To the Flower of Gnido

Had I the sweet resounding lyre,Whose voice could in a moment chainThe howling wind's ungoverned ire,And movement of the raging main,On savage hills the leopard rein,The lion's fiery soul entrance,And lead along with golden tonesThe fascinated trees and stonesIn voluntary dance;

Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide,It e'er should celebrate the scars,Dust raised, blood shed, or laurels dyedBeneath the gonfalon of Mars;Or, borne sublime on festal cars,The chiefs who to submission sankThe rebel German's soul of soul,And forged the chains that now controlThe frenzy of the Frank.

No, no! its harmonies should ringIn vaunt of glories all thine own,A discord sometimes from the stringStruck forth to make thy harshness knownThe fingered chords should speak aloneOf Beauty's triumphs, Love's alarms,And one who, made by thy disdainPale as a lily clipt in twain,Bewails thy fatal charms.

Of that poor captive, too contemned,I speak,--his doom you might deplore--In Venus' galliot-shell condemnedTo strain for life the heavy oar.Through thee no longer as of yoreHe tames the unmanageable steed,With curb of gold his pride restrains,Or with pressed spurs and shaken reinsTorments him into speed.

Not now he wields for thy sweet sakeThe sword in his accomplished hand,Nor grapples like a poisonous snake,The wrestler on the yellow sand:The old heroic harp his handConsults not now, it can but kissThe amorous lute's dissolving strings,Which murmur forth a thousand thingsOf banishment from bliss.

Through thee, my dearest friend and bestGrows harsh, importunate, and grave;Myself have been his port of restFrom shipwreck on the yawning wave;Yet now so high his passions raveAbove lost reason's conquered laws,That not the traveller ere he slaysThe asp, its sting, as he my faceSo dreads, or so abhors.

In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,Thou wert not cradled, wert not born,She who has not a fault besideShould ne'er be signalized for scorn;Else, tremble at the fate forlornOf Anaxárete, who spurnedThe weeping Iphis from her gate,Who, scoffing long, relenting late,Was to a Statue turned.

Whilst yet soft pity she repelled,Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride,From her friezed window she beheld,Aghast, the lifeless suicide;Around his lily neck was tiedWhat freed his spirit from her chains,And purchased with a few short sighsFor her immortal agonies,Imperishable pains.

Then first she felt her bosom bleedWith love and pity; vain distress!Oh what deep rigours must succeedThis first sole touch of tenderness!Her eyes grow glazed and motionless,Nailed on his wavering corse, each boneHardening in growth, invades her flesh,Which, late so rosy, warm, and fresh,Now stagnates into stone.

From limb to limb the frosts aspire,Her vitals curdle with the cold;The blood forgets its crimson fire,The veins that e'er its motion rolled;Till now the virgin's glorious mouldWas wholly into marble changed,On which the Salaminians gazed,Less at the prodigy amazed,Than of the crime avenged.

Then tempt not thou Fate's angry arms,By cruel frown or icy taunt;But let thy perfect deeds and charmsTo poets' harps, Divinest, grantThemes worthy their immortal vaunt;Else must our weeping strings presumeTo celebrate in strains of woe,The justice of some signal blowThat strikes thee to the tomb.