HAD I the sweet resounding lyre, | |
| Whose voice could in a moment chain | |
| The howling wind’s ungoverned ire, | |
| And movement of the raging main, | |
| On savage hills the leopard rein, | 5 |
| The lion’s fiery soul entrance, | |
| And lead along with golden tones | |
| The fascinated trees and stones | |
| In voluntary dance; | |
| |
| Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide, | 10 |
| It e’er should celebrate the scars, | |
| Dust raised, blood shed, or laurels dyed | |
| Beneath the gonfalon of Mars; | |
| Or, borne sublime on festal cars, | |
| The chiefs who to submission sank | 15 |
| The rebel German’s soul of soul, | |
| And forged the chains that now control | |
| The frenzy of the Frank. | |
| |
| No, no! its harmonies should ring | |
| In vaunt of glories all thine own, | 20 |
| A discord sometimes from the string | |
| Struck forth to make thy harshness known. | |
| The fingered chords should speak alone | |
| Of Beauty’s triumphs, Love’s alarms, | |
| And one who, made by thy disdain | 25 |
| Pale as a lily clipt in twain, | |
| Bewails thy fatal charms. * * * * * | |
| In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide, | |
| Thou wert not cradled, wert not born, | |
| She who has not a fault beside | 30 |
| Should ne’er be signalized for scorn; | |
| Else, tremble at the fate forlorn | |
| Of Anaxárete, who spurned | |
| The weeping Iphis from her gate, | |
| Who, scoffing long, relenting late, | 35 |
| Was to a statue turned. | |
| |
| Whilst yet soft pity she repelled, | |
| Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride, | |
| From her friezed window she beheld, | |
| Aghast, the lifeless suicide; | 40 |
| Around his lily neck was tied | |
| What freed his spirit from her chains, | |
| And purchased with a few short sighs | |
| For her immortal agonies, | |
| Imperishable pains. | 45 |
| |
| Then first she felt her bosom bleed | |
| With love and pity; vain distress! | |
| O, what deep rigors must succeed | |
| This first sole touch of tenderness! | |
| Her eyes grow glazed and motionless, | 50 |
| Nailed on his wavering corse, each bone | |
| Hardening in growth, invades her flesh, | |
| Which, late so rosy, warm, and fresh, | |
| Now stagnates into stone. | |
| |
| From limb to limb the frosts aspire, | 55 |
| Her vitals curdle with the cold; | |
| The blood forgets its crimson fire, | |
| The veins that e’er its motion rolled; | |
| Till now the virgin’s glorious mould | |
| Was wholly into marble changed, | 60 |
| On which the Salaminians gazed, | |
| Less at the prodigy amazed | |
| Than of the crime avenged. | |
| |
| Then tempt not thou Fate’s angry arms | |
| By cruel frown or icy taunt, | 65 |
| But let thy perfect deeds and charms | |
| To poets’ harps, divinest, grant | |
| Themes worthy their immortal vaunt; | |
| Else must our weeping strings presume | |
| To celebrate in strains of woe | 70 |
| The justice of some signal blow | |
| That strikes thee to the tomb. | |
| |
