Poems upon Several Occasions/41
To Myra. The Vision.
IN lonely Walks, distracted by Despair,
Shunning Mankind, and torn with killing Care,
My Eyes o'erflowing, and my frantick Mind
Rackt with wild Thoughts, swelling with Sighs the Wind;
Thro' Paths untrodden, Day and Night I rove,
Mourning the Fate of my successless Love.
Who most desire to live, untimely fall;
But when we beg to die, Death flies our Call.
Adonis dies, and torn is the lov'd Breast
In midst of Joy, where Venus wont to rest:
The Fate, that cruel seem'd to him, would be
Pity, Relief, and Happiness to me.
When will my Sorrows end? In vain, in vain
I call to Heav'n, and tell the Gods my Pain;
The Gods averse, like Myra, to my Pray'r,
Consent to doom, whom she denies to spare.
Why do I seek for foreign Aids, when I
Bear ready by my Side the Pow'r to die?
Be keen, my Sword, and serve thy Master well,
Heal Wounds with Wounds, and Love with Death repel,
Strait up I rose; and to my aking Breast,
My Bosom bare, the pointed Blade I prest,
When lo! astonish'd, an unusual Light
Pierc'd the thick Shade, and all around grew bright.
My dazled Eyes a radiant Form behold,
Splendid with Light, like Beams of burning Gold,
Eternal Rays his shining Temples grace,[1]
Eternal Youth sat blooming on his Face;
Trembling I listen, prostrate on the Ground,
His Breath perfumes the Grove, and Musick's in the Sound.
Cease, Lover, cease thy tender Heart to vex
In fruitless Plaints of an ungrateful Sex;
In Fate's eternal Volume it is writ,
That Women ever shall be Foes to Wit:
With proper Arts their sickly Minds command,
And please 'em with the things they understand,
With noisie Fopperies their Hearts assail,
Renounce all Sense; how shou'd thy Songs prevail,
When I, the God of Wit, so oft cou'd fail?
Remember me; and in my Story find
How vainly Merit pleads to Womankind.
I by whom all things shine, who tune the Sphears,
Create the Day, and gild the Night with Stars,
Whose Youth and Beauty from all Ages past
Sprang with the World, and with the World shall last:
How oft with fruitless Tears have I implor'd
Ungrateful Nymphs? And, tho' a God, ador'd?
When cou'd my Wit, my Beauty, or my Youth,
Move one hard Heart? or mov'd, secure its Truth?
Here a proud Nymph with painful Steps I chase,
The Winds out-flying in our nimble Race;
Stay Daphnè, stay———In vain, in vain I try
To stop her Speed, redoubling at my Cry;
O'er craggy Rocks and rugged Hills she climbs;
And tears on pointed Flints her tender Limbs;
But caught at length, just as my Arms I fold,
Turn'd to a Tree, she yet escapes my Hold.
In my next Love a different Fate I find:
Ah! which is worse? the False, or the Unkind?
Forgetting Daphnè, I Corónis chose,
A kinder Nymph———too kind for my Repose.
The Joys I give but more enflame her Breast,
She keeps a private Drudge to quench the rest;
How, and with whom, the very Birds proclaim[2]
Her black Pollution, and reveal my Shame.
Hard Lot of Beauty! fatally bestow'd,
Or given to the False, or to the Proud;
By sev'ral Ways they bring us equal Pain,
The False betray us, and the Proud disdain.
Scorn'd, and abus'd; from mortal Loves I fly,
To seek more Truth in my own Native Sky;
Venus, the fairest of immortal Loves,
Bright as my Beams, and gentle as her Doves,
With glowing Eyes, confessing hot Desires,
She summons Heav'n and Earth to quench her Fires,
Me she excludes: And I in vain adore
Who neither God nor Man refus'd before:
Vulcan, the very Monster of the Skies,
Vulcan she takes, the God of Wit denies.
Then cease to murmur at thy Myra's Pride:
Whimsie, not Reason, is the Female Guide!
The Fate, of which their Master does complain;
Is of bad Omen to th' inspired Train.
What Vows have fail'd! Hark how Catullus mourns,
How Ovid weeps, and slighted Gallus burns.
In melting Strains see gentle Waller bleed,
Unmov'd she hears, what none unmov'd can read.
And thou, who oft with such ambitious Choice
Hast rais'd to Myra thy aspiring Voice,
What Profit thy neglected Zeal repays?
Ah what Return? Ungrateful to thy Praise!
Change, change thy Style, with mortal Rage return
Unjust Disdain, and Pride oppose to Scorn;
Search all the Secrets of the Fair and Young,
And then proclaim, soon shall they bribe thy Tongue:
The sharp Detractor with Success assails,
Sure to be gentle to the Main that rails
Women, like Cowards, tame to the Severe,
Are only Fierce, when they discover Fear.
Thus spake the God: And upward mounts in Air,
In just Resentment of his past Despair.
Provok’d to Vengeance, to my Aid I call
The Furies round, and dip my Pens in Galls
Not one shall ’scape of all the coz’ning Sex,
Vex’d shall they be, who so delight to vex.
In vain I try, in vain to Vengeance move
My gently Muse, so us’d to tender Love;
Such Magick rules my Heart, whate’er I write
Turns all to soft Complaint, and am’rous Flight.
Begone, fond Thoughts, begone; be bold, said I,
Satyr’s thy ThemeIn vain again I try.
So charming Myra to each Sense appears,
My Soul adores, my Rage dissolves in Tears.
So the gaul’d Lion, smarting with his Wound,
Threatens his Foes, and makes the Forest sound,
With his strong Teeth he bites the bloody Dart,
And tears his Side with more provoking Smart,
’Till having spent his Voice in fruitless Cries,
He lays him down, breaks his proud Heart, and dies.
