Classic Poem

The old man's fair-haired consort, whose dewy axle-tree
Brings morning to us mortals, now rises from the Sea.
I pray you, stay, Aurora; and to your Memnon's shade
A sacrifice — I vow it — shall every year be made.
'Tis now my love is by me, her lips are mine to kiss,
Her arms are twined about me — is any hour like this?
'Tis cool, and one is sleepy, and from their slender throats
The little feathered songsters pour forth their liquid notes.
Now prithee, Rosy Fingers, why take such parlous pains
To hurry? No one wants you! Then stay those dewy reins.
Ere you arrive, the sailor can watch his stars and keep
His course, nor wander blindly amid the vasty deep;
With you, the weary traveler must rise and hie away,
Must rise the cruel soldier and arm him for the fray;
The hind resumes his mattock and grubs the stubborn soil,
The slow and patient oxen begin their day of toil;
Schoolboys you cheat of slumber, to go at your commands
Where pedagogues are waiting to smack their tender hands;
You summon to the courthouse the bailsmen, where they taste
The pain of paying dearly for one word said in haste.
The lawyers find you hateful, i'faith, and always will;
You wake them every morning to new contention still.
That girls cease toiling sometimes, 'twere surely fair to ask;
But no, you rouse the spinners each to her daily task.
All else I might put up with; but who was ever known
To make the girls rise early, who had one of his own?
How oft I've prayed that Darkness refuse to give you place,
How oft, that Stars might brave you, nor flee before your face;
How oft, I've prayed some whirlwind an axle-tree might twist,
Or that a courser stumble and stick in some thick mist!
Why hurry, spiteful goddess? I see it now, alack,
Why Memnon was so swarthy — his mother's heart was black!
I wish poor old Tithonus had power to testify
To what he knows — 'twould make you the scandal of the sky!
Your spouse is old and feeble; that's why you leave your bower
And mount your hateful chariot at such an early hour!
If Cephalus replaced him, you know you'd clasp him tight,
And cry out, " Pray, go slowly, ye coursers of the Night!"
Why pester me, a lover? Your spouse is all but dead;
But did I urge him on you, or ever bid you wed?
How oft, the while he slumbers, our sovereign Lady Moon —
And she more fair than you are — comes to Endymion.
Jove joined two nights in one; I dare swear the tale is true,
For Jove was then a lover — and tired of seeing you!
You'd know Aurora heard me — she turned so rosy red;
The day though came no later, in spite of all I said.