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(From New Crazy Tales, 1783)
BENEATH a chalky cliff is found, | |
| Nor in the air, nor on the ground | |
| A Grot! There Cupid keeps his court. | |
| There Venus and her nymphs resort. | |
| Close shaded, it on pillars stands; | 5 |
| Pillars ne’er raised by mortal hands, | |
| No marble can so polished show, | |
| Whiter they than alpine snow, | |
| From hence proceeds a magic dew, | |
| That gives all things a glossy line | 10 |
| To glittering stars it gives their birth, | |
| With dewy gems it spangles earth, | |
| When that the precious nectar flows. | |
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| Sporting beneath fond zephyr glows. | |
| On his glad wings aloft it flies, | 15 |
| And soaring twinkles o’er the skies. | |
| O would it but unveil its face, | |
| And with new light our dull world grace. | |
| Deserted Sol would cease to shine, | |
| Extinguished in a blaze divine. | 20 |
| O thither would the wanton tend, | |
| And make that point his journey’s end. | |
| There would he revel, balk, and joy, | |
| ’Mongst blooming sweets that never cloy. | |
| O ’tis so sweet, so mild, so gay, | 25 |
| As Autumn ripe, as wild as May. | |
| ’Tis sweeter than the flowers in June, | |
| The saddest heart would put in tune. | |
| Then sportive kids, than fauns, more gay: | |
| The Gods themselves with it will play. | 30 |
| Than infants hushed it is more wild, | |
| Yet sometimes pouting like a child; | |
| And angry swells into a pet, | |
| If it too scant allowance get; | |
| And fondly mounting seems to say, | 35 |
| Ah, why my dear this long delay? | |
| Most strange it is, a thing so wild, | |
| Should choose a mate than storms more wild. | |
| No barrier can his rage withhold, | |
| As tigers fierce, as lions bold; | 40 |
| And let him have his head-strong way, | |
| Like forward infants tired with play, | |
| When of his wish he’s quite possest | |
| He’ll nodding, sobbing, soundly rest. | |
| He’s of the gamesome merry kind, | 45 |
| But various like the changing wind. | |
| His body’s of a snowy line, | |
| Neatly diversified with blue: | |
| He’s soft as silk, as hot as fire: | |
| His very touch makes belles expire. | 50 |
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| But, lo! he comes all blushing red, | |
| As Phoebus hastes to Thetis’ bed. | |
| To meet, she obvious fain would go, | |
| And speaks his welcome in dumb show: | |
| And be he great, or be he small, | 55 |
| With eager love she clasps him all. | |
| She greets him round with balmy kisses, | |
| Fondly excites transporting blisses. | |
| How close she presses, | |
| Hugs and caresses: | 60 |
| To her he sighs his tender fears, | |
| And, doomed to part, burst out in tears. | |
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