« EelmineJätka »
Is over-laid; yet he stands fixt, as high
As his proud head is rais'd towards the sky,
So low towards hell his roots defcend. With prayers
And tears the Hero thus affail'd, great cares
He fmothers in his breast, yet keeps his poft,
All their addresses and their labour loft.
Then the deceives her fifter with a fmile
Anne in the inner court erect a pile;
Thereon his arms and once-lov'd portrait lay,
Thither our fatal marriage-bed convey;
All curfed monuments of him with fire
We must abolish (fo the Gods require.)
She gives her credit for no worfe effect
Than from Sichæus' death fhe did fufpect,
And her commands obeys.
Aurora now had left Tithonus' bed,
And o'er the world her blushing rays
The Queen beheld, as foon as day appear'd,
The navy under fail, the haven clear'd;
Thrice with her hand her naked breast she knocks,
And from her forehead tears her golden locks.
O Jove, the cry'd, and fhall he thus delude
Me and my realm! why is he not pursued?
Arm, arm, fhe cry'd, and let our Tyrians board
With ours his fleet, and carry fire and fword;
Leave nothing unattempted to deftroy
That perjur'd race, then let us die with joy.
What if th' event of war uncertain were ?
Nor death, nor danger, can the defperate fear.
But oh too late! this thing I should have done,
When first I plac'd the traitor on my throne.
Behold the faith of him who fav'd from fire
His honour'd houfhold Gods, his aged fire
His pious fhoulders from Troy's flames did bear;
Why did I not his carcafe piece-meal tear,
And caft it in the fea? why not destroy
All his companions, and beloved boy
Afcanius? and his tender limbs have dreft,
And made the father on the fon to feaft?
Thou Sun, whose luftre all things here below
Surveys; and Juno, confcious of my woe;
Revengeful Furies, and Queen Hecate,
Receive and grant my prayer? If he the fea
Muft needs escape, and reach th' Aufonian land,
If Jove decree it, Jove's decree must stand;
When landed, may he be with arms opprest
By his rebelling people, be diftreft
By exile from his country, be divorc'd
From young Afcanius' fight, and be enforc'd
To implore foreign aids, and lose his friends
By violent and undeserved ends !
When to conditions of unequal peace
He fhall fubmit, then may he not poffefs,
Kingdom nor life, and find his funeral
I' th' fands, when he before his day shall fall!
And ye, oh Tyrians, with immortal hate
Pursue this race, this fervice dedicate
To my deplored afhes, let there be
Twixt us and them no league nor amity.
May from my bones a new Achilles rife,
That shall infeft the Trojan Colonies
With fire and fword, and famine, when at length
Time to our great attempts contributes ftrength;
Our feas, our fhores, our armies theirs oppose,
And may our children be for ever foes!
A ghaftly paleness death's approach portends,
Then trembling the the fatal pile afcends;
Viewing the Trojan reliques, fhe unsheath'd
Æneas' fword, not for that ufe bequeath'd:
Then on the guilty bed the gently lays
Herfelf, and foftly thus lamenting prays;
Dear reliques, whilst that Gods and Fates give leave,
Free me from care, and my glad foul receive.
That date which Fortune gave, I now muft end,
And to the fhades a 'noble ghost defcend.
Sichæus' blood, by his falfe brother fpilt,
I have reveng'd, and a proud city built ;
Happy, alas; too happy I had liv'd,
Had not the Trojan on my coaft arriv'd.
But fhall I die without revenge? yet die
Thus, thus with joy to thy Sichæus fly.
My confcious foe my funeral fire fhall view
From fea, and may that omen him pursue !
Her fainting hand let fall the fword befmear'd
With blood, and then the mortal wound appear'd;
Through all the court the fright and clamours rife,
Which the whole city fills with fears and cries,
As loud as if her Carthage, or old Tyre
The foe had entered, and had fet on fire.
Amazed Anne with speed ascends the stairs,
And in her arms her dying fifter rears:
Did you for this, yourself, and me beguile ?
For fuch an end did I erect this pile?
Did you fo much defpife me, in this fate
Myfelf with you not to affociate ?
Yourself and me, alas! this fatal wound
The senate, and the people, doth confound.
I'll wash her wound with tears, and at her death,
My lips from hers fhall draw her parting breath.
Then with her veft the wound fhe wipes and dries
Thrice with her arm the Queen attempts to rise,
But her ftrength failing, falls into a swound,
Life's last efforts yet striving with her wound;
Thrice on her bed fhe turns, with wandering fight
Seeking, the groans when she beholds the light.
Then Juno, pitying her disastrous fate,
Sends Iris down, her pangs to mitigate.
(Since, if we fall before th' appointed day,
Nature and Death continue long their fray.)
Iris defcends; this fatal lock (fays fhe)
To Pluto I bequeath, and fet thee free;
Then clips her hair: Cold numbness straight bereaves Her corpse of sense, and th' air her foul receives.
Going this last Summer to visit the Wells, I took an occafion (by the way) to wait upon an ancient and honourable friend of mine, whom I found diverting his (then folitary) retirement with the Latin original of this translation, which (being out of print) I had never feen before: when I looked upon it, I faw that it had formerly passed through two learned hands, not without approbation; which were Ben Jonfon and Sir Kenelm Digby; but I found it (where I shall never find myself) in the service of a better mafter, the Earl of Bristol, of whom I shall say no more; for I love not to improve the honour of the living, by impairing that of the dead; and my own profeffion hath taught me not to erect new fuperftructures upon an old ruin. He was pleased to recommend it to me for my companion at the Wells, where I liked the entertainment it gave me fo well, that I undertook to redeem it from an obfolete English disguife, wherein an old Monk had cloathed it, and to make as becoming a new veft for it as I could.
The author was a perfon of quality in Italy, his name Mancini, which family matched fince with the fifter of Cardinal Mazarine; he was contemporary to Petrarch, and Mantuan, and not long before Torquato