BOOK XII.

ARGUMENT.

_Turnus challenges Æneas to a single combat: articles are agreed on, but broken by the Rutuli, who wound Æneas. He is miraculously cured by Venus, forces Turnus to a duel, and concludes the poem with his death._

When Turnus saw the Latins leave the field, Their armies broken, and their courage quelled, Himself become the mark of public spite, His honour questioned for the promised fight-- The more he was with vulgar hate oppressed, The more his fury boiled within his breast: He roused his vigour for the last debate, And raised his haughty soul, to meet his fate. As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase, He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; But, if the pointed javelin pierce his side, The lordly beast returns with double pride: He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain, His sides he lashes, and erects his mane: So Turnus fares: his eyeballs flash with fire; Through his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire. Trembling with rage, around the court he ran, At length approached the king, and thus began:-- "No more excuses or delays: I stand } In arms prepared to combat, hand to hand, } This base deserter of his native land. } The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take The same conditions which himself did make. Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare, And to my single virtue trust the war. The Latians unconcerned shall see the fight: This arm unaided shall assert your right: Then, if my prostrate body press the plain, To him the crown and beauteous bride remain." To whom the king sedately thus replied:-- "Brave youth! the more your valour has been tried, The more becomes it us, with due respect, To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect. You want not wealth, or a successive throne, Or cities which your arms have made your own: My towns and treasures are at your command, And stored with blooming beauties is my land: Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees, Unmarried, fair, of noble families. Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, Things which perhaps may grate a lover's ear, But sound advice, proceeding from a heart Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art. The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown, No prince, Italian born, should heir my throne: Oft have our augurs, in prediction skilled, And oft our priests, a foreign son revealed. Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood, Bribed by my kindness to my kindred blood, Urged by my wife, who would not be denied, I promised my Lavinia for your bride: Her from her plighted lord by force I took; All ties of treaties, and of honour, broke: On your account I waged an impious war-- } With what success, 'tis needless to declare; } I and my subjects feel, and you have had your share. } Twice vanquished while in bloody fields we strive, Scarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive: The rolling flood runs warm with human gore; The bones of Latians blanch the neighbouring shore. Why put I not an end to this debate, Still unresolved, and still a slave to fate? If Turnus' death a lasting peace can give, Why should I not procure it whilst you live? Should I to doubtful arms your youth betray, What would my kinsmen, the Rutulians, say? And, should you fall in fight, (which heaven defend!) } How curse the cause, which hastened to his end } The daughter's lover, and the father's friend? } Weigh in your mind the various chance of war; Pity your parent's age, and ease his care." Such balmy words he poured, but all in vain: The proffered medicine but provoked the pain. The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief, With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief:-- "The care, O best of fathers! which you take For my concerns, at my desire forsake. Permit me not to languish out my days, But make the best exchange of life for praise. This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize; And the blood follows, where the weapon flies. His goddess mother is not near, to shrowd The flying coward with an empty cloud." But now the queen, who feared for Turnus' life, And loathed the hard conditions of the strife, Held him by force; and, dying in his death, In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath:-- "O Turnus! I adjure thee by these tears, And whate'er price Amata's honour bears Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope, My sickly mind's repose, my sinking age's prop-- Since on the safety of thy life alone Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne-- Refuse me not this one, this only prayer, To wave the combat, and pursue the war. Whatever chance attends this fatal strife, Think it includes, in thine, Amata's life. I cannot live a slave, or see my throne Usurped by strangers, or a Trojan son." At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed; } A crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread, } Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red.[13] } The driving colours, never at a stay, Run here and there, and flush, and fade away. Delightful change! thus Indian ivory shows, } Which with the bordering paint of purple glows; } Or lilies damasked by the neighbouring rose. } The lover gazed, and, burning with desire, The more he looked, the more he fed the fire: Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite, Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight. Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes, Firm to his first intent, he thus replies:-- "O mother! do not by your tears prepare Such boding omens, and prejudge the war. Resolved on fight, I am no longer free To shun my death, if heaven my death decree."-- Then turning to the herald, thus pursues: "Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news; Denounce from me, that, when to-morrow's light Shall gild the heavens, he need not urge the fight; The Trojan and Rutulian troops no more Shall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore: Our single swords the quarrel shall decide, And to the victor be the beauteous bride." He said, and, striding on with speedy pace, He sought his coursers of the Thracian race. At his approach, they toss their heads on high, And, proudly neighing, promise victory. The sires of these Orithyia sent from far, To grace Pilumnus, when he went to war. The drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white, Nor northern winds in fleetness matched their flight. Officious grooms stand ready by his side; } And some with combs their flowing manes divide, } And others stroke their chests, and gently sooth their pride. } He sheathed his limbs in arms; a tempered mass Of golden metal those, and mountain-brass. Then to his head his glittering helm he tied, And girt his faithful faulchion to his side. In his Ætnæan forge, the god of fire That faulchion laboured for the hero's sire, Immortal keenness on the blade bestowed, And plunged it hissing in the Stygian flood. Propped on a pillar, which the cieling bore, Was placed the lance Auruncan Actor wore; Which with such force he brandished in his hand, The tough ash trembled like an osier wand: Then cried,--"O ponderous spoil of Actor slain, And never yet by Turnus tossed in vain! Fail not this day thy wonted force; but go, Sent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe: Give me to tear his corslet from his breast, And from that eunuch head to rend the crest; Dragged in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil, Hot from the vexing iron, and smeared with fragrant oil." Thus while he raves, from his wide nostrils flies A fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes. So fares the bull in his loved female's sight: Proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight: He tries his goring horns against a tree, And meditates his absent enemy: He pushes at the winds; he digs the strand With his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand. Nor less the Trojan, in his Lemnian arms, To future fight his manly courage warms: He whets his fury, and with joy prepares To terminate at once the lingering wars; To cheer his chiefs and tender son, relates What heaven had promised, and expounds the fates. Then to the Latian king he sends, to cease The rage of arms, and ratify the peace. The morn ensuing, from the mountain's height, Had scarcely spread the skies with rosy light; The etherial coursers, bounding from the sea, From out their flaming nostrils breathed the day; When now the Trojan and Rutulian guard, In friendly labour joined, the list prepared. Beneath the walls, they measure out the space; } Then sacred altars rear, on sods of grass, } Where, with religious rites, their common gods they place. } In purest white, the priests their heads attire, And living waters bear, and holy fire; And, o'er their linen hoods and shaded hair, Long twisted wreaths of sacred vervain wear. In order issuing from the town, appears The Latin legion, armed with pointed spears; And from the fields, advancing on a line, The Trojan and the Tuscan forces join: Their various arms afford a pleasing sight: A peaceful train they seem, in peace prepared for fight. Betwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride, Glittering with gold, and vests in purple dyed-- Here Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line, And there Messapus, born of seed divine. The sign is given; and, round the listed space, Each man in order fills his proper place. Reclining on their ample shields, they stand, And fix their pointed lances in the sand. Now, studious of the sight, a numerous throng Of either sex promiscuous, old and young, Swarm from the town: by those who rest behind, The gates and walls, and houses' tops, are lined. Meantime the queen of heaven beheld the sight, With eyes unpleased, from mount Albano's height: (Since called Albano by succeeding fame, But then an empty hill, without a name.) She thence surveyed the field, the Trojan powers, The Latian squadrons, and Laurentine towers. Then thus the goddess of the skies bespake, With sighs and tears, the goddess of the lake, King Turnus' sister, once a lovely maid, Ere to the lust of lawless Jove betrayed-- Compressed by force, but, by the grateful god, Now made the Naïs of the neighbouring flood. "O nymph, the pride of living lakes! (said she) O most renowned, and most beloved by me! Long hast thou known, nor need I to record, The wanton sallies of my wandering lord. Of every Latian fair, whom Jove misled To mount by stealth my violated bed, To thee alone I grudged not his embrace, But gave a part of heaven, and an unenvied place. Now learn from me thy near approaching grief, Nor think my wishes want to thy relief While fortune favoured, nor heaven's king denied To lend my succour to the Latian side, I saved thy brother, and the sinking state: But now he struggles with unequal fate, And goes, with gods averse, o'ermatched in might, } To meet inevitable death in fight; } Nor must I break the truce, nor can sustain the sight. } Thou, if thou dar'st, thy present aid supply; It well becomes a sister's care to try." At this the lovely nymph, with grief oppressed, Thrice tore her hair, and beat her comely breast. To whom Saturnia thus:--"Thy tears are late: Haste, snatch him, if he can be snatched, from fate: New tumults kindle; violate the truce. Who knows what changeful Fortune may produce? 'Tis not a crime to attempt what I decree; Or, if it were, discharge the crime on me." She said, and, sailing on the winged wind, Left the sad nymph suspended in her mind. And now in pomp the peaceful kings appear: Four steeds the chariot of Latinus bear: Twelve golden beams around his temples play, To mark his lineage from the god of day. Two snowy coursers Turnus' chariot yoke, And in his hand two massy spears he shook: Then issued from the camp, in arms divine, Æneas, author of the Roman line; And by his side Ascanius took his place, The second hope of Rome's immortal race. Adorned in white, a reverend priest appears, } And offerings to the flaming altars bears-- } A porket, and a lamb that never suffered shears. } Then to the rising sun he turns his eyes, And strews the beasts, designed for sacrifice, With salt and meal: with like officious care He marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair. Betwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds; With the same generous juice the flame he feeds. Æneas then unsheathed his shining sword, And thus with pious prayers the gods adored:-- "All-seeing sun! and thou, Ausonian soil, For which I have sustained so long a toil, Thou, king of heaven! and thou, the queen of air, Propitious now, and reconciled by prayer; Thou, god of war, whose unresisted sway The labours and events of arms obey! Ye living fountains, and ye running floods! All powers of ocean, all etherial gods! Hear, and bear record: if I fall in field, Or, recreant in the fight, to Turnus yield, My Trojans shall increase Evander's town; Ascanius shall renounce the Ausonian crown: All claims, all questions of debate, shall cease; Nor he, nor they, with force infringe the peace. But, if my juster arms prevail in fight, (As sure they shall, if I divine aright,) My Trojans shall not o'er the Italians reign; Both equal, both unconquered, shall remain, Joined in their laws, their lands, and their abodes; I ask but altars for my weary gods. The care of those religious rites be mine: The crown to king Latinus I resign: His be the sovereign sway. Nor will I share His power in peace, or his command in war. For me, my friends another town shall frame, And bless the rising towers with fair Lavinia's name." Thus he. Then, with erected eyes and hands, The Latian king before his altar stands. "By the same heaven, (said he,) and earth, and main, And all the powers that all the three contain; By hell below, and by that upper god, Whose thunder signs the peace, who seals it with his nod; So let Latona's double offspring hear, And double-fronted Janus, what I swear: I touch the sacred altars, touch the flames, And all those powers attest, and all their names: Whatever chance befal on either side, No term of time this union shall divide: No force, no fortune, shall my vows unbind, Or shake the stedfast tenor of my mind; Not, though the circling seas should break their bound, O'erflow the shores, or sap the solid ground; Not, though the lamps of heaven their spheres forsake, Hurled down, and hissing in the nether lake: Even as this royal sceptre" (for he bore A sceptre in his hand) "shall never more Shoot out in branches, or renew the birth-- An orphan now, cut from the mother earth By the keen axe, dishonoured of its hair, And cased in brass, for Latian kings to bear." When thus in public view the peace was tied With solemn vows, and sworn on either side, All dues performed which holy rites require, The victim beasts are slain before the fire, The trembling entrails from their bodies torn, And to the fatten'd flames in chargers borne. Already the Rutulians deemed their man O'ermatched in arms, before the fight began. First rising fears are whispered through the crowd; Then, gathering sound, they murmur more aloud. Now, side to side, they measure with their eyes The champions' bulk, their sinews, and their size: The nearer they approach, the more is known The apparent disadvantage of their own. Turnus himself appears in public sight Conscious of fate, desponding of the fight. Slowly he moves, and at his altar stands With eyes dejected, and with trembling hands: And, while he mutters undistinguished prayers, A livid deadness in his cheeks appears. With anxious pleasure when Juturna viewed The increasing fright of the mad multitude, When their short sighs and thickening sobs she heard, And found their ready minds for change prepared; Dissembling her immortal form, she took Camertes' mien, his habit, and his look-- A chief of ancient blood:--in arms well known Was his great sire, and he his greater son. His shape assumed, amid the ranks she ran, And humouring their first motions, thus began:-- "For shame, Rutulians! can you bear the sight Of one exposed for all, in single fight? Can we, before the face of heaven, confess Our courage colder, or our numbers less? View all the Trojan host, the Arcadian band, And Tuscan army; count them as they stand: Undaunted to the battle if we go, Scarce every second man will share a foe. Turnus, 'tis true, in this unequal strife, Shall lose, with honour, his devoted life, Or change it rather for immortal fame, Succeeding to the gods, from whence he came: But you, a servile and inglorious band, For foreign lords shall sow your native land, Those fruitful fields, your fighting fathers gained, Which have so long their lazy sons sustained." With words like these, she carried her design. A rising murmur runs along the line. Then even the city troops, and Latians, tired With tedious war, seem with new souls inspired: Their champion's fate with pity they lament, And of the league, so lately sworn, repent. Nor fails the goddess to foment the rage With lying wonders, and a false presage; But adds a sign, which, present to their eyes, Inspires new courage, and a glad surprise. For, sudden, in the fiery tracts above, Appears in pomp the imperial bird of Jove: A plump of fowl he spies, that swim the lakes, And o'er their heads his sounding pinions shakes; Then, stooping on the fairest of the train, In his strong talons trussed a silver swan. The Italians wonder at the unusual sight: But while he lags, and labours in his flight, Behold, the dastard fowl return anew, And with united force the foe pursue: Clamorous around the royal hawk they fly, And, thickening in a cloud, o'ershade the sky. They cuff, they scratch, they cross his airy course; Nor can the encumbered bird sustain their force; But, vexed, not vanquished, drops the ponderous prey, And, lightened of his burden, wings his way. The Ausonian bands with shouts salute the sight, Eager of action, and demand the fight. Then king Tolumnius, versed in augurs' arts, Cries out, and thus his boasted skill imparts:-- "At length 'tis granted, what I long desired! This, this is what my frequent vows required. Ye gods! I take your omen, and obey.-- Advance, my friends, and charge! I lead the way. These are the foreign foes, whose impious band, Like that rapacious bird, infest our land: But soon, like him, they shall be forced to sea By strength united, and forego the prey. Your timely succour to your country bring; Haste to the rescue, and redeem your king." He said: and, pressing onward through the crew, Poised in his lifted arm, his lance he threw. The winged weapon, whistling in the wind, Came driving on, nor missed the mark designed. At once the cornel rattled in the skies; At once tumultuous shouts and clamours rise. Nine brothers in a goodly band there stood, Born of Arcadian mixed with Tuscan blood, Gylippus' sons; the fatal javelin flew, Aimed at the midmost of the friendly crew. A passage through the jointed arms it found, } Just where the belt was to the body bound, } And struck the gentle youth extended on the ground. } Then, fired with pious rage, the generous train Run madly forward to revenge the slain. And some with eager haste their javelins throw; And some with sword in hand assault the foe. The wished insult the Latine troops embrace, And meet their ardour in the middle space. The Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian line, With equal courage obviate their design. Peace leaves the violated fields; and hate Both armies urges to their mutual fate. With impious haste their altars are o'erturned, The sacrifice half broiled, and half unburned. Thick storms of steel from either army fly, And clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky; Brands from the fire are missive weapons made, With chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade. Latinus, frighted, hastens from the fray, And bears his unregarded gods away. These on their horses vault; those yoke the car; The rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war. Messapus, eager to confound the peace, Spurred his hot courser through the fighting prease, At king Aulestes, by his purple known } A Tuscan prince, and by his regal crown; } And, with a shock encountering, bore him down. } Backward he fell; and, as his fate designed, The ruins of an altar were behind: There pitching on his shoulders and his head, Amid the scattering fires he lay supinely spread. The beamy spear, descending from above, His cuirass pierced, and through his body drove. Then, with a scornful smile, the victor cries:-- "The gods have found a fitter sacrifice." Greedy of spoils, the Italians strip the dead Of his rich armour, and uncrown his head. Priest Corynæus armed his better hand, From his own altar, with a blazing brand; And, as Ebusus with a thundering pace Advanced to battle, dashed it on his face: His bristly beard shines out with sudden fires; The crackling crop a noisome scent expires. Following the blow, he seized his curling crown With his left hand; his other cast him down. The prostrate body with his knees he pressed, And plunged his holy poignard in his breast. While Podalirius, with his sword, pursued The shepherd Alsus through the flying crowd, Swiftly he turns, and aims a deadly blow Full on the front of his unwary foe. The broad axe enters with a crashing sound, } And cleaves the chin with one continued wound; } Warm blood, and mingled brains, besmear his arms around. } An iron sleep his stupid eyes oppressed, And sealed their heavy lids in endless rest. But good Æneas rushed amid the bands; Bare was his head, and naked were his hands, In sign of truce: then thus he cries aloud:-- "What sudden rage, what new desire of blood, Inflames your altered minds? O Trojans! cease From impious arms, nor violate the peace. By human sanctions, and by laws divine, The terms are all agreed; the war is mine. Dismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue; This hand alone shall right the gods and you: Our injured altars, and their broken vow, To this avenging sword the faithless Turnus owe." Thus while he spoke, unmindful of defence, A winged arrow struck the pious prince. But, whether from some human hand it came, Or hostile god, is left unknown by fame: No human hand, or hostile god, was found, To boast the triumph of so base a wound. When Turnus saw the Trojan quit the plain, His chiefs dismayed, his troops a fainting train, The unhoped event his heightened soul inspires: At once his arms and coursers he requires; Then, with a leap, his lofty chariot gains, And with a ready hand assumes the reins. He drives impetuous, and, where'er he goes, He leaves behind a lane of slaughtered foes. These his lance reaches; over those he rolls His rapid car, and crushes out their souls. In vain the vanquished fly: the victor sends The dead men's weapons at their living friends. Thus, on the banks of Hebrus' freezing flood, The god of battles, in his angry mood, Clashing his sword against his brazen shield, Lets loose the reins, and scours along the field: Before the wind his fiery coursers fly; Groans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky. Wrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair, } (Dire faces, and deformed,) surround the car-- } Friends of the god, and followers of the war. } With fury not unlike, nor less disdain, Exulting Turnus flies along the plain: His smoking horses, at their utmost speed, He lashes on; and urges o'er the dead. Their fetlocks run with blood; and, when they bound, The gore and gathering dust are dashed around. Thamyris and Pholus, masters of the war, He killed at hand, but Sthenelus afar: From far the sons of Imbrasus he slew, Glaucus and Lades, of the Lycian crew-- Both taught to fight on foot, in battle joined, Or mount the courser that outstrips the wind. Meantime Eumedes, vaunting in the field, New fired the Trojans, and their foes repelled. This son of Dolon bore his grandsire's name, But emulated more his father's fame-- His guileful father, sent a nightly spy, The Grecian camp and order to descry-- Hard enterprise! and well he might require Achilles' car and horses, for his hire: But, met upon the scout, the Ætolian prince In death bestowed a juster recompense. Fierce Turnus viewed the Trojan from afar, And launched his javelin from his lofty car, Then lightly leaping down, pursued the blow, And, pressing with his foot his prostrate foe, Wrenched from his feeble hold the shining sword, And plunged it in the bosom of its lord. "Possess," said he, "the fruit of all thy pains, And measure, at thy length, our Latian plains. Thus are my foes rewarded by my hand; Thus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land!" Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris, he slew, Whom o'er his neck the floundering courser threw. As when loud Boreas, with his blustering train, Stoops from above, incumbent on the main; Where'er he flies, he drives the rack before, And rolls the billows on the Ægæan shore: So, where resistless Turnus takes his course, The scattered squadrons bend before his force: His crest of horses hair is blown behind By adverse air, and rustles in the wind. This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain, } And, as the chariot rolled along the plain, } Light from the ground he leapt, and seized the rein. } Thus hung in air, he still retained his hold, The coursers frighted, and their course controuled. The lance of Turnus reached him as he hung, And pierced his plated arms, but passed along, And only razed the skin. He turned, and held Against his threatening foe his ample shield, Then called for aid: but, while he cried in vain, The chariot bore him backward on the plain. He lies reversed; the victor king descends, And strikes so justly where his helmet ends, He lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk With streams that issue from the bleeding trunk. While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield, The wounded prince is forced to leave the field: Strong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried, And young Ascanius, weeping by his side, Conduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear His limbs from earth, supported on his spear. Resolved in mind, regardless of the smart, He tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart. The steel remains. No readier way he found To draw the weapon, than to enlarge the wound. Eager of fight, impatient of delay, He begs; and his unwilling friends obey. Iäpis was at hand to prove his art, Whose blooming youth so fired Apollo's heart, That, for his love, he proffered to bestow His tuneful harp, and his unerring bow: The pious youth, more studious how to save His aged sire now sinking to the grave, Preferred the power of plants, and silent praise Of healing arts, before Phœbean bays. Propped on his lance the pensive hero stood, And heard and saw, unmoved, the mourning crowd. The famed physician tucks his robes around With ready hands, and hastens to the wound. With gentle touches he performs his part, } This way and that, soliciting the dart, } And exercises all his heavenly art. } All softening simples, known of sovereign use, He presses out, and pours their noble juice. These first infused, to lenify the pain-- He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain. Then to the patron of his art he prayed: The patron of his art refused his aid. Meantime the war approaches to the tents: The alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments: The driving dust proclaims the danger near; } And first their friends, and then their foes, appear: } Their friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear. } The camp is filled with terror and affright: The hissing shafts within the trench alight; An undistinguished noise ascends the sky-- The shouts of those who kill, and groans of those who die. But now the goddess mother, moved with grief, And pierced with pity, hastens her relief. A branch of healing dittany she brought, Which in the Cretan fields with care she sought-- (Rough is the stem, which woolly leaves surround; The leaves with flowers, the flowers with purple crowned,) Well known to wounded goats; a sure relief To draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief. This Venus brings, in clouds involved, and brews The extracted liquor with ambrosian dews, And odorous panacee. Unseen she stands, Tempering the mixture with her heavenly hands, And pours it in a bowl, already crowned With juice of medicinal herbs prepared to bathe the wound. The leech, unknowing of superior art } Which aids the cure, with this foments the part; } And in a moment ceased the raging smart. } Stanched is the blood, and in the bottom stands: The steel, but scarcely touched with tender hands, Moves up, and follows of its own accord, And health and vigour are at once restored. Iäpis first perceived the closing wound, And first the footsteps of a god he found. "Arms! arms!" he cries: "the sword and shield prepare, And send the willing chief, renewed, to war. This is no mortal work, no cure of mine, Nor art's effect, but done by hands divine. Some god our general to the battle sends; Some god preserves his life for greater ends." The hero arms in haste: his hands enfold His thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold: Inflamed to fight, and rushing to the field, That hand sustaining the celestial shield, This gripes the lance, and with such vigour shakes, That to the rest the beamy weapon quakes. Then with a close embrace he strained his son, And, kissing through his helmet, thus begun:-- "My son! from my example learn the war, } In camps to suffer, and in fields to dare; } But happier chance than mine attend thy care! } This day my hand thy tender age shall shield, And crown with honours of the conquered field: Thou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth To toils of war, be mindful of my worth: Assert thy birth-right; and in arms be known, For Hector's nephew, and Æneas' son." He said; and, striding, issued on the plain. Antheus and Mnestheus, and a numerous train, Attend his steps: the rest their weapons take, And, crowding to the field, the camp forsake. A cloud of blinding dust is raised around, Labours beneath their feet the trembling ground. Now Turnus, posted on a hill, from far Beheld the progress of the moving war: With him the Latins viewed the covered plains, And the chill blood ran backward in their veins. Juturna saw the advancing troops appear, And heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear. Æneas leads; and draws a sweeping train, Closed in their ranks, and pouring on the plain. As when a whirlwind, rushing to the shore From the mid ocean, drives the waves before; The painful hind with heavy heart foresees The flatted fields, and slaughter of the trees; With such impetuous rage the prince appears, Before his doubled front, nor less destruction bears. And now both armies shock in open field; Osiris is by strong Thymbræus killed. Archetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain, (All famed in arms, and of the Latian train,) By Gyas', Mnestheus', and Achates' hand. The fatal augur falls, by whose command The truce was broken, and whose lance, embrued With Trojan blood, the unhappy fight renewed. Loud shouts and clamours rend the liquid sky; And o'er the field the frighted Latins fly. The prince disdains the dastards to pursue, Nor moves to meet in arms the fighting few. Turnus alone, amid the dusky plain, He seeks, and to the combat calls in vain. Juturna heard, and, seized with mortal fear, Forced from the beam her brother's charioteer; Assumes his shape, his armour, and his mien, And, like Metiscus, in his seat is seen. As the black swallow near the palace plies; O'er empty courts, and under arches, flies; Now hawks aloft, now skims along the flood, To furnish her loquacious nest with food: So drives the rapid goddess o'er the plains; The smoking horses run with loosened reins. She steers a various course among the foes; Now here, now there, her conquering brother shows; Now with a straight, now with a wheeling flight, She turns, and bends, but shuns the single fight. Æneas, fired with fury, breaks the crowd, And seeks his foe, and calls by name aloud: He runs within a narrower ring, and tries To stop the chariot; but the chariot flies. If he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears, And far away the Daunian hero bears. What should he do? Nor arts nor arms avail; And various cares in vain his mind assail. The great Messapus, thundering through the field, In his left hand two pointed javelins held: Encountering on the prince, one dart he drew, And with unerring aim, and utmost vigour, threw. Æneas saw it come, and, stooping low Beneath his buckler, shunned the threat'ning blow. The weapon hissed above his head, and tore The waving plume, which on his helm he wore. Forced by this hostile act, and fired with spite, That flying Turnus still declined the fight, The prince, whose piety had long repelled His inborn ardour, now invades the field; Invokes the powers of violated peace, Their rites and injured altars to redress; Then, to his rage abandoning the rein, With blood and slaughtered bodies fills the plain. What god can tell, what numbers can display, The various labours of that fatal day? What chiefs and champions fell on either side, In combat slain, or by what deaths they died? Whom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero killed? Who shared the fame and fortune of the field? Jove! could'st thou view, and not avert thy sight, } Two jarring nations joined in cruel fight, } Whom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite? } Æneas first Rutulian Sucro found, Whose valour made the Trojans quit their ground; Betwixt his ribs the javelin drove so just, It reached his heart, nor needs a second thrust. Now Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew; First from his horse fierce Amycus he threw: Then, leaping on the ground, on foot assailed Diores, and in equal fight prevailed. Their lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place; Their heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace. Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw, Whom without respite at one charge he slew: Cethegus, Tanaïs, Talus, fell oppressed, And sad Onytes, added to the rest-- Of Theban blood, whom Peridia bore. Turnus two brothers from the Lycian shore, And from Apollo's fane to battle sent, O'erthrew; nor Phœbus could their fate prevent. Peaceful Menœtes after these he killed, Who long had shunned the dangers of the field: On Lerna's lake a silent life he led, And with his nets and angle earned his bread. Nor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew, But wisely from the infectious world withdrew. Poor was his house: his father's painful hand Discharged his rent, and ploughed another's land. As flames among the lofty woods are thrown On different sides, and both by winds are blown; The laurels crackle in the sputtering fire; The frighted sylvans from their shades retire: Or as two neighbouring torrents fall from high, Rapid they run; the foamy waters fry; They roll to sea with unresisted force, And down the rocks precipitate their course Not with less rage the rival heroes take Their different ways; nor less destruction make. With spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike; And zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike. Like them, their dauntless men maintain the field; And hearts are pierced, unknowing how to yield: They blow for blow return, and wound for wound; And heaps of bodies raise the level ground. Murrhanus, boasting of his blood, that springs From a long royal race of Latian kings, Is by the Trojan from his chariot thrown, Crushed with the weight of an unwieldy stone: Betwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that bore His living load, his dying body tore. His starting steeds, to shun the glittering sword, Paw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord. Fierce Hyllus threatened high, and, face to face, Affronted Turnus in the middle space: The prince encountered him in full career, And at his temples aimed the deadly spear: So fatally the flying weapon sped, That through his brazen helm it pierced his head. Nor, Cisseus, could'st thou 'scape from Turnus' hand, In vain the strongest of the Arcadian band: Nor to Cupencus could his gods afford Availing aid against the Ænean sword, Which to his naked heart pursued the course; Nor could his plated shield sustain the force. Iölas fell, whom not the Grecian powers, Nor great subverter of the Trojan towers, Were doomed to kill, while heaven prolonged his date: But who can pass the bounds prefixed by Fate? In high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he held Two palaces, and was from each expelled: Of all the mighty man, the last remains A little spot of foreign earth contains. And now both hosts their broken troops unite In equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight. Serestus and undaunted Mnestheus join The Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian line: Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads The Latin squadrons, and to battle leads. They strike, they push, they throng the scanty space, } Resolved on death, impatient of disgrace; } And, where one falls, another fills his place. } The Cyprian goddess now inspires her son To leave the unfinished fight, and storm the town: For, while he rolls his eyes around the plain In quest of Turnus, whom he seeks in vain, He views the unguarded city from afar, In careless quiet, and secure of war. Occasion offers, and excites his mind To dare beyond the task he first designed. Resolved, he calls his chiefs: they leave the fight: Attended thus, he takes a neighbouring height: The crowding troops about their general stand, All under arms, and wait his high command. Then thus the lofty prince:--"Hear and obey, Ye Trojan bands, without the least delay. Jove is with us; and what I have decreed, Requires our utmost vigour, and our speed. Your instant arms against the town prepare, The source of mischief, and the seat of war. This day the Latian towers, that mate the sky, Shall, level with the plain, in ashes lie: The people shall be slaves, unless in time They kneel for pardon, and repent their crime. Twice have our foes been vanquished on the plain: Then shall I wait till Turnus will be slain? Your force against the perjured city bend; There it began, and there the war shall end; The peace profaned our rightful arms requires; Cleanse the polluted place with purging fires." He finished; and--one soul inspiring all-- Formed in a wedge, the foot approach the wall. Without the town, an unprovided train Of gaping gazing citizens are slain. Some firebrands, others scaling ladders, bear, And those they toss aloft, and these they rear: The flames now launched, the feathered arrows fly, And clouds of missive arms obscure the sky. Advancing to the front, the hero stands, And, stretching out to heaven his pious hands, Attests the gods, asserts his innocence, Upbraids with breach of faith the Ausonian prince; Declares the royal honour doubly stained, And twice the rites of holy peace profaned. Dissenting clamours in the town arise: Each will be heard, and all at once advise. One part for peace, and one for war, contends: Some would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends. The helpless king is hurried in the throng, And (whate'er tide prevails) is borne along. Thus, when the swain, within a hollow rock, Invades the bees with suffocating smoke, They run around, or labour on their wings, Disused to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings; To shun the bitter fumes, in vain they try; Black vapours, issuing from the vent, involve the sky. But Fate and envious Fortune now prepare To plunge the Latins in the last despair. The queen, who saw the foes invade the town, And brands on tops of burning houses thrown, Cast round her eyes, distracted with her fear:-- No troops of Turnus in the field appear. Once more she stares abroad, but still in vain, And then concludes the royal youth is slain. Mad with her anguish, impotent to bear The mighty grief, she loaths the vital air. She calls herself the cause of all this ill, And owns the dire effects of her ungoverned will: She raves against the gods; she beats her breast; She tears with both her hands her purple vest: Then round a beam a running noose she tied, And, fastened by the neck, obscenely died. Soon as the fatal news by fame was blown, And to her dames and to her daughter known, The sad Lavinia rends her yellow hair, } And rosy cheeks: the rest her sorrow share: } With shrieks the palace rings, and madness of despair. } The spreading rumour fills the public place: } Confusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace, } And silent shame, are seen in every face. } Latinus tears his garments as he goes, Both for his public and his private woes; With filth his venerable beard besmears, And sordid dust deforms his silver hairs. And much he blames the softness of his mind, } Obnoxious to the charms of woman-kind, } And soon reduced to change what he so well designed-- } To break the solemn league so long desired, Nor finish what his fates, and those of Troy, required. Now Turnus rolls aloof o'er empty plains, And here and there some straggling foes he gleans. His flying coursers please him less and less, Ashamed of easy fight, and cheap success. Thus half-contented, anxious in his mind, The distant cries come driving in the wind-- Shouts from the walls, but shouts in murmurs drowned; A jarring mixture, and a boding sound. "Alas!" said he, "what mean these dismal cries? What doleful clamours from the town arise?" Confused, he stops, and backward pulls the reins. She, who the drivers office now sustains, Replies:--"Neglect, my lord, these new alarms: Here fight, and urge the fortune of your arms: There want not others to defend the wall. If by your rival's hand the Italians fall, So shall your fatal sword his friends oppress, In honour equal, equal in success." To this, the prince:--"O sister!--for I knew, The peace infringed proceeded first from you: I knew you, when you mingled first in fight: And now in vain you would deceive my sight-- Why, goddess, this unprofitable care? Who sent you down from heaven, involved in air, Your share of mortal sorrows to sustain, And see your brother bleeding on the plain? For to what power can Turnus have recourse, Or how resist his fate's prevailing force? These eyes beheld Murrhanus bite the ground-- Mighty the man, and mighty was the wound. I heard my dearest friend, with dying breath, My name invoking to revenge his death. Brave Ufens fell with honour on the place, To shun the shameful sight of my disgrace. On earth supine, a manly corpse he lies; His vest and armour are the victor's prize. Then, shall I see Laurentum in a flame, Which only wanted, to complete my shame? How will the Latins hoot their champion's flight! How Drances will insult and point them to the sight! Is death so hard to bear?--Ye gods below! (Since those above so small compassion show,) Receive a soul unsullied yet with shame, Which not belies my great forefathers' name." He said: and while he spoke, with flying speed Came Saces urging on his foamy steed: Fixed on his wounded face a shaft he bore, And, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before: "Turnus! on you, on you alone, depends Our last relief:--compassionate your friends! Like lightning, fierce Æneas, rolling on, With arms invests, with flames invades, the town: The brands are tossed on high; the winds conspire To drive along the deluge of the fire. All eyes are fixed on you: your foes rejoice; Even the king staggers, and suspends his choice-- Doubts to deliver or defend the town, Whom to reject, or whom to call his son. The queen, on whom your utmost hopes were placed, Herself suborning death, has breathed her last. 'Tis true, Messapus, fearless of his fate, With fierce Atinas' aid, defends the gate: On every side surrounded by the foe, } The more they kill, the greater numbers grow; } An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow. } You, far aloof from your forsaken bands, Your rolling chariot drive o'er empty sands." Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declined, And various cares revolving in his mind: Rage, boiling from the bottom of his breast, And sorrow mixed with shame, his soul oppressed; And conscious worth lay labouring in his thought, And love by jealousy to madness wrought. By slow degrees his reason drove away The mists of passion, and resumed her sway. Then, rising on his car, he turned his look, And saw the town involved in fire and smoke. A wooden tower with flames already blazed, Which his own hands on beams and rafters raised, And bridges laid above to join the space, And wheels below to roll from place to place. "Sister! the Fates have vanquished: let us go The way which heaven and my hard fortune show. The fight is fixed; nor shall the branded name Of a base coward blot your brother's fame. Death is my choice; but suffer me to try My force, and vent my rage before I die." He said: and leaping down without delay, Through crowds of scattered foes he freed his way. Striding he passed, impetuous as the wind, And left the grieving goddess far behind. As, when a fragment, from a mountain torn By raging tempests, or by torrents borne, Or sapped by time, or loosened from the roots-- Prone through the void the rocky ruin shoots, Rolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep; Down sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep: Involved alike, they rush to nether ground; Stunned with the shock they fall, and stunned from earth rebound: So Turnus, hasting headlong to the town, Shouldering and shoving, bore the squadrons down. Still pressing onward, to the walls he drew, } Where shafts and spears and darts promiscuous flew, } And sanguine streams the slippery ground embrue. } First stretching out his arm, in sign of peace, He cries aloud, to make the combat cease:-- "Rutulians, hold! and Latin troops, retire! The fight is mine; and me the gods require. 'Tis just that I should vindicate alone The broken truce, or for the breach atone. This day shall free from wars the Ausonian state, Or finish my misfortunes in my fate." Both armies from their bloody work desist, And, bearing backward, form a spacious list. The Trojan hero, who received from fame The welcome sound, and heard the champion's name, Soon leaves the taken works and mounted walls: Greedy of war where greater glory calls, He springs to fight, exulting in his force; His jointed armour rattles in the course. Like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows, Or father Apennine, when, white with snows, His head divine obscure in clouds he hides, And shakes the sounding forest on his sides. The nations, overawed, surcease the fight; Immoveable their bodies, fixed their sight. Even death stands still; nor from above they throw Their darts, nor drive their battering-rams below. In silent order either army stands, And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands. The Ausonian king beholds, with wondering sight, Two mighty champions matched in single fight, Born under climes remote, and brought by fate, With swords to try their titles to the state. Now, in closed field, each other from afar They view; and, rushing on, begin the war. They launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet, The trembling soil resounds beneath their feet: Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high, And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly. Courage conspires with chance; and both engage With equal fortune yet, and mutual rage. As, when two bulls for their fair female fight In Sila's shades, or on Taburnus' height, With horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies; Mute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes, And wait the event--which victor they shall bear, And who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year: With rage of love the jealous rivals burn, And push for push, and wound for wound, return; Their dewlaps gored, their sides are laved in blood; Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow through the wood: Such was the combat in the listed ground; So clash their swords, and so their shields resound. Jove sets the beam: in either scale he lays The champions' fate, and each exactly weighs. On this side, life, and lucky chance ascends; Loaded with death, that other scale descends. Raised on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow Full on the helm of his unguarded foe: Shrill shouts and clamours ring on either side, As hopes and fears their panting hearts divide. But all in pieces flies the traitor sword, And, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord. Now 'tis but death or flight: disarmed he flies, When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies. Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he joined, } Hurrying to war, disordered in his mind, } Snatched the first weapon which his haste could find. } 'Twas not the fated sword his father bore, But that his charioteer Metiscus wore. This, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held: But, vain against the great Vulcanian shield, The mortal-tempered steel deceived his hand: The shivered fragments shone amid the sand. Surprised with fear, he fled along the field, And now forthright, and now in orbits wheeled: For here the Trojan troops the list surround, And there the pass is closed with pools and marshy ground. Æneas hastens, though with heavier pace-- His wound, so newly knit, retards the chase, And oft his trembling knees their aid refuse-- Yet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues. Thus, when a fearful stag is closed around With crimson toils, or in a river found, High on the bank the deep-mouthed hound appears, Still opening, following still, where'er he steers; The persecuted creature, to and fro, Turns here and there, to 'scape his Umbrian foe: Steep is the ascent, and, if he gains the land, The purple death is pitched along the strand: His eager foe, determined to the chase, Stretched at his length, gains ground at every pace: Now to his beamy head he makes his way, And now he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey: Just at the pinch, the stag springs out with fear; He bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air: The rocks, the lakes, the meadows, ring with cries; The mortal tumult mounts, and thunders in the skies. Thus flies the Daunian prince, and, flying, blames His tardy troops, and calling by their names, Demands his trusty sword. The Trojan threats The realm with ruin, and their ancient seats To lay in ashes, if they dare supply, With arms or aid, his vanquished enemy; Thus menacing, he still pursues the course, With vigour, though diminished of his force. Ten times already, round the listed place, One chief had fled, and t'other given the chase: No trivial prize is played; for on the life Or death of Turnus, now depends the strife. Within the space, an olive-tree had stood, } A sacred shade, a venerable wood, } For vows to Faunus paid, the Latins' guardian god. } Here hung the vests, and tablets were engraved, Of sinking mariners from shipwreck saved. With heedless hands the Trojans felled the tree, To make the ground inclosed for combat free. Deep in the root, whether by fate, or chance, Or erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance; Then stooped, and tugged with force immense, to free The encumbered spear from the tenacious tree; That, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain, His flying weapon might from far attain. Confused with fear, bereft of human aid, Then Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus, prayed:-- "O Faunus! pity! and thou, mother Earth, Where I thy foster-son received my birth, Hold fast the steel! If my religious hand Your plant has honoured, which your foes profaned, Propitious hear my pious prayer!" He said, Nor with successless vows invoked their aid. The incumbent hero wrenched, and pulled, and strained; But still the stubborn earth the steel detained. Juturna took her time; and, while in vain He strove, assumed Metiscus' form again, And, in that imitated shape, restored To the despairing prince his Daunian sword. The queen of love--who, with disdain and grief, Saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief-- To assert her offspring with a greater deed, From the tough root the lingering weapon freed. Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance: } One trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance; } And both resolved alike, to try their fatal chance. } Meantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke, Who from a shining cloud beheld the shock:-- "What new arrest, O queen of heaven! is sent To stop the Fates now labouring in the event? What further hopes are left thee to pursue? } Divine Æneas, (and thou know'st it too,) } Fore-doomed, to these celestial seats is due. } What more attempts for Turnus can be made, That thus thou lingerest in this lonely shade? Is it becoming of the due respect And awful honour of a god elect, A wound unworthy of our state to feel, Patient of human hands, and earthly steel? Or seems it just, the sister should restore } A second sword, when one was lost before, } And arm a conquered wretch against his conqueror? } For what, without thy knowledge and avow, Nay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do? At last, in deference to my love, forbear To lodge within thy soul this anxious care: Reclined upon my breast, thy grief unload:-- Who should relieve the goddess, but the god? Now all things to their utmost issue tend, Pushed by the Fates to their appointed end. While leave was given thee, and a lawful hour For vengeance, wrath, and unresisted power, Tossed on the seas thou could'st thy foes distress, And, driven ashore, with hostile arms oppress; Deform the royal house; and, from the side Of the just bridegroom, tear the plighted bride:-- Now cease at my command." The Thunderer said; And, with dejected eyes, this answer Juno made:-- "Because your dread decree too well I knew, From Turnus and from earth unwilling I withdrew. Else should you not behold me here, alone, Involved in empty clouds, my friends bemoan, But, girt with vengeful flames, in open sight, Engaged against my foes in mortal fight. 'Tis true, Juturna mingled in the strife By my command, to save her brother's life, At least to try; but (by the Stygian lake-- The most religious oath the gods can take) With this restriction, not to bend the bow, Or toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw. And now, resigned to your superior might, And tired with fruitless toils, I loath the fight. This let me beg (and this no fates withstand) Both for myself and for your father's land, That, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace, (Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,) The laws of either nation be the same; But let the Latins still retain their name, Speak the same language which they spoke before, Wear the same habits which their grandsires wore. Call them not Trojans: perish the renown And name of Troy, with that detested town. Latium be Latium still; let Alba reign, And Rome's immortal majesty remain." Then thus the founder of mankind replies:-- (Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes,) "Can Saturn's issue, and heaven's other heir, Such endless anger in her bosom bear? Be mistress, and your full desires obtain; But quench the choler you foment in vain. From ancient blood, the Ausonian people, sprung, Shall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue: The Trojans to their customs shall be tied. } I will, myself, their common rites provide. } The natives shall command, the foreigners subside. } All shall be Latium; Troy without a name; And her lost sons forget from whence they came. From blood so mixed, a pious race shall flow, Equal to gods, excelling all below. No nation more respect to you shall pay, Or greater offerings on your altars lay." Juno consents, well pleased that her desires Had found success, and from the cloud retires. The peace thus made, the Thunderer next prepares To force the watery goddess from the wars. Deep in the dismal regions void of light, Three daughters, at a birth, were born to Night:[14] These their brown mother, brooding on her care, } Endued with windy wings to flit in air, } With serpents girt alike, and crowned with hissing hair. } In heaven the Diræ called, and still at hand, Before the throne of angry Jove they stand, His ministers of wrath, and ready still The minds of mortal men with fears to fill, Whene'er the moody sire, to wreak his hate On realms or towns deserving of their fate, Hurls down diseases, death, and deadly care, And terrifies the guilty world with war. One sister plague of these from heaven he sent, To fright Juturna with a dire portent. The pest comes whirling down: by far more slow Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow, Or Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies, And drenched in poisonous juice, the sure destruction flies. With such a sudden, and unseen a flight, Shot through the clouds the daughter of the Night. Soon as the field inclosed she had in view, And from afar her destined quarry knew-- Contracted, to the boding bird she turns, Which haunts the ruined piles and hallowed urns, And beats about the tombs with nightly wings, Where songs obscene on sepulchres she sings. Thus lessened in her form, with frightful cries } The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies, } Flaps on his shield, and flutters o'er his eyes. } A lazy chilness crept along his blood; Choked was his voice; his hair with horror stood. Juturna from afar beheld her fly, And knew the ill omen, by her screaming cry, And stridor of her wing. Amazed with fear, Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair. "Ah me!" she cries--"in this unequal strife, What can thy sister more to save thy life? Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend In arms with that inexorable fiend? Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night! The lashing of your wings I know too well, The sounding flight, and funeral screams of hell! These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove, The worthy recompense of ravished love! Did he for this exempt my life from fate? O hard conditions of immortal state! Though born to death, not privileged to die, But forced to bear imposed eternity! Take back your envious bribes, and let me go Companion to my brother's ghost below! The joys are vanished: nothing now remains Of life immortal, but immortal pains. What earth will open her devouring womb, To rest a weary goddess in the tomb?" She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said, But in her azure mantle wrapped her head, Then plunged into her stream, with deep despair, And her last sobs came bubbling up in air. Now stern Æneas waves his weighty spear Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:-- "What farther subterfuge can Turnus find? What empty hopes are harboured in his mind? 'Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight; Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight. Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare What skill and courage can attempt in war; Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky; } Or hid within the hollow earth to lie!" } The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:-- } "No threats of thine my manly mind can move; Tis hostile heaven I dread, and partial Jove." He said no more, but, with a sigh, repressed The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast. Then, as he rolled his troubled eyes around, } An antique stone he saw, the common bound } Of neighbouring fields, and barrier of the ground-- } So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days The enormous weight from earth could hardly raise. He heaved it at a lift, and, poised on high, Ran staggering on against his enemy, But so disordered, that he scarcely knew His way, or what unwieldy weight he threw. His knocking knees are bent beneath the load, And shivering cold congeals his vital blood. The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short For want of vigour, mocks his vain effort. And as, when heavy sleep has closed the sight, The sickly fancy labours in the night; We seem to run; and, destitute of force, Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course: In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry; } The nerves, unbraced, their usual strength deny; } And on the tongue the faltering accents die; } So Turnus fared; whatever means he tried, } All force of arms, and points of art employed, } The Fury flew athwart, and made the endeavour void. } A thousand various thoughts his soul confound; } He stared about, nor aid nor issue found; } His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround. } Once more he pauses, and looks out again, And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain. Trembling he views the thundering chief advance, And brandishing aloft the deadly lance: Amazed he cowers beneath his conquering foe, Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow. Astonished while he stands, and fixed with fear, Aimed at his shield he sees the impending spear. The hero measured first, with narrow view, } The destined mark; and, rising as he threw, } With its full swing the fatal weapon flew. } Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls, Or stones from battering-engines break the walls: Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong, The lance drove on, and bore the death along. Nought could his sevenfold shield the prince avail, Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail: It pierced through all, and with a grisly wound Transfixed his thigh, and doubled him to ground. With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky: Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply. Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid, } With eyes cast upwards, and with arms displayed, } And, recreant, thus to the proud victor prayed:-- } "I know my death deserved, nor hope to live: Use what the gods and thy good fortune give. Yet think, oh! think, if mercy may be shown, (Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son,) Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave; And, for Anchises' sake, old Daunus save! Or, if thy vowed revenge pursue my death, Give to my friends my body void of breath! The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life: } Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife: } Against a yielded man, 'tis mean ignoble strife." } In deep suspense the Trojan seemed to stand, And, just prepared to strike, repressed his hand. He rolled his eyes, and every moment felt His manly soul with more compassion melt; When, casting down a casual glance, he spied The golden belt that glittered on his side, The fatal spoil which haughty Turnus tore From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore. Then, roused anew to wrath, he loudly cries, (Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes) "Traitor! dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend, Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend? To his sad soul a grateful offering go! 'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow." He raised his arm aloft, and, at the word, Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword. The streaming blood distained his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: Note I.]

[Footnote 14: Note IV.]

NOTES

ON

ÆNEÏS, BOOK XII.

Note I.

_At this, a flood, of tears Lavinia shed; } A crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread, } P. 146. Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red._ }

Amata, ever partial to the cause of Turnus, had just before desired him, with all manner of earnestness, not to engage his rival in single fight; which was his present resolution. Virgil, though (in favour of his hero) he never tells us directly that Lavinia preferred Turnus to Æneas, yet has insinuated this preference twice before. For mark, in the seventh Æneïd, she left her father, (who had promised her to Æneas without asking her consent,) and followed her mother into the woods, with a troop of Bacchanals, where Amata sung the marriage-song, in the name of Turnus; which, if she had disliked, she might have opposed. Then, in the eleventh Æneïd, when her mother went to the temple of Pallas, to invoke her aid against Æneas, whom she calls by no better name than _Phrygius prædo_, Lavinia sits by her in the same chair or litter, _juxtaque comes Lavinia virgo,--oculos dejecta decoros_. What greater sign of love, than fear and concernment for the lover? In the lines which I have quoted, she not only sheds tears, but changes colour. She had been bred up with Turnus; and Æneas was wholly a stranger to her. Turnus, in probability, was her first love, and favoured by her mother, who had the ascendant over her father. But I am much deceived, if (besides what I have said) there be not a secret satire against the sex, which is lurking under this description of Virgil, who seldom speaks well of women--better indeed of Camilla, than any other--for he commends her beauty and valour--because he would concern the reader for her death. But valour is no very proper praise for woman-kind; and beauty is common to the sex. He says also somewhat of Andromache, but transiently: and his Venus is a better mother than a wife; for she owns to Vulcan she had a son by another man. The rest are Junos, Dianas, Didos, Amatas, two mad prophetesses, three Harpies on earth, and as many Furies under ground. This fable of Lavinia includes a secret moral; that women, in their choice of husbands, prefer the younger of their suitors to the elder; are insensible of merit, fond of handsomeness, and, generally speaking, rather hurried away by their appetite, than governed by their reason.

Note II.

_Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads The Latin squadrons, and to battle leads._--P. 166.

The poet had said, in the preceding lines, that Mnestheus, Serestus, and Asylas, led on the Trojans, the Tuscans, and the Arcadians: but none of the printed copies, which I have seen, mention any leader of the Rutulians and Latins, but Messapus the son of Neptune. Ruæus takes notice of this passage, and seems to wonder at it; but gives no reason, why Messapus is alone without a coadjutor.

The four verses of Virgil run thus:

_Totæ adeo conversæ acies, omnesque Latini, Omnes Dardanidæ; Mnestheus, ucerque Serestus, Et Messapus equûm domitor, et fortis Asylas, Tuscorumque phalanx, Evandrique Arcades alæ._

I doubt not but the third line was originally thus:

_Et Messapus equûm domitor, et fortis Atinas:_

for the two names of Asylas and Atinas are so like, that one might easily be mistaken for the other by the transcribers. And to fortify this opinion, we find afterward, in the relation of Saces to Turnus, that Atinas is joined with Messapus:

_Soli, pro portis, Messapus et acer Atinas Sustentant aciem_----

In general I observe, not only in this Æneïd, but in all the six last Books, that Æneas is never seen on horseback, and but once before, as I remember, in the fourth, where he hunts with Dido. The reason of this, if I guess aright, was a secret compliment which the poet made to his countrymen the Romans, the strength of whose armies consisted most in foot, which, I think, were all Romans and Italians. But their wings or squadrons were made up of their allies, who were foreigners.

Note III.

_This let me beg (and this no fates withstand) Both for myself and for your father's land, &c._--P. 176.

The words in the original are these:

_Pro Latio obtestor, pro majestate tuorum_.

Virgil very artfully uses here the word _majestas_, which the Romans loved so well, that they appropriated it to themselves--_Majestas populi Romani_. This title, applied to kings, is very modern; and that is all I will say of it at present, though the word requires a larger note. In the word _tuorum_, is included the sense of my translation, _Your father's land_, because Saturn, the father of Jove, had governed that part of Italy, after his expulsion from Crete. But that on which I most insist, is the address of the poet, in this speech of Juno. Virgil was sufficiently sensible, as I have said in the preface, that whatever the common opinion was, concerning the descent of the Romans from the Trojans, yet the ancient customs, rites, laws, and habits of those Trojans were wholly lost, and perhaps also that they had never been: and, for this reason, he introduces Juno in this place, requesting of Jupiter that no memory might remain of Troy (the town she hated), that the people hereafter should not be called Trojans, nor retain any thing which belonged to their predecessors. And why might not this also be concerted betwixt our author and his friend Horace, to hinder Augustus from re-building Troy, and removing thither the seat of empire, a design so unpleasing to the Romans? But of this I am not positive, because I have not consulted Dacier, and the rest of the critics, to ascertain the time in which Horace writ the ode relating to that subject.

Note IV.

_Deep in the dismal regions void of light, Three daughters, at a birth, were born to Night._--P. 177.

The father of these (not here mentioned) was Acheron: the names of the three were Alecto, Megæra, and Tisiphone. They were called Furies in hell, on earth Harpies, and in heaven Diræ. Two of these assisted at the throne of Jupiter, and were employed by him to punish the wickedness of mankind. These two must be Megæra and Tisiphone--not Alecto; for Juno expressly commands her to return to hell, from whence she came; and gives this reason:

_Te super ætherias errare licentius auras Haud pater ipse velit, summi regnator Olympi, Cede locis_.

Probably this Dira, unnamed by the poet in this place, might be Tisiphone; for, though we find her in hell, in the Sixth Æneïd, employed in the punishment of the damned,

_Continuo sontes ultrix, accincta flagello, Tisiphone quatit insultans, &c._

yet afterwards she is on earth in the tenth Æneïd, and amidst the battle,

_Pallida Tisiphone media inter millia sævit_--

which I guess to be Tisiphone, the rather, by the etymology of her name, which is compounded of τιω ulciscor, and φονος cœdes; part of her errand being to affright Turnus with the stings of a guilty conscience, and denounce vengeance against him for breaking the first treaty, by refusing to yield Lavinia to Æneas, to whom she was promised by her father--and, consequently, for being the author of an unjust war; and also for violating the second treaty, by declining the single combat, which he had stipulated with his rival, and called the gods to witness before their altars. As for the names of the Harpies, (so called on earth,) Hesiod tells us they were Iris, Aëllo, and Ocypete. Virgil calls one of them Celæno: this, I doubt not, was Alecto, whom Virgil calls, in the Third Æneïd, _Furiarum maxima_, and in the sixth again by the same name--_Furiarum maxima juxta accubat_. That she was the chief of the Furies, appears by her description in the Seventh Æneïd; to which, for haste, I refer the reader.

POSTSCRIPT

TO

THE READER.

What Virgil wrote in the vigour of his age, in plenty and at ease, I have undertaken to translate in my declining years; struggling with wants, oppressed with sickness, curbed in my genius, liable to be misconstrued in all I write; and my judges, if they are not very equitable, already prejudiced against me, by the lying character which has been given them of my morals. Yet, steady to my principles, and not dispirited with my afflictions, I have, by the blessing of God on my endeavours, overcome all difficulties, and, in some measure, acquitted myself of the debt which I owed the public when I undertook this work. In the first place, therefore, I thankfully acknowledge to the Almighty Power the assistance he has given me in the beginning, the prosecution, and conclusion, of my present studies, which are more happily performed than I could have promised to myself, when I laboured under such discouragements. For, what I have done, imperfect as it is for want of health and leisure to correct it, will be judged in after-ages, and possibly in the present, to be no dishonour to my native country, whose language and poetry would be more esteemed abroad, if they were better understood. Somewhat (give me leave to say) I have added to both of them in the choice of words, and harmony of numbers, which were wanting (especially the last) in all our poets, even in those who, being endued with genius, yet have not cultivated their mother-tongue with sufficient care; or, relying on the beauty of their thoughts, have judged the ornament of words, and sweetness of sound, unnecessary. One is for raking in Chaucer (our English Ennius) for antiquated words, which are never to be revived, but when sound or significancy is wanting in the present language. But many of his deserve not this redemption, any more than the crowds of men who daily die, or are slain for sixpence in a battle, merit to be restored to life, if a wish could revive them. Others have no ear for verse, nor choice of words, nor distinction of thoughts; but mingle farthings with their gold, to make up the sum. Here is a field of satire opened to me: but, since the Revolution, I have wholly renounced that talent: for who would give physic to the great, when he is uncalled--to do his patient no good, and endanger himself for his prescription? Neither am I ignorant, but I may justly be condemned for many of those faults, of which I have too liberally arraigned others.

----_Cynthius aurem Vellit, et admonuit_----

It is enough for me, if the government will let me pass unquestioned. In the mean time, I am obliged, in gratitude, to return my thanks to many of them, who have not only distinguished me from others of the same party, by a particular exception of grace, but, without considering the man, have been bountiful to the poet--have encouraged Virgil to speak such English as I could teach him, and rewarded his interpreter for the pains he has taken in bringing him over into Britain, by defraying the charges of his voyage. Even Cerberus, when he had received the sop, permitted Æneas to pass freely to Elysium. Had it been offered me, and I had refused it, yet still some gratitude is due to such who were willing to oblige me: but how much more to those from whom I have received the favours which they have offered to one of a different persuasion! amongst whom I cannot omit naming the Earls of Derby[15] and of Peterborough[16]. To the first of these I have not the honour to be known; and therefore his liberality was as much unexpected, as it was undeserved. The present Earl of Peterborough has been pleased long since to accept the tenders of my service: his favours are so frequent to me, that I receive them almost by prescription. No difference of interests or opinion has been able to withdraw his protection from me. And I might justly be condemned for the most unthankful of mankind, if I did not always preserve for him a most profound respect and inviolable gratitude. I must also add, that, if the last Æneïd shine amongst its fellows, it is owing to the commands of Sir William Trumball,[17] one of the principal secretaries of state, who recommended it, as his favourite, to my care; and, for his sake particularly, I have made it mine: for who would confess weariness, when he enjoined a fresh labour? I could not but invoke the assistance of a Muse, for this last office.

_Extremum hunc, Arethusa---- ----Negat quis carmina Gallo?_

Neither am I to forget the noble present which was made me by Gilbert Dolben, Esq. the worthy son of the late Archbishop of York,[18] who, when I began this work, enriched me with all the several editions of Virgil, and all the commentaries of those editions in Latin; amongst which, I could not but prefer the Dauphin's, as the last, the shortest, and the most judicious. Fabrini[19] I had also sent me from Italy; but either he understands Virgil very imperfectly, or I have no knowledge of my author.

Being invited by that worthy gentleman, Sir William Bowyer, to Denham Court, I translated the First Georgic at his house, and the greatest part of the last Æneïd.[20] A more friendly entertainment no man ever found. No wonder, therefore, if both those versions surpass the rest, and own the satisfaction I received in his converse, with whom I had the honour to be bred in Cambridge, and in the same college. The Seventh Æneïd was made English at Burleigh, the magnificent abode of the Earl of Exeter.[21] In a village belonging to his family I was born;[22] and under his roof I endeavoured to make that Æneïd appear in English with as much lustre as I could; though my author has not given the finishing strokes either to it, or to the eleventh, as I perhaps could prove in both, if I durst presume to criticise my master.

By a letter from William Walsh, of Abberley, Esq.[23] (who has so long honoured me with his friendship, and who, without flattery, is the best critic of our nation,) I have been informed, that his grace the Duke of Shrewsbury[24] has procured a printed copy of the Pastorals, Georgics, and six first Æneïds, from my bookseller, and has read them in the country, together with my friend. This noble person having been pleased to give them a commendation, which I presume not to insert, has made me vain enough to boast of so great a favour, and to think I have succeeded beyond my hopes; the character of his excellent judgment, the acuteness of his wit, and his general knowledge of good letters, being known as well to all the world, as the sweetness of his disposition, his humanity, his easiness of access, and desire of obliging those who stand in need of his protection, are known to all who have approached him, and to me in particular, who have formerly had the honour of his conversation. Whoever has given the world the translation of part of the Third Georgic, which he calls "The Power of Love," has put me to sufficient pains to make my own not inferior to his;[25] as my Lord Roscommon's "Silenus" had formerly given me the same trouble. The most ingenious Mr Addison of Oxford has also been as troublesome to me as the other two, and on the same account. After his "Bees," my latter swarm is scarcely worth the hiving.[26] Mr Cowley's "Praise of a Country Life" is excellent, but is rather an imitation of Virgil, than a version. That I have recovered, in some measure, the health which I had lost by too much application to this work, is owing, next to God's mercy, to the skill and care of Dr Guibbons[27] and Dr Hobbs,[28] the two ornaments of their profession, whom I can only pay by this acknowledgment. The whole faculty has always been ready to oblige me; and the only one of them, who endeavoured to defame me, had it not in his power.[29] I desire pardon from my readers for saying so much in relation to myself, which concerns not them; and, with my acknowledgments to all my subscribers, have only to add, that the few Notes which follow, are _par manière d'acquit_, because I had obliged myself by articles to do somewhat of that kind.[30] These scattering observations are rather guesses at my author's meaning in some passages, than proofs that so he meant. The unlearned may have recourse to any poetical dictionary in English, for the names of persons, places, or fables, which the learned need not: but that little which I say, is either new or necessary; and the first of these qualifications never fails to invite a reader, if not to please him.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 15: William Richard George, ninth earl of Derby. He died 5th November, 1702. He joined early in the Revolution.]

[Footnote 16: Charles Mordaunt, third earl of Peterborough, and first earl of Monmouth of his family, is one of the most heroic characters, according to ancient ideas of heroism, which occur in English history. Under every disadvantage of want of money, and provisions, and men, from England, of the united opposition of France, and almost all Spain, and of the untoward and untractable disposition of Charles of Austria, he had almost placed that prince upon the Spanish throne, in defiance of all opposition, as well as of Charles's own imprudence. With an army, which never amounted to 10,000 men, he drove triple the number out of Spain before him; and, had he not been removed by a wretched intrigue, he would have secured the kingdom, which he had effectually conquered. Like other heroes, he was attached to literature, and especially to poetry; and the conqueror of Spain was the patron of Dryden, and the friend of Swift, Pope, and Gay. He was a keen Whig, but not in favour with his party. "It is a perfect jest," says Swift, in a letter to Archbishop King, 5th February, 1707-8, "to see my Lord Peterborough, reputed as great a Whig as any man in England, abhorred by his own party, and caressed by the Tories." This great man died at Lisbon, 1737, aged seventy-seven.]

[Footnote 17: The name of Sir William Trumball is eminent among those statesmen, who, amidst the fatigues of state, have found leisure to cultivate the Muses. He had been ambassador to France and Constantinople; and, in 1695, was raised to the high situation mentioned in the text. In 1697, he resigned his employments, and retired to East Hamstead, in Berkshire, where he early distinguished the youthful genius of Pope. During the remaining years of Sir William's life, the young bard and the old statesman were almost inseparable companions.]

[Footnote 18: Gilbert was the eldest son of John Dolben, Archbishop of York; a man distinguished for bravery in the civil wars, and for dignity of conduct in his episcopal station. Sir William Trumball wrote a character of him, which is inserted in the new edition of the _Biographia_, Vol. V. p. 330. The archbishop is celebrated by Dryden, as a friend of David, in the first part of "Absalom and Achitophel." See Vol. IX. p. 243, 303. Of Gilbert Dolben's life, the munificence extended to Dryden is perhaps the most memorable incident.]

[Footnote 19: Printed at Venice, 1623. His countrymen claim for Fabrini more respect than Dryden allows him.]

[Footnote 20: Dryden gives a beautiful description of this spot in a note on the beginning of the Second Georgic, Vol. XIV. p. 49.]

[Footnote 21: John Cecil, fifth earl of Exeter. He was a non-juror, and lived in retirement at his noble seat of Burleigh. Prior was early patronised by his lordship; and dates from his mansion the lively epistle to Fleetwood Shepherd. Mr Malone supposes Prior may have assisted in composing his epitaph, where his character is thus elegantly drawn: _Johannes Cecil, Baro de Burghley, Exoniæ comes, magni Burleii abnepos haudquaquam degener. Egregiam enim indolem optimis moribus optimis artibus excoluit. Humanioribus literis bene instructus, peregre, plus vice simplici, profectus est. Et ab excultis Europæ regionibus, multam antiquitatum linguarum, necnon et rerum civilium scientiam reportavit. Cum nemo fortê meliùs vel aulam ornare, vel curare respublicas posset, maluit tamen otium et secessum. Itaque ruri suo vixit, eleganter, sumptuose, splendide, liberalibus studiis oblectatus, amicis comis et jocundus, egenis largus, legum et ecclesiæ Anglicanæ fortis semper propugnator._]

[Footnote 22: Aldwincle, in Northamptonshire.]

[Footnote 23: See Vol. XIII. p. 297.]

[Footnote 24: Charles Talbot, the twelfth earl, and only duke of Shrewsbury. He was bred a Catholic; but renounced the tenets of Rome during the time of the Popish plot. Previous to the Revolution, he had so strong a sense of the necessity of that measure, that he mortgaged his estate for 40,000l. and retired into Holland, for the purpose of offering his fealty, and sword, to the Prince of Orange. Accordingly, when that great enterprize succeeded, he was advanced to the ducal dignity, and loaded with office and honours. In 1700, the Duke went upon the Continent for his health; and, on his return, finding the Whigs disgusted at his having married a foreign lady, having visited Rome, and, above all, having declined to enter actively into their measures, he joined the Tories; he assisted in bringing about the peace of Utrecht, being appointed ambassador extraordinary for that purpose; and, finally, went to Ireland as lord-lieutenant. He died 1st February, 1717-18.--Mackay, or Davis, gives him the following character.

"Never was a greater mixture of honour, virtue, [_none_] and good sense, in any one person, than in him. A great man, attended with a sweetness of behaviour and easiness of conversation, _which charms all_ who come near him: Nothing of the stiffness of a statesman, yet the capacity and knowledge of a piercing wit. He speaks French and Italian as well as his native language: and, although but one eye, yet he has a very charming countenance, and is the most generally beloved by the ladies of any gentleman in his time. He is turned of forty years old."

The little word _none_, within the crotchets, is inserted by Swift. That wit elsewhere describes the duke "as a person of admirable qualities; and, if he were somewhat more active, and less timorous in business, no man would be thought comparable to him."--_Letter to Archbishop King, 20th May, 1712._]

[Footnote 25: Mr Malone conjectures the concealed translator may have been Lord Lansdowne, author of the poem which precedes that translation in the Miscellanies.]

[Footnote 26: Alluding to a translation of the Third Book of the Georgics, exclusive of the story of Aristæus, which appeared in the third volume of the Miscellanies; by the famous Addison, then of Queen's College, Oxford.]

[Footnote 27: The same of whom Dryden elsewhere says,

"Guibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save." ]

[Footnote 28: Also an eminent physician of the time, ridiculed, in the "Dispensary," under the title of Guiacum.]

[Footnote 29: Alluding to his ancient foe, Sir Richard Blackmore. See the "Epistle to Dryden of Chesterton," and the conclusion of the Preface to the Fables.]

[Footnote 30: A passage in a letter from our author to Jacob Tonson, dated probably February 1695-6, lets us know yet more plainly, that to the niggard disposition of this bookseller, we owe that the notes, as here acknowledged, were rather slurred over, than written with due care: "I am not sorry that you will not allow any thing towards the Notes; for, to make them good, would have cost me half a year's time at least. Those I write shall be only marginal, to help the unlearned, who understand not the poetical fables. The Prefaces, as I intend them, will be somewhat more learned. It would require seven years to translate Virgil exactly; but, I promise you once more, to do my best in the four remaining Books, as I have hitherto done in the foregoing.--Upon trial, I find all of your trade are sharpers, and you not more than others; therefore, I have not wholly left you. Mr Aston does not blame you for getting as good a bargain as you could, though I could have got a hundred pounds more; and you might have spared almost all your trouble, if you had thought fit to publish the proposals for the first subscriptions, for I have guineas offered me every day, if there had been room; I believe, modestly speaking, I have refused already twenty-five. I mislike nothing in your letter, therefore, but only your upbraiding me with the public encouragement, and my own reputation concerned in the notes; when I assure you I could not make them to my mind in less than half a year's time."]

POEMS

ASCRIBED TO DRYDEN.

_In this last division of poetry, those poems are placed which have been ascribed to Dryden upon grounds more or less satisfactory, yet do not seem entitled to be classed with his acknowledged writings. To some of them he doubtless lent his assistance, either from friendship to the author, or to the cause in which they were written. But, even in these, the hand of Dryden is not so effectually distinguished from that of the inferior artist, as to entitle them to be removed from the apocryphal station which is here assigned. Others I would have discarded altogether, but from the consideration that they were not of great length, and that the first complete edition of Dryden should contain all that has hitherto been ascribed to our immortal Bard, even upon loose and uncertain grounds._

AN ESSAY UPON SATIRE.

Among the pieces fathered upon Dryden, without satisfactory reason, this contains as little internal evidence as any of having received even the touches of that great master. Yet, as is mentioned in the Life of our poet, the suspicion of being the author subjected him to the cowardly revenge of Rochester, who hired bravoes to beat Dryden, in return for the severity with which he is here treated. The versification is so harsh, and the satire so coarse and clumsy, that I can hardly consent to think that Dryden did more than revise and correct it. If he added a few lines here and there, he had so industriously levelled them with the rest of the performance, that they cannot be distinguished from it. The real author was Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave, afterwards Duke of Buckingham.

Like other lampoons of the time, the "Essay on Satire" was handed about in manuscript copies, about November 1679. It is inserted in the quarto edition of Sheffield Duke of Buckingham's Works, with many alterations and improvements by Pope, to whose correction it had been subjected by the noble poet. It is obvious, and has been well argued by Mr Malone, that if Dryden had taken any considerable pains with the original copy, Pope would have had but little to do.

Sheffield, in his "Essay on Poetry," pays our author a very supercilious and aristocratic compliment on this, his own poem, having been attributed to him, and the castigation which ensued:

Though praised and punished for another's rhimes, His own deserve as much applause _sometimes_.

It is thus that noble authors distribute their praise, like their bounty, duly seasoned with humbling admonition. In the copy of the Essay, revised by Pope, this impertinent couplet is omitted.

AN

ESSAY UPON SATIRE.

How dull, and how insensible a beast Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest! Philosophers and poets vainly strove In every age the lumpish mass to move; But those were pedants, when compared with these, Who know, not only to instruct, but please. Poets alone found the delightful way, Mysterious morals gently to convey In charming numbers; so that as men grew Pleased with their poems, they grew wiser too. Satire has always shone among the rest; And is the boldest way, if not the best, To tell men freely of their foulest faults, To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.[31] In satire, too, the wise took different ways, To each deserving its peculiar praise. Some did all folly with just sharpness blame, Whilst others laughed and scorned them into shame. But of these two, the last succeeded best, As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest. Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides, And censure those, who censure all besides, In other things they justly are preferred; In this alone methinks the ancients erred: Against the grossest follies they declaim; Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game. Nothing is easier than such blots to hit, And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit: Besides, 'tis labour lost; for, who would preach Morals to Armstrong,[32] or dull Aston[33] teach? 'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball, Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall. But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find, Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind, That little speck which all the rest does spoil,-- To wash off that would be a noble toil; Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age, Or the forced scenes of our declining stage; Above all censure too, each little wit Will be so glad to see the greater hit; Who judging better, though concerned the most, Of such correction will have cause to boast. In such a satire all would seek a share, And every fool will fancy he is there. Old story-tellers, too, must pine and die, To see their antiquated wit laid by; Like her, who missed her name in a lampoon, And grieved to find herself decayed so soon. No common coxcomb must be mentioned here; Not the dull train of dancing sparks appear; Nor fluttering officers, who never fight; Of such a wretched rabble, who would write? Much less half-wits; that's more against our rules; For they are fops, the other are but fools. Who would not be as silly as Dunbar?[34] As dull as Monmouth,[35] rather than Sir Carr?[36] The cunning courtier should be slighted too, Who with dull knavery makes so much ado; Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too too fast, Like Æsop's fox, becomes a prey at last. Nor shall the royal mistresses[37] be named, Too ugly, or too easy to be blamed; With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother, They are as common that way as the other; Yet, sauntering Charles, between his beastly brace, } Meets with dissembling still in either place, } Affected humour, or a painted face. } In loyal libels we have often told him, How one has jilted him, the other sold him: How that affects to laugh, how this to weep; But who can rail so long as he can sleep? Was ever prince by two at once misled, False, foolish, old, ill-natured, and ill-bred? Earnely[39] and Aylesbury,[40] with all that race-- Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place; At council set as foils on Dorset's score, To make that great false jewel shine the more; Who all that while was thought exceeding wise, Only for taking pains, and telling lies. But there's no meddling with such nauseous men; Their very names have tired my lazy pen: 'Tis time to quit their company, and choose Some fitter subject for a sharper muse. First, let's behold the merriest man alive[41] Against his careless genius vainly strive; Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay, 'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day: Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be Just as good company as Nokes and Lee. But when he aims at reason or at rule, He turns himself the best to ridicule. Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit, Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit, That shadow of a jest shall be enjoyed, Though he left all mankind to be destroyed. So cat transformed sat gravely and demure, Till mouse appeared, and thought himself secure; But soon the lady had him in her eye, And from her friend did just as oddly fly. Reaching above our nature does no good; We must fall back to our old flesh and blood; As by our little Machiavel we find, That nimblest creature of the busy kind. His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes; } Yet his hard mind, which all this bustle makes, } No pity of its poor companion takes. } What gravity can hold from laughing out, To see him drag his feeble legs about, Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him still Through hedges, ditches, and through all that's ill. 'Twere crime in any man but him alone, To use a body so, though 'tis one's own: Yet this false comfort never gives him o'er, That, whilst he creeps, his vigorous thoughts can soar: Alas! that soaring to those few that know, Is but a busy grovelling here below. So men in rapture think they mount the sky, } Whilst on the ground the entranced wretches lie: } So modern fops have fancied they could fly. } As the new earl,[42] with parts deserving praise, And wit enough to laugh at his own ways, Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights, Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune slights; Striving against his quiet all he can, For the fine notion of a busy man. And what is that at best, but one, whose mind Is made to tire himself and all mankind? For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign; For, if some odd fantastic lord would fain Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do, I'll not only pay him, but admire him too. But is there any other beast that lives, Who his own harm so wittingly contrives? Will any dog that has his teeth and stones, Refinedly leave his bitches and his bones, To turn a wheel? and bark to be employed, While Venus is by rival dogs enjoyed? Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name, Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame. Though satire nicely writ with humour stings But those who merit praise in other things; Yet we must needs this one exception make, And break our rules for silly Tropos' sake;[43] Who was too much despised to be accused, And therefore scarce deserves to be abused; Raised only by his mercenary tongue, For railing smoothly, and for reasoning wrong. As boys, on holidays let loose to play, Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way; Then shout to see, in dirt and deep distress, Some silly cit in her flowered foolish dress,--[44] So have I mighty satisfaction found, To see his tinsel reason on the ground; To see the florid fool despised, and know it, By some who scarce have words enough to show it; For sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker The finer, nay sometimes the wittier speaker: But 'tis prodigious so much eloquence Should be acquired by such little sense; For words and wit did anciently agree, And Tully was no fool, though this man be: At bar abusive; on the bench unable; Knave on the woolsack; fop at council-table. These are the grievances of such fools as would Be rather wise than honest, great than good. Some other kind of wits must be made known, Whose harmless errors hurt themselves alone; Excess of luxury they think can please, And laziness call loving of their ease; To live dissolved in pleasures still they feign, Though their whole life's but intermitting pain; So much of surfeits, head-aches, claps are seen, We scarce perceive the little time between; Well-meaning men, who make this gross mistake, And pleasure lose only for pleasure's sake; Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay Too much of pain, we squander life away. Thus Dorset,[45] purring like a thoughtful cat, Married,--but wiser puss ne'er thought of that; And first he worried her with railing rhyme, Like Pembroke's mastives at his kindest time; Then for one night sold all his slavish life, A teeming widow, but a barren wife. Swelled by contact of such a fulsome toad, He lugged about the matrimonial load; Till fortune, blindly kind as well as he, Has ill restored him to his liberty; Which he would use in his old sneaking way, Drinking all night, and dozing all the day; Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times Had famed for dulness in malicious rhymes.[46] Mulgrave[47] had much ado to 'scape the snare, Though learned in all those arts that cheat the fair; For, after all his vulgar marriage-mocks, With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks; Deluded parents dried their weeping eyes, To see him catch his Tartar for his prize: The impatient town waited the wished-for change, And cuckolds smiled in hopes of sweet revenge; Till Petworth plot made us with sorrow see, As his estate, his person too was free: Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move; To gold he fled from beauty and from love; Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still, Forced to live happily against his will; 'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and power Break not his boasted quiet every hour. And little Sid.[48] for simile renowned, Pleasure has always sought, but never found; Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall, His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all. The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong, His meat and mistresses are kept too long. But sure we all mistake this pious man, Who mortifies his person all he can: What we uncharitably take for sin, Are only rules of this odd capuchin; For never hermit, under grave pretence, Has lived more contrary to common sense; And 'tis a miracle, we may suppose, No nastiness offends his skilful nose; Which from all stink can, with peculiar art, Extract perfume and essence from a f----t. Expecting supper is his great delight; He toils all day but to be drunk at night; Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping sits, Till he takes Hewet[49] and Jack Hall[B] for wits. Rochester I despise for want of wit, Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet; For, while he mischief means to all mankind, Himself alone the ill effects does find; And so, like witches, justly suffers shame, Whose harmless malice is so much the same. False are his words, affected is his wit; So often he does aim, so seldom hit; To every face he cringes while he speaks, But when the back is turned the head he breaks. Mean in each action, lewd in every limb, Manners themselves are mischievous in him; A proof that chance alone makes every creature, A very Killigrew without good nature. For what a Bessus[52] has he always lived, And his own kickings notably contrived? For, there's the folly that's still mixt with fear, Cowards more blows than any hero bear; Of fighting sparks some may their pleasures say, But 'tis a bolder thing to run away. The world may well forgive him all his ill, For every fault does prove his penance still; Falsely he falls into some dangerous noose, And then as meanly labours to get loose; A life so infamous is better quitting, Spent in base injury and low submitting.[53] I'd like to have left out his poetry; Forgot by all almost as well as me. Sometimes he has some humour, never wit, And if it rarely, very rarely, hit, 'Tis under so much nasty rubbish laid, To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade, Who, for the wretched remnants of a fire, Must toil all day in ashes and in mire. So lewdly dull his idle works appear, The wretched text deserves no comments here; Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alone, For a whole page of dulness must atone. How vain a thing is man, and how unwise! E'en he, who would himself the most despise! I, who so wise and humble seem to be, Now my own vanity and pride can't see. While the world's nonsense is so sharply shown, We pull down others but to raise our own; That we may angels seem, we paint them elves, And are but satires to set up ourselves. I, who have all this while been finding fault, E'en with my master, who first satire taught; And did by that describe the task so hard, It seems stupendous and above reward; Now labour with unequal force to climb That lofty hill, unreached by former time,-- 'Tis just that I should to the bottom fall, Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 31: Would Dryden have pardoned such a rhyme?]

[Footnote 32: Sir Thomas Armstrong, then an officer of the guards, and gentleman of horse to the king. He seems to have been remarkable for riot and profligacy, even in that profligate age; witness his stabbing a gentleman in the pit of the theatre. Thus principled, he became, unfortunately for himself and his patron, a favourite of the Duke of Monmouth, and engaged deeply in all his intrigues, particularly in that of the Rye-house plot, on the discovery of which he fled to Holland, of which he was a native: nevertheless, he was there seized and delivered. He was tried by Jefferies; and sustained the brutality of that judge with more spirit than his friends or his enemies expected. Upon a conviction of outlawry for treason, he was executed, June 1685.]

[Footnote 33: Aston is mentioned as a sort of half wit in some of the lampoons of the day; but I have not been able to trace any thing of his history, except that he seems to have been a courtier of the period; perhaps the same Colonel Aston, whom the reader will find in a subsequent note, acting as Mulgrave's second, in an intended duel with Rochester. If this be so, from the slight with which he is here mentioned, there may have been a coolness in their friendship, although, indeed, the mere want of _morals_ was not considered as an insufferable stigma in the reign of Charles II., and might pass for a good-natured joke, were the epithet _dull_ omitted. The name Aston is mentioned in the "Epistle to Julian."]

[Footnote 34: Robert Constable, third Viscount of Dunbar. He is elsewhere mentioned with the epithet of "brawny Dunbar." He married, 1st, Mary, daughter of Lord Bellasis; 2dly, the countess-dowager of Westmoreland.]

[Footnote 35: The unfortunate duke; the qualities of whose mind did not correspond to his exterior accomplishments. Rochester says of him,--

But, now we talk of Maestricht, where is he Famed for that brutal piece of bravery? He, with his thick impenetrable scull, The solid hardened armour of a fool, Well might himself to all war's ills expose, Who, come what will, yet had no brains to lose. ]

[Footnote 36: Sir Carr Scroop, a poet and courtier. See Note on the "Epistle to Julian."]

[Footnote 37: The royal mistresses were, the Duchesses of Cleveland and of Portsmouth. Neither was supposed over-scrupulous in fidelity to their royal lover. The Duchess of Cleveland, in particular, lavished her favours even upon Jacob Hall, the rope-dancer; at least, so Count Hamilton assures us, in the "Memoirs of Grammont." The Duchess of Portsmouth was a pensioner of the French court; by whom she was thrown into the arms of Charles, with the express purpose of securing his attachment to the cause of France. Charles knew, as well as any of his subjects, the infidelity of one mistress, and the treachery of the other; and Sheffield has elsewhere vindicated the epithet of "sauntering," which is here bestowed on that indolent monarch. "I am of opinion," says the duke, "that, in his latter times, there was as much of laziness as of love in all those hours he passed among his mistresses; who, after all, only served to fill up his seraglio, while a bewitching kind of pleasure, called _sauntering_, and talking without constraint, was the true sultana-queen he delighted in."[38] While Sheffield thus solemnly confirms, in prose, the character given of Charles in the "Essay upon Satire," he ascertains his claim to the property of the poem. And I must add, I should be sorry to think Dryden was accessary to lampooning persons, to whom he had offered the incense of his verse. See the "Epistle to Lady Castlemain," afterwards Duchess of Cleveland, and "The Fair Stranger," addressed to Louise Querouailles, afterwards Duchess of Portsmouth.]

[Footnote 38: _Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham's Works_, Vol. II. p. 61. 4to, 1723.]

[Footnote 39: Sir John Earnely was bred to the law; but became distinguished as a second-rate statesman. He was chancellor of the exchequer in 1686; and was made one of the commissioners of the treasury, in the room of the Earl of Rochester.]

[Footnote 40: Robert Bruce, second Earl of Elgin, in Scotland, created after the Restoration an English peer, by the titles of Baron and Viscount Bruce, Earl of Aylesbury. In 1678, he was of the privy-council to his majesty, and a gentleman of the bed-chamber. In the reign of James II., the Earl of Aylesbury succeeded to the office of lord-chamberlain, upon the death of the Earl of Arlington, in July 1685; an office which he held only two months, as he died in October following.]

[Footnote 41: The Earl of Shaftesbury; of whose decrepit body, and active mind, much has been said in the notes on "Absalom and Achitophel," and on the "Medal."]

[Footnote 42: This was Arthur, first Earl of Essex of his name. He was son of that Lord Capel, who so gallantly defended Colchester during the civil wars, and was executed upon the place being taken. Lord Essex had been lieutenant of Ireland from 1672 to 1677, and was supposed to have fixed his ambition upon returning to that situation. Being disappointed, he joined in the measures of Shaftesbury and Monmouth, and was a violent opponent of the court. He was committed to the Tower on account of his accession to the Rye-house plot; and, upon the morning on which Lord Russel was conveyed to his trial, he was found with his throat cut, the King and Duke of York being in the Tower at the very time, to witness some experiment on the ordnance. It was afterwards asserted, that he had been murdered by order of the court. Even Burnet, however, seems to acquit them of the crime, both because Essex was a free-thinker, and accustomed to vindicate suicide, and because his surgeon declared to him, that, from the mode in which the wound was inflicted, it could only have been done with his own hand. But the violent proceedings against Braddon and Speke, who attempted to investigate this mysterious affair, threw some suspicion upon the court party. If Charles was accessary to the murder, the time was strangely chosen, and the king's dissimulation equally remarkable; for, on hearing the event, be exclaimed, "Alas! Lord Essex might have trusted my clemency, I owed his family a life."]

[Footnote 43: This was the infamous Lord Chief-Justice Scroggs. He had ready eloquence, and much impudence. At first he stickled hard for the Popish Plot; but, finding that ceased to be the road to preferment, he became as eager on the other side. North allows, that his course of life was scandalous.]

[Footnote 44: This seems to have been copied by Gay in his Trivia:

Why do you, boys, the kennel's surface spread, To tempt, with faithless pass, the matron's tread? How can you laugh to see the damsel spurn, Sink in your frauds, and her green stocking mourn? ]

[Footnote 45: The witty Earl of Dorset, whom we have often had occasion to mention in these notes. His first wife was the Countess-Dowager of Falmouth. Sheffield insinuates, that he had previously lampooned this lady, and hints at some scandal now obsolete. She died without any issue by Dorset.]

[Footnote 46: Alluding to Dorset's verses to Mr Edward Howard. "On his incomparable incomprehensible Poem, called the British Princess."]

[Footnote 47: Mulgrave here alludes to some anecdotes of his own life and amours, which probably were well known at the time, but are now too obscure to be traced. He was three times married, and always to widows. His lordship is here pleased to represent himself as a gallant of the first order, skilled in all the arts of persuasion and conquest. But his contemporaries did not esteem him so formidable, at least if we may believe the author of a satire, called, "A Heroical Epistle from Lord Allpride to Doll Common;" a bitter and virulent satire on Mulgrave. He is thus described, in an epigram on Lord Allpride:

Against his stars the coxcomb ever strives, And to be something they forbid contrives. With a red nose, splay foot, and goggle eye, A ploughman's booby mien, face all awry, A filthy breath, and every loathsome mark, The punchinello sets up for a spark: With equal self-conceit he takes up arms, But with such vile success his part performs, That he burlesques the trade, and, what is best In others, turns, like Harlequin, to jest: So have I seen, at Smithfield's wonderous fair, When all his brother-monsters flourish there, A lubbard elephant divert the town, With making legs, and shooting of a gun. Go where he will, he never finds a friend, Shame and derision all his steps attend; Alike abroad, at home, i'the camp, and court, This knight o'the burning pestle makes us sport.

This seems to have been written by the offended Sir Car Scrope.]

[Footnote 48: Derrick is inclined to think, that Sidney, brother of the Earl of Leicester, and of the famous Algernon Sidney, is here meant. But the character better suits Sir Charles Sedley or Sidley, for he spelled the name both ways. In explanation of the line, there is, in the 4to edition of Sheffield's Works, this short note, "Remarkable for making pleasant and proper similies upon all occasions." In a satire in the State Poems, Vol. II.

To a soul so mean e'en Shadwell is a stranger; Nay, little Sid. it seems, less values danger. ]

[Footnote 49: Sir George Hewet was a coxcomb of the period, after whom Etherege is said to have modelled Sir Fopling Flutter's character:

Scarce will their greater grief pierce every heart, Should Sir George Hewit or Sir Car depart. Had it not better been, than thus to roam, To stay and tie the cravat string at home; To strut, look big, shake pantaloon, and swear With Hewit, "Damme, there's no action here!"

_Rochester's Farewell._

His pretensions to gallantry are elsewhere ridiculed:

Yet most against their genius blindly run, The wrong they chuse, and what they're made for shun; Thus Arlington thinks for state affairs he's fit, Hewit for ogling, C----ly for a wit.

_The Town Life._

And again,

May Hewet's _billets doux_ successful prove, In tempting of her little Grace to love.

Sir George Hewet attended the Prince of Denmark when he joined the Prince of Orange.

Jack Hall, the rotten Uzza of "Absalom and Achitophel," (Vol. IX. pp. 331. 373.) He seems to have gone into opposition to the court with Sidley, his patron. There is a comical account given of a literary effort of his in one of the State Poems:

Jack Hall---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----left town, But first writ something that he durst not own; Of prologue lawfully begotten, And full nine months maturely thought on; Born with hard labour and much pain, Ousely was doctor chamberlain.[50] At length, from stuff and rubbish picked, As bears' cubs into form are licked, When Wharton, Etherege, and Soame, } To give it their last strokes were come, } Those critics differed in their doom; } Yet Swan[51] says, he admired it 'scaped, Being Jack Hall's, without being clapped. ]

[Footnote 50: _Then a famous accoucheur._]

[Footnote 51: _The same, I suppose, whom Dryden dignifies with the title of honest Mr Swan_, Vol XIII. p. 97.]

[Footnote 52: A cowardly braggadocio character in Beaumont and Fletcher's excellent play of "King and no King."]

[Footnote 53: No one could know the cowardice of Lord Rochester so well as Mulgrave, who, in his Memoirs, records the following infamous instance of it. He had heard it reported, that Lord Rochester had said something of him very malicious: "I therefore sent Colonel Aston, a very mettled friend of mine, to call him to account for it. He denied the words; and, indeed, I was soon convinced he had never said them: but the mere report, though I found it to be false, obliged me (as I then foolishly thought) to go on with the quarrel; and the next day was appointed for us to fight on horseback, a way in England a little unusual, but it was his part to chuse. Accordingly, I and my second lay the night before at Knightsbridge, privately, to avoid the being secured at London upon any suspicion; which yet we found ourselves more in danger of there, because we had all the appearance of highway-men, that had a mind to lie skulking in an odd inn for one night; but this, I suppose, the people of that house were used to, and so took no notice of us, but liked us the better. In the morning, we met the Lord Rochester at the place appointed, who, instead of James Porter, whom, he assured Aston, he would make his second, brought an errant lifeguard-man, whom nobody knew. To this Mr Aston took exception, upon the account of his being no suitable adversary; especially considering how extremely well he was mounted, whereas we had only a couple of pads. Upon which, we all agreed to fight on foot: But, as my Lord Rochester and I were riding into the next field, in order to it, he told me, that he had at first chosen to fight on horseback, because he was so weak with a distemper, that he found himself unfit to fight at all any way, much less a-foot. I was extremely surprised, because, at that time, no man had a better reputation for courage; and (my anger against him being quite over, because I was satisfied that he never spoke those words I resented,) I took the liberty of representing, what a ridiculous story it would make if we returned without fighting; and therefore advised him, for both our sakes, especially for his own, to consider better of it; since I must be obliged, in my own defence, to lay the fault on him, by telling the truth of the matter. His answer was, that he submitted to it; and hoped, that I would not desire the advantage of having to do with any man in so weak a condition. I replied, that, by such an argument, he had sufficiently tied my hands, upon condition I might call our seconds to be witnesses of the whole business; which he consented to, and so we parted. When we returned to London, we found it full of this quarrel, upon our being absent so long; and therefore Mr Aston thought himself obliged to write down every word and circumstance of this whole matter, in order to spread every where the true reason of our returning without having fought; which being never in the least either contradicted or resented by the Lord Rochester, entirely ruined his reputation as to courage, (of which I was really sorry to be the occasion,) though no body had still a greater as to wit; which supported him pretty well in the world, notwithstanding some more accidents of the same kind, that never fail to succeed one another when once people know a man's weakness."--_Memoirs of Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham._

Conscious of his infamy, Rochester only ventured to reply to Sheffield, the real author of the above satire, by some cold sneers on his expedition to Tangiers, which occur in the poem called "Rochester's Farewell."]

A

FAMILIAR EPISTLE

TO

MR JULIAN,

SECRETARY OF THE MUSES.

The extremity of license in manners, necessarily leads to equal license in personal satire; and there never was an age in which both were carried to such excess as in that of Charles II. These personal and scandalous libels acquired the name of lampoons, from the established burden formerly sung to them:

_Lampone, lampone, camerada lampone_.

Dryden suffered under these violent and invisible assaults, as much as any one of his age; to which his own words, in several places of his writings, and also the existence of many of the pasquils themselves in the Luttrel Collection, bear ample witness. In many of his prologues and epilogues he alludes to this rage for personal satire, and to the employment which it found for the half and three quarter wits and courtiers of the time:

Yet these are pearls to your lampooning rhymes; Ye abuse yourselves more dully than the times. Scandal, the glory of the English nation, Is worn to rags, and scribbled out of fashion: Such harmless thrusts, as if, like fencers wise, They had agreed their play before their prize. Faith they may hang their harp upon the willows; 'Tis just like children when they box with pillows.

_See_ Vol. X. p. 365.

Upon the general practice of writing lampoons, and the necessity of finding some mode of dispersing them, which should diffuse the scandal widely, while the authors remained concealed, was founded the self-erected office of Julian, secretary, as he called himself, to the Muses. This person attended Will's, the Wits Coffeehouse, as it was called; and dispersed, among the crowds who frequented that place of gay resort, copies of the lampoons which had been privately communicated to him by their authors. "He is described," says Mr Malone, "as a very drunken fellow, and at one time was confined for a libel." Several satires were written, in the form of addresses, to him, as well as the following. There is one among the State Poems, beginning,

Julian, in verse, to ease thy wants I write, Not moved by envy, malice, or by spite, Or pleased with the empty names of wit and sense, But merely to supply thy want of pence: This did inspire my muse, when, out at eel, She saw her needy secretary reel. Grieved that a man, so useful to the age, Should foot it in so mean an equipage; A crying scandal, that the fees of sense Should not be able to support the expence Of a poor scribe, who never thought of wants When able to procure a cup of Nantz.

Another, called, "A Consoling Epistle to Julian," is said to have been written by the Duke of Buckingham.

From a passage in one of the "Letters from the Dead to the Living," we learn, that, after Julian's death, and the madness of his successor, called Summerton, lampoon felt a sensible decay; and there was no more that "brisk spirit of verse, that used to watch the follies and vices of the men and women of figure, that they could not start new ones faster than lampoons exposed them."

In another epistle of the same collection, supposed to be written by Julian from the shades, to Will Pierre, a low comedian, he is made thus to boast of the extent of the dominion which he exercised when on earth.

"The conscious Tub Tavern can witness, and my Berry Street apartment testify, the solicitations I have had, for the first copy of a new lampoon, from the greatest lords of the court, though their own folly and their wives' vices were the subjects. My person was so sacred, that the terrible scan-man had no terrors for me, whose business was so public and so useful, as conveying about the faults of the great and the fair; for in my books, the lord was shewn a knave or fool, though his power defended the former, and his pride would not see the latter. The antiquated coquet was told of her age and ugliness, though her vanity placed her in the first row in the king's box at the playhouse; and in the view of the congregation at St James's church. The precise countess, that would be scandalized at _double entendre_, was shown betwixt a pair of sheets with a well-made footman, in spite of her quality and conjugal vow. The formal statesman, that set up for wisdom and honesty, was exposed as a dull tool, and yet a knave, losing at play his own revenue, and the bribes incident to his post, besides enjoying the infamy of a poor and fruitless knavery without any concern. The demure lady, that would scarce sip off the glass in company, was shewn carousing her bottles in private, of cool Nantz too, sometimes, to correct the crudities of her last night's debauch. In short, in my books were seen men and women as they were, not as they would seem,--stript of their hypocrisy, spoiled of the fig-leaves of their quality. A knave was called a knave, a fool a fool, a jilt a jilt, and a whore a whore. And the love of scandal and native malice, that men and women have to one another, made me in such request when alive, that I was admitted to the lord's closet, when a man of letters and merit would be thrust out of doors. And I was as familiar with the ladies as their lap-dogs: for to them I did often good services; under pretence of a lampoon, I conveyed a _billet doux_; and so, whilst I exposed their vast vices in the present, I prompted matter for the next lampoon."

The following lampoon, in which it is highly improbable that Dryden had any share, is chiefly levelled against Sir Car Scrope, son of Sir Adrian Scrope of Cockington, in Lincolnshire, a courtier of considerable poetical talents, of whom Anthony Wood says, "that, as divers satirical copies of verses were made upon him by other persons, so he hath diverse made by himself upon them, which are handed about to this day." We have seen that he is mentioned with contempt in the "Essay on Satire;" and, in the "Advice to Apollo," in the State Poems, Vol. I. his studies are thus commemorated:

----Sir Car, that knight of withered face, Who, for the reversion of a poet's place, Waits on Melpomene, and sooths her grace; That angry miss alone he strives to please, For fear the rest should teach him wit and ease, And make him quit his loved laborious walks, Where, sad or silent, o'er the room he stalks, And strives to write as wisely as he talks.

He is also mentioned in many other libels of the day, and some of his answers are still extant. Rochester assailed him in his "Allusion to the Tenth Satire of Horace's first Book." Sir Car Scrope replied, and published a poem in Defence of Satire, to which the earl retorted by a very coarse set of verses, addressed to the knight by name. Sir Car Scrope was a tolerable translator from the classics; and his version of the "Epistle from Sappho to Phaon" is inserted in the translation of Ovid's Epistles by several hands, edited by our author. Dryden mentions, in one of his prefaces, Sir Car Scrope's efforts with approbation. But it is not from this circumstance alone I conclude that this epistle has been erroneously attributed to our author; for the whole internal evidence speaks loudly against its authenticity. Indeed, it only rests on Dryden's name being placed to it in the 6th volume of the Miscellanies published after his death.

A

FAMILIAR EPISTLE

TO

MR JULIAN,

SECRETARY OF THE MUSES.

Thou common shore of this poetic town, Where all the excrements of wit are thrown; For sonnet, satire, bawdry, blasphemy, Are emptied, and disburdened all in thee: The choleric wight, untrussing all in rage, Finds thee, and lays his load upon thy page. Thou Julian, or thou wise Vespasian rather, Dost from this dung thy well-pickt guineas gather. All mischief's thine; transcribing, thou wilt stoop From lofty Middlesex[54] to lowly Scroop. What times are these, when, in the hero's room, } Bow-bending Cupid doth with ballads come, } And little Aston[55] offers to the bum? } Can two such pigmies such a weight support, Two such Tom Thumbs of satire in a court? Poor George[56] grows old, his muse worn out of fashion, Hoarsely he sung Ephelia's lamentation. Less art thou helped by Dryden's bed-rid age; That drone has lost his sting upon the stage. Resolve me, poor apostate, this my doubt, What hope hast thou to rub this winter out? Know, and be thankful then, for Providence By me hath sent thee this intelligence. A knight there is,[57] if thou canst gain his grace, Known by the name of the hard-favoured face. For prowess of the pen renowned is he, From Don Quixote descended lineally; And though, like him, unfortunate he prove, Undaunted in attempts of wit and love. Of his unfinished face, what shall I say,-- But that 'twas made of Adam's own red clay; That much, much ochre was on it bestowed; God's image 'tis not, but some Indian god: Our christian earth can no resemblance bring, But ware of Portugal for such a thing; Such carbuncles his fiery face confess, As no Hungarian water can redress. A face which, should he see, (but heaven was kind, And, to indulge his self, Love made him blind,) He durst not stir abroad for fear to meet Curses of teeming women in the street: The best could happen from this hideous sight, } Is, that they should miscarry with the fright,-- } Heaven guard them from the likeness of the knight! } Such is our charming Strephon's outward man, His inward parts let those disclose who can. One while he honoureth Birtha with his flame, And now he chants no less Lovisa's[58] name; For when his passion hath been bubbling long, The scum at last boils up into a song; And sure no mortal creature, at one time, Was e'er so far o'ergone with love and rhyme. To his dear self of poetry he talks, His hands and feet are scanning as he walks; His writhing looks his pangs of wit accuse, The airy symptoms of a breeding muse, And all to gain the great Lovisa's grace. But never pen did pimp for such a face; There's not a nymph in city, town, or court, But Strephon's _billet-doux_ has been their sport. Still he loves on, yet still he's sure to miss, As they who wash an Ethiop's face, or his. What fate unhappy Strephon does attend, Never to get a mistress, nor a friend! Strephon alike both wits and fools detest, 'Cause he's like Esop's bat, half bird half beast; For fools to poetry have no pretence, And common wit supposes common sense; Not quite so low as fool, nor quite a top, He hangs between them both, and is a fop. His morals, like his wit, are motley too; He keeps from arrant knave with much ado. But vanity and lying so prevail, That one grain more of each would turn the scale; He would be more a villain had he time, But he's so wholly taken up with rhyme, That he mistakes his talent; all his care Is to be thought a poet fine and fair. Small beer and gruel are his meat and drink, The diet he prescribes himself to think; Rhyme next his heart he takes at the morn peep, Some love epistles at the hour of sleep;-- So, betwixt elegy and ode, we see Strephon is in a course of poetry. This is the man ordained to do thee good, The pelican to feed thee with his blood; Thy wit, thy poet, nay thy friend, for he Is fit to be a friend to none but thee. Make sure of him, and of his muse betimes, For all his study is hung round with rhymes. Laugh at him, jostle him, yet still he writes, In rhyme he challenges, in rhyme he fights. Charged with the last, and basest infamy, His business is to think what rhymes to lie; Which found, in fury he retorts again. Strephon's a very dragon at his pen; His brother murdered,[59] and his mother's whored, His mistress lost, and yet his pen's his sword.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 54: Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was created Earl of Middlesex in 1675. He is better known as the Earl of Dorset.]

[Footnote 55: Probably the person mentioned in the "Essay on Satire."]

[Footnote 56: Sir George Etherege.]

[Footnote 57: Sir Car Scrope.]

[Footnote 58: Louise de Querouaille, Duchess of Portsmouth.]

[Footnote 59: Probably the Mr Scrope whom Langbaine saw stabbed in the theatre, by Sir Thomas Armstrong, during the representation of "Macbeth." Wood mentions a satire of Sir Car Scrope's, in which Sir Thomas Armstrong is reflected upon. The author of the epistle seems to allude to some such circumstance.]

THE

ART OF POETRY.

THE ART OF POETRY.

This piece was inserted among Dryden's Works, upon authority of the following advertisement by his publisher Jacob Tonson.

"This translation of Monsieur Boileau's 'Art of Poetry' was made in the year 1680, by Sir William Soame of Suffolk, Baronet; who, being very intimately acquainted with Mr Dryden, desired his revisal of it. I saw the manuscript lie in Mr Dryden's hands for above six months, who made very considerable alterations in it, particularly the beginning of the Fourth Canto; and it being his opinion, that it would be better to apply the poem to English writers, than keep to the French names, as it was first translated, Sir William desired he would take the pains to make that alteration; and accordingly that was entirely done by Mr Dryden.

"The poem was first published in the year 1683. Sir William was after sent ambassador to Constantinople, in the reign of King James, but died in the voyage."--J.T.

To give weight to Tonson's authority, it may be added, that great part of the poem bears marks of Dryden's polishing hand; and that some entire passages show at once his taste in criticism, principles, and prejudices.

THE

ART OF POETRY.