Classic Poem

Come, paint me my Bathyllus fair
As I shall tell to thee;
First make his wavy wealth of hair,
And let it blackish be,

But shot with sunny gleams, nor show
It trimmed or braided; and
At random let it freely flow,
Curled but by nature's hand.

Beneath his eyebrows glossy-dark
Let his fresh forehead rise
White and unwrinkled; painter, mark
How I would have his eyes.

Let them be dark and bright and keen,
And let them breathe desire;
From Venus take their wanton sheen,
From Mars their earnest fire.

Let a blush o'erspread his lovely face
Which modesty imprints;
Let it have every youthful grace,
And be downy as the quince.

His rosy lips, O how could I
Portray? — mere words would fail;
But let them soft persuasion sigh,
And flower-like sweets exhale.
. . . . . . . . . .

Well were it if the picture had
A speaking silence; now
Of Adon the neck and shoulders add,
And Hermes' hands bestow.

I shall say nothing of his feet;
What price thou wilt demand.
Take Apollo's statue, and from it
With what skill thou canst command

Depict the charms whereof I shall
Not speak, and fame will follow;
Shouldst go to Samos none could tell
Bathyllus from Apollo.