Classic Poem

What certain fate, what mortal poison lurks
Beneath the promised sweets and joys of love,
Beneath soft blandishments what deadly snares
Are hid, my verse unfolds. O, heavenly Maid,
That from the blazing front of Father Jove
Sprang'st forth a goddess armed! Thou in whose birth
The languid colliquation of soft love
Had never part; for whom no mother felt
The pangs abhorred of childbirth! Thou, who sitt'st
Fast by thy father's side, when in the domes
And halls of heaven the congregated Gods
Hold their immortal synod! O descend,
Celestial Wisdom, from thy golden throne,
And with one ray of thy perennial light,
Vouchsafe to visit my else idle lay!
Thee rarely, to direct his erring strain,
The bard invokes, but rather to the Queen
Of amorous tumults, and her pet'lant son,
Strings wantoning his lyre; or, on the bloom
Of roses thrown, frames to the softer lute
His plaintive ditties, mingled with the breath
Of burning sighs, tears, and unholy prayers,
And vows profane. But me to thy pure shrine
Thy votary, Goddess, lead; and with thy smile
Auspicious cheer the labours of my strain,
My service vowed and dedicate. From thee
The song begins; without thy gracious aid
In vain the fires of genius in the breast
Light up their flames, in vain the sacred rage
Of inspiration animates the strain,
And ineffectual are the powers of song.

Though little skilled to woo the virgin Choir,
Whose haunts Libethra laves; though hard the task
To leave the flowery path where asphodel
And roses spread sweet bordure, where the Loves
Fan the soft air with purple wing, and lead
Along the way with smiles; though hard the task
Through thorny labyrinths and rugged rocks,
Through dark and devious wilds untrod before,
To seek the' Aonian Maids, yet not in vain
Shall I have toiled, if aught my verse avails
The wavering mind in prudence to confirm.

For you, ye candid youths, this destined strain
In youth's first prime I frame: O hither turn,
Ye ardent bands, your footsteps! Hither come,
Ye whom the voice of Honour and the breath
Of just applause may win to leave the bower
And flowery lap of Pleasure, whom the flame
That from the sacred lamp of Wisdom streams
May light to fair desires, to generous fame,
And noble counsels! Listen to the strain
Which, not severe, yet temperate, calls you on
To liberal hopes, to the propitious smiles
That Honour gives, the meed that crowns the toil
Of all the virtuous, all the wise, and brave!

Say, why was Man ordained to stand supreme
Among created things? To Man alone
Why was the intellectual power, the gift
Divine of reason granted? but that Heaven
His course appointed through the stated paths,
The rounds and fixed degrees of beautiful
And great to lie, till, these absolved, the soul
Might turn her keen perceptions to the taste
Of things immortal; with undazzled view
Before the blaze ineffable, the light,
The radiant splendour of unfading day
Might stand, and mingle with eternity.

Therefore, above all creatures that inhale
The breath of heaven, whether with nimble wing
They cleave the air, or in recesses hid
In ocean's deep unfathomed breast they lie,
Or lash with broader fin the upper wave;
Therefore, above what brutes amid the gloom
And dark recesses of the forest seek
Their prey rapacious, or the verdant plain
And grassy meadows browze with bloodless tongue,
Is Man exalted. With perpetual dew
On him the favour and regard of Heaven
In copious streams is poured; on him descends
The flood of bounty: him the sovran Sire,
With love paternal viewing, bids explore
The various paths that o'er the ample face
Of Nature spread, and to his view unfolds
The volume of the boundless universe.
Hence at the feet of Man the countless wealth
Of Nature lies submitted; all the stores
That Earth within her fruitful womb matures,
All that she offers to the genial sun,
The balmy breezes, and the fostering dews,
For Man are ripened, and for Man produced.

But O! if lost in langour and the sloth
Of unambitious tenderness; if, sunk
Beneath the weight of feverish cares, the soul
Dissolves in softness, then how vain the powers
That heaven vouchsafes to man, how vain the strength
And vigour of his frame, and O, how quenched,
How dim, and pale his intellectual ray!

For, on the sacred temple of the soul
When the fierce flames of Love relentless fix,
Corroding all within, then from the strife
Of active honour, from his native aim,
From all fair purposes, diverted turns
The wretched victim. In the lazy shade
Forlorn and drooping, while the amorous breath
Of breezes whispers through the air, and fans
His burning temples, prostrate on the turf
He lies, and listening to the song of birds,
And the soft murmur of the brook that chimes
Along its pebbled channel, he consumes
In melancholy musing his sad hours.
And oft the youth with dew of shameful tears
Bathes his hot cheek; and, to unmanly grief
Surrendered, calls upon the listening grove
To hear his lamentation, and the tale
So oft resounded of the pangs that rend
The slighted heart, the torments of disdain,
And all the woes of unrequited love.
O then farewell for him the tranquil mind,
The charms of cheerfulness, and all the joys
That Mirth and Gladness give around the heart
Most pleasantly to play! Far from the haunts
Of all his fellow men, from genial joys
Of fair society removed, the dark
And dreary waste of Solitude he courts;
There, amid anxious doubts and fears, to dwell
The livelong day. Nor when the waning beam
Of westering Phaebus glances o'er the wave
With horizontal stream, nor when her orb
High in mid heaven the Moon resplendent hangs'
Quits he his sullen watch; for vainly him
The chilling blasts of midnight, and the rain
Of heavy dews assail; still glow his veins
With all the fever's fire, still with wild throbs
His temples beat tumultuous, though his locks
Are drenched with moisture, and his head with dew
Throughout the night is wet, though winds blow loud,
And all the forest fluctuates in the blast.

So, in the yoke inglorious, and the chains
Of Love's enchantment held, he lies inert,
And pours his lamentable plaint; or, vexed
By dark suspicions, and the bitterness
Of jealous fears, his troubled fancy paints
The ever-present object of his vows
As listening to some happy rival's tale
With smiles and bland assent. O then how sharp
The stings of passion on his frantic soul
Shed their fell venom! From his tortured breast
Fast flies all tenderness, by anger, scorn,
And deadly hate succeeded; e'en the smiles
That first subdued his heart, and to the sway
Of Love's soft empire bowed him, now provoke
To bitter frenzy and untender rage.
And still at intervals, the more his breast
To wring with torture, all the blandishments,
The rosy hours, the dreams of promised joy,
The ecstacies with which his flame began
In more auspicious days, the charms that deck
His sovran mistress, full before his soul
Are placed deluding: then the killing eye
That first to pleasing thraldom won his heart
Swims in more liquid brightness; then her lips
With riper fragrance teem, more lively bloom
Her cheek assumes, her bosom whiter snow;
Then with new witchcraft, with more potent spells,
Her smiles are fraught, more bland, more winning soft,
Her voice in melting accents on his ear
Melodious dwells, the motion of her limbs
Flows with new grace, her step, her every look
Abounds with charms unseen, unfelt before.
But while the magic swims before his soul,
At once he sees his hated rival blest,
And rioting secure amid the charms
For which in burning fevers he consumes,
And wasting pines....then all the maddening stings,
The tortures of unslaked desire, the rage
Of frantic passion harrow up his soul
With sharpest anguish; while the busy fiend,
Dark Jealousy, her congregated plagues,
Her thousand scorpions, her unnumbered pangs,
Into his bosom pours; then rage and hate,
Settled and fell, anew usurp the place
Of love and soft complacency; the gloom
Of rancorous scorn, of deeply-wounded pride,
Infest his mind; and oft amid the whirl
Of loud-conflicting passions, from her throne,
Bewildered, lost, counfounded, Reason falls.

Who droops in languid softness, in the flames
Of sickly passion, but invests his limbs
With fate inextricable as the gift
Once scattered though the foldings of a vest,
From that lewd Centaur had, who o'er the ford
Bore Dejanira for Alcmena's son.

Sure it were better with the rugged pride
Of our forefathers, from the softer toils
Of Love to turn disdainful, or to rush,
Burning with savage ardour, on those joys
Which vigour only, and the strength that lives
In well-knit nerves could give in ruder days,
When force was wooing, and the sturdy grasp
Of strong constraint was courtship; so the strength
Of that dark God availed, who from the fields
Of flowery Enna bore fair Proserpine,
When she her lap with odorous blossoms filled
Amid her blithe companions.
If the heart
Of that stern king who by the yellow stream
Of Tiber slew his brother, in revenge
For his new city mocked, had known to feel
The thrill of Love's sweet anguish, to dissolve,
Lost in luxurious fondness, then the might
Of Rome had never awed the subject world:
But he, an empire's fate on that slight toy,
A woman's will, not hanging, by surprise
And timely force his subjects chose to mate:
So to that power to whom Thoossa bore
The brutal strength of horrid Polypheme
Apt games and feasts were done....To view the sports
Came all the Sabine damsels, in attire
Ornate and gay; they from the grassy seats,
That best befit the rustic circus, view,
Jocund awhile, the pastime, till the king
A sudden signal gives; then forth a band
Of soldiers rushes (while an armed gyre
Surrounds the throng), to seize their destined brides.
Loud were the shrieks, and dissonant the cries
Of those astonished, when, with eyes of fire,
Amid their ranks the fierce ungoverned youth,
Spurred by the sudden stings of quick desire,
Rushed;........what could woman's strength avail to stem
The rage of passion, heightened by the charms
Profusely then displayed! Each in his arms,
Stung by remembrance of Love's genial joys,
Now long disused, bears off his struggling bride
To forced espousals. . . . .From the ravished joys
Of those embraces, not by dalliance won,
Or the lewd tinkling of a cittern's strings,
A race of heroes came in after days,
Who high above the thrones of princes raised
Their curule chair, while to their fasces bowed
The nations round, and at their chariot wheels
Kings led in chains the pomp of triumph swelled.

Of all that owns Love's influence in the range
Of wide creation, Man alone essays
To win return by prayer, by tears, and sighs.....
With fires more fierce within the breasts of brutes
Flames the instinctive passion.... With the rage
Of madness stung, with all his veins on fire
And to the marrow pierced, the lusty steed
Burst from the stalls, and snuffs the distant mare.
Along the plain, o'er rocks, through forest shades,
He bounds impetuous; or amid the stream
Of roaring torrents plunges, and the surge
Disparts with chest high-swelling, in the strife
Of waters neighing; while his golden mane
Streams in the wind, or floats amid the wave.
Deep in Matamba's forests, by the lake
Of Zambre, and the ever-burning sands
Of drear Berdoa's waste, or Gubur's plains,
The glaring lion grapples with his mate,
Maddening with savage rapture; with his roar
The desart shakes around, and distant groves
Echo the transports of his horrid joys.

Yet shall we judge severely if Love's sway
Is ever held unblest and dire..... There is,
And happy they who feel its influence,
A generous Love that in congenial hearts
Lights up a purer flame, to nobler deeds
Incites the mind, and o'er each virtue breathes
Humane refinement, and a liberal grace.
While others at pale Mammon's sordid shrine
Barter for gold their hearts, or headlong rush
Upon the black endearments and bought smiles,
Loveless, of wantons; some, the happy few
On whom kind heaven its choicest blessings showers,
Bound by the ties of holy faith, and linked
In mutual love, together, hand in hand,
Along life's pathway journey, which shall bear
The mutual burthen studious; each the thorns
Eager to pluck from the dear partner's path,
And substitute sweet flowers: so on they glide,
With care alternate smoothing all the way,
While joy and peace smile on them to the end.

But o'er the frenzy of the mind that prompts
To desperate rage, or in strange fears and cares,
Or luxury, or shameful wantonness,
The soul be wilders, no bright omen shines;
For when the shaft has sped, whole days and nights
The Lover lingers for his dangerous bliss,
Pines, languishes, and hangs upon a look,
Esteems it bliss supreme to press the hand
Of her who fires his soul, to drink her sighs,
And feast upon the music of her voice.
For this, bright purple, or the scarlet grain,
Rich as of Bozrah, or of ancient Tyre,
Invests his dainty limbs; his locks distil
Perfumes and essences; odorous oils
From his trim garments breathe; while to the sound
Of cittern, viol, or recorder's breath
Ambling before his mistress, he or frames
Fantastic ditties, or with incense mixed
Of sighs and vows, fawning prefers his suit.
And when at length he clasps the promised bliss
(Long sought so ardently, and long pursued
Through all the turns of fickleness, and pride,
And coy pretences), by envenomed sweets,
Bland adulation, and enticement won,
He bathes his senses in delight: awhile
In wanton pleasures, in licentious joys
Securely rioting, in dreams he quaffs
Rich draughts of nectar; and in bowers of bliss,
While odours breathe around, and fountains cool
The softened air, consumes the jocund hours.
At length the morn of Reason on the mind,
Led by Repentance, dawns; then melt away
The baseless visions of imagined joys,
By shame, remorse, confusion, and dismay,
Succeeded; hovering o'er him, then he sees
The vulture Ruin, the contempt and scorn
That ever wait the wanton's votaries.
So to some traveller, as old legends tell,
In Samarcand, or famed Serendib's isle
Girt by the waves of many-fabled seas,
Fair palaces appear, with porticos
And columns graced, where mingled elephant,
Sandal and gold engrailed, profusely deck
Plinth, astragal, entablature, and shaft....
Through marble halls, arcades with jasper bright,
And splendid domes he goes, amid the blaze
Of crystal, emerald, and crysolite:
While from the painted roof, in golden lamps
Suspended, ambergris and aloes mixed
O'er silver fountains throw their costly flame,
Shedding perfume; till, touched, some talisman
Sweeps all away in thunder; then the waste
Of horrid desarts drear and black succeeds.