Poems and Translations :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now Jove's Command fulfill'd, the Son of May
Quits the black Shades, and slowly mounts to Day.
For lazy Clouds in gloomy Barriers rise,
Obstruct the God, and intercept the Skies;
No Zephyrs here their airy Pinions move,
To speed his Progress to the Realms above.
Scarce can He steer his dark laborious Flight,
Lost and encumber'd in the Damps of Night:
There roaring Tides of Fire his Course withstood,
Here Styx in nine wide Circles roll'd his Flood.

Behind old Laius trod th'infernal Ground,
Trembling with Age, and tardy from his Wound:
(For all his Force his furious Son apply'd,
And plung'd the guilty Faulchion in his Side.)
Propt and supported by the healing Rod,
The Shade pursued the Footsteps of the God.
The Groves that never bloom; the Stygian Coasts,
The House of Woe; the Mansions of the Ghosts,
Earth too admires to see the Ground give way,
And gild Hell's Horrors with the Gleams of Day.

But not with Life repining Envy fled,
She still reigns there, and lives among the Dead.
One from this Crowd exclaim'd, (whose lawless Will
Inur'd to Crimes, and exercis'd in Ill,
Taught his prepost'rous Joys from Pains to flow,
And never triumph'd, but in Scenes of Woe)

Go to thy Province in the Realms above,
Call'd by the Furies or the Will of Jove:
Or drawn by Magick Force or Mystick Spell,
Rise, and purge off the sooty Gloom of Hell.
Go, see the Sun, and whiten in his Beams,
Or haunt the flow'ry Fields and limpid Streams,
With Woes redoubled to return again,
When thy past Pleasures shall enhance thy Pain.

Now by the Stygian Dog they bent their Way;
Stretch'd in his Den the dreadful Monster lay;
But lay not long, for startling at the Sound,
Head above Head he rises from the Ground.
From their close Folds his starting Serpents break,
And curl in horrid Circles round his Neck.
This saw the God, and stretching forth his Hand,
Lull'd the grim Monster with his potent Wand;

Thro' his vast bulk the gliding Slumbers creep,
And seal down all his glaring Eyes in Sleep.

There lies a Place in Greece well known to Fame,
Thro' all her Realms, and Tænarus the Name,
Where from the Sea the Tops of Malea rise,
Beyond the ken of Mortals, to the Skies:
Proud in his height he calmly hears below
The distant Winds in hollow Murmurs blow.
Here sleep the Storms when weary'd and opprest,
And on his Head the drowsy Planets rest:
There in blue Mists his rocky sides he shrouds,
And here the tow'ring Mountain props the Clouds.
Above his awful Brow no Bird can fly,
And far beneath the mutt'ring Thunders die.
When down the Steep of Heav'n the Day descends,
The Sun so wide his floating Bound extends,

That o'er the Deeps the Mountain hangs display'd,
And covers half the Ocean with his Shade:
Where the Tænarian Shores oppose the Sea,
The Land retreats, and winds into a Bay.
Here for Repose Imperial Neptune leads,
Tir'd from th'Ægean Floods, his smoaking Steeds;
With their broad Hoofs they scoop the Beach away,
Their finny Train rolls back, and floats along the Sea.
Here Fame reports th'unbody'd Shades to go
Thro' this wide Passage to the Realms below.
From hence the Peasants, (as th'Arcadians tell,)
Hear all the Cries, and Groans, and Din of Hell.
Oft, as her Scourge of Snakes the Fury plies,
The piercing Ecchoes mount the distant Skies;
Scar'd at the Porter's triple Roar, the Swains
Have fled astonish'd, and forsook the Plains.

From hence emergent in a mantling Cloud
Sprung to his native Skies the winged God.
Swift from his Face before th'Ethereal Ray,
Flew all the black Tartarean Stains away,
And the dark Stygian Gloom refin'd to Day.
Oe'r Towns and Realms he held his Progress on,
Now wing'd the Skies where bright Arcturus shone,
And now the silent Empire of the Moon.
The Pow'r of Sleep, who met his radiant Flight,
And drove the solemn Chariot of the Night,
Rose with Respect, and from th'empyreal Road
Turn'd his pale Steeds, in reverence to the God.
The Shade beneath pursues his Course, and spies
The well-known Planets, and congenial Skies.
His Eyes from far, tall Cyrrha's Heights explore,
And Phocian Fields polluted with his Gore.

At length to Thebes he came, and with a Groan
Survey'd the guilty Palace once his own;
With awful Silence stalk'd before the Gate,
But when he saw the Trophies of his Fate,
High on a Column rais'd against the Door,
And his rich Chariot still deform'd with Gore,
He starts with horror back; ev'n Jove's Command
Could scarce controul him, nor the Vital Wand.

'Twas now the solemn Day; when Jove array'd
In all his Thunders, grasp'd the Theban Maid:
Then took from blasted Semele her Load,
And in himself conceiv'd the future God.
For this the Thebans revel'd in Delight,
And gave to Play and Luxury the Night;
A National Debauch! confus'd they lie
Stretch'd o'er the Fields, their Canopy the Sky.

The sprightly Trumpets sound, the Timbrels play,
And wake with sacred Harmony the Day.
The Matron's Breast the gracious Pow'r inspires
With milder Raptures, and with softer Fires.

So the Bistonian Race, a madding Train,
Exult and revel on the Thracian Plain;
With Milk their bloody Banquets they allay,
Or from the Lion rend his panting Prey:
On some abandon'd Savage fiercely fly,
Seize, tear, devour, and think it Luxury.
But if the rising Fumes of Wine conspire
To warm their Rage, and fan the brutal Fire,
Then Scenes of Horror are their dear Delight,
They whirl the Goblets, and provoke the Fight:
Then on the Slain the Revel is renew'd,
And all the horrid Banquet floats in Blood.

And now the winged Hermes from on high,
Shot in deep Silence from the dusky Sky;
Then hover'd o'er the Theban Tyrant's Head,
As stretch'd at ease he prest his gorgeous Bed:
Where labour'd Tapestry from side to side,
Glow'd with rich Figures, and Assyrian Pride.
Oh! the precarious Terms of Human State!
How blind is Man? how thoughtless of his Fate?
See! thro' his Limbs the Dews of Slumber creep,
Sunk as he lies, in Luxury and Sleep.
The Reverend Shade commission'd from above,
Hastes to fulfill the high Behests of Jove:
Like blind Tiresias to the Bed he came,
In Form, in Habit, and in Voice the same.
Pale, as before, the Phantom still appear'd,
Down his wan Bosom flow'd a length of Beard;

His Head an imitated Fillet wore,
His Hand a Wreath of peaceful Olive bore:
With this he touch'd the sleeping Monarch's Breast,
And in his own, the Voice of Fate, exprest.

Then can'st thou sleep, to thoughtless Rest resign'd?
And drive thy Brother's Image from thy Mind?
Yon' gath'ring Storm demands thy timely Care,
See! how it rolls this way the Tide of War.
When o'er the Seas the sweeping Whirlwinds fly,
And roar from ev'ry Quarter of the Sky;
The Pilot in despair the Ship to save,
Gives up the Helm, a Sport to ev'ry Wave:
Such is thy Error, and thy Fate the same;
(For know, I speak the common Voice of Fame.)
Proud in his new Alliances, from far
Against thy Realm he meditates the War;

Big with ambitious Hopes to reign alone,
And swell unrivall'd on the Theban Throne.
New Signs and fatal Prodigies inspire
His mad Ambition, with his boasted Sire;
And Argos' ample Realms in Dow'r bestow'd,
And Tydeus reeking from his Brother's Blood,
League and conspire to raise him to the Throne,
And make his tedious Banishment thy own.
For this, with pity touch'd, Almighty Jove,
The Sire of Gods, dispatch'd me from above.
Be still a Monarch; let him swell in vain
With the gay Prospect of a fancy'd Reign:
Still let him hope by Fraud, or by the Sword,
To humble Thebes beneath a foreign Lord.

Thus the majestick Ghost; but e'er he fled,
He pluck'd the Wreaths, and Fillets from his Head.

For now the sick'ning Stars were chac'd away,
And Heav'ns immortal Coursers breath'd the Day.
Awful to Sight confest the Grandsire stood,
Bare'd his wide Wound, and all his Bosom show'd,
Then dash'd the sleeping Monarch with his Blood.

With a distracted Air, and sudden Spring,
Starts from his broken Sleep the trembling King,
Shakes off amaz'd th'imaginary Gore,
While Fancy paints the Scene he saw before:
Deep in his Soul his Grandsire's Image wrought,
And all his Brother rose in ev'ry Thought.

So while the Toils are spread, and from behind
The Hunter's Shouts come thick'ning in the Wind;
The Tyger starts from Sleep the War to wage,
Collects his Pow'rs, and rouses all his Rage:

Sternly he grinds his Fangs, he weighs his Might,
And whets his dreadful Talons for the Fight;
Then to his Young he bears his Foe away,
His Foe, at once the Chacer and the Prey.
Thus on his Brother He in every Thought,
Wage'd future Wars, and Battles yet unfought.