Classic Poem

SCENE III.

DIONE. PARTHENIA.

DIONE.

Now flames the western skie with golden beams,
And the ray kindles on the quiv'ring streams;
Long flights of crows, high-croaking from their food,
Now seek the nightly covert of the wood;
The tender grass with dewy crystal bends,
And gath'ring vapour from the heath ascends.
Shake off this downy rest; wake, gentle maid,
Trust not thy charms beneath the noxious shade.
Parthenia , rise.

PARTHENIA.

— — — What voice alarms my ear?
Away. Approach not. Hah! Alexis there!
Let us together to the vales descend;
And to the folds our bleating charge attend;
But let me hear no more that shepherd's name,
Vex not my quiet with his hateful flame.

DIONE.

Can I behold him gasping on the ground,
And seek no healing herb to stanch the wound?
For thee continual sighs consume his heart,
'Tis you alone can cure the bleeding smart.
Once more I come the moving cause to plead,
If still his suff'rings cannot intercede,
Yet let my friendship do his passion right,
And show thy lover in his native light.

PARTHENIA.

Why in dark myst'ry are thy words involv'd?
If Lycidas you mean; know, I'm resolv'd.

DIONE.

Let not thy kindling rage my words restrain.
Know then; Parthenia slights no vulgar swain.
For thee he bears the scrip and sylvan crook,
For thee the glories of a Court forsook.
May not thy heart the wealthy flame decline!
His honours, his possessions, all are thine.

PARTHENIA.

If he 's a Courtier, O ye Nymphs, beware;
Those who most promise are the least sincere.
The quick-ey'd hawk shoots headlong from above,
And in his pounces bears the trembling dove;
The pilf'ring wolf o'er-leaps the fold's defence.
But the false Courtier preys on innocence.
If he's a Courtier: O ye Nymphs, beware:
Those who most promise are the least sincere.

DIONE.

Alas! thou ne'er hast prov'd the sweets of State,
Nor known that female pleasure, to be great.
'Tis for the town ripe clusters load the poles,
And all our Autumn crowns the Courtier's bowles;
For him our woods the red-ey'd pheasant breed,
And annual coveys in our harvest feed;
For him with fruit the bending branch is stor'd,
Plenty pours all her blessings on his board.
If (when the market to the city calls)
We chance to pass beside his palace walls,
Does not his hall with musick's voice resound,
And the floor tremble with the dancer's bound?
Such are the pleasures Lycidas shall give,
When thy relenting bosom bids him live.

PARTHENIA.

See yon gay goldfinch hop from spray to spray,
Who sings a farewell to the parting day;
At large he flies o'er hill and dale and down;
Is not each bush, each spreading tree his own?
And canst thou think he'll quit his native brier,
For the bright cage o'er-arch'd with golden wire?
What then are honours, pomp and gold to me?
Are those a price to purchase liberty!

DIONE.

Think, when the Hymeneal torch shall blaze,
And on the solemn rites the virgins gaze;
When thy fair locks with glitt'ring gems are grac'd,
And the bright zone shall sparkle round thy waste,
How will their hearts with envious sorrow pine,
When Lycidas shall join his hand to thine!

PARTHENIA.

And yet, Alexis , all that pomp and show
Are oft' the varnish of internal woe.
When the chast lamb is from her sisters led,
And interwoven garlands paint her head;
The gazing flock, all envious of her pride,
Behold her skipping by the Priestess' side;
Each hopes the flow'ry wreath with longing eyes!
While she, alas! is led to sacrifice!
Thus walks the bride in all her state array'd,
The gaze and envy of each thoughtless maid.

DIONE.

As yet her tongue resists the tempting snare,
And guards my panting bosom from despair.
Can thy strong soul this noble flame forgo?
Must such a lover waste his life in woe?

PARTHENIA.

Tell him, his gifts I scorn; not all his art,
Not all his flattery shall seduce my heart.
Courtiers, I know, are disciplin'd to cheat,
Their infant lips are taught to lisp deceit;
To prey on easy nymphs they range the shade,
And vainly boast of innocence betray'd;
Chast hearts, unlearn'd in falsehood, they assail,
And think our ear will drink the grateful tale:
No, Lycidas shall ne'er my peace destroy,
I'll guard my virtue, and content enjoy.

DIONE.

So strong a passion in my bosom burns,
Whene'er his soul is griev'd, Alexis mourns!
Canst thou this importuning ardor blame?
Would not thy tongue for friendship urge the same?

PARTHENIA.

Yes, blooming swain. You show an honest mind;
I see it, with the purest flame refin'd.
Who shall compare love's mean and gross desire
To the chast zeal of friendship's sacred fire?
By whining love our weakness is confest;
But stronger friendship shows a virtuous breast.
In Folly's heart the short-liv'd blaze may glow,
Wisdom alone can purer friendship know.
Love is a sudden blaze which soon decays,
Friendship is like the sun's eternal rays;
Not daily benefits exhaust the flame,
It still is giving, and still burns the same;
And could Alexis from his soul remove
All the low images of grosser love;
Such mild, such gentle looks thy heart declare,
Fain would my breast thy faithful friendship share.

DIONE.

How dare you in the diff'rent sex confide?
And seek a friendship which you ne'er have try'd?

PARTHENIA.

Yes, I to thee could give up all my heart.
From thy chast eye no wanton glances dart;
Thy modest lips convey no thought impure,
With thee may strictest virtue walk secure.

DIONE.

Yet can I safely on the nymph depend,
Whose unrelenting scorn can kill my friend!

PARTHENIA.

Accuse me not, who act a generous part;
Had I, like city maids, a fraudful heart,
Then had his proffers taught my soul to feign
Then had I vilely stoopt to sordid gain,
Then had I sigh'd for honours, pomp and gold,
And for unhappy chains my freedom sold.
If you would save him, bid him leave the plain,
And to his native city turn again;
There, shall his passion find a ready cure,
There, not one dame resists the glitt'ring lure.

DIONE.

All this I frequent urg'd, but urg'd in vain.
Alas! thou only canst asswage his pain!

The house of Kippenberg, Insel-Verlag ,
A great rheindeutsches book-firm and sans blague ,
Abruptly cabled to an agent here
Asking in terms both liberal and clear
For contracts, german world-rights, yes a mass
Offer for all my books, starting with Childermass .
What happened? Need you ask. All that I know
Is that, as suddenly, they ceased to glow
With the same incandescence. All I can guess
Some influence set itself to unimpress.
A cable came to cancel everything
But, most significant, the inner ring
To the number I think of four of the boosted pets
Of a certain London firm my contract gets —
A firm with whom I have some slight connection,
A firm not best pleased with the unique selection,
Of a writer kept outside the pale in Britain,
A dangerous writer it was their task to sit on
And keep in servitude upon a pittance —
And keep his " mailed fist" safe within their mittens!
A firm of " the highest standing", with whom alas
I have some slight connection. — " What a farce"!
Why not at all! We " authors", as such call us,
Are always ready to oblige such crawlers
Within our shirts with a little handy gore —
We merely write the books, we do no more,
All said and done. We are only the fool-authors.
That's why the likes of us, if Fritz would launch us,
Soon learn that there is many a dirty slip
Betwixt the outlandish cup and the british lip.