Epistolary POEMS etc. UPON Several Occasions.   

Epistolary Poems; ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS: With several of the Choicest Stories OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES AND Tibullus' Elegies.  
Translated into English Verse By Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS.  
LONDON: Printed by R. E for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head near the Inner Temple-Gate, in Fleetstreet. M DC XCIV.   

TO Anthony Hammond, Esq  
THE following Verses, aught in Justice to be Yours, since, not only the best part of them were made at Your House, but they were made designedly for You, so that this is not a Dedication writ to a Book, but a Book writ to a Dedication; which, however, is the nicest part a Writer has to manage; for the most deserving Men, are the most averse to be told so, and what would please all their Friends and Acquaintance, would displease themselves; which makes the Poet at a loss, whether to dissatisfy one, or many; his Readers, or his Patron.  
But since I have already found it easier to You, to oblige, than to receive thanks for an Obligation, to do no violence to Your Modesty, I must do one to my own Justice, and desist from a Theme, which I could so willingly enlarge upon, but You so unwillingly read.  
I shall say little of the following Essays, either of the Originals I Translated them from, or the Translations: One thing, in general, I find from my own Experience; That where there is most Life, and Spirit, in the Author, the Translator is carried on, with the greater vigour and vivacity; as a Man swims faster in a Stream, than a standing Water; but where the Original is flat, and low, the Translator must be at the pains to raise him; so that the best things, are the easiest to be done; and the dullest, the most difficult.  
It were presumption in one of my Years, to pretend to give an account of the Authors whom I have chosen, or their Works; to commend their Excellencies, or condemn their Faults; and of the two, I dare venture to say the least of Ovid; when he himself, and all that he has writ, have been already so well, and so fully treated of, in Mr. Dryden's Preface before his Epistles.  
But I cannot choose but wonder, That a Book so extremely delightful, so sort, and sweet, as Tibullus, has lain so long unattempted▪ but there is a Friend of ours, whom, I hope, he has been all along reserved for, and then, he will be in the best hands he could have fallen into  
Of the three Elegies that I have ventured on; the first, from toward the middle to the end, and the whole third, pleased me infinitely; the second I did merely for the sake of the last Ten, or Twelve Lines.  
Tibullus must, certainly, have felt all he Writ, for He could never have feigned so much Passion so well; and I am apt to believe, it was not his Poetry, made him so fond, and tender a Lover▪ but rather his Love, that made him so sweet, and excellent a Poet; were it not that I should take him out of better hands, I would have attempted to have Englished him all, for I flatter myself with a Fancy, that, in some things, I am somewhat of his Temper, and, how far short soever I come of him in his Poetry, I resemble him, but too nearly, in some other Circumstances.  
I was almost running into a Complaint, that would have been both unjust, and ingrateful; for since I knew You, all occasion of Complaint has been taken from me. Your Acquaintance, would have been of itself sufficient, to endear You to any Man; but Your Favours to me, began with, and even outran Your Acquaintance: I dare not proceed, tho' on a Subject which I am very loath to leave; permit me to add only this, that since most who ever writ, have sometimes stood in need of Favours from other Men, and since the same Fortune has attended me, I am glad however, that it threw me on You to receive them, than whom, I know none I could have been more willingly obliged to, for them.  
I am, Sir, Your most Affectionate, Obliged, Humble Servant. Charles Hopkins.   
POEMS UPON Several Occasions.  

To the Right Honourable CHARLES Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, etc.  
AS Nature does in newborn Infants frame,  
With their first Speech, their careful Fost'rer's Name;  
Whose needful Hands their daily Food provide,  
And by whose aid, they have their wants supplied.  
You are, my Lord, the Poet's earliest Theme,  
And the first word he speaks, is Dorset's Name.  
To You the Praise of every Muse is due,  
For every Muse is kept alive by You.  
Their boasted stream, from your rich Ocean pours,  
And all the Helicon they drink, is yours.  
What other Subject can the Muses choose,  
Or who besides is worthy of a Muse?  
They shall to future Ages make you known,  
Their Verse shall give you Fame; but more, your own.  
Immortal Wit shall its great Patron boast,  
When others, of an equal Rank, are lost.  
While eating Time, all other Tombs devours,  
No Mausoleum shall endure, but yours.  
Life to yourself, by your own Verse you give,  
And only you, and whom you please, shall live.  
Thus, you must Nassau's Godlike Acts proclaim,  
And farther than his Trumpets sound his Fame.  
Whose hundred mouths of nothing else shall tell,  
But Him who fought, and him who sung so well.  
Even after death, you shall your Honour's share,  
You, for improving Wit, and He, for War.   

TO Walter Moyle, Esq  
TO you, dear Youth, in these unpolished Strains,  
And rural Notes, your exiled Friend complains.  
With pain, this tedious Banishment I bear  
From the dear Town, and you, the dearest there.  
Hourly, my thoughts present before my view,  
Those charming Joys, which once, alas! I knew,  
In Wine, in Love, in Friendship, and in you.  
Now Fortune has withdrawn that pleasing Scene,  
We must not for a while appear again.  
Here, in its stead, unusual Prospects rise,  
That dull the Fancy, and disgust the Eyes.  
Bleak Groves of Trees, shaken by the Northern Winds,  
And heavy Aspects of unthinking Hinds.  
No beauteous Nymph to fire the Youthful heart,  
No Swain instructed in the Muses Art.  
Hammond alone, is from this Censure free,  
Hammond, who makes the same complaint with me;  
Alike on both, the want of you does strike,  
Which both repine at, and lament alike;  
While here I stay, condemned to Desert Fields,  
Denied the Pleasures which the City yields,  
My Fortunes, by the chance of War depressed,  
Lost at these years, when I might use them best.  
To crown your Youth, conspiring Graces join,  
Honour, and Bounty, Wealth and Wit, are thine.  
With Charms united, every Heart you move,  
Esteem in Men, in vanquished Virgins, Love.  
Tho' clogged with cares, I drag my restless hours,  
I envy not the flowing ease of yours;  
Still may they roll with circling Pleasures on,  
Nor you neglect to seize them, as they run.  
Time hastes away with an impetuous flight,  
And all its Joys soon vanish from our sight,  
Which we shall mourn, we used not, while we might.  
In full delights, let sprightly Southern live,  
With all that Women, and that Wine, can give.  
May generous Wicherly, all Sufferings past,  
Enjoy a well-deserved Estate, at last.  
Fortune, with Merit, and with Wit, be Friends,  
And sure, tho' slowly, make a large amends.  
Late, very late, may the Great Dryden die,  
But when deceased, may Congreve rise as high.  
To him, my Service, and my Love commend,  
The greatest Wit, and yet the truest Friend.  
Accept, dear Moyle, a Letter writ in haste,  
Which my impatient Friendship dictates fast.  
Friendship, like Love, imperfectly expressed,  
Yet by their being so, they're both shown best.  
Each, no cold leisure for our thoughts affords,  
But at a heat, strikes out our eager words.  
The Soul's emotion, most her truth assures,  
Such as I feel, while I subscribe me  
YOURS.   

TO Anthony Hammond, Esq  
AS when a Prophet feels the God retired,  
By whom he had a long time lain inspired,  
His Eyes no more with Sacred Fury roll,  
No more Divine Impulses move his Soul:  
The Fires that warmed him, with the God are gone,  
The Deity with-drawn, the Charm is done.  
So now my Muse can no more Rapture boast,  
Since you went hence, her Inspiration's lost.  
Robbed of her Flame, all languishing she lies,  
And, Swanlike, only sings before she dies.  
But you, my Friend, to different Fortune move,  
And crown your days with Wine, your nights with Love.  
In endless bliss, unbounded time you waste,  
Your ravishing Delights, for ever last.  
Long, long ere this, you've often been possessed,  
Of all your wish could frame to make you blest.  
When you, and Southern, Moyle, and Congreve meet,  
The best, good Men, with the best-natured Wit.  
Good Wine, good Company, the better Feast,  
And whenever Wicherly is present, best.  
Then, than your Joys are perfectly complete,  
And Sacred Wit is at the Noblest height.  
Oh! how I long to be allowed to share,  
And gain a Fame, by mingling with you there.  
The Country now can be no longer born,  
And since you first are gone, I must return;  
I come, I come, dear Hammond, to pursue  
Pleasures I cannot know, deprived of you.  
Restless, as Lovers, till we meet, I live,  
And envy this, because 'twill first arrive.  
With Joy I learned, Dryden designs to crown,  
All the great things he has already done.  
No Loss, no change of Vigour, can he feel;  
Who dares attempt the Sacred Mantuan still.  
Adieu—  
And yet methinks, I owe too much to you,  
To part so Coldly with a bare Adieu.  
But what Requital can I make you more?  
You've put all Recompense beyond my Power.  
Fain would my working Thoughts contrive a way,  
For every generous Man's in pain to pay.  
'tis not a suitable return I give,  
Yet what it is, my best-good Friend, receive;  
Take the best Wishes of a grateful Soul;  
Congreve, and Moyle, and you, possess it whole.  
Take all the Thanks, a Country Muse can send,  
And in accepting this, oblige your Friend.   

To C. C. Esq.  
IN vain, my Friend, so often I remove,  
I find that Absence, still increases Love;  
The barbarous Foe, like an ingrateful Guest,  
Too strongly lodged, possesses all my Breast.  
Gladly, I suffered him to share my Soul,  
But now the Traitor, has usurped it whole,  
I burn with Pains, too great to be endured,  
And yet I neither can, nor would be cured,  
In other Ills, all Remedies we try,  
But fond of this, we grow content to Die.  
For all were useless here to help my Grief,  
And I should strive in vain, to find Relief.  
In vain, I rushed amidst the Thundering War,  
Endeavoured all in vain, to meet it there;  
In all the heat of Fight, I thought on her.  
If conquering Camps refused to give me ease,  
The Town at my return, affords me less.  
Without concern, its Wealth, and Pomp I see,  
And all its Pleasures are but lost on me;  
If, with my Friends, I should to Plays resort,  
Without a Smile I see the Comic Sport.  
I mingle no Applauses with the Pit,  
Nor mind the Action, nor the Author's Wit.  
I see the shining Beauties sit around,  
But have no room left for another Wound.  
I fly for Refuge to the Country now,  
But that is Savage, and denies it too.  
Retirement still foments the raging Fire,  
And Trees, and Fields, and Floods, and Verse conspire,  
To spread the Flame, and heighten the desire.  
Wildly I Range the Woods, and Trace the Groves,  
To every Oak, I tell my hopeless Loves,  
Torn by my Passion, to the Earth I fall,  
I kneel to all the Gods, I Pray to all.  
Nothing but Echo answers to my Prayer,  
And she speaks nothing, but Despair, Despair.  
I give relentless Heaven this last Reply,  
I do despair, and will resolve to Die.   

THE Story of PHOEBUS and DAPHNE. FROM THE First Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses.  

NO Beauteous Nymph, could Youthful Phoebus move,  
Till Daphne's Charms inspired him first with Love.  
A Virgin, sprung from Peneus Silver Stream,  
Fair as the Crystal Waters, whence she came.  
No blind Effects of Chance subdued the God,  
But just Revenge which injured Cupid owed.  
For Phoebus saw him as his Bow he drew,  
And Scoffing, cried, those are not Arms for you.  
To me your Quiver, and your Shafts resign,  
They load your Shoulders, but sit well on mine;  
Your Arrows drop from your enervate Arm,  
And are not sent with Force enough to Harm;  
But when I shoot, with my unerring hands,  
On the fleet Shaft, as fleet a Death attends.  
Witness the monstrous Python lately slain,  
Against whose Scales, your Darts had been in vain,  
He still had lived, and ravaged all the Plain.  
In yonder Vale, by me, behold him killed,  
Shedding his poisonous Gore, o'er all the Field.  
Be you content to kindle amorous Fires,  
Inspiring childish Loves, and soft Desires;  
Attempt not things beyond your feeble Powers,  
Hold your own Empire, and usurp not ours.   

The slighted God, in short, replies, by thee,  
Let other Breasts be pierced, but thine by me.  
As Humane Force is Conquered by Divine,  
So shalt thou find my Powers, excelling thine.  
He spoke, and spread his wings, and mounted up,  
Nor rested, till he reached Parnassus' top.  
From his full Quiver all his Darts he drew,  
And, from them all, he made his choice of two.  
Differing the Passions, which their Points create,  
The one producing Love, the other Hate:  
With this, the beauteous Virgin's Breast he piersed;  
But he wounds Phoebus' deeper with the first.  
High on the Mountain's utmost Cliff he stood,  
And took his fatal aim, and shot the God:  
Swiftly it flies through his envenomed Reins;  
Fires all his Blood, and poisons all his Veins.  
The deadly Shafts their purposed ends obtain;  
Work Love in him, in her as fierce Disdain.  
Her only joy, was ranging through the Grove,  
To shun her Lovers, and their tales of Love.  
There the wild Boars were wounded with her Spear:  
Her only passion was to conquer there.  
All her Attire was like Diana's Train,  
Alike her Humour, in avoiding Men.  
Her numerous Courtiers, met with numerous slights,  
She fled from Hymen, and his hated Rites:  
Oft had her Father prompted her to wed;  
By fond desires of future Grandson led:  
Oft had he told her, that she owed a debt,  
Of smiling Nephews, which he hoped for yet.  
She starts, and thinks she understands him wrong,  
Nor would have heard it from another Tongue.  
Then hanging on her Father, thus she prayed,  
Oh! only loved of all your Sex, she said,  
Oh! give me leave to live, and die a Maid.  
He, too indulgent, yields, but yields in vain,  
To what she cannot from herself obtain;  
That matchless Form was made to be admired,  
And she is, in her own despite, desired:  
The youthful Phoebus courts her for his Bride,  
And loves too fiercely to be long denied.  
With hopes, he would not, for his Godhead, lose,  
By his own Oracles deceived, he woos.  
As fires, in spacious fields of Stubble thrown,  
When the first blaze of flame is once begun,  
The winds, with fury, drive the torrent on:  
So burns the God, and so receives the fires,  
And soothes, with flattering hopes, his fond desires▪  
He sees her Hair dishevelled on her back,  
And part, in circles, twining round her neck.  
If such their Charms (disordered thus) he cried,  
Ah! what if Nature were with Art supplied.  
He sees her sparkling Eyes, that shine like Stars,  
But with an Influence far more strong than theirs.  
He sees her balmy Lips, and longs to kiss;  
For, oh! he is not satisfied he sees.  
Her Hands, and Arms, fill his unwearied sight;  
He looks on all, with wonder, and delight.  
He sees her snowy thighs, her swelling breast;  
If ought lay hid, he still concludes it best:  
And yet, in vain, is all the God can say,  
The dear, disdainful Virgin will not stay,  
But flies the swifter, as she hears him pray.   

Stay Daphne, stay, it is no Foe pursues,  
I follow not as lustful Satyrs use:  
The trembling Deer, fly from the Lion so,  
The Lambs from Wolves, each from his mortal Foe.  
They, by their swift pursuit, their prey design;  
But Love, the tenderest Love, occasions mine.  
Beware, dear Maid, left any barbarous thorn,  
Tear those soft Limbs, too beauteous to be torn.  
Rough are the ways you follow with such speed,  
Ah! yet beware, be cautious how you tread;  
Or stay, or do not make such dangerous haste,  
I too will stay, or not pursue so fast.   

Stay, Daphne, stay, ah! whither do you run?  
Alas! fond Nymph, you know not whom you eat.  
No Rustic labouring Hind, no Savage Swain,  
I keep no lowing Herds upon the Plain.  
Delphos, and Tenedos, my Rule obey,  
In several Isles, I several Sceptres sway.  
All Nations offer Incense at my Shrine,  
And all those Beams that light the World are mine.  
Jove does acknowledge me his Darling Son,  
And gives me Power, the greatest, next his own.  
I know what Time bears in her teeming Womb,  
And all that was, and is, and is to come.  
I Teach soft Numbers to the Mighty Nine,  
The wondrous Harmony they make, is mine.  
Sure are the wounds I send from every Dart,  
But Love made surer, when he pierced my Heart.  
To the sick Earth, safe Remedies I give,  
Allotting Man a longer time to Live;  
To me, the use of every Herb is known,  
Vain Art, alas! since Love is cured by none.  
To all besides, they do their Aid afford,  
Unable only to relieve their Lord.   

Much more, he would have told the flying Fair,  
But the regardless Virgin would not hear.  
With doubled swiftness, she outruns the wind,  
And leaves his yet unfinished Speech behind.  
The winds, that tossed her flowing Robes abroad,  
Showed a whole Heaven of Beauty to the God.  
Her naked Limbs to his full view displayed;  
The God, the Ravished God, saw all the Maid.  
Her every step inflames his fierce Desires,  
Her every motion fans the raging Fires.  
Still the Fair Nymph grew lovelier as she fled,  
Lose in the Air, her Golden Locks were spread,  
And her Cheeks glowed, with an unusual red.  
Th' impatient God admits no more delay,  
And throws no more unheeded words away:  
Stronger, his pliant Limbs he strives to move,  
Love urges on, he takes new force from Love.  
So the swift Greyhound, when his Game he views,  
With eager stretch, o'er all the Plain pursues.  
Now comes so near, that he is forced to stoop,  
With the false hopes he has to snatch her up.  
The trembling Hare, runs on with dreadful doubt,  
Whether she is already seized, or not.  
She uses all her Art to help her flight▪  
And doubles, just enough, to scape the bite.  
So Daphne flies, winged with her Mortal Fear,  
Winged with his Love, so Phoebus follows her.  
But he still gains advantage in the Race,  
For Love redoubles his impetuous Pace▪  
With Arms expanded, he pursues the Fair,  
And plies his eager Feet so very near,  
She feels his Breath warm through her flying Hair.  
Now, as her utmost force was well-nigh spent,  
And her o're-laboured Legs began to faint;  
Her course to that delightful Stream she bends,  
Which from her Father's Silver Urn descends:  
With moving Looks, the water she surveys,  
And thus the sad, and lovely Suppliant preys.  
Oh! save me yet, ere I am quite betrayed,  
Exert your Godhead, and preserve a Maid.  
To some new Form, change my too Charming Shape.  
O▪ let me lose my Being, to escape.  
Immediate grant, was given her as she prayed,  
And sudden numbness through her Limbs was spread;  
Thin films o'er all her lovely Frame are cast,  
And with close folds, they compass in her waste.  
Her Hair to Leaves, her Arms to Branches shoot,  
Her Feet, deprived of swiftness, form the Root;  
Her beauteous Head changed to the levy top,  
And yet not wholly, ere the God came up.  
For now he ran with more immoderate speed,  
But not with haste enough t' embrace the Maid.  
Still Lovely, tho' of Humane Shape bereft,  
And he still Loves her, in the Shape she has left.  
He lays his Hand upon the new-made Plant,  
While yet her Heart, beneath the Rind did pant,  
He clasped her, with the thought of what she had been,  
And, oh! he wished her still the same, as then;  
With the same scorn his Kisses she disdained,  
Her scorn, alas! was all she still retained.  
I have thee now, such as thou art, he cried,  
And thou shalt be my Tree, tho' not my Bride.  
My Quiver shall be hung upon thy Boughs,  
And thy dear Leaves, be wreathed about my Brows.  
Thou shalt the Heads of Demigods Adorn,  
And be by Poets, and their Heroes, worn;  
When Caesar shall from vanquished Nations come,  
Drawn in his Chariot through the Streets of Rome;  
When to the Capitol their Spoils they bring,  
And Jo Paeans make the Temple ring:  
Then, planted at Augustus' gilded doors,  
Thou, like an Household God, shalt guard his floors.  
And as the Tresses on my Youthful Head,  
Keep their first Lustre still, and never fade;  
The verdant Beauty of thy Leaves shall last,  
Not to be withered by the Winter's blast.  
Thus the God finished, and the Laurel bowed,  
Her branches down, to thank the bounteous God.    

Part of the Story of JUPITER and EUROPA; From the latter end of the Second Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses.  

GReatness does always our Desires oppose,  
And Majesty, and Love, are Mortal Foes.  
Jove knew too well, it hindered the Design,  
He could not compass in a Form Divine.  
He casts his Eagle off, and Royal Crown,  
And lets his Bolts fall to the Pavement, down.  
Divested thus, he quits the blessed Abode,  
Without one mark left to reveal the God:  
He that was wont to Reign, and Rule on High,  
And shake the World with Thunder from the Sky;  
Of all the Gods, the most adored and feared,  
Now changes to a Bull, and joins the Herd.  
Large Curls adorned his Front, and hid his Chest,  
Of all, he seemed by far the Noblest Beast,  
By something still distinguished from the rest.  
His whiteness did the new-fal'n Snow excel,  
While it remains unfullyed, as it fell.  
His Horns were small, like glittering Jewels bright,  
And seemed designed for Beauty, more than Fight  
His peaceful Look, no signs of Fury shows,  
He wears no marks of Terror on his Brows.  
The Royal Maid beheld him with delight,  
Surprised with pleasure at th' unusual sight:  
Yet was her pleasure first allayed with fear,  
Till by degrees at last, advancing near,  
With Flowers, more welcome than his Heavenly Food,  
(Given by those hands) she fed the ravished God.  
Softly, with secret joy, those hands he pressed,  
And too too eager, to be wholly blest,  
Hardly, ah! hardly, he forbears the rest.  
Now with large leaps, he bounds upon the Land,  
Anon, he rolls along the Golden Sand.  
As her fears vanished, she approached the Beast;  
And venturing farther, stroked his painting Breast,  
And crowned his Horns with Flowers; too venturous at the last.  
More Favours thus th'unwary Nymph bestowed,  
Than she had given him, had he seemed a God.  
Still daring more, down on his Back she sat,  
Alas! she knew not who sustained her weight.  
Then, than the God rose with his wished-for Prey,  
And, winged with his Success, soon reached the Sea.  
Vain were her Cries, all her Resistance vain,  
While Jove in Triumph bore her through the Main.  
She casts her eyes on the forsaken Coast,  
Which lessened, till the view was wholly lost.  
She sighed, and wept, and looked despairing back,  
Yet still she held his Horns, still clasped his Neck  
While with the Winds her loser Garment flowed,  
And spread a grateful Covering o'er the God.    

The STORY of CINYRAS and MYRRAH▪ FROM THE Tenth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses.  

FAr, far from hence, you virtuous Maids remove,  
Fly from a Story of incestuous Love.  
Be not a Father, nor his Daughter near,  
I sing of things unfit for such to hear.  
But should you listen, and believe them true,  
Believe the Vengeance that attends them too.  
If Sin could reach to such a dismal height,  
And Nature suffer an abuse so great:  
Yet when she bore so monstrous an Offence,  
'Tis well the Scene was laid remote from hence.  
From vengeful Gods, our World exempted stands,  
There are no Judgements due to guiltless Lands.  
Her Gums, and Perfumes, let Arabia boast,  
Forgetful of the mighty price they cost.  
While Myrrah spreads her impious Branches there,  
Her Sweets are purchased, at a Rate too dear.  
The God of Love, to clear himself from blame,  
Denies he gave the wound, or raised the Flame.  
The Brands of Furies kindled this Desire,  
And thy devoted Bosom did inspire,  
With a large share of their Infernal Fire.  
To hate your Father, were a dreadful Fate;  
And yet to love him thus, is worse than hate.  
Look on the Princes of the shining East,  
Whose only strife is, who should please you best.  
By the loud Fame of conquering Beauty led,  
A Royal Troop of Lovers court your Bed:  
From the whole World, choose one, and make him blest,  
Excepting one, take any of the rest.  
She was too conscious of her impious Love,  
Which, when she long had laboured to remove,  
Her last recourse, was to the Powers above.  
By what resistless Fury am I driven?  
Defend me Piety, preserve me Heaven.  
Expel this raging Passion from my Soul,  
Oh! let me never act a Crime so foul.  
If thats a Crime, which yet your partial Powers,  
Allow to every Kind they form, but ours.  
All Creatures else, without distinction join,  
Regard no limits, and respect no Line.  
The feathered Kind, fly mingled with their Young;  
Birds, pair with Birds, from whom of late they sprung.  
The Lawless Herds, in flowery Pastures feed,  
And, by promiscuous Leaps, increase their breed.  
Unbounded; o'er the spacious Plains they range,  
Choose, as they please, and as they please, they change.  
Wisely, with Nature, happy Brutes comply,  
And as she prompts them, they improve their joy;  
But, foolish Man, against himself conspires,  
Inventing Laws, to curb his free desires.  
Industrious, to destroy his own content,  
He makes those bars, which Nature never meant.  
Yet there are Nations, no such Customs bind;  
Where Men, and Women, all in common joined,  
With doubled Love, exalt their generous Kind.  
Where Daughters, with indulgent Fathers wed,  
And, without scandal, mount the Genial Bed.  
Had my Stars placed my Birth in such a Clime,  
I might have had my wish, without a Crime.  
I might have been, of all I Love, possessed,  
Like them, I had Enjoyed, like them, been Blest.  
Hence, Impious Thoughts, from my distracted Brain,  
Be gone all hopes, since all, alas! are vain;  
Tho' he possesses, Charms enough to move,  
The coldest Virgin to the warmth of Love.  
Yet to that warmth, my Passion must not rise,  
For I must view him, with a Daughter's Eyes.  
Were I not so, all my desires were free,  
Alas! it is a Sin in none, but me.  
Engaged already, in too strict a tye,  
I might be nearer, were I not so nigh.  
Should Piety advise me to remove,  
Where I might possibly forget my Love.  
In vain, I should endeavour to be gone,  
Compelled to stay, by what I seek to shun.  
Still to be present in his lovely sight,  
Still gaze on him, in whom my Eyes delight,  
Talk, touch, and kiss, do more, if more I might.  
Wretch that I am! ah! whither do I run?  
Is there not too, too much, already done?  
How would the Act, all ties of Blood confound,  
And think, oh! think, how would your Titles sound?  
Your Father's Whore, a Mother to the Son,  
Born of your Mother; Sister to your own.  
Oh! what remorse will such an Action bring,  
How fiercely will a guilty Conscience sting?  
How will the Furies haunt your anxious Breast,  
And rob your Soul, of her Eternal Rest?  
Advance their Torches, to your dazzled sight,  
By Day in Visions, and in Dreams, by Night?  
Since then, Divine, and Human Laws forbid,  
Our Bodies e'er should join in such a deed,  
Let not the Thought itself reception find,  
But banish it, for ever, from your mind.  
Could you resolve, were you so lost to shame;  
Durst you attempt a deed, you dare not name!  
Still, the foul Crime, would his concurrence want,  
Which he, ah! too, too good, will never grant.  
Oh! that I could myself from Love redeem,  
Or that an equal fury reigned in him.  
In Thoughts like these, the beauteous Virgin mused,  
Now blamed her guilty Passion, now excused.  
In the mean time, th' Ambitious Rivals strove,  
To Court the Father, for the Daughter's Love.  
He at a loss, which Prince he should prefer,  
Where all deserved alike; consults with her.  
He makes their Fortunes, Names, and Titles known,  
But hides his Thoughts, and leaves her to her own.  
Fixed on his Eyes, the Maid her silence kept,  
And wracked with secret tortures, blushed, and wept.  
He thinking this the effect of Virgin fears,  
Kissed her drowned Cheeks, and dried her flowing Tears.  
The welcome Kiss, shot through her Ravished Soul,  
And almost caused her, to reveal the whole.  
Again, his former question he renews,  
What Choice she made, where she had such to choose.  
Frequent demands, this short Confession drew,  
Him I like most, who most resembles you.  
But he, Good Man, by Piety betrayed,  
Mistakes the meaning, and commends the Maid.  
Believes those words did from her Duty flow,  
And bids her to continue ever so.  
While on the ground, her guilty looks she bend,  
For she knew better, what her Answer meant.  
'Twas Midnight now, and Mankind lay refreshed,  
They, and their Cares, in Universal Rest.  
But Myrrah wakes, scorched with impetuous fires,  
And struggles to resist her fierce desires.  
Despair, and shame, hope, fear, and fury roll,  
And work a tempest in her troubled Soul.  
Like fight winds, tumultuous passions mix,  
Toss to, and fro, and know not where to fix,  
As in a spacious Wood, a stately Oak,  
That labours long beneath the Axe's stroke.  
With the last blow, nods e'er its dreadful fall,  
And threatening every side, is feared on all.  
So roll the thoughts in her uncertain mind;  
And now to Virtue, now to Vice, inclined:  
Death, was the only choice she could approve,  
Death, a less ill, as well as end of Love.  
When straight her trembling Hands a girdle tie  
To the tall Roof, where she designs to die.  
Then fixed the noose, and sinking from the beam,  
With her last words, invoked her Father's Name.  
Farewell, she cried, dear Cinyras farewell,  
Learn by my Death, what now I dare not tell.  
The broken murmurs reached her Nurse's Ears,  
Lodged in a small Apartment joining hers.  
Who, with amazement, starting from her Bed,  
Runs to the doors of the despairing Maid.  
Where entered, by the glimmering Tapers light,  
Her trembling Eyes discern the dismal sight,  
And a loud shriek proclaims her mortal fright.  
Feebly she hastes to snatch her from her Fate,  
And, with stretched hands, takes down the lovely weight.  
Then first she found the leisure to lament,  
Her Words an utterance, and her Tears a vent.  
Closely her Aged Arms her Charge embrace,  
With floods of woe she baths her beauteous Face,  
And streams from Myrrha's Eyes, kept equal pace.  
Tell me your griefs, she cried, my Royal care,  
Tell, what occasions this accursed despair.  
Her kill anguish no return affords,  
Tears blind her Eyes, and groans suppress her words.  
New fury works her rising Passions high,  
Now doubled, by her vain attempt to die.  
Still the Good Nurse all soft Endearments used,  
In hopes to learn, what she was still refused.  
Turn here, she cries, look on these silver hairs,  
Grown thus, alas! with sorrow, more than Years.  
Look on these Breasts, whence your first Food you drew;  
These Hands, so often tired in holding you.  
Think on that fondness, those indulgent cares,  
With which I reared you, in your tender years.  
All these persuasions unregarded dye,  
Or Tears, and Sighs, were all the sad reply.  
Repulse, upon repulse, with grief she bore,  
Yet still insists, resolved to hazard more.  
Let my past Services, says she, entreat,  
And do not, do not think me useless yet.  
In me repose your cares, on me rely,  
On one so tender, so concerned, as I.  
Your ills, to what sad height soever grown,  
Shall quickly be redressed, or never known.  
Madness, by sacred numbers is expelled,  
And Magic, will to stronger Magic yield.  
If the dire wrath of Heaven this fury raised,  
Heaven is with Sacrifice, and Prayer appeased.  
From what cause else, can these disorders grow?  
In a smooth tide, your rising Fortunes flow.  
No loss, your Subjects, or your Friends sustain,  
No Wars disturb your Father's peaceful Reign.  
The mention of that dear, that fatal Name,  
Swelled her loud sighs, and spread her raging Flame.  
Yet in the Nurse, this no suspicion moved  
Of such a Crime, tho' she perceived she loved.  
Now, more than ever, her desires increased,  
Having obtained so much, to learn the rest:  
With trembling Arms, she clasps the weeping Maid,  
And in her lap reclined her lovely Head.  
I know thou lov'st, she cried, no more conceal  
A Truth, which Virgins need not blush to tell.  
Long since, its Nature, and its force, I knew,  
And cannot wonder at it, now, in you.  
Yet tho' you Love, you have no cause to grieve,  
Could I no counsel, no assistance give,  
You, your own Birth, and Beauty would relieve.  
Your Chains, no Monarch would refuse to wear,  
Of no Imperial Crown, need you despair.  
Should not your Father, whom you choose, approve,  
He shall be still a Stranger to your Love.  
Again, that Name; a cruel Image brought  
Of dreadful Gild, to her distracted thought.  
Fiercely she rose, and springing to the Bed,  
Be gone, without reply, be gone, she said,  
Spare the confusion of a wretched Maid.  
Use no entreaties to me more, but go,  
You ask me that, which 'twere a Sin to know.  
Strange terrors on the Aged Matron seize,  
Who, falling prostrate at the Virgin's Knees,  
No Arguments, that might prevail, forgets;  
But plies her, now with flattery, now with threats.  
Conjures her to discover all her woes,  
Or menaces, to publish all she knows.  
Faintly, at that, her mournful Head she rears,  
And baths her Nurse's Bosom with her Tears.  
Oft would the fatal Secret have revealed,  
Which Gild, and conscious Shame, as oft withheld.  
When hiding, with her Robes, her blushing look,  
As loath herself to hear the Words she spoke.  
Thus much, at last, confusedly she expressed,  
Oh! Mother, in your envied Nuptials blest:  
There breaks abruptly off; and spoke in groans the rest.  
Cold tremble chilled the Matron's frozen Blood,  
And her faint Legs scarce bear their shaking load;  
Her hoary Hairs upright with horror rise,  
And ghastly Fears, stared wildly in her Eyes.  
All that she ought, in such a Case, she said,  
But, all in vain, endeavoured to dissuade;  
The Maid lived only, that she might enjoy,  
And if that failed, she still knew how to Die.  
The Thoughts of so much Gild, distract the Nurse;  
But Myrrha's threatened Death, confounds her worse.  
Live, and possess, she cried; there paused with Shame,  
Not hardened yet enough, to add a Father's Name.  
Now the fixed Time for Ceres' Feasts was near,  
Observed by Cyprian Matrons once a year:  
All in their white and spotless Garments dressed;  
Such as denoted Innocence the best.  
Denied, the space of these mysterious Rites,  
The touch of Man, nine whole revolving Nights.  
The Queen, in person, does the Pomp adorn,  
All offering grateful Gifts of early Corn.  
Thus, from his Bed, his beauteous Partner gone,  
The Widowed King possessed it all alone.  
The Nurse, too diligent in ill, would miss  
No Opportunity, that served like this.  
She went, and found, to favour her Design,  
The vigorous Prince already warm with Wine;  
Then tells him of a Maid with wondrous Charms,  
A Mistress, worthy of a Monarch's Arms.  
Her Face, and Form, with Myrrha's, she compares,  
In Beauty equal, and of equal years.  
The King, new Passion from her praises caught,  
And, all inflamed, commands her to be brought.  
Swift, with the dreadful Message she returned,  
And found the lovely Nymph, where still she mourned.  
Rejoice, she cried, th'approaching Night shall crown  
All your desires, the Conquest is your own.  
No real joys on her Success attend,  
Of which her soul presaged some dismal end;  
Her labouring Heart, with different Motions beat;  
Now Fear, now Joy, usurped the Sovereign Seat,  
And, long contending, made the Tumult great.  
All Doubts, at length, resistless Love destroys,  
And left a fatal room for impious joys.  
The day was fled, and no bright Tracks remained,  
But through whole Nature, Night and Silence reigned.  
On goes the desperate Virgin, to pursue  
A Crime too foul, for heavens chaste Eyes to view.  
The Silver Moon, averse to such a sight,  
Fled from her darkened Orb, no streak of light,  
No glimmering Star, shot through the dismal Night.  
Thrice, in loud Screams of Woe, the Screech-owl's mourn,  
And thrice she falls, to warn her to return.  
No bodings could the venturous Maid recall,  
Resolved on ruin, she contemns them all.  
The darkness of the Night dispelled her fears,  
While not a blush, for her bold Crime, appears.  
One hand upon her Nurse supported lay,  
Holding her other stretched to feel the way.  
Soon, with bold Steps, to the dire Room she comes,  
But soon as entered, all her fears resumes.  
Courage her Heart, and Blood her Face, forsaken,  
Her bending Knees on one another struck,  
And every loosened Joint with Horror shook.  
Her working thoughts a livelier Prospect drew  
Of Gild, more dreadful at a nearer view.  
Increasing Fear quite damps her impious Fire,  
Who, now grown cold, and dead to all desire,  
Reputes her Crime, and would, unknown, retire.  
But now, the Nurse urged on th' unwilling Maid,  
Till coming where th' impatient King was laid:  
Receive, she cries, a Virgin wholly thine,  
And then; oh! breach of all things Sacred and Divine,  
In Hellish Lust, Father and Daughter join.  
He, as less guilty, felt the less of fear,  
And, in the midst of horror, comforts her.  
He called her Daughter, as if that expressed  
His tender Love, and different Age, the best.  
She used th' indearing name of Father too,  
And each gave Titles to their Incest due.  
Full of her Father, now she leaves his Bed,  
Her impious Womb, swollen with incestuous Seed,  
Where Crimes unknown, and monstrous Vices breed.  
Next Night their guilty Pleasures they repeat,  
Another followed, and another yet.  
When he, desirous to behold, at last,  
The soft kind Nymph whom he so oft embraced.  
With a Torch, lighted at a fatal time,  
Discerned at once his Daughter, and his Crime.   

His rage, and grief, no room for words afford,  
But speechless at the sight, he snatched his Sword;  
Frighted she flies, assisted by the Night,  
Whose darkness sheltered, and secured her flight.  
Far from her Country, and those conscious Fields,  
Unknown, she wanders on through spacious wild's.  
Till, with the Burden in her Womb oppressed,  
Her staggering Limbs required their needful rest.  
Scarce knowing what to pray for, and at strife,  
Betwixt the fear of Death, and hate of Life;  
Long she revolved on what she thought might move,  
And thus, at last, invokes the Powers above.   

On you, great Gods, in these Extremes I call,  
Just is your Vengeance, I deserve it all.  
Yet, lest alive I should infection spread,  
Or my foul guilt, in Death, pollute the dead,  
Allow my wretched Life no longer date,  
But, by some change, deny me either State.   

Here, the fair Penitent concludes her Prayers,  
Which Heaven, (still open to confession,) hears.  
She feels her Legs, now covered with the ground,  
And her numbed Feet in welcome Fetters bound.  
The spreading Root shoots downward from her Toes,  
On which the lofty Bowl supported grows,  
To Pith her Marrow turns, her Bones to Wood,  
Fed by the Sap, which was of late the Blood.  
Her Arms great Boughs, her Finger's form the small,  
Her once soft Skin, now hardened, covers all.  
Now, her big Womb, the rising Bark suppressed,  
Which now creeps higher o'er her panting Breast.  
When she, impatient in her change to lose  
Her hated Being, and her cruel Woes;  
Sunk down within the Tree, whose closing top,  
For ever locked her charming Beauties up.  
Who, tho' she lost all other Sense with Life,  
She still retains that wretched one of Grief.  
Her lasting Sorrows in her Tears are shown,  
Which, from her Bark, course one another down.  
Those Tears are precious too, and keep the Name,  
Of that unhappy Fair One, whence they came.    

The STORY of CEYX and HALCYONE; FROM THE Eleventh Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses.  
ARGUMENT.  
Ceyx's, the Son of Lucifer, and King of Trachis, a City in Thessaly, having been alarmed by several Prodigies, prepares to go and consult Apollo's Oracle at Claros, to learn the Will of Heaven, and receive the God's Instructions: His Voyage: The Description of a Storm and Shipwreck: The Description of the God of Sleep, and his Palace: The Lamentation of Halcyone, the Daughter of Aeolus, and Wife of Ceyx, for the loss of her Husband; with the change of both into Sea Fowls, called after her name, Halcyons; are the Subjects of the following Verses; beginning with her Speech to her Husband, to dissuade him from his intended Voyage.  
HOw are you changed of late, my Love, how grown  
So tired of me, so pressing to be gone?  
What have I done, to make my Lord remove  
So far from her, who once had all his Love?  
Is your Halcyone no longer dear?  
Or, to whatever place your course you steer,  
Can you enjoy yourself, and she not there?  
Yet, if you went by Land, 'twere some relief,  
For all that would torment me then, were Grief.  
But now, at once, with Grief, and Fear, oppressed,  
A thousand anxious thoughts destroy my rest,  
And not one dawn of Comfort cheers my Breast.  
The faithless Seas are what, alas! I fear,  
I must not let my Ceyx's venture there.  
Oft have I heard their troubled waters roar,  
And seen their foaming waves surmount the Shore.  
Oft seen the wreck come floating to the Coast,  
And venturous Wretches by their Folly lost.  
Nor have I seldom, sad Inscriptions read,  
On Marble Tombs, which yet enclosed no Dead.  
Let me alone, my Ceyx, be believed,  
And be not by your flattering hopes deceived.  
Trust not the Seas, although my Father binds,  
Within his Rocky Caves, the struggling Winds.  
If once broke loose, nought can their Rage restrain,  
They sweep o'er all the earth, swell all the Main;  
Drive Clouds on Clouds, by an abortive Birth,  
From their dark Wombs, flashing the Thunder forth.  
More, more than what my feeble words express,  
Which only represent their fury less.  
Let me persuade, for I have seen them rage,  
Seen all the Wars, the fight Winds could wage.  
Did you, like me, their stern Encounters know,  
As daring as you are, you would not go.  
If all this fail to move your stubborn mind,  
And you will go, oh! leave not me behind.  
Take me along, let me your Fortune's share,  
There's nought too hard for Love like mine to bear.  
In Storms, and Calms, together let us keep,  
Together brave the dangers of the Deep,  
The grant of this, my flattering Love assures,  
Which knows no Joys, and feels no Griefs but yours.  
Thus spoke the lovely Queen, all drowned in Tears,  
Nor was her Husband's Passion less than hers.  
Yet would he not his first Resolves recall,  
Nor, suffering her to venture, hazard all.  
He said, whate'er he fancied might abate  
Her Griefs, although his own were full as great.  
Yet, all in vain, he laboured to remove  
The tender fears of her Prophetic Love.  
Still the same Sighs from her heaved Heart arise,  
And the same Streams still bubble at her Eyes.  
All this succeeding not, My Love, he cried,  
(The last best Speech, that could be then applied.)  
To you should Ceyx's absence tedious seem,  
Believe that yours is not less so to him:  
For, by my Father's brightest Fires, I swear,  
By your dear self, believe my mournful Dear,  
ere twice the Moon renews her blunted Horns,  
If Destiny permits, your Love returns.  
This just sufficed to ease her troubled Heart,  
And of her many Cares, dispel a part.  
And now he bids them Launch without delay,  
While she took truce with Grief, to Sail away.  
That last Command awaked her sleeping Fears,  
And she again seemed all dissolved in Tears.  
Around his Neck, her circling Arms she threw,  
And, mixed with Sighs, forced out a faint Adieu.  
Then, as he left her hold, too feeble grown,  
(Robbed of her dear Support) to stand alone,  
The last sad pangs, at parting, sunk her down.  
Th' impatient Seamen call upon their Lord,  
And almost bear him thence by force, aboard.  
Then, having fixed their Oars, begin to sweep,  
And cleave, with well-timed strokes, the yielding Deep.  
Faintly, her opening Eyes the Ship survey,  
Which bears her Lord, and her last hopes away.  
In their own Tears, her trembling Eyeballs swim,  
Which hindered not, but she distinguished him:  
Too distant now for words, aloft he stands,  
On the tall Deck, and she upon the Sands,  
Wafts her last Farewell, with her lifted hands.  
Then, as the Ship drove farther from the Coast,  
And that dear Object in the Crowd was lost;  
The flying Bark, her following Eyes pursue;  
That gone, the Sails employed her latest view.  
All out of sight, she seeks the widowed Bed,  
Where Ceyx and herself so oft were laid.  
But now half filled, the sad remembrance moved,  
Of the dear Man, who made the whole beloved.  
By this, the gathering Winds began to blow,  
Their useless Oars, the joyful Seamen stow.  
Then hoist their Yards, while loosened from the Masts,  
The wide-stretched Sails receive the coming Blasts.  

Description of a Storm, and Shipwreck.  

NOw, far from either Shore, they ploughed their way,  
And all behind them, and before, was Sea.  
When, with the growing Night, the Winds rose high,  
And swelling Seas, presaged a Tempest nigh.  
Aloud the Master cries, furl all the Sails,  
No longer spread, to catch the flying Gales.  
But his Commands are born unheard away,  
Drowned in the roar of a far louder Sea.  
Yet, of themselves, their tasks the Sailors know,  
And are, by former Storms, instructed now.  
Some to the Masts the struggling Canvas bind,  
And leave free passage to the raging Wind.  
Some stop the Leaks, while some the Billows cast  
Back on the Sea, which rolls them back as fast.  
Thus, in confusion, they their parts perform,  
While fight Winds increase th' impetuous Storm.  
Amazed, the Pilot sees the Waves come on,  
Too thick, and fast, for his weak Skill to shun.  
On every side the threatening Billows fall,  
And Art is at a loss to escape them all.  
The cries of Men, the rattling of the Shrouds,  
Floods dashed on Floods, and Clouds encountering Clouds.  
Fierce Winds beneath, above, a thundering Sky,  
Unite their Rage to work the Tempest high.  
Vast Billows, after Billows, tumbling come,  
And rolling Seas grow white with angry foam;  
To mountainous heights, the swelling Surges rise,  
Waves piled on waves, seem equal with the Skies.  
Now rushing headlong with a rapid Force,  
Look black as Hell, to which they bend their course.  
The Ship on rising Seas is lifted up,  
And now seems seated on a Mountain top,  
Surveying thence the Stygian Lakes that flow,  
And roll their distant Waters far below;  
Now downwards, with the tumbling Billows driven,  
From Hell's profoundest depth, looks up to Heaven.  
Waves after waves, the shattered Vessel crush,  
All sides alike they charge, on all they rush.  
While with a noise th' assaulting Billows roar,  
As loud as battering Rams, that force a Tower.  
As Lions, fearless, and secure from harms,  
Rush with prodigious Rage on pointed Arms:  
Chafed, if repulsed, they run the fiercer on,  
And lash themselves to Fury, as they run.  
So roll the Seas, with such resistless force,  
And gather strength in their impetuous course:  
Now start the Planks, and leave the Vessel's sides  
Wide open, to receive the conquering Tides:  
In at the breach the raging waters come,  
All pressing to pursue their Conquest home.  
Fierce Neptune now, who long alone had striven,  
(As if too weak himself) seeks aid from Jove.  
Whole Heaven dissolves in one continued rain,  
Descending, in a deluge, to the Main,  
Whose mounting Billows toss it back again▪  
Seeming, by turns, each other to supply;  
The Sky the Seas, and now the Seas the Sky▪  
Showers join with Waves, and pour in Torrents down,  
And all the Floods of Heaven and Earth grow one.  
No glimpse of light is seen, no sparkles fly,  
From friendly Stars, through the benighted sky.  
Double the horror of the night is grown,  
The Tempest's Darkness added to her own:  
Till thundering Clouds strike out a dismal light,  
More dreadful than the depth of blackest night.  
Upwards the waves, to catch the flames, aspire,  
And all the rolling surges seem on fire.  
Now o'er the Hatches, mad with rage, they tower;  
And strive, possessed of them, to conquer more:  
As a brave Soldier, whom the strong desire,  
And burning thirst of Glory set on fire,  
With more than common ardour in his breast,  
And higher hopes, spurred farther than the rest;  
Oft scales, in vain, a well defended Town,  
But mounts at length, and leaps victorious down.  
Alone, of all, the dreadful shock abides,  
While thousand others perish by his sides.  
So the tenth Billow, rolling from afar,  
More vigorous than the rest, maintains the War:  
Now gains the Deck, and, with Success grown bold,  
Pours thence in Triumph down, and sacks the Hold.  
Part, still without, the battered sides assail,  
And where that led the way, attempt to scale.  
As in a Town, already half possessed,  
By Foes within it, and without it pressed.  
All tremble, of their last defence bereft,  
And see no hope of any safety left.  
No aid, their oft successful Arts, can boast;  
At once their Courage, and their Skill is lost.  
Helpless, they see the raging waters come,  
Each threatens Death, and each presents a Tomb.  
One mourns his Fate in loud Complaints, and Tears,  
Another, more astonished, quite forbears  
From sighs, or words, too faint to tell his fears.  
This, calls them blessed, who Funeral Rites receive,  
Possessed, in quiet, of a Peaceful Grave.  
This, rears his suppliant hands unto the Sky,  
And vainly looks to what he cannot spy.  
This, thinks upon the Friends he left behind,  
And his (now Orphan) Children rack his mind;  
Halcyone, alone, could Ceyx stir,  
His anxious thought ran all alone on her.  
One farewell view of her was all his care,  
And yet he then rejoiced she was not there.  
For a last look, fain would he turn his eyes  
On her Abode, but knows not where it lies.  
The Seas so whirl, with such prodigious might,  
While pitchy Clouds, obscuring Heaven from sight,  
Increase the native horror of the Night.  
Now splits the Mast, by furious Whirlwinds torn,  
And now, the Rudder to the Seas is born.  
A Billow, with those Spoils encouraged, rides,  
Aloft, in Triumph o'er the lower Tides.  
Thence, as some God had plucked up Rocks, and thrown  
Whole Mountains on the Main, she tumbles down.  
Down goes the Ship, with her unhappy Freight,  
Unable to sustain the pressing weight.  
Part of her Men along with her are born,  
Sunk in a Gulf, whence they must ne'er return.  
Part catch at Planks, in hopes to float to shore,  
Or stem the tempest, till its rage were o'er.  
Even Ceyx, of the like support possessed,  
Swims, undistinguished now, among the rest.  
To his Wife's Father, and his own, prefers  
His ardent Vows for help, which neither hears;  
To both, repeats his still neglected Prayer,  
Calls oft on both, but oftener calls on her.  
The more his danger grew, the more it brought  
Her dear remembrance to his restless thought.  
Whose dying wish, was, that the friendly Stream  
Would roll him to those Coasts, whence late he came,  
To her dear hands, to be Interred by them.  
Still, as the Seas a breathing space afford,  
Halcyone rehearsed, forms every word.  
Half of her name, his lips, now sinking, sound,  
When the remaining half in him was drowned.  
An huge black Arch of waters, which had hung  
High, in the gloomy Air, and threatened long.  
Bursting asunder, hurls the dreadful heap  
All on his head, and drives him down the Deep.  
His Father Lucifer, that dismal Night,  
Sought to retire, to shun the Tragic sight.  
But, since he could not leave his destined Sphere,  
Drew round the blackest Clouds to veil him there.   

Mean while, his Wife counts every tedious hour,  
And knew not yet, she was a Wife no more;  
But works two Robes against his wished return,  
To be by her, and her dear Ceyx, worn.  
She pays her Vows to every Power Divine,  
But pays them frequentest at Juno's Shrine.  
Bribes every Goddess, at a mighty cost  
Of precious Gums, but still bribe's her at most.  
Vain were the Gifts she offered in her Fane,  
She made her loaded Altars smoke in vain.  
Where for his life, and safe return, she prayed,  
Who was already lost, already dead.  
Let me again, she cried, my Ceyx see;  
And, while away, by your severe Decree,  
Let him give none the love, that's due to me.  
Let none, she prayed, before me be preferred;  
And this alone, of all her Prayers was heard.  
The pitying Goddess would no more receive  
Vows for that succour, which she could not give.  
But from her Altar shakes her awful Hand,  
And gives her faithful Iris this Command.   

Haste quickly, where the drowsy God of Sleep,  
Remote from Day, does his dark Mansions keep.  
Tell him, I bid him in a Dream reveal  
To sad Halcyone, how Ceyx fell.  
All her Misfortunes in her sleep unfold,  
And by the Vision, let her loss be told.   

Thus speaks the Queen of Heaven, nor Iris stays  
To make reply, but as she speaks, obeys.  
Straight in a thousand coloured Robe arrayed,  
And all her Orient Bow o'er Heaven displayed,  
Downwards she slides, to find the dark Abode,  
And bear her Message to the slothful God.    

Description of the God of Sleep, and his Palace.  

NEar the Cimmerians, hid from Human sight,  
Lies a vast hollow Cave, all void of light.  
Where, deep in Earth, the God his Court maintains,  
And undisturbed, in ease and silence reigns.  
Not seen by Phoebus, at his Morning rise,  
Nor at Midday, with his most piercing Eyes,  
Nor when, at Evening, he descends the Skies.  
Thick, gloomy mists, come steaming from th' ground,  
And the Fog spreads a dusky Twilight round.  
No crested Fowls foretell the Day's return,  
Nor with shrill notes, call forth the springing Morn.  
No watchful Dogs, the secret Entry keep,  
Nor Geese, more watchful, guard the Court of Sleep.  
No tame, nor savage Beast dwells there, no Breeze  
Shakes the still Boughs, or whispers through the Trees.  
No voice of Man is heard, no Human call,  
Sounds through the Cave, deep silence reigns o'er all.  
Yet from the Rock, a silver Spring flows down,  
Which purling o'er the stones, glides gently on.  
Her easy Streams with pleasing Murmurs creep,  
At once inviting, and assisting sleep.  
At the Cave's mouth spring pregnant Poppies up,  
And hide the entrance with their baleful top.  
Whose drowsy juice affords the nightly birth,  
Of all the sleep, diffused, and shed on Earth.  
No Guards the passage to this Court secure,  
No jarring hinge sustains a creaking door.  
Yet in the midst, with sable Cover spread,  
High, but unshaken, stands a downy Bed.  
Where his soft Limbs, the slothful Monarch lays,  
Dissolved in endless Luxury and Ease.  
Fantastic Dreams lie scattered on the ground,  
And compass him in various Figures round.  
More numerous than the Sands that bind the Seas,  
Or Ears of standing Corn, or Leaves on Trees.  
But Iris, now arrived, Divinely bright,  
Fills all the Palace with unusual Light.  
Her Garments flowing with diffusive Beams,  
Gilled the dark Cell, and chase the frighted Dreams.  
Away they fly, to leave her passage clear,  
And shun the Glories which they cannot bear.  
The God, his Eyelids struggle to unloose,  
Sealed by his deep, unbroken slumbers, close.  
Half way, his Head he rears, with sluggish pain,  
Which heavily, anon, sinks down again.  
Frequent attempts, without success, he makes,  
But, at the last, with long endeavour, wakes.  
Half raised, and half reclining in his Bed,  
And leaning on his Hands, his nodding Head.  
With faltering words, he asks the Heavenly Fair,  
What Message from her Goddess brought her there?  
At once the God, and Goddess she obeys,  
delivering her Commands in words like these.  
Thou Peace of mind, thou most propitious Power,  
Thou meekest Deity that Men adore.  
Thou, who giv'st ease to every troubled Breast,  
And settest tired Limbs, and fev'rish Souls at rest.  
Thou, at whose presence, Cares and Sorrows flee,  
Under whose guard the fettered Slave is free,  
Lover's, the worst of Slaves, still finding ease in thee.  
Send thou a Dream, assuming Ceyx's Form,  
Like him appearing shipwrecked in a Storm.  
From whose pale lips, his widowed Queen may know,  
His certain loss, and her as certain woe.   

Here ends the shining Nymph, who dares not stay  
For farther words, but flies in haste away.  
She feels the thick'ning Mists begin to rise,  
And conquering sleep steal o'er her yielding eyes.  
Thence, by her painted Bow, her course she bends,  
And, the same way she came, again ascends.  
Around his drowsy Offspring goes the God,  
And chooses Morpheus from among the Crowd.  
None can, like him, a perfect Man express,  
His speech, and mien, his action, and his dress.  
But he alone, in Human shape appears,  
While the less noble Forms a second wears,  
Of Snakes, or Birds, of Lions, or of Bears.  
Still there's a third, still meaner in degree,  
Which shows a Field, a River, or a Tree.  
Of things inanimate, presents the Scene,  
Hills, Valleys, Ships, or Houses, Earth or Main.  
These three to Generals, Kings, or Courts, belong,  
More vulgar Dreams wait the more vulgar Throng.  
The first of these, their Monarch sets at large,  
Dispatched to Trachis, on Tha●mantia's charge.  
Then staggering he returns, and seeks his Bed,  
In whose soft Down he sinks his drooping Head.  
Again, his Eyelids are with sleep oppressed,  
And the whole God dissolves again to rest.   

Swift as a Thought, and secret as the Night,  
Morphesis, on noiseless pinions, takes his flight.  
His fleeting wings their silent course pursue;  
Soft, as the liquid Air, they travelled thro'?  
Who, now arrived, lays by his useless Plumes,  
And Ceyx's Form, in his own Court, assumes.  
Naked he stood, as late bereaved of life,  
Close by the Bed of his unhappy Wife.  
His hair still dropping seemed, still wet his Beard,  
Still shivering with the cold, all his pale Frame appeared.  
When, with a mournful gesture, o'er the Bed,  
Pensively hanging his dejected head,  
All drowned in well dissembled Tears, he said;   

Is not your Ceyx, wretched Woman, known?  
Is he so altered, or forgot so soon?  
Turn here, Halcyone, behold him lost,  
Or in your Ceyx's stead, behold his Ghost.  
To the relentless Gods, in vain, you prayed,  
You are deceived, alas! and I am dead.  
Surprised by storms, in the Aegean Sea,  
Which cast my life, and all thy hopes away.  
Where, as I called on thy loved Name, my breath,  
With half thy Name pronounced, was stopped in Death.  
This from no doubtful Messenger you hear,  
'Tis I who tell it, I, who perished there.  
Arise, and weep, now let your eyes run o'er,  
Your once-loved Ceyx is, alas! no more.  
Let a few Tears be to my Memory paid,  
And as you loved me living, mourn me dead.  
He speaks, and adds to these his doleful words,  
A voice, she too well knew, expressed her Lord's.  
The same, the gesture of his hands, appears,  
Unforced his action, and unfeigned, his tears.  
She, frighted with the Vision, sighs, and weeps,  
Torn with most mortal anguish, as she sleeps;  
Then stretches out her Arms, to hold him there,  
Which came back empty through the yielding Air.  
Stay, stay, she cries, ah! whither would you now?  
We'll go together, if again you go.  
With her own voice, and her dead Husband's sight,  
Starting, she leaves her Dream, but not her fright.  
Awaked, she turns her fearful Eyes around,  
And looks for him, who could no more be found.  
For now her Maids, raised with her shrieks, were come,  
And with their Lamps enlightened all the Room.  
Not seeing what she sought, enraged, she tore  
At once, her face, her habit, and her hair.  
When asked the cause, whence such despair should spring,  
And what sad loss could such distraction bring?  
She wrings her Hands, and beats her panting Breast,  
Long silent, with a load of sorrow pressed,  
But thus, at last, her cruel loss confessed.   

There's no Halcyone, ah! none, she cried;  
With Ceyx, dearer than herself, she died.  
Now, let no sounds of Comfort reach my ear,  
All mention of a future hope forbear,  
Leave me, oh! leave me to my just despair.  
Ah! these, these Eyes, my shipwrecked Lord did see,  
And knew, too well, it could be none but he.  
These hands I stretched, in hopes to make him stay,  
But from these hands he slid unfelt away.  
No mortal grasp could hold his fleeting Ghost,  
And I, a second time, my Ceyx lost.  
He looked not with the same Majestic Grace,  
As when he lived, nor shone his awful Face,  
With the peculiar Glories of his Heavenly Race.  
His Eyes were fixed, and all their fires gone out,  
No longer rolled their sparkling beams about;  
The colour from his faded cheeks was fled,  
And all his Beauty with himself lay dead,  
Retaining nought of all, except the shade.  
Retaining still, tho' all the rest was gone,  
Too much, alas! to make his Shadow known.  
Pale, wan, and meager, by the Bed he stood,  
His hair still dropping with the briny flood.  
Here, here in this, ah! this unhappy place,  
'Twas here he stood, she cried, and sought to trace,  
But found no footsteps of his airy pace.  
Oh! this, this my too true presaging Soul divined,  
When you forsook me, to pursue the wind.  
But, since compelled by rigorous Fate you went,  
And this was destined for the sad Event.  
Oh! that together we had put to Sea,  
That so, with you, it might have swallowed me.  
Absent I'm lost; and ah! tho' not with you,  
Yet am I wrecked, yet am I ruined too.  
Oh! I were sprung from a most savage kind,  
My Soul as barbarous as the Seas, or Wind,  
If I, now you are gone, should wish to stay behind.  
No, Ceyx, no; my much-loved Lord, I come,  
And tho' not laid together in a Tomb;  
Tho' far from mine, your floating Corpse is born,  
Nor with my Ashes mingled in an Urn;  
Yet on one Marble shall our Names be told,  
And the same Stone shall both our Stories hold.  
Where Ages, yet unborn, with praise shall read,  
How I disdained to live, when you were dead.  
Here, choked with grief, she the sad Tale gave o'er,  
Her swelling Sorrows would permit no more.  
Sobs, mingling with her words, their accents part,  
And sighs fly faster, from her throbbing Heart.  
Now dawns the Day, when she, with fearful haste,  
Goes to that Shore, where she had seen him last.  
There, while she stood reflecting on her loss,  
Forgetting nought, that might augment her woes.  
Here he took leave, she cried, and here, she said,  
Unwilling to be gone, again he stayed;  
He gave me here, alas! the last embrace,  
Then launched from this, ah! this unhappy place.  
While, all that past, she laboured to recall,  
Severely for herself rememb'ring all.  
And while around her watery eyes survey  
The wave-beat Coast, and the still troubled Sea,  
Something she spies, from far come floating on,  
Tho' at the first, too distant to be known;  
Which, as the tide drove nearer to the Coast,  
Presents a Man in a late shipwreck lost.  
She pities him, whom yet she does not know,  
And mourns his Fate, since Ceyx perished so.  
Pities his Wife, if he a Wife had left,  
Like her, of all she reckoned dear, bereft.  
Now floating nearer to the fatal Shore,  
She eyes him more distinctly than before,  
While all her hopes diminish, all her fears grow more.  
Apace, her beating heart begins to pant,  
And all, at once, her sinking Spirits faint.  
Now, on the beach, by tossing Billows thrown,  
The Coarse was to her sad confusion known,  
Herself, the Wise she mourned, the Man her own.  
'Tis he, she cried, my dear, my shipwrecked Lord,  
Whom I but too, too justly, have deplored.  
Then, with her hands stretched to him, where he lay,  
She said, what grief would give her leave to say.  
Fed with false hopes, have I your absence born?  
And is it thus, ah! thus, that you return?  
And do I live, and you bereaved of life?  
Ah! wretched Man, but more, more wretched Wife!  
Far, in the Sea, a Peer erected stood,  
To break the rapid fury of the Flood.  
Thither (almost beyond belief) she springs,  
Born through the yielding air, on new-grown wings.  
Along the surface of the Sea she flies,  
And wonders at her own unusual cries;  
Now hovering o'er his pale, and bloodless Coarse,  
In newfound Notes laments her sad Divorce;  
Now stooping, perches on his watery face,  
And gives him with her Bill, a strange embrace.  
Whether he felt it, or the circling Flood,  
Then chanced to move him, is not yet allowed;  
Yet he took sense, from her transporting touch,  
(Even in the dead, the force of Love is such.)  
Aloft his now reviving head he rears,  
And mounts on Pinions which resemble hers.  
Both changed to Birds, their wings together move,  
And nought remained unchanged, except their Love.  
In close embraces, as before, they joined,  
And now, o'er Seas, produce, and spread their Kind.  
Seven days she sits upon her floating Nest,  
While each rude blast imprisoned, and suppressed,  
Close in its Cavern, leaves the Sea at rest.  
Then every Sail may safely trust the Deep,  
While all the winds lie hushed, the waves asleep.     

THE FIRST ELEGY OF THE FIRST BOOK OF TIBULLUS.  
LET others add to their increasing Store,  
Till their full Coffers can receive no more;  
Let them plow Land on Land, and Field on Field,  
And reap whate'er the teeming Earth can yield;  
Whom neighbouring Foes in constant Terror keep,  
Disturb their labours, and distract their sleep:  
Me, may my Poverty preserve from strife,  
In slothful safety, and an easy life;  
While my small House shields off the Winter Sky,  
And daily Fires my glowing Hearth supply;  
While the due Season yields me ripened Corn,  
And clustered Grapes my load'ned Vines adorn;  
While, with delight, my Country wealth I view,  
And my pleased hands their willing Tasks pursue,  
Still, as one Vine decays, to plant a new.  
Here, I repine not to advance the Prong,  
And chide, and drive the sluggish Herds along;  
Nor am ashamed to lift a tender Lamb,  
On the cold ground, forsaken of her Dam.  
Duly, the annual Festivals I keep,  
To purge my Shepherd, and to cleanse my Sheep.  
To pay the usual Offerings of a Swain,  
To the propitious Goddess of the Plain.  
Whom I adore, however she appears,  
A Stock, or Stone, whatever form she wears.  
To all our Country Deities I show  
Religious Zeal, and give to all their due.  
The first fair product of the fertile Earth,  
To the kind Power, whose favour brings it forth.  
To Ceres' Garlands of the ripest Corn,  
Which hung in Wreaths, her Temple Gates adorn.  
Pears, Apples, on Priapus are bestowed,  
My Garden Fruits, given to my Garden God.  
You too, my Lar, shall your Gifts receive,  
And share the little that I've left to give.  
Once in full Tides you knew my Fortune's flow,  
But at their lowest Ebb you see them now.  
I than had large, and numerous Lands to boast,  
Your care is lessened now, as they are lost.  
Then a fat Calf, a Victim used to fall,  
Now from my little Flock a Lamb is all.  
That still shall bleed, and for the rest atone,  
And that you still may challenge as your own.  
Round which our Youth shall pray, You Powers Divine,  
Bless with your Smiles our Labours, and assign  
Fields full of Corn, a Vintage full of Wine.  
Hear us, ye kind propitious Lar, hear,  
Nor slight our Presents, nor reject our Prayer.  
Take the small Offerings of as small a Board,  
Nor scorn the Drink our Earthen Cups afford.  
Whose use at first from Country Shepherds came,  
And Nature first instructed them to frame.  
Let from my slender Folds the Thiefs abstain,  
They ought not to attempt so poor a Swain.  
I do not beg to have my Wealth restored,  
Again of large Estates the restless Lord.  
All my ambition is alone to save  
The little all my Fortune pleased to leave;  
Nor shall I ere repine, while Fate allows,  
A little Corn and Wine, a little House,  
And a small Bed for Pleasure and Repose.  
How am I ravished in my Delia's Arms  
To lie, and listen to the Winter Storms?  
Securely in my little Cottage stowed,  
Hear the bleak Winds, and Tempest sing abroad;  
And while around whole Nature seems to weep,  
By the soft falling Rain be lulled asleep.  
This be my Fate, this all my wished-for Bliss,  
And I can live, ye Gods! content with this.  
Let others by their Toils their Fortunes raise,  
They merit Wealth, who seek it through the Seas.  
Pleased with my small, but yet sufficient Store,  
I would not take their pains to purchase more.  
I would not dwell on the tempestuous Main,  
Nor make their Voyages to meet their Gain.  
But safe at home, stretched on a grassy Bed,  
Where the Trees cast a cool refreshing shade,  
Free from the Midday heat, recline my head.  
Close by the Banks of a clear River lie,  
And hear the Silver Stream glide murmuring by.  
Oh! rather perish all the Mines of Gold,  
And all the Riches, Earth, and Ocean hold;  
Than any Maid should my long absence mourn,  
Or grow impatient for my wished return.  
You, my Messala, in the Field delight,  
War is your Province, all your Pride to fight.  
From Sea, and Land, crowned with Success you come,  
And bring your far-fetched Spoils in Triumph home;  
While I, detained by Delia's conquering Charms,  
Enjoy no Honours, and endure no Harms.  
ay, who from all ambitious thoughts am free,  
Or all, my Delia, are to live with thee;  
With thee, to lengthen out my slothful days,  
Wrapped in safe quiet, and inglorious ease,  
Alike despising Infamy, and Praise.  
With thee, I could myself to work apply,  
Submit to any toil, so thou wert by.  
With my own hands, my own Possessions till,  
Drive my own Herds, so thou wert with me still.  
With thee, no drudgery would uneasy be,  
All would be softened with the sight of thee;  
And if my longing Arms might thee embrace,  
Tho' on the cold hard Earth, or rugged Grass,  
The mighty pleasure would endear the place.  
Who can in softest Down be reckoned blest,  
Whose unsuccessful Love destroys his rest?  
When, nor the Purple Cover of his Bed,  
Nor the fair Plumes that nod above his Head,  
Nor all his spacious Fields, nor pleasant House,  
Nor purling Streams, can lull him to repose?  
What foolish Brave, allowed by thee to taste,  
Thy balmy Breath, to press thy panting Breast  
Rifle thy Sweets, and run o'er all thy Charms,  
And melt thy Beauties in his burning Arms,  
Would quit the vast Delights which thou couldst yield,  
For all the Honours of the dusty Field?  
Let such as he, his high-prized Wars pursue,  
And, conquering there, leave me to conquer you.  
Let him, adorned in all the Pomp of War,  
Sat on his prancing Horse, and shine afar.  
Proud, when the Crowd assembles to behold  
His Troops in polished Steel, himself in Gold.  
At my last hour, all I shall wish to see,  
All I shall love to look on, will be thee.  
Close by my Deathbed may my Delia stand,  
That I may grasp her with my fainting Hand,  
Breathe on her lips my last expiring Sighs,  
And, full of her dear Image, shut my Eyes.  
Then, Delia, you'll relent, and mourn my Fate,  
And then be kind, but kind, alas! too late.  
On my pale Lips print an unfelt Embrace,  
And, mingling Tears with Kisses, bathe my Face.  
From your full Eyes the flowing Tears will stream,  
And be, like me, lost in the Funeral Flame.  
I know you'll weep, and make this rueful moan,  
You are not Flint, you are not perfect Stone.  
Wrong not my Ghost, my Delia, but forbear,  
From this unprofitable Grief, and spare  
Your tender Cheeks, and golden Locks of Hair.  
In the mean time, let us our Joys improve,  
Spend all our Hours, our Years, our Lives in Love.  
Grim Death pursues us with impatient haste,  
And Age, its sure forerunner, comes too fast.  
The Sweets of Life are then no more enjoyed,  
And Love, the Life of all, is first destroyed.  
That first departs from our declining years,  
From weak decrepit Limbs, and hoary Hairs.  
Now, let us now enjoy the full delight,  
While vigorous Youth can raise it to the height;  
While we can storm a stubborn Damsel's door,  
And with our Quarrels make our Pleasure more.  
I am the General here, and this my War,  
And in this Fight to conquer, all my care.  
All other Battles hence, all other Arms,  
Go carry Wounds to those who covet harms.  
Give them the dear-bought Wealth their Wars can yield,  
With all the bloody Harvest of the Field;  
While I at home, my much-loved ease secure,  
Contented with my small, but certain Store,  
Above the fear of Want, or fond desire of more.   

THE FOURTH ELEGY OF THE SECOND BOOK OF TIBULLUS.  

I See the Chains ordained me to receive,  
And the fair Maid, whose Charms have won her Slave.  
No more my native freedom can I boast,  
But all my once loved Liberty is lost.  
Yet why such heavy Fetters must I wear?  
And why obey a Mistress, so severe?  
Why must I drag such a perplexing Chain?  
Which Tyrant Love will never lose again:  
Whether I merit her esteem, or scorn,  
Offending, or Deserving, still I burn.  
Ah! cruel Maid! these scorching Flames remove,  
Extinguish mine, or teach yourself to love.  
Oh! rather than endure the pains I feel,  
How would I choose, so to shake off my ill,  
To grow a senseless Stone, fixed on a barren Hill:  
Or a bleak Rock, amidst the Seas be set,  
By raging Winds, and rolling Billows beat:  
For now in torment I support the light,  
And in worse torment waste the lingering night.  
My crowding Griefs on one another roll,  
And give no truce to my distracted Soul;  
No succour, now, from sacred Verse I find,  
Nor can their God himself compose my mind.  
The greedy Maid will nought but Gold receive,  
And that, alas! is none of mine to give.  
Hence, hence unprofitable Muse remove,  
Hence, if you cannot aid me in my love.  
No Battles now my mournful lines recite,  
I sing not how the Roman Legions fight:  
Nor how the Sun performs his daily race,  
Nor how the Moon at night supplies his place.  
All that I wish the Charms of Verse may prove,  
Is for a free access to her I love;  
For that alone is all my constant care;  
Be gone, ye Muses, if you fail me there.   

But I by rapine must my gifts procure,  
Or lie unheard, unpityed at her door:  
Or from the Shrines of Gods the Trophies bear,  
And what I rob from Heaven present to her:  
Treat her, at other Goddesses expense and cost;  
But treat her, at the Charge of Venus most.  
Her chiefly shall my daring hands invade,  
I to this Misery am by her betrayed;  
She gave me first this mercenary Maid.  
O, to all Ages, let him stand accursed,  
Who e'er began this Trade in loving first:  
Who e'er made silly Nymphs their Value know,  
Who will not yield without their Purchase now.  
He was the fatal Cause of all this ill;  
And brought up Customs, we continue still.  
Hence, first the doors of Mistresses were barred,  
And howling Dogs appointed for their Guard.  
But if you bring the Price, the mighty rate,  
At which her Beauties by herself are set;  
The Barrs, unloosed, lay open every Door,  
And even the conscious Mastiffs bark no more.  
whate'er unwary inconsiderate God,  
Beauty on mercenary Maids bestowed;  
How ill to such was the vast Present given,  
Who sell th' invaluable Gift of Heaven!  
Oh! how unworthily were such endowed!  
With so much ill, confounding so much good▪  
From hence our Quarrels, and our Strifes commence,  
All our Dissensions take their spring from hence.  
Hence, 'tis so few to Cupid's Altars move,  
And without Zeal approach the Shrines of Love.  
But you, who thus his Sacred Rites profane,  
And shut his Votaries out for sordid Gain,  
May Storms, and Fire your illgot Wealth pursue,  
And what you took from us, retake from you.  
While we with pleasure see the Flames aspire,  
And not a Man attempts to quench the Fire;  
Or, may you haste to your Eternal Home,  
And no fond Youth, no mournful Lover come  
To pay the last sad service at your Tomb;  
While the kind generous she, who scorned to prize,  
Or rate herself at less, than Joys for Joys.  
Tho' she her liberal Pleasures should outlive,  
And reach an Age unfit to take, or give;  
Yet when she dies, she shall not die unmourned,  
Nor on her Funeral Pile unwept be burned:  
But some old Man, who knew her in her bloom,  
With reverence of their past Delights shall come,  
And with an Annual Garland crown her Tomb.  
Then shall he wish her, in her endless Night,  
Her Sleep, may pleasing be; her earth, be light.   

All this, my cruel Fair, is truth I tell,  
But what will unregarded truth avail?  
Love, his own way, his Empire will maintain,  
And have no Laws prescribed him how to reign.  
He Rules with too, too absolute a sway,  
And we must, in our own despite, obey.  
Should my fair Tyrant, Nemesis, command  
Her humbled Slave to sell his Native Land,  
All, at her Order, should convert to Gold,  
Nor House, nor House-hold-God, remain unsold.   

Take the most baneful Simples Circe used,  
Or mad Medea, in her Bowls infused;  
Gather the deadliest Herbs, and rankest Weeds,  
The Magic Country of Thessalia breeds;  
Mingle the surest Poisons in my Cup,  
And, let my Love command, I'll drink them up.    

THE Thirteenth ELEGY OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF TIBULLUS.  
To his Mistress.  

NO other Maid my settled Faith shall move,  
No other Mistress shall supplant your Love.  
My Flames were sealed with this auspicious Vow,  
That which commenced them then, confirms them now.  
In you, alone, my constant pleasure lies,  
For you alone seem pleasing in my Eyes.  
Oh! that you seemed to none, but me, Divine,  
Let others, look with other Eyes, than mine.  
Then might I, of no Rival Youth afraid,  
All to myself, enjoy my charming Maid.  
I'm not ambitious of the public Voice,  
To speak your Beauties, or applaud my choice;  
None of their envious Praises are desired,  
I would not have the Nymph I love admired.  
He that is wise, will not his Bliss proclaim,  
Nor trust it to the lavish Tongue of Fame;  
But a safe silent Privacy esteem,  
Which gives him Joys, unknown to all, but him,  
To Woods, and wild's, I could with thee remove,  
Secure of Life, when once secure of Love.  
To wait on thee, could Desert paths explore,  
Where never Human footstep trod before.  
Peace of my Soul, and Charmer of my Cares,  
Thou Courage of my Heart, thou Conqueror of my Fears.  
Disposer of my Days, unerring Light,  
And safe Conductress in my darkest Night.  
Thou, who alone, art all I wish to see,  
Thou, who alone, art all the World to me.  
Should the bright Dames of Heaven, the Wives of Gods,  
To court my Bed, forsake their blessed Abodes;  
With all their Charms endeavouring to divert  
My fixed Affections, and estrange my Heart;  
To thee, vain Rivals, all the Train should prove,  
Vain Suit, the glorious Nymphs to me should move,  
Who would not change thee for the Queen of Love.  
All this I swear, By all the Powers Divine,  
But swear by Juno most, because she's thine.  
Fool that I am! to let you know your Power,  
On this Confession, you'll insult the more;  
In fiercer flames make your poor Vassal burn,  
And treat your suppliant Slave with greater scorn▪  
But take it all, all that I can confess,  
And oh! believe me, that I feel no less▪  
To thee, my Fate entirely I resign,  
My Love, and Life, and all my Soul is thine.  
You know, my cruel Fair, you know my Pains,  
And pleased, and proud, you see me drag your Chains.  
But if to Venus I for succour flee,  
She'll end your Tyrant Reign, and rescue me.    

A SONG.  

1.  
AFter the pangs of fierce Desire,  
The Doubts and Hopes that wait on Love,  
And feed, by turns, the raging fire;  
How charming must Fruition prove!   

2.  
When the triumphant Lover feels  
None of those pains, which once he bore;  
Or, when reflecting on his Ills,  
He makes his present Pleasure more.   

3.  
To Mariners, who long have lain  
On a tempestuous Ocean tossed,  
The Storms, that threatened on the Main,  
Serve only to endear the Coast.    

A Farewell TO POETRY.  

AS famished Men, whom pleasing Dreams delude,  
Seem to grow full with their imagined Food:  
Appease their Hunger, and indulge their Taste,  
With fancied Dainties, while their Visions last.  
Till some rude hand breaks up the flattering Scene;  
Awakened, with regret, they starve again.  
So the false Muse prepares her vainer Feasts,  
And so she treats her disappointed Guests:  
She promises vast things, immortal Fame,  
Vast Honour, vast Applause, a deathless Name,  
But well awake, we find it all a Dream.  
She tells soft tales, with an enchanting Tongue,  
And lulls our Souls, with the bewitching Song:  
How she, alone, maltes Heroes truly great;  
How, dead long since, she keeps them living yet.  
Shows her Parnassus, like a flowery Grove,  
Fair, and delightful, as the Bowers above;  
The fittest place for Poetry, and Love.  
We hunt the Pleasures through the fairy Coast,  
Till in our fruitless search ourselves are lost.  
So the great Artist drew the lively Scene,  
Where hungry Birds snatched at the Grapes in vain.  
Tired with the Chase, I give the Phantom o'er,  
And am resolved to be deceived no more.   

Thus the fond youth, who long, in vain, has striven,  
With the fierce pangs of unsuccessful Love;  
With joy, like mine, breaks the perplexing Chain,  
Freed, by some happy chance, from all his pain,  
With joy, like mine, he grows himself again.   
FINIS.