TODAY, as at my glass I stood, To set my head-clothes and my hood, I saw my grizzled locks with dread, And called to mind the Gorgon's head. Thought I, whate'er the poets say, Medusa's hair was only grey: Though Ovid, who the story told, Was too well-bred to call her old; But, what amounted to the same, He made her an immortal dame. Yet now, whene'er a matron sage Hath felt the rugged hand of age, You hear our witty coxcombs cry, 'Rot that old witch -- she'll never die'; Though, had they but a little reading, Ovid would teach them better breeding. I fancy now I hear you say, 'Grant heaven my locks may ne'er be grey! Why am I told this frightful story, To beauty a @3memento mori@1?' And, as along the room you pass, Casting your eye upon the glass, 'Surely,' say you, 'this lovely face Will never suffer such disgrace: The bloom, that on my cheek appears, Will never be impaired by years. Her envy, now I plainly see, Makes her inscribe those lines to me. These beldames, who were born before me, Are grieved to see the men adore me: Their snaky locks freeze up the blood; My tresses fire the purple flood. 'Unnumbered slaves around me wait, And from my eyes expect their fate. I own of conquest I am vain, Though I despise the slaves I gain. Heaven gave me charms, and destined me For universal tyranny.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON by HENRY LYNDEN FLASH A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 4. REVEILLE by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT by HELEN SELINA SHERIDAN AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS; SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |