Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SOLOMON ON THE VANITY OF THE WORLD: BOOK 2. PLEASURE, by MATTHEW PRIOR


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SOLOMON ON THE VANITY OF THE WORLD: BOOK 2. PLEASURE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Try then, o man, the moments to deceive
Last Line: Their wishes, smiles, and looks deceitful all, and vain.
Subject(s): Happiness; Love; Pleasure; Solomon (10th Century B.c.); Vanity; Wealth; Joy; Delight; Riches; Fortunes


THE ARGUMENT.

TRY then, O man, the moments to deceive,
That from the womb attend thee to the grave;
For wearied nature find some apter scheme,
Health be thy hope, and pleasure be thy theme;
From the perplexing and unequal ways,
Where study brings thee, from the endless maze,
Which doubt persuades to run, forewarned, recede
To the gay field and flowery path, that lead
To jocund mirth, soft joy, and careless ease:
Forsake what may instruct, for what may please;
Essay amusing art, and proud expense,
And make thy reason subject to thy sense.
I communed thus; the power of wealth I tried,
And all the various luxe of costly pride.
Artists and plans relieved my solemn hours;
I founded palaces, and planted bowers.
Birds, fishes, beasts of each exotic kind,
I to the limits of my court confined.
To trees transferred I gave a second birth,
And bid a foreign shade grace Judah's earth.
Fish-ponds were made, where former forests grew,
And hills were levelled to extend the view.
Rivers diverted from their native course,
And bound with chains of artificial force,
From large cascades in pleasing tumult rolled,
Or rose through figured stone, or breathing gold.
From furthest Africa's tormented womb
The marble brought, erects the spacious dome;
Or forms the pillars' long extended rows,
On which the planted grove, and pensile garden grows.
The workmen here obeyed the master's call,
To gild the turret, and to paint the wall;
To mark the pavement there with various stone,
And on the jasper steps to rear the throne.
The spreading cedar that an age had stood,
Supreme of trees, and mistress of the wood,
Cut down and carved, my shining roof adorns,
And Lebanon his ruined honour mourns.
A thousand artists show their cunning power,
To raise the wonders of the ivory tower.
A thousand maidens ply the purple loom,
To weave the bed, and deck the regal room;
Till Tyre confesses her exhausted store,
That on her coast the Murex is no more;
Till from the Parian isle, and Libya's coast,
The mountains grieve their hopes of marble lost;
And India's woods return their just complaint,
Their brood decayed, and want of Elephant.
My full design with vast expense achieved,
I came, beheld, admired, reflected, grieved;
I chid the folly of my thoughtless haste,
For, the work perfected, the joy was past.
To my new courts sad thought did still repair;
And round my gilded roofs hung hovering care.
In vain on silken beds I sought repose,
And restless oft from purple couches rose;
Vexatious thought still found my flying mind
Nor bound by limits, nor to place confined;
Haunted my nights, and terrified my days;
Stalked through my gardens, and pursued my ways,
Nor shut from artful bower, nor lost in winding maze.
Yet take thy bent, my soul; another sense
Indulge; add music to magnificence!
Essay, if harmony may grief control,
Or power of sound prevail upon the soul.
Often our seers and poets have confessed,
That music's force can tame the furious beast;
Can make the wolf, or foaming boar restrain
His rage; the lion drop his crested mane,
Attentive to the song; the lynx forget
His wrath to man, and lick the minstrel's feet.
Are we, alas, less savage yet than these;
Else music sure may human cares appease.
I spake my purpose, and the cheerful choir
Parted their shares of harmony; the lyre
Softened the timbrel's noise; the trumpet's sound
Provoked the Dorian flute (both sweeter found
When mixed); the fife the viol's notes refined,
And every strength with every grace was joined.
Each morn they waked me with a sprightly lay;
Of opening Heaven they sung, and gladsome day.
Each evening their repeated skill expressed
Scenes of repose, and images of rest;
Yet still in vain; for music gathered thought:
But how unequal the effects it brought!
The soft ideas of the cheerful note,
Lightly received, were easily forgot:
The solemn violence of the graver sound
Knew to strike deep, and leave a lasting wound.
And now reflecting, I with grief descry
The sickly lust of the fantastic eye;
How the weak organ is with seeing cloyed,
Flying ere night what it at noon enjoyed.
And now (unhappy search of thought!) I found
The fickle ear soon glutted with the sound;
Condemned eternal changes to pursue,
Tired with the last, and eager of the new.
I bade the virgins and the youth advance,
To temper music with the sprightly dance.
In vain! two low the mimic-motions seem;
What takes our heart must merit our esteem.
Nature, I thought, performed too mean a part,
Forming her movements to the rules of art;
And vexed I found, that the musician's hand
Had o'er the dancer's mind too great command.
I drank; I liked it not: 'twas rage, 'twas noise;
An airy scene of transitory joys.
In vain I trusted, that the flowing bowl
Would banish sorrow, and enlarge the soul;
To the late revel, and protracted feast
While dreams succeeded, and disordered rest;
And, as at dawn of morn fair reason's light
Broke through the fumes and phantoms of the night,
What had been said, I asked my soul, what done;
How flowed our mirth, and whence the source begun!
Perhaps the jest that charmed the sprightly crowd,
And made the jovial table laugh so loud,
To some false notion owed its poor pretence,
To an ambiguous word's perverted sense;
To a wild sonnet, or a wanton air,
Offence and torture to the sober ear.
Perhaps, alas! the pleasing stream was brought
From this man's error, from another's fault:
From topics which good-nature would forget,
And prudence mention with the last regret.
Add yet unnumbered ills, that lie unseen
In the pernicious draught; the word obscene,
Or harsh, which once elanced must ever fly
Irrevocable; the too prompt reply,
Seed of severe distrust, and fierce debate,
What we should shun, and what we ought to hate.
Add too the blood impoverished, and the course
Of health suppressed, by wine's continued force.
Unhappy man! whom sorrow thus and rage
To different ills alternately engage;
Who drinks, alas! but to forget; nor sees,
That melancholy sloth, severe disease,
Memory confused, and interrupted thought,
Death's harbingers, lie latent in the draught;
And in the flowers that wreath the sparkling bowl,
Fell adders hiss, and poisonous serpents roll.
Remains there ought untried, that may remove
Sickness of mind, and heal the bosom? -- Love.
Love yet remains; indulge his genial fire,
Cherish fair hope, solicit young desire,
And boldly bid thy anxious soul explore
This last great remedy's mysterious power.
Why therefore hesitates my doubtful breast;
Why ceases it one moment to be blest?
Fly swift, my friends; my servants, fly; employ
Your instant pains to bring your master joy.
Let all my wives and concubines be dressed;
Let them to-night attend the royal feast;
All Israel's beauty, all the foreign fair;
The gifts of princes, or the spoils of war:
Before their monarch they shall singly pass,
And the most worthy shall obtain the grace.
I said: the feast was served; the bowl was crowned;
To the king's pleasure went the mirthful round;
The women came, as custom wills, they passed;
On one, (O that distinguished one!) I cast
The favourite glance! O! yet my mind retains
That fond beginning of my infant pains.
Mature the virgin was, of Egypt's race;
Grace shaped her limbs, and beauty decked her face;
Easy her motion seemed, serene her air;
Full, though unzoned, her bosom rose; her hair
Untied, and ignorant of artful aid,
Adown her shoulders loosely lay displayed,
And in the jetty curls ten thousand Cupids played.
Fixed on her charms, and pleased that I could love,
Aid me, my friends, contribute to improve
Your monarch's bliss, I said: fresh roses bring
To strew my bed, till the impoverished Spring
Confess her want; around my amorous head
Be dropping myrrh, and liquid amber shed,
Till Arab has no more. From the soft lyre,
Sweet flute, and ten-stringed instrument, require
Sounds of delight; and thou, fair nymph, draw nigh;
Thou in whose graceful form, and potent eye,
Thy master's joy long sought at length is found;
And, as thy brow, let my desires be crowned;
O favourite virgin, that hast warmed the breast,
Whose sovereign dictates subjugate the East!
I said; and sudden from the golden throne,
With a submissive step, I hasted down,
The glowing garland from my hair I took,
Love in my heart, obedience in my look;
Prepared to place it on her comely head:
O favourite virgin! (yet again I said)
Receive the honours destined to thy brow;
And O above thy fellows happy thou!
Their duty must thy sovereign word obey:
Rise up, my love, my fair one, come away.
What pang, alas! what ecstasy of smart
Tore up my senses, and transfixed my heart,
When she with modest scorn the wreath returned,
Reclined her beauteous neck, and inward mourned!
Forced by my pride, I my concern suppressed,
Pretended drowsiness, and wish of rest;
And sullen I forsook the imperfect feast:
Ordering the eunuchs, to whose proper care
Our eastern grandeur gives the imprisoned fair,
To lead her forth to a distinguished bower,
And bid her dress the bed, and wait the hour.
Restless I followed this obdurate maid
(Swift are the steps that love and anger tread);
Approached her person, courted her embrace,
Renewed my flame, repeated my disgrace;
By turns put on the suppliant, and the lord:
Threatened this moment, and the next implored:
Offered again the unaccepted wreath,
And choice of happy love, or instant death.
Averse to all her amorous king desired,
Far as she might, she decently retired:
And, darting scorn and sorrow from her eyes,
What means, said she, king Solomon the wise?
This wretched body trembles at your power;
Thus far could fortune, but she can no more.
Free to herself my potent mind remains;
Nor fears the victor's rage, nor feels his chains.
'Tis said, that thou canst plausibly dispute,
Supreme of seers! of angel, man, and brute;
Canst plead with subtle with and fair discourse,
Of passion's folly, and of reason's force;
That to the tribes attentive, thou canst show
Whence their misfortunes, or their blessings flow;
That thou in science, as in power art great,
And truth and honour on thy edicts wait.
Where is that knowledge now, that regal thought,
With just advice, and timely counsel fraught?
Where now, O judge of Israel, does it rove? --
What in one moment dost thou offer? Love --
Love! why 'tis joy or sorrow, peace or strife;
'Tis all the colour of remaining life:
And human misery must begin or end,
As he becomes a tyrant, or a friend.
Would David's son, religious, just, and grave,
To the first bride-bed of the world receive
A foreigner, a heathen, and a slave?
Or grant, thy passion has these names destroyed;
That love, like death, makes all distinctions void;
Yet in his empire o'er thy abject breast,
His flames and torments only are expressed;
His rage can in my smiles alone relent,
And all his joys solicit my consent.
Soft love, spontaneous tree, its parted root
Must from two hearts with equal vigour shoot;
Whilst each delighted, and delighting gives
The pleasing ecstasy which each receives.
Cherished with hope, and fed with joy, it grows;
Its cheerful buds their opening bloom disclose,
And round the happy soil diffusive odour flows.
If angry fate that mutual care denies,
The fading plant bewails its due supplies;
Wild with despair, or sick with grief, it dies.
By force beasts act, and are by force restrained;
The human mind by gentle means is gained.
Thy useless strength, mistaken king, employ,
Sated with rage, and ignorant of joy,
Thou shalt not gain what I deny to yield;
Nor reap the harvest, though thou spoilst the field.
Know, Solomon, thy poor extent of sway;
Contract thy brow, and Israel shall obey:
But wilful love thou must with smiles appease;
Approach his awful throne by just degrees;
And, if thou wouldst be happy, learn to please.
Not that those arts can here successful prove,
For I am destined for another's love.
Beyond the cruel bounds of thy command,
To my dear equal, in my native land,
My plighted vow I gave: I his received:
Each swore with truth, with pleasure each believed.
The mutual contract was to heaven conveyed:
In equal scales the busy angels weighed
Its solemn force, and clapped their wings, and spread
The lasting roll, recording what we said.
Now in my heart behold thy poniard stained;
Take the sad life which I have long disdained;
End, in a dying virgin's wretched fate,
Thy ill-starred passion, and my steadfast hate.
For long as blood informs these circling veins,
Or fleeting breath its latest power retains,
Hear me to Egypt's vengeful gods declare,
Hate is my part; be thine, O King, despair.
Now strike, she said, and opened bare her breast;
Stand it in Judah's chronicles confessed,
That David's son, by impious passion moved,
Smote a she-slave, and murdered what he loved!
Ashamed, confused, I started from the bed,
And to my soul yet uncollected, said:
Into thyself, fond Solomon, return;
Reflect again, and thou again shalt mourn.
When I through numbered years have pleasure sought,
And in vain hope the wanton phantom caught;
To mock my sense, and mortify my pride,
'Tis in another's power, and is denied.
Am I a king, great Heaven! does life or death
Hang on the wrath or mercy of my breath,
While kneeling I my servant's smiles implore;
And one mad damsel dares dispute my power?
To ravish her! that thought was soon depressed,
Which must debase the monarch to the beast.
To send her back! O whither, and to whom;
To lands where Solomon must never come;
To that insulting rival's happy arms,
For whom, disdaining me, she keeps her charms?
Fantastic tyrant of the amorous heart,
How hard thy yoke, how cruel is thy dart!
Those 'scape thy anger, who refuse thy sway,
And those are punished most who most obey.
See Judah's king revere thy greater power;
What canst thou covet, or how triumph more?
Why then, O love, with an obdurate ear,
Does this proud nymph reject a monarch's prayer;
Why to some simple shepherd does she run,
From the fond arms of David's favourite son!
Why flies she from the glories of a court,
Where wealth and pleasure may thy reign support,
To some poor cottage on the mountain's brow,
Now bleak with winds, and covered now with snow;
Where pinching want must curb her warm desires,
And household cares suppress thy genial fires?
Too aptly the afflicted heathens prove
Thy force, while they erect the shrines of love;
His mystic form the artizans of Greece
In wounded stone, or molten gold, express;
And Cyprus to his godhead pays her vow,
Fast in his hand the idol holds his bow,
A quiver by his side sustains his store
Of pointed darts, sad emblems of his power;
A pair of wings he has, which he extends
Now to be gone; which now again he bends
Prone to return, as best may serve his wanton ends.
Entirely thus I find the fiend portrayed,
Since first, alas! I saw the beauteous maid;
I felt him strike, and now I see him fly;
Cursed demon! O! for ever broken lie
Those fatal shafts, by which I inward bleed,
O! can my wishes yet o'ertake thy speed!
Tired mayst thou pant, and hang thy flagging wing,
Except thou turnst thy course, resolved to bring
The damsel back, and save the love-sick king!
My soul thus struggling in the fatal net,
Unable to enjoy, or to forget;
I reasoned much, alas! but more I loved;
Sent and recalled, ordained and disapproved;
Till, hopeless, plunged in an abyss of grief,
I from necessity received relief;
Time gently aided to assuage my pain,
And wisdom took once more the slackened rein.
But O how short my interval of woe!
Our griefs how swift, our remedies how slow!
Another nymph, (for so did Heaven ordain,
To change the manner, but renew the pain)
Another nymph, amongst the many fair,
That made my softer hours their solemn care,
Before the rest affected well to stand,
And watched my eye, preventing my command.
Abra, she so was called, did soonest haste
To grace my presence, Abra went the last;
Abra was ready ere I called her name;
And, though I called another, Abra came.
Her equals first observed her growing zeal,
And laughing glossed, that Abra served so well.
To me her actions did unheeded die,
Or were remarked but with a common eye;
Till more apprised of what the rumour said,
More I observed peculiar in the maid.
The sun declined had shot his western ray,
When, tired with business of the solemn day,
I purposed to unbend the evening hours,
And banquet private in the women's bowers.
I called before I sat to wash my hands;
(For so the precept of the law commands):
Love had ordained, that it was Abra's turn
To mix the sweets, and minister the urn.
With awful homage, and submissive dread,
The maid approached, on my declining head
To pour the oils; she trembled as she poured;
With an unguarded look she now devoured
My nearer face; and now recalled her eye,
And heaved, and strove to hide a sudden sigh.
And whence, said I, canst thou have dread, or pain?
What can thy imagery of sorrow mean;
Secluded from the world, and all its care,
Hast thou to grieve or joy, to hope or fear?
For sure, I added, sure thy little heart
Ne'er felt love's anger, nor received his dart.
Abashed, she blushed, and with disorder spoke;
Her rising shame adorned the words it broke.
If the great master will descend to hear
The humble series of his handmaid's care,
O! while she tells it, let him not put on
The look that awes the nations from the throne!
O! let not death severe in glory lie
In the king's frown, and terror of his eye!
Mine to obey, thy part is to ordain;
And, though to mention, be to suffer pain,
If the king smile, whilst I my woes recite,
If weeping I find favour in his sight,
Flow fast my tears, full rising his delight.
O! witness Earth beneath, and Heaven above,
For can I hide it, I am sick of love:
If madness may the name of passion bear,
Or love be called, what is indeed despair.
Thou Sovereign Power! whose secret will controls
The inward bent and motion of our souls!
Why hast thou placed such infinite degrees
Between the cause and cure of my disease?
The mighty object of that raging fire,
In which unpitied Abra must expire,
Had he been born some simple shepherd's heir,
The lowing herd, or fleecy sheep his care,
At morn with him I o'er the hills had run,
Scornful of winter's frost, and summer's sun,
Still asking where he made his flock to rest at noon.
For him at night, the dear expected guest,
I had with hasty joy prepared the feast;
And from the cottage, o'er the distant plain,
Sent forth my longing eye to meet the swain;
Wavering, impatient, tossed by hope and fear,
Till he and joy together should appear,
And the loved dog declare his master near.
On my declining neck, and open breast,
I should have lulled the lovely youth to rest;
And from beneath his head, at dawning day,
With softest care have stolen my arm away,
To rise and from the fold release the sheep,
Fond of his flock, indulgent to his sleep.
Or if kind Heaven, propitious to my flame
(For sure from Heaven the faithful ardour came),
Had blest my life, and decked my natal hour
With height of title, and extent of power;
Without a crime my passion had aspired,
Found the loved prince, and told what I desired.
Then had I come, preventing Sheba's queen,
To see the comeliest of the sons of men;
To hear the charming poet's amorous song,
And gather honey falling from his tongue;
To take the fragrant kisses of his mouth,
Sweeter than breezes of her native south;
Likening his grace, his person, and his mien,
To all that great or beauteous I had seen.
Serene and bright his eyes, as solar beams
Reflecting tempered light from crystal streams;
Ruddy as gold his cheek; his bosom fair
As silver; the curled ringlets of his hair
Black as the raven's wing; his lips more red,
Than eastern coral, or the scarlet thread;
Even his teeth, and white like a young flock
Coeval, newly shorn, from the clear brook
Recent, and blanching on the sunny rock.
Ivory with sapphires interspersed, explains
How white his hands, how blue the manly veins.
Columns of polished marble, firmly set
On golden bases, are his legs and feet.
His stature all majestic, all divine,
Straight as the palm-tree, strong as is the pine.
Saffron and myrrh are on his garments shed,
And everlasting sweets bloom round his head.
What utter I, where am I, wretched maid!
Die, Abra, die; too plainly hast thou said
Thy soul's desire to meet his high embrace,
And blessings stamped upon thy future race;
To bid attentive nations bless thy womb,
With unborn monarchs charged, and Solomons to come.
Here o'er her speech her flowing eyes prevail;
O foolish maid, and O unhappy tale!
My suffering heart for ever shall defy
New wounds, and danger from a future eye.
O! yet my tortured senses deep retain
The wretched memory of my former pain,
The dire affront, and my Egyptian chain.
As time, I said, may happily efface
That cruel image of the king's disgrace,
Imperial reason shall resume her seat,
And Solomon once fall'n again be great;
Betrayed by passion, as subdued in war,
We wisely should exert a double care,
Nor ever ought a second time to err.
This Abra then-----
I saw her; 'twas humanity; it gave
Some respite to the sorrows of my slave.
Her fond excess proclaimed her passion true;
And generous pity to that truth was due.
Well I intreated her, who well deserved;
I called her often, for she always served.
Use made her person easy to my sight,
And ease insensibly produced delight.
Whene'er I revelled in the women's bowers
(For first I sought her but at looser hours),
The apples she had gathered smelt most sweet,
The cake she kneaded was the savoury meat;
But fruits their odour lost, and meats their taste,
If gentle Abra had not decked the feast.
Dishonoured did the sparkling goblet stand,
Unless received from gentle Abra's hand:
And, when the virgins formed the evening choir,
Raising their voices to the master-lyre,
Too flat I thought this voice, and that too shrill;
One showed too much, and one too little skill;
Nor could my soul approve the music's tone,
Till all was hushed, and Abra sung alone.
Fairer she seemed, distinguished from the rest,
And better mien disclosed, as better dressed.
A bright tiara, round her forehead tied,
To juster bounds confined its rising pride;
The blushing ruby on her snowy breast,
Rendered its panting whiteness more confessed;
Bracelets of pearl gave roundness to her arm,
And every gem augmented every charm.
Her senses pleased, her beauty still improved,
And she more lovely grew, as more beloved.
And now I could behold, avow, and blame
The several follies of my former flame;
Willing my heart for recompense to prove
The certain joys that lie in prosperous love.
For what, said I, from Abra can I fear,
Too humble to insult, too soft to be severe:
The damsel's sole ambition is to please;
With freedom I may like, and quit with ease;
She soothes, but never can enthral my mind,
Why may not peace and love for once be joined?
Great Heaven! how frail thy creature man is made!
How by himself insensibly betrayed!
In our own strength unhappily secure,
Too little cautious of the adverse power;
And by the blast of self-opinion moved,
We wish to charm, and seek to be beloved.
On pleasure's flowing brink we idly stray,
Masters as yet of our returning way;
Seeing no danger we disarm our mind,
And give our conduct to the waves and wind;
Then in the flowery mead, or verdant shade,
To wanton dalliance negligently laid,
We weave the chaplet, and we crown the bowl,
And smiling see the nearer waters roll,
Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise,
Till the dire tempest mingles earth and skies;
And swift into the boundless ocean borne,
Our foolish confidence too late we mourn;
Round our devoted heads the billows beat,
And from our troubled view the lessened lands retreat.
O mighty love! from thy unbounded power
How shall the human bosom rest secure;
How shall our thought avoid the various snare?
Or wisdom to our cautioned soul declare
The different shapes, thou pleasest to employ,
When bent to hurt, and certain to destroy?
The haughty nymph, in open beauty dressed,
To-day encounters our unguarded breast;
She looks with majesty, and moves with state;
Unbent her soul, and in misfortunes great,
She scorns the world, and dares the rage of fate.
Here whilst we take stern manhood for our guide,
And guard our conduct with becoming pride;
Charmed with her courage in her action shown,
We praise her mind, the image of our own.
She that can please is certain to persuade;
To-day beloved, to-morrow is obeyed.
We think we see through reason's optics right,
Nor find how beauty's rays elude our sight:
Struck with her eye, whilst we applaud our mind,
And when we speak her great, we wish her kind.
To-morrow, cruel power! thou armst the fair
With flowing sorrow, and dishevelled hair;
Sad her complaint, and humble is her tale,
Her sighs explaining where her accents fail.
Here generous softness warms the honest breast,
We raise the sad, and succour the distressed.
And whilst our wish prepares the kind relief,
Whilst pity mitigates her rising grief,
We sicken soon from her contagious care,
Grieve for her sorrows, groan for her despair;
And against love too late those bosoms arm,
Which tears can soften, and which sighs can warm.
Against this nearest cruelest of foes,
What shall wit meditate, or force oppose?
Whence, feeble nature, shall we summon aid,
If by our pity and our pride betrayed!
External remedy shall we hope to find,
When the close fiend has gained our treacherous mind;
Insulting there does reason's power deride,
And, blind himself, conducts the dazzled guide.
My conqueror now, my lovely Abra, held
My freedom in her chains; my heart was filled
With her, with her alone; in her alone
It sought its peace and joy; while she was gone,
It sighed, and grieved, impatient of her stay:
Returned, she chased those sighs, that grief away:
Her absence made the night, her presence brought the day.
The ball, the play, the mask by turns succeed,
For her I make the song, the dance with her I lead.
I court her various in each shape and dress,
That luxury may form, or thought express.
To-day, beneath the palm tree on the plains,
In Deborah's arms and habit Abra reigns;
The wreath denoting conquest guides her brown,
And low, like Barak, at her feet I bow.
The mimic chorus sings her prosperous hand,
As she had slain the foe, and saved the land.
To-morrow she approves a softer air,
Forsakes the pomp and pageantry of war;
The form of peaceful Abigail assumes,
And from the village with the present comes;
The youthful band depose their glittering arms,
Receive her bounties, and recite her charms;
Whilst I assume my father's step and mien,
To meet with due regard my future queen.
If haply Abra's will be now inclined
To range the woods, or chase the flying hind,
Soon as the sun awakes, the sprightly court
Leave their repose, and hasten to the sport.
In lessened royalty, and humble state,
Thy king, Jerusalem, descends to wait,
Till Abra comes. She comes; a milk-white steed,
Mixture of Persia's and Arabia's breed,
Sustains the nymph; her garments flying loose
(As the Sidonian maids, or Thracian use),
And half her knee, and half her breast appear,
By art, like negligence, disclosed, and bare.
Her left hand guides the hunting courser's flight;
A silver bow she carries in her right;
And from the golden quiver at her side
Rustles the ebon arrow's feathered pride.
Sapphires and diamonds on her front display
An artificial moon's increasing ray.
Diana, huntress, mistress of the groves,
The favourite Abra speaks, and looks, and moves.
Her, as the present goddess, I obey;
Beneath her feet the captive game I lay,
The mingled chorus sings Diana's fame;
Clarions and horns in louder peals proclaim
her mystic praise; the vocal triumphs bound
Against the hills; the hills reflect the sound.
If, tired this evening with the hunted woods,
To the large fish pools, or the glassy floods
Her mind to-morrow points; a thousand hands
To-night employed, obey the king's commands.
Upon the watery beach an artful pile
Of planks is joined, and forms a moving isle,
A golden chariot in the midst is set,
And silver cygnets seem to feel its weight.
Abra, bright queen, ascends her gaudy throne,
In semblance of the Grecian Venus known;
Tritons and sea-green Naiads round her move,
And sing in moving strains the force of love;
Whilst as the approaching pageant does appear,
And echoing crowds speak mighty Venus near,
I, her adorer, too devoutly stand
Fast on the utmost margin of the land,
With arms and hopes extended, to receive
The fancied goddess rising from the wave.
O subject reason, O imperious love,
Whither yet further would my folly rove!
Is it enough that Abra should be great
In the walled palace, or the rural seat?
That masking habits, and a borrowed name,
Contrive to hide my plenitude of shame?
No, no; Jerusalem combined must see
My open fault, and regal infamy.
Solemn a month is destined for the feast;
Abra invites, the nation is the guest.
To have the honour of each day sustained,
The woods are traversed, and the lakes are drained;
Arabia's wilds, and Egypt's are explored:
The edible creation decks the board:
Hardly the Phenix 'scapes--------
The men their lyres, the maids their voices raise,
To sing my happiness, and Abra's praise.
And slavish bards our mutual loves rehearse
In lying strains, and ignominious verse;
While, from the banquet leading forth the bride,
Whom prudent love from public eyes should hide,
I show her to the world, confessed and known
Queen of my heart, and partner of my throne.
And now her friends and flatterers fill the court;
From Dan, and from Beersheba they resort;
They barter places, and dispose of grants,
Whole provinces unequal to their wants;
They teach her to recede, or to debate;
With toys of love to mix affairs of state;
By practised rules her empire to secure;
And in my pleasure make my ruin sure.
They gave, and she transferred the cursed advice,
That monarchs should their inward soul disguise,
Dissemble and command, be false and wise;
By ignominious arts for servile ends
Should compliment their foes, and shun their friends.
And now I leave the true and just supports
Of legal princes, and of honest courts,
Barzillai's, and the fierce Benaiah's heirs,
Whose sires, great partners in my father's cares,
Saluted their young king at Hebron crowned,
Great by their toil, and glorious by their wound.
And now, unhappy council, I prefer
Those whom my follies only made me fear,
Old Corah's brood, and taunting Shimei's race;
Miscreants who owed their lives to David's grace;
Though they had spurned his rule, and cursed him to his face.
Still Abra's power, my scandal still increased;
Justice submitted to what Abra pleased:
Her will alone could settle or revoke;
And law was fixed by what she latest spoke.
Israel neglected, Abra was my care:
I only acted, thought, and lived for her.
I durst not reason with my wounded heart;
Abra possessed, she was its better part.
O! had I now reviewed the famous cause,
Which gave my righteous youth so just applause;
In vain on the dissembled mother's tongue
Had cunning art, and sly persuasion hung;
And real care in vain, and native love
In the true parent's panting breast had strove;
While both deceived had seen the destined child
Or slain, or saved, as Abra frowned, or smiled.
Unknowing to command, proud to obey,
A lifeless king, a royal shade I lay.
Unheard the injured orphans now complain:
The widow's cries address the throne in vain.
Causes unjudged disgrace the loaded file;
And sleeping laws the king's neglect revile.
No more the elders thronged around my throne,
To hear my maxims, and reform their own.
No more the young nobility were taught,
How Moses governed, and how David fought.
Loose and undisciplined the soldier lay,
Or lost in drink and game the solid day;
Porches and schools, designed for public good,
Uncovered, and with scaffolds cumbered stood,
Or nodded, threatening ruin:
Half pillars wanted their expected height;
And roofs imperfect prejudiced the sight.
The artists grieve; the labouring people droop;
My father's legacy, my country's hope,
God's temple, lies unfinished:
The wise and great deplored their monarch's fate,
And future mischiefs of a sinking state.
Is this, the serious said, is this the man
Whose active soul through every science ran?
Who, by just rule and elevated skill,
Prescribed the dubious bounds of good and ill?
Whose golden sayings, and immortal wit,
On large phylacteries expressive writ,
Were to the forehead of the rabbins tied,
Our youth's instruction, and our age's pride!
Could not the wise his wild desires restrain;
Then was our hearing, and his preaching vain,
What from his life and letters were we taught,
But that his knowledge aggravates his fault!
In lighter mood the humorous and the gay
(As crowned with roses at their feasts they lay)
Sent the full goblet, charged with Abra's name,
And charms superior to their master's fame;
Laughing, some praise the king, who let them see,
How aptly luxe and empire might agree;
Some glossed, how love and wisdom were at strife;
And brought my proverbs to confront my life.
However, friend, here's to the king, one cries:
To him who was the king, the friend replies.
The king, for Judah's, and for wisdom's curse,
To Abra yields; could I, or thou do worse?
Our looser lives let chance or folly steer,
If thus the prudent and determined err.
Let Dinah bind with flowers her flowing hair,
And touch the lute, and sound the wanton air;
Let us the bliss without the sting receive,
Free, as we will, or to enjoy, or leave.
Pleasures on levity's smooth surface flow;
Thought brings the weight, that sinks the soul to woe.
Now be this maxim to the king conveyed,
And added to the thousand he has made.
Sadly, O reason, is thy power expressed,
Thou gloomy tyrant of the frighted breast;
And harsh the rules, which we from thee receive,
If for our wisdom we our pleasure give;
And more to think be only more to grieve.
If Judah's king at thy tribunal tried,
Forsakes his joy, to vindicate his pride;
And changing sorrows, I am only found
Loosed from the chains of love, in thine more strictly bound!
But do I call thee tyrant, or complain,
How hard thy laws, how absolute thy reign,
While thou, alas, art but an empty name,
To no two men, who e'er discoursed, the same;
The idle product of a troubled thought,
In borrowed shapes, and airy colours wrought;
A fancied line, and a reflected shade;
A chain which man to fetter man has made;
By artifice imposed, by fear obeyed.
Yet, wretched name, or arbitrary thing,
Whence ever I thy cruel essence bring,
I own thy influence; for I feel thy sting.
Reluctant I perceive thee in my soul,
Formed to command, and destined to control.
Yes; thy insulting dictates shall be heard;
Virtue for once shall be her own reward.
Yes, rebel Israel, this unhappy maid
Shall be dismissed: the crowd shall be obeyed:
The king his passion, and his rule shall leave,
No longer Abra's, but the people's slave.
My coward soul shall bear its wayward fate;
I will, alas! be wretched, to be great,
And sigh in royalty, and grieve in state.
I said; resolved to plunge into my grief
At once so far, as to expect relief
From my despair alone:
I chose to write the thing I durst not speak,
To her I loved, to her I must forsake.
the harsh epistle laboured much to prove,
How inconsistent majesty, and love.
I always should, it said, esteem her well,
But never see her more; it bid her feel
No future pain for me; but instant wed
A lover more proportioned to her bed;
And quiet dedicate her remnant life
To the just duties of an humble wife.
She read, and forth to me she wildly ran,
To me, the ease of all her former pain;
She kneeled, entreated, struggled, threatened, cried,
And with alternate passion lived, and died;
Till now, denied the liberty to mourn,
And by rude fury from my presence torn,
This only object of my real care,
Cut off from hope, abandoned to despair,
In some few posting fatal hours is hurled
From wealth, from power, from love, and from the world.
Here tell me, if thou dar'st, my conscious soul,
What different sorrows did within thee roll;
What pangs, what fires, what racks didst thou sustain?
What sad vicissitudes of smarting pain?
How oft from pomp and state did I remove,
To feed despair, and cherish hopeless love;
How oft, all day, recalled I Abra's charms,
Her beauties pressed, and panting in my arms;
How oft, with sighs, viewed every female face,
Where mimic fancy might her likeness trace;
How oft desired to fly from Israel's throne,
And live in shades with her and love alone?
How oft, all night, pursued her in my dreams,
O'er flowery valleys, and through crystal streams;
And waking, viewed with grief the rising sun,
And fondly mourned the dear delusion gone?
When thus the gathered storms of wretched love,
In my swoln bosom, with long war had strove;
At length they broke their bounds; at length their force
Bore down whatever met its stronger course:
Laid all the civil bonds of manhood waste;
And scattered ruin as the torrent passed.
So from the hills, whose hollow caves contain
The congregated snow, and swelling rain,
Till the full stores their ancient bounds disdain,
Precipitate the furious torrent flows;
In vain would speed avoid, or strength oppose;
Towns, forests, herds, and men promiscuous drowned,
With one great death deform the dreary ground;
The echoed woes from distant rocks resound.
And now, what impious ways my wishes took,
How they the monarch, and the man forsook;
And how I followed an abandoned will,
Through crooked paths, and sad retreats of ill;
How Judah's daughters now, now foreign slaves,
By turns my prostituted bed receives;
Through tribes of women how I loosely ranged
Impatient; liked to-night, to-morrow changed;
And, by the instinct of capricious lust,
Enjoyed, disdained, was grateful, or unjust.
O, be these scenes from human eyes concealed,
In clouds of decent silence justly veiled!
O, be the wanton images conveyed
To black oblivion, and eternal shade!
Or let their sad epitome alone,
And outward lines, to future age be known,
Enough to propaggate the sure belief,
That vice engenders shame; and folly broods o'er grief.
Buried in sloth, and lost in ease I lay,
The night I revelled, and I slept the day.
New heaps of fuel damped my kindling fires;
And daily change extinguished young desires.
By its own force destroyed, fruition ceased;
And, always wearied, I was never pleased.
No longer now does my neglected mind
Its wonted stores, and old ideas find.
Fixed judgment there no longer does abide,
To take the true, or set the false aside.
No longer does swift memory trace the cells,
Where springing wit, or young invention dwells.
Frequent debauch to habitude prevails;
Patience of toil, and love of virtue fails;
By sad degrees impaired my vigour dies,
Till I command no longer e'en in vice.
The women on my dotage build their sway;
They ask, I grant; they threaten, I obey.
In regal garments now I gravely stride,
Awed by the Persian damsel's haughty pride.
Now with the looser Syrian dance, and sing,
In robes tucked up, opprobrious to the king.
Charmed by their eyes, their manners I acquire,
And shape my foolishness to their desire;
Seduced and awed by the Philistine dame,
At Dagon's shrine I kindle impious flame.
With the Chaldean's charms her rites prevail,
And curling frankincense ascends to Baal.
To each new harlot I new altars dress,
And serve her god, whose person I caress.
Where, my deluded sense, was reason flown,
Where the high majesty of David's throne,
Where all the maxims of eternal truth,
With which the living God informed my youth?
When with the lewd Egyptian I adore
Vain idols, deities that ne'er before
In Israel's land had fixed their dire abodes,
Beastly divinities, and droves of gods;
Osiris, Apis, powers that chew the cud,
And dog Anubis, flatterer for his food;
When in the woody hills' forbidden shade
I carved the marble, and invoked its aid:
When in the fens to snakes and flies, with zeal
Unworthy human thought, I prostrate fell;
To shrubs and plants my vile devotion paid,
And set the bearded leek, to which I prayed:
When to all beings sacred rites were given,
Forgot the arbiter of earth and heaven.
Through these sad shades, this chaos in my soul,
Some seeds of light at length began to roll;
The rising motion of an infant ray
Shot glimmering through the cloud, and promised day.
And now, one moment able to reflect,
I found the king abandoned to neglect;
Seen without awe, and served without respect.
I found my subjects amicably join,
To lessen their defects by citing mine.
The priest with pity prayed for David's race,
And left his text, to dwell on my disgrace.
The father, whilst he warned his erring son,
The sad examples which he ought to shun,
Described, and only named not Solomon.
Each bard, each sire did to his pupil sing,
A wise child better than a foolish king.
Into myself my reason's eye I turned;
And as I much reflected, much I mourned.
A mighty king I am, an earthly god,
Nations obey my word, and wait my nod;
I raise or sink, imprison or set free,
And life or death depends on my decree.
Fond the idea, and the thought is vain:
O'er Judah's king ten thousand tyrants reign;
Legions of lust, and various powers of ill
Insult the master's tributary will;
And he, from whom the nations should receive
Justice and freedom, lies himself a slave,
Tortured by cruel change of wild desires,
Lashed by mad rage, and scorched by brutal fires.
O Reason! once again to thee I call,
Accept my sorrow, and retrieve my fall.
Wisdom, thou sayst, from Heaven received her birth;
Her beams transmitted to the subject earth;
Yet this great empress of the human soul
Does only with imagined power control,
If restless passion by rebellious sway
Compels the weak usurper to obey.
O troubled, weak, and coward, as thou art!
Without thy poor advice the labouring heart
To worse extremes with swifter steps would run,
Not saved by virtue, yet by vice undone.
Oft have I said; the praise of doing well
Is to the ear, as ointment to the smell.
Now, if some flies perchance, however small,
Into the alabaster urn should fall,
The odours of the sweets inclosed, would die;
And stench corrupt, sad change, their place supply.
So the least faults, if mixed with fairest deed,
Of future ill become the fatal seed;
Into the balm of purest virtue cast,
Annoy all life with one contagious blast.
Lost Solomon! pursue this thought no more:
Of thy past errors recollect the store;
And silent weep, that while the deathless Muse
Shall sing the just, shall o'er their heads diffuse
Perfumes with lavish hand, she shall proclaim
thy crimes alone; and to thy evil fame
Impartial, scatter damps and poisons on thy name.
Awaking therefore, as who long had dreamed,
Much of my women and their gods ashamed;
From this abyss of exemplary vice
Resolved, as time might aid my thought, to rise;
Again I bid the mournful goddess write
The fond pursuit of fugitive delight;
Bid her exalt her melancholy wing,
And, raised from earth, and saved from passion, sing
Of human hope by cross event destroyed,
Of useless wealth, and greatness unenjoyed,
Of lust and love, with their fantastic train,
Their wishes, smiles, and looks deceitful all, and vain.





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