In Praise of Myra.
I.
What Nymph, what Queen, what Goddess wilt thou chuse?
Whose Praises sing? what Charmer's Name
Transmit immortal down to Fame?
Strike, strike thy Strings; let Echo take the Sound,
And bear it far, to all the Mountains round:
Pindus again shall hear, again rejoice,
And Hamus too, as when th' enchanting Voice
Of tuneful Orpheus charm'd the Grove,
Taught Oaks to dance, and made the Cedars move.
II.
Myra is Venus, and Diana too;
All that was feign'd of them, apply'd to her, is true:
Then sing, my Muse, let Myra be our Theme.
As when the Shepherds wou'd a Garland make,
They search with Pains the fragrant Meadows round,
Plucking but here and there, and only take
The sweetest Flowers, with which some Nymph is crown'd:
In framing Myra so divinely fair,
Nature has taken the same Care,
All that is lovely, noble, good, we see,
All, beauteous Myra, all bound up in thee.
III.
Th' Arcadian Pastures, and the Cyprian Grove,
When Myra walks, so charming is her Meen,
In ev'ry Motion ev'ry Grace is seen:
When Myra speaks, so just's the Sense and strong,
So sweet the Voice, 'tis like the Muses Song.
Place me on Mountains of eternal Snow,
Where all is Ice, all Winter Winds that blow,
Or cast me underneath the burning Line,
Where everlasting Sun does shine,
Where all is scorch'd—Whatever you decree,
Ye Gods! where ever I shall be,
Myra shall still be lov'd, and still ador'd by me.