Classic Poem

The Goddess swore: then seiz'd my hand, and led
To the sweet transports of the genial bed.
Ministrant to their Queen, with busy care
Four faithful handmaids the soft rites prepare;
Nymphs sprung from fountains, or from shady woods,
Or the fair offspring of the sacred floods.
One o'er the couches painted carpets threw,
Whose purple lustre glow'd against the view:
White linnen lay beneath. Another plac'd
The silver stands with golden flaskets grac'd:
With dulcet bev'rage this the beaker crown'd,
Fair in the midst, with gilded cups around:
That in the tripod o'er the kindled pyle
The water pours; the bubling waters boil:
An ample vase receives the smoking wave,
And in the bath prepar'd, my limbs I lave;
Reviving sweets repair the mind's decay,
And take the painful sense of toil away.
A vest and tunick o'er me next she threw,
Fresh from the bath and dropping balmy dew.
Then led and plac'd me on the sov'reign seat,
With carpets spread; a footstool at my feet.
The golden ew'r a nymph obsequious brings,
Replenish'd from the cool, translucent springs;
With copious water the bright vase supplies
A silver laver of capacious size.
I wash'd. The table in fair order spread,
They heap the glittering canisters with bread;
Viands of various kinds allure the taste,
Of choicest sort and savour, rich repaste!
Circe in vain invites the feast to share;
Absent I ponder, and absorpt in care:
While scenes of woe rose anxious in my breast,
The Queen beheld me, and these words addrest.
Why sits Ulysses silent and apart?
Some hoard of grief close harbour'd at his heart.
Untouch'd before thee stand the cates divine,
And unregarded laughs the rosy wine.
Can yet a doubt, or any dread remain,
When sworn that oath which never can be vain?
I answer'd, Goddess! Human is my breast,
By justice sway'd, by tender pity prest:
Ill fits it me, whose friends are sunk to beasts,
To quaff thy bowls, or riot in thy feasts.
Me wou'dst thou please? for them thy cares imploy,
And them to me restore, and me to joy.
With that, she parted: In her potent hand
She bore the virtue of the magic wand.
Then hast'ning to the styes set wide the door,
Urg'd forth, and drove the bristly herd before;
Unwieldy, out They rush'd, with gen'ral cry,
Enormous beasts dishonest to the eye.
Now touch'd by counter-charms, they change agen,
And stand majestic, and recall'd to men.
Those hairs of late that bristled ev'ry part,
Fall off, miraculous effect of art:
'Till all the form in full proportion rise,
More young, more large, more graceful to my eyes.
They saw, they knew me, and with eager pace
Clung to their master in a long embrace:
Sad, pleasing sight! with tears each eye ran o'er,
And sobs of joy re-eccho'd thro' the bow'r:
Ev'n Circe wept, her adamantine heart
Felt pity enter, and sustain'd her part.