Classic Poem

Great god of war! Sulpicia, lovely maid,
To grace your calends, is in pomp array'd.
If beauty warms you, quit the' ethereal height,
E'en Cytherea will indulge the sight:
But while you gaze o'er all her matchless charms,
Beware your hands should meanly drop your arms!
When Cupid would the gods with love surprise,
He lights his torches at her radiant eyes.
A secret grace her every act improves,
And pleasing follows wheresoe'er she moves.
If loose her hair upon her bosom plays,
Unnumber'd charms that negligence betrays;
Or if 'tis plaited with a labour'd care,
Alike the labour'd plaits become the fair.
Whether rich Tyrian robes her charms invest,
Or all in snowy white the nymph is drest,
All, all she graces, still supremely fair,
Still charms spectators with a fond despair.
A thousand dresses thus Vertumnus wears,
And beauteous equally in each appears.
The richest tints and deepest Tyrian hue,
To thee, O wondrous maid! are solely due:
To thee the' Arabian husbandman should bring
The spicy produce of his eastern spring:
Whatever gems the swarthy Indians boast,
Their shelly treasures, and their golden coast,
Alone thou merit'st: come, ye tuneful choir!
And come, bright Phœbus! with thy plausive lyre:
This solemn festival harmonious praise,
No theme so much deserves harmonious lays.