 | Ovid's metamorphoses in fifteen books |  |
532
The Story of Hippolytus.
By Mr. Catcott.
Advanc'd in Years he dy'd; one common Date
His Reign concluded, and his Mortal State.
Their Tears Plebeians, and Patricians shed,
And pious Matrons wept their Monarch dead.
His mournful Wife, her Sorrows to bewail,
Withdrew from Rome, and sought th'Arician Vale.
Hid in thick Woods, she made incessant Moans,
Disturbing Cynthia's sacred Rites with Groans.
How oft the Nymphs, who rul'd the Wood and Lake,
Reprov'd her Tears, and Words of Comfort spake!
How oft (in vain) the Son of Theseus said,
Thy stormy Sorrows be with Patience laid;
Nor are thy Fortunes to be wept alone,
Weigh others Woes, and learn to bear thine own.
Be mine an Instance to asswage thy Grief:
Would mine were none!—yet mine may bring Relief.
His Reign concluded, and his Mortal State.
Their Tears Plebeians, and Patricians shed,
And pious Matrons wept their Monarch dead.
His mournful Wife, her Sorrows to bewail,
Withdrew from Rome, and sought th'Arician Vale.
Hid in thick Woods, she made incessant Moans,
Disturbing Cynthia's sacred Rites with Groans.
How oft the Nymphs, who rul'd the Wood and Lake,
Reprov'd her Tears, and Words of Comfort spake!
How oft (in vain) the Son of Theseus said,
Thy stormy Sorrows be with Patience laid;
Nor are thy Fortunes to be wept alone,
Weigh others Woes, and learn to bear thine own.
Be mine an Instance to asswage thy Grief:
Would mine were none!—yet mine may bring Relief.
You've heard, perhaps, in Conversation told,
What once befel Hippolytus of old;
To Death by Theseus' easie Faith betray'd,
And caught in Snares his wicked Step-dame laid.
The wondrous Tale your Credit scarce may claim,
Yet (strange to say) in me behold the same,
Whom lustful Phædra oft had press'd in vain,
With impious Joys, my Father's Bed to stain;
'Till seiz'd with Fear, or by Revenge inspir'd,
She charg'd on me the Crimes her self desir'd.
Expell'd by Theseus, from his Home I fled
With Heaps of Curses on my guiltless Head.
Forlorn, I sought Pitthëan Trœzen's Land,
And drove my Chariot o'er Corinthus' Strand;
When from the Surface of the level Main
A Billow rising, heav'd above the Plain;
Rolling, and gath'ring, 'till so high it swell'd,
A Mountain's Height th'enormous Mass excell'd;
Then bellowing, burst; when from the Summit cleav'd,
A horned Bull his ample Chest upheav'd.
His Mouth, and Nostrils, Storms of briny Rain,
Expiring, blew. Dread Horror seiz'd my Train.
I stood unmov'd. My Father's cruel Doom
Claim'd all my Soul, nor Fear could find a Room.
Amaz'd, awhile my trembling Coursers stood
With prick'd-up Ears, contemplating the Flood;
Then starting sudden, from the dreadful View,
At once, like Lightning, from the Seas they flew,
And o'er the craggy Rocks the rattling Chariot drew.
In vain to stop the hot-mouth'd Steeds I try'd,
And bending backward, all my Strength apply'd;
The frothy Foam in driving Flakes distains
The Bits, and Bridles, and bedews the Reins.
But tho', as yet untam'd they run, at length
Their heady Rage had tir'd beneath my Strength,
When in the Spokes, a Stump intangling, tore
The shatter'd Wheel, and from its Axle bore.
The Shock impetuous tost me from the Seat,
Caught in the Reins beneath my Horse's Feet.
My reeking Guts drag'd out alive, around
The jagged Stump, my trembling Nerves were wound,
Then stretch'd the well-knit Limbs, in Pieces hal'd,
Part stuck behind, and part the Chariot trail'd;
'Till, midst my cracking Joints, and breaking Bones,
I breath'd away my weary'd Soul in Groans.
No Part distinguish'd from the Rest was found,
But all my Parts an universal Wound.
What once befel Hippolytus of old;
To Death by Theseus' easie Faith betray'd,
And caught in Snares his wicked Step-dame laid.
The wondrous Tale your Credit scarce may claim,
Yet (strange to say) in me behold the same,
Whom lustful Phædra oft had press'd in vain,
With impious Joys, my Father's Bed to stain;
'Till seiz'd with Fear, or by Revenge inspir'd,
She charg'd on me the Crimes her self desir'd.
Expell'd by Theseus, from his Home I fled
With Heaps of Curses on my guiltless Head.
533
And drove my Chariot o'er Corinthus' Strand;
When from the Surface of the level Main
A Billow rising, heav'd above the Plain;
Rolling, and gath'ring, 'till so high it swell'd,
A Mountain's Height th'enormous Mass excell'd;
Then bellowing, burst; when from the Summit cleav'd,
A horned Bull his ample Chest upheav'd.
His Mouth, and Nostrils, Storms of briny Rain,
Expiring, blew. Dread Horror seiz'd my Train.
I stood unmov'd. My Father's cruel Doom
Claim'd all my Soul, nor Fear could find a Room.
Amaz'd, awhile my trembling Coursers stood
With prick'd-up Ears, contemplating the Flood;
Then starting sudden, from the dreadful View,
At once, like Lightning, from the Seas they flew,
And o'er the craggy Rocks the rattling Chariot drew.
In vain to stop the hot-mouth'd Steeds I try'd,
And bending backward, all my Strength apply'd;
The frothy Foam in driving Flakes distains
The Bits, and Bridles, and bedews the Reins.
But tho', as yet untam'd they run, at length
Their heady Rage had tir'd beneath my Strength,
When in the Spokes, a Stump intangling, tore
The shatter'd Wheel, and from its Axle bore.
The Shock impetuous tost me from the Seat,
Caught in the Reins beneath my Horse's Feet.
My reeking Guts drag'd out alive, around
The jagged Stump, my trembling Nerves were wound,
Then stretch'd the well-knit Limbs, in Pieces hal'd,
Part stuck behind, and part the Chariot trail'd;
534
I breath'd away my weary'd Soul in Groans.
No Part distinguish'd from the Rest was found,
But all my Parts an universal Wound.
Now say, self-tortur'd Nymph, can you compare
Our Griefs as equal, or in Justice dare?
I saw besides the darksome Realms of Woe,
And bath'd my Wounds in smoking Streams below.
There I had staid, nor second Life injoy'd,
But Pæan's Son his wondrous Art imploy'd.
To Light restor'd, by medicinal Skill,
In Spight of Fate, and rigid Pluto's Will,
Th'invidious Object to preserve from View,
A misty Cloud around me Cynthia threw;
And lest my Sight should stir my Foes to Rage,
She stamp'd my Visage with the Marks of Age.
My former Hue was chang'd, and for it shown
A Set of Features, and a Face unknown.
Awhile the Goddess stood in doubt, or Crete,
Or Delos' Isle, to chuse for my Retreat.
Delos, and Crete refus'd, this Wood she chose,
Bad me my former luckless Name depose,
Which kept alive the Mem'ry of my Woes;
Then said, Immortal Life be thine; and thou,
Hippolytus once call'd, be Virbius now.
Here then a God, but of th'inferior Race,
I serve my Goddess, and attend her Chace.
Our Griefs as equal, or in Justice dare?
I saw besides the darksome Realms of Woe,
And bath'd my Wounds in smoking Streams below.
There I had staid, nor second Life injoy'd,
But Pæan's Son his wondrous Art imploy'd.
To Light restor'd, by medicinal Skill,
In Spight of Fate, and rigid Pluto's Will,
Th'invidious Object to preserve from View,
A misty Cloud around me Cynthia threw;
And lest my Sight should stir my Foes to Rage,
She stamp'd my Visage with the Marks of Age.
My former Hue was chang'd, and for it shown
A Set of Features, and a Face unknown.
Awhile the Goddess stood in doubt, or Crete,
Or Delos' Isle, to chuse for my Retreat.
Delos, and Crete refus'd, this Wood she chose,
Bad me my former luckless Name depose,
Which kept alive the Mem'ry of my Woes;
Then said, Immortal Life be thine; and thou,
Hippolytus once call'd, be Virbius now.
Here then a God, but of th'inferior Race,
I serve my Goddess, and attend her Chace.
| Ovid's metamorphoses in fifteen books | |