University of Virginia Library

EPODE XVII. Horace and Canidia.

HORACE.
At length to Witchcraft I submit,
And lie a Suppliant at your Feet:
By Great Diana's awful Pow'r,
And Proserpine, whom you adore;
By that mysterious Verse, whose Call
Makes Stars go out, and Planets fall,
O mighty Hag! thy Charms forbear;
Retract, and me thus prostrate spare.
Though Telephus had aim'd his Lance,
And bad his Mysian Troops advance
Against Achilles, young and brave,
Yet he the suppliant Prince forgave;
And at King Priam's just Request,
The Body of his Son releas'd:
Hector, in Battel on the Plain,
Far from the Trojan Ramparts slain;
Though doom'd to Birds and Beasts a Prey,
He sent the mangled Trunk away;
O'er which the Phrygian Matrons mourn,
And bear him to his pompous Urn.
Ulysses' Crew the Ocean rang'd,
And tho' to Brutal Monsters chang'd,
In time great Circe's Rage appeas'd,
Who soon her humble Slaves releas'd;
Dissolv'd the Charm, and at a Word,
Their Senses, Shape, and Speech restor'd.
Thou Darling of the Mob! relent,
With Toil and Torture I am spent;
My Youth and rosy Bloom are fled,
Whilst hoary Hairs disgrace my Head;
No Rest, no Ease I can obtain,
But pass my Days and Nights in Pain;
My Breath comes short, I heave and pant;
My Lungs their due Refreshment want.
At length the Pow'r of Charms I own,
And Feats by wond'rous Magick done;
How Hags their murd'rous Spells convey,
And where they hate, Torment and Slay.
What would you more? I feel the Flame,
And on the Gods, and Fates exclaim;
Ætna is not so hot as I,
Like Hercules, I burn, I fry;
When the invenom'd Shirt he wore,
Dipt in the Centaur's scalding Gore.
Me all your fiery Stores infest,
And into Ashes turn my Breast.
How shall I bribe you to assuage
Your Fury, or appease your Rage?
A hundred Bullocks from the Stall,
To expiate my Crime, shall fall:
I'll tune my Harp to monstrous Lyes,
And stick you in the highest Skies;
Proclaim, how chaste, how good you are,
And make you brighter than a Star.
The Bard, for Helen's sake struck blind,
The Gods by suppliant Pray'r inclin'd
To pity him, restore his Sight,
And draw the gloomy Veil of Night.
Do you, like them, relent, and cure
The raging Torments I endure;
Restore my Senses, gentle Dame!
No sordid Birth pollutes your Name;
You by no hellish Malice led,
Rake in the Ashes of the Dead:
Your Heart and Hands are free from Stains,
And when Lucina sends her Pains,
'Tis no Mock Cry the House Alarms;
A Real Product fills your Arms.

CANIDIA.
In vain my Pity you intreat,
Not Rocks, when Storms and Billows beat,
Less Mercy to the Sailor show
Toss'd by the Waves, than I to you,
Shall you unpunish'd make a Jest
Of Cupid's Rites and solemn Feast?
Expose me to the laughing Town,
And blast my Art in vile Lampoon?
Have I for this implor'd the Aid,
Of all the Hags that use the Trade?
And made the Philtre strong in vain,
Whilst you by Death can ease your Pain?
But that Request the Fates deny;
You'll live, to taste fresh Misery.
Prometheus to the Vultur chain'd,
And Tantalus in Styx detain'd,
Thirsting a midst the liquid Deep,
And Sisyphus, who climbs the Steep,
And rolls the Stone, all long for Rest,
Whilst Jove denies their just Request.
Thus you shall pine, and find no Ease
In Daggers, or a Precipice;
In vain shall knit the fatal Noose,
And that way seek your wish'd Repose:
Whilst Victory my Art shall crown,
And all the World my Charms shall own.
You saw with too too curious Eyes,
How I by Magick storm'd the Skies;
Call'd down the Moon, gave Life to Dust,
And made the moving Wax a Ghost;
Mixt Drugs and Herbs, provoking Love;
And shall my Art successless prove,
When try'd on you? Shall you disarm
My Skill, or I forget to charm?