Classic Poem

Pygmalion a sculptor was, who wrought
In wax, wood, metal, stone, and ivory,
And all materials known to the craft,
To prove his genius; and no other man
Has shown such cunning or such honor gained.
Wishing for his own pleasure to create,
He made an ivory image of a maid,
Devoting so much care to each detail
That it became as graceful and as fair
As the most beautiful of womankind.
Not Helen or Lavinia had such
A fine complexion or such pleasing form
Or e'en one tenth such fairness, though they were
Both famed for beauty. When Pygmalion gazed
Entranced upon his work, he little knew
How fast the God of Love was binding him
Until he'd nothing left to do but grieve,
Without a means to satisfy desire.

" Alas! " he cried, " I dream; what have I done?
Full many an image have I carved or forged
Of which no man can estimate the worth,
But never have I fallen in love with them.
Now does love sickness seize me, and I feel
All of my senses failing 'neath its power.
Whence comes this thought? How was such love conceived?
I love a statue motionless and mute,
Deaf to my pleas, unfit to grant me grace!
How can such passion wound me? Love so strange
No one e'er knew till now. I am amazed.
In such astounding case what shall I do?
I am the maddest man in all the world.
My faith! If I had loved a queen, I might
At least for favor hope; 'twere not absurd.
But this preposterous love's unnatural.
So evilly I find myself inclined,
Basest of Nature's children I must be
My better genius to dishonor so.
She lowered herself when she formed me so vile.
If I am moved so foolishly to love,
I surely can't blame anybody else.
Not since I've been Pygmalion and could walk
On my two feet have I of such love heard.
" But possibly my love is not too fond;
For there's been many another senseless love
Unless the Scriptures lie. In leafy wood,
Stooping to quench his thirst at fountain pure,
Narcissus fell in love with his own face;
Nor ever could recover, but expired,
According to the well-known history.
At least I am less foolish than was he,
For I the object of my love can touch,
Fondle, and clasp, and kiss; and thereby gain
Solace in my misease, which he ne'er had
From his own face reflected in the fount.
Besides, in many a land dames have been loved
By those who served them most devotedly
But never gained a kiss to ease their pain.
Am I not favored more by Love than these?
Ah, no! For they had, doubtless, constant hope
Of kisses or of other sweeter bliss;
But I'm denied e'en hope for such a joy
As those expect who wait on Love's delights.
For when I would enjoy a kiss or hug
I find my sweetheart rigid as a stake
And so congealing that I freeze my lips.
Ah! Pardon, sweetest love, my too rude words!
I pray that reparation you'll accept.
If notwithstanding my insanity
You'd smile, 'twould pay for all my suffering;
For loving looks delight true lovers best. "
Then, weeping, on his knees Pygmalion falls,
Offering his vows as if they'd make amends.
But she cares not for his apology;
She neither feels nor sees him or his gift.
He loses labor loving such a maid.
Yet he would not take back his offered heart,
By Cupid quite bereft of mind and sense,
Though not insensible to all his pain.
He scarcely knows if she be live or dead.
His gentle fingers touch her, and he thinks
That it is flesh he touches; but, alas,
The suppleness he feels is in his hands!
Then in his strife he finds no peace or truce.
In no condition can he long remain —
Now loves, now hates; now happy is, now sad;
Now laughs, now cries; now rages, now is calm.
Then he attires and reattires his love,
Getting from costumers full many a dress
Of linen white, and softest scarlet wool,
Of linsey-woolsey, and of costliest stuff,
Of green and blue and brown — the freshest dyes
And colors fine and pure — and all well trimmed
With squirrel, ermine, fox, and other fur.
Again, these robes discarded, he assays
How best become the figure, gowns of silk,
Sendal and satin, tabby cloth, moire,
Of blue and scarlet, yellow, green, and tan.
Samite, diapered stuff, and camelot,
As if she were an angel, she can wear,
Preserving still her modest countenance.
Another time he clothes her in a guimpe,
A kerchief falling o'er it from her head
But never will he veil her lovely face;
For he likes not the style of Saracens,
Who hide their ladies' faces from man's sight
With folds of cloth, when they go on the street,
So are their hearts fulfilled with jealousy.
Another time Pygmalion's fond desire
Leads him to quite disrobe his ivory saint
And grace her limbs only with ornaments —
Yellow, vermilion, azure, green in hue —
With fine and dainty laces, silk and gold,
And tiny pearls. Above her coiffure high
A precious brooch he pins, holding in place
A coronet of finest gold, beset
With many precious stones in fair designs
Composed of semicircles and of squares,
Not to record the other jewelry
That plentifully decks her other parts,
As pendent earrings of the finest gold
Set in her little ears, and golden clasps
To hold a coif about her dainty neck.
Between her breasts he hangs a jewel rare;
Then with her cincture does he take great pains,
Designing such a belt as ne'er before
Adorned a maiden's waist, to which he hangs
A dainty purse well stocked with golden coin;
And, chosen, from the seashore, five small stones
Such as maids for a game of marbles use
When they find them round and fair, he adds.
He gives her little balls and singing birds
And all the novelties that please young girls.
Then next, with tender care, her two small feet
He clothes in stockings finely made, and shoes
Raising her from the street two fingers' breadth.
No boots he gives her; no Parisian she!
Too rude such footwear for so tender a maid!
With golden needle drawing golden thread
He sews her sleeves till they fit perfectly.
Then he brings new-blown flowers, which pretty girls
Delight to weave in wreaths in early spring,
And of the blossoms chaplets makes more fine,
By artist skill, than ever man has seen.
On her ring finger he a golden band
Places, and says, like loving, loyal spouse,
" With this ring I thee wed, and thus become
All thine, as you all mine. Let Hymen hear
And Juno heed my vows, and present be
At this our marriage. If they're witnesses
(And they of wedlock are the very gods),
Sufficient are our rites; no priest, or clerk,
Or mitered prelate do I wish, or cross. "
Then with uplifted voice he sweetly sings,
Expressing all his happy-heartedness,
In place of masses, pretty chansonettes
" Of lovers" secrets; and the instruments,
Of which he many owned, he makes resound
Till one had thought the gods were back on earth.
More skillful are his hands upon the strings
Than Theban Amphion's fingers ever were;
Zithers and harps, lutes and guitars he played.
He had constructed clever chiming clocks,
The artful wheels of which ran ceaselessly —
Organs which could be carried in one hand,
Which he himself not only blows and plays
But sings to their accompaniment sweet
Full-voiced motets in tenor or treble strains.
Then each in turn he sounds, and plays with care
Cymbals and pipes and fifes and tambourines,
Timbrels and chalms and flutes and psalteries,
Bagpipes and trumpets, Cornish pipes and viols.
See how he capers, dances, clogs, and trips,
Cuts pigeonwings the whole length of the hall,
Seizes her by the hand, and begs a dance!
But now the weight falls on his heart again;
For in response to neither speech nor prayer
Will she take part with him in dance or song.
Next he again embraces her and lays her form
Upon a couch, striving with kiss and hug
To rouse some warmth as she lies in his arms.
But the result is not what it should be
When lovers kiss; rather, to him it seems
That most distasteful is his kiss to her.
By frantic fancy almost overcome,
Half crazy and half dead with foolish love,
Pygmalion his senseless image woos,
Thinking her lovelier naked than when dressed,
Then dressing her and thinking her more fair.
It happened that there came a festival
Much celebrated in that countryside
Because of marvels that had oft occurred.
The eve before, a swarm of people came
To Venus' temple there. Pygmalion
Among the rest observed the festive rites
That he might gain some counsel in his love,
Complaining to the goddess mournfully
Of the sad passion that tormented him.
" Fair gods, " he cried, " if it's within your power;
And if it pleases you, hear my request;
And you especially, this temple's dame,
Saint Venus, satisfy my soul with grace.
Although in worshiping of Chastity
I may have angered you, and pain deserved,
Without delay I now repentance make
And beg your pardon. Pity have for me;
In friendship and gentility pray deign,
Provided that I Chastity desert,
To make that fair one, now of ivory
(She who has robbed me of my loving heart),
Taking a woman's body, soul, and life,
Become my loyal love. If you perform
My wishes promptly, and then ever find
That I am chaste, I gladly will be hanged,
Or cut in pieces with some headsman's ax,
Or, bound with cords or irons, given up
Alive to Hell's gatekeeper, Cerberus,
To grind with triple jaws and swallow down. "
When she his prayer had heard, Venus rejoiced
That he'd left Chastity and come to her
To serve like one who truly did repent
And long to prove his naked penitence
Within the arms of her whom most he loved,
If she indeed would furnish her with life.
So Venus to the image sent a soul,
And she became so beautiful a maid
That never in the land more fair was seen.
No longer did Pygmalion sojourn
In Venus' temple, but with greatest haste,
As soon as he had tendered his request,
Back home to see and touch his image went.
Running with little leaps, he reached the house,
Burning the more, the nearer he approached;
For, though he knew not of the miracle,
In Venus he had greatest confidence.
To learn the truth he stripped the statue bare,
And when he saw his love was living flesh,
And marveled at the comely yellow curls
Flooding her shoulders with their graceful waves,
And when he felt her bones and saw her veins
Filled full of flowing blood, and beating pulse,
He knew not if 'twere trickery or truth.
He stumbled back; he knew not what to do;
He kept his distance, fearing sorcery.
" What's this? " he cried. " Am I now being tried?
Am I awake? Ah, no! It is a dream;
But ne'er saw I a vision so complete
A dream? My faith! 'Tis not! I'm not asleep!
Or if I'm not, whence comes this marvel then?
Has phantom shape or demon her possessed? "
Then did the maid, so pleasing and so fair,
Enshrouded in her golden curls, respond:
" It is no demon and no phantom shape,
Dear lover, but your sweetheart, ready now
To be your partner in accouplement
If you'll accept the offer of her love. "
Soon as he hears the miracle is real —
Soon as he sees the marvel is a fact —
He closer comes as if for further proof,
And freely offers to be wholly hers.
In loving words they're mutually allied;
Each gives the other thanks for love received;
In mutual embrace they both find joy;
Like turtledoves they mutually exchange
Their kisses, winning mutual delight.
Then to the gods they offer up their thanks,
Especially to Venus, who has shown
More courtesy and aid than all the rest.
Now is Pygmalion quite at his ease;
Nothing displeases him, for there is naught
Which he may long for that she will refuse.
Whatever he proposes she provides,
As the conclusion to the premises
In syllogism offering herself.
Or, if 'tis she commands, he promptly acts;
In nothing would he disappoint his bride
Or have her lack for her most fond desire.
Now may he lie in pleasure with his love;
She ne'er demurs and never makes complaint.
Love's play continued till the wife conceived
The infant Paphus, from whom that famed isle
Of Paphos took its name. Paphus begot
A son who later was King Cinyras,
Who was, with one exception, a fine man
And would good fortune ever have deserved
Had he by Myrrha never been deceived.
She was his daughter, beautiful and blonde,
Whom an old woman (may the gods confound
Her since her conscience would permit such sin)
Brought to her father in his bed one night,
The queen being absent at a festival.
Impetuous Cinyras clipped the maid
Quite ignorant that she was his own child.
When the duenna brought things to this pass,
She played a trick against Nature herself.
The fair Adonis from this match was born,
His mother having been to tree transformed,
Else by her father had she murdered been
When finally he learned of her deceit.
He would have killed his daughter on the spot
If he had known; but she escaped that end,
For when he ordered that a light be brought
The one who never more would be a maid
Escaped her father's ire by rapid flight.
But from my story I too long depart,
And I should force myself to keep to it.
However, you shall find what all this means
Before my tale shall finally have reached its end.