Odes on Several Subjects (Akenside)/Ode 4

by Mark Akenside

ODE IV.

TO

A Gentleman whose Mistress
had married an Old Man.

 

Indeed, my Phædria, if to find
That gold a female's vow can gain,
If this had e'er disturb'd your mind,
Or cost one serious moment's pain,
I should have said that all the rules
You learnt of moralists and schools,
Were very useless, very vain.

Yet I perhaps mistake the case;
And tho' with this heroic air,
Like one that holds a nobler chace,
You seem the lady's loss to bear,
Perhaps your heart bely'd your tongue,
And thinks my censure mighty wrong
To count it such a slight affair.

When Hesper gilds the shaded sky,
Slow-winding thro' the well-known grove,
Methinks I see you cast your eye
Back to the morning scenes of love:
Her tender look, her graceful way,
The pretty things you heard her say,
Afresh your struggling fancy move.

Then tell me, is your soul intire?
Does wisdom calmly hold her throne?
Then can you question each desire,
Bid this remain, and that begone?
No tear half-starting from your eye?
No kindling blush you know not why?
No stealing sigh or stifled groan?

Away with this unmanly mood!
See where the hoary churl appears,
Whose hand hath seiz'd the fav'rite good
Which you reserv'd for happier years:
While side by side the blushing maid
Shrinks from his visage half-afraid,
Spite of the sickly joy she wears.

Ye guardian pow'rs of love and fame,
This chaste, harmonious pair behold;
And thus reward the gen'rous flame
Of all who barter vows for gold.
O bloom of youth and opening charms
Well-buried in a dotard's arms!
O worthy price of beauty sold!

Cease then to gaze, unthankful boy;
Let, let her go, the venal fair!
Unworthy she to give you joy;
Then wherefore should she give you care?
Lay, lay your myrtle garland down,
And let the willow's virgin-crown
With happier omens bind your hair.

O just escap'd the faithless main,
Tho' driven unwilling on the land!
To guid your favour'd steps again,
Behold you better genius stand:
Where Plato's olive courts your eye,
Where Hamden's laurel blooms on high,
He lifts his heav'n-directed hand.

When these are blended on your brow,
The willow will be nam'd no more;
Or if that love-deserted bough
The pitying, laughing girls deplore,
Yet still shall I most freely swear,
Your dress has much a better air
Than all that ever bridegroom wore.