Milton is correct, polished, restrained, and pure, but heavy
and cold. An exquisite _jeu d'esprit_ has been crushed to death:
W_hat slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odours_,
C_ourts thee on roses in some pleasant cave_,
P_yrrha? For whom bind'st thou_
I_n wreaths thy golden hair_,
P_lain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he_
O_n faith and changed gods complain, and seas_
R_ough with black winds and storms_
U_nwonted shall admire_!
W_ho now enjoys thee credulous, all gold_,
W_ho, always vacant, always amiable_
H_opes thee, of flattering gales_
U_nmindful! Hapless they_
T_o whom thou untried seem'st fair! Me in my vowed_
P_icture, the sacred wall declares to have hung_
M_y dank and dropping weeds_
T_o the stern God of Sea_.
But let the attempt be made to avoid the ponderous movement and
excessive sobriety of Milton, and to communicate the Horatian airiness,
and there is a loss in conciseness and reserve:
W_hat scented youth now pays you court_,
P_yrrha, in shady rose-strewn spot_
D_allying in love's sweet sport_?
F_or whom that innocent-seeming knot_
I_n which your golden strands you dress_
W_ith all the art of artlessness?_
D_eluded lad! How oft he'll weep_
O_'er changed gods! How oft, when dark_
T_he billows roughen on the deep_,
S_torm-tossed he'll see his wretched bark_!
U_nused to Cupid's quick mutations_,
I_n store for him what tribulations!_
B_ut now his joy is all in you_;
H_e thinks your heart is purest gold_;
E_xpects you'll always be love-true_,
A_nd never, never, will grow cold_.
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