Severe on all, save those of spotless fame,
She hates the Iliad for Helen's shame.
Whether dark Phædra's cup fate bids me drain, Mix'd for a stepson's love, but mix'd in vain; Whether I die by Circe's drugs, or pass The fierce ordeal of the Colchian brass; Yet since I love but one, whene'er I die "Tis from these arms that fate must bid me fly. All human maladies has medicine heal'd,
Love, love alone to leechcraft will not yield,
Such art in Chiron and Machaon lay,
They gave the lame man strength, the sightless day;
The Cretan herb beneath the master's hand
Restored Androgeos to his father's land;
E'en the sharp spear that pierced the Mysian's
Brought the kind rust that heal'd him e'er he died.
But he whose art could cure me of my ill,
Might bid the grasp of Tantalus be still;
Fill to the brim each weary Danaid's cask,
And ease their shoulders of the endless task;
Or loose Prometheus from his mountain pile,
And bid his tortured vitals rest awhile.
Yet since ere long dark death must claim his own,
And write my name above some humble stone;
In life, in death, oh, justly dear to me,
Mæcenas, pride of Roman chivalry,
If e'er thy way should lead thee where I lie,
Rein the rich chariot e'er thou passest by,
And fling my silent dust a thought, a tear,
HE DIED FOR LOVE, WHO NOW LIES BURIED HERE.
NCE I was free, and thought to live unwed,
Love made his peace, and baffled me instead. If face so fair as thine on earth remain,
Then all Jove's former loves, methinks, were vain ;
With rich light locks, slim hand, and figure tall,
My love, like Juno, moves the queen of all;
Stately as Pallas at th' Ionian shrine,
While the snake-tresses o'er her bosom twine;
Or as the ravish'd queen of Lapithæ,
Woo'd by the Centaurs in their drunken glee;
Or Sais, maiden goddess, on the shore
Of Boebe's lake, whom Hermes loved of yore.
Yield, goddess band, who for a swain to see
Reveal'd your beauties 'neath the greenwood tree.
Ah, may time's finger spare that face divine,
E'en though the hoary Sybil's years be thine.
RUSH'D is thy spirit, fool, who used to vow
No girl could harm thee: thou art fallen now. Scarce has a month sped by, and now to all Another book, poor wretch, proclaims thy fall.
Sooner the scaly tribes shall fly the sea,
And boars shall roam the wave, e'er I be free.
No midnight task, no toil my woes allay'd,
Love may be check'd awhile, but never stay'd;
"Twas not her beauty bright that captured me,
Though lily leaves are not so fair as she,
Though with fresh snow warm pink'd with scarlet dye,
With rose-buds dipp'd in milk her cheeks may vie;
'Twas not her hair o'er bosom floating free,
Nor eyes, twin beacon-lights of love to me,
Nor that in silk, mayhap, she chanced to shine,
No trivial cause can sway this heart of mine;
But that my love can dance with all the grace
Of Ariadne in the Bacchic race,
Or sweep the harp-strings with as soft a fire
As ever melted on the Muses' lyre;
And rival old Corinna's songstress skill,
Or match Erinna on th' Æolian quill:
For happy Love, methinks, hung o'er thy bed,
And sneez'd in welcome to thy infant head.
Gifts, rare as these, must spring from aid divine,
Think not thy mother ever made them thine;
Thou art no dull consistency of earth,
Swell'd by the ten long months of human birth;
No Roman beauty may with thee compare,
Worthy alone the couch of Jove to share.
But thou wert born e'en Helen to outshine,
And soar aloft o'er love so low as mine.
To form so fair, sure all must bend the knee!
'Twere well if Troy had owed her fall to thee.
Once I could marvel that one maiden's charms
Inflamed of old two rival worlds to arms;
Yet the fond husband's wrath, and Paris loth
To yield the fair-I now can praise them both,
For well might beauty bid Achilles fall,
And Priam's armies rally at the call!
Wouldst match the canvas of an older day?
Then seize the pencil, and my love portray;
And the bright picture, whereso'er unfurl'd,
Through east, through west, shall witch the won-
d'ring world.
Then be this love my last, 'twere needless pain
Should others come to kill me o'er again.
The bull that spurn'd of old the yoke and plough
Grows tame in time, and treads the furrow now,
So hearts that once beat high in youth's gay mood
Sink, crush'd beneath love's bitter servitude.
Melampus, prophet-robber of the steer,
Steel'd his true heart to bondage for a year;
No greed of lucre fired his heart, but she
Whom fate ordain'd his future bride to be.
THE bitter tale, my friend, thou hast to prove
Of prayers unheeded, and rejected love;
Then thy poor nails shall suffer, and thy wrath
With stamping foot and hasty step burst forth.
"Twas little profit to perfume my hair,
And strut abroad with slow and languid air:
No herb avails, no dark Medea's skill,
No drugs that Perimedè could distil,
When, crush'd, I fall beneath love's secret blow,
But whence the evil springs I never know.
No bed can help the wretch, no leech's care—
'Tis not the season hurts him, or the air:
He walks one moment, next he's seen to fall—
So strange is love, so unforeseen by all!
Ah, me! each lying quack, each beldam old,
Mumbles my dreams, and robs me of my gold.
Then ye, who are my foes, love maidens all, But ye, my friends, may youthful loves befall Where ye may glide safe life's calm streamlet down, No shoals to baffle, and no waves to drown. A word will make the one again thine own, Scarce to the other will thy life atone.
"TIS well that all the town should ring thy shame, And every tongue thy infamy proclaim;
Yet wilt thou rue it, when I trim my sails,
And spread my canvas wide to other gales.
Though false the sex, yet will one not refuse
To win a deathless glory from my muse,
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