The idylliums of Moschus and Bion :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Cooke, Thomas (1703-1756)

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MOSCHUS.

THE IDYLLIUMS OF BION.

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Quicunque ille fuit Puerum qui pinxit Amorem,
Nonne p{ic}tas miras hunc habuisse manus?
Prop.

To the Honourable WILLIAM YONGE, Esq; One of the Lords Commissioners of His Majesty's Treasury.

MOSCHUS.

Idyllium I. The Fugitive Love.

A wanton Cupid once from Venus run,
The Goddess miss'd him, and she thus begun:

If any One a wand'ring Love should see,
He's mine, the little Urchin stray'd from me.

A sweet Reward will bounteous Venus give,
The Swain that shall restore her Fugitive:
A Kiss; nay, not alone a single Kiss,
She'll pay the Tydings with a greater Bliss.
So many Marks the Wanton will betray,
From Twenty, you may take the Right away.
Not white his Body, thro' the whole is spread,
Something resembling Fire, a glowing Red.
Flames, cruel Flames, from both his Eyeballs dart;
Fair are his Words, deceitful is his Heart!
With nought but Lies his flatt'ring Lips are hung;
Sweet honey Words flow from his soothing Tongue.
He in his Rage severe would all destroy,
Such the Resentment of the 'vengeful Boy!
Curl'd are his Locks, White as the falling Snow;
Nothing but Frowns sit on his angry Brow.
Small are his Hands; but far can throw a Dart;
He sometimes strikes th'infernal Monarch's Heart.
His Body's always naked to the Wind,
But close he keeps the Secrets of his Mind.

Swift as a Bird he flies, now here, now there,
And Man he wounds, nor spares the charming Fair.
A little Bow, and Arrow's in his Hand;
Tho' small, the Gods cannot their Force withstand.
A Quiver full of bitter Shafts he bears,
With which to wound his Mother oft' he dares:
They're cruel all, with greater Heat they burn,
Than the hot Rays of the Meridian Sun:
His little Torches Phœbus self annoy,
E'en Phœbus self is subject to the Boy.
Take him, and pity not his Tears that fall;
Or if he smiles, let not his Smiles prevail;
But bind him, bring him, they're deceitful all:
Or if he'd kiss, from his Embraces turn;
His Lips are Poyson, the Infection shun.
If he his Arms present, 'tis not for Love;
Refuse, they're ting'd with Fire, they will fallacious prove.

Idyllium II. EUROPA.

The Argument.

Europa, Daughter of Agenor, King of Phænicia, being surprized by a Vision, calls for her Maids of Honour to accompany her to the Meads, to gather Flowers, and divert her after the portentous Dream. Whilst Europa and the Ladies are in the Meadow, Jupiter in the Shape of a Bull entices them to come and sport with him: Europa, taken with his Form and gentle Ways, gets upon his Back; he immediately arises, and plunges into the Sea. She, far from Land, invokes Neptune, and speaks to the Bull as if something suspicious of his Divinity; he, to pacify her, discovers himself; afterwards arriving at Crete, he resumed his proper Deity, and enjoyed her.

More than half gone the Night, and Morn drew nigh,
When Sleep in downy Chains had bound each Eye;
When weary'd Mortals lay in pleasing Rest,
With various Visions hov'ring o'er their Breast;
In her Apartment was Europa laid;
A Virgin then; no more to sleep a Maid!
As she in soft Repose the Minutes spent,
This Vision Venus to the Damsel sent.

Two Continents at Variance seem'd to stand;
Asia, and that oppos'd to Asia's Land;
The Form of Matrons serv'd for their Disguise,
One known, and one a Stranger to her Eyes:
Both claim the Fair; That says she brought her forth,
And pleads, she gave her Breeding, and her Birth.
Th'other, by Force of Arms, the Virgin drew,
And she as willing to the Matron flew;
But yet (when she Europa took,) she said,
By Fate, and Jove's Decree, I take the Maid.

The Fair awakes, out of her Bed she starts;
Her Bosom throbs, Fears seize her vital Parts.
Not with her Sleep the boding Vision flies;
The Women still are present to her Eyes.
Silent awhile she sat; at last says she;

Tell me ye Gods what can this Vision be?
What means this Dream, and from what Deity?
What Phantom thus molests my tender Breast?
And rouses thus my Soul from balmy Rest?
What Matron whom I saw, to me unknown?
I feel a Passion for the Love she's shown;
How tenderly she us'd me, as her own!
Ye Pow'rs above, great Jove, and Destiny,
Grant the Event of this, propitious be!

So spoke; the Fair arose, and went to find
Her best Companions, dearest to her Mind;

Those whom she takes, when with her Virgin Train
She leads a Dance along the verdant Plain;
Or when, compell'd by Heat of Mid-day Beams,
Her Limbs she bathes within Anaurus' Streams;
Or when into the Meads, with a Desire,
She goes, to rob them of their gay Attire.
Again they meet, across their Arms they bear
A Basket; then unto those Meads repair,
Where always met, the now assembled Fair;
Charm'd with the fragrant Odours of the Plain,
Delighting too to hear the murm'ring Main.

Europa's Basket was of purest Gold,
The Work of Vulcan, glorious to behold!
On Libya was the Gift bestow'd, when she
To Neptune yielded her Virginity:
From her the Present, by Succession, came,
To beauteous Telepha; a lovely Dame;
Next it descended to Europa's Care;
Virgin Europa, lovely, young, and fair!

Such was the Work, such the resplendent Art,
The Present spoke the God in ev'ry Part!
There Inachus his Io stood in Gold;
A Woman lowing in a Heifer's Mold;
Forc'd to the Main by Scourges of the Bee;
Work of a cærule Colour was the Sea.
Upon the Shore two Men as wond'ring stood,
To see a Heifer scud a long the Flood;
And Jove was there; Jove strok'd the Marine Cow,
And seem'd to grieve to think her Fate was so;
Her in Compassion to the Nile he drove,
And made her what she was before his Love.
Of Gold was Jove; of Brass his much lov'd Cow,
The Streams of Nile in Silver Currents flow.
Under the Lid, by Hermes, Argus lyes;
(He once so watchful with his Hundred Eyes)
There see the Peacock from his Blood arise;
With painted Pride he spreads his colour'd Tail,
Like the the swell'd Canvass by a kindly Gale;

With it he spreads the Golden Cover o'er.
Such was the Basket fair Europa bore.

When to the Meads design'd the Virgins come,
Some pick the Daffadil, the Primrose some.
The wanton Damsels, in a sportive Fit,
Trip it along to see who first shall get,
In harmless Play, yon' pretty Violet.
But Chief of all the Virgin Train, is seen,
Beauteous Europa, in the midst, a Queen;
With her fair Hand she crops the blushing Rose;
And here like Venus with the Graces shows.
Your Sport enjoy fair Maid, not long to be
An unpolluted Maid, for Jove's too nigh.
Great Jove no sooner saw, but was undone;
Shot is the Dart, and thro' his Breast it run.
Such the resistless Pow'r of mighty Love!
'Tis he, and only he, can conquer Jove.
Jove must contrive, when jealous Juno pries;
He thus the Rape conceals from Juno's Eyes.

He's now a Beast, (such is the Pow'r of Love!)
He's now a Bull, e'erwhile no less than Jove.
Of all that ever felt the Plowman's Goar,
Or graz'd the Meads, or pond'rous Burthens bore,
None like this jovial Bull was seen before.
Just in the Middle of his Forehead grew,
A Circle whiter than the falling Snow;
His other Parts were of a yellowish Hue.
His bright, his amourous spark'ling Eyes, were grey;
A Thousand little Loves there seem'd to play.
His Horns were equal, like the Silver Moon;
Her Horns encreas'd, when half her Race is run.
Ent'ring the Plains, the Virgins at the Sight
Receiv'd him as an Object of Delight.
They by Degrees (mov'd by some inward Love,)
Approach'd the Bull, and strok'd the lovely Jove;
Whose odoriferous Breath the Sweets excel,
The Meads can yield with all their fragrant Smell.

He just before the fair Europa goes,
Kisses her Neck, the spotless Virgin woes;
Fain would he speak, but then he gent'ly moes.
Whene'er he low'd, you'd say th'Arcadian Swain
Was playing on his Pipe some tender Strain.
She strok'd him, kiss'd him, gently from his Mouth,
She with her lilly Hand wip'd off the Froth.
Upon his Knees he fell before the Maid;
His Back she view'd, and to her Virgins said;

Come nearer, dear Companions, and behold,
Broad is his Back, and ev'ry one 'twill hold;
Kind is his Aspect, gentle are his Ways,
Quite different from other Bulls that graze;
Observe his Gestures, much like humane Kind;
Had he a Voice but equal to his Mind!

She spoke, then back'd him with a pleasing Smile;
(For Innocence, like her, ne'er thought of Guile.)

Fir'd by th'Example of the Royal Fair,
The Virgins all to follow her prepare.
He'd got his hop'd for Prize, nor wanted more;
He plung'd into the Main, and left the Shore.
But she turn'd back, stretch'd out her Hands for Aid,
To them on Shore; they can't persue the Maid.
Now far from Land, he with his Burthen proud,
Just like a Dolphin cuts along the Flood.
The Nereids, and each watry Deity,
Arise as conscious who the Bull should be;
Earth-shaking Neptune, Ruler of the Sea,
Holds up his Trident, and the Waves obey;
And give to Jove a calm, and easy Way.
The Tritons, which to Neptune's Train belong,
Prepare their Shells to sound the Nuptial Song.
Europa, as on Jove she cross'd the Main,
Strove from the Waves to save her Purple Train;
One Hand around his Horn she trembling laid,
That safe she might the liquid Journey ride.

The mournful Maid, far from her native Land,
Far from her Virgins, and the flow'ry Strand,
She look'd about, but nothing could survey,
But Air above, beneath the boyst'rous Sea;
Struck with the Prospect then before her Eyes,
Wond'ring she gaz'd around, amaz'd, she cries:

Oh! Bull divine, where would'st thou me convey?
What art, and why tempt'st thou this dang'rous Way?
Ships we have known beyond the Seas to go,
But never knew a Bull so bold as you.
Say, can the Sea afford, or Drink, or Food?
If you're a God, then act as suits a God.
When knew you Dolphins in the Meadows graze?
Or Steers or Heifers sport within the Seas?
Undaunted you among the Billows row;
Your Hoofs supply the Place of Oars for you.

Perhaps you will e'erlong take Wing and fly,
And cut the yielding Air, and mount the Sky.
Unhappy I, alas! to leave my Home,
And with a Bull far from my Country rome.
But Oh! great Neptune, Ruler of the Seas,
Be you propitious when a Virgin prays;
But yet I hope he that conducts me o'er,
Will be my Guide when on a foreign Shore;
For sure I pass by more than mortal Pow'r.

She spoke, and thus the broad-horn'd Bull reply'd,
No longer fear, ben't at the Waves dismay'd,
He that conducts you is no less than Jove;
I seem a Bull, or any Thing for Love:
E'en now my Fair I lay aside the God,
And tempt in borrow'd Shape the wat'ry Road.
To Crete, my Birth-place, I'll conduct you, there
Glad Hymen shall our Nuptial Rites prepare;
And you to Jove shall mighty Monarchs bear.

He spoke, and the consenting Fates ordain,
That what he said might not be spoke in vain.

To Crete they came, where Jove assumed Jove,
Loosen'd her Zone, and revell'd in her Love.
Th'attendant Horæ th'happy Bed provide,
And she, just now a Maid, is now a Bride;
Joves Consort for a while; a Mother she
Fulfill'd, with mighty Monarchs Jove's Decree.

Idyllium III. An ELEGY upon the Death of Bion.

Mourn all ye Groves, ye Dorick Streams deplore
The lovely Bion's Fate, who's now no more;
Ye Plants, a Tribute of your Sorrows shew;
Ye Flow'rs, for Grief put on a mournful Hue;
Ye Roses, and Anemonies, now wear
A deeper Red, that may your Woes declare;
Now Hyacinth, in your own Plaints bemoan,
The lovely tuneful Bard, that's dead and gone.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Ye Nightingales, which mourn in the thick Woods,
Tell the sad News to Arethusa's Floods;

Bion, the tuneful lovely Swain is dead;
With him his Song, and Dorick Muse, is fled.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Ye Silver Swans, as you in Strymon sail,
In melancholy Sounds his Death bewail;
In Elegiack mournful Notes bemoan
Bion's hard Fate, just as you sing your own;
In such melodious Notes, as the dear Swain
Sung with your Voice, whilst here he blest the Plain.
To the Oegarian Nymphs his Death relate,
Convey to Bistonis the Dorick Orpheus' Fate.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
He to the list'ning Herds no more, dear Swain,
Shall sing, extended on the verdant Plain;
He's gone down to the gloomy Shades below,
And there to Lethe's Banks reports his Woe.
His Voice no more upon the Mountain's heard,
Eccho no more answers the tuneful Bard.

The straggling Cows refuse to graze for Grief;
Nor can the lusty Bull procure Relief.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
When of thy Death, dear Swain, Apollo heard,
He veil'd his Head in Clouds, and disappear'd.
Satyrs, and Fawns, and all the rural Gods,
With sad Complaints fill all the Lawns and Woods.
And Pan, unmindful of his Syrinx now,
Devotes his Sorrow to your Song and You.
The Water-Nymphs their grievous Loss bewail,
To Tears they turn their Springs and Fountains all.
The vocal Nymph has with her Ecchos done,
She thinks none worth her Answer since thou'rt gone.
The Trees drop their untimely Fruit for you;
The Lillies fair refuse to flourish now;
The sweetest Flow'rs hang down their Heads and die;
They scorn to grow since you t'Elizium fly.
The bleating Ewes their Udders fill no more,
The buzzing Bees neglect the sweetest Flow'r.

All Sweets in Nature now are worthless grown,
Since thou art dead, all Sweets contain'd in One.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
The Dolphins ne'er before were known to moan,
The Seas forsaking, on the Shores alone.
Not half so much poor Philomela griev'd,
For all the Wrongs from Tereus she receiv'd.
The Swallows on the Summits of each Hill,
With sad Complaints declining Vallies fill.
Alcyone, for her lov'd Ceyx, ne'er
Fill'd with such doleful Plaints the yielding Air.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Cerylus before was never heard to moan,
Upon the Seas, as he of late has done.
The Birds, which from the Pile receiv'd their Breath,
Lament young Bion more than Memnon's Death.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.

The Nightingales which perch'd upon the Sprays,
With an attentive Ear to learn his Lays,
With drooping Wings upon the Boughs remain,
And in sad Notes bemourn the absent Swain.
Ye Doves, forget not in sad Notes to coo,
For him who taught you how to love and woo.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Since, most lamented Bard, thou'st left the Plain,
Who shall presume to touch thy Pipe, dear Swain;
On which so lately you unrival'd play'd?
All, all, are of the vain Attempt afraid.
The Reeds, as yet, a whisp'ring Sound retain,
Of thy last Song, ne'er to be heard again.
I to th'Arcadian God thy Pipe will bear,
For he, (if any rightly) is the Heir;
Perhaps great Pan himself will fear to try,
He'll fear, perhaps, that you'll a Victor be.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.

Poor Galatea mourns the absent Swain,
Despairing ever to be charm'd again,
Since Bion, tuneful Bion's left the Plain.
How oft the Nymph has left her native Sea,
To sit and hear thy Song, and gaze on thee?
Not such as Polypheme's harsh Skreekings were,
But what's harmonious charm'd the Virgin's Ear.
The Fair, neglectful of her Marine Throng,
Drawn by the soft Remembrance of your Song,
Forsakes the Main, and lives upon the Shore,
There spends the tedious Day, too short before,
When lovely Bion sung, who sings no more.
With Pity she your mournful Herds beholds,
With Pity feeds your melancholy Folds.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
With you, dear Swain, the Muses Gifts are fled;
All youthful Sports are ceas'd, since thou art dead;
The once fond Virgins, in their Sorrows coy,
Fly the Embraces of each am'rous Boy.

The mournful Loves over thy Grave bewail,
With flutt'ring Wings thine early Funeral.
More of the Cyprian Goddess' Love you have,
Than the last Kiss that sweet Adonis gave.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Harmonious Streams, Meles, the first in Fame,
That gave the Bard his Birth, and gave his Name
Since Homer's Death you find but small Relief,
Now Bion's Fate demands a second Grief.
First when Calliope's Delight withdrew,
Call'd by remorseless Fate, himself from you;
Then Fame reports your Streams could scarce suffice
To feed the constant Tribute of your Eyes.
Great was your Grief for the lov'd Homer dead,
So great it o'er all Neptune's Kingdom spread;
And now, alass! afresh thy Sorrows flow,
For Bion's Death reiterates thy Woe.

Both to the sacred Fountains dear have been,
This largely drank of Arethusa's Stream;
The other of the Rills of Hippocrene.
One sung Atrides, and the Spartan Fair,
And Thetis' valiant Son renown'd in War.
This sung of Pan, of Swains; no Arms, nor Wars;
But such sweet Combats as are free from Scars.
His Pipe and Herd demanded all his Cares;
And as they graz'd he charm'd their ravish'd Ears.
On the soft Loves he oft' bestow'd his Praise,
Venus was oft' the Subject of his Lays.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
The Towns, and Villages, bewail thy Death,
All miss the Musick of thy tuneful Breath.
Th'Ascræan Bard's no more lamented, now
They drain the Fountains of their Eyes for you.
All the Bœotian Groves for thee alone,
For thee, dear Swain, instead of Pindar moan.

The Lesbians not half so much complain,
For their Alcæus, as for you dear Swain.
Ceos no more laments its Poet dead,
You've all its Grief since to the Shades you fled.
Archilocus no more the Parians grieve,
But, was such Force in Tears, they'd you retrieve.
Sappho no more charms Mitylenian Ears,
You now command Attention and their Tears.
Theocritus, the sweetest of the Swains
Of Syracuse, prepares his mournful Strains;
Whilst I, no Stranger to the rural Lay,
Chant out my Woes in the Ausonian Way.
To others let your Flocks and Herds belong,
To me you dying left your Pipe and Song.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Sweet Flow'rs, and all the worst of Weeds must dye,
Their Blossoms wither, and their Moisture dry;
But when the Year revolves again they grow,
Their Moisture enters, and their Blossoms blow:

But ah! sad Fate, the Wise, the Great, the Brave,
Must sleep, obsurely, in the silent Grave:
They dye but once, ne'er more regain their Breath,
But lye confin'd in the cold Chains of Death:
And you, alass! must go to your long Home,
And silent sleep in the Earth's darksome Womb.
But since relentless Fate will have it so,
And thus torment poor Mortals here below;
The loathsome Croakings of the Toad ne'er cease,
Its odious Noise shall ne'er my Envy raise.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
Sent by a dire Disease, sweet Bion's gone,
His charming Lays, and tuneful Voice are flow'n.
Sweet Swain, you did the poys'nous Draught receive,
Ah! cruel Wretch, that cou'd the Potion give!
To whom, alass! could such a Crime belong?
Who was so weary of your Muse and Song?

But why persist I thus to vent my Hate?
The Wretch can't shun the Vengeance of his Fate.
Begin my Muse, Sicilian Muse deplore,
In mournful Strains, sweet Bion who's no more.
No End of Grief, no End of Woe, I find,
Since thou art gone, and left me here behind.
Could I, like Orpheus, or Ulysses, go,
Or like Alcides, to the Shades below;
I'd mind th'Amazement of th'infernal Ghosts,
Hear how you charm the Ruler of those Coasts.
Doubt not your Skill, doubt not your Art, dear Swain,
Play to the Virgin in the Dorick Strain;
For she e'erwhile upon Sicilian Strands,
Delighted there to sport, and chant those Strains;
Before a Rape she suffer'd by grim Pluto's Hands.
With Musick Orpheus charm'd the Elizium Queen,
By Musick got Euridice again.

Doubt not but by the Virtue of your Lays,
She'll you again unto the Hills release.
If I was skillful at the Pipe, I'd go,
And try to move the King of Hell for you.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Idyllium V.

[When e'er I see, curl'd by the gentle Wind]

When e'er I see, curl'd by the gentle Wind,
The azure Main, Fear strikes my tim'rous Mind;
My Muse no longer can my Thoughts improve,
A sure and calm Retreat the Muses love.
But when I hear the boist'rous Billows roar,
Dash, and rebound against the crooked Shore;
I turn to Land, and fly the restless Seas,
Look on the Fields, gaze on the verdant Trees,
The loveliest Objects which invite to Ease.
Safe is the Land, where Boughs a Shelter form,
To save me from the Terrors of the Storm.
To make a Shade the am'rous Branches twine;
There are the whist'ling Gales, and singing Pine.
A wretched Life sure must the Drudgers be,
Whose Ship's his House, whose Labour's in the Sea.

Give me a Sleep beneath a spreading Shade,
Just at a neighb'ring murm'ring Fountain's Head;
Which glads the Swain, and never makes afraid.

Idyllium VI.

[Pan for a neighb'ring Eccho was on Fire]

Pan for a neighb'ring Eccho was on Fire,
She for a Satyr, Lyda's his Desire.
Just as the God receiv'd the fiery Dart,
She for the Satyr hugg'd the pleasing Smart;
While Lyda reigns triumphant in his Heart.
Each one the Rivals equally despise,
While they're as hateful to the Lovers' Eyes.
Thus cruel Love, a sportive Tyrant reigns,
Plays with our Wounds, and glories in our Pains.
You who ne'er felt the Force of killing Eyes,
Learn by Example to be timely wise;
Nor rashly throw away your Hearts in vain,
Love where you're likely to be lov'd again.

Idyllium VII.

[Hail Golden Lamp of the fair Queen of Love]

Hail Golden Lamp of the fair Queen of Love,
Vesper the brightest of the Stars above;
As Phœbe's Lustre does your Rays outshine,
Other Nocturnal Lights must yield to thine.
The Moon's gone down; conduct me o'er the Plain,
Safe to the Cottage of a Shepherd Swain.
No bad Intentions this my Journey move,
To Rob or Steal; but I'm a Slave to Love.
Hail much lov'd Star, and your Assistance lend;
Lovers in ev'ry Place should find a Friend.

Idyllium VIII.

[Alpheus, Pisa past, directs his Course]

Alpheus , Pisa past, directs his Course
To Arethuse, with an impetuous Force;
Bearing fresh Flow'rs, and many verdant Leaves,
As precious Gifts to Arethusa's Waves:
First here, then there, he flows, a thousand Ways,
And unperceiv'd he glides beneath the Seas.
Pleas'd with the Fancy, sportive Cupid joys,
Thus to perplex the ling'ring am'rous Boys;
Just so the God delights to make us rove,
And swim the winding Labyrinth of Love.

Epigram.

[A wanton Love aside his Quiver laid]

A wanton Love aside his Quiver laid,
A Budget took, and went to plow;
And when he'd yok'd the lab'ring Oxens' Head,
He drove, and then begun to sow:
Stopping a while, he cast his Eyes around,
He look'd, at last to Jove he spoke;
Let me not plow in vain, but heat the Ground,
Or else Europa's Bull I'll yoke.

THE END.

THE IDYLLIUMS OF BION.

Κεινος δ' ου', πολεμους ου' δακρυα Πανα δεμελπε,
Και βωτας ελιγαινε, δ' αειδων ενομευε,
Και συριγγας ετευχε, δ' αδεα πορτιν αμελγε,
Και παιδων εδιδασκε φιλαματα, [] τα Ερωτα
Ετρεφεν ελποισι, [] ηρεσε τη Αφροδιτη
ΜΟΣΧ.

Idyllium I. Upon the Death of Adonis.

I mourn Adonis, fair Adonis gone;
The fair Adonis dead the Cupids moan.
Sleeping no more in purple Robes be seen,
But rise, and beat your Breasts fair Cyprian Queen;
Proclaim abroad the fair Adonis dead,
He's dead, and all that's lovely with him fled.

I mourn Adonis, fair Adonis gone;
The fair Adonis dead the Cupids moan.
Upon the Mountain lies the beauteous Youth,
Slain by an Iv'ry, but a Savage Tooth.
White was his Thigh, white as the falling Snow,
Nor whiter was the Tusk that gave the Blow.
Panting he lies, and near him Beauty's Queen,
Stands weeping by; a lovely mournful Scene!
Round his white Skin behold the Crimson flow;
His once bright Eyes languish beneath the Brow;
His Cheeks no more the bloomy Colour show:
The Ruby from his charming Lips is fled,
Them still she loves, altho' Adonis' dead;
But yet, alas, Adonis not perceives
The melting Kisses which fair Venus gives.
I mourn Adonis, fair Adonis gone;
The fair Adonis dead the Cupids moan.
Deep went the Tusk that caus'd the killing Smart,
But deeper far it went in Venus' Heart.

The yelling Hounds, around their Master, tell
What Grief for their departed Lord they feel.
The Nymphs bemoan; and with deshevel'd Hair,
Her Tresses loose thrown to the ruffling Air,
Doleful, barefooted, the fair Queen of Love
With sad Complaints fills ev'ry Wood and Grove;
Grief bears her thence thro' uncouth Ways, and Plains,
And still Adonis dead augments her Pains;
As thus she thro' Excess of Woe is led,
Her sacred Blood the cruel Brambles shed.
Mean while extended on the Turf he lies,
And purple Streams flow round his Iv'ry Thighs;
Whose Skin once whiter than the falling Snow,
Stain'd with the Crimson Blood, no longer's so.

Ah! Venus, Ah! the Cupids all bemoan,
With thee, the fair Adonis dead and gone.
Now the fair Youth, the beauteous Boy, is dead,
Each charming Grace is from fair Venus fled;

Whilst him the Fates preserv'd, and Life remain'd,
Ten thousand Charms fair Venus' Face contain'd;
But since the lovely Youth is dead and gone,
Her daz'ling Beauties from her Face are flow'n.
The Hills, the Groves, and sacred Oaks, complain,
For sweet Adonis on the Mountain slain;
The purling Streams in murm'ring Plaints bemoan,
With Venus, dear Adonis dead and gone.
Each Herb for Grief puts on a deeper Green;
The Goddess most of all forlorn is seen.
Each Grove, and Mountain, with her Grief abounds,
Adonis dead! she cries thro' ev'ry Town;
Adonis dead! sad Echo then resounds.
Who can behold the beauteous Goddess moan,
And not relenting lend a gentle Groan?
Soon as the Fair perceiv'd the grievous Wound,
That in her fair Adonis' Thigh was found;
Soon as the Queen the Crimson Stream survey'd,
With Hands expanded, she lamenting said.

Stay, my Adonis, stay, my charming Boy,
That I may take my last Farewel, my Joy!
Let us embrace before your Soul does fly,
And take this Kiss, this parting Kiss from me;
'Till Life is fled I'll join my Lips to thine,
And suck thy fleeting Soul, sweet Youth, to mine.
I your last Gasp will catch, and since you fly,
No one shall take this parting Kiss from me.
You to the silent Shades, where Spectres dwell,
Adonis go, to the grim King of Hell.
Ah! wretched I my beauteous Loss survive,
And must a Goddess thus for ever live?
Eternity affords no End to Woe,
Nor can I to my dear Adonis go.
Why was I born a Goddess, thus to live
A Life immortal, and for ever grieve?
Take, Proserpine, my Love, take the dear Boy,
Take him, relentless Goddess, him enjoy;

Your Pow'r is great, nothing on Earth can be,
Sooner, or later, but devolves to thee.
Unhappy I, Goddess 'tis you I fear,
'Tis you I envy for my lovely Dear.
Thou'rt dead, alas, thou'rt dead, my charming Boy,
Love, as a Dream, to me's a fleeting Joy;
Our Pleasure's pass'd, ne'er to return again;
Alone thou'st left thy Venus to complain.
The Cupids all have thrown their Arrows by,
Their Shafts, and Quivers, now neglected lye.
With thee the Cestus dy'd; I've Charms no more.
Why would you hunt rash Youth the foaming Boar?

So Venus griev'd; the Loves with her deplore
The charming sweet Adonis, now no more.
Venus, alas, dead is the lovely Boy;
Nought now remains but Thought of former Joy.
As many Tears the beauteous Goddess shed,
As Drops of Blood the fair Adonis bled;

From both the Tears, and Blood, new Flow'rs arise,
Roses from this, from those Anemonies.
I mourn Adonis, fair Adonis gone;
The fair Adonis dead the Cupids moan.
Cease your Complaints, and dry your Tears, fair Queen;
In Woods, and Groves, weeping no more be seen.
No longer mourn for lov'd Adonis slain;
Tho' dead, some Beauties in his Face remain;
Take him and lay him on the Bed of State,
Conscious of all those Joys you had of late;
Garlands and Flow'rs upon his Body strow;
Their Grief with drooping Heads the Lillies show.
With precious Ointments bathe his Body o'er,
Upon his comely Limbs sweet Odours pour;
Odours, and Ointments, now are worthless grow'n,
Since sweet Adonis, her Delight is gone.

Upon the Bed of State Adonis lies,
And mournful Cupids him surround with Cries;

Their Grief by different Ways the Cupids show;
One clips his Hair, another breaks his Bow;
This pulls the bloody Sandals from his Feet;
Others fresh Water from the Fountain get;
Some bathe his Wound with Water from the Springs
That fans his Body with refreshing Wings.
Thus the kind Loves the sacred Loss bemoan,
The charming sweet Adonis dead and gone.
And Hymen too does the fair Loss deplore;
His nuptial Songs are ceas'd, and heard no more;
To this converted; Ah! Adonis dead!
He's dead, and all that's charming with him fled.
His nuptial Lights to Fun'ral Tapers turn;
And all his wither'd Marriage-Garlands burn.
The Graces too Cinyrades deplore,
Crying among themselves he's now no more;
Sadly they weep, as if they fain would know,
Whether fair Dion can weep more, or no.
The fatal Three with Cytherea grieve,
And try with Songs Adonis to retrieve;

But all in vain, Songs no Effect can have,
To bring the fair Adonis from the Grave.
Cease, Cytherea, cease, from Tears refrain;
When next Year comes, Venus must weep again.

Idyllium II.

[A youthful Swain, just taught to draw the Bow]

A youthful Swain, just taught to draw the Bow,
To gain Experience must a Fowling go;
Thirsty for Prey, he hurry'd to the Grove,
There on the Boughs he saw a wanton Love;
Rejoic'd he stopt, among the Leaves he gaz'd,
To see a Bird so large the Youth's amaz'd;
A Shaft he drew, begun his Bow to bend;
But see what Crosses all our Hopes attend!
The sportive Love, to carry on the Jest,
Nestled about, at last sat down to rest;
He draws, the Cupid let him take his Aim;
He then in Thought, almost possess'd the Game;
To rile the Youth, himself divert with Play,
The Wanton starts, and skips from Spray to Spray,
And baulks the Youngster of his hop'd-for Prey.

The Youth enrag'd, away his Arrows threw,
And straitway to the Swain, his Teacher, flew;
He told him all, then brought him to the Grove,
Shew'd him the Boughs, and pointed to the Love.
Soon as the aged Swain the Cupid spy'd,
He smiling shak'd his Head, at last he said:

Cease your Pursuit, and here no longer stay;
Be gone, for 'tis an evil Beast you see;
Oh! happy you, depriv'd of such a Prey.
Should you approach him near, altho' he fled,
He'd quickly you assault, and nestle on your Head.

Idyllium III. The Dream.

In downy Sleep I lay, when to my Sight,
Appear'd the pow'rful Goddess of Delight;
In her fair Hand an Infant Love she led,
And as he walk'd to Earth, he bow'd his Head.
The Goddess spoke, and thus she said: Dear Swain,
Go teach this Boy to sing a rural Strain.

She spoke, and fled; I, like a Fool, sung o'er
The rustick Lays I us'd to sing before.
Deceitful he to Learning seem'd inclin'd,
I taught him how Pan first the Syrinx join'd;
Minerva's Flute too did my Breast inspire;
Mercury's Shell; and sweet Apollo's Lyre.
But wanton he begun to sing of Love,
Th'Amours of Mortals, and the Gods above.

His Mother's Acts so movingly he sung,
On ev'ry Word a dear Infection hung.
My past'ral Lays quick from my Breast were flown,
Cupid's I learn'd, but soon forgot my own.

Idyllium IV.

[The sacred Nine not cruel Cupid fear]

The sacred Nine not cruel Cupid fear,
His Steps they follow, and the God revere.
You who are Strangers to the Lover's Pain,
Can claim no Place in the Poetic Train;
Your bold Attempts at Verse are all in vain.
But you who dread, yet hug, the killing Dart,
And feel the Anguish of the pleasing Smart;
Whose softer Breasts burn with a generous Fire,
All blest in Song, successful strike the Lyre.
Certain Applause the Lover's Lays attends;
Love, and the Muses, they were always Friends.
Fain, in heroic Numbers, would I tell,
One nobly conquer'd, and he greatly fell;
This I'd have rais'd to an immortal Fame;
But no kind Muse to my Assistance came.
Then I begun with Lycidas, and Love;
The Muses smil'd, and all my Verse approve.

Idyllium V.

[If Glory, whilst I live, attends my Lays]

If Glory, whilst I live, attends my Lays,
Before the fatal Hour I merit Praise.
If 'tis my Fate to sing, but sing in vain,
And no Applause rewards the Poet's Strain;
Why should I strive by Song to please again?
If 'tis the Will of Jove, and such our Fate,
To change the present for a future State;
If Heav'n is just to all our Pains below,
An Age of Joy succeeds this World of Woe.
But if the Pow'rs assign one Life to Man,
To all, and that contracted to a Span;
Why all this Trouble, why our needless Cares,
In this short Journey of uncertain Years?
In Search of Wealth, Labour, and Arts, we try;
There's no eluding Fate, we yet must die.
Certain we all forget we're Mortals born;
The Thread's but drawn, wound up, and cut, we're gone.

Idyllium VI. Cleodamus and Myrson.

CLEODAMUS.
Myrson , come tell, which, if you cou'd, you'd bring,
Summer, or Winter; Autumn, or the Spring?
Wou'd you ha't Summer? Then are all Things gay,
Or Winter, Myr, when we leave Work by Day?
And well you know, Swains, in the Summer-Heat,
Have wish'd for Time, that they a Nap might get.
Or Autumn, Boy? Then for the mellow Pear!
Spring wou'd you chuse, when all the Fields are fair?
Come tell me, Myrson, which best pleases you?
For we have Time to chat a little now.

MYRSON.
We mortal Men ought not to judge of these;
They ev'ry one are good, and ought to please.

But, Cleodamus, since you urge me so,
I'll tell; because I've a Respect for you.
Because 'tis hot, I don't with Summer hold;
Nor with the Winter, then it is too cold;
Nor yet with Autumn, that does Surfeits bring:
There's nothing, Cleodamus, like the Spring;
The Weather then is pleasing to the Swains,
When ev'ry Thing is springing on the Plains;
When nothing is unpleasant in our Way;
But pure refreshing Cool, both Night and Day.

Idyllium VII. Friendship.

Thrice happy those, who, with a mutual Flame,
Observe the Rev'rence due to Friendship's Name;
Thrice happy Theseus, could undaunted go,
With his Perithous, to the Realms below;
Together both before the Monarch stand,
Nor dread the Terrors of the direful Land;
Orestes, blest in ev'ry toilsome State,
Shar'd with his Pylades one common Fate;
Achilles, in the midst of Battel blest,
Whilst he enjoy'd the Partner of his Breast,
Found his Patroclus, happy in his End;
For when he fell himself, he sav'd his Friend.

FRAGMENTS.

Upon Hyacinthus.

Before the lovely Hyacinthus dy'd,
No Art the mournful Bion left untry'd;
Grief stopp'd his Voice, and in Excess of Pain,
From Drugs he sought Relief, but all in vain;
Then he, when no Relief from Drugs was found,
With Nectar, and Ambrosia, bath'd the Wound.
Nor Drugs, nor Ointments, could prolong his Breath,
Nor Art avail. Such is the Pow'r of Death.

[I'll to the Shore, there to the Deep I'll turn]

I'll to the Shore, there to the Deep I'll turn,
To cruel Galatea make my Mourn;
There on the Sands I'll murmur out my Pray'r,
And try if I can move th'obdurate Fair.

With Hope, sweet Hope, I'll mitigate my Pains,
Nor ever cease to hope while Life remains.

[For ev'ry Crack that in your Pipe is made]

For ev'ry Crack that in your Pipe is made,
Ne'er fly directly to the Artist's Aid;
'Tis as unseemly, 'Faith it is, dear Swain,
To borrow of a Neighbour of the Plain;
There's nothing like a Syrinx of your own,
Make it your self, for it is eas'ly done.

[When Love invokes the Nine, the Muse's Friend]

When Love invokes the Nine, the Muse's Friend,
On Love they're always ready to attend;
When with the Love of Verse my Soul's on Fire;
They give a Song, and answer my Desire;
When I their Gift, th'harmonious Song, rehearse,
No Balm is equal to the Sweets of Verse.

[Let not the Bard invoke the Muse in vain]

Let not the Bard invoke the Muse in vain;
Phœbus rewards the Poet's grateful Strain.

Much 'tis from whom the Present we receive,
The Honour always adds to what they give.

[By frequent Drops of Rain, as it is said]

By frequent Drops of Rain, as it is said,
The hardest Stone in Time is hollow made.

[When first the Gods Beauty to Woman gave]

When first the Gods Beauty to Woman gave,
They bad the Man that would excel, be Brave.

100

THE END.