Book VIII: Thyrsis and Amaranth

I had the Phrygian quit,Charm'd with Italian wit;But a divinityWould on Parnassus seeA fable more from me.Such challenge to refuse,Without a good excuse,Is not the way to useDivinity or muse.Especially to oneOf those who truly are,By force of being fair,Made queens of human will.A thing should not be doneIn all respects so ill.For, be it known to all,From Sillery the callHas come for bird, and beast,And insects, to the least;To clothe their thoughts sublimeIn this my simple rhyme.In saying Sillery,All's said that need to be.Her claim to it so good,Few fail to give her placeAbove the human race:How could they, if they would?

Now come we to our end:--As she opines my talesAre hard to comprehend--For even genius failsSome things to understand--So let us take in handTo make unnecessary,For once, a commentary.Come shepherds now,--and rhyme we afterwardsThe talk between the wolves and fleecy herds.

To Amaranth, the young and fair,Said Thyrsis, once, with serious air,--'O, if you knew, like me, a certain ill,With which we men are harm'd,As well as strangely charm'd,No boon from Heaven your heart could like it fill!Please let me name it in your ear,--A harmless word,--you need not fear.Would I deceive you, you, for whom I bearThe tenderest sentiments that ever were?'Then Amaranth replied,'What is its name? I beg you, do not hide'''Tis LOVE.'--' The word is beautiful! revealIts signs and symptoms, how it makes one feel.'--'Its pains are ecstacies. So sweet its stings,The nectar-cups and incense-pots of kings,Compared, are flat, insipid things.One strays all lonely in the wood--Leans silent o'er the placid flood,And there with great complacency,A certain face can see--'Tis not one's own--but image fair,Retreating,Fleeting,Meeting,Greeting,Following everywhere.For all the rest of human kind,One is as good, in short, as blind.There is a shepherd wight, I ween,Well known upon the village green,Whose voice, whose name, whose turning of the hingeExcites upon the cheek a richer tinge--The thought of whom is signal for a sigh--The breast that heaves it knows not why--Whose face the maiden fears to see,Yet none so welcome still as he.'--Here Amaranth cut short his speech:'O! O! is that the evil which you preach?To me I think it is no stranger;I must have felt its power and danger.'Here Thrysis thought his end was gain'd,When further thus the maid explain'd:''Tis just the very sentimentWhich I have felt for Clidamant!'The other, vex'd and mortified,Now bit his lips, and nearly died.

Like him are multitudes, who whenTheir own advancement they have meant,Have play'd the game of other men.