Classic Poem

Oh, sweet passer! I am strong,
Grace and charm to me belong;
All my flesh is like soft sammet and my muscles rival steel;
I have spices on my breast;
My dark locks are oiled and tressed,
And the wounds of suffering passion I can mollify and heal.

Hark, all ye who round me throng,
I can sing a lulling song,
I can charm you with the cadence of my rich sonorous voice,
And with suave, melodious words,
Sweeter far than trills of birds,
I can win your languid pleasure and can make the soul rejoice!

To our king one festal night
I gave rapture and delight,
And he crowned my brows with myrtle, ay! and kissed me on his throne;
For my beauty is as rare
As Askar's, surnamed the Fair,
And the secrets of sweet passion unto me belong alone!

There is ever new surprise
In the poem of mine eyes;
I am lithe, and light, and supple, like the leopard of the plain;
My curled hair has reached the length
Of the lion's in his strength,
And my kiss is warm and fragrant like the falling of the rain!

I have zonahs in my house,
With white lilies on their brows,
To excite you by soft kisses and white perfume-reeking arms,
While I beckon your embrace
In the splendor of my grace,
While you play in joy ecstatic with the beauty of their charms!

Oh, sweet passer! do not heed
Yon old creature in his need,
For his words are false and worthless, and a century dims his fire;
He gives herbs and venomed roots;
His cold kiss is like a brute's,
And the spasms of god-like passion his decrepit carcass tire!
Come to me, all ye who crave
The sweet passion of a slave!
Bring me gold, or wine and honey, and my kisses will be yours;
And I swear by mighty Bel
To anoint and please you well,
While my naked zonahs press you, and the balmy night endures!
And ere the last dull sound had left his lips,
Men crowded near him with uncurbed desire,
Feeling his feeble limbs and bargaining there
To learn his secrets and the joys thereof;
And with a citizen, who spake of gold
In unclipped bricks, and silver coin beside,
He left the streets, and no one stirred or smiled;
While envy for a moment dusked all brows,
For some had coin, but owned no golden bricks.

King Bera, with his beard curled like a rose,
Lay on his cushions near the regal board,
Laden with savory meats and bursting fruit,
Honey, and heating herbs, and sweetened wines;
While near his sceptered hand lay Birsha, king
Of high Gomorrah, sacred as the gods,
And on inferior mats of violet wool,
Burning with fear and envy to their eyes,
Sat Shinab, king of Admah, and the lord
And sacred king Shemeber, who had come
From Zeboim with high tributes to the gods,
To Bel, the procreator, they had prayed,
To Vul, the god of atmospheres; and, lo!
They were an hungered and were worn of prayer,
And listened to the melodies of lutes,
That pleased and soothed them as they humbly ate.

Then did Ashcar, the favorite of the king,
His laughing counselor and his body's friend,
One whom he loved with all surpassing love,
And who from birth was destined for his bed,
Being of princely blood in his own right,
Arise, and, merry with the warming wine,
Sing to the god-king, thrumming the asor: