Classic Poem

E UHEMERUS TO L EUCIPPUS

Hither , ye travellers, who've known
The beauties of the Eastern zone,
Or those who sparkle in the West:
Hither — oh, tell, and truly tell,
That few can equal, none excel,
The fair who captivates my breast.

Survey her in whatever light —
New beauties still engage your sight:
Nor does a single fault appear.
Momus might search, and search again,
But all his searches would be vain,
To find occasion for a sneer.

Her height, her shape — 'tis all complete;
And e'en remarkable her feet
For taper size, genteelly slim. —
And little feet, each lover knows,
Impart a striking charm to those
Who boast no other graceful limb

But not her beauties only strike —
Her pleasing manners too I like:
From these new strength my passion gains.
For though her chastity be gone,
She deals deceitfully by none;
And still some modesty remains.

And still may Pythias make pretence
To something much like innocence,
Which forges all my chains to last:
Whate'er you give, she turns to praise;
Unlike the harlot's odious ways,
Who sneers at presents e'er so vast.

We, like two thrushes on a spray,
Together sit, together play; —
But telling would our pleasures wrong. —
Suffice it, Pythias will oppose
My wanton passion, till it grows
By opposition doubly strong.

Her neck ambrosial sweets exhales;
Her kisses, like Arabian gales,
The scent of musky flowers impart.
And I, reclining on her breast,
In slumbers, happy slumbers, rest,
Rock'd by the beating of her heart!

Oft have I heard the vulgar say,
That absence makes our love decay,
And friends are friends but while in view:
But absence kindles my desire;
It adds fresh fuel to the fire
Which keeps my heart for ever true.

And oh! may faith my thanks receive,
In that it forced me not to leave
The fair in whom my soul is placed.
With truth my case did Homer write;
For every time with new delight
My oft-repeated joys I taste.

Sure this is joy — true native joy
Which malice never can destroy,
Nor holy shackled fools receive.
Free joys! which from ourselves must flow,
Such as free souls alone can know,
And unchain'd Love alone can give.

But say, ye prudes! ye worthless tribe!
Who swear no gifts could ever bribe
Your hearts sweet virtue to forsake —
What is this treasure which ye boast?
Ye vaunt because you have not lost
— What none had charity to take.

Myrina carries on her back
An antidote to Love's attack;
Yet still at Pythias will she sneer.
And as my love is passing by,
Chrysis distorts her single eye,
With looks of scorn and virtuous fear.

Philinna scoffs at Pythias too,
— Yet she is handsome, it is true;
But then her heart's a heart of steel:
Incapable of all desire,
She ridicules Love's sacred fire,
And mocks the joys she cannot feel.

Yet this is Virtue! woman's pride!
From which if once she step aside,
Her peace, her fame's for ever gone!
— Away; 'tis impious satyr says,
That woman's good, and woman's praise,
Consist in chastity alone.

Can one short hour of native joy
Nature's inherent good destroy?
And pluck all feeling from within?
Shall shame ne'er strike the base deceiver,
But follow still the poor believer,
And make all confidence a sin?

Did gentle Pity never move
The heart once led astray by Love?
Was Poverty ne'er made its care?
Did Gratuity ne'er warm the breast
Where guilty joy was held a guest?
Was Charity ne'er harbour'd there?

Does coy Sincerity disclaim
The neighb'rhood of a lawless flame?
Does Truth with fame and fortune fall?
Does ev'ry tim'rous virtue fly
With that cold thing, call'd Chastity?
— And has my Pythias lost them all?

No! no! — In thee, my life, my soul,
I swear I can comprise the whole
Of all that's good as well as fair:
And though thou'st lost what fools call Fame,
Though branded with a harlot's name,
To me thou shalt be doubly dear.

Then whence these fetters for desire?
Who made these laws for Cupid's fire?
Why is their rigour so uncommon?
Why is this honour-giving plan
So much extoll'd by tyrant man,
Yet binding only to poor woman?

Search not in Nature for the cause;
Nature disclaims such partial laws;
'Tis all a creature of th' imagination:
By frozen prudes invented first,
Or hags with ugliness accurst —
A phantom of our own creation!

Two classes thus, my Pythias, show
Their insolence to scoff at you:
First, they who've passions giv'n by Nature,
But as the task of fame is hard,
They've blest Deformity to guard
Grim Virtue in each rugged feature.

And second, they who neither know
What Passion means, nor Love can do:
Yet still for abstinence they preach;
Whilst Envy, rankling in the breast,
Inflames them, seeing others blest,
To curse the joys they cannot reach.

Not but there are — though but a few!
With charms, with love — and virtue too:
But Malice never comes from them!
With charity they judge of all,
They weep to see a woman fall,
And pity where they most condemn.

If, Pythias, then, thou'st done amiss,
This is thy crime, and only this:
That Nature gave thee charms to move,
Gave thee a heart to joy inclin'd,
Gave thee a sympathetic mind,
And gave a soul attun'd to love.

When Malice scoffs, then, Pythias, why
Glistens abash'd thy tearful eye?
Why glows thy cheek that should be gay?
For tho' from shame thy sorrows gush,
Tho' conscious guilt imprints the blush,
By heav'ns, thou'rt modester than they.

But let them scoff, and let them sneer —
I heed them not, my love, I swear:
Nor shall they triumph in thy fall.
I'll kiss away each tear of woe,
Hid by my breast thy cheek shall glow,
And Love shall make amends for all.