The works of John Dryden :: :: University of Virginia Library

The first and fairest of his loves was she,
Whom not blind fortune, but the dire decree
Of angry Cupid, forced him to desire;
Daphne her name, and Peneus was her sire.
Swelled with the pride that new success attends,
He sees the stripling, while his bow he bends,
And thus insults him: “Thou lascivious boy,
Are arms like these for children to employ?
Know, such achievements are my proper claim,
Due to my vigour and unerring aim:

Resistless are my shafts, and Python late,
In such a feathered death, has found his fate.
Take up thy torch, and lay my weapons by;
With that the feeble souls of lovers fry.”
To whom the son of Venus thus replied:
“Phœbus, thy shafts are sure on all beside;
But mine on Phœbus; mine the fame shall be
Of all thy conquests, when I conquer thee.”

He said, and soaring swiftly winged his flight;
Nor stopped but on Parnassus' airy height.
Two different shafts he from his quiver draws;
One to repel desire, and one to cause.
One shaft is pointed with refulgent gold,
To bribe the love, and make the lover bold;
One blunt, and tipt with lead, whose base allay
Provokes disdain, and drives desire away.
The blunted bolt against the nymph he drest;
But with the sharp transfixed Apollo's breast.

The enamoured deity pursues the chase;
The scornful damsel shuns his loathed embrace:
In hunting beasts of prey her youth employs,
And Phœbus rivals in her rural joys.
With naked neck she goes, and shoulders bare,
And with a fillet binds her flowing hair.
By many suitors sought, she mocks their pains,
And still her vowed virginity maintains.
Impatient of a yoke, the name of bride
She shuns, and hates the joys she never tried.
On wilds and woods she fixes her desire;
Nor knows what youth and kindly love inspire.
Her father chides her oft: “Thou ow'st,” says he,
“A husband to thyself, a son to me.”
She, like a crime, abhors the nuptial bed;
She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head.
Then, casting round his neck her tender arms,
Soothes him with blandishments, and filial charms:

“Give me, my lord,” she said, “to live and die
A spotless maid, without the marriage-tie.
'Tis but a small request; I beg no more
Than what Diana's father gave before.”
The good old sire was softened to consent;
But said her wish would prove her punishment;
For so much youth, and so much beauty joined,
Opposed the state which her desires designed.

The God of Light, aspiring to her bed,
Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed,
And is by his own oracles misled.
And as in empty fields the stubble burns,
Or nightly travellers, when day returns,
Their useless torches on dry hedges throw,
That catch the flames, and kindle all the row;
So burns the god, consuming in desire,
And feeding in his breast a fruitless fire:
Her well-turned neck he viewed, (her neck was bare,)
And on her shoulders her dishevelled hair:
“Oh, were it combed,” said he, “with what a grace
Would every waving curl become her face!”
He viewed her eyes, like heavenly lamps that shone;
He viewed her lips, too sweet to view alone;
Her taper fingers, and her panting breast:
He praises all he sees; and for the rest,
Believes the beauties yet unseen are best.
Swift as the wind, the damsel fled away,
Nor did for these alluring speeches stay.
“Stay, nymph,” he cried; “I follow, not a foe:
Thus from the lion trips the trembling doe;
Thus from the wolf the frightened lamb removes,
And from pursuing falcons fearful doves;
Thou shunn'st a god, and shunn'st a god that loves.

Ah! lest some thorn should pierce thy tender foot,
Or thou shouldst fall in flying my pursuit,
To sharp uneven ways thy steps decline,
Abate thy speed, and I will bate of mine.
Yet think from whom thou dost so rashly fly;
Nor basely born, nor shepherd's swain am I.
Perhaps thou know'st not my superior state,
And from that ignorance proceeds thy hate.
Me Claros, Delphos, Tenedos, obey;
These hands the Patareian sceptre sway.
The King of gods begot me: what shall be,
Or is, or ever was, in fate, I see.
Mine is the invention of the charming lyre;
Sweet notes, and heavenly numbers, I inspire.
Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart;
But ah! more deadly his, who pierced my heart.
Med'cine is mine, what herbs and simples grow
In fields and forests, all their powers I know,
And am the great physician called below.
Alas, that fields and forests can afford
No remedies to heal their love-sick lord!
To cure the pains of love, no plant avails,
And his own physic the physician fails.”

She heard not half, so furiously she flies,
And on her ear the imperfect accent dies.
Fear gave her wings; and as she fled, the wind
Increasing spread her flowing hair behind;
And left her legs and thighs exposed to view,
Which made the god more eager to pursue.
The god was young, and was too hotly bent
To lose his time in empty compliment;
But led by love, and fired by such a sight,
Impetuously pursued his near delight.

As when the impatient greyhound, slipt from far,
Bounds o'er the glebe, to course the fearful hare,
She in her speed does all her safety lay,
And he with double speed pursues the prey;

O'erruns her at the sitting turn, and licks
His chaps in vain, and blows upon the flix;
She 'scapes, and for the neighbouring covert strives,
And gaining shelter doubts if yet she lives.
If little things with great we may compare,
Such was the god, and such the flying fair:
She, urged by fear, her feet did swiftly move,
But he more swiftly, who was urged by love.
He gathers ground upon her in the chase;
Now breathes upon her hair, with nearer pace,
And just is fastening on the wished embrace.
The nymph grew pale, and in a mortal fright,
Spent with the labour of so long a flight,
And now despairing, cast a mournful look
Upon the streams of her paternal brook:
“Oh, help,” she cried, “in this extremest need,
If water-gods are deities indeed!
Gape, earth, and this unhappy wretch entomb,
Or change my form, whence all my sorrows come.”
Scarce had she finished, when her feet she found
Benumbed with cold, and fastened to the ground;
A filmy rind about her body grows,
Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs;
The nymph is all into a Laurel gone,
The smoothness of her skin remains alone.
Yet Phœbus loves her still, and, casting round
Her bole his arms, some little warmth he found.
The tree still panted in the unfinished part,
Not wholly vegetive, and heaved her heart.

He fixed his lips upon the trembling rind;
It swerved aside, and his embrace declined.
To whom the god: “Because thou canst not be
My mistress, I espouse thee for my tree:
Be thou the prize of honour and renown;
The deathless poet, and the poem, crown.
Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn,
And, after poets, be by victors worn;
Thou shalt returning Cæsar's triumph grace,
When pomps shall in a long procession pass;
Wreathed on the post before his palace wait,
And be the sacred guardian of the gate:
Secure from thunder, and unharmed by Jove,
Unfading as the immortal powers above;
And as the locks of Phœbus are unshorn,
So shall perpetual green thy boughs adorn.”
The grateful Tree was pleased with what he said,
And shook the shady honours of her head.