STORY OF PYGMALION'S DAUGHTER *

AN IMITATION OF DRYDEN;

A PRETENDED VERSION OF A SUPPOSED ORIGINAL, BUT WHICH HAS NO EXISTENCE IN OVID†.

THE Goddess, present at the match she made, So bless'd the bed, such fruitfulness convey'd, That ere ten moons had sharpen'd either horn, Pledge of their bliss, a lovely boy was born, Paphos his name (who, grown to manhood, wall'd The city Paphos, from the founder call'd): And that same hour a second offspring knows, Fair as the morn its purest lustre throws, Fair as in Venus, to the Poet's dream, Beauty itself, and loveliness would seem, Pygmalia call'd, though useless were the name To mark from whom the matchless wonder came. Nor fainter beauties on her mind impress'd, The father's genius in her own confess'd;

* In 1789, Lord Camelford, to whom Mr. Hardinge had communicated this and some other of his poetical productions, says, "I will not venture to criticise any of your verses, for fear you should say, as the French do, faites mieux. I wait with impatience for the conclusion: in the mean time, I will only say, that, though upon the whole I like your Latin better than your English, there are several excellent lines, and many very much in the manner of Dryden.”—EDIT.

†This Poem took its rise from an assertion by Mrs. Cosway to me, that she had improved upon the popular tale by this fable of her own invention. I told her she was laughing at me, for that both fables were in Ovid; and I made her believe it, by sending her the two counterfeits, one in Ovid's manner, the other in that of Dryden. G. H.

There in the real Dryden Pygmalion's history ends.

Her forms had life by inspiration caught,
The ivory panted, and the marble thought.
Nor brighter shone the partner of his bed,
When to the nuptial throne by Venus led,
Her glowing charms the amorous youth inspir'd,
The bold converted, and the cautious fir'd.
She, though assail'd was her ingenuous mind
With all the rhetorick that love could find,
The torch of Hymen, blushing, still refus'd;
But in her soft repulse new hopes infus'd:—
Her's the sole bliss to rival Nature's form,
In mimic stone, with life's impression warm ;
To court in solitude Minerva's power,
And waste in fruitless toil the musing hour.
Love's injur'd God in subtle mischief smil'd,
And the enchanted Artist thus revil'd:
"Beware of man!-be elegant, and chaste!
Live to your genius only, and your taste!
Though ripe your beauties for their aptest use,
Let no alluring form the heart seduce!
Wrapt in your skill, reversing Nature's plan,
Court the male statue, and refuse the man!
But here shall rage the self-consuming fire,
The hopeless dream, and frenzy of desire:
A mimic form shall irritate your breast,
And the cold phantom be in vain caress'd:
One god-like youth, in secret often view'd,
Your own creation, shall yourself delude!
The lovely Ganymede inspires your thought-
His air and smiles are from Olympus brought!
Now on his tempting lip your kisses plac'd,
Or thrown your arms around his polish'd waist:
Now-but no longer innocent-you rove
To wanton pleasures, and forbidden love,

Till, as your glowing touch invites the boy
To wild endearments of mysterious joy —
In marble fetters every limb is bound,

The whisper'd accents breathe a fainter sound;
New*, but unchang'd, and, though transform'd,

the same,

Your partial glance, that cherishes its flame,
Upon the dear bewitching form is cast,

And still with jealous care you hold him fast;
Another Niobe shall seem to weep,
And memory to wake, though passion sleep."
Thus he prophetic, and the fatal word,
In partial mood assenting, Venus heard ;
Pygmalia's mind, still innocent and good,
With coy delight her favourite art pursued ;
Inviolate escap'd the ardent kiss,

And scorn'd with decent pride the lover's bliss ;
Refusing Hymen's mysteries to know,
And smiling at the little archer's bow:
To her appear no visions of the night

(That subtle prompter of the waking sight);
No thoughts impure the maiden colour chace,
Or flush the calm that smiles upon her face:
Enough to her that one enchanting form
With blameless love her apathy can warm-
That her own Ganymede's half-breathing shade,
In Beauty's naked loveliness array'd,

Can cheer with fancy's glow her spotless breast,
And waken her affections, not molest;

A miracle of art that art excels,

Till, wrapt in wonder, every sense rebels.

* This means to imitate the false and quaint conceits too prevalent in Ovid's Muse, brilliant as it was.

Smiling it seems, and grateful to her skill,
Proud of her hand, and servant of her will:
Intent her eyes commend the ripening boy,
His youthful ardour, and impatient joy;
The wanton streamers of his hair admire,
And pouting lips, the heralds of desire.
Her eyes-ah whither, whither do they rove?
To other beauties that with Nature strove?
These, pure of sinful thought, her trembling hand
Explores in secret, and with
gay demand,
As if alluring to the amorous flame,

Nor blameless* courts, nor yet with conscious blame.
At length transported,-""Tis my love that's here;
Chaste I'll enfold him, and abandon fear.

And thou (she said) indulgent Venus, bless
What I thus pant with ardour to possess !
Or give that lifeless form a vital flame,
Or into marble these affections tame!"

Nor more with passion's tempest overcome,
She leap'd impatient; but her voice is dumb:
Congeal'd and petrified, her senses fail,
Till the hard bonds o'er every limb prevail :
Yet in the meeting statues we admire
A virgin form contending with desire,
In conflict vain :-the lips in marble breathe,
And Love triumphant seems to wear the wreath.
Here pants the bosom, as with life endued,
The neck seems aching, and the kiss renew'd:
Here link'd in closer union they appear,
And seem Intrusion's eye no more to fear;
Till, jealous of usurping Fiction's reign,
The rooted marble is itself again."

* Another imitation of the faults in Ovid's manner.

THE MODERN IXION.

"Irion, menac'd with his endless wheel, To Jove* address'd this eloquent appeal (So Yorick, punish'd in a Bishop's Court, With his Judicial Canonist would sport).

"Be just in mercy! I confess 'tis treason—
But I was born to act, as well as reason;
You gave me passions, but reserv'd your own
For playful use-descending from your throne;
With Juno seldom play'd the husband's part,
But as a Husband won Alcmena's heart:
A thing, dread Sir, which by the Canon Law
Would on the Actor penal mischiefs draw.
For nights like those descending many a league,
With your own rank you never could intrigue;
And, though "a cuckold-maker" was your trade,
No taylor of his rib was more afraid.

You talk of clouds, exulting in the cheat,
And thus invert your own terrestrial feat.
Yourself a Bull and Swan you have appear'd,
In gold and flame to the coquette endear'd,
Though, by the way, in many an awkward shape,
You rather smuggled, than enjoy'd the rape.
But I, in pity for the peacock's tail,
Thought Love could over sinecures prevail.
In hopes of Juno, and without her clothes,
At once my love and my ambition rose;
You say my bedfellow was air and mist;

Was

yours much better in the girls you kiss'd?

* A Friend, whose wife had the name of Juno. VOL. II.

Y