To the Flower of Gnido

Had I the sweet resounding lyre, Whose voice could in a moment chain The 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 tones The fascinated trees and stones In voluntary dance;

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

No, no! its harmonies should ring In vaunt of glories all thine own, A discord sometimes from the string Struck forth to make thy harshness known The fingered chords should speak alone Of Beauty's triumphs, Love's alarms, And one who, made by thy disdain Pale 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 condemned To strain for life the heavy oar. Through thee no longer as of yore He tames the unmanageable steed, With curb of gold his pride restrains, Or with pressed spurs and shaken reins Torments him into speed.

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

Through thee, my dearest friend and best Grows harsh, importunate, and grave; Myself have been his port of rest From shipwreck on the yawning wave; Yet now so high his passions rave Above lost reason's conquered laws, That not the traveller ere he slays The asp, its sting, as he my face So 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 beside Should ne'er be signalized for scorn; Else, tremble at the fate forlorn Of Anaxárete, who spurned The 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 tied What freed his spirit from her chains, And purchased with a few short sighs For her immortal agonies, Imperishable pains.

Then first she felt her bosom bleed With love and pity; vain distress! Oh what deep rigours must succeed This first sole touch of tenderness! Her eyes grow glazed and motionless, Nailed on his wavering corse, each bone Hardening 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 mould Was 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 charms To poets' harps, Divinest, grant Themes worthy their immortal vaunt; Else must our weeping strings presume To celebrate in strains of woe, The justice of some signal blow That strikes thee to the tomb.