For Cytherea’s lips while Cupid press’d,
He with a heedless arrow razed her breast:
The goddess felt it, and, with fury stung,
The wanton mischief from her bosom flung:
Yet thought at first the danger slight; but found
The dart too faithful, and too deep the wound.
Fired with a mortal beauty, she disdains
To haunt the Idalian mount or Phrygian plains:
She seeks not Cnidos, nor her Paphian shrines
Nor Amathus, that teems with brazen mines:
Ev’n heaven itself, with all its sweets unsought,
Adonis far a sweeter heaven is thought:
On him she hangs, and fonds with ev’ry art,
And never, never knows from him to part.
She whose soft limbs had only been display’d
On rosy beds, beneath the myrtle shade,
Whose pleasing care was to improve each grace,
And add more charms to an unrivall’d face,
Now buskin’d, like the virgin huntress, goes
Through woods, and pathless wilds, and mountain snows:
With her own tuneful voice she joys to cheer
The panting hounds, that chase the flying deer:
She runs the labyrinth of fearful hares;
But fearless beasts and dangerous prey forbears;
Hunts not the grinning wolf or foamy boar,
And trembles at the lion’s hungry roar.
Thee too, Adonis, with a lover’s care,
She warns, if warn’d, thou wouldst avoid the snare:
“To furious animals advance not nigh;
Ply those that follow, follow those that fly;
’Tis chance alone must the survivors save,
Whene’er brave spirits will attempt the brave.
Oh, lovely youth! in harmless sports delight;
Provoke not beasts, which, arm’d by nature, fight:
For me, if not thyself, vouchsafe to fear;
Let not thy thirst of glory cost me dear.
Boars know not how to spare a blooming age,
No sparkling eyes can soothe the lion’s rage:
Nor all thy charms a savage breast can move,
Which have so deeply touch’d the queen of love.
When bristled boars from beaten thickets spring,
In grinded tusks a thunderbolt they bring:
The daring hunters lions roused devour;
Vast is their fury, and as vast their power:
Cursed be their tawny race: if thou wouldst hear
What kindled thus my hate, then lend an ear;
The wondrous tale I will to thee unfold,
How the fell monsters rose from crimes of old:
But by long toils I faint. See! wide display’d,
A grateful poplar courts us with a shade;
The grassy turf, beneath, so verdant shows,
We may secure delightfully repose:
“Perhaps thou mayst have heard a virgin’s name,
Who still in swiftness swiftest youths o’ercame.
Wondrous, that female weakness should outdo
A manly strength; the wonder yet is true
’Twas doubtful if her triumphs in the field
Did to her form’s triumphant glories yield;
Whether her face could with more ease decoy
A crowd of lovers, or her feet destroy:
For once Apollo she implored to show
If courteous fates a consort would allow.
‘A consort brings thy ruin,’ he replied:
‘Oh learn to want the pleasures of a bride!
Nor shalt thou want them to thy wretched cost,
And Atalanta living shall be lost.’
With such a rueful fate the affrighted maid
Sought green recesses in the woodland glade;
Nor signing suitors her resolves could move;
She bade them show their speed, to show their love.
He only who could conquer in the race
Might hope the conquer’d virgin to embrace;
While he whose tardy feet had lagg’d behind,
Was doom’d the sad reward of death to find.
Though great the prize, yet rigid the decree;
But blind with beauty, who can rigour see?
Ev’n on these laws the fair they rashly sought,
And danger in excess of love forgot.
“There sat Hippomenes, prepared to blame
In lovers such extravagance of flame.
‘And must,’ he said, ‘the blessings of a wife
Be dearly purchased by a risk of life?’
But when he saw the wonders of her face,
And her limbs naked, springing to the race,
Her limbs, as exquisitely turned as mine,
Or, if a woman thou, might vie with thine,
With lifted hands, he cried, ‘Forgive the tongue
Which durst, ye youths, your well-timed courage wrong:
I knew not that the nymph for whom you strove
Deserved the unbounded transports of your love.’
He saw, admired, and thus her spotless frame
He praised, and praising, kindled his own flame.
A rival now to all the youths who run,
Envious, he fears they should not be undone.
‘But why,’ reflects he, ‘idly thus is shown
The fate of others, yet untried my own?
The coward must not on love’s aid depend;
The god was ever to the bold a friend.’
Meantime the virgin flies, or seems to fly,
Swift as a Scythian arrow cleaves the sky:
Still more and more the youth her charms admires:
The race itself to exalt her charms conspires.
The golden pinions, which her feet adorn,
In wanton flutterings by the winds are borne:
Down from her head the long fair tresses flow,
And sport with lovely negligence below:
The waving ribbons, which her buskins tie,
Her snowy skin with waving purple die;
As crimson veils in palaces display’d,
To the white marble lend a blushing shade.
Nor long he gazed, yet while he gazed, she gain’d
The goal, and the victorious wreath obtain’d.
The vanquish’d sigh, and, as the law decreed,
Pay the dire forfeit, and prepare to bleed.
“Then rose Hippomenes, not yet afraid,
And fix’d his eyes full on the beauteous maid.
‘Where is,’ he cried, ‘the mighty conquest won,
To distance those who want the nerves to run?
Here prove superior strength; nor shall it be
Thy loss of glory, if excell’d by me.
High my descent; near Neptune I aspire,
For Neptune was grand parent to my sire:
From that great god the fourth myself I trace,
Nor sink my virtues yet beneath my race.
Thou from Hippomenes, o’ercome, mayst claim
An envied triumph, and a deathless fame.’
“While thus the youth the virgin power defies,
Silent she views him still with softer eyes:
Thoughts in her breast a doubtful strife begin:
If ’tis not happier now to lose than win.
‘What god, a foe to beauty, would destroy
The promised ripeness of this blooming boy?
With his life’s danger does he seek my bed?
Scarce am I half so greatly worth,’ she said.
‘Nor has his beauty moved my breast to love;
And yet, I own, such beauty well might move;
’Tis not his charms, ’tis pity would engage
My soul to spare the greenness of his age.
What, that heroic courage fires his breast,
And shines through brave disdain of fate confess’d?
What, that his patronage by close degrees
Springs from the imperial ruler of the seas?
Then add the love, which bids him undertake
The race, and dare to perish for my sake.
Of bloody nuptials, heedless youth, beware!
Fly, timely fly, from a too barb’rous fair.
At pleasure choose: thy love will be repaid
By a less foolish and more beauteous maid.
But why this tenderness, before unknown?
Why beats and pants my breast for him alone?
His eyes have seen his numerous rivals yield;
Let him too share the rigour of the field,
Since, by their fates untaught, his own he courts,
And thus with ruin insolently sports.
Yet for what crime shall he his death receive?
Is it a crime with me to wish to live?
Shall his kind passion his destruction prove?
Is this the fatal recompense of love?
So fair a youth destroy’d, would conquest shame,
And nymphs eternally detest my fame.
Still why should nymphs my guiltless fame upbraid?
Did I the fond adventurer persuade?
Alas! I wish thou wouldst the course decline,
Or that my swiftness was excell’d by thine.
See what a virgin’s bloom adorns the boy!
Why wilt thou run, and why thyself destroy?
Hippomenes! oh that I ne’er had been
By those bright eyes unfortunately seen!
Ah! tempt not thus a swift untimely fate;
Thy life is worthy of the longest date.’
“Thus she disclosed the woman’s secret heart,
Young, innocent, and new to Cupid’s dart.
Her thoughts, her words, her actions, wildy rove,
With love she burns, yet knows not that ’tis love.
“Her royal sire now with the murm’ring crowd.
Demands the race impatiently aloud.
Hippomenes then with true fervour pray’d:
‘My bold attempt let Venus kindly aid:
By her sweet power I felt this amorous fire;
Still may she succour whom she did inspire.’
A soft, unenvious wind, with speedy care,
Wafted to heaven the lover’s tender prayer.
Pity, I own, soon gain’d the wish’d consent,
And all the assistance he implored I lent.
The Cyprian lands, though rich, in richness yield
To that surnamed the Tamasenian field:
That field of old was added to my shrine,
And its choice products consecrated mine:
A tree there stands, full glorious to behold,
Gold are the leaves, the crackling branches gold,
It chanced, three apples in my hands I bore,
Which newly from the tree I sportive tore;
Seen by the youth alone, to him I brought
The fruit, and when and how to use it taught.
The signal sounding by the king’s command,
Both start at once, and sweep the imprinted sand:
So swiftly moved their feet, they might with ease,
Scarce moisten’d, skim along the glassy seas;
Or, with a wondrous levity be borne
O’er yellow harvests of unbending corn.
Now favouring peals resound from every part,
Spirit the youth, and fire his fainting heart.
‘Hippomenes!’ they cried, ‘thy life preserve,
Intensely labour, and stretch every nerve:
Base fear alone can baffle thy design;
Shoot boldly onward, and the gaol is thine.’
’Tis doubtful whether shouts like these convey’d
More pleasures to the youth or to the maid.
When a long distance oft she could have gain’d,
She check’d her swiftness, and her feet restrain’d:
She sigh’d, and dwelt, and languish’d, on his face,
Then with unwilling speed pursued the race.
O’erspent with heat, his breath he faintly drew,
Parch’d was his mouth, nor yet the gaol in view,
And the first apple on the plain he threw.
The nymph stopp’d sudden at the unusual sight,
Struck with the fruit so beautifully bright.
Aside she starts, the wonder to behold,
And eager stoops to catch the rolling gold.
The observant youth pass’d by, and scour’d along,
While peals of joy rung from the applauding throng.
Unkindly she corrects the short delay,
And to redeem the time fleets swift away,
Swift as the lightning, or the northern wind,
And far she leaves the panting youth behind.
Again he strives the flying nymph to hold
With the temptation of the second gold:
The bright temptation fruitlessly was toss’d
So soon, alas! she won the distance lost.
Now but a little interval of space
Remain’d for the decision of the race.
‘Fair author of the precious gift,’ he said,
‘Be thou, oh goddess, author of my aid!’
Then of the shining fruit the last he drew,
And with his full-collected vigour threw;
The virgin still the longer to detain,
Threw not directly, but across the plain.
She seem’d a while perplex’d in dubious thought,
If the far distant apple should be sought:
I lured her backward mind to seize the bait,
And to the massy gold gave double weight:
My favour to my votary was show’d;
Her speed I lessen’d, and increased her load.
But lest, though long, the rapid race he run,
Before my longer, tedious tale is done,
The youth the gaol, and so the virgin, won.
“Might I, Adonis, now not hope to see
His grateful thanks pour’d out for victory?
His pious incense on my altars laid?
But he nor grateful thanks, nor incense paid.
Enraged, I vow’d, that with the youth the fair,
For his contempt, should my keen vengeance share:
That future lovers might my power revere,
And, from their sad examples, learn to fear.
The silent fanes, the sanctified abodes,
Of Cybele, great mother of the gods,
Raised by Echion in a lonely wood,
And full of brown, religious horror stood:
By a long painful Journey faint, they chose
Their weary limbs here secret to repose.
But soon my power inflamed the lustful boy;
Careless of rest, he sought untimely joy.
A hallow’d gloomy cave, with moss o’ergrown,
The temple join’d, of native pumice stone,
Where antique images by priests were kept,
And wooden deities securely slept;
Thither the rash Hippomenes retires,
And gives a loose to all his wild desires,
And the chaste cell pollutes with wanton fires.
The sacred statues trembled with surprise;
The towery goddess, blushing, veil’d her eyes,
And the vile pair to Stygian sounds had sent;
But unrevengeful seem’d that punishment:
A heavier doom such black profaneness draws—
Their taper fingers turn to crooked paws:
No more their necks the smoothness can retain,
Now cover’d sudden with a yellow mane:
Arms change to legs: each finds the hard’ning breast
Of rage unknown, and wond’rous strength possess’d:
Their alter’d looks with fury grim appear;
And on the ground their brushing tails they bear:
They haunt the woods: their voices, which before
Were musically sweet, now hoarsely roar.
Hence lions, dreadful to the lab’ring swains,
Are tamed by Cybele, and curb’d with reins,
And humbly draw her car along the plains.
‘But thou, Adonis, my delightful care,
Of these, and beasts as fierce as these, beware!
The savage, which not shuns thee, timely shun;
For by rash prowess shouldst thou be undone,
A double ruin is contain’d in one.’ ”
Thus cautious Venus school’d her favourite boy;
But youthful heat all cautions will destroy.
His sprightly soul beyond grave counsel flies,
While with yoked swans the goddess cuts the skies
His faithful hounds, led by the tainted wind,
Lodged in thick coverts chanced a boar to find.
The callow hero show’d a manly heart,
And pierced the savage with a sidelong dart:
The flying savage, wounded, turn’d again,
Wrench’d out the gory dart, and foam’d with pain.
The trembling boy by flight his safety sought,
And now recall’d the lore which Venus taught:
But now, too late, to fly the boar he strove,
Who in the groin his tusks impetuous drove:
On the discolour’d grass Adonis lay—
The monster trampling o’er his beauteous prey.
Fair Cytherea, Cyprus scarce in view,
Heard from afar his groans, and own’d them true,
And turn’d her snowy swans, and backward flew.
But as she saw him gasp his latest breath,
And quivering agonize in pangs of death,
Down with swift flight she plunged, nor rage forbore,
At once her garments and her hair she tore:
With cruel blows she beat her guiltless breast,
The fates upbraided, and her love confess’d.
“Nor shall they yet,” she cried, “the whole devour,
With uncontroll’d inexorable power.
For thee, lost youth, my tears and restless pain
Shall in immortal monuments remain:
With solemn pomp, in annual rites return’d,
Be thou for ever, my Adonis, mourn’d.
Could Pluto’s queen with jealous fury storm,
And Menthe to a fragrant herb transform?
Yet dares not Venus with a change surprise,
And in a flower bid her fallen hero rise?”
Then on the blood sweet nectar she bestows—
The scented blood in little bubbles rose;
Little as rainy drops, which fluttering fly,
Borne by the winds, along a lowering sky.
Short time ensued, till where the blood was shed,
A flower began to rear its purple head;
Such as on Punic apples is reveal’d,
Or in the filmy rind but half conceal’d.
Still here the fate of lovely forms we see,
So sudden fades the sweet anemone:
The feeble stems, to stormy blasts a prey,
Their sickly beauties droop, and pine away:
The winds forbid the flowers to flourish long,
Which, owe to winds their names in Grecian song.