BOOK I. ELEG. 4.

_To his Mistress, whose Husband is invited to a Feast with them. The Poet instructs her how to behave herself in his company._

Your husband will be with us at the treat; May that be the last supper he shall eat! And am poor I a guest invited there, Only to see, while he may touch the fair? To see you kiss and hug your nauseous lord, While his lewd hand descends below the board? Now wonder not that Hippodamia's charms, At such a sight, the Centaurs urged to arms; That in a rage they threw their cups aside, Assailed the bridegroom, and would force the bride. I am not half a horse, (I would I were!) Yet hardly can from you my hands forbear. Take then my counsel; which, observed, may be Of some importance both to you and me. Be sure to come before your man be there; There's nothing can be done; but come, howe'er. Sit next him, (that belongs to decency,) But tread upon my foot in passing by; Read in my looks what silently they speak, And slily, with your eyes, your answer make. My lifted eye-brow shall declare my pain; My right-hand to his fellow shall complain, And on the back a letter shall design, Besides a note that shall be writ in wine. Whene'er you think upon our last embrace, With your fore-finger gently touch your face; If any word of mine offend my dear, Pull, with your hand, the velvet of your ear; If you are pleased with what I do or say, Handle your rings, or with your fingers play; As suppliants use at altars, hold the board, Whene'er you wish the devil may take your lord. When he fills for you, never touch the cup, But bid the officious cuckold drink it up. The waiter on those services employ; Drink you, and I will snatch it from the boy, Watching the part where your sweet mouth hath been, And thence with eager lips will suck it in. If he, with clownish manners, thinks it fit To taste, and offer you the nasty bit, Reject his greasy kindness, and restore The unsavoury morsel he had chewed before. Nor let his arms embrace your neck, nor rest Your tender cheek upon his hairy breast; Let not his hand within your bosom stray, And rudely with your pretty bubbies play; But, above all, let him no kiss receive! That's an offence I never can forgive. Do not, O do not that sweet mouth resign, Lest I rise up in arms, and cry, 'tis mine. I shall thrust in betwixt, and, void of fear, The manifest adulterer will appear. These things are plain to sight; but more I doubt What you conceal beneath your petticoat. Take not his leg between your tender thighs, Nor, with your hand, provoke my foe to rise. How many love-inventions I deplore, Which I myself have practised all before! How oft have I been forced the robe to lift In company; to make a homely shift For a bare bout, ill huddled o'er in haste, While o'er my side the fair her mantle cast! You to your husband shall not be so kind; But, lest you should, your mantle leave behind. Encourage him to tope; but kiss him not, Nor mix one drop of water in his pot. If he be fuddled well, and snores apace, Then we may take advice from time and place. When all depart, when compliments are loud, Be sure to mix among the thickest crowd; There I will be, and there we cannot miss, Perhaps to grubble, or at least to kiss. Alas! what length of labour I employ, Just to secure a short and transient joy! For night must part us; and when night is come, Tucked underneath his arm he leads you home. He locks you in; I follow to the door, His fortune envy, and my own deplore. He kisses you, he more than kisses too; The outrageous cuckold thinks it all his due. But add not to his joy by your consent, And let it not be given, but only lent. Return no kiss, nor move in any sort; Make it a dull and a malignant sport. Had I my wish, he should no pleasure take, But slubber o'er your business for my sake; And whate'er fortune shall this night befal, Coax me to-morrow, by forswearing all.

PREFACE ON TRANSLATION,

PREFIXED TO DRYDEN's SECOND MISCELLANY,

PUBLISHED IN 1685.

For this last half year I have been troubled with the disease (as I may call it) of translation. The cold prose fits of it, which are always the most tedious with me, were spent in the History of the League;[47] the hot, which succeeded them, in this volume of Verse Miscellanies. The truth is, I fancied to myself a kind of ease in the change of the paroxysm; never suspecting but that the humour would have wasted itself in two or three pastorals of Theocritus, and as many odes of Horace. But finding, or at least thinking I found, something that was more pleasing in them than my ordinary productions, I encouraged myself to renew my old acquaintance with Lucretius and Virgil; and immediately fixed upon some parts of them, which had most affected me in the reading. These were my natural impulses for the undertaking. But there was an accidental motive which was full as forcible, and God forgive him who was the occasion of it. It was my Lord Roscommon's "Essay on Translated Verse;"[48] which made me uneasy till I tried whether or no I was capable of following his rules, and of reducing the speculation into practice. For, many a fair precept in poetry is, like a seeming demonstration in the mathematics, very specious in the diagram, but failing in the mechanic operation. I think I have generally observed his instructions; I am sure my reason is sufficiently convinced both of their truth and usefulness; which, in other words, is to confess no less a vanity, than to pretend that I have, at least in some places, made examples to his rules. Yet, withal, I must acknowledge, that I have many times exceeded my commission; for I have both added and omitted, and even sometimes very boldly made such expositions of my author's, as no Dutch commentator will forgive me. Perhaps, in such particular passages, I have thought that I discovered some beauty yet undiscovered by those pedants, which none but a poet could have found. Where I have taken away some of their expressions, and cut them shorter, it may possibly be on this consideration, that what was beautiful in the Greek or Latin, would not appear so shining in the English: and where I have enlarged them, I desire the false critics would not always think, that those thoughts are wholly mine, but that either they are secretly in the poet, or may be fairly deduced from him; or at least, if both those considerations should fail, that my own is of a piece with his, and that if he were living, and an Englishman, they are such as he would probably have written.

For, after all, a translator is to make his author appear as charming as possibly he can, provided he maintains his character, and makes him not unlike himself. Translation is a kind of drawing after the life; where every one will acknowledge there is a double sort of likeness, a good one and a bad. It is one thing to draw the outlines true, the features like, the proportions exact, the colouring itself perhaps tolerable; and another thing to make all these graceful, by the posture, the shadowings, and, chiefly, by the spirit which animates the whole. I cannot, without some indignation, look on an ill copy of an excellent original; much less can I behold with patience Virgil, Homer, and some others, whose beauties I have been endeavouring all my life to imitate, so abused, as I may say, to their faces, by a botching interpreter. What English readers, unacquainted with Greek or Latin, will believe me, or any other man, when we commend those authors, and confess we derive all that is pardonable in us from their fountains, if they take those to be the same poets, whom our Oglebies have translated? But I dare assure them, that a good poet is no more like himself, in a dull translation, than his carcase would be to his living body. There are many, who understand Greek and Latin, and yet are ignorant of their mother-tongue. The proprieties and delicacies of the English are known to few; it is impossible even for a good wit to understand and practise them, without the help of a liberal education, long reading, and digesting of those few good authors we have amongst us, the knowledge of men and manners, the freedom of habitudes and conversation with the best company of both sexes; and, in short, without wearing off the rust which he contracted while he was laying in a stock of learning. Thus difficult it is to understand the purity of English, and critically to discern not only good writers from bad, and a proper style from a corrupt, but also to distinguish that which is pure in a good author, from that which is vicious and corrupt in him. And for want of all these requisites, or the greatest part of them, most of our ingenious young men take up some cried-up English poet for their model, adore him, and imitate him, as they think, without knowing wherein he is defective, where he is boyish and trifling, wherein either his thoughts are improper to his subject, or his expressions unworthy of his thoughts, or the turn of both is unharmonious. Thus it appears necessary, that a man should be a nice critic in his mother-tongue, before he attempts to translate in a foreign language. Neither is it sufficient, that he be able to judge of words and style; but he must be a master of them too; he must perfectly understand his author's tongue, and absolutely command his own. So that, to be a thorough translator, he must be a thorough poet. Neither is it enough to give his author's sense in good English, in poetical expressions, and in musical numbers; for, though all these are exceeding difficult to perform, there yet remains a harder task; and it is a secret of which few translators have sufficiently thought. I have already hinted a word or two concerning it; that is, the maintaining the character of an author, which distinguishes him from all others, and makes him appear that individual poet whom you would interpret. For example, not only the thoughts, but the style and versification, of Virgil and Ovid are very different: Yet I see, even in our best poets, who have translated some parts of them, that they have confounded their several talents; and, by endeavouring only at the sweetness and harmony of numbers, have made them both so much alike, that, if I did not know the originals, I should never be able to judge by the copies, which was Virgil, and which was Ovid. It was objected against a late noble painter,[49] that he drew many graceful pictures, but few of them were alike. And this happened to him, because he always studied himself more than those who sat to him. In such translators I can easily distinguish the hand which performed the work, but I cannot distinguish their poet from another. Suppose two authors are equally sweet, yet there is as great distinction to be made in sweetness, as in that of sugar, and that of honey. I can make the difference more plain, by giving you (if it be worth knowing) my own method of proceeding, in my translations out of four several poets in this volume; Virgil, Theocritus, Lucretius, and Horace. In each of these, before I undertook them, I considered the genius and distinguishing character of my author. I looked on Virgil as a succinct, and grave majestic writer; one who weighed, not only every thought, but every word and syllable; who was still aiming to crowd his sense into as narrow a compass as possibly he could; for which reason he is so very figurative, that he requires (I may almost say) a grammar apart to construe him. His verse is every where sounding the very thing in your ears, whose sense it bears; yet the numbers are perpetually varied, to increase the delight of the reader; so that the same sounds are never repeated twice together. On the contrary, Ovid and Claudian, though they write in styles differing from each other, yet have each of them but one sort of music in their verses. All the versification and little variety of Claudian is included within the compass of four or five lines, and then he begins again in the same tenor; perpetually closing his sense at the end of a verse, and that verse commonly which they call golden, or two substantives and two adjectives, with a verb betwixt them to keep the peace. Ovid, with all his sweetness, has as little variety of numbers and sound as he: he is always, as it were, upon the hand-gallop, and his verse runs upon carpet-ground. He avoids, like the other, all synalæphas, or cutting off one vowel when it comes before another in the following word; so that, minding only smoothness, he wants both variety and majesty.--But to return to Virgil: though he is smooth where smoothness is required, yet he is so far from affecting it, that he seems rather to disdain it; frequently makes use of synalæphas, and concludes his sense in the middle of his verse. He is every where above conceits of epigrammatic wit, and gross hyperboles; he maintains majesty in the midst of plainness; he shines, but glares not; and is stately without ambition, which is the vice of Lucan. I drew my definition of poetical wit from my particular consideration of him: for propriety of thoughts and words are only to be found in him; and, where they are proper, they will be delightful. Pleasure follows of necessity, as the effect does the cause; and therefore is not to be put into the definition. This exact propriety of Virgil I particularly regarded, as a great part of his character; but must confess, to my shame, that I have not been able to translate any part of him so well, as to make him appear wholly like himself: for, where the original is close, no version can reach it in the same compass. Hannibal Caro's,[50] in the Italian, is the nearest, the most poetical, and the most sonorous of any translation of the Æneids; yet, though he takes the advantage of blank verse, he commonly allows two lines for one of Virgil, and does not always hit his sense. Tasso tells us, in his letters, that Sperone Speroni, a great Italian wit, who was his contemporary, observed of Virgil and Tully, that the Latin orator endeavoured to imitate the copiousness of Homer, the Greek poet; and that the Latin poet made it his business to reach the conciseness of Demosthenes, the Greek orator. Virgil therefore, being so very sparing of his words, and leaving so much to be imagined by the reader, can never be translated as he ought, in any modern tongue. To make him copious, is to alter his character; and to translate him line for line, is impossible; because the Latin is naturally a more succinct language than either the Italian, Spanish, French, or even than the English, which, by reason of its monosyllables, is far the most compendious of them. Virgil is much the closest of any Roman poet, and the Latin hexameter has more feet than the English heroick.

Besides all this, an author has the choice of his own thoughts and words, which a translator has not; he is confined by the sense of the inventor to those expressions which are the nearest to it: so that Virgil, studying brevity, and having the command of his own language, could bring those words into a narrow compass, which a translator cannot render without circumlocutions. In short, they, who have called him the torture of grammarians, might also have called him the plague of translators; for he seems to have studied not to be translated. I own that, endeavouring to turn his "Nisus and Euryalus" as close as I was able, I have performed that episode too literally; that, giving more scope to "Mezentius and Lausus," that version, which has more of the majesty of Virgil, has less of his conciseness; and all that I can promise for myself, is only, that I have done both better than Ogleby, and perhaps as well as Caro; so that, methinks, I come like a malefactor, to make a speech upon the gallows, and to warn all other poets, by my sad example, from the sacrilege of translating Virgil. Yet, by considering him so carefully as I did before my attempt, I have made some faint resemblance of him; and, had I taken more time, might possibly have succeeded better; but never so well as to have satisfied myself.

He who excels all other poets in his own language, were it possible to do him right, must appear above them in our tongue, which, as my Lord Roscommon justly observes, approaches nearest to the Roman in its majesty; nearest indeed, but with a vast interval betwixt them. There is an inimitable grace in Virgil's words, and in them principally consists that beauty, which gives so inexpressible a pleasure to him who best understands their force. This diction of his (I must once again say) is never to be copied; and, since it cannot, he will appear but lame in the best translation. The turns of his verse, his breakings, his propriety, his numbers, and his gravity, I have as far imitated, as the poverty of our language, and the hastiness of my performance, would allow. I may seem sometimes to have varied from his sense; but I think the greatest variations may be fairly deduced from him; and where I leave his commentators, it may be I understand him better: at least I writ without consulting them in many places. But two particular lines in Mezentius and Lausus, I cannot so easily excuse. They are indeed remotely allied to Virgil's sense; but they are too like the trifling tenderness of Ovid, and were printed before I had considered them enough to alter them. The first of them I have forgotten, and cannot easily retrieve, because the copy is at the press. The second is this:

When Lausus died, I was already slain.

This appears pretty enough at first sight; but I am convinced, for many reasons, that the expression is too bold; that Virgil would not have said it, though Ovid would. The reader may pardon it, if he please, for the freeness of the confession; and instead of that, and the former, admit these two lines, which are more according to the author:

Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design; As I had used my fortune, use thou thine.

Having with much ado got clear of Virgil, I have, in the next place, to consider the genius of Lucretius, whom I have translated more happily in those parts of him which I undertook. If he was not of the best age of Roman poetry, he was at least of that which preceded it;[51] and he himself refined it to that degree of perfection, both in the language and the thoughts, that he left an easy task to Virgil; who, as he succeeded him in time, so he copied his excellencies; for the method of the Georgics is plainly derived from him. Lucretius had chosen a subject naturally crabbed; he therefore adorned it with poetical descriptions, and precepts of morality, in the beginning and ending of his books, which you see Virgil has imitated with great success in those four books, which, in my opinion, are more perfect in their kind than even his divine Æneids. The turn of his verses he has likewise followed in those places which Lucretius has most laboured, and some of his very lines he has transplanted into his own works, without much variation. If I am not mistaken, the distinguishing character of Lucretius (I mean of his soul and genius) is a certain kind of noble pride, and positive assertion of his opinions. He is every where confident of his own reason, and assuming an absolute command, not only over his vulgar reader, but even his patron Memmius. For he is always bidding him attend, as if he had the rod over him; and using a magisterial authority, while he instructs him. From his time to ours, I know none so like him, as our poet and philosopher of Malmesbury.[52] This is that perpetual dictatorship, which is exercised by Lucretius; who, though often in the wrong, yet seems to deal _bonâ fide_ with his reader, and tells him nothing but what he thinks; in which plain sincerity, I believe, he differs from our Hobbes, who could not but be convinced, or at least doubt of some eternal truths, which he has opposed. But for Lucretius, he seems to disdain all manner of replies, and is so confident of his cause, that he is beforehand with his antagonists; urging for them whatever he imagined they could say, and leaving them, as he supposes, without an objection for the future: all this, too, with so much scorn and indignation, as if he were assured of the triumph, before he entered into the lists. From this sublime and daring genius of his, it must of necessity come to pass, that his thoughts must be masculine, full of argumentation, and that sufficiently warm. From the same fiery temper proceeds the loftiness of his expressions, and the perpetual torrent of his verse, where the barrenness of his subject does not too much constrain the quickness of his fancy. For there is no doubt to be made, but that he could have been every where as poetical, as he is in his descriptions, and in the moral part of his philosophy, if he had not aimed more to instruct, in his system of nature, than to delight. But he was bent upon making Memmius a materialist, and teaching him to defy an invisible power: in short, he was so much an atheist, that he forgot sometimes to be a poet. These are the considerations, which I had of that author, before I attempted to translate some parts of him. And accordingly I laid by my natural diffidence and scepticism for a while, to take up that dogmatical way of his, which, as I said, is so much his character, as to make him that individual poet. As for his opinions concerning the mortality of the soul, they are so absurd, that I cannot, if I would, believe them. I think a future state demonstrable even by natural arguments; at least, to take away rewards and punishments is only a pleasing prospect to a man, who resolves beforehand not to live morally. But, on the other side, the thought of being nothing after death is a burthen insupportable to a virtuous man, even though a heathen. We naturally aim at happiness, and cannot bear to have it confined to the shortness of our present being; especially when we consider, that virtue is generally unhappy in this world, and vice fortunate: so that it is hope of futurity alone, that makes this life tolerable, in expectation of a better. Who would not commit all the excesses, to which he is prompted by his natural inclinations, if he may do them with security while he is alive, and be incapable of punishment after he is dead? If he be cunning and secret enough to avoid the laws, there is no band of morality to restrain him: for fame and reputation are weak ties; many men have not the least sense of them. Powerful men are only awed by them, as they conduce to their interest, and that not always, when a passion is predominant; and no man will be contained within the bounds of duty, when he may safely transgress them. These are my thoughts abstractedly, and without entering into the notions of our Christian faith, which is the proper business of divines.

But there are other arguments in this poem (which I have turned into English) not belonging to the mortality of the soul, which are strong enough to a reasonable man, to make him less in love with life, and consequently in less apprehensions of death. Such as are the natural satiety proceeding from a perpetual enjoyment of the same things; the inconveniences of old age, which make him incapable of corporeal pleasures; the decay of understanding and memory, which render him contemptible, and useless to others. These, and many other reasons, so pathetically urged, so beautifully expressed so adorned with examples, and so admirably raised by the _prosopopeia_ of Nature, who is brought in speaking to her children with so much authority and vigour, deserve the pains I have taken with them, which I hope have not been unsuccessful, or unworthy of my author: at least I must take the liberty to own, that I was pleased with my own endeavours, which but rarely happens to me; and that I am not dissatisfied upon the review of any thing I have done in this author.

It is true, there is something, and that of some moment, to be objected against my englishing the Nature of Love, from the fourth book of Lucretius; and I can less easily answer why I translated it, than why I thus translated it. The objection arises from the obscenity of the subject; which is aggravated by the too lively and alluring delicacy of the verses. In the first place, without the least formality of an excuse, I own it pleased me; and let my enemies make the worst they can of this confession. I am not yet so secure from that passion, but that I want my author's antidotes against it. He has given the truest and most philosophical account, both of the disease and remedy, which I ever found in any author; for which reasons I translated him. But it will be asked, why I turned him into this luscious English, for I will not give it a worse word. Instead of an answer, I would ask again of my supercilious adversaries, whether I am not bound, when I translate an author, to do him all the right I can, and to translate him to the best advantage? If, to mince his meaning, which I am satisfied was honest and instructive, I had either omitted some part of what he said, or taken from the strength of his expression, I certainly had wronged him; and that freeness of thought and words being thus cashiered in my hands, he had no longer been Lucretius. If nothing of this kind be to be read, physicians must not study nature, anatomies must not be seen, and somewhat I could say of particular passages in books, which, to avoid profaneness, I do not name. But the intention qualifies the act; and both mine and my author's were to instruct, as well as please. It is most certain, that bare-faced bawdry is the poorest pretence to wit imaginable. If I should say otherwise, I should have two great authorities against me: the one is the "Essay on Poetry," which I publicly valued before I knew the author of it, and with the commendation of which my Lord Roscommon so happily begins his "Essay on Translated Verse;" the other is no less than our admired Cowley, who says the same thing in other words; for, in his "Ode concerning Wit," he writes thus of it:

Much less can that have any place, At which a virgin hides her face; Such dross the fire must purge away; 'tis just The author blush, there, where the reader must.

Here indeed Mr Cowley goes farther than the Essay; for he asserts plainly, that obscenity has no place in wit; the other only says, it is a poor pretence to it, or an ill sort of wit, which has nothing more to support it than bare-faced ribaldry; which is both unmannerly in itself, and fulsome to the reader. But neither of these will reach my case: for, in the first place, I am only the translator, not the inventor; so that the heaviest part of the censure falls upon Lucretius, before it reaches me: in the next place, neither he nor I have used the grossest words, but the cleanliest metaphors we could find, to palliate the broadness of the meaning; and, to conclude, have carried the poetical part no farther, than the philosophical exacted.[53]

There is one mistake of mine, which I will not lay to the printer's charge, who has enough to answer for in false pointings; it is in the word, _viper_: I would have the verse run thus:

The scorpion, love, must on the wound be bruised.[54]

There are a sort of blundering, half-witted people, who make a great deal of noise about a verbal slip; though Horace would instruct them better in true criticism:

----_non ego paucis Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit, Aut humana parùm cavit natura._

True judgment in poetry, like that in painting, takes a view of the whole together, whether it be good or not; and where the beauties are more than the faults, concludes for the poet against the little judge. It is a sign that malice is hard driven, when it is forced to lay hold on a word or syllable: to arraign a man is one thing, and to cavil at him is another. In the midst of an ill-natured generation of scribblers, there is always justice enough left in mankind, to protect good writers: and they too are obliged, both by humanity and interest, to espouse each other's cause, against false critics, who are the common enemies. This last consideration puts me in mind of what I owe to the ingenious and learned translator of Lucretius.[55] I have not here designed to rob him of any part of that commendation which he has so justly acquired by the whole author, whose fragments only fall to my portion. What I have now performed is no more than I intended above twenty years ago. The ways of our translation are very different. He follows him more closely than I have done, which became an interpreter of the whole poem: I take more liberty, because it best suited with my design, which was, to make him as pleasing as I could. He had been too voluminous, had he used my method in so long a work; and I had certainly taken his, had I made it my business to translate the whole. The preference, then, is justly his; and I join with Mr Evelyn in the confession of it, with this additional advantage to him, that his reputation is already established in this poet, mine is to make its fortune in the world. If I have been any where obscure, in following our common author, or if Lucretius himself is to be condemned, I refer myself to his excellent annotations, which I have often read, and always with some new pleasure.

My preface begins already to swell upon me, and looks as if I were afraid of my reader, by so tedious a bespeaking of him; and yet I have Horace and Theocritus upon my hands; but the Greek gentleman shall quickly be dispatched, because I have more business with the Roman.

That which distinguishes Theocritus from all other poets, both Greek and Latin, and which raises him even above Virgil in his Eclogues, is the inimitable tenderness of his passions, and the natural expression of them in words so becoming of a pastoral. A simplicity shines through all he writes. He shows his art and learning, by disguising both. His shepherds never rise above their country education in their complaints of love. There is the same difference betwixt him and Virgil, as there is betwixt Tasso's "Aminta" and the "Pastor Fido" of Guarini. Virgil's shepherds are too well read in the philosophy of Epicurus and of Plato, and Guarini's seem to have been bred in courts; but Theocritus and Tasso have taken theirs from cottages and plains. It was said of Tasso, in relation to his similitudes, _mai esce del bosco_, that he never departed from the woods; that is all his comparisons were taken from the country. The same may be said of our Theocritus. He is softer than Ovid: he touches the passions more delicately, and performs all this out of his own fund, without diving into the arts and sciences for a supply. Even his Doric dialect has an incomparable sweetness in its clownishness, like a fair shepherdess in her country russet, talking in a Yorkshire tone. This was impossible for Virgil to imitate; because the severity of the Roman language denied him that advantage. Spenser has endeavoured it in his "Shepherd's Calendar;" but neither will it succeed in English; for which reason I forbore to attempt it. For Theocritus writ to Sicilians, who spoke that dialect; and I direct this part of my translations to our ladies, who neither understand, nor will take pleasure in such homely expressions. I proceed to Horace.

Take him in parts, and he is chiefly to be considered in his three different talents, as he was a critic, a satirist, and a writer of odes. His morals are uniform, and run through all of them; for, let his Dutch commentators say what they will, his philosophy was Epicurean; and he made use of gods and providence only to serve a turn in poetry. But since neither his Criticisms, which are the most instructive of any that are written in this art, nor his Satires, which are incomparably beyond Juvenal's, (if to laugh and rally is to be preferred to railing and declaiming,) are no part of my present undertaking, I confine myself wholly to his Odes. These are also of several sorts: some of them are panegyrical, others moral, the rest jovial, or (if I may so call them) Bacchanalian. As difficult as he makes it, and as indeed it is, to imitate Pindar, yet, in his most elevated flights, and in the sudden changes of his subject with almost imperceptible connections, that Theban poet is his master. But Horace is of the more bounded fancy, and confines himself strictly to one sort of verse, or stanza, in every Ode. That which will distinguish his style from all other poets, is the elegance of his words, and the numerousness of his verse. There is nothing so delicately turned in all the Roman language. There appears in every part of his diction, or (to speak English) in all his expressions, a kind of noble and bold purity. His words are chosen with as much exactness as Virgil's; but there seems to be a greater spirit in them. There is a secret happiness attends his choice, which in Petronius is called _curiosa felicitas_, and which I suppose he had from the _feliciter audere_ of Horace himself. But the most distinguishing part of all his character seems to me to be his briskness, his jollity, and his good humour; and those I have chiefly endeavoured to copy. His other excellencies, I confess, are above my imitation. One Ode, which infinitely pleased me in the reading, I have attempted to translate in Pindaric verse: it is that, which is inscribed to the present Earl of Rochester, to whom I have particular obligations, which this small testimony of my gratitude can never pay.[56] It is his darling in the Latin, and I have taken some pains to make it my master-piece in English; for which reason I took this kind of verse, which allows more latitude than any other.

Every one knows it was introduced into our language, in this age, by the happy genius of Mr Cowley. The seeming easiness of it has made it spread; but it has not been considered enough, to be so well cultivated. It languishes in almost every hand but his, and some very few, whom (to keep the rest in countenance) I do not name. He, indeed, has brought it as near perfection as was possible in so short a time. But, if I may be allowed to speak my mind modestly, and without injury to his sacred ashes, somewhat of the purity of English, somewhat of more equal thoughts, somewhat of sweetness in the numbers, in one word, somewhat of a finer turn, and more lyrical verse, is yet wanting. As for the soul of it, which consists in the warmth and vigour of fancy, the masterly figures, and the copiousness of imagination, he has excelled all others in this kind. Yet if the kind itself be capable of more perfection, though rather in the ornamental parts of it than the essential, what rules of morality or respect have I broken, in naming the defects, that they may hereafter be amended? Imitation is a nice point, and there are few poets who deserve to be models in all they write. Milton's "Paradise Lost" is admirable; but am I therefore bound to maintain, that there are no flats amongst his elevations, when it is evident he creeps along sometimes for above an hundred lines together? Cannot I admire the height of his invention, and the strength of his expression, without defending his antiquated words, and the perpetual harshness of their sound? It is as much commendation as a man can bear, to own him excellent; all beyond it is idolatry. Since Pindar was the prince of lyric poets, let me have leave to say, that, in imitating him, our numbers should, for the most part, be lyrical: for variety, or rather where the majesty of thought requires it, they may be stretched to the English heroick of five feet, and to the French Alexandrine of six. But the ear must preside, and direct the judgment to the choice of numbers. Without the nicety of this, the harmony of Pindaric verse can never be complete; the cadency of one line must be a rule to that of the next; and the sound of the former must slide gently into that which follows, without leaping from one extreme into another. It must be done like the shadowings of a picture, which fall by degrees into a darker colour. I shall be glad, if I have so explained myself as to be understood; but if I have not, _quod nequeo dicere, et sentio tantum_,[57] must be my excuse.

There remains much more to be said on this subject; but, to avoid envy, I will be silent. What I have said is the general opinion of the best judges, and in a manner has been forced from me, by seeing a noble sort of poetry so happily restored by one man, and so grossly copied by almost all the rest. A musical ear, and a great genius, if another Mr Cowley could arise in another age, may bring it to perfection. In the mean time,

----_fungar vice cotis, acutum Reddere quæ ferrum valet, expers ipsa secandi_.

I hope it will not be expected from me, that I should say any thing of my fellow undertakers in this Miscellany. Some of them are too nearly related to me, to be commended without suspicion of partiality;[58] others I am sure need it not; and the rest I have not perused.

To conclude, I am sensible that I have written this too hastily and too loosely; I fear I have been tedious, and, which is worse, it comes out from the first draught, and uncorrected. This I grant is no excuse; for it may be reasonably urged, why did he not write with more leisure, or, if he had it not, (which was certainly my case,) why did he attempt to write on so nice a subject? The objection is unanswerable; but, in part of recompence, let me assure the reader, that, in hasty productions, he is sure to meet with an author's present sense, which cooler thoughts would possibly have disguised. There is undoubtedly more of spirit, though not of judgment, in these uncorrect essays; and consequently, though my hazard be the greater, yet the reader's pleasure is not the less.

JOHN DRYDEN.

FOOTNOTES:

[47] Mainburg's "History of the League," translated by our author, at the command of Charles II.

[48] First published in 1680.

[49] Sir Peter Lely, by birth a Dutchman, came to England in 1641, and died in 1680. There is a remarkable similarity between his female portraits, which seems to have arisen from the circumstance mentioned by Dryden, of his bringing all his subjects as near as possible to his own idea of the beautiful. Pope's lines in his praise are too well known to be quoted.

[50] Annibale Caro died at Rome, 1566.

[51] He died in the year of Rome 699, before the commencement of the Augustan age.

[52] The celebrated Hobbes, who died in 1679.

[53] I wish our author had attended to his noble friend Roscommon's recommendation:

Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense; What moderate fop would range the Park, or stews, Who among troops of faultless nymphs might chuse?

[54] This error, however, went through the subsequent editions.

[55] Thomas Creech, a particular friend of our author. He was born in 1659, and in June 1700 committed suicide; for which rash action no adequate cause has been assigned. Besides the translation of Lucretius, which is his principal work, he executed an indifferent version of Horace, and translated parts of Theocritus, Ovid, Juvenal, Virgil, &c. In his translation of Lucretius, he omitted the indelicate part of the Fourth Book; a deficiency which Dryden thought fit to supply, for which he has above assigned some very inadequate reasons. Creech's Lucretius first appeared at Oxford, in 8vo, 1682, and was reprinted in the year following. The annotations, to which our author alludes a little lower, were originally attached to a Latin edition of Lucretius, superintended by Creech, and afterwards transferred to his English version. They display great learning, and an intimate acquaintance with the Epicurean philosophy.

[56] Our author, in the Dedication to "Cleomenes," compliments Lord Rochester on his power of critically understanding the beauties of Horace, and upon his particular affection for this particular Ode. See Vol. VIII. p. 193.

[57] Mr Malone has observed, that this quotation, as well as that which follows, is inaccurate; the words of Juvenal are, "nequeo _monstrare_, et sentio tantum."

[58] Dryden's son was amongst the contributors.

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

THEOCRITUS.

AMARYLLIS:

OR,

THE THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS, PARAPHRASED.[59]

To Amaryllis love compels my way, My browzing goats upon the mountains stray; O Tityrus, tend them well, and see them fed } In pastures fresh, and to their watering led; } And 'ware the ridgling with his budding head. } Ah, beauteous nymph! can you forget your love, The conscious grottos, and the shady grove, Where stretched at ease your tender limbs were laid, Your nameless beauties nakedly displayed? Then I was called your darling, your desire, With kisses such as set my soul on fire: But you are changed, yet I am still the same; My heart maintains for both a double flame, Grieved, but unmoved, and patient of your scorn; So faithful I, and you so much forsworn! I die, and death will finish all my pain; Yet, ere I die, behold me once again: Am I so much deformed, so changed of late? What partial judges are our love and hate! Ten wildings have I gathered for my dear; How ruddy, like your lips, their streaks appear! Far-off you viewed them with a longing eye Upon the topmost branch (the tree was high); Yet nimbly up, from bough to bough, I swerved,[60] And for to-morrow have ten more reserved. Look on me kindly, and some pity shew, Or give me leave at least to look on you. Some god transform me by his heavenly power, Even to a bee to buzz within your bower, The winding ivy-chaplet to invade, And folded fern, that your fair forehead shade. Now to my cost the force of love I find, The heavy hand it bears on human kind. The milk of tygers was his infant food, } Taught from his tender years the taste of blood; } His brother whelps and he ran wild about the wood. } Ah nymph, trained up in his tyrannic court, To make the sufferings of your slaves your sport! Unheeded ruin! treacherous delight! O polished hardness, softened to the sight! Whose radiant eyes your ebon brows adorn, Like midnight those, and these like break of morn! Smile once again, revive me with your charms, And let me die contented in your arms. I would not ask to live another day, Might I but sweetly kiss my soul away. Ah, why am I from empty joys debarred? For kisses are but empty when compared. I rave, and in my raging fit shall tear The garland, which I wove for you to wear, Of parsley, with a wreath of ivy bound, And bordered with a rosy edging round. What pangs I feel, unpitied and unheard! Since I must die, why is my fate deferred! I strip my body of my shepherd's frock; Behold that dreadful downfal of a rock, Where yon old fisher views the waves from high! 'Tis that convenient leap I mean to try. You would be pleased to see me plunge to shore, But better pleased if I should rise no more. I might have read my fortune long ago, When, seeking my success in love to know, I tried the infallible prophetic way, A poppy-leaf upon my palm to lay. I struck, and yet no lucky crack did follow; Yet I struck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow; And, which was worse, if any worse could prove, The withering leaf foreshowed your withering love. Yet farther,--ah, how far a lover dares! My last recourse I had to sieve and sheers, And told the witch Agreo my disease: (Agreo, that in harvest used to lease; But, harvest done, to chare-work did aspire; Meat, drink, and two-pence was her daily hire;) To work she went, her charms she muttered o'er, } And yet the resty sieve wagged ne'er the more; } I wept for woe, the testy beldame swore, } And, foaming with her God, foretold my fate, That I was doomed to love, and you to hate. A milk-white goat for you I did provide; Two milk-white kids run frisking by her side, For which the nut-brown lass, Erithacis, Full often offered many a savoury kiss. Hers they shall be, since you refuse the price; What madman would o'erstand his market twice! My right eye itches, some good-luck is near, } Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear; } I'll set up such a note as she shall hear. } What nymph but my melodious voice would move? She must be flint, if she refuse my love. Hippomenes, who ran with noble strife } To win his lady, or to lose his life, } (What shift some men will make to get a wife?) } Threw down a golden apple in her way; For all her haste, she could not choose but stay: Renown said, Run; the glittering bribe cried, Hold; The man might have been hanged, but for his gold. Yet some suppose 'twas love, (some few indeed!) That stopt the fatal fury of her speed: She saw, she sighed; her nimble feet refuse Their wonted speed, and she took pains to lose. A prophet some, and some a poet cry,[61] (No matter which, so neither of them lie,) From steepy Othry's top to Pylus drove His herd, and for his pains enjoyed his love. If such another wager should be laid, I'll find the man, if you can find the maid. Why name I men, when love extended finds His power on high, and in celestial minds? Venus the shepherd's homely habit took, And managed something else besides the crook; Nay, when Adonis died, was heard to roar, And never from her heart forgave the boar. How blest was fair Endymion with his moon, Who sleeps on Latmos' top from night to noon! What Jason from Medea's love possest, You shall not hear, but know 'tis like the rest. My aching head can scarce support the pain; This cursed love will surely turn my brain: Feel how it shoots, and yet you take no pity; Nay, then, 'tis time to end my doleful ditty. A clammy sweat does o'er my temples creep, My heavy eyes are urged with iron sleep; I lay me down to gasp my latest breath, The wolves will get a breakfast by my death; Yet scarce enough their hunger to supply, For love has made me carrion ere I die.

FOOTNOTES:

[59] This appeared in the First Miscellany.

[60] To swerve, as the word is here used, means to draw one's self up a tree by clinging round it with the legs and arms. It occurs in the old ballad of Sir Andrew Barton, where he sends one of his men aloft:

Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree, He swarved it with might and main.

_Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, Vol. II. p. 192

[61] Melampus, the son of Amythaon, was a prophet and physician. Tibullus cites him in the character of an augur:

—————_compertum est veracibus ut mihi signis, Queis Amythaonius nequeat certare Melampus._

As a physician, he discovered the use of hellebore; thence called Melampodium.

THE EPITHALAMIUM OF HELEN AND MENELAUS.

FROM THE EIGHTEENTH IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.[62]

Twelve Spartan virgins, noble, young, and fair, With violet wreaths adorned their flowing hair; And to the pompous palace did resort, Where Menelaus kept his royal court. There, hand in hand, a comely choir they led, } To sing a blessing to his nuptial bed, } With curious needles wrought, and painted flowers bespread. } Jove's beauteous daughter now his bride must be, And Jove himself was less a God than he; For this their artful hands instruct the lute to sound, Their feet assist their hands, and justly beat the ground. This was their song:--Why, happy bridegroom, why, Ere yet the stars are kindled in the sky, Ere twilight shades, or evening dews are shed, Why dost thou steal so soon away to bed? Has Somnus brushed thy eye-lids with his rod, } Or do thy legs refuse to bear their load, } With flowing bowls of a more generous god? } If gentle slumber on thy temples creep, (But, naughty man, thou dost not mean to sleep,) Betake thee to thy bed, thou drowzy drone, Sleep by thyself, and leave thy bride alone: Go, leave her with her maiden mates to play At sports more harmless till the break of day; Give us this evening; thou hast morn and night, And all the year before thee, for delight. O happy youth! to thee, among the crowd Of rival princes, Cupid sneezed aloud; And every lucky omen sent before, To meet thee landing on the Spartan shore. Of all our heroes, thou canst boast alone, That Jove, whene'er he thunders, calls thee son; Betwixt two sheets thou shalt enjoy her bare, } With whom no Grecian virgin can compare; } So soft, so sweet, so balmy, and so fair. } A boy, like thee, would make a kingly line; But oh, a girl like her must be divine. Her equals we in years, but not in face, Twelve score viragos of the Spartan race, While naked to Eurotas' banks we bend, And there in manly exercise contend, When she appears, are all eclipsed and lost, And hide the beauties that we made our boast. So, when the night and winter disappear, The purple morning, rising with the year, Salutes the spring, as her celestial eyes Adorn the world, and brighten all the skies; So beauteous Helen shines among the rest, Tall, slender, straight, with all the Graces blest. As pines the mountains, or as fields the corn, Or as Thessalian steeds the race adorn; So rosy-coloured Helen is the pride Of Lacedemon, and of Greece beside. Like her no nymph can willing osiers bend } In basket-works, which painted streaks commend; } With Pallas in the loom she may contend. } But none, ah! none can animate the lyre, And the mute strings with vocal souls inspire; Whether the learned Minerva be her theme, Or chaste Diana bathing in the stream, None can record their heavenly praise so well As Helen, in whose eyes ten thousand Cupids dwell. O fair, O graceful! yet with maids enrolled, But whom to-morrow's sun a matron shall behold! Yet ere to-morrow's sun shall show his head, } The dewy paths of meadows we will tread, } For crowns and chaplets to adorn thy head. } Where all shall weep, and wish for thy return, As bleating lambs their absent mother mourn. Our noblest maids shall to thy name bequeath The boughs of Lotos, formed into a wreath. This monument, thy maiden beauties due, High on a plane-tree shall be hung to view; On the smooth rind the passenger shall see Thy name engraved, and worship Helen's tree; Balm, from a silver-box distilled around, Shall all bedew the roots, and scent the sacred ground. The balm, 'tis true, can aged plants prolong, But Helen's name will keep it ever young. Hail bride, hail bridegroom, son-in-law to Jove! With fruitful joys Latona bless your love! Let Venus furnish you with full desires, Add vigour to your wills, and fuel to your fires! Almighty Jove augment your wealthy store, Give much to you, and to his grandsons more! From generous loins a generous race will spring, Each girl, like her, a queen; each boy, like you, a king. Now sleep, if sleep you can; but while you rest, Sleep close, with folded arms, and breast to breast. Rise in the morn; but oh! before you rise, Forget not to perform your morning sacrifice. We will be with you ere the crowing cock Salutes the light, and struts before his feathered flock. Hymen, oh Hymen, to thy triumphs run, And view the mighty spoils thou hast in battle won!

FOOTNOTES:

[62] This and the three following Idylliums were first published in the Second Miscellany.

THE DESPAIRING LOVER.

FROM THE TWENTY-THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

With inauspicious love, a wretched swain Pursued the fairest nymph of all the plain; Fairest indeed, but prouder far than fair, She plunged him hopeless in a deep despair: Her heavenly form too haughtily she prized, His person hated, and his gifts despised; Nor knew the force of Cupid's cruel darts, Nor feared his awful power on human hearts; But either from her hopeless lover fled, Or with disdainful glances shot him dead. No kiss, no look, to cheer the drooping boy, No word she spoke, she scorned even to deny; But, as a hunted panther casts about Her glaring eyes, and pricks her listening ears to scout; So she, to shun his toils, her cares employed, And fiercely in her savage freedom joyed. Her mouth she writhed, her forehead taught to frown, Her eyes to sparkle fires to love unknown; Her sallow cheeks her envious mind did shew, And every feature spoke aloud the curstness of a shrew. Yet could not he his obvious fate escape; His love still dressed her in a pleasing shape; And every sullen frown, and bitter scorn, But fanned the fuel that too fast did burn. Long time, unequal to his mighty pain, He strove to curb it, but he strove in vain; At last his woes broke out, and begged relief With tears, the dumb petitioners of grief; With tears so tender, as adorned his love, And any heart, but only hers, would move. Trembling before her bolted doors he stood, And there poured out the unprofitable flood; Staring his eyes, and hagard was his look; Then, kissing first the threshold, thus he spoke. Ah nymph, more cruel than of human race! Thy tygress heart belies thy angel face; Too well thou show'st thy pedigree from stone, Thy grandame's was the first by Pyrrha thrown; Unworthy thou to be so long desired; But so my love, and so my fate required. I beg not now (for 'tis in vain) to live; But take this gift, the last that I can give. This friendly cord shall soon decide the strife Betwixt my lingering love and loathsome life: This moment puts an end to all my pain; I shall no more despair, nor thou disdain. Farewell, ungrateful and unkind! I go Condemned by thee to those sad shades below. I go the extremest remedy to prove, To drink oblivion, and to drench my love: There happily to lose my long desires; But ah! what draught so deep to quench my fires? Farewell, ye never-opening gates, ye stones, And threshold guilty of my midnight moans! What I have suffered here ye know too well; What I shall do, the Gods and I can tell. The rose is fragrant, but it fades in time; The violet sweet, but quickly past the prime; White lilies hang their heads, and soon decay, And whiter snow in minutes melts away: Such is your blooming youth, and withering so; The time will come, it will, when you shall know The rage of love; your haughty heart shall burn In flames like mine, and meet a like return. Obdurate as you are, oh! hear at least My dying prayers, and grant my last request!-- When first you ope your doors, and, passing by, The sad ill-omened object meets your eye, Think it not lost a moment if you stay; The breathless wretch, so made by you, survey; Some cruel pleasure will from thence arise, To view the mighty ravage of your eyes. I wish (but oh! my wish is vain, I fear) The kind oblation of a falling tear. Then loose the knot, and take me from the place, And spread your mantle o'er my grisly face; Upon my livid lips bestow a kiss,-- O envy not the dead, they feel not bliss! Nor fear your kisses can restore my breath; Even you are not more pitiless than death. Then for my corpse a homely grave provide, Which love and me from public scorn may hide; Thrice call upon my name, thrice beat your breast, And hail me thrice to everlasting rest: Last, let my tomb this sad inscription bear;-- } "A wretch, whom love has killed, lies buried here; } "O passengers, Aminta's eyes beware." } Thus having said, and furious with his love, He heaved, with more than human force, to move A weighty stone, (the labour of a team,) And, raised from thence, he reached the neighbouring beam; Around its bulk a sliding knot he throws, And fitted to his neck the fatal noose; Then, spurning backward, took a swing, till death Crept up, and stopt the passage of his breath. The bounce burst ope the door; the scornful fair Relentless looked, and saw him beat his quivering feet in air; Nor wept his fate, nor cast a pitying eye, Nor took him down, but brushed regardless by; And, as she past, her chance or fate was such, Her garments touched the dead, polluted by the touch. Next to the dance, thence to the bath did move; The bath was sacred to the God of Love; Whose injured image, with a wrathful eye, Stood threatning from a pedestal on high. Nodding a while, and watchful of his blow, He fell, and, falling, crushed the ungrateful nymph below: Her gushing blood the pavement all besmeared; And this her last expiring voice was heard;-- "Lovers, farewell, revenge has reached my scorn; "Thus warned, be wise, and love for love return."

DAPHNIS AND CHLORIS.

FROM THE TWENTY SEVENTH IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

DAPHNIS.

The shepherd Paris bore the Spartan bride By force away, and then by force enjoyed; But I by free consent can boast a bliss, A fairer Helen, and a sweeter kiss.

CHLORIS.

Kisses are empty joys, and soon are o'er.

DAPHNIS.

A kiss betwixt the lips is something more.

CHLORIS.

I wipe my mouth, and where's your kissing then?

DAPHNIS.

I swear you wipe it to be kissed agen.

CHLORIS.

Go, tend your herd, and kiss your cows at home; I am a maid, and in my beauty's bloom.

DAPHNIS.

'Tis well remembered; do not waste your time, But wisely use it ere you pass your prime.

CHLORIS.

Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last, And raisins keep their luscious native taste.

DAPHNIS.

The sun's too hot; those olive shades are near; I fain would whisper something in your ear.

CHLORIS.

'Tis honest talking where we may be seen; } God knows what secret mischief you may mean; } I doubt you'll play the wag, and kiss again. }

DAPHNIS.

At least beneath yon elm you need not fear; My pipe's in tune, if you're disposed to hear.

CHLORIS.

Play by yourself, I dare not venture thither; You, and your naughty pipe, go hang together.

DAPHNIS.

Coy nymph, beware, lest Venus you offend.

CHLORIS.

I shall have chaste Diana still to friend.

DAPHNIS.

You have a soul, and Cupid has a dart.

CHLORIS.

Diana will defend, or heal my heart. Nay, fie, what mean you in this open place? Unhand me, or I swear I'll scratch your face. Let go for shame; you make me mad for spite; My mouth's my own; and, if you kiss, I'll bite.

DAPHNIS.

Away with your dissembling female tricks; What, would you 'scape the fate of all your sex?

CHLORIS.

I swear, I'll keep my maidenhead till death, And die as pure as queen Elizabeth.

DAPHNIS.

Nay, mum for that; but let me lay thee down; Better with me, than with some nauseous clown.

CHLORIS.

I'd have you know, if I were so inclined, } I have been woo'd by many a wealthy hind; } But never found a husband to my mind. }

DAPHNIS.

But they are absent all; and I am here. } } CHLORIS. } } The matrimonial yoke is hard to bear, } And marriage is a woeful word to hear. }

DAPHNIS.

A scarecrow, set to frighten fools away; Marriage has joys, and you shall have assay.

CHLORIS.

Sour sauce is often mixed with our delight; You kick by day more than you kiss by night.

DAPHNIS.

Sham stories all; but say the worst you can, A very wife fears neither God nor man.

CHLORIS.

But child-birth is, they say, a deadly pain; It costs at least a month to knit again.

DAPHNIS.

Diana cures the wounds Lucina made; Your goddess is a midwife by her trade.

CHLORIS.

But I shall spoil my beauty, if I bear.

DAPHNIS.

But Mam and Dad are pretty names to hear.

CHLORIS.

But there's a civil question used of late; Where lies my jointure, where your own estate?

DAPHNIS.

My flocks, my fields, my woods, my pastures take, With settlement as good as law can make.

CHLORIS.

Swear then you will not leave me on the common, But marry me, and make an honest woman.

DAPHNIS.

I swear by Pan, though he wears horns you'll say, Cudgelled and kicked, I'll not be forced away.

CHLORIS.

I bargain for a wedding-bed at least, A house, and handsome lodging for a guest.

DAPHNIS.

A house well furnished shall be thine to keep; And, for a flock-bed, I can sheer my sheep.

CHLORIS.

What tale shall I to my old father tell?

DAPHNIS.

'Twill make him chuckle thou'rt bestowed so well.

CHLORIS.

But, after all, in troth I am to blame To be so loving, ere I know your name; A pleasant sounding name's a pretty thing.

DAPHNIS.

Faith, mine's a very pretty name to sing. They call me Daphnis; Lycidas my sire; Both sound as well as woman can desire. Nomæa bore me; farmers in degree; He a good husband, a good housewife she.

CHLORIS.

Your kindred is not much amiss, 'tis true; Yet I am somewhat better born than you.

DAPHNIS.

I know your father, and his family; And, without boasting, am as good as he, Menalcas; and no master goes before.

CHLORIS.

Hang both our pedigrees! not one word more; But if you love me, let me see your living, Your house, and home; for seeing is believing.

DAPHNIS.

See first yon cypress grove, a shade from noon.

CHLORIS.

Browze on, my goats; for I'll be with you soon.

DAPHNIS.

Feed well, my bulls, to whet your appetite, That each may take a lusty leap at night.

CHLORIS.

What do you mean, uncivil as you are, To touch my breasts, and leave my bosom bare?

DAPHNIS.

These pretty bubbies, first, I make my own.

CHLORIS.

Pull out your hand, I swear, or I shall swoon.

DAPHNIS.

Why does thy ebbing blood forsake thy face?

CHLORIS.

Throw me at least upon a cleaner place; My linen ruffled, and my waistcoat soiling-- What, do you think new clothes were made for spoiling?

DAPHNIS.

I'll lay my lambkins underneath thy back.

CHLORIS.

My head-gear's off; what filthy work you make!

DAPHNIS.

To Venus, first, I lay these offerings by.

CHLORIS.

Nay, first look round, that nobody be nigh: Methinks I hear a whispering in the grove.

DAPHNIS.

The cypress trees are telling tales of love.

CHLORIS.

You tear off all behind me, and before me; And I'm as naked as my mother bore me.

DAPHNIS.

I'll buy thee better clothes than these I tear, And lie so close I'll cover thee from air.

CHLORIS.

You're liberal now; but when your turn is sped, You'll wish me choked with every crust of bread.

DAPHNIS.

I'll give thee more, much more than I have told; Would I could coin my very heart to gold!

CHLORIS.

Forgive thy handmaid, huntress of the wood! I see there's no resisting flesh and blood!

DAPHNIS.

The noble deed is done!--my herds I'll cull; Cupid, be thine a calf; and Venus, thine a bull.

CHLORIS.

A maid I came in an unlucky hour, But hence return without my virgin flower.

DAPHNIS.

A maid is but a barren name at best; If thou canst hold, I bid for twins at least. Thus did this happy pair their love dispense With mutual joys, and gratified their sense; The God of Love was there, a bidden guest, And present at his own mysterious feast. His azure mantle underneath he spread, And scattered roses on the nuptial bed; While folded in each other's arms they lay, } He blew the flames, and furnished out the play, } And from their foreheads wiped the balmy sweat away. } First rose the maid, and with a glowing face, Her downcast eyes beheld her print upon the grass; Thence to her herd she sped herself in haste: } The bridegroom started from his trance at last, } And piping homeward jocundly he past. }

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

LUCRETIUS.

THE BEGINNING OF THE FIRST BOOK OF LUCRETIUS.

Delight of human kind, and gods above, Parent of Rome, propitious Queen of Love! Whose vital power, air, earth, and sea supplies, And breeds whate'er is born beneath the rolling skies; For every kind, by thy prolific might, Springs, and beholds the regions of the light. Thee, goddess, thee the clouds and tempests fear, And at thy pleasing presence disappear; For thee the land in fragrant flowers is drest; } For thee the ocean smiles, and smooths her wavy breast, } And heaven itself with more serene and purer light is blest. } For, when the rising spring adorns the mead, And a new scene of nature stands displayed, When teeming buds, and cheerful greens appear, And western gales unlock the lazy year; The joyous birds thy welcome first express, Whose native songs thy genial fire confess; Then savage beasts bound o'er their slighted food, Struck with thy darts, and tempt the raging flood. All nature is thy gift; earth, air, and sea; Of all that breathes, the various progeny, Stung with delight, is goaded on by thee. O'er barren mountains, o'er the flowery plain, The leafy forest, and the liquid main, Extends thy uncontrouled and boundless reign; Through all the living regions dost thou move, And scatterest, where thou goest, the kindly seeds of love. Since, then, the race of every living thing Obeys thy power; since nothing new can spring Without thy warmth, without thy influence bear, Or beautiful, or lovesome can appear; Be thou my aid, my tuneful song inspire, And kindle with thy own productive fire; While all thy province, Nature, I survey, } And sing to Memmius an immortal lay } Of heaven and earth, and every where thy wondrous power display: } To Memmius, under thy sweet influence born, Whom thou with all thy gifts and graces dost adorn. The rather then assist my Muse and me, Infusing verses worthy him and thee. Mean time on land and sea let barbarous discord cease, And lull the listning world in universal peace. To thee mankind their soft repose must owe, For thou alone that blessing canst bestow; Because the brutal business of the war Is managed by thy dreadful servant's care; Who oft retires from fighting fields, to prove The pleasing pains of thy eternal love; And, panting on thy breast, supinely lies, While with thy heavenly form he feeds his famished eyes; Sucks in with open lips thy balmy breath, By turns restored to life, and plunged in pleasing death. There while thy curling limbs about him move, Involved and fettered in the links of love, When, wishing all, he nothing can deny, Thy charms in that auspicious moment try; With winning eloquence our peace implore, And quiet to the weary world restore.

THE BEGINNING OF

THE SECOND BOOK OF LUCRETIUS.

'Tis pleasant, safely to behold from shore The rolling ship, and hear the tempest roar; Not that another's pain is our delight, But pains unfelt produce the pleasing sight. 'Tis pleasant also to behold from far The moving legions mingled in the war; But much more sweet thy labouring steps to guide } To virtue's heights, with wisdom well supplied, } And all the magazines of learning fortified; } From thence to look below on human kind, Bewildered in the maze of life, and blind; To see vain fools ambitiously contend For wit and power; their last endeavours bend To outshine each other, waste their time and health In search of honour, and pursuit of wealth. O wretched man! in what a mist of life, Inclosed with dangers and with noisy strife, He spends his little span; and overfeeds His crammed desires, with more than nature needs! For nature wisely stints our appetite, And craves no more than undisturbed delight; Which minds, unmixed with cares and fears, obtain; A soul serene, a body void of pain. So little this corporeal frame requires, So bounded are our natural desires, That wanting all, and setting pain aside, With bare privation sense is satisfied. If golden sconces hang not on the walls, To light the costly suppers and the balls; If the proud palace shines not with the state Of burnished bowls, and of reflected plate; If well-tuned harps, nor the more pleasing sound Of voices, from the vaulted roofs rebound; Yet on the grass, beneath a poplar shade, By the cool stream, our careless limbs are laid; With cheaper pleasures innocently blest, When the warm spring with gaudy flowers is drest. Nor will the raging fever's fire abate, With golden canopies and beds of state; But the poor patient will as soon be sound On the hard mattress, or the mother ground. Then since our bodies are not eased the more By birth, or power, or fortune's wealthy store, 'Tis plain, these useless toys of every kind As little can relieve the labouring mind; Unless we could suppose the dreadful sight Of marshalled legions moving to the fight, Could, with their sound and terrible array, Expel our fears, and drive the thoughts of death away. But, since the supposition vain appears, Since clinging cares, and trains of inbred fears, Are not with sounds to be affrighted thence, But in the midst of pomp pursue the prince, Not awed by arms, but in the presence bold, Without respect to purple, or to gold; Why should not we these pageantries despise, Whose worth but in our want of reason lies? For life is all in wandering errors led; And just as children are surprised with dread, And tremble in the dark, so riper years, Even in broad day-light, are possessed with fears, And shake at shadows fanciful and vain, As those which in the breasts of children reign. These bugbears of the mind, this inward hell, No rays of outward sunshine can dispel; But nature and right reason must display Their beams abroad, and bring the darksome soul to-day.

THE LATTER PART OF

THE THIRD BOOK OF LUCRETIUS.

AGAINST THE FEAR OF DEATH.

What has this bugbear, death, to frighten men, If souls can die, as well as bodies can? For, as before our birth we felt no pain, When Punic arms infested land and main, When heaven and earth were in confusion hurled, For the debated empire of the world, Which awed with dreadful expectation lay, Sure to be slaves, uncertain who should sway: So, when our mortal flame shall be disjoined, The lifeless lump uncoupled from the mind, From sense of grief and pain we shall be free; We shall not feel, because we shall not be. Though earth in seas, and seas in heaven were lost, We should not move, we only should be tost. Nay, even suppose, when we have suffered fate, The soul could feel in her divided state. What's that to us? for we are only we, While souls and bodies in one frame agree. Nay, though our atoms should revolve by chance, And matter leap into the former dance; Though time our life and motion could restore, And make our bodies what they were before; What gain to us would all this bustle bring? The new-made man would be another thing. When once an interrupting pause is made, That individual being is decayed. We, who are dead and gone, shall bear no part In all the pleasures, nor shall feel the smart, Which to that other mortal shall accrue, Whom of our matter time shall mould anew. For backward if you look on that long space Of ages past, and view the changing face Of matter, tost, and variously combined In sundry shapes, 'tis easy for the mind From thence to infer, that seeds of things have been In the same order as they now are seen; Which yet our dark remembrance cannot trace, Because a pause of life, a gaping space, Has come betwixt, where memory lies dead, And all the wandering motions from the sense are fled. For, whosoe'er shall in misfortunes live, Must _be_, when those misfortunes shall arrive; And since the man who _is_ not, feels not woe, (For death exempts him, and wards off the blow, Which we, the living, only feel and bear,) What is there left for us in death to fear? When once that pause of life has come between, 'Tis just the same as we had never been. And, therefore, if a man bemoan his lot, That after death his mouldering limbs shall rot, Or flames, or jaws of beasts devour his mass, Know, he's an unsincere, unthinking ass. A secret sting remains within his mind; The fool is to his own cast offals kind. He boasts no sense can after death remain; } Yet makes himself a part of life again, } As if some other _he_ could feel the pain. } If, while we live, this thought molest his head, What wolf or vulture shall devour me dead? He wastes his days in idle grief, nor can Distinguish 'twixt the body and the man; But thinks himself can still himself survive, And, what when dead he feels not, feels alive. Then he repines that he was born to die, Nor knows in death there is no other _he_, No living _he_ remains his grief to vent, And o'er his senseless carcase to lament. If, after death, 'tis painful to be torn By birds, and beasts, then why not so to burn, Or drenched in floods of honey to be soaked, Embalmed to be at once preserved and choked; Or on an airy mountain's top to lie, Exposed to cold and heaven's inclemency; Or crowded in a tomb, to be opprest With monumental marble on thy breast? But to be snatched from all the household joys, From thy chaste wife, and thy dear prattling boys, Whose little arms about thy legs are cast, And climbing for a kiss prevent their mother's haste, Inspiring secret pleasure through thy breast; Ah! these shall be no more; thy friends opprest Thy care and courage now no more shall free; Ah! wretch, thou criest, ah! miserable me! One woeful day sweeps children, friends, and wife, And all the brittle blessings of my life! Add one thing more, and all thou say'st is true; Thy want and wish of them is vanished too; Which, well considered, were a quick relief To all thy vain imaginary grief: For thou shalt sleep, and never wake again, And, quitting life, shall quit thy loving pain. But we, thy friends, shall all those sorrows find, } Which in forgetful death thou leav'st behind; } No time shall dry our tears, nor drive thee from out mind. } The worst that can befal thee, measured right, Is a sound slumber, and a long good-night. Yet thus the fools, that would be thought the wits, Disturb their mirth with melancholy fits; When healths go round, and kindly brimmers flow, Till the fresh garlands on their foreheads glow, They whine, and cry, let us make haste to live, Short are the joys that human life can give. Eternal preachers, that corrupt the draught, And pall the god, that never thinks, with thought; Idiots with all that thought, to whom the worst Of death, is want of drink, and endless thirst, Or any fond desire as vain as these. For, even in sleep, the body, wrapt in ease, Supinely lies, as in the peaceful grave; And, wanting nothing, nothing can it crave. Were that sound sleep eternal, it were death; Yet the first atoms then, the seeds of breath, Are moving near to sense; we do but shake And rouse that sense, and straight we are awake. Then death to us, and death's anxiety, Is less than nothing, if a less could be; For then our atoms, which in order lay, Are scattered from their heap, and puffed away, And never can return into their place, When once the pause of life has left an empty space. And, last, suppose great Nature's voice should call To thee, or me, or any of us all,-- What dost thou mean, ungrateful wretch, thou vain, Thou mortal thing, thus idly to complain, And sigh and sob, that thou shalt be no more? For, if thy life were pleasant heretofore, If all the bounteous blessings I could give } Thou hast enjoyed, if thou hast known to live, } And pleasure not leaked through thee like a sieve; } Why dost thou not give thanks as at a plenteous feast, Crammed to the throat with life, and rise and take thy rest? But, if my blessings thou hast thrown away, If undigested joys passed through, and would not stay, Why dost thou wish for more to squander still? If life be grown a load, a real ill, And I would all thy cares and labours end, Lay down thy burden, fool, and know thy friend. To please thee, I have emptied all my store; } I can invent, and can supply no more, } But run the round again, the round I ran before. } Suppose thou art not broken yet with years, Yet still the self-same scene of things appears, And would be ever, couldst thou ever live; For life is still but life, there's nothing new to give. What can we plead against so just a bill? We stand convicted, and our cause goes ill. But if a wretch, a man oppressed by fate, Should beg of nature to prolong his date, She speaks aloud to him with more disdain,-- Be still, thou martyr fool, thou covetous of pain. But if an old decrepit sot lament,-- What, thou! she cries, who hast outlived content! Dost thou complain, who hast enjoyed my store? But this is still the effect of wishing more. Unsatisfied with all that nature brings; Loathing the present, liking absent things; From hence it comes, thy vain desires, at strife Within themselves, have tantalized thy life, And ghastly death appeared before thy sight, Ere thou hast gorged thy soul and senses with delight. Now leave those joys, unsuiting to thy age, To a fresh comer, and resign the stage.-- Is Nature to be blamed if thus she chide? No, sure; for 'tis her business to provide Against this ever-changing frame's decay, New things to come, and old to pass away. One being, worn, another being makes; Changed, but not lost; for nature gives and takes: New matter must be found for things to come, And these must waste like those, and follow nature's doom. All things, like thee, have time to rise and rot, And from each other's ruin are begot: For life is not confined to him or thee; 'Tis given to all for use, to none for property. Consider former ages past and gone, Whose circles ended long ere thine begun, Then tell me, fool, what part in them thou hast? Thus may'st thou judge the future by the past. What horror seest thou in that quiet state, What bugbear dreams to fright thee after fate? No ghost, no goblins, that still passage keep; But all is there serene, in that eternal sleep. For all the dismal tales, that poets tell, Are verified on earth, and not in hell. No Tantalus looks up with fearful eye, Or dreads the impending rock to crush him from on high; But fear of chance on earth disturbs our easy hours, Or vain imagined wrath of vain imagined powers. No Tityus torn by vultures lies in hell; } Nor could the lobes of his rank liver swell } To that prodigious mass, for their eternal meal; } Not though his monstrous bulk had covered o'er } Nine spreading acres, or nine thousand more; } Not though the globe of earth had been the giant's floor; } Nor in eternal torments could he lie, Nor could his corpse sufficient food supply. But he's the Tityus, who, by love opprest, } Or tyrant passion preying on his breast, } And ever anxious thoughts, is robbed of rest. } The Sisyphus is he, whom noise and strife Seduce from all the soft retreats of life, To vex the government, disturb the laws; Drunk with the fumes of popular applause, He courts the giddy crowd to make him great, And sweats and toils in vain, to mount the sovereign seat. For, still to aim at power, and still to fail, Ever to strive, and never to prevail, What is it, but, in reason's true account, To heave the stone against the rising mount? Which urged, and laboured, and forced up with pain, Recoils, and rolls impetuous down, and smokes along the plain. Then, still to treat thy ever-craving mind With every blessing, and of every kind, Yet never fill thy ravening appetite, Though years and seasons vary thy delight, Yet nothing to be seen of all the store, But still the wolf within thee barks for more; This is the fable's moral, which they tell Of fifty foolish virgins damned in hell To leaky vessels, which the liquor spill; To vessels of their sex, which none could ever fill. As for the dog, the furies, and their snakes, The gloomy caverns, and the burning lakes, And all the vain infernal trumpery, They neither are, nor were, nor e'er can be. But here, on earth, the guilty have in view The mighty pains to mighty mischiefs due; Racks, prisons, poisons, the Tarpeian rock, Stripes, hangmen, pitch, and suffocating smoke; And last, and most, if these were cast behind, The avenging horror of a conscious mind; Whose deadly fear anticipates the blow, And sees no end of punishment and woe, But looks for more, at the last gasp of breath; This makes an hell on earth, and life a death. Meantime, when thoughts of death disturb thy head, Consider, Ancus, great and good, is dead; Ancus, thy better far, was born to die, And thou, dost thou bewail mortality? So many monarchs with their mighty state, Who ruled the world, were over-ruled by fate. That haughty king, who lorded o'er the main, And whose stupendous bridge did the wild waves restrain, (In vain they foamed, in vain they threatened wreck, While his proud legions marched upon their back,) Him death, a greater monarch, overcame; Nor spared his guards the more, for their immortal name. The Roman chief, the Carthaginian dread, } Scipio, the thunder bolt of war, is dead, } And, like a common slave, by fate in triumph led. } The founders of invented arts are lost, And wits, who made eternity their boast. Where now is Homer, who possessed the throne? The immortal work remains, the immortal author's gone. Democritus, perceiving age invade, His body weakened, and his mind decayed, Obeyed the summons with a cheerful face; Made haste to welcome death, and met him half the race. That stroke even Epicurus could not bar, } Though he in wit surpassed mankind, as far } As does the mid-day sun the midnight star. } And thou, dost thou disdain to yield thy breath, Whose very life is little more than death? More than one half by lazy sleep possest; } And when awake, thy soul but nods at best, } Day-dreams and sickly thoughts revolving in thy breast } Eternal troubles haunt thy anxious mind, Whose cause and cure thou never hop'st to find; But still uncertain, with thyself at strife, Thou wanderest in the labyrinth of life. O, if the foolish race of man, who find A weight of cares still pressing on their mind, Could find as well the cause of this unrest, And all this burden lodged within the breast; Sure they would change their course, nor live as now, Uncertain what to wish, or what to vow. Uneasy both in country and in town, They search a place to lay their burden down. One, restless in his palace, walks abroad, And vainly thinks to leave behind the load, But strait returns; for he's as restless there, And finds there's no relief in open air. Another to his villa would retire, And spurs as hard as if it were on fire; No sooner entered at his country door, } But he begins to stretch, and yawn, and snore, } Or seeks the city, which he left before } Thus every man o'erworks his weary will, } To shun himself, and to shake off his ill; } The shaking fit returns, and hangs upon him still. } No prospect of repose, nor hope of ease, The wretch is ignorant of his disease; Which, known, would all his fruitless trouble spare, For he would know the world not worth his care: Then would he search more deeply for the cause, And study nature well, and nature's laws; For in this moment lies not the debate, But on our future, fixed, eternal state; That never-changing state, which all must keep, Whom death has doomed to everlasting sleep. Why are we then so fond of mortal life, Beset with dangers, and maintained with strife? A life, which all our care can never save; One fate attends us, and one common grave. Besides, we tread but a perpetual round; } We ne'er strike out, but beat the former ground, } And the same maukish joys in the same track are found. } For still we think an absent blessing best, } Which cloys, and is no blessing when possest; } A new arising wish expels it from the breast. } The feverish thirst of life increases still; We call for more and more, and never have our fill; Yet know not what to-morrow we shall try, What dregs of life in the last draught may lie. Nor, by the longest life we can attain, } One moment from the length of death we gain; } For all behind belongs to his eternal reign. } When once the fates have cut the mortal thread, The man as much to all intents is dead, Who dies to-day, and will as long be so, As he who died a thousand years ago.

THE LATTER PART OF

THE FOURTH BOOK OF LUCRETIUS;

CONCERNING THE NATURE OF LOVE.

BEGINNING AT THIS LINE:

_Sic igitur Veneris qui telis accipit ictum, &c._

Thus, therefore, he, who feels the fiery dart Of strong desire transfix his amorous heart, Whether some beauteous boy's alluring face, Or lovelier maid, with unresisting grace, From her each part the winged arrow sends, From whence he first was struck he thither tends; Restless he roams, impatient to be freed, And eager to inject the sprightly seed; For fierce desire does all his mind employ, And ardent love assures approaching joy. Such is the nature of that pleasing smart, Whose burning drops distil upon the heart, The fever of the soul shot from the fair, And the cold ague of succeeding care. If absent, her idea still appears, And her sweet name is chiming in your ears. But strive those pleasing phantoms to remove, And shun the aërial images of love, That feed the flame: when one molests thy mind, Discharge thy loins on all the leaky kind; For that's a wiser way, than to restrain Within thy swelling nerves that hoard of pain. For every hour some deadlier symptom shews, And by delay the gathering venom grows, When kindly applications are not used; The scorpion, love, must on the wound be bruised. On that one object 'tis not safe to stay, But force the tide of thought some other way; The squandered spirits prodigally throw, And in the common glebe of nature sow. Nor wants he all the bliss that lovers feign, Who takes the pleasure, and avoids the pain; For purer joys in purer health abound, And less affect the sickly than the sound. When love its utmost vigour does employ, Even then 'tis but a restless wandering joy; Nor knows the lover in that wild excess, With hands or eyes, what first he would possess; But strains at all, and, fastening where he strains, Too closely presses with his frantic pains; With biting kisses hurts the twining fair, Which shews his joys imperfect, insincere: For, stung with inward rage, he flings around, And strives to avenge the smart on that which gave the wound. But love those eager bitings does restrain, And mingling pleasure mollifies the pain. For ardent hope still flatters anxious grief, And sends him to his foe to seek relief: Which yet the nature of the thing denies; For love, and love alone of all our joys, By full possession does but fan the fire; The more we still enjoy, the more we still desire. Nature for meat and drink provides a space, And, when received, they fill their certain place; Hence thirst and hunger may be satisfied, But this repletion is to love denied: Form, feature, colour, whatsoe'er delight Provokes the lover's endless appetite, These fill no space, nor can we thence remove With lips, or hands, or all our instruments of love: In our deluded grasp we nothing find, But thin aërial shapes, that fleet before the mind. As he, who in a dream with drought is curst, And finds no real drink to quench his thirst, Runs to imagined lakes his heat to steep, And vainly swills and labours in his sleep; So love with phantoms cheats our longing eyes, Which hourly seeing never satisfies: Our hands pull nothing from the parts they strain, But wander o'er the lovely limbs in vain. Nor when the youthful pair more closely join, When hands in hands they lock, and thighs in thighs they twine, Just in the raging foam of full desire, When both press on, both murmur, both expire, They gripe, they squeeze, their humid tongues they dart, As each would force their way to t'other's heart: In vain; they only cruize about the coast; For bodies cannot pierce, nor be in bodies lost, As sure they strive to be, when both engage In that tumultuous momentary rage; So tangled in the nets of love they lie, Till man dissolves in that excess of joy. Then, when the gathered bag has burst its way, And ebbing tides the slackened nerves betray, A pause ensues; and nature nods awhile, Till with recruited rage new spirits boil; And then the same vain violence returns, With flames renewed the erected furnace burns; Again they in each other would be lost, But still by adamantine bars are crost. All ways they try, successless all they prove, To cure the secret sore of lingering love. Besides---- They waste their strength in the venereal strife, And to a woman's will enslave their life; The estate runs out, and mortgages are made, } All offices of friendship are decayed, } Their fortune ruined, and their fame betrayed. } Assyrian ointment from their temples flows, And diamond buckles sparkle in their shoes; The cheerful emerald twinkles on their hands, With all the luxury of foreign lands; And the blue coat, that with embroidery shines, Is drunk with sweat of their o'er-laboured loins. Their frugal father's gains they misemploy, And turn to point, and pearl, and every female toy. French fashions, costly treats are their delight; The park by day, and plays and balls by night. In vain;---- For in the fountain, where their sweets are sought, Some bitter bubbles up, and poisons all the draught. First, guilty conscience does the mirror bring, Then sharp remorse shoots out her angry sting; And anxious thoughts, within themselves at strife, Upbraid the long mispent, luxurious life. Perhaps, the fickle fair-one proves unkind, } Or drops a doubtful word, that pains his mind, } And leaves a rankling jealousy behind. } Perhaps, he watches close her amorous eyes, And in the act of ogling does surprise, And thinks he sees upon her cheeks the while } The dimpled tracks of some foregoing smile; } His raging pulse beats thick, and his pent spirits boil. } This is the product e'en of prosperous love; Think then what pangs disastrous passions prove; Innumerable ills; disdain, despair, With all the meagre family of care. Thus, as I said, 'tis better to prevent, Than flatter the disease, and late repent; Because to shun the allurement is not hard To minds resolved, forewarned, and well prepared; But wonderous difficult, when once beset, To struggle through the straits, and break the involving net. Yet, thus ensnared, thy freedom thou may'st gain, If, like a fool, thou dost not hug thy chain; If not to ruin obstinately blind, } And wilfully endeavouring not to find } Her plain defects of body and of mind. } For thus the Bedlam train of lovers use To enhance the value, and the faults excuse; And therefore 'tis no wonder if we see They doat on dowdies and deformity. Even what they cannot praise, they will not blame, But veil with some extenuating name. The sallow skin is for the swarthy put, And love can make a slattern of a slut; If cat-eyed, then a Pallas is their love; If freckled, she's a party-coloured dove; If little, then she's life and soul all o'er; An Amazon, the large two-handed whore. She stammers; oh what grace in lisping lies! If she says nothing, to be sure she's wise. If shrill, and with a voice to drown a quire, Sharp-witted she must be, and full of fire; The lean, consumptive wench, with coughs decayed, Is called a pretty, tight, and slender maid; The o'er-grown, a goodly Ceres is exprest, A bedfellow for Bacchus at the least; Flat-nose the name of Satyr never misses, And hanging blobber lips but pout for kisses. The task were endless all the rest to trace; Yet grant she were a Venus for her face And shape, yet others equal beauty share, And time was you could live without the fair; She does no more, in that for which you woo, Than homelier women full as well can do. Besides, she daubs, and stinks so much of paint, Her own attendants cannot bear the scent, But laugh behind, and bite their lips to hold. Meantime, excluded, and exposed to cold, The whining lover stands before the gates, And there with humble adoration waits; Crowning with flowers the threshold and the floor, And printing kisses on the obdurate door; Who, if admitted in that nick of time, If some unsavoury whiff betray the crime, Invents a quarrel straight, if there be none, Or makes some faint excuses to be gone; And calls himself a doating fool to serve, Ascribing more than woman can deserve. Which well they understand, like cunning queans, And hide their nastiness behind the scenes, From him they have allured, and would retain; But to a piercing eye 'tis all in vain: For common sense brings all their cheats to view, And the false light discovers by the true; Which a wise harlot owns, and hopes to find A pardon for defects, that run through all the kind. Nor always do they feign the sweets of love, When round the panting youth their pliant limbs they move. And cling, and heave and moisten every kiss; They often share, and more than share the bliss: From every part, even to their inmost soul, They feel the trickling joys, and run with vigour to the goal. Stirred with the same impetuous desire, Birds, beasts, and herds, and mares, their males require; Because the throbbing nature in their veins Provokes them to assuage their kindly pains. The lusty leap the expecting female stands, By mutual heat compelled to mutual bands. Thus dogs with lolling tongues by love are tied, Nor shouting boys nor blows their union can divide; At either end they strive the link to loose, In vain, for stronger Venus holds the noose; Which never would those wretched lovers do, } But that the common heats of love they know; } The pleasure therefore must be shared in common too: } And when the woman's more prevailing juice Sucks in the man's, the mixture will produce The mother's likeness; when the man prevails, His own resemblance in the seed he seals. But when we see the new-begotten race Reflect the features of each parent's face, Then of the father's and the mother's blood The justly tempered seed is understood; When both conspire, with equal ardour bent, From every limb the due proportion sent, When neither party foils, when neither foiled, This gives the splendid features of the child. Sometimes the boy the grandsire's image bears; Sometimes the more remote progenitor he shares; Because the genial atoms of the seed Lie long concealed ere they exert the breed; And, after sundry ages past, produce The tardy likeness of the latent juice. Hence, families such different figures take, And represent their ancestors in face, and hair, and make; Because of the same seed, the voice, and hair, } And shape, and face, and other members are, } And the same antique mould the likeness does prepare. } Thus, oft the father's likeness does prevail In females, and the mother's in the male; For, since the seed is of a double kind, From that, where we the most resemblance find, We may conclude the strongest tincture sent, And that was in conception prevalent. Nor can the vain decrees of powers above Deny production to the act of love, Or hinder fathers of that happy name, Or with a barren womb the matron shame; As many think, who stain with victims blood The mournful altars, and with incense load, To bless the showery seed with future life, And to impregnate the well-laboured wife. In vain they weary heaven with prayer, or fly To oracles, or magic numbers try; For barrenness of sexes will proceed Either from too condensed, or watery, seed: The watery juice too soon dissolves away, And in the parts projected will not stay; The too condensed, unsouled, unwieldy mass, Drops short, nor carries to the destined place; Nor pierces to the parts, nor, though injected home, Will mingle with the kindly moisture of the womb. For nuptials are unlike in their success; Some men with fruitful seed some women bless, And from some men some women fruitful are, Just as their constitutions join or jar: And many seeming barren wives have been, Who after, matched with more prolific men, Have filled a family with prattling boys; And many, not supplied at home with joys, Have found a friend abroad to ease their smart, And to perform the sapless husband's part. So much it does import, that seed with seed Should of the kindly mixture make the breed; And thick with thin, and thin with thick should join, So to produce and propagate the line. Of such concernment too is drink and food, To incrassate, or attenuate the blood. Of like importance is the posture too, In which the genial feat of love we do; For, as the females of the four-foot kind Receive the leapings of their males behind, So the good wives, with loins uplifted high, And leaning on their hands, the fruitful stroke may try: For in that posture will they best conceive; Not when, supinely laid, they frisk and heave; For active motions only break the blow, } And more of strumpets than the wives they show, } When, answering stroke with stroke, the mingled liquors flow. } Endearments eager, and too brisk a bound, Throw off the plow-share from the furrowed ground; But common harlots in conjunction heave, Because 'tis less their business to conceive, Than to delight, and to provoke the deed; A trick which honest wives but little need. Nor is it from the gods, or Cupid's dart, That many a homely woman takes the heart, But wives well-humoured, dutiful, and chaste, } And clean, will hold their wandering husbands fast; } Such are the links of love, and such a love will last. } For what remains, long habitude, and use, Will kindness in domestic bands produce; For custom will a strong impression leave. Hard bodies, which the lightest stroke receive, In length of time will moulder and decay, And stones with drops of rain are washed away.

FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF LUCRETIUS.

_Tum porrò puer, &c._

Thus, like a sailor by a tempest hurled Ashore, the babe is shipwrecked on the world. Naked he lies, and ready to expire, Helpless of all that human wants require; Exposed upon unhospitable earth, From the first moment of his hapless birth. Straight with foreboding cries he fills the room, Too true presages of his future doom. But flocks and herds, and every savage beast, By more indulgent nature are increased: They want no rattles for their froward mood, Nor nurse to reconcile them to their food, With broken words; nor winter blasts they fear, Nor change their habits with the changing year; Nor, for their safety, citadels prepare, Nor forge the wicked instruments of war; Unlaboured earth her bounteous treasure grants, And Nature's lavish hand supplies their common wants.

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

HORACE.

THE THIRD ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

INSCRIBED TO

THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON,

ON HIS INTENDED VOYAGE TO IRELAND.[63]

So may the auspicious queen of love, And the twin stars, the seed of Jove, And he who rules the raging wind, To thee, O sacred ship, be kind; And gentle breezes fill thy sails, Supplying soft Etesian gales; As thou, to whom the Muse commends The best of poets and of friends, Dost thy committed pledge restore, And land him safely on the shore; And save the better part of me, From perishing with him at sea. Sure he, who first the passage tried, } In hardened oak his heart did hide, } And ribs of iron armed his side; } Or his at least, in hollow wood, Who tempted first the briny flood; Nor feared the winds' contending roar, Nor billows beating on the shore, Nor Hyades portending rain, Nor all the tyrants of the main. What form of death could him affright, Who unconcerned, with stedfast sight, Could view the surges mounting steep, And monsters rolling in the deep! Could through the ranks of ruin go, With storms above, and rocks below! In vain did Nature's wise command Divide the waters from the land, If daring ships and men prophane Invade the inviolable main; The eternal fences over-leap, And pass at will the boundless deep. No toil, no hardship, can restrain Ambitious man, inured to pain; The more confined, the more he tries, And at forbidden quarry flies. Thus bold Prometheus did aspire, And stole from Heaven the seeds of fire: A train of ills, a ghastly crew, The robber's blazing track pursue; Fierce famine with her meagre face, And fevers of the fiery race, In swarms the offending wretch surround, All brooding on the blasted ground; And limping death, lashed on by fate, Comes up to shorten half our date. This made not Dædalus beware, With borrowed wings to sail in air; To hell Alcides forced his way, Plunged through the lake, and snatched the prey. Nay, scarce the gods, or heavenly climes, Are safe from our audacious crimes; We reach at Jove's imperial crown, And pull the unwilling thunder down.

FOOTNOTES:

[63] Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, an elegant poet and accomplished nobleman, was created captain of the band of pensioners after the Restoration, and made a considerable figure at the court of Charles II. But, having injured his fortune by gaming, and being engaged in a lawsuit with the Lord Privy Seal concerning a considerable part of his estate, he found himself obliged to retire to Ireland, and resigned his post at the English court. After having resided some years in that kingdom, where he enjoyed the post of captain of the guards to the Duke of Ormond, he returned to England, where he died in 1684. Besides the ode which follows, there are several traces through Dryden's works of his intimacy with Roscommon.

THE NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

I.

Behold yon mountain's hoary height, Made higher with new mounts of snow; Again behold the winter's weight Oppress the labouring woods below; And streams, with icy fetters bound, Benumbed and crampt to solid ground.

II.

With well-heaped logs dissolve the cold, And feed the genial hearth with fires; Produce the wine, that makes us bold, And sprightly wit and love inspires: For what hereafter shall betide, God, if 'tis worth his care, provide.

III.

Let him alone, with what he made, To toss and turn the world below; At his command the storms invade, The winds by his commission blow; Till with a nod he bids them cease, And then the calm returns, and all is peace.

IV.

To-morrow and her works defy, Lay hold upon the present hour, And snatch the pleasures passing by, To put them out of fortune's power: Nor love, nor love's delights, disdain; Whate'er thou get'st to-day, is gain.

V.

Secure those golden early joys, That youth unsoured with sorrow bears, Ere withering time the taste destroys, With sickness and unwieldy years. For active sports, for pleasing rest, } This is the time to be possest; } The best is but in season best. }

VI.

The appointed hour of promised bliss, The pleasing whisper in the dark, The half unwilling willing kiss, The laugh that guides thee to the mark; When the kind nymph would coyness feign, } And hides but to be found again; } These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain. }

THE TWENTY-NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

PARAPHRASED IN PINDARIC VERSE, AND INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. LAURENCE, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

I.

Descended of an ancient line, That long the Tuscan sceptre swayed, Make haste to meet the generous wine, Whose piercing is for thee delayed: The rosy wreath is ready made, And artful hands prepare The fragrant Syrian oil, that shall perfume thy hair.

II.

When the wine sparkles from afar, And the well-natured friend cries, "Come away!" Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care, No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.

III.

Leave for a while thy costly country seat, And, to be great indeed, forget The nauseous pleasures of the great: Make haste and come; Come, and forsake thy cloying store; Thy turret, that surveys, from high, The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome, And all the busy pageantry That wise men scorn, and fools adore; Come, give thy soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the poor.

IV.

Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try A short vicissitude, and fit of poverty: A savoury dish, a homely treat, Where all is plain, where all is neat, Without the stately spacious room, The Persian carpet, or the Tyrian loom, Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.

V.

The sun is in the Lion mounted high; The Syrian star Barks from afar, And with his sultry breath infects the sky; The ground below is parched, the heavens above us fry: The shepherd drives his fainting flock Beneath the covert of a rock, And seeks refreshing rivulets nigh: The Sylvans to their shades retire, Those very shades and streams new shades and streams require, And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire.

VI.

Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor,[64] And what the city factions dare, And what the Gallic arms will do, And what the quiver-bearing foe, Art anxiously inquisitive to know: But God has, wisely, hid from human sight The dark decrees of future fate, And sown their seeds in depth of night; He laughs at all the giddy turns of state, When mortals search too soon, and fear too late.

VII.

Enjoy the present smiling hour, And put it out of fortune's power; The tide of business, like the running stream, Is sometimes high, and sometimes low, A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow, And always in extreme. Now with a noiseless gentle course It keeps within the middle bed; Anon it lifts aloft the head, And bears down all before it with impetuous force: And trunks of trees come rolling down, Sheep and their folds together drown; Both house and homested into seas are borne, And rocks are from their old foundations torn, And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered honours mourn.

VIII.

Happy the man, and happy he alone, He, who can call to-day his own; He who, secure within, can say, To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day: Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine, The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine; Not heaven itself upon the past has power, But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

IX.

Fortune, that with malicious joy Does man, her slave, oppress, Proud of her office to destroy, Is seldom pleased to bless: Still various, and unconstant still, But with an inclination to be ill, Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, And makes a lottery of life. I can enjoy her while she's kind; But when she dances in the wind, And shakes the wings, and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away: The little or the much she gave, is quietly resigned; Content with poverty my soul I arm, And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

X.

What is't to me, Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, If storms arise, and clouds grow black, If the mast split, and threaten wreck? Then let the greedy merchant fear For his ill-gotten gain; And pray to gods that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main. For me, secure from fortune's blows, Secure of what I cannot lose, In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar; And running with a merry gale, With friendly stars my safety seek, Within some little winding creek, And see the storm ashore.

FOOTNOTES:

[64] The poem seems to have been written during the political conflicts in the city of London.

THE SECOND EPODE OF HORACE.

How happy in his low degree, How rich in humble poverty, is he, Who leads a quiet country life, Discharged of business, void of strife, And from the griping scrivener free? Thus, ere the seeds of vice were sown, Lived men in better ages born, Who ploughed, with oxen of their own, Their small paternal field of corn. Nor trumpets summon him to war, Nor drums disturb his morning sleep, Nor knows he merchants' gainful care, Nor fears the dangers of the deep. The clamours of contentious law, And court and state, he wisely shuns, Nor bribed with hopes, nor dared with awe, To servile salutations runs; But either to the clasping vine Does the supporting poplar wed, Or with his pruning-hook disjoin Unbearing branches from their head, And grafts more happy in their stead: Or, climbing to a hilly steep, He views his herds in vales afar, Or sheers his overburthened sheep, Or mead for cooling drink prepares, Or virgin honey in the jars. Or in the now declining year, When bounteous autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripened pear, And clustering grapes with purple spread. The fairest of his fruit he serves, Priapus, thy rewards: Sylvanus too his part deserves, Whose care the fences guards. Sometimes beneath an ancient oak, Or on the matted grass he lies; No god of sleep he need invoke; The stream, that o'er the pebbles flies, With gentle slumber crowns his eyes. The wind, that whistles through the sprays, Maintains the concert of the song; And hidden birds, with native lays, The golden sleep prolong. But when the blast of winter blows, And hoary frost inverts the year, Into the naked woods he goes, And seeks the tusky boar to rear, With well-mouthed hounds and pointed spear: Or spreads his subtle nets from sight With twinkling glasses, to betray The larks that in the meshes light, Or makes the fearful hare his prey. Amidst his harmless easy joys No anxious care invades his health, Nor love his peace of mind destroys, Nor wicked avarice of wealth. But if a chaste and pleasing wife, To ease the business of his life, Divides with him his household care, Such as the Sabine matrons were, Such as the swift Apulian's bride, Sun-burnt and swarthy though she be, Will fire for winter nights provide, And without noise will oversee His children and his family, And order all things till he come, Sweaty and overlaboured, home; If she in pens his flocks will fold, And then produce her dairy store, With wine to drive away the cold, And unbought dainties of the poor; Not oysters of the Lucrine lake My sober appetite would wish, Nor turbot, or the foreign fish That rolling tempests overtake, And hither waft the costly dish. Not heath-pout, or the rarer bird, Which Phasis or Ionia yields, More pleasing morsels would afford Than the fat olives of my fields; Than shards or mallows for the pot, That keep the loosened body sound, Or than the lamb, that falls by lot To the just guardian of my ground. Amidst these feasts of happy swains, The jolly shepherd smiles to see His flock returning from the plains; The farmer is as pleased as he, To view his oxen sweating smoke, Hear on their necks the loosened yoke; To look upon his menial crew, That sit around his cheerful hearth, And bodies spent in toil renew With wholesome food and country mirth.--

This Morecraft said within himself: Resolved to leave the wicked town, And live retired upon his own, He called his money in: But the prevailing love of pelf Soon split him on the former shelf,-- He put it out again.

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

HOMER.

THE FIRST BOOK OF HOMER'S ILIAD.

THE ARGUMENT.

_Chryses, priest of Apollo, brings presents to the Grecian princes, to ransom his daughter Chryseis, who was prisoner in the fleet. Agamemnon, the general, whose captive and mistress the young lady was, refuses to deliver her, threatens the venerable old man, and dismisses him with contumely. The priest craves vengeance of his God, who sends a plague among the Greeks; which occasions Achilles, their great champion, to summon a council of the chief officers: he encourages Calchas, the high priest and prophet, to tell the reason, why the Gods were so much incensed against them. Calchas is fearful of provoking Agamemnon, till Achilles engages to protect him: then, emboldened by the hero, he accuses the general as the cause of all, by detaining the fair captive, and refusing the presents offered for her ransom. By this proceeding, Agamemnon is obliged, against his will, to restore Chryseis, with gifts, that he might appease the wrath of Phœbus; but, at the same time, to revenge himself on Achilles, sends to seize his slave Briseis. Achilles, thus affronted, complains to his mother Thetis; and begs her to revenge his injury, not only on the general, but on all the army, by giving victory to the Trojans, till the ungrateful king became sensible of his injustice. At the same time, he retires from the camp into his ships, and withdraws his aid from his countrymen. Thetis prefers her son's petition to Jupiter, who grants her suit. Juno suspects her errand, and quarrels with her husband for his grant; till Vulcan reconciles his parents with a bowl of nectar, and sends them peaceably to bed._

The wrath of Peleus' son, O muse, resound, Whose dire effects the Grecian army found, And many a hero, king, and hardy knight, Were sent, in early youth, to shades of night: Their limbs a prey to dogs and vultures made; So was the sovereign will of Jove obeyed: From that ill-omened hour when strife begun, Betwixt Atrides great, and Thetis' godlike son. What power provoked, and for what cause, relate, Sowed in their breasts the seeds of stern debate: Jove's and Latona's son his wrath expressed, In vengeance of his violated priest, Against the king of men; who, swoln with pride, Refused his presents, and his prayers denied. For this the God a swift contagion spread Amid the camp, where heaps on heaps lay dead. For venerable Chryses came to buy, With gold and gifts of price, his daughter's liberty. Suppliant before the Grecian chiefs he stood, Awful, and armed with ensigns of his God: Bare was his hoary head; one holy hand Held forth his laurel crown, and one his sceptre of command. His suit was common; but above the rest, To both the brother-princes thus addressed:-- Ye sons of Atreus, and ye Grecian powers, So may the Gods, who dwell in heavenly bowers, Succeed your siege, accord the vows you make, And give you Troy's imperial town to take; So, by their happy conduct, may you come With conquest back to your sweet native home; As you receive the ransom which I bring, Respecting Jove, and the far-shooting king, And break my daughter's bonds, at my desire, And glad with her return her grieving sire.-- With shouts of loud acclaim the Greeks decree To take the gifts, to set the damsel free. The king of men alone with fury burned, And haughty, these opprobrious words returned:-- Hence, holy dotard! and avoid my sight, Ere evil intercept thy tardy flight; Nor dare to tread this interdicted strand, } Lest not that idle sceptre in thy hand, } Nor thy god's crown, my vowed revenge withstand. } Hence, on thy life! the captive maid is mine, Whom not for price or prayers I will resign; Mine she shall be, till creeping age and time Her bloom have withered, and consumed her prime. Till then my royal bed she shall attend, And, having first adorned it, late ascend; This, for the night; by day, the web and loom, } And homely household-task, shall be her doom, } Far from thy loved embrace, and her sweet native home.-- } He said: the helpless priest replied no more, But sped his steps along the hoarse-resounding shore. Silent he fled; secure at length he stood, Devoutly cursed his foes, and thus invoked his God:-- O source of sacred light, attend my prayer, God with the silver bow, and golden hair, Whom Chrysa, Cilla, Tenedos obeys, And whose broad eye their happy soil surveys! If, Smintheus, I have poured before thy shrine The blood of oxen, goats, and ruddy wine, And larded thighs on loaded altars laid, Hear, and my just revenge propitious aid! Pierce the proud Greeks, and with thy shafts attest How much thy power is injured in thy priest.-- He prayed; and Phœbus, hearing, urged his flight, With fury kindled, from Olympus' height; His quiver o'er his ample shoulders threw, His bow twanged, and his arrows rattled as they flew. Black as a stormy night, he ranged around The tents, and compassed the devoted ground; Then with full force his deadly bow he bent, And feathered fates among the mules and sumpters sent, The essay of rage; on faithful dogs the next; And last, in human hearts his arrows fixed. The God nine days the Greeks at rovers killed, Nine days the camp with funeral fires was filled; The tenth, Achilles, by the queen's command, Who bears heaven's awful sceptre in her hand, A council summoned; for the goddess grieved Her favoured host should perish unrelieved. The kings, assembled, soon their chief inclose; Then from his seat the goddess-born arose, And thus undaunted spoke:--What now remains, But that once more we tempt the watery plains, And, wandering homeward, seek our safety hence, In flight at least, if we can find defence? Such woes at once encompass us about, The plague within the camp, the sword without. Consult, O king, the prophets of the event; } And whence these ills, and what the God's intent, } Let them by dreams explore, for dreams from Jove are sent. } What want of offered victims, what offence In fact committed could the Sun incense, To deal his deadly shafts? What may remove His settled hate, and reconcile his love? That he may look propitious on our toils, And hungry graves no more be glutted with our spoils. Thus to the king of men the hero spoke, Then Calchas the desired occasion took; Calchas, the sacred seer, who had in view Things present and the past, and things to come foreknew; Supreme of augurs, who, by Phœbus taught, The Grecian powers to Troy's destruction brought. Skilled in the secret causes of their woes, The reverend priest in graceful act arose, And thus bespoke Pelides:--Care of Jove, Favoured of all the immortal powers above, Wouldst thou the seeds deep sown of mischief know, And why, provoked, Apollo bends his bow, Plight first thy faith, inviolably true, To save me from those ills that may ensue. For I shall tell ungrateful truths to those, Whose boundless powers of life and death dispose; And sovereigns, ever jealous of their state, Forgive not those whom once they mark for hate: Even though the offence they seemingly digest, Revenge, like embers raked within their breast, Bursts forth in flames, whose unresisted power Will seize the unwary wretch, and soon devour. Such, and no less, is he, on whom depends The sum of things, and whom my tongue of force offends. Secure me then from his foreseen intent, That what his wrath may doom, thy valour may prevent.-- To this the stern Achilles made reply:-- Be bold, (and on my plighted faith rely,) To speak what Phœbus has inspired thy soul For common good, and speak without controul. His godhead I invoke; by him I swear, That while my nostrils draw this vital air, None shall presume to violate those bands, } Or touch thy person with unhallowed hands; } Even not the king of men, that all commands. } At this, resuming heart, the prophet said:-- Nor hecatomb unslain, nor vows unpaid, On Greeks accursed this dire contagion bring; Or call for vengeance from the bowyer king; But he the tyrant, whom none dares resist, Affronts the godhead in his injured priest; He keeps the damsel captive in his chain, And presents are refused, and prayers preferred in vain. For this the avenging power employs his darts, And empties all his quiver in our hearts; Thus will persist, relentless in his ire, Till the fair slave be rendered to her sire, And ransom-free restored to his abode, With sacrifice to reconcile the God; Then he, perhaps, atoned by prayer, may cease His vengeance justly vowed, and give the peace.-- Thus having said, he sate:--Thus answered then, Upstarting from his throne, the king of men, His breast with fury filled, his eyes with fire, Which rolling round, he shot in sparkles on the sire: Augur of ill, whose tongue was never found Without a priestly curse, or boding sound! For not one blessed event foretold to me Passed through that mouth, or passed unwillingly; And now thou dost with lies the throne invade, By practice hardened in thy slandering trade; Obtending heaven, for whate'er ills befall, And sputtering under specious names thy gall. Now Phœbus is provoked, his rites and laws Are in his priest profaned, and I the cause; Since I detain a slave, my sovereign prize, And sacred gold, your idol-god, despise. I love her well; and well her merits claim, To stand preferred before my Grecian dame: Not Clytemnestra's self in beauty's bloom More charmed, or better plied the various loom: Mine is the maid, and brought in happy hour, With every household-grace adorned, to bless my nuptial bower. Yet shall she be restored, since public good } For private interest ought not to be withstood, } To save the effusion of my people's blood. } But right requires, if I resign my own, I should not suffer for your sakes alone; Alone excluded from the prize I gained, And by your common suffrage have obtained. The slave without a ransom shall be sent, It rests for you to make the equivalent. To this the fierce Thessalian prince replied:-- O first in power, but passing all in pride, Griping, and still tenacious of thy hold, Would'st thou the Grecian chiefs, though largely souled, Should give the prizes they had gained before, And with their loss thy sacrilege restore? Whate'er by force of arms the soldier got, Is each his own, by dividend of lot; Which to resume were both unjust and base, Not to be borne but by a servile race. But this we can; if Saturn's son bestows The sack of Troy, which he by promise owes, Then shall the conquering Greeks thy loss restore, And with large interest make the advantage more. To this Atrides answered:--Though thy boast Assumes the foremost name of all our host, Pretend not, mighty man, that what is mine, Controuled by thee, I tamely should resign. Shall I release the prize I gained by right, In taken towns, and many a bloody fight, While thou detain'st Briseis in thy bands, By priestly glossing on the God's commands? Resolve on this, (a short alternative,) Quit mine, or, in exchange, another give; Else I, assure thy soul, by sovereign right Will seize thy captive in thy own despite; Or from stout Ajax, or Ulysses, bear What other prize my fancy shall prefer: Then softly murmur, or aloud complain, Rage as you please, you shall resist in vain. But more of this, in proper time and place; To things of greater moment let us pass. A ship to sail the sacred seas prepare, } Proud in her trim, and put on board the fair, } With sacrifice and gifts, and all the pomp of prayer. } The crew well chosen, the command shall be } In Ajax; or if other I decree, } In Creta's king, or Ithacus, or, if I please, in thee: } Most fit thyself to see performed the intent, } For which my prisoner from my sight is sent, } (Thanks to thy pious care,) that Phœbus may relent. } At this Achilles rolled his furious eyes, Fixed on the king askant, and thus replies:-- O, impudent, regardful of thy own, Whose thoughts are centered on thyself alone, Advanced to sovereign sway for better ends Than thus like abject slaves to treat thy friends! What Greek is he, that, urged by thy command, Against the Trojan troops will lift his hand? Not I; nor such enforced respect I owe, Nor Pergamus I hate, nor Priam is my foe. What wrong from Troy remote could I sustain, } To leave my fruitful soil and happy reign, } And plough the surges of the stormy main? } Thee, frontless man, we followed from afar, Thy instruments of death, and tools of war. Thine is the triumph; ours the toil alone; We bear thee on our backs, and mount thee on the throne. For thee we fall in fight; for thee redress Thy baffled[65] brother,--not the wrongs of Greece. And now thou threaten'st, with unjust decree, To punish thy affronting heaven on me; To seize the prize which I so dearly bought, By common suffrage given, confirmed by lot. Mean match to thine; for, still above the rest, Thy hooked rapacious hands usurp the best; Though mine are first in fight, to force the prey, And last sustain the labours of the day. Nor grudge I thee the much the Grecians give, Nor murmuring take the little I receive; Yet even this little, thou, who wouldst ingross The whole, insatiate, enviest as thy loss. Know, then, for Phthia fixed is my return; } Better at home my ill-paid pains to mourn, } Than from an equal here sustain the public scorn. } The king, whose brows with shining gold were bound, Who saw his throne with sceptered slaves encompassed round, Thus answered stern:--Go, at thy pleasure, go; We need not such a friend, nor fear we such a foe. There will not want to follow me in fight; Jove will assist, and Jove assert my right: But thou of all the kings (his care below) Art least at my command, and most my foe. Debates, dissensions, uproars are thy joy; Provoked without offence, and practised to destroy. Strength is of brutes, and not thy boast alone; At least 'tis lent from heaven, and not thy own. Fly then, ill-mannered, to thy native land, And there thy ant-born Myrmidons command.

But mark this menace; since I must resign My black-eyed maid, to please the Powers divine; A well-rigged vessel in the port attends, Manned at my charge, commanded by my friends; The ship shall waft her to her wished abode, Full fraught with holy bribes to the far-shooting God. This thus dispatched, I owe myself the care, My fame and injured honour to repair; From thy own tent, proud man, in thy despite, This hand shall ravish thy pretended right. Briseis shall be mine, and thou shalt see } What odds of awful power I have on thee, } That others at thy cost may learn the difference of degree.-- } At this the impatient hero sourly smiled; His heart impetuous in his bosom boiled, And, jostled by two tides of equal sway, Stood for a while suspended in his way. Betwixt his reason and his rage untamed, One whispered soft, and one aloud reclaimed; That only counselled to the safer side, This to the sword his ready hand applied. Unpunished to support the affront was hard, Nor easy was the attempt to force the guard; But soon the thirst of vengeance fired his blood, Half shone his faulchion, and half sheathed it stood. In that nice moment, Pallas, from above, Commissioned by the imperial wife of Jove, Descended swift; (the white-armed Queen was loath The fight should follow, for she favoured both;) Just as in act he stood, in clouds enshrined, Her hand she fastened on his hair behind; Then backward by his yellow curls she drew; To him, and him alone, confessed in view. Tamed by superior force, he turned his eyes, Aghast at first, and stupid with surprise; But by her sparkling eyes, and ardent look, The virgin-warrior known, he thus bespoke. Com'st thou, Celestial, to behold my wrongs? To view the vengeance which to crimes belongs? Thus he.--The blue-eyed Goddess thus rejoined: I come to calm thy turbulence of mind, If reason will resume her sovereign sway, And, sent by Juno, her commands obey. Equal she loves you both, and I protect; Then give thy guardian Gods their due respect, And cease contention; be thy words severe, Sharp as he merits; but the sword forbear. An hour unhoped already wings her way, When he his dire affront shall dearly pay; When the proud king shall sue, with treble gain, To quit thy loss, and conquer thy disdain. But thou, secure of my unfailing word, Compose thy swelling soul, and sheath the sword.-- The youth thus answered mild:--Auspicious maid, Heaven's will be mine, and your commands obeyed. The Gods are just, and when, subduing sense, We serve their Powers, provide the recompence.-- He said; with surly faith believed her word, And in the sheath, reluctant, plunged the sword. Her message done, she mounts the blessed abodes, And mixed among the senate of the Gods. At her departure his disdain returned; The fire she fanned with greater fury burned, Rumbling within till thus it found a vent:-- Dastard and drunkard, mean and insolent! Tongue-valiant hero, vaunter of thy might, In threats the foremost, but the lag in fight! When didst thou thrust amid the mingled preace, Content to bide the war aloof in peace? Arms are the trade of each plebeian soul; 'Tis death to fight, but kingly to controul; Lord-like at ease, with arbitrary power, To peel the chiefs, the people to devour. These, traitor, are thy talents; safer far Than to contend in fields, and toils of war. Nor couldst thou thus have dared the common hate, Were not their souls as abject as their state. But, by this sceptre solemnly I swear, (Which never more green leaf or growing branch shall bear; Torn from the tree, and given by Jove to those Who laws dispense, and mighty wrongs oppose,) That when the Grecians want my wonted aid, No gift shall bribe it, and no prayer persuade. When Hector comes, the homicide, to wield His conquering arms, with corpse to strew the field, Then shalt thou mourn thy pride, and late confess My wrong, repented when 'tis past redress.-- He said; and with disdain, in open view, Against the ground his golden sceptre threw, Then sate; with boiling rage Atrides burned, And foam betwixt his gnashing grinders churned. But from his seat the Pylian prince arose, With reasoning mild, their madness to compose; Words, sweet as honey, from his mouth distilled; Two centuries already he fulfilled, And now began the third; unbroken yet, Once famed for courage, still in council great. What worse, he said, can Argos undergo, What can more gratify the Phrygian foe, Than these distempered heats, if both the lights Of Greece their private interest disunites? Believe a friend, with thrice your years increased, And let these youthful passions be repressed. I flourished long before your birth; and then } Lived equal with a race of braver men, } Than these dim eyes shall e'er behold again. } Ceneus and Dryas, and, excelling them, Great Theseus, and the force of greater Polypheme. With these I went, a brother of the war, Their dangers to divide, their fame to share; Nor idle stood with unassisting hands, When savage beasts, and men's more savage bands, Their virtuous toil subdued: yet those I swayed, With powerful speech; I spoke, and they obeyed. If such as those my counsels could reclaim, Think not, young warriors, your diminished name Shall lose of lustre, by subjecting rage To the cool dictates of experienced age. Thou, king of men, stretch not thy sovereign sway Beyond the bounds free subjects can obey; But let Pelides in his prize rejoice, Atchieved in arms, allowed by public voice. Nor thou, brave champion, with his power contend, Before whose throne even kings their lowered sceptres bend; The head of action he, and thou the hand, Matchless thy force, but mightier his command. Thou first, O king, release the rights of sway; Power, self-restrained, the people best obey. Sanctions of law from thee derive their source; Command thyself, whom no commands can force. The son of Thetis, rampire of our host, Is worth our care to keep, nor shall my prayers be lost. Thus Nestor said, and ceased.--Atrides broke His silence next, but pondered ere he spoke:-- Wise are thy words, and glad I would obey, But this proud man affects imperial sway, Controuling kings, and trampling on our state; His will is law, and what he wills is fate. The Gods have given him strength; but whence the style Of lawless power assumed, or licence to revile? Achilles cut him short, and thus replied:-- My worth, allowed in words, is, in effect, denied; For who but a poltroon, possessed with fear, Such haughty insolence can tamely bear? Command thy slaves; my freeborn soul disdains A tyrant's curb, and, restiff, breaks the reins. Take this along, that no dispute shall rise (Though mine the woman) for my ravished prize; But, she excepted, as unworthy strife, Dare not, I charge thee dare not, on thy life, Touch aught of mine beside, by lot my due, But stand aloof, and think profane to view; This faulchion else, not hitherto withstood, These hostile fields shall fatten with thy blood.-- He said, and rose the first; the council broke, And all their grave consults dissolved in smoke. The royal youth retired, on vengeance bent; Patroclus followed silent to his tent. Meantime, the king with gifts a vessel stores, Supplies the banks with twenty chosen oars; And next, to reconcile the shooter God, Within her hollow sides the sacrifice he stowed; Chryseis last was set on board, whose hand } Ulysses took, entrusted with command; } They plow the liquid seas, and leave the lessening land. } Atrides then, his outward zeal to boast, Bade purify the sin-polluted host. With perfect hecatombs the God they graced, Whose offered entrails in the main were cast; Black bulls and bearded goats on altars lie, And clouds of savoury stench involve the sky. These pomps the royal hypocrite designed For show, but harboured vengeance in his mind; Till holy malice, longing for a vent, At length discovered his concealed intent, Talthybius, and Eurybates the just, Heralds of arms, and ministers of trust, He called, and thus bespoke:--Haste hence your way, And from the Goddess-born demand his prey. If yielded, bring the captive; if denied, The king (so tell him) shall chastise his pride; And with armed multitudes in person come To vindicate his power, and justify his doom.-- This hard command unwilling they obey, } And o'er the barren shore pursue their way, } Where quartered in their camp the fierce Thessalians lay.} Their sovereign seated on his chair they find, } His pensive cheek upon his hand reclined, } And anxious thoughts revolving in his mind. } With gloomy looks he saw them entering in } Without salute; nor durst they first begin, } Fearful of rash offence and death foreseen. } He soon, the cause divining, cleared his brow, And thus did liberty of speech allow: Interpreters of Gods and men, be bold; Awful your character, and uncontrouled: Howe'er unpleasing be the news you bring, I blame not you, but your imperious king. You come, I know, my captive to demand; Patroclus, give her to the herald's hand. But you authentic witnesses I bring Before the Gods, and your ungrateful king, Of this my manifest, that never more This hand shall combat on the crooked shore: No; let the Grecian powers, oppressed in fight, Unpitied perish in their tyrant's sight. Blind of the future, and by rage misled, He pulls his crimes upon his people's head; Forced from the field in trenches to contend, And his insulted camp from foes defend.-- He said, and soon, obeying his intent, Patroclus brought Briseis from her tent, Then to the entrusted messengers resigned: She wept, and often cast her eyes behind. Forced from the man she loved, they led her thence, Along the shore, a prisoner to their prince. Sole on the barren sands the suffering chief Roared out for anguish, and indulged his grief; Cast on his kindred seas a stormy look, And his upbraided mother thus bespoke: Unhappy parent of a short-lived son,-- Since Jove in pity by thy prayers was won To grace my small remains of breath with fame, Why loads he this embittered life with shame, Suffering his king of men to force my slave, Whom, well deserved in war, the Grecians gave?-- Set by old Ocean's side the Goddess heard, Then from the sacred deep her head she reared; Rose like a morning mist, and thus begun To sooth the sorrows of her plaintive son:-- Why cries my care, and why conceals his smart? Let thy afflicted parent share her part.-- Then, sighing from the bottom of his breast, To the Sea-Goddess thus the Goddess-born addressed: Thou know'st my pain, which telling but recals; By force of arms we razed the Theban walls; The ransacked city, taken by our toils, We left, and hither brought the golden spoils: Equal we shared them; but before the rest, The proud prerogative had seized the best. Chryseis was the greedy tyrant's prize, Chryseis, rosy-cheeked, with charming eyes. Her sire, Apollo's priest, arrived to buy, With proffered gifts of price, his daughter's liberty. Suppliant before the Grecian chiefs he stood, Awful, and armed with ensigns of his God; Bare was his hoary head; one holy hand Held forth his laurel-crown, and one his sceptre of command. His suit was common, but, above the rest, To both the brother-princes was addressed. With shouts of loud acclaim the Greeks agree To take the gifts, to set the prisoner free. Not so the tyrant, who with scorn the priest Received, and with opprobrious words dismissed. The good old man, forlorn of human aid, For vengeance to his heavenly patron prayed: The Godhead gave a favourable ear, And granted all to him he held so dear; In an ill hour his piercing shafts he sped, And heaps on heaps of slaughtered Greeks lay dead, While round the camp he ranged: at length arose A seer, who well divined, and durst disclose The source of all our ills: I took the word; And urged the sacred slave to be restored, The God appeased: the swelling monarch stormed, And then the vengeance vowed he since performed. The Greeks, 'tis true, their ruin, to prevent, Have to the royal priest his daughter sent; But from their haughty king his heralds came, And seized, by his command, my captive dame, By common suffrage given;--but thou be won, If in thy power, to avenge thy injured son! Ascend the skies, and supplicating move Thy just complaint to cloud-compelling Jove. If thou by either word or deed hast wrought A kind remembrance in his grateful thought, Urge him by that; for often hast thou said Thy power was once not useless in his aid, When he, who high above the highest reigns, Surprised by traitor Gods, was bound in chains; When Juno, Pallas, with ambition fired, And his blue brother of the seas conspired, Thou freed'st the sovereign from unworthy bands, Thou brought'st Briareus with his hundred hands, (So called in heaven, but mortal men below By his terrestrial name, Ægeon, know; Twice stronger than his sire, who sate above Assessor to the throne of thundering Jove.) The Gods, dismayed at his approach, withdrew, Nor durst their unaccomplished crime pursue. That action to his grateful mind recal, Embrace his knees, and at his footstool fall; That now, if ever, he will aid our foes; Let Troy's triumphant troops the camp inclose; Ours, beaten to the shore, the siege forsake, And what their king deserves, with him partake; That the proud tyrant, at his proper cost, May learn the value of the man he lost.-- To whom the Mother-goddess thus replied, Sighed ere she spoke, and while she spoke she cried,-- Ah wretched me! by fates averse decreed To bring thee forth with pain, with care to breed! Did envious heaven not otherwise ordain, } Safe in thy hollow ships thou should'st remain, } Nor ever tempt the fatal field again; } But now thy planet sheds his poisonous rays, And short and full of sorrow are thy days. For what remains, to heaven I will ascend, And at the Thunderer's throne thy suit commend. Till then, secure in ships, abstain from fight; Indulge thy grief in tears, and vent thy spite. For yesterday the court of heaven with Jove Removed; 'tis dead vacation now above. Twelve days the Gods their solemn revels keep, And quaff with blameless Ethiops in the deep. Returned from thence, to heaven my flight I take, Knock at the brazen gates, and Providence awake; Embrace his knees, and suppliant to the sire, Doubt not I will obtain the grant of thy desire.-- She said, and, parting, left him on the place, Swoln with disdain, resenting his disgrace: Revengeful thoughts revolving in his mind, He wept for anger, and for love he pined. Meantime, with prosperous gales Ulysses brought The slave, and ship, with sacrifices fraught, To Chrysa's port; where, entering with the tide, He dropped his anchors, and his oars he plyed, Furled every sail, and, drawing down the mast, His vessel moored, and made with haulsers fast. Descending on the plain, ashore they bring The hecatomb to please the shooter king. The dame before an altar's holy fire Ulysses led, and thus bespoke her sire: Reverenced be thou, and be thy God adored! The king of men thy daughter has restored, And sent by me with presents and with prayer. He recommends him to thy pious care, That Phœbus at thy suit his wrath may cease, And give the penitent offenders peace.-- He said; and gave her to her father's hands, Who glad received her, free from servile bands. This done, in order they, with sober grace, Their gifts around the well-built altar place. Then washed, and took the cakes, while Chryses stood With hands upheld, and thus invoked his God. God of the silver bow, whose eyes survey } The sacred Cilla! thou, whose awful sway } Chrysa the blessed, and Tenedos obey! } Now hear, as thou before my prayer hast heard, Against the Grecians, and their prince, preferred. Once thou hast honoured, honour once again Thy priest, nor let his second vows be vain; But from the afflicted host and humbled prince Avert thy wrath, and cease thy pestilence!-- Apollo heard, and, conquering his disdain, Unbent his bow, and Greece respired again. Now when the solemn rites of prayer were past, Their salted cakes on crackling flames they cast; Then, turning back, the sacrifice they sped, The fatted oxen slew, and flayed the dead; Chopped off their nervous thighs, and next prepared To involve the lean in cauls, and mend with lard. Sweet-breads and collops were with skewers pricked About the sides, imbibing what they decked. The priest with holy hands was seen to tine The cloven wood, and pour the ruddy wine. The youth approached the fire, and, as it burned, On five sharp broachers ranked, the roast they turned; These morsels stayed their stomachs, then the rest They cut in legs and fillets for the feast; Which drawn and served, their hunger they appease With savoury meat, and set their minds at ease. Now when the rage of eating was repelled, The boys with generous wine the goblets filled: The first libations to the gods they pour, And then with songs indulge the genial hour. Holy debauch! Till day to night they bring, With hymns and pæans to the bowyer king. At sun-set to their ship they make return, And snore secure on decks till rosy morn. The skies with dawning day were purpled o'er; Awaked, with labouring oars they leave the shore; The Power appeased, with wind sufficed the sail, The bellying canvas strutted with the gale; The waves indignant roar with surly pride, And press against the sides, and, beaten off, divide. They cut the foamy way, with force impelled Superior, till the Trojan port they held; Then, hauling on the strand, their galley moor, And pitch their tents along the crooked shore. Meantime the goddess-born in secret pined, Nor visited the camp, nor in the council joined; But, keeping close, his gnawing heart he fed With hopes of vengeance on the tyrant's head; And wished for bloody wars and mortal wounds, And of the Greeks oppressed in fight to hear the dying sounds. Now when twelve days complete had run their race, The gods bethought them of the cares belonging to their place. Jove at their head ascending from the sea, A shoal of puny Powers attend his way. Then Thetis, not unmindful of her son, Emerging from the deep to beg her boon, Pursued their track, and wakened from his rest, Before the sovereign stood, a morning guest. Him in the circle, but apart, she found; The rest at awful distance stood around. She bowed, and, ere she durst her suit begin, One hand embraced his knees, one prop'd his chin; Then thus.--If I, celestial sire, in aught Have served thy will, or gratified thy thought, One glimpse of glory to my issue give, Graced for the little time he has to live! Dishonoured by the king of men he stands; His rightful prize is ravished from his hands. But thou, O father, in my son's defence, Assume thy power, assert thy providence. Let Troy prevail, till Greece the affront has paid With doubled honours, and redeemed his aid.-- She ceased; but the considering God was mute, Till she, resolved to win, renewed her suit, Nor loosed her hold, but forced him to reply:-- Or grant me my petition, or deny; Jove cannot fear; then tell me to my face That I, of all the gods, am least in grace. This I can bear.--The cloud-compeller mourned, And, sighing first, this answer he returned. Know'st thou what clamours will disturb my reign, What my stunned ears from Juno must sustain? In council she gives licence to her tongue, Loquacious, brawling, ever in the wrong; And now she will my partial power upbraid, If, alienate from Greece, I give the Trojans aid. But thou depart, and shun her jealous sight, The care be mine to do Pelides right. Go then, and on the faith of Jove rely, When, nodding to thy suit, he bows the sky. This ratifies the irrevocable doom; The sign ordained, that what I will shall come; The stamp of heaven, and seal of fate.--He said, And shook the sacred honours of his head: With terror trembled heaven's subsiding hill, And from his shaken curls ambrosial dews distil. The Goddess goes exulting from his sight, And seeks the seas profound, and leaves the realms of light. He moves into his hall; the Powers resort, Each from his house, to fill the sovereign's court; Nor waiting summons, nor expecting stood, But met with reverence, and received the God. He mounts the throne; and Juno took her place, But sullen discontent sate lowering on her face. With jealous eyes, at distance she had seen, Whispering with Jove, the silver-footed queen; Then, impotent of tongue, her silence broke, Thus turbulent, in rattling tone, she spoke. Author of ills, and close contriver Jove, Which of thy dames, what prostitute of love, Has held thy ear so long, and begged so hard, For some old service done, some new reward? Apart you talked, for that's your special care; The consort never must the council share. One gracious word is for a wife too much; Such is a marriage vow, and Jove's own faith is such. Then thus the sire of Gods, and men below:-- What I have hidden, hope not thou to know. Even goddesses are women; and no wife Has power to regulate her husband's life. Counsel she may; and I will give thy ear The knowledge first of what is fit to hear. What I transact with others, or alone, Beware to learn, nor press too near the throne. To whom the Goddess, with the charming eyes:-- What hast thou said, O tyrant of the skies! When did I search the secrets of thy reign, Though privileged to know, but privileged in vain? But well thou dost, to hide from common sight Thy close intrigues, too bad to bear the light. Nor doubt I, but the silver-footed dame, Tripping from sea, on such an errand came, To grace her issue at the Grecians' cost, And, for one peevish man, destroy an host.-- To whom the Thunderer made this stern reply:-- } My household curse! my lawful plague! the spy } Of Jove's designs! his other squinting eye! } Why this vain prying, and for what avail? Jove will be master still, and Juno fail. Should thy suspicious thoughts divine aright, Thou but becom'st more odious to my sight For this attempt; uneasy life to me, Still watched and importuned, but worse for thee. Curb that impetuous tongue, before too late The Gods behold, and tremble at thy fate; Pitying, but daring not, in thy defence, To lift a hand against Omnipotence.-- This heard, the imperious queen sate mute with fear, Nor further durst incense the gloomy Thunderer: Silence was in the court at this rebuke; Nor could the Gods abashed sustain their sovereign's look. The limping Smith observed the saddened feast, And, hopping here and there, himself a jest, Put in his word, that neither might offend, To Jove obsequious, yet his mother's friend.-- What end in heaven will be of civil war, If Gods of pleasure will for mortals jar? Such discord but disturbs our jovial feast; One grain of bad embitters all the best. Mother, though wise yourself, my counsel weigh; 'Tis much unsafe my sire to disobey; Not only you provoke him to your cost, But mirth is marred, and the good chear is lost. Tempt not his heavy hand, for he has power To throw you headlong from his heavenly tower; But one submissive word, which you let fall, Will make him in good humour with us all.-- He said no more, but crowned a bowl unbid, The laughing nectar overlooked the lid; Then put it to her hand, and thus pursued: This cursed quarrel be no more renewed: Be, as becomes a wife, obedient still; Though grieved, yet subject to her husband's will. I would not see you beaten; yet afraid Of Jove's superior force, I dare not aid. Too well I know him, since that hapless hour When I, and all the Gods, employed our power To break your bonds; me by the heel he drew, And o'er heaven's battlements with fury threw. All day I fell; my flight at morn begun, And ended not but with the setting sun. Pitched on my head, at length the Lemnian ground Received my battered skull, the Sinthians healed my wound.-- At Vulcan's homely mirth his mother smiled, And, smiling, took the cup the clown had filled. The reconciler-bowl went round the board, Which, emptied, the rude skinker still restored. Loud fits of laughter seized the guests, to see The limping God so deft[66] at his new ministry. The feast continued till declining light; They drank, they laughed, they loved, and then 'twas night. Nor wanted tuneful harp, nor vocal quire, The Muses sung, Apollo touched the lyre. Drunken at last, and drowsy, they depart Each to his house, adorned with laboured art Of the lame architect. The thundering God, Even he, withdrew to rest, and had his load; His swimming head to needful sleep applied, And Juno lay unheeded by his side.

FOOTNOTES:

[65] Baffled is here used for insulted.

[66] Deft for dexterous.

THE LAST PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

FROM THE SIXTH BOOK OF THE ILIAD.

THE ARGUMENT.

_Hector returning from the field of battle, to visit Helen, his sister-in-law, and his brother Paris, who had fought unsuccessfully, hand to hand with Menelaus, from thence goes to his own palace to see his wife Andromache, and his infant son Astyanax. The description of that interview is the subject of this translation._

Thus having said, brave Hector went to see His virtuous wife, the fair Andromache. He found her not at home; for she was gone, } Attended by her maid and infant son, } To climb the steepy tower of Ilion; } From whence, with heavy heart, she might survey The bloody business of the dreadful day. Her mournful eyes she cast around the plain, And sought the lord of her desires in vain. But he, who thought his peopled palace bare, When she, his only comfort, was not there, Stood in the gate, and asked of every one, Which way she took, and whither she was gone; If to the court, or with his mother's train, In long procession to Minerva's fane? The servants answered,--Neither to the court, Where Priam's sons and daughters did resort; Nor to the temple was she gone, to move With prayers the blue-eyed progeny of Jove; But more solicitous for him alone, Than all their safety, to the tower was gone, There to survey the labours of the field, Where the Greeks conquer, and the Trojans yield; Swiftly she passed, with fear and fury wild; The nurse went lagging after with the child. This heard, the noble Hector made no stay, The admiring throng divide to give him way; He passed through every street, by which he came, And at the gate he met the mournful dame. His wife beheld him; and, with eager pace, Flew to his arms, to meet a dear embrace. His wife, who brought in dower Cilicia's crown, And in herself a greater dower alone; Aetion's heir, who, on the woody plain Of Hippoplacus, did in Thebé reign. Breathless she flew, with joy and passion wild; The nurse came lagging after with the child. The royal babe upon her breast was laid, Who, like the morning star, his beams displayed. Scamandrius was his name, which Hector gave, From that fair flood which Ilion's wall did lave; But him Astyanax the Trojans call, From his great father who defends the wall. Hector beheld him with a silent smile, His tender wife stood weeping by the while; Pressed in her own, his warlike hand she took, Then sighed, and thus prophetically spoke:-- Thy dauntless heart, which I foresee too late, Too daring man, will urge thee to thy fate. Nor dost thou pity, with a parent's mind, This helpless orphan, whom thou leav'st behind; Nor me, the unhappy partner of thy bed, Who must in triumph by the Greeks be led. They seek thy life; and, in unequal fight With many, will oppress thy single might. Better it were for miserable me To die, before the fate which I foresee; For, ah! what comfort can the world bequeath To Hector's widow, after Hector's death! Eternal sorrow and perpetual tears Began my youth, and will conclude my years; I have no parents, friends, nor brothers left, By stern Achilles all of life bereft. Then, when the walls of Thebes he overthrew, His fatal hand my royal father slew; He slew Aetion, but despoiled him not, Nor in his hate the funeral rites forgot; Armed as he was he sent him whole below, And reverenced thus the manes of his foe. A tomb he raised; the mountain-nymphs around Enclosed, with planted elms, the holy ground. My seven brave brothers, in one fatal day, To death's dark mansions took the mournful way; Slain by the same Achilles, while they keep The bellowing oxen, and the bleating sheep. My mother, who the royal sceptre swayed, Was captive to the cruel victor made, And hither led; but, hence redeemed with gold, Her native country did again behold, And but beheld; for soon Diana's dart, In an unhappy chace, transfixed her heart. But thou, my Hector, art thyself alone My parents, brothers, and my lord, in one. O, kill not all my kindred o'er again, } Nor tempt the dangers of the dusty plain } But in this tower, for our defence, remain. } Thy wife and son are in thy ruin lost; This is a husband's and a father's post. The Scæan gate commands the plains below; } Here marshal all thy soldiers as they go; } And hence, with other hands, repel the foe. } By yon wild fig-tree lies their chief ascent, And thither all their powers are daily bent. The two Ajaces have I often seen, And the wronged husband of the Spartan queen; With him his greater brother; and, with these, Fierce Diomede, and bold Meriones; Uncertain if by augury, or chance, But by this easy rise they all advance; Guard well that pass, secure of all beside.-- To whom the noble Hector thus replied: That and the rest are in my daily care; But, should I shun the dangers of the war, With scorn the Trojans would reward my pains, And their proud ladies, with their sweeping trains; The Grecian swords and lances I can bear, But loss of honour is my only fear. Shall Hector, born to war, his birth-right yield, Belie his courage, and forsake the field? Early in rugged arms I took delight, And still have been the foremost in the fight; With dangers dearly have I bought renown, And am the champion of my father's crown. And yet my mind forebodes, with sure presage, That Troy shall perish by the Grecian rage: The fatal day draws on, when I must fall, And universal ruin cover all. Not Troy itself, though built by hands divine, Nor Priam, nor his people, nor his line, My mother, nor my brothers of renown, Whose valour yet defends the unhappy town,-- Not these, nor all their fates which I foresee, Are half of that concern I have for thee. I see, I see thee, in that fatal hour, Subjected to the victor's cruel power; Led hence a slave to some insulting sword, Forlorn, and trembling at a foreign lord; A spectacle in Argos, at the loom, Gracing with Trojan fights, a Grecian room; Or from deep wells the living stream to take, And on thy weary shoulders bring it back. While, groaning under this laborious life, They insolently call thee Hector's wife; Upbraid thy bondage with thy husband's name, And from my glory propagate thy shame. This when they say, thy sorrows will increase } With anxious thoughts of former happiness; } That he is dead who could thy wrongs redress. } But I, oppressed with iron sleep before, Shall hear thy unavailing cries no more.-- He said; Then, holding forth his arms, he took his boy, The pledge of love and other hope of Troy. The fearful infant turned his head away, And on his nurse's neck reclining lay, His unknown father shunning with affright, And looking back on so uncouth a sight; Daunted to see a face with steel o'erspread, And his high plume that nodded o'er his head. His sire and mother smiled with silent joy, And Hector hastened to relieve his boy; Dismissed his burnished helm, that shone afar, The pride of warriors, and the pomp of war; The illustrious babe, thus reconciled, he took, Hugged in his arms, and kissed, and thus he spoke:-- Parent of Gods and men, propitious Jove! And you, bright synod of the powers above! On this my son your gracious gifts bestow; Grant him to live, and great in arms to grow, To reign in Troy, to govern with renown, To shield the people, and assert the crown; That, when hereafter he from war shall come, And bring his Trojans peace and triumph home, Some aged man, who lives this act to see, And who, in former times, remembered me, May say, the son, in fortitude and fame, Outgoes the mark, and drowns his father's name: That, at these words, his mother may rejoice, And add her suffrage to the public voice.-- Thus having said; He first, with suppliant hands, the Gods adored; Then to the mother's arms the child restored. With tears and smiles she took her son, and pressed The illustrious infant to her fragrant breast. He, wiping her fair eyes, indulged her grief, And eased her sorrows with this last relief:-- My wife and mistress, drive thy fears away, Nor give so bad an omen to the day; Think not it lies in any Grecian's power To take my life, before the fatal hour. When that arrives, nor good nor bad can fly The irrevocable doom of destiny. Return; and, to divert thy thoughts at home, } There task thy maids, and exercise the loom, } Employed in works that womankind become. } The toils of war, and feats of chivalry Belong to men; and, most of all, to me.-- At this, for new replies he did not stay, But laced his crested helm, and strode away. His lovely consort to her house returned, And, looking often back, in silence mourned. Home when she came, her secret woe she vents, And fills the palace with her loud laments; Those loud laments her echoing maids restore, And Hector, yet alive, as dead deplore.

END OF THE TWELFTH VOLUME.

EDINBURGH: Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.

Transcriber's notes:

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Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected, but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unchanged.