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FAMILIAR POEM FROM NISA TO FULVIA OF THE VALE.
ARGUMENT.
NISA of the Sabine race, having been informed by Marl, a goatherd, that old Fulvia, who lived harmlessly by selling poultry, was a sybil, or witch, writes to the dame on a subject that seems to have interested her. Fearing, however, to reveal too much, she merely inquires if Fulvia can cure the mind, and artfully breaks off.
Fulvia, our Consul bids me thank thee: why
My thanks to thee are due, I know not.—Dawn
Had scarcely borrow'd from the wakeful sun
One hour of light, when hooting to our door
The camel-drivers came. Their crooked horns
They blew, to waken Tellus. Gentle sleep
Had on our lowly pillow laid his head;
His breath, sweet as the new-mown herbage, flew
In fragrant gales auspicious to the east.
Down his fair bosom drooped his golden hair
In heavy ringlets; these I softly mov'd,
To steal one parting kiss, ere the rude horn
Should from my wish abash me. Blest is he
Who drives no camels! Hapless lot! Ah! when
Will Ceres come, and bid the swain repose
Some minutes after sun-rise? The loud laugh
From men who tarried with their market ware,
Came high to shame him. He arose, unclasp'd
Our lattic'd casement, breath'd one soft adieu,
Descended, and renew'd his daily toil,
Befriended by my pray'r. I slept too long.
My duty, soon as Tellus went, had been
Fulfill'd, had I arose and took my reel.
My thanks to thee are due, I know not.—Dawn
Had scarcely borrow'd from the wakeful sun
One hour of light, when hooting to our door
The camel-drivers came. Their crooked horns
They blew, to waken Tellus. Gentle sleep
Had on our lowly pillow laid his head;
His breath, sweet as the new-mown herbage, flew
In fragrant gales auspicious to the east.
Down his fair bosom drooped his golden hair
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To steal one parting kiss, ere the rude horn
Should from my wish abash me. Blest is he
Who drives no camels! Hapless lot! Ah! when
Will Ceres come, and bid the swain repose
Some minutes after sun-rise? The loud laugh
From men who tarried with their market ware,
Came high to shame him. He arose, unclasp'd
Our lattic'd casement, breath'd one soft adieu,
Descended, and renew'd his daily toil,
Befriended by my pray'r. I slept too long.
My duty, soon as Tellus went, had been
Fulfill'd, had I arose and took my reel.
Fulvia, Old churlish Marl, who sometimes milks
His goats beside the Tarpeian mount, that night
When thunder shook the Capitol , and woods
In one sad murmur hail'd that scathing fire
Which Jove sends down to warn us, cried aloud,
His goats beside the Tarpeian mount, that night
When thunder shook the Capitol , and woods
In one sad murmur hail'd that scathing fire
Which Jove sends down to warn us, cried aloud,
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“Hey! Fulvia! midnight hag!” We marvell'd much.
The hind went on: “My cabin will come down,
Flat, smooth to the turf! She has already scath'd
My beechen bow'r. Ah me! what safer chance
Waits my she-goat, behind the fatal rock
Whence we plunge quick the guilty?—Yes, my kids,
Bad omen! both this morn mistook their dams.
My chickens, too, linger'd around their grain,
Nor did their bills rebound. All Fulvia's work!
Fulvia, sweet Nisa, mirks the blessed sun
With mists, that many swear rise from the sea.
Aye, aye! I know!—Nisa, I ween mischance
Will come to thee and me; yea, all who dwell
Within a stone's-throw of the beldam's cell.”
The hind went on: “My cabin will come down,
Flat, smooth to the turf! She has already scath'd
My beechen bow'r. Ah me! what safer chance
Waits my she-goat, behind the fatal rock
Whence we plunge quick the guilty?—Yes, my kids,
Bad omen! both this morn mistook their dams.
My chickens, too, linger'd around their grain,
Nor did their bills rebound. All Fulvia's work!
Fulvia, sweet Nisa, mirks the blessed sun
With mists, that many swear rise from the sea.
Aye, aye! I know!—Nisa, I ween mischance
Will come to thee and me; yea, all who dwell
Within a stone's-throw of the beldam's cell.”
We chided surly Marl for this. “Away!”
He cried—“Dolts feel no lack of wisdom. Now,
The hag is somewhere circling round her spell;
Pinching our trembling blades; or, on the turf,
Sprinkling her juice of aconite. Dark yews
She clips, o'er-hanging sacred dust; collects
Night-dew; draws mimic mandrakes from their sleep;
And dries the forehead of the early foal,
To strew against the north-wind, as it blows
Directly to my cabin. I ne'er met
That woman first at morn, when to the hills
I hied with my young kids, but foul mischance
Struck me or mine. Nisa, do thou beware,
Nor meet her; or, if meeting, ne'er offend.”
He cried—“Dolts feel no lack of wisdom. Now,
The hag is somewhere circling round her spell;
Pinching our trembling blades; or, on the turf,
Sprinkling her juice of aconite. Dark yews
She clips, o'er-hanging sacred dust; collects
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And dries the forehead of the early foal,
To strew against the north-wind, as it blows
Directly to my cabin. I ne'er met
That woman first at morn, when to the hills
I hied with my young kids, but foul mischance
Struck me or mine. Nisa, do thou beware,
Nor meet her; or, if meeting, ne'er offend.”
Art thou thus wise, dear Fulvia? Dar'st thou coop
The furies in a ring? unclose their lips
On the dread secrets of Tartarean realms?
What! teach the sun to woo the waves on high?
To shape centaurs, and gorgon-headed men,
Around the horizon, whilst the shepherd strains
Fancy to their wild measurement? I guess,
If Phœbus, at thy bidding, dress his skies
With exhalations in the evening hour,
Thou wilt, when I implore, arrest the moon;
When brazen in her belt she draws up woe
From the deep breast t'o'erwhelm the gentle thought,
And tremulate the wise and virtuous mind.
Should this dread pow'r be thine, if thou art grown
A fav'rite with the gods, O Fulvia, try
In mercy to compose the troubled soul
Of one brave Roman. . . . . . . . . .
The furies in a ring? unclose their lips
On the dread secrets of Tartarean realms?
What! teach the sun to woo the waves on high?
To shape centaurs, and gorgon-headed men,
Around the horizon, whilst the shepherd strains
Fancy to their wild measurement? I guess,
If Phœbus, at thy bidding, dress his skies
With exhalations in the evening hour,
Thou wilt, when I implore, arrest the moon;
When brazen in her belt she draws up woe
From the deep breast t'o'erwhelm the gentle thought,
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Should this dread pow'r be thine, if thou art grown
A fav'rite with the gods, O Fulvia, try
In mercy to compose the troubled soul
Of one brave Roman. . . . . . . . . .
Here I purpos'd much;
Yet have I not, in this epistle, penn'd
Great information.—Tellus is arriv'd
Weary and faint: his aged camel fell
Near the hill-side. He looks so pensive!—Well,
I am so apt to check myself—In haste
I wrote; am grown uncheerful. When
We pay our holy rites to Juno, come:
Thou shalt our priestess be; all who lack wealth
Should not lack piety. To Fulvia health.
Yet have I not, in this epistle, penn'd
Great information.—Tellus is arriv'd
Weary and faint: his aged camel fell
Near the hill-side. He looks so pensive!—Well,
I am so apt to check myself—In haste
I wrote; am grown uncheerful. When
We pay our holy rites to Juno, come:
Thou shalt our priestess be; all who lack wealth
Should not lack piety. To Fulvia health.
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