Poems (Lewis)/Pleasure and Desire

by Matthew Gregory Lewis

PLEASURE AND DESIRE.

In yonder bower lies Pleasure Sleeping,
And near him mourns a blooming maid!
He will not wake, and She sits weeping,
When lo! a stranger proffers aid:
His hurried step, his glance of fire
The God of wishes wild declare!
—"Fond Pleasure wake!" exclaims Desire,
And Pleasure wakes to bless the fair.

But soon the nymph in evil hour,
Desire asleep is doomed to view;
—"Try, Pleasure, try," she cries, "your power,
"And wake Desire, as He woke you."—
Fond girl, thy prayer exceeds all measure,
Distinct must each his province keep:
Desire must still awaken Pleasure,
And Pleasure lull Desire to sleep^[1].

1. Since writing the above lines I met with some French stanzas on the same idea, but in what book I cannot re- collect: I believed them to be the production of Ségur, but have sought them in his works without success. I remember of them only that the first line was "Plaisir sur un monceau de roses;" that the Torch of Desire played a principal part; and that the Poem consisted of seven or eight stanzas of eight lines each. I am firmly persuaded, that I never saw the French verses previous to my writing the above trifle; and the leading idea is one so obvious, that its having occurred to two persons appears to me by no means improbable. However, if any Reader prefers the belief, that I am indebted to the French Poem for the idea of my own, I have no sort of objection: nor should I have thought it worth the expense of my ink to disclaim a plagiary of so little consequence, if an honour, which has been conferred on my verses, had not stamped them with a value, to which they could never have been entitled by their individual merits. At a particular period when the late Mr. Fox was in the habit of amusing his leisure by composing in various languages, my little Poem was shewn to him by a common friend, the Hon. William Lamb. It happened to strike his fancy, and soon after he wrote to me as follows.

   "I take the liberty of sending you an attempt of mine at an imitation of your 'Pleasure and Desire.' I have, like other bungling translators, been obliged to double the number of lines in the original, which alone would be fault enough, if there were not plenty of others; but at any rate, my having turned it into my favorite language, will serve as a proof, how much I am delighted with the thing."

   It must be superfluous to mention, that Mr. Fox's translation was merely performed as a sort of exercise, and never intended to meet the public eye: but as an Italian Poem by this great Statesman will probably be esteemed a literary curiosity, I have obtained the permission of Lord Holland and Mrs. Fox to lay it before my Readers.

    
   
   IL PIACERE E IL DESIRE.
   
   

   BY THE RIGHT HON C. J. FOX.
   
   

   Stavasi un dì à lagnarsi
   Nice con duolo e pianto,
   Mentre il Piacere accanto
   Vedeasi, ohimé! dormir.
   Egli non vuol svegliarsi,
   Ond' Ella vive in pene;
   Ma ecco un Garzon viene
   Aita ad offerir.
   
   

   Al passo frettoloso,
   Al guardo ardente e fiero,
   Chi sia quel bel Straniero,
   Si può ben devinar.
   —"Svegliati!" al sonnacchioso
   Gridò il Desir; " Son Io!———
   —Quei desto, e pien di brio
   Va Nice a consolar.
   
   

   Tosto la Poverella,
   Che così vuole il Fato,
   Desire addormentato
   Pur esso ritrovò.
   —"Orsù, Piacer," dic' Ella,
   "Deh! sana il mio martire,
   E sveglia Tu il Desire,
   Com' Egli ti svegliò."———
   
   

   Ah! questo a lui non lice!
   Troppo contrarj effetti
   Quei vaghi Giovanetti
   Sogliono ognora oprar.
   Del Desio proprio è, Nice,
   Svegliar Piacere in noi,
   E del Desire poi
   Piacere addormentar.
   
   
   On another occasion Mr. Fox was obliging enough to send me an Italian Poem of his original composition, which appeared to me extremely pretty; and I doubt not, my Readers will be much gratified by my enabling them to participate in the pleasure, which I received from the perusal.
    
   
   CANZONETTO,
   
   

   BY THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX.
   
   

   Come, o Dei! il dolce Amore
   Giubilare l'Uom faria,
   Se importuna Gelosia
   Non mischiasse assenzio al mel.
   E' d'Amore, dicon, figlia,
   Ma più all' Odio assai somiglia;
   Deh! Ben mio, da quella peste
   Sempremai ci guardi il ciel.
   
   

   Tosto entrata ch' è nel petto,
   Fuor ne caccia ogni diletto:
   Chi disteso è sulla ruota,
   Non ha simile martir.
   Morta pare, è poi rinasce;
   D' ogni cibo ella si pasce;
   Se 'l veleno alimenta
   Come mai potrà morir?
   
   

   Cederà pur questa volta
   La malvagia, cieca, e stolta;
   Spegneralla quell' istesso,
   Che pur or vita le diè.
   Amor fido, pura Fede
   Nobil guerra a lei faranno;
   Non temer, che vinceranno,
   Vinceranno Amor e Fe.