THE QUEST OF CYNTHIA. WHAT time the groves were clad in green, And that the sleek-haired nymphs were seen Forth roved I by the sliding rills When me upon my quest to bring, The birds strove which should sweetliest sing, "Long wandering in the woods," said I, "Oh, whither's Cynthia gone?" When soon the echo doth reply To my last word, "Go on." At length upon a lofty fir It was my chance to find, Where that dear name most due to her Was carved upon the rind. Which whilst with wonder I beheld, As they with gold were wrought. And near that tree's more spacious root, The shape of her most dainty foot Which stuck there like a curious seal, Besides the flowers which it had prest Appeared to my view, More fresh and lovely than the rest. The clear drops in the steps that stood Of that delicious girl, The nymphs amongst their dainty food Drunk for dissolvéd pearl. The yielding sand where she had trod, By the fair posture plainly showed When on upon my wayless walk, I like a madman fell to talk With everything I saw ; I asked some lilies why so white I asked a nodding violet why A bed of roses saw I there, I of a shrub of those inquired, Who with such virtue them inspired, As the base hemlock were we such, The poisoned'st weed that grows, Till Cynthia by her godlike touch Transformed us to the rose : Since when those frosts that winter brings Which candy every green Renew us like the teeming springs, And we thus fresh are seen." At length I on a fountain light, Whose brim with pinks was platted; The bank with daffodilies dight, With grass like sleave was matted, When I demanded of that well What power frequented there, Desiring it would please to tell What name it used to bear : It told me it was Cynthia's own, Since when that water had the power And told me that the bottom clear, As when she from the water came, When chance me to an arbour led, The place which she had chosen out Herself in to repose; Had they come down, the gods no doubt The very same had chose. The wealthy spring yet never bore The birch, the myrtle, and the bay, Where she like Venus doth appear Upon a rosy bed; As lilies the soft pillows were Whereon she laid her head. Heaven on her shape such cost bestowed, No limb of hers but might have made The flies by chance meshed in her hair, The meanest weed the soil there bare That it with woodbine durst compare, The dew which on the tender grass To pure rose-water turnéd was, The shades with sweets that filled. |