Penny Dreadfuls, 1812 · page 27 of 258
Psyche, and other poems — page 27: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a page of running verse poetry (page 9) from what appears to be a narrative poem. The text describes a royal maiden of extraordinary beauty who travels alone through the forest. Though many princes have courted her, she remains unmoved by their advances. The passage notes that her beauty is so remarkable that people have abandoned worship of Cytherea (Venus) to revere her instead as "fair Psyche," invoking divine rites. The final stanza reveals that her envious sisters, poisoning their father's mind with false piety, have convinced him to forbid the crowds of worshippers who gather at the royal hall to honor her. The verse employs classical mythology and romantic melodrama typical of Victorian popular literature.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
' a | ‘ ? | 9 . Though solitary now, dismayed, forlorn, Without attendant through the forest rude, The peerless maid of royal lineage born By many a royal youth had oft been wooed ; Low at her feet full many a prince had sued, And homage paid unto her beauty rare ; But all their blandishments her heart withstood ; And well might mortal suitor sure despair, Since mortal charms were none which might with hers compare. Yet nought of insolence or haughty pride Found ever in her gentle breast a place ; Though men her wondrous beauty deified, And rashly deeming such celestial grace Could never spring from any earthly race, ! all forsaking Cytherea’s shrine, Her sacred altars now no more embrace, But to fair Psyche pay those rites divine, Which, Goddess ! are thy due, and should be only thine. But envy of her beauty’s growing fame Poisoned her sisters’ hearts with secret gall, And oft with seeming piety they blame The worship which they justly impious call; _ And oft, lest evil should their sire befal, Besought him to forbid the erring crowd Which hourly thronged around the regal hall, With incense, gifts, and invocations loud, To her whose guiltless breast, ne’er felt elation proud. connicloooks.comn