imitate Pindar, yet, in his most elevated flights, and in the sudden changes of his subject with almost imperceptible connexions, that Theban Poet is his master. But Horace is of the more bounded stanza, and confines himself strictly to one sort of verse, or fancy, 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 nave particular obligations, which this small testimony of my gratitude can never pay. It is his darling in the Latin, and I have taken some pains to make it my masterpiece 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 a 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 the 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 heroafter be amended? Imitation is a nice point, and there are few Poets who
deserve to be models in all they write. Miton's Paradise Lost is admirable; but am I. therefore bound to maintain, that there are no flats amongst his elevations, when 't is evident he creeps along sometimes, for above a hundred lines together. Cannot I admire the height of his invention, and the strength of his expressions, 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 Heroic 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, 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, exsors 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: 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 he did 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 recompense, 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.
OR, THE THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS PARAPHRASED.
To Amaryllis love compels my way
My browzing goats upon the mountain 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 stretch'd at ease your tender limbs
were laid,
Your nameless beauties nakedly display'd?
Then I was call'd your darling, your desire,
With kisses such as set my soul on fire :
But you are chang'd, yet I am stiil the same;
My heart maintains for both a double flame ;
Griev'd, but unmov'd, 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 deform'd, so chang'd of late?
What partial judges are our love and hate!
Ten wildings have I gather'd for my dear;
How ruddy like your lips their streaks appear!
Far off you view'd them with a longing eye
Upon the topmost branch (the tree was high :)
Yet nimbly up, from bough to bough I swerv'd,
And for to-morrow have ten more reserv'd.
Look on me kindly, and some pity show,
Or give me leave at least to look on you.
Some god transform me by his heavenly power
E'en 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 humankind.
The milk of tigers 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, train'd up in his tyrannic court,
To make the sufferings of your slaves your
Unheeded ruin! treacherous delight! [sport!
O polish'd hardness, soften'd 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 debarr'd?
For kisses are but empty when compar'd.
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 border'd with a rosy edging round.
What pangs I feel, unpitied and unheard!
Since I must die, why is my fate deferr'd!
I strip my body of my shepherd's frock:
Behold that dreadful downfall of a rock, [high!
Where yon old fisher views the waves from
"T is that convenient leap I mean to try.
You would be pleas'd to see me plunge to shore,
But better pleas'd 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
[love.
The withering leaf foreshow'd your withering
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 us'd to lease:
But harvest done, to char-work did aspire;
Meat, drink, and twopence was her daily hire,)
To work she went, her charms she mutter'd o'er,
And yet the resty sieve wagg'd ne'er the more;
I wept for woe, the testy beldame swore,
And, foaming with her god, foretold my fate;
That I was doom'd 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 offer'd 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. [move?
What nymph but my melodious voice would
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;
[gold.
The man might have been hang'd, but for his
Yet some suppose 't was love (some few indeed)
That stopp'd the fatal fury of her speed:
She saw, she sigh'd; her nimble feet refuse
Their wonted speed, and she took pains to lose.
A Prophet some, and some a Poet cry,
(No matter which, so neither of them lie)
From steepy Othrys' top to Pylus drove
His herd; and for his pains enjoy'd 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 manag'd 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 possess'd,
You shall not hear, but know 't is 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 't is time to end my doleful ditty.
A clammy sweat does o'er my temples creep;
My heavy eyes are urg'd 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.
THE EPITHALAMIUM OF HELEN
FROM THE EIGHTEENTH IDYLLIUM OF
THEOCRITUS.
TWELVE Spartan virgins, noble, young, and
fair,
With violet wreaths adorn'd 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,
Jove's beauteous daughter now his bride must
And Jove himself was less a god than he :
For this their artful hands instruct the lute to
[the ground.
Their feet assist their hands, and justly beat
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 brush'd thy eyelids 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 sneez'd 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, call 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 O, 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 eclips'd 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-colour'd Helen is the pride
Of Lacedæmon, and of Greece beside.
Like her no nymph can willing osiers bend
In basket-works, which painted streaks com-
mend:
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 learn'd 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 enroll'd, 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, form'd 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 engrav'd, and worship Helen's tree :
Balm, from a silver box distill'd around,
Shall all bedew the roots, and scent the sacred
ground.
The balm, 't is 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 feather'd
flock.
Hymen, oh, Hymen, to thy triumphs run,
And view the mighty spoils thou hast in battle
FROM THE TWENTY-THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.
WITH inauspicious love, a wretched swain Pursu'd the fairest nymph of all the plain; Fairest indeed, but prouder far than fair, She plung'd him hopeless in a deep despair :
Her heavenly form too haughtily she priz'd,
His person hated, and his gifts despised;
Nor knew the force of Cupid's cruel darts,
Nor fear'd 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 scorn'd e'en to deny.
But, as a hunted panther casts about [to scout,
Her glaring eyes, and pricks her listening ears
So she, to shun his toils, her cares employ'd,
And fiercely in her savage freedom joy'd.
Her mouth she writh'd, her forehead taught to
frown,
Her eyes to sparkle fires to love unknown:
Her sallow cheeks her envious mind did show,
And every feature spoke aloud the curstness of
a shrew.
Yet could not he his obvious fate escape;
His love still dress'd her in a pleasing shape;
And every sullen frown, and bitter scorn,
But fann'd 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 begg'd relief
With tears, the dumb petitioners of grief:
With tears so tender, as adorn'd his love,
And any heart, but only hers, would move.
Trembling before her bolted doors he stood,
And there pour'd out the unprofitable flood:
Staring his eyes, and haggard was his look,
Then, kissing first the threshold, thus he spoke.
Ah, nymph, more cruel than of human race!
Thy tigress 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 be so long desir'd;
But so my love, and so my fate requir'd.
I beg not now (for 't is 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
Condemn'd 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: [fires?
But ah! what draught so deep to quench my
Farewell, ye never-opening gates, ye stones,
And threshold guilty of my midnight moans!
What I have suffer'd 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-omen'd 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 grizly 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;
E'en 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 kill'd lies buried here;
O passengers, Aminta's eyes beware.
Thus having said, and furious with his love,
He heav'd with more than human force to move
A weighty stone (the labour of a team)
And rais'd from thence he reach'd the neigh-
b'ring 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 stopp'd the passage of his breath.
The bounce burst ope the door; the scornful fair
Relentless look'd, and saw him beat his quiver-
Nor wept his fate, nor cast a pitying eye,
Nor took him down, but brush'd regardless by:
And, as she pass'd, her chance of fate was such,
Her garments touch'd 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 injur❜d image, with a wrathful eye,
Stood threat'ning from a pedestal on high:
Nodding awhile, and watchful of his blow,
He fell and falling crush'd the ungrateful
nymph below:
Her gushing blood the pavement all besmear'd,
And this her last expiring voice was heard;
Lovers farewell, revenge has reach'd my scorn;
Thus warn'd, be wise, and love for love
THE BEGINNING OF THE FIRST BOOK OF LUCRETIUS.
DELIGHT of humankind, 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 dress'd;
For thee the ocean smiles, and smoothes her
wavy breast;
[light is blest.
And heaven itself with more serene and purer
For when the rising spring adorns the mead,
And a new scene of nature stands display'd,
When teeming buds, and cheerful greens ap-
And western gales unlock the lazy year: [pear,
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
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 uncontrol'd and boundless reign.
Through all the living regions dost thou move,
And scatter'st 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
The rather then assist my Muse and me, Infusing verses worthy him and thee. Meantime on land and sea let barbarous discord
And lull the list'ning world in universal peace.
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