Classic Poem

Twelve Spartan virgins, noble, young and fair,
With violet wreaths adorned their flowing hair,
And to the pompous palace did resort,
Where Menelaus kept his royal court.
There hand in hand a comely choir they led,
To sing a blessing to his nuptial bed,
With curious needles wrought, and painted flowers bespread.
Jove's beauteous daughter now his bride must be,
And Jove himself was less a god than he.
For this their artful hands instruct the lute to sound,
Their feet assist their hands and justly beat the ground.
This was their song: ‘Why, happy bridegroom, why
Ere yet the stars are kindled in the sky,
Ere twilight shades or evening dews are shed,
Why dost thou steal so soon away to bed?
Has Somnus brushed thy eyelids with his rod,
Or do thy legs refuse to bear their load,
With flowing bowls of a more generous god?
If gentle slumber on thy temples creep
(But, naughty man, thou dost not mean to sleep),
Betake thee to thy bed, thou drowsy drone,
Sleep by thyself, and leave thy bride alone:
Go leave her with her maiden mates to play
At sports more harmless till the break of day;
Give us this evening: thou hast morn and night
And all the year before thee for delight.
O happy youth! to thee among the crowd
Of rival princes Cupid sneezed aloud,
And every lucky omen sent before
To meet thee landing on the Spartan shore.
Of all our heroes thou canst boast alone
That Jove, whene'er he thunders, calls thee son.
Betwixt two sheets thou shalt enjoy her bare,
With whom no Grecian virgin can compare:
So soft, so sweet, so balmy and so fair.
A boy like thee would make a kingly line,
But O, a girl like her must be divine.
Her equals we in years, but not in face,
Twelve score viragos of the Spartan race,
While naked to Eurotas' banks we bend,
And there in manly exercise contend,
When she appears are all eclipsed and lost,
And hide the beauties that we made our boast.
So when the night and winter disappear,
The purple morning rising with the year
Salutes the spring, as her celestial eyes
Adorn the world, and brighten all the skies:
So beauteous Helen shines among the rest,
Tall, slender, straight, with all the graces blessed.
As pines the mountains, or as fields the corn,
Or as Thessalian steeds the race adorn,
So rosy-coloured Helen is the pride
Of Lacedaemon, and of Greece beside.
Like her no nymph can willing osiers bend
In basket-works which painted streaks commend;
With Pallas in the loom she may contend.
But none, ah none can animate the lyre,
And the mute strings with vocal souls inspire;
Whether the learned Minerva be her theme,
Or chaste Diana bathing in the stream;
None can record their heavenly praise so well
As Helen, in whose eyes ten thousand Cupids dwell.
O fair, O graceful! yet with maids enrolled,
But whom tomorrow's sun a matron shall behold:
Yet ere tomorrow's sun shall show his head,
The dewy paths of meadows we will tread
For crowns and chaplets to adorn thy head:
Where all shall weep, and wish for thy return,
As bleating lambs their absent mother mourn.
Our noblest maids shall to thy name bequeath
The boughs of lotus, formed into a wreath;
This monument, thy maiden beauties' due,
High on a plane tree shall be hung to view:
On the smooth rind the passenger shall see
Thy name engraved, and worship Helen's tree.
Balm from a silver box distilled around
Shall all bedew the roots and scent the sacred ground;
The balm, 'tis true, can agèd plants prolong,
But Helen's name will keep it ever young.
Hail bride, hail bridegroom, son-in-law to Jove!
With fruitful joys Latona bless your love;
Let Venus furnish you with full desires,
Add vigour to your wills, and fuel to your fires.
Almighty Jove augment your wealthy store,
Give much to you, and to his grandsons more.
From generous loins a generous race will spring,
Each girl, like her, a queen; each boy, like you, a king.
Now sleep, if sleep you can; but while you rest
Sleep close, with folded arms, and breast to breast.
Rise in the morn, but O, before you rise
Forget not to perform your morning sacrifice.
We will be with you ere the crowing cock
Salutes the light, and struts before his feathered flock.
Hymen, O Hymen, to thy triumphs run,
And view the mighty spoils thou hast in battle won.’