A collection of original poems and translations :: :: University of Virginia Library

No Balm so strongly healing can we find,
As Verse or Musick to the Love-sick Mind;
Verses are light, and light the tuneful Strain,
Yet, Trifles as they are, they're hard to gain.
This well thou know'st, a Priest at Phœbus Shrine,
And a sweet fav'rite of the tuneful Nine.
'Twas thus the Cyclops sooth'd his fierce Desire,
When Galatea fill'd his Soul with Fire;
Just as the rising Down his Manhood spoke,
Nor yet his Voice to Notes too harsh was broke.
'Twas not with gentle Gifts he woo'd the Fair,
Nor glitt'ring Dress, nor nicely curling Hair;
But raging keen Desire possest him whole,
And Love's wild Tempest madded in his Soul.

153

His Sheep unheeded oft at Night went Home,
His Herds he valued not, but chose to roam
The Melancholy beaten Surge along,
And to the rolling Surges tune his Song.
So strongly dipp'd, so ranc'rous was the Dart,
With which great Venus pierc'd the Shepherd's Heart,
One Remedy he found,—the Rock on high
He climb'd, and on the Green Sea cast his Eye,
And thus he sung, and wish'd his fair One by.

Why, Galatea, fliest thou him who loves?
Whiter than clouted Cream, more soft than Doves,
Blith as the Bull, that from th' Enclosure scapes,
Yet tart and harsh as Juice of unripe Grapes.
When Sleep e'er seals my Lid thou ventur'st nigh,
But fleest when e'er thou seest my op'ning Eye,
As from the brindled Wolf the Lambkins fly.
Then first, sweet Maid, my Soul confest the Flame,
When with my Mother to the Hills you came,

155

And as among the Flow'rs you chose to stay,
Pleas'd with th'enchanting Task I show'd the Way.
Then, then I look'd and lov'd, and still love on,
How vainly to the Gods, and you is known,
But oh! I know what makes you fly and fear,
Because upon my gloomy Brow the Hair,
Stretches its shaggy Breadth from Ear to Ear;
And one red Eye-ball in my Forehead glows,
And o'er my Lips broad swells my op'ning Nose.

But being thus, a thousand Sheep I feed,
And when I thirst, their choicest Milk's my Meed,
All Summer long my Stores of Cheese I boast,
Nor less in Autumn's Heat and Winter's Frost.
With Musick none like me the Reeds can fill,
When on the rough Verge of some shadowy Hill
I sing thy Charms, and my unpity'd Woe,
Nor heed the Hours that pass, or Storms that blow.
For thee eleven pregnant Hinds I keep,
And round my Cave four gentle Bearlings creep.
Come then, all these my Love shall have and more,
Come then, and leave the Sea to lash the Shore.

157

With me much better shalt thou pass the Night,
See here the the Laurel and the Cypress straight,
The gloomy Ivy and the fruitful Vine.
Around my Cave with mingled Branches twine.
See? where yon Stream from woody Ætna fell,
And now runs level trickling thro' my Cell.
Who wou'd not these to briny Waves prefer?
What tho' I'm Brawny-limb'd and rough with Hair,
For thee these Limbs, this Flesh, this Heart I'd tear,
For thee my very Soul I would destroy,
Nay lose, still more, my one dear Eye with Joy.
Woe's me! that on these Arms no Fins I wear,
That diving at thy Feet I might appear,
And on thy Hand my Lips with Kisses feed;
Thy Mouth t'attempt you'd think too bold a Deed.
The Lilly fair, and Poppy smooth I'd bring,
In Winter one, and t'other in the Spring;
The Poppy that, if silent, gives despair,
But loudly cracking speaks the willing Fair.

159

Oh! that some Ship swift sailing I could spy,
And stop it with my Voice, and bring it nigh,
Then would I learn to swim, and then I'd know,
What Charms thy Sea green Mansions have below.
But come, my Galatea, from the Sea,
Come, and, when here, forget thy Home like me.
Our Sheep let's feed, receive their milky Stream,
And pour the Runlet thro' the thickning Cream,
Alas! my Mother! she alone's to blame,
She never woo'd for me, ne'er told my Flame,
Tho' sleepless on the Banks she knew I lay,
And saw each Morning how I fell away.
To vex her, of the Head-ach I'll complain,
Why shou'd not she, as well as I, have Pain?
Oh Cyclops, Cyclops, where's thy Reason flown?
Go Home, and to thy Labours sit thee down.

161

Thy Baskets weave, and feed thy hungry Sheep,
What boots thy whining to the senseless Deep?
Seek some kind Girl, nor follow flying Feet,
Some fairer Galatea shalt thou meet.
There's Nymphs enough would fain o'er me prevail,
And titt'ring laugh when I attend their Tale.
And howsoe'er the Sea Nymphs flout and fling,
The Cyclops here's no despicable Thing.
Thus Polypheme for Ease, nor vainly, strove,
But found th'all pow'rful Charms of Musick prove
More prevalent than Gold to conquer Love.