Poems and translations amorous, lusory, morall, divine [collected and translated] by Edvvard Sherburne ...

The Metamorphosis of LYRIAN and SYLVIA,

by St Amant. Out of French.

UNder that pleasant Clime, where Nature plac'd Those Islands, with the name of Happy grac'd, There liv'd a young, and gentle Shepheard late, And had he never lov'd, too fortunate; His Name was Lyrian, she whose looks enthral'd His amorous heart, was the fair Sylvia call'd. The Natives there, 'mongst whom still lives his Name, (Nor shall the Waste of time impair it's Fame) Report, he bare for sweetness of his Song, The Prize from all Apollo's learned Throng. Yet nor his Voice, nor Worth that did exceed, And ev'n in Envy Admiration breed, Could e'•• move her that o'r his heart did raign, To pleasing Joys to turn his amorous pain. The Cheerfull fields, and Solitary Groves, (Once loyall Secretaries to his Loves) Are still the Witnesses, and still shall be, Of his chaste thoughts, and firm fidelity. For they alone were conscious of his Grief, They only gave his Wonded Soul Relief,

When with the Weight of his sad Woes opprest, They pittying, heard him ease in Plaints, his Brest. Ye Gods! how oft resolv'd he, yet declin'd, (Although he felt his heart with flames calcin'd) Before those Eyes h' ador'd so, to display His Griefes! Such Modesty his Soul did sway. And though h' had learn'd, and knew to suffer much, Yet were his Manners and Discretion such, Silence should first in death have quench'd his flame, E'r he'ld have rudely voic'd it unto ••ame. Nor had it yet to any (had not Stone And stocks discover'd it) been ever known. Which, (for on them he us'd his Plaints t' incise) By chance presented it to Sylvia's Eyes. This seen, in her does Scorn and Anger move; O heavens! is't possible that such a Love She should despise; and him who had profest Himself her Captive, as her Foe detest? Or that Love's Magick Characters his hand Had grav'd, should in her Eye for Cyphers stand? Or she should read them yet with so much spight, Ne'r more to see them, less to ••aze them quite? Ah 'tis too true! nor's that sufficient, Unless her Tongue to her hard heart consent, And 'gainst her faithfull Love, with cruell Breath Pronounce the rigid sentence of his Death. What said he not his Passion to excuse? What flourishes us'd not his willing Muse, To prove, his Love (of which the noble ground Was her Perfections) could no Crime be found! If neither Reasons self, nor Justice, ought (Those for which Heaven is lov'd) as Crimes be thought That the Worlds Soveraign Planet which the Earth And Mortals Fates does govern from their Birth,

By firm Decrees inrolled in the Skies Had destin'd him a Servant to her Eyes. And could his Will be lead another way, Yet being forc'd he could not disobey. So that his Soul in this her Captiv'd state Did only yeeld to her impulsive Fate; Not that (said he) he murmur'd at his Chains, But pleas'd, sat down and blest his rigorous Pains; Not but his Yoak so willingly he bare That Liberty a greater Bondage were; Not but in spight of his malicious fate, (In crossing all his Joys so obstinate) He should unforc'd, ev'n to the Grave affect That Beauty which his Love did so neglect. Yet these his Reasons, so well urg'd, so fair, With her that will hear none, no Reasons are. They more incense her: yet for fear she might Be softned, she betook her self to flight. Such were the winning Graces of his Tongue, Proving his Love did not her Beauty wrong. How oft since that, by all fair means he tri'd (Whil'st he the Gods with Sacrifices ply'd) To bring the humorous Nymph unto his Bent, And make her too obdurate Heart relent! His Passions, Sighs, and Tears were ready still, As the officious Agents of his Will, To work her to a sense of his hard State; But 'lass! his hopes grew still more desperate, Nay ev'n his voice, of so divine a strain, So moving! mov'd in her nought but disdain. Six years he liv'd perplex'd in this distress, Without the least Apparence of success; When he by chance (as she a Stag pursu'd) Encounter'd her: who e'r the Queen hath view'd

Of Wood-Nymphs, (Cynthia) a hunting goe After the Bore, arm'd with her shafts and Bow, May then imagine the diviner Grace, The Looks, the Habit, Stature, and the Pace Of beautious Sylvia, as she tripping came Into the VVoods, pursuing of her Game. Soon as poor Lyrian, half dead with Love, Had spy'd her in that solitary Grove For whom his wounded heart so long had bled, He with these words pursues her as she fled. Art thou resolv'd then (Sylvia) 'gainst my Cries Thine Ears to close, and 'gainst my Verse thine Eyes? That Verse which Fame unto thy Life does give; And must I d••••, 'cause I have made thee live Eternally? Seven years expired be Since I've been tortur'd by thy Cruelty; And dost thou think that little strength supplies My heart, for everlasting Torments will suffice? Shall I for ever only see thee stray 'Mongst these wild VVoods, more senseless yet than they? Alas! how weak I'm grown with Grief! I feel My feeble Legs beneath their Burden reel; O stay! I faint, nor longer can pursue, Stay, and since Sense thou lack'st, want Motion too. Stay, if for nothing else, to see me dye. At least vouchsafe stern Nymph to tell me why Thou cam'st into this Dark and Gloomy Place? VVhere Heaven with all its Eyes can never trace Or find thee out. VVas't thy Intent, the Light Of thy fair Stars thus to obscure in Night? Or seek'st thou these cool shades, the Ice and Snow That's 'bout thy Heart to keep unmelted so? In vain Coy Nymph thou Light and Heat dost shun, VVho e'r knew cold or shade attend the Sun?

Ah Cruell Nymph! the Rage dost thou not fear Of those wild Beasts that in these VVoods appear? No, no, thou art secure▪ and mayst out-vy Both them and all the VVorld for Cruelty. Oh thou that gloriest in a heart of stone! VVilt thou not stay? yet seest (as if my Moan They pittied) each rough Bramble 'bout thy foot Does cling, and seems t' arrest thee at my Sute? Ye Gods! what VVonders do you here disclose? The Bramble hath more sweetness than the Rose. But whether fly these idle VVords? in vain Poore, miserable VVretch, thou dost complain, After so many Ills, (of which I bear The sadder Marks yet in my heart;) Now hear Ye Gods at last! and by a welcome Death A period put unto my wretche•• Breath. Ah me! I saint; my spirits quite decay; And yet I cannot move her heart to stay. Ye hellish Deeps! black Gulp••s where Horror lies, Open, and place your selves before her Eyes. Had I Hippomenes bright Fruit, which stay'd The swifter speed of the Schenaeian Maid, They would not profit me; the VVorlds round Ball Could not my cruell Fugitive Recall. She is all Rock, and I who am all fire, Pursue her Night and Day with vain desire. O Nature! is it not a Prodigie To find a Rock than fire more light to be? But I mistake: for if a Rock she were Shee'd answer me again as these do here. Thus tyr'd with running, and o'rcome with VVoe, To see his Mistris should out-strip him so, Poor Lyrian yeelds himself as sorrows Prize, His Constancy and amorous Fervor dies,

Bloudy dispair entring his captiv'd Soul, Does like a Tyrant all his Powers controul. Then in the height of VVoe to his Relief He cals the Gods, yet in the mid'st of Grief All fair Respect does still to Sylvia give, To shew that ev'n in Death his Love should live. He who for Daphne like Regret did prove, And the horn'd God (who breathless, thought his Love The fair-hair'd Syrinx in his Arms he clasp'd, And slender Reeds for her lov'd Body grasp'd) So far, (remembring their like amorous Fate) His unjust sufferings commiserate, That both straight swore in Passion, and disdain, To punish the proud Author of his Pain: Their powerfull Threats alike effect pursues; See I that proud Beanty a Trees shape endues. Each of her Hairs does sprout into a Bough, And she that was a Nymph, an Elm is now. VVhilst thus transform'd, her feet (to Roots spred) stuck Fast in the ground, she was at last o'rtook By panting Lyrian; happy yet, to see Her he so priz'd within his Power to be; Ye Gods then saies he! who by this sad Test Have 'fore mine Eyes Natures great Power exprest, Grant that to this fair Trunk which Love ne'r knew My heart may yet a Love eternall shew. This having said, unto the yet warm Bole He clings, (whilst a new Form invests his Soul) VVinding in thousand twines about it, whence Hee's call'd of Love the perfect Symbole since. In brief, this faithfull Lover now is found An Ivy Stock; which creeping from the ground About the loved stem, still climbing is, As if he sought her Mouth to steal a Kis••:

Each leafe's a heart; whose colour does imply His wish obtain'd, Loves Perpetuity; VVhich still his strict Embraces evidence. For all of him is lost but only sence, And that you ••d swear remains; and say (to see The Elm in his Embraces hugg'd) that he VVilling to keep what he had gain'd at last, For fear she should escape, holds her so fast.

FINIS.