The Teacher Taught.
WHILE yet asleep, ere dawning day,
Sooth'd by delightful dreams I lay,
Beside me Venus seem'd to stand,
Young Cupid in her lily hand-
(Meek on the ground his eyes were cast)
When, whispering thus, away she pass'd—
'To you my little son I bring:
Dear shepherd, teach the boy to sing.'
I simple swain and void of thought,
Full many an ancient ditty taught,
That, all in rustic numbers, tell
How Hermes form'd the vocal shell;
How Pallas first composed the flute;
And how, the shepherd's lip to suit,
Pan join'd his reeds; and, fraught with fire,
How sweet Apollo strung the lyre.
But he, regardless of the strain,
Soon render'd every lesson vain ;
While, singing lighter lays of love,
'How Venus had the power to move
Both gods and men with subtle art,'
The urchin stole into my heart.
Then I, my rustic ditties o'er,
Remember'd what I taught no more;
But (simple swain and void of thought)
Learn'd the light love songs Cupid taught.
The Power of Love.
THE Muses, not afraid of Love,
Where'er he treads, delighted rove.
If some rude swain who never knew
The charms of Love their steps pursue,
Their lessons they refuse to teach,
And fly beyond the rustic's reach!
But if a melting shepherd sigh,
And all in lovesick ditties die;
Their kindred chorus gathering round
Lend music to each soften'd sound!
My numbers, as I tune the shell,
Can witness, 'tis a truth I tell.
For, if I sing some son of earth,
Or being of immortal birth,
The weak notes falter on my tongue,
Nor flow such lays as erst I sung:
But if I warble Love again,
How sweetly glides my wonted strain!
If merit stamp my verses fair,
My name through time be theirs to bear:
But if unbless'd my Muse's lore,
Why vainly should I labour more?
Should Jove or should the Parcæ give
Frail man a double life to live;
One part the lot of toil decree,
And yet assign the rest to glee;
Then, after many a labour pass'd,
Gay joy would meet us at the last.
But if the gods have given to man
Of life but one contracted span;
Why, wretches, do we thus impair
The pittance, in pursuit of care?
Why thus apply our souls to gain,
And heap up wealth, with hourly pain?
Alas! how thoughtless, we forget
That nature claims her final debt;
That wing'd by fate our moments fly—
That, mortals, we were born to die!
SAY, whilst each season speeds its circling race,
Whose sweet impression leaves the liveliest trace?
Say, Myrson, does the summer charm thee most,
When richly crown'd our finish'd toils we boast?
Or autumn, waving wide its reddening grain,
Or winter, welcome to the lazy swain;
As, with the jovial partners of his lot,
He hails the cheerful blaze that gilds his cot?
Or, hath soft spring the' unrival'd power to please?
Speak, Myrson, since we seem reclined at ease.
EPITHALAMIUM OF ACHILLES, ETC. 137 MYR. 'Tis not, my friend, for mortals to define What's fairest of creation's works divine. All hallow'd are the seasons' changeful train, And Nature varies not a scene in vain. Yet (in my eyes the loveliest and the best) One season shines superior to the rest. Not summer, sultry with her dying breeze; Nor autumn, dropping fruits that breed disease; Nor winter, hoar amid his drifted snows— 'Tis spring the balm of sweetest bliss bestows! 'Tis spring that, trebly to my wishes dear, My heart could welcome through the purple year. No cold or heat disturbs the vernal air, While from each bud the gales ambrosia bear. Then all the living blooms of plenty rise; And equal days and nights divide the skies.
Epithalamium of Achilles and Deidamia.
MYRSON AND LYCIDAS.
THE dulcet notes, dear Lycid, wilt thou play,
Of some Sicilian lover's melting lay?
Such as the Cyclops sung, the rocks among,
To sooth his Galatea with a song?
[grant LYC. With pleasure, Myrson, thy request I say, what ditty wouldst thou have me chant? MYR. Pelides sing (and catch the Scyrian grace),
Sing the stolen kisses and the stolen embrace!
Tell how the youth, his sex belying, dress'd
His manly body in a female vest!
And how Deidamia quaintly play'd
With her unknown Achilles-deem'd a maid!
Lyc. When Paris bore to Troy the ravish'd fair,
And plunged his lorn none in despair,
Indignant Sparta mark'd the treacherous foe;
Greece felt the' alarm, and aim'd the hostile blow:
Roused by the' insulting rape, her states afar
In dire commotion breathed revenge and war.
To Ilion's towers each hero bent his way-
But, lost in soft disguise, Achilles lay!
Midst Lycomedés' lovely train he sigh'd:
The fleece, for arms, in sweet delirium ply'd;
And stole, amid his labours of the loom,
The virgin languish, and the virgin bloom!
Like theirs his heaving bosom seem'd to glow,
And the flower brighten on his cheeks of snow !
His gait like theirs, he moved with swimming air,
And shaded with a veil his flowing hair!
Yet his heart own'd the military fire,
And felt the manly throbbings of desire!
By sweet Deidamia's side, all day—
From morn to night entranced in love, he lay!
Oft kiss'd her hand, with amorous dalliance warm,
And shed the'enamour'd tear, and clasp'd her form.
With her, sole comrade of his board, he mess'd;
And oft to share his bed the virgin press'd.
Thus would he say- While we asunder keep,
Behold, in social pairs your sisters sleep!
Though thus in friendly converse we delight,
That wicked wall divides us every night!'
|