The God of Love was there, a bidden guest, And present at his own mysterious feast. His azure mantle underneath he spread, And scatter'd roses on the nuptial bed; While folded in each other's arms they lay, He blew the flames, and furnish'd out the play, And from their foreheads wip'd the balmy sweat away. First rose the maid, and with a glowing face, Her downcast eyes beheld her print upon the grass; Thence to her herd she sped herself in haste: The bridegroom started from his trance at last, And piping homeward jocundly he pass'd. HORACE THE THIRD ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK 130 INSCRIB'D TO THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON, ON HIS INTENDED VOYAGE TO IRELAND So may th' auspicious Queen of Love, As thou, to whom the Muse commends Or his at least, in hollow wood Who tempted first the briny flood; Nor fear'd the winds' contending roar, Nor billows beating on the shore; 10 20 Who unconcern'd, with steadfast sight, 30 40 "How happy in his low degree, Nor drums disturb his morning sleep, Nor knows he merchants' gainful care, Nor fears the dangers of the deep. The clamors of contentious law, 10 And court and state, he wisely shuns, Nor brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with Or shears his overburden'd sheep, He joys to pull the ripen'd pear, rears his 30 And clust'ring grapes with purple spread. Sylvanus too his part deserves, The stream, that o'er the pebbles flies, The golden sleep prolong. And seeks the tusky boar to rear, spear; Or spreads his subtile nets from sight, With twinkling glasses, to betray The larks that in the meshes light, Or makes the fearful hare his prey. Amidst his harmless easy joys No anxious care invades his health, Nor love his peace of mind destroys, Nor wicked avarice of wealth. But if a chaste and pleasing wife, To ease the business of his life, Divides with him his household care, Such as the Sabine matrons were, Such as the swift Apulian's bride, Sunburnt and swarthy tho' she be, Will fire for winter nights provide, And without noise will oversee His children and his family; And order all things till he come, Sweaty and overlabor'd, home; If she in pens his flocks will fold, And then produce her dairy store, With wine to drive away the cold, And unbought dainties of the poor; Not oysters of the Lucrine lake My sober appetite would wish, Nor turbet, or the foreign fish That rolling tempests overtake, And hither waft the costly dish. 50 60 70 Not heathpout, or the rarer bird To the just guardian of my ground. That sit around his cheerful hearth, And bodies spent in toil renew 80 90 With wholesome food and country mirth." This Morecraft said within himself, Resolv'd to leave the wicked town,. And live retir'd upon his own. He call'd his money in; But the prevailing love of pelf Soon split him on the former shelf, And put it out again. A NEW SONG 100 [The following songs were not published until after Dryden's death, and their authenticity is not above suspicion. If genuine, they may have been written at almost any time in Dryden's long literary career. They are grouped in the present place for convenience in printing.] THE FAIR STRANGER [The following song was first printed in A New Miscellany of Original Poems. London, printed for Peter Buck. . . and George Strahan 1701, where it is ascribed to Dryden. Derrick stated, in his edition of Dryden (1760), that these verses celebrated the arrival in England in 1670, in the suite of the Duchess of Orleans, of Louise de Kéroualle, afterwards mistress of Charles II and Duchess of Portsmouth. This assertion has been often repeated by editors of Dryden. Christie notes that the poem would apply equally well to the Duchess of Mazarin, who arrived in England in January, 1676; but he adds pertinently: There is no proof that the song was composed in honor of any great lady."] |