POEMS BY Sir W. T. VIRGIL'S LAST ECLOGUE TRANSLATED, OR RATHER, IMITATED, at the Desire OF My LADY GIFFARD. ONE Labour more, O Arethusa, yield Before I leave the Shepherds and the Field: Some Verses to my Gallus e'er we part, Such as may one day break Lycoris Heart As She did his. Who can refuse a Song To one that loved so well, and died so young! So mayst thou thy belov'd Alpheus please, When thou creepest under the Sicanian Seas. Begin and sing Gallus', unhappy fires, Whilst yonder Goat to yonder branch aspires Out of his reach. We sing not to the deaf; An answer comes from every trembling Leaf. What Woods, what Forests had enticed your stay, Ye Naiads, why came ye not away! When Gallus died by an unworthy flame Parnassus knew, and loved too well his name To stop your course; nor could your hasty flight Be stayed by Pindus which was his delight. Him the fresh Laurels, Him the lowly Heath Bewailed with dewy tears; his parting breath Made lofty Maenalus hang his piny head; Lycaean Marbles wept when he was dead. Under a lonely Tree he lay and pined, His Flock about him ●eeding on the Wind As he on Love; such kind and gentle Sheep The fair Adonis would be proud to keep. There came the Shepherds, there the weary Hinds, Thither Menalcas parched with Frost and Winds. All ask him whence, for whom this fatal love Apollo came his Arts and Herbs to prove. Why Gallus? why so fond? He says; thy flame, Thy care, Lycoris, is another's game; For him she sighs and raves, him she pursues Through mid days heats, and through the morning dews; Over the snowy cliffs and frozen streams, Through noisy Camps. Up Gallus, leave thy dreams, She has left thee. Still lay the drooping Swain Hanging his mournful head, Phoebus in vain Offers his Herbs, employs his counsel here; 'Tis all refused, or answered with a tear. What shakes the branches! what makes all the trees Begin to bow their heads, the Goats their knees! Oh! 'tis Sylvanus with his mossy beard And leafy crown, attended by a herd Of Woodborn Satyrs; see! he shakes his Spear, A green young Oak the tallest of the year. Pan the Arcadian god forsook the plains, Moved with the story of his Gallus pains. We saw him come with Oaten pipe in hand Painted with Berries-juice; we saw him stand And gaze upon his Shepherds bathing Eyes; And what, no end, no end of grief he cries! Love, little minds all thy consuming care, Or restless thoughts, they are his daily fare. Nor cruel Love with tears, nor grass with showers Nor Goats with tender sprouts, nor Bees with flowers Are ever satisfied. So said the god, And touched the Shepherd with his hazle rod: He, sorrow-slain, seemed to revive, and said, But yet Arcadians is my grief allayed, To think that in these Woods, and Hills, and Plains, When I am silent in the grave, your Swains Shall sing my loves, Arcadian Swains inspired By Phoebus; Oh! how gently shall these tired And fainting Limbs repose in endless sleep, Whilst your sweet Notes my Love immortal keep! Would it had pleased the Gods I had been born Just one of you, and taught to wind a Horn, Or wield a Hook, or prune a branching Vine, And known no other Love but, Phillis, thine; Or thine, Amyntas; What though both are brown, So are the Nuts and Berries on the Down; Amongst the Vines, the Willows, and the Springs, Phillis makes Garlands, and Amyntas sings. No cruel Absence calls my Love away Farther than bleating Sheep can go astray. Here, my Lycoris, here are shady groves, Here Fountains cool, and Meadows soft, our lvoes And lives may here together wear and end: O the true joys of such a fate and friend! I now am hurried by severe commands Into remotest parts, among the bands Of armed Troops; there by my foes pursued, Here by my friends; but still by love subdued. Thou far from home, and me, art wand'ring o'er The Alpine snows, the farthest Western shore, The frozen Rhine. When are we like to meet? Ah gently, gently, lest thy tender feet Be cut with Ice. Cover thy lovely arms; The Northern cold relents not at their charms: Away I'll go into some shady bowers, And sing the songs I made in happy hours; And charm my woes. How can I better choose, Than among wildest Woods myself to lose, And carve our loves upon the tender Trees, There they will thrive? See how my love agrees With the young plants: look how they grow together In spite of absence, and in spite of weather. Mean while I'll climb that Rock, and ramble o'er Yond woody Hill; I'll chase the grizly Boar, I'll find Diana's and her Nymphs resort; No frosts, no storms shall slack my eager sport. Methinks I'm wand'ring all about the rocks And hollow sounding woods: look how my locks Are torn with boughs and thorns! My shafts are gone My legs are tired, and all my sport is done, Alas! this is no cure for my disease; Nor can our toils that cruel god appease. Now neither Nymphs, nor Songs can please me more, Nor hollow Woods, nor yet the chafed Boar: No sport, no labour, can divert my grief: Without Lycoris there is no relief. Though I should drink up Heber's icy streams, Or Scythian snows, yet still her fiery beams Would scorch me up. Whatever we can prove, Love conquers all, and we must yield to Love. VIRGIL'S O Fortunati, etc. TRANSLATED, OR RATHER, IMITATED, upon the Desire OF My LADY TEMPLE. O Happy Swains, if their own good they knew! Whom far from jarring Arms the just and due Returns of well fraught fields, with easy fare Supply, and cheerful Heavens with healthy air: What though no aged title grace the stock? What though no Troops of early Waiters flock To the proud Gates, and with officious fear First beg the Porter's, than the Master's ear? What though no stately Pile amuse the eye Of every gazer? Though no scarlet dye Slain the soft native whiteness of the wool, Nor greedy Painter ever rob the full Untainted bowls of liquid Olives juice Destined for Altars, and for Tables use; Though the bright dawn of Gold be not begun, And nothing shine about the House but Sun; Yet secure peace reward of harmless life, Yet various sorts of Treasures free from strife Or envy, careless leisure, spacious plains, Cool shades and flowery walks along the veins Of branched streams, yet soft and fearless sleep Amidst the tender bleating of the sheep Want not; There hollow gloomy groves appear, And wilder Thickets, where the staring Deer Dare close their Eyes. There Youth to homely fare, And patient labour, Age to cheerful care Accustomed, Sacred rights, and humble fear Of Gods above, Fair Truth and Justice there Trod their last footsteps when they left the earth, Which to a Thousand mischiefs gave a birth. For me the Muses are my first desire, Whose gentle favour can with holy fire, Guide to great Nature's deep mysterious Cells Through paths untraced, 'tis the chaste Muse that tells Poor grovelling mortals how the Stars above Some keep their Station some unwearied move Through the vast azure plains, and what obscures The midday Sun, how the faint Moon endures So many changes, and so many fears As by the paleness of her face appears. What shakes the bowels of the groaning earth, What gives the Thunder, what the Hail a birth, Why the winds sometimes whistle, sometimes roar, What makes the raging waves now brave it o'er The towering Cliffs, now calmly backwards creep Into the spacious bosom of the deep. But if cold blood about my heart shall damp This noble heat of rifling Nature's Camp, Then give me shady groves, and purling streams And airy downs, Then far from scorching beams Of envy, noise, or Cities busy fry, Careless and nameless let me live and die. Oh where! where are the fields, the waving veins Of gentle mounts amidst the smother Plains? The Nymphs fair Walks, Oh! for the shady Vale Of some proud Hill, some fresh reviving gale; Oh who will lead me? Whither shall I run, To find the Woods, and shroud me from the Sun? Happy the man that Gods and causes knows, Nature's and Reason's Laws, that scorns the blows Of fate or chance, lives without smiles or tears, Above fond hopes, above distracting fears. Happy the Swain that knows no higher powers Than Pan, or old Sylvanus, and the bowers Of rural Nymphs so oft by Satyrs grieved (All this unseen perhaps, but well believed) Him move not Princes frowns, nor People's heats, Nor faithless civil jars, nor foreign threats; Not Rome's affairs, nor transitory Crowns, The fall of Princes, or the rise of Clowns, All's one to him; nor grieves he at the sad Events he hears, nor envies at the glad. What fruits the laden boughs, the willing fields; What pleasures Innocence and Freedom yields, He safely gathers, neither skills the feat Of Arms, or Laws, nor labours, but to eat. Some rove through unknown Seas with swelling Sails; Some wait on Courts and the uncertain gales Of Prince's favour; others led by charms Of greedy Honour, follow fatal Arms. Some mount the Pulpit, others ply the bar, And make the arts of Peace the arts of War. One hugs his brooding bags, and feels the woe He fears, and treats himself worse than his foe. Another breaks the banks, le's all run out But to be talked and gazed on by the rout. Some sow Sedition, blow up civil broils, And venture Exile, Death, and endless toils, Only to sleep in Scarlet, drink in Gold, Though other fair pretences may be told. Mean while the Swain rises at early dawn, And turns his fallow, or breaks up the lawn With crooked Plough, buries the hopeful grain, Folds his loved flock, and lays a wily Train For their old foe; prunes the luxurious Vine, Pleased with the thoughts of the next Winter's Wine: Visits the lowing Herd, these for the pale, Those for the yoke designs, the rest for sale: Each season of the sliding year his pains Divides, each season shares his equal gains. The youthful Spring scatters the tender Lambs About the fields; the parching Summer crambs His spacious barns; Bacchus the Autumn crowns; And fair Pomona; when the Winter frowns And curls his rugged brow with hoary frost, Then are his feasts, than thoughts and cares are lost In friendly Bowls, than he receives the hire Of his years labour by a cheerful fire. Or else abroad he tries the arts and toils Of War, with trusty Dog, and Spear, he foils The grizly Boar, with Traps, and Trains, and Nets, The greedy Wolf, the wily Fox besets. At home he leaves, at home he finds a Wife Sharer of all that's good or bad in life; Prudent and chaste, yet gentle, easy, kind, Much in his eye, and always of his mind; He feeds no others children for his own; These have his kisses, these his cares; he's known Little abroad, and less desires to know; Friend to himself, to no man else a foe. Easie his labours, harmless are his plays. Just are his deeds, healthy, and long his days: His end nor wished nor feared; he knows no odds Between life and death, but even as please the gods. Among such Swains Saturn the Sceptre bore; Such customs made the golden age, before Trumpets were heard, or Swords seen to decide Quarrels of Lust, or Avarice, or Pride; Or cruel men began to slain their feasts With blood and slaughter of poor harmless beasts; Thus lived the ancient Sabines, thus the bold Etrurians, so renowned and feared of old. Thus Romulus, and thus auspicious Rome From slender low beginnings, by the doom Of fates, to such prodigious greatness came, Bounded by heavens, and Seas, and vaster fame. But hold! for why the Country Swain alone Though he be blest, cares not to have it known. The first of HORACE HIS SERMONS: BEING A Translation, or rather, Imitation of his Way of WRITING, Upon the Desire of My LADY TEMPLE, AND My LADY GIFFARD. HOw is't, Maecenas, that no man abides The lot which Reason gives, or Chance divides To his own share? Still praises others stars: Oh happy Merchants! Broken with the Wars And Age, the Soldier cries. On t'other side When the Ship's tossed by raging winds and tide, Happy the Wars! There in an hour one dyes Or conquers, the repining Merchant cries. The Lawyer past the fear of being poor, When early Clients taber at his door, And break his sleep, forgets his easy gains And mutters, Oh how blessed are Country Swains, Their time's their own! But when th'unpractised Clown Summoned by Writ enters the busy Town, Every man's prey or jest he meets; oh cursed His hap, he cries, in fields so rudely nursed. The rest of the same kind would make a Theme As long and tedious as a Winter's dream; But to dispatch, if any God shall say Your Vows are heard, each has his wish, away, Change all your stations, Soldier go and trade, Merchant go fight, Lawyer come take the Spade And Plough in hand; Farmer put on the Gown, Learn to be civil, and leave off the Clown. Why what d'ye mean good Sirs! make haste, you'll find Hardly one God another time so kind. Soft, and consider, they all stand and stare, Like what they would be, worse than what they are. Well, this is mirth, and 'tis confessed, though few Can tell me what forbids jests to be true, Or gentle Masters to invite their Boys To spell and learn at first with Plumbs and toys. But to grow serious, He that follows Arms, Physic, or Laws, thriving by others harms, The fawning Host and he that sweats at Plough, Th'adventurous Merchant, all agree and vow Their end's the same, they labour and they care Only that rest and ease may be their share When they grow old, and have secured the main; Just so we see the wise and heedful train Of busy Ants in restless journeys spend The Summer-months to gather and to mend Their little heap, foreseeing Winter's rage, And in their Youth careful to store their Age. But when it comes, they snug at home, and share The fruits in plenty of their common care. A Council safe, and wise; when neither fire, Nor Sea, nor frost, nor steel tames thy desire Of endless gain, whilst there is any can So much as tell thee of one richer man. Where is the pleasure with a timorous hand And heart, to bury treasures in the sand? Who would be rich must never touch the bank; You rout an Army if you break a rank. But if ne'er touched, what helps the sacred heap Of hidden Gold? thy sweaty Hinds may reap Large fields of Corn, and fill whole tuns with Wine; But yet thy Belly holds no more than mine. So the tanned Slave that's made perhaps to stoop Under the whole Provisions of the Troop, Upon their way, alas, eats no more bread Than he that carried none upon his head. Or tell me what ' timports the man that lives Within the narrow bounds that Nature gives To plough a Hundred or a Thousand fields? Oh! but to draw from a great heap that yields More than is asked, is pleasant sure: But why, If mine, though little, gives me more than I Or you can use, where is the difference? Why is your fortune better or your sense? As if some Traveller, upon his way Wanting one quart of water to allay His raging thirst, should scorn a little Spring And seek a River, 'twere a pleasant thing: And what comes on't, that such as covet more Than what they need, perhaps are tumbled over Into the stream by failing banks, whilst he That only wants what can't be spared is free, And drinking at the Spring, nor water fears Troubled with mud, nor mingled with his tears. Yet most men say, by false desire misled, Nothing's enough, because you're valued Just so much as you have. What shall one say Or do to such a man? Bid him away And be as wretched as he please himself Whilst he so fond dotes on dirty pelf. A sordid rich Athenian, to allay The scorn of all the People's Tongues, would say, They hiss me, but I hug myself at home, While I among my endless treasures room. Tantalus catches at the flying streams That still beguile him like a Lover's dreams. Why dost thou laugh? Of thee the Fable's told, Thou that art plunged in thy heaps of Gold, And gazest on them with such wakeful Eyes, And greedy thoughts, yet dar'st not touch the prize No more than if't were sacred, or enjoyed Like Pictures which with handling are destroyed. Dost thou not know what money's worth? what use It yields? let bread be bought, and cheerful juice Of grapes, warm easy clothes, and wood to burn, As much of all as serves kind Nature's turn. Or else go spend thy nights in broken dreams Of Thiefs or Fire, by day try all extremes Of pinching Cold and Hunger, make thy fare Of watchful thoughts, and heart-consuming care. Are these thy Treasures! these thy Goods! May I In want of all such riches live and die. But if thy Body shakes with aguish cold, Or burns with raging fevers, or grows old Betimes with unkind usage, thou art sped With friends and Servants that surround thy bed, Make broths, and beg Physicians to restore A health now so bewailed, so loved before By all thy dear Relations. Wretched man! Neither thy Wife, nor Child, nor Servant can Endure thou shouldst recover; all the Boys And Girls, thy Neighbours hate thee, make a noise To break thy sleeps, and dost thou wonder, when Thou lov'st thy Gold far above Gods or Men? Canst thou teach others love, thyself have none? Thou mayst as well get Children all alone. Then let there be some end of gain; the more Thou dost possess, the less fear to be poor. And end thy labour when thou hast attained What first thou hadst in aim, nor be arraigned Like base Vmidius who was wont to meet His Money as his Neighbours did their Wheat, By Bushels; yet a Wretch to such degree That he was clothed and said as beggarly As the worst Slave, and to his very last His fear of downright starving ne'er was past; But as the Gods would have it, a brave Trull He kept, with a plain Hatchet cloven his skull. What is your counsel then, I pray, to swill Like Nomentanus, or like Maenius still To pinch and cark? Why go'st thou on to join Things so directly opposite? 'Tis fine, And does become thee, if I bid thee fly The Prodigal, a Miser thou must die: Nor one nor tother like my counsel sounds, There is a mean in things, and certain bounds, Short or beyond the which the truth and right Cannot consist, nor long remain in sight. But to return from whence I parted, where Is there one Miser does content appear With what he is or has, and does not hate His own, or envy at his Neighbour's Fate? Never regards the endless swarm of those That so much poorer are, but still outgoes The next, and then the next, when he is past, Meeting still one or other stops his haste. Like a fierce Rider in a numerous Race That starts and spurs it on with eager pace, While there is one before him, vexed in mind, But scorning all that he has left behind. Hence comes it that so seldom one is found Who says his Life has happy been and sound; And having fairly measured out the span Of posting-age, dies a contented man; Or rises from the Table like a Guest That even has filled his belly at the feast. ODE VII. THE Snows are melted all away, The Fields grow flowery, green and gay, The Trees put out their tender leaves, And all the streams that went astray, The Brook again into her bed receives. See! the whole Earth has made a change, The Nymphs and Graces naked range About the fields, who shrunk before Into their Caves. The empty Grange Prepares its room for a new Summer's store. Lest thou shouldst hope immortal things, The changing year Instruction brings, The fleeting hour that steals away The Beggar's time, and life of Kings, But ne'er returns them as it does the day. The cold grows soft with Western gales, The Summer over Spring prevails, But yields to Autumn's fruitful rain, As this to Winter-storms and hails, Each loss the hasting Moons repair again. But we when once our race is done, With Tullus and Anchises Son, (Though rich like one, like t'other good) To dust and shades without a Sun Descend, and sink in deep Oblivion's flood. Who knows if the kind Gods will give Another day to men that live In hope of many distant years, Or if one night more shall retrieve The joys thou losest by thy idle fears? The pleasant hours thou spendest in health, The use thou mak'st of youth and Wealth, As what thou giv'st among thy friends Escapes thy heirs, so those the stealth Of Time and Death, where good and evil ends. For when that comes, nor Birth, nor Fame, Nor Piety, nor Honest Name, Can e'er restore thee. Theseus' bold, Nor chaste Hippolytus could tame Devouring Fate, that spares nor young nor old. ODE XIII. WHen thou commend'st the lovely Eyes Of Telephus, that for thee dies, His arms of wax, his neck, or hair, Oh! how my heart begins to beat, My Spleen is swelled with gall and heat, And all my hopes are turned into despair. Then both my mind and colour change, My jealous thoughts about me range In twenty shapes; my Eyes begin Like Winter-springs apace to fill; The stealing drops, as from a Still, Fall down, and tell what fires I feel within. When his reproaches make thee cry, And thy fresh cheeks with paleness die. I burn to think you will be friends; When his rough hand thy bosom strips, Or his fierce kisses tear thy lips, I die to see how all such quarrel ends. Ah never hope a youth to hold So haughty, and in love so bold, What can him tame in anger keep? Whom all his fondness can't assuage, Who even kisses turns to rage Which Venus does in her own Nectar steep. Thrice happy they whose gentle hearts, Till death itself their union parts, An undisturbed kindness holds, Without complaints or jealous fears, Without reproach or spited tears, Which damp the kindest heats with sullen colds. UPON MRS. Philipp's DEATH: Made at the Desire of My LADY TEMPLE. WHY all these looks so solemn and so sad! Who is that one can die, and none be glad! The Rich leaves Heirs, the Great makes room, the Wise Pleases the foolish only when he dies. Men so divided are in hopes and fears, That none can live or die with gen'ral tears; 'Tis sure some Star is fallen, and our hearts Grow heavy as its gentle influence parts. Thus said I, and like others hung my head, When straight 'twas whispered 'tis Orinda's dead: Orinda! what! the glory of our Stage! Crown of her Sex, and wonder of the Age! Graceful and fair in body and in mind, She that taught sullen Virtue to be kind, Youth to be wise, Mirth to be innocent, Fame to be steady, Envy to relent; Love to be cool, and Friendship to be warm, Praise to do good, and Wit to do no harm! Orinda! that was sent the World to give The best example how to write and live! The Queen of Poets, whosoe'er's the King, And to whose Sceptre all their homage bring! Who more than Men conceived and understood, And more than Women knew how to be good. Who learned all young that age could e'er attain, Excepting only to be proud and vain; And made alone so rich amends for all The faults her Sex committed since the fall, Can she be dead! Can any thing be great And safe! Can day advance and not retreat Into the shady night! But she was young And might have lived to 〈◊〉 the World, and sung Us all asleep that now lament her fall, And fate unjust, Heaven unrelenting call. Alas! can any fruit grow ripe in Spring, And hang till Autumn? Nature gives this sting To all below, whatever thrives too fast Decays too soon, late growths may longer last. Orinda could not wait on slow paced time, Having so far to go, so high to climb; But like a flash of heavenly fire that falls Into some earthly dwelling, first it calls The Neighbours only to admire the light And lustre that surprise their wondering sight, Till kindling all, it grows a noble flame, Towering and spiring up from whence it came; But e'er arrived at those azure Walls, The house that lodged it here, to ashes falls: Such was Orinda's Soul. But hold! I see A Troop of Mourners in deep Elegy, Make room and listen to their charming lays, For they bring Cypress here to trade for Bays; And he deserves it who of all the rest Praises and imitates Orinda best. UPON THE Approach of the SHORE AT HARWICH, In January, 1668. Begun under the MAST, At the Desire of My LADY GIFFARD. WElcome the fairest and the happiest earth, Seat of my hopes and pleasures, as my birth: Mother of welborn Souls, and fearless hearts, In Arms renowned, and flourishing in Arts. The Island of good nature and good cheer, That elsewhere only pass, inhabit here. Region of Valour and of Beauty too; Which shows, the brave are only fit to woe. No Child thou hast ever approached thy shore That loved thee better, or esteemed thee more. Beaten with Journeys both of Land and Seas, Tired with care, the busy man's disease; Pinched with frost, and parched with the wind, Giddy with rolling, and with fasting pined; Spighted and vexed that Winds, and Tides, and Sands, Should all conspire to cross such great commands As haste me home with an account that brings The doom of Kingdoms to the best of Kings. Yet I respire at thy reviving sight, Welcome as health, and cheerful as the light▪ How I forget my anguish and my toils, Charmed at th'approach of thy delight▪ How like a Mother thou hold'st out thy arms To save thy children from pursuing harms; And open'st thy kind bosom, where they find Safety from waves, and shelter from the wind: Thy cliffs so stately, and so green thy hills, This with respect, with hope the other fills, All that approach thee, and believe they find A Spring for Winter that they left behind. Thy sweet enclosures and thy scattered farms Show thy secureness from thy Neighbour's harms; Their sheep in houses, and their men in towns Sleep only safe, thine rove about the downs, And hills, and groves, and plains, and know no fear Of foes, or Wolves, or cold throughout the year, Their vast and frightful woods seem only made To cover cruel deeds and give a shade To the wild beasts, and wilder men, they pray Upon whatever chances in their way. Thy pleasant thickets and thy shady groves Only relieve the heats and cover loves, Sheltering no other thefts or cruelties, But those of killing or beguiling Eyes. Their famished Hinds oppressed by cruel Lords, Flayed with hard taxes, awed with Soldier's swords, Know no more ease than just what sleep can give; Have no more heart or courage but to live: Thy brawny Clowns and sturdy Seamen fed With the good Beef that their own fields have bred, Safe in their Laws, and easy in their rent, Blessed in their King, and in their State content; When they are called away from Herd or Plough To arms, will make all foreign forces bow, And show how much a lawful Monarch saves, When twenty Subjects beat an hundred Slaves. Fortunate Island! if thou didst but know How much thou dost to Heaven and Nature owe! And if thy humour were as good as great Thy forces, and as blest thy soil and seat; But then with numbers thou wouldst be o'er-run, Strangers to breathe thy air their own would shun; And of thy children none abroad would roam, But for the pleasure of returning home. Come and embrace us in thy saving arms, Command the waves to cease their rough alarms, And guard us to thy Port, that we may see Thou art indeed the Empress of the Sea. So may thy Ships about the Ocean course, And still increase in number and in force. So may no storms ever infest thy shores, But all the winds that blow increase thy stores. May never more contagious air arise To close so many of thy children's Eyes, But all about thee health and plenty vie Which shall seem kindest to thee, Earth or Sky. May no more fires be seen among thy Towns, But charitable Beacons on thy Downs, Or else victorious Bonfires in thy Streets, Kindled by winds that blow from off thy Fleets. Mayst thou feel no more fits of factious rage, But all distempers may thy Charles assuage, With such well tuned concord of his State, As none but ill and hated men may hate. And mayst thou from him endless Monarches see Whom thou mayst honour, who may honour thee. May they be wise and good, thy happy seat, And stores, will never fail to make them great. UPON My LADY GIFFARD's LOORY. OF all the questions which the curious raise Either in search of knowledge or of praise, None seems so much perplexed or so nice As where to find the seat of Paradise. But who could once that happy Region name From whence the fair and charming Loory came? To end this doubt would give the best advice, For this was sure the bird of Paradise. Such radiant colours from no tainted air, Such notes and humour from no lands of care, Such unknown smells could from no common earth, From no known Climate could receive a birth. For he alone in these alive outvi'd All the perfumes with which the Phoenix died. About a gentle Turtle's was the size, The sweetest shape that e'er surprised eyes. A longish hawked bill, and yellow brown, A slick black velvet cap upon the crown. His back a scarlet mantle covered over, One purple sploach upon his neck he wore. His jetty eyes were circled all with flame. His swelling Breast was, with his back, the same. All down his belly a deep violet hue Was gently shaded to an azure blue. His spreading wings were green, to brown inclined, But with a sweet pale straw colour were lined. His tail, above was purples mixed with green, Under, a colour such as ne'er was seen, When like a Fan it spread, a mixture bold Of green and yellow grideline and gold. Thus by fond Nature was he dressed more gay Than Eastern Kings in all their rich array, For Feather much, as well as Flower, outvies In softness, silk, in colour mortal dies. But none his beauty with his humour dare, Nor can his Body with his Soul compare. If that was wonder, this was Prodigy, They differed as the finest Earth and Sky. If ever any reasonable Soul Harboured in shape of either brute or fowl, This was the Mansion, Metamorphosy Gained here the credit lost in Poetry. No passion moving in a humane breast Was plainer seen, or livelier expressed. No wit or learning, eloquence or song, Acknowledged kindness, or complained of wrong With accents half so feeling as his notes: Look how he rages, now again he dotes; Brave like the Eagle, meek as is the Dove, Jealous as Men, like Women does he love. With bill he wounds you sudden as a dart, Then nibbling asks you pardon from his heart. He calls you back if e'er you go away, He thanks you if you are so kind to stay. When you return, with exultation high He raises notes that almost pierce the Sky, But all in such a language that we guest, Though he spoke ours, he found his own the best. Such a Badeen ne'er came upon the Stage, So droll, so monkey in his play and rage; Sprawling upon his back, and pitching pies, Twirling his head, and flurring at the flies. A thousand tricks and postures would he show, Then rise so pleased both with himself and you, That the amazed beholders could not say Whether the bird was happier, or they. With a soft brush was tipped his wanton tongue, He leapt his water like a Tiger young, His Lady's teeth with this he picked and pruned; With this a thousand various notes he tuned. A chagrin fine covered his little feet, Which to wild airs would in wild measures meet. With these he took you by the hand, his prey With these he seized, with these he hoped away. With these held up he made his bold defence, The arms of safety, love and violence. With all these charms Loory endowed and dressed, Forsaking climates with such creatures blest. From Eastern regions and remotest strands Flew to the gentle Artemisa's hands. And when from thence he gave the fatal start, Went to the gentle Artemisa's heart. Fed with her hands, and perched upon her head, From her lips watered, nested in her bed. Nursed with her cares, preserved with her fears, And now, alas! embalmed with her tears. But sure among the griefs that plead just cause, This needs must be acquitted by the laws, For never could be greater passion, Concernment, jealousy, for Mistress shown, Content in presence, and at parting grief; Trouble in absence, by return relief. Such application, that he was i'th' end Company, Lover, Playfellow and Friend. Could I but hope or live one man to find As much above the rest of humane kind As this above the race of all that fly, Long should I live, contented should I die. Had such a Creature heretofore appeared When to such various Gods were Altars reared, Who came transformed down in twenty shapes For entertainment, love, revenge, or rapes: Loory would then have Mercury been thought, And of him sacred Images been wrought: For between him sure was sufficient odds And all th' Egyptian, Gothick, Indian Gods: Nay, with more reason had he been adored Than Gods that perjured, Goddesses that whored: Yet such the greatest Nations chose or found, And raised the highest Plant from lowest ground. FINIS. ARISTAEUS. Drawn from the latter part of the FOURTH BOOK OF VIRGIL'S GEORGICS. The Argument. Aristaeus was Son of Cyrene, Daughter to one of the ancient Kings of Arcadia; and by Apollo as was believed or at least reported. His Birth was concealed, and he was sent to be privately brought up among the Shepherds of Arcadia; where grown a Man, he applied himself wholly to the cares and stores of a Country Life, in all which he succeeded, so as to grow nowned for his Knowledge and Wealth. He was esteemed the first Inventor of Cheese, Oil and Honey, or rather of the Art of hiving Bees, which before were wild, and their Stocks found only by chance and in hollow Trees. For this he was worshipped among the Arcadians as Son of Apollo, and as other Inventors of things necessary or most useful to humane Life. He fell in love with Eurydice newly espoused to Orpheus; and by his pursuit of her, was the occasion of her Death, being bitten by a Snake as she fled from him. This was followed by the death of Orpheus after a long and incurable grief, whereupon Aristaeus was by the Nymphs Companions of Eurydice, plagued in all his Stores, but most of all in his Bees, of which he was fondest, till he lost them all, and was in despair ever to recover them: But by the Advice of his Mother and of Proteus, to whom she sent him, he came to find out both the true cause of his loss, and means of retrieving it. THe Shepherd Aristaeus grieving, sees The helpless loss of his beloved Bees; In vain he with the strong Contagion strives, The clustering Stocks lie famished in their Hives; Some from abroad return with droopy Wing With empty Thighs, and most without a Sting. They with Diseases, He with sorrow pines, And to his spited Grief himself resigns; Abandons all his wont Cares and Pains, His Flocks, his Groves, his Shepherds and his Plains. Away he goes led by his raving Dreams, To the clear Head of the Peneian Streams; Full of Complaints he there his Sorrow breaks, And thus reproaching to his Mother speaks. Cyrene, Sometime Mother, whose Abodes Are at the Bottom of these Crystal Floods, If e'er Apollo charmed thy Desire As I am told, or was my Sacred Sire, If ever thou brought'st forth this Child, the hate And scorn of angry unrelenting Fate; What is his Care? Or where thy tender Love? That bid me hope for blessed Seats above: Is this th' advantage of Immortal-Race? Are these the Trophies that thy Offspring grace? Is't not enough, I pass inglorious Life Among the Country Shades, in Toil and Strife▪ With my hard Fate, but Thou must envy bear, That I lived private, void of Hope or Fear; Sprung from such Seed I should a Hero be, Is it too much to be content and free? What is the Honour of poor Sheep and Bees? That thou shouldst envy or deny me these; Thou art a Goddess, I an humble Swain, And can my Rural-Fortunes give thee Pain? If so, then come and cut down all my Groves Parch all my eared Sheaves, and kill my Droves, Famish my Flocks, and root up all my Vines, He that is once undone no more repines. Thus went he on, until at length the Sound Reached Fair Cyrene, she sat circled round With all her Nymphs, in Vaulted Chambers spread Under the great and Sacred River's Bed; There was Cydippe, gentle, sweet and fair, And bright Lycorias with Golden Hair; The first a Virgin free from wanton Stains, The other newly past Lucina's Pains; Clio and Beroe from the Ocean Lately arrived each upon a Swan; Opis and Ephyre and Deiopeia, Drymo, Ligaea and the young Thaleia; Swift Arethusa had her Quiver laid, And wanton Speio with her Garland played; Some spin Trilesian Wools, some entertain The rest with Stories of the pleasing Pain; The Gay Climene told the crafty Wiles Of jealous Vulcan, how he Mars beguiles, How the sweet thefts are 〈◊〉, the Train is set, And how the Lovers struggle in the Net. Whilst to such Tales they lend a willing Ear Their Times and Work away together wear; Till Aristaeus sad complaint begins To make them listen, then proceeding wins All the Attention of the Crystal Hall; But Arethusa moved, before all The rest starts up, and rears her sprightly Head Above the Waves that murmured as they fled; And Oh the Gods, Cyrene, cries she out, Sister Cyrene, Sister, here without, Thy chiefest care, sad Aristaeus stands, And Sighs, and swells, and with his gentle hands Wipes his wet Eyes, then to reproaches falls, And thee unkind and cruel Mother calls. She struck, and pale and feeling all the smart That at such news could pierce a Mother's Heart, Cries, bring him to us, bring him straight away, For him 'tis lawful, Aristaeus may, Sprung of the Gods, their Sacred Portals tread; Then she commands the hasty Streams that fled So fast away, to stop and leave a Room Where the Sad Youth might to her Palace come. The Waters hear their Goddesses Command, And rising from their Bed in Arches stand; He through the glazed Vaults amazed descends, Guided by two of the kind Nymphs his Friends, Till the vast spacious Caverns he descries, Where fair Cyrene's watery Kingdom lies, And struck with Wonder, the new Scene beheld, Where●● vast regions mighty Waters swelled; Her gloomy Groves repeat the hollow sound Of falling Floods, the● Rocky Cliffs rebound The fainting Echoes; here great lakes remain Enclosed in Caves, reserved to fill some Vein Of failing Streams; there mighty River's roll In Torrents raging, and without control; Here gentle Brooks with a soft murmur glide, Phasis and Lycus coasting by his side; Cold Cydnus hastening to Cilician Strands, Old Tiber winding through the Tawny Sands; The troubled Hypanis and Anien fair, All haste to show their Heads in open Air; That way the rapid Po in branched Veins 〈◊〉 out to water many Fertile Plains. At length the noble Swain is wondering brought Into a great and round Pavilion wrought Out of a Crystal Rock with Moss or'egrown, Within 'twas paved all with Pumice Stone, The vaulted Roof with Mother Pearl was spread, Fretted with Coral in white Branches led, The Wall in grotesque Imagery excels, Wrought in a thousand various coloured Shells; Some representing the fierce Sea God's rapes, Others the Fair and flying Nymphs escapes; Here Neptune with the Tritons in his Train, There Venus rising from the foamy Main. Twenty eight Ivory Chairs, and covered all With Mossy Cusheons stood about the Hall, To one of these is Aristaeus led, Where sitting down, at first he hung his Head, Then sighing tells his Story, and his moan Repeats, but only lets reproach alone. Cyrene hearing all her Sons Complaints, Alas poor Youth, she cries, alas he faints; Is it with fasting or with grief? Go bring A boul of Water from yond Crystal Spring, And bring a Flagon of Old sparkling Wine; The Nymphs dispatch, some make the Altar shine With Spicy Flames, some the white Napkins get And various dishes on the Table set. She takes a Cup of one great Pearl, and cries First to the Ocean let us Sacrifice, And while she holds it in her Hand, she prays To the great Ocean; sings the Ocean's praise, Invokes a hundred Nymphs that him obey But in a hundred Groves and Rivers sway; Thrice she pours Wine upon the sacred fires, And thrice the Flame to th'arched Roof aspires, With which propitious Signs Cyrene pleased, She thus her Sons impatient Grief appeased. In the Carpaethian Gulf blew Proteus dwells, Great Neptune's Prophet, who the Ocean quells; He in a glittering Chariot courses o'er The foaming Waves, Him all the Nymphs adore, Old Nereus too, because He all things knows, The past, the present, and the future Shows: So Neptune pleased, who Proteus thus inspired, And with such Wages to his Service hired. Gave him the Rule of all his briny Flocks, That feed among a thousand ragged Rocks: He's coasting now to the Emathian Shore, Near fair Pallene, where bright Thetis bore This Son of th' Ocean, Thou must him pursue, And seize, and bind, and make him tell the true Cause and events of thy disastrous chance; By no fair Words or Prayers thou canst advance, Nor gentle means, hard force will make him bend And for his own, be glad to serve thy end: When next the radiant Sun shall scorch the Plain, And thirsty cattle seek for shade in vain; I will myself conduct thee to the Cells, And close Retreats where this Enchanter dwells; When he the Ocean leaves and takes his rest; There seize him tired, and with sleep oppressed, And bind him fast with Fetters and with Chains; And still, the more he struggles and he strains, The faster hold him, and beware his Wiles, By which he other Mortals still beguiles; For into twenty various Forms he'll turn A Marble Pillar, or a carved Urn, A Flash of Fire, or else a gushing Flood, A shaggy Lion smeared all with Blood, A Scaly Dragon, or a rugged Bear, A chafed Boar, or Tiger he'll appear. But thou the more he shifts his various Shapes, Take the more care to hinder his escapes, And hold him faster, till at length he rise In the same Form thou didst him first surprise; Then will he tell whose Anger has thee grieved, And how thy loss may be again retrieved. Thus said Cyrene, and with a gentle look Upon her Son, her Golden Tresses shook, From whence Ambrosian Odours were diffused About the Room, by which the Shepherd, used So long to Woe, straight seemed to revive, And thought his loved Bees again alive; His Hair and Weed the sweet Perfume retains, And sprightly vigour runs through all his Veins. There is a mighty Gulf, which many a Tide Had eaten out of a great Mountains side; Sometimes the foaming Waves come braving o'er The ragged Cliffs, that all infe●t the Shore, And a great Sea covers this mighty Bay; But when with falling Tides it steals away, Then does a dry and spacious Strand appear, Which rough and scattered Rocks does only bear. About the midst, one above all the rest With scraggy Splints raises its lofty Crest; The spreading Roof has two unequal sides, Half undermined by the beating Tides, Which make two hollow Chamberson the Strand Arched with Rock, and floored with the Sand; Of these the larger is the cool Retreat Which Proteus chooses from the scorching Heat. Within the lesser fair Cyrene hides Bold Aristaeus, where the Youth abides, Turned from the Light, and casting in his mind How he may seize the Bard, and how him bind. Thus all prepared, the Nymph no longer stays, But in a mist away herself conveys; And as she rises all the Sky grows clear, Phoebus begins his flaming Head to rear, Parching the Corn, and scorching up the Blades. The lowing Cattle seek about for Shades, The panting Lions with the Heat oppressed, And Tigers tamed, lay them down to rest, The thirsty Indians hasten to their Caves, And now the briny Flocks forsake the Waves; Here comes a Triton on a Dolphin borne, There a great Sea-horse with his wreathed horn, The snarling Seals crawl up the sloping Shore, And deep mouthed Hounds that in Charybdis roar, Calves, Hogs and Bears (all Monsters of the Floods But those resembling which frequent the Woods) Roul on the Sand, or sprawling on their sides In the hot Sun they tann their tawny Hides. Then Proteus wafted o'er the curling Waves, Leaps on the Shore and hastens to his Caves, There sitting down, He shakes his briny Locks, And eyes his Herds scattered among the Rocks; Just as some aged Shepherd ere the Night Approaches, and the Wolves begin to fright His tender Lambs, gets on some rising ground, And gathers all his Flocks about him round, Views them with care, and numbers all his Sheep, Then on the Grass securely falls asleep. But Proteus scarce is laid upon the Sands, In easy Slumbers stretching out his Hands, When the fierce youth in haste upon him runs, Seizes him fast, and with Amazement stuns The frighted Captive. Then he claps on Bands Upon his fainting Legs and trembling Hands. Yet 'tis not long the Elf forgets his Arts, But at the first surprising Fright departs, Come to himself, He is himself no more, Nothing appears of what he was before; But into twenty Monstrous shapes he turns, Gushes like Water, or in Flame he burns, A Serpent hisses, or a Lion roars, A Tiger's likeness, or a grizly Boars: But the warned Swain never le's go his hold, Till Proteus finding none of all his old Accustomed Wiles succeed, He silence breaks And thus in Humane Voice and Shape he speaks. But who, thou boldest of all Mortal Race, Has sent thee here, my lonely Steps to trace, And taught thee, undiscerned, thus to creep Into the secret Closets of the Deep; Or what's the thing thou seekest now I am tied, And in thy Hands? The Shepherd straight replied Thou askest what thou knowest, for none can thee Deceive, then think not of deceiving me; 'Tis by the Gods Commands we here are come To thee for Help, or else to know our Doom. At this the Prophet rowls his fiery Eyes, And Grinds his Teeth awhile, and then replies▪ 'Tis not in vain, or for light cause decreed By angry Fates, that thy fond Heart should bleed As well as his, for whom this punishment Too too unequal to thy Crime is sent: 'Tis wretched Orpheus does thy Life infest, And both have lost what both have loved best; Thy Heart was set upon thy Rural Stores, He nothing but Eurydice adores; Thou wert the cause of her untimely Fate, And He pursues thee with an endless Hate. The lovely Bride was wand'ring o'er the Plain, In hopes to meet her own desired Swain; When thou bold Youth inflamed by her Charms Would fain have caught her in thy Lustful Arms, Away she springs like a light Do that flies The bloody Hound, her nimble Feet she plys Along the Downs, but whilst away she runs, And thy pursuit amazed and frighted shuns; Alas! Unwary, she ne'er spied the Snake, That, as she passed, lay lurking in the brake; Thus almost hopeless grown and out of Breath She escapes thy Rage by an untimely Death. But her last Cries the Echoes far report, The Nymphs about her shrieking all resort; The hollow Woods in murmur make their moan Among their Branches all the Tur●●es Groan; The Thracian Mountains round with Sorrow swell The very Tigers all about them yell, The towering Heavens at her Fate complain, And broken hearted Clouds fall down in Rain; The following Night her deepest Sable wears, And the next Morning weeps in dewy Tears. But woeful Orpheus all in grief excels, All in Complaints, among the Rocks he dwells, In Tears dissolving, and with sighing pined, Calling the Heaven's unjust, and Gods unkind; At length he takes up his melodious Lyre, Which Phoebus ever used to inspire; Thinking to charm his Woes and Lovesick Heart, A cure too hard for either Time or Art; For now his warbling Harp would yield no sounds, But lost Eurydice, Eurydice rebounds From every trembling String; Thee still he sung, Thy gentle Name among the Woods he rung; Thee on the lonely Shore amidst the Rocks, Thee on the Hills among the Herds and Flocks, Thee on the dawning of the Morning grey, Thee at the closing of the weary Day. But where alas, thus wretched should he go, Tired with light, he seeks the Shades below; To the Taenarian Caves his course he bends, And by the deep infernal Gates descends. Into the ghastly leafless Woods that spread Over the gloomy Regions of the Dead; Trunks without Sap, and Boughs that never bore, Some pale with Fear, some black with deep despair, He crossed the Sooty Plains and miry Lakes, All full of croaking Toads and hissing Snakes; Came to the rusty Iron Gates that bring To the black Towers of the great dreadful King, Hoping to touch a Heart with his sad care, That ne'er relented yet with Humane Prayer. But at his powerful Song the very Seats Of Erebus were moved, the Retreats Of all the Ghosts were opened, and they swarm Like Bees in clusters when the Sun grows warm, Or when the Evening drives them to the Hive, Mothers and Virgins now no more alive, Husbands and Children, Heroes so renowned, Mixed with the nameless Crowd, and Monarches Crowned, 'Mong sweaty Hinds, and Slaves about him throng, Admire and listen to his charming Song: The whole Tartarian Regions all amazed Stood and attended, or upon him gazed; The Slow Cocytus stopsits muddy Flood, And Styx about him nine times circling stood, The snaky Tresses of th' Eumenideses Left off their hissing, Cerberus at ease Laid down his threefold Head, and ceased to roar Ixion's restless Wheel would turn no more. And now th'enchanting Orpheus' had prevailed, His Songs had more than ever Prayers availed, Euridice's again restored to Humane Life, And He returns close followed by his Wife; Hears, but not sees her, for that Law was made By Proserpina, and was upon him laid, He should not once behold his Lovely Fair, Till both arrived above in open Air. But when th' Infernal Mansions almost past, Approaching Day a dawning twilight cast Upon the Lovers, the unhappy Swain Forgetting all his Woes and all his Pain, Spent with desire, and vanquished of his Mind, Turned his impatient Head, and cast a kind And longing Look upon his gentle Mate, Now heedless of the Doom imposed by Fate; A venial Fault, if Pity or if Grace Had ever grown among the infernal Race. But here his Labour all run out in vain, The unrelenting Doom takes place again; Thrice from the Avernian Lake a horrid noise Invades his Ears, and thrice the howling voice Of Cerberus, thrice shuck the vaulted Cave, And for the Nymph opened a second Grave. She fainting cries, what Fury thee possessed, What frenzy, Orpheus, seized on thy Breast; Ah me, once more undone! Behold the Fates Again recall me to the Iron Gates; Once more my Eyes are seized with endless sleep; And now farewell, I sink into the Deep Oblivion's Cells, surrounded all with Night, No longer thine, in vain to stop my Flight I stretch my Arms, in vain thou stretchest thine, In vain thou grievest, and I in vain repine. Thus said she, and o'th' sudden from his Eyes, Like Smoke to Air all vanishing she flies, And leaves him catching at the empty Shade, In vain he called her, and fond Offers made To follow, for no more hard Fate allows His wished return, nor hearkens to his Vows; Black Guards of Orcus strongly him withstood, Nor suffered to approach the Stygian Flood. What should he do, where pass his woeful Life? Twice had he got, twice lost his Dearest Wife; With what new Vows should he the Heavens please? With what new Songs should he the Ghosts apppease? She now grown pale and cold, was wafting o'er The Stygian Lake, and near the hated Shore. Full seven long Months in sad and raving Dreams Or restless thoughts he passed near Strimon's Streams Under a lovely Rock, or in wild Dens, Seeking the Savage Beasts, avoiding men's Commerce or sight, but with his doleful lays He taught the flocking Birds to sing her praise; His own Despair, the very Stones admire, And rolling follow his melodious Lyre; He forced the Heart of hardest Oak to groan, And made fierce Tigers leave their Rage, and moan; So the sweet Nightingale that grieving stood And sawth ' untimely Rape of her young Brood Snatched by some Clown out of the downy Nest, Under a Poplar shade, or else her Breast Against some Thorn, she spends her longsom Night In mournful Notes, and shuns th'approaching light But the dark thickets fills with endless moan Charming all others sorrow but her own. No heats new Venus in him e'er could raise, No Sense e'er moved him of Reproach or praise, Along the Streams of Tanais he goes, Alone he wanders o'er the Scythian Snows, Seeks the rough Mountains covered all with Frost, And tells the Trees Eurydice is lost, Curses the vain Concession of the Fates, Himself, and angry Gods, and Men he hates, Women he scorns, since she must be no more, Whom only he, and ever could adore. But the Cyconian Dames too long despised, Too much desiring by him to be prized, Amidst the Sacred Rights of Bacchus' Feast Ripped up his vainly loved and loving Breast, Tore him in Pieces, and about the Fields Scattered his Limbs (what Fruits Religion yields) And even then, when into Heber's Streams They threw his Head, his Eyes had lost their Beams His Lips their ruddy hue, but still his Voice Called in a Low, and now expiring noise, Eurydice, Eurydice his Tongue In broken Notes, now i'll and trembling sung, Eurydice the Echoes sounded o'er The Neighbouring Banks, and down the rocky Shore. Thus Proteus sung, then leapt into the Main, For now the foaming Tide returned again Among the Rocks. The Shepherd stood amazed But straight Cyrene came, on whom he gazed Like one enchanted with the dreary Song Of charming Proteus, for the fatal Wrong Of Orpheus touched him now, more than his own, In such sad Notes and lively Colours shown; She cheered his troubled Thoughts, and thus began No more complaints, my Son, no more these wan And careful Looks, the cause of all thy grief Is now discovered, so is the Relief. The angry Nymphs that haunt the Shady Groves Where Orpheus, and his Bride, began their Loves; And many a Dance had ●ught her in their Rings Whilst he so sweetly to their Measures sings; 'tis they have plagued thee in all thy Stores, Among thy Sheep have caused so many Sores, Blasted thy Corn, and made thy Heifers pine, Blighted the fruitful Olive and the Vine; But above all, thy Bees have felt the smart, Because they knew, thou hadst them most at Heart Therefore with Offerings thou must them appease They reconciled once, will give thee ease; The Nymphs are gentle, may their Rage allay When thou beginst to Worship and to Pray. But the whole Order of their Sacred Rights I must explain, unknown to Mortal Wights; First choose four Steers, the fairest of thy Herd, Which on Lycaean Mountains thou hast reared; Four lovely Heifers yet unhandled take, Then just as many unhewn Altars make Within the Grove, where ancient use allows Arcadian Swains to pay their Holy Vows Unto the Nymphs. There as the day shall rise Of all these Offerings make one Sacrifice; Upon the Altars pour the reeking Blood, And leave the Bodies in the Shady Wood, First strewed over with fresh Oaken Boughs; But when the Ninth Aurora thee shall rouse From thy soft Sleep, Lethaean Poppys bring, And unto Orpheus' solemn Dirgies Sing; With a black Sheep his angry Ghost appease, And a white Calf Eurydice to please; Then to the Grove return with humble Gate, And Heart devout, and there expect thy Fate. The Swain instructed, makes no long delay, Unto the Shrine he straight begins his way, Raises the Altars, all the Bullocks slays, Offers his humblest Prayers and his Praise Unto the angry Nymphs, than home retires And lays sweet Incense on his Household Fires Full eight long days, but when the dawning light Upon the ninth restored the Morning bright, He to the Grove returns, and there he sees (Stupend●ous sight) a thousand thousand Bees; Out of the melted Bowels of each Steer, As from a mighty swarming Hive appear, Bursting from out the Sides with vital Heat, From whence in Clouds they rise, then take their seat Upon the leaning Boughs, till all the Trees Are hung with Bunches of the clustering Bees. Thus have I sung poor Nymphs and Shepherds dreams Whilst Caesar thunders a● Euphrates streams With conquering Arms the vanquished Nations awes, And to the willing People gives just Laws, Treads the true Path to great Olympus' Hills, And wondering Mortals with his Praises fills. FINIS Ode the 29th. Lib. III. 1. MOecena's Offspring of Tyrrhenian Kings, And worthy of the greatest Empires sway, Unbend thy working mind a while, and play With softer thoughts and loser Strings, Hard Iron ever wearing will decay. 2. A Piece untouched of old and noble Wine Attends thee here; soft essence for thy hair, Of Purple Violets made, or Lilies fair. The Roses hang their heads and pine, And till you come in vain perfume the Air. 3. Be not inveigled by the gloomy shades Of Tiber, nor cool Aniens Crystal streams, The Sun is yet but young, his gentle beams Revive, and scorch not up the blades. The Spring like Virtue, dwells between extremes 4. Leave fulsome plenty for a while, and come From stately Palaces that tower so high And spread so far; The dust and business fly, The smoke and noise of mighty Rome, And cares that on Embroidered Carpets lie. 5. It is vicissitude that pleasure yields To Men with greatest wealth and honours blest, And sometimes homely fare but cleanly dressed. In Country Farms or pleasant Fields; Clears up a Cloudy brow and thoughtful breast. 6. Now the cold Winds have blown themselves away, The Frosts are melted into pearly Dews; The Chirping Birds each morning tell the news, Of cheerful Spring, and welcome day. The tender Lambs follow the bleating Ewes. 7. The Vernal bloom adorns the fruitful Trees With various dress; the soft and gentle rains, Begin with Flowers to enamel all the plains. The Turtle with her Mate agrees: And wanton Nymphs with their enamoured swains. 8. Thou art contriving in thy mind, what State, And form, becomes that mighty City best: Thy busy head can take no gentle rest, For thinking on th'events, and Fate, Of factious Rage; which has her long oppressed. 9 Thy cares extend to the remotest Shores, Of her vast Empire, how the Persian Arms; Whether the Bactrians join their Troops; what harms From the Cantabrians and the Moors; May come, or the tumultuous Germane swarms. 10. But the wise Powers above, that all things know, In sable night have hid the events, and train Of future things; and with a just disdain, Laugh when poor mortals here below, Fear without cause; and break their sleeps in vain 11. Think how the present thou mayst well compose, With equal mind, and without endless cares For the unequal course of State affairs, Like to the Ocean ebbs and flows, Or rather like our Neighbouring Tiber fares. 12. Now smooth and silent down her Channel creeps Now swells and rages, threatening all to drown; The Banks and Trees, and Houses tumbles down, Away both Corn and Cattle sweeps. And fills with noise and horror Fields and Town. 13. After a while grown calm, retreats again Into her sandy Bed, and softly glides; So Jove sometimes in fiery Chariot rides With cracks of Thunder, storms of Rain, Then grows serene, and all our fears derides. 14. He only lives content, and his own man Or rather Master; who each night can say: 'Tis well, thanks to the Gods I've lived to day. This is my own, this never can Like other Goods, be forced or stolen away. 15. And for to morrow let me weep or laugh, Let the Sun shine or Storms and Tempests ring, Yet 'tis not in the power of Fates, a thing Should ne'er have been, or not be safe Which flying time has covered with her wing. 16. Capricious Fortune plays a scornful game With humane things; uncertain as the Wind: Sometimes to thee, sometimes to me is kind. Throws about Honours, Wealth, and Fame, At random, heedless, humorous and blind. 17. He's wise, who when she smiles the good enjoys, And unallayed with fears of future ill; But if she frowns can let her have her will. I can with ease resign the toys, And lie wrapped up in my own Virtue still. 18. I'll make my court to honest Poverty An easy Wife, although without a dowry, What Nature asks will yet be in my power: For without Pride or Luxury, How little serves to pass the fleeting hour. 19 'Tis not for me when Winds and Billows rise And crack the Mast, and mock the Seamens cares, To fall to poor and Mercenary prayers: For fear the Tyrian Merchandise Should all be lost, and not enrich my Heirs. 20. I'll rather leap into the little Boat, Which without fluttering Sails shall waft me o'er The swelling Waves; and then I'll think no more Of Ship, or freight; but change my note, And thank the Gods that I am safe ashore. FINIS.