What dire offence from amorous causes springs, |
What mighty
contests rise from trivial things, |
I sing—This verse
to CARYLL, Muse! Is due: |
This, ev’n Belinda
may vouchsafe to view: |
Slight is the
subject, but not so the praise, |
If She inspire,
and He approve my lays. |
Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel |
A well-bred lord
t’assault a gentle belle? |
Oh say what
stranger cause, yet unexplored, |
Could make a
gentle belle reject a lord? |
In tasks so bold,
can little men engage, |
And in soft bosoms
dwells such mighty rage? |
Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray, |
And oped those
eyes that must eclipse the day: |
Now lapdogs give
themselves the rousing shake, |
And sleepless
lovers, just at twelve, awake: |
Thrice rung the
bell, the slipper knocked the ground, |
And the pressed
watch returned a silver sound. |
Belinda still her
downy pillow pressed, |
Her guardian SYLPH
prolonged the balmy rest: |
’Twas he had
summoned to her silent bed |
The morning-dream
that hovered o’er her head. |
A youth more
glittering than a birth-night beau, |
(That ev’n in
slumber caused her cheek to glow) |
Seemed to her ear
his winning lips to lay, |
And thus in
whispers said, or seemed to say: |
‘Fairest in mortals, thou distinguished care |
Of thousand bright
inhabitants of air! |
If e’er one vision
touched thy infant thought, |
Of all the nurse
and all the priest have taught; |
Of airy elves by
moonlight shadows seen, |
The silver token,
and the circled green, |
Or virgins visited
by angel-powers, |
With golden crowns
and wreaths of heavenly flowers; |
Hear and believe!
thy own importance know, |
Nor bound thy
narrow views to things below. |
Some secret
truths, from learned pride, concealed, |
To maids alone and
children are revealed: |
What though no
credit doubting wits may give? |
The fair and
innocent shall still believe. |
Know then,
unnumbered spirits round thee fly, |
The light militia
of the lower sky; |
These, though
unseen, are ever on the wing, |
Hand o’er the box,
and hover round the ring: |
Think what an
equipage thou hast in air, |
And view with
scorn two pages and a chair. |
As now your own,
our beings were of old, |
And once enclosed
in woman’s beauteous mould; |
Thence, by a soft
transition, we repair |
From earthly
vehicles to these of air. |
Think now, when
woman’s transient breath is fled, |
That all her
vanities at once are dead; |
Succeeding
vanities she still regards, |
And though she
plays no more, o’erlooks the cards. |
Her joy in gilded
chariots, when alive, |
And love of ombre,
after death survive. |
Fro when the fair
in all their pride expire, |
To their first
elements their souls retire: |
The sprites of
fiery termagants in flame |
Mount up, and take
a salamander’s name. |
Soft yielding
minds to water glide away, |
And sip, with
nymphs, their elemental tea. |
The graver prude
sinks downward to a gnome, |
In search of
mischief still on earth to roam. |
The light
coquettes in sylphs aloft repair, |
And sport and
flutter in the fields of air. |
Know farther yet; whoever fair and chaste |
Rejects mankind,
is by some sylph embraced: |
For spirits, freed
from mortal laws, with ease |
Assume what sexes
and what shapes they please. |
What guards the
purity of melting maids, |
In courtly balls,
and midnight masquerades, |
Safe from the
treacherous friend, the daring spark, |
The glance by day,
the whisper in the dark, |
When kind occasion
prompts their warm desires, |
When music
softens, and when dancing fires? |
’Tis but their
sylph, the wise celestials know, |
Though honour is
the word with men below. |
Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face, |
For life
predestined to the gnomes’ embrace. |
These swell their
prospects and exalt their pride, |
When offers are
disdained, and love denied. |
Then gay ideas
crowd the vacant brain, |
While peers and
dukes, and all their sweeping train, |
And garters,
stars, and coronets appear, |
And in soft sound,
‘Your Grace’ salutes their ear. |
’Tis these that
early taint the female soul, |
Instruct the eyes
of young coquettes to roll, |
Teach
infant-cheeks a bidden blush to know, |
And little hearts
to flutter at a beau. |
Oft, when the world imagine women stray, |
The sylphs through
mystic mazes guide their way, |
Through all the
giddy circle they pursue, |
And old
impertinence expel by new. |
What tender maid
but must a victim fall |
To one man’s
treat, but for another’s ball? |
When Florio
speaks, what virgin could withstand, |
If gentle Damon
did not squeeze her hand? |
With varying
vanities, from every part, |
They shift the
moving toyshop of their heart; |
Where wigs with
wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, |
Beaux banish
beaux, and coaches coaches drive. |
This erring
mortals levity may call, |
Oh blind to truth!
The sylphs contrive it all. |
Of these am I, who thy protection claim, |
A watchful sprite,
and Ariel is my name. |
Late, as I ranged
the crystal wilds of air, |
In the clear
mirror of thy ruling star |
I saw, alas! some
dread event impend, |
Ere to the main
this morning sun descend, |
But heaven reveals
not what, or how, or where: |
Warned by the
sylph, oh pious maid, beware! |
This to disclose
is all thy guardian can: |
Beware of all, but
most beware of man! |
He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, |
Leaped up, and
waked his mistress with his tongue. |
’Twas then
Belinda, if report say true, |
Thy eyes first
opened on a billet-doux; |
Wounds, charms,
and ardours, were no sooner read, |
But all the vision
vanished from thy head. |
And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, |
Each silver vase
in mystic order laid. |
First, robed in
white, the nymph intent adores, |
With head
uncovered, the cosmetic powers. |
A heavenly image
in the glass appears, |
To that she bends,
to that her eyes she rears; |
Th’ inferior
priestess, at her altar’s side, |
Trembling, begins
the sacred rites of pride. |
Unnumbered
treasures ope at once, and here |
The various
offerings of the world appear; |
From each she
nicely culls with curious toil, |
And decks the
goddess with the glittering spoil. |
This casket
India’s glowing gems unlocks, |
And all Arabia
breathes from yonder box. |
The tortoise here
and elephant unite, |
Transformed to
combs, the speckled, and the white. |
Here files of pins
extend their shining rows, |
Puffs, powders,
patches, bibles, billet-doux. |
Now awful beauty
puts on all its arms; |
The fair each
moment rises in her charms, |
Repairs her
smiles, awakens every grace, |
And calls forth
all the wonders of her face; |
Sees by degrees a
purer blush arise, |
And keener
lightnings quicken in her eyes. |
The busy sylphs
surround their darling care, |
These set the
head, and those divide the hair, |
Some fold the
sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; |
And Betty’s
praised for labours not her own. |
Alexander Pope
| Classic Poems |
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