The idylliums of Moschus and Bion Translated from the Greek. With annotations. To which is prefixed, An Account of their Lives; with some Remarks on their Works; and some Observations upon Pastoral. By Mr. Cooke |
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Idyllium IV.
MEGARA and ALCMENA, Mother and Wife of Hercules.
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 | The idylliums of Moschus and Bion |  |
44
Idyllium IV. MEGARA and ALCMENA, Mother and Wife of Hercules.
The Argument.
Hercules, once at Thebes, assisted Creon, Prince thereof, and drove away his Enemies, who unjustly imposed a Tribute upon him; for which Creon gave him Megara, his Daughter, to Wife, by whom Hercules had several Children; but being struck with Madness by Juno, he murdered them, imagining they were Enemies: He recovering his Senses, in Abhorrence to what he had done, abstained from all Company; but he could not be long concealed, for he was called away to a new Adventure; which, with the Thoughts of her Children, is the Cause of Megara's Complaint. There are two Parts in this Poem; the first contains Megara's Speech to Alcmena; the second Alcmena's Answer.
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Say, hapless Queen, from whence your Sorrows flow,
And what the fatal Cause of all this Woe?
Why sigh you thus, why thus persist to moan,
'Till from your Cheeks the blushing Ruby's gone?
Say if Alcides' Toils these Tears demand,
For what he suffers from a worthless Hand?
Too plain, alass! I see our Griefs are one;
I for a Husband mourn, you for a Son.
And can impartial Heav'n regardless see,
A Fawn command, a Lion to obey?
And what the fatal Cause of all this Woe?
Why sigh you thus, why thus persist to moan,
'Till from your Cheeks the blushing Ruby's gone?
Say if Alcides' Toils these Tears demand,
For what he suffers from a worthless Hand?
Too plain, alass! I see our Griefs are one;
I for a Husband mourn, you for a Son.
And can impartial Heav'n regardless see,
A Fawn command, a Lion to obey?
Why was I born, destin'd to such a Fate?
How could I thus ye Gods incur your Hate?
Are these the Joys the Nuptial Ties afford?
And such the Merits of my virtuous Lord?
Whose honour'd Name e'er since the bridal Night,
Has been, and is, to me, dear as the Light;
Of Strength, of Valour, he'as the greatest Share;
But both are equall'd with Excess of Care.
In an ill Hour Apollo gave the Bow,
Supply'd with Shafts by some dire Fiend below;
He made them all the Instruments of Death,
And them imploy'd against his Childrens Breath;
These Eyes beheld when the curs'd Bow he bent,
And Life he gave, to Erebus he sent;
Blood, Slaughter, Death, were all his Mind could move.
(Could one in Thought, or Dream, so cruel prove!)
Whilst oft' in vain the Babes invok'd my Aid,
Inevitable Fate hung o'er my Head;
Had I step'd in to save the Infants' Breath,
What had ensued but an immediate Death?
Just as the Dam sits brooding o'er her Young,
Spies the dread Foe, and dares not stay too long;
The cruel Serpent, with his speckled Breast,
Creeps up the Hedge, and gets into the Nest;
The pious Dam, quite void of all Relief,
By Squeeks, and Flutterings, sets forth her Grief;
(Life is a Sweet to all;) Should she go near,
By the dire Monster with her Young she'd share.
So, hapless I was for my Babes in pain,
Rav'd round the House, and mourn'd, but mourn'd in vain.
And could Diana thus survey my Grief,
Nor spare one Dart to give a Wretch Relief?
Oh! had I with my tender Infants went,
Down to the Shades, by a kind Arrow sent;
Then had our Friends the Fun'ral Pile compos'd,
And in one golden Urn our Bones inclos'd;
And bury'd in our Native Place the Dead;
To us as one these Obsequies they'd paid;
Now they're at Thebes, where gallant Steeds are bred;
And there Aonia's fertile Glebe they plow;
Whilst I'm at rigid Juno's Tirynth now,
Lab'ring with Woe beneath a grievous Mind,
Nor any Respite to my Sorrows find.
Oh! cruel Fate, that could so soon remove,
From my Embraces th'only Man I love:
Many his Labours are, by Land, and Sea;
And where commanded, there he's forc'd to be.
Well he's a Breast that can unshock'd withstand,
All Fate can send, or Juno can command;
But tender you like Water melt away;
Witness your Grief, Night, and revolving Day!
Unhappy I have no Relation near,
To ease my drooping Soul o'ercharg'd with Care;
At Ease in gilded Palaces they be,
Beyond the piny Isthmus, far from me.
To comfort me, oppress'd with Woe, there's none;
Pyrrha excepted, she's the only one,
Loaded with Grief for Iphiclus your Son.
Certain no one that felt the teeming Throws,
Children produc'd, and born to Pains like those;
Both to a God, and to a mortal Man.
How could I thus ye Gods incur your Hate?
Are these the Joys the Nuptial Ties afford?
And such the Merits of my virtuous Lord?
Whose honour'd Name e'er since the bridal Night,
Has been, and is, to me, dear as the Light;
Of Strength, of Valour, he'as the greatest Share;
But both are equall'd with Excess of Care.
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Supply'd with Shafts by some dire Fiend below;
He made them all the Instruments of Death,
And them imploy'd against his Childrens Breath;
These Eyes beheld when the curs'd Bow he bent,
And Life he gave, to Erebus he sent;
Blood, Slaughter, Death, were all his Mind could move.
(Could one in Thought, or Dream, so cruel prove!)
Whilst oft' in vain the Babes invok'd my Aid,
Inevitable Fate hung o'er my Head;
Had I step'd in to save the Infants' Breath,
What had ensued but an immediate Death?
Just as the Dam sits brooding o'er her Young,
Spies the dread Foe, and dares not stay too long;
The cruel Serpent, with his speckled Breast,
Creeps up the Hedge, and gets into the Nest;
The pious Dam, quite void of all Relief,
By Squeeks, and Flutterings, sets forth her Grief;
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By the dire Monster with her Young she'd share.
So, hapless I was for my Babes in pain,
Rav'd round the House, and mourn'd, but mourn'd in vain.
And could Diana thus survey my Grief,
Nor spare one Dart to give a Wretch Relief?
Oh! had I with my tender Infants went,
Down to the Shades, by a kind Arrow sent;
Then had our Friends the Fun'ral Pile compos'd,
And in one golden Urn our Bones inclos'd;
And bury'd in our Native Place the Dead;
To us as one these Obsequies they'd paid;
Now they're at Thebes, where gallant Steeds are bred;
And there Aonia's fertile Glebe they plow;
Whilst I'm at rigid Juno's Tirynth now,
Lab'ring with Woe beneath a grievous Mind,
Nor any Respite to my Sorrows find.
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From my Embraces th'only Man I love:
Many his Labours are, by Land, and Sea;
And where commanded, there he's forc'd to be.
Well he's a Breast that can unshock'd withstand,
All Fate can send, or Juno can command;
But tender you like Water melt away;
Witness your Grief, Night, and revolving Day!
Unhappy I have no Relation near,
To ease my drooping Soul o'ercharg'd with Care;
At Ease in gilded Palaces they be,
Beyond the piny Isthmus, far from me.
To comfort me, oppress'd with Woe, there's none;
Pyrrha excepted, she's the only one,
Loaded with Grief for Iphiclus your Son.
Certain no one that felt the teeming Throws,
Children produc'd, and born to Pains like those;
Both to a God, and to a mortal Man.
She spoke, and down the pearly Currents ran,
Soon as her Babes, and Friends, afflict her Soul,
The Chrystal Tears down her fair Bosom rowl.
Alcmena, sighing from her anxious Breast,
In prudent Accents thus her Griefs express'd.
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The Chrystal Tears down her fair Bosom rowl.
Alcmena, sighing from her anxious Breast,
In prudent Accents thus her Griefs express'd.
Princess, unhappy in your Childrens' Fate,
Why will you these unwelcome Tales relate?
Why thus pursue the mournful Theme of Woe?
Of which, too much, we both already know.
E'en Time itself can't wear our Griefs away,
Afresh they rise with ev'ry new-born Day.
Who can without Regret our Sorrows show,
Relentless he must take Delight in Woe.
Suspend your Grief, your drooping Spirits free;
Not this we suffer by great Jove's Decree.
Thy swelling Bosom heaves with Pains I know;
And Justice bids me sympathize with you.
Dread Proserpine, and Ceres, Witness be
(Both great Avengers of our Perjury,)
Of the indulgent Love I bear to thee!
Can you upbraid me with neglected Care,
Whilst I more griev'd than Niobe appear?
Now for a Son, involv'd in Woes, I moan,
Who's in Pursuit of fresh Atchievements gone;
Who, after a long ten Months Labour bore,
Had almost sent me to the Stygian Shore;
Thro' such dire Throws and horrid Pangs I ran,
Certain Presages of the future Man!
Who wand'ring now, far from his Native Shore,
Is gone, perhaps I ne'er shall see him more.
As sooth'd I lately lay in balmy Rest,
This dreadful Vision seiz'd my fearful Breast.
Why will you these unwelcome Tales relate?
Why thus pursue the mournful Theme of Woe?
Of which, too much, we both already know.
E'en Time itself can't wear our Griefs away,
Afresh they rise with ev'ry new-born Day.
Who can without Regret our Sorrows show,
Relentless he must take Delight in Woe.
Suspend your Grief, your drooping Spirits free;
Not this we suffer by great Jove's Decree.
Thy swelling Bosom heaves with Pains I know;
And Justice bids me sympathize with you.
Dread Proserpine, and Ceres, Witness be
(Both great Avengers of our Perjury,)
Of the indulgent Love I bear to thee!
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Whilst I more griev'd than Niobe appear?
Now for a Son, involv'd in Woes, I moan,
Who's in Pursuit of fresh Atchievements gone;
Who, after a long ten Months Labour bore,
Had almost sent me to the Stygian Shore;
Thro' such dire Throws and horrid Pangs I ran,
Certain Presages of the future Man!
Who wand'ring now, far from his Native Shore,
Is gone, perhaps I ne'er shall see him more.
As sooth'd I lately lay in balmy Rest,
This dreadful Vision seiz'd my fearful Breast.
On one Side of a Field my Eyes survey'd
My Son Alcides, with a pond'rous Spade;
Just like a Peasant on a Farmer's Ground,
To guard the Vines from Harm he rais'd a Mound;
Just as he'd done, and had the Fences made,
He in a Furrow fix'd his pond'rous Spade.
As he prepar'd to put his Garments on,
A raging Flame out of the Bushes shone:
As swiftly from the threat'ning Fire he fled,
The gloomy Pillows rowl'd around his Head;
His Spade's his Shield, and as he backward goes,
His Spade he shakes, and does the Flames oppose.
Methought the valiant Iphiclus I 'spy'd,
Hastily running to his Brother's Side;
But e'er to his Assistance he'd arriv'd,
On th'Earth he sunk, like one of Youth depriv'd;
And there must lie, like one with Age decay'd,
Unless his hoary Hairs procure him Aid.
As he to help the great Alcides run,
So fell the warlike Iphiclus, my Son.
My Son Alcides, with a pond'rous Spade;
Just like a Peasant on a Farmer's Ground,
To guard the Vines from Harm he rais'd a Mound;
Just as he'd done, and had the Fences made,
He in a Furrow fix'd his pond'rous Spade.
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A raging Flame out of the Bushes shone:
As swiftly from the threat'ning Fire he fled,
The gloomy Pillows rowl'd around his Head;
His Spade's his Shield, and as he backward goes,
His Spade he shakes, and does the Flames oppose.
Methought the valiant Iphiclus I 'spy'd,
Hastily running to his Brother's Side;
But e'er to his Assistance he'd arriv'd,
On th'Earth he sunk, like one of Youth depriv'd;
And there must lie, like one with Age decay'd,
Unless his hoary Hairs procure him Aid.
As he to help the great Alcides run,
So fell the warlike Iphiclus, my Son.
To see my Sons void of Assistance laid,
I wept, till from my Eyes soft Slumber fled;
Then soon the Eastern Morn began to rise,
And with her Saff'ron Rays to gild the Skies.
Such dreadful Visions have perplex'd my Mind;
But may Eurystheus all the Dangers find.
May my prophetick Soul the Truth foretel,
And may not Fortune contradict my Will.
I wept, till from my Eyes soft Slumber fled;
Then soon the Eastern Morn began to rise,
And with her Saff'ron Rays to gild the Skies.
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But may Eurystheus all the Dangers find.
May my prophetick Soul the Truth foretel,
And may not Fortune contradict my Will.
| The idylliums of Moschus and Bion | |