Contemplate, when the sun declines,Thy death with deep reflection!And when again he rising shines,The day of resurrection!
Contemplate, when the sun declines,Thy death with deep reflection!And when again he rising shines,The day of resurrection!
The winter night now well nigh worn away,The wakeful cock proclaim'd approaching day,When Simulus, poor tenant of a farmOf narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm,Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to provideAgainst the pangs of hunger unsupplied,By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook,And, poking in the dark, explored the nookWhere embers slept with ashes heap'd around,And with burnt fingers' ends the treasure found.It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose,Sure proof of latent fire some smoke arose;When, trimming with a pin the incrusted tow,And stooping it towards the coals below,He toils, with cheeks distended, to exciteThe lingering flame, and gains at length a light.With prudent heed he spreads his hand beforeThe quivering lamp, and opes his granary door.Small was his stock, but taking for the dayA measured stint of twice eight pounds away,With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand,Fix'd in the wall, affords his lamp a stand:Then baring both his arms—a sleeveless coatHe girds, the rough exuviæ of a goat:And with a rubber, for that use design'd,Cleansing his mill within—begins to grind;Each hand has its employ; labouring amain,This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain.The stone, revolving rapidly, now glows,And the bruised corn a mealy current flows;While he, to make his heavy labour light,Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right;And chants with rudest accent, to beguileHis ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while.And now, "Dame Cybale, come forth!" he cries;But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies.From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid,Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd.With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin,Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin,Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet,Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat.Such, summon'd oft, she came; at his commandFresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd,And made in haste her simmering skillet steam,Replenish'd newly from the neighbouring stream.The labours of the mill perform'd, a sieveThe mingled flour and bran must next receive,Which shaken oft shoots Ceres through refined,And better dress'd, her husks all left behind.This done, at once his future plain repastUnleaven'd on a shaven board he cast,With tepid lymph first largely soak'd it all,Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball,And spreading it again with both hands wide,With sprinkled salt the stiffen'd mass supplied;At length the stubborn substance, duly wrought,Takes from his palms impress'd the shape it ought,Becomes an orb—and quarter'd into shares,The faithful mark of just division bears,Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space,For Cybale before had swept the place,And there, with tiles and embers overspread,She leaves it—reeking in its sultry bed.Nor Simulus, while Vulcan thus aloneHis part perform'd, proves heedless of his own,But sedulous, not merely to subdueHis hunger, but to please his palate too,Prepares more savoury food. His chimney sideCould boast no gammon, salted well and driedAnd hook'd behind him; but sufficient storeOf bundled anise and a cheese it bore;A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strungWith a tough broom twig, in the corner hung;The prudent hero, therefore, with addressAnd quick despatch, now seeks another mess.Close to his cottage lay a garden ground.With reeds and osiers sparely girt around:Small was the spot, but liberal to produce;Nor wanted aught to serve a peasant's use,And sometimes e'en the rich would borrow thence,Although its tillage was its sole expense.For oft as from his toils abroad he ceased,Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast,His debt of culture here he duly paid,And only left the plough to wield the spade.He knew to give each plant the soil it needs,To drill the ground and cover close the seeds;And could with ease compel the wanton rillTo turn and wind obedient to his will.There flourish'd star-wort, and the branching beet,The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet,The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind,The noxious poppy—quencher of the mind!Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board,The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd;But these (for none his appetite controll'dWith stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold;With broom twigs neatly bound, each kind apart,He bore them ever to the public mart:Whence laden still, but with a lighter load,Of cash well earn'd he took his homeward road,Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome,His gains in flesh-meat for a feast at home.There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red,Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed:On scallions sliced, or, with a sensual gust,On rockets—foul provocatives of lust!Nor even shunn'd with smarting gums to pressNasturtium—pungent face-distorting mess!Some such regale now also in his thought,With hasty steps his garden ground he sought;There, delving with his hands, he first displacedFour plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast;The tender tops of parsley next he culls,Then the old rue bush shudders as he pulls;And coriander last to these succeeds,That hangs on slightest threads her trembling seeds.Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demandsThe mortar at his sable servant's hands;When, stripping all his garlick first, he toreThe exterior coats, and cast them on the floor,Then cast away with like contempt the skin,Flimsier concealment of the cloves within.These, search'd, and perfect found, he one by oneRinsed, and disposed within the hollow stone.Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese,With his injected herbs he cover'd these,And, tucking with his left his tunic tight,And seizing fast the pestle with his right,The garlick bruising first he soon express'd,And mix'd the various juices of the rest.He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below,Lost in each other, their own powers forego,And with the cheese in compound, to the sightNor wholly green appear nor wholly white.His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent,He cursed full oft his dinner for its scent;Or, with wry faces, wiping as he spokeThe trickling tears, cried, "Vengeance on the smoke!"The work proceeds: not roughly turns he nowThe pestle, but in circles smooth and slow;With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills,Some drops of olive oil he next instils,Then vinegar with caution scarcely less,And gathering to a ball the medley mess,Last, with two fingers frugally applied,Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side.And, thus complete in figure and in kind,Obtains at length the salad he design'd.And now black Cybale before him stands,The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands,He glad receives it, chasing far awayAll fears of famine for the passing day;His legs enclosed in buskins, and his headIn its tough casque of leather, forth he ledAnd yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair,Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed share.
The winter night now well nigh worn away,The wakeful cock proclaim'd approaching day,When Simulus, poor tenant of a farmOf narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm,Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to provideAgainst the pangs of hunger unsupplied,By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook,And, poking in the dark, explored the nookWhere embers slept with ashes heap'd around,And with burnt fingers' ends the treasure found.It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose,Sure proof of latent fire some smoke arose;When, trimming with a pin the incrusted tow,And stooping it towards the coals below,He toils, with cheeks distended, to exciteThe lingering flame, and gains at length a light.With prudent heed he spreads his hand beforeThe quivering lamp, and opes his granary door.Small was his stock, but taking for the dayA measured stint of twice eight pounds away,With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand,Fix'd in the wall, affords his lamp a stand:Then baring both his arms—a sleeveless coatHe girds, the rough exuviæ of a goat:And with a rubber, for that use design'd,Cleansing his mill within—begins to grind;Each hand has its employ; labouring amain,This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain.The stone, revolving rapidly, now glows,And the bruised corn a mealy current flows;While he, to make his heavy labour light,Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right;And chants with rudest accent, to beguileHis ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while.And now, "Dame Cybale, come forth!" he cries;But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies.From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid,Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd.With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin,Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin,Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet,Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat.Such, summon'd oft, she came; at his commandFresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd,And made in haste her simmering skillet steam,Replenish'd newly from the neighbouring stream.The labours of the mill perform'd, a sieveThe mingled flour and bran must next receive,Which shaken oft shoots Ceres through refined,And better dress'd, her husks all left behind.This done, at once his future plain repastUnleaven'd on a shaven board he cast,With tepid lymph first largely soak'd it all,Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball,And spreading it again with both hands wide,With sprinkled salt the stiffen'd mass supplied;At length the stubborn substance, duly wrought,Takes from his palms impress'd the shape it ought,Becomes an orb—and quarter'd into shares,The faithful mark of just division bears,Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space,For Cybale before had swept the place,And there, with tiles and embers overspread,She leaves it—reeking in its sultry bed.Nor Simulus, while Vulcan thus aloneHis part perform'd, proves heedless of his own,But sedulous, not merely to subdueHis hunger, but to please his palate too,Prepares more savoury food. His chimney sideCould boast no gammon, salted well and driedAnd hook'd behind him; but sufficient storeOf bundled anise and a cheese it bore;A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strungWith a tough broom twig, in the corner hung;The prudent hero, therefore, with addressAnd quick despatch, now seeks another mess.Close to his cottage lay a garden ground.With reeds and osiers sparely girt around:Small was the spot, but liberal to produce;Nor wanted aught to serve a peasant's use,And sometimes e'en the rich would borrow thence,Although its tillage was its sole expense.For oft as from his toils abroad he ceased,Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast,His debt of culture here he duly paid,And only left the plough to wield the spade.He knew to give each plant the soil it needs,To drill the ground and cover close the seeds;And could with ease compel the wanton rillTo turn and wind obedient to his will.There flourish'd star-wort, and the branching beet,The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet,The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind,The noxious poppy—quencher of the mind!Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board,The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd;But these (for none his appetite controll'dWith stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold;With broom twigs neatly bound, each kind apart,He bore them ever to the public mart:Whence laden still, but with a lighter load,Of cash well earn'd he took his homeward road,Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome,His gains in flesh-meat for a feast at home.There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red,Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed:On scallions sliced, or, with a sensual gust,On rockets—foul provocatives of lust!Nor even shunn'd with smarting gums to pressNasturtium—pungent face-distorting mess!Some such regale now also in his thought,With hasty steps his garden ground he sought;There, delving with his hands, he first displacedFour plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast;The tender tops of parsley next he culls,Then the old rue bush shudders as he pulls;And coriander last to these succeeds,That hangs on slightest threads her trembling seeds.Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demandsThe mortar at his sable servant's hands;When, stripping all his garlick first, he toreThe exterior coats, and cast them on the floor,Then cast away with like contempt the skin,Flimsier concealment of the cloves within.These, search'd, and perfect found, he one by oneRinsed, and disposed within the hollow stone.Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese,With his injected herbs he cover'd these,And, tucking with his left his tunic tight,And seizing fast the pestle with his right,The garlick bruising first he soon express'd,And mix'd the various juices of the rest.He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below,Lost in each other, their own powers forego,And with the cheese in compound, to the sightNor wholly green appear nor wholly white.His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent,He cursed full oft his dinner for its scent;Or, with wry faces, wiping as he spokeThe trickling tears, cried, "Vengeance on the smoke!"The work proceeds: not roughly turns he nowThe pestle, but in circles smooth and slow;With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills,Some drops of olive oil he next instils,Then vinegar with caution scarcely less,And gathering to a ball the medley mess,Last, with two fingers frugally applied,Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side.And, thus complete in figure and in kind,Obtains at length the salad he design'd.And now black Cybale before him stands,The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands,He glad receives it, chasing far awayAll fears of famine for the passing day;His legs enclosed in buskins, and his headIn its tough casque of leather, forth he ledAnd yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair,Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed share.
June, 1799.
This Italy was moved—nor did the chiefÆneas in his mind less tumult feel.On every side his anxious thought he turns,Restless, unfix'd, not knowing what to choose.And as a cistern that in brim of brassConfines the crystal flood, if chance the sunSmite on it, or the moon's resplendent orb,The quivering light now flashes on the walls,Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof:Such were the wavering motions of his mind.'Twas night—and weary nature sunk to rest.The birds, the bleating flocks, were heard no more.At length, on the cold ground, beneath the dampAnd dewy vault, fast by the river's brink,The father of his country sought repose.When lo! among the spreading poplar boughs,Forth from his pleasant stream, propitious roseThe god of Tiber: clear transparent gauzeInfolds his loins, his brows with reeds are crown'd:And these his gracious words to soothe his care:"Heaven-born, who bring'st our kindred home again,Rescued, and givest eternity to Troy,Long have Laurentum and the Latian plainsExpected thee; behold thy fix'd abode.Fear not the threats of war, the storm is past,The gods appeased. For proof that what thou hear'stIs no vain forgery or delusive dream,Beneath the grove that borders my green bank,A milk-white swine, with thirty milk-white young,Shall greet thy wondering eyes. Mark well the place;For 'tis thy place of rest, there end thy toils:There, twice ten years elapsed, fair Alba's wallsShall rise, fair Alba, by Ascanius' hand.Thus shall it be—now listen, while I teachThe means to accomplish these events at hand.The Arcadians here, a race from Pallas sprung,Following Evander's standard and his fate,High on these mountains, a well chosen spot,Have built a city, for their grandsire's sakeNamed Pallanteum. These perpetual warWage with the Latians: join'd in faithful leagueAnd arms confederate, add them to your camp.Myself between my winding banks will speedYour well oar'd barks to stem the opposing tide.Rise, goddess born, arise; and with the firstDeclining stars seek Juno in thy prayer,And vanquish all her wrath with suppliant vows.When conquest crowns thee, then remember me.I am the Tiber, whose cærulean streamHeaven favours; I with copious flood divideThese grassy banks, and cleave the fruitful meads.My mansion, this—and lofty cities crownMy fountain head."—He spoke and sought the deep,And plunged his form beneath the closing flood.Æneas at the morning dawn awoke,And, rising, with uplifted eye beheldThe orient sun, then dipp'd his palms, and scoop'dThe brimming stream, and thus address'd the skies:"Ye nymphs, Laurentian nymphs, who feed the sourceOf many a stream, and thou, with thy blest flood,O Tiber, hear, accept me, and afford,At length afford, a shelter from my woes.Where'er in secret cavern under groundThy waters sleep, where'er they spring to light,Since thou hast pity for a wretch like me,My offerings and my vows shall wait thee still:Great horned Father of Hesperian floods,Be gracious now, and ratify thy word."He said, and chose two galleys from his fleet,Fits them with oars, and clothes the crew in arms.When lo! astonishing and pleasing sight,The milk-white dam, with her unspotted brood,Lay stretch'd upon the bank, beneath the grove.To thee, the pious Prince, Juno, to theeDevotes them all, all on thine altar bleed.That live-long night old Tiber smooth'd his flood,And so restrain'd it that it seem'd to standMotionless as a pool, or silent lake,That not a billow might resist their oars.With cheerful sound of exhortation soonTheir voyage they begin; the pitchy keelSlides through the gentle deep, the quiet streamAdmires the unwonted burden that it bears,Well polish'd arms, and vessels painted gay.Beneath the shade of various trees, betweenThe umbrageous branches of the spreading groves,They cut their liquid way, nor day nor nightThey slack their course, unwinding as they goThe long meanders of the peaceful tide.The glowing sun was in meridian height,When from afar they saw the humble walls,And the few scatter'd cottages, which nowThe Roman power has equall'd with the clouds;But such was then Evander's scant domain.They steer to shore, and hasten to the town.It chanced the Arcadian monarch on that day,Before the walls, beneath a shady grove,Was celebrating high, in solemn feast,Alcides and his tutelary gods.Pallas, his son, was there, and there the chiefOf all his youth; with these, a worthy tribe,His poor but venerable senate, burntSweet incense, and their altars smoked with blood.Soon as they saw the towering masts approach,Sliding between the trees, while the crew restUpon their silent oars, amazed they rose,Not without fear, and all forsook the feast.But Pallas undismay'd, his javelin seized,Rush'd to the bank, and from a rising groundForbade them to disturb the sacred rites."Ye stranger youth! What prompts you to exploreThis untried way? and whither do ye steer?Whence, and who are ye? Bring ye peace or war?"Æneas from his lofty deck holds forthThe peaceful olive branch, and thus replies:"Trojans and enemies to the Latian state,Whom they with unprovoked hostilitiesHave driven away, thou seest. We seek Evander—Say this—and say beside, the Trojan chiefsAre come, and seek his friendship and his aid."Pallas with wonder heard that awful name,And "Whosoe'er thou art," he cried, "come forth:Bear thine own tidings to my father's ear,And be a welcome guest beneath our roof."He said, and press'd the stranger to his breast:Then led him from the river to the grove,Where, courteous, thus Æneas greets the king:"Best of the Grecian race, to whom I bow(So wills my fortune) suppliant, and stretch forthIn sign of amity this peaceful branch,I fear'd thee not, although I knew thee wellA Grecian leader, born in Arcady,And kinsman of the Atridæ. Me my virtue,That means no wrong to thee—the Oracles,Our kindred families allied of old,And thy renown diffused through every land,Have all conspired to bind in friendship to thee,And send me not unwilling to thy shores.Dardanus, author of the Trojan state,(So say the Greeks,) was fair Electra's son;Electra boasted Atlas for her sire,Whose shoulders high sustain the ethereal orbs.Your sire is Mercury, whom Maia bore,Sweet Maia, on Cyllene's hoary top.Her, if we credit aught tradition old,Atlas of yore, the self-same Atlas, claim'dHis daughter. Thus united close in blood,Thy race and ours one common sire confess.With these credentials fraught, I would not sendAmbassadors with artful phrase to soundAnd win thee by degrees—but came myself—Me, therefore, me thou seest; my life the stake:'Tis I, Æneas, who implore thine aid.Should Daunia, that now aims the blow at thee,Prevail to conquer us, nought then, they think,Will hinder, but Hesperia must be theirs,All theirs, from the upper to the nether sea.Take then our friendship, and return us thine.We too have courage, we have noble minds,And youth well tried, and exercised in arms."Thus spoke Æneas—He with fix'd regardSurvey'd him speaking, features, form, and mien.Then briefly thus—"Thou noblest of thy name,How gladly do I take thee to my heart,How gladly thus confess thee for a friend!In thee I trace Anchises; his thy speech,Thy voice, thy countenance. For I well rememberMany a day since, when Priam journey'd forthTo Salamis, to see the land where dweltHesione, his sister, he push'd onE'en to Arcadia's frozen bounds. 'Twas thenThe bloom of youth was glowing on my cheek;Much I admired the Trojan chiefs, and muchTheir king, the son of great Laomedon.But most Anchises, towering o'er them all.A youthful longing seized me to accostThe hero, and embrace him; I drew near,And gladly led him to the walls of Pheneus.Departing, he distinguish'd me with gifts,A costly quiver stored with Lycian darts,A robe inwove with gold, with gold imboss'dTwo bridles, those which Pallas uses now.The friendly league thou hast solicitedI give thee, therefore, and to-morrow allMy chosen youth shall wait on your return.Meanwhile, since thus in friendship ye are come,Rejoice with us, and join to celebrateThese annual rites, which may not be delay'd,And be at once familiar at our board."He said, and bade replace the feast removed;Himself upon a grassy bank disposedThe crew; but for Æneas order'd forthA couch spread with a lion's tawny shag,And bade him share the honours of his throne.The appointed youth with glad alacrityAssist the labouring priest to load the boardWith roasted entrails of the slaughter'd beeves,Well kneaded bread and mantling bowls. Well pleased,Æneas and the Trojan youth regaleOn the huge length of a well pastured chine.Hunger appeased, and tables all despatch'd,Thus spake Evander: "Superstition here,In this old solemn feasting, has no part.No, Trojan friend, from utmost danger saved,In gratitude this worship we renew.Behold that rock which nods above the vale,Those bulks of broken stone dispersed around,How desolate the shatter'd cave appears,And what a ruin spreads the incumber'd plain.Within this pile, but far within, was onceThe den of Cacus; dire his hateful formThat shunn'd the day, half monster and half man.Blood newly shed stream'd ever on the groundSmoking, and many a visage pale and wanNail'd at his gate, hung hideous to the sight.Vulcan begot the brute: vast was his size,And from his throat he belch'd his father's fires.But the day came that brought us what we wish'd,The assistance and the presence of a God.Flush'd with his victory, and the spoils he wonFrom triple-form'd Geryon lately slain,The great avenger, Hercules, appear'd.Hither he drove his stately bulls, and pour'dHis herds along the vale. But the sly thiefCacus, that nothing might escape his handOf villainy or fraud, drove from the stallsFour of the lordliest of his bulls, and fourThe fairest of his heifers; by the tailHe dragg'd them to his den, that, there conceal'd,No footsteps might betray the dark abode.And now, his herd with provender sufficed,Alcides would be gone: they as they wentStill bellowing loud, made the deep echoing woodsAnd distant hills resound: when, hark! one ox,Imprison'd close within the vast recess,Lows in return, and frustrates all his hope.Then fury seized Alcides, and his breastWith indignation heaved: grasping his clubOf knotted oak, swift to the mountain topHe ran, he flew. Then first was Cacus seenTo tremble, and his eyes bespoke his fears.Swift as an eastern blast, he sought his den,And dread, increasing, winged him as he went.Drawn up in iron slings above the gate,A rock was hung enormous. Such his haste,He burst the chains, and dropp'd it at the door,Then grappled it with iron work withinOf bolts and bars by Vulcan's art contrived.Scarce was he fast, when, panting for revenge,Came Hercules; he gnash'd his teeth with rage,And quick as lightning glanced his eyes aroundIn quest of entrance. Fiery red and stungWith indignation, thrice he wheeled his courseAbout the mountain; thrice, but thrice in vain,He strove to force the quarry at the gate,And thrice sat down o'erwearied in the vale.There stood a pointed rock, abrupt and rude,That high o'erlook'd the rest, close at the backOf the fell monster's den, where birds obsceneOf ominous note resorted, choughs and daws.This, as it lean'd obliquely to the left,Threatening the stream below, he from the rightPush'd with his utmost strength, and to and froHe shook the mass, loosening its lowest base;Then shoved it from its seat; down fell the pile;Sky thunder'd at the fall; the banks give way,The affrighted stream flows upward to his source.Behold the kennel of the brute exposed,The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chanceEarth yawning to the centre should discloseThe mansions, the pale mansions of the dead,Loathed by the gods, such would the gulf appear,And the ghosts tremble at the sight of day.The monster braying with unusual dinWithin his hollow lair, and sore amazedTo see such sudden inroads of the light,Alcides press'd him close with what at handLay readiest, stumps of trees, and fragments hugeOf millstone size. He, (for escape was none,)Wondrous to tell! forth from his gorge dischargedA smoky cloud that darken'd all the den;Wreath after wreath he vomited amain,The smothering vapour mix'd with fiery sparks.No sight could penetrate the veil obscure.The hero, more provoked, endured not this,But with a headlong leap he rush'd to whereThe thickest cloud enveloped his abode.There grasp'd he Cacus, spite of all his fires,Till, crush'd within his arms, the monster showsHis bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard,And his press'd eyeballs start. Soon he tears downThe barricade of rock, the dark abyssLies open; and the imprison'd bulls, the theftHe had with oaths denied, are brought to light;By the heels the miscreant carcass is dragg'd forth,His face, his eyes, all terrible, his breastBeset with bristles, and his sooty jawsAre view'd with wonder never to be cloy'd.Hence the celebrity thou seest, and henceThis festal day Potitius first enjoin'dPosterity: these solemn rites he first,With those who bear the great Pinarian name,To Hercules devoted; in the groveThis altar built, deem'd sacred in the highestBy us, and sacred ever to be deem'd.Come, then, my friends, and bind your youthful browsIn praise of such deliverance, and hold forthThe brimming cup; your deities and oursAre now the same, then drink and freely too."So saying, he twisted round his reverend locksA variegated poplar wreath, and fill'dHis right hand with a consecrated bowl.At once all pour libations on the board,All offer prayer. And now, the radiant sphereOf day descending, eventide drew near.When first Potitius with the priests advanced,Begirt with skins, and torches in their hands.High piled with meats of savoury taste, they rangedThe chargers, and renew'd the grateful feast.Then came the Salii, crown'd with poplar too,Circling the blazing altars; here the youthAdvanced, a choir harmonious, there were heardThe reverend seers responsive; praise they sung,Much praise in honour of Alcides' deeds;How first with infant gripe two serpents hugeHe strangled, sent from Juno; next they sung,How Troja and Œchalia he destroy'd,Fair cities both, and many a toilsome taskBeneath Eurystheus (so his stepdame will'd)Achieved victorious. Thou, the cloud-born pair,Hylæus fierce and Pholus, monstrous twins,Thou slew'st the minotaur, the plague of Crete,And the vast lion of the Nemean rock,Thee hell, and Cerberus, hell's porter, fear'd,Stretch'd in his den upon his half-gnaw'd bones.Thee no abhorred form, not e'en the vastTyphœus could appal, though clad in arms.Hail, true-born son of Jove, among the godsAt length enroll'd, nor least illustrious thou,Haste thee propitious, and approve our songs.Thus hymn'd the chorus; above all they singThe cave of Cacus, and the flames he breathed.The whole grove echoes, and the hills rebound.The rites perform'd, all hasten to the town.The king, bending with age, held as he wentÆneas and his Pallas by the hand,With much variety of pleasing talkShortening the way. Æneas, with a smile,Looks round him, charm'd with the delightful sceneAnd many a question asks, and much he learnsOf heroes far renown'd in ancient times.Then spake Evander. These extensive groves,Were once inhabited by fauns and nymphs,Produced beneath their shades, and a rude raceOf men, the progeny uncouth of elmsAnd knotted oaks. They no refinement knewOf laws or manners civilized, to yokeThe steer, with forecast provident to storeThe hoarded grain, or manage what they had,But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs,Or fed voracious on their hunted prey.An exile from Olympus, and expell'dHis native realm by thunder-bearing Jove,First Saturn came. He from the mountains drewThis herd of men untractable and fierce,And gave them laws: and call'd his hiding-place,This growth of forests, Latium. Such the peaceHis land possess'd, the golden age was then,So famed in story; till by slow degreesFar other times, and of far different hue,Succeeded, thirst of gold and thirst of blood.Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hostsFrom Sicily, and Latium often changedHer master and her name. At length aroseKings, of whom Tybris of gigantic formWas chief; and we Italians since have call'dThe river by his name; thus Albula(So was the country call'd in ancient days)Was quite forgot. Me from my native landAn exile, through the dangerous ocean driven,Resistless fortune and relentless fatePlaced where thou seest me. Phœbus, andThe nymph Carmentis, with maternal careAttendant on my wanderings, fix'd me here.[Ten lines omitted.]He said, and show'd him the Tarpeian rock,And the rude spot where now the CapitolStands all magnificent and bright with gold,Then overgrown with thorns. And yet e'en thenThe swains beheld that sacred scene with awe;The grove, the rock, inspired religious fear.This grove, he said, that crowns the lofty topOf this fair hill, some deity, we know,Inhabits, but what deity we doubt.The Arcadians speak of Jupiter himself,That they have often seen him, shaking hereHis gloomy Ægis, while the thunder stormsCame rolling all around him. Turn thine eyes,Behold that ruin; those dismantled walls,Where once two towns, Janiculum ——,By Janus this, and that by Saturn built,Saturnia. Such discourse brought them beneathThe roof of poor Evander; thence they saw,Where now the proud and stately forum stands,The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the field.Soon as he enter'd—Hercules, he said,Victorious Hercules, on his threshold trod,These walls contain'd him, humble as they are.Dare to despise magnificence, my friend,Prove thy divine descent by worth divine,Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode.So saying, he led Æneas by the hand,And placed him on a cushion stuff'd with leaves,Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear.[The Episode of Venus and Vulcan omitted.]While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employ'd,Awaken'd by the gentle dawn of day,And the shrill song of birds beneath the eavesOf his low mansion, old Evander rose.His tunic, and the sandals on his feet,And his good sword well girded to his side,A panther's skin dependent from his left,And over his right shoulder thrown aslant,Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs follow'd him,His whole retinue and his nightly guard.
This Italy was moved—nor did the chiefÆneas in his mind less tumult feel.On every side his anxious thought he turns,Restless, unfix'd, not knowing what to choose.And as a cistern that in brim of brassConfines the crystal flood, if chance the sunSmite on it, or the moon's resplendent orb,The quivering light now flashes on the walls,Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof:Such were the wavering motions of his mind.'Twas night—and weary nature sunk to rest.The birds, the bleating flocks, were heard no more.At length, on the cold ground, beneath the dampAnd dewy vault, fast by the river's brink,The father of his country sought repose.When lo! among the spreading poplar boughs,Forth from his pleasant stream, propitious roseThe god of Tiber: clear transparent gauzeInfolds his loins, his brows with reeds are crown'd:And these his gracious words to soothe his care:"Heaven-born, who bring'st our kindred home again,Rescued, and givest eternity to Troy,Long have Laurentum and the Latian plainsExpected thee; behold thy fix'd abode.Fear not the threats of war, the storm is past,The gods appeased. For proof that what thou hear'stIs no vain forgery or delusive dream,Beneath the grove that borders my green bank,A milk-white swine, with thirty milk-white young,Shall greet thy wondering eyes. Mark well the place;For 'tis thy place of rest, there end thy toils:There, twice ten years elapsed, fair Alba's wallsShall rise, fair Alba, by Ascanius' hand.Thus shall it be—now listen, while I teachThe means to accomplish these events at hand.The Arcadians here, a race from Pallas sprung,Following Evander's standard and his fate,High on these mountains, a well chosen spot,Have built a city, for their grandsire's sakeNamed Pallanteum. These perpetual warWage with the Latians: join'd in faithful leagueAnd arms confederate, add them to your camp.Myself between my winding banks will speedYour well oar'd barks to stem the opposing tide.Rise, goddess born, arise; and with the firstDeclining stars seek Juno in thy prayer,And vanquish all her wrath with suppliant vows.When conquest crowns thee, then remember me.I am the Tiber, whose cærulean streamHeaven favours; I with copious flood divideThese grassy banks, and cleave the fruitful meads.My mansion, this—and lofty cities crownMy fountain head."—He spoke and sought the deep,And plunged his form beneath the closing flood.Æneas at the morning dawn awoke,And, rising, with uplifted eye beheldThe orient sun, then dipp'd his palms, and scoop'dThe brimming stream, and thus address'd the skies:"Ye nymphs, Laurentian nymphs, who feed the sourceOf many a stream, and thou, with thy blest flood,O Tiber, hear, accept me, and afford,At length afford, a shelter from my woes.Where'er in secret cavern under groundThy waters sleep, where'er they spring to light,Since thou hast pity for a wretch like me,My offerings and my vows shall wait thee still:Great horned Father of Hesperian floods,Be gracious now, and ratify thy word."He said, and chose two galleys from his fleet,Fits them with oars, and clothes the crew in arms.When lo! astonishing and pleasing sight,The milk-white dam, with her unspotted brood,Lay stretch'd upon the bank, beneath the grove.To thee, the pious Prince, Juno, to theeDevotes them all, all on thine altar bleed.That live-long night old Tiber smooth'd his flood,And so restrain'd it that it seem'd to standMotionless as a pool, or silent lake,That not a billow might resist their oars.With cheerful sound of exhortation soonTheir voyage they begin; the pitchy keelSlides through the gentle deep, the quiet streamAdmires the unwonted burden that it bears,Well polish'd arms, and vessels painted gay.Beneath the shade of various trees, betweenThe umbrageous branches of the spreading groves,They cut their liquid way, nor day nor nightThey slack their course, unwinding as they goThe long meanders of the peaceful tide.The glowing sun was in meridian height,When from afar they saw the humble walls,And the few scatter'd cottages, which nowThe Roman power has equall'd with the clouds;But such was then Evander's scant domain.They steer to shore, and hasten to the town.It chanced the Arcadian monarch on that day,Before the walls, beneath a shady grove,Was celebrating high, in solemn feast,Alcides and his tutelary gods.Pallas, his son, was there, and there the chiefOf all his youth; with these, a worthy tribe,His poor but venerable senate, burntSweet incense, and their altars smoked with blood.Soon as they saw the towering masts approach,Sliding between the trees, while the crew restUpon their silent oars, amazed they rose,Not without fear, and all forsook the feast.But Pallas undismay'd, his javelin seized,Rush'd to the bank, and from a rising groundForbade them to disturb the sacred rites."Ye stranger youth! What prompts you to exploreThis untried way? and whither do ye steer?Whence, and who are ye? Bring ye peace or war?"Æneas from his lofty deck holds forthThe peaceful olive branch, and thus replies:"Trojans and enemies to the Latian state,Whom they with unprovoked hostilitiesHave driven away, thou seest. We seek Evander—Say this—and say beside, the Trojan chiefsAre come, and seek his friendship and his aid."Pallas with wonder heard that awful name,And "Whosoe'er thou art," he cried, "come forth:Bear thine own tidings to my father's ear,And be a welcome guest beneath our roof."He said, and press'd the stranger to his breast:Then led him from the river to the grove,Where, courteous, thus Æneas greets the king:"Best of the Grecian race, to whom I bow(So wills my fortune) suppliant, and stretch forthIn sign of amity this peaceful branch,I fear'd thee not, although I knew thee wellA Grecian leader, born in Arcady,And kinsman of the Atridæ. Me my virtue,That means no wrong to thee—the Oracles,Our kindred families allied of old,And thy renown diffused through every land,Have all conspired to bind in friendship to thee,And send me not unwilling to thy shores.Dardanus, author of the Trojan state,(So say the Greeks,) was fair Electra's son;Electra boasted Atlas for her sire,Whose shoulders high sustain the ethereal orbs.Your sire is Mercury, whom Maia bore,Sweet Maia, on Cyllene's hoary top.Her, if we credit aught tradition old,Atlas of yore, the self-same Atlas, claim'dHis daughter. Thus united close in blood,Thy race and ours one common sire confess.With these credentials fraught, I would not sendAmbassadors with artful phrase to soundAnd win thee by degrees—but came myself—Me, therefore, me thou seest; my life the stake:'Tis I, Æneas, who implore thine aid.Should Daunia, that now aims the blow at thee,Prevail to conquer us, nought then, they think,Will hinder, but Hesperia must be theirs,All theirs, from the upper to the nether sea.Take then our friendship, and return us thine.We too have courage, we have noble minds,And youth well tried, and exercised in arms."Thus spoke Æneas—He with fix'd regardSurvey'd him speaking, features, form, and mien.Then briefly thus—"Thou noblest of thy name,How gladly do I take thee to my heart,How gladly thus confess thee for a friend!In thee I trace Anchises; his thy speech,Thy voice, thy countenance. For I well rememberMany a day since, when Priam journey'd forthTo Salamis, to see the land where dweltHesione, his sister, he push'd onE'en to Arcadia's frozen bounds. 'Twas thenThe bloom of youth was glowing on my cheek;Much I admired the Trojan chiefs, and muchTheir king, the son of great Laomedon.But most Anchises, towering o'er them all.A youthful longing seized me to accostThe hero, and embrace him; I drew near,And gladly led him to the walls of Pheneus.Departing, he distinguish'd me with gifts,A costly quiver stored with Lycian darts,A robe inwove with gold, with gold imboss'dTwo bridles, those which Pallas uses now.The friendly league thou hast solicitedI give thee, therefore, and to-morrow allMy chosen youth shall wait on your return.Meanwhile, since thus in friendship ye are come,Rejoice with us, and join to celebrateThese annual rites, which may not be delay'd,And be at once familiar at our board."He said, and bade replace the feast removed;Himself upon a grassy bank disposedThe crew; but for Æneas order'd forthA couch spread with a lion's tawny shag,And bade him share the honours of his throne.The appointed youth with glad alacrityAssist the labouring priest to load the boardWith roasted entrails of the slaughter'd beeves,Well kneaded bread and mantling bowls. Well pleased,Æneas and the Trojan youth regaleOn the huge length of a well pastured chine.Hunger appeased, and tables all despatch'd,Thus spake Evander: "Superstition here,In this old solemn feasting, has no part.No, Trojan friend, from utmost danger saved,In gratitude this worship we renew.Behold that rock which nods above the vale,Those bulks of broken stone dispersed around,How desolate the shatter'd cave appears,And what a ruin spreads the incumber'd plain.Within this pile, but far within, was onceThe den of Cacus; dire his hateful formThat shunn'd the day, half monster and half man.Blood newly shed stream'd ever on the groundSmoking, and many a visage pale and wanNail'd at his gate, hung hideous to the sight.Vulcan begot the brute: vast was his size,And from his throat he belch'd his father's fires.But the day came that brought us what we wish'd,The assistance and the presence of a God.Flush'd with his victory, and the spoils he wonFrom triple-form'd Geryon lately slain,The great avenger, Hercules, appear'd.Hither he drove his stately bulls, and pour'dHis herds along the vale. But the sly thiefCacus, that nothing might escape his handOf villainy or fraud, drove from the stallsFour of the lordliest of his bulls, and fourThe fairest of his heifers; by the tailHe dragg'd them to his den, that, there conceal'd,No footsteps might betray the dark abode.And now, his herd with provender sufficed,Alcides would be gone: they as they wentStill bellowing loud, made the deep echoing woodsAnd distant hills resound: when, hark! one ox,Imprison'd close within the vast recess,Lows in return, and frustrates all his hope.Then fury seized Alcides, and his breastWith indignation heaved: grasping his clubOf knotted oak, swift to the mountain topHe ran, he flew. Then first was Cacus seenTo tremble, and his eyes bespoke his fears.Swift as an eastern blast, he sought his den,And dread, increasing, winged him as he went.Drawn up in iron slings above the gate,A rock was hung enormous. Such his haste,He burst the chains, and dropp'd it at the door,Then grappled it with iron work withinOf bolts and bars by Vulcan's art contrived.Scarce was he fast, when, panting for revenge,Came Hercules; he gnash'd his teeth with rage,And quick as lightning glanced his eyes aroundIn quest of entrance. Fiery red and stungWith indignation, thrice he wheeled his courseAbout the mountain; thrice, but thrice in vain,He strove to force the quarry at the gate,And thrice sat down o'erwearied in the vale.There stood a pointed rock, abrupt and rude,That high o'erlook'd the rest, close at the backOf the fell monster's den, where birds obsceneOf ominous note resorted, choughs and daws.This, as it lean'd obliquely to the left,Threatening the stream below, he from the rightPush'd with his utmost strength, and to and froHe shook the mass, loosening its lowest base;Then shoved it from its seat; down fell the pile;Sky thunder'd at the fall; the banks give way,The affrighted stream flows upward to his source.Behold the kennel of the brute exposed,The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chanceEarth yawning to the centre should discloseThe mansions, the pale mansions of the dead,Loathed by the gods, such would the gulf appear,And the ghosts tremble at the sight of day.The monster braying with unusual dinWithin his hollow lair, and sore amazedTo see such sudden inroads of the light,Alcides press'd him close with what at handLay readiest, stumps of trees, and fragments hugeOf millstone size. He, (for escape was none,)Wondrous to tell! forth from his gorge dischargedA smoky cloud that darken'd all the den;Wreath after wreath he vomited amain,The smothering vapour mix'd with fiery sparks.No sight could penetrate the veil obscure.The hero, more provoked, endured not this,But with a headlong leap he rush'd to whereThe thickest cloud enveloped his abode.There grasp'd he Cacus, spite of all his fires,Till, crush'd within his arms, the monster showsHis bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard,And his press'd eyeballs start. Soon he tears downThe barricade of rock, the dark abyssLies open; and the imprison'd bulls, the theftHe had with oaths denied, are brought to light;By the heels the miscreant carcass is dragg'd forth,His face, his eyes, all terrible, his breastBeset with bristles, and his sooty jawsAre view'd with wonder never to be cloy'd.Hence the celebrity thou seest, and henceThis festal day Potitius first enjoin'dPosterity: these solemn rites he first,With those who bear the great Pinarian name,To Hercules devoted; in the groveThis altar built, deem'd sacred in the highestBy us, and sacred ever to be deem'd.Come, then, my friends, and bind your youthful browsIn praise of such deliverance, and hold forthThe brimming cup; your deities and oursAre now the same, then drink and freely too."So saying, he twisted round his reverend locksA variegated poplar wreath, and fill'dHis right hand with a consecrated bowl.At once all pour libations on the board,All offer prayer. And now, the radiant sphereOf day descending, eventide drew near.When first Potitius with the priests advanced,Begirt with skins, and torches in their hands.High piled with meats of savoury taste, they rangedThe chargers, and renew'd the grateful feast.Then came the Salii, crown'd with poplar too,Circling the blazing altars; here the youthAdvanced, a choir harmonious, there were heardThe reverend seers responsive; praise they sung,Much praise in honour of Alcides' deeds;How first with infant gripe two serpents hugeHe strangled, sent from Juno; next they sung,How Troja and Œchalia he destroy'd,Fair cities both, and many a toilsome taskBeneath Eurystheus (so his stepdame will'd)Achieved victorious. Thou, the cloud-born pair,Hylæus fierce and Pholus, monstrous twins,Thou slew'st the minotaur, the plague of Crete,And the vast lion of the Nemean rock,Thee hell, and Cerberus, hell's porter, fear'd,Stretch'd in his den upon his half-gnaw'd bones.Thee no abhorred form, not e'en the vastTyphœus could appal, though clad in arms.Hail, true-born son of Jove, among the godsAt length enroll'd, nor least illustrious thou,Haste thee propitious, and approve our songs.Thus hymn'd the chorus; above all they singThe cave of Cacus, and the flames he breathed.The whole grove echoes, and the hills rebound.The rites perform'd, all hasten to the town.The king, bending with age, held as he wentÆneas and his Pallas by the hand,With much variety of pleasing talkShortening the way. Æneas, with a smile,Looks round him, charm'd with the delightful sceneAnd many a question asks, and much he learnsOf heroes far renown'd in ancient times.Then spake Evander. These extensive groves,Were once inhabited by fauns and nymphs,Produced beneath their shades, and a rude raceOf men, the progeny uncouth of elmsAnd knotted oaks. They no refinement knewOf laws or manners civilized, to yokeThe steer, with forecast provident to storeThe hoarded grain, or manage what they had,But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs,Or fed voracious on their hunted prey.An exile from Olympus, and expell'dHis native realm by thunder-bearing Jove,First Saturn came. He from the mountains drewThis herd of men untractable and fierce,And gave them laws: and call'd his hiding-place,This growth of forests, Latium. Such the peaceHis land possess'd, the golden age was then,So famed in story; till by slow degreesFar other times, and of far different hue,Succeeded, thirst of gold and thirst of blood.Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hostsFrom Sicily, and Latium often changedHer master and her name. At length aroseKings, of whom Tybris of gigantic formWas chief; and we Italians since have call'dThe river by his name; thus Albula(So was the country call'd in ancient days)Was quite forgot. Me from my native landAn exile, through the dangerous ocean driven,Resistless fortune and relentless fatePlaced where thou seest me. Phœbus, andThe nymph Carmentis, with maternal careAttendant on my wanderings, fix'd me here.
[Ten lines omitted.]
He said, and show'd him the Tarpeian rock,And the rude spot where now the CapitolStands all magnificent and bright with gold,Then overgrown with thorns. And yet e'en thenThe swains beheld that sacred scene with awe;The grove, the rock, inspired religious fear.This grove, he said, that crowns the lofty topOf this fair hill, some deity, we know,Inhabits, but what deity we doubt.The Arcadians speak of Jupiter himself,That they have often seen him, shaking hereHis gloomy Ægis, while the thunder stormsCame rolling all around him. Turn thine eyes,Behold that ruin; those dismantled walls,Where once two towns, Janiculum ——,By Janus this, and that by Saturn built,Saturnia. Such discourse brought them beneathThe roof of poor Evander; thence they saw,Where now the proud and stately forum stands,The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the field.Soon as he enter'd—Hercules, he said,Victorious Hercules, on his threshold trod,These walls contain'd him, humble as they are.Dare to despise magnificence, my friend,Prove thy divine descent by worth divine,Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode.So saying, he led Æneas by the hand,And placed him on a cushion stuff'd with leaves,Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear.
[The Episode of Venus and Vulcan omitted.]
While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employ'd,Awaken'd by the gentle dawn of day,And the shrill song of birds beneath the eavesOf his low mansion, old Evander rose.His tunic, and the sandals on his feet,And his good sword well girded to his side,A panther's skin dependent from his left,And over his right shoulder thrown aslant,Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs follow'd him,His whole retinue and his nightly guard.
Scribis, ut oblectem.
You bid me write to amuse the tedious hours,And save from withering my poetic powers;Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flowFrom the free mind, not fetter'd down by woe;Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost,Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most.Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain,Or childless Niobe from tears refrain,Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train?Does grief or study most befit the mindTo this remote, this barbarous nook confined?Could you impart to my unshaken breastThe fortitude by Socrates possess'd,Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine,For what is human strength to wrath divine?Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so,My sufferings would have laid that wisdom low.Could I forget my country, thee and all,And e'en the offence to which I owe my fall,Yet fear alone would freeze the poet's vein,While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain.Add that the fatal rust of long disuseUnfits me for the service of the muse.Thistles and weeds are all we can expectFrom the best soil impoverish'd by neglect;Unexercised, and to his stall confined,The fleetest racer would be left behind;The best built bark that cleaves the watery way,Laid useless by, would moulder and decay—No hope remains that time shall me restoreMean as I was, to what I was before.Think how a series of desponding caresBenumbs the genius and its force impairs.How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet,My verse, constrain'd to move with measured feet,Reluctant and laborious limps along,And proves itself a wretched exile's song.What is it tunes the most melodious lays?'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise,A noble thirst, and not unknown to me,While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea.But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame?No, rather let the world forget my name.Is it because that world approved my strain,You prompt me to the same pursuit again?No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse,I charge my hopeless ruin on the muse,And, like Perillus, meet my just desert,The victim of my own pernicious art;Fool that I was to be so warn'd in vain,And, shipwreck'd once, to tempt the deep again.Ill fares the bard in this unletter'd land,None to consult, and none to understand.The purest verse has no admirers here,Their own rude language only suits their ear.Rude as it is, at length familiar grown,I learn it, and almost unlearn my own—Yet to say truth, e'en here the muse disdainsConfinement, and attempts her former strains,But finds the strong desire is not the power,And what her taste condemns the flames devour.A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom,And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome;But oh the cruel art, that could undoIts votary thus! would that could perish too!
You bid me write to amuse the tedious hours,And save from withering my poetic powers;Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flowFrom the free mind, not fetter'd down by woe;Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost,Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most.Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain,Or childless Niobe from tears refrain,Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train?Does grief or study most befit the mindTo this remote, this barbarous nook confined?Could you impart to my unshaken breastThe fortitude by Socrates possess'd,Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine,For what is human strength to wrath divine?Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so,My sufferings would have laid that wisdom low.Could I forget my country, thee and all,And e'en the offence to which I owe my fall,Yet fear alone would freeze the poet's vein,While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain.Add that the fatal rust of long disuseUnfits me for the service of the muse.Thistles and weeds are all we can expectFrom the best soil impoverish'd by neglect;Unexercised, and to his stall confined,The fleetest racer would be left behind;The best built bark that cleaves the watery way,Laid useless by, would moulder and decay—No hope remains that time shall me restoreMean as I was, to what I was before.Think how a series of desponding caresBenumbs the genius and its force impairs.How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet,My verse, constrain'd to move with measured feet,Reluctant and laborious limps along,And proves itself a wretched exile's song.What is it tunes the most melodious lays?'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise,A noble thirst, and not unknown to me,While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea.But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame?No, rather let the world forget my name.Is it because that world approved my strain,You prompt me to the same pursuit again?No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse,I charge my hopeless ruin on the muse,And, like Perillus, meet my just desert,The victim of my own pernicious art;Fool that I was to be so warn'd in vain,And, shipwreck'd once, to tempt the deep again.Ill fares the bard in this unletter'd land,None to consult, and none to understand.The purest verse has no admirers here,Their own rude language only suits their ear.Rude as it is, at length familiar grown,I learn it, and almost unlearn my own—Yet to say truth, e'en here the muse disdainsConfinement, and attempts her former strains,But finds the strong desire is not the power,And what her taste condemns the flames devour.A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom,And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome;But oh the cruel art, that could undoIts votary thus! would that could perish too!
Vides, ut altá stet nive candidumSoracte; . . . . .
Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow,The streams, congeal'd, forget to flow,Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pileOf fuel on the hearth;Broach the best cask, and make old winter smileWith seasonable mirth.This be our part—let Heaven dispose the rest;If Jove command, the winds shall sleep,That now wage war upon the foamy deep,And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may,When to-morrow's pass'd away,We at least shall have to say,We have lived another day;Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.
Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow,The streams, congeal'd, forget to flow,Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pileOf fuel on the hearth;Broach the best cask, and make old winter smileWith seasonable mirth.
This be our part—let Heaven dispose the rest;If Jove command, the winds shall sleep,That now wage war upon the foamy deep,And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.
E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may,When to-morrow's pass'd away,We at least shall have to say,We have lived another day;Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.
Persicos odi, puer, apparatus.