To fecond this, old prophecies confpire,
That Ilium fhall be burnt with Grecian fire:
Both give me fear, nor is it much allay'd,
That Venus is oblig'd our loves to aid.
For they who loft their cause, revenge will take,
And for one friend two enemies you make.
Nor can I doubt but, fhould I follow you,
The fword would foon our fatal crime pursue:
wrong
fo great my husband's rage would rouze,
And my relations would his caufe efpoufe.
You boast your strength and courage; but, alas!
Your words receive fmall credit from your face.
Let heroes in the dufty field delight,
Those limbs were fashion'd for another fight.
Bid Hector fally from the walls of Troy ;
A fweeter quarrel fhould your arms employ.
Yet fears like these fhould not my mind perplex,
Were I as wife as many of my
But time and you may bolder thoughts inspire;
And I, perhaps, may yield to your defire.
You laft demand a private conference :
These are your words; but I can guess your fenfe.
Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend :
Be rul'd by me, and Time may be your friend.
This is enough to let you understand,
For now my pen has tir'd my tender hand;
My woman knows the fecret of my heart,
And may hereafter better news impart.
BEING A TRANSLATION OUT OF THE FOURTH
BOOK OF VIRGIL'S GEORGIC.
"TIS not for nothing when juft heaven does frown ;
The injur'd Orpheus calls thefe judgments down;
Whofe fpoufe, avoiding to become thy prey,
And all his joys at once were fnatch'd away;
The nymph, fore-doom'd that fatal way to pass,
Spy'd not the ferpent lurking in the grafs :
A mournful cry the fpacious 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 fuch 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,
Pafs'd the wide-gaping gulph and dismal shade;
Vifits the ghofts, and to that king repairs
Whose heart's inflexible to human prayers.
All hell is ravish'd with fo fweet a fong;
Light fouls and airy fpirits glide along
In troops, like millions of the feather'd kind,
Driven home by night, or some tempeftuous 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 fifters with blue fnaky curls took breath;
Ixion's wheel awhile unmov'd remain'd,
And the fierce dog his three-mouth'd voice restrain'd.
When fafe return'd, and all thefe dangers paft,
His wife, reftor'd to breathe fresh air at last,
Following (for fo Proferpina was pleas'd)
A fudden rage th' unwary lover seiz’d,
He, as the firft bright glimpse of day-light shin'd,
Could not refrain to caft one look behind;
A fault of love! could hell compaffion find.
A dreadful found thrice fhook the Stygian coast,
His hopes quite fled, and all his labour lost !
Why haft thou thus undone thyself and me ?
What rage is this? oh, I am fnatch'd from thee!
(She faintly cry'd) Night and the powers of hell
Surround my fight; 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 fmoke, fhe fleets away.
Much he would fain have spoke: but fate, alas!
Would ne'er again consent to let him pafs.
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 appeafe?
'Tis faid, he feven long moons bewail'd his lofs
To bleak and barren rocks, on whofe cold mofs,
While languishing he fung his fatal flame,
He mov'd ev'n trees, and made fierce tigers tame.
So the fad nightingale, when childless made
By fome rough fwain who stole her young away,
Bewails her lofs beneath a poplar fhade,
Mourns all the night, in murmurs waftes the day;
Her melting fongs a doleful pleafure yield,
And melancholy mufic 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 the god's unfruitful gift complain'd.
Circonian dames, enrag'd to be despis'd,
As they the feast 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 fwift current where the Heber flows,
And fill its tongue in doleful accents goes.
Ah, poor Eurydice! he dying cry'd;
Fall thofe arts in which the wife excel, Nature's chief master-piece is writing well: No writing lifts exalted man fo high,
As facred and foul-moving poefy:
No kind of work requires fo nice a touch,
And, if well finish'd, nothing fhines fo much.
But heaven forbid we should be fo profane,
Το
grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a fath of fancy, which fometimes,
Dazzling our minds, fets off the lightest rhymes:
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done :
Truc wit is everlafting, like the fun,
Which, though fometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number and rhyme, and that harmonious found,
Which not the niceft car with harthaefs wound,
Are neceffary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in vain these fuperficial parts
Contribute to the ftructure of the whole,
Without a genius too; for that's the foul:
*The "Effay on Satire," which was written by this noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed among the Poems of the latter.
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