T. R. Smith, comp. Poetica Erotica: Rare and Curious Amatory Verse. 1921–22.
The Wonderful Grot
Anonymous(From New Crazy Tales, 1783) BENEATH a chalky cliff is found, | |
Nor in the air, nor on the ground | |
A Grot! There Cupid keeps his court. | |
There Venus and her nymphs resort. | |
Close shaded, it on pillars stands; | 5 |
Pillars ne’er raised by mortal hands, | |
No marble can so polished show, | |
Whiter they than alpine snow, | |
From hence proceeds a magic dew, | |
That gives all things a glossy line | 10 |
To glittering stars it gives their birth, | |
With dewy gems it spangles earth, | |
When that the precious nectar flows. | |
Sporting beneath fond zephyr glows. | |
On his glad wings aloft it flies, | 15 |
And soaring twinkles o’er the skies. | |
O would it but unveil its face, | |
And with new light our dull world grace. | |
Deserted Sol would cease to shine, | |
Extinguished in a blaze divine. | 20 |
O thither would the wanton tend, | |
And make that point his journey’s end. | |
There would he revel, balk, and joy, | |
’Mongst blooming sweets that never cloy. | |
O ’tis so sweet, so mild, so gay, | 25 |
As Autumn ripe, as wild as May. | |
’Tis sweeter than the flowers in June, | |
The saddest heart would put in tune. | |
Then sportive kids, than fauns, more gay: | |
The Gods themselves with it will play. | 30 |
Than infants hushed it is more wild, | |
Yet sometimes pouting like a child; | |
And angry swells into a pet, | |
If it too scant allowance get; | |
And fondly mounting seems to say, | 35 |
Ah, why my dear this long delay? | |
Most strange it is, a thing so wild, | |
Should choose a mate than storms more wild. | |
No barrier can his rage withhold, | |
As tigers fierce, as lions bold; | 40 |
And let him have his head-strong way, | |
Like forward infants tired with play, | |
When of his wish he’s quite possest | |
He’ll nodding, sobbing, soundly rest. | |
He’s of the gamesome merry kind, | 45 |
But various like the changing wind. | |
His body’s of a snowy line, | |
Neatly diversified with blue: | |
He’s soft as silk, as hot as fire: | |
His very touch makes belles expire. | 50 |
But, lo! he comes all blushing red, | |
As Phoebus hastes to Thetis’ bed. | |
To meet, she obvious fain would go, | |
And speaks his welcome in dumb show: | |
And be he great, or be he small, | 55 |
With eager love she clasps him all. | |
She greets him round with balmy kisses, | |
Fondly excites transporting blisses. | |
How close she presses, | |
Hugs and caresses: | 60 |
To her he sighs his tender fears, | |
And, doomed to part, burst out in tears. | |