Octavia

Come, decent Venus! come, each modest grace! Assist the muse to draw a matron's face; To paint the chaste Octavia's matchless form, Fresh Hebe's cheek with blushing softness warm; The pure carnation in whose colour shewn, By genial nature's balmiest breath was blown; Unsullied lips suffus'd with roseate dew, Whence Hybla sounds the charm'd attention drew; Juno's high stature, and majestick mien, Her smiles improv'd with dignity serene; For no repulsive arrogating air Proclaim'd her own proud conscience she was fair; But turning from the fond admirer's gaze, She felt the homage, but declin'd the praise. So, while by Rome's enamour'd youth besieg'd, But one she favour'd, and yet all oblig'd. Her form, her manners such; and nature join'd Each sweet attraction of the female mind: Not heaven's clear azure than her breast more pure, Which winds disturb not, nor dark clouds obscure; Yet not in stagnant apathy to sleep, Or like the reed-chok'd stream through life to creep; When virtue's breath her kind affections mov'd, She felt with energy, with ardour lov'd. Grief shook the glass, ere half its sand was run, And sunk her sorrowing for her darling son; No Paean could a medicine impart, To pluck that shaft from her too tender heart. Dove-like, the intended pledge of peace she came, Yet, hapless, but increas'd dissention's flame. To avert the horrours of domestick war, Young Caesar gave her to his rival's care; Reluctant sent her from a brother's side, His house's ornament, and country's pride; Hoping, while she the sweet enticement stood, To expel the evil passion by the good. Vainly he hop'd. Some inauspicious power Gloomy prepar'd her hymeneal bower; There fading short-liv'd roses thinly grew, But cypress much, and melancholy yew: For Antony, unworthy of the bliss, Scarce seal'd their union with a nuptial kiss; A few slight decencies observ'd with pain, Soon to his sensual sty he turn'd again. A flagrant Cupid fir'd his lustful heart, Opprobrious pleasures, and a strumpet's art; Strange drugs were mix'd in her Circean bowl, First to inflame, and then unman the soul. Steep'd in the cistern of Egyptian spells, 'Gainst lawful charms the Roman's breast rebels. The wily queen play'd her delusions o'er, And more disgracing, but attach'd him more; Expert in feigning what her heart ne'er felt, A smile could warm him, as a tear could melt: His pliant dotage serv'd but to proclaim Her vicious triumph, and his hoary shame. With inward pangs his slighted consort mourn'd Her fond solicitude so ill return'd: But no reproachful taunts assail'd his ear; Her grief was silent, secret, and sincere. From her perfidious libertine retir'd, E'en he respected her, and all admir'd. Love's bond once broke, upbraiding comes too late, And often sours indifference into hate; The tart remonstrance of a shrewish tongue, Foe to itself, but justifies the wrong; For female rage admits of no pretence; She who begins to rail, begins the offence. Firm to her vows, to every duty true, Tried to the last, submissive she withdrew: But grown more desperate in his furious course, He seal'd her sufferings by a rude divorce. By the mad act was Caesar's friendship lost; Yet she complain'd the least, though outrag'd most. See her forsake the interdicted plain, And his good genius drooping in her train. Go, wrong'd Octavia! go, insulted wife! Feel the soft comforts of sequester'd life; Let these thy tyrant's injuries redeem, Bless'd in mankind's, and thine own heart's esteem. But ah, what peace to that sad heart can come, While pale Marcellus points thee to the tomb? There, ever present to her streaming eyes, In death's cold clasp the blooming hero lies: Twelve annual suns roll'd o'er her head in vain, To witness, but not mitigate her pain; Nature's grim spoiler, by her tears implor'd, At length the mourner to her son restor'd.