Classic Poem

A DONIS dead, the muse of woe shall mourn;
Adonis dead, the weeping Loves return.
The Queen of Beauty o'er his tomb shall shed
Her flowing sorrows for Adonis dead;
For earth's cold lap her velvet couch forego,
And robes of purple for the weeds of woe.
Adonis dead, the muse of woe shall mourn;
Adonis dead, the weeping Loves return.
Stretch'd on this mountain thy torn lover lies;
Weep, Queen of Beauty! for he bleeds—he dies.
Ah! yet behold life's last drops faintly flow,
In streams of purple, o'er those limbs of snow!
From the pale cheek the perish'd roses fly;
And death dims slow the ghastly-gazing eye.
Kiss, kiss those fading lips, ere chill'd in death;
With soothing fondness stay the fleeting breath.
'Tis vain—ah! give the soothing fondness o'er!
Adonis feels the warm salute no more.
Adonis dead, the muse of woe shall mourn;
Adonis dead, the weeping Loves return.
His faithful dogs bewail their master slain,
And mourning dryads pour the plaintive strain.
Not the fair youth alone the wound opprest,
The Queen of Beauty bears it in her breast:
Her feet unsandal'd, floating wild her hair,
Her aspect woful, and her bosom bare,
Distrest, she wanders the wild wastes forlorn,
Her sacred limbs by ruthless brambles torn.
Loud as she grieves, surrounding rocks complain,
And echo through the long vales calls her absent swain.
Adonis hears not: life's last drops fall slow,
In streams of purple, down his limbs of snow:
The weeping Cupids round their queen deplore,
And mourn her beauty, and her love no more.
Each rival grace, that glow'd with conscious pride,
Each charm of Venus with Adonis died.

Adonis dead, the vocal hills bemoan,
And hollow groves return the saddening groan,
The swelling floods with sea-born Venus weep,
And roll in mournful murmurs to the deep:
In melting tears the mountain-springs comply;
The flowers, low-drooping, blush with grief, and die.
Cythera's groves with strains of sorrow ring;
The dirge funereal her sad cities sing,
Hark! pitying echoes Venus sighs return;
When Venus sighs, can aught forbear to mourn?

But when she saw her fainting lover lie,
The wide wound gaping on the withering thigh;
But streaming when she saw life's purple tide,
Stretch'd her fair arms, with trembling voice she cried;
‘Yet stay, lov'd youth! a moment ere we part,
O let me kiss thee!—hold thee to my heart!
A little moment, dear Adoms! stay!
And kiss thy Venus, ere those lips are clay.
Let those dear lips by mine once more be prest,
Till thy last breath expire into my breast;
Then, when life's ebbing pulse scarce, scarce can move,
I'll catch thy soul, and drink thy dying love.
That last-left pledge shall soothe my tortur'd breast,
When thou art gone——
When, far from me, thy gentle ghost explores
Infernal Piuto's grimly-glooming shores.

‘Wretch that I am! immortal and divine,
In life imprison'd whom the fates confine.
He comes! receive him to thine iron arms;
Blest Queen of Death! receive the Prince of Charms.
Far happier thou, to whose wide realms repair
Whatever lovely, and whatever fair.
The smiles of joy, the golden hours are fled:
Grief, only grief, survives Adonis dead.

‘The loves around in idle sorrows stand,
And the dim torch falls from the vacant hand.
Hence the vain zone! the myrtle's flowery pride!
Delight and beauty with Adonis died.

‘Why didst thou, venturous, the wild chase explore,
From his dark lair to rouze the tusky boar?
Far other sport might those fair limbs essay,
Than the rude combat, or the savage fray.’

Thus Venus griev'd—the Cupids round deplore;
And mourn her beauty, and her love no more.
Now flowing tears in silent grief complain,
Mix with the purple streams, and flood the plain.

Yet not in vain those sacred drops shall flow,
The purple streams in blushing roses glow:
And catching life from every falling tear,
Their azure heads anemonies shall rear.

But cease in vain to cherish dire despair,
Nor mourn unpitied to the mountain-air;
The last sad office let thy hand supply,
Stretch the stiff limbs, and close the glaring eye.
That form repos'd beneath the bridal vest,
May cheat thy sorrows with the feint of rest.
For lovely smile those lips, though void of breath,
And fair those features in the shade of death.
Haste, fill with flowers, with rosy wreaths his bed,
Perish the flowers! the Prince of Beauty's dead.
Round the pale corse each breathing essence strew;
Let weeping myrtles pour their balmy dew.
Perish the balms, unable to restore
Those vital sweets of love that charm no more!

'Tis done.—Behold, with purple robes array'd,
In mournful state the clay-cold limbs are laid.
The Loves lament with all the rage of woe,
Stamp on the dart, and break the useless bow.
Officious these the watry urn supply,
Unbind the buskin'd leg, and wash the bleeding thigh,
O'er the pale body those their light wings wave,
As yet, though vain, solicitous to save.

All, wild with grief, their hapless queen deplore,
And mourn her beauty, and her love no more,
Dejected Hymen droops his head forlorn,
His torch extinct, and flowery tresses torn:
For nuptial airs, and songs of joy, remain
The sad, slow dirge, the sorrow-breathing strain.
Who would not, when Adonis dies, deplore?
Who would not weep when Hymen smiles no more?
The graces mourn the Prince of Beauty slain,
Loud as Dione on her native main:
The Fates relenting join the general woe,
And call the lover from the realms below.
Vain, hopeless grief! can living sounds pervade
The dark, dead regions of eternal shade?
Spare, Venus, spare that too luxuriant tear,
For the long sorrows of the mournful year.