THE FAIR Pomona flourish’d in his reign; | |
| Of all the virgins of the sylvan train | |
| None taught the trees a nobler race to bear, | |
| Or more improv’d the vegetable care. | |
| To her the shady grove, the flowery field, | 5 |
| The streams and fountains no delights could yield; | |
| ’T was all her joy the ripening fruits to tend, | |
| And see the boughs with happy burdens bend. | |
| The hook she bore instead of Cynthia’s spear. | |
| To lop the growth of the luxuriant year, | 10 |
| To decent form the lawless shoots to bring, | |
| And teach th’ obedient branches where to spring. | |
| Now the cleft rind inserted grafts receives, | |
| And yields an offspring more than Nature gives; | |
| Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew, | 15 |
| And feed their fibres with reviving dew. | |
| These cares alone her virgin breast employ, | |
| Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy. | |
| Her private orchards, wall’d on every side, | |
| To lawless sylvans all access denied. | 20 |
| How oft the Satyrs and the wanton Fauns, | |
| Who haunt the forests or frequent the lawns, | |
| The God whose ensign scares the birds of prey, | |
| And old Silenus, youthful in decay, | |
| Employ’d their wiles and unavailing care | 25 |
| To pass the fences, and surprise the Fair? | |
| Like these Vertumnus own’d his faithful flame, | |
| Like these rejected by the scornful dame. | |
| To gain her sight a thousand forms he wears; | |
| And first a reaper from the field appears: | 30 |
| Sweating he walks, while loads of golden grain | |
| O’ercharge the shoulders of the seeming swain: | |
| Oft o’er his back a crooked scythe is laid, | |
| And wreaths of hay his sunburnt temples shade: | |
| Oft in his harden’d hand a goad he bears, | 35 |
| Like one who late unyoked the sweating steers: | |
| Sometimes his pruning-hook corrects the vines, | |
| And the loose stragglers to their ranks confines: | |
| Now gath’ring what the bounteous year allows, | |
| He pulls ripe apples from the bending boughs: | 40 |
| A soldier now, he with his sword appears; | |
| A fisher next, his trembling angle bears: | |
| Each shape he varies, and each art he tries, | |
| On her bright charms to feast his longing eyes. | |
| A female form at last Vertumnus wears, | 45 |
| With all the marks of rev’rend age appears, | |
| His temples thinly spread with silver hairs: | |
| Propp’d on his staff, and stooping as he goes, | |
| A painted mitre shades his furrow’d brows. | |
| The God in this decrepit form array’d, | 50 |
| The gardens enter’d, and the fruit survey’d; | |
| And, ‘Happy you!’ he thus address’d the maid, | |
| ‘Whose charms as far all other nymphs outshine, | |
| As other gardens are excell’d by thine!’ | |
| Then kiss’d the Fair; (his kisses warmer grow | 55 |
| Than such as women on their sex bestow) | |
| Then placed beside her on the flowery ground, | |
| Beheld the trees with autumn’s bounty crown’d. | |
| An elm was near, to whose embraces led, | |
| The curling vine her swelling clusters spread: | 60 |
| He view’d her twining branches with delight, | |
| And prais’d the beauty of the pleasing sight. | |
| ‘Yet this tall elm, but for this vine,’ he said, | |
| “Had stood neglected, and a barren shade; | |
| And this fair vine, but that her arms surround | 65 |
| Her married elm, had crept along the ground. | |
| Ah! beauteous maid! let this example move | |
| Your mind, averse from all the joys of love. | |
| Deign to be lov’d, and every heart subdue! | |
| What Nymph could e’er attract such crowds as you? | 70 |
| Not she whose beauty urged the Centaur’s arms, | |
| Ulysses’ queen, nor Helen’s fatal charms. | |
| Ev’n now, when silent scorn is all they gain, | |
| A thousand court you, tho’ they court in vain, | |
| A thousand Sylvans, Demigods, and Gods, | 75 |
| That haunt our mountains and our Alban woods. | |
| But if you ’ll prosper, mark what I advise, | |
| Whom age and long experience render wise, | |
| And one whose tender care is far above | |
| All that these lovers ever felt of love | 80 |
| (Far more than e’er can by yourself be guess’d); | |
| Fix on Vertumnus, and reject the rest: | |
| For his firm faith I dare engage my own; | |
| Scarce to himself himself is better known. | |
| To distant lands Vertumnus never roves; | 85 |
| Like you, contented with his native groves; | |
| Nor at first sight, like most, admires the Fair; | |
| For you he lives; and you alone shall share | |
| His last affection as his early care. | |
| Besides, he ’s lovely far above the rest, | 90 |
| With youth immortal, and with beauty blest. | |
| Add, that he varies every shape with ease, | |
| And tries all forms that may Pomona please. | |
| But what should most excite a mutual flame, | |
| Your rural cares and pleasures are the same. | 95 |
| To him your orchard’s early fruits are due | |
| (A pleasing off’ring when ’t is made by you); | |
| He values these; but yet, alas! complains | |
| That still the best and dearest gift remains. | |
| Not the fair fruit that on yon branches glows | 100 |
| With that ripe red th’ autumnal sun bestows; | |
| Nor tasteful herbs that in these gardens rise, | |
| Which the kind soil with milky sap supplies; | |
| You, only you, can move the God’s desire. | |
| O crown so constant and so pure a fire! | 105 |
| Let soft compassion touch your gentle mind; | |
| Think ’t is Vertumnus begs you to be kind: | |
| So may no frost, when early buds appear, | |
| Destroy the promise of the youthful year; | |
| Nor winds, when first your florid orchard blows, | 110 |
| Shake the light blossoms from their blasted boughs!’ | |
| This, when the various God had urged in vain, | |
| He straight assumed his native form again: | |
| Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears, | |
| As when thro’ clouds th’ emerging sun appears, | 115 |
| And thence exerting his refulgent ray, | |
| Dispels the darkness, and reveals the day. | |
| Force he prepared, but check’d the rash design; | |
| For when, appearing in a form divine, | |
| The Nymph surveys him, and beholds the grace | 120 |
| Of charming features and a youthful face, | |
| In her soft breast consenting passions move, | |
| And the warm maid confess’d a mutual love. | |
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