Classic Poem

Of royal parents in a country rich
Were born three daughters, with all beauties crown'd
That could the eyes of men or gods bewitch,
Or poets' sacred verse did ever sound;
But Nature's favour flew a higher pitch,
When with the youngest she enrich'd this round,
Though her first work for praise much right might hold,
Her last outwent it, and she broke the mould.

From countries far remote, wing'd with desire,
Strangers pass'd gladly o'er a tedious way
To see if fame would now be found a liar,
Who said another sun brought in the day;
Poor men! ye come too near to such a fire,
And for a look your lives at hazard lay.
Stay, stay at home, read of her beauty there,
And make not those sweet eyes your murderer.

The curious statuaries, painters quaint,
From their great monarchs come, from ev'ry land,
That what the chisel could or pencil paint,
Might in her portrait have the skilfull'st hand;
But, seely men, they meet a sad restraint,
And they themselves as turn'd to statues stand:
So many graces in her feature lurk,
They turn all eye and have no hands to work.

The altars of the gods stood now forlorn;
Their myrrh and frankincense was kept away,
And fairest Cytherea (that was born
Out of the white froth of the working sea)
Wanted her votaries; nay, some in scorn
Durst vaunt, while they the sacrifice delay,
This was a deity, indeed, for whom
The gods themselves might be a hecatomb.

Divers believ'd, who, ravish'd with the sight,
Stood gazing, as amaz'd, at her fair eyes,
That Nature had produc'd another light,
New kind of star, and in a newer guise;
And from the earth, not from the sea, should rise
A Venus worthier to unlength the night;
And though the first be for a goddess plac'd,
This was more heavenly fair, more truly chaste.

Hence came it Paphos and Cythera now,
Gnidus and Amathus, could see no more
The ships the parent of their goddess plough,
Nor pilgrims land on their forsaken shore.
No man a gift could to her shrine allow,
Nor rose nor myrtle crown her image wore;
The beds contemn'd, hearth fireless and unfit,
And men's devotions were as cold as it.

Anger and rage possess'd the queen of love
To see a fairer queen of love than she;
And that a mortal with the powers above
Came in divine rites to a like degree;
Nay, that the ravish'd people always strove
That this none other could than Venus be;
Impatient ought on earth deserv'd her name,
Thus murmur'd she, and scorn still fed the flame.

Have I, quoth she, the most confus'd abyss,
The chaos rude unwound, the vault of heaven
Compos'd, and settled all that order is?
The name of nursing mother to me given,
And all regardless? must I, after this,
Be from my temples and mine altars driven?
And she that is the source of human things
Pay, as a vassal, tribute to her springs?

No; 'tis a competition too-too low,
To stand with one compos'd of elements
Which their original to me do owe;
Shall fading creatures prosecute intents
With us that all eternity do know?
And the like victims have and sacred scents?
Or share with me in any rites of mine,
And mingle mortal honours with divine?

What boots it then that men me rightly call
The daughter of the mighty thunderer?
And that I can ascend up to my stall
Along the milky way by many a star?
And where I come, the powers celestial
Rise more to me than any goddess far?
And all those countries by bright Phaebus seen
Do homage and acknowledge me their queen.

Shall I then leave the prize I whilom won
On stately Ida (for my beauty's charms),
Given me by Paris, Priam's fatal son,
From stately Juno and the Maid of Arms,
By which old Simois long with blood did run?
If such ambition her proud bosom warms,
I must descend: she fly to heaven, and there
Sit in my glorious orb, and guide my sphere.

No! this usurping maid shall feel the pow'r
Of an incensed deity, and see
Those cheeks of red and white, that living flow'r,
And those her limbs of truest symmetry,
Want winning eloquence to 'scape the show'r
Of due revenge must fall on her from me.
She shall repent those beauties, and confess
She had been happier in deformedness.

She said no more: but full of ire ascends
Her chariot drawn by white enamour'd doves;
Her passion to their speed more swiftness lends.
And now to search her son (that various loves
Worketh each where) she studiously intends:
She sought him long among th' Elysian groves,
But missing him, to earthward bent her reins,
And with a shepherd found him on the plains.

It was a shepherd that was born by-west,
And well of Tityrus had learn'd to sing;
Little knew he, poor lad, of love's unrest,
But by his fellow-shepherds' sonneting;
A speculative knowledge with the best
He had, but never felt the golden sting;
And to comply with those his fellow-swains,
He sung of love and never felt the pains.

The little Cupid lov'd him for his verse,
Though low and tuned to an oaten reed;
And that he might the fitter have commerce
With those that sung of love and lovers' deed,
Struck (O but had Death struck her to a herse)
Those wounds had not been ope which freshly bleed —
Struck a fair maid and made her love this lad,
From whence his sorrows their beginnings had.

Long time she lov'd: and Cupid did so dear
Affect the shepherd, that he would not try
A golden dart to wound him (out of fear
That they might not be stricken equally),
But turned orator, and coming there
Where this young pastor did his flocks apply,
He wooes him for the lass sick of his hand,
And begs, who might imperiously command:

Shall that sweet paradise neglected lie
('Twas so, and had a serpent in it too),
Shall those sweet lips, that pity-begging eye
Beget no flame, when common beauties do?
Those breasts of snow, beds of felicity,
Made to enforce a man of ice to woo,
Make nought for her, in whose soul-melting flashes
A salamander might consume to ashes?

Pity her sighs, fond swain! believe her tears;
What heart of marble would not rend to see her
Languish for love? poor soul, her tender years
Have flame to feed her fire, not words to free her.
Bad orators are younger loves and fears.
Thus Cupid wooes, and could a mortal flee her?
But Venus coming, Cupid threw a dart
To make all sure, and left it in his heart.

Thus to the winged archer Venus came,
Who, though by Nature quick enough inclin'd
To all requests made by the Cyprian dame,
She left no grace of look or word behind
That might raise up that fire which none can tame:
Revenge, that sweet betrayer of the mind,
That cunning, turbulent, impatient guest,
Which sleeps in blood, and but in death hath rest.