University of Virginia Library

FROM The Fourth Book of Statius's Thebaid.

Beginning at Verse 309.

By the same Hand.

Fame now th'important Secret had betray'd,
And to the Mother the sad Truth convey'd,
How her rash Son, inflam'd with War's Alarms,
Had march'd, and all Arcadia rous'd to Arms.
Struck with the fatal News, at first she found
No Strength, and drop'd her useless Arrows round.
Then swift, as Storms, that rend the lofty Woods,
O'er Rocks she flew, and stem'd the foaming Floods.
Her loosen'd Robes, neglected, flow'd behind,
Her Locks at Pleasure ruffled in the Wind.
The Mother Tygers thus, their Children slain,
Pursue the murd'ring Wretch, and scour along the Plain.
Close to her Son she stood; the Red forsook
His Cheeks, and show'd a pale dejected Look:
Then cry'd, What Frenzy has possest my Boy?
Hence vain, deluding Honour, airy Toy!
Can thirst of Fame impertinently raise
In such a tender Breast so fierce a Blaze?
Leave Arms, my Child, to Men; nor tempt too far
The sweating Toils, and dreadful Shocks of War.
Too soon, alas! thy feeble Strength would yield,
In the rough Tempest of an Iron Field.
Nor do I seek to damp a glorious Fire;
But wish thy Vigour answer thy Desire.
Trembling, I saw thee late (nor vain my Fear)
Launch at the bristling Boar thy pointed Spear,
The Savage turn'd, nor could those Nerves repel
His Rage, and only not supine you fell:
Then if a winged Death I had not sped,
Where would that restless Valour now be fled?
You no more Dangers had industrious run;
But now those Darts will not protect my Son:
Nor trust thy Erring Bow, nor Martial Force,
And the vain Swiftness of that dappled Horse.
Arms thou attemp'st, scarce able yet to prove
The sweet Fatigues, and softer Wars of Love.
Too true the fatal Omens, which I took,
When sudden all the vaulted Temple shook;
Diana's Image, bending, seem'd to fall,
And shaggy Spoils dropp'd from the sweating Wall.
No wonder, that my Bow with Pain I drew,
And Arrows, guiltless of Destruction, flew.
Ah! stay, my Heroe, stay, too Brave! too Young!
'Till riper Years have slacken'd Sinews strung:
'Till on thy Cheeks a Shade gives manly Grace,
And the soft Mother has forsook thy Face.
Thy Boldness then shall be no more deplor'd,
And I my self will reach, unask'd, thy Sword.
No idle Tears thy Eagerness shall blame,
In Paths of Glory, and Pursuit of Fame.
But homeward now, my only Hope, retire;
Can you, Arcadians, such a Chief desire?
Let gen'rous Pity spare the tender King,
Or not from Trees, but flinty Rocks you spring.