ARISTÆNETUS TO PHILOCALUS.
BLEST with a form of heavenly frame,
Blest with a soul beyond that form,
With more than mortal ought to claim,
With all that can a mortal warm,
Lai’s was from her birth design’d
To charm, yet triumph o’er mankind.
There Nature, lavish of her store,
Gave all she could, and wish’d for more;
Whilst Venus gazed, her form was such!
Wondering how Nature gave so much;
Yet added she new charms, for she
Could add— “A fourth bright grace,” she said,
“A fourth, beyond the other three,
Shall raise my power in this sweet maid.”
Then Cupid, to enhance the prize,
Gave all his little arts could reach:
To dart Love’s language from the eyes
He taught— ’twas all was left to teach.
O fairest of the virgin band!
Thou master-piece of Nature’s hand!
So like the Cyprian queen, I’d swear
Her image fraught with life were there:
But silent all: and silent be,
That you may hear her praise from me:
I’ll paint my Lais’ form; nor aid
I ask — for I have seen the maid.
Her cheek with native crimson glows,
But crimson soften’d by the rose:
’Twas Hebe’s self bestow’d the hue,
Yet health has added something too:
But if an over-tinge there be,
Impute it to her modesty.
Her lips of deeper red, how thin!
How nicely white the teeth within!
Her nose how taper to the tip!
And slender as her ruby lip!
Her brows in arches proudly rise,
As conscious of her powerful eyes:
Those eyes, majestic-black, display
The lustre of the god of day;
And by the contrail of the white,
The jetty pupil shines more bright.
There the glad Graces keep their court,
And in the liquid mirror sport.
Her tresses, when no fillets bind,
Wanton luxurious in the wind;
Like Dian’s auburn locks they shone,
But Venus wreath’d them like her own.
Her neck, which well with snow might vie,
I storm’d with nicest symmetry;
In native elegance secure
The most obdurate heart to wound;
But she, to make her conquests sure,
With sparkling gems bedecks it round:
With gems that, ranged in order due,
Present the fair one’s name to view.
Her light-spun robes in every part
Are fashioned with the nicest art,
Tis Beauty’s self before your eyes.
How stately doth my Lai’s go!
With studied step, composedly slow;
Superb, as some tall mountain fir,
Whom Zephyr’s wing doth slightly stir:
(For surely beauty is allied
By Nature very near to Pride:)
The grove indeed mild breezes move,
But her the gentler gales of Love.
From her the pencil learns its dye —
The rosy lip, the sparkling eye;
And bids the pictured form assume
Bright Helen’s mien, and Hebe’s bloom.
But how shall I describe her breast?
That now first swells with panting throb
To burst the fond embracing vest,
And emulate her snow-white robe.
So exquisitely soft her limbs!
That not a bone but pliant seems;
As if th’ embrace of Love — so warm!
Would quite dissolve her beauteous form.
But when she speaks! — good heavens! e’en now
Methinks I hear my fav’rite song;
E’en yet with Love’s respect I bow
To all th’ enchantment of her tongue.
Her voice most clear, yet ’tis not strong;
Her periods full, though seldom long;
With wit, good-natured wit, endow’d;
Fluent her speech, but never loud.
Witness, ye Loves! witness; for well I know
To her you’ve oft attention given;
Oft pensile flutter’d on your wings of snow
To waft each dying sound to heaven.
Ah! sure this fair enchantress found
The zone which all the Graces bound:
Not Momus could a blemish find
Or in her person or her mind.
But why should Beauty’s goddess spare
To me this all-accomplish’d fair?
I for her charms did ne’er decide,
As Paris erst on lofty Ide;
I pleased her not in that dispute;
I gave her not the golden fruit:
Then why the Paphian queen so free?
Why grant the precious boon to me?
Venus! what sacrifice, what prayer
Can show my thanks for such a prize!
— To bless a mortal with a fair,
Whose charms are worthy of the skies.
She too, like Helen, can inspire
Th’ unfeeling heart of age with fire;
Can teach their lazy blood to move,
And light again the torch of love.
“Oh!” cry the old, “that erst such charms
Had bloom’d to bless our youthful arms;
Or that we now were young, to show
How we could love — some years ago!”
Have I not seen th’ admiring throng
For hours attending to her song?
Whilst from her eyes such lustre shone
It added brightness to their own:
Sweet grateful beams of thanks they’d dart,
That showed the feelings of her heart.
Silent we’ve sat, with rapt’rous gaze!
Silent — but all our thoughts were praise:
Each turned with pleasure to the rest;
And this the prayer that warm’d each breast:
“Thus may that lovely bloom for ever glow,
Thus may those eyes for ever shine!
Oh may’st thou never feel the scourge of woe!
Oh never be misfortune thine!
Ne’er may the crazy hand of pining care
Thy mirth and youthful spirits break!
Never come sickness, or love-cross’d despair,
To pluck the roses from thy cheek!
But bliss be thine — the cares which love supplies,
Be all the cares that you shall dread;
The graceful drop, now glist’ning in your eyes,
Be all the tears you ever shed.
But hush’d be now thy am’rous song
And yield a theme, thy praises wrong:
Just to her charms, thou canst not raise
Thy notes — but must I cease to praise?
Yes — I will cease — for she’ll inspire
Again the lay, who strung my lyre.
Then fresh I’ll paint the charming maid,
Content, if she my strain approves;
Again my lyre shall lend its aid,
And dwell upon the theme it loves.