Part 11

The following Translations were selected from many others done by the author in his youth; for the most part indeed but a sort of exercises, while he was improving himself in the languages, and carried by his early bent to poetry to perform them rather in verse than prose. Mr. Dryden's Fables came out about that time, which occasioned the translations from Chaucer. They were first separately printed in Miscellanies by J. Tonson and B. Lintot, and afterwards collected in the quarto edition of 1717. The Imitations of English Authors, which are added at the end, were done as early; some of them at fourteen or fifteen years old; but having also got into Miscellanies, we have put them here together to complete this juvenile volume.

FOOTNOTES:

THE

FIRST BOOK OF STATIUS:

HIS

THEBAIS.

TRANSLATED IN THE YEAR 1703.

The translator hopes he need not apologise for his choice of this piece, which was made almost in his childhood. But finding the version better upon review than he expected from those years, he was easily prevailed on to give it some correction, the rather because no part of this author (at least that he knows of) has been tolerably turned into our language.--POPE.

It was in his childhood only that Pope could make choice of so injudicious a writer as Statius to translate. It were to be wished that no youth of genius were suffered ever to look into Statius, Lucan, Claudian, or Seneca the tragedian,--authors who, by their forced conceits, by their violent metaphors, by their swelling epithets, by their want of a just decorum, have a strong tendency to dazzle, and to mislead inexperienced minds, and tastes unformed, from the true relish of possibility, propriety, simplicity, and nature. Statius had undoubtedly invention, ability, and spirit; but his images are gigantic and outrageous, and his sentiments tortured and hyperbolical. One cannot forbear reflecting on the short duration of a true taste in poetry among the Romans. From the time of Lucretius to that of Statius was no more than about one hundred and forty-seven years; and if I might venture to pronounce so rigorous a sentence, I would say, that the Romans can boast of but eight poets who are unexceptionably excellent,--namely, Terence, Lucretius, Catullus, Virgil, Horace, Tibullus, Propertius, Phædrus. These only can be called legitimate models of just thinking and writing. Succeeding authors, as it happens in all countries, resolving to be original and new, and to avoid the imputation of copying, become distorted and unnatural. By endeavouring to open an unbeaten path, they deserted simplicity and truth; weary of common and obvious beauties, they must needs hunt for remote and artificial decorations.

It is plain that Pope was not blind to the faults of Statius, many of which he points out with judgment and truth, in a letter to Mr. Cromwell, written in 1708{9}. After this censure of Statius's manner, it is but justice to add, that in the Thebais there are many strokes of a strong imagination; and, indeed, the picture of Amphiaraus, swallowed up suddenly by a chasm that opened in the ground, is truly sublime.--WARTON.

Statius was a favourite writer with the poets of the middle ages. His bloated magnificence of description, gigantic images, and pompous diction suited their taste, and were somewhat of a piece with the romances they so much admired. They neglected the gentler and genuine graces of Virgil, which they could not relish. His pictures were too correctly and chastely drawn to take their fancies; and truth of design, elegance of expression, and the arts of composition, were not their object.--T. WARTON.

In this translation there are some excellent passages, particularly those pointed out by Dr. Warton--"O father Phoebus," v. 829, and the exquisite lines descriptive of evening, "'Twas now the time," &c., 474; but some of the most striking images are omitted, some added, and some misunderstood. Let us however confess, that the versification is truly wonderful, considering the age of the author. It would be endless to point out more particularly occasional errors and inaccuracies, in a composition which can be considered no otherwise than as an extraordinary specimen of versification, before the writer's judgment and taste were matured.--BOWLES.

According to the information which Pope gave to Spence, he commenced an epic poem at thirteen, and wrote four books of about a thousand verses each. As his taste and judgment improved, he discovered the crudeness of his early flights, and for a while he almost relinquished his attempts at original composition, "My first taking to imitating," he said, "was not out of vanity, but humility. I saw how defective my own things were; and I endeavoured to mend my manner by copying good strokes from others." "In my rambles through the poets," he said again, "when I met with a passage or story that pleased me more than ordinary, I used to endeavour to imitate it, or translate it into English; and this gave rise to my imitations published so long after." In speaking of Pope's youthful efforts, Spence uses the word "imitation" as synonymous with "translation." "Some of his first exercises," he says, "were imitations of the stories that pleased him most in Ovid, or any other poet that he was reading. I have one of these original exercises now by me in his own hand. It is the story of Acis and Galatea, from Ovid; and was translated when he was but fourteen years old." Pope appears to have sometimes employed the term imitation with the same latitude, and probably meant by it that he endeavoured to imitate, in the English turn of expression, the distinctive beauties of the original Latin or Greek. "In the scattered lessons I used to set myself," he said, "I translated above a quarter of the Metamorphoses, and that part of Statius which was afterwards printed with the corrections of Walsh." The notion, in which Bowles and others acquiesced, that the published translations are a true index of Pope's skill at fourteen, will not bear investigation. Of the Metamorphoses he brought out only two little fragments, which appeared many years later, when they had undergone a thorough revision. The rest of the manuscript would not have been sacrificed if the version had been fit for the public eye without the toil of recasting it. Spence, who possessed the Acis and Galatea, did not think it worth printing as a specimen of Pope's boyish abilities, even when the curiosity respecting his works was at its height. The suppression of all his early pieces, which had not been submitted to a subsequent renovation, is a plain proof of their inferiority. The first translation which he gave to the world was the "Episode of Sarpedon, from the twelfth and sixteenth books of Homer's Iliads." This, and his Pastorals, appeared together, in May, 1709, in Tonson's Sixth Miscellany, and Pope was then twenty-one.

The fragment from Homer included the speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus. "It has," said the poet, "been rendered in English by Sir John Denham, after whom the translator had not the vanity to attempt it for any other reason, than that the episode must have been very imperfect without so noble a part of it." Denham at that period had a much more brilliant reputation than he afterwards retained, and though Pope adopted the language of humility, he must have felt an inward pride in the consciousness that he had distanced so famous a name. His great superiority did not admit of a question, and he must have been well aware that it was his interest to invite a comparison. The specimen was shown in manuscript to Trumbull, who, in his admiration, urged Pope to give a complete translation of the Iliad. The exhortations of Trumbull did not bear fruit till 1713. "I cannot," Pope wrote to him in the November of that year, "deny myself the pleasure of acquainting you how great a proof I have given of my deference to your opinion and judgment, which has at last moved me to undertake the translation of Homer. I can honestly say Sir William Trumbull was not only the first that put this into my thoughts, but the principal encourager I had in it, and though now almost all the distinguished names of quality or learning in the nation have subscribed to it, there is not one of which I am so proud as of yours." When the first volume of the translation appeared in 1715, Pope paid his acknowledgments in the Preface to the eminent men who had specially patronised the work. Not only does he make no mention of Trumbull, but he professes to have yielded to the counsel of a greater authority, and says, "Mr. Addison was the first whose advice determined me to undertake the task." Either the statement in the Preface, or the statement in the letter must be inaccurate, though both Addison and Trumbull may have recommended the scheme.

The "Episode of Sarpedon" is now incorporated in the complete translation to which it led the way. It was not till three years after he had published the fragment from Homer that Pope brought out his translations from the Latin, of which the most ambitious is his version of the first book of the Thebais. He told Spence that in his boyhood "he liked extremely a translation of a part of Statius by some very bad hand." This work bore the title of "An Essay upon Statius, or the five first books of P. P. Statius his Thebais. Done into English verse by T[homas] S[tephens], London, 1648." The verse into which Stephens did his author was for the most part rugged and prosaic, but a few passages are happily turned, and his successor did not disdain to borrow some lines and phrases from him. The principal advantage, however, to Pope of Stephens's attempt was that it enabled him to interpret the original; for his classical education had been defective, and it is clear from his own account, that he could not, without assistance, have construed the Thebais correctly. At eight years of age he was taught his accidence by a priest. He afterwards went to a couple of small schools, where "he lost what he had gained" from his first instructor. "When I came," he said, "from the last of them, all the acquisition I had made was to be able to construe a little of Tully's Offices." For a few months he had another priest for his tutor, and was then left, between twelve and thirteen, to his own resources. The foundation was slight, and he proceeded to raise upon it a hasty superstructure. "I did not," he said, "follow the grammar, but rather hunted in the authors for a syntax of my own; and then began translating any parts that pleased me, particularly in the best Greek and Latin poets. I got the languages by hunting after the stories in the several poets I read, rather than read the books to get the language." He, on another occasion, told Spence that he thought himself the better in some respects for not having had a regular education, since it caused him to read for the sense, whereas schoolboys were taught to read for words. The process was fatal to scholarship. Ignorant, in a great degree, of the rules and idioms of the Latin tongue, it was impossible he should translate with ease or accuracy. But his peculiar training doubtless favoured the early development of his poetic powers. He devoted his boyish years, when the mind was most pliable, to the cultivation of his art, and this incessant practice of versification from childhood was the cause of his precocious excellence.

Pope's admiration for Statius continued throughout his later boyhood, and he preferred him to "all the Latin poets, by much, next to Virgil." He soon began to turn the Thebais into English, and he affirms that his version of the first book was made in 1703. In a note to his letter to Cromwell of Jan. 22, 1709, he placed it earlier still, and declares that it was "done when the author was but fourteen years old." These statements convey an erroneous impression. It appears from the correspondence with Cromwell that more than one-third of the translation was not in existence by January, 1709, when Pope was in his twenty-first year. The piece was not published till 1712, when it came out in Lintot's Miscellany, and the poet at that period was twenty-four. The portions which were not recently translated, were newly corrected, and the whole represents the powers of the man who completed the task, and not of the boy who commenced it.

The translation of the first book of the Thebais must be more highly estimated as a specimen of versification than as an adequate representation of the original. The harmony and phraseology of particular passages are delicious, and verse and language throughout are polished in a high degree. There is one pervading exception to Pope's metrical skill. He has recourse incessantly to an unnatural order of words, and especially he produces his rhymes by placing the verb after the noun it ought to precede. Of this license Dryden says, "We were whipped at Westminster if we used it twice together. I should judge him to have little command of English whom the necessity of a rhyme should force upon this rock, though sometimes it cannot easily be avoided." Pope availed himself of the false construction with a freedom which seriously deforms and enfeebles much of his poetry. He fell into the error before he had discrimination to perceive the blemish, and when his judgment was more mature habit had reconciled him to the distortion.

Warton has not exaggerated the defects of Statius, but he has underrated his merits. The descriptions in the Thebais are vivid, and abound in picturesque circumstances, and natural traits of character. Pope's translation is more vague. His narrative is less perspicuous, less dramatic, less spirited, and less life-like than the original. "There are numberless particulars blameworthy in our author," Pope wrote to Cromwell, "which I have tried to soften in the version." He was not successful in this attempt. Where he departs from his text he seldom tempers an extravagance, and has more often rejected a beauty, or smoothed it down into insipidity. His juvenile taste was for polished generalities, and he shunned circumstantial nature. He had still less relish for primitive simplicity, and he thought that some of the incidents in the Thebais were too humble to be endured.

"When Statius," he says, "comes to the scene of his poem, and the prize in dispute between the brothers, he gives us a very mean opinion of it,--pugna est de paupere regno--very different from the conduct of his master, Virgil, who at the entrance of his poem informs the reader of the greatness of his subject." Pope was led astray by the equivocal meaning of a word. There is no connection between the greatness of a kingdom, and the greatness of a theme for poetic purposes. The poverty of Scotland did not detract from the tragic grandeur of Macbeth. When the fugitive princes in the Thebais quarrel in the vestibule, where they have taken shelter from the storm, and fight with their fists, Pope confused the narrative by omitting the whole account as inconsistent with epic dignity, and sacrificed the characteristics of the original to assimilate the manners to modern usages. If his criticisms had been well founded he should yet have kept to his text. "The sense of an author," says Dryden, "is, generally speaking, to be sacred and inviolable. If the fancy of Ovid be luxuriant, it is his character to be so; and, if I retrench it, he is no longer Ovid. It will be replied that he receives advantage by this lopping of his superfluous branches; but I rejoin that a translator has no such right. When a painter copies from the life, I suppose he has no privilege to alter features and lineaments, under pretence that his picture will look better; perhaps the face which he has drawn would be more exact if the eyes or nose were altered; but it is his business to make it resemble the original." Pope has rendered a few passages with equal beauty and truth, but on the whole the antique colouring, the dramatic traits, and picturesque details are very imperfectly preserved.

FOOTNOTES:

ARGUMENT

Oedipus, King of Thebes, having by mistake slain his father Laius, and married his mother Jocasta, put out his own eyes, and resigned the realm to his sons, Eteocles and Polynices. Being neglected by them, he makes his prayer to the Fury Tisiphone, to sow debate betwixt the brothers. They agree at last to reign singly, each a year by turns, and the first lot is obtained by Eteocles. Jupiter, in a council of the gods, declares his resolution of punishing the Thebans, and Argives also, by means of a marriage betwixt Polynices and one of the daughters of Adrastus, king of Argos. Juno opposes, but to no effect, and Mercury is sent on a message to the shades, to the ghost of Laius, who is to appear to Eteocles, and provoke him to break the agreement. Polynices in the meantime departs from Thebes by night, is overtaken by a storm, and arrives at Argos, where he meets with Tydeus, who had fled from Calydon, having killed his brother. Adrastus entertains them, having received an oracle from Apollo that his daughters should be married to a boar and a lion, which he understands to be meant of these strangers, by whom the hides of those beasts were worn, and who arrived at the time when he kept an annual feast in honour of that god. The rise of this solemnity he relates to his guests, the loves of Phoebus and Psamathe, and the story of Choroebus. He inquires, and is made acquainted with their descent and quality. The sacrifice is renewed, and the book concludes with a hymn to Apollo.

THE FIRST BOOK

STATIUS'S THEBAIS.

Fraternal rage, the guilty Thebes' alarms, Th' alternate reign destroyed by impious arms, Demand our song; a sacred fury fires My ravished breast, and all the muse inspires. O goddess, say, shall I deduce my rhymes 5 From the dire nation in its early times, Europa's rape, Agenor's stern decree, And Cadmus searching round the spacious sea? How with the serpent's teeth he sowed the soil, And reaped an iron harvest of his toil? 10 Or how from joining stones the city sprung, While to his harp divine Amphion sung? Or shall I Juno's hate to Thebes resound, Whose fatal rage th' unhappy monarch found? The sire against the son his arrows drew, 15 O'er the wide fields the furious mother flew, And while her arms a second hope contain, Sprung from the rocks and plunged into the main. But waive whate'er to Cadmus may belong, And fix, O muse! the barrier of thy song 20 At Oedipus: from his disasters trace The long confusions of his guilty race: Nor yet attempt to stretch thy bolder wing, And mighty Cæsar's conqu'ring eagles sing; How twice he tamed proud Ister's rapid flood, 25 While Dacian mountains streamed with barb'rous blood; Twice taught the Rhine beneath his laws to roll, And stretched his empire to the frozen pole; Or long before, with early valour, strove, In youthful arms, t' assert the cause of Jove. 30 And thou, great heir of all thy father's fame, Increase of glory to the Latian name, Oh! bless thy Rome with an eternal reign, Nor let desiring worlds entreat in vain. What though the stars contract their heav'nly space, 35 And crowd their shining ranks to yield thee place; Though all the skies, ambitious of thy sway, Conspire to court thee from our world away; Though Phoebus longs to mix his rays with thine, And in thy glories more serenely shine; 40 Though Jove himself no less content would be To part his throne and share his heaven with thee; Yet stay, great Cæsar! and vouchsafe to reign O'er the wide earth, and o'er the wat'ry main; Resign to Jove his empire of the skies, 45 And people heav'n with Roman deities.

The time will come, when a diviner flame Shall warm my breast to sing of Cæsar's fame: Meanwhile permit, that my preluding muse In Theban wars an humbler theme may chuse: 50 Of furious hate surviving death, she sings, A fatal throne to two contending kings, And fun'ral flames that, parting wide in air, Express the discord of the souls they bear: Of towns dispeopled, and the wand'ring ghosts 55 Of kings unburied in the wasted coasts; When Dirce's fountain blushed with Grecian blood, And Thetis, near Ismenos' swelling flood, With dread beheld the rolling surges sweep, In heaps, his slaughtered sons into the deep. 60 What hero, Clio! wilt thou first relate? The rage of Tydeus, or the prophet's fate? Or how, with hills of slain on ev'ry side, Hippomedon repelled the hostile tide? Or how the youth with ev'ry grace adorned 65 Untimely fell, to be for ever mourned? Then to fierce Capaneus thy verse extend, And sing with horror his prodigious end. Now wretched Oedipus, deprived of sight, Led a long death in everlasting night; 70 But while he dwells where not a cheerful ray Can pierce the darkness, and abhors the day, The clear reflecting mind presents his sin In frightful views, and makes it day within; Returning thoughts in endless circles roll, 75 And thousand furies haunt his guilty soul: The wretch then lifted to th' unpitying skies Those empty orbs from whence he tore his eyes, Whose wounds, yet fresh, with bloody hands he strook, While from his breast these dreadful accents broke. 80 "Ye gods! that o'er the gloomy regions reign, Where guilty spirits feel eternal pain; Thou, sable Styx! whose livid streams are rolled Through dreary coasts, which I though blind behold: Tisiphone, that oft hast heard my pray'r, 85 Assist, if Oedipus deserve thy care! If you received me from Jocasta's womb, And nursed the hope of mischiefs yet to come: If leaving Polybus, I took my way, To Cirrha's temple on that fatal day, 90 When by the son the trembling father died, Where the three roads the Phocian fields divide: If I the Sphinx's riddles durst explain, Taught by thyself to win the promised reign: If wretched I, by baleful furies led, 95 With monstrous mixture stained my mother's bed, For hell and thee begot an impious brood, And with full lust those horrid joys renewed; Then self-condemned to shades of endless night, Forced from these orbs the bleeding balls of sight: 100 Oh hear! and aid the vengeance I require, If worthy thee, and what thou mightst inspire. My sons their old, unhappy sire despise, Spoiled of his kingdom, and deprived of eyes; Guideless I wander, unregarded mourn, 105 Whilst these exalt their sceptres o'er my urn; These sons, ye gods! who with flagitious pride Insult my darkness, and my groans deride. Art thou a father, unregarding Jove! And sleeps thy thunder in the realms above? 110 Thou fury, then some lasting curse entail, Which o'er their children's children shall prevail: Place on their heads that crown distained with gore, Which these dire hands from my slain father tore; Go! and a parent's heavy curses bear; } 115 Break all the bonds of nature, and prepare } Their kindred souls to mutual hate and war. } Give them to dare, what I might wish to see Blind as I am, some glorious villainy! Soon shalt thou find, if thou but arm their hands, 120 Their ready guilt preventing thy commands: Couldst thou some great, proportioned mischief frame, They'd prove the father from whose loins they came." The fury heard, while on Cocytus' brink Her snakes untied, sulphureous waters drink; 125 But at the summons rolled her eyes around, And snatched the starting serpents from the ground. Not half so swiftly shoots along in air The gliding lightning, or descending star. Through crowds of airy shades she winged her flight, 130 And dark dominions of the silent night; Swift as she passed the flitting ghosts withdrew, And the pale spectres trembled at her view: To th' iron gates of Tænarus she flies, There spreads her dusky pinions to the skies. 135 The day beheld, and sick'ning at the sight, Veiled her fair glories in the shades of night. Affrighted Atlas, on the distant shore, Trembled, and shook the heav'ns and gods he bore. Now from beneath Malea's airy height 140 Aloft she sprung, and steered to Thebes her flight; With eager speed the well-known journey took, Nor here regrets the hell she late forsook. A hundred snakes her gloomy visage shade, A hundred serpents guard her horrid head, 145 In her sunk eye-balls dreadful meteors glow: Such rays from Phoebe's bloody circle flow, When lab'ring with strong charms, she shoots from high A fiery gleam, and reddens all the sky. Blood stained her cheeks, and from her mouth there came 150 Blue steaming poisons, and a length of flame: From ev'ry blast of her contagious breath Famine and drought proceed, and plagues, and death. A robe obscene was o'er her shoulders thrown, A dress by fates and furies worn alone. 155 She tossed her meagre arms; her better hand In waving circles whirled a fun'ral brand: A serpent from her left was seen to rear His flaming crest, and lash the yielding air. But when the fury took her stand on high, 160 Where vast Cithæron's top salutes the sky, A hiss from all the snaky tire went round: } The dreadful signal all the rocks rebound, } And through th' Achaian cities send the sound. } Oete, with high Parnassus, heard the voice; 165 Eurotas' banks remurmured to the noise; Again Leucothea shook at these alarms, And pressed Palæmon closer in her arms. Headlong from thence the glowing fury springs, And o'er the Theban palace spreads her wings, 170 Once more invades the guilty dome, and shrouds Its bright pavilions in a veil of clouds. Straight with the rage of all their race possessed, } Stung to the soul, the brothers start from rest, } And all their furies wake within their breast. } 175 Their tortured minds repining envy tears, And hate, engendered by suspicious fears; And sacred thirst of sway; and all the ties Of nature broke; and royal perjuries; And impotent desire to reign alone, 180 That scorns the dull reversion of a throne; Each would the sweets of sov'reign rule devour, While discord waits upon divided power. As stubborn steers by brawny plowmen broke, And joined reluctant to the galling yoke, 185 Alike disdain with servile necks to bear Th' unwonted weight, or drag the crooked share, But rend the reins, and bound a diff'rent way, And all the furrows in confusion lay: Such was the discord of the royal pair, 190 Whom fury drove precipitate to war. In vain the chiefs contrived a specious way, To govern Thebes by their alternate sway: Unjust decree! while this enjoys the state, That mourns in exile his unequal fate, 195 And the short monarch of a hasty year Foresees with anguish his returning heir. Thus did the league their impious arms restrain, But scarce subsisted to the second reign. Yet then, no proud aspiring piles were raised, 200 No fretted roofs with polished metals blazed; No laboured columns in long order placed, No Grecian stone the pompous arches graced; No nightly bands in glitt'ring armour wait Before the sleepless tyrant's guarded gate; 205 No chargers then were wrought in burnished gold, Nor silver vases took the forming mold; Nor gems on bowls embossed were seen to shine, Blaze on the brims, and sparkle in the wine. Say, wretched rivals! what provokes your rage? 210 Say, to what end your impious arms engage? Not all bright Phoebus views in early morn, Or when his ev'ning beams the west adorn, When the south glows with his meridian ray, And the cold north receives a fainter day; 215 For crimes like these, not all those realms suffice, Were all those realms the guilty victor's prize! But fortune now (the lots of empire thrown) Decrees to proud Eteocles the crown: What joys, oh tyrant! swelled thy soul that day, 220 When all were slaves thou couldst around survey, Pleased to behold unbounded power thy own, And singly fill a feared and envied throne! But the vile vulgar, ever discontent, Their growing fears in secret murmurs vent; 225 Still prone to change, though still the slaves of state, And sure the monarch whom they have, to hate; New lords they madly make, then tamely bear, And softly curse the tyrants whom they fear. And one of those who groan beneath the sway 230 Of kings imposed, and grudgingly obey, (Whom envy to the great, and vulgar spite With scandal armed, th' ignoble mind's delight,) Exclaimed--"O Thebes! for thee what fates remain, What woes attend this inauspicious reign? 235 Must we, alas! our doubtful necks prepare, } Each haughty master's yoke by turns to bear, } And still to change whom changed we still must fear? } These now control a wretched people's fate, These can divide, and these reverse the state: 240 Ev'n fortune rules no more!--O servile land, Where exiled tyrants still by turns command. Thou sire of gods and men, imperial Jove! Is this th' eternal doom decreed above? On thy own offspring hast thou fixed this fate, 245 From the first birth of our unhappy state; When banished Cadmus, wand'ring o'er the main, For lost Europa searched the world in vain, And fated in Boeotian fields to found A rising empire on a foreign ground, 250 First raised our walls on that ill-omened plain, Where earth-born brothers were by brothers slain? What lofty looks th' unrivalled monarch bears! How all the tyrant in his face appears! What sullen fury clouds his scornful brow! 255 Gods! how his eyes with threat'ning ardour glow! Can this imperious lord forget to reign, Quit all his state, descend, and serve again? Yet, who, before, more popularly bowed? Who more propitious to the suppliant crowd? 260 Patient of right, familiar in the throne? What wonder then? he was not then alone. O wretched we, a vile, submissive train, Fortune's tame fools, and slaves in ev'ry reign! As when two winds with rival force contend, 265 This way and that, the wav'ring sails they bend, While freezing Boreas, and black Euros blow, Now here, now there, the reeling vessel throw: Thus on each side, alas! our tott'ring state Feels all the fury of resistless fate, 270 And doubtful still, and still distracted stands, While that prince threatens, and while this commands." And now th' almighty father of the gods Convenes a council in the blest abodes: Far in the bright recesses of the skies, 275 High o'er the rolling heav'ns, a mansion lies, Whence, far below, the gods at once survey } The realms of rising and declining day, } And all th' extended space of earth, and air, and sea. } Full in the midst, and on a starry throne, 280 The majesty of heav'n superior shone; Serene he looked, and gave an awful nod, And all the trembling spheres confessed the god. At Jove's assent the deities around In solemn state the consistory crowned. 285 Next a long order of inferior pow'rs Ascend from hills, and plains, and shady bow'rs; Those from whose urns the rolling rivers flow; And those that give the wand'ring winds to blow: Here all their rage, and ev'n their murmurs cease, 290 And sacred silence reigns, and universal peace. A shining synod of majestic gods Gilds with new lustre the divine abodes; Heav'n seems improved with a superior ray, And the bright arch reflects a double day. 295 The monarch then his solemn silence broke, The still creation listened while he spoke, Each sacred accent bears eternal weight, And each irrevocable word is fate. "How long shall man the wrath of heav'n defy, 300 And force unwilling vengeance from the sky! Oh race confed'rate into crimes, that prove Triumphant o'er th' eluded rage of Jove! This wearied arm can scarce the bolt sustain, And unregarded thunder rolls in vain: 305 Th' o'erlaboured Cyclops from his task retires, Th' Æolian forge exhausted of its fires. For this, I suffered Phoebus' steeds to stray, And the mad ruler to misguide the day; When the wide earth to heaps of ashes turned, 310 And heaven itself the wand'ring chariot burned. For this, my brother of the wat'ry reign } Released th' impetuous sluices of the main: } But flames consumed, and billows raged in vain. } Two races now, allied to Jove, offend; 315 To punish these, see Jove himself descend. The Theban kings their line from Cadmus trace, From godlike Perseus those of Argive race. Unhappy Cadmus' fate who does not know, And the long series of succeeding woe? 320 How oft the furies, from the deeps of night, Arose, and mixed with men in mortal fight: Th' exulting mother, stained with filial blood; The savage hunter and the haunted wood; The direful banquet why should I proclaim, 325 And crimes that grieve the trembling gods to name? Ere I recount the sins of these profane, } The sun would sink into the western main, } And rising, gild the radiant east again. } Have we not seen (the blood of Laius shed) 330 The murd'ring son ascend his parent's bed, Through violated nature force his way, And stain the sacred womb where once he lay? Yet now in darkness and despair he groans, And for the crimes of guilty fate atones. 335 His sons with scorn their eyeless father view, Insult his wounds, and make them bleed anew. Thy curse, oh Oedipus, just heav'n alarms, And sets th' avenging thunderer in arms. I from the root thy guilty race will tear, 340 And give the nations to the waste of war. Adrastus soon, with gods averse, shall join In dire alliance with the Theban line; Hence strife shall rise, and mortal war succeed; The guilty realms of Tantalus shall bleed; 345 Fixed is their doom; this all-rememb'ring breast Yet harbours vengeance for the tyrant's feast." He said; and thus the queen of heav'n returned; (With sudden grief her lab'ring bosom burned) "Must I, whose cares Phoroneus' tow'rs defend, 350 Must I, oh Jove, in bloody wars contend? Thou know'st those regions my protection claim, Glorious in arms, in riches, and in fame: Though there the fair Egyptian heifer fed, And there deluded Argus slept, and bled; 355 Though there the brazen tower was stormed of old, When Jove descended in almighty gold: Yet I can pardon those obscurer rapes, Those bashful crimes disguised in borrowed shapes; But Thebes, where shining in celestial charms 360 Thou cam'st triumphant to a mortal's arms, When all my glories o'er her limbs were spread, And blazing light'nings danced around her bed; Cursed Thebes the vengeance it deserves, may prove: Ah why should Argos feel the rage of Jove? 365 Yet since thou wilt thy sister-queen control, Since still the lust of discord fires thy soul, Go, raze my Samos, let Mycene fall, And level with the dust the Spartan wall; No more let mortals Juno's pow'r invoke, } 370 Her fanes no more with eastern incense smoke, } Nor victims sink beneath the sacred stroke; } But to your Isis all my rites transfer, Let altars blaze and temples smoke for her; For her, through Egypt's fruitful clime renowned 375 Let weeping Nilus hear the timbrel sound. But if thou must reform the stubborn times, Avenging on the sons the father's crimes, And from the long records of distant age Derive incitements to renew thy rage; 380 Say, from what period then has Jove designed To date his vengeance; to what bounds confined? Begin from thence, where first Alpheus hides } His wand'ring stream, and through the briny tides } Unmixed to his Sicilian river glides. } 385 Thy own Arcadians there the thunder claim, Whose impious rites disgrace thy mighty name; Who raise thy temples where the chariot stood Of fierce Oenomaus, defiled with blood: Where once his steeds their savage banquet found, 390 And human bones yet whiten all the ground. Say, can those honours please; and canst thou love Presumptuous Crete that boasts the tomb of Jove? And shall not Tantalus's kingdoms share Thy wife and sister's tutelary care? 395 Reverse, O Jove, thy too severe decree, Nor doom to war a race derived from, thee; On impious realms and barb'rous kings impose Thy plagues, and curse 'em with such sons as those." Thus, in reproach and pray'r, the queen expressed 400 The rage and grief contending in her breast; Unmoved remained the ruler of the sky, And from his throne returned this stern reply: "'Twas thus I deemed thy haughty soul would bear } The dire, though just, revenge which I prepare } 405 Against a nation thy peculiar care: } No less Dione might for Thebes contend, Nor Bacchus less his native town defend; Yet these in silence see the fates fulfil Their work, and rev'rence our superior will. 410 For by the black infernal Styx I swear, (That dreadful oath which binds the thunderer) 'Tis fixed; th' irrevocable doom of Jove; No force can bend me, no persuasion move. Haste then, Cyllenius, through the liquid air; 415 Go, mount the winds, and to the shades repair; Bid hell's black monarch my commands obey, And give up Laius to the realms of day, Whose ghost yet shiv'ring on Cocytus' sand, Expects its passage to the further strand: 420 Let the pale sire revisit Thebes, and bear These pleasing orders to the tyrant's ear; That from his exiled brother, swelled with pride Of foreign forces, and his Argive bride, Almighty Jove commands him to detain 425 The promised empire, and alternate reign: Be this the cause of more than mortal hate: The rest, succeeding times shall ripen into fate." The god obeys, and to his feet applies Those golden wings that cut the yielding skies. 430 His ample hat his beamy locks o'erspread, And veiled the starry glories of his head. He seized the wand that causes sleep to fly, Or in soft slumbers seals the wakeful eye; That drives the dead to dark Tartarean coasts, 435 Or back to life compels the wand'ring ghosts. Thus, through the parting clouds, the son of May Wings on the whistling winds his rapid way; Now smoothly steers through air his equal flight, Now springs aloft, and tow'rs th' ethereal height; 440 Then wheeling down the steep of heav'n he flies, And draws a radiant circle o'er the skies. Meantime the banished Polynices roves (His Thebes abandoned) through th' Aonian groves, While future realms his wand'ring thoughts delight, 445 His daily vision and his dream by night; Forbidden Thebes appears before his eye, From whence he sees his absent brother fly, With transport views the airy rule his own, And swells on an imaginary throne. 450 Fain would he cast a tedious age away, And live out all in one triumphant day. He chides the lazy progress of the sun, And bids the year with swifter motion run. With anxious hopes his craving mind is tost, 455 And all his joys in length of wishes lost. The hero then resolves his course to bend } Where ancient Danaus' fruitful fields extend, } And famed Mycene's lofty towers ascend, } (Where late the sun did Atreus' crimes detest, 460 And disappeared in horror of the feast.) And now by chance, by fate, or furies led, From Bacchus' consecrated caves he fled, Where the shrill cries of frantic matrons sound, And Pentheus' blood enriched the rising ground. 465 Then sees Cithæron tow'ring o'er the plain, And thence declining gently to the main. Next to the bounds of Nisus' realm repairs, Where treach'rous Scylla cut the purple hairs: The hanging cliffs of Sciron's rock explores, 470 And hears the murmurs of the diff'rent shores: Passes the strait that parts the foaming seas, And stately Corinth's pleasing site surveys. 'Twas now the time when Phoebus yields to night, And rising Cynthia sheds her silver light, 475 Wide o'er the world in solemn pomp she drew Her airy chariot hung with pearly dew; All birds and beasts lie hushed; sleep steals away The wild desires of men, and toils of day, And brings, descending through the silent air, 480 A sweet forgetfulness of human care. Yet no red clouds, with golden borders gay, Promise the skies the bright return of day; No faint reflections of the distant light Streak with long gleams the scatt'ring shades of night: 485 From the damp earth impervious vapours rise, Encrease the darkness, and involve the skies. At once the rushing winds with roaring sound Burst from th' Æolian caves, and rend the ground, With equal rage their airy quarrel try, 490 And win by turns the kingdom of the sky: But with a thicker night black Auster shrouds The heav'ns, and drives on heaps the rolling clouds, From whose dark womb a rattling tempest pours, Which the cold north congeals to haily show'rs. 495 From pole to pole the thunder roars aloud, And broken lightnings flash from ev'ry cloud. Now smoaks with show'rs the misty mountain-ground, And floated fields lie undistinguished round. Th' Inachian streams with headlong fury run, 500 And Erasinus rolls a deluge on: The foaming Lerna swells above its bounds, And spreads its ancient poisons o'er the grounds: Where late was dust, now rapid torrents play, Rush through the mounds, and bear the dams away: 505 Old limbs of trees from crackling forests torn, Are whirled in air, and on the winds are borne: The storm the dark Lycæan groves displayed, And first to light exposed the sacred shade. Th' intrepid Theban hears the bursting sky, 510 Sees yawning rocks in massy fragments fly, And views astonished, from the hills afar, The floods descending, and the wat'ry war, That, driv'n by storms, and pouring o'er the plain, Swept herds, and hinds, and houses to the main. 515 Through the brown horrors of the night he fled, Nor knows, amazed, what doubtful path to tread; His brother's image to his mind appears, Inflames his heart with rage, and wings his feet with fears. So fares a sailor on the stormy main, 520 When clouds conceal Boötes' golden wain, When not a star its friendly lustre keeps, Nor trembling Cynthia glimmers on the deeps; He dreads the rocks, and shoals, and seas, and skies, While thunder roars, and lightning round him flies. 525 Thus strove the chief, on every side distressed, Thus still his courage, with his toils increased; With his broad shield opposed, he forced his way Through thickest woods, and roused the beasts of prey, Till he beheld, where from Larissa's height 530 The shelving walls reflect a glancing light: Thither with haste the Theban hero flies; } On this side Lerna's pois'nous water lies, } On that Prosymna's grove and temple rise: } He passed the gates, which then unguarded lay, 535 And to the regal palace bent his way; On the cold marble, spent with toil, he lies, And waits till pleasing slumbers seal his eyes. Adrastus here his happy people sways, Blest with calm peace in his declining days; 540 By both his parents of descent divine, Great Jove and Phoebus graced his noble line: Heaven had not crowned his wishes with a son, But two fair daughters heired his state and throne. To him Apollo (wondrous to relate! 545 But who can pierce into the depths of fate?) Had sung--"Expect thy sons on Argos' shore, A yellow lion and a bristly boar." This long revolved in his paternal breast, Sate heavy on his heart, and broke his rest; 550 This, great Amphiaraus, lay hid from thee, Though skilled in fate, and dark futurity. The father's care and prophet's art were vain, For thus did the predicting god ordain. Lo hapless Tydeus, whose ill-fated hand 555 Had slain his brother, leaves his native land, And seized with horror in the shades of night, Through the thick deserts headlong urged his flight: Now by the fury of the tempest driv'n, He seeks a shelter from th' inclement heav'n, 560 Till, led by fate, the Theban's steps he treads, And to fair Argos' open court succeeds. When thus the chiefs from diff'rent lands resort T' Adrastus' realms, and hospitable court; The king surveys his guests with curious eyes, 565 And views their arms and habit with surprise. A lion's yellow skin the Theban wears, Horrid his mane, and rough with curling hairs; Such once employed Alcides' youthful toils, Ere yet adorned with Nemea's dreadful spoils. 570 A boar's stiff hide, of Calydonian breed, Oenides' manly shoulders overspread. Oblique his tusks, erect his bristles stood, Alive, the pride and terror of the wood. Struck with the sight, and fixed in deep amaze, 575 The King th' accomplished oracle surveys, Reveres Apollo's vocal caves, and owns The guiding godhead, and his future sons O'er all his bosom secret transports reign, And a glad horror shoots through ev'ry vein. 580 To heav'n he lifts his hands, erects his sight, And thus invokes the silent queen of night. "Goddess of shades, beneath whose gloomy reign Yon spangled arch glows with the starry train: You who the cares of heav'n and earth allay, } 585 Till nature quickened by th' inspiring ray } Wakes to new vigour with the rising day: } Oh thou who freest me from my doubtful state, Long lost and wildered in the maze of fate! Be present still, oh goddess! in our aid; 590 Proceed, and firm those omens thou hast made. We to thy name our annual rites will pay, And on thy altars sacrifices lay; The sable flock shall fall beneath the stroke, And fill thy temples with a grateful smoke. 595 Hail, faithful Tripos! hail, ye dark abodes Of awful Phoebus: I confess the gods!" Thus, seized with sacred fear, the monarch prayed; Then to his inner court the guests conveyed; Where yet thin fumes from dying sparks arise, } 600 And dust yet white upon each altar lies, } The relics of a former sacrifice. } The king once more the solemn rites requires, And bids renew the feasts, and wake the fires. His train obey, while all the courts around 605 With noisy care and various tumult sound. Embroidered purple clothes the golden beds; This slave the floor, and that the table spreads; A third dispels the darkness of the night, And fills depending lamps with beams of light. 610 Here loaves in canisters are piled on high, And there in flames the slaughtered victims fry. Sublime in regal state Adrastus shone, Stretched on rich carpets on his iv'ry throne; A lofty couch receives each princely guest; 615 Around, at awful distance, wait the rest. And now the king, his royal feast to grace, Acestis calls, the guardian of his race, Who first their youth in arts of virtue trained, And their ripe years in modest grace maintained; 620 Then softly whispered in her faithful ear, And bade his daughters at the rites appear. When from the close apartments of the night, The royal nymphs approach divinely bright; Such was Diana's, such Minerva's face; 625 Nor shine their beauties with superior grace, But that in these a milder charm endears, And less of terror in their looks appears. As on the heroes first they cast their eyes, O'er their fair cheeks the glowing blushes rise, 630 Their downcast looks a decent shame confessed, Then on their father's rev'rend features rest. The banquet done, the monarch gives the sign To fill the goblet high with sparkling wine, Which Danaus used in sacred rites of old, 635 With sculpture graced, and rough with rising gold. Here to the clouds victorious Perseus flies, } Medusa seems to move her languid eyes, } And, ev'n in gold, turns paler as she dies. } There from the chace Jove's tow'ring eagle bears, 640 On golden wings, the Phrygian to the stars: Still as he rises in th' ethereal height, His native mountains lessen to his sight; While all his sad companions upward gaze, Fixed on the glorious scene in wild amaze; 645 And the swift hounds, affrighted as he flies, Run to the shade, and bark against the skies. This golden bowl with gen'rous juice was crowned, The first libations sprinkled on the ground, By turns on each celestial pow'r they call; 650 With Phoebus' name resounds the vaulted hall. The courtly train, the strangers, and the rest, Crowned with chaste laurel, and with garlands dressed, While with rich gums the fuming altars blaze, Salute the god in num'rous hymns of praise. 655 Then thus the king: "Perhaps, my noble guests, These honoured altars, and these annual feasts To bright Apollo's awful name designed, Unknown, with wonder may perplex your mind. Great was the cause; our old solemnities 660 From no blind zeal, or fond tradition rise; But saved from death, our Argives yearly pay These grateful honours to the god of day. "When by a thousand darts the Python slain With orbs unrolled lay cov'ring all the plain, 665 (Transfixed as o'er Castalia's streams he hung, And sucked new poisons with his triple tongue) To Argos' realms the victor god resorts, And enters old Crotopus' humble courts. This rural prince one only daughter blest, 670 That all the charms of blooming youth possessed; Fair was her face, and spotless was her mind, Where filial love with virgin sweetness joined. Happy! and happy still she might have proved, Were she less beautiful, or less beloved! 675 But Phoebus loved, and on the flow'ry side Of Nemea's stream, the yielding fair enjoyed: Now, ere ten moons their orb with light adorn, Th' illustrious offspring of the god was born; The nymph, her father's anger to evade, 680 Retires from Argos to the sylvan shade; To woods and wilds the pleasing burden bears, And trusts her infant to a shepherd's cares. "How mean a fate, unhappy child! is thine? Ah how unworthy those of race divine? 685 On flow'ry herbs in some green covert laid, His bed the ground, his canopy the shade, He mixes with the bleating lambs his cries, } While the rude swain his rural music tries } To call soft slumbers on his infant eyes. } 690 Yet ev'n in those obscure abodes to live, Was more, alas! than cruel fate would give, For on the grassy verdure as he lay, And breathed the freshness of the early day, Devouring dogs the helpless infant tore, 695 Fed on his trembling limbs, and lapped the gore. Th' astonished mother, when the rumour came, Forgets her father, and neglects her fame; With loud complaints she fills the yielding air, And beats her breast, and rends her flowing hair; 700 Then wild with anguish to her sire she flies: Demands the sentence, and contented dies. "But touched with sorrow for the dead too late, The raging god prepares t' avenge her fate. He sends a monster, horrible and fell, 705 Begot by furies in the depths of hell. The pest a virgin's face and bosom bears; } High on a crown a rising snake appears, } Guards her black front, and hisses in her hairs: } About the realm she walks her dreadful round, 710 When night with sable wings o'erspreads the ground, Devours young babes before their parents' eyes, And feeds and thrives on public miseries. "But gen'rous rage the bold Choroebus warms, Choroebus, famed for virtue, as for arms; 715 Some few like him, inspired with martial flame, Thought a short life well lost for endless fame. These, where two ways in equal parts divide, } The direful monster from afar descried; } Two bleeding babes depending at her side; } 720 Whose panting vitals, warm with life, she draws, And in their hearts embrues her cruel claws. The youths surround her with extended spears; But brave Choroebus in the front appears, Deep in her breast he plunged his shining sword, 725 And hell's dire monster back to hell restored. Th' Inachians view the slain with vast surprize, Her twisting volumes and her rolling eyes, Her spotted breast, and gaping womb embrued With livid poison, and our children's blood. 730 The crowd in stupid wonder fixed appear, Pale ev'n in joy, nor yet forget to fear. Some with vast beams the squalid corpse engage, And weary all the wild efforts of rage. The birds obscene, that nightly flocked to taste, 735 With hollow screeches fled the dire repast; And rav'nous dogs, allured by scented blood, And starving wolves ran howling to the wood. "But fired with rage, from cleft Parnassus' brow } Avenging Phoebus bent his deadly bow, } 740 And hissing flew the feathered fates below: } A night of sultry clouds involved around The tow'rs, the fields, and the devoted ground: And now a thousand lives together fled, } Death with his scythe cut off the fatal thread, } 745 And a whole province in his triumph led. } "But Phoebus, asked why noxious fires appear, And raging Sirius blasts the sickly year, Demands their lives by whom his monster fell, And dooms a dreadful sacrifice to hell. 750 "Blest be thy dust, and let eternal fame Attend thy manes, and preserve thy name, Undaunted hero! who divinely brave, In such a cause disdained thy life to save; But viewed the shrine with a superior look, 755 And its upbraided godhead thus bespoke: "With piety, the soul's securest guard, And conscious virtue, still its own reward, Willing I come, unknowing how to fear; Nor shalt thou, Phoebus, find a suppliant here. 760 Thy monster's death to me was owed alone, And 'tis a deed too glorious to disown. Behold him here, for whom, so many days, Impervious clouds concealed thy sullen rays; For whom, as man no longer claimed thy care, 765 Such numbers fell by pestilential air! But if th' abandoned race of human kind From gods above no more compassion find; If such inclemency in heav'n can dwell, } Yet why must unoffending Argos feel } 770 The vengeance due to this unlucky steel? } On me, on me, let all thy fury fall, Nor err from me, since I deserve it all: Unless our desert cities please thy sight, Or fun'ral flames reflect a grateful light. 775 Discharge thy shafts, this ready bosom rend, And to the shades a ghost triumphant send; But for my country let my fate atone, Be mine the vengeance, as the crime my own. "Merit distressed, impartial heav'n relieves: 780 Unwelcome life relenting Phoebus gives; For not the vengeful pow'r, that glowed with rage, With such amazing virtue durst engage. The clouds dispersed, Apollo's wrath expired, And from the wond'ring god th' unwilling youth retired. 785 Thence we these altars in his temple raise, And offer annual honours, feasts, and praise; These solemn feasts propitious Phoebus please; These honours, still renewed, his ancient wrath appease." "But say, illustrious guest," adjoined the king, 790 "What name you bear, from what high race you spring? The noble Tydeus stands confessed, and known Our neighbour prince, and heir of Calydon. Relate your fortunes, while the friendly night And silent hours to various talk invite." 795 The Theban bends on earth his gloomy eyes, Confused, and sadly thus at length replies: "Before these altars how shall I proclaim, O gen'rous prince! my nation, or my name, Or through what ancient veins our blood has rolled? 800 Let the sad tale for ever rest untold! Yet if propitious to a wretch unknown, You seek to share in sorrows not your own; Know, then, from Cadmus I derive my race, Jocasta's son, and Thebes my native place." 805 To whom the king (who felt his gen'rous breast Touched with concern for his unhappy guest) Replies: "Ah! why forbears the son to name His wretched father, known too well by fame? Fame, that delights around the world to stray, 810 Scorns not to take our Argos in her way. Ev'n those who dwell where suns at distance roll, In northern wilds, and freeze beneath the pole; And those who tread the burning Lybian lands, The faithless Syrtes and the moving sands; 815 Who view the western sea's extremest bounds, Or drink of Ganges in their eastern grounds; All these the woes of Oedipus have known, Your fates, your furies, and your haunted town. If on the sons the parents' crimes descend, 820 What prince from those his lineage can defend? Be this thy comfort, that 'tis thine t' efface, } With virtuous acts, thy ancestor's disgrace, } And be thyself the honour of thy race. } But see! the stars begin to steal away, 825 And shine more faintly at approaching day; Now pour the wine; and in your tuneful lays Once more resound the great Apollo's praise." "O father Phoebus! whether Lycia's coast And snowy mountain, thy bright presence boast; 830 Whether to sweet Castalia thou repair, And bathe in silver dews thy yellow hair; Or pleased to find fair Delos float no more, Delight in Cynthus, and the shady shore; Or choose thy seat in Ilion's proud abodes, 835 The shining structures raised by lab'ring gods; By thee the bow and mortal shafts are borne; Eternal charms thy blooming youth adorn: Skilled in the laws of secret fate above, And the dark counsels of almighty Jove, 840 'Tis thine the seeds of future war to know, The change of sceptres, and impending woe, When direful meteors spread, through glowing air, Long trails of light, and shake their blazing hair. Thy rage the Phrygian felt, who durst aspire 845 T' excel the music of thy heav'nly lyre; Thy shafts avenged lewd Tityus' guilty flame, Th' immortal victim of thy mother's fame; Thy hand slew Python, and the dame who lost Her num'rous offspring for a fatal boast. 850 In Phlegyas' doom thy just revenge appears, Condemned to furies and eternal fears; He views his food, but dreads, with lifted eye, The mould'ring rock that trembles from on high. "Propitious hear our prayer, O pow'r divine! 855 And on thy hospitable Argos shine; Whether the style of Titan please thee more, Whose purple rays th' Achæmenes adore; Or great Osiris, who first taught the swain In Pharian fields to sow the golden grain; 860 Or Mitra, to whose beams the Persian bows, And pays, in hollow rocks, his awful vows; Mitra, whose head the blaze of light adorns, Who grasps the struggling heifer's lunar horns."

FOOTNOTES:

The time may come when a divinor rage.]