Classic Poem

Last night's ill-boding dreams, ye gods, avert!
Nor plague, with portents, a poor lover's heart.
But why? From prejudice our terrors rise;
Vain visions have no commerce with the skies:
The' event of things the gods alone foresee,
And Tuscan priests foretel what they decree.
Dreams flit at midnight round the lover's head,
And timorous man alarm with idle dread:
And hence oblations, to divert the woe,
Weak superstitious minds on heaven bestow.
But since whate'er the gods foretel is true,
And man's oft warn'd, mysterious dreams! by you:
Dread Juno! make my nightly visions vain,
Vain make my boding fears, and calm my pain.
The blessed gods, you know, I ne'er revil'd,
And nought iniquous e'er my heart defil'd.
Now Night had lav'd her coursers in the main,
And left to dewy dawn a doubtful reign;
Bland sleep, that from the couch of sorrow flies,
(The wretch's solace) had not clos'd my eyes.
At last, when morn unbarr'd the gates of light,
A downy slumber shut my labouring sight:
A youth appear'd, with virgin-laurel crown'd,
He mov'd majestic, and I heard the sound.
Such charms, such manly charms, were never seen,
As fir'd his eyes, and harmoniz'd his mien:
His hair, in ringlets of an auburn hue,
Shed Syrian sweets, and o'er his shoulders flew.
As white as thine, fair Luna, was his skin,
So vein'd with azure, and a smoothly thin;
So soft a blush vermilion'd o'er his face,
As when a maid first melts in man's embrace;
Or when the fair with curious art unite
The purple amaranth and lily white.
A bloom like his, when ting'd by autumn's pride,
Reddens the apple on the sunny side;
A Tyrian tunic to his ancles flow'd,
Which through its sirfied plaits his godlike beauties show'd.
A lyre, the present Mulciber bestow'd,
On his left arm with easy grandeur glow'd;
The peerless work of virgin gold was made,
With ivory, gems, and tortoise interlaid;
O'er all the vocal strings his fingers stray,
The vocal strings his fingers glad obey,
And, harmoniz'd, a sprightly prelude play:
But when he join'd the music of his tongue,
These soft, sad elegiac lays he sung:
" All hail, thou care of Heaven! (a virtuous bard,
The god of wine, the muses, I regard);
But neither Bacchus, nor the Thespian nine,
The sacred will of destiny divine:
The secret book of destiny to see,
Heaven's awful sire has given alone to me;
And I, unerring god, to you explain
(Attend and credit) what the fates ordain.
" She who is still your ever constant care,
Dearer to your than sons to mothers are,
Whose beauties bloom in every soften'd line,
Her sex's envy, and the love of thine:
Not with more warmth is female fondness mov'd,
Not with more warmth are tenderest brides belov'd.
For whom you hourly importune the sky,
For whom you wish to live, nor fear to die,
Whoseform, when nighthas wrap'd in black the pole,
Cheats in soft vision your enamour'd soul:
Neaera! whose bright charms your verse displays,
Seeks a new lover, and inconstant strays!
For thee no more with mutual warmth she burns,
But thy chaste house, and chaste embrace, she spurns.
" O cruel, perjur'd, false, intriguing sex!
O born with woes, poor wretched man to vex!
Whoe'er has learn'd her lover to betray,
Her beauty perish, and her name decay!
" Yet, as the sex will change, avoid despair;
A patient homage may subdue the fair.
Fierce love taught man to suffer, laugh at pain;
Fierce love taught man, with joy, to drag the chain;
Fierce love (nor vainly fabulous the tale).
Forc'd me, yes forc'd me, to the lonely dale:
There I Admetus' snowy heifers drove,
Nor tun'd my lyre, nor sung, absorb'd in love.
The favourite son of Heaven's almighty sire
Prefer'd a straw-pipe to his golden lyre.
" Though false the fair, though love is wild, obey;
Or, youth! you know not love's tyrannic sway.
In plaintive strains address the haughty fair;
The haughty soften at the voice of prayer.
If ever true my Delphian answers prove,
Bear this my message to the maid you love:
" Pride of your sex, and passion of the age!
No more let other men your love engage;
A bard on you the Delian god bestows,
This match alone can warrant your repose."
He sung. When Morpheus from my pillow flew,
And plung'd me in substantial griefs anew.
Ah! who could think that thou hadst broke thy vows,
That thou, Neaera! sought'st another spouse?
Such horrid crimes, as all mankind detest,
Could they, how could they, harbour in thy breast?
The ruthless deep, I know, was not thy sire;
Nor fierce chimaera, belching floods of fire;
Nor didst thou from the triple monster spring,
Round whom a coil of kindred serpents cling;
Thou art not of the Lybian lions' seed,
Of barking Scylla's, nor Charybdis' breed:
Nor Afric's sands, nor Scythia gave thee birth;
But a compassionate, benignant earth.
No: thou, my fair! deriv'st thy noble race
From parents deck'd with every human grace.
Ye gods! avert the woes that haunt my mind,
And give the cruel phantoms to the wind.