Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series

by Alexander Pope

  But Mars on thee might look with Venus’ eyes.

  O scarce a youth, yet scarce a tender boy!

  O useful time for lovers to employ!

  Pride of thy age, and glory of thy race, 105

  Come to these arms, and melt in this embrace!

  The vows you never will return, receive;

  And take, at least, the love you will not give.

  See, while I write, my words are lost in tears!

  The less my sense, the more my love appears. 110

  Sure ‘t was not much to bid one kind adieu

  (At least to feign was never hard to you):

  ‘Farewell, my Lesbian love,’ you might have said;

  Or coldly thus, ‘Farewell, O Lesbian maid!’

  No tear did you, no parting kiss receive, 115

  Nor knew I then how much I was to grieve.

  No lover’s gift your Sappho could confer,

  And wrongs and woes were all you left with her.

  No charge I gave you, and no charge could give,

  But this, ‘Be mindful of our loves, and live.’ 120

  Now by the Nine, those powers ador’d by me,

  And Love, the God that ever waits on thee,

  When first I heard (from whom I hardly knew)

  That you were fled, and all my joys with you,

  Like some sad statue, speechless, pale, I stood, 125

  Grief chill’d my breast, and stopt my freezing blood;

  No sigh to rise, no tear had power to flow,

  Fix’d in a stupid lethargy of woe:

  But when its way th’ impetuous passion found,

  I rend my tresses, and my breast I wound; 130

  I rave, then weep; I curse, and then complain;

  Now swell to rage, now melt in tears again.

  Not fiercer pangs distract the mournful dame,

  Whose first-born infant feeds the funeral flame.

  My scornful brother with a smile appears, 135

  Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears;

  His hated image ever haunts my eyes;

  ‘And why this grief? thy daughter lives,’ he cries,

  Stung with my love, and furious with despair,

  All torn my garments, and my bosom bare, 140

  My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim,

  Such inconsistent things are Love and Shame!

  ‘T is thou art all my care and my delight,

  My daily longing, and my dream by night:

  O night more pleasing than the brightest day, 145

  When fancy gives what absence takes away,

  And, dress’d in all its visionary charms,

  Restores my fair deserter to my arms!

  Then round your neck in wanton wreaths I twine;

  Then you, methinks, as fondly circle mine: 150

  A thousand tender words I hear and speak;

  A thousand melting kisses give and take:

  Then fiercer joys — I blush to mention these,

  Yet, while I blush, confess how much they please.

  But when, with day, the sweet delusions fly, 155

  And all things wake to life and joy but I,

  As if once more forsaken, I complain,

  And close my eyes to dream of you again:

  Then frantic rise, and like some fury rove

  Thro’ lonely plains, and thro’ the silent grove; 160

  As if the silent grove, and lonely plains,

  That knew my pleasures, could relieve my pains.

  I view the grotto, once the scene of love,

  The rocks around, the hanging roofs above,

  That charm’d me more, with native moss o’ergrown, 165

  Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone:

  I find the shades that veil’d our joys before;

  But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more.

  Here the press’d herbs with bending tops betray

  Where oft entwin’d in am’rous folds we lay; 170

  I kiss that earth which once was press’d by you,

  And all with tears the with’ring herbs bedew.

  For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,

  And birds defer their songs till thy return:

  Night shades the groves, and all in silence lie, 175

  All but the mournful Philomel and I:

  With mournful Philomel I join my strain,

  Of Tereus she, of Phaon I complain.

  A spring there is, whose silver waters show,

  Clear as a glass, the shining sands below: 180

  A flowery lotos spreads its arms above,

  Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove;

  Eternal greens the mossy margin grace,

  Watch’d by the sylvan genius of the place.

  Here as I lay, and swell’d with tears the flood, 185

  Before my sight a wat’ry virgin stood:

  She stood and cried, ‘O you that love in vain!

  Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main.

  There stands a rock, from whose impending steep

  Apollo’s fane surveys the rolling deep; 190

  There injur’d lovers, leaping from above,

  Their flames extinguish, and forget to love.

  Deucalion once with hopeless fury burn’d;

  In vain he lov’d, relentless Pyrrha scorn’d;

  But when from hence he plunged into the main, 195

  Deucalion scorn’d, and Pyrrha lov’d in vain.

  Haste, Sappho, haste, from high Leucadia throw

  Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps below!’

  She spoke, and vanish’d with the voice — I rise,

  And silent tears fall trickling from my eyes. 200

  I go, ye Nymphs! those rocks and seas to prove;

  How much I fear, but ah, how much I love!

  I go, ye Nymphs! where furious love inspires,

  Let female fears submit to female fires.

  To rocks and seas I fly from Phaon’s hate, 205

  And hope from seas and rocks a milder fate.

  Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow,

  And softly lay me on the waves below!

  And thou, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain,

  Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o’er the main, 210

  Nor let a lover’s death the guiltless flood profane;

  On Phœbus’ shrine my harp I ‘ll then bestow,

  And this inscription shall be placed below:

  ‘Here she who sung, to him that did inspire,

  Sappho to Phœbus consecrates her lyre: 215

  What suits with Sappho, Phœbus, suits with thee;

  The Gift, the Giver, and the God agree.’

  But why, alas! relentless youth, ah why

  To distant seas must tender Sappho fly?

  Thy charms than those may far more powerful be, 220

  And Phœbus’ self is less a God to me.

  Ah! canst thou doom me to the rocks and sea,

  Oh! far more faithless and more hard than they?

  Ah! canst thou rather see this tender breast

  Dash’d on these rocks than to thy bosom press’d? 225

  This breast which once, in vain! you liked so well

  Where the Loves play’d, and where the Muses dwell.

  Alas! the Muses now no more inspire;

  Untuned my lute, and silent is my lyre.

  My languid numbers have forgot to flow, 230

  And fancy sinks beneath a weight of woe.

  Ye Lesbian virgins, and ye Lesbian dames,

  Themes of my verse, and objects of my flames,

  No more your groves with my glad songs shall ring,

  No more these hands shall touch the trembling string: 235

  My Phaon’s fled, and I those arts resign;

  (Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!)

  Return, fair youth, return, and bring along

  Joy to my soul, and vigour to my song:

  Absent from th
ee, the poet’s flame expires; 240

  But ah! how fiercely burn the lover’s fires!

  Gods! can no prayers, no sighs, no numbers move

  One savage heart, or teach it how to love?

  The winds my prayers, my sighs, my numbers bear,

  The flying winds have lost them all in air! 245

  Oh when, alas! shall more auspicious gales

  To these fond eyes restore thy welcome sails!

  If you return — ah, why these long delays?

  Poor Sappho dies while careless Phaon stays.

  O launch thy bark, nor fear the wat’ry plain; 250

  Venus for thee shall smooth her native main.

  O launch thy bark, secure of prosp’rous gales;

  Cupid for thee shall spread the swelling sails.

  If you will fly — (yet ah! what cause can be,

  Too cruel youth, that you should fly from me?) 255

  If not from Phaon I must hope for ease,

  Ah let me seek it from the raging seas:

  To raging seas unpitied I ‘ll remove,

  And either cease to live or cease to love!

  The Fable of Dryope

  From the Ninth Book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

  SHE said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs;

  When the fair consort of her son replies:

  ‘Since you a servant’s ravish’d form bemoan,

  And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own,

  Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate 5

  A nearer woe, a sister’s stranger fate.

  No nymph of all Œchalia could compare

  For beauteous form with Dryope the fair,

  Her tender mother’s only hope and pride

  (Myself the offspring of a second bride). 10

  This nymph compress’d by him who rules the day,

  Whom Delphi and the Delian isle obey,

  Andræmon lov’d; and bless’d in all those charms

  That pleas’d a God, succeeded to her arms.

  ‘A lake there was with shelving banks around, 15

  Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crown’d.

  These shades, unknowing of the fates, she sought,

  And to the Naiads flowery garlands brought:

  Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she prest

  Within her arms, and nourish’d at her breast. 20

  Not distant far a wat’ry lotos grows;

  The spring was new, and all the verdant boughs

  Adorn’d with blossoms, promis’d fruits that vie

  In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye.

  Of these she cropp’d, to please her infant son, 25

  And I myself the same rash act had done:

  But, lo! I saw (as near her side I stood)

  The violated blossoms drop with blood;

  Upon the tree I cast a frightful look;

  The trembling tree with sudden horror shook. 30

  Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true)

  As from Priapus’ lawless lust she flew,

  Forsook her form, and, fixing here, became

  A flowery plant, which still preserves her name.

  ‘This change unknown, astonish’d at the sight, 35

  My trembling sister strove to urge her flight;

  And first the pardon of the Nymphs implor’d,

  And those offended sylvan Powers ador’d:

  But when she backward would have fled, she found

  Her stiff’ning feet were rooted in the ground: 40

  In vain to free her fasten’d feet she strove,

  And as she struggles only moves above;

  She feels th’ encroaching bark around her grow

  By quick degrees, and cover all below:

  Surprised at this, her trembling hand she heaves 45

  To rend her hair; her hand is fill’d with leaves:

  Where late was hair the shooting leaves are seen

  To rise, and shade her with a sudden green.

  The child Amphissus, to her bosom prest,

  Perceiv’d a colder and a harder breast, 50

  And found the springs, that ne’er till then denied

  Their milky moisture, on a sudden dried.

  I saw, unhappy! what I now relate,

  And stood the helpless witness of thy fate;

  Embraced thy boughs, thy rising bark delay’d, 55

  There wish’d to grow, and mingle shade with shade.

  ‘Behold Andræmon and th’ unhappy sire

  Appear, and for their Dryope inquire:

  A springing tree for Dryope they find,

  And print warm kisses on the panting rind; 60

  Prostrate, with tears, their kindred plant bedew,

  And close embrace as to the roots they grew.

  The face was all that now remain’d of thee,

  No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree;

  Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear, 65

  From ev’ry leaf distils a trickling tear;

  And straight a voice, while yet a voice remains,

  Thus thro’ the trembling boughs in sighs complains.

  ‘If to the wretched any faith be giv’n,

  I swear by all th’ unpitying powers of Heav’n, 70

  No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred;

  In mutual innocence our lives we led:

  If this be false, let these new greens decay,

  Let sounding axes lop my limbs away,

  And crackling flames on all my honours prey. 75

  But from my branching arms this infant bear;

  Let some kind nurse supply a mother’s care;

  And to his mother let him oft be led,

  Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed.

  Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame 80

  Imperfect words, and lisp his mother’s name,

  To hail this tree, and say with weeping eyes,

  “Within this plant my hapless parent lies:”

  And when in youth he seeks the shady woods,

  Oh! let him fly the crystal lakes and floods, 85

  Nor touch the fatal flowers; but, warn’d by me,

  Believe a Goddess shrined in every tree.

  My sire, my sister, and my spouse, farewell!

  If in your breasts or love or pity dwell,

  Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel 90

  The browsing cattle or the piercing steel.

  Farewell! and since I cannot bend to join

  My lips to yours, advance at least to mine.

  My son, thy mother’s parting kiss receive,

  While yet thy mother has a kiss to give. 95

  I can no more; the creeping rind invades

  My closing lips, and hides my head in shades:

  Remove your hands; the bark shall soon suffice

  Without their aid to seal these dying eyes.’

  ‘She ceas’d at once to speak and ceas’d to be, 100

  And all the Nymph was lost within the tree;

  Yet latent life thro’ her new branches reign’d

  And long the plant a human heat retain’d.’

  Vertumnus and Pomona

  From the Fourteenth Book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

  THE FAIR Pomona flourish’d in his reign;

  Of all the virgins of the sylvan train

  None taught the trees a nobler race to bear,

  Or more improv’d the vegetable care.

  To her the shady grove, the flowery field, 5

  The streams and fountains no delights could yield;

  ‘T was all her joy the ripening fruits to tend,

  And see the boughs with happy burdens bend.

  The hook she bore instead of Cynthia’s spear.

  To lop the growth of the luxuriant year, 10

  To decent form the lawless shoots to bring,

  And teach th’ obedient branches where to spring.

  Now the cleft rind inserted grafts receives,

  And yields an off
spring more than Nature gives;

  Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew, 15

  And feed their fibres with reviving dew.

  These cares alone her virgin breast employ,

  Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy.

  Her private orchards, wall’d on every side,

  To lawless sylvans all access denied. 20

  How oft the Satyrs and the wanton Fauns,

  Who haunt the forests or frequent the lawns,

  The God whose ensign scares the birds of prey,

  And old Silenus, youthful in decay,

  Employ’d their wiles and unavailing care 25

  To pass the fences, and surprise the Fair?

  Like these Vertumnus own’d his faithful flame,

  Like these rejected by the scornful dame.

  To gain her sight a thousand forms he wears;

  And first a reaper from the field appears: 30

  Sweating he walks, while loads of golden grain

  O’ercharge the shoulders of the seeming swain:

  Oft o’er his back a crooked scythe is laid,

  And wreaths of hay his sunburnt temples shade:

  Oft in his harden’d hand a goad he bears, 35

  Like one who late unyoked the sweating steers:

  Sometimes his pruning-hook corrects the vines,

  And the loose stragglers to their ranks confines:

  Now gath’ring what the bounteous year allows,

  He pulls ripe apples from the bending boughs: 40

  A soldier now, he with his sword appears;

  A fisher next, his trembling angle bears:

  Each shape he varies, and each art he tries,

  On her bright charms to feast his longing eyes.

  A female form at last Vertumnus wears, 45

  With all the marks of rev’rend age appears,

  His temples thinly spread with silver hairs:

  Propp’d on his staff, and stooping as he goes,

  A painted mitre shades his furrow’d brows.

  The God in this decrepit form array’d, 50

  The gardens enter’d, and the fruit survey’d;

  And, ‘Happy you!’ he thus address’d the maid,

  ‘Whose charms as far all other nymphs outshine,

  As other gardens are excell’d by thine!’

  Then kiss’d the Fair; (his kisses warmer grow 55

  Than such as women on their sex bestow)

  Then placed beside her on the flowery ground,

  Beheld the trees with autumn’s bounty crown’d.

  An elm was near, to whose embraces led,

  The curling vine her swelling clusters spread: 60

  He view’d her twining branches with delight,

  And prais’d the beauty of the pleasing sight.

  ‘Yet this tall elm, but for this vine,’ he said,

  “Had stood neglected, and a barren shade;