Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FAMILIAR POEM FROM NISA TO FULVIA OF THE VALE, by ANN YEARSLEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FAMILIAR POEM FROM NISA TO FULVIA OF THE VALE, by                    
First Line: Fulvia, our consul bids me thank thee: why
Last Line: Should not lack piety. To fulvia health.
Alternate Author Name(s): Cromartie, Ann


ARGUMENT

NISA of the Sabine race, having been informed by Marl, a goatherd, that old Fulvia, who lived
harmlessly by selling poultry, was a sybil, or witch, writes to the dame on a subject that
seems to have interested her. Fearing, however, to reveal too much, she merely inquires if
Fulvia can cure the mind, and artfully breaks off.

Fulvia, our Consul bids me thank thee: why
My thanks to thee are due, I know not. -- Dawn
Had scarcely borrowed from the wakeful sun
One hour of light, when hooting to our door
The camel-drivers came. Their crooked horns
They blew, to waken Tellus. Gentle sleep
Had on our lowly pillow laid his head;
His breath, sweet as the newmown herbage, flew
In fragrant gales auspicious to the east.
Down his fair bosom drooped his golden hair
In heavy ringlets; these I softly moved,
To steal one parting kiss, ere the rude horn
Should from my wish abash me. Blest is he
Who drives no camels! Hapless lot! Ah! when
Will Ceres come, and bid the swain repose
Some minutes after sunrise? The loud laugh,
From men who tarried with their market-ware,
Came high to shame him. He arose, unclasped
Our latticed casement, breathed one soft adieu,
Descended, and renewed his daily toil,
Befriended by my prayer. I slept too long.
My duty, soon as Tellus went, had been
Fulfilled, had I arose and took my reel.
Fulvia, old churlish Marl, who sometimes milks
His goats beside the Tarpeian mount, that night
When thunder shook the Capitol, and woods
In one sad murmur hailed that scathing fire
Which Jove sends down to warn us, cried aloud,
'Hey! Fulvia! midnight hag!' We marvelled much.
The hind went on: 'My cabin will come down,
Flat, smooth to the turf! She has already scathed
My beechen bower. Ah me! what safer chance
Waits my she-goat, behind the fatal rock
Whence we plunge quick the guilty? -- Yes, my kids,
Bad omen! both this morn mistook their dams.
My chickens, too, lingered around their grain,
Nor did their bills rebound. All Fulvia's work!
Fulvia, sweet Nisa, mirks the blessed sun
With mists, that many swear rise from the sea.
Aye, aye! I know! -- Nisa, I ween mischance
Will come to thee and me; yea, all who dwell
Within a stone's-throw of the beldam's cell.'
We chided surly Marl for this. 'Away!',
He cried -- 'Dolts feel no lack of wisdom. Now,
The hag is somewhere circling round her spell,
Pinching our trembling blades; or, on the turf,
Sprinkling her juice of aconite. Dark yews
She clips, o'erhanging sacred dust; collects
Night-dew; draws mimic mandrakes from their sleep;
And dries the forehead of the early foal,
To strew against the north wind, as it blows
Directly to my cabin. I ne'er met
That woman first at morning, when to the hills
I hied with my young kids, but foul mischance
Struck me or mine. Nisa, do thou beware,
Nor meet her; or, if meeting, ne'er offend.'
Art thou thus wise, dear Fulvia? Dar'st thou coop
The furies in a ring? unclose their lips
On the dread secrets of Tartarean realms?
What! teach the sun to woo the waves on high?
To shape centaurs, and gorgon-headed men,
Around the horizon, whilst the shepherd strains
Fancy to their wild measurement? I guess,
If Phoebus, at thy bidding, dress his skies
With exhalations in the evening hour,
Thou wilt, when I implore, arrest the moon;
When brazen in her belt she draws up woe
From the deep breast t' o'erwhelm the gentle thought,
And tremulate the wise and virtuous mind.
Should this dread power be thine, if thou art grown
A favourite with the gods, O Fulvia, try
In mercy to compose the troubled soul
Of one brave Roman ...
Here I purposed much;
Yet have I not, in this epistle, penned
Great information. -- Tellus is arrived
Weary and faint; his aged camel fell
Near the hill-side. He looks so pensive! -- Well,
I am so apt to check myself -- In haste
I wrote; am grown uncheerful. When
We pay our holy rites to Juno, come:
Thou shalt our priestess be; all who lack wealth
Should not lack piety. To Fulvia health.





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