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Reyer van Blommendael. Paris and Oenone, c1655.
A Paraphrase on OVID'S Epistle of
OENONE to PARIS.
THE ARGUMENT.
Hecuba, being with Child of Paris, dream'd she was delivered
of a Firebrand: Priam, consulting the Prophets, was
answer'd the Child shou'd be the Destruction of Troy,
wherefore Priam commanded it should be deliver'd to
wild Beasts as soon as born; but Hecuba conveys it
secretly to Mount Ida, there to be foster'd by the Shepherds,
where he falls in love with the Nymph OEnone, but at
last being known and own'd, he sails into Greece, and
carries Helen to Troy, which OEnone understanding,
writes him this Epistle.
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To thee, dear Paris, Lord of my Desires,
Once tender Partner of my softest Fires;
To thee I write, mine, while a Shepherd's Swain,
But now a Prince, that Title you disdain.
Oh fatal Pomp, that cou'd so soon divide
What Love, and all our sacred Vows had ty'd!
What God, our Love industrious to prevent,
Curst thee with power, and ruin'd my Content?
Greatness, which does at best but ill agree
With Love, such Distance sets 'twixt Thee and Me.
Whilst thou a Prince, and I a Shepherdess,
My raging Passion can have no redress.
Wou'd God, when first I saw thee, thou hadst been
This Great, this Cruel, Celebrated thing.
That without hope I might have gaz'd and bow'd,
And mixt my Adorations with the Crowd;
Unwounded then I had escap'd those Eyes,
Those lovely Authors of my Miseries.
Not that less Charms their fatal pow'r had drest,
But Fear and Awe my Love had then supprest:
My unambitious Heart no Flame had known,
But what Devotion pays to Gods alone.
I might have wondr'd, and have wisht that He,
Whom Heaven shou'd make me love, might look like Thee.
More in a silly Nymph had been a sin,
This had the height of my Presumption been.
But thou a Flock didst feed on Ida's Plain,
And hadst no Title, but The lovely Swain.
A Title! which more Virgin Hearts has won,
Than that of being own'd King Priam's Son.
Whilst me a harmless Neighbouring Cotager
You saw, and did above the rest prefer.
You saw! and at first sight you lov'd me too,
Nor cou'd I hide the wounds receiv'd from you.
Me all the Village Herdsmen strove to gain,
For me the Shepherds sigh'd and su'd in vain,
Thou hadst my heart, and they my cold disdain.
Not all their Offerings, Garlands, and first born
Of their lov'd Ewes, cou'd bribe my Native scorn.
My Love, like hidden Treasure long conceal'd,
Cou'd onely where 'twas destin'd, be reveal'd.
And yet how long my Maiden blushes strove
Not to betray my easie new-born Love.
But at thy sight the kindling Fire wou'd rise,
And I, unskill'd, declare it at my Eyes.
But oh the Joy! the mighty Ecstasie
Possest thy Soul at this Discovery.
Speechless, and panting at my feet you lay,
And short breath'd Sighs told what you cou'd not say.
A thousand times my hand with Kisses prest,
And look'd such Darts, as none cou'd e'er resist.
Silent we gaz'd, and as my Eyes met thine,
New Joy fill'd theirs, new Love and shame fill'd mine!
You saw the Fears my kind disorder show'd
And breaking Silence Faith anew you vow'd!
Heavens, how you swore by every Pow'r Divine
You wou'd be ever true! be ever mine!
Each God, a sacred witness you invoke,
And wish'd their Curse when e'er these Vows you broke.
Quick to my Heart each perjur'd Accent ran,
Which I took in, believ'd, and was undone.
"Vows are Love's poyson'd Arrows, and the heart
So wounded, rarely finds a Cure from Art.
At least this heart which Fate has destin'd yours,
This heart unpractis'd in Love's mystick pow'rs,
For I am soft and young as April Flowers.
Now uncontroll'd we meet, uncheck'd improve
Each happier Minute in new Joys of Love!
Soft were our hours! and lavishly the Day
We gave intirely up to Love, and Play.
Oft to the cooling Groves our Flocks we led,
And seated on some shaded, flowery Bed,
Watch'd the united Wantons as they fed.
And all the Day my list'ning Soul I hung
Upon the charming Musick of thy Tongue,
And never thought the blessed hours too long.
No Swain, no God like thee cou'd ever move,
Or had so soft an Art in whisp'ring Love,
No wonder for thou art Ally'd to Jove!
And when you pip'd, or sung, or danc'd, or spoke,
The God appear'd in every Grace, and Look.
Pride of the Swains, and Glory of the Shades,
The Grief, and Joy of all the Love-sick Maids.
Thus whilst all hearts you rul'd without Controul,
I reign'd the absolute Monarch of your Soul.
Each Beach my Name yet bears, carv'd out by thee,
Paris, and his OEnone fill each Tree;
And as they grow, the Letters larger spread,
Grow still a witness of my Wrongs when dead!
Close by a silent silver Brook there grows
A Poplar, under whose dear gloomy Boughs
A thousand times we have exchang'd our Vows!
Oh may'st thou grow! t'an endless date of Years!
Who on thy Bark this fatal Record bears;
When Paris to OEnone proves untrue,
Back Xanthus Streams shall to their Fountains flow.
Turn! turn your Tides! back to your Fountains run!
The perjur'd Swain from all his Faith is gone!
Curst be that day, may Fate appoint the hour,
As Ominous in his black Kalendar;
When Venus, Pallas, and the Wife of Jove
Descended to thee in the Mirtle Grove,
In shining Chariots drawn by winged Clouds:
Naked they came, no Veil their Beauty shrouds;
But every Charm, and Grace expos'd to view,
Left Heav'n to be survey'd, and judg'd by you.
To bribe thy voice Juno wou'd Crowns bestow,
Pallas more gratefully wou'd dress thy Brow
With Wreaths of Wit! Venus propos'd the choice
Of all the fairest Greeks! and had thy Voice.
Crowns, and more glorious Wreaths thou didst despise,
And promis'd Beauty more than Empire prize!
This when you told, Gods! what a killing fear
Did over all my shivering Limbs appear?
And I presag'd some ominous Change was near!
The Blushes left my Cheeks, from every part
The Bloud ran swift to guard my fainting heart.
You in my Eyes the glimmering Light perceiv'd
Of parting Life, and on my pale Lips breath'd
Such Vows, as all my Terrors undeceiv'd.
But soon the envying Gods disturb'd our Joy,
Declar'd thee Great! and all my Bliss destroy!
And now the Fleet is Anchor'd in the Bay,
That must to Troy the glorious Youth convey.
Heavens! how you look'd! and what a Godlike Grace
At their first Homage beautify'd your Face!
Yet this no Wonder, or Amazement brought,
You still a Monarch were in Soul, and thought!
Nor cou'd I tell which most the News augments,
Your Joys of Pow'r, or parting Discontents.
You kist the Tears which down my Cheeks did glide,
And mingled yours with the soft falling Tide,
And 'twixt your Sighs a thousand times you said,
Cease, my OEnone! Cease, my charming Maid!
If Paris lives his Native Troy to see,
My lovely Nymph, thou shalt a Princess be!
But my Prophetick Fears no Faith allow'd,
My breaking Heart resisted all you vow'd.
Ah must we part, I cry'd! that killing word
No farther Language cou'd to Grief afford.
Trembling, I fell upon thy panting Breast,
Which was with equal Love, and Grief opprest,
Whilst sighs and looks, all dying spoke the rest.
About thy Neck my feeble Arms I cast,
Not Vines, nor Ivy circle Elms so fast.
To stay, what dear Excuses didst thou frame,
And fansiedst Tempests when the Seas were calm?
How oft the Winds contrary feign'd to be,
When they, alas, were onely so to me!
How oft new Vows of lasting Faith you swore,
And 'twixt your Kisses all the old run o'er?
But now the wisely Grave, who Love despise,
(Themselves past hope) do busily advise.
Whisper Renown, and Glory in thy Ear,
Language which Lovers fright, and Swains ne'er hear.
For Troy they cry! these Shepherds Weeds lay down,
Change Crooks for Scepters! Garlands for a Crown!
"But sure that Crown does far less easie sit,
"Than Wreaths of Flow'rs, less innocent and sweet.
"Nor can thy Beds of State so gratefull be,
"As those of Moss, and new faln Leaves with me!
Now tow'rds the Beach we go, and all the way
The Groves, the Fern, dark Woods, and springs survey;
That were so often conscious to the Rites
Of sacred Love, in our dear stoln Delights.
With Eyes all languishing, each place you view,
And sighing cry, Adieu, dear Shades, Adieu!
Then 'twas thy Soul e'en doubted which to doe,
Refuse a Crown, or those dear Shades forego!
Glory and Love! the great dispute pursu'd,
But the false Idol soon the God subdu'd.
And now on Board you go, and all the Sails
Are loosned, to receive the flying Gales.
Whilst I, half dead on the forsaken Strand,
Beheld thee sighing on the Deck to stand,
Wafting a thousand Kisses from thy Hand.
And whilst I cou'd the lessening Vessel see,
I gaz'd, and sent a thousand Sighs to thee!
And all the Sea-born Nereids implore
Quick to return thee to our Rustick shore.
Now like a Ghost I glide through ev'ry Grove,
Silent, and sad as Death, about I rove,
And visit all our Treasuries of Love!
This Shade th'account of thousand Joys does hide,
As many more this murmuring Rivers side,
Where the dear Grass, still sacred, does retain
The print, where thee and I so oft have lain.
Upon this Oak thy Pipe, and Garland's plac'd,
That Sicamore is with thy Sheep-hook grac'd.
Here feed thy Flock, once lov'd though now thy scorn,
Like me forsaken, and like me forlorn!
A Rock there is, from whence I cou'd survey
From far the blewish Shore, and distant Sea,
Whose hanging top with toyl I climb'd each day,
With greedy View the prospect I ran o'er,
To see what wish'd for ships approach'd our shore.
One day all hopeless on its point I stood,
And saw a Vessel bounding o'er the Flood,
And as it nearer drew, I cou'd discern
Rich Purple Sails, Silk Cords, and Golden Stern;
Upon the Deck a Canopy was spread
Of Antique work in Gold and Silver made,
Which mix'd with Sun beams dazling Light display'd.
But oh! beneath this glorious Scene of State
(Curst be the sight) a fatal Beauty sate.
And fondly you were on her Bosome lay'd,
Whilst with your perjur'd Lips her Fingers play'd;
Wantonly curl'd and dally'd with that hair,
Of which, as sacred Charms, I Bracelets wear.
Oh! hadst thou seen me then in that mad state,
So ruin'd, so design'd for Death and Fate,
Fix'd on a Rock, whose horrid Precipice
In hollow Murmurs wars with Angry Seas;
Whilst the bleak Winds aloft my Garments bear,
Ruffling my careless and dishevel'd hair,
I look'd like the sad Statue of Despair.
With out-strech'd voice I cry'd, and all around
The Rocks and Hills my dire complaints resound.
I rent my Garments, tore my flattering Face,
Whose false deluding Charms my Ruine was.
Mad as the Seas in Storms, I breathe Despair,
Or Winds let loose in unresisting Air.
Raging and Frantick through the Woods I fly,
And Paris! lovely, faithless Paris cry.
But when the Echos sound thy Name again,
I change to new variety of Pain.
For that dear name such tenderness inspires,
And turns all Passion to Loves softer Fires:
With tears I fall to kind Complaints again,
So Tempests are allay'd by Show'rs of Rain.
Say, lovely Youth, why wou'dst thou thus betray
My easie Faith, and lead my heart astray?
I might some humble Shepherd's Choice have been,
Had I that Tongue ne'er heard, those Eyes ne'er seen.
And in some homely Cott, in low Repose,
Liv'd undisturb'd with broken Vows and Oaths:
All day by shaded Springs my Flocks have kept,
And in some honest Arms at night have slept.
Then unupbraided with my wrongs thou'dst been
Safe in the Joys of the fair Grecian Queen:
What Stars do rule the Great? no sooner you
Became a Prince, but you were Perjur'd too.
Are Crowns and Falshoods then consistent things?
And must they all be faithless who are Kings?
The Gods be prais'd that I was humbly born,
Even th� it renders me my Paris scorn.
For I had rather this way wretched prove,
Than be a Queen and faithless in my Love.
Not my fair Rival wou'd I wish to be,
To come prophan'd by others Joys to thee.
A spotless Maid into thy Arms I brought,
Untouch'd in Fame, ev'n Innocent in thought.
Whilst she with Love has treated many a Guest,
And brings thee but the leavings of a Feast:
With Theseus from her Country made Escape,
Whilst she miscall'd the willing Flight, a Rape.
So now from Atreus Son, with thee is fled,
And still the Rape hides the Adult'rous Deed.
And is it thus Great Ladies keep intire
That Vertue they so boast, and you admire?
Is this a Trick of Courts, can Ravishment
Serve for a poor Evasion of Consent?
Hard shift to save that Honour priz'd so high,
Whilst the mean Fraud's the greater Infamy.
How much more happy are we Rural Maids,
Who know no other Palaces than Shades?
Who wish no Title to inslave the Crowd,
Lest they shou'd babble all our Crimes aloud.
No Arts our Good to shew, our Ill to hide,
Nor know to cover faults of Love with Pride.
I lov'd, and all Love's Dictates did pursue,
And never thought it cou'd be Sin with you.
To Gods, and Men, I did my Love proclaim;
For one soft hour with thee, my charming Swain,
Wou'd Recompence an Age to come of Shame,
Cou'd it as well but satisfie my Fame.
But oh! those tender hours are fled and lost,
And I no more of Fame, or Thee can boast!
'Twas thou wert Honour, Glory, all to me:
Till Swains had learn'd the Vice of Perjury,
No yielding Maids were charg'd with Infamy.
'Tis false and broken Vows make Love a Sin,
Hads thou been true, We innocent had been.
But thou less faith than Autumn leaves do'st show,
Which ev'ry Blast bears from their native Bough.
Less Weight, less Constancy, in thee is born,
Than in the slender mildew'd Ears of Corn.
Oft when you Garlands wove to deck my hair,
Where mystick Pinks, and Dazies mingled were,
You swore 'twas fitter Diadems to bear:
And when with eager Kisses prest my hand,
Have said, How well a Scepter 'twou'd command!
And when I danc'd upon the Flow'ry Green,
With charming, wishing Eyes survey my Mien,
And cry! the Gods design'd thee for a Queen!
Why then for Helen dost thou me forsake?
Can a poor empty Name such difference make?
Besides if Love can be a Sin, thine's one,
To Menelaus Helen does belong.
Be Just, restore her back, She's none of thine,
And, charming Paris, thou art onely mine.
'Tis no Ambitious Flame that makes me sue
To be again belov'd, and blest by you;
No vain desire of being ally'd t'a King,
Love is the onely Dowry I can bring,
And tender Love is all I ask again.
Whilst on her dang'rous Smiles fierce War must wait
With Fire and Vengeance at your Palace gate,
Rouze your soft Slumbers with their rough Alarms,
And rudely snatch you from her faithless Arms:
Turn then, fair Fugitive, e'er 'tis too late,
E'er thy mistaken Love procures thy Fate;
E'er a wrong'd Husband does thy Death design,
And pierce that dear, that faithless Heart of thine.
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Source:
The Works of Aphra Behn. Vol. VI. Montague Summers, Ed.
London: William Heinemann, 1915. 213-222.
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Aphra Behn
