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PARNELL’S POEMS.

  HESIOD; OR, THE RISE OF WOMAN.

  What ancient times, those times we fancy wise,
  Have left on long record of woman’s rise,
  What morals teach it, and what fables hide,
  What author wrote it, how that author died,—­
  All these I sing.  In Greece they framed the tale;
  (In Greece, ’twas thought a woman might be frail);
  Ye modern beauties! where the poet drew
  His softest pencil, think he dreamt of you;
  And warn’d by him, ye wanton pens, beware
  How Heaven’s concern’d to vindicate the fair. 10
  The case was Hesiod’s; he the fable writ—­
  Some think with meaning—­some, with idle wit: 
  Perhaps ’tis either, as the ladies please;
  I waive the contest, and commence the lays.

   In days of yore, no matter where or when,
  ’Twas ere the low creation swarm’d with men,
  That one Prometheus, sprung of heavenly birth
  (Our author’s song can witness), lived on earth. 
  He carved the turf to mould a manly frame,
  And stole from Jove his animating flame. 20
  The sly contrivance o’er Olympus ran,
  When thus the Monarch of the Stars began: 
  ’Oh versed in arts! whose daring thoughts aspire
  To kindle clay with never-dying fire! 
  Enjoy thy glory past, that gift was thine;
  The next thy creature meets, be fairly mine: 
  And such a gift, a vengeance so design’d,
  As suits the counsel of a God to find;
  A pleasing bosom cheat, a specious ill,
  Which, felt, they curse, yet covet still to feel.’ 30

   He said, and Vulcan straight the sire commands
  To temper mortar with ethereal hands;
  In such a shape to mould a rising fair,
  As virgin-goddesses are proud to wear;
  To make her eyes with diamond-water shine,
  And form her organs for a voice divine. 
  ’Twas thus the sire ordain’d; the power obey’d;
  And work’d, and wonder’d at the work he made;
  The fairest, softest, sweetest frame beneath,
  Now made to seem, now more than seem, to breathe. 40

   As Vulcan ends, the cheerful queen of charms
  Clasp’d the new-panting creature in her arms;
  From that embrace a fine complexion spread,
  Where mingled whiteness glow’d with softer red. 
  Then in a kiss she breathed her various arts,
  Of trifling prettily with wounded hearts;
  A mind for love, but still a changing mind;
  The lisp affected, and the glance design’d;
  The sweet confusing blush, the secret wink,
  The gentle-swimming walk, the courteous sink, 50
  The stare for strangeness fit, for scorn the frown,
  For decent yielding, looks declining down,
  The practised languish, where well-feign’d desire
  Would own its melting in a mutual fire;
  Gay smiles to comfort; April showers to move;
  And all the nature, all the art, of love.