The Works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 12

It is a vanity common to all writers, to overvalue their own productions; and it is better for me to own this failing in myself, than the world to do it for me. For what other reason have I spent my life in so unprofitable a study? why am I grown old, in seeking so barren a reward as fame? The same parts and application, which have made me a poet, might have raised me to any honours of the gown, which are often given to men of as little learning and less honesty than myself. No government has ever been, or ever can be, wherein timeservers and blockheads will not be uppermost. The persons are only changed, but the same jugglings in state, the same hypocrisy in religion, the same self-interest and mismanagement, will remain for ever. Blood and money will be lavished in all ages, only for the preferment of new faces, with old consciences. There is too often a jaundice in the eyes of great men; they see not those whom they raise in the same colours with other men. All whom they affect look golden to them, when the gilding is only in their own distempered sight. These considerations have given me a kind of contempt for those who have risen by unworthy ways. I am not ashamed to be little, when I see them so infamously great; neither do I know why the name of poet should be dishonourable to me, if I am truly one, as I hope I am; for I will never do any thing that shall dishonour it. The notions of morality are known to all men; none can pretend ignorance of those ideas which are inborn in mankind; and if I see one thing, and practise the contrary, I must be disingenuous not to acknowledge a clear truth, and base to act against the light of my own conscience. For the reputation of my honesty, no man can question it, who has any of his own; for that of my poetry, it shall either stand by its own merit, or fall for want of it. Ill writers are usually the sharpest censors; for they, as the best poet and the best patron said,

When in the full perfection of decay,Turn vinegar, and come again in play.19

Thus the corruption of a poet is the generation of a critic; I mean of a critic in the general acceptation of this age; for formerly they were quite another species of men. They were defenders of poets, and commentators on their works; – to illustrate obscure beauties; to place some passages in a better light; to redeem others from malicious interpretations; to help out an author's modesty, who is not ostentatious of his wit; and, in short, to shield him from the ill-nature of those fellows, who were then called Zoili and Momi, and now take upon themselves the venerable name of censors. But neither Zoilus, nor he who endeavoured to defame Virgil, were ever adopted into the name of critics by the ancients. What their reputation was then, we know; and their successors in this age deserve no better. Are our auxiliary forces turned our enemies? are they, who at best are but wits of the second order, and whose only credit amongst readers is what they obtained by being subservient to the fame of writers, are these become rebels, of slaves, and usurpers, of subjects? or, to speak in the most honourable terms of them, are they, from our seconds, become principals against us? Does the ivy undermine the oak, which supports its weakness?

What labour would it cost them to put in a better line, than the worst of those which they expunge in a true poet? Petronius, the greatest wit perhaps of all the Romans, yet when his envy prevailed upon his judgment to fall on Lucan, he fell himself in his attempt; he performed worse in his "Essay of the Civil War" than the author of the "Pharsalia;" and, avoiding his errors, has made greater of his own. Julius Scaliger would needs turn down Homer, and abdicate him after the possession of three thousand years: has he succeeded in his attempt? he has indeed shown us some of those imperfections in him, which are incident to human kind; but who had not rather be that Homer than this Scaliger? You see the same hypercritic, when he endeavours to mend the beginning of Claudian, (a faulty poet, and living in a barbarous age,) yet how short he comes of him, and substitutes such verses of his own as deserve the ferula. What a censure has he made of Lucan, that "he rather seems to bark than sing?" Would any but a dog have made so snarling a comparison? one would have thought he had learned Latin as late as they tell us he did Greek. Yet he came off, with a pace tuȃ, – by your good leave, Lucan; he called him not by those outrageous names, of fool, booby, and blockhead: he had somewhat more of good manners than his successors, as he had much more knowledge. We have two sorts of those gentlemen in our nation; some of them, proceeding with a seeming moderation and pretence of respect to the dramatic writers of the last age, only scorn and vilify the present poets, to set up their predecessors. But this is only in appearance; for their real design is nothing less than to do honour to any man, besides themselves. Horace took notice of such men in his age:

Ingeniis non ille favet plauditque sepultis,Nostra sed impugnat; nos nostraque lividus odit.

It is not with an ultimate intention to pay reverence to the names of Shakespeare, Fletcher, and Ben Jonson, that they commend their writings, but to throw dirt on the writers of this age: their declaration is one thing, and their practice is another. By a seeming veneration to our fathers, they would thrust out us, their lawful issue, and govern us themselves, under a specious pretence of reformation. If they could compass their intent, what would wit and learning get by such a change? If we are bad poets, they are worse; and when any of their woeful pieces come abroad, the difference is so great betwixt them and good writers, that there need no criticisms on our part to decide it. When they describe the writers of this age, they draw such monstrous figures of them, as resemble none of us; our pretended pictures are so unlike, that it is evident we never sat to them: they are all grotesque; the products of their wild imaginations, things out of nature; so far from being copied from us, that they resemble nothing that ever was, or ever can be. But there is another sort of insects, more venomous than the former; those who manifestly aim at the destruction of our poetical church and state; who allow nothing to their countrymen, either of this or of the former age. These attack the living by raking up the ashes of the dead; well knowing that if they can subvert their original title to the stage, we who claim under them must fall of course. Peace be to the venerable shades of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson! none of the living will presume to have any competition with them; as they were our predecessors, so they were our masters. We trail our plays under them; but as at the funerals of a Turkish emperor, our ensigns are furled or dragged upon the ground, in honour to the dead, so we may lawfully advance our own afterwards, to show that we succeed; if less in dignity, yet on the same foot and title, which we think too we can maintain against the insolence of our own janizaries. If I am the man, as I have reason to believe, who am seemingly courted, and secretly undermined; I think I shall be able to defend myself, when I am openly attacked; and to show, besides, that the Greek writers only gave us the rudiments of a stage which they never finished; that many of the tragedies in the former age amongst us were without comparison beyond those of Sophocles and Euripides. But at present, I have neither the leisure, nor the means, for such an undertaking. It is ill going to law for an estate, with him who is in possession of it, and enjoys the present profits, to feed his cause. But the quantum mutatus may be remembered in due time. In the mean while, I leave the world to judge, who gave the provocation.

This, my lord, is, I confess, a long digression, from miscellany poems to modern tragedies; but I have the ordinary excuse of an injured man, who will be telling his tale unseasonably to his betters; though, at the same time, I am certain you are so good a friend, as to take a concern in all things which belong to one who so truly honours you. And besides, being yourself a critic of the genuine sort, who have read the best authors in their own languages, who perfectly distinguish of their several merits, and, in general, prefer them to the moderns, yet, I know, you judge for the English tragedies, against the Greek and Latin, as well as against the French, Italian, and Spanish, of these latter ages. Indeed, there is a vast difference betwixt arguing like Perault, in behalf of the French poets, against Homer and Virgil, and betwixt giving the English poets their undoubted due, of excelling Æschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles. For if we, or our greater fathers, have not yet brought the drama to an absolute perfection, yet at least we have carried it much farther than those ancient Greeks; who, beginning from a chorus, could never totally exclude it, as we have done; who find it an unprofitable incumbrance, without any necessity of entertaining it amongst us, and without the possibility of establishing it here, unless it were supported by a public charge. Neither can we accept of those lay-bishops, as some call them, who, under pretence of reforming the stage, would intrude themselves upon us, as our superiors; being indeed incompetent judges of what is manners, what religion, and, least of all, what is poetry and good sense. I can tell them, in behalf of all my fellows, that when they come to exercise a jurisdiction over us, they shall have the stage to themselves, as they have the laurel. As little can I grant, that the French dramatic writers excel the English. Our authors as far surpass them in genius, as our soldiers excel theirs in courage. It is true, in conduct they surpass us either way; yet that proceeds not so much from their greater knowledge, as from the difference of tastes in the two nations. They content themselves with a thin design, without episodes, and managed by few persons; our audience will not be pleased, but with variety of accidents, an underplot, and many actors. They follow the ancients too servilely in the mechanic rules, and we assume too much licence to ourselves, in keeping them only in view, at too great a distance. But if our audience had their tastes, our poets could more easily comply with them, than the French writers could come up to the sublimity of our thoughts, or to the difficult variety of our designs. However it be, I dare establish it for a rule of practice on the stage, that we are bound to please those whom we pretend to entertain; and that at any price, religion and good manners only excepted; and I care not much, if I give this handle to our bad illiterate poetasters, for the defence of their Scriptions, as they call them. There is a sort of merit in delighting the spectators, which is a name more proper for them, than that of auditors; or else Horace is in the wrong, when he commends Lucilius for it. But these common places I mean to treat at greater leisure; in the mean time submitting that little I have said to your lordship's approbation, or your censure, and chusing rather to entertain you this way, as you are a judge of writing, than to oppress your modesty with other commendations; which, though they are your due, yet would not be equally received in this satirical and censorious age. That which cannot, without injury, be denied to you, is the easiness of your conversation, far from affectation or pride; not denying even to enemies their just praises. And this, if I would dwell on any theme of this nature, is no vulgar commendation to your lordship. Without flattery, my lord, you have it in your nature, to be a patron and encourager of good poets; but your fortune has not yet put into your hands the opportunity of expressing it. What you will be hereafter, may be more than guessed, by what you are at present. You maintain the character of a nobleman, without that haughtiness which generally attends too many of the nobility; and when you converse with gentlemen, you forget not that you have been of their order. You are married to the daughter of a king; who, amongst her other high perfections, has derived from him a charming behaviour, a winning goodness, and a majestic person. The Muses and the Graces are the ornaments of your family; while the Muse sings, the Grace accompanies her voice: Even the servants of the Muses have sometimes had the happiness to hear her, and to receive their inspirations from her.20

I will not give myself the liberty of going farther; for it is so sweet to wander in a pleasing way, that I should never arrive at my journey's end. To keep myself from being belated in my letter, and tiring your attention, I must return to the place where I was setting out. I humbly dedicate to your lordship my own labours in this Miscellany; at the same time, not arrogating to myself the privilege, of inscribing to you the works of others who are joined with me in this undertaking, over which I can pretend no right. Your lady and you have done me the favour to hear me read my translations of Ovid; and you both seemed not to be displeased with them. Whether it be the partiality of an old man to his youngest child, I know not; but they appear to me the best of all my endeavours in this kind. Perhaps this poet is more easy to be translated than some others whom I have lately attempted; perhaps, too, he was more according to my genius. He is certainly more palatable to the reader, than any of the Roman wits; though some of them are more lofty, some more instructive, and others more correct. He had learning enough to make him equal to the best; but, as his verse came easily, he wanted the toil of application to amend it. He is often luxuriant both in his fancy and expressions, and, as it has lately been observed, not always natural.

If wit be pleasantry, he has it to excess; but if it be propriety, Lucretius, Horace, and, above all, Virgil, are his superiors. I have said so much of him already in my preface to his "Heroical Epistles," that there remains little to be added in this place: For my own part, I have endeavoured to copy his character, what I could, in this translation; even, perhaps, farther than I should have done, – to his very faults. Mr Chapman, in his "Translation of Homer," professes to have done it somewhat paraphrastically, and that on set purpose; his opinion being, that a good poet is to be translated in that manner. I remember not the reason which he gives for it; but I suppose it is for fear of omitting any of his excellencies. Sure I am, that if it be a fault, it is much more pardonable than that of those, who run into the other extreme of a literal and close translation, where the poet is confined so straitly to his author's words, that he wants elbow-room to express his elegancies. He leaves him obscure; he leaves him prose, where he found him verse; and no better than thus has Ovid been served by the so-much-admired Sandys. This is at least the idea which I have remaining of his translation; for I never read him since I was a boy. They who take him upon content, from the praises which their fathers gave him, may inform their judgment by reading him again, and see (if they understand the original) what is become of Ovid's poetry in his version; whether it be not all, or the greatest part of it, evaporated. But this proceeded from the wrong judgment of the age in which he lived. They neither knew good verse, nor loved it; they were scholars, it is true, but they were pedants; and, for a just reward of their pedantic pains, all their translations want to be translated into English.

If I flatter not myself, or if my friends have not flattered me, I have given my author's sense for the most part truly; for, to mistake sometimes is incident to all men; and not to follow the Dutch commentators always, may be forgiven to a man, who thinks them, in the general, heavy gross-witted fellows, fit only to gloss on their own dull poets. But I leave a farther satire on their wit, till I have a better opportunity to show how much I love and honour them. I have likewise attempted to restore Ovid to his native sweetness, easiness, and smoothness; and to give my poetry a kind of cadence, and, as we call it, a run of verse, as like the original, as the English can come up to the Latin. As he seldom uses any synalephas, so I have endeavoured to avoid them as often as I could. I have likewise given him his own turns, both on the words and on the thought; which I cannot say are inimitable, because I have copied them, and so may others, if they use the same diligence; but certainly they are wonderfully graceful in this poet. Since I have named the synalepha, which is the cutting off one vowel immediately before another, I will give an example of it from Chapman's "Homer," which lies before me, for the benefit of those who understand not the Latin prosodia. It is in the first line of the argument to the first Iliad:

Apollo's priest to th' Argive fleet doth bring, &c.

There, we see, he makes it not, the Argive, but th' Argive, to shun the shock of the two vowels, immediately following each other; but, in his second argument, in the same page, he gives a bad example of the quite contrary kind:

Alpha the prayer of Chryses sings:The army's plague, the strife of kings.

In these words, the army's, – the ending with a vowel, and armies beginning with another vowel, without cutting off the first, which by it had been th' armies, there remains a most horrible ill-sounding gap betwixt those words. I cannot say that I have every where observed the rule of the synalepha in my translation; but wheresoever I have not, it is a fault in sound. The French and the Italians have made it an inviolable precept in their versification; therein following the severe example of the Latin poets. Our countrymen have not yet reformed their poetry so far, but content themselves with following the licentious practice of the Greeks; who, though they sometimes use synalephas, yet make no difficulty, very often, to sound one vowel upon another; as Homer does, in the very first line of Alpha:

Μήνιν ἄειδε, Θεὰ, Πηληιάδεω Ἀχιλῆος

It is true, indeed, that, in the second line, in these words, μυρὶ Ἀχαιοῖς, and ἀλγὲ οὒθηκε, the synalepha, in revenge, is twice observed. But it becomes us, for the sake of euphony, rather Musas colere severiores, with the Romans, than to give into the looseness of the Grecians.

I have tired myself, and have been summoned by the press to send away this Dedication, otherwise I had exposed some other faults, which are daily committed by our English poets; which, with care and observation, might be amended. For, after all, our language is both copious, significant, and majestical, and might be reduced into a more harmonious sound. But, for want of public encouragement, in this iron age, we are so far from making any progress in the improvement of our tongue, that in few years we shall speak and write as barbarously as our neighbours.

Notwithstanding my haste, I cannot forbear to tell your lordship, that there are two fragments of Homer translated in this Miscellany; one by Mr Congreve, (whom I cannot mention without the honour which is due to his excellent parts, and that entire affection which I bear him,) and the other by myself. Both the subjects are pathetical; and I am sure my friend has added to the tenderness which he found in the original, and, without flattery, surpassed his author. Yet I must needs say this in reference to Homer, that he is much more capable of exciting the manly passions than those of grief and pity. To cause admiration is, indeed, the proper and adequate design of an epic poem; and in that he has excelled even Virgil. Yet, without presuming to arraign our master, I may venture to affirm, that he is somewhat too talkative, and more than somewhat too digressive. This is so manifest, that it cannot be denied in that little parcel which I have translated, perhaps too literally: there Andromache, in the midst of her concernment and fright for Hector, runs off her bias, to tell him a story of her pedigree, and of the lamentable death of her father, her mother, and her seven brothers. The devil was in Hector if he knew not all this matter, as well as she who told it him; for she had been his bedfellow for many years together: and if he knew it, then it must be confessed, that Homer, in this long digression, has rather given us his own character, than that of the fair lady whom he paints. His dear friends, the commentators, who never fail him at a pinch, will needs excuse him, by making the present sorrow of Andromache to occasion the remembrance of all the past; but others think, that she had enough to do with that grief which now oppressed her, without running for assistance to her family. Virgil, I am confident, would have omitted such a work of supererogation. But Virgil had the gift of expressing much in little, and sometimes in silence; for, though he yielded much to Homer in invention, he more excelled him in his admirable judgment. He drew the passion of Dido for Æneas, in the most lively and most natural colours that are imaginable. Homer was ambitious enough of moving pity, for he has attempted twice on the same subject of Hector's death; first, when Priam and Hecuba beheld his corpse, which was dragged after the chariot of Achilles; and then in the lamentation which was made over him, when his body was redeemed by Priam; and the same persons again bewail his death, with a chorus of others to help the cry. But if this last excite compassion in you, as I doubt not but it will, you are more obliged to the translator than the poet; for Homer, as I observed before, can move rage better than he can pity. He stirs up the irascible appetite, as our philosophers call it; he provokes to murder, and the destruction of God's images; he forms and equips those ungodly man-killers, whom we poets, when we flatter them, call heroes; a race of men who can never enjoy quiet in themselves, until they have taken it from all the world. This is Homer's commendation; and, such as it is, the lovers of peace, or at least of more moderate heroism, will never envy him. But let Homer and Virgil contend for the prize of honour betwixt themselves; I am satisfied they will never have a third concurrent. I wish Mr Congreve had the leisure to translate him, and the world the good nature and justice to encourage him in that noble design, of which he is more capable than any man I know. The Earl of Mulgrave and Mr Waller, two of the best judges of our age, have assured me, that they could never read over the translation of Chapman, without incredible pleasure and extreme transport. This admiration of theirs must needs proceed from the author himself; for the translator has thrown him down as low as harsh numbers, improper English, and a monstrous length of verse could carry him. What then would he appear in the harmonious version of one of the best writers, living in a much better age than was the last? I mean for versification, and the art of numbers; for in the drama we have not arrived to the pitch of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. But here, my lord, I am forced to break off abruptly, without endeavouring at a compliment in the close. This Miscellany is, without dispute, one of the best of the kind which has hitherto been extant in our tongue; at least, as Sir Samuel Tuke has said before me, a modest man may praise what is not his own. My fellows have no need of any protection; but I humbly recommend my part of it, as much as it deserves, to your patronage and acceptance, and all the rest to your forgiveness. I am,

My Lord,

Your Lordship's most obedient servant,

John Dryden.

THE FIRST BOOK OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES

Of bodies changed to various forms I sing: —Ye gods, from whence these miracles did spring,Inspire my numbers with celestial heat,Till I my long laborious work complete;And add perpetual tenor to my rhymes,Deduced from nature's birth to Cæsar's times.Before the seas, and this terrestrial ball,And heaven's high canopy, that covers all,One was the face of nature, if a face;Rather a rude and indigested mass;A lifeless lump, unfashioned, and unframed,Of jarring seeds, and justly chaos named.No sun was lighted up the world to view;No moon did yet her blunted horns renew;Nor yet was earth suspended in the sky,Nor, poised, did on her own foundations lie;Nor seas about the shores their arms had thrown;But earth, and air, and water, were in one.Thus air was void of light, and earth unstable,And water's dark abyss unnavigable.No certain form on any was imprest;All were confused, and each disturbed the rest:For hot and cold were in one body fixed;And soft with hard, and light with heavy, mixed.But God or Nature, while they thus contend,To these intestine discords put an end.Then earth from air, and seas from earth, were driven,And grosser air sunk from ætherial heaven.Thus disembroiled, they take their proper place;}The next of kin contiguously embrace; }And foes are sundered by a larger space. }The force of fire ascended first on high,And took its dwelling in the vaulted sky.Then air succeeds, in lightness next to fire,Whose atoms from unactive earth retire.Earth sinks beneath, and draws a numerous throng,Of ponderous, thick, unwieldy seeds along.About her coasts unruly waters roar,And, rising on a ridge, insult the shore.Thus when the God, whatever God was he,Had formed the whole, and made the parts agree,That no unequal portions might be found,He moulded earth into a spacious round;Then, with a breath, he gave the winds to blow,And bade the congregated waters flow:He adds the running springs, and standing lakes,And bounding banks for winding rivers makes.Some part in earth are swallowed up, the mostIn ample oceans, disembogued, are lost:He shades the woods, the values he restrainsWith rocky mountains, and extends the plains.And as five zones the ætherial regions bind,Five, correspondent, are to earth assigned;The sun, with rays directly darting down,Fires all beneath, and fries the middle zone:The two beneath the distant poles complainOf endless winter, and perpetual rain.Betwixt the extremes, two happier climates holdThe temper that partakes of hot and cold.The fields of liquid air, inclosing all,Surround the compass of this earthly ball:The lighter parts lie next the fires above;The grosser near the watery surface move:Thick clouds are spread, and storms engender there,}And thunder's voice, which wretched mortals fear, }And winds that on their wings cold winter bear. }Nor were those blustering brethren left at large,On seas and shores their fury to discharge:Bound as they are, and circumscribed in place,They rend the world, resistless, where they pass,And mighty marks of mischief leave behind;Such is the rage of their tempestuous kind.First, Eurus to the rising morn is sent,(The regions of the balmy continent,)And eastern realms, where early Persians run,To greet the blest appearance of the sun.Westward the wanton Zephyr wings his flight,Pleased with the remnants of departing light;Fierce Boreas with his offspring issues forth,To invade the frozen waggon of the North;While frowning Auster seeks the southern sphere,And rots, with endless rain, the unwholesome year.High o'er the clouds, and empty realms of wind,The God a clearer space for heaven designed;Where fields of light and liquid æther flow,Purged from the ponderous dregs of earth below.Scarce had the Power distinguished these, when straightThe stars, no longer overlaid with weight,Exert their heads from underneath the mass, }And upward shoot, and kindle as they pass, }And with diffusive light adorn the heavenly place.}Then, every void of nature to supply,With forms of gods he fills the vacant sky:New herds of beasts he sends, the plains to share;}New colonies of birds, to people air; }And to their oozy beds the finny fish repair. }A creature of a more exalted kindWas wanting yet, and then was Man designed;Conscious of thought, of more capacious breast,For empire formed, and fit to rule the rest:Whether with particles of heavenly fireThe God of nature did his soul inspire;Or earth, but new divided from the sky,And pliant still, retained the etherial energy;Which wise Prometheus tempered into paste,And, mixed with living streams, the godlike image cast.Thus, while the mute creation downward bendTheir sight, and to their earthly mother tend,Man looks aloft, and, with erected eyes,Beholds his own hereditary skies. —From such rude principles our form began,And earth was metamorphosed into man.The Golden AgeThe Golden Age was first; when man, yet new, }No rule but uncorrupted reason knew; }And, with a native bent, did good pursue. }Unforced by punishment, unawed by fear,His words were simple, and his soul sincere.Needless was written law, where none opprest;The law of man was written in his breast.No suppliant crowds before the judge appeared; }No court erected yet, nor cause was heard; }But all was safe, for conscience was their guard.}The mountain trees in distant prospect please,Ere yet the pine descended to the seas;Ere sails were spread, new oceans to explore;}And happy mortals, unconcerned for more, }Confined their wishes to their native shore. }No walls were yet, nor fence, nor moat, nor mound;Nor drum was heard, nor trumpet's angry sound;Nor swords were forged; but, void of care and crime,The soft creation slept away their time.The teeming earth, yet guiltless of the plough,And unprovoked, did fruitful stores allow:Content with food, which nature freely bred,On wildings and on strawberries they fed;Cornels and bramble-berries gave the rest,And falling acorns furnished out a feast.The flowers, unsown, in fields and meadows reigned;And western winds immortal spring maintained.In following years the bearded corn ensuedFrom earth unasked, nor was that earth renewed.From veins of vallies milk and nectar broke,And honey sweating through the pores of oak.The Silver AgeBut when good Saturn, banished from above,Was driven to hell, the world was under Jove.Succeeding times a silver age behold,Excelling brass, but more excelled by gold.Then Summer, Autumn, Winter did appear,And Spring was but a season of the year.The sun his annual course obliquely made,Good days contracted, and enlarged the bad.Then air with sultry heats began to glow,The wings of winds were clogged with ice and snow;And shivering mortals, into houses driven,Sought shelter from the inclemency of heaven.Those houses, then, were caves, or homely sheds,With twining oziers fenced, and moss their beds.Then ploughs for seed the fruitful furrows broke,And oxen laboured first beneath the yoke.The Brazen AgeTo this next came in course the Brazen Age:A warlike offspring prompt to bloody rage,Not impious yet, —The Iron Age– Hard steel succeeded then;And stubborn as the metal were the men.Truth, modesty, and shame, the world forsook;Fraud, avarice, and force, their places, took.Then sails were spread to every wind that blew;Raw were the sailors, and the depths were new:Trees, rudely hollowed, did the waves sustain,Ere ships in triumph ploughed the watery plain.Then land-marks limited to each his right;For all before was common as the light.Nor was the ground alone required to bearHer annual income to the crooked share;But greedy mortals, rummaging her store,Digged from her entrails first the precious ore;Which next to hell the prudent gods had laid,And that alluring ill to sight displayed.Thus cursed steel, and more accursed gold,Gave mischief birth, and made that mischief bold;And double death did wretched man invade,By steel assaulted, and by gold betrayed.Now (brandished weapons glittering in their hands)Mankind is broken loose from moral bands:No rights of hospitality remain,The guest, by him who harboured him, is slain;The son-in-law pursues the father's life;The wife her husband murders, he the wife;The step-dame poison for the son prepares;The son inquires into his father's years.Faith flies, and Piety in exile mourns;And Justice, here oppressed, to heaven returns.The Giant's WarNor were the Gods themselves more safe above;Against beleaguered heaven the Giants move.Hills piled on hills, on mountains mountains lie,To make their mad approaches to the sky:Till Jove, no longer patient, took his timeTo avenge with thunder their audacious crime;Red lightning played along the firmament,And their demolished works to pieces rent.Singed with the flames, and with the bolts transfixed,With native earth their blood the monsters mixed;The blood, endued with animating heat,Did in the impregnate earth new sons beget;They, like the seed from which they sprung, accursed,Against the gods immortal hatred nursed;An impious, arrogant, and cruel brood,Expressing their original from blood.Which when the King of Gods beheld from high,(Withal revolving in his memory,What he himself had found on earth of late,Lycaon's guilt, and his inhuman treat,)He sighed, nor longer with his pity strove,But kindled to a wrath becoming Jove:Then called a general council of the gods;Who, summoned, issue from their blest abodes,And fill the assembly with a shining train.A way there is in heaven's expanded plain,Which, when the skies are clear, is seen below,And mortals by the name of milky know.The ground-work is of stars; through which the roadLies open to the Thunderer's abode.The gods of greater nations dwell around,And on the right and left the palace bound;The commons where they can; the nobler sort,With winding doors wide open, front the court.This place, as far as earth with heaven may vie,I dare to call the Louvre of the sky.When all were placed, in seats distinctly known,And he, their father, had assumed the throne,Upon his ivory sceptre first he leant,Then shook his head, that shook the firmament;Air, earth, and seas, obeyed the almighty nod,And with a general fear confessed the God.At length, with indignation, thus he brokeHis awful silence, and the Powers bespoke.I was not more concerned in that debateOf empire, when our universal stateWas put to hazard, and the giant raceOur captive skies were ready to embrace:For, though the foe was fierce, the seeds of allRebellion sprung from one original;Now wheresoever ambient waters glide,All are corrupt, and all must be destroyed.Let me this holy protestation make,By hell, and hell's inviolable lake!I tried whatever in the Godhead lay; }But gangrened members must be lopt away, }Before the nobler parts are tainted to decay.}There dwells below a race of demi-gods,Of nymphs in waters, and of fauns in woods;Who, though not worthy yet in heaven to live,Let them at least enjoy that earth we give.Can these be thought securely lodged below,When I myself, who no superior know,I, who have heaven and earth at my command,Have been attempted by Lycaon's hand?At this a murmur through the synod went,And with one voice they vote his punishment.Thus, when conspiring traitors dared to doomThe fall of Cæsar, and in him of Rome,The nations trembled with a pious fear,All anxious for their earthly thunderer; —Nor was their care, O Cæsar, less esteemedBy thee, than that of heaven for Jove was deemed;Who with his hand, and voice, did first restrainTheir murmurs, then resumed his speech again.The Gods to silence were composed, and satWith reverence due to his superior state.Cancel your pious cares; already heHas paid his debt to justice, and to me.Yet what his crimes, and what my judgments were,Remains for me thus briefly to declare.The clamours of this vile degenerate age,The cries of orphans, and the oppressor's rage,Had reached the stars; I will descend, said I,In hope to prove this loud complaint a lie.Disguised in human shape, I travelled roundThe world, and more than what I heard, I found.O'er Mænalus I took my steepy way,By caverns infamous for beasts of prey;Then crossed Cyllene, and the piny shade,More infamous by curst Lycaon made;Dark night had covered heaven and earth, beforeI entered his inhospitable door.Just at my entrance, I displayed the signThat somewhat was approaching of divine.The prostrate people pray; the tyrant grins;And, adding profanation to his sins,I'll try, said he, and if a God appear,To prove his deity shall cost him dear.'Twas late; the graceless wretch my death prepares,When I should soundly sleep, opprest with cares:This dire experiment he chose, to proveIf I were mortal, or undoubted Jove.But first he had resolved to taste my power:Not long before, but in a luckless hour,Some legates, sent from the Molossian state,Were on a peaceful errand come to treat;Of these he murders one, he boils the flesh,And lays the mangled morsels in a dish;Some part he roasts; then serves it up so drest,And bids me welcome to this human feast.Moved with disdain, the table I o'erturned,And with avenging flames the palace burned.The tyrant, in a fright, for shelter gainsThe neighbouring fields, and scours along the plains.Howling he fled, and fain he would have spoke,But human voice his brutal tongue forsook.About his lips the gathered foam he churns, }And, breathing slaughter, still with rage he burns,}But on the bleating flock his fury turns. }His mantle, now his hide, with rugged hairsCleaves to his back; a famished face he bears;His arms descend, his shoulders sink away,To multiply his legs for chace of prey.He grows a wolf, his hoariness remains,And the same rage in other members reigns.His eyes still sparkle in a narrower space,His jaws retain the grin, and violence of his face.This was a single ruin, but not oneDeserves so just a punishment alone.Mankind's a monster, and the ungodly times,Confederate into guilt, are sworn to crimes.All are alike involved in ill, and allMust by the same relentless fury fall.Thus ended he; the greater gods assent, }By clamours urging his severe intent; }The less fill up the cry for punishment. }Yet still with pity they remember man,And mourn as much as heavenly spirits can.They ask, when those were lost of human birth,What he would do with all his waste of earth?If his dispeopled world he would resignTo beasts, a mute, and more ignoble line?Neglected altars must no longer smoke,If none were left to worship and invoke.To whom the Father of the Gods replied:}Lay that unnecessary fear aside; }Mine be the care new people to provide.}I will from wonderous principles ordainA race unlike the first, and try my skill again.Already had he tossed the flaming brand, }And rolled the thunder in his spacious hand,}Preparing to discharge on seas and land; }But stop'd, for fear, thus violently driven,The sparks should catch his axle-tree of heaven;Rememb'ring, in the Fates, a time, when fireShould to the battlements of heaven aspire,And all his blazing worlds above should burn,And all the inferior globe to cinders turn.His dire artillery thus dismissed, he bentHis thoughts to some securer punishment;Concludes to pour a watery deluge down,And, what he durst not burn, resolves to drown.The Northern breath, that freezes floods, he binds,With all the race of cloud-dispelling winds;The South he loosed, who night and horror brings,And fogs are shaken from his flaggy wings.From his divided beard two streams he pours;His head and rheumy eyes, distil in showers;With rain his robe and heavy mantle flow,And lazy mists are lowring on his brow.Still as he swept along, with his clenched fist,He squeezed the clouds; the imprisoned clouds resist;The skies, from pole to pole, with peals resound,And showers enlarged come pouring on the ground.Then clad in colours of a various dye,Junonian Iris breeds a new supplyTo feed the clouds: impetuous rain descends;The bearded corn beneath the burden bends;Defrauded clowns deplore their perished grain,And the long labours of the year are vain.Nor from his patrimonial heaven aloneIs Jove content to pour his vengeance down;Aid from his brother of the seas he craves,To help him with auxiliary waves.The watery tyrant calls his brooks and floods,Who roll from mossy caves, their moist abodes;And with perpetual urns his palace fill:To whom, in brief, he thus imparts his will.Small exhortation needs; your powers employ,And this bad world (so Jove requires) destroy.Let loose the reins to all your watery store;Bear down the dams, and open every door.The floods, by nature enemies to land,And proudly swelling with their new command,Remove the living stones that stopped their way,And, gushing from their source, augment the sea.21Then, with his mace, their monarch struck the ground;}With inward trembling earth received the wound, }And rising streams a ready passage found. }The expanded waters gather on the plain,They float the fields, and overtop the grain;Then rushing onwards, with a sweepy sway,Bear flocks, and folds, and labouring hinds, away.Nor safe their dwellings were; for, sap'd by floods,Their houses fell upon their household gods.The solid piles, too strongly built to fall,High o'er their heads behold a watery wall.Now seas and earth were in confusion lost;A world of waters, and without a coast.One climbs a cliff; one in his boat is borne,And ploughs above, where late he sowed his corn.Others o'er chimney tops and turrets row,And drop their anchors on the meads below;Or, downward driven, they bruise the tender vine,Or, tossed aloft, are knocked against a pine;And where of late the kids had cropped the grass,The monsters of the deep now take their place.Insulting Nereids on the cities ride,And wondering dolphins o'er the palace glide;On leaves, and masts of mighty oaks, they brouze;And their broad fins entangle in the boughs.The frighted wolf now swims among the sheep;The yellow lion wanders in the deep;His rapid force no longer helps the boar;The stag swims faster than he ran before.22The fowls, long beating on their wings in vain,Despair of land, and drop into the main.Now hills and vales no more distinction know,And levelled nature lies oppressed below.The most of mortals perish in the flood,The small remainder dies for want of food.A mountain of stupendous height there standsBetwixt the Athenian and Bæotian lands,The bound of fruitful fields, while fields they were,But then a field of waters did appear:Parnassus is its name, whose forky riseMounts through the clouds, and mates the lofty skies.High on the summit of this dubious cliff,Deucalion wafting moored his little skiff.He with his wife were only left behindOf perished man; they two were human kind.The mountain-nymphs and Themis they adore,And from her oracles relief implore.The most upright of mortal men was he;The most sincere and holy woman, she.When Jupiter, surveying earth from high,Beheld it in a lake of water lie,That where so many millions lately lived,But two, the best of either sex, survived,He loosed the northern wind; fierce Boreas fliesTo puff away the clouds, and purge the skies;Serenely, while he blows, the vapours drivenDiscover heaven to earth, and earth to heaven.The billows fall, while Neptune lays his maceOn the rough sea, and smooths its furrowed face.Already Triton, at his call, appears }Above the waves; a Tyrian robe he wears;}And in his hand a crooked trumpet bears.}The sovereign bids him peaceful sounds inspire,And give the waves the signal to retire.His writhen shell he takes, whose narrow ventGrows by degrees into a large extent;Then gives it breath; the blast, with doubling sound,Runs the wide circuit of the world around.The sun first heard it, in his early east,And met the rattling echoes in the west.The waters, listening to the trumpet's roar,Obey the summons, and forsake the shore.A thin circumference of land appears;And earth, but not at once, her visage rears,And peeps upon the seas from upper grounds:The streams, but just contained within their bounds,By slow degrees into their channels crawl,And earth increases as the waters fall.In longer time the tops of trees appear,Which mud on their dishonoured branches bear.At length the world was all restored to view,But desolate, and of a sickly hue:Nature beheld herself, and stood aghast,A dismal desert, and a silent waste.Which when Deucalion, with a piteous look,Beheld, he wept, and thus to Pyrrha spoke:Oh wife, oh sister, oh of all thy kind }The best and only creature left behind, }By kindred, love, and now by dangers joined;}Of multitudes, who breathed the common air,We two remain, a species in a pair:The rest the seas have swallowed; nor have weE'en of this wretched life a certainty.The clouds are still above; and, while I speak,A second deluge o'er our heads may break.Should I be snatched from hence, and thou remain,}Without relief, or partner of thy pain, }How could'st thou such a wretched life sustain? }Should I be left, and thou be lost, the sea,That buried her I loved, should bury me.Oh could our father his old arts inspire,And make me heir of his informing fire,That so I might abolished man retrieve,And perished people in new souls might live!But heaven is pleased, nor ought we to complain,That we, the examples of mankind, remain. —He said; the careful couple join their tears,And then invoke the gods, with pious prayers.Thus in devotion having eased their grief,From sacred oracles they seek relief,And to Cephisus' brook their way pursue;The stream was troubled, but the ford they knew.With living waters in the fountain bred, }They sprinkle first their garments, and their head,}Then took the way which to the temple led. }The roofs were all defiled with moss and mire,The desert altars void of solemn fire.Before the gradual prostrate they adored,The pavement kissed, and thus the saint implored.O righteous Themis, if the powers aboveBy prayers are bent to pity and to love;If human miseries can move their mind;If yet they can forgive, and yet be kind;Tell how we may restore, by second birth,Mankind, and people desolated earth.Then thus the gracious goddess, nodding, said;Depart, and with your vestments veil your head:And stooping lowly down, with loosened zones,Throw each behind your backs your mighty mother's bones.Amazed the pair, and mute with wonder, stand,Till Pyrrha first refused the dire command.Forbid it heaven, said she, that I should tearThose holy relics from the sepulchre.They pondered the mysterious words again,For some new sense; and long they sought in vain.At length Deucalion cleared his cloudy brow,And said; The dark ænigma will allowA meaning, which, if well I understand,From sacrilege will free the god's command:This earth our mighty mother is, the stonesIn her capacious body are her bones;These we must cast behind. With hope, and fear,The woman did the new solution hear:The man diffides in his own augury,And doubts the gods; yet both resolve to try.Descending from the mount, they first unbindTheir vests, and, veiled, they cast the stones behind:The stones (a miracle to mortal view,But long tradition makes it pass for true,)Did first the rigour of their kind expel,And suppled into softness as they fell;Then swelled, and, swelling, by degrees grew warm,And took the rudiments of human form;Imperfect shapes, in marble such are seen,When the rude chisel does the man begin,While yet the roughness of the stone remains,Without the rising muscles, and the veins.The sappy parts, and next resembling juice,Were turned to moisture, for the body's use;Supplying humours, blood, and nourishment:The rest, too solid to receive a bent,Converts to bones; and what was once a vein,Its former name and nature did retain.By help of power divine, in little space, }What the man threw, assumed a manly face; }And what the wife, renewed the female race.}Hence we derive our nature, born to bearLaborious life, and hardened into care.The rest of animals, from teeming earthProduced, in various forms received their birth.The native moisture, in its close retreat,Digested by the sun's etherial heat,As in a kindly womb, began to breed;Then swelled, and quickened by the vital seed:And some in less, and some in longer space,Were ripened into form, and took a several face.Thus when the Nile from Pharian fields is fled,And seeks with ebbing tides his ancient bed,The fat manure with heavenly fire is warmed,And crusted creatures, as in wombs, are formed:These, when they turn the glebe, the peasants find:Some rude, and yet unfinished in their kind;Short of their limbs, a lame imperfect birth;One half alive, and one of lifeless earth.For, heat and moisture, when in bodies joined,The temper that results from either kind,Conception makes; and fighting, till they mix,Their mingled atoms in each other fix.Thus nature's hand the genial bed prepares,With friendly discord, and with fruitful wars.From hence the surface of the ground, with mudAnd slime besmeared, (the fæces of the flood,)Received the rays of heaven; and sucking inThe seeds of heat, new creatures did begin.Some were of several sorts produced before;But of new monsters earth created more.Unwillingly, but yet she brought to light }Thee, Python, too, the wondering world to fright,}And the new nations with so dire a sight; }So monstrous was his bulk, so large a spaceDid his vast body and long train embrace:Whom Phœbus basking on a bank espied.Ere now the god his arrows had not tried,But on the trembling deer, or mountain-goat;At this new quarry he prepares to shoot.Though every shaft took place, he spent the store}Of his full quiver; and 'twas long before }The expiring serpent wallowed in his gore. }Then to preserve the fame of such a deed,For Python slain, he Pythian games decreed,Where noble youths for mastership should strive,To quoit, to run, and steeds and chariots drive.The prize was fame, in witness of renown,An oaken garland did the victor crown.The laurel was not yet for triumphs borne; }But every green alike, by Phœbus worn, }Did, with promiscuous grace, his flowing locks adorn.}The Transformation of Daphne into a LaurelThe first and fairest of his loves was she,Whom not blind fortune, but the dire decreeOf angry Cupid, forced him to desire;Daphne her name, and Peneus was her sire.Swelled with the pride that new success attends,He sees the stripling, while his bow he bends,And thus insults him: Thou lascivious boy,Are arms like these for children to employ?Know, such atchievements are my proper claim,Due to my vigour and unerring aim:Resistless are my shafts, and Python late,In such a feathered death, has found his fate.Take up thy torch, and lay my weapons by;With that the feeble souls of lovers fry. —To whom the son of Venus thus replied:Phœbus, thy shafts are sure on all beside;But mine on Phœbus; mine the fame shall beOf all thy conquests, when I conquer thee.He said, and soaring swiftly winged his flight;Nor stop'd but on Parnassus' airy height.Two different shafts he from his quiver draws;One to repel desire, and one to cause.One shaft is pointed with refulgent gold,To bribe the love, and make the lover bold;One blunt, and tipt with lead, whose base allayProvokes disdain, and drives desire away.The blunted bolt against the nymph he drest;But with the sharp transfixed Apollo's breast.The enamoured deity pursues the chace;The scornful damsel shuns his loathed embrace:In hunting beasts of prey her youth employs,And Phœbe rivals in her rural joys.With naked neck she goes, and shoulders bare,And with a fillet binds her flowing hair.By many suitors sought, she mocks their pains,And still her vowed virginity maintains.Impatient of a yoke, the name of brideShe shuns, and hates the joys she never tried.On wilds and woods she fixes her desire;Nor knows what youth and kindly love inspire.Her father chides her oft: Thou ow'st, says he,A husband to thyself, a son to me.She, like a crime, abhors the nuptial bed;She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head.Then, casting round his neck her tender arms,Sooths him with blandishments, and filial charms:Give me, my lord, she said, to live and dieA spotless maid, without the marriage-tie.'Tis but a small request; I beg no moreThan what Diana's father gave before.The good old sire was softened to consent;But said her wish would prove her punishment;For so much youth, and so much beauty joined,Opposed the state which her desires designed.The God of Light, aspiring to her bed, }Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed,}And is by his own oracles misled. }And as in empty fields the stubble burns,Or nightly travellers, when day returns,Their useless torches on dry hedges throw,That catch the flames, and kindle all the row;So burns the god, consuming in desire,And feeding in his breast the fruitless fire:Her well-turned neck he viewed, (her neck was bare,)And on her shoulders her dishevelled hair:Oh were it combed, said he, with what a graceWould every waving curl become her face!He viewed her eyes, like heavenly lamps that shone;He viewed her lips, too sweet to view alone;Her taper fingers, and her panting breast:}He praises all he sees; and for the rest, }Believes the beauties yet unseen are best.}Swift as the wind, the damsel fled away,Nor did for these alluring speeches stay.Stay, nymph, he cried; I follow, not a foe:Thus from the lion trips the trembling doe;Thus from the wolf the frightened lamb removes, }And from pursuing falcons fearful doves; }Thou shun'st a god, and shun'st a god that loves.}Ah! lest some thorn should pierce thy tender foot,Or thou should'st fall in flying my pursuit,To sharp uneven ways thy steps decline,Abate thy speed, and I will bate of mine.Yet think from whom thou dost so rashly fly;Nor basely born, nor shepherd's swain am I.Perhaps thou know'st not my superior state,And from that ignorance proceeds thy hate.Me Claros, Delphos, Tenedos, obey;These hands the Patareian sceptre sway.The king of gods begot me: what shall be,Or is, or ever was, in fate, I see.Mine is the invention of the charming lyre;Sweet notes, and heavenly numbers, I inspire.Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart;But ah! more deadly his, who pierced my heart.Med'cine is mine, what herbs and simples grow }In fields and forests, all their powers I know,}And am the great physician called below. }Alas, that fields and forests can affordNo remedies to heal their love-sick lord!To cure the pains of love, no plant avails,And his own physic the physician fails.She heard not half, so furiously she flies,And on her ear the imperfect accent dies.Fear gave her wings; and as she fled, the windIncreasing spread her flowing hair behind;And left her legs and thighs exposed to view,Which made the god more eager to pursue.The god was young, and was too hotly bentTo lose his time in empty compliment;But led by love, and fired by such a sight,Impetuously pursued his near delight.As when the impatient greyhound, slipt from far,Bounds o'er the glebe, to course the fearful hare,She in her speed does all her safety lay,And he with double speed pursues the prey;O'er-runs her at the sitting turn, and licksHis chaps in vain, and blows upon the flix;23She 'scapes, and for the neighbouring covert strives,And gaining shelter doubts if yet she lives.If little things with great we may compare,Such was the god, and such the flying fair:She, urged by fear, her feet did swiftly move,But he more swiftly, who was urged by love.He gathers ground upon her in the chace; }Now breathes upon her hair, with nearer pace,}And just is fastening on the wished embrace. }The nymph grew pale, and in a mortal fright,Spent with the labour of so long a flight,And now despairing, cast a mournful lookUpon the streams of her paternal brook:Oh help, she cried, in this extremest need,If water-gods are deities indeed!Gape, earth, and this unhappy wretch entomb,Or change my form, whence all my sorrows come.Scarce had she finished, when her feet she foundBenumbed with cold, and fastened to the ground;A filmy rind about her body grows,Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs;The nymph is all into a Laurel gone,The smoothness of her skin remains alone.Yet Phœbus loves her still, and, casting roundHer bole his arms, some little warmth he found.The tree still panted in the unfinished part,Not wholly vegetive, and heaved her heart.He fixed his lips upon the trembling rind;It swerved aside, and his embrace declined.To whom the god: Because thou canst not beMy mistress, I espouse thee for my tree:Be thou the prize of honour and renown;The deathless poet, and the poem, crown.Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn,And, after poets, be by victors worn;Thou shalt returning Cæsar's triumph grace,When pomps shall in a long procession pass;Wreathed on the post before his palace wait,And be the sacred guardian of the gate:Secure from thunder, and unharmed by Jove,Unfading as the immortal powers above;And as the locks of Phœbus are unshorn,So shall perpetual green thy boughs adorn. —The grateful Tree was pleased with what he said,And shook the shady honours of her head.The Transformation of Io into an HeiferAn ancient forest in Thessalia grows,Which Tempe's pleasant valley does inclose;Through this the rapid Peneus takes his course,From Pindus rolling with impetuous force;Mists from the river's mighty fall arise,And deadly damps inclose the cloudy skies;Perpetual fogs are hanging o'er the wood,And sounds of waters deaf the neighbourhood.Deep in a rocky cave he makes abode;A mansion proper for a mourning god.Here he gives audience; issuing out decreesTo rivers, his dependent deities.On this occasion hither they resort,To pay their homage, and to make their court;All doubtful, whether to congratulateHis daughter's honour, or lament her fate.Sperchæus, crowned with poplar, first appears;Then old Apidanus came, crowned with years;Enipeus turbulent, Amphrysos tame,And Æas, last, with lagging waters came.Then of his kindred brooks a numerous throngCondole his loss, and bring their urns along:Not one was wanting of the watery train,That filled his flood, or mingled with the main,But Inachus, who, in his cave alone,Wept not another's losses, but his own;For his dear Io, whether strayed, or dead,To him uncertain, doubtful tears he shed.He sought her through the world, but sought in vain;And no where finding, rather feared her slain.Her, just returning from her father's brook,Jove had beheld with a desiring look;And, oh, fair daughter of the flood, he said,Worthy alone of Jove's imperial bed,Happy whoever shall those charms possess!The king of gods, (nor is thy lover less,)Invites thee to yon cooler shades, to shunThe scorching rays of the meridian sun.Nor shalt thou tempt the dangers of the groveAlone without a guide; thy guide is Jove.No puny power, but he, whose high command }Is unconfined, who rules the seas and land,}And tempers thunder in his awful hand. }Oh fly not! – for she fled from his embraceO'er Lerna's pastures; he pursued the chace,Along the shades of the Lyrcæan plain.At length the god, who never asks in vain,Involved with vapours, imitating night, }Both air and earth; and then suppressed her flight, }And, mingling force with love, enjoyed the full delight.}Meantime the jealous Juno, from on high,Surveyed the fruitful fields of Arcady;And wondered that the mist should over-runThe face of day-light, and obscure the sun.No natural cause she found, from brooks or bogs,Or marshy lowlands, to produce the fogs:Then round the skies she sought for Jupiter,Her faithless husband; but no Jove was there.Suspecting now the worst, – Or I, she said,Am much mistaken, or am much betrayed.With fury she precipitates her flight, }Dispels the shadows of dissembled night, }And to the day restores his native light.}The almighty lecher, careful to preventThe consequence, foreseeing her descent,Transforms his mistress in a trice; and now,In Io's place, appears a lovely cow.So sleek her skin, so faultless was her make,Even Juno did unwilling pleasure takeTo see so fair a rival of her love;And what she was, and whence, enquired of Jove,Of what fair herd, and from what pedigree?The god, half-caught, was forced upon a lie,And said she sprung from earth. She took the word,And begged the beauteous heifer of her lord.What should he do? 'twas equal shame to Jove,Or to relinquish, or betray his love;Yet to refuse so slight a gift, would beBut more to increase his consort's jealousy.Thus fear, and love, by turns his heart assailed;And stronger love had sure at length prevailed,But some faint hope remained, his jealous queenHad not the mistress through the heifer seen.The cautious goddess, of her gift possest,Yet harboured anxious thoughts within her breast;As she, who knew the falsehood of her Jove,And justly feared some new relapse of love;Which to prevent, and to secure her care,To trusty Argus she commits the fair.The head of Argus (as with stars the skies,)Was compassed round, and wore an hundred eyes.But two by turns their lids in slumber steep;}The rest on duty still their station keep; }Nor could the total constellation sleep. }Thus, ever present to his eyes and mind,His charge was still before him, though behind.In fields he suffered her to feed by day;But, when the setting sun to night gave way,The captive cow he summoned with a call,And drove her back, and tied her to the stall.On leaves of trees and bitter herbs she fed,Heaven was her canopy, bare earth her bed,So hardly lodged; and, to digest her food,She drank from troubled streams, defiled with mud.Her woeful story fain she would have told,With hands upheld, but had no hands to hold.Her head to her ungentle keeper bowed,She strove to speak; she spoke not, but she lowed;Affrighted with the noise, she looked around,And seemed to inquire the author of the sound.Once on the banks where often she had played,(Her father's banks,) she came, and there surveyedHer altered visage, and her branching head;And starting from herself, she would have fled.Her fellow-nymphs, familiar to her eyes,Beheld, but knew her not in this disguise.Even Inachus himself was ignorant;And in his daughter, did his daughter want.She followed where her fellows went, as sheWere still a partner of the company:They stroke her neck; the gentle heifer stands,And her neck offers to their stroking hands.Her father gave her grass; the grass she took,}And licked his palms, and cast a piteous look,}And in the language of her eyes she spoke. }She would have told her name, and asked relief,But, wanting words, in tears she tells her grief;Which with her foot she makes him understand,And prints the name of Io in the sand.Ah wretched me! her mournful father cried;She, with a sigh, to "wretched me!" replied.About her milk-white neck his arms he threw,And wept, and then these tender words ensue.And art thou she, whom I have sought aroundThe world, and have at length so sadly found?So found, is worse than lost: with mutual wordsThou answerest not, no voice thy tongue affords;But sighs are deeply drawn from out thy breast,And speech, denied, by lowing is expressed.Unknowing, I prepared thy bridal bed;With empty hopes of happy issue fed.But now the husband of a herd must beThy mate, and bellowing sons thy progeny.Oh, were I mortal, death might bring relief!But now my godhead but extends my grief;Prolongs my woes, of which no end I see,And makes me curse my immortality. —More had he said, but fearful of her stay,The starry guardian drove his charge away,To some fresh pasture; on a hilly heightHe sat himself, and kept her still in sight.The Eyes of Argus transformed into a Peacock's TrainNow Jove no longer could her sufferings bear;But called in haste his airy messenger,The son of Maïa, with severe decreeTo kill the keeper, and to set her free.With all his harness soon the god was sped;His flying hat was fastened on his head;Wings on his heels were hung, and in his handHe holds the virtue of the snaky wand.The liquid air his moving pinions wound,And, in the moment, shoot him on the ground.Before he came in sight, the crafty godHis wings dismissed, but still retained his rod:That sleep-procuring wand wise Hermes took,But made it seem to sight a shepherd's hook.With this he did a herd of goats controul;Which by the way he met, and slyly stole.Clad like a country swain, he piped and sung;And, playing, drove his jolly troop along.With pleasure Argus the musician heeds;But wonders much at those new vocal reeds.And, – Whosoe'er thou art, my friend, said he, }Up hither drive thy goats, and play by me; }This hill has brouze for them, and shade for thee. }The god, who was with ease induced to climb,Began discourse to pass away the time;And still, betwixt, his tuneful pipe he plies,And watched his hour, to close the keeper's eyes.With much ado, he partly kept awake;Not suffering all his eyes repose to take;And asked the stranger, who did reeds invent,And whence began so rare an instrument.The Transformation of Syrinx into ReedsThen Hermes thus; – A nymph of late there was,Whose heavenly form her fellows did surpass;The pride and joy of fair Arcadia's plains,Beloved by deities, adored by swains;Syrinx her name, by Sylvans oft pursued,As oft she did the lustful gods delude:The rural and the woodland powers disdained;With Cynthia hunted, and her rites maintained;Like Phœbe clad, even Phœbe's self she seems,So tall, so straight, such well-proportioned limbs:The nicest eye did no distinction know, }But that the goddess bore a golden bow; }Distinguished thus, the sight she cheated too.}Descending from Lycæus, Pan admiresThe matchless nymph, and burns with new desires.A crown of pine upon his head he wore;And thus began her pity to implore.But ere he thus began, she took her flightSo swift, she was already out of sight;Nor stayed to hear the courtship of the god,But bent her course to Ladon's gentle flood;There by the river stopt, and, tired before,Relief from water-nymphs her prayers implore.Now while the lustful god, with speedy pace, }Just thought to strain her in a strict embrace, }He fills his arms with reeds, new rising on the place.}And while he sighs his ill success to find,The tender canes were shaken by the wind;And breathed a mournful air, unheard before,That, much surprising Pan, yet pleased him more.Admiring this new music, thou, he said,Who canst not be the partner of my bed,At least shall be the consort of my mind,And often, often, to my lips be joined.He formed the reeds, proportioned as they are; }Unequal in their length, and waxed with care, }They still retain the name of his ungrateful fair.}While Hermes piped, and sung, and told his tale,The keeper's winking eyes began to fail,And drowsy slumber on the lids to creep,Till all the watchman was at length asleep.Then soon the god his voice and song supprest,And with his powerful rod confirmed his rest;Without delay his crooked falchion drew,And at one fatal stroke the keeper slew.Down from the rock fell the dissevered head,Opening its eyes in death, and falling bled;And marked the passage with a crimson trail:Thus Argus lies in pieces, cold and pale;And all his hundred eyes, with all their light,Are closed at once, in one perpetual night.These Juno takes, that they no more may fail,And spreads them in her peacock's gaudy tail.Impatient to revenge her injured bed,She wreaks her anger on her rival's head;With furies frights her from her native home,And drives her gadding round the world to roam:Nor ceased her madness and her flight, beforeShe touched the limits of the Pharian shore.At length, arriving on the banks of Nile,Wearied with length of ways, and worn with toil,She laid her down; and leaning on her knees,Invoked the cause of all her miseries;And cast her languishing regards above,For help from heaven, and her ungrateful Jove.She sighed, she wept, she lowed; 'twas all she could;And with unkindness seemed to tax the god.Last, with an humble prayer, she begged repose,Or death at least to finish all her woes.Jove heard her vows, and with a flattering look,In her behalf to jealous Juno spoke.He cast his arms about her neck, and said;Dame, rest secure; no more thy nuptial bedThis nymph shall violate; by Styx I swear,And every oath that binds the Thunderer.The goddess was appeased; and at the wordWas Io to her former shape restored.The rugged hair began to fall away;The sweetness of her eyes did only stay,Though not so large; her crooked horns decrease;The wideness of her jaws and nostrils cease;Her hoofs to hands return, in little space;The five long taper fingers take their place;And nothing of the heifer now is seen,Beside the native whiteness of her skin.Erected on her feet, she walks again,And two the duty of the four sustain.She tries her tongue, her silence softly breaks,And fears her former lowings when she speaks:A goddess now through all the Egyptian state,And served by priests, who in white linen wait.Her son was Epaphus, at length believedThe son of Jove, and as a god received.With sacrifice adored, and public prayers,He common temples with his mother shares.Equal in years, and rival in renown }With Epaphus, the youthful Phaeton }Like honour claims, and boasts his sire the Sun. }His haughty looks, and his assuming air,The son of Isis could no longer bear;Thou tak'st thy mother's word too far, said he,And hast usurped thy boasted pedigree.Go, base pretender to a borrowed name!Thus taxed, he blushed with anger, and with shame;But shame repressed his rage: the daunted youthSoon seeks his mother, and enquires the truth.Mother, said he, this infamy was thrownBy Epaphus on you, and me your son.He spoke in public, told it to my face,Nor durst I vindicate the dire disgrace:Even I, the bold, the sensible of wrong,Restrained by shame, was forced to hold my tongue;To hear an open slander, is a curse;But not to find an answer, is a worse.If I am heaven-begot, assert your son }By some sure sign, and make my father known, }To right my honour, and redeem your own. }He said, and, saying, cast his arms aboutHer neck, and begged her to resolve the doubt.'Tis hard to judge if Climené were movedMore by his prayer, whom she so dearly loved,Or more with fury fired, to find her nameTraduced, and made the sport of common fame.She stretched her arms to heaven, and fixed her eyesOn that fair planet that adorns the skies;Now by those beams, said she, whose holy firesConsume my breast, and kindle my desires;By him who sees us both, and cheers our sight,By him, the public minister of light,I swear that Sun begot thee; if I lie,Let him his cheerful influence deny;Let him no more this perjured creature see,And shine on all the world but only me.If still you doubt your mother's innocence,His eastern mansion is not far from hence;With little pains you to his levee go,And from himself your parentage may know. —With joy the ambitious youth his mother heard,And, eager for the journey, soon prepared.He longs the world beneath him to survey,To guide the chariot, and to give the day.From Meroe's burning sands he bends his course,Nor less in India feels his father's force;His travel urging, till he came in sight,And saw the palace by the purple light.