University of Virginia Library


220

FROM The Fourth Book of Statius's Thebaid.

Beginning at Verse 246.

By the same Hand.

Greece thus embroyl'd, and Arms around prepar'd,
With Joy the young Parthenopæus heard.
New to the Field, yet fir'd with Thirst of Fame,
The beauteous, blooming, beardless Heroe came.
Mean time beyond the bleak Lycæus stray'd
Swift Atalanta in a distant Glade:
Pursu'd the Sylvan Game with eager Joy,
Nor fear'd the Danger of her Fav'rite Boy.
Oh! had her Heart the least Foreboadings known!
The Mother's Fondness had preserv'd the Son.

221

Had bid the Warrior to the Groves retreat,
And cool'd a glorious, but destructive Heat.
Never of Beauty to a Male before,
Indulgent Nature lavish'd such a Store.
Yet the rich Work compleatly she design'd:
A Woman's Face conceal'd a Manly Mind.
A Proof of Courage in each Act appears;
But what is Courage in such tender Years?
For him, the Nymphs, that haunt the verdant Woods,
Or bath their snowy Limbs in crystal Floods;
Or on the Mountain sport, or on the Plain,
All sigh'd, all languish'd, and all burn'd in vain.
And sure his Form might Nymphs inflame with Love,
Which could Diana's settled Hate remove.
For when she saw, in the Mænalian Shade,
How the fair, smiling, little Wanton play'd;
How harmless o'er th'unbending Grass he flew,
Of the stol'n Raptures she unmindful grew:

222

Well seem'd the Virgin in the Mother lost,
That could this sweet, this heav'nly Burthen boast.
New Friendship soon the Goddess did commence,
Recall'd th'Offender, and forgave th'Offence.
The marks of Honour did again bestow,
The Darts, the Quiver, and the Cretan Bow.
Th'un-fledg'd Commander, vainly rash of Thought,
Already burns with Battels yet unfought.
To his quick View the bloody Scene appears,
And comely Dust his yellow Locks besmears.
Transports unknown the num'rous Captives yield,
While the gay Victor prances o'er the Field.
His wonted Pleasures now delight no more;
No Musick in the Hounds that bay the Boar.
Inglorious seem the Conquests of the Wood;
He scorns the Dart, not dy'd with human Blood.

223

Unarm'd the Youth, how lovely to behold!
But glitters sweetly fierce in burnish'd Gold.
His Surcoat glows, rich with the Tyrian stain,
While Diamond Clasps the waving Folds restrain.
His Shield for Lightness of smooth Skins was made,
Where his fam'd Mother's Triumph shone display'd:
Deep in th'Ætolian Boar was fix'd the Reed,
And in the Paint the Savage seem'd to bleed.
In his Left-Hand a Bow with graceful Pride
He bore, his Right the Cydon Eugh supply'd.
No vulgar Art adorn'd his Coat of Mail,
With feather'd Gold, and many a shining Scale;
His radiant Helm the waving Crest surrounds,
And on his Back his Amber Quiver sounds;
But the pale Amber Jaspers green enchase,
And with a livelier Verdure die the Grass.
His fiery Courser snorts and neighs aloud,
With Wood-land Spoils of spotted Lynxes proud,

224

In Swiftness, us'd to leave the Mountain-Hind,
A Rival for the sweeping, Northern Wind;
With Joy his Master, sheath'd in Arms, he bore,
But wonder'd at a Weight unfelt before:
His Master pleas'd, and flush'd with youthful Grace,
Flew all around, and brighten'd ev'ry Place.
Arcadian Cohorts, firm, experienc'd Bands,
Enclose their Lord, and wait his dread Commands.
Arcadians, Times's first Sons, who scorn to trace,
From the known Origin a mortal Race;
Who your dark Pedigree convey too high,
Ere Moon, or Stars, were lighted in the Sky.
Ere Nature's Rudeness Art had taught to yield,
Unbuilt each City, and untill'd each Field.
From that lost Æra you derive your Birth,
And Steps first printed on the wond'ring Earth.
The hardy Race (if Fame the Truth has sung)
From rigid Sires, and wooden Parents sprung.
The lab'ring Oak a stubborn Off-spring bred,
And kindly with fresh Show'rs of Acorns fed.

225

From the tall Ash a new Creation rose,
And teeming Lawrels felt a Mother's Throws.
The Beech Prolifick prov'd in like Degree,
And a green Infant drop'd from ev'ry Tree.
These early, young Inhabitants begun
To watch the Motions of the rolling Sun.
New to the strange Vicissitude of Light,
They trembled at the swift Approach of Night:
While Phœbus hasten'd to the Western Streams,
In vain they follow'd to o'ertake his Beams:
Then weary'd, heav'd their Hands, and begg'd his Stay,
Hung with their Eyes on the last fainting Ray,
And mourn'd, and sicken'd in despair of Day.