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 wit 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, 230
With just advice, and timely counsel fraught?
Where now, O judge of Israel, does it rove?—
What in one moment dost thou offer?
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, 322
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
Το 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.
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