Volume Ii Part 13 (1/2)
SONG From ”Acis and Galatea”
O ruddier than the cherry!
O sweeter than the berry!
O nymph more bright Than moons.h.i.+ne night, Like kidlings blithe and merry!
Ripe as the melting l.u.s.ter; Yet hard to tame As raging flame, And fierce as storms that bl.u.s.ter!
John Gay [1685-1732]
”TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE”
When Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears I would approach, but dare not move: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear No other voice than hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before-- The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
George Lyttleton [1709-1773]
THE FAIR THIEF
Before the urchin well could go, She stole the whiteness of the snow; And more, that whiteness to adorn, She stole the blushes of the morn; Stole all the sweetness ether sheds On primrose buds and violet beds.
Still to reveal her artful wiles She stole the Graces' silken smiles; She stole Aurora's balmy breath; And pilfered orient pearl for teeth; The cherry, dipped in morning dew, Gave moisture to her lips, and hue.
These were her infant spoils, a store; And she, in time, still pilfered more!
At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen Her air and love-commanding mien; Stole Juno's dignity; and stole From Pallas sense to charm the soul.
Apollo's wit was next her prey; Her next, the beam that lights the day; She sang;--amazed the Sirens heard, And to a.s.sert their voice appeared.
She played;--the Muses from their hill, Wondered who thus had stole their skill.
Great Jove approved her crimes and art; And, t'other day, she stole my heart!
If lovers, Cupid, are thy care, Exert thy vengeance on this Fair: To trial bring her stolen charms, And let her prison be my arms!
Charles Wyndham [1710-1763]
AMORET