To Aspasia, a Birth-Day Ode

WHAT, no unusual splendid Ray?
No Blaze to usher in the Day?
No brighter Sun to tell the Earth
This Morning gave Aspasia Birth?
No Glories more than common giv'n,
No Grace pecular from Heav'n?
No choral Songs, no Lay sublime?
None, at this fair auspicious Time?
—Imperfectly methought I said,
By Fancy's airy Visions led,—
When Venus to my dreaming Sense
Appears, and thus rebukes me—'Hence,
'Thou idle, weak Complainant!—cease—
'Nor tire the Pow'rs with Cries like these.
'What Blaze need usher in the Morn,
'When Truth and Probity was born?
'Aspasia wants no Ray divine—
'Once form'd, she self-adorn'd doth shine.
'No bounteous Godhead of the Sky
'Was absent, at her Birth, save I.
'Minerva gave her Store of Sense,
'And (to display it) Eloquence.
'Cupid bestow'd a chosen Dart,
'And plac'd it very near her Heart,
'To fight, to conquer—or to move
'The jocund Soul to laughing Love.
'Majestic Juno's Care supply'd
'Her tender Breast with honest Pride;
'Such Pride as teaches to subdue
'Each sordid Art and gainful View;
'As bids us undisdaining see
'Misfortune's Garb, and Poverty.
'Some Power of inferior Station
'Gave Meekness, Patience, Resignation—
'Wistless to wrong, to pardon free,
'Heav'n's loveliest Child, Humanity;
'Stranger to Censure, or Caprice,
'Who into Virtue construes Vice;
'For ever diligent to trace
'The fairest Meaning of the Case;
'And deckt with Tears still free to flow
'In pity to the Suff'rer's Woe.—
'Some wond'rous Virtues all have given,
'Sacred, and Favourites of Heaven;
'That wear their Glories in their Name,
'And want no Blazon to proclaim.
'Then, Mortal, thy Complaints give o'er—
'Hear—see—be silent, and adore!'

YET deign, fair Goddess, I rejoin'd,
To solve one Doubt within my Mind.
Whence is't, that on so sweet, so fair
'Semblage of Qualities thus rare,
Thy beauteous Mark has not been set,
To make the Image quite compleat?

'Mortal, had I my Pow'r employ'd,
'And superadded Beauty's Pride,
'The Form would much too fair have been,
'Too beauteous for the Sons of Men;
'Too rich for mortal Shape t'have guarded,
'Too good for Earth to have rewarded,
'Too great for future Bliss t'have mended,
'And more than Woman was intended.'

SHE fled—and instant fled away
My Vision.—I return'd to Day.
Then to Aspasia ran, to view
Whence Fancy's Pen her Picture drew;
Where wrapt I stood in Bliss extreme,
Surpriz'd to find, 'twas not a Dream.