Classic Poem

I mourn my love, — Adonis is no more;
Adonis dies, — his death the Loves deplore.
Venus, alas! in purple vesture dress'd,
No more shalt thou in tranquil slumber rest:
In meaner robes of azure hue arise,
And tell the world the fair Adonis dies.

I mourn my love, — Adonis is no more;
The fair Adonis' death the Loves deplore.
Where yonder hills in awful grandeur rise,
Beneath a mortal wound my lover lies.
Fast o'er his limbs as white as falling snow,
The copious streams of blood nigrescent flow;
His lids are closing o'er his torpid eyes,
And from his lips the roseate colour flies;
Nor can those fading lips one kiss impart,
One farewell kiss to soothe my aching heart.

I mourn my love, — Adonis is no more,
The fair Adonis' death the Loves deplore.
Dire is the wound of which the baneful smart
Absorbs his life, and mocks the healing art:
But one no less, nor less beyond a cure,
Does Venus in her bleeding heart endure.
With hair dishevell'd mutt'ring her distress,
With feet unsandall'd, and disorder'd dress,
Along the grove the mourning goddess goes,
Where tangling briars her erring steps oppose,
And trickling o'er her feet from many a wound,
Her sacred blood imbues the verdant ground.

The echoing mountain and the waving oak,
The parted spirit of her love revoke:
The winding streamlets, conscious of her woe,
In pity murmur as they onward flow;
The hoarse cascades in hoarser notes complain,
And blushing flow'rs receive a deeper stain,
And wand'ring far upon the mountain's verge,
The wretched Venus chants her lover's dirge.

Ah! Venus mourns the fair Adonis dead,
Her tears exceed the blood which he has shed.
But where he bleeds and where her tears now flow
Lo! from the earth two blooming flowers grow:
Where he has bled a blushing Rose appears,
And sweet Anemone where fell her tears.

The fair Adonis' death the Loves deplore:
Venus, the fair Adonis is no more.
No more bewail him in the sylvan shade,
For him a soft, a peaceful bed is made.
For him the blast has strew'd a bed of leaves,
A bed of leaves his lifeless form receives.
Lifeless, alas! though still his features keep
Their wonted beauty, as in tranquil sleep.

The Fates, relenting, round Adonis mourn,
And, chanting, woo his spirit to return;
But ah! with fair Proserpina he dwells,
Nor heeds their sorrow, nor obeys their spells.