Elegy XIII: To the Morning, not to make haste. By an unknown hand.
Aurora, rising from old Tithon's bed,Does o'er the eastern skies her roses spread:
Stay, beauteous morn, awhile thy chariot stay,
Awhile with lagging wheels retard the day.
So may young birds, as often as the spring
Renews the year, o'er Memnon's ashes sing.
Now I lie folded in Corinna's arms,
And all her soul is mine, and all her charms;
I now am to her panting bosom press'd,
And now, if ever lover was, am bless'd.
As yet sweet sleep sits heavy on our eyes,
And warbling birds forbid, as yet to rise.
Stay, beauteous morning, for to love-sick maids
And youths, how grateful are these dusky shades!
All stay, and do not, from the blushing east,
With dawning glories break our balmy rest.
When night's black mantle does those glories hide,
The pilot by the stars his ship can guide,
And in mid-sea a certain course pursue,
As safe as when he has the sun in view.
What pleasure in thy light should mortals take?
Thou dost the weary traveller awake;
Though to the down his heavy head reclines,
Up he must lift it for the morning shines.
The soldier braces on his brazen shield,
Quits his warm tent, and fits him for the field:
The lab'ring hind his harrow takes, and now
The peasant yokes his oxen to the plough:
The boy half wak'd, and rubbing still his eyes,
Is loth alike to go to school, or rise;
While o'er his task he does imperfect nod,
He fears the ferula, he dreads the rod.
The bridegroom, starting from his bride's embrace,
Runs to his lawyer to consult his case;
A word is wanting in the dower deed,
And what to save the portion must he plead?
Now hungry serjeants quit their tempting ease,
To haunt the crowded courts and pick up fees.
Thy rise brings labour to the female band,
And puts the spindle in the spinster's hand:
Light are these toils, and little is the pain
To rise to work, and rest at night again;
But who that e'er knew love's transporting joys,
Could from the arms of youth and beauty rise?
Oft have I wish'd that night would keep her ground,
And all her stars be at thy rising found;
Oft have I wish'd the winds would stop thy way,
Repel thy car, or clouds involve the day.
Dost thou in envy lash each lazy steed,
And whirl thy chariot with unwonted speed?
Black was thy son, and in his hue's express'd
The gloomy passions of his parent's breats;
He, born of Cephalus, his ravish'd sire,
Is a known proof of thy adult'rous fire.
Thou, by his colour, wouldst thy crime conceal;
Ah, that to Tithon I the tale could tell!
Search all the records of Heaven's lechers round,
A fouler story cannot there be found.
In Cephalus' embraces when you lay,
And oft by theft renew'd your wanton play;
When Tithon's impotence you made your sport,
Did you not think the joyous moments short?
Lock'd in his arms did you in transports lie,
Ah! would you not, like me, to Phoebus cry,
"Stop, stop thy rapid course? Am I to blame
That Tithon's old, and cannot feel thy flame?
See how the moon does her Endymion keep
In night conceal'd, and drown'd in dewy sleep.
As lovely is the moon, as fair as thou,
Who freely, where she loves, her favours does bestow.
Jove, when he rob'd Amphitryon of his joy,
Did two whole nights in am'rous thefts employ;
Unknown when in Alcmena's arms he lay,
The night he doubles and suspends the day."
The morning heard my railing, and for shame
Blush'd that by force she must disturb my flame;
Bright Phoebus rushing forth, the glorious day
Drove the dear shades, that hid our joys, away.
