Part 15

To thee, dear _Paris_, Lord of my Desires, Once tender Partner of my softest Fires; To thee I write, mine, while a Shepherd’s Swain, But now a Prince, that Title you disdain. Oh fatal Pomp, that cou’d so soon divide What Love, and all our sacred Vows had ty’d! What God, our Love industrious to prevent, Curst thee with power, and ruin’d my Content? Greatness, which does at best but ill agree With Love, such Distance sets ‘twixt Thee and Me. Whilst thou a Prince, and I a Shepherdess, My raging Passion can have no redress. Wou’d God, when first I saw thee, thou hadst been This Great, this Cruel, Celebrated thing. That without hope I might have gaz’d and bow’d, And mixt my Adorations with the Crowd; Unwounded then I had escap’d those Eyes, Those lovely Authors of my Miseries. Not that less Charms their fatal pow’r had drest, But Fear and Awe my Love had then supprest: My unambitious Heart no Flame had known, But what Devotion pays to Gods alone. I might have wondr’d, and have wisht that He, Whom Heaven shou’d make me love, might look like Thee. More in a silly Nymph had been a sin, This had the height of my Presumption been. But thou a Flock didst feed on _Ida’s_ Plain, And hadst no Title, but _The lovely Swain_. A Title! which more Virgin Hearts has won, Than that of being own’d King _Priam’s_ Son. Whilst me a harmless Neighbouring Cotager You saw, and did above the rest prefer. You saw! and at first sight you lov’d me too, Nor cou’d I hide the wounds receiv’d from you. Me all the Village Herdsmen strove to gain, } For me the Shepherds sigh’d and su’d in vain, } Thou hadst my heart, and they my cold disdain. } Not all their Offerings, Garlands, and first born Of their lov’d Ewes, cou’d bribe my Native scorn. My Love, like hidden Treasure long conceal’d, Cou’d onely where ‘twas destin’d, be reveal’d. And yet how long my Maiden blushes strove Not to betray my easie new-born Love. But at thy sight the kindling Fire wou’d rise, And I, unskill’d, declare it at my Eyes. But oh the Joy! the mighty Ecstasie Possest thy Soul at this Discovery. Speechless, and panting at my feet you lay, And short breath’d Sighs told what you cou’d not say. A thousand times my hand with Kisses prest, And look’d such Darts, as none cou’d e’er resist. Silent we gaz’d, and as my Eyes met thine, New Joy fill’d theirs, new Love and shame fill’d mine! You saw the Fears my kind disorder show’d And breaking Silence Faith anew you vow’d! Heavens, how you swore by every Pow’r Divine You wou’d be ever true! be ever mine! Each God, a sacred witness you invoke, And wish’d their Curse when e’er these Vows you broke. Quick to my Heart each perjur’d Accent ran, Which I took in, believ’d, and was undone. “Vows are Love’s poyson’d Arrows, and the heart So wounded, rarely finds a Cure from Art.” At least this heart which Fate has destin’d yours, } This heart unpractis’d in Love’s mystick pow’rs, } For I am soft and young as _April_ Flowers. } Now uncontroll’d we meet, uncheck’d improve Each happier Minute in new Joys of Love! Soft were our hours! and lavishly the Day We gave intirely up to Love, and Play. Oft to the cooling Groves our Flocks we led, } And seated on some shaded, flowery Bed, } Watch’d the united Wantons as they fed. } And all the Day my list’ning Soul I hung } Upon the charming Musick of thy Tongue, } And never thought the blessed hours too long. } No Swain, no God like thee cou’d ever move, } Or had so soft an Art in whisp’ring Love. } No wonder for thou art Ally’d to _Jove_! } And when you pip’d, or sung, or danc’d, or spoke, The God appear’d in every Grace, and Look. Pride of the Swains, and Glory of the Shades, The Grief, and Joy of all the Love-sick Maids. Thus whilst all hearts you rul’d without Controul, I reign’d the absolute Monarch of your Soul. Each Beach my Name yet bears, carv’d out by thee, _Paris_, and his _OEnone_ fill each Tree; And as they grow, the Letters larger spread, Grow still a witness of my Wrongs when dead! Close by a silent silver Brook there grows } A Poplar, under whose dear gloomy Boughs } A thousand times we have exchang’d our Vows! } Oh may’st thou grow! t’ an endless date of Years! Who on thy Bark this fatal Record bears; _When_ Paris _to_ OEnone _proves untrue,_ _Back_ Xanthus _Streams shall to their Fountains flow._ Turn! turn your Tides! back to your Fountains run! The perjur’d Swain from all his Faith is gone! Curst be that day, may Fate appoint the hour, As Ominous in his black Kalendar; When _Venus_, _Pallas_, and the Wife of _Jove_ Descended to thee in the Mirtle Grove, In shining Chariots drawn by winged Clouds: Naked they came, no Veil their Beauty shrouds; But every Charm, and Grace expos’d to view, Left Heav’n to be survey’d, and judg’d by you. To bribe thy voice _Juno_ wou’d Crowns bestow, _Pallas_ more gratefully wou’d dress thy Brow With Wreaths of Wit! _Venus_ propos’d the choice Of all the fairest _Greeks_! and had thy Voice. Crowns, and more glorious Wreaths thou didst despise, And promis’d Beauty more than Empire prize! This when you told, Gods! what a killing fear } Did over all my shivering Limbs appear? } And I presag’d some ominous Change was near! } The Blushes left my Cheeks, from every part The Bloud ran swift to guard my fainting heart. You in my Eyes the glimmering Light perceiv’d } Of parting Life, and on my pale Lips breath’d } Such Vows, as all my Terrors undeceiv’d. } But soon the envying Gods disturb’d our Joy, Declar’d thee Great! and all my Bliss destroy! And now the Fleet is Anchor’d in the Bay, That must to _Troy_ the glorious Youth convey. Heavens! how you look’d! and what a God-like Grace At their first Homage beautify’d your Face! Yet this no Wonder, or Amazement brought, You still a Monarch were in Soul, and thought! Nor cou’d I tell which most the News augments, Your Joys of Pow’r, or parting Discontents. You kist the Tears which down my Cheeks did glide, And mingled yours with the soft falling Tide, And ‘twixt your Sighs a thousand times you said, _Cease, my_ OEnone! _Cease, my charming Maid!_ _If_ Paris _lives his Native_ Troy _to see_, _My lovely Nymph, thou shalt a Princess be!_ But my Prophetick Fears no Faith allow’d, My breaking Heart resisted all you vow’d. _Ah must we part_, I cry’d! _that killing word_ _No farther Language cou’d to Grief afford._ Trembling, I fell upon thy panting Breast, } Which was with equal Love, and Grief opprest, } Whilst sighs and looks, all dying spoke the rest. } About thy Neck my feeble Arms I cast, Not _Vines_, nor _Ivy_ circle _Elms_ so fast. To stay, what dear Excuses didst thou frame, And fansiedst Tempests when the Seas were calm? How oft the Winds contrary feign’d to be, When they, alas, were onely so to me! How oft new Vows of lasting Faith you swore, And ‘twixt your Kisses all the old run o’er? But now the wisely Grave, who Love despise, (Themselves past hope) do busily advise. Whisper Renown, and Glory in thy Ear, Language which Lovers fright, and Swains ne’er hear. For _Troy_, they cry! these Shepherds Weeds lay down, Change Crooks for Scepters! Garlands for a Crown! “But sure that Crown does far less easie sit, Than Wreaths of Flow’rs, less innocent and sweet. Nor can thy Beds of State so gratefull be, As those of Moss, and new faln Leaves with me!” Now tow’rds the Beach we go, and all the way The Groves, the Fern, dark Woods, and springs survey; That were so often conscious to the Rites Of sacred Love, in our dear stoln Delights. With Eyes all languishing, each place you view, And sighing cry, _Adieu, dear Shades, Adieu!_ Then ‘twas thy Soul e’en doubted which to doe, Refuse a Crown, or those dear Shades forego! Glory and Love! the great dispute pursu’d, But the false Idol soon the God subdu’d. And now on Board you go, and all the Sails Are loosned, to receive the flying Gales. Whilst I, half dead on the forsaken Strand, } Beheld thee sighing on the Deck to stand, } Wafting a thousand Kisses from thy Hand. } And whilst I cou’d the lessening Vessel see, I gaz’d, and sent a thousand Sighs to thee! And all the Sea-born _Nereids_ implore Quick to return thee to our Rustick shore. Now like a Ghost I glide through ev’ry Grove, } Silent, and sad as Death, about I rove, } And visit all our Treasuries of Love! } This Shade th’account of thousand Joys does hide, As many more this murmuring Rivers side, Where the dear Grass, still sacred, does retain The print, where thee and I so oft have lain. Upon this Oak thy Pipe, and Garland’s plac’d, That Sicamore is with thy Sheephook grac’d. Here feed thy Flock, once lov’d though now thy scorn, Like me forsaken, and like me forlorn! A Rock there is, from whence I cou’d survey } From far the blewish Shore, and distant Sea, } Whose hanging top with toyl I climb’d each day, } With greedy View the prospect I ran o’er, To see what wish’d for ships approach’d our shore. One day all hopeless on its point I stood, And saw a Vessel bounding o’er the Flood, And as it nearer drew, I cou’d discern Rich Purple Sails, Silk Cords, and Golden Stern; Upon the Deck a Canopy was spread } Of Antique work in Gold and Silver made, } Which mix’d with Sun-beams dazling Light display’d. } But oh! beneath this glorious Scene of State (Curst be the sight) a fatal Beauty sate. And fondly you were on her Bosome lay’d, Whilst with your perjur’d Lips her Fingers play’d; Wantonly curl’d and dally’d with that hair, Of which, as sacred Charms, I Bracelets wear. Oh! hadst thou seen me then in that mad state, So ruin’d, so desig’d for Death and Fate, Fix’d on a Rock, whose horrid Precipice In hollow Murmurs wars with Angry Seas; Whilst the bleak Winds aloft my Garments bear, } Ruffling my careless and dishevel’d hair, } I look’d like the sad Statue of Despair. } With out-strech’d voice I cry’d, and all around The Rocks and Hills my dire complaints resound. I rent my Garments, tore my flattering Face, Whose false deluding Charms my Ruine was. Mad as the Seas in Storms, I breathe Despair, Or Winds let loose in unresisting Air. Raging and Frantick through the Woods I fly, And _Paris!_ lovely, faithless _Paris_ cry. But when the Echos sound thy Name again, I change to new variety of Pain. For that dear name such tenderness inspires, And turns all Passion to Loves softer Fires: With tears I fall to kind Complaints again, So Tempests are allay’d by Show’rs of Rain. Say, lovely Youth, why wou’dst thou thus betray My easie Faith, and lead my heart astray? I might some humble Shepherd’s Choice have been, Had I that Tongue ne’er heard, those Eyes ne’er seen. And in some homely Cott, in low Repose, Liv’d undisturb’d with broken Vows and Oaths: All day by shaded Springs my Flocks have kept, And in some honest Arms at night have slept. Then unupbraided with my wrongs thou’dst been Safe in the Joys of the fair Grecian Queen: What Stars do rule the Great? no sooner you Became a Prince, but you were Perjur’d too. Are Crowns and Falshoods then consistent things? And must they all be faithless who are Kings? The Gods be prais’d that I was humbly born, Even thô it renders me my _Paris_ scorn. For I had rather this way wretched prove, Than be a Queen and faithless in my Love. Not my fair Rival wou’d I wish to be, To come prophan’d by others Joys to thee. A spotless Maid into thy Arms I brought, Untouch’d in Fame, ev’n Innocent in thought; Whilst she with Love has treated many a Guest, And brings thee but the leavings of a Feast: With _Theseus_ from her Country made Escape, Whilst she miscall’d the willing Flight, a Rape. So now from _Atreus_ Son, with thee is fled, And still the Rape hides the Adult’rous Deed. And is it thus Great Ladies keep intire That Vertue they so boast, and you admire? Is this a Trick of Courts, can Ravishment Serve for a poor Evasion of Consent? Hard shift to save that Honour priz’d so high, Whilst the mean Fraud’s the greater Infamy. How much more happy are we Rural Maids, Who know no other Palaces than Shades? Who wish no Title to inslave the Croud, Lest they shou’d babble all our Crimes aloud; No Arts our Good to shew, our Ill to hide, Nor know to cover faults of Love with Pride. I lov’d, and all Love’s Dictates did pursue, And never thought it cou’d be Sin with you. To Gods, and Men, I did my Love proclaim; For one soft hour with thee, my charming Swain, Wou’d Recompence an Age to come of Shame, Cou’d it as well but satisfie my Fame. But oh! those tender hours are fled and lost, And I no more of Fame, or Thee can boast! ‘Twas thou wert Honour, Glory, all to me: } Till Swains had learn’d the Vice of Perjury, } No yielding Maids were charg’d with Infamy. } ‘Tis false and broken Vows make Love a Sin, Hadst thou been true, We innocent had been. But thou less faith than _Autumn_ leaves do’st show, Which ev’ry Blast bears from their native Bough. Less Weight, less Constancy, in thee is born, Than in the slender mildew’d Ears of Corn. Oft when you Garlands wove to deck my hair, } Where mystick Pinks, and Dazies mingled were, } You swore ‘twas fitter Diadems to bear: } And when with eager Kisses prest my hand, Have said, _How well a Scepter ‘twou’d command!_ And when I danc’d upon the Flow’ry Green, } With charming, wishing Eyes survey my Mien, } And cry! the Gods design’d thee for a Queen! } Why then for _Helen_ dost thou me forsake? Can a poor empty Name such difference make? Besides if Love can be a Sin, thine’s one, To _Menelaus_ _Helen_ does belong. Be Just, restore her back, She’s none of thine, And, charming _Paris_, thou art onely mine. ‘Tis no Ambitious Flame that makes me sue To be again belov’d, and blest by you; No vain desire of being ally’d t’ a King, } Love is the onely Dowry I can bring, } And tender Love is all I ask again; } Whilst on her dang’rous Smiles fierce War must wait With Fire and Vengeance at your Palace gate, Rouze your soft Slumbers with their rough Alarms, And rudely snatch you from her faithless Arms: Turn then, fair Fugitive, e’er ‘tis too late, E’er thy mistaken Love procures thy Fate; E’er a wrong’d Husband does thy Death design, And pierce that dear, that faithless Heart of thine.

A Voyage to the Isle of Love.

INTRODUCTION.

_Le Voyage de l’.sle d’.mour_, that dainty fantasy which has been so admirably translated by Mrs. Behn, is the work of Paul Tallemant, a graceful French littérateur, who was born at Paris, 18 June, 1642. He was brought up in circumstances of affluence and even prodigal luxury until the extravagances and dissipations of both grandfather and father left him whilst yet young in a state of indigence. He thereupon took orders, but, as was not unusual at the time, devoted much attention to art and literature, becoming well known in society for his songs, ballads, idylls, pastorals, and even gallant little operas in which he never ceased to burn incense to the King. He proved so successful that at twenty-four in 1666 he succeeded to the place of Gombaud in the Academy. His chief title to literary renown at that date was none other than _Le Voyage de l’.sle d’.mour_. Colbert, his patron, procured for him a pension of 500 crowns, the abbeys of Ambierle and Saint-Albin, together with various other posts affording no small emoluments. Tallemant became a popular preacher and society flocked to hear his fashionable discourses. He frequently counted the Queen and Princes of the blood amongst his auditors. He died of an apoplexy in his seventy-first year. His poems, always neat and elegant, can hardly be claimed to have any great value, although they never fail to please. Mrs. Behn has indeed greatly improved upon her original. _Le Voyage de l’.sle d’.mour_ was first printed at Paris, 12mo, 1663. It was reprinted in _Le Recueil de pièces galantes_; Cologne, 12mo, 1667; again, ‘A Leyde. Chez Abraham Gogat.’ 12mo, 1671. _Le Voyage et la Conqueste de l’.sle d’.mour, le Passe-Partout des Coeurs_ appeared at Paris ‘chez Augustin Besoigne’ 1675. With the sub-title _La Clef des Coeurs_ it was issued from van Bulderen’s press at the Hague in 1713, 12mo. So it will be seen that the little book enjoyed no small popularity. The best edition is that in volume XXVI of the collection entitled _Voyages Imaginaires, Songes, Visions, et Romans Cabalistiques_. Amsterdam, 1788. It is illustrated by an exquisitely graceful plate of C. P. Marillier at the lines

Celui que tu vois si sévère, Est le Respect, fils de l’.mour.

Him whom you see so awful and severe, Is call’d Respect, the Eldest Son of Love.

A VOYAGE to the ISLE OF LOVE.

_An Account from_ Lisander _to_ Lysidas _his Friend._

At last, dear _Lysidas_, I’l set thee Free, From the disorders of Uncertainty; Doubt’s the worst Torment of a generous Mind, Who ever searching what it cannot find, Is roving still from wearied thought to thought, And to no settled Calmness can be brought: The Cowards Ill, who dares not meet his Fate, } And ever doubting to be Fortunate, } Falls to that Wretchedness his fears Create. } I should have dy’d silent, as Flowers decay, Had not thy Friendship stopt me on my way, That friendship which our Infant hearts inspir’d, E’re them Ambition or false Love had fir’d: Friendship! which still enlarg’d with years and sense Till it arriv’d to perfect Excellence; Friendship! Mans noblest bus’ness! without whom } The out-cast Life finds nothing it can own, } But Dully dyes unknowing and unknown. } Our searching thought serves only to impart It’s new gain’d knowledge to anothers Heart; The truly wise, and great, by friendship grow, That, best instructs ‘em how they should be so, That, only sees the Error of the Mind, Which by its soft reproach becomes Refin’d; Friendship! which even Loves mighty power controuls, When that but touches; this Exchanges Souls. The remedy of Grief, the safe retreat Of the scorn’d Lover, and declining great. This sacred tye between thy self and me, Not to be alter’d by my Destiny; This tye, which equal to my new desires Preserv’d it self amidst Loves softer Fires, Obliges me (without reserve) t’ impart To _Lycidas_ the story of my Heart; Tho’ ‘twill increase its present languishment, To call to its remembrance past content: So drowning Men near to their native shore (From whence they parted ne’er to visit more) Look back and sigh, and from that last Adieu, Suffer more pain then in their Death they do: That grief, which I in silent Calms have born, It will renew, and rowse into a Storm.

The Truce.

_With you, unhappy Eyes, that first let in_ _To my fond Heart the raging Fire,_ _With you a_ Truce _I will begin,_ _Let all your Clouds, let all your Show’rs retire,_ _And for a while become serene,_ _And you, my constant rising Sighs, forbear,_ _To mix your selves with flying Air,_ _But utter Words among that may express,_ _The vast degrees of Joy and Wretchedness._ _And you, my Soul! forget the dismal hour,_ _When dead and cold_ Aminta _lay,_ _And no kind God, no pittying Power_ _The hasty fleeting Life would stay;_ _Forget the Mad, the Raving pain._ _That seiz’d Thee at a sight so new,_ _When not the Wind let loose, nor raging Main_ _Was so destructive and so wild as thou._ _Forget thou saw’st the lovely yielding Maid,_ _Dead in thy trembling Arms_ _Just in the Ravishing hour, when all her Charms_ _A willing Victim to thy Love was laid,_ _Forget that all is fled thou didst Adore,_ _And never, never, shall return to bless Thee more._