And she who took it, will thy health restore,
And be propitious as she was before.
""Tis not the stream of a slain heifer's blood,
"That can allay the anger of a God.
" "Tis truth, and justice to your vows, appease
"Their angry Deities; and, without these,
"No slaughter'd beast their fury can divert, "For that's a sacrifice without a heart."
Some, bitter potions patiently endure,
And kiss the wounding launce that works their cure.
You have no need these cruel cures to feel,
Shun being perjur'd only,-and be well.
Why let you still your pious parents weep,
Whom you in ign'rance of your promise keep!
Oh! to your mother all our story tell,
And the whole progress of our love reveal;
Tell her how first at great Diana's shrine
I fixt my eyes, my wond'ring eyes, on thine;
How like the statues there I stood amaz'd,
Whilst on thy face intemp'rately I gaz'd.
She will herself, when you my tale repeat,
Smile, and approve the amorous deceit,
Marry," she'll say, "whom heav'n commends to thee;
"He who has pleas'd Diana, pleases me."
But should she ask from what descent I came,
My country, and my parents, and my name;
Tell her that none of these deserve my shame.
Had
you not sworn, you such a one might chuse ;
But were he worse, now sworn, you can't refuse.
This in my dreams Diana bid me write,
And when I wak'd, sent Cupid to indite:
Obey 'em both, for one has wounded me,
Which wound if you with eyes of pity see,
She too will soon relent that wounded thee.
Then to our joys with eager haste we'll move,
As full of beauty you, as I of love.
To the great temple we'll in triumph go,
And with our off'rings at the altar bow.
A golden image there I'll consecrate
Of the false apple's innocent deceit,
And write below the happy verse, that came
The messenger of my successful flame.
"Let all the world this from ACONTIUS know,
"CYDIPPE has been faithful to her vow."
More I would write, but since thy illness reigns,
And wracks thy tender limbs with sharpest pains,
My pen falls down for fear, lest this might be,
Altho' for me too little, yet too much for thee.
Ma Muse tudesque et bizarre,
Jargonnant un Français barbare,
Dit les choses comme elle peut ;
Et du compas parfait bravant la symmétrie,
Le purisme génant et la pédanterie,
Exprime au moins ce qu'elle veut.
K. of Prussia's Pref. to his Poet. Works.
THE following Poem was written, some time back, for no other purpose than to shew, that, however virulent the generality of pseudo-critics are, it ought to be the office of the man of real knowledge coolly to investigate the merits of a writer, without peremptorily condemning what, perhaps, he little understands, or does not choose to examine; and, on the other hand, to excite those who may have poetical abilities, to adhere closely to the dictates of Nature, and not to be disheartened by the transient puff of affectation, or the spite of malice.
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs, nature meant but fools.
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn critics in their own defence;
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
Or with a rival's, or an eunuch's spite.
As when with murm'ring tumult to the shore
Autumnal tides in quick succession roar,
Loud and more loud the frequent surges rise,
Wave treads on Wave, and, like its rival, dies:
So with the wild uncertain tide of things,
Revolving fate rolls ministers and kings;
Through ev'ry age the various current pours,
And sweeps ambition from its sinking tow'rs;
Whilst Genius decks the solitary cell,
Reserv'd to triumph where ambition fell.
As one drops off, another starts to view,
Sinks like the last, and yields to something new ;
While num'rous tribes on int'rest's subtle wing,
That wall between a people and a king!*
*The reader will readily perceive, by the opening of the poem, that the author's original intention was very different from the one he subsequently adopted. Politics, he well knew, bore honest conviction more forcibly through the medium of prose, than through the channel of ornamented Reason.
|