Complete Works of Matthew Prior

by Matthew Prior

With a submissive step, I hasted down.

  The glowing garland from my hair I took,

  Love in my heart, obedience in my look,

  Prepared to place it on her comely head,

  O favourite Virgin! (yet again I said)

  Receive the honours destined to thy brow;

  And O, above thy fellows, happy thou!

  Their duty must thy sovereign word obey.

  Rise up, my love, my fair one, come away.

  What pang, alas! what ecstasy of smart

  Tore up my senses and transfix’d my heart,

  When she with modest scorn the wreath return’d,

  Reclined her beauteous neck, and inward mourn’d!

  Forced by my pride, I my concern suppress’d,

  Pretended drowsiness and wish of rest;

  And sullen, I forsook th’ imperfect feast:

  Ordering the eunuchs, to whose proper care

  Our Eastern gradneur gives th’ imprison’d fair,

  To lead her forth to a distinuish’d bower,

  And nid her dress the bed, and wait the hour.

  Restless I follow’d this obdurate maid,

  (Swift are the steps that Love and Anger tread)

  Approach’d her person, courted her embrace,

  Renew’d my flame, repeated my disgrace:

  By turns put on the suppliant and the lord:

  Threaten’d this moment, and the next implored,

  Offer’d again the unaccepted wreath,

  And choice of happy love, or instant death.

  Averse to all her amorous King desired,

  Far as she might she decently retired,

  And darting scorn and sorrow from her eyes,

  What means, said she, King Solomon the wise?

  This wretched body trembles at your power;

  Thus far could Fortune, but she can no more.

  Free to herself my potent mind remains,

  Nor fears the victor’s rage, nor feels his chains.

  ’Tis said that thou canst plausibly dispute,

  Supreme of seers, of angel, man, and brute:

  Canst plead, with subtle wit and fair discourse,

  Of passion’s folly and of reason’s force;

  That to the tribes attentive, thou canst know

  Whence their misfortunes or their blessings flow:

  That thou in science as in power art great,

  And truth and honour on thy edicts wait.

  Where is that knowledge now, that regal thought,

  With just advice and timely counsel fraught?

  Where now, O Judge of Israel, does it rove? -

  What in one moment dost thou offer? - Love!

  Love? why, ’tis joy or sorrow, peace or strife;

  ’Tis all the colour of remaining life,

  And human misery must begin or end

  As he becomes a tyrant or a friend.

  Would David’s son, religious, just, and grave,

  To the first bride-bed of the world receive

  A foreigner, a Heathen, and a slave?

  Or grant thy passion has these names destroy’d,

  That Love, like Death, makes all distinction void,

  Yet in his empire o’er thy abject breast

  His flames and torments only are exprest,

  His rage can in my smiles alone relent,

  And all his joys solicit my consent.

  Soft love, spontaneous tree, its parted root

  Must from two hearts with equal vigour shoot,

  Whilst each delighted, and delighting, gives

  The pleasing ecstasy which each receives:

  Cherish’d with hope, and fed with joy, it grows,

  Its cheerful buds their opening bloom disclose,

  And round the happy soul diffusive odour flows.

  If angry fate that mutual care denies,

  The fading plant bewails its due supplies;

  Wild with despair, or sick with grief, it dies.

  By force beasts act, and are by force restrain’d;

  The human mind by gentle means is gain’d.

  Thy useless strength mistaken King employ:

  Sated with rage, and ignorant of joy,

  Thou shalt not gain what I deny to yield,

  Nor reap the harvest, though thou spoil’st the field.

  Know, Solomon, thy poor extent of sway;

  Contract thy brow, and Israel shall obey;

  But wilful Love thou must with smiles appease,

  Approach his awful throne by just degrees,

  And if thou wouldst be happy, learn to please.

  Not that those arts can here successful prove,

  For I am destined to another’s love.

  Beyond the cruel bounds of thy command,

  To my dear equal, in my native land,

  My plighted vow I gave; I his received:

  Each swore with truth, with pleasure each believed

  The mutual contract was to heaven convey’d;

  In equal scales thy busy angels weigh’d

  Its solemn force, and clapp’d their wings, and spread

  The lasting roll, recording what we said.

  Now in my heart behold thy poniard stain’d;

  Take the sad life which I have long disdain’d;

  End, in a dying virgin’s wretched fate,

  Thy ill-starr’d passion and my steadfast hate:

  For long as blood informs these circling veins,

  Or fleeting breath its latest power retains,

  Hear me to Egypt’s vengeful gods declare

  Hate is my part; be thine O King despair.

  Now strike, she said, and open’d bare her breast,

  Stand it in Judah’s Chronicles confest

  That David’s son, by impious passion moved,

  Smote a she-slave, and murder’d what he loved.

  Ashamed, confused, I started from the bed,

  And to my soul, yet uncollected, said,

  Into thyself fond Solomon return;

  Reflect again, and thou again shalt mourn.

  When I through number’d years have pleasure sought,

  And in vain hope the wanton phantom caught,

  To mock my sense and mortify my pride,

  ’Tis in another’s power and is denied.

  Am I a king, great Heaven? does life or death

  Hang on the wrath or mercy of my breath,

  While kneeling I my servant’s smiles implore,

  And one mad damsel dares dispute my power?

  To ravish her? that thought was soon depress’d,

  Which must debase the monarch to the beast.

  To send her back? O whither, and to whom?

  To lands where Solomon must never come?

  To that insulting rival’s happy arms

  For whom, disdaining me, she keeps her charms?

  Fantastic tyrant of the amorous heart,

  How hard thy yoke! how cruel is thy dart?

  Those ‘scape thy anger who refuse thy sway,

  And those are punish’d most who most obey,

  See Judah’s king revere thy greater power;

  What canst thou covet, or how triumph more;

  Why, then, O Love, with an obdurate ear,

  Does this proud nymph reject a monarch’s prayer?

  Why to some simple shepherd does she run

  Where wealth and pleasure may thy reign support,

  To some poor cottage on the mountain’s brow,

  Now bleak with winds, and cover’d now with snow,

  And household cares suppress thy genial fires!

  Too aptly the afflicted Heathens prove

  The force, while they erect the shrines of Love.

  His mystic form the artisans of Greece

  In wounded stone or molten gold express;

  And Cyprus to his godhead pays her vow,

  Fast in his hand the idol holds his bow;

  A quiver by his side sustains his store

  Of pointed darts, sad emblems o
f his power;

  A pair of wings he has, which he extends

  Now to be gone, which now again he bends,

  Prone to return, as best may serve his wanton ends.

  Entirely thus I find the fiend portray’d,

  Since first, alas! I saw the beauteous maid;

  I felt him strike, and now I see him fly:

  Cursed daemon! O! for ever broken lie

  Those fatal shafts by which I inward bleed!

  O! can my wishes yet o’ertake thy speed!

  Tired mayst thou turn’st thy course, resolved to bring

  Except thou turn’st thy course, resolved to bring

  The damsel back, and save the love-sick king.

  My soul thus struggling in the fatal net,

  Unable to enjoy or to forget,

  I reason’d much, alas! but more I loved,

  Sent and recall’d, ordain’d and disapproved,

  Till hopeless plunged in an abyss of grief,

  I from necessity received relief;

  Time gently aided to assuage my pain

  And wisdom took once more the slacken’d rein.

  But O how short my interval of wo!

  Our griefs how swift, our remedies how slow!

  Another nymph, (for so did Heaven ordain,

  To change the manner but renew the pain)

  Another nymph, amongst the many fair

  That made my softer hours their solemn care,

  Before the rest affected still to stand,

  And watch’d my eye, preventing my command,

  Abra, she so was call’d, did sooner haste

  To grace my presence; Abra went the last;

  Abra was ready ere I call’d her name,

  And though I call’d another, Abra came.

  Her equals first observed her growing zeal,

  And laughing gloss’d, that Abra served so well.

  To me her actions did unheeded die,

  Or were remark’d but with a common eye,

  Till more apprized of what the rumour said,

  More I observed peculiar in the maid.

  The sun declined had shot his western ray,

  When, tired with business of the solemn day,

  I purposed to unbend the evening hours,

  And banquet private in the women’s bowers.

  I call’d before I sat to wash my hands,

  for so the precept of the law commands;

  Love had ordain’d that it was Abra’s turn

  To mix the sweets, and minister the urn.

  With awful homage and submissive dread

  The maid approach’d, on my declining head

  To pour the oils: she trembled as she pour’d:

  With an unguarded look she now devour’d

  My nearer face; and now recall’d her eye,

  And heaved, and strove to hide a sudden sigh.

  And whence, said I, canst thou have dread or pain?

  What can thy imag’ry of sorrow mean?

  Secluded from the world and all its care,

  Hast thou to grieve or joy, to hope or fear?

  For sure, I added, sure thy little heart

  Ne’er felt Love’s anger or received his dart.

  Abash’d she blush’d, and with disorder spoke;

  Her rising shame adorn’d the words it broke.

  If the great master will descend to hear

  The humble series of his handmaid’s care,

  O! while she tells it, let him not put on

  The look that awes the nations from the throne;

  O! let not death severe in glory lie

  In the king’s frown and terror of his eye.

  Mine to obey, thy part is to ordain:

  And though to mention be to suffer pain,

  If the king smiles whilst I my wo recite

  If weeping I find favour in his sight,

  Flow fast my tears, full rising his delight.

  O! witness earth beneath and heaven above,

  For can I hide it? I am sick of love!

  If madness may the name of passion bear,

  Or love be call’d what is indeed despair.

  Thou sovereign Power, whose secret will controls

  The inward bent and motion of our souls!

  Why hast thou placed such infinite degrees

  Between the cause and cure of my disease?

  The mighty object of that raging fire

  In which unpitied Abra must expire,

  Had he born some simple shepherd’s heir,

  The lowing herd or fleecy sheep his care,

  At morn with him I o’er the hills had run,

  Scornful of winter’s frost and summer’s run,

  Still asking here he made his flock to rest at noon.

  For him at night, the dear expected guest,

  Had with hasty joy prepared the feast,

  And from the cottage, o’er the distant plain,

  Sent forth my longing eye to meet the swain,

  Wavering, impatient, toss’d by hope and fear,

  Till he and joy together should appear,

  And the loved dog declare his master near.

  On my declining neck and open breast

  I should have lull’d the lovely youth to rest,

  And from beneath is head at dawning day,

  With softest care, have stolen my arm away,

  To rise, and from the fold release the sheep,

  Fond of his flock, indulgent to his sleep.

  Or if kind Heaven, propitious to my flame,

  (For sure from Heaven the faithful ardour came)

  Had blest my life, and deck’d my natal hour

  With height of title and extent of power,

  Without a crime my passion had aspired,

  Found the loved prince, and told what I desired

  Then I had come, preventing Sheba’s queen,

  To see the comeliest of the sons of men:

  To hear the charming poet’s amorous song,

  And gather honey falling from his tongue;

  To take the fragrant kisses of his mouth,

  Sweeter than breezes of her native south,

  Likening his grace, his person, and his mien,

  To all that great or beauteous I had seen.

  Serene and bright his eyes, as solar beams,

  Reflecting temper’d light from crystal streams;

  Ruddy as gold his cheek; his bosom fair

  As silve;r the curled ringlets of his hair

  Black as the raven’s wing; his lips more red

  Than eastern coral or the scarlet thread;

  Even his teeth, and white like a young flock,

  Coeval, newly shorn, from the clear brook

  Recent, and blanching on the sunny rock.

  Ivory with sapphires interspersed, explains

  How white his hands, how blue the manly veins;

  Columns of polish’d marble, firmly set

  On golden bases, are his legs and feet:

  His stature all majestic, all divine,

  Strait as the palm tree, strong as is the pine;

  Saffron and myrrh are on his garments shed,

  And everlasting sweets bloom round his head,

  What utter I! where am I! wretched maid!

  Die, Abra, die; too plainly thou hast said

  Thy soul’s desire to meet his high embrace,

  And blessing stamp’d upon thy future race;

  To bid attentive nations bless thy womb,

  With unborn monarchs charged, and Solomon to come.

  Here o’er her speech her flowing eyes prevail.

  O foulish maid! and O unhappy tale!

  My suffering heart for ever shall defy

  New wounds and danger from a future eye.

  O! yet my tortured senses deep retain

  The wretched memory of my former pain,

  The dire affront, and my Egyptian chain.

  As time, I said, may happily efface

  That cruel image of the
King’s disgrace,

  Imperial Reason shall resume her seat,

  And Solomon, once fall’n again be great.

  Betray’d by passion, as subdued in war,

  We wisely should exert a double care,

  Nor ever ought a second time to err.

  This Abra then —— —

  I saw her; ’twas humanity; it gave

  Some respite to the sorrows of my slave.

  Her fond excess proclaim’d her passion true,

  And generous pity to that truth was due.

  Well I entreated her who well deserved;

  I call’d her often, for she always served:

  Use made her person easy to my sight,

  And ease insensibly produced delight.

  Whene’er I revell’d in the women’s bowers

  (For first I sought her but at looser hours)

  The apples she had gather’d smelt most sweet,

  The cake she kneaded was the savoury meat;

  But fruits their odour lost, and meats their taste,

  If gentle Abra had not deck’d the feast:

  Dishonour’d did the sparkling goblet stand,

  Unless received from gentle Abra’s hand;

  And when the virgins form’d the evening choir,

  Raising their voices to the master-lyre,

  Too that I thought this voice, and that too shrill;

  One show’d too much, and one too little skill;

  Nor could my soul approve the music’s tone,

  Till all was hush’d, and Abra sung alone.

  Fairer she seem’d distinguish’d from the rest,

  And better mien disclosed, as better drest:

  A bright tiara round her forehead tied,

  To juster bounds confined its rising pride:

  The blushing ruby on her snowy breast

  Render’d its panting whiteness more confest;

  Bracelets of pearl gave roundness to her arm,

  And every gem augmented every charm:

  Her senses pleased, her beauty still improved,

  And she more lovely grew as more beloved.

  And now I could behold, avow, and blame,

  The several follies of my former flame,

  Willing my heart for recompence to prove

  The certain joys that lie in prosperous love.

  For what, said I, from Abra can I fear,

  Too humble to insult, too soft to be severe?

  The damsel’s sole ambition is to please;

  With freedom I may like, and quit with ease;