Classic Poem

Warm from this heart while flows the faithful line,
The meanest friend of beauty shall be mine:
What Love, or Fame, or Fortune could bestow,
The charm of praise, the ease of life I owe
To Beauty present, or to Beauty fled,
To Hertford living, or Caernarvon dead,
To Tweedale's taste, to Edgecumbe's sense serene,
And (Envy spare this boast) to Britain's Queen!
Kind to the lay that all unlabour'd flow'd,
What Fancy caught, where Nature's pencil glow'd;
She saw the path to new, though humble fame,
Gave me her praise, and left me fools to blame.

Strong in their weakness are each woman's charms,
Dread that endears, and softness that disarms:
The timorous eye retiring from applause,
And the mild air that fearfully withdraws,
Marks of her power these humble graces prove,
And, dash'd with pride, we deeper drink of Love.

Chief of those charms that hold the heart in thrall,
At thy fair shrine, O Modesty, we fall.
Not Cynthia rising o'er the watery way,
When on the dim wave falls her friendly ray;

Not the pure æther of Æolian skies,
That drinks the day's first glories as they rise;
Not all the tints from evening-clouds that break,
Burn in the beauties of the virgin's cheek;
When o'er that cheek, undisciplin'd by art,
The sweet suffusion rushes from the heart.

Yet the soft blush, untutor'd to control,
The glow that speaks the susceptible soul,
Led by nice honour, and by decent pride,
The voice of ancient virtue taught to hide;
Taught beauty's bloom the searching eye to shun.
As early flowers blow fearful of the sun.

Far as the long records of time we trace,
Still flow'd the Veil o'er modesty's fair face:
The guard of beauty, in whose friendly shade,
Safe from each eye the featur'd soul is laid,—
The pensive thought that paler looks betray,
The tender grief that steals in tears away,
The hopeless wish that prompts the frequent sigh,
Bleeds in the blush, or melts upon the eye.

The man of faith through Gerar doom'd to stray,
A nation waiting his eventful way,
His fortune's fair companion at his side,
The world his promise, Providence his guide;
Once, more than virtue dar'd to value life,
And call'd a sister whom he own'd a wife:
Mistaken father of the faithful race,
Thy fears alone could purchase thy disgrace.
‘Go,’ to the fair, when conscious of the tale,
Said Gerar's Prince, ‘thy husband is thy veil.’

O ancient faith! O virtue mourn'd in vain!
When Hymen's altar never held a stain;
When his pure torch shed undiminish'd rays,
And fires unholy died beneath the blaze!
For faith like this fair Greece was early known,
And claim'd the Veil's first honours as her own.

Ere half her sons, o'er Asia's trembling coast,
Arm'd to revenge one woman's virtue lost;
Ere he, whom Circe sought to charm in vain,
Follow'd wild fortune o'er the various main,
In youth's gay bloom he plied the' exulting oar,
From Ithaca's white rocks to Sparta's shore:
Free to Nericran gales the vessel glides,
And wild Eurotas smoothes his warrior tides;
For amorous Greece, when Love conducts the way,
Beholds her waters, and her winds obey.
No object her's but Love's impression knows,
No wave that wanders, and no breeze that blows,
Her groves, her mountains have his power confest,
And Zephyr sigh'd not but for Flora's breast.

'Twas when his sighs in sweetest whispers stray'd,
Far o'er Laconia's plains from Eva's shade;
When soft-ey'd Spring resum'd his mantle gay,
And lean'd luxurious on the breast of May,
Love's genial banners young Ulysses bore,
From Ithaca's white rocks to Sparta's shore.

With all that soothes the heart, that wins, or warms,
All princely virtues, and all manly charms,
All Love can urge, or Eloquence persuade,
The future hero wooed his Spartan maid.
Yet long he wooed—in Sparta slow to yield,
Beauty, like valour, long maintain'd the field:—

‘No bloom so fair Messene's banks disclose,
No breath so pure o'er Tempe's bosom blows;
No smile so radiant throws the genial ray
Through the fair eye-lids of the opening day;
But deaf to vows with fondest passion prest,
Cold as the wave of Hebrus' wintery breast,
Penelope regards no lover's pain,
And owns Ulysses eloquent in vain.

‘To vows that vainly waste their warmth in air,
Insidious hopes that lead but to despair;
Affections lost, desires the heart must rue,
And Love, and Sparta's joyless plains, adieu!

‘Yet still this bosom shall one passion share,
Still shall my country find a father there.
Ev'n now the children of my little reign
Demand that father of the faithless main;
Ev'n now, their prince solicitous to save,
Climb the tall cliff, and watch the changeful wave.

‘But not for him their hopes, or fears alone!
They seek the promis'd partner of his throne;
For her their incense breathes, their altars blaze,
For her to Heaven the suppliant eye they raise.
Ah! shall they know their prince implor'd in vain?
Can my heart live beneath a nation's pain.’

There spoke the virtue that her soul admir'd,
The Spartan soul, with patriot ardour fir'd.
‘Enough!’ she cried—Be mine to boast a part
In him, who holds his country to his heart:
Worth, honour, faith, that fair affection gives,
And with that virtue, every virtue lives.

Pleas'd that the nobler principles could move
His daughter's heart, and soften it to love,
Icarius own'd the auspices divine,
Wove the fair crown, and bless'd the holy shrine.

But ah! the dreaded parting hour to brave!
Then strong affection griev'd for what it gave.

Should he the comfort of his life's decline,
His life's last charm to Ithaca resign?
Or, wandering with her to a distant shore,
Behold Eurotas' long-lov'd banks no more?
Expose his grey hairs to an alien sky,
Nor on his country's parent bosom die?

‘No, Prince,’ he cried; ‘for Sparta's happier plain
Leave the lov'd honours of thy little reign.
The grateful change shall equal honours bring,
—Lord of himself, a Spartan is a King.’

When thus the Prince, with obvious grief opprest,
‘Canst thou not force the father from thy breast?
Not without pain behold one child depart,
Yet bid me tear a nation from my heart?
—Not for all Sparta's, all Eubœa's plains’—
He said, and to his coursers gave the reins.

Still the fond sire pursues with suppliant voice,
Till, mov'd, the Monarch yields her to her choice.
‘Though mine by vows, by fair affection mine,
And holy truth, and auspices divine;
This suit let fair Penelope decide,
Remain the daughter, or proceed the bride.’

O'er the quick blush her friendly mantle fell,
And told him all that modesty could tell.
No longer now the father's fondness strove
With patriot virtue or acknowledg'd love;
But on the scene that parting sighs endear'd,
Fair Modesty's first honour'd fane he rear'd.

The daughter's form the pictur'd goddess wore,
The daughter's veil before her blushes bore,
And taught the maids of Greece this sovereign law—
She most shall conquer, who shall most withdraw.