Classic Poem

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH .

Lapt on Cythera's golden sands,
When first True Love was born on earth;
Long was the doubt what fost'ring hands
Should tend and rear the glorious birth.

First, Hebe claim'd the sweet employ:
Her cup, her thornless flowers, she said,
Would feed him best with health and joy,
And cradle best his cherub head.

But, anxious Venus justly fear'd
The tricks and changeful mind of youth,
Too mild the seraph Peace appear'd,
Too stern, too cold, the matron Truth.

Next Fancy claim'd him for her own,
But Prudence disallow'd her right;
She deem'd her iris pinions shone
Too dazzling for his infant sight.

To Hope awhile the charge was given,
And well with Hope the cherub throve,
Till Innocence came down from heaven,
Sole guardian, friend, and nurse of Love.

Pleasure, a fury in her spight,
When all prefer'd to her she found,
Vow'd cruel vengeance for the slight,
And soon success her purpose crown'd.

The trait'ress watch'd a sultry hour,
When, pillow'd on her blush-rose bed,
Tired Innocence to Slumber's pow'r
One moment bow'd her virgin head.

Then, Pleasure on the thoughtless child
Her toys and sugar'd poisons prest;
Drunk with new joy, he sigh'd, he smil'd —
And True Love died on Pleasure's breast.