Poems (1717) | ||
A PARAPHRASE ON THE CXLVIIIth PSALM.
The World's transparent Canopy,
Break your long Silence, and let Mortals know
With what Contempt you look on Things below.
Who conquer wheresoe'er you are,
Let Ecchoing Anthems make his Praises known
On Earth, his Foot-stool, as in Heav'n his Throne.
Rules the bright Empire of the Day,
O praise his Name, without whose purer Light
Thou hadst been hid in an Abyss of Night.
By God's Command, your Influence;
Resign to him, as your Creator due,
That Veneration which Men pay to you.
From whom all Joy, all Beauty springs,
O praise th'Almighty Ruler of the Globe,
Who useth thee for his Empyreal Robe.
Whose Sacred Stamp all Nature bears,
Who did all Forms from the rude Chaos draw,
And whose Command is th'universal Law:
And you so far above our Eye,
Vast ever-moving Orbs, Exalt his Name,
Who gave its Being to your Glorious Frame:
Peoples the dark Retreats of Death,
Change your fierce Hissing into joyful Song,
And praise your Maker with your forked Tongue
That in the Seas vast Bosoms sleep,
At whose Command the foaming Billows roar
Yet know their Limits, Tremble and Adore.
And you who through the Concave blow,
Swift Executors of his holy Word,
Whirlwinds and Tempest, praise th'Almighty Lord.
Seem less than Mole-Hills do to you,
Remember how, when first Jehovah spoke,
All Heav'n was Fire, and Sinai hid in Smoak.
With Heav'nly Nectar yearly Crown'd;
And ye tall Cedars, celebrate his Praise,
That in his Temple Sacred Altars raise.
Whose only Care's to Love and Sing,
Fly thro' the World, and let your trembling Throat
Praise your Creator with the sweetest Note.
That on his Stores do daily feast:
And you tame Slaves of the laborious Plow,
Your weary Knees to your Creator bow.
Whose Pow'r hath here no Periods,
May all Attempts against your Crowns be vain;
But still remember by whose Pow'r you Reign.
Where Tagus and Euphrates spring,
And from the Danube's frosty Banks, to those
Where from an unknown Head great Nilus flows.
Praise him from whom your Pow'r derives:
Be True and Just, like him, and fear his Word,
As much as Malefactors do your Sword.
O praise him in your Youthful Prime:
Praise him fair Idols of our greedy Sense;
Exalt his Name, sweet Age of Innocence.
When Heav'n, and Earth, and all is past:
Nothing, Great God, is to be found in Thee,
But Unconceivable Eternity.
The God of Gods, the God of Grace;
Who will above the Stars your Empire raise,
And with his Glory recompence your Praise.
Virgil's Sixth Eclogue. SILENUS.
TRANSLATED.
The ARGUMENT.
Two young Shepherds, Chromis and Mnasylus, having been often promis'd a Song by Silenus, chance to catch him asleep in this Eclogue; where they bind him Hand and Foot, and then claim his Promise. Silenus finding they wou'd be put off no longer, begins his Song; in which he describes the Formation of the Universe, and the Original of Animals, according to the Epicurean Philosophy; and then runs through the most surprising Transformations which have happen'd in Nature since her Birth. This Eclogue was design'd as a Complement to Syro the Epicurean, who instructed Virgil and Varus in the Principles of that Philosophy. Silenus acts as Tutor, Chromis and Mnasylus as the two Pupils.
Nor blush'd to dwell among Sicilian Swains,
When my Thalia rais'd her bolder Voice,
And Kings and Battels were her lofty Choice,
Phœbus did kindly humbler Thoughts infuse,
And with this Whisper check th'aspiring Muse.
A Shepherd (Tityrus) his Flock should feed,
And chuse a Subject suited to his Reed.
Thus I (while each ambitious Pen prepares
To write thy Praises, Varus, and thy Wars)
My Past'ral Tribute in low Numbers pay,
And though I once presum'd, I only now obey.
Can look on this, and such a Trifle prize)
Thee only, Varus, our glad Swains shall sing,
And ev'ry Grove and ev'ry Eccho ring.
Phœbus delights in Varus Fav'rite Name,
And none who under that Protection came
Was ever ill receiv'd, or unsecure of Fame.
Young Chromis and Mnasylus chanc'd to stray
Where (sleeping in a Cave) Silenus lay,
Whose constant Cups fly fuming to his Brain,
And always boil in each extended Vein;
His trusty Flaggon, full of potent Juice,
Was hanging by, worn thin with Age and Use;
Drop'd from his Head, a wreath lay on the Ground;
In haste they seiz'd him, and in haste they bound;
With fruitless hope of his instructive Song:
But while with conscious fear they doubtful stood,
Ægle, the fairest Nais of the Flood,
With a Virmilion Dye his Temples stain'd.
Waking, he smil'd, and must I then be chain'd?
Loose me, he cry'd; 'twas boldly done, to find
And view a God, but 'tis too bold to bind.
The promis'd Verse no longer I'll delay,
(She shall be satisfy'd another way.)
The knotty Oaks their listning Branches bow'd,
And Savage Beasts, and Sylvan Gods did crowd;
How scatter'd Seeds of Sea, and Air, and Earth,
And empty Space, did fruitfully unite;
From whence th'innumerable Race of things,
By circular successive Order springs.
Was hardned, Woods and Rocks and Towns to bear;
How sinking Waters (the firm Land to drain)
Fill'd the capacious Deep, and form'd the Main,
While from above, adorn'd with radiant Light,
A new-born Sun surpriz'd the dazled Sight;
How Vapours turn'd to Clouds abscure the Sky,
And Clouds dissolv'd the thirsty Ground supply;
How the first Forest rais'd its shady Head,
Till when, few wandring Beasts on unknown Mountains fed.
Old Saturn reign'd with golden Plenty crown'd,
Rival'd the Sun with his own heav'nly Fire)
Now doom'd the Scythian Vultures endless Prey,
Severely pays for animating Clay.
He nam'd the Nymph (for who but Gods cou'd tell?)
Into whose Arms the lovely
Favourite of Hercules, who was drown'd in a Well, which made the Poets say that a Nymph had stole him away. I use the word resounds (in the present Tense) because Strabo (who lived at the same time as Virgil) seems to intimate, that the Prusians continued then their annual Rites to his Memory, repeating his Name with loud Cries.
Alcides wept in vain for Hylas lost,
Hylas in vain resounds through all the Coast.
Ah! wretched Queen! whence came that guilty Thought?
The
Daughters of Prætis King of Argus, who presum'd so much upon their Beauty, that they preferr'd it to Juno's, who in revenge struck them with such Madness that they thought themselves Cows. They were at last cured by Melampodes with Helebore, and for that reason, black Helebore is called Melampodion.
And imitated lowings fill'd the Skies,
(Though metamorphos'd in their wild Conceit)
Did never burn with such unnat'ral Heat.
Ah! wretched Queen! while you on Mountains stray,
He on soft Flow'rs his snowy Side does lay;
Surround, my Nymphs, she cries, surround the Grove;
Perhaps some Footsteps printed in the Clay,
Will to my Love direct your wandring way;
Perhaps, while thus in search of him I rome,
My happier Rivals have intic'd him home.
By those Hesperian Baits her Lover laid,
And the sad Sisters who to Trees were turn'd,
While with the World th'ambitious Brother burn'd.
All he describ'd was present to their Eyes,
And as he rais'd his Verse, the Poplars seem'd to rise.
Guide wand'ring
An excellent Poet and great Friend of Virgil, he was afterwards Prætor of Ægypt, and being accused of some Conspiracy, or rather called upon for some Monies, of which he could give no good account, he kill'd himself. It is the same Gallus you read of in the last Eclogue: And Suidas says, that Virgil means him by Aristæus, in the divine Conclusion of his Georgicks.
(Which place the God for solemn meetings chose)
With deep respect the learned Senate rose,
The Hero's welcome, and their thanks express'd:
This Harp of old to Hesiod did belong,
To this, the Muses Gift, join thy harmonious Song;
Charm'd by these Strings, Trees starting from the Ground,
Have follow'd with delight the pow'rful Sound.
Thus consecrated, thy Grynæan Grove
Shall have no Equal in Apollo's Love.
For Love perfidious, and by Love betray'd?
And her, who round with barking Monsters arm'd,
The wandring Greeks (ah frighted Men) alarm'd;
Whose only Hope on shatter'd Ships depends,
While fierce Sea-dogs devour the mangled Friends.
And dire Revenge of Philomela's Rape,
Where she had suffer'd by incestuous Force,
While loth to leave the Palace too well known,
Progne flies, hovering round, and thinks it still her own?
With Laurels crown'd had been Apollo's Theam,
Silenus sings; the neighbouring Rocks reply,
And send his Mystick Numbers through the Sky;
Till Night began to spread her gloomy Veil,
And call'd the counted Sheep from ev'ry Dale;
The weaker Light unwillingly declin'd,
And to prevailing Shades the murm'ring World resign'd.
My Aim being only to have Virgil understood by such who do not understand Latin, and cannot (probably) be acquainted with some Names and Passages of this Eclogue, I have directed them by Figures to the Postscript, where they will find the best account that I can give, of all that is out of the common Road.
A PROSPECT OF DEATH.
I.
Since We can dye but once, and after DeathOur State no Alteration knows;
But when we have resign'd our Breath,
Th'Immortal Spirit goes
To endless Joys, or everlasting Woes:
Wise is that Man, who labours to secure
That mighty, and important Stake;
And by all Methods strives to make
His Passage safe, and his Reception sure.
For certainly we must,
As we are Born, return to Dust:
'Tis the last Point of many lingring Years.
But whither then we go,
Whither, we fain wou'd know:
But Human Understanding cannot show.
This makes us Tremble, and creates
Strange Apprehensions in the Mind,
Fills it with restless Doubts, and wild Debates,
Concerning what, we, living, cannot find.
None know what Death is, but the Dead:
Therefore we all, by Nature, Dying dread,
As a strange, doubtful Way, we know not how to tread.
II.
When to the Margin of the Grave we come,And scarce have one black painful Hour to live,
No Hopes, no Prospect of a kind Reprieve,
To stop our speedy Passage to the Tomb,
How wondrous pitiful, how wondrous sad,
Where then is Refuge, where is Comfort to be had,
In the dark Minutes of the dreadful Night,
To cheer our drooping Souls for their amazing Flight?
Feeble, and languishing, in Bed we lye,
Despairing to recover, void of Rest,
Wishing for Death, and yet afraid to dye;
Terrours and Doubts distract our Breast,
With mighty Agonies, and mighty Pains, opprest.
III.
Our Face is moisten'd with a clammy Sweat:Faint and irregular the Pulses beat.
The Blood unactive grows,
And thickens as it flows:
Depriv'd of all its Vigour, all its Vital Heat.
Our dying Eyes rowl heavily about,
Their Lights just going out;
But Pity, useless Pity's all
Our Weeping Friends can give,
Or we receive:
Tho' their Desires are great, their Pow'rs are small.
The Tongue's unable to declare
The Pains, the Griefs, the Miseries we bear:
How insupportable our Torments are.
Musick no more delights our deafning Ears,
Restores our Joys, or dissipates our Fears.
But all is Melancholly, all is Sad,
In Robes of deepest Mourning clad.
For ev'ry Faculty, and ev'ry Sense
Partakes the Woe of this dire Exigence.
IV.
Then we are sensible, too late,'Tis no advantage to be rich, or great:
For all the fulsom Pride, and Pageantry of State
Riches, and Honours, then, are useless things,
Tasteless or bitter all,
And like the Book, which the Apostle eat,
To their ill-judging Pallate sweet:
But turn, at last, to Nauseousness, and Gall.
Nothing will then our drooping Spirits cheer,
But the Remembrance of good Actions past.
Virtue's a Joy that will for ever last,
And make pale Death less terrible appear;
Takes out his baneful Sting, and palliates our Fear.
In the dark Anti-Chamber of the Grave,
What wou'd we give, ev'n all we have,
All that our Care and Industry had gain'd,
All that our Fraud, our Policy, or Art obtain'd;
Cou'd we recall those fatal Hours again,
Which we consum'd in senseless Vanities,
Ambitious Follies, and Luxurious Ease;
For then they urge our Terrors, and increase our Pain.
V.
Our Friends, and Relatives stand weeping by,Dissolv'd in Tears to see us dye,
And plunge into the deep Abyss of wide Eternity.
In vain they mourn, in vain they grieve,
Their Sorrows cannot ours relieve.
They pity our deplorable Estate,
But what, alas, can Pity do
To soften the Decrees of Fate?
Besides, the Sentence is Irrevocable too.
All their Endeavours to preserve our Breath,
Tho' they do unsuccessful prove,
Shew us how much, how tenderly they Love;
But cannot cut off the Entail of Death.
Mournful they look, and croud about our Bed
One, with officious haste,
Brings us a Cordial we want Sense to taste;
Another softly raises up our Head,
See what Convulsions, what strong Agonies
Both Soul and Body undergo,
His Pains no Intermission know:
For ev'ry gasp of Air he draws returns in Sighs.
Each wou'd his kind assistance lend,
To serve his dear Relation, or his dearer Friend,
But still in vain with Destiny they all contend.
VI.
Our Father, pale with Grief and Watching grown,Takes our cold Hand in his, and cries adieu,
Adieu, my Child, now I must follow you;
Then Weeps, and gently lays it down.
Our Sons, who in their tender Years
Were Objects of our Cares, and of our Fears,
Come trembling to our Bed, and kneeling cry,
Bless us, O Father! now before you dye;
Bless us, and be you Bless'd to all Eternity.
Compassionate, and kind,
Cries, will you leave me here behind,
Without me fly to the blest Seats above?
Without me did I say? Ah, no!
Without thy Friend thou can'st not go;
For tho' thou leav'st me groveling here below,
My Soul with thee shall upward fly,
And bear thy Spirit Company
Thro' the bright Passage of the yielding Sky.
Ev'n Death that parts thee from thy self, shall be
Incapable to separate
(For 'tis not in the power of Fate)
My Friend, my best, my dearest Friend and me.
But since it must be so, Farewel,
For ever? No, for we shall meet again,
And live like Gods, tho' now we dye like Men,
In the eternal Regions where Just Spirits dwell.
VII.
The Soul, unable longer to maintainThe fruitless and unequal Strife,
Finding her weak Endeavours vain,
To keep the Counterscarp of Life;
By slow degrees retires more near the Heart,
And fortifies that little Fort,
With all the kind Artilleries of Art;
Botanick Legions Guarding ev'ry Port.
But Death, whose Arms no Mortal can repel,
A formal Siege disdains to lay;
Summons his fierce Battalions to the Fray,
And in a Minute Storms the feeble Cittadel,
Sometimes We may Capitulate, and he
Pretends to make a solid Peace,
But 'tis all Sham, all Artifice,
That we may Negligent and Careless be:
And we believe no Danger near,
But all is peaceable, and all is clear,
His Troops return some unsuspected way;
While in the soft Embrace of Sleep we lye,
The Secret Murderers Stab us, and we dye.
Since our First Parents Fall,
Inevitable Death descends on all,
A Portion none of Human Race can miss;
But that which makes it sweet, or bitter, is
The fears of Misery, or certain hope of Bliss:
For when th'Impenitent, and Wicked dye,
Loaded with Crimes and Infamy;
If any Sense at that sad Time remains,
They feel amazing Terrors, mighty Pains;
The Earnest of that vast stupendious Woe,
Which they to all Eternity must undergo;
Confin'd in Hell with everlasting Chains.
Like rav'nous Wolves to seize upon their Prey,
And hurry the departed Souls away
To the dark Receptacles of Despair;
Where they must dwell till that Tremendous Day,
When the loud Trumpet calls them to appear
Before a Judge most Terrible, and most Severe:
By whose just Sentence they must go
To Everlasting Pains, and Endless Woe;
Which always are Extream, and always will be so.
VIII.
But the Good Man, whose Soul is Pure,Unspotted, Regular, and Free
From all the ugly Stains of Lust, and Villany;
Of Mercy and of Pardon sure,
Looks thro' the Darkness of the gloomy Night,
And sees the Dawning of a glorious Day;
Sees Crouds of Angels ready to convey
To the surprizing Mansions of Immortal Light:
Then the Cœlestial Guards around him stand;
Nor suffer the black Demons of the Air
T'oppose his Passage to the promis'd Land;
Or terrifie his Thoughts with wild Despair;
But all is Calm within, and all without is Fair.
His Pray'rs, his Charity, his Virtues press
To plead for Mercy when he wants it most;
Not one of all the happy Number's lost:
And those bright Advocates ne'er want Success.
But when the Soul's releas'd from dull Mortality,
She passes up in Triumph thro' the Sky,
Where She's united to a glorious Throng
Of Angels, who, with a Cœlestial Song,
Congratulate her Conquest as She flies along.
IX.
If therefore all must quit the Stage,When, or how soon, we cannot know;
In the fresh blood of Youth, or wither'd Age:
We cannot take too sedulous a Care
In this Important, Grand Affair:
For as we dye, we must remain,
Hereafter all our Hopes are vain
To make our Peace with Heav'n, or to return again.
The Heathen, who no better understood,
Than what the Light of Nature taught, declar'd
No future Miseries cou'd be prepar'd
For the Sincere, the Merciful, the Good;
But if there was a State of Rest,
They shou'd with the same Happiness be blest,
As the Immortal Gods, if Gods there were, possess'd.
We have the Promise of Eternal Truth,
Those who live well, and pious Paths pursue,
To Man, and to their Maker true,
Let them expire in Age or Youth,
Their way to Everlasting Bliss:
But from a World of Misery and Care,
To Mansions of Eternal Ease repair:
Where Joy in full Perfection flows,
No Interruption, no Cessation knows;
But in a Mighty Circle round for ever goes.
ODE UPON SOLITUDE
I.
Hail, Sacred Solitude! from this calm Bay,I view the World's Tempestuous Sea,
And with wise Pride despise
All those senseless Vanities:
With Pity mov'd for others, cast away
On Rocks of Folly, and of Vice I see 'em lost:
Some the prevailing Malice of the Great,
Unhappy Men, or Adverse Fate,
Sunk deep into the Gulphs of an afflicted State.
But more, far more, a numberless prodigious Train,
Whilst Virtue courts'em, but alas in vain,
Fly from her kind embracing Arms,
Deaf to her fondest Call, blind to her greatest Charms,
And sunk in Pleasures, and in brutish Ease,
They in their Shipwreck'd State themselves obdurate please.
II.
Hail, Sacred Solitude, Soul of my Soul,It is by thee I truly live,
Thou dost a better Life and nobler Vigour give;
Dost each unruly Appetite controul:
Thy constant Quiet fills my peaceful Breast,
With unmix'd Joy, uninterrupted Rest.
This private Solitary Shade;
And, with fantastick Wounds by Beauty made,
The Joy has no Allay of Jealousy, Hope, and Fear,
The Solid Comforts of this happy Sphere;
Yet I exalted Love admire,
Friendship, abhorring sordid Gain,
And purify'd from Lust's dishonest Stain:
Nor is it for my Solitude unfit,
For I am with my Friend alone,
As if we were but one;
'Tis the polluted Love that multiplies,
But Friendship does two Souls in one comprise.
III.
Here in a full and constant Tide doth flowAll Blessings Man can hope to know;
Here in a deep Recess of Thought we find
Pleasures which entertain, and which exalt the Mind;
Which make us happy, as they make us wise:
Here may I always on this downy Grass,
Unknown, unseen, my easy Minutes pass:
'Till with a gentle Force Victorious Death
My Solitude invade,
And, stopping for a-while my Breath,
With Ease convey me to a better Shade.
THE Twenty Second ODE OF THE First Book of Horace.
Virtue, Dear Friend, needs no Defence,The surest Guard is Innocence:
None knew, 'till Guilt created Fear,
What Darts or poison'd Arrows were.
Integrity undaunted goes.
Through Libyan Sands or Scythian Snows,
Or where Hydaspes wealthy side
Pays Tribute to the Persian Pride.
For as (by am'rous Thoughts betray'd)
Careless in Sabin Woods I stray'd,
Met me unarm'd, yet, trembling, fled.
No Beast of more portentous Size
Militaris Daunia. Daunia is properly that Part of the Poüille which juts out into the Adriatick Sea, where is Sipontus and Mount Gargan, now call'd Mount St. Angelo: But all Poüille, from the Samnites even to Calabria, was also called Daunia, as is all Italy. Horace uses it here in the second Signification, and calls it Warlike, by reason it produces very good Soldiers.
In the Hercinian Forest lies;
In latis æsculetis. Poüille is much over-run with Wood, it is that which is named by the Greeks Daunia, from the Word Δαυλος, Δαυνος, which signifies Covert, Thick, Thicket, Hesych: Δαυλον δασσο, Daunia Terra is then properly γη δασ[]α, a Land of much under-woody Covert. Mr. Guget had written this Remarque on the Margin of his Horace, which the Learned Mr. Menage lent me.
None fiercer, in Numidia bred,
With Carthage were in Triumph led.
Set me in the remotest place,
Pone me pigris. He means, There is no Place so savage, nor so hideous, that the Thoughts of his Mistress wou'd not render agreeable to him, and where that Goddess, whose powerful Protection he has already experienc'd, could not send him Succour, and draw him out of all those Dangers which shou'd threaten his Life. 'Tis on this Account he is resolv'd always to love her, and this Love will be a certain Refuge for him in every Danger. In all the Books of Chivalry there is nothing more gallant.
Pigris campis. These four Verses admirably design the two Polar Zones, which are always environ'd by Ice and killing Frosts. Barren Grounds wonderfully express Countries condemned to a perpetual Sterility, and in a manner depriv'd of the Motion of Life.
That Neptune's frozen Arms embrace;
Where angry Jove did never spare
Quod latus mundi. Latus is a very proper Word, the two Zones being the two Sides of the World.
Malusque Jupiter urget. This Expression is extreamly fine and very Poetical. He looks upon those Plants as deform'd by Jupiter as a Mark of his Anger: Nothing cou'd better paint the Inclemency of a Climate: Jupiter, for the Air.
One Breath of kind and temp'rate Air.
Set me where on some pathless Plain
The swarthy Africans complain,
To see the Chariot of the Sun
Dulcè ridentem, dulcè loquentem. Horace has here join'd two the most considerable Alurements, the grace of making her laugh, and speak, agreeably. He has translated word for word this fine Passage of Sapho.
—Και πλασιον αδυ φωνουσας υπακουΚαι γελωσας ιμεεν.
Who hears you speak with so-much Pleasure,
And is charm'd whene'er you smile.
So near their scorching Country run.
The burning Zone, the frozen Isles,
Shall hear me sing of Cælia's Smiles:
All Cold but in her Breast I will despise,
And dare all Heat but that in Cælia's Eyes.
Horace writes to the same Aristius Fuscus, to whom he address'd the Tenth Epistle of the First Book. He was a Rhetorician, Grammarian and Poet. There is not any thing in this Ode by which one may make a Conjecture in what time it was made; but if this Lalage is the same with her in the Fifth Ode in the Second Book, of which I make no Doubt, it must have been written much later than the other. No one has hitherto given any Light to this Passage, let us see what Conjecture can be made of it.
Fuscus Aristius was in Love with Lalage: Horace, who was in a strict League of Friendship with him, and who also lov'd Lalage, but rather as the Friend of Aristius than as his Rival, writes him an Account of an Adventure that happen'd to him, in which Lalage had preserv'd him from an eminent Danger, upon the account of his having sung her Praises. He attributes his Safety to this Mistress, whom he looks upon as a Goddess coming to his Succour, in reward for those Sentiments, as respectful as passionate, which he had for her. This is the Reason he begins the Ode with describing his being innocent, and free from any vicious Intentions. This is making a great Compliment to Lalage, and at the same time confirming the Friendship of his Rival, by preventing his being jealous of him.
This Ode is so Polite and Gallant, as never to be sufficiently commended.
ON Mr. DRYDEN's RELIGIO LAICI.
Fly from the Scourges, and your Master know;
Let free, impartial Men from Dryden learn
Mysterious Secrets of a high Concern,
And weighty Truths, solid convincing Sense,
Explain'd by unaffected Eloquence.
What can you (Reverend Levi) here take ill?
Men still had Faults, and Men will have them still;
He that hath none, and lives as Angels do,
Must be an Angel; but what's that to you?
And dreads the Yoke of his imposing Seat,
Our Sects a more Tyrannick Pow'r assume,
And wou'd for Scorpions change the Rods of Rome;
That Church detain'd the Legacy Divine;
Fanaticks cast the Pearls of Heav'n to Swine:
What then have honest thinking Men to do,
But chuse a Mean between th'Usurping two?
Which for his Firmness does his Heat excuse;
Whatever Councils have approv'd his Creed,
The PREFACE sure was his own Act and Deed.
Our Church will have that Preface read (you'll say)
'Tis true, But so she will th'Apocrypha;
And such as can believe them freely may.
Whose darling Attribute is being good,
From the dark Womb of the rude Chaos bring
Such various Creatures, and make Man their King;
Yet leave his Fav'rite, Man, his chiefest Care,
More wretched than the vilest Insects are?
If helpless Millions must be doom'd a Prey
To Yelling Furies, and for ever burn
In that sad Place from whence is no Return,
For Unbelief in one they never knew,
Or for not doing what they cou'd not do!
The very Fiends know for what Crime they fell,
(And so do all their Followers that Rebell:)
If then, a blind, well-meaning Indian stray,
Shall the great Gulph be show'd him for the Way?
Or the fall'n Angels Rooms will be but ill supply'd.
(For He declares what He resolves to say)
Will Damn the Goats, for their Ill-natur'd Faults,
And save the Sheep, for Actions not for Thoughts,
Hath too much Mercy to send Men to Hell,
For humble Charity, and hoping well.
Whose Inhumanity profusely shown
In Damning Crowds of Souls, may Damn their own.
I'll err at least on the securer Side,
A Convert free from Malice and from Pride.
[Part of the Fifth SCENE of the Second ACT in Guarini's PASTOR FIDO.]
Ah happy Grove! dark and secure RetreatOf sacred Silence, Rest's Eternal Seat;
How well your cool and unfrequented Shade
Suits with the chaste Retirements of a Maid;
Oh! if kind Heav'n had been so much my Friend,
To make my Fate upon my Choice depend;
All my Ambition I wou'd here confine,
And only this Elizyum shou'd be mine:
Fond Men by Passion wilfully betray'd,
Adore those Idols which their Fancy made;
Purchasing Riches, with our Time and Care,
We lose our Freedom in a gilded Snare;
And having all, all to our selves refuse,
Opprest with Blessings which we fear to use.
Fame is at best but an inconstant Good,
Vain are the boasted Titles of our Blood;
And with our Youth our short-liv'd Beauty dies;
In vain our Fields and Flocks increase our Store,
If our Abundance makes us wish for more;
How happy is the harmless Country Maid,
Who rich by Nature scorns superfluous Aid!
Whose modest Cloaths no wanton Eyes invite,
But like her Soul preserves the Native White;
Whose little Store her well-taught Mind does please,
Nor pinch'd with Want, nor cloy'd with wanton Ease,
Who free from Storms, which on the great ones fall,
Makes but few Wishes, and enjoys them all;
No Care but Love can discompose her Breast,
Love, of all Cares the sweetest and the best;
While on sweet Grass her bleating Charge does lye,
Our happy Lover feeds upon her Eye;
Not one on whom or Gods or Men impose,
But one whom Love has for this Lover chose,
They speak their Passions in repeated Vows,
And whilst a Blush confesses how she burns,
His faithful Heart makes as sincere Returns;
Thus in the Arms of Love and Peace they lye,
And while they Live, their Flames can never dye.
A PROLOGUE Spoken to His Royal Highness the Duke of York, at Edinburgh.
The common Subjects of our Scribling Tribe;
But when true Virtues, with unclouded Light,
All Great, all Royal, shine divinely Bright,
Let England, Flanders, let all Europe speak,
Let France acknowledge that her shaken Throne
Was once supported, Sir, by you alone:
Banish'd from thence for an Usurper's Sake,
Yet trusted then with her last Desp'rate Stake:
When Wealthy Neighbours strove with us for Pow'r,
Let the Sea tell, how in their fatal Hour,
Swift as an Eagle, our Victorious Prince,
Great Britain's Genius, flew to her Defence;
His Name strook Fear, his Conduct won the Day,
He came, he saw, he seiz'd the struggling Prey,
And while the Heav'ns were Fire and th'Ocean Blood,
Confirm'd our Empire o'er the Conquer'd Flood.
Strong by the Sea's Protection, safe by His,
And humbly own a Debt too vast to pay:
Let Fame aloud to future Ages tell
None e'er Commanded, none Obey'd so well;
While this high Courage, this undaunted Mind,
So Loyal, so submissively Resign'd,
Proclaim that such a Hero never springs
But from the Uncorrupted Blood of Kings.
THE DREAM.
To the pale Tyrant, who to Horrid GravesCondemns so many thousand helpless Slaves,
Ungrateful we do gentle Sleep compare,
Who, tho' his Victories as num'rous are,
But woful Cares that load Men while they wake.
When his soft Charms had eas'd my weary Sight
Of all the baneful Troubles of the Light,
Dorinda came, divested of the Scorn
Which the unequall'd Maid so long had worn;
How oft, in vain, had Love's great God essay'd
To tame the stubborn Heart of that bright Maid?
Yet spight of all the Pride that swells her Mind,
The humble God of Sleep can make her kind.
A rising Blush increas'd the Native Store
Of Charms, that but too fatal were before.
Once more present the Vision to my View,
The sweet Illusion, gentle Fate, renew!
How kind, how lovely She, how ravish'd I!
Shew me, blest God of Sleep, and let me dye.
THE GHOST OF THE Old House of Commons, TO The New One, appointed to meet at Oxford.
From deepest Dungeons of Eternal Night,The Seats of Horror, Sorrow, Pains, and Spite,
I have been sent to tell you, tender Youth,
A seasonable and important Truth.
I feel (but, Oh! too late) that no Disease
Is like a Surfeit of Luxurious Ease:
And of all other, the most tempting Things
Are too much Wealth, and too indulgent Kings.
But by Degrees, with Industry and Skill:
And some, whose Meaning hath at first been fair,
Grow Knaves by Use, and Rebels by Despair.
My Time is past, and yours will soon begin,
Keep the first Blossoms from the Blast of Sin;
And by the Fate of my Tumultuous Ways,
Preserve your selves, and bring serener Days.
The busie, subtile Serpents of the Law,
Did first my Mind from true Obedience draw:
While I did Limits to the King prescribe,
And took for Oracles that Canting Tribe,
I chang'd true Freedom for the Name of Free,
And grew seditious for Variety:
All that oppos'd me were to be accus'd,
And by the Laws Illegally abus'd,
The Robe was summon'd, Maynard in the Head,
In Legal Murder none so deeply read;
Stain'd with the (yet unexpiated) Blood
Of the brave Strafford, when three Kingdoms rung
With his Accumulative Hackney-Tongue;
Pris'ners and Witnesses were waiting by,
These had been taught to swear, and those to dye,
And to expect their arbitrary Fates,
Some for ill Faces, some for good Estates.
To fright the People, and alarm the Town,
B--- and Oates employ'd the Reverend Gown.
But while the Triple Mitre bore the Blame,
The King's three Crowns were their rebellious Aim:
I seem'd (and did but seem) to fear the Guards,
And took for mine the Bethels and the Wards:
Anti-Monarchick Hereticks of State,
Immoral Atheists, Rich and Reprobate:
But above all I got a little Guide,
Who ev'ry Foard of Villany had try'd:
To ruin Subjects, and make Kings obey;
And my small Jehu, at a furious Rate,
Was driving Eighty, back to Forty Eight.
This the King knew, and was resolv'd to bear,
But I mistook his Patience for his Fear.
All that this happy Island cou'd afford,
Was sacrific'd to my Voluptuous Board.
In his whole Paradise, one only Tree
He had excepted by a strict Decree;
A Sacred Tree, which Royal Fruit did bear,
Yet it in Pieces I conspir'd to tear;
Beware, my Child! Divinity is there.
This so undid all I had done before,
I cou'd attempt, and he endure no more.
My unprepar'd, and unrepenting Breath
Was snatch'd away by the swift Hand of Death;
To th'Utter Darkness of the lower World:
A dreadful Place! which you too soon will see,
If you believe Seducers more than me.
ON THE DEATH OF A LADY's DOG.
Thou, happy Creature, art secureFrom all the Torments we endure:
Despair, Ambition, Jealousie,
Lost Friends, nor Love, disquiet thee;
A sullen Prudence drew thee hence
From Noise, Fraud, and Impertinence,
Gilding it self with Laura's Smile.
How didst thou scorn Life's meaner Charms,
Thou who cou'dst break from Laura's Arms!
Poor Cynick! still methinks I hear
Thy awful Murmurs in my Ear;
As when on Laura's Lap you lay,
Chiding the worthless Crowd away.
How fondly Human Passions turn!
What we then Envy'd, now we Mourn!
SONG.
[Winter, thy Cruelty extend]
'Till fatal Tempests swell the Sea,
In vain let sinking Pilots pray,
Beneath thy Yoke let Nature bend,
Thro' Woods and Fields Destruction sow!
While you these lesser Ills create,
These we can bear; but gentle Fate,
And thou blest Genius of our Isle,
From Winter's Rage defend her Voice,
At which the list'ning Gods rejoice.
With Extacy transport our Souls,
Whilst all our Passions it controuls,
And kindly drives our Cares away;
Let no ungentle Cold destroy,
All Taste we have of Heav'nly Joy.
THE PRAYER of JEREMY PARAPHRAS'D.
Prophetically representing the Passionate Grief of the Jewish People, for the Loss of their Town and Sanctuary.
I.
Stand, Sun of Justice! Sovereign God Most High!In Libra fix thy Bench of Equity,
And weigh our Case—
Look down on Earth, nay look as low again,
As we're inferior to the rest of Men;
We Wretched, once, like thy Archangels, Bright,
Are cast down headlong with diminish'd Light.
So Meteors fall, and as they downwards fly,
Leave a long Train of less'ning Light, and die.
II.
Then let that other smoother Face of thine,The Sun of Justice, take its Turn and shine.
If not alone, at least to mix Allays,
And streak thy Justice with alternate Rays,
To see and pity our Distress; for Oh!
As thou'rt exalted, our Condition's low.
III.
Houses, Estates, our Temple and our Town,Which God and Birthright long had made our own,
To barb'rous Nations now are fall'n a Prey,
And we from all we love, are torn away.
Thus, early Orphans, whilst our Fathers live,
We know no Comfort, they no Comfort give:
Our Mothers are but Widows under Chains
Of Wedlock, and of all their Nuptial Gains,
None of the Mother but the Pangs remains.
And fainting, wander for our needful Bread,
Where Wolves and Tygers round in Ambush lie,
And Hosts with naked Swords stand threatning by.
But keener Hunger, more a Beast of Prey,
More sharp than these, more ravenous than they,
Thro' Swords, and Wolves, and Tygers, breaks our bitter Way.
IV.
The Fowls, and Beasts, and ev'ry Sylvan Kind,Down to the meanest Insects, Heav'n design'd
To be the Slaves of Man, were always free
Of Waters, Woods, and common Air; but we,
We Slaves, and Beasts, and more than Insects vile,
That half-born wanton on the Banks of Nile,
Are glad to buy the Leavings they can spare
Of Waters, Woods, and the more common Air.
V.
With Loads of Chains our Foes pursue their Stroke,And lug our aking Necks beneath their Yoke:
But endless Drudging drags us on to Death.
Our Cries ascend, and like a Trumpet blow,
All Egypt and Assyria hear our Woe:
Here, Nights we labour, there, whole Days we sweat,
And barely earn the heartless Bread we eat.
VI.
Our old Fore-Fathers sinn'd, and are no more,They pawn'd their Children to defray their Score.
O happy they! by Death from Suffering freed,
But all our Fathers Scourges lash their Seed.
Vengeance, at which great Zion's Entrails shakes,
Shoots thro' the inmost of the Soul, and rakes,
Where Pride lurks deepest, there we feel our Pain,
Our Slaves are Masters, and our Menials reign.
Whilst we unrescu'd send our Cries around,
To seek Relief, but no Relief is found.
VII.
Look on our Cheeks, and in each Furrow trace,A Storm of Famine driving on our Face:
The scorching Tempest lets its Fury go,
And pours upon us, in a Burst of Woe.
The Signs of conscious Guilt our Brows impart,
Black as our Sin, and harden'd as our Heart.
VIII.
From Zion's Mount the humble Matrons cry,With mournful Eccho's, Juda's Maids reply,
Our Great ones fall, beneath their sweeping Hand,
E'en venerable Age cannot withstand
Their impious Scoffs; our Youth, in bloomy Prime
Compell'd, submit to their undecent Crime,
And Children whelm'd with Labour, fall before their Time.
Thus Prince and People, Infancy and Age,
Promiscuous Objects of an impious Rage,
With horrid Scenes of Universal Woe.
IX.
Old Men no more in Zion's Council sit,Nor Young in Consorts of her Musick meet;
Such foolish Change fond Profligates devise;
The Old turn Singers, and the Young advise;
Perverted Order to Confusion runs,
And all our dwindling Musick ends in Groans;
Zion, thy ancient Glories are decay'd,
Thy Lawrels wither, and thy Garlands fade;
Oh Sin! 'tis thou hast this Destruction made.
X.
'Tis Zion then, 'tis Zion we deplore,For her we grieve, for Zion is no more;
Our Eyes condole in Tears, and jointly smart
With all the Anguish of an aking Heart:
All Nations Envy, and the World's Delight,
Now grown a Desart, where the Foxes range,
And howling Wolves lament the dismal Change.
XI.
But thou, Unshaken God, shalt ever be!Thy Throne stands fast upon Eternity:
Then must we thus by Thee forsaken lie,
Or lost for ever, in Oblivion die.
Turn but to us, O Lord, we'll mend our Ways,
Oh! once restore the Joys of ancient Days;
Ev'n tho' we seem the Outcasts of thy Care,
Refuse of Death, and Gleanings of the War,
Resume the Father, and let Sinners know,
Thy Mercy's greater than thy People's Woe.
EPILOGUE TO Alexander the Great,
When acted at the Theatre in Dublin.
You've seen to Night the Glory of the East,The Man, who all the then known World possest,
That Kings in Chains did Son of Ammon call,
And Kingdoms thought Divine, by Treason fall.
Him Fortune only favour'd for her Sport,
And when his Conduct wanted her Support,
His Empire, Courage, and his boasted Line,
Were all prov'd Mortal by a Slave's Design.
Great Charles, whose Birth has promis'd milder Sway,
Whose awful Nod all Nations must obey,
Above the reach of Sacrilegious Hands;
Those Miracles that guard his Crowns, declare
That Heav'n has form'd a Monarch worth their Care;
Born to advance the Loyal, and depose
His own, his Brother's, and his Father's Foes.
Faction, that once made Diadems her Prey,
And stopt our Prince in his triumphant Way,
Fled like a Mist before this Radiant Day.
So when, in Heav'n, the mighty Rebels rose,
Proud, and resolv'd that Empire to depose,
Angels fought first, but unsuccessful prov'd,
God kept the Conquest for his best Belov'd:
At sight of such Omnipotence they fly,
Like Leaves before Autumnal Winds, and die.
All who before him did ascend the Throne
Labour'd to draw three restiff Nations on.
They hear his Voice, and streight obey the Rein.
Such Terror speaks him destin'd to command;
We worship Jove with Thunder in his Hand;
But when his Mercy without Pow'r appears,
We slight his Altars, and neglect our Pray'rs.
How weak in Arms did Civil Discord shew!
Like Saul she struck with Fury at her Foe,
When an Immortal Hand did ward the Blow.
Her Off-spring, made the Royal Hero's Scorn,
Like Sons of Earth, all fell as soon as born:
Yet let us boast, for sure it is our Pride,
When with their Blood our Neighbour Lands were dy'd,
Ireland's untainted Loyalty remain'd,
Her People guiltless, and her Fields unstain'd.
ON THE DAY of JUDGMENT.
I
The Day of Wrath, that Dreadful Day,Shall the whole World in Ashes lay,
As David and the Sibyls say.
II
What Horror will invade the Mind,When the strict Judge, who would be kind,
Shall have few Venial Faults to find?
III
The last loud Trumpet's wond'rous Sound,Shall through the rending Tombs rebound,
And wake the Nations under Ground.
IV
Nature and Death shall, with Surprize,Behold the pale Offender rise,
And view the Judge with conscious Eyes.
V
Then shall, with Universal Dread,The sacred Mystick Book be read,
To try the Living, and the Dead.
VI
The Judge ascends his Awful Throne,He makes each secret Sin be known,
And all with Shame confess their own.
VII
O then! What Interest shall I make,To save my last important Stake,
When the most Just have cause to quake.
VIII
Thou mighty, formidable King,Thou Mercy's unexhausted Spring,
Some comfortable Pity bring!
IX
Forget not what my Ransom cost,Nor let my Dear-bought Soul be lost,
In Storms of guilty Terror tost.
X
Thou who for me didst feel such Pain,Whose precious Blood the Cross did stain,
Let not those Agonies be vain.
XI
Thou whom avenging Pow'rs obey,Cancel my Debt (too great to pay)
Before the sad Accounting Day.
XII
Surrounded with Amazing Fears,Whose Load my Soul with Anguish bears,
I sigh, I weep: Accept my Tears.
XIII
Thou who wer't mov'd with Mary's Grief,And, by absolving of the Thief,
Hast giv'n me Hope, now give Relief.
XIV
Reject not my unworthy Pray'r,Preserve me from that dang'rous Snare
Which Death and Gaping Hell prepare.
XV
Give my exalted Soul a Place,Among thy chosen Right-Hand Race;
The Sons of God, and Heirs of Grace.
XVI
From that Insatiable Abyss,Where Flames devour, and Serpents hiss,
Promote me to thy Seat of Bliss.
XVII
Prostrate my Contrite Heart I rend,My God, my Father, and my Friend;
Do not forsake me in my End.
XVIII
Well may they curse their Second Breath,Who rise to a reviving Death.
Thou great Creator of Mankind,
Let Guilty Man Compassion find.
ROSS's GHOST.
Shame of my Life, Disturber of my Tomb,Base as thy Mother's prostituted Womb;
Huffing to Cowards, fawning to the Brave,
To Knaves a Fool, to cred'lous Fools a Knave,
The King's Betrayer, and the Peoples Slave.
Like Samuel, at thy Negromantick Call,
I rise, to tell thee, God has left thee, Saul.
I strove in vain th'Infected Blood to cure;
Streams will run muddy where the Spring's impure.
Old Taaf's invincible Sobriety.
Places of Master of the Horse, and Spy,
You (like Tom. Howard) did at once supply:
From Sidney's Blood your Loyalty did spring;
You show us all your Parents, but the King,
From whose too tender and too bounteous Arms,
(Unhappy he who such a Viper warms;
As dutiful a Subject, as a Son)
To your true Parent, the whole Town, you run.
Read, if you can, how th'old Apostate fell,
Out-do his Pride, and merit more than Hell:
Both he and you were glorious and bright
The first and fairest of the Sons of Light:
But when, like him, you offer'd at the Crown,
Like him, your angry Father kick'd you down.
THE SIXTH ODE, OF THE Third Book of Horace.
Of the Corruption of the Times.
Romans, are now become your own;
And they will cost you dear,
Ædesque labentes Deorum. The difference between the Ædes Sacra, and the Temple, was this; Ædes Sacra was properly a Sacred Edifice dedicated to some Deity, but without the Ceremony of the Augurs; a Temple was a certain space of Ground set apart by the Augurs, but not hallowed nor consecrated to any of the Gods, as the Rostra, Curia Pompeia, Curia Julia, Curia Hostilia. Hence it is no hard matter to conceive how one might be turn'd into the other; that is, how a Temple might be made an Ædes Sacra, and an Ædes Sacra a Temple: there were several at Rome, which were both the one and the other at the same time.
Unless you soon repair
Et fœda nigro simulacra sumo. This is a fine Passage. Horace, after he had spoke of the Temples being burnt, sets before the Eyes of the Romans the Statues of the Gods, all over black with the smoke of the Flames which had turn'd the Temples to Ashes. Here it is proper to mention what we find Book I. Ode XXXV. which was written a little after this:
------ Quid intactum nefastiLiquimus? unde manus juventus
Metu Deorum continuit? quibus
Pepercit aris? ------
Profane Wretches! what have we not defil'd? In what Instance has the Fear of the Gods restrain'd the sacrilegious Hands of our young Soldiers? Is there any one of the Altars which they have spar'd?
The falling Temples which the Gods provoke,
Diis te minorem quod geris imperas. Christians themselves could not have given better Instructions to Princes: You are no longer Kings than you own a God above you, and trust in his Power. This Horace writ not so much for the Roman People, as for Augustus; of whom, Book I. Ode XII. speaking to Jupiter, he says,
Te minor latum reget æquus orbem:He will ever own you to be above him; he will content himself with the Government of the World.
And Statues sully'd yet with Sacrilegious Smoke.
For humble, grateful Piety,
(As it rewarded their Respect)
Jam bis Monæses. Undoubtedly Horace speaks here of the two Victories which the Parthians got over the Romans, one under Monæses, and the other under Pacorus their Generals. He likewise imputes these Misfortunes of the Romans to the Contempt which they had shewn to Religion. It is probable that one of these Victories of the Parthians, was the Defeat of Crassus, who march'd against the Parthians, in defiance of all the unlucky Omens which happen'd both at Rome, and in the Camp, as Dion reports, Hist. Book XL. But the difficulty is to know whether Crassus was defeated by Monæses, who was a chief Man about King Orodes. Historians agree that it was Surena who routed Crassus. What is Surena? not a proper Name, but a Title of Dignity, and signifies, The King's Lieutenant: Now Monæses was the second Man of the Empire: And therefore it is probable that Surena was the Title of Monæses. This Passage of Horace is very considerable; for it is the only one of all Antiquity which gives us light in this famous Story. The Victory of Monæses over the Romans proved fatal to himself: For King Orodes growing jealous of his Glory, put him to Death soon after it. And therefore that Monæses, who put himself into Antony's Hands, seventeen Years after this Defeat of Crassus, and whom Antony sent back to Phraates, either because he suspected him, or because he hop'd he might do him good Service about the Prince, was the Son of the former.
Et Pacori manus. Pacorus was the eldest Son of Orodes, who sent him to ravage Syria presently upon the Defeat of Crassus: But he was then so Young, that he had only the Name of General, and Ozaces commanded the Army. He was sent thither again with Labienus two or three Years after, and did great Service; for he subdued all Syria, except Tyre, as Dion writes, Book XLVIII. He was defeated and slain three Years after by Ventidius, Antony's Lieutenant.
Hath sharply punish'd your Neglect;
Non auspicatos contudit impetus. He calls the Efforts of the Romans against the Parthians, non auspicatos, unauspicious, contrary to the Auspicia, because Crassus had enter'd upon this War with singular Contempt of those Divine Tokens. First of all, when he left Rome, the Tribune Ateius having opposed his Departure, and not being able to stop him, convey'd a Chaffing-dish to the City Gate, thro' which he was to pass; and as Crassus went out he cast some Perfumes upon the Fire, and then threw it about, with horrible Curses and Imprecations. This Crassus minded not, but went on his Way. In like manner he slighted all the unlucky Presages that befell him. And Lastly, when the Soothsayers let him know, that the Tokens in the Sacrifices were unfortunate, he took no notice of what they said.
All Empires on the Gods depend,
Begun by their command, at their command they End.
How twice by Jove's Revenge our Legions fell,
Delevit urbem Dacus & Æthiops. This is not to be understood of two several times, as though the Dacians and Ethiopians had like to have taken Rome one after another: Horace speaks here of the Forces of Antony and Cleopatra, who had a design on the City, as he says, Book I. Ode XXXVII.
------ Dum capitolioRegina dementes ruinas,
Funus & imperio parabat.
While the mad Queen threaten'd final Destruction to the Capitol and Empire. It must be noted that the Ethiopians and Dacians composed a great part of Antony's Troops.
Æthiops. The Troops of Cleopatra, Ethiopians and Egyptians; for Egypt was comprehended under the general Name of Ethiopia.
And with insulting Pride
Shining in Roman Spoils the Parthian Victors ride.
Fœcunda culpæ secula. The Corruption of Manners in Horace's Time cannot be better exprest than in this Epigram of Catullus:
Consule Pompeio primum duo, Cinna, solebantMœchi. Illi, ah! facto Consule nunc iterum
Manserunt duo, sed creverunt millia in unum
Singulum, fœcundum semen adulterio.
Cinna, in the first Consulate of Pompey, you could see but two Adulterers at Rome. In his second likewise you could find but these two. But since that, each of these has produced a thousand. O prolifick Adultery! By the two Adulterers Catullus means Cæsar and Mamurra. A little after this Ode was written, Augustus published the Julian Law, to prevent Adulteries.
Had almost ruin'd Rome,
While our Seditions took their part,
Hoc fonte derivata clades. It is very remarkable, that Horace here ascribes all the Calamities which had happen'd to Rome, and all the Civil Wars, to Adulteries only. In this he follows the Doctrine of Pythagoras, who taught, that nothing was of more mischievous Consequence than confounding Families, and grafting Aliens upon them by Adultery.
Fill'd each Ægyptian Sail, and wing'd each Scythian Dart.
Motus. As the Greeks use κινειθαι, to move ones self, for ορχειθαι, to dance, so the Latins use moveri and motus for the same. Thus Horace in another place;
Ut festis matrona moveri jussa Diebus.And again
------ ut quiNunc Satyrum, nunc agrestem Cyclopa movetur.
And Virgil, dant motus incompositos. Cicero has the same Phrase in his third Paradox: Histrio si paulo se movit extra numerum.
Ionicos. Ionian Dances were the most lascivious of any. For the World did not afford a more voluptuous People than the Ionians.
(Pregnant with unknown Crimes)
Matura virgo. That is, a Maid who is marriageable; for among the old Romans it was counted a Reproach for a Maid of that Age to dance; this Exercise being permitted to none but young Children.
Fingitur artubus. Fingere signifies the same as formare, componere, to fashion, to fit. It is a Term borrow'd from the Dancing-Schools. Horace says, that at that Age the Maid was still practising to make her Joynts supple, that she might succeed the better in her lascivious Movements. Lambin has read in some Manuscripts, fingitur artibus. If that be the true reading, Horace would say that the Maids learn'd all the Tricks, and practised all the inveigling Arts, which common Strumpets made use of in their Trade.
From which polluted Head
De tenero meditatur ungui. This is a Greek Proverb, εξ απαλων των ονυχων, de tenero ungui, de teneris unguiculis, from ones tender Age. Tully in an Epistle to Lentulus, says: Sed præsta te eum qui mihi à teneris, ut Græci dicunt, unguiculis es cognitus. Let me find you the same Man as I have always known you to be ever since you was a little Child. Observe here how Horace uses the Preposition de instead of à.
Infectious Streams of crowding Sins began,
And through the spurious breed and guilty Nation ran,
Bound Prentice to the wanton Trade;
Ionian Artists at a mighty price
Coram. Before all the Company. This word is opposed here to luminibus remotis. Suetonius uses it in speaking of Augustus, in the LXIXth Chapter of his Life.
Non sine conscio. This is opposed to raptim. Horace is not satisfied to describe the Debaucheries of Women only; but to strike more Horror, he adds, that their Husbands consented; which is the highest degree of Lewdness.
Instruct her in the Mysteries of Vice;
What Nets to spread, where subtile Baits to lay,
Seu navis Hispanæ magister. Magister navis sometimes signifies the chief Man in the Ship, or the Pilot: But here Horace puts it for the Owner of the Vessel, the trading Merchant. Now there was great Trade betweem Italy and Spain: the Spaniards furnish'd Rome with Wine, and carried back Goods from thence in exchange.
And with an early hand they form the temper'd Clay.
Dedecorum pretiosus emptor. The Word pretiosus here is a very ingenious, pertinent Epithet: for it signifies one who buys dear, who spares for nothing; much the same as damnosus. Horace handsomely describes the Avarice of the Women in his Time, who preferr'd Merchants and Ship-Masters for their Gallants, only because they paid better than others.
Non his juventus orta parentibus. Here he illustrates what he hinted at the 17th Verse, that frequent Adulteries had spoil'd good Families, so that one might see a great difference between the Romans of his Time, and their brave Ancestors, who vanquish'd Pyrrhus, the Carthaginians, and Antiochus by Sea and Land.
By practice of Adult'rous Loves,
And scorns the common mean design
Pyrrhumque. Phyrrhus was King of Epirus, and descended from Achilles. He routed the Consul Lævinus, near Heraclea; but soon after he was overthrown by Fabricius and Curius; and retiring into Greece, he was slain with a blow of a Tile, as he was besieging Antigonus in Argos, in the Year of Rome CCCCLXXX.
To take advantage of her Husband's Wine,
Or snatch, in some dark place,
Sed rusticorum mascula militum. The Roman Troops were composed of Rusticks, Countrymen, such as they raised for the most part in the Territory of the Marsians, in Apulia, and among the Samnites. Varoo has a fine Remark upon this, in the beginning of his Book of Husbandry. Viri magni nostri majores non sine causâ præponebant rusticos Romanos urbanis; ut ruri enim qui in villâ vivunt ignavlores quam qui in agro versantur in aliquo opere faciundo: Sic qui in oppido sederent, quam qui rura colerent, desidiores putabant. It is not without Reason that those great Men, our Ancestors, preferr'd the Romans in the Country before those in the City; for as in the Country itself, those whose Business lies within Doors are lazier than those who stir abroad and work in the Field; so they reckon'd that those who led a sedentary Life in the City, were not so fit for Service as those that follow'd Husbandry. The same Author has something fuller yet, in the beginning of his IIId Book. Itaque non sine causà majores nostri ex urbe in agris redigebant cives suos, quod & in pace à rusticis Romanis alebantur, & in bello ab his tutabantur. Our Forefathers were in the right, to send Citizens abroad and settle them in Country places; because the Romans in the Country furnish'd the City with Provisions in time of Peace, and defended it in War.
A hasty Illegitimate Embrace.
And bids her rise when Lovers call;
Severæ matris ad arbitrium. This is a good Description of a painful Mother who makes her Children work, and will not be pleased if they don't bring home good Loads of Fuel at Night. He has the same Thought again, Book V. Ode II. The Samnite Women were so industrious, that they managed the Farms for their Husbands, and left them Nothing to do. See Columella's Preface to his XIth Book, where he opposes the pains-taking Women of the first Times, to the fine, lazy, voluptuous Dames of his own Age.
Hither a Merchant from the Straits,
Grown wealthy by forbidden Freights,
Et juga demeret bobus. The Greeks have happily exprest this by one Word βουλυσις or βουλυτος, which Tully uses in his XXVIIth Epistle to Atticus, Book XV. Adventabat autem βουλυσ[] cœnantibus nobis. He came in the Evening as we were at Supper, about the time of unyoking the Oxen. See the IId Ode of the Vth Book.
Or City Cannibal, repairs,
Who feeds upon the flesh of Heirs,
Convenient Bruits, whose tributary Flame,
Pays the full price of Lust, and gilds the slighted Shame.
Ætas parentum. Here I admire the Poet's Art, who has said so much of four Generations in three short Verses. If it be true that he has imitated the Verses of Aratus, as Lambin and Muretus tell us, the Copy may be said to excel the Original.
Οιην χρυσεοι πατερες γενεην ελιποντοΧειροτερην, υμεις δε κακωτερα τεξειεθε.
As your Fathers left Children not so good as themselves, so you will leave those that are worse than you are. Muretus says farther, that both these Poets have borrow'd the Thought from Homer, who writes that few Children are like their Father; that he observed a great many to be worse, but rarely found one better. But it well deserves to be noted, that Horace grounded his Remark upon true History of the Times for the three first Generations, and that he prophesied truly of the fourth, as is easie to prove, by comparing the Reign of Tiberius with that of Augustus .
That dy'd with Punick Blood the Conquer'd Seas,
And quasht the stern æacides;
Made the proud Asian Monarch feel
How weak his Gold was against Europe's Steel,
Forc'd ev'n dire Hannibal to yield;
And won the long disputed world at Zama's fatal Field
Rough, hardy, season'd, manly, bold,
Or through hewn Woods their weighty Strokes did sound.
And after the declining Sun
Had chang'd the Shadows, and their Task was done,
Home with their weary Team they took their way,
And drown'd in friendly Bowls the labour of the Day.
Our Fathers have been worse than theirs;
And we than Ours; next Age will see
A Race more profligate than we
(With all the Pains we take) have skill enough to be.
Poems (1717) | ||