'I have not yet forgot the pains I felt, while bound in Julia's chains;The ardent flames with which my bosom burned;The nights I passed deprived of rest;
The jealous pangs which racked my breast;My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.
'Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more!
Fly from my peaceful Cottage-door!
No day, no hour, no moment shalt Thou stay.
I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts, Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts;Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!'
'Does Age, old Man, your wits confound?'
Replied the offended God, and frowned;
(His frown was sweet as is the Virgin's smile!)'Do You to Me these words address?
To Me, who do not love you less, Though You my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile!
'If one proud Fair you chanced to find, An hundred other Nymphs were kind, Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone:
But such is Man! His partial hand Unnumbered favours writes on sand, But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.
'Ingrate! Who led Thee to the wave, At noon where Lesbia loved to lave?
Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay?
And who, when Caelia shrieked for aid, Bad you with kisses hush the Maid?
What other was't than Love, Oh! false Anacreon, say!
'Then You could call me--''Gentle Boy!
''My only bliss! my source of joy !''--
Then You could prize me dearer than your soul!
Could kiss, and dance me on your knees;
And swear, not wine itself would please, Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl!
'Must those sweet days return no more?
Must I for aye your loss deplore, Banished your heart, and from your favour driven?
Ah! no; My fears that smile denies;
That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes Declare me ever dear and all my faults forgiven.
'Again beloved, esteemed, carest, Cupid shall in thine arms be prest, Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep:
My Torch thine age-struck heart shall warm;My Hand pale Winter's rage disarm, And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.'--A feather now of golden hue He smiling from his pinion drew;This to the Poet's hand the Boy commits;
And straight before Anacreon's eyes The fairest dreams of fancy rise, And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.
His bosom glows with amorous fire Eager He grasps the magic lyre;Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move:
The Feather plucked from Cupid's wing Sweeps the too-long-neglected string, While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of Love.
Soon as that name was heard, the Woods Shook off their snows; The melting floods Broke their cold chains, and Winter fled away.
Once more the earth was deckt with flowers;Mild Zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers;High towered the glorious Sun, and poured the blaze of day.
Attracted by the harmonious sound, Sylvans and Fauns the Cot surround, And curious crowd the Minstrel to behold:
The Wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove;Eager They run; They list, they love, And while They hear the strain, forget the Man is old.
Cupid, to nothing constant long, Perched on the Harp attends the song, Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes:
Now on the Poet's breast reposes, Now twines his hoary locks with roses, Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.
Then thus Anacreon--'I no more At other shrine my vows will pour, Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire:
From Phoebus or the blue-eyed Maid Now shall my verse request no aid, For Love alone shall be the Patron of my Lyre.
'In lofty strain, of earlier days, I spread the King's or Hero's praise, And struck the martial Chords with epic fire:
But farewell, Hero! farewell, King!
Your deeds my lips no more shall sing, For Love alone shall be the subject of my Lyre.
The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement.
'Your little poem pleases me much,' said He; 'However, you must not count my opinion for anything. I am no judge of verses, and for my own part, never composed more than six lines in my life:
Those six produced so unlucky an effect that I am fully resolved never to compose another. But I wander from my subject. I was going to say that you cannot employ your time worse than in making verses. An Author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an Animal whom everybody is privileged to attack; For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment, contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its Author a thousand mortifications. He finds himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured Criticism: One Man finds fault with the plan, Another with the style, a Third with the precept, which it strives to inculcate; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the Book, employ themselves in stigmatizing its Author. They maliciously rake out from obscurity every little circumstance which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the Man, since They cannot hurt the Writer. In short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from blame; Indeed this circumstance contains a young Author's chief consolation: He remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust and envious Critics, and He modestly conceives himself to be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious that all these sage observations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong; and you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I persuade you not to write. However, if you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your verses to none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation.'
'Then, my Lord, you do not think these lines tolerable?' said Theodore with an humble and dejected air.
