empires priz'd;
To those deep Wonders that from Wisdom rise,
Preferr'd the silent Eloquence of Eyes;
Nor can I ever at my Choice repine,
So Hellen, promis'd Hellen be but mine!
Were she but mine, I'd make my Wish compleat,
And snatch ev'n Joys beyond the reach of Fate!

But, lest Alliances disgrace your Line,
Know, Fair! my Lineage is, like yours, Divine;
From Dardanus, our Ancestry I prove,
Begot! descended, and belov'd by Jove:
What need I farther long Successions trace?
Fam'd are the Founders of the Trojan Race!
Wide o'er the World, our large Domains extend,
And with the World alone, our Glories end:

But when your self shall prove our Grandeur true,
You'll own Fame false to us, as well as You.
How shall your Eyes our lofty Domes admire,
Built to the Strains of the Phebeän Lyre!
How gaze with Wonder on sublime Abodes,
Fit to receive their tutelary Gods!
What Nymphs, what num'rous Beauties shalt thou see,
Nymphs! far superior to all Nymphs, but thee!
What heaping Crowds! what glitt'ring Tides surprize!
What Pomp, what Grandeur strike your ravish'd Eyes!
While you, confounded with Amazement, cry,
“How poor is all our Greece compar'd with Troy!
Not that your Spartan Cities I despise,
Blest be the Place that gave fair Hellen Rise!
Beauty, like yours, may well atone for Store,
Sparta, with Hellen, can desire no more:
Yet, brightest Nymph! those Charms were ne'er design'd
To brighten Shades, and be to Shades confin'd;

Beauty, like thine, was made to grace a Throne,
And lend new Lustre to a sparkling Crown;
Beauty, like thine, superior to thy Fame,
Should glow in Splendor, speak a Trojan Dame!

Nor scorn to take a Trojan to thy Arms,
Who, like a Trojan, can deserve thy Charms?
A Trojan graces the divine Abodes,
And fills the foamy Nectar to the Gods,
A Trojan charm'd the Queen of springing Light,
And warm'd the frozen Empress of the Night;
A Trojan, Beauty's sacred Power comprest,
And yielding Venus panted on his Breast:
O! let me too my Country's Glory prove,
Charm, and enjoy a brighter Queen of Love!

Nor think that Menelaus can compare
With me in Cupid's, or the Camp of War;
At least I should not fear the Point to try,
Or trust the Judgment to your conscious Eye:

But were you mine, no Kindred could disgrace,
No bloody Atreus stain your Royal Race;
No Pelopean Guilt, to blot your Name,
Or cloud the rising Glories of your Fame:
No Sire of mine, like Tantalus, is curst,
Starv'd amidst Stores, and parch'd in Floods with Thirst.
Yet, whilst I talk, a Wretch confines you now,
Sprung from that Race, perhaps as impious too;
A Wretch! that, like his Grandsire, ne'er enjoys
The tempting Fruit, or if he does, it cloys:
Shame to the Genealogy of Jove!
Flat are thy Sweets to him, and pall'd thy Love!
Gods! shall he, tasteless, riot on such Charms!
The dull Incumbrance of thy longing Arms!
Whilst I, all tender Passion, all Desire,
Scarce gain a Look, and that too fans my Fire!

When social Hours indulge the genial Feast,
What Cares! what Torments rend my tortur'd Breast!

That only Time my longing Eyes improve,
And starve my Appetite, to feed my Love;
Fix'd on that magic Face, I grieve to see
Those Smiles bestow'd on him, deny'd to me;
But when the Husband-Lover lolls to Rest
On the soft Effluence of that snowy Breast;
With bleeding Heart, I mourn thy ruffled Charms,
And curse the Rudeness of his clumsy Arms;
Tho' free, I banquet at a dear Expence,
And pay with Griefs the grand Benevolence:
With envious Eyes behold each melting Kiss,
Pant for the Joy, and languish for the Bliss;
Asham'd, enrag'd, I sigh, I fret, I frown,
Gnaw my vex'd Lips, and glance obliquely down;
But, when thy Eyes with Flames too kindly burn,
Melt as his Glance, and ev'ry Glance return;
To cool the raging Fever of my Soul,
To drown my Cares, I drink the sparkling Bowl;
But Wine still kindles up a new Desire,
Revives each Flame, re-animates each Fire!

How oft I turn aside my jealous Eyes?
But Love returns them to some new surprize!
Still would I feast on that dear, charming Face,
For ever languish, and for ever gaze!
But can my injur'd Sight with Patience bear,
A heavy, fulsome, Husband-Lover there?
In a sweet-tort'ring Look, at once remains,
Excess of Pleasures, and Excess of Pains!

O that my Conduct could disguise my Care,
But Love, that's naked, scorns all Dress to wear;
The more suppress'd, the more my Passions rise,
Speak in my Looks, and sparkle in my Eyes:
Too plain the Secrets of my Soul they shew!
And O that they were known to only you!
For oft, with Reason too, I felt a Fear,
Oft as I breath'd a Sigh, or dropt a Tear,
Lest some officious Question should display
Your Husband's Care, and all my Love betray:

How oft, to hide my too apparent Flame,
Have I reveal'd it in a foreign Name?
Bewail'd some poor unhappy Lover's Moan,
And, in their seeming Sorrows breath'd my own;
On thy dear Face, I fix'd my dying Eyes,
Wept in his Tears, and languish'd in his Sighs;
And if enflam'd too far, I snatch'd a Kiss,
Feign'd Drunkenness excus'd the ravish'd Bliss.
Once, I remember, as your flowing Vest
Disclos'd the naked Wonders of your Breast,
How meltingly the snowy Globes arose!
Fair, as the Fleeces of descending Snows!
Bright as the Down that cloath'd your Parent Jove,
When Leda panted with the Thund'rer's Love,
Like that their Tenderness, like that their Hue,
Soft as those silver Plumes, and heavenly too!
Gods! how I stood, transported with Surprize!
How heav'd my Bosom, and how flam'd my Eyes!
Ravish'd, I drop'd the purple-foamy Bowl,
And all the melting God came rushing on my Soul!

But mark me, how industriously I strive
To feed my Flame, and keep my Love alive!
If your dear Lips salute the flowing Wine,
Fix'd on the Place, I make the Nectar mine;
Ev'n from the Child, the Kiss you give, I take,
And love the Daughter for her Mother's sake.
Now soft-adapted Songs conspire to move;
For Music is the sweetest Voice of Love!
Supinely laid, I languish out each Air,
And tunefully prefer my dying Prayer.
Each Passage to that cruel Heart I've try'd,
But Cupid ev'ry Avenue deny'd:
Oft to your faithful Maids my Love I've told,
And smooth'd my Rhetoric with persuasive Gold;
But all I urg'd, alas! I urg'd in vain,
Deaf to my Prayers, they leave me to my Pain.

O could Heroic Acts my Fair obtain,
This Hand, this Heart the noble Prize should gain!

Like Atalanta's, could thy Charms be won,
I'd leave the swiftest, with the fleetest run;
Inspir'd by Love, pursue the flying Chace,
And, lifted on his Pinions reach the Race.
Could Strength prevail, like Hercules, these Arms
Should win a brighter Dejanira's Charms!

But O thou dear! un-utterably Fair!
Since all my Hopes depend on Sighs and Prayer,
By the sweet Splendour of those starry Eyes,
Bright, as their Brother-Orbs that gild the Skies!
By Jove, whose Throne such Beauties might adorn,
Were not thy kindred Charms too nearly born;
Unless yourself will grace my glad Return,
Here will I doom my fading Life to mourn!
At thy dear Feet resign my panting Breath,
Adore thee, love thee, bless thee ev'n in Death!
O view my throbbing Breast, behold my Pain!
Nor let my earnest Passion plead in vain!

Ah me! that destin'd Flames consume my Heart,
And those bright Eyes confess the heavenly Dart!
Cassandra kindly warn'd me of my Fate,
But I believ'd her Prophecies too late!
Yet, charming Nymph! the Gods Commands fulfil,
For Justice bids you cure, as well as kill.

More could I say, but rather hope to meet,
And breathe my Soul in Transports at your Feet;
In some convenient Place, my Passion prove,
And dedicate this happy Night to Love.
Nor blush, my charming Fair! nor idly dread
To violate, or stain the Marriage-Bed;
Too innocently nice such Scruples are,
To think that Woman can be chaste and fair:
Some human Blemishes are no Disgrace,
Like Patches, they adorn a beauteous Face:
Let your own Mother's kind Example move,
Nor dread a Vengeance from a guilty Jove;

Sprung from the Transports of a like Embrace,
Shall lovely Hellen deviate from her Race?
Yet, when we reach the happy Shores of Troy,
Marriage shall crown our honourable Joy;
Till then, believe me, Fair, to slip this Time,
Would be the greater Sin, the greater Crime:
For this, the Gods with ev'ry Wish conspire,
For this, your Husband seconds our Desire;
By their Commands, officiously withdraws,
And absent, silently asserts our Cause:
By his Example, his own Acts pursue,
In leaving him, as he in leaving you:
What! could no other Time his Journey fit?
Indeed, 'tis very like a Husband's Wit!
Poor Soul! he cry'd “Be careful of our Guest,”
He said no more, and we may think the rest—
But you his very last Commands neglect,
A certain Token of a forc'd Respect;
To both alike a cold Indifference prove;
Both lost alike to Duty and to Love!

But could a longing Lover leave you so?
Thus easily such tasted Joys forego!
No! dull Fruition all his Taste destroys,
Nor knows he half the Jewel he enjoys;
Else, could he ne'er desert those tempting Charms,
At least, resign them to a Rival's Arms!
O! let my Love awake his sated Eyes,
And teach them each dear Beauty how to prize!
Cold, lonesome, in a widow'd Bed you lie,
And, languishing in Solitude, I sigh;
What Fear, what barring Obstacle remains,
But you may wreak your Wrongs, and ease my Pains?
Transporting Thought! to riot in those Charms,
To clasp those balmy Beauties in my Arms!
Imparadis'd in those soft Folds I'll lie,
Look such dear things, such sweet Persuasions sigh;
With such prevailing Elocution burn,
To sooth you with your Paris to return;
That sure, if Love has Power, you'll feel my Fire,
And in dissolving Murmurs breathe Desire!

To vindicate your Honour, and your Fame,
On me be all the Rape, on me the Blame;
Let Theseus and your Brother's Actions plead,
Leaders like these will dignify the Deed;
They stole Leucippa's Daughters, Theseus You;
And can't his Licence be my Licence too?
Already mann'd, my Fleet attends your stay,
And the Winds murmur at your long Delay;
Inviting Gales, impatient, court the Joy,
To waft us to the sacred Shores of Troy:
How shall those Charms our gazing Crouds amaze!
How speak a Goddess! how confess a Grace!
What shining Pomp shall gild the passing Show!
What heaping Numbers without Number flow!
What Gifts, what Honours shall all Troy decree!
Gifts, worthy Priam's Court, and worthy thee!
Where'er you turn, what Altars shall arise!
What aromatic Incense cloud the Skies!
Such Glories wait—with greatness un-exprest,
For Praise were there Detraction at the best.

Nor think that Greece shall follow with Alarms,
Did e'er a Rape excite a Nation's Arms?
When Thracia stole the bright Athenian Dame,
Did Thracia suffer for the guilty Flame?
Did Colchos with resenting Vengeance rise,
To snatch from Jason's Arms his beauteous Prize?
Safe from the Terrors of invasive War,
Theseus enjoy'd at Peace his Cretan Fair.
When Theseus snatch'd thy brighter Beauties too,
What Vengeance did the Ravisher pursue?
Then, trust me, Nymph, 'tis all an empty Fear;
Or we may think of Danger, when 'tis near.
But should all Grecia's hostile Troops engage,
Know, we have Forces to repel their Rage;
Like Grecia, we have Armies at Command,
As brave our Heroes, and as wide our Land.
But if your Husband should Atrides dare;
My self will meet his Shock, and stand his War:
Tho' young, yet bold in martial Toils of Fame,
My early Valour dignify'd my Name;

When fir'd with gen'rous Rage I boldly rose,
Rescu'd my fleecy Flocks, and slew my Foes:
Deïphobus, Illioneus can tell
How far my Courage and my Strength excel;
Nor does this Arm alone the Javelin throw,
But launch the Spear, and arch the moony Bow;
With equal Judgment, and with equal Force,
Direct the feather'd Fate and urge its Course:
Can Menelaus boast Atchievements so?
Or, boasting, can he prove his Actions true?
But should (what I ne'er think) his Arm prevail,
Should Heaven conspire to make your Paris fail;
Great Hector could retrieve that Glory lost,
Hector, our Bulwark! in himself an Host!
O! did you know to what deserving Arms,
The bounteous Gods ordain those heavenly Charms!
May, then this certain Oath my Passion prove,
Confirm your Courage, and inflame your Love;
That hostile Greece shall never cross the Main,
Or, baffled by this Arm, return again:

Fir'd by those Eyes, I'd singly meet a War,
Confront each Fury, and each Danger dare!
While future Fame should glory in your Charms,
And boast how Hellen set the World in Arms!
But haste, my Fair! the Gales their Aid employ,
And Fate has fix'd your Happiness in Troy.

Penelope to Ulysses.

The Argument.

Hellen's Rape having drawn all the Grecian Princes to the Siege of Troy; among the rest, Ulysses on this Occasion distinguished himself in a very remarkable manner. But he not returning to Penelope, after the Siege was over, she remands him by this Epistle, having behaved as well at home, by her Chastity, as he had done at Troy by his Valour. She recites the various Addresses of her Suitors, and pathetically bewails his Stay; acquainting him at the same time with the misconduct of his Family-Affairs, thro' his Absence, and earnestly presses his speedy return, in order to their Regulation.

These Lines, my Lord, your cruel Absence mourn;
O! let your Answer be your quick Return:

Sure Troy, the fatal Fountain of our Woe!
Has felt her finish'd Ruin long ago!
But not all Troy restor'd could e'er repay
The Griefs I suffer by your long Delay.

Had Paris, when he sought the Spartan Dame,
Sunk in the Seas, and quench'd his lawless Flame!
Those sad Anxieties I ne'er had known,
Nor sigh'd out solitary Nights alone!
With widow'd Hands engag'd the daily Toil,
Nor slumb'ring sought my Sorrows to beguile!
But slumb'ring, still alas, in vain I strove;
Clos'd were my Eyes by Sleep, but ope'd by Love!
In Dreams, at visionary Scenes I swoon'd,
Shrunk at each Stroke, and felt each fancy'd Wound;
Beheld my daring Lord in loud Alarms,
And Fate and Hector rushing on his Arms!
Shock'd at the Sight, and shiv'ring with cold Fear,
Confus'd I wak'd, and breath'd a pious Prayer.

When some Report, descriptive of the Fight,
Reviv'd the recent Horrours of the Night;
Wak'd at each Tale my boding Dreams return'd,
And all my Fears as real Ills I mourn'd.
Griev'd, I deplor'd Patroclus, wise too late!
His borrow'd Glory, his lamented Fate!
With Tears I heard Tlepolemus, o'erthrown,
And made the Warrior's Miseries my own.
But if some Grecian Brave-Unknown were kill'd,
Ulysses thro' my trembling Pulses thrill'd;
My pallid Looks confess'd the widow'd-Wife,
And my Soul panted for my Hero's Life!

But blest be ev'ry Love-indulgent Power?
For now those Fears, with Ilium are no more:
Rich in her Spoils, our conqu'ring Chiefs return,
And to our Gods their grateful Off'rings burn:
With joyful Pride relate the Trojan War,
And dwell on ev'ry honourable Scar.

On her lov'd Lord each longing Lady lies,
Views the dear Man, and at his Glory sighs;
With sweetly-smiling Looks delights to trace
The dawning Features of the former Face:
Immortal Acts the list'ning Crouds engage,
Boastings for Youth! and future Tales for Age!

While some, less eloquent, their Toils design,
Figure each Fight, and miniature each Scene:
In purple Wines each purple River pours,
And, dy'd with mimic Blood, Scamander roars:
Here fam'd Sigeum's tow'ry Tops arise,
There Priam's cloudy Turrets pierce the Skies;
Here, stretch'd around, the tented Shores display,
Where great Ulysses and Achilles lay:
Here, thund'ring Hector bursts the Grecian Walls,
There storms in Triumph, there, a Triumph falls.

From Nestor's Lips your Son imbib'd your Fame,
And all your Glory all his Soul inflame;

Pleas'd, he relates that memorable Night,
And dwells on ev'ry Horror with Delight:
But could my Hero so forgetful prove,
So quick to Dangers! and so deaf to Love!
When thro' the Gloom you sought the hostile Host,
And all the Lover in the Hero lost;
With only one Companion of your Toils,
What Tents destroy'd! how made those Tents your Spoils!
As from their Stalls the Thracian Steeds you drew,
How might some swift-revenging Hand pursue!
Rescue the proud triumphant Prize you sought,
And snatch your Life, that richer Prize you brought!
Could then your Heaps of Spoils, your Hills of Slain,
Sooth my sad Soul, or mitigate my Pain!
But yet, tho' safe from all those fierce Alarms,
You live not, if you live not in these Arms!

Ah what avail the Deeds Reports declare,
Unless you reap the mighty Honours here!

While others bless their happy Hopes compleat,
Their Joys deriving from Troy's finish'd Fate;
Widow'd, I seek in vain for kind Relief,
And Troy, my former Terror, is my Grief!
Her ruin'd Streets enrich'd with human Gore,
Now teem with Corn, that teem'd with Men before:
Her once-rich Domes with richer Harvests flow,
But yield, as still, to me the Fruit of Woe!

From ev'ry Stranger that invades our Coast,
With Tears I ask my wand'ring Lover lost;
To his kind Care my Letter'd-Griefs commit,
And pray that pitying Heaven may make ye meet.
At Pylos I my doubtful Chief explor'd;
But Pylos told no Tidings of my Lord:
To Sparta's Realms my speedy Message went,
But Sparta's Realms uncertain Answers sent.

O! still had Troy maintain'd her bright Abodes,
Nor felt the Fury of her hostile Gods;

Exempt from this Variety of Care,
I'ad known no Dangers, but the Chance of War;
But now what sad Anxieties inclose!
What real, what imaginary Woes!
What Horrors my distemper'd Fancy fill!
What Fears I frame! how ev'ry Fear I feel!
From Rocks, from raging Seas what Scenes I feign!
Wild as the Rocks, and boundless as the Main:
Oft fear, averse to these domestic Charms,
You lull your Honour in some Stranger's Arms;
To please her Pride describe your homely Wife,
And bant'ring ridicule a virtuous Life!
But soon my Love dispels those Fears away;
And on the Gods I charge your long Delay.

My urgent Sire, lest Sorrows should consume
The youthful Beauties of my vernal Bloom,
With Pray'rs engag'd my Heart again to wed,
And taste the Pleasures of a second Bed;

But not my Sire could move my Soul's Decree,
Still was I thine, and thine will ever be!
Now conscious of my pure, unspotted Flame,
Himself he censures, and applauds my Name.

Yet where e'en Duty, and his Will could fail,
Audacious Lovers labour to prevail:
Their Suit the Samians, the Dulichians move,
With all the flatt'ring Fopperies of Love;
In noisy Crouds intrude, unbidden Guests!
Carouse our Banquets, riot on our Feasts.
In wanton Luxuries our Stores decay,
And all, but Love, becomes an easy Prey!
Pisander, Polybus, and Medon too,
With num'rous others, join the lawless Crew.
Why should I each detested Name repeat?
Spunge to our Wealth! and Canker to our State!
Rude by Reproof, and insolently bold,
Unaw'd they revel, triumph if controul'd.

Alas! what Force of ours can end the Strife?
A feeble Father, and a widow'd Wife!
Your tender Son, unbred to fierce Alarms,
Implores his Sire to lead his Soul to Arms.
As lost, of late, the duteous Youth I mourn'd;
Bent on your Search, to find his Hopes return'd.
But may kind Heaven its choicest Blessings shed,
From Harms protect his dear devoted Head;
His Fame for-ever guard, for-ever raise,
To crown the peaceful Ev'ning of our Days!

But who shall now our injur'd Right maintain,
Controul Offenders, and assert our Reign?
Decay'd, your Father scarcely dares command;
Tho' wise his Counsels, wither'd is his Hand!
What can my helpless, tender Nature shew?
A Woman only, and a soft one too!
Unhappy We! whose Weakness is our Power!
I'll weep! I'll sigh! but I can do no more—

Let Sighs, and Tears your quick Return engage,
To guide your Son, and guard your Father's Age,
From Life's last Verge conduct him gently down,
And teach the Youth to soar to high Renown!
Then haste! lest as I weep for your Return,
Too late, like me, my fading Charms you mourn.

Ariadne to Theseus.

The Argument.

The Athenians having basely killed Androgeos the Son of Minus King of Crete; that Prince, by a severe War, compelled them to send annually seven Batchelors and as many Virgins to be devoured by the Minotaure. This was a Monster engendered by a Bull upon Pasiphae, the Wife of Minus, while he was engaged in the Athenian Wars. Among others, the Lot fell upon Theseus to be one of these destined Youths, but he encountered and killed the Monster, and afterwards by the direction of Ariadne made his escape out of the Labyrinth, and fled with her, to the Isle of Naxos. Afterwards, upon a Summons from Bacchus, he left her one Morning when asleep: she finding her self thus deserted, sends him this Epistle.

From that inhuman Shore these Lines receive,
Where late you left a tender Nymph to grieve;
Tho' there expos'd to savage Beasts of Prey,
She lives to call thee savager than they:

Their Cruelties no more than Nature prove;
But Theseus hid his Cruelties in Love,
When Sleep, and his endearing Arms betray'd
A drowzy, easy, miserable Maid!

Scarce had the tuneful Birds awak'd the Day,
And the Dew glitter'd at each dawning Ray;
When melting in soft Dreams, my Arms I threw,
To clasp my Joys, and circle them in you;
But as I stretching turn'd me to your Place,
An empty Grasp receiv'd my warm Embrace;
Turning, again I reach'd, I search'd again;
I lookt, I felt; but lookt, or felt in vain:
Wak'd in a Fright, I started from the Bed,
And as I fear'd, I found my Swain was fled.
At this I beat my Breast, I tore my Hair,
And stood a-while the Image of Despair.

Led by the Lustre of the waning Moon,
From Place to Place distractedly I run;

By her pale Rays, not half so pale as I,
Dimly the solitary Land espy;
With widow'd Eyes survey the mournful View,
But all, like me, seem'd destitute of you:
Theseus! along the concave Shores I cry'd;
Theseus! the repercussive Shores reply'd:
The Shores, tho' deaf to Storms, more kind than you,
Heard ev'ry Call, and echoing call'd you too.

Rais'd on the Margin of the thirsty Sands,
A rough, a barren Promontory stands;
Advent'rous by Despair, the Top I climb,
For Passion gave a Pinion to each Limb:
Thence, the wide Seas, and subject Floods survey,
And o'er the blue Expansion roll my Eye;
When strait I saw thy distant Streamers blow,
Float on the Breeze, and o'er the Billows flow.
Amaz'd, at first I doubted my Surprize,
And Reason held a Conflict with my Eyes:

But soon (too soon!) I found the Terror true,
Nor did my wond'ring Eyes deceive, but you!
Then, in what Agony of Thought I stood!
How chill'd my Bosom! and how freez'd my Blood!
'Till o'er my speechless Rage, my Grief prevail'd,
Unloos'd my frigid Tongue, and loud I call'd!
O Theseus! Theseus! whither do you fly?
Return—'tis Ariadne calls! I die—
At ev'ry Call I beat my panting Breast,
And where my Accents fail'd, my Rage exprest:
From my cold Limbs my parting Vest I tore;
And high in Air the waving Signal bore.
In vain! my Breath but made you faster fly,
Nor would you see the Sign, nor hear the Cry.

But when my Sight no farther could pursue,
And intervening Oceans dimm'd my View:
Till then restrain'd, my Tears in Torrents flow'd,
Stream'd down my Eyes, and all the Woman show'd:

My Eyes! their only Office, let them weep;
And mourn the Theseus, that they could not keep.

Now like some frantic Bacchanal I fly,
Now bath'd in Grief, on some bleak Mountain lie,
From thence the solitary Seas explore,
See the Waves rise, and hear the Billows roar;
Cold as the Flinty-Rock, there sit alone,
And seem a Piece just growing from the Stone.

Oft to the conscious Grotto I return,
Sigh o'er my Grief, and o'er thy Absence mourn:
There, as some Transport to my Soul appears,
Kindles my Breast, and melts my Heart in Tears;
Falling I press thy dear, deserted Place,
And breathe my Sorrows on the briny Grass;
To the sad Shades in plaintive Accents cry,
O cruel! could you let my Theseus fly?
I brought my Theseus hither true, and kind,
Sure 'tis your baneful Influence chang'd his Mind!

Ye Shades, ye Shades, my gentle Swain restore,
True, as at first; and tender, as before.

What shall I do! or whither can I fly?
What Succour, what Inhabitant is nigh?
No human Race possess the savage Isle,
No rising Harvests on the Peasants smile;
No Trade the barren Wilderness supplies,
Girt with rough Seas, and bound with barren Skies.

But should some favourable Ship appear,
Moor on these Shores, and wait my Passage here,
To what far unknown Region should I roam?
Where seek a Shelter? and where find a Home?
No Cretan Cities will Protection give,
Nor can my Friends, my injur'd Friends! forgive.
To you, false Man, my Father I betray'd;
And Heaven has justly now the Crime repaid!
To gain your Love, your wand'ring Steps I sped,
And thro' the Labyrinth too kindly led;

But when I first the active Present bore,
What Words! what Vows! what Promises you swore!
By this dear Gift, you cry'd, this magic Clue,
Which thus for ever binds my Heart to you!
To your last Breath my faithful Love I swear,
Firm be my Oath, as Ariadne's dear.
False Man, I live, (if one like me can live)
To see your Love, your Promises, deceive!
O! had you me with my poor Brother slain,
Then had your Vows been void, and void my Pain.

But, whilst I these experienc'd Griefs relate,
Blind to my future Griefs, reserv'd by Fate;
What fictious Horrors all my Thoughts controul,
Rise on my Sight, and sink upon my Soul!
In ev'ry Breeze some ranging Beast I hear,
And start at Phantoms conjur'd by my fear:
Imagine Lions in the Oceans roar,
And fabled Monsters rising from the Shore:

See murd'ring Ruffians' bloody Daggers rise,
Gild the green Gloom, and glimmer in my Eyes;
Faint, scarce I move, pant with thick-beating Breath,
And my Soul suffers with ideal Death:
Fearful some servile Slavery to prove,
Below my Lineage, and below thy Love.

Where-e'er I turn my Sight, where-e'er I go,
Fresh Scenes of Horror multiply my Woe;
As o'er the desart Rocks my Eyes I roll,
There view the gloomy Image of my Soul:
On the wide Seas with black'ning Tempests fill'd,
Survey my troubled Breast with Sorrows swell'd.
Nor in my deepest Anguish scarcely dare
Breathe a sad Sigh to Heaven, or steal a Prayer;
For would the list'ning Gods relieve my Pain,
Those Gods that ev'n have chang'd my faithless Swain!
Those cruel Gods that leave me thus a Prey
To savage Beasts, or Man more fierce than they!

O that my Brother's Blood had ne'er been spilt,
Nor Athens paid so dearly for the Guilt!
O that by thee the Monster ne'er had dy'd!
Nor this fond Hand the ductive Clue supply'd!
Thro' the blind Maze I taught thy Steps to rove,
But lost myself in Labyrinths of Love!
Nor do I wonder that you conquer'd so,
Yourself the greater Monster of the two!
Steel'd with that Savageness you dar'd the War,
And fac'd a Danger that you could not fear:
Well might that Breast the horned Combate try,
Whose Powers the sharper Darts of Love defy.

Ye treach'rous Slumbers, that deceiv'd my Joys,
O close again, for ever! close these Eyes:
Robb'd of my Bliss, in vain you bring Relief,
Unless, as you begun, you end my Grief.

Ye faithless Gales, that bore my Love away,
No more in sportive Zephirs idly play;

But charg'd with Griefs in deeper Murmurs blow,
Sigh out my Sighs, and whisper out my Woe,

And thou, false Theseus, listless of my Cries,
Could not a Brother's Death thy Rage suffice!
By diff'rent Means you act an equal Wrong,
He felt your Sword, and I that flatt'ring Tongue;
That Tongue that first my easy Heart betray'd,
Till Sleep, and rising Gales conspir'd their Aid;
Conspir'd, like silly me, a Swain to please,
Like that, too soothing, faithless too like these!

Must then alas! these widow'd Eyes no more
Survey the Confines of my Native Shore!
But daily fading in a foreign Land
Expire, without a Parent's closing Hand!
Shall no dear heart-dissolving Friend be near,
To sooth my Sorrows with a tender Tear!
Shall no religious Rites be kindly paid!
No Comfort dying! and no Guard when dead!

But must my Body un-inhum'd decay,
Alike, when living, and when dead, a Prey.

While You at Athens seek a glorious name!
To reap the mighty Harvest of your Fame;
Describe the Monster-Man, the Conquest blaze;
And traverse o'er again the winding-Maze:
How great 'twill sound, to name a certain Maid,
That crown'd your Arms deserted! and betray'd!

But cruel as the Rocks that brought thee forth,
(For I can ne'er believe thy boasted Birth)
Would some kind Power my Spectre-Figure show,
'Twould touch thy Soul with sympathetic Woe!
But since the distance such a Sight denies,
O see my Sorrows by Idea rise.
Think then, you see a Mountain's batter'd Brow,
Beat by rough Winds, and stunn'd by Floods below;
On some deep-bellying Crag behold me there,
My Locks dishevel'd, and my Bosom bare.

Behold me on the clammy Stone reclin'd,
Like rainy Harvests bending with the Wind;
While o'er the dewy Sheets I breathe my Pain,
Drench'd in my Tears, and spatter'd by the Main.
“Theseus relent, and if at your Return,
“You find me dead—O Theseus close my Urn.

Dido to Æneas.

The Argument.

Æneas, at the Destruction of Troy, having saved his Houshold-Gods; his Father, and his Son Ascanius from the Flames; set Sail with twenty Vessels, and was at length shipwrecked on the Lybian Shore. Where Dido, secreting herself from her Brother Pygmalion's Cruelty (who had murdered Sichæus her Husband) built the City of Carthage. Æneas and his Fleet were very hospitably Entertained, and the Queen fell passionately in Love with him, and compleated her Wishes by Enjoyment. But Æneas in a Dream being admonished by Mercury to go in quest of the Kingdom of Italy, long before promised him by the Gods, he readily prepares for the Expedition. Dido soon alarmed thereat

tries all Arts to dissuade him from his intended Enterprize, which proving fruitless, she at last, in Despair, sends him this Epistle.

Thus some expiring Swan bewails her Woe,
While with the Streams her Strains in Anguish flow:
Nor think I these, that Heart so hard, can move,
Shall Sorrow stronger than my Passion prove!
When Love, when Honour, and when Int'rest fail,
Can a weak Woman's soft Complaints prevail:
These all were yours, but are not worth your Care,
Alas you leave the Giver to despair;
With ardent Wishes court the rising Gales,
False as your Oaths, and flatt'ring as your Tales;
While now the Ships their swelling Wings display,
To bear your Vows, with all my Hopes away!
Led by delusive Thoughts of Fame to come,
Perhaps the Fates but tempt you out to roam;

But if a future Empire fire your Mind,
Think of this Empire which you leave behind.
To crown that Wish the proffer'd Gift receive,
With all a Lover and a Queen can give.
Suppose you reach this foreign unknown Shore,
Safe from the dang'rous Ocean's stormy Roar,
What Friend, what Subject shall your way prepare,
Or who commit on trust the regal Care?
What Stratagems, what Methods will you prove?
All are not easy Nymphs betray'd by Love!
Nor will your Cities on a sudden rise
To vie with Carthage, and invade the Skies:
But can propitious Fortune e'er bestow
A Nymph like Dido, kind, like Dido, true?
That you, like wretched Dido, may undo!

Alas my tender Heart! I burn, I burn!
Like Tapers dying o'er some holy Urn.
Æneas all my tortur'd Breast employs,
Streams in my Tears, and sparkles in my Joys:

For ever in my Sight his Image seems,
Charms when awake, and melts me in my Dreams.
Yet whilst the lovely Tyrant mocks my Pain,
How often do I curse the cold Disdain?
But soon, for still his pleading Eyes are by,
Revoke the Curse, and give my Tongue the Lye.

O Venus! kindly sooth a bleeding Heart,
O Cupid! pierce him with an equal Dart.
Thy Shafts the very Deities controul,
Shall they then fail to reach a Mortal's Soul!
O teach me how this Passion to resign,
Or touch his Bosom with a Flame like mine.

False-hearted Man, no more thy Fates deceive,
Which breathing Vows enforc'd me to believe;
No tender Goddess could thy Parent prove!
At least the Goddess, and the Queen of Love:
'Twas Pride that forg'd the vain delusive Lye,
For thou hast nought of Love but Perjury.

From savage Rocks, or treach'rous Seas you sprung,
Where Sirens tun'd that false bewitching Tongue:
From that inhuman Stock your Nature drew
Hardness, Inconstancy, and Coldness too.

But whither, cruel Wand'rer, would you run?
What Dangers tempt, my injur'd Sight to shun?
Tho' deaf as Rocks the raging Sea deforms,
Tho' fickle as the Winds that drive the Storms;
Think on your perjur'd Faith, and O refrain!
Nor tempt the Dangers of the stormy Main.
Behold the swelling Waves obstruct your way,
Kindly they form Excuses for Delay;
Shall the rough Winds, and Billows prove more true,
More soft, more tender, and more kind than you?
If thus to wrong my Love you tempt your Fate,
Disdain you'll purchase at too dear a rate!
But if you'ad rather wander o'er the Deep,
Than in these longing Arms be lull'd asleep;

May Heaven indulgent yet a while reserve,
The fatal Vengeance you so well deserve.

Nor into Perils thus so rashly fly,
But wait the Promise of a kinder Sky;
Strait shall the Winds be chang'd, the Storms blown o'er,
And gentler Breezes court thee from the Shore:
While, if my Wishes, and my Hopes are true,
Some God may work an equal Change in you.

But would you thus a fresh Experience gain,
Thus by repeated hazard prove the Main;
O think what latent Dangers fill the Deep,
Tho' Winds lie hush'd, tho' Billows lull'd asleep;
The treach'rous Waves some Vengeance may conceive,
May, like that false deluding Face, deceive.
And should some low'ring Storm involve the Skies,
What violated Power would hear your Cries?

Would Venus, tho' your Parent, guard her Foes,
Her Power controuls the Seas from whence it rose.

Not that I wish this fatal Judgment near!
I only caution, what I kindly fear;
Tho' led by thee, abandon'd, and betray'd,
Methinks I could not see thee thus repaid:
O rather live, to save that perjur'd Breath,
Be false, be cruel, triumph in my Death.

But think you hear the angry Billows roll,
(Good Heaven avert the Omen of my Soul)
Think then what Scenes of Horror will ensue,
Rise in your Mind, and open to your View:
When Dido, whom, you'll pity then too late!
Shall rise the bloody Witness of her Fate;
Repeat those tender Perjuries you said,
And point for Vengeance on the Wounds you made.
Confounded by Despair, with Guilt oppress'd,
You'll feel a fiercer Tempest in your Breast:

In the sad Anguish of Affliction call,
“'Tis just ye Gods, my Crimes deserve it all.
Each Moment some impending Judgment dread,
And think the Thunder levell'd at your Head.

If Dangers and Persuasions fail to move,
Let your own Care a stronger Motive prove;
I'll not receive the Kindness, as my Boon,
I'll call it tender Pity to a Son:
Think on his blooming Years, nor trust his Life,
'Tis Crime enough to wrong an injur'd Wife.
Think then upon those Deities you bear,
Nor late their dread Divinity revere;
You, that redeem'd them from the Flames of Troy,
Shall you by a worse Fate their Powers destroy!
But neither Gods, nor Mortals you regard,
No Pity ever touch'd a Heart so hard;
Those Shoulders ne'er reliev'd a Sire oppress'd,
Rather thy Crimes sat heavy on his Breast.

False as thy self, 'tis all an empty Cheat;
Nor have I first experienc'd thy Deceit.
Like me, Creüsa thy fond Tales believ'd,
Like me deserted, and like me deceiv'd!
How have I made her Miseries my own,
Which now alas too fatally are one!
For this with Vengeance arm'd the Gods pursue,
To give your perjur'd Villainies their due;
For this, for seven long Years they made you roam
A vagrant Wretch, unworthy of a Home.

Driv'n on my Coast, you su'd a suppliant Guest,
Undone by Fortune, and by Storms oppress'd;
Mov'd by your Wants, I melted at your Grief,
And sooth'd your pleading Sorrows with Relief.
I gave alas!—what gave I not to you?
My Crown, my Kingdom, and my Honour too!
And is it thus my Kindness you reward!
And is it thus my Pity you regard!

Ungen'rous! can you so forgetful prove,
So lost alike to Gratitude and Love!

But curst for ever be the fatal Day,
When in the conscious, shelt'ring Shade we lay:
Alas how dear did that Protection cost!
For that my Honour, and my Fame I lost!
With what presaging Howls the Furies yell'd?
What Ululations all the Vallies fill'd?
E'en Nature labour'd to divert my Fate;
But I the doubtful Signals learn'd too late!

Tormenting Anguish! self-accusing Thought!
What have I done! O whither am I brought!
Reflecting, from my self in vain I fly;
Asham'd to live, and yet afraid to die!
Can my dear Lord this spotted Soul receive?
Or will his injur'd Ghost my Guilt forgive?

Last Night his Statue in the gloomy Grove,
A pious Token of my chaster Love;
With Chaplets, and with verdant Foliage dress'd,
To me these deep prophetick Words express'd;
“Come Dido,—thrice the hollow Echo spoke,
Trembling I heard it thrice, and thrice I shook.
I come dear injur'd Shade—but sadly slow,
Loaded with Shame, and overcharg'd with Woe.
O can you pardon me! indeed his Charms
Would melt the coldest Virtue in his Arms;
His heavenly Birth, and his more heavenly Eyes,
So strongly, so unwarily surprize!
Such Looks, such Words would make all Hearts believe
It was not in his Nature to deceive:
But if his dear enchanting Wiles you knew,
My Wrongs you'd wave, and wish the Charmer true.
And were he such, I'd glory in my Shame,
Excess like that would justify my Flame!

Too truly I my rigid Fortune know,
Destin'd to Sorrow, and inur'd to Woe!
Slain at the Shrine my much lamented Lord,
Fell a sad Victim to my Brother's Sword:
Oppress'd, the Blood-polluted Land I left,
By Foes pursu'd, and of my Friends bereft.
Here fled, here built this City which you see,
And dearly purchas'd what I give to thee;
With those wide Lands that stretch along the Shore,
Far as the misty Prospect can explore.
With grudging Hearts my Neighbours saw me rise,
And view'd my Glories with malignant Eyes.
Lur'd by my Wealth, pretending Courtiers came,
And hid the Traytor in the Suiter's Name:
Who soon when you are gone, by force may storm,
And show th' Usurper in his proper Form;
While I defenceless, seek in vain a Friend,
My Self to succour, and my Right defend.
But first O bind these Arms, your Bonds will prove,
More easy and more gentle than your Love:

To my curst Brother's Sword my Life consign,
A Victim to my murder'd Husband's Shrine.
Far off the Object of your Hate convey,
To scorn'd Hyarbas send the Captive Prey:
Then go to foreign Lands, your Deeds relate,
And nobly triumph in a Woman's Fate;
But wisely first from Sacrilege refrain,
Nor with polluting Hands your Gods prophane;
Your Gods from ev'ry Touch may suffer more,
Than e'er they fear'd from Trojan Flames before.

But you perhaps have left me e'er you go,
Some miserable Legacy of Woe;
Time soon may see the Token of our Flame,
Blush into Life, and kindle into Shame;
Then sure my Death must melt that savage Heart,
At least you'll suffer for your tender Part.

But with a Credit to deceive, you say,
A God excites, and blames your long Delay:

O had that cruel Deity before
Preserv'd your Fortunes, and preserv'd my Shore!
Does then this tutelary Power again
Direct your Voyage thro' the pathless Main?
What Scenes of Sorrows next compleat your Woes?
What unattempted Dangers must oppose!
Dangers, which Troy, restor'd to all her State,
Could never purchase at an equal Rate:
Yet you imaginary Lands pursue,
And with chimeric Kingdoms feast your View:
In unknown Latium Empires are design'd,
And Tiber's Streams run ever in your Mind.
But 'tis Variety you long to prove;
Fickle alike in Fortune, and in Love.

Can Crowns or Scepters Satisfaction give;
This Crown a Token of my Flame receive:
My subject Kingdom at your Feet I'll lay,
With all Obedience which a Queen can pay:

To Lybian Lands consign your spreading Fame,
And raise new Ilium by a happier Name.
But if you scorn the gentle Arts of Peace,
And in mere quest of Dangers search the Seas;
Bestow that Courage on my Country's Foes,
For fierce Invaders every Side inclose.
Here let Ascanius with your Arms controul,
Live o'er his Sire, and copy all his Soul;
Encreasing Fame diffuse to foreign Shores,
And shade with conqu'ring Wreaths our softer Hours.

But, by those kindred Deities you boast,
By those you rev'rence, those you honour most:
By all that ever could your Wishes move,
Command your Pity, or reward your Love;
So may your Son adorn your Age with Joy,
And all the Father crown the blooming Boy;
So may your Parents Ashes rest in Ease,
So may your Soul with his be blest with Peace.

O hear! O listen to my dying Prayer,
Nor plunge a wretched Abject in Despair!
What have I done, that thus you leave me so,
In what have I declar'd my self your Foe?
Did I, or mine, our hostile Arms employ,
And with the Grecians urge the Fate of Troy?
No! no! from Love, not Hatred flows my Ill,
And what afflicts me, I must love you still!

Perhaps the Thoughts of stale domestic Charms,
Bar from my Breast that Heaven in your Arms:
If so, all specious Titles I'll resign,
Be what you will! so I may make you mine.
Grant but your Love, I beg no nuptial Tie,
For Love is Life, is Honour, all to Me!

Yet if this dear Petition be too great,
One momentary Favour I intreat:
While thus descending Tempests toss the Sea,
And swelling Billows stop the watry Way;

100

With Patience wait, and prudently prepare
Your Crew to strengthen, and your Ships repair.
Nor on a sudden leave my Soul accurst,
But softly sooth it into Patience first;
Administer some gentle, kind Relief,
And teach me by degrees to bear my Grief.
Then, if your Resolutions must prevail,
And all my Tears, and all my Prayers must fail;
Soon shall the Storms in whisp'ring Gales expire,
And the calm Ocean with your Wish conspire.

But if inexorable you remain
Deaf to my Griefs, and careless of my Pain;
Think that you ne'er shall triumph long, for know,
This Hand can put a Period to my Woe.
This Sword, your fatal Gift, the Task can do;
Sure it can kill, because it came from you:
Close in my Lap the thirsty Weapon lies,
Bath'd with the briny Torrents of my Eyes:

101

Which, if I fail, my Passion to redeem,
Shall turn the crystal to a crimson Stream.
From my torn Breast the rooted Pain remove,
And there conclude the Wound began by Love.

And thou, dear Anna! conscious of my Woe,
This last kind Office to a Sister show:
With pious Care my breathless Bones inhume,
Shed some soft Sorrow, and erect a Tomb.
Nor there Sichæus, as my Consort, name,
Alas that Title will disgrace his Fame!
But let the partial Monument relate,
This sad, this melancholy Tale of Fate:
“Unhappy Dido lies beneath this Stone,
“By false Æneas, and his Vows undone;
“True to her Love, tho' scorn'd; deceiv'd, she dy'd;
“He gave the Sword; her Hand the Sword apply'd.

102

Leander to Hero, Priestess of the Temple of Venus

Upon his being by Tempests, prevented from paying his nightly Visits to Her, by swimming over the Hellespontic Sea.

That Health Leander to his Hero sends,
Himself would bring, were Winds and Seas his Friends.
If the kind Gods my constant Passion speed,
These Lines my Charmer with Regret must read.
But sure I fear, the cruel Deities
Conspire against me with the Winds and Seas;
Assiduous Prayers are offer'd up in vain,
Waves choak my Passage o'er the stormy Main.

103

See! what a pitchy Gloom involves the Sky,
How fiery red the nimble Light'nings fly:
Scarce any Vessel will the Danger prove,
Of high-swoll'n Billows, and of angry Jove.
One only ventures from the Shore to part;
Fraught with the Wishes of my bleeding Heart;
O may propitious Love conduct her way,
Swift as his Shafts, unerring too as they.
I would have climb'd the happy Vessel's Side,
But all Abydos then my Love had spy'd,
Which I so long conceal'd in deep Disguise
From all the World, and from my Parents Eyes.
This when I wrote, with murm'ring Sighs I said,
Go, faithful Paper, to the lovely Maid,
Feel the soft Touches of her beauteous Hands,
(Thy Master envies thee such sweet Commands)
As with her Iv'ry Teeth she strives to break
Thy slender Chains, close by her glowing Cheek:
Enjoy the Bliss of every breathing Gale,
And Fragrance, which her rosy Lips exhale.

104

These are the Dictates of an am'rous Heart,
To senseless Paper which my Hands impart:
But O! how much more willing would they sweep,
The level Surface of the long-known Deep!
Seven Nights are past, to me a tedious Year;
Since howling Tempests stun my tortur'd Ear:
If during these, soft Sleep has seal'd my Eyes,
Mourning to see the low'ring Morns arise,
Kept by the Dangers of the furious Main,
May I no more thy dearest Sight regain.
Sometimes upon a rugged Rock reclin'd,
I strive to sooth my melancholy Mind;
With earnest Look, and ardent Thought pursue
The distant, dear, forbidden Shore in View:
Swifter than Light, Imagination flies,
And gains what intervening Space denies.

As o'er the lonely Rocks, and Shelves I gaze,
Methought I saw thy watchful Taper blaze.

105

Thrice I depos'd my Garments on the Sand,
Thrice plunging in the Deep, forsook the Land.
The surging Waves my youthful Blows repell'd,
Beat on my Temples, and my Fury quell'd.
But O! thou Chief of all the swelling Tribe,
What mighty Treasure could thy Malice bribe,
To thwart my Will? against unhappy me
Thy Spite is vented, rather than the Sea.
Cold tho' thou art, thy chilly frozen Veins,
Thaw'd by warm Love, have thrill'd with am'rous Pains.
How hadst thou bluster'd, if some pious Aid
Had stopt thy Passage to the ravish'd Maid?
Taught by thy self then, Boreas, learn to spare
My sick'ning Hopes, and hear a Lover's Prayer;
Deaf to my Prayers, regardless of my Moan,
Boreas re-murmurs in a louder Tone.
O! had I, Dædalus, thy daring Wings,
Scorning the Danger which Ambition brings,

106

Soaring aloft, I'd skim the buxom Air,
And fly to the Embraces of my Fair.
This too's deny'd; then let me for a while
With sadly-sweet amusing Thoughts beguile
The tedious Time, recall those fleeting Hours
Of killing Extasy, that once were ours.
Forth from my Father's House I stole alone,
As Night slow-mounting up her Ebon-Throne,
Began her twinkling Glories to display,
And to the Shore unheeded took my way:
Then threw my Garments with my Fear aside,
And plunging, buffeted the sturdy Tide.
The friendly Moon with kind officious Beams,
Silver'd the Surface of the trembling Streams;
Yet ever and anon she seem'd to shrowd
Her fading Lustre in a fleecy Cloud.
Then I; Fair Goddess of the silent Night,
Bereave me not of thy auspicious Light;
Mindful of young Endymion's bloomy Charms,
Conduct me safely to my Hero's Arms.

107

You, tho' a Deity, forsook the Skies,
Lur'd by the Magick of a Mortal's Eyes:
A Goddess is the Object of my Care,
Her Form, her Mind, her All, Divinity declare!
Her Charms to none the Preference resign,
But to the Paphian Queen's, or Cynthia, thine.
As all the Stars in yonder azure Field,
To thy serene superior Brightness yield,
So do the fairest Nymphs with Envy die,
And fade when near the Lustre of her Eye.
This swimming softly to my self I spoke;
The yielding Waves divide at ev'ry Stroke.
The glassy Plain reflects the quiv'ring Ray,
And the Skies brighten with a fainter Day.
Scarce any slumb'ring Breeze was heard to breathe,
Or sound, but of the bubbling Stream beneath.
Halcyons alone their hapless Fate deplore,
Moaning along the melancholy Shore.
And now with vent'rous swimming almost sped,
High from the Main erect I rais'd my Head:

108

But with what Transport spy'd I from afar,
The ruddy Gleamings of my better Star:
Within, I said, a brighter yet remains,
Source of my Joys, and End of all my Pains.
Sudden my Sinews reassum'd their Force,
And with fresh Vigour I pursu'd my Course.
Too weak Old Ocean's confluent Waters prove,
To quench the Flames of my resistless Love.
Near and more near the Land advances still,
But lags too slow for my fond eager Will.
Now, now I view the Queen of my Desire,
And all my raging Passions are on fire.

109

Laodamia to Protesilaus

When he lay Wind bound at Aulis, on board the Grecian Fleet, designed against Troy.

The Winds expiring in a softer Breeze,
Swell'd the stretch'd Sails, and smooth'd the peaceful Seas.
When, o'er the Waves, in Thought thy Course I sped,
Whilst on thy Eyes my famish'd Eyes were fed:
Nor could my Eyes the lovely Scene detain,
Dimm'd by my Tears, and dizzy by the Main.
But lost to those thy flutt'ring Sails pursue,
Thy flutt'ring Sails still less'ning to my View,
Float o'er the blewy Surge, and seem to wave Adieu.
Now bent beneath a Weight of Woe I stood,
With Eyes still fixing on the Desart Flood,

110

Till froze with agonizing Pains I swoon'd,
And Grief suffus'd a Night of Shades around.
Near was I lost to ev'ry healing Power,
And scarce my Friends my fleeting Soul restore.
Kind tho' their Care, yet kind alas in vain,
Me they reviv'd, but ah! reviv'd to Pain.
With Life's new Tides, new Tides of Sorrow flow,
Grief melts my Soul, and Love dissolves to Woe.
New Scenes of Sorrows to my Soul appear,
Hear in each Sigh, and stream in ev'ry Tear.
No more my Dress reveals the easy Fair,
But, like my self, neglected, suits my Care.
No Flower-wrought Robes my tender Limbs infold,
Shaded with Dyes or interwove with Gold:
No more my Locks with starry Gems imprest,
Soft-waving, flow adown my rising Breast:
But frantick as some Bacchanal, I go,
Alike in Figure, and alike in Woe.
In vain the fair Physicians sunk in ease,
With Female Airs my Soul distracted teaze;

111

Arise, they cry, reject these Words of Care,
Dress and be gay; for so becomes the Fair:
And let the costly Pomp of Dress delight;
Whilst thou in Arms, sustain'st the Toils of Fight.
Shall purple Robes these careless Limbs invest,
And the rough Buckler brace thy tortur'd Breast?
Shall my loose Locks diffusive Odors shed,
And the big Helmet load my Warrior's Head?