« EelmineJätka »
To second this, old prophecies conspire,
That Ilium shall be burnt with Grecian fire :
Borh give me fear, nor is it much allay’d,
That Venus is oblig'd our loves to aid.
For they who lost their cause, revenge will take,
And for one friend two enemies you make.
Nor can I doubt but, should I follow you,
The sword would soon our fatal crimc pursue :
A wrong so great my husband's rage would rouze,
relations would his cause espouse.
You boast your strength and courage ; but, alas !
Your words receive small credit from your face.
Let heroes in the dusty field delight,
Those limbs were fashion'd for another fight.
Bid Hector sally from the walls of Troy ;
A sweeter quarrel should your arms employ.
Yet fears like these should not my mind perplex,
Were I as wife as many
But time and you may bolder thoughts inspire;
And I, perhaps, may yield to your desire.
You last demand a private conference :
These are your words ; but I can guess your sense.
Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend :
Be ruld by me, and Time may be your friend.
This is enough to let you
For now my pen has tir’d my tender hand;
My woman knows the secret of my heart,
And may hereafter better news impart.
BEING A TRANSLATION OUT OF THE FOURTH
BOOK OF VIRGIL's GIORGIC.
'IS not for nothing when just heaven does frown;
The injur'd Orpheus calls these judgments down;
Whose spoufe, avoiding to become thy prey,
And all his joys at once were snatch'd away ;
The nymph, fore-doom'd that fatal way to pass,
Spy'd not the serpent lurking in the grass :
A mournful cry the spacious valley fills,
With echoing groans from all the neighbouring hills;
The Dryades roar out in deep despair,
And with united voice bewail the fair.
For such a lofs he fought no vain relief,
But with his lute indulg'd the tender grief ;
Along the shore he oft would wildly stray,
With doleful notes begin and end the day.
At length to hell a frightful journey made,
Pass’d the wide-gaping gulph and dismal shade;
Visits the ghosts, and to that king repairs
Whose heart 's inflexible to human prayers.
All hell is ravish'd with so sweet a song;
Light souls and airy fpirits glide along
In troops, like millions of the feather’d kind,
Driven home by night, or some tempestuous wind :
Matrons and men, raw youths and unripe maids ;
And mighty heroes' more majestic shades ;
And fons entomb'd before their parents face ;
These the black waves of bounding Styx embrace
Nine times circumfluent; clogg’d with noisome weeds,
And all that filth which standing water breeds.
Amazement reach'd ev’n the deep caves of death ;
The sisters with blue snaky curls took breath;
Ixion's wheel awhile unmoy'd remain'd,
And the fierce dog his three-mouth'd voice restrain'd.
When safe return'd, and all these dangers paft,
His wife, restor'd to breathe fresh air at last,
Following (for fo Proserpina was pleas’d)
A sudden rage th’ unwary lover seiz'd,
He, as the first bright glimpse of day-light shin’d,
Could not refrain to cast one look behind;
A fault of love! could hell compassion find.
A dreadful sound thrice fhook the Stygian coast,
His hopes quite fled, and all his labour loft!
Why haft thou thus undone thyself and me?
What rage is this? oh, I am snatch'd from thee !
(She faintly cry'd) Night and the powers of hell
Surround my sight; oh, Orpheus! oh, farewell !
My hands stretch forth to reach thee as before ;
But all in vain, for I am thine no more ;
No more allow'd to view thy face, or day!---
Then from his eyes, like smoke, she fleets away.
Much he would fain have spoke : but fate, alas !
Would ne'er again consent to let him pass.
Thus twice undone, what course remain'd to take,
To gain her back, already pass’d the lake ?
What tears, what patience, could procure him case ?
Or, ah! what vows the angry powers appeale ?
'Tis said, he seven long moons bewail'd his lofs
To bleak and barren rocks, on whose cold moss,
While languishing he sung his fatal fame,
He mov'd ev'n trees, and made fierce tigers tame.
So the fad nightingale, when childless made
By fome rough fivain who stole her young away,
Bewails her loss beneath a poplar shade,
Mourns all the night, in murmurs wastes the day;
Her melting songs a doleful pleasure yield,
And melancholy music fills the field.
Marriage nor love could ever move his mind;
But all alone, beat by the northern wind,
Shivering on Tanais' banks the bard remain’d,
And of įhe god's unfruitful gift complain’d.
Circonian dames, enrag'd to be despis’d,
As they the featt of Bacchus folemniz'd,
Slew the poor youth, and strew'd about his limbs;
His head, torn off from the fair body, swims
Down that swift current where the Heber flows,
And fill its tongue in doleful accents go
Ah, poor Eurydice! he dying cry'd;
Eurydice resounds from every fide.
E SSAY ON POETRY
O all those arts in which the wife excel,
Nature's chief matter-piece is writing well:
No writing lifts exalted man so high,
As facred and soul-moving poesy :
No kind of work requires so nice a touch,
And, if well finish'd, nothing shines so much.
But heaven forbid we should be so profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a fath of fancy, which sometimes,
Dazzling our minds, fets off the slightest rhymes:
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment doix :
Truc wit is everlasting, like the sun,
Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and by all admir'd.
Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound,
Wbich not the nicest car with harthness wound,
Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts ;
And all in vain these superficial parts.
Contribute to the structure of the whole,
Without a genius too; for that's thc roul:
* The “ Essay on Satire,” which was written by this noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed among the Poems of the latter.