Chapter III: Appendix (2)

A nymph of quality admires our knight; He marries, bows at court, and grows polite: Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) The well-bred cuckolds in St James's air: First, for his son a gay commission buys, Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies: 390 His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife; She bears a coronet and pox for life. In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, And one more pensioner St Stephen gains. My lady falls to play; so bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues; The court forsake him--and Sir Balaam hangs: Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own, His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown: 400 The devil and the king divide the prize, And sad Sir Balaam curses God, and dies.

VARIATIONS.

After VER. 50, in the MS.--

To break a trust were Peter bribed with wine, Peter! 'twould pose as wise a head as thine.

VER. 77, in the former edition--

Well then, since with the world we stand or fall, Come, take it as we find it, gold and all.

After VER. 218 in the MS.--

Where one lean herring furnish'd Cotta's board, And nettles grew, fit porridge for their lord; Where mad good-nature, bounty misapplied, In lavish Curio blazed awhile and died; There Providence once more shall shift the scene, And showing H----y, teach the golden mean.

After VER. 226, in the MS.--

That secret rare with affluence hardly join'd, Which W----n lost, yet B----y ne'er could find; Still miss'd by vice, and scarce by virtue hit, By G----'s goodness, or by S----'s wit.

After VER. 250 in the MS--

Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's shore, Who sings not him, oh, may he sing no more!

VER. 287, thus in the MS.--

The register enrolls him with his poor, Tells he was born and died, and tells no more. Just as he ought, he fill'd the space between; Then stole to rest, unheeded and unseen.

VER. 337, in the former editions--

That knotty point, my lord, shall I discuss Or tell a tale!--A tale.--It follows thus.

EPISTLE IV.--TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF BURLINGTON.

ARGUMENT.

OF THE USE OF RICHES.

The vanity of expense in people of wealth and quality. The abuse of the word 'taste,' ver. 13. That the first principle and foundation, in this as in every thing else, is good sense, ver. 40. The chief proof of it is to follow nature, even in works of mere luxury and elegance. Instanced in architecture and gardening, where all must be adapted to the genius and use of the place, and the beauties not forced into it, but resulting from it, ver. 50. How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings, for want of this true foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all; and the best examples and rules will but be perverted into something burdensome or ridiculous, ver. 65 to 92. A description of the false taste of magnificence; the first grand error of which is to imagine that greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the proportion and harmony of the whole, ver. 97; and the second, either in joining together parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the repetition of the same too frequently, ver. 105, &c. A word or two of false taste in books, in music, in painting, even in preaching and prayer, and lastly in entertainments, ver. 133, &c. Yet Providence is justified in giving wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind, ver. 169 [recurring to what is laid down in the 'Essay on Man,' ep. ii. and in the epistle preceding this, ver. 159, &c.] What are the proper objects of magnificence, and a proper field for the expense of great men, ver. 177, &c.; and finally, the great and public works which become a prince, ver. 191, to the end.

'Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy: Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste? Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats; Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats; He buys for Topham[45] drawings and designs, For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins; Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne[46] alone, And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane. 10 Think we all these are for himself? no more Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted? Only to show how many tastes he wanted. What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste? Some demon whisper'd, 'Visto! have a taste.' Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool, And needs no rod but Ripley[47] with a rule. See! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride, Bids Bubo[48] build, and sends him such a guide: 20 A standing sermon, at each year's expense, That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence!

You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of use. Yet shall (my lord) your just, your noble rules Fill half the land with imitating fools, Who random drawings from your sheets shall take, And of one beauty many blunders make; Load some vain church with old theatric state, Turn arcs of triumph to a garden-gate; 30 Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all On some patch'd dog-hole eked with ends of wall; Then clap four slices of pilaster on't, That, laced with bits of rustic, makes a front. Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door; Conscious they act a true Palladian part. And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer, A certain truth, which many buy too dear: 40 Something there is more needful than expense, And something previous even to taste--'tis sense: Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven: A light, which in yourself you must perceive; Jones and Le Notre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the column, or the arch to bend, To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot; In all, let Nature never be forgot. 50 But treat the goddess like a modest fair, Nor overdress, nor leave her wholly bare; Let not each beauty everywhere be spied, Where half the skill is decently to hide. He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.

Consult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters or to rise, or fall; Or helps the ambitious hill the heavens to scale, Or scoops in circling theatres the vale; 60 Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; Now breaks, or now directs, the intending lines; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

Still follow sense, of every art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start even from difficulty, strike from chance; Nature shall join you; time shall make it grow A work to wonder at--perhaps a Stowe. 70

Without it, proud Versailles! thy glory falls; And Nero's terraces desert their walls: The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake: Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again. Even in an ornament its place remark, Nor in an hermitage set Dr Clarke.[49] Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete; His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet; 80 The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, And strength of shade contends with strength of light; A waving glow the blooming beds display, Blushing in bright diversities of day, With silver-quivering rills meander'd o'er-- Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more; Tired of the scene parterres and fountains yield, He finds at last he better likes a field.

Through his young woods how pleased Sabinus stray'd, Or sat delighted in the thickening shade, 90 With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Or see the stretching branches long to meet! His son's fine taste an opener vista loves, Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves; One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views, With all the mournful family of yews; The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade.

At Timon's villa[50] let us pass a day, Where all cry out, 'What sums are thrown away!' 100 So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Soft and agreeable come never there. Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. To compass this, his building is a town, His pond an ocean, his parterre a down: Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, A puny insect, shivering at a breeze! Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around! The whole a labour'd quarry above ground; 110 Two Cupids squirt before: a lake behind Improves the keenness of the northern wind. His gardens next your admiration call, On every side you look, behold the wall! No pleasing intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other. The suffering eye inverted nature sees, Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees; 120 With here a fountain, never to be play'd; And there a summer-house, that knows no shade; Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers; There gladiators fight, or die in flowers; Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.

My lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure, to be seen: But soft--by regular approach--not yet-- First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; 130 And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your thighs, Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes.

His study! with what authors is it stored? In books, not authors, curious is my lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round: These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. Lo! some are vellum, and the rest as good For all his lordship knows, but they are wood. For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look, 140 These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear, That summons you to all the pride of prayer: Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven. On painted ceilings you devoutly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre,[51] On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, And bring all Paradise before your eye. To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, Who never mentions hell[51] to ears polite. 150

But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall: The rich buffet well-colour'd serpents grace, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. Is this a dinner? this a genial room? No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb. A solemn sacrifice, perform'd in state, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread doctor[53] and his wand were there. 160 Between each act the trembling salvers ring, From soup to sweet-vine, and God bless the king. In plenty starving, tantalised in state, And complaisantly help'd to all I hate, Treated, caress'd, and tired, I take my leave, Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; I curse such lavish cost, and little skill, And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill.

Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread 170 The labourer bears: what his hard heart denies, His charitable vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden ear Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres reassume the land.

Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil?-- Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle. 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense, And splendour borrows all her rays from sense. 180

His father's acres who enjoys in peace, Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase: Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil, Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil; Whose ample lawns are not ashamed to feed The milky heifer and deserving steed; Whose rising forests, not for pride or show, But future buildings, future navies, grow: Let his plantations stretch from down to down, First shade a country, and then raise a town. 190

You, too, proceed! make falling arts your care, Erect new wonders, and the old repair; Jones and Palladio to themselves restore, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before: Till kings call forth the ideas of your mind, (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd.) Bid harbours open, public ways extend, Bid temples, worthier of the god, ascend; Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain, The mole projected break the roaring main; 200 Back to his bonds their subject sea command, And roll obedient rivers through the land; These honours, peace to happy Britain brings, These are imperial works, and worthy kings.

VARIATION.

After VER. 22 in the MS.--

Must bishops, lawyers, statesmen have the skill To build, to plant, judge paintings, what you will? Then why not Kent as well our treaties draw, Bridginan explain the gospel, Gibs the law?

EPISTLE V. TO MR ADDISON.

OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS.[54]

See the wild waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish'd, like their dead! Imperial wonders raised on nations spoil'd Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd: Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drain'd a distant country of her floods: Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! 10 Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage, Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire. Perhaps, by its own ruins saved from flame, Some buried marble half-preserves a name; That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust The faithless column, and the crumbling bust: 20 Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more! Convinced, she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, Beneath her palm, here sad Judaea weeps. Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd, And little eagles wave their wings in gold. 30

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpen'd sight, pale antiquaries pore, The inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years! To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. 40 Poor Vadius,[55] long with learned spleen devour'd. Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd: And Curio, restless by the fair one's side, Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine: Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine; Her gods, and god-like heroes rise to view, And all her faded garlands bloom anew. Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage; These pleased the fathers of poetic rage; 50 The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And Art reflected images to Art.

Oh! when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enroll'd, And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold? Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face; There, warriors frowning in historic brass: Then future ages with delight shall see How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; 60 Or in fair series laurell'd bards be shown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison. Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine; With aspect open, shall erect his head, And round the orb in lasting notes be read, 'Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear; Who broke no promise, served no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; 70 Ennobled by himself, by all approved, And praised, unenvied, by the Muse he loved.'

TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS.

SAPPHO TO PHAON.

FROM THE FIFTEENTH OF OVID'S EPISTLES.

Say, lovely youth, that dost my heart command, Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand? Must then her name the wretched writer prove, To thy remembrance lost, as to thy love? Ask not the cause that I new numbers choose, The lute neglected and the lyric Muse; Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow, And tuned my heart to elegies of woe, I burn, I burn, as when through ripen'd corn By driving winds the spreading flames are borne! 10 Phaon to AEtna's scorching fields retires, While I consume with more than AEtna's fires! No more my soul a charm in music finds; Music has charms alone for peaceful minds. Soft scenes of solitude no more can please; Love enters there, and I'm my own disease. No more the Lesbian dames my passion move, Once the dear objects of my guilty love; All other loves are lost in only thine, Ah, youth ungrateful to a flame like mine! 20 Whom would not all those blooming charms surprise, Those heavenly looks, and dear deluding eyes! The harp and bow would you like Phoebus bear, A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear; Would you with ivy wreath your flowing hair, Not Bacchus' self with Phaon could compare: Yet Phoebus loved, and Bacchus felt the flame, One Daphne warm'd, and one the Cretan dame; Nymphs that in verse no more could rival me, Than e'en those gods contend in charms with thee. 30 The Muses teach me all their softest lays, And the wide world resounds with Sappho's praise. Though great Alcaeus more sublimely sings, And strikes with bolder rage the sounding strings, No less renown attends the moving lyre, Which Venus tunes, and all her loves inspire. To me what nature has in charms denied, Is well by wit's more lasting flames supplied. Though short my stature, yet my name extends To heaven itself, and earth's remotest ends. 40 Brown as I am, an Ethiopian dame Inspired young Perseus with a generous flame; Turtles and doves of different hues unite, And glossy jet is pair'd with shining white. If to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign, But such as merit, such as equal thine, By none, alas! by none thou canst be moved, Phaon alone by Phaon must be loved! Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ, Once in her arms you centred all your joy: 50 No time the dear remembrance can remove, For, oh! how vast a memory has love! My music, then, you could for ever hear, And all my words were music to your ear. You stopp'd with kisses my enchanting tongue, And found my kisses sweeter than my song, In all I pleased, but most in what was best; And the last joy was dearer than the rest. Then with each word, each glance, each motion fired, You still enjoy'd, and yet you still desired, 60 Till, all dissolving, in the trance we lay, And in tumultuous raptures died away. The fair Sicilians now thy soul inflame; Why was I born, ye gods, a Lesbian dame? But ah, beware, Sicilian nymphs! nor boast That wandering heart which I so lately lost; Nor be with all those tempting words abused, Those tempting words were all to Sappho used. And you that rule Sicilia's happy plains, Have pity, Venus, on your poet's pains! 70 Shall fortune still in one sad tenor run, And still increase the woes so soon begun? Inured to sorrow from my tender years, My parents' ashes drank my early tears: My brother next, neglecting wealth and fame, Ignobly burn'd in a destructive flame: An infant daughter late my griefs increased, And all a mother's cares distract my breast, Alas! what more could Fate itself impose, But thee, the last, and greatest of my woes? 80 No more my robes in waving purple flow, Nor on my hand the sparkling diamonds glow; No more my locks in ringlets curl'd diffuse The costly sweetness of Arabian dews, Nor braids of gold the varied tresses bind, That fly disorder'd with the wanton wind: For whom should Sappho use such arts as these? He's gone, whom only she desired to please! Cupid's light darts my tender bosom move; Still is there cause for Sappho still to love: 90 So from my birth the Sisters fix'd my doom, And gave to Venus all my life to come; Or, while my Muse in melting notes complains, My yielding heart keeps measure to my strains. By charms like thine, which all my soul have won, Who might not--ah! who would not be undone? For those Aurora Cephalus might scorn, And with fresh blushes paint the conscious morn. For those might Cynthia lengthen Phaon's sleep; And bid Endymion nightly tend his sheep; 100 Venus for those had rapt thee to the skies; But Mars on thee might look with Venus' eyes. Oh scarce a youth, yet scarce a tender boy! Oh useful time for lovers to employ! Pride of thy age, and glory of thy race, Come to these arms, and melt in this embrace! The vows you never will return, receive; And take, at least, the love you will not give. See, while I write, my words are lost in tears! The less my sense, the more my love appears. 110 Sure 'twas not much to bid one kind adieu, (At least to feign was never hard to you) 'Farewell, my Lesbian love,' you might have said; Or coldly thus, 'Farewell, O Lesbian maid!' No tear did you, no parting kiss receive, Nor knew I then how much I was to grieve. No lover's gift your Sappho could confer, And wrongs and woes were all you left with her. No charge I gave you, and no charge could give, But this, 'Be mindful of our loves, and live.' 120 Now by the Nine, those powers adored by me, And Love, the god that ever waits on thee, When first I heard (from whom I hardly knew) That you were fled, and all my joys with you, Like some sad statue, speechless, pale, I stood, Grief chill'd my breast, and stopp'd my freezing blood; No sigh to rise, no tear had power to flow, Fix'd in a stupid lethargy of woe: But when its way the impetuous passion found, I rend my tresses, and my breast I wound: 130 I rave, then weep; I curse, and then complain; Now swell to rage, now melt in tears again. Not fiercer pangs distract the mournful dame, Whose first-born infant feeds the funeral flame. My scornful brother with a smile appears, Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears; His hated image ever haunts my eyes; 'And why this grief? thy daughter lives!' he cries. Stung with my love, and furious with despair, All torn my garments, and my bosom bare, 140 My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim; Such inconsistent things are love and shame! 'Tis thou art all my care and my delight, My daily longing, and my dream by night; Oh night more pleasing than the brightest day, When fancy gives what absence takes away, And, dress'd in all its visionary charms, Restores my fair deserter to my arms! Then round your neck in wanton wreaths I twine, Then you, methinks, as fondly circle mine: 150 A thousand tender words I hear and speak; A thousand melting kisses give and take: Then fiercer joys, I blush to mention these, Yet, while I blush, confess how much they please. But when, with day, the sweet delusions fly, And all things wake to life and joy but I, As if once more forsaken, I complain, And close my eyes to dream of you again: Then frantic rise, and like some Fury rove Through lonely plains, and through the silent grove; 160 As if the silent grove, and lonely plains, That knew my pleasures, could relieve my pains. I view the grotto, once the scene of love, The rocks around, the hanging roofs above, That charm'd me more, with native moss o'ergrown, Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone; I find the shades that veil'd our joys before; But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more. Here the press'd herbs with bending tops betray Where oft entwined in amorous folds we lay; 170 I kiss that earth which once was press'd by you, And all with tears the withering herbs bedew. For thee the fading trees appear to mourn, And birds defer their songs till thy return: Night shades the groves, and all in silence lie, All but the mournful Philomel and I: With mournful Philomel I join my strain, Of Tereus she, of Phaon I complain.

A spring there is, whose silver waters show, Clear as a glass, the shining sands below: 180 A flowery lotus spreads its arms above, Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove; Eternal greens the mossy margin grace, Watch'd by the sylvan genius of the place. Here as I lay, and swell'd with tears the flood, Before my sight a watery virgin stood: She stood and cried, 'O you that love in vain! Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main; There stands a rock, from whose impending steep Apollo's fane surveys the rolling deep; 190 There injured lovers, leaping from above, Their flames extinguish, and forget to love. Deucalion once with hopeless fury burn'd, In vain he loved, relentless Pyrrha scorn'd: But when from hence he plunged into the main, Deucalion scorn'd, and Pyrrha loved in vain. Haste, Sappho, haste, from high Leucadia throw Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps below!' She spoke, and vanish'd with the voice--I rise, And silent tears fall trickling from my eyes. 200 I go, ye nymphs! those rocks and seas to prove; How much I fear, but ah, how much I love! I go, ye nymphs! where furious love inspires: Let female fears submit to female fires. To rocks and seas I fly from Phaon's hate, And hope from seas and rocks a milder fate. Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow, And softly lay me on the waves below! And thou, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain, Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o'er the main, 210 Nor let a lover's death the guiltless flood profane! On Phoebus' shrine my harp I'll then bestow, And this inscription shall be placed below: 'Here she who sung, to him that did inspire, Sappho to Phoebus consecrates her lyre; What suits with Sappho, Phoebus, suits with thee: The gift, the giver, and the god agree.'

But why, alas! relentless youth, ah, why To distant seas must tender Sappho fly? Thy charms than those may far more powerful be, 220 And Phoebus' self is less a god to me. Ah! canst thou doom me to the rocks and sea, Oh far more faithless and more hard than they? Ah! canst thou rather see this tender breast Dash'd on these rocks than to thy bosom press'd? This breast which once, in vain, you liked so well; Where the Loves play'd, and where the Muses dwell. Alas! the Muses now no more inspire; Untuned my lute, and silent is my lyre. My languid numbers have forgot to flow, 230 And fancy sinks beneath a weight of woe. Ye Lesbian virgins, and ye Lesbian dames, Themes of my verse, and objects of my flames, No more your groves with my glad songs shall ring, No more these hands shall touch the trembling string: My Phaon's fled, and I those arts resign; (Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!) Return, fair youth! return, and bring along Joy to my soul, and vigour to my song: Absent from thee, the poet's flame expires; 240 But ah! how fiercely burn the lover's fires? Gods! can no prayers, no sighs, no numbers move One savage heart, or teach it how to love? The winds my prayers, my sighs, my numbers bear, The flying winds have lost them all in air! Oh when, alas! shall more auspicious gales To these fond eyes restore thy welcome sails? If you return--ah, why these long delays? Poor Sappho dies while careless Phaon stays. Oh launch thy bark, nor fear the watery plain; 250 Venus for thee shall smooth her native main. Oh launch thy bark, secure of prosperous gales; Cupid for thee shall spread the swelling sails. If you will fly--(yet ah! what cause can be, Too cruel youth, that you should fly from me?) If not from Phaon I must hope for ease, Ah, let me seek it from the raging seas: To raging seas unpitied I'll remove, And either cease to live, or cease to love!

THE FABLE OF DRYOPE.[56]

FROM THE NINTH BOOK OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.

She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs; When the fair consort of her son replies: 'Since you a servant's ravish'd form bemoan, And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own, Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate A nearer woe, a sister's stranger fate. No nymph of all Oechalia could compare For beauteous form with Dryope the fair, Her tender mother's only hope and pride, (Myself the offspring of a second bride). 10 This nymph, compress'd by him who rules the day, Whom Delphi and the Delian isle obey, Andraemon loved; and, bless'd in all those charms That pleased a god, succeeded to her arms.

'A lake there was with shelving banks around, Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crown'd. These shades, unknowing of the fates, she sought, And to the Naiads flowery garlands brought: Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she press'd Within her arms, and nourish'd at her breast. 20 Not distant far, a watery lotus grows; The spring was new, and all the verdant boughs, Adorn'd with blossoms, promised fruits that vie In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye: Of these she cropp'd, to please her infant son, And I myself the same rash act had done: But, lo! I saw (as near her side I stood) The violated blossoms drop with blood; Upon the tree I cast a frightful look; The trembling tree with sudden horror shook. 30 Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true) As from Priapus' lawless lust she flew, Forsook her form, and, fixing here, became A flowery plant, which still preserves her name.

'This change unknown, astonish'd at the sight, My trembling sister strove to urge her flight; And first the pardon of the nymphs implored, And those offended sylvan powers adored: But when she backward would have fled, she found Her stiffening feet were rooted in the ground: 40 In vain to free her fasten'd feet she strove, And as she struggles only moves above; She feels th' encroaching bark around her grow By quick degrees, and cover all below: Surprised at this, her trembling hand she heaves To rend her hair; her hand is fill'd with leaves: Where late was hair, the shooting leaves are seen To rise, and shade her with a sudden green. The child Amphissus, to her bosom press'd, Perceived a colder and a harder breast, 50 And found the springs, that ne'er till then denied Their milky moisture, on a sudden dried. I saw, unhappy! what I now relate, And stood the helpless witness of thy fate; Embraced thy boughs, thy rising bark delay'd, There wish'd to grow, and mingle shade with shade.

'Behold Andraemon and th' unhappy sire Appear, and for their Dryope inquire: A springing tree for Dryope they find, And print warm kisses on the panting rind, 60 Prostrate, with tears their kindred plant bedew, And close embrace as to the roots they grew. The face was all that now remain'd of thee, No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree; Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear, From every leaf distils a trickling tear; And straight a voice, while yet a voice remains, Thus through the trembling boughs in sighs complains:

'"If to the wretched any faith be given, I swear by all th' unpitying powers of Heaven, 70 No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred; In mutual innocence our lives we led: If this be false, let these new greens decay, Let sounding axes lop my limbs away, And crackling flames on all my honours prey. But from my branching arms this infant bear, Let some kind nurse supply a mother's care: And to his mother let him oft be led, Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed: Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame 80 Imperfect words, and lisp his mother's name, To hail this tree, and say, with weeping eyes, 'Within this plant my hapless parent lies:' And when in youth he seeks the shady woods, Oh! let him fly the crystal lakes and floods, Nor touch the fatal flowers; but, warn'd by me, Believe a goddess shrined in every tree. My sire, my sister, and my spouse, farewell! If in your breasts or love or pity dwell, Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel 90 The browsing cattle or the piercing steel. Farewell! and since I cannot bend to join My lips to yours, advance at least to mine. My son, thy mother's parting kiss receive, While yet thy mother has a kiss to give. I can no more; the creeping rind invades My closing lips, and hides my head in shades: Remove your hands, the bark shall soon suffice Without their aid to seal these dying eyes."

'She ceased at once to speak and ceased to be, 100 And all the nymph was lost within the tree; Yet latent life through her new branches reign'd, And long the plant a human heat retain'd.'

VERTUMNUS AND POMONA,

FROM THE FOURTEENTH BOOK OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.

The fair Pomona flourish'd in his reign; Of all the virgins of the sylvan train None taught the trees a nobler race to bear, Or more improved the vegetable care. To her the shady grove, the flowery field, The streams and fountains no delights could yield: 'Twas all her joy the ripening fruits to tend, And see the boughs with happy burdens bend. The hook she bore instead of Cynthia's spear, To lop the growth of the luxuriant year, 10 To decent forms the lawless shoots to bring, And teach th' obedient branches where to spring. Now the cleft rind inserted grafts receives, And yields an offspring more than nature gives; Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew, And feed their fibres with reviving dew.

These cares alone her virgin breast employ, Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy. Her private orchards, wall'd on every side, To lawless sylvans all access denied. 20 How oft the satyrs and the wanton fauns, Who haunt the forests or frequent the lawns, The god whose ensign scares the birds of prey, And old Silenus, youthful in decay, Employ'd their wiles and unavailing care To pass the fences, and surprise the fair! Like these, Vertumnus own'd his faithful flame, Like these, rejected by the scornful dame. To gain her sight a thousand forms he wears; And first a reaper from the field appears: 30 Sweating he walks, while loads of golden grain O'ercharge the shoulders of the seeming swain: Oft o'er his back a crooked scythe is laid, And wreaths of hay his sunburnt temples shade: Oft in his harden'd hand a goad he bears, Like one who late unyoked the sweating steers: Sometimes his pruning-hook corrects the vines, And the loose stragglers to their ranks confines: Now gathering what the bounteous year allows, He pulls ripe apples from the bending boughs: 40 A soldier now, he with his sword appears; A fisher next, his trembling angle bears: Each shape he varies, and each art he tries, On her bright charms to feast his longing eyes.

A female form at last Vertumnus wears, With all the marks of reverend age appears, His temples thinly spread with silver hairs: Propp'd on his staff, and stooping as he goes, A painted mitre shades his furrow'd brows. The god in this decrepid form array'd 50 The gardens enter'd, and the fruit survey'd; And, 'Happy you!' he thus address'd the maid, 'Whose charms as far all other nymphs outshine, As other gardens are excell'd by thine!' Then kiss'd the fair; (his kisses warmer grow Than such as women on their sex bestow) Then, placed beside her on the flowery ground, Beheld the trees with autumn's bounty crown'd. An elm was near, to whose embraces led, The curling vine her swelling clusters spread: 60 He view'd her twining branches with delight, And praised the beauty of the pleasing sight.

'Yet this tall elm, but for this vine,' he said, 'Had stood neglected, and a barren shade; And this fair vine, but that her arms surround Her married elm, had crept along the ground. Ah, beauteous maid! let this example move Your mind, averse from all the joys of love. Deign to be loved, and every heart subdue! What nymph could e'er attract such crowds as you? 70 Not she whose beauty urged the Centaur's arms, Ulysses' queen, nor Helen's fatal charms. Ev'n now, when silent scorn is all they gain, A thousand court you, though they court in vain-- A thousand sylvans, demigods, and gods, That haunt our mountains and our Alban woods. But if you'll prosper, mark what I advise, Whom age and long experience render wise, And one whose tender care is far above All that these lovers ever felt of love, 80 (Far more than e'er can by yourself be guess'd) Fix on Vertumnus, and reject the rest: For his firm faith I dare engage my own: Scarce to himself, himself is better known. To distant lands Vertumnus never roves; Like you, contented with his native groves; Nor at first sight, like most, admires the fair: For you he lives; and you alone shall share His last affection, as his early care. Besides, he's lovely far above the rest, 90 With youth immortal, and with beauty bless'd. Add, that he varies every shape with ease, And tries all forms that may Pomona please. But what should most excite a mutual flame, Your rural cares and pleasures are the same. To him your orchard's early fruits are due; (A pleasing offering when 'tis made by you) He values these; but yet, alas! complains That still the best and dearest gift remains. Not the fair fruit that on yon branches glows 100 With that ripe red th' autumnal sun bestows; Nor tasteful herbs that in these gardens rise, Which the kind soil with milky sap supplies; You, only you, can move the god's desire: Oh crown so constant and so pure a fire! Let soft compassion touch your gentle mind: Think, 'tis Vertumnus begs you to be kind: So may no frost, when early buds appear, Destroy the promise of the youthful year; Nor winds, when first your florid orchard blows, 110 Shake the light blossoms from their blasted boughs!'

This, when the various god had urged in vain, He straight assumed his native form again: Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears, As when through clouds th' emerging sun appears, And thence exerting his refulgent ray, Dispels the darkness, and reveals the day. Force he prepared, but check'd the rash design; For when, appearing in a form divine, The nymph surveys him, and beholds the grace 120 Of charming features and a youthful face, In her soft breast consenting passions move, And the warm maid confess'd a mutual love.

THE FIRST BOOK OF STATIUS'S THEBAIS.

TRANSLATED IN THE YEAR 1703.

ARGUMENT.

Oedipus, King of Thebes, having, by mistake, slain his father Laius, and married his mother Jocasta, put out his own eyes, and resigned his realm to his sons Eteocles and Polynices. Being neglected by them, he makes his prayer to the fury Tisiphone, to sow debate betwixt the brothers. They agree at last to reign singly, each a year by turns, and the first lot is obtained by Eteocles. Jupiter, in a council of the gods, declares his resolution of punishing the Thebans, and Argives also, by means of a marriage betwixt Polynices and one of the daughters of Adrastus, King of Argos. Juno opposes, but to no effect; and Mercury is sent on a message to the shades, to the ghost of Laius, who is to appear to Eteocles, and provoke him to break the agreement. Polynices, in the meantime, departs from Thebes by night, is overtaken by a storm, and arrives at Argos, where he meets with Tydeus, who had fled from Calydon, having killed his brother. Adrastus entertains them, having received an oracle from Apollo that his daughters should be married to a boar and a lion, which he understands to be meant by these strangers, by whom the hides of those beasts were worn, and who arrived at the time when he kept an annual feast in honour of that god. The rise of this solemnity, he relates to his guests; the loves of Phoebus and Psamathe, and the story of Choroebus. He inquires, and is made acquainted with their descent and quality. The sacrifice is renewed, and the book concludes with a hymn to Apollo.--_P_.

Fraternal rage, the guilty Thebes' alarms, Th' alternate reign destroy'd by impious arms, Demand our song; a sacred fury fires My ravish'd breast, and all the Muse inspires. O goddess! say, shall I deduce my rhymes From the dire nation in its early times, Europa's rape, Agenor's stern decree, And Cadmus searching round the spacious sea? How with the serpent's teeth he sow'd the soil, And reap'd an iron harvest of his toil? 10 Or how from joining stones the city sprung, While to his harp divine Amphion sung? Or shall I Juno's hate to Thebes resound, Whose fatal rage th' unhappy monarch found? The sire against the son his arrows drew, O'er the wide fields the furious mother flew, And while her arms a second hope contain, Sprung from the rocks, and plunged into the main.

But wave whate'er to Cadmus may belong, And fix, O Muse! the barrier of thy song 20 At Oedipus--from his disasters trace The long confusions of his guilty race: Nor yet attempt to stretch thy bolder wing, And mighty Caesar's conquering eagles sing; How twice he tamed proud Ister's rapid flood, While Dacian mountains stream'd with barbarous blood; Twice taught the Rhine beneath his laws to roll, And stretch'd his empire to the frozen pole; Or, long before, with early valour strove In youthful arms t' assert the cause of Jove. 30 And thou, great heir of all thy father's fame, Increase of glory to the Latian name! Oh! bless thy Rome with an eternal reign, Nor let desiring worlds entreat in vain. What though the stars contract their heavenly space, And crowd their shining ranks to yield thee place; Though all the skies, ambitious of thy sway, Conspire to court thee from our world away; Though Phoebus longs to mix his rays with thine, And in thy glories more serenely shine; 40 Though Jove himself no less content would be To part his throne, and share his heaven with thee: Yet stay, great Caesar! and vouchsafe to reign O'er the wide earth, and o'er the watery main; Resign to Jove his empire of the skies, And people heaven with Roman deities.

The time will come when a diviner flame Shall warm my breast to sing of Caesar's fame; Meanwhile, permit that my preluding Muse In Theban wars an humbler theme may choose: 50 Of furious hate surviving death she sings, A fatal throne to two contending kings, And funeral flames, that, parting wide in air, Express the discord of the souls they bear: Of towns dispeopled, and the wandering ghosts Of kings unburied in the wasted coasts; When Dirce's fountain blush'd with Grecian blood, And Thetis, near Ismenos' swelling flood, With dread beheld the rolling surges sweep In heaps his slaughter'd sons into the deep. 60

What hero, Clio! wilt thou first relate? The rage of Tydeus, or the prophet's fate? Or how, with hills of slain on every side, Hippomedon repell'd the hostile tide? Or how the youth, with every grace adorn'd, Untimely fell, to be for ever mourn'd? Then to fierce Capaneus thy verse extend, And sing with horror his prodigious end.

Now wretched Oedipus, deprived of sight, Led a long death in everlasting night; 70 But while he dwells where not a cheerful ray Can pierce the darkness, and abhors the day, The clear reflecting mind presents his sin In frightful views, and makes it day within; Returning thoughts in endless circles roll, And thousand Furies haunt his guilty soul: The wretch then lifted to th' unpitying skies Those empty orbs from whence he tore his eyes, Whose wounds, yet fresh, with bloody hands he strook, While from his breast these dreadful accents broke: 80

'Ye gods! that o'er the gloomy regions reign, Where guilty spirits feel eternal pain; Thou, sable Styx! whose livid streams are roll'd Through dreary coasts, which I though blind behold; Tisiphone! that oft hast heard my prayer, Assist, if Oedipus deserve thy care. If you received me from Jocasta's womb, And nursed the hope of mischiefs yet to come; If, leaving Polybus, I took my way To Cyrrha's temple, on that fatal day 90 When by the son the trembling father died, Where the three roads the Phocian fields divide; If I the Sphynx's riddles durst explain, Taught by thyself to win the promised reign; If wretched I, by baleful Furies led, With monstrous mixture stain'd my mother's bed, For hell and thee begot an impious brood, And with full lust those horrid joys renew'd; Then, self-condemn'd to shades of endless night, Forced from these orbs the bleeding balls of sight; 100 Oh, hear! and aid the vengeance I require, If worthy thee, and what thou might'st inspire! My sons their old, unhappy sire despise, Spoil'd of his kingdom, and deprived of eyes; Guideless I wander, unregarded mourn, Whilst these exalt their sceptres o'er my urn: These sons, ye gods! who with flagitious pride Insult my darkness and my groans deride. Art thou a father, unregarding Jove! And sleeps thy thunder in the realms above? 110 Thou Fury! then some lasting curse entail, Which o'er their children's children shall prevail; Place on their heads that crown, distain'd with gore, Which these dire hands from my slain father tore; Go! and a parent's heavy curses bear; Break all the bonds of nature, and prepare Their kindred souls to mutual hate and war. Give them to dare, what I might wish to see, Blind as I am, some glorious villany! Soon shalt thou find, if thou but arm their hands, 120 Their ready guilt preventing thy commands: Couldst thou some great proportion'd mischief frame, They'd prove the father from whose loins they came.'

The Fury heard, while on Cocytus' brink Her snakes, untied, sulphureous waters drink; But at the summons roll'd her eyes around, And snatch'd the starting serpents from the ground. Not half so swiftly shoots along in air The gliding lightning or descending star; Through crowds of airy shades she wing'd her flight, 130 And dark dominions of the silent night; Swift as she pass'd the flitting ghosts withdrew, And the pale spectres trembled at her view: To th' iron gates of Tenarus she flies, There spreads her dusky pinions to the skies. The day beheld, and, sickening at the sight, Veil'd her fair glories in the shades of night. Affrighted Atlas on the distant shore Trembled, and shook the heavens and gods he bore. Now from beneath Malea's airy height 140 Aloft she sprung, and steer'd to Thebes her flight; With eager speed the well-known journey took, Nor here regrets the hell she late forsook. A hundred snakes her gloomy visage shade, A hundred serpents guard her horrid head; In her sunk eyeballs dreadful meteors glow: Such rays from Phoebe's bloody circle flow, When, labouring with strong charms, she shoots from high A fiery gleam, and reddens all the sky. Blood stain'd her cheeks, and from her mouth there came 150 Blue steaming poisons, and a length of flame. From every blast of her contagious breath Famine and drought proceed, and plagues and death. A robe obscene was o'er her shoulders thrown, A dress by Fates and Furies worn alone. She toss'd her meagre arms; her better hand In waving circles whirl'd a funeral brand: A serpent from her left was seen to rear His flaming crest, and lash the yielding air. But when the Fury took her stand on high, 160 Where vast Cithaeron's top salutes the sky, A hiss from all the snaky tire went round: The dreadful signal all the rocks rebound, And through th' Achaian cities send the sound. Oete, with high Parnassus, heard the voice; Eurotas' banks remurmur'd to the noise; Again Leucothoe shook at these alarms, And press'd Palaermon closer in her arms. Headlong from thence the glowing Fury springs, And o'er the Theban palace spreads her wings, 170 Once more invades the guilty dome, and shrouds Its bright pavilions in a veil of clouds. Straight with the rage of all their race possess'd, Stung to the soul, the brothers start from rest, And all their Furies wake within their breast: Their tortured minds repining Envy tears, And Hate, engender'd by suspicious fears: And sacred thirst of sway, and all the ties Of nature broke; and royal perjuries; And impotent desire to reign alone, 180 That scorns the dull reversion of a throne: Each would the sweets of sovereign rule devour, While Discord waits upon divided power.

As stubborn steers, by brawny ploughmen broke, And join'd reluctant to the galling yoke, Alike disdain with servile necks to bear Th' unwonted weight, or drag the crooked share, But rend the reins, and bound a different way, And all the furrows in confusion lay: Such was the discord of the royal pair 190 Whom fury drove precipitate to war. In vain the chiefs contrived a specious way To govern Thebes by their alternate sway: Unjust decree! while this enjoys the state, That mourns in exile his unequal fate, And the short monarch of a hasty year Foresees with anguish his returning heir. Thus did the league their impious arms restrain, But scarce subsisted to the second reign.

Yet then no proud aspiring piles were raised, 200 No fretted roofs with polish'd metals blazed; No labour'd columns in long order placed, No Grecian stone the pompous arches graced: No nightly bands in glittering armour wait Before the sleepless tyrant's guarded gate; No chargers then were wrought in burnish'd gold, Nor silver vases took the forming mould; Nor gems on bowls emboss'd were seen to shine, Blaze on the brims, and sparkle in the wine-- Say, wretched rivals! what provokes your rage? 210 Say, to what end your impious arms engage? Not all bright Phoebus views in early morn, Or when his evening beams the west adorn, When the south glows with his meridian ray, And the cold north receives a fainter day; For crimes like these, not all those realms suffice, Were all those realms the guilty victor's prize!

But Fortune now (the lots of empire thrown) Decrees to proud Eteocles the crown: What joys, O tyrant! swell'd thy soul that day, 220 When all were slaves thou couldst around survey, Pleased to behold unbounded power thy own, And singly fill a fear'd and envied throne!