Dryden's VIRGIL Printed for jacob Tonson    

THE WORKS OF VIRGIL: Containing His PASTORALS, GEORGICS, AND AENEIS.  
Translated into English Verse; By Mr. DRYDEN.  
Adorned with a Hundred Sculptures.  
Sequiturque Patrem non passibus Aequis.  Virg. Aen. 2. 
LONDON, Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judges-Head in Fleetstreet, near the Inner-Temple-Gate, MDCXCVII.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Hugh Lord Clifford, BARON of Chudleigh.  
My Lord,  
I HAVE found it not more difficult to Translate Virgil, than to find such Patrons as I desire for my Translation. For though England is not wanting in a Learned Nobility, yet such are my unhappy Circumstances, that they have confined me to a narrow choice. To the greater part, I have not the Honour to be known; and to some of them I cannot show at present, by any public Act, that grateful Respect which I shall ever bear them in my heart. Yet I have no reason to complain of Fortune, since in the midst of that abundance I could not possibly have chosen better, than the Worthy Son of so Illustrious a Father. He was the Patron of my Manhood, when I Flourished in the opinion of the World; though with small advantage to my Fortune, till he awakened the remembrance of my Royal Master. He was that Pollio, or that Varus, who introduced me to Augustus: And tho' he soon dismissed himself from State-Affairs, yet in the short time of his Administration he shone so powerfully upon me, that like the heat of a Russian - Summer, he ripened the Fruits of Poetry in a cold Climate; and gave me wherewithal to subsist at least, in the long Winter which succeeded. What I now offer to your Lordship, is the wretched remainder of a sickly Age, worn out with Study, and oppressed by Fortune: without other support than the Constancy and Patience of a Christian. You, my Lord, are yet in the flower of your Youth, and may live to enjoy the benefits of the Peace which is promised Europe: I can only hear of that Blessing: for Years, and, above all things, want of health, have shut me out from sharing in the happiness. The Poets, who condemn their Tantalus to Hell, had added to his Torments, if they had placed him in Elysium, which is the proper Emblem of my Condition. The Fruit and the Water may reach my Lips, but cannot enter: And if they could, yet I want a Palate as well as a Digestion. But it is some kind of pleasure to me, to please those whom I respect. And I am not altogether out of hope, that these Pastorals of Virgil may give your Lordship some delight, though made English by one, who scarce remembers that Passion which inspired my Author when he wrote them. These were his first Essay in Poetry, (if the Ceiris was not his:) And it was more excusable in him to describe Love when he was young, than for me to Translate him when I am Old. He died at the Age of fifty two, and I began this Work in my great Clymacterique. But having perhaps a better constitution than my Author, I have wronged him less, considering my Circumstances, than those who have attempted him before, either in our own, or any Modern Language. And though this Version is not void of Errors, yet it comforts me that the faults of others are not worth finding. Mine are neither gross nor frequent, in those Eclogues, wherein my Master has raised himself above that humble Style in which Pastoral delights, and which I must confefs is proper to the Education and Converse of Shepherds: for he found the strength of his Genius betimes, and was even in his youth preluding to his Georgics, and his Aeneis. He could not forbear to try his Wings, though his Pinions were not hardened to maintain a long laborious flight. Yet sometimes they bore him to a pitch as lofty, as ever he was able to reach afterwards. But when he was admonished by his subject to descend, he came down gently circling in the air, and singing to the ground. Like a Lark, melodious in her mounting, and continuing her Song till she alights: still preparing for a higher flight at her next sally, and tuning her voice to better music. The Fourth, the Sixth, and the Eighth Pastorals, are clear Evidences of this truth. In the three first he contains himself within his bounds; but Addressing to Pollio, his great Patron, and himself no vulgar Poet, he no longer could restrain the freedom of his Spirit, but began to assert his Native Character, which is sublimity. Putting himself under the conduct of the same Cumaean Sibyl, whom afterwards he gave for a Guide to his Aeneas. 'Tis true he was sensible of his own boldness; and we know it by the Paulo Majora, which begins his Fourth Eclogue. He remembered, like young Manlius, that he was forbidden to Engage; but what avails an express Command to a youthful Courage, which presages Victory in the attempt? Encouraged with Success, he proceeds farther in the Sixth, and invades the Province of Philosophy. And notwithstanding that Phoebus had forewarned him of Singing Wars, as he there confesses, yet he presumed that the search of Nature was as free to him as to Lucretius, who at his Age explained it according to the Principles of Epicurus. In his Eighth Eclogue, he has innovated nothing; the former part of it being the Complaint and Despair of a forsaken Lover: the latter, a Charm of an Enchantress, to renew a lost Affection. But the Complaint perhaps contains some Topics which are above the Condition of his Persons; and our Author seems to have made his Herdsmen somewhat too Learned for their Profession: The Charms are also of the same nature, but both were Copied from Theocritus, and had received the applause of former Ages in their Original. There is a kind of Rusticity in all those pompous Verses; somewhat of a Holiday Shepherd strutting in his Country Buskins. The like may be observed, both in the Pollio, and the Silenus; where the Similitudes are drawn from the Woods and Meadows. They seem to me to represent our Poet betwixt a Farmer, and a Courtier, when he left Mantua for Rome, and dressed himself in his best Habit to appear before his Patron: Somewhat too fine for the place from whence he came, and yet retaining part of its simplicity. In the Ninth Pastoral he Collects some Beautiful passages which were scattered in Theocritus, which he could not insert into any of his former Eclogues, and yet was unwilling they should be lost. In all the rest he is equal to his Sicilian Master, and observes like him a just decorum, both of the Subject, and the Persons. As particularly in the Third Pastoral; where one of his Shepherds describes a Bowl, or Mazer, curiously Carved. 
In Medio duo signa: Conon, & quis fuit alter,  
Descripsit radio, totum qui Gentibus orbem.  He remembers only the name of Conon, and forgets the other on set purpose: (whether he means Anaximander or Eudoxus I dispute not,) but he was certainly forgotten, to show his Country Swain was no great Scholar.  
After all, I must confess that the Boorish Dialect of Theocritus has a secret charm in it, which the Roman Language cannot imitate, though Virgil has drawn it down as low as possibly he could; as in the Cujum pecus, and some other words, for which he was so unjustly blamed by the bad Critics of his Age, who could not see the Beauties of that merum Rus, which the Poet described in those expressions. But Theocritus may justly be preferred as the Original, without injury to Virgil, who modestly contents himself with the second place, and glories only in being the first who transplanted Pastoral into his own Country; and brought it there to bear as happily as the Cherry-trees which Lucullus brought from Pontus.  
Our own Nation has produced a third Poet in this kind, not inferior to the two former. For the Shepherd's Calendar of Spencer, is not to be matched in any Modern Language. Not even by Tasso's Amynta, which infinitely transcends Guarinis 's Pastor-Fido, as having more of Nature in it, and being almost wholly clear from the wretched affectation of Learning. I will say nothing of the Pifcatory Eclogues, because no modern Latin can bear Criticism. 'Tis no wonder that rolling down through so many barbarous Ages, from the Spring of Virgil, it bears along with it the filth and ordures of the Goths and Vandals. Neither will I mention Monsieur Fontinelle, the living Glory of the French. 'Tis enough for him to have excelled his Master Lucian, without attempting to compare our miserable Age with that of Virgil, or Theocritus. Let me only add, for his reputation, 
— Si Pergamon dextrâ  
Defendi possint, etiam hâc defensa fuissent.   
But Spencer being Master of our Northern Dialect; and skilled in Chaucer 's English, has so exactly imitated the Doric of Theocritus, that his Love is a perfect Image of that Passion which God infused into both Sexes, before it was corrupted with the Knowledge of Arts, and the Ceremonies of what we call good Manners.  
My Lord, I know to whom I dedicate: And could not have been induced by any motive to put this part of Virgil, or any other, into unlearned Hands. You have read him with pleasure, and I dare say, with admiration in the Latin, of which you are a Master. You have added to your Natural Endowments, which without flattery are Eminent, the superstructures of Study, and the knowledge of good Authors. Courage, Probity, and Humanity are inherent in you. These Virtues have ever been habitual to the Ancient House of Cumberland, from whence you are descended, and of which our Chronicles make so honourable mention in the long Wars betwixt the Rival Families of York and Lancaster. Your Forefathers have asserted the Party which they chose till death, and died for its defence in the Fields of Battle. You have besides the fresh remembrance of your Noble Father; from whom you never can degenerate. 
— Nec imbellem, feroces  
Progenerant Aquilam Columbae.  It being almost morally impossible for you to be other than you are by kind; I need neither praise nor incite your Virtue. You are acquainted with the Roman History, and know without my information that Patronage and Clientship always descended from the Fathers to the Sons; and that the same Plebeian Houses, had recourse to the same Patrician Line, which had formerly protected them: and followed their Principles and Fortunes to the last. So that I am your Lordship's by descent, and part of your Inheritance. And the natural inclination, which I have to serve you, adds to your paternal right, for I was wholly yours from the first moment, when I had the happiness and honour of being known to you. Be pleased therefore to accept the Rudiments of Virgil 's Poetry: Coursely Translated I confess, but which yet retains some Beauties of the Author, which neither the barbarity of our Language, nor my unskilfulness could so much sully, but that they appear sometimes in the dim mirror which I hold before you. The Subject is not unsuitable to your Youth, which allows you yet to Love, and is proper to your present Scene of Life. Rural Recreations abroad, and Books at home, are the innocent Pleasures of a Man who is early Wise; and gives Fortune no more hold of him, than of necessity he must. 'Tis good, on some occasions to think beforehand as little as we can; to enjoy as much of the present as will not endanger our futurity; and to provide ourselves of the Vertuoso 's Saddle, which will be sure to amble, when the World is upon the hardest trot. What I humbly offer to your Lordship, is of this nature. I wish it pleasant, and am sure 'tis innocent. May you ever continue your esteem for Virgil; and not lessen it, for the faults of his Translator; who is with all manner of Respect, and sense of Gratitude,  
My Lord, Your Lordship's most Humble, and most Obedient Servant, JOHN DRYDEN.   

THE LIFE OF Pub. Virgilius Maro.  
VIRGIL was born at Mantua, which City was built no less than Three Hundred Years before Rome; and was the Capital of the New Hetruria, as himself, no less Antiquary, than Poet, assures us. His Birth is said to have happened in the first Consulship of Pompey the Great, and Lic. Crassus; but since the Relater of this presently after contradicts himself; and Virgil's manner of Addressing to Octavius, implies a greater difference of Age than that of Seven Years, as appears by his First Pastoral, and other places; it is reasonable to set the Date of it something backward: And the Writer of his Life having no certain Memorials to work upon, seems to have pitched upon the two most Illustrious Consuls he could find about that time, to signalise the Birth of so Eminent a Man. But it is beyond all Question, that he was Born on, or near the Fifteenth of October. Which Day was kept Festival in honour of his Memory, by the Latin, as the Birthday of Homer was by the Greek Poets. And so near a resemblance there is, betwixt the Lives of these two famous Epic Writers, that Virgil seems to have followed the Fortune of the other, as well as the Subject and manner of his Writing. For Homer is said to have been of very mean Parents, such as got their Bread by Day-labour; so is Virgil. Homer is said to be Base Born; so is Virgil. The former to have been born in the open Air, in a Ditch, or by the Bank of a River; so is the latter. There was a Poplar Planted near the place of Virgil's Birth, which suddenly grew up to an unusual height and bulk, and to which the Superstitious Neighbourhood attributed marvellous Virtue. Homer had his Poplar too, as Herodotus relates, which was visited with great Veneration. Homer is described by one of the Ancients, to have been of a slovenly and neglected Mien and Habit, so was Virgil. Both were of a very delicate and sickly Constitution: Both addicted to Travel, and the study of Astrology: Both had their Compositions usurped by others: Both Envied and traduced during their Lives. We know not so much as the true Names of either of them with any exactness: For the Critics are not yet agreed how the word [Virgil] should be Written; and of Homer's Name there is no certainty at all. Whosoever shall consider this Parallel in so many particulars; (and more might be added) would be inclined to think, that either the same Stars Ruled strongly at the Nativities of them both, or what is a great deal more probable; that the Latin Grammarians wanting Materials for the former part of Virgil's Life, after the Legendary Fashion, supplied it out of Herodotus; and like ill Face-Painters, not being able to hit the true Features, endeavoured to make amends by a great deal of impertinent Landscape and Drapery.  
Without troubling the Reader with needless Quotations, now, or afterwards; the most probable Opinion is, that Virgil was the Son of a Servant, or Assistant to a wand'ring ginger; who practised Physic. For Medicus, Magus, as Juvenal observes, usually went together; and this course of Life was followed by a great many Greeks and Syrians; of one of which Nations it seems not improbable, that Virgil's Father was. Nor could a Man of that Profession have chosen a fitter place to settle in, than that most Superstitious Tract of Italy; which by her ridiculous Rites and Ceremonies as much enslaved the Romans, as the Romans did the Etrurians by their Arms. This Man therefore having got together some Money, which Stock he improved by his Skill in Planting and Husbandry, had the good Fortune, at last, to Marry his Master's Daughter, by whom he had Virgil; and this Woman seems, by her Mother's side, to have been of good Extraction; for she was nearly related to Quintilius Varus, whom Paterculus assures us to have been an Illustrious, tho' not Patrician Family; and there is honourable mention made of it in the History of the second Carthaginian War. It is certain, that they gave him very good Education, to which they were inclined; not so much by the Dreams of his Mother, and those presages which Donatus relates, as by the early indications which he gave of a sweet Disposition, and Excellent Wit. He passed the first Seven Years of his Life at Mantua, not Seventeen, as Scaliger miscorrects his Author; for the initia aetatis can hardly be supposed to extend so far. From thence he removed to Cremona, a Noble Roman Colony, and afterwards to Milan. In all which places he prosecuted his Studies with great application; he read over, all the best Latin, and Greek Authors, for which he had convenience by the no remote distance of Marseils, that famous Greek Colony, which maintained its Politeness, and Purity of Language, in the midst of all those Barbarous Nations amongst which it was seated: And some Tincture of the latter seems to have descended from them down to the Modern French. He frequented the most Eminent Professors of the Epicurean Philosophy, which was then much in vogue, and will be always in declining and sickly States. But finding no satisfactory Account from his Master Syron, he passed over to the Academic School, to which he adhered the rest of his Life, and deserved, from a great Emperor, the Title of the Plato of Poets. He composed at leisure hours a great number of Verses, on various Subjects; and desirous rather of a great, than early Fame, he permitted his Kinsman, and Fellow-student Varus, to derive the Honour of one of his Tragedies to himself. Glory neglected in proper time and place, returns often with large Increase, and so he found it: For Varus afterwards proved a great Instrument of his Rise: In short, it was here that he formed the Plan, and collected the Materials of all those excellent Pieces which he afterwards finished, or was forced to leave less perfect by his Death. But whether it were the Unwholsomness of his Native Air, of which he somewhere complains, or his too great abstinence, and Night-watching at his Study, to which he was always addicted, as Augustus observes; or possibly the hopes of improving himself by Travel, he resolved to Remove to the more Southern Tract of Italy; and it was hardly possible for him not to take Rome in his Way; as is evident to any one who shall cast an Eye on the Map of Italy: And therefore the late French Editor of his Works is mistaken, when he asserts that he never saw Rome, till he came to Petition for his Estate: He gained the Acquaintance of the Master of the Horse to Octavius, and Cured a great many Diseases of Horses, by methods they had never heard of: It fell out, at the same time, that a very fine Colt, which promised great Strength and Speed, was presented to Octavius: Virgil assured them, that he came of a faulty Mare, and would prove a Jade, upon trial it was found as he had said; his Judgement proved right in several other instances, which was the more surprising, be-because the Romans knew least of Natural Causes of any civilised Nation in the World: And those Meteors, and Prodigies which cost them incredible Sums to expiate, might easily have been accounted for, by no very profound Naturalist. It is no wonder, therefore, that Virgil was in so great Reputation, as to be at last Introduced to Octavius himself. That Prince was then at variance with Marc. Antony, who vexed him with a great many Libelling Letters, in which he reproaches him with the baseness of his Parentage, that he came of a Scrivener, a Ropemaker, and a Baker, as Suetonius tells us: Octavius finding that Virgil had passed so exact a judgement upon the Breed of Dogs, and Horses, thought that he possibly might be able to give him some Light concerning his own. He took him into his Closet, where they continued in private a considerable time. Virgil was a great Mathematician, which, in the Sense of those times, took in Astrology: And if there be any thing in that Art, which I can hardly believe; if that be true which the Ingenious De le Chambre asserts confidently; that from the Marks on the Body, the Configuration of the Planets at a Nativity may be gathered, and the Marks might be told by knowing the Nativity, never had one of those Artists a fairer Opportunity to show his skill, than Virgil now had; for Octavius had Moles upon his Body, exactly resembling the Constellation called Vrsa Major. But Virgil had other helps: The Predictions of Cicero, and Catulus, and that Vote of the Senate had gone abroad, that no Child Born at Rome, in the Year of his Nativity, should be bred up; because the Seers assured them that an Emperor was Born that Year. Besides this, Virgil had heard of the Assyrian, and Egyptian Prophecies, (which in truth, were no other but the Jewish,) that about that time a great King was to come into the World. Himself takes notice of them, Aen. 6. where he uses a very significant Word, (now in all Liturgies) hujus in adventu, so in another place, adventante Dea.  
At his foreseen approach already quake,  
Assyrian Kingdoms, and Moeotis Lake.  
Nile hears him knocking at his sevenfold Gates—  
Every one knows whence this was taken: It was rather a mistake, than impiety in Virgil, to apply these Prophecies to the Person of Octavius, it being a usual piece of flattery for near a Hundred Years together, to attribute them to their Emperors, and other great Men. Upon the whole matter, it is very probable, that Virgil Predicted to him the Empire at this time. And it will appear yet the more, if we consider that he assures him of his being received into the Number of the Gods, in his First Pastoral, long before the thing came to pass; which Prediction seems grounded upon his former Mistake. This was a secret, not to be divulged at that time, and therefore it is no wonder that the slight Story in Donatus was given abroad to palliate the matter. But certain it is, that Octavius dismissed him with great Marks of esteem, and earnestly recommended the Protection of Virgil's Affairs to Pollio, than Lieutenant of the Cis-Alpine Gaul, where Virgil's Patrimony lay. This Pollio from a mean Original, became one of the most Considerable Persons of his time: A good General, Orator, Statesman, Historian, Poet, and Favourer of Learned Men; above all, he was a Man of Honour in those critical times: He had joined with Octavius, and Antony, in revenging the Barbarous Assassination of Julius Caesar: When they two were at variance, he would neither follow Antony, whose courses he detested, nor join with Octavius against him, out of a grateful Sense of some former Obligations. Augustus, who thought it his interest to oblige Men of Principles, notwithstanding this, received him afterwards into Favour, and promoted him to the highest Honours. And thus much I thought fit to say of Pollio, because he was one of Virgil's greatest Friends. Being therefore eased of Domestic cares, he pursues his Journey to Naples: The Charming situation of that Place, and view of the beautiful Villas of the Roman Nobility, equalling the Magnificence of the greatest Kings; the Neighbourhood of the Baiae, whither the Sick resorted for recovery, and the Statesman when he was Politicly Sick; whither the wanton went for Pleasure, and witty Men for good Company; the wholesomeness of the Air, and improving Conversation, the best Air of all, contributed not only to the re-establishing his Health; but to the forming of his Style, and rendering him Master of that happy turn of Verse, in which he much surpasses all the Latins, and in a less advantageous Language, equals even Homer himself. He proposed to use his Talon in Poetry, only for Scaffolding too Build a convenient Fortune, that he might Prosecute with less interruption, those Nobler Studies to which his elevated Genius led him, and which he describes in these admirable Lines.  
Me verò primùm dulces ante omnia Musae  
Quarum sacra fero ingenti perculsus amore,  
Accipiant, caelique vias, & sidera monstrent,  
Defectus Solis varios, Lunaeque labores:  
Vnde tremor terris, etc.  
But the current of that Martial Age, by some strange Antiperistasis drove so violently towards Poetry, that he was at lest carried down with the stream. For not only the Young Nobility, but Octavius, and Pollio, Cicero in his Old Age, Julius Caesar, and the Stoical Brutus, a little before, would needs be tampering with the Muses; the two latter had taken great care to have their Poems curiously bound, and lodged in the most famous Libraries; but neither the Sacredness of those places, nor the greatness of their Names, could preserve ill Poetry. Quitting therefore the Study of the Law, after having pleaded but one Cause with indifferent Success, he resolved to push his Fortune this way, which he seems to have discontinued for some time, and that may be the reason why the Culex, his first Pastoral, now extant, has little besides the novelty of the Subject, and the Moral of the Fable, which contains an exhortation to gratitude, to recomend it; had it been as correct as his other pieces, nothing more proper and pertinent could have at that time been addressed to the Young Octavius, for the Year in which he Presented it, probably at the Baiae, seems to be the very same, in which that Prince consented (tho' with seeming reluctance) to the Death of Cicero, under whose Consulship he was Born, the preserver of his Life, and chief instrument of his advancement. There is no reason to question its being genuine, as the late French Editor does; its meaness, in comparison of Virgil's other Works, (which is that Writers only Objection) confutes himself: For Martial, who certainly saw the true Copy, speaks of it with contempt; and yet that Pastoral equals, at least, the address to the Dauphin which is prefixed to the late Edition. Octavius, to unbend his mind from application to public business, took frequent turns to Baiae, and Sicily; where he composed his Poem called Sicelides, which Virgil seems to allude to, in the Pastoral beginning Sicelides Musae; this gave him opportunity of refreshing that Prince's Memory of him, and about that time he wrote his Aetna. Soon after he seems to have made a Voyage to Athens, and at his return presented his Ceiris, a more elaborate Piece, to the Noble and Eloquent Messala. The forementioned Author groundlessly taxes this as supposititious: For besides other Critical marks, there are no less than Fifty, or Sixty Verses, altered indeed and polished, which he inserted in the Pastorals, according to his fashion: and from thence they were called Eclogues, or Select Bucolics: We thought fit to use a Title more intelligible, the reason of the other being ceased; and we are supported by Virgil's own authority, who expressly calls them Carmina Pastorum. The French Editor is again mistaken, in asserting, that the Ceiris is borrowed from the Ninth of Ovid's Metamorphosis; he might have more reasonably conjectured it, to be taken from Parthenius, the Greek Poet, from whom Ovid borrowed a great part of his Work. But it is indeed taken from neither, but from that Learned, unfortunate Poet Apollonius Rhodius, to whom Virgil is more indebted, than to any other Greek Writer, excepting Homer. The Reader will be satisfied of this, if he consult that Author in his own Language, for the Translation is a great deal more obscure than the Original.  
Whilst Virgil thus enjoyed the sweets of a Learned Privacy, the Troubles of Italy cut off his little Subsistance; but by a strange turn of Human Affairs, which ought to keep good Men from ever despairing; the loss of his Estate proved the effectual way of making his Fortune. The occasion of it was this; Octavius, as himself relates, when he was but Nineteen Years of Age, by a Masterly stroke of Policy, had gained the Veteran Legions into his Service, (and by that step, out-witted all the Republican Senate:) They grew now very clamorous for their Pay: The Treasury being Exhausted, he was forced to make Assignments upon Land, and none but in Italy itself would content them. He pitched upon Cremona as the most distant from Rome; but that not sufficing, he afterwards threw in part of the State of Mantua. Cremona was a Rich and noble Colony, settled a little before the Invasion of Hannibal. During that Tedious and Bloody War, they had done several important Services to the Commonwealth. And when Eighteen other Colonies, pleading Poverty and Depopulation, refused to contribute Money, or to raise Recruits; they of Cremona voluntarily paid a double Quota of both: But past Services are a fruitless Plea; Civil Wars are one continued Act of Ingratitude: In vain did the Miserable Mothers, with their famishing Infants in their Arms, fill the Streets with their Numbers, and the Air with Lamentations; the Craving Legions were to be satisfied at any rate. Virgil, involved in the common Calamity, had recourse to his old Patron Pollio, but he was, at this time, under a Cloud; however, compassionating so worthy a Man, not of a make to struggle through the World, he did what he could, and recommended him to Maecenas, with whom he still kept a private Correspondence. The Name of this great Man being much better known than one part of his Character, the Reader, I presume, will not be displeased if I supply it in this place.  
Tho' he was of as deep Reach, and easy dispatch of Business as any in his time, yet he designedly lived beneath his true Character. Men had oftentimes meddled in Public Affairs, that they might have more ability to furnish for their Pleasures: Maecenas, by the honestest Hypocrisy that ever was, pretended to a Life of Pleasure, that he might render more effectual Service to his Master. He seemed wholly to amuse himself with the Diversions of the Town, but under that Mask he was the greatest Minister of his Age. He would be carried in a careless, effeminate posture through the Streets in his Chair, even to the degree of a Proverb, and yet there was not a Cabal of ill disposed Persons which he had not early notice of; and that too in a City as large as London and Paris, and perhaps two or three more of the most populous put together. No Man better understood that Art so necessary to the Great; the Art of declining Envy: Being but of a Gentleman's Family, not Patrician, he would not provoke the Nobility by accepting invidious Honours; but wisely satisfied himself that he had the Ear of Augustus, and the Secret of the Empire. He seems to have committed but one great Fault, which was the trusting a Secret of high Consequence to his Wife; but his Master, enough Uxorious himself, made his own Frailty more excusable, by generously forgiving that of his Favourite. He kept in all his Greatness exact measures with his Friends; and choosing them wisely, found, by Experience, that good Sense and Gratitude are almost inseparable. This appears in Virgil and Horace; the former, besides the Honour he did him to all Posterity, returned his Liberalities at his Death: The other, whom Maecenas recommended with his last Breath, was too generous to stay behind, and enjoy the Favour of Augustus: He only desired a place in his Tomb, and to mingle his Ashes with those of his deceased Benefactor. But this was Seventeen Hundred Years ago. Virgil, thus powerfully supported, thought it mean to Petition for himself alone, but resolutely solicits the Cause of his whole Country, and seems, at first, to have met with some Encouragement: But the matter cooling, he was forced to sit down contented with the Grant of his own Estate. He goes therefore to Mantua, produces his Warrant to a Captain of Foot, whom he found in his House; Arrius who had eleven Points of the Law, and fierce of the Services he had rendered to Octavius, was so far from yielding Possession, that words growing betwixt them, he wounded him dangerously, forced him to fly, and at last to swim the River Mincius to save his Life. Virgil, who used to say, that no Virtue was so necessary as Patience, was forced to drag a sick Body half the length of Italy, back again to Rome, and by the way, probably, composed his Ninth Pastoral, which may seem to have been made up in haste out of the Fragments of some other pieces; and naturally enough represents the disorder of the Poet's Mind, by its disjointed Fashion, tho' there be another Reason to be given elsewhere of its want of Connexion. He handsomely states his Case in that Poem, and with the pardonable Resentments of Injured Innocence, not only claims Octavius' Promise, but hints to him the uncertainty of Human Greatness and Glory: All was taken in good part by that Wise Prince: At last effectual Orders were given: About this time, he Composed that admirable Poem, which is set first, out of respect to Caesar; for he does not seem either to have had leisure, or to have been in the Humour of making so solemn an Acknowledgement, till he was possessed of the Benefit. And now he was in so great Reputation and Interest, that he resolved to give up his Land to his Parents, and himself to the Court. His Pastorals were in such Esteem, that Pollio, now again in high Favour with Caesar, desired him to reduce them into a Volume. Some Modern Writer, that has a constant flux of Verse, would stand amazed how Virgil could employ three whole Years in revising five or six hundred Verses, most of which, probably, were made some time before; but there is more reason to wonder how he could do it so soon in such Perfection. A course Stone is presently fashioned; but a Diamond, of not many Karats, is many Weeks in Cutting, and in Polishing many more. He who put Virgil upon this, had a Politic good end in it.  
The continued Civil Wars had laid Italy almost waste; the Ground was Uncultivated and Unstocked; upon which ensued such a Famine, and Insurrection, that Caesar hardly scaped being Stoned at Rome; his Ambition being looked upon by all Parties as the principal occasion of it. He set himself therefore with great Industry to promote Country-Improvements; and Virgil was serviceable to his Design, as the good keeper of the Bees, Georg. 4.  
Tinnitusque cie, & matris quate cymbala circum,  
Ipsae confident—  
That Emperor afterwards thought it matter worthy a public Inscription Rediit cultus Agris. Which seems to be the motive that Induced Macaenas, to put him upon Writing his Georgics, or Books of Husbandry: A design as new in Latin Verse, as Pastorals, before Virgil were in Italy; which Work took up Seven of the most vigorous Years of his Life; for he was now at least Thirty four Years of Age; and here Virgil shines in his Meridian. A great part of this Work seems to have been rough-drawn before he left Mantua, for an Ancient Writer has observed that the Rules of Husbandry laid down in it, are better Calculated for the Soil of Mantua, than for the more Sunny Climate of Naples; near which place, and in Sicily, he finished it. But lest his Genius should be depressed by apprehensions of want, he had a good Estate settled upon him, and a House in the Pleasantest part of Rome; the Principal Furniture of which was a well-chosen Library, which stood open to all comers of Learning and Merit; and what recommended the situation of it most, was the Neighbourhood of his Maecenas; and thus he could either visit Rome, or return to his Privacy at Naples, through a Pleasant Road adorned on each side with pieces of Antiquity, of which he was so great a Lover, and in the intervals of them, seemed almost one continued Street of three days Journey.  
Caesar having now Vanquished Sextus Pompeius, a Springtide of Prosperities breaking in upon him, before he was ready to receive them as he ought, fell sick of the Imperial Evil, the desire of being thought something more than Man. Ambition is an infinite Folly: When it has attained to the utmost pitch of Humane Greatness, it soon falls to making pretensions upon Heaven. The crafty Livia would needs be drawn in the Habit of a Priestesse by the Shrine of the new God: And this became a Fashion not to be dispensed with amongst the Ladies: The Devotion was wondrous great amongst the Romans, for it was their Interest, and, which sometimes avails more, it was the Mode. Virgil, tho' he despised the Heathen Superstitions, and is so bold as to call Saturn and Janus, by no better a Name than that of Old Men, and might deserve the Title of Subverter of Superstitions, as well as Varro, thought fit to follow the Maxim of Plato his Master; that every one should serve the Gods after the Usage of his own Country, and therefore was not the last to present his Incense, which was of too Rich a Composition for such an Altar: And by his Address to Caesar on this occasion, made an unhappy Precedent to Lucan and other Poets which came after him, Geor 1. and 3. And this Poem being now in great forwardness, Caesar, who in imitation of his Predecessor Julius, never intermitted his Studies in the Camp, and much less in other places, refreshing himself by a short stay in a pleasant Village of Campania, would needs be entertained with the rehearsal of some part of it. Virgil recited with a marvellous Grace, and sweet Accent of Voice, but his Lungs failing him, Maecenas himself supplied his place for what remained. Such a piece of condecension would now be very surprising, but it was no more than customary amongst Friends, when Learning passed for Quality. Lelius, the second Man of Rome in his time, had done as much for that Poet, out of whose Dross he would sometimes pick Gold; as himself said, when one found him reading Ennius: (the like he did by some Verses of Varro, and Pacuvius, Lucretius, and Cicero, which he inserted into his Works.) But Learned Men than lived easy and familiarly with the great: Augustus himself would sometimes sit down betwixt Virgil and Horace, and say jestingly, that he sat betwixt Sighing and Tears, alluding to the Asthma of one, and Rheumatic Eyes of the other; he would frequently Correspond with them, and never leave a Letter of theirs unanswered: Nor were they under the constraint of formal Superscriptions in the beginning, nor of violent Superlatives at the close of their Letter: The invention of these is a Modern Refinement. In which this may be remarked, in passing, that (humble Servant) is respect, but (Friend) an affront, which notwithstanding implies the former, and a great deal more. Nor does true Greatness lose by such Familiarity; and those who have it not, as Maecenas and Pollio had, are not to be accounted Proud, but rather very Discreet, in their Reserves. Some Playhouse Beauties do wisely to be seen at a distance, and to have the Lamps twinkle betwixt them and the Spectators.  
But now Caesar, who tho' he were none of the greatest Soldiers, was certainly the greatest Traveller, of a Prince, that had ever been, (for which Virgil so dexterously Compliments him, Aeneid. 6.) takes a Voyage to Egypt, and having happily finished that War, reduces that mighty Kingdom into the Form of a Province; over which he appointed Gallus his Lieutenant. This is the same Person to whom Virgil addresses his Tenth Pastoral; changing, in compliance to his Request, his purpose of limiting them to the number of the Muses. The Praises of this Gallus took up a considerable part of the Fourth Book of the Georgics, according to the general consent of Antiquity: But Caesar would have it put out, and yet the Seam in the Poem is still to be discerned; and the matter of Aristaeus' recovering his Bees, might have been dispatched in less compass, without fetching the Causes so far, or interessing so many Gods and Goddesses in that Affair. Perhaps some Readers may be inclined to think this, tho' very much laboured, not the most entertaining part of that Work; so hard it is for the greatest Masters to Paint against their Inclination. But Caesar was content he should be mentioned in the last Pastoral, because it might be taken for a Satirical sort of Commendation; and the Character he there stands under, might help to excuse his Cruelty, in putting an Old Servant to death for no very great Crime.  
And now having ended, as he begins his Georgics, with solemn mention of Caesar, an Argument of his Devotion to him: He begins his Aeneis, according to the common account, being now turned of Forty. But that Work had been, in truth, the Subject of much earlier Meditation. Whilst he was working upon the first Book of it, this passage, so very remarkable in History, fell out, in which Virgil had a great share.  
Caesar, about this time, either cloyed with Glory, or terrified by the Example of his Predecessor; or to gain the Credit of Moderation with the People, or possibly to feel the Pulse of his Friends, deliberated whether he should retain the Sovereign Power, or restore the Commonwealth. Agrippa, who was a very honest Man, but whose View was of no great extent, advised him to the latter; but Maecenas, who had throughly studied his Master's Temper, in an Eloquent Oration, gave contrary Advice. That Emperor was too Politic to commit the oversight of Cromwell, in a deliberation something resembling this. Cromwell had never been more desirous of the Power, than he was afterwards of the Title of King: And there was nothing, in which the Heads of the Parties, who were all his Creatures, would not comply with him: But by too vehement Allegation of Arguments against it, he, who had out-witted every body besides, at last out-witted himself, by too deep dissimulation: For his Council, thinking to make their Court by assenting to his judgement, voted unanimously for him against his Inclination; which surprised and troubled him to such a degree, that as soon as he had got into his Coach, he fell into a Swoon. But Caesar knew his People better, and his Council being thus divided, he asked Virgil's Advice: Thus a Poet had the Honour of determining the greatest Point that ever was in Debate, betwixt the Son-in-Law, and Favourite of Caesar. Virgil delivered his Opinion in Words to this effect. The change of a Popular into an Absolute Government, has generally been of very ill Consequence: For betwixt the Hatred of the People, and Injustice of the Prince, it of necessity comes to pass that they live in distrust, and mutual Apprehensions. But if the Commons knew a just Person, whom they entirely confided in, it would be for the advantage of all Parties, that such a one should be their Sovereign: Wherefore if you shall continue to administer Justice impartially, as hitherto you have done, your Power will prove safe to yourself, and beneficial to Mankind. This excellent Sentence, which seems taken out of Plato, (with whose Writings the Grammarians were not much acquainted, and therefore cannot reasonably be suspected of Forgery in this matter,) contains the true state of Affairs at that time: For the Commonwealth Maxims were now no longer practicable; the Romans had only the haughtiness of the Old Commonwealth left, without one of its Vi●tues. And this Sentence we find, almost in the same words, in the first Book of the Aeneis, which at this time he was writing; and one might wonder that none of his Commentators have taken notice of it. he Compares a Tempest to a Popular Insurrection, as Cicero had compared a Sedition to a Storm, a little before.  
Ac veluti magno in populo, cum saepe coorta est  
Seditio, saevitque animis ignobile vulgus  
Jamque faces, ac saxa volant, furor armae ministrat.  
Tum pietate gravem, & meritis si forte virum quem  
Conspexere silent, arrectisq●e auribus adstant.  
Ille regit dictis animos, & pectora mulcet.  
Piety and Merit were the two great Virtues which Virgil every where attributes to Augustus, and in which that Prince, at least Politicly, if not so truly, fixed his Character, as appears by the Marmor Anc 〈…〉. and several of his Medals. Franshemius, the Learned Supplementor of Livy, has inserted this Relation into his History; nor is there any good Reason, why Ruaeus should account it fabulous. The Title of a Poet in those days did not abate, but heighten the Character of the gravest Senator. Virgil was one of the best and wisest Men of his time, and in so popular esteem, that one hundred Thousand Romans rose when he came into the Theatre, and paid him the same Respect they used to Caesar himself, as Tacitus assures us. And if Augustus invited Horace to assist him in Writing his Letters, and every body knows that the rescripta Imperatorum were the Laws of the Empire; Virgil might well deserve a place in the Cabinet-Council.  
And now Virgil prosecutes his Aeneis, which had Anciently the Title of the Imperial Poem, or Roman History, and deservedly; for though he were too Artful a Writer to set down Events in exact Historical order, for which Lucan is justly blamed; yet are all the most considerable Affairs and Persons of Rome comprised in this Poem. He deduces the History of Italy from before Saturn to the Reign of King Latinus; and reckons up the Successors of Aeneas, who Reigned at Alba, for the space of three hundred Years, down to the Birth of Romulus; describes the Persons and principal Exploits of all the Kings, to their Expulsion, and the settling of the Commonwealth. After this, he touches promiscuously the most remarkable Occurrences at home and abroad, but insists more particularly upon the Exploits of Augustus; insomuch, that tho' this Assertion may appear, at first, a little surprising; he has in his Works deduced the History of a considerable part of the World from its Original, through the Fabulous and Heroic Ages, through the Monarchy and Commonwealth of Rome, for the space of four Thousand Years, down to within less than Forty of our Saviour's time, of whom he has preserved a most Illustrious Prophecy. Besides this, he points at many remarkable Passages of History under feigned Names: the destruction of Alba, and Veii, under that of Troy: The Star Venus, which, Varro says, guided Aeneas in his Voyage to Italy, in that Verse, 
Matre deâ monstrante viam.   
Romulus' his Lance taking Root, and Budding, is described in that Passage concerning Polydorus, lib. 3.  
— Confixum ferrea texit  
Telorum seges, & jaculis increvit acutis.  
The Stratagem of the Trojans boring Holes in their Ships, and sinking them, left the Latins should Burn them, under that Fable of their being transformed into Sea-Nymphs: And therefore the Ancients had no such Reason to condemn that Fable as groundless and absurd. Cocles swimming the River Tiber, after the Bridge was broken down behind him, is exactly painted in the Four last Verses of the Ninth Book, under the Character of Turnus. Marius' hiding himself in the Morass of Minturnae, under the Person of Sinon: 
Limosoque lacu per Noctem obscurus in uluâ  
Delitus—   
Those Verses in the Second Book concerning Priam; 
Jacet ingens littore truncus, etc.  seem originally made upon Pompey the Great. He seems to touch the Imperious, and Intriguing Humour of the Empress Livia, under the Character of Juno. The irresolute and weak Lepidus is well represented under the Person of King Latinus; Augustus with the Character of Pont. Max. under that of Aeneas; and the rash Courage (always Unfortunate in Virgil) of Marc Anthony in Turnus; the railing Eloquence of Cicero in his Phillipics is well imitated in the Oration of Drances; the dull faithful Agrippa, under the person of Achates; accordingly this Character is flat: Achates kills but one Man, and himself receives one slight Wound, but neither says nor does any thing very considerable in the whole Poem. Curio, who sold his Country for about Two hundred Thousand Pound, is touched in that Verse. 
Vendidit hic auro patriam, dominumque potentem.  
Imposuit.—  Livy relates that presently after the death of the two Scipio's in Spain, when Martius took upon him the Command, a Blazing Meteor shone around his Head, to the astonishment of his Soldiers: Virgil transfers this to Aeneas. 
Laetasque vomunt duo tempora flammas.  It is strange that the Commentators have not taken notice of this. Thus the ill Omen which happened a little before the Battle of Thrasimen, when some of the Centurion's Lances took Fire miraculously, is hinted in the like accident which befell Acestes, before the Burning of the Trojan Fleet in Sicily. The Reader will easily find many more such Instances. In other Writers there is often well covered Ignorance; in Virgil, concealed Learning.  
His silence of some Illustrious Persons is no less worth observation. He says nothing of Scaevola, because he attempted to Assassinate a King, tho' a declared Enemy. Nor of the Younger Brutus; for he effected what the other endeavoured. Nor of the Younger Cato, because he was an implacable Enemy of Julius Caesar; nor could the mention of him be pleasing to Augustus; and that Passage 
His Dantem jura Catonem,  may relate to his Office, as he was a very severe Censor. Nor would he name Cicero, when the occasion of mentioning him came full in his way; when he speaks of Catiline; because he afterwards approved the Murder of Caesar, tho' the Plotters were too wary to trust the Orator with their Design. Some other Poets knew the Art of Speaking well; but Virgil, beyond this, knew the admirable Secret of being eloquently silent. Whatsoever was most curious in Fabius Pictor, Cato the Elder, Varro, in the Egyptian Antiquities, in the Form of Sacrifice, in the Solemnities of making Peace and War, is preserved in this Poem. Rome is still above ground, and flourishing in Virgil. And all this he does with admirable brevity. The Aeneis was once near twenty times bigger than he left it; so that he spent as much time in blotting out, as some Moderns have done in Writing whole Volumes. But not one Book has his finishing Strokes: The sixth seems one of the most perfect, the which, after long entreaty, and sometimes threats of Augustus, he was at last prevailed upon to recite: This fell out about four Years before his own Death: That of Marcellus, whom Caesar designed for his Successor, happened a little before this Recital: Virgil therefore with his usual dexterity, inserted his Funeral Panegyric in those admirable Lines, beginning, 
O nate, ingentem luctum ne quaere tuorum, etc.  His Mother, the Excellent Octavia, the best Wife of the worst Husband that ever was, to divert her Grief, would be of the Auditory. The Poet artificially deferred the naming Marcellus, till their Passions were raised to the highest; but the mention of it put both Her and Augustus into such a Passion of weeping, that they commanded him to proceed no further; Virgil answered, that he had already ended that Passage. Some relate, that Octavia fainted away; but afterwards she presented the Poet with two Thousand one Hundred Pounds, odd Money; a round Sum for Twenty Seven Verses. Another Writer says, that with a Royal Magnificence, she ordered him Massy Plate, unweighed, to a great value.  
And now he took up a Resolution of Travelling into Greece, there to set the last Hand to this Work; purposing to devote the rest of his Life to Philosophy, which had been always his principal Passion. He justly thought it a foolish Figure for a grave Man to be over-taken by Death, whilst he was weighing the Cadence of Words, and measuring Verses; unless Necessity should constrain it, from which he was well secured by the liberality of that I earned Age. But he was not aware, that whilst he allotted three Years for the Revising of his Poem, he drew Bills upon a failing Bank: For unhappily meeting Augustus at Athens, he thought himself obliged to wait upon him into Italy, but being desirous to see all he could of the Greek Antiquities, he fell into a languishing Distemper at Megara; this, neglected at first, proved Mortal. The agitation of the Vessel, for it was now Autumn, near the time of his Birth, brought him so low, that he could hardly reach Brindisi. In his Sickness he frequently, and with great importunity, called for his Scrutore, that he might Burn his Aeneis, but Augustus interposing by his Royal Authority, he made his last Will, of which something shall be said afterwards. And considering probably how much Homer had been disfigured by the Arbitrary Compilers of his Works, obliged Tucca and Varius to add nothing, nor so much as fill up the Breaks he left in his Poem. He ordered that his Bones should be carried to Naples, in which place he had passed the most agreeable part of his Life. Augustus, not only as Executor, and Friend, but according to the Duty of the Pont. Max. when a Funeral happened in his Family, took care himself to see the Will punctually executed. He went out of the World with all that calmness of Mind with which the Ancient Writer of his Life says he came into it. Making the Inscription of his Monument himself; for he began and ended his Poetical Compositions with an Epitaph. And this he made exactly according to the Law of his Master Plato on such occasions, without the least ostentation.  
I sung Flocks, Tillage, Heroes; Mantua gave  
Me Life, Brandusium Death, Naples a Grave.  
A short Account of his Person, Manners and Fortune.  
HE was of a very swarthy Complexion, which might proceed from the Southern Extraction of his Father, tall and wide-shouldered, so that he may be thought to have described himself under the Character of Musaeus, whom he calls the best of Poets.  
— Medium nam plurima turba  
Hunc habet, atque humeris ex tantem suspicit altis.  
His Sickliness, Studies, and the Troubles he met with, made his Hair grey before the usual time; he had an hesitation in his Speech, as many other great Men: It being rarely found that a very fluent Elocution, and depth of judgement meet in the same Person. His Aspect and Behaviour rustic, and ungraceful: And this defect was not likely to be rectified in the place where he first lived, nor afterwards, because the weakness of his Stomach would not permit him to use his Exercises; he was frequently troubled with the Headache, and spitting of Blood; spare of Diet, and hardly drank any Wine. Bashful to a fault; and when People crowded to see him, he would slip into the next Shop, or by-passage, to avoid them. As this Character could not recommend him to the fair Sex; he seems to have as little consideration for them as Euripides himself. There is hardly the Character of one good Woman to be found in his Poems: He uses the Word [Mulier] but once in the whole Aeneis, then too by way of Contempt, rendering literally a piece of a Verse out of Homer. In his Pastorals he is full of invectives against Love: In the Georgics he appropriates all the rage of it to the Females. He makes Dido, who never deserved that Character, Lustful and Revengeful to the utmost degree; so as to die devoting her Lover to destruction; so changeable, that the Destinies themselves could not fix the time of her Death. But Iris, the Emblem of Inconstancy, must determine it. Her Sister is something worse. He is so far from passing such a Compliment upon Helen, as the grave Old Counsellor in Homer does, after nine Years War, when upon the sight of her he breaks out into this Rapture in the presence of King Priam,  
None can the cause of these long Wars despise;  
The Cost bears no proportion to the Prize:  
Majestic Charms in every Feature shine;  
Her Air, her Port, her accent is Divine.  
However let the fatal Beauty go, etc.  
Virgil is so far from this complaisant Humour, that his Hero falls into an unmanly and ill-timed deliberation, whether he should not kill her in a Church; which directly contradicts what Deiphobus says of her, Aeneid 6. in that place where every body tells the truth. He transfers the dogged Silence of Ajax his Ghost, to that of Dido; tho' that be no very natural Character to an injured Lover, or a Woman. He brings in the Trojan Matrons setting their own Fleet on Fire; and running afterwards, like Witches on their Sabbat, into the Woods. He bestows indeed some Ornaments upon the Character of Camilla; but soon abates his Favour, by calling her aspera & horrenda Virgo: He places her in the Front of the line for an ill Omen of the Battle, as one of the Ancients has observed; (we may observe, on this occasion, it is an Art peculiar to Virgil, to intimate the Event by some preceding Accident.) He hardly ever describes the rising of the Sun, but with some circumstance which fore-signifies the Fortune of the Day. For instance, when Aeneas leaves Africa and Queen Dido, he thus describes the fatal Morning: 
Tithoni croceum linguens Aurora cubile.  [And for the Remark, we stand indebted to the curious Pencil of Pollio.] The Mourning Fields (Aeneid. 6.) are crowded with Ladies of a lost Reputation: Hardly one Man gets admittance, and that is Caeneus, for a very good Reason. Latinus his Queen is turbulent, and ungovernable, and at last hangs herself: And the fair Lavinia is disobedient to the Oracle, and to the King, and looks a little flickering after Turnus. I wonder at this the more, because Livy represents her as an excellent Person, and who behaved herself with great Wisdom in her Regency during the minority of her Son: So that the Poet has done her Wrong, and it reflects on her Posterity. His Goddesses make as ill a Figure; Juno is always in a rage, and the Fury of Heaven: Venus grows so unreasonably confident, as to ask her Husband to forge Arms for her Bastard Son; which were enough to provoke one of a more Phlegmatic Temper than Vulcan was. Notwithstanding all this raillery of Virgil's, he was certainly of a very Amorous disposition, and has described all that is most delicate in the Passion of Love; but he Conquered his natural Inclinations by the help of Philosophy; and refined it into Friendship, to which he was extremely sensible. The Reader will admit of or reject the following Conjecture, with the free leave of the Writer, who will be equally pleased either way. Virgil had too great an Opinion of the Influence of the Heavenly Bodies: An Ancient Writer says, that he was born under the Sign of Virgo, with which Nativity perhaps he pleased himself, and would exemplify her Virtues in his Life. Perhaps it was thence that he took his Name of Virgil and Parthenia, which does not necessarily signify Base-born. Donatus, and Servius, very good Grammarians, give a quite contrary sense of it. He seems to make allusion to this Original of his Name in that Passage, 
Illo Virgilium me tempore dulcis alebat,  
Parthenope.   
And this may serve to illustrate his Compliment to Caesar, in which he invites him into his own Constellation, 
Where, in the void of Heaven, a place is free,  
Betwixt the Scorpion, and the Maid for thee.  Thus placing him betwixt Justice and Power, and in a Neighbour Mansion to his own; for Virgil supposed Souls to ascend again to their proper Stars. Being therefore of this Humour, it is no wonder that he refused the Embraces of the Beautiful Plotia, when his indiscreet Friend almost threw her into his Arms.  
But however he stood affected to the Ladies, there is a dreadful Accusation brought against him for the most unnatural of all Vices, which by the Malignity of Humane nature has found more Credit in latter times than it did near his own. This took not its rise so much from the Alexis, in which Pastoral there is not one immodest Word; as from a sort of ill-nature, that will not let any one be without the imputation of some Vice; and principally because he was so strict a follower of Socrates and Plato. In order therefore to his Vindication, I shall take the matter a little higher.  
The Cretans were Anciently much addicted to Navigation, insomuch that it became A Greek Proverb, (tho' omitted, I think, by the Industrious Erasmus,) A Cretan that does not know the Sea. Their Neighbourhood gave them occasion of frequent Commerce with the Phaenicians, that accursed People, who infected the Western World with endless Superstitions, and gross immoralities. From them it is probable, that the Cretans learned this infamous Passion, to which they were so much addicted, that Cicero remarks, in his Book de Rep. that it was a disgrace for a young Gentleman to be without Lovers. Socrates, who was a great Admirer of the Cretan Constitutions, set his excellent Wit to find out some good Cause, and Use of this Evil Inclination, and therefore gives an Account, wherefore Beauty is to be loved, in the following Passage; for I will not trouble the Reader, weary perhaps already with a long Greek Quotation. There is but one Eternal, Immutable, uniform Beauty; in contemplation of which, our Sovereign Happiness does consist: And therefore a true Lover considers Beauty and Proportion as so many Steps and Degrees, by which he may ascend from the particular to the general, from all that is lovely of Feature, or regular in Proportion, or charming in Sound, to the general Fountain of all Beauty and Perfection. And if you are so much transported with the sight of Beautiful Persons, as to wish neither to Eat or drink, but pass your whole Life in looking on them; to what ecstasy would it raise you to behold the Original Beauty, not filled up with Flesh and Blood, or varnished with a fading mixture of Colours, and the rest of Mortal Trifles and Fooleries, but separate, unmixed, uniform, and divine, etc. Thus far Socrates, in a strain, much beyond the Socrate Crentien of Mr. Balsac: And thus that admirable Man loved his Phoedon, his Charmides, and Theatetus; and thus Virgil loved his Alexander, and Cebes, under the feigned Name of Alexis: He received them illiterate, but returned them to their Masters, the one a good Poet, and the other an excellent Grammarian: And to prevent all possible Misinterpretations, he warily inserted into the liveliest Episode in the whole Aeneis, these words, 
Nisus amore pio pueri.  And in the Sixth, Quique pii vates. He seems fond of the Words, castus, pius, Virgo, and the Compounds of it; and sometimes stretches the Use of that word further than one would think he reasonably should have done, as when he attributes it to Pasiphaé herself.  
Another Vice he is Taxed with, is Avarice; because he died Rich, and so indeed he did in comparison of modern Wealth; his Estate amounts to near Seventy Five Thousand Pounds of our Money: But Donatus does not take notice of this as a thing extraordinary; nor was it esteemed so great a Matter, when the Cash of a great part of the World lay at Rome; Antony himself bestowed at once Two Thousand Acres of Land in one of the best Provinces of Italy, upon a ridiculous Poet, who is named by Cicero and Virgil. A late Cardinal used to purchase ill flattery at the Expense of 100000 Crowns a Year. But besides Virgil's other Benefactors, he was much in favour with Augustus, whose Bounty to him had no limits, but such as the Modesty of Virgil prescribed to it. Before he had made his own Fortune, he settled his Estate upon his Parents and Brothers; sent them Yearly large Sums, so that they lived in great Plenty and Respect; and at his Death, divided his Estate betwixt Duty and Gratitude, leaving one half to his Relations, and the other to Maecenas, to Tucca and Varius, and a considerable Legacy to Augustus, who had introduced a politic Fashion of being in every bodies Will; which alone was a fair Revenue for a Prince. Virgil shows his detestation of this Vice, by placing in the front of the Damned those who did not relieve their Relations and Friends; for the Romans hardly ever extended their Liberality further; and therefore I do not remember to have met in all the Latin Poets, one Character so noble as that short one in Homer.  
— 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  
On the other hand, he gives a very advanced place in Elysium to good Patriots, etc. Observing in all his Poem, that Rule so Sacred amongst the Romans, That there should be no Art allowed, which did not tend to the improvement of the People in Virtue. And this was the Principle too of our Excellent Mr. Waller, who used to say that he would raze any Line out of his Poems, which did not imply some Motive to Virtue; but he was unhappy in the choice of the Subject of his admirable vein in Poetry. The Countess of C. was the Helen of her Country. There is nothing in Pagan Philosophy more true, more just, and regular than Virgil's Ethics; and it is hardly possible to sit down to the serious perusual of his Works, but a Man shall rise more disposed to virtue and goodness, as well as most agreeably entertained. The contrary to which disposition, may happen sometimes upon the reading of Ovid, of Martial, and several other second rate Poets. But of the Craft and Tricking part of Life, with which Homer abounds, there is nothing to be found in Virgil; and therefore Plato, who gives the former so many good words, perfumes, Crowns, but at last Complementally Banishes him his Commonwealth, would have entreated Virgil to stay with him, (if they had lived in the same Age,) and entrusted him with some important Charge in his Government. Thus was his Life as chaste as his Style, and those who can Critic his Poetry, can never find a blemish in his Manners; and one would rather wish to have that purity of Mind, which the Satirist himself attributes to him; that friendly disposition, and evenness of temper, and patience, which he was Master of in so eminent a degree, than to have the honour of being Author of the Aeneis, or even of the Georgics themselves.  
Having therefore so little relish for the usual amusements of the world, he prosecuted his Studies without any considerable interruption, during the whole course of his Life, which one may reasonably conjecture to have been something longer than 52 years; and therefore it is no wonder that he became the most general Scholar that Rome ever bred, unless some one should except Varro. Besides the exact knowledge of Rural Affairs, he understood Medicine, to which Profession he was designed by his Parents. A Curious Florist, on which Subject one would wish he had writ, as he once intended: So profound a Naturalist, that he has solved more Phaenomena of Nature upon sound Principles, than Aristotle in his Physics. He studied Geometry, the most opposite of all Sciences to a Poetic Genius, and Beauties of a lively imagination; but this promoted the order of his Narrations, his propriety of Language, and clearness of Expression, for which he was justly called the Pillar of the Latin Tongue. This Geometrical Spirit was the cause, that to fill up a Verse he would not insert one superfluous word; and therefore deserves that Character which a Noble and Judicious Critic has given him, 
* Essay of Poetry.  That he never says too little nor too much. Nor could any one ever fill up the Verses he left imperfect. There is one supplied near the beginning of the First Book; Virgil left the Verse thus. 
— Hic illius arma,  
Hic currus fuit—  the rest is none of Virgil's.  
He was so good a Geographer, that he has not only left us the finest description of Italy that ever was; but besides, was one of the few Ancients who knew the true System of the Earth, its being Inhabited round about under the Torrid Zone, and near the Poles. Metrodorus, in his five Books of the Zones, justifies him from some Exceptions made against him by Astronomers. His Rhetoric was in such general esteem, that Lectures were read upon it in the Reign of Tiberius, and the Subject of Declamations taken out of him. Pollio himself, and many other Ancients Commented him. His Esteem degenerated into a kind of Superstition. The known Story of Mr. Cowley is an instance of it. But the sorts Virgilianae were condemned by St. Augustin, and other Casuists. Abienus, by an odd Design, put all Virgil and Livy into jambick Verse; and the Pictures of those two were hung in the most Honourable place of Public Libraries, and the Design of taking them down, and destroying Virgil's Works, was looked upon as one of the most Extravagant amongst the many Brutish Frenzies of Caligula.   

PREFACE TO THE PASTORALS, With a short DEFENCE of VIRGIL, Against some of the Reflections of Monsieur Fontanelle.  
AS the Writings of greatest Antiquity are in Verse, so of all sorts of Poetry, Pastorals seem the most Ancient; being formed upon the Model of the First Innocence, and Simplicity, which the Moderns, better to dispense themselves from imitating, have wisely thought fit to treat as Fabulous, and impracticable; and yet they, by obeying the unsophisticated Dictates of Nature, enjoyed the most valuable Blessings of Life; a vigorous Health of Body, with a constant serenity, and freedom of Mind, whilst we, with all our fanciful Refinements, can scarcely pass an Autumn without some access of a Fever, or a whole Day, not ruffled by some unquiet Passion. He was not then looked upon as a very Old Man; who reached to a greater Number of Years, than in these times an ancient Family can reasonably pretend to; and we know the Names of several, who saw, and practised the World for a longer space of time, than we can read the Account of in any one entire Body of History. In short, they invented the most useful Arts, Pastorage, Tillage, Geometry, Writing, Music, Astronomy, etc. Whilst the Moderns, like Extravagant Heirs, made rich by their Industry, ingratefully deride the good Old Gentlemen, who left them the Estate. It is not therefore to be wondered at, that Pastorals are fallen into Disesteem, together with that Fashion of Life, upon which they were grounded. And methinks, I see the Reader already uneasy at this Part of Virgil, counting the Pages, and posting to the Aeneis; so delightful an entertainment is the very Relation of public Mischief, and slaughter, now become to Mankind: and yet Virgil passed a much different judgement on his own Works: He valued most this part, and his Georgics, and depended upon them for his Reputation with Posterity: But Censures himself in one of his Letters to Augustus, for meddling with Heroics, the Invention of a degenerating Age. This is the Reason that the Rules of Pastoral, are so little known or studied. Aristotle, Horace, and the Essay of Poetry, take no notice of it. And Mr. Boileau, one of the most accurate of the Moderns, because he never loses the Ancients out of his Sight, bestows scarce half a Page on it. It is the Design therefore of the few following pages, to clear this sort of Writing from vulgar Prejudices; to vindicate our Author from some unjust Imputations; to look into some of the Rules of this sort of Poetry, and Inquire what sort of Versification is most proper for it, in which point we are so much inferior to the Ancients; that this Consideration alone, were enough to make some Writers think as they ought, that is, Meanly, of their own Performances.  
As all sorts of Poetry consist in imitation; Pastoral is the imitation of a Shepherd considered under that Character: It is requisite therefore to be a little informed of the Condition, and Qualification of these Shepherds.  
One of the Ancients has observed truly, but Satirically enough, that Mankind is the Measure of every thing: And thus by a gradual improvement of this mistake, we come to make our own Age and Country the Rule and Standard of others, and ourselves at last the measure of them all. We figure the Ancient Countrymen like our own, leading a painful Life in Poverty and Contempt, without Wit, or Courage, or Education: But Men had quite different Notions of these things, for the first four Thousand Years of the World; Health and Strength were then in more esteem than the refinements of Pleasure; and it was accounted a great deal more Honourable to Till the Ground, or keep a Flock of Sheep, than to dissolve in Wantonness, and effeminating Sloath. Hunting has now an Idea of Quality joined to it, and is become the most important Business in the Life of a Gentleman; Anciently it was quite otherways. Mr. Fleury has severely remarked, that this Extravagant Passion for Hunting is a strong Proof of our Gothic Extraction, and shows an affinity of Humour with the Savage Americans. The Barbarous Franks and other Germans, (having neither Corn, nor Wine of their own growth,) when they passed the Rhine, and possessed themselves of Country's better Cultivated, left the Tillage of the Land to the Old Proprietors; and afterwards did hazard their Lives as freely for their Diversion, as they had done before for their necessary subsistence. The English gave this Usage the Sacred stamp of Fashion, and from hence it is that most of our Terms of Hunting are French. The Reader will, I hope, give me his Pardon for my freedom on this Subject, since an ill Accident, occasioned by Hunting, has kept England in pain, these several Months together, for one of the best, and greatest Peers which she has bred for some Ages; no less Illustrious for Civil Virtues, and Learning, than his Ancestors were for all their Victories in France.  
But there are some Prints still left of the Ancient Esteem for Husbandry and their plain Fashion of Life in many of our Surnames, and in the Escutcheons of the most Ancient Families, even those of the greatest Kings, the Roses, the Lilies, the Thistle, etc. It is generally known, that one of the principal Causes of the Deposing of Mahomet the 4th, was, that he would not allot part of the Day to some manual Labour, according to the Law of Mahomet, and Ancient Practice of his Predecessors. He that reflects on this will be the less surprised to find that Charlemaign Eight Hundred Years ago, ordered his Children to be instructed in some Profession. And Eight Hundred Years yet higher, that Augustus wore no clothes but such as were made by the Hands of the Empress, and her Daughters; and Olympias did the same for Alexander the Great. Nor will he wonder that the Romans, in great exigency, sent for their Dictator from the Blow, whose whole Estate was but of Four Acres; too little a spot now for the Orchard, or Kitchin-Garden of a Private Gentleman. It is commonly known, that the Founders of three the most renowned Monarchies in the World, were Shepherds: And the Subject of Husbandry has been adorned by the Writings and Labour of more than twenty Kings. It ought not therefore to be matter of surprise to a Modern Writer, that Kings, the Shepherds of the People in Homer, laid down their first Rudiments in tending their mute Subjects; nor that the Wealth of Ulysses consisted in Flocks and Herds, the Intendants over which, were then in equal esteem with Officers of State in latter times. And therefore Eumaeus is called 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 in Homer; not so much because Homer was a lover of a Country Life, to which he rather seems averse, but by reason of the Dignity and Greatness of his Trust, and because he was the Son of a King, stolen away, and Sold by the Phaenician Pirates, which the Ingenious Mr. Cowley seems not to have taken notice of. Nor will it seem strange, that the Master of the Horse to King Latinus, in the Ninth Aeneid, was found in the homely Employment of cleaving Blocks, when news of the first Skirmish betwixt the Trojans and Latins was brought to him.  
Being therefore of such Quality, they cannot be supposed so very ignorant and unpolished; the Learning and good breeding of the World was then in the hands of such People. He who was chosen by the consent of all Parties to arbitrate so delicate an affair, as which was the fairest of the three Celebrated Beauties of Heaven; he who had the address to debauch away Helen from her Husband, her Native Country, and from a Crown, understood what the French call by the too soft name of Gallantry; he had Accomplishments enough, how ill use soever he made of them. It seems therefore that Mr. F. had not duly considered the matter, when he reflected so severely upon Virgil, as if he had not observed the Laws of decency in his Pastorals, in making Shepherds speak to things beside their Character, and above their Capacity. He stands amazed that Shepherds should thunder out, as he expresses himself, the formation of the World, and that too according to the System of Epicurus. In truth, says he, page 176. I cannot tell what to make of this whole piece; (the Sixth Past.) I can neither comprehend the Design of the Author, nor the Connexion of the parts; first come the Ideas of Philosophy, and presently after those incoherent Fables, etc. To expose him yet more, he subjoins, it is Silenus himself who makes all this absurd Discourse. Virgil says indeed that he had drank too much the day before; perhaps the Debauch hung in his head when he composed this Poem, etc. Thus far Mr. F. who, to the disgrace of Reason, as himself ingenuously owns, first built his House, and then studied Architecture; I mean first Composed his Eclogues, and then studied the Rules. In answer to this, we may observe, first, that this very Pastoral which he singles out to triumph over, was recited by a Famous Player on the Roman Theatre, with marvellous applause; insomuch that Cicero who had heard part of it only, ordered the whole to be rehearsed, and struck with admiration of it, conferred then upon Virgil the Glorious Title of Magnae spes alterae Romae. Nor is it Old Donatus only who relates this, we have the same account from another very Credible and Ancient Author; so that here we have the judgement of Cicero, and the People of Rome, to confront the single Opinion of this adventurous Critic. A Man ought to be well assured of his own Abilities, before he attack an Author of established Reputation. If Mr. F. had perused the fragments of the Phaenician Antiquity, traced the progress of Learning through the Ancient Greek Writers, or so much as Consulted his Learned Countryman Huetius, he would have found, (which falls out unluckily for him) that a Chaldaean Shepherd discovered to the Egyptians and Greeks the Creation of the World. And what Subject more fit for such a Pastoral, than that Great Affair which was first notified to the World by one of that Profession? Nor does it appear, (what he takes for granted) that Virgil describes the Original of the World according to the Hypothesis of Epicurus; he was too well seen in Antiquity to commit such a gross Mistake; there is not the least mention of Chance in that whole passage, nor of the Clinamen Principiorum, so peculiar to Epicurus' Hypothesis. Virgil had not only more Piety, but was of too nice a Judgement to introduce a God denying the Power and Providence of the Deity, and singing a Hymn to the Atoms, and Blind Chance. On the contrary, his Description agrees very well with that of Moses; and the Learned Commentator D'Acier, who is so confident that Horace had perused the Sacred History, might with greater Reason have affirmed the same thing of Virgil. For, besides that Famous Passage in the Sixth Aeneid, (by which this may be illustrated,) where the word Principio is used in the front of both by Moses and Virgil, and the Seas are first mentioned, and the Spiritus intus alit, which might not improbably, as Mr. D'Acier would suggest, allude to the Spirit moving upon the face of the Waters; But omitting this parallel place, the successive formation of the World is evidently described in these words, 
Rerum paulatim sumere formas;  And 'tis hardly possible to render more literally that verse of Moses,  
Let the Waters be gathered into one place, and let the dry Land appear, than in this of Virgil, 
Jam durare solum, & discludere Nerea Ponto.   
After this the formation of the Sun is described (exactly in the Mosaical order,) and next the production of the first Living Creatures, and that too in a small number, (still in the same method.)  
Rara per ignotos errent animalia montes.  
And here the foresaid Author would probably remark, that Virgil keeps more exactly to the Mosaic System, than an Ingenious Writer, who will by no means allow Mountains to be coaeval with the World. Thus much will make it probable at least, that Virgil had Moses in his thoughts rather than Epicurus, when he composed this Poem. But it is further remarkable, that this passage was taken from a Song attributed to Apollo, who himself too unluckily had been a Shepherd, and he took it from another yet more ancient, composed by the first Inventor of Music, and at that time a Shepherd too; and this is one of the Noblest Fragments of Greek Antiquity; and because I cannot suppose the Ingenious Mr. F. one of their number, who pretend to censure the Greeks, without being able to distinguish Greek from Ephesian Characters, I shall here set down the Lines from which Virgil took this passage, tho' none of the Commentators have observed it.  
— 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
So that our Poet here with great Judgement, as always, follows the ancient Custom of beginning their more Solemn Songs with the Creation, and does it too most properly under the person of a Shepherd; and thus the first and best Employment of Poetry was to compose Hymns in Honour of the Great Creator of the Universe.  
Few words will suffice to answer his other Objections. He demands why those several Transformations are mentioned in that Poem? And is not Fable then the Life and Subject of Poetry? Can himself assign a more proper Subject of Pastoral, than the Saturnia Regna, the Age and Scene of this kind of Poetry? What Theme more fit for the Song of a God, or to imprint Religious awe, than the Omnipotent Power of transforming the Species of Creatures at their pleasure? Their Families lived in Groves, near clear Springs; and what better warning could be given to the hopeful young Shepherds, than that they should not gaze too much into the Liquid dangerous Looking-glass, for fear of being stolen by the Water-Nymphs, that is, falling and being drowned, as Hylas was? Pasiphea's monstrous passion for a Bull, is certainly a Subject enough fitted for Bucolic's? Can Mr. F. Tax Silenus for fetching too far the Transformation of the Sisters of Phaeton into Trees, when perhaps they sat at that very time under the hospitable shade of those Alders or Poplars? Or the Metamorphoses of Philomela into that ravishing Bird, which makes the sweetest music of the Groves? If he had looked into the Ancient Greek Writers, or so much as Consulted honest Servius, he would have discovered that under the Allegory of this drunkenness of Silenus, the refinement and exaltation of men's Minds by Philosophy was intended. But if the Author of these Reflections can take such flights in his Wine, it is almost pity that drunkenness should be a Sin, or that he should ever want good store of Burgundy, and Champaign. But indeed he seems not to have ever drank out of Silenus his Tankard, when he made either his Critic, or Pastorals.  
His Censure on the Fourth seems worse grounded than the other; it is Entitled in some ancient Manuscripts, The History of the Renovation of the World; he complains that he cannot understand what is meant by those many Figurative Expressions: But if he had consulted the younger Vossius his Dissertation on this Pastoral, or read the Excellent Oration of the Emperor Constantine, made French by a good Pen of their own, he would have found there the plain inerpretation of all those Figurative Expressions; and withal, very strong proofs of the truth of the Christian Religion; such as Converted Heathens, as Valerianus, and others: And upon account of this Piece, the most Learned of the Latin Fathers calls Virgil a Christian, even before Christianity. Cicero takes notice of it in his Books of Divination, and Virgil probably had put it in Verse a considerable time before the Edition of his Pastorals. Nor does he appropriate it to Pollio, or his Son, but Complementally dates it from his Consulship. And therefore some one who had not so kind thoughts of Mr. F. as I, would be inclined to think him as bad a Catholic as Critic in this place.  
I pass by, in respect therefore to some Books he has wrote since, a great part of this, and shall only touch briefly some of the Rules of this sort of Poem.  
The First is, that an air of Piety upon all occasions should be maintained in the whole Poem: This appears in all the Ancient Greek Writers; as Homer, etc. And Virgil is so exact in the observation of it, not only in this Work, but in his Aeneis too, that a Celebrated French Writer taxes him for permitting Aeneas to do nothing without the assistance of some God. But by this it appears, at least, that Mr. St. Eur. is no Jansenist.  
Mr. F. seems a little defective in this point; he brings in a pair of Shepherdesses disputing very warmly, whether Victoria, (none of the fittest Names for a Shepherdess) be a Goddess, or a Woman. Her great condescension and compassion, her affability and goodness, none of the meanest Attributes of the Divinity, pass for convincing Arguments that she could not possibly be a Goddess. 
Les Déesses toûjours fieres & méprisantes  
Ne rassureroiént point les Bergeres tremblantes  
Par d'obligeans discourse, des souris gracieux;  
Mais tu l'as veu; cette Auguste Personne  
Qui vient de paroistre en ces lieux  
Prend soin de rassurer au moment qu'elle étonne.  
Sa bonté descendant sans peine jusqu'à nous.  In short, she has too many Divine Perfections to be a Deity, and therefore she is a Mortal [which was the thing to be proved.] It is directly contrary to the practice of all ancient Poets, as well as to the Rules of decency and Religion, to make such odious Comparisons. I am much surprised therefore that he should use such an argument as this. 
Cloris, astu veu des Déesses  
Avoir un air si facile & si doux?  Was not Aurora, and Venus, and Luna, and I know not how many more of the Heathen Deities too easy of access to Tithonus, to Anchises, and to Endymion? Is there any thing more Sparkish and better humoured than Venus her accosting her Son in the Deserts of Lybia? or than the behaviour of Pallas to Diomedes, one of the most perfect and admirable Pieces of all the Iliads; where she condescends to rally him so agreeably; and notwithstanding her severe Virtue, and all the Ensigns of Majesty, with which she so terribly adorns herself, condescends to ride with him in his Chariot? But the Odysseys are full of greater instances of condescension than this.  
This brings to mind that Famous passage of Lucan, in which he prefers Cato to all the Gods at once, Victrix causa deis placuit sed victa Catoni. Which Brelaeuf has rendered so flatly, and which may be thus paraphrased.  
Heaven meanly with the Conqueror did comply,  
But Cato rather than submit would die.  
It is an unpardonable presumption in any sort of Religion to compliment their Princes at the expense of their Deities.  
But letting that pass, this whole Eclogue is but a long Paraphrase of a trite Verse in Virgil, and Homer, Nec vox Hominem sonat, O Dea certe.  
So true is that Remark of the Admirable E. of Roscomon, if applied to the Romans, rather I fear than to the English, since his own Death.  
— one sterling Line,  
Drawn to French Wire, would through whole pages shine.  
Another Rule is, that the Characters should represent that Ancient Innocence, and unpractised Plainness, which was then in the World. P. Rapine has gathered many Instances of this out of Theocritus, and Virgil; and the Reader can do it as well himself. But Mr. F. transgressed this Rule, when he hid himself in the Thicket, to listen to the private Discourse of the two Shepherdesses. This is not only ill Breeding at Versailles; the Arcadian Shepherdesses themselves would have set their Dogs upon one for such an unpardonable piece of Rudeness.  
A Third Rule is, That there should be some Ordonnance, some Design, or little Plot, which may deserve the Title of a Pastoral Scene. This is every where observed by Virgil, and particularly remarkable in the first Eclogue; the standard of all Pastorals; a Beautiful Landscape presents itself to your view, a Shepherd with his Flock around him, resting securely under a spreading Beech, which furnished the first Food to our Ancestors. Another in quite different Situation of Mind and Circumstances, the Sun setting, the Hospitality of the more fortunate Shepherd, etc. And here Mr. F. seems not a little wanting.  
A Fourth Rule, and of great importance in this delicate sort of Writing, is, that there be choice diversity of Subjects; that the Eclogues, like a Beautiful Prospect, should Charm by its Variety. Virgil is admirable in this Point, and far surpasses Theocritus, as he does every where, when Judgement and Contrivance have the principal part. The Subject of the first Pastoral is hinted above.  
The Second contains the Love of Coridon for Alexis, and the seasonable reproach he gives himself, that he left his Vines half pruned, (which according to the Roman Rituals, derived a Curse upon the Fruit that grew upon it) whilst he pursued an Object undeserving his Passion.  
The Third, a sharp Contention of two Shepherds for the Prize of Poetry.  
The Fourth contains the Discourse of a Shepherd Comforting himself in a declining Age, that a better was ensuing.  
The Fifth a Lamentation for a Dead Friend, the first draught of which is probably more Ancient than any of the Pastorals now extant; his Brother being at first intended; but he afterwards makes his Court to Augustrus, by turning it into an Apotheosis of Julius Caesar.  
The Sixth is the Silenus.  
The Seventh, another Poetical Dispute, first Composed at Mantua.  
The Eighth is the Description of a despairing Lover, and a Magical Charm.  
He sets the Ninth after all these, very modestly, because it was particular to himself; and here he would have ended that Work, if Gallus had not prevailed upon him to add one more in his Favour.  
Thus Curious was Virgil in diversifying his Subjects. But Mr. F. is a great deal too uniform; begin where you please, the Subject is still the same. We find it true what he says of himself,  Toûjours, toûjours de l'Amour. 
He seems to take Pastorals and Love-Verses for the same thing. Has Humaen Nature no other Passion? Does not Fear, Ambition, Avarice, Pride, a Capricio of Honour, and Laziness itself often Triumph over Love? But this Passion does all, not only in Pastorals, but on Modern Tragedies too. A Hero can no more Fight, or be Sick, or Dye, than he can be Born without a Woman. But Dramatic's have been composed in compliance to the Humour of the Age, and the prevailing Inclination of the great, whose Example has a very powerful Influence, not only in the little Court behind the Scenes, but on the great Theatre of the World. This inundation of Love-Verses 'tis not so much an effect of their Amorousness, as of immoderate Self-love. This being the only sort of Poetry, in which the Writer can, not only without Censure, but even with Commendation, talk of himself. There is generally more of the Passion of Narcissus, than concern for Chloris and Corinna in this whole Affair. Be pleased to look into almost any of those Writers, and you shall meet every where that eternal Moy, which the admirable Paschal so judiciously condemns. Homer can never be enough admired for this one so particular Quality, that he never speaks of himself, either in the Iliad, or the Odysseys; and if Horace had never told us his Genealogy, but left it to the Writer of his Life, perhaps he had not been a loser by it. This Consideration might induce those great Critics, Varius and Tucca, to raze out the four first Verses of the Aeneis, in great measure, for the sake of that unlucky Ille ego. But extraordinary Genius's have a sort of Prerogative, which may dispense them from Laws, binding to Subject-Wits. However, the Ladies have the less Reason to be pleased with those Addresses, of which the Poet takes the greater share to himself. Thus the Beau presses into their Dressing-Room, but it is not so much to adore their fair Eyes, as to adjust his own Steenzkirk and Peruke, and set his Countenance in their Glass.  
A fifth Rule, (which one may hope will not be contested) is that the Writer should show in his Compositions, some competent skill of the Subject matter, that which makes the Character of the Persons introduced. In this, as in all other Points of Learning, Decency, and Oeconomy of a Poem, Virgil much excels his Master Theocritus. The Poet is better skilled in Husbandry than those that get their Bread by it. He describes the Nature, the Diseases, the Remedies, the proper places, and Seasons, of Feeding, of Watering their Flocks; the Furniture, Diet; the Lodging and pastimes of his Shepherds. But the Persons brought in by Mr. F. are Shepherds in Masquerade, and handle their Sheephook as awkardly, as they do their Oaten-Reed. They Saunter about with their cheers Moutons, but they relate as little to the Business in hand, as the Painter's Dog, or a Dutch Ship, does to the History designed. One would suspect some of them, that instead of leading out their Sheep into the Plains of Mont-Brison, and Marcilli, to the flowery Banks of Lignon, or the Charanthe; that they are driving directly, à la bouchery, to make Money of them. I hope hereafter Mr. F. will choose his Servants better.  
A sixth Rule is, That as the Style ought to be natural, clear, and elegant, it should have some peculiar relish of the Ancient Fashion of Writing. Parables in those times were frequently used, as they are still by the Eastern Nations; Philosophical Questions, Aenigmas, etc. and of this we find Instances in the Sacred Writings, in Homer, Contemporary with King David, in Herodotus, in the Greek Tragedians; this piece of Antiquity is imitated by Virgil with great judgement and discretion: He has proposed one Riddle which has never yet been solved by any of his Commentators. Tho' he knew the Rules of Rhetoric, as well as Cicero himself; he conceals that skill in his Pastorals, and keeps close to the Character of Antiquity: Nor ought the Connexion's and Transitions' to be very strict, and regular; this would give the Pastorals an Air of Novelty, and of this neglect of exact Connexion's, we have instances in the Writings of the Ancient Chineses, of the Jews and Greeks, in Pindar, and other Writers of Dithyrambics, in th● Chorus 's of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. If Mr. F. and Ruaeus, had considered this, the one would have spared his Critic of the Sixth, and the other, his Reflections upon the Ninth Pastoral. The over-scrupulous care of Connexion's, makes the Modern Compositions oftentimes tedious and flat: And by the omission of them it comes to pass, that the Pensees of the incomparable Mr. Pascal, and perhaps of Mr. Bruyere, are two of the most Entertaining Books which the Modern French can boast of. Virgil, in this point, was not only faithful to the Character of Antiquity, but Copies after Nature herself. Thus a Meadow, where the Beauties of the Spring are profusely blended together, makes a more delightful Prospect, than a curious Knot of sorted Flowers in our Gardens; and we are much more transported with the Beauty of the Heavens, and admiration of their Creator, in a clear Night, when we behold Stars of all Magnitudes, promiscuously moving together, than if those glorious Lights were ranked in their several Orders, or reduced into the finest Geometrical Figures.  
Another Rule omitted by P. Rapine, as some of his are by me, (for I do not design an entire Treatise in this Preface,) is, that not only the Sentences should be short, and smart, upon which account, he justly blames the Italian, and French, as too Talkative, but that the whole piece should be so too. Virgil transgressed this Rule in his first Pastorals, I mean those which he composed at Mantua, but rectified the Fault in his Riper Years. This appears by the Culex, which is as long as five of his Pastorals put together. The greater part of those he finished, have less than a Hundred Verses, and but two of them exceed that Number. But the Silenus, which he seems to have designed for his Masterpiece, in which he introduces a God singing, and he too full of Inspiration, (which is intended by that ebriety, which Mr. F. so unreasonably ridicules,) tho' it go through so vast a Field of Matter, and comprizes the Mythology of near Two Thousand Years, consists but of Fifty Lines; so that its brevity is no less admirable, than the subject Matter; the noble Fashion of handling it, and the Deity speaking. Virgil keeps up his Characters in this respect too, with the strictest decency: For Poetry and Pastime was not the Business of men's Lives in those days, but only their seasonable Recreation after necessary Labours. And therefore the length of some of the Modern Italian, and English Compositions, is against the Rules of this kind of Poesy.  
I shall add something very briefly touching the Versification of Pastorals, tho' it be a mortifying Consideration to the Moderns. Heroic Verse, as it is commonly called, was used by the Latins in this sort of Poem, as very Ancient and Natural. Lyrics, jambics, etc. being Invented afterwards: but there is so great a difference in the Numbers, of which it may be compounded, that it may pass rather for a Genus, than Species, of Verse. Whosoever shall compare the numbers of the three following Verses, will quickly be sensible of the truth of this Observation.  Tityre, tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi. 
The first of the Georgics, Quid faciat laetas segetes, quo sydere terram. and of the Aeneis.  Arma, virumque cano, Trojae qui Primus ab oris. 
The Sound of the Verses, is almost as different as the Subjects. But the Greek Writers of Pastoral, usually limited themselves to the Example of the first; which Virgil found so exceedingly difficult, that he quitted it, and left the Honour of that part to Theocritus. It is indeed probable, that what we improperly call rhyme, is the most Ancient sort of Poetry; and Learned Men have given good Arguments for it; and therefore a French Historian commits a gross mistake, when he attributes that Invention to a King of Gaul, as an English Gentleman does, when he makes a Roman Emperor the Inventor of it. But the Greeks who understood fully the force and power of Numbers, soon grew weary of this Childish sort of Verse, as the Younger Vossius justly calls it, and therefore those rhyming Hexameters, which Plutarch observes in Homer himself, seem to be the Remains of a barbarous Age. Virgil had them in such abhorrence, that he would rather make a false Syntax, than what we call a Rhyme, such a Verse as this Vir precorVxori, frater succurre Sorori. Was passable in Ovid, but the nice Ears in Augustus his Court could not pardon Virgil, for▪ At Regina Pyra. So that the principal Ornament of Modern Poetry, was accounted deformity by the Latins, and Greeks; it was they who invented the different terminations of words, those happy compositions, those short monosyllables, those transpositions for the elegance of the sound and sense, which are wanting so much in modern Languages. The French sometimes crowd together ten, or twelve Monosyllables, into one disjointed Verse; they may understand the nature of, but cannot imitate, those wonderful Spondees of Pythagoras, by which he could suddenly pacify a Man that was in a violent transport of anger; nor those swift numbers of the Priests of Cybele, which had the force to enrage the most sedate and Phlegmatic Tempers. Nor can any Modern put into his own Language the Energy of that single Poem of Catullus, Super alta vectus, Atys▪ etc. Latin is but a corrupt dialect of Greek; and the French, Spanish, and Italian, a corruption of Latin; and therefore a Man might as well go about to persuade me that Vinegar is a Nobler Liquor than Wine, as that the modern Compositions can be as graceful and harmonious as the Latin itself. The Greek Tongue very naturally falls into iambics, and therefore the diligent Reader may find six or seven and twenty of them in those accurate Orations of Isocrates. The Latin as naturally falls into Heroic; and therefore the beginning of Livy's History is half an Hexameter, and that of Tacitus an entire one. The Roman Historian describing the glorious effort of a Colonel to break through a Brigade of the Enemies, just after the defeat at Cannae, falls, unknowingly, into a Verse not unworthy Virgil himself.  
Haec ubi dicta dedit, stringit gladium, cuneoque  
Facto per medios, etc.  
Ours and the French can at best but fall into Blank Verse, which is a fault in Prose. The misfortune indeed is common to us both, but we deserve more compassion, because we are not vain of our Barbarities. As Age brings Men back into the state and infirmities of Childhood, upon the fall of their Empire, the Romans doted into Rhyme, as appears sufficiently by the Hymns of the Latin Church; and yet a great deal of the French Poetry does hardly deserve that poor title. I shall give an instance out of a Poem which had the good luck to gain the Prize in 1685, for the Subject deserved a Nobler Pen.  
Tous les jours ce grand Roy des autres Roys l'exemple,  
S'ouvre un nouveau chemin au faiste de ton temple, etc.  
The Judicious Malherbe exploded this sort of Verse near Eighty Years ago. Nor can I forbear wondering at that passage of a Famous Academician, in which he, most compassionately, excuses the Ancients for their not being so exact in their Compositions, as the Modern French, because they wanted a Dictionary, of which the French are at last happily provided. If Cicero and Demosthenes had been so lucky as to have had a Dictionary, and such a Patron as Cardinal Richelieu, perhaps they might have aspired to the honour of Balzac's Legacy of Ten Pounds, Le prix de l'Eloquence.  
On the contrary, I dare assert that there are hardly ten Lines in either of those great Orators, or even in the Catalogue of Homer's Ships, which is not more harmonious, more truly Rythmical, than most of the French, or English Sonnets; and therefore they lose, at least, one half of their native Beauty by Translation.  
I cannot but add one Remark on this occasion, that the French Verse is oftentimes not so much as Rhyme, in the lowest Sense; for the Childish repetition of the same Note cannot be called Music; such Instances are infinite, as in the forecited Poem. 

‛ Epris  
Mepris   

Trophy  
Orphee   

caché;  
cherché.    
Mr. Boileau himself has a great deal of this 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, not by his own neglect, but purely by the faultiness and poverty of the French Tongue. Mr. F. at last goes into the excessive Paradoxes of Mr. Perrault, and boasts of the vast number of their Excellent Songs, preferring them to the Greek and Latin. But an ancient Writer of as good Credit, has assured us, that Seven Lives would hardly suffice to read over the Greek Odes; but a few Weeks would be sufficient, if a Man were so very idle as to read over all the French. In the meantime I should be very glad to see a Catalogue of but fifty of theirs with 
* Essay of Poetry.  Exact propriety of word and thought. Notwithstanding all the high Encomiums, and mutual Gratulations which they give one another; (for I am far-from censuring the whole of that Illustrious Society, to which the Learned World is much obliged) after all those Golden Dreams at the L'Ouvre, that Modern Pieces will be as much valued ten, or twelve Ages hence, as the ancient Greek, or Roman, I can no more get it into my head that they will last so long, than I could believe the Learned Dr. H— K. [of the Royal Society,] if he should pretend to show me a Butterfly that had lived a thousand Winters.  
When Mr. F. wrote his Eclogues, he was so far from equalling Virgil, or Theocritus, that he had some pains to take before he could understand in what the principal Beauty, and Graces of their Writings do consist.  Cum mortuis non nisi larvae luctantur.  

To Mr. Dryden, on his Excellent Translation of VIRGIL.  

WHen e'er Great VIRGIL's lofty Verse I see,  
The Pompous Scene Charms my admiring Eye:  
There different Beauties in perfection meet;  
The Thoughts as proper, as the Numbers sweet:  
And When wild Fancy mounts a daring height,  
Judgement steps in, and moderates her flight.  
Wisely he manages his Wealthy Store,  
Still says enough, and yet implies still more:  
For tho'the weighty Sense be closely wrought,  
The Reader's left t'improve the pleasing thought.   

Hence we despaired to see an English dress  
Should ere his Nervous Energy express;  
For who could that in fettered Rhyme enclose,  
Which without loss can scarce be told in Prose?   

But you, Great Sir, his Manly Genius raise;  
And make your Copy share an equal praise.  
O how I see thee in soft Scenes of Love,  
Renew those Passions he alone could move!  
Here Cupid's Charms are with new Art expressed,  
And pale Eliza leaves her peaceful rest:  
Leaves her Elysium, as if glad to live,  
To Love, and Wish, to Sigh, Despair and Grieve,  
And Die again for him that would again deceive.  
Nor does the Mighty Trojan less appear  
Than Mars himself amidst the storms of War.  
Now his fierce Eyes with double fury glow,  
And a new dread attends th' impending blow:  
The Daunian Chiefs their eager rage abate,  
And tho' unwounded, seem to feel their Fate.   

Long the rude fury of an ignorant Age,  
With barbarous spite profaned his Sacred Page.  
The heavy Dutchmen with laborious toil,  
Wrested his Sense, and cramped his vigorous Style:  
No time, no pains the drudging Pedants spare;  
But still his Shoulders must the burden bear.  
While through the Mazes of their Comments led,  
We learn not what he writes, but what they read.  
Yet through these Shades of undistinguished Night  
Appeared some glimmering intervals of Light;  
Till mangled by a vile Translating Sect,  
Like Babes by Witches in Effigy racked:  
Till Ogleby, mature in dulness rose,  
And Holbourn Doggerel, and low chiming Prose,  
His Strength and Beauty did at once depose.  
But now the Magic Spell is at an end,  
Since even the Dead in you have found a Friend.  
You free the Bard from rude Oppressor's Power,  
And grace his Verse with Charms unknown before:  
He, doubly thus obliged, must doubting stand,  
Which chiefly should his Gratitude command;  
Whether should claim the Tribute of his Heart,  
The Patron's Bounty, or the Poet's Art.   

Alike with wonder and delight we viewed  
The Roman Genius in thy Verse renewed:  
We saw thee raise soft Ovid's Amorous Fire,  
And fit the tuneful Horace to thy Lyre:  
We saw new gall embitter Juvenal's Pen,  
And crabbed Persius made politely plain:  
Virgil alone was thought too great a task;  
What you could scarce perform, or we durst ask:  
A Task! which Waller's Muse could ne'er engage;  
A Task! too hard for Denham's stronger rage:  
Sure of Success they some slight Sallies tried,  
But the fenced Coast their bold attempts defied:  
With fear their o'ermatched Forces back they drew,  
Quit the Province Fate reserved for you.  
In vain thus Philip did the Persians storm;  
A Work his Son was destined to perform.   

O had Roscommon 
* Essay of Translated Verse. pag. 26.  lived to hail the day,  
And Sing loud Paeans through the crowded way;  
When you in Roman Majesty appear,  
Which none know better, and none come so near:  
The happy Author would with wonder see,  
His Rules were only Prophecies of thee:  
And were he now to give Translators light,  
He'd bid them only read thy Work, and write.   

For this great Task our loud applause is due;  
We own old Favours, but must press for new.  
Th' expecting World demands one Labour more;  
And thy loved Homer does thy aid implore,  
To right his injured Works, and set them free  
From the lewd Rhymes of grovelling Ogleby.  
Then shall his Verse in graceful Pomp appear,  
Nor will his Birth renew the ancient jar;  
On those Greek Cities we shall look with scorn,  
And in our Britain think the Poet Born.    

To Mr. Dryden on his Translation of VIRGIL.  

WE read, how Dreams and Visions heretofore,  
The Prophet, and the Poet could inspire;  
And make 'em in unusual Rapture soar,  
With Rage Divine, and with Poetic Fire.   

2.  
O could I find it now!— Would Virgil's Shade  
But for a while vouchsafe to bear the Light;  
To grace my Numbers, and that Muse to aid,  
Who sings the Poet, that has done him right.   

3.  
It long has been this Sacred Author's Fate,  
To lie at every dull Translator's Will;  
Long, long his Muse has groaned beneath the weight  
Of mangling Ogleby's presumptuous Quill.   

4.  
Dryden, at last, in his Defence arose;  
The Father now is righted by the Son:  
And while his Muse endeavours to disclose  
That Poet's Beauties, she declares her own.   

5.  
In your smooth, pompous Numbers dressed, each Line,  
Each Thought, betrays such a Majestic Touch;  
He could not, had he finished his Design,  
Have wished it better, or have done so much.   

6.  
You like his Hero, though yourself were free;  
And disentangled from the War of Wit;  
You, who secure might others danger see,  
And safe from all malicious Censure sit:   

7.  
Yet because Sacred Virgil's Noble Muse,  
O'relayed by Fools, was ready to expire:  
To risk your Fame again, you boldly choose,  
Or to redeem, or perish with your Sire.   

8.  
Even first and last, we owe him half to you,  
For that his Aeneids missed their threatened Fate,  
Was— that his Friends by some Prediction knew,  
Hereafter who correcting should translate.   

9  
But hold my Muse, thy needless Flight restrain,  
Unless like him thou couldst a Verse indite:  
To think his Fancy to describe, is vain,  
Since nothing can discover Light, but Light.   

10.  
'Tis want of Genius that does more deny;  
'Tis Fear my Praise should make your Glory less.  
And therefore, like the modest Painter, I  
Must draw the Veil, where I cannot express.   
Henry Grahme.   

To Mr. DRYDEN.  
NO undisputed Monarch Governed yet  
With Universal Sway the Realms of Wit:  
Nature could never such Expense afford,  
Each several Province owned a several Lord.  
A Poet than had his Poetic Wife,  
One Muse embraced, and Married for his Life.  
By the stale thing his appetite was cloyed,  
His Fancy lessened, and his Fire destroyed.  
But Nature grown extravagantly kind,  
With all her Treasures did adorn your Mind.  
The different Powers were then united found,  
And you Wit's Universal Monarch Crowned.  
Your Mighty Sway your great Desert secures,  
And every Muse and every Grace is yours.  
To none confined, by turns you all enjoy,  
Sated with this, you to another fly.  
So Sultan-like in your Seraglio stand,  
While wishing Muses wait for your Command.  
Thus no decay, no want of vigour find,  
Sublime your Fancy, boundless is your Mind.  
Not all the blasts of time can do you wrong,  
Young spite of Age, in spite of Weakness strong.  
Time like Alcides, strikes you to the ground,  
You like Antaeus from each fall rebound.  
H. St. John.   

To Mr. Dryden on his VIRGIL.  

'tIS said that Phidias gave such living Grace,  
To the carved Image of a beauteous Face,  
That the cold Marble might even seem to be  
The Life, and the true Life, the Imagery.   

You pass that Artist, Sir, and all his Powers,  
Making the best of Roman Poets ours;  
With such Effect, we know not which to call  
The Imitation, which th' Original.   

What Virgil lent, you pay in equal Weight,  
The charming Beauty of the Coin no less;  
And such the Majesty of your Impress,  
You seem the very Author you translate.   

'Tis certain, were he now alive with us,  
And did revolving Destiny constrain,  
To dress his Thoughts in English o'er again,  
Himself could write no otherwise than thus.   

His old Encomium never did appear  
So true as now; Romans and Greeks submit,  
Something of late is in our Language writ,  
More nobly great than the famed Iliads were.   
Ja. Wright.   

To Mr. Dryden on his Translations.  

AS Flowers transplanted from a Southern Sky,  
But hardly bear, or in the raising die,  
Missing their Native Sun, at best retain  
But a faint Odour, and but live with Pain:  
So Roman Poetry by Moderns taught,  
Wanting the Warmth with which its Author wrote,  
Is a dead Image, and a worthless Draught.  
While we transfuse, the nimble Spirit flies,  
Escapes unseen, evaporates, and dies.   

Who then attempt to show the Ancients Wit,  
Must copy with the Genius that they writ.  
Whence we conclude from thy translated Song,  
So just, so warm, so smooth, and yet so strong,  
Thou Heavenly Charmer! Soul of Harmony!  
That all their Geniusses revived in thee.   

Thy Trumpet sounds, the dead are raised to Light,  
Newborn they rise, and take to Heaven their Flight;  
Decked in thy Verse, as clad with Rays, they shine  
All Glorified, Immortal and Divine.   

As Britain, in rich Soil abounding wide,  
Furnished for Use, for Luxury, and Pride,  
Yet spreads her wanton Sails on every Shore,  
For Foreign Wealth, insatiate still of more;  
To her own Wool, the Silks of Asia joins,  
And to her plenteous Harvests, Indian Mines:  
So Dryden, not contented with the Fame  
Of his own Works, tho' an immortal Name,  
To Lands remote he sends his learned Muse,  
The Noblest Seeds of Foreign Wit to choose.  
Feasting our Sense so many various Ways,  
Say, Is't thy Bounty, or thy Thirst of Praise?  
That by comparing others, all might see,  
Who most excelled, are yet excelled by thee.   
George Granville.   

ERRATA.  

In the Dedicatory Preface to the Marquis of Normanby.  
PAg. 7. line 32. read, of Republican Principles in his Heart. p. 9 where Atis is mentioned as having a claim by Succession before Aeneas, my Memory betrayed me; for had I consulted Virgil, he calls not the Son of Polites by the name of Atis, but of Priamus. 'Tis true he mentions Atis immediately afterwards, on the account of the Atian Family, from which Julius Caesar was descended by his Grandmother, as I have there mentioned. p. 26. towards the bottom of this Page here is a gross Error, which is easily corrected, by reading Ten Months instead of Three: the Sense will direct you to the place. p. 28. In the quotation of a verse of Virgil's; for contise r. confise. p. 30 f. Juturna took his opportunity, r. this opportunity. There are other Errata both in false pointing, and omissions of words, both in the Preface and the Poem, which the Reader will correct without my trouble. I omit them, because they only lame my English, not destroy my meaning.   

Some of the most considerable Errata.  
PAstoral 2. l. 43. r. nor scorn the Pipe. Past. 4. l. 36. for Cold r. Gold. Past. 6. l. 72. f. this r. thy. In the same Past. l. 1. f. Sicilian r. Sicilian. Past. 8. l. 19 read the whole line thus; Scarce from the World the Shades of Night withdrew. Georgic 1. l. 96. after the word Arbute place the Comma; not after the next word Hazle, as it is printed, which destroys the Sense. The whole Verse is to be thus read, The thin-leaved Arbute, hazle Graffs receives. l. 139. the note of Interrogation is false at the end of the Line, it ought to be a Period. l. 393. f. skins r. skims. Geor 2. l. 203. and 204. the Rhymes of both are false printed: instead of Wars and prepares, r. War and prepare in the singular. l. 296. f. tracts r. tracks. Geor 4. l. 354. And Worms that eat the Light, r. and Lizards shunning Light. Aeneid 1. l. 79. f. Elus r. Aeolus. l. 97. r. Aeolus again. l. 640. f. Fate r. Fame. l. 1054. f. Dimede r. Diomedes. Aen. 2. l. 2. f. the lofty Couch r. his lofty Couch. Aen. 3. l. 40. f. Horror r. Terror. l. 142. blot out the Period at the end of the Verse, and place a Comma. Aen. 4. l. 824. f. pious pious r. pious Prince. Aen 5. l. 188. f. ptwo r. Prow. Aen. 6. l. 488. f. but but r. but once only. l. 747. f. van r. vain. l. 1133. f. three r. two. Aen. 7. l. 43. deal the Period at the end of the Verse. l. 266. f. On, (the first word of the Verse,) r. In. l. 446. f. native Land, r. another Land. l. 549. f. crowns her Lance, r. wreaths her Lance. l. 68 f. fill. r. feed. l. 732. f. reinfored r. reinforced. l. 946. f. rosy Fields r. dewy Fields. l. 1087. f. yied r. yield. Aen. 8. l. 674. f. lifeless Limbs, r. listless Limbs. Aen. 10 l. 497. blot out the Period at the end of the Verse, and place a Comma. l. 735. f. shall. r. will. l. 864. f. loving Lord r. sovereign Lord. l. 924. f. Planks were r. Plank was. l. 1286. f. Sholuder r. Shoulder. l. 1311. f. to his Throat the Sword applied, r. to the Sword his Throat applied. Aen. 11. l. 120. f. Heads and Hands r. their loaded Hands. l. 528. f. Heros r. Heroes.    

Directions to the Binder's, how to place the several Parts of this Book in Binding. 

1. Title and Dedication to the Lord Clifford.  
2. The Life of Virgil, and Preface to the Pastorals.  
3. Poems on Mr. Dryden's Translation of Virgil.  
4. The Names of the Subscribers to the Cuts of Virgil.  
5. The Names of the second Subscribers.  
6. The Pastorals.  
7. The Dedication to the Earl of Chesterfield, with an Essay on the Georgics.  
8. The Georgics.  
9 The Dedication to the Marquis of Normanby.  
10. The Aeneis.     

THE NAMES OF THE SUBSCRIBERS TO THE Cuts of Virgil, Each Subscription being Five Guineas.  


PASTORALS.  
Page  
1 LOrd Chancellor.— 1  
2 Lord Privy Seal.— 6  
3 Earl of Dorset.— 10  
4 Lord Buckhurst.— 17  
5 Earl of Abingdon.— 20  
6 Lord Visc. Cholmondely.— 26  
7 Ld. Herbert of Chirbury.— 31  
8 Lord Clifford.— 35  
9 Marq. of Hartington.— 41  
10 The Hon. Mr. Ch. Montague.— 45   

Georgic 1st.  
11 Sir Tho Trevor.— 49  
12 Sir John Hawles.— 56  
13 Joseph Jeakyl, Esq— 61  
14 Tho. Vernon, Esq— 63  
15 Will. Dobyns, Esq— 68   

Geor 2d.  
16 Sir Will. Bowyer.— 71  
17 Gilbert Dolbin, Esq— 75  
18 Geo. London, Esq— 80  
19 John Loving, Esq— 87  
20 Will. Walsh, Esq— 94   

Geor 3d.  
21 Duke of Richmond.— 96  
22 Sir J. Isham, Bar.— 106  
23 Sir Tho. Mompesson.— 110  
24 John Dormer, Esq— 113  
25 Frederick Tylney, Esq— 117   

Geor 4th.  
26 Richard Norton, Esq— 122  
27 Sir Will. Trumbull.— 125  
28 Sir Barth. Shower,— 138  
29 Simon Harcourt, Esq— 141  
30 John Granvill, Esq— 146   

Aeneid 1st.  
31 Prince George of Denmark. 201  
32 Princess Ann of Denmark. 210  
33 Duchess of Ormond.— 211  
34 Countess of Exeter.— 214  
35 Countess Dowager of Winchelsea.— 227  
36 Marchioness of Normanby. 230   

Aeneid 2d.  
37 Duke of Somerset.— 234  
38 Earl of Salisbury.— 243  
39 Earl of Inchiqueen.— 247  
40 Earl of Orrery.— 257  
41 Ld. Visc. Dunbar.— 261  
42 Coun. Dow. of Northampton. 263   

Aeneid 3d.  
Page  
43 Earl of Derby.— 267  
44 Bp. of Durham.— 270  
45 Bp. of Ossery.— 276  
46 Dr. John Montague.— 279  
47 Dr. Brown.— 286  
48 Dr. Guibbons.— 293   

Aeneid 4th.  
49 Earl of Exeter.— 296  
50 Lady Giffard.— 298  
51 Lord Clifford.— 303  
52 John Walkaden, Esq— 307  
53 Henry Tasburgh, Esq— 318  
54 Mrs. Ann Brownlow.— 326   

Aeneid 5th.  
55 Duke of St. Alban.— 327  
56 Earl of Torrington.— 332  
57 Anth. Hamond, Esq— 340  
58 Henry St. john's, Esq— 345  
59 Steph. Waller, Dr. of Laws. 347  
60 Duke of Gloucester.— 349  
61 Edmond Waller, Esq— 359   

Aeneid 6th.  
62 Earl of Denbigh.— 362  
63 Sir Tho. Dyke, Bar.— 370  
64 Mrs. Ann Bayner.— 371  
65 John Lewknor, Esq— 374  
66 Sir Fleetwood Shepherd.— 378  
67 John Poultney, Esq— 380  
68 John Knight, Esq— 382  
69 Robert Harley, Esq— 394   

Aeneid 7th.  
70 Earl of Rumney.— 400  
71 Anthony Henly, Esq— 404  
72 George Stepney, Esq— 407  
Page  
73 Coll. Tho. Farringdon.— 416  
74 Lady Mary Sackvill.— 420  
75 Charles Fox, Esq— 432   

Aeneid 8th.  
76 Earl of Ailesbury.— 434  
77 The Hon. Mr. Robert Bruce.— 447  
78 Christopher Rich, Esq— 450  
79 Sir Godfrey Kneller.— 458   

Aeneid 9th.  
80 Earl of Sunderland.— 464  
81 Thomas Foley, Esq— 468  
82 Col. Geo. Cholmondley.— 476  
83 Sir John percival, Bar.— 481  
84 Col. Christoph. Codrington.— 486  
85 Mr. John Closterman.— 494   

Aeneid 10th.  
86 Ld. Visc. Fitzharding.— 498  
87 Sir Robert Howard.— 511  
88 Sir John Leuson Gore, Bar. 517  
89 Sir Charles Orby.— 531  
90 Tho. Hopkins, Esq— 536   

Aeneid 11th.  
91 Duke of Shrewsbury.— 538  
92 Sir Walter Kirkham Blount, Bar.— 541  
93 John noel, Esq— 546  
94 Marquis of Normanby.— 549  
95 Lord Berkley.— 569  
96 Arthur Manwareing, Esq 573   

Aeneid 12th.  
97 Earl of Chesterfield.— 578  
98 Brigradier Fitzpatrick.— 585  
99 Dr. Tho. Hobbs.— 595  
100 Lord Guildford— 611  
101 Duke of Ormond.— 618     

The Names of the second SUBSCRIBERS.  

A.  
LOrd Ashley.  
Sir James Ash, Bar.  
Sir James Ash, Bar.  
Sir Francis Andrew, Bar.  
Charles Adderley, Esq  
Mrs. Ann Ash.  
Edw. Ash Esq  
Mr. Francis Atterbury.  
Sam. Atkins, Esq  
Tho. Austen Esq  
Ro. Austen, Esq   

B.  
Earl of Bullingbrook.  
Sir Ed. Bettenson, Bar.  
Sir Tho. Pope Blount, Bar.  
Sir John Bolles.  
Sir Will. Bowes.  
Will. Blathwayt, Esq Secretary of War.  
Will. Barlow, Esq  
Peregrine Bertye, Esq  
Will. Bridgman, Esq  
Orlando Bridgman, Esq  
Will. Bridges, Esq  
Char. Bloodworth, Esq  
The Hon. Henry Boyl, Esq  
Rich. Boyl, Esq  
Chidley Brook, Esq  
Will. Bromley, Esq of Warwicksbire.  
Mich. Bruneau, Esq  
Tho. Bulkley, Esq  
Theoph. Butler, Esq  
Capt. John Berkeley.  
Mr. Jo. Bowes, Prebend of Durham.  
Mr. Jeremiah Ball.  
Mr. John Ball.  
Mr. Richard Banks.  
Mrs. Elizabeth Barry.  
Mr. Beckford.  
Mr. Tho. Betterton.  
Mrs. Catharine Blount.  
Mr. Bond.  
Mr. Bond.  
Mrs. Ann Bracegirdle.  
Mr. Samuel Brockenbo-rough.  
Mrs. Elizabeth Brown.  
Mr. Moses Bruche.  
Mr. Lancelton Burton.   

C.  
Earl of Clarendon.  
Lord Hen. Cavendish.  
Lord Clifford.  
Lord Coningsby.  
Lord Cutts.  
Lady Chudleigh of the West.  
The Hon. Char. Cornwallis, Son to the Lord Cornwallis.  
Sir Walt. Clarges, Bar.  
Sir Ro. Cotton.  
Sir Will. Cooper.  
The Ho. Will. Cheyney.  
James Calthorp, Esq  
Charles Chamberlain, Esq  
Edmond Clifford, Esq  
Charles Cocks, Esq  
Tho. Coel, Esq  
Tho. Coke, Esq  
Hugh Colville, Esq  
Jo. Crawley, Esq  
Courtney Crocker, Esq  
Henry Curwyn, Esq  
Capt. James Conoway.  
Mr. Will. Claret.  
Mr. John Clancy.  
Mr. Will. Congreve.  
Mr. Henry Cook.  
Mr. Will. Cooper.  
Mrs. Elizabeth Creed.   

D.  
Duchess of Devonshire.  
Paul Docmenique, Esq  
Montague Drake, Esq  
Will. Draper, Esq  
Mr. Mich. Dahl.  
Mr. Davenport.  
Mr. Will. Delawn.  
Mrs. Dorothy Draycot.  
Mr. Edward Dryden.   

E.  
Earl of Essex.  
Sir Edw. Ernle.  
Will. Elson, Esq  
Tho. Elyot, Esq  
Thomas Earl, Major General.   

F.  
Sir Edm. Fettiplace, Bar.  
Sir Will. Forester.  
Sir James Forbys.  
Lady Mary Fenwick.  
The Ho. Colon. Finch.  
The Ho. Doctor Finch.  
The Ho. Will. Fielding.  
Rich. Franklin, Postmaster, Esq  
Charles Fergesen, Esq Com. of the Navy.  
Doctor Fuller, D. of Lincoln.  
Henry Farmer, Esq  
Tho. Finch, Esq  
Tho. Frewin, Esq  
Mr. George Finch.   

G.  
Sir Bevill Granville, Bar.  
Oliver St. George, Esq  
Tho. Gifford, Esq  
Rich. Goulston, Esq  
Richard Graham, Esq  
Fergus Grahme, Esq  
Will. Grove, Esq  
Dr. Gath, M. D.  
Mr. George Goulding.  
Mr. Grinlin Guibbons.   

H.  
Lord Archibald Hamilton.  
Lord Hide.  
Sir Richard Haddock.  
Sir Christop. Hales, Bar.  
Sir Tho. Hussey.  
Rob. Harley, Esq  
Rob. Henly, Esq Memb. of Parl.  
Will. Hewer, Esq  
Roger Hewett, Esq  
Herald Heveningham, Esq  
John Holdworthy, Esq  
Matt. Holdworthy, Esq  
Nath. Hornby, Esq  
The Ho. Bern. Howard.  
Craven Howard Esq  
Mansel whither, Esq  
Sam. Hunter, Esq  
Mr. Edward Hastwell.  
Mr. Nich. Hawksmore.  
Mr. Whitfeild Hayter.  
Mr. Peter Henriques.  
Mr. Ro. Huckwell.   

J.  
John James, Esq  
William Jenkins, Esq  
Sam. Jones, Esq  
Mr. Edw. Jefferyes.   

K.  
Jos. Keally, Esq  
Coll. James Kendal.  
Dr. Knipe.  
Mr. Mich. Kinkead.   

L.  
Sir Berkeley Lucy, Ba.  
Lady Jane Leveson-Gower.  
Tho. Langley, Esq  
Patrick Lamb, Esq  
Will. Latton, Esq  
James Long of Draycot, Esq  
Will. Lownds, Esq  
Dennis Lydal, Esq  
Mr. Char. Longueville.   

M.  
Char. Manors, Esq  
Tho. Mansell, Esq  
Bussy Mansel, Esq  
Will. Martin, Esq  
Henry Maxwell, Esq  
Charles Mein, Esq  
Rich. Minshul, Esq  
Ro. Molesworth, Esq  
The Ho. Henry Mordaunt, Esq  
George Moult, Esq  
Christoph. Montague. Esq  
Walter moil, Esq  
Mr. Charles Marbury.  
Mr. Christoph. Metcalf.  
Mrs. Monneux.   

N.  
Lord Norris.  
Henry Nevile, Esq  
William Norris, Esq  
Mr. William nicol.   

O.  
Ro. Orme, Esq  
Dr. Oliver, M. D.  
Mr. Mich. Owen.   

P.  
The Right Hon. Charles Earl of Peterborough.  
Sir Henry Peachy, Bar.  
Sir John Phillips, Bar.  
Sir John Pykering Bar.  
Sir John Parsons,  
Ro. Palmer, Esq  
Guy Palms, Esq  
Ben. Parry, Esq  
Sam. Pepys, Esq  
James Petre, Esq  
Will. Peysley, Esq  
Craven Peyton, Esq  
John Pitts, Esq  
Will. Plowden of Plowden, Esq  
Mr. Theoph. Pykering, Prebend. of Durham.  
Coll. Will. Parsons.  
Captain Phillips.  
Captain Pitts.  
Mr. Daniel Perk.   

R.  
Duchess of Richmond.  
Earl of Radnor.  
Lord Ranelagh.  
Tho. Rawlins, Esq  
Will. Rider, Esq  
Francis Roberts, Esq  
Mr. Rose.   

S.  
Lord Spencer.  
Sir Tho. Skipwith, Bar.  
Sir John Seymour.  
Sir Char. Skrimpshire.  
J. Scroop of Danby, Esq  
Ralph. Sheldon, Com. Warw. Esq  
Edw. Sheldon, Esq  
John Smith, Esq  
James Sothern, Esq  
The Ho. James Stanley, Esq  
Ro. Stopford, Esq  
The Hon. Major Gen. Edw. Sackville.  
Col. J. Stanhope.  
Col. Strangways.  
Mr. James Seamer.  
Mr. William Seeks.  
Mr. Joseph Sherwood.  
Mr. Laurence Smith.  
Mr. Tho. Southern.  
Mr. Paris Slaughter.  
Mr. Lancelot Stepney.   

T.  
Sir John Trevillion, Bar.  
Sir Edm. Turner.  
Henry Temple, Esq  
Ashburnam Toll, Esq  
Sam. Travers, Esq  
John Tucker, Esq  
Maj. Gen. Charles Trelawney.  
Maj. Gen. Trelawney.  
Col. John Tidcomb.  
Col. Trelawney.  
Mr. George Townsend.  
Mr. Tho. Tyldesley.  
Mr. Tyndall.   

V.  
John Verney, Esq  
Henry Vernon, Esq  
James Vernon, Esq   

W.  
Ld. Marquis of Winchester.  
Earl of Weymouth.  
Lady Windham.  
Sir John Walter, Bar.  
Sir John Woodhouse, B.  
Sir Francis Windham.  
James Ward, Esq  
William Wardour, Jun. Esq  
Will. Welby, Esq  
Will. Weld, Esq  
Th. Brome Whorwood, Esq  
Salw. Winnington, Esq  
Col. Cornelius Wood  
Mrs. Marry Walter.  
Mr. Leonard Wessel.    


Ec. 1. l. 1  
To the Right Hon ble John Lord Summer Baron of Eresham Ld High Chancellr: of England etc.   
Virgil's Pastorals.  

The First Pastoral. OR Tityrus and Meliboeus.  
The Argument.  
The Occasion of the First Pastoral was this. When Augustus had settled himself in the Roman Empire, that he might reward his Veteran Troops for their past Service, he distributed among 'em all the Lands that lay about Cremona and Mantua: turning out the right Owners for having sided with his Enemies. Virgil was a Sufferer among the rest; who afterwards recovered his Estate by Maecenas 's Intercession, and as an Instance of his Gratitude composed the following Pastoral; where he sets out his own Good Fortune in the Person of Tityrus, and the Calamities of his Mantuan Neighbours in the Character of Meliboeus.  MELIBOEUS. 
BEneath the Shade which Beechen Boughs diffuse,  
You Tity'rus entertain your Sylvan Muse:  
Round the wide World in Banishment we room,  
Forced from our pleasing Fields and Native Home:  
While stretched at Ease you sing your happy loves:  
And Amarillis fills the shady Groves.  TITYRUS. 
These blessings, Friend, a Deity bestowed:  
For never can I deem him less than God.  
The tender Firstlings of my Woolly breed  
Shall on his holy Altar often bleed.  
He gave my Kine to graze the Flowery Plain:  
And to my Pipe renewed the Rural Strain.  MELIBOEUS. 
I envy not your Fortune, but admire,  
That while the raging Sword and wasteful Fire  
Destroy the wretched Neighbourhood around,  
No Hostile Arms approach your happy ground.  
Far different is my Fate: my feeble Goats  
With pains I drive from their forsaken Coats.  
And this you see I scarcely drag along,  
Who yeaning on the Rocks has left her Young;  
(The Hope and Promise of my failing Fold:)  
My loss by dire Portents the Gods foretold:  
For had I not been blind I might have seen  
You riven Oak, the fairest of the Green,  
And the hoarse Raven, on the blasted Bough,  
With frequent Croaks presaged the coming Blow.  
But tell me, Tityrus, what Heavenly Power  
Preserved your Fortunes in that fatal Hour?  TITYRUS. 
Fool that I was, I thought Imperial Rome  
Like Mantua, where on Market-days we come,  
And thither drive our tender Lambs from home.  
So Kids and Whelps their Sires and Dams express:  
And so the Great I measured by the Less.  
But Country Towns, compared with her, appear  
Like Shrubs, when lofty Cypresses are near.  MELIBOEUS. 
What great Occasion called you hence to Rome?  TITYRUS. 
Freedom, which came at length, tho' slow to come:  
Nor did my Search of Liberty begin,  
Till my black Hairs were changed upon my Chin.  
Nor Amarillis would vouchsafe a look,  
Till Galeatea's meaner bonds I broke.  
Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely Swain,  
I sought not freedom, nor aspired to Gain:  
Tho' many a Victim from my Folds was bought,  
And many a Cheese to Country Markets brought,  
Yet all the little that I got, I spent,  
And still returned as empty as I went.  MELIBOEUS. 
We stood amazed to see your Mistress mourn;  
Unknowing that she pined for your return:  
We wondered why she kept her Fruit, so long,  
For whom so late th' ungathered Apples hung.  
But now the Wonder ceases, since I see  
She kept them only, Tityrus, for thee.  
For thee the bubbling Springs appeared to mourn,  
And whispering Pines made vows for thy return.  TITYRUS. 
What should I do! while here I was enchained,  
No glimpse of Godlike Liberty remained?  
Nor could I hope in any place, but there,  
To find a God so present to my Prayer.  
There first the Youth of Heavenly Birth I viewed;  
For whom our Monthly Victims are renewed.  
He heard my Vows, and graciously decreed  
My Grounds to be restored, my former Flocks to feed.  MELIBOEUS. 
O Fortunate Old Man! whose Farm remains  
For you sufficient, and requites your pains,  
Tho' Rushes overspread the Neighbouring Plains.  
Tho' here the Marshy Grounds approach your Fields,  
And there the Soil a stony Harvest yields.  
Your teeming Ewes shall no strange Meadows try,  
Nor fear a Rot from tainted Company.  
Behold yond bordering Fence of Sallow Trees  
Is fraught with Flowers, the Flowers are fraught with Bees:  
The busy Bees with a soft murmuring Strain  
Invite to gentle sleep the labouring Swain.  
While from the Neighbouring Rock, with Rural Songs,  
The Pruner's Voice the pleasing Dream prolongs;  
Stock-Doves and Turtles tell their Amorous pain,  
And from the lofty Elms of Love complain.  TITYRUS. 
Th' Inhabitants of Seas and Skies shall change,  
And Fish on shore and Stags in Air shall range,  
The banished Parthian dwell on Arar's brink,  
And the blue Germane shall the Tigris drink:  
ere I, forsaking Gratitude and Truth,  
Forget the Figure of that Godlike Youth.  MELIBOEUS. 
But we must beg our Bread in Climes unknown,  
Beneath the scorching or the freezing Zone.  
And some to far Oaxis shall be sold;  
Or try the Lybian Heat, or Scythian Cold.  
The rest among the Britan's be confined;  
A Race of Men from all the World disjoined.  
O must the wretched Exiles ever mourn,  
Nor after length of rowl'ing Years return?  
Are we condemned by Fates unjust Decree,  
No more our Houses and our Homes to see?  
Or shall we mount again the Rural Throne,  
And rule the Country Kingdoms, once our own!  
Did we for these Barbarians plant and sow,  
On these, on these, our happy Fields bestow?  
Good Heaven, what dire Effects from Civil Discord flow!  
Now let me graft my Pears, and prune the Vine;  
The Fruit is theirs, the Labour only mine.  
Farewell my Pastures, my Paternal Stock,  
My fruitful Fields, and my more fruitful Flock!  
No more, my Goats, shall I behold you climb  
The steepy Cliffs, or crop the flowery Thyme!  
No more, extended in the Grot below,  
Shall see you browzing on the Mountain's brow  
The prickly Shrubs; and after on the bare,  
Lean down the Deep Abyss, and hang in Air.  
No more my Sheep shall sip the Morning Dew;  
No more my Song shall please the Rural Crew:,  
Adieu, my tuneful Pipe! and all the World adieu!  TITYRUS. 
This Night, at least, with me forget your Care;  
Chestnuts and Curds and Cream shall be your fare:  
The Carpet-ground shall be with Leaves o'erspread;  
And Boughs shall wove a Covering for your Head.  
For see yond sunny Hill the Shade extends;  
And curling Smoke from Cottages ascends.   

The Second Pastoral. OR, ALEXIS.  
The Argument.  
The Commentators can by no means agree on the Person of Alexis, but are all of opinion that some Beautiful Youth is meant by him, to whom Virgil here makes Love; in Corydon 's Language and Simplicity. His way of Courtship is wholly Pastoral: He complains of the Boys Coyness, recommends himself for his Beauty and Skill in Piping; invites the Youth into the Country, where he promises him the Diversions of the Place; with a suitable Present of Nuts and Apples: But when he finds nothing will prevail, he resolves to quit his troublesome Amour, and betake himself again to his former Business.  
Young Corydon, th' unhappy Shepherd Swain,  
The fair Alexis loved, but loved in vain:  
And underneath the Beechen Shade, alone,  
Thus to the Woods and Mountains made his moan.  
Is this, unkind Alexis, my reward,  
And must I die unpitied, and unheard?  
Now the green Lizard in the Grove is laid,  
The Sheep enjoy the coolness of the Shade;  
And Thestilis wild Thime and Garlic beats  
For Harvest Hinds, o'respent with Toil and Heats:  
While in the scorching Sun I trace in vain  
Thy flying footsteps o'er the burning Plain.  
The creaking Locusts with my Voice conspire,  
They fried with Heat, and I with fierce Desire.  
How much more easy was it to sustain  
Proud Amarillis, and her haughty Reign,  
The Scorns of Young Menalcas, once my care,  
Tho' he was black, and thou art Heavenly fair.  

To the Right Honble: Thomas Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery, Lord Privy Seal & 〈…〉  
Past: 2.   
Trust not too much to that enchanting Face;  
Beauty's a Charm, but soon the Charm will pass:  
White Lilies lie neglected on the Plain,  
While dusky Hyacinths for use remain.  
My Passion is thy Scorn; nor wilt thou know  
What Wealth I have, what Gifts I can bestow:  
What Stores my Dairies and my Folds contain;  
A thousand Lambs that wander on the Plain:  
New Milk that all the Winter never fails,  
And all the Summer overflows the Pails:  
Amphion sung not sweeter to his Herd,  
When summoned Stones the Theban Turrets reared.  
Nor am I so deformed; for late I stood  
Upon the Margin of the briny Flood:  
The Winds were still, and if the Glass be true,  
With Daphnis I may vie, tho' judged by you.  
O leave the noisy Town, O come and see  
Our Country Cotts, and live content with me!  
To wound the Flying Deer, and from their Coats  
With me to drive a-Field, the browzing Goats:  
To pipe and sing, and in our Country Strain  
To Copy, or perhaps contend with Pan.  
Pan taught to join with Wax unequal Reeds,  
Pan loves the Shepherds, and their Flocks he feeds:  
Nor scorns the Pipe; Amyntas, to be taught,  
With all his Kisses would my Skill have bought.  
Of seven smooth joints a mellow Pipe I have,  
Which with his dying Breath Damaetas gave:  
And said, This, Corydon, I leave to thee;  
For only thou deserv'st it after me.  
His Eyes Amyntas durst not upward lift,  
For much he grudged the Praise, but more the Gift.  
Besides two Kids that in the Valley strayed,  
I found by chance, and to my fold conveyed:  
They drain to bagging Udders every day;  
And these shall be Companions of thy Play.  
Both flecked with white, the true Arcadian Strain,  
Which Thestilis had often begged in vain:  
And she shall have them, if again she sues,  
Since you the Giver and the Gift refuse.  
Come to my longing Arms, my lovely care,  
And take the Presents which the Nymphs prepare.  
White Lilies in full Canisters they bring,  
With all the Glories of the Purple Spring,  
The Daughters of the Flood have searched the Mead  
For Violets pale, and cropped the Poppy's Head:  
The Short Narcissus and fair Daffodil,  
Pansies to please the Sight, and Cassia sweet to smell:  
And set soft Hyacinths with Iron blue,  
To shade marsh Marigolds of shining Hue.  
Some bound in Order, others loosely strowed,  
To dress thy Bower, and trim thy new Abode.  
Myself will search our planted Grounds at home,  
For downy Peaches and the glossie Plum:  
And thrash the Chestnuts in the Neighbouring Grove,  
Such as my Amarillis used to love.  
The Laurel and the Myrtle sweets agree;  
And both in Nosegays shall be bound for thee.  
Ah, Corydon, ah poor unhappy Swain,  
Alexis will thy homely Gifts disdain:  
Nor, shouldst thou offer all thy little Store,  
Will rich jolas' yield, but offer more.  
What have I done, to name that wealthy Swain,  
So powerful are his Presents, mine so mean!  
The Boar amidst my Crystal Streams I bring;  
And Southern Winds to blast my flowery Spring.  
Ah, cruel Creature, whom dost thou despise?  
The Gods to live in Woods have left the Skies.  
And Godlike Paris in th' Idean Grove,  
To Priam's Wealth preferred Oenone's Love.  
In Cities which she built, let Pallas Reign;  
towers are for Gods, but Forests for the Swain.  
The greedy Lioness the Wolf pursues,  
The Wolf the Kid, the wanton Kid the Browse:  
Alexis thou art chased by Corydon;  
All follow several Games, and each his own.  
See from afar the Fields no longer smoke,  
The sweeting Steers unharnassed from the Yoke,  
Bring, as in Triumph, back the crooked Plough;  
The Shadows lengthen as the Sun goes Low.  
Cool Breezes now the raging Heats remove;  
Ah, cruel Heaven! that made no Cure for Love!  
I wish for balmy Sleep, but wish in vain:  
Love has no bounds in Pleasure, or in Pain.  
What frenzy, Shepherd, has thy Soul possessed,  
Thy Vinyard lies half pruned, and half undressed.  
Quench, Corydon, thy long unanswered fire:  
Mind what the common wants of Life require.  
On willow Twigs employ thy weaving care:  
And find an easier Love, tho' not so fair.   

The Third Pastoral. OR, PALAEMON.  
Menalcas, Damaetas, Palaemon.  
The Argument.  
Damaetas and Menalcas, after some smart strokes of Country Raillery, resolve to try who has the most Skill at a Song; and accordingly make their Neighbour Palaemon Judge of their Performances: Who, after a full hearing of both Parties, declares himself unfit for the Decision of so weighty a Controversy, and leaves the Victory undetermined.  MENALCAS. 
HO, Groom, what Shepherd owns those ragged Sheep?  DAMAETAS. 
Aegon's they are, he gave 'em me to keep.  MENALCAS. 
Unhappy Sheep of an Unhappy Swain,  
While he Neaera courts, but courts in vain,  
And fears that I the Damsel shall obtain;  
Thou, Varlet, dost thy Master's gains devour:  
Thou milk'st his Ewes, and often twice an hour;  
Of Grass and Fodder thou defraud'st the Dams:  
And of their Mother's Duggs the starving Lambs.  DAMAETAS. 
Good words, young Catamite, at least to Men:  
We know who did your Business, how, and when.  
And in what Chapel too you played your prize;  
And what the Goats observed with leering Eyes:  
The Nymphs werekind, and laughed, and there your safety lies.  

To the Right Honble: Charles Sackvill Earl of Dorsett & Midleseoc Lord Chamberlain of his Maj 'tis. househould etc.  
Past 3.   MENALCAS. 
Yes, when I crept the Hedges of the Leys;  
Cut Micon's tender Vines, and stole the Stays.  DAMAETAS. 
Or rather, when beneath yond ancient Oak,  
The Bow of Daphnis and the Shafts you broke:  
When the fair Boy received the Gift of right;  
And but for Mischief, you had died for spite.  MENALCAS. 
What Nonsense would the Fool thy Master prate,  
When thou, his Knave, canst talk at such a rate!  
Did I not see you, Rascal, did I not!  
When you lay snug to snap young Damon's Goat?  
His Mongrel barked, I ran to his relief,  
And cried, There, there he goes; stop, stop the Thief.  
Discovered and defeated of your Prey,  
You skulked behind the Fence, and sneaked away.  DAMAETAS. 
An honest Man may freely take his own;  
The Goat was mine, by singing fairly won.  
A solemn match was made; He lost the Prize,  
Ask Damon, ask if he the Debt denies;  
I think he dares not, if he does, he lies.  MENALCAS. 
Thou sing with him, thou Booby; never Pipe  
Was so profaned to touch that blubbered Lip:  
Dunce at the best; in Streets but scarce allowed  
To tickle, on thy Straw, the stupid Crowd.  DAMAETAS. 
To bring it to the Trial, will you dare  
Our Pipes, our Skill, our Voices to compare?  
My Brinded Heifar to the Stake I lay;  
Two Thriving Calves she suckles twice a day:  
And twice besides her Beesting never fail  
To store the Dairy, with a brimming Pail.  
Now back your singing with an equal Stake.  MENALCAS. 
That should be seen, if I had one to make.  
You know too well I feed my Father's Flock:  
What can I wager from the common Stock?  
A Stepdame too I have, a cursed she,  
Who rules my Hen-pecked Sire, and orders me.  
Both number twice a day the Milky Dams;  
And once she takes the tale of all the Lambs.  
But since you will be mad, and since you may  
Suspect my Courage, if I should not lay;  
The Pawn I proffer shall be full as good:  
Two Bowls I have, well turned of Beechen Wood;  
Both by divine Alcimedon were made;  
To neither of them yet the Lip is laid.  
The Lids are Ivy, Grapes in clusters lurk,  
Beneath the Carving of the curious Work.  
Two Figures on the sides embossed appear;  
Conon, and what's his Name who made the Sphere,  
And showed the Seasons of the sliding Year,  
Instructed in his Trade the Labouring Swain,  
And when to reap, and when to sow the Grain?  DAMAETAS. 
And I have two, to match your pair, at home;  
The Wood the same, from the same Hand they come:  
The kimbo Handles seem with Bearsfoot carved;  
And never yet to Table have been served:  
Where Orpheus on his Lyre laments his Love,  
With Beasts encompassed, and a dancing Grove:  
But these, nor all the Proffers you can make,  
Are worth the Heifar which I set to stake.  MENALCAS. 
No more delays, vain Boaster, but begin:  
I prophesy beforehand I shall win.  
Palaemon shall be Judge how ill you rhyme,  
I'll teach you how to brag another time.  DAMAETAS. 
Rhymer come on, and do the worst you can:  
I fear not you, nor yet a better Man.  
With Silence, Neighbour, and Attention wait:  
For 'tis a business of a high Debate.  PALAEMON. 
Sing then; the Shade affords a proper place;  
The Trees are clothed with Leaves, the Fields with Grass;  
The Blossoms blow; the Birds on bushes sing;  
And Nature has accomplished all the Spring.  
The Challenge to Damaetas shall belong,  
Menalcas shall sustain his under Song:  
Each in his turn your tuneful numbers bring;  
In turns the tuneful Muse's love to sing.  DAMAETAS. 
From the great Father of the Gods above  
My Muse begins; for all is full of Jove;  
To Jove the care of Heaven and Earth belongs;  
My Flocks he blesses, and he loves my Songs.  MENALCAS. 
Me Phoebus loves; for He my Muse inspires;  
And in her Songs, the warmth he gave, requires.  
For him, the God of Shepherds and their Sheep,  
My blushing Hyacinths, and my Bays I keep.  DAMAETAS. 
With pelted Fruit, me Galatea plies;  
Then tripping to the Woods the Wanton hies:  
And wishes to be seen, before she flies.  
But from my frowning Fair, more Ills I find,  
Than from the Wolves, and Storms, and Winter-wind.  MENALCAS. 
The Kids with pleasure browse the bushy Plain,  
The Showers are grateful to the swelling Grain:  
To teeming Ewes the Sallow's tender tree;  
But more than all the World my Love to me.  DAMAETAS. 
Pollio my Rural Verse vouchsafes to read:  
A Heifer, Muses, for your Patron breed.  MENALCAS. 
My Pollio writes himself, a Bull be bred,  
With spurning Heels, and with a butting Head.  DAMAETAS. 
Who Pollio loves, and who his Muse admires,  
Let Pollio's fortune crown his full desires.  
Let Myrrh instead of Thorn his Fences fill:  
And Showers of Honey from his Oaks distil.  MENALCAS. 
Who hates not living Bavius, let him be  
(Dead Maevius) damned to love thy Works and thee:  
The same ill taste of Sense would serve to join  
Dog Foxes in the Yoke, and sheer the Swine.  DAMAETAS. 
Ye Boys, who pluck the Flowers, and spoil the Spring,  
Beware the secret Snake, that shoots a sting.  MENALCAS. 
Graze not too near the Banks, my jolly Sheep,  
The Ground is false, the running Streams are deep:  
See, they have caught the Father of the Flock;  
Who dries his Fleece upon the neighbouring Rock.  DAMAETAS. 
From Rivers drive the Kids, and sling your Hook;  
Anon I'll wash 'em in the shallow Brook.  MENALCAS. 
But fair Amyntas comes unasked to me;  
And offers Love; and sits upon my knee:  
Not Delia to my Dogs is known so well as he.  DAMAETAS. 
To the dear Mistress of my Lovesick Mind,  
Her Swain a pretty Present has designed:  
I saw two Stock-doves billing, and e'er long  
Will take the Nest, and Hers shall be the Young.  MENALCAS. 
Ten ruddy Wildings in the Wood I found,  
And stood on tiptoes, reaching from the ground;  
I sent Amyntas all my present Store;  
And will, to Morrow, send as many more.  DAMAETAS. 
The lovely Maid lay panting in my arms;  
And all she said and did was full of Charms.  
Winds on your Wings to Heaven her Accents bear;  
Such words as Heaven alone is fit to hear.  MENALCAS. 
Ah! what avails it me, my Love's delight,  
To call you mine, when absent from my sight!  
I hold the Nets, while you pursue the Prey;  
And must not share the Dangers of the Day.  DAMAETAS. 
I keep my Birthday: send my Phillis home;  
At Sheering-time, jolas', you may come.  MENALCAS. 
With Phillis I am more in grace than you:  
Her Sorrow did my parting-steps pursue:  
Adieu my Dear, she said, a long Adieu.  DAMAETAS. 
The Nightly Wolf is baneful to the Fold,  
Storms to the Wheat, to Budds the bitter Cold;  MENALCAS. 
To fold, my Flock; when Milk is dried with heat,  
In vain the Milkmaid tugs an empty Teat.  DAMAETAS. 
How lank my Bulls from plenteous pasture come!  
But Love that drains the Herd, destroys the Groom.  MENALCAS. 
My Flocks are free from Love; yet look so thin,  
Their bones are barely covered with their Skin.  
What magic has bewitched the woolly Dams,  
And what ill Eyes beheld the tender Lambs?  DAMAETAS. 
Say, where the round of Heaven, which all contains,  
To three short els on Earth our sight restrains:  
Tell that, and rise a Phoebus for thy pains.  MENALCAS. 
Nay tell me first, in what new Region springs  
A Flower, that bears inscribed the names of Kings:  
And thou shalt gain a Present as Divine  
As Phoebus' self; for Phillis shall be thine.  PALAEMON. 
So nice a difference in your Singing lies,  
That both have won, or both deserved the Prize.  
Rest equal happy both; and all who prove  
The bitter Sweets, and pleasing Pains of Love.  
Now damn the Ditches, and the Floods restrain:  
Their moisture has already drenched the Plain.   

The Fourth Pastoral. OR, POLLIO.  
The Argument.  
The Poet celebrates the Birthday of Saloninus, the Son of Pollio, born in the Consulship of his Father, after the taking of Salonae, a City in Dalmatia. Many of the Verses are translated from one of the Sibyls, who prophesy of our Saviour's Birth.  

To the Right Honble. Lionel Cranfeild Sackvill Lord Buck hur'st, eldest son of Charles Earl of Dorsett & Midlesex.  
Past: 4.   
SIcilian Muse begin a loftier strain!  
Though lowly Shrubs and Trees that shade the Plain,  
Delight not all; Sicilian Muse, pepare  
To make the vocal Woods deserve a Consul's care.  
The last great Age, foretold by sacred Rhymes,  
Renews its finished Course, Saturnian times  
Rowl round again, and mighty years, begun  
From their first Orb, in radiant Circles run.  
The base degenerate Iron-off-spring ends;  
A golden Progeny from Heaven descends;  
O chaste Lucina speed the Mother's pains,  
And haste the glorious Birth; thy own Apollo reigns!  
The lovely Boy, with his auspicious Face,  
Shall Pollio's Consulship and Triumph grace;  
Majestic Months set out with him to their appointed Race.  
The Father banished Virtue shall restore,  
And Crimes shall threat the guilty world no more.  
The Son shall lead the life of Gods, and be  
By Gods and Heroes seen, and Gods and Heroes see.  
The jarring Nations he in peace shall bind,  
And with paternal Virtues rule Mankind.  
Unbidden Earth shall wreathing Ivy bring,  
And fragrant Herbs (the promises of Spring)  
As her first Offerings to her Infant King.  
The Goats with strutting Dugs shall homeward speed,  
And lowing Herds, secure from Lions feed.  
His Cradle shall with rising Flowers be crowned;  
The Serpent's Brood shall die: the sacred ground  
Shall Weeds and poisonous Plants refuse to bear,  
Each common Bush shall Syrian Roses wear.  
But when Heroic Verse his Youth shall raise,  
And form it to Hereditary Praise;  
Unlaboured Harvests shall the Fields adorn,  
And clustered Grapes shall blush on every Thorn.  
The knotted Oaks shall showers of Honey weep,  
And through the Matted Grass the liquid Cold shall creep.  
Yet, of old Fraud some footsteps shall remain,  
The Merchant still shall plough the deep for gain:  
Great Cities shall with Walls be compassed round;  
And sharpened Shares shall vex the fruitful ground.  
Another Typhis shall new Seas explore,  
Another Argos land the Chiefs, upon th' Iberian Shore.  
Another Helen other Wars create,  
And great Achilles urge the Trojan Fate:  
But when to ripened Manhood he shall grow,  
The greedy Sailer shall the Seas forego;  
No Keel shall cut the Waves for foreign Ware;  
For every Soil shall every Product bear.  
The labouring Hind his Oxen shall disjoin,  
No Blow shall hurt the Glebe, no Pruning-hook the Vine:  
Nor Wool shall in dissembled Colours shine.  
But the luxurious Father of the Fold,  
With native Purple, or unborrowed Gold,  
Beneath his pompous Fleece shall proudly sweat:  
And under Tyrian Robes the Lamb shall bleat.  
The Fates, when they this happy Web have spun,  
shall bless the sacred Clue, and bid it smoothly run.  
Mature in years, to ready Honours move,  
O of Celestial Seed! O foster Son of Jove!  
See, labouring Nature calls thee to sustain  
The nodding Frame of Heaven, and Earth, and Main;  
See to their Base restored, Earth, Seas, and Air,  
And joyful Ages from behind, in crowding Ranks appear.  
To sing thy Praise, would Heaven my breath prolong,  
Insusing Spirits worthy such a Song;  
Not Thracian Orpheus should transcend my Lays,  
Nor Linus crowned with never-fading Bays:  
Though each his Heavenly Parent should inspire;  
The Muse instruct the Voice, and Phoebus' tune the Lyre.  
Should Pan contend in Verse, and thou my Theme,  
Arcadian Judges should their God condemn.  
Begin, auspicious Boy, to cast about  
Thy Infant Eyes, and with a smile, thy Mother single out;  
Thy Mother well deserves that short delight,  
The nauseous Qualms of ten long Months and Travel to requite.  
Then smile; the frowning Infant's Doom is read,  
No God shall crown the Board, nor Goodess bless the Bed.   

The Fifth Pastoral. OR, DAPHNIS.  
The Argument.  
Mopsus and Menalcas, two very expert Shepherds at a Song, begin one by consent to the Memory of Daphnis; who is supposed by the best Critics to represent Julius Caesar. Mopsus laments his Death, Menalcas proclaims his Divinity. The whole Eclogue consisting of an Elegy and an Apotheosis.  MENALCAS. 
SInce on the Downs our Flocks together feed,  
And since my Voice can match your tuneful Reed,  
Why sit we not beneath the grateful Shade,  
Which Hazles, intermixed with Elms, have made?  MOPSUS. 
Whether you please that Sylvan Scene to take,  
Where whistling Winds uncertain Shadows make:  
Or will you to the cooler Cave succeed,  
Whose Mouth the curling Vines have overspread?  MENALCAS. 
Your Merit and your Years command the Choice:  
Amyntas only rivals you in Voice.  MOPSUS. 
What will not that presuming Shepherd dare,  
Who thinks his Voice with Phoebus may compare?  MENALCAS. 
Begin you first; if either Alcon's Praise,  
Or dying Phillis have inspired your Lays:  

To the Right Honble. James Bertie, Earl of Abingdon, and Baron Norreys of Ricott Chief Justice, and Justice in Eyre of all his Maj 'tis.— Parcks Forests, and Chases▪ on the South side of Trent: and Ld Lieutenant and Custos Rotulorum of the County of Oxon.  
Past: 5: 1.   
If her you mourn, or Codrus you commend,  
Begin, and Tityrus your Flock shall tend.  MOPSUS. 
Or shall I rather the sad Verse repeat,  
Which on the Beech's bark I lately writ:  
I writ, and sung betwixt; now bring the Swain  
Whose Voice you boast, and let him try the Strain.  MENALCAS. 
Such as the Shrub to the tall Olive shows,  
Or the pale Sallow to the blushing Rose;  
Such is his Voice, if I can judge aright,  
Compared to thine, in sweetness and in height.  MOPSUS. 
No more, but sit and hear the promised Lay,  
The gloomy Grotto makes a doubtful day.  
The Nymphs about the breathless Body wait  
Of Daphnis, and lament his cruel Fate.  
The Trees and Floods were witness to their Tears:  
At length the rumour reached his Mother's Ears.  
The wretched Parent, with a pious haste,  
Came running, and his lifeless Limbs embraced.  
She sighed, she sobbed, and, furious with despair,  
She rend her Garments, and she tore her Hair:  
Accufing all the Gods and every Star.  
The Swains forgot their Sheep, nor near the brink  
Of running Waters brought their Herds to drink.  
The thirsty Cattle, of themselves, abstained  
From Water, and their grassy Fare disdained.  
The death of Daphnis Woods and Hills deplore,  
They cast the sound to Lybia's desert Shore;  
The Lybian Lions hear, and hearing roar.  
Fierce Tigers Daphnis taught the Yoke to bear;  
And first with curling Ivy dressed the Spear:  
Daphnis did Rites to Bacchus first ordain;  
And holy Revels for his reeling Train.  
As Vines the Trees, as Grapes the Vines adorn,  
As Bulls the Herds, and Fields the Yellow Corn;  
So bright a Splendour, so divine a Grace,  
The glorious Daphnis cast on his illustrious Race.  
When envious Fate the Godlike Daphnis took,  
Our guardian Gods the Fields and Plains forsook:  
Pales no longer swelled the teeming Grain,  
Nor Phoebus fed his Oxen on the Plain:  
No fruitful Crop the sickly Fields return;  
But Oats and Darnel choke the rising Corn.  
And where the Vales with Violets once were crowned,  
Now knotty Burrs and Thorns disgrace the Ground.  
Come, Shepherds, come, and strew with Leaves the Plain;  
Such Funeral Rites your Daphnis did ordain.  
With Cypress Boughs the Crystal Fountains hide,  
And softly let the running Waters glide;  
A lasting Monument to Daphnis raise;  
With this Inscription to record his Praise,  
Daphnis, the Fields Delight, the Shepherd's Love,  
Renowned on Earth, and deified above.  
Whose Flock excelled the fairest on the Plains,  
But less than he himself surpassed the Swains.  MENALCAS. 
Oh Heavenly Poet! such thy Verse appears,  
So sweet, so charming to my ravished Ears,  
As to the weary Swain, with cares oppressed,  
Beneath the Sylvan Shade, refreshing Rest:  
As to the feavorish Traveler, when first  
He finds a Crystal Stream to quench his thirst.  
In singing, as in piping, you excel;  
And scarce your Master could perform so well.  
O fortunate young Man, at least your Lays  
Are next to his, and claim the second Praise.  
Such as they are my rural Songs I join,  
To raise our Daphnis to the Powers Divine;  
For Daphnis was so good, to love whatever was mine.  MOPSUS. 
How is my Soul with such a Promise raised!  
For both the Boy was worthy to be praised,  
And Stimichon has often made me long,  
To hear, like him, so soft so sweet a Song.  MENALCAS. 
Daphnis, the Guest of Heaven, with wondering Eyes,  
Views in the Milky Way, the starry Skies:  
And far beneath him, from the shining Sphere,  
Beholds the moving Clouds, and rolling Year.  
For this, with cheerful Cries the Woods resound;  
The Purple Spring arrays the various ground:  
The Nymphs and Shepherds dance; and Pan himself is Crowned.  
The Wolf no longer prowls for nightly Spoils,  
Nor Birds the Sprindges fear, nor Stags the Toils:  
For Daphnis reigns above; and deals from thence  
His Mother's milder Beams, and peaceful Influence.  
The Mountain tops unshorn, the Rocks rejoice;  
The lowly Shrubs partake of Humane Voice.  
Assenting Nature, with a gracious nod,  
Proclaims him, and salutes the new-admitted God.  
Be still propitious, ever good to thine:  
Behold four hallowed Altars we design;  
And two to thee, and two to Phoebus rise;  
On each is offered Annual Sacrifice.  
The holy Priests, at each returning year,  
Two Bowls of Milk, and two of Oil shall bear;  
And I myself the Guests with friendly Bowls will cheer.  
Two Goblets will I crown with sparkling Wine,  
The generous Vintage of the Chian Vine;  
These will I pour to thee, and make the Nectar thine.  
In Winter shall the Genial Feast be made  
Before the fire; by Summer in the shade.  
Damaetas shall perform the Rites Divine;  
And Lictian Aegon in the Song shall join.  
Alphesibaeus, tripping, shall advance;  
And mimic Satyrs in his antic Dance.  
When to the Nymphs our annual Rites we pay,  
And when our Fields with Victims we survey:  
While savage Boars delight in shady Woods,  
And finny Fish inhabit in the Floods;  
While Bees on Thime, and Locusts feed on Dew,  
Thy grateful Swains these Honours shall renew.  
Such Honours as we pay to Powers Divine,  
To Bacchus and to Ceres, shall be thine.  
Such annual Honours shall be given, and thou  
Shalt hear, and shalt condemn thy Suppliants to their Vow.  MOPSUS. 
What Present worth thy Verse can Mopsus find!  
Not the soft Whispers of the Southern Wind,  
That play through trembling Trees, delight me more;  
Nor murmuring Billows on the sounding Shore;  
Nor winding Streams that through the Valley glide;  
And the scarce covered Pebbles gently chide.  MENALCAS. 
Receive you first this tuneful Pipe; the same  
That played my Coridon's unhappy Flame.  
The same that sung Neaera's conquering Eyes;  
And, had the Judge been just, had won the Prize.  MOPSUS. 
Accept from me this Sheephook in exchange,  
The Handle Brass; the Knobs in equal range.  
Antigenes, with Kisses, often tried  
To beg this Present, in his Beauty's Pride;  
When Youth and Love are hard to be denied.  
But what I could refuse, to his Request,  
Is yours unasked, for you deserve it best.   

The Sixth Pastoral. OR, SILENUS.  
The Argument.  
Two young Shepherds Chromis and Mnasylus, having been often promised a Song by Silenus, chance to catch him asleep in this Pastoral; where they bind him hand and foot, and then claim his Promise. Silenus' finding they would be put off no longer, begins his Song; in which he describes the Formation of the Universe, and the Original of Animals, according to the Epicurean Philosophy; and then runs through the most surprising Transformations which have happened in Nature since her Birth. This Pastoral was designed as a Compliment to Syro the Epicurean, who instructed Virgil and Varus in the Principles of that Philosophy. Silenus' acts as Tutor, Chromis and Mnasylus as the two Pupils.  
I First transferred to Rome Sicilian Strains:  
Nor blushed the Doric Muse to dwell on Mantuan Plains.  
But when I tried her tender Voice, too young;  
And fight Kings, and bloody Battles sung,  
Apollo checked my Pride; and bade me feed  
My fattening Flocks, nor dare beyond the Reed.  
Admonished thus, while every Pen prepares  
To write thy Praises, Varus, and thy Wars,  
My pastoral Muse her humble Tribute brings;  
And yet not wholly uninspired she sings.  
For all who read, and reading, not disdain  
These rural Poems, and their lowly Strain,  
The name of Varus oft inscribed shall see,  
In every Grove, and every vocal Tree;  
And all the Sylvan reign shall sing of thee:  

To the Right Honble. Hugh Lord Viscount Cholmondely of Kelles in the Kingdom of Ireland and Baron of Wichmalbank in the Kingdom of England.  
Past: 6.   
Thy name, to Phoebus and the Muses known,  
Shall in the front of every Page be shown;  
For he who sings thy Praise, secures his own.  
Proceed, my Muse: Two Satyrs, on the ground,  
Stretched at his Ease, their Sire Sylenus found.  
Dosed with his fumes, and heavy with his Load,  
They found him snoring in his dark abode;  
And seized with Youthful Arms the drunken God.  
His rosy Wreath was dropped not long before,  
Born by the tide of Wine, and floating on the floor.  
His empty Can, with Ears half worn away,  
Was hung on high, to boast the triumph of the day.  
Invaded thus, for want of better bands,  
His Garland they unstring, and bind his hands:  
For by the fraudful God deluded long,  
They now resolve to have their promised Song.  
Aegle came in, to make their Party good;  
The fairest Nais of the neighbouring Flood,  
And, while he stairs around, with stupid Eyes,  
His Brows with Berries, and his Temples dies.  
He finds the Fraud, and, with a Smile, demands  
On what design the Boys had bound his hands.  
Lose me, he cried; 'twas Impudence to find  
A sleeping God, 'tis Sacrilege to bind.  
To you the promised Poem I will pay;  
The Nymph shall be rewarded in her way.  
He raised his voice; and soon a numerous throng  
Of tripping Satyrs crowded to the Song.  
And Sylvan Fauns, and Savage Beasts advanced,  
And nodding Forests to the Numbers danced.  
Not by Haemonian Hills the Thracian Bard,  
Nor awful Phoebus was on Pindus heard,  
With deeper silence, or with more regard.  
He sung the secret Seeds of Nature's Frame;  
How Seas, and Earth, and Air, and active Flame,  
Fell through the mighty Void; and in their fall  
Were blindly gathered in this goodly Ball.  
The tender Soil then stiffning by degrees,  
Shut from the bounded Earth, the bounding Seas.  
Then Earth and Ocean various Forms disclose;  
And a new Sun to the new World arose.  
And Mists condensed to Clouds obscure the Sky;  
And Clouds dissolved, the thirsty Ground supply.  
The rising Trees the lofty Mountain's grace:  
The lofty Mountains feed the Savage Race.  
From thence the birth of Man the Song pursued,  
And how the World was lost, and how renewed.  
The Reign of Saturn, and the Golden Age;  
Prometheus' Theft, and Jove's avenging Rage.  
The Cries of Argonauts for Hylas drowned;  
With whose repeated Name the Shores resound.  
Then mourns the madness of the Cretan Queen;  
Happy for her if Herds had never been.  
What fury, wretched Woman, seized thy Breast!  
The Maids of Argos (though with rage possessed,  
Their imitated lowings filled the Grove)  
Yet shunned the guilt of this preposterous Love.  
Nor sought the Youthful Husband of the Herd;  
Tho tender and untried the Yoke he feared.  
Tho soft and white as flakes of falling Snow;  
And scarce his budding Horns had armed his brow.  
Ah, wretched Queen! you range the pathless Wood;  
While on a flowery Bank he chaws the Cud:  
Or sleeps in Shades, or through the Forest roves;  
And roars with anguish for his absent Loves.  
Ye Nymphs, with toils, his Forest-walk surround;  
And trace his wand'ring Footsteps on the ground.  
But, ah! perhaps my Passion he disdains;  
And courts the milky Mothers of the Plains.  
We search th'ungrateful Fugitive abroad;  
While they at home sustain his happy load.  
He sung the Lover's fraud; the longing Maid,  
With golden Fruit, like all the Sex, betrayed.  
The Sister's mourning for their Brother's loss;  
Their Bodies hid in Barks, and furred with Moss.  
How each a rising Alder now appears;  
And o'er the Po distils her Gummy Tears.  
Then sung, how Gallus by a Muse's hand,  
Was led and welcomed to the sacred Strand.  
The Senate rising to salute their Guest;  
And Linus thus their gratitude expressed.  
Receive this Present, by the Muses made;  
The Pipe on which th' Ascraean Pastor played:  
With which of old he charmed the Savage Train:  
And called the Mountain Ashes to the Plain.  
Sing thou on this, thy Phoebus; and the Wood  
Where once his Fane of Parian Marble stood.  
On this his ancient Oracles rehearse;  
And with new Numbers grace the God of Verse.  
Why should I sing the double Scylla's Fate,  
The first by Love transformed, the last by Hate.  
A beauteous Maid above, but Magic Arts,  
With barking Dogs deformed her nether parts.  
What Vengeance on the passing Fleet she poured,  
The Master frighted, and the Mates devoured.  
Then ravished Philomela the Song expressed;  
The Crime revealed; the Sister's cruel Feast;  
And how in Fields the Lapwing Tereus reigns;  
The warbling Nightingale in Woods complains.  
While Progne makes on Chimney tops her moan;  
And hovers o'er the Palace once her own.  
Whatever Songs besides, the Delphian God  
Had taught the Laurels, and the Spartan Flood,  
Silenus sung: the Vales his Voice rebound;  
And carry to the Skies the sacred Sound.  
And now the setting Sun had warned the Swain  
To call his counted Cattle from the Plain:  
Yet still th' unwearyed Sire pursues the tuneful Strain.  
Till unperceived the heavens with Stars were hung:  
And sudden Night surprised the yet unfinished Song.   

The Seventh Pastoral. OR, MELIBOEUS.  
The Argument.  
Meliboeus here gives us the Relation of a sharp Poetical Contest between Thyrsis and Corydon; at which he himself and Daphnis were present; who both declared for Corydon.  

To the Right Honble: Henry Lord Herbert Baron of Chirbury. &c.  
Past: 7.   
BEneath a Holm, repaired two jolly Swains;  
Their Sheep and Goats together grazed the Plains.  
Both young Arcadians, both alike inspired  
To sing, and answer as the Song required.  
Daphnis, as Umpire, took the middle Seat;  
And Fortune thither led my weary Feet.  
For while I fenced my Myrtles from the Cold,  
The Father of my Flock had wandered from the Fold.  
Of Daphnis I enquired; he, smiling, said,  
Dismiss your Fear, and pointed where he fed.  
And, if no greater Cares disturb your Mind,  
Sat here with us, in covert of the Wind.  
Your lowing Heyfars, of their own accord,  
At watering time will seek the neighbouring Ford.  
Here wanton Mincius winds along the Meads,  
And shades his happy Banks with bending Reeds:  
And see from yond old Oak, that mates the Skies,  
How black the Clouds of swarming Bees arise.  
What should I do! nor was Alcippe nigh,  
Nor absent Phillis could my care supply,  
To house, and feed by hand my weaning Lambs,  
And drain the strutting Udders of their Dams?  
Great was the strife betwixt the Singing Swains:  
And I preferred my Pleasure to my Gains.  
Alternate Rhyme the ready Champions chose:  
These Corydon rehearsed, and Thyrsis those.  CORYDON. 
Ye Muses, ever fair, and ever young,  
Assist my Numbers, and inspire my Song.  
With all my Codrus O inspire my Breast,  
For Codrus after Phoebus sings the best.  
Or if my Wishes have presumed too high,  
And stretched their bounds beyond Mortality,  
The praise of artful Numbers I resign:  
And hang my Pipe upon the Sacred Pine.  THYRSIS. 
Arcadian Swains, your Youthful Poet crown  
With Ivy Wreaths; though surly Codrus, frown.  
Or if he blast my Muse with envious Praise,  
Then fence my Brows with Amuletts of Bays.  
Lest his ill Arts or his malicious Tongue  
Should poison, or bewitch my growing Song.  CORYDON. 
These Branches of a Stag, this tusky Boar  
(The first essay of Arms untried before)  
Young Mycon offers, Delia, to thy Shrine;  
But speed his hunting with thy Power divine,  
Thy Statue then of Parian Stone shall stand;  
Thy Legs in Buskins with a Purple Band.  THYRSIS. 
This Bowl of Milk, these Cakes, (our Country Fare,)  
For thee, Priapus, yearly we prepare.  
Because a little Garden is thy care.  
But if the falling Lambs increase my Fold,  
Thy Marble Statue shall be turned to Gold.  CORYDON. 
Fair Galathea, with thy silver Feet,  
O, whiter than the Swan, and more than Hybla sweet;  
Tall as a Poplar, taper as the Bowl,  
Come charm thy Shepherd, and restore my Soul.  
Come when my lated Sheep, at night return;  
And crown the silent Hours, and stop the rosy Morn.  THYRSIS. 
May I become as abject in thy sight,  
As Seaweed on the Shore, and black as Night:  
Rough as a Burr, deformed like him who chaws  
Sardinian Herbage to contract his Jaws;  
Such and so monstrous let thy Swain appear,  
If one day's Absence looks not like a Year.  
Hence from the Field, for Shame: the Flock deserves  
No better Feeding, while the Shepherd starves.  CORYDON. 
Ye mossy Springs, inviting easy Sleep,  
Ye Trees, whose leafy Shades those mossy Fountains keep,  
Defend my Flock, the Summer heats are near,  
And Blossoms on the swelling Vines appear.  THYRSIS. 
With heapy Fires our cheerful Hearth is crowned;  
And Firs for Torches in the Woods abound:  
We fear not more the Winds, and wintry Cold,  
Than Streams the Banks, or Wolves the bleating Fold.  CORYDON. 
Our Woods, with Juniper and Chestnuts crowned,  
With falling Fruits and Berries paint the Ground;  
And lavish Nature laughs, and strews her Stores around.  
But if Alexis from our Mountains fly,  
Even running Rivers leave their Channels dry.  THYRSIS. 
Parched are the Plains, and frying is the Field,  
Nor withering Vines their juicy Vintage yield.  
But if returning Phillis bless the Plain,  
The Grass revives; the Woods are green again;  
And Jove descends in Showers of kindly Rain.  CORYDON. 
The Poplar is by great Alcides worn:  
The Brows of Phoebus his own Bays adorn.  
The branching Vine the jolly Bacchus loves;  
The Cyprian Queen delights in Myrtle Groves.  
With Hazle, Phillis crowns her flowing Hair,  
And while she loves that common Wreath to wear;  
Nor Bays, nor Myrtle Bows, with Hazle shall compare.  THYRSIS. 
The towering Ash is fairest in the Woods;  
In Gardens Pines, and Poplars by the Floods:  
But if my Lycidas will ease my Pains,  
And often visit our forsaken Plains;  
To him the towering Ash shall yield in Woods;  
In Gardens Pines, and Poplars by the Floods.  MELIBOEUS. 
I've heard: and, Thyrsis, you contend in vain:  
For Corydon, young Corydon shall reign,  
The Prince of Poets, on the Mantuan Plain.   

The Eighth Pastoral. OR, PHARMACEUTRIA.  
The Argument.  
This Pastoral contains the Songs of Damon and Alphesiboeus. The first of 'em bewails the loss of his Mistress, and repines at the Success of his Rival Mopsus. The other repeats the Charms of some Enchantress, who endeavoured by her Spells and Magic to make Daphnis in Love with her.  

To the Right Honble: Charles Ld Clifford Baron of Lounsbrough in the County of York  
past. 8   

THE mournful Muse of two despairing Swains,  
The Love rejected, and the Lovers ' pain;  
To which the savage Lynxes listening stood,  
The Rivers stood on heaps, and stopped the running Flood,  
The hungry Herd their needful Food refuse;  
Of two despairing Swains, I sing the mournful Muse.   

Great Pollio, thou for whom thy Rome prepares  
The ready Triumph of thy finished Wars,  
Whither Timavus or th' Illirian Coast,  
Whatever Land or Sea thy presence boast;  
Is there an hour in Fate reserved for me,  
To Sing thy Deeds in Numbers worthy thee?  
In numbers like to thine, could I rehearse  
Thy lofty Tragic Scenes, thy laboured Verse;  
The World another Sophocles in thee,  
Another Homer should behold in me:  
Amidst thy Laurels let this Ivy twine,  
Thine was my earlyest Muse; my latest shall be thine.   

Scarce from our upper World the Shades withdrew;  
Scarce were the Flocks refreshed with Morning Dew,  
When Damon stretched beneath an Olive Shade,  
And wildly staring upwards, thus inveighed  
Against the conscious Gods, and cursed the cruel Maid.  
Star of the Morning, why dost thou delay?  
Come, Lucifer, drive on the lagging Day.  
While I my Nisa's perjured Faith deplore;  
Witness ye Powers, by whom she falsely swore!  
The Gods, alas, are Witnesses in vain;  
Yet shall my dying Breath to Heaven complain.  
Begin with me, my Flute, the sweet Maenalian Strain.   

The Pines of Maenalus, the vocal Grove,  
Are ever full of Verse, and full of Love:  
They hear the Hinds, they hear their God complain;  
Who suffered not the Reeds to rise in vain:  
Begin with me, my Flute, the sweet Maenalian Strain.   

Mopsus triumphs; he weds the willing Fair:  
When such is Nisa's choice, what Lover can despair!  
Now Griffons join with Mares; another Age  
Shall see the Hound and Hind their Thirst assuage,  
Promiscuous at the Spring: Prepare the Lights,  
O Mopsus! and perform the bridal Rites.  
Scatter thy Nuts among the scrambling Boys:  
Thine is the Night; and thine the Nuptial Joys.  
For thee the Sun declines: O happy Swain!  
Begin with me, my Flute, the sweet Maenalian Strain.   

O, Nisa! Justly to thy Choice condemned,  
Whom hast thou taken, whom hast thou contemned!  
For him, thou hast refused my browzing Herd,  
Scorned my thick Eyebrows, and my shaggy Beard.  
Unhappy Damon sighs, and sings in vain:  
While Nisa thinks no God regards a Lover's pain.  
Begin with me, my Flute, the sweet Maenalian Strain.  
I viewed thee first; how fatal was the View!  
And led thee where the ruddy Wildings grew,  
High on the planted hedge, and wet with Morning Dew.  
Then scarce the bending Branches I could win;  
The callow Down began to clothe my Chin;  
I saw, I perished; yet indulged my Pain:  
Begin with me, my Flute, the sweet Maenalian Strain.   

I know thee, Love; in Deserts thou wert bred;  
And at the Dugs of Savage Tigers fed:  
Alien of Birth, Usurper of the Plains:  
Begin with me, my Flute, the sweet Maenalian Strains.   

Relentless Love the cruel Mother led,  
The Blood of her unhappy Babes to shed:  
Love lent the Sword; the Mother struck the blow;  
Inhuman she; but more inhuman thou.  
Alien of Birth, Usurper of the Plains:  
Begin with me, my Flute, the sweet Maenalian Strains.   

Old doting Nature change thy Course anew:  
And let the trembling Lamb the Wolf pursue:  
Let Oaks now glitter with Hesperian Fruit,  
And purple Daffodils from Alder shoot.  
Fat Amber let the Tamarisk distil:  
And hooting Owls contend with Swans in Skill.  
Hoarse Tity'rus strive with Orpheus in the Woods:  
And challenge famed Arion on the Floods.  
Or, oh! let Nature cease; and Chaos reign:  
Begin with me, my Flute, the sweet Maenalian Strain.   

Let Earth be Sea; and let the whelming Tide,  
The lifeless Limbs of luckless Damon hide:  
Farewell, ye secret Woods, and shady Groves,  
Haunts of my Youth, and conscious of my Loves!  
From yond high Cliff I plunge into the Main;  
Take the last Present of thy dying Swain:  
And cease, my silent Flute, the sweet Maenalian Strain.   

Now take your Turns, ye Muses, to rehearse  
His Friend's Complaint; and mighty Magic Verse.  
Bring running Water; bind those Altars round  
With Fillets; and with Vervain strew the Ground:  
Make fat with Frankincense the sacred Fires;  
To re-inflame my Daphnis with Desires.  
'Tis done, we want but Verse. Restore, my Charms,  
My lingering Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

Pale Phoebe, drawn by Verse from Heaven descends:  
And Circe changed with Charms Ulysses Friends.  
Verse breaks the Ground, and penetrates the Brake;  
And in the winding Cavern splits the Snake.  
Verse fires the frozen Veins: Restore, my Charms,  
My lingering Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

Around his waxen Image, first I wind  
Three woollen Fillets, of three Colours joined:  
Thrice bind about his thrice devoted head,  
Which round the sacred Altar thrice is led.  
Unequal Numbers please the Gods: my Charms,  
Restore my Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

Knit with three knots, the Fillets, knit 'em straight;  
And say, These Knots to Love I consecrate.  
Haste, Amaryllis, haste; restore, my Charms,  
My lovely Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

As Fire this Figure hardens, made of Clay;  
And this of Wax with Fire consumes away;  
Such let the Soul of cruel Daphnis be;  
Hard to the rest of Women; soft to me.  
Crumble the sacred Mole of Salt and Corn,  
Next in the Fire the Bays with Brimstone burn.  
And while it crackles in the Sulphur, say,  
This, I for Daphnis burn; thus Daphnis burn away.  
This Laurel is his Fate: Restore, my Charms,  
My lovely Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

As when the raging Heifer, through the Grove,  
Stung with Desire, pursues her wandering Love;  
Faint at the last, she seeks the weedy Pools,  
To quench her thirst, and on the Rushes rowls:  
Careless of Night, unmindful to return,  
Such fruitless Fires perfidious Daphnis burn.  
While I so scorn his Love; Restore, my Charms,  
My lingering Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

These Garments once were his; and left to me;  
The Pledges of his promised Loyalty:  
Which underneath my Threshold I bestow;  
These Pawns, O sacred Earth! to me my Daphnis owe.  
As these were his, so mine is he; my Charms,  
Restore their lingering Lord to my deluded Arms.   

These poisonous Plants, for Magic use designed,  
(The noblest and the best of all the baneful Kind,)  
Old Moeris brought me from the Pontic Strand:  
And culled the Mischief of a bounteous Land.  
Smeared with these powerful Juices, on the Plain,  
He howls a Wolf among the hungry Train:  
And oft the mighty Necromancer boasts,  
With these, to call from Tombs the stalking Ghosts:  
And from the roots to tear the standing Corn;  
Which, whirled aloft, to distant Fields is born.  
Such is the strength of Spells; restore, my Charms,  
My lingering Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

Bear out these Ashes; cast 'em in the Brook;  
Cast backwards o'er your head, nor turn your look:  
Since neither Gods, nor Godlike Verse can move,  
Break out ye smothered Fires, and kindle smothered Love.  
Exert your utmost power, my lingering Charms,  
And force my Daphnis to my longing Arms.   

See, while my last endeavours I delay,  
The waking Ashes rise, and round our Altars play!  
Run to the Threshold, Amaryllis, hark,  
Our Hylas opens, and begins to bark.  
Good Heaven! may Lovers what they wish believe;  
Or dream their wishes, and those dreams deceive!  
No more, my Daphnis comes; no more, my Charms;  
He comes, he runs, he leaps to my desiring Arms.    

The Ninth Pastoral. OR, LYCIDAS, and MOERIS.  
The Argument.  
When Virgil, by the Favour of Augustus, had recovered his Patrimony near Mantua, and went in hope to take Possession, he was in danger to be slain by Arius the Centurion, to whom those Lands were assigned by the Emperor, in reward of his Service against Brutus and Cassius. This Pastoral therefore is filled with complaints of his hard Usage; and the Persons introduced, are the Bailiff of Virgil, Moeris, and his Friend Lycidas.  

To the Right Honble. Marquis of Hartington the Duke of William Lord Eldest Son to His Grace the Duke of Devonshire.  
Past: 〈…〉   LYCIDAS. 
HO Moeris! whether on thy way so fast?  
This leads to Town.  MOERIS. 
O Lycidas, at last  
The Time is come I never thought to see,  
(Strange Revolution for my Farm and me)  
When the grim Captain in a surly Tone  
Cries out, pack up ye Rascals, and be gone.  
Kicked out, we set the best Face on't we could,  
And these two Kids, t' appease his angry Mood,  
I bear, of which the Furies give him good.  LYCIDAS. 
Your Country Friends were told another Tale;  
That from the sloaping Mountain to the Vale,  
And doddered Oak, and all the Banks along,  
Menalcas saved his Fortune with a Song.  MOERIS. 
Such was the News, indeed, but Songs and Rhymes  
Prevail as much in these hard Iron Times,  
As would a plump of trembling Fowl, that rise  
Against an Eagle sousing from the Skies.  
And had not Phoebus warned me by the croak  
Of an old Raven, from a hollow Oak,  
To shun debate, Menalcas had been slain,  
And Moeris not survived him, to complain.  LYCIDAS. 
Now Heaven defend! could barbarous Rage induce  
The Brutal Son of Mars, t' insult the sacred Muse!  
Who then should sing the Nymphs, or who rehearse  
The Waters gliding in a smother Verse!  
Or Amaryllis praise, that Heavenly Lay,  
That shortened as we went, our tedious Way.  
O Tity'rus, tend my Herd, and see them fed;  
To Morning Pastures, Evening Waters led:  
And ' ware the Lybian Ridgils butting Head.  MOERIS. 
Or what unfinished He to Varus read;  
Thy Name, O Varus (if the kinder Powers  
Preserve our Plains, and shield the Mantuan towers,  
Obnoxious by Cremona's neighbouring Crime,)  
The Wings of Swans, and stronger pinioned Rhyme,  
Shall raise aloft, and soaring bear above  
Th' immortal Gift of Gratitude to Jove.  LYCIDAS. 
Sing on, sing on, for I can ne'er be cloyed,  
So may thy Swarms the baleful Yew avoid:  
So may thy Cows their burdened Bags distend,  
And Trees to Goats their willing Branches bend.  
Mean as I am, yet have the Muses made  
Me free, a Member of the tuneful trade:  
At least the Shepherds seem to like my Lays,  
But I discern their Flattery from their Praise:  
I nor to Cinna's Ears, nor Varus dare aspire;  
But gabble like a Goose, amidst the Swanlike Quire.  MOERIS. 
'Tis what I have been cunning in my Mind:  
Nor are they Verses of a Vulgar Kind.  
Come, Galatea, come, the Seas forsake;  
What Pleasures can the Tides with their hoarse Murmurs make?  
See, on the Shore inhabits purple Spring;  
Where Nightingales their Lovesick Ditty sing;  
See, Meads with purling Streams, with Flowers the Ground,  
The Grottoes cool, with shady Poplars crowned,  
And creeping Vines on Arbours weaved around.  
Come then, and leave the Waves tumultuous roar,  
Let the wild Surges vainly beat the Shore.  LYCIDAS. 
Or that sweet Song I heard with such delight;  
The same you sung alone one starry Night;  
The Tune I still retain, but not the Words.  MOERIS. 
Why, Daphnis, dost thou search in old Records,  
To know the Seasons when the Stars arise?  
See Caesar's Lamp is lighted in the Skies:  
The Star, whose Rays the blushing Grapes adorn,  
And swell the kindly ripening Ears of Corn.  
Under this influence, graft the tender Shoot;  
Thy children's Children shall enjoy the Fruit.  
The rest I have forgot, for Cares and Time  
Change all things, and untune my Soul to Rhyme:  
I could have once sung down a Summer's Sun,  
But now the Chime of Poetry is done.  
My Voice grows hoarse; I feel the Notes decay,  
As if the Wolves had seen me first to Day.  
But these, and more than I to mind can bring,  
Menalcas has not yet forgot to sing.  LYCIDAS. 
Thy faint Excuses but inflame me more;  
And now the Waves roll silent to the Shore.  
Hushed Winds the topmost Branches scarcely bend,  
As if thy tuneful Song they did attend:  
Already we have half our way o'ercome;  
Far off I can discern Bianor's Tomb;  
Here, where the Labourer's hands have formed a Bower  
Of wreathing Trees, in Singing waste an Hour.  
Rest here thy weary Limbs, thy Kids lay down,  
We've Day before us yet, to reach the Town:  
Or if e'er Night the gathering Clouds we fear,  
A Song will help the beating Storm to bear.  
And that thou may'st not be too late abroad,  
Sing, and I'll ease thy Shoulders of thy Load.  MOERIS. 
Cease to request me, let us mind our way;  
Another Song requires another Day.  
When good Menalcas comes, if he rejoice,  
And find a Friend at Court, I'll find a Voice.   

The Tenth Pastoral. OR, GALLUS.  
The Argument.  
Gallus a great Patron of Virgil, and an excellent Poet, was very deeply in Love with one Citheris, whom he calls Lycoris; and who had forsaken him for the Company of a Soldier. The Poet therefore supposes his Friend Gallus retired in his height of Melancholy into the Solitudes of Arcadia (the celebrated Scene of Pastorals;) where he represents him in a very languishing Condition with all the Rural Deities about him, pitying his hard Usage, and condoling his Misfortune.  

To the Right Hon ●●e. Charles' Montague Esqr:: one of the Lords Comm rs. of his Maj 'tis. Treasury, Chancellor, and under Treasurer of his Majtis. Excheqr. and one of his Maj 'tis. Most Hon ble. Privy Council.  
Past: 10.   
THY sacred Succour, Arethusa, bring,  
To crown my Labour: 'tis the last I sing.  
Which proud Lycoris may with Pity view;  
The Muse is mournful, tho' the Numbers few.  
Refuse me not a Verse, to Grief and Gallus due.  
So may thy Silver Streams beneath the Tide,  
Unmixed with briny Seas, securely glide.  
Sing then, my Gallus, and his hopeless Vows;  
Sing, while my Cattle crop the tender Browse.  
The vocal Grove shall answer to the Sound,  
And Echo, from the Vales, the tuneful Voice rebound.  
What Lawns or Woods withheld you from his Aid,  
Ye Nymphs, when Gallus was to Love betrayed;  
To Love, unpityed by the cruel Maid?  
Not steepy Pindus could retard your Course,  
Nor cloven Parnassus, nor th' Aonian Source:  
Nothing that owns the Muses could suspend  
Your Aid to Gallus, Gallus is their Friend.  
For him the lofty Laurel stands in Tears;  
And hung with humid Pearls the lowly Shrub appears.  
Maenalian Pines the Godlike Swain bemoan;  
When spread beneath a Rock he sighed alone;  
And cold Lycaeus wept from every dropping Stone.  
The Sheep surround their Shepherd, as he lies:  
Blush not, sweet Poet, nor the name despise:  
Along the Streams his Flock Adonis fed;  
And yet the Queen of Beauty blest his Bed.  
The Swains and tardy Neatherds came, and last  
Menalcas, wet with beating Winter Mast.  
Wondering, they asked from whence arose thy Flame;  
Yet, more amazed, thy own Apollo came.  
Flushed were his Cheeks, and glowing were his Eyes:  
Is she thy Care, is she thy Care, he cries?  
Thy false Lycoris flies thy Love and thee;  
And for thy Rival tempts the raging Sea,  
The Forms of horrid War, and heavens Inclemency.  
Sylvanus came: his Brows a Country Crown  
Of Fennel, and of nodding Lilies, drown.  
Great Pan arrived; and we beheld him too,  
His Cheeks and Temples of Vermilion Hue.  
Why, Gallus, this immoderate Grief, he cried:  
Think'st thou that Love with Tears is satisfied?  
The Meads are sooner drunk with Morning Dews;  
The Bees with flowery Shrubs, the Goats with Browse.  
Unmoved, and with dejected Eyes, he mourned:  
He paused, and then these broken Words returned.  
'Tis past; and Pity gives me no Relief:  
But you, Arcadian Swains, shall sing my Grief:  
And on your Hills, my last Complaints renew;  
So sad a Song is only worthy you.  
How light would lie the Turf upon my Breast,  
If you my Sufferings in your Songs expressed?  
Ah! that your Birth and Business had been mine;  
To pen the Sheep, and press the swelling Vine!  
Had Phyllis or Amyntas caused my Pain,  
Or any Nymph, or Shepherd on the Plain,  
Tho Phyllis brown, though black Amyntas were,  
Are Violets not sweet, because not fair?  
Beneath the Sallows, and the shady Vine,  
My Loves had mixed their pliant Limbs with mine;  
Phyllis with Myrtle Wreaths had crowned my Hair,  
And soft Amyntas sung away my Care.  
Come, see what Pleasures in our Plains abound;  
The Woods, the Fountains, and the flowery ground.  
As you are beauteous, were you half so true,  
Here could I live, and love, and die with only you.  
Now I to fight Fields am sent afar,  
And strive in Winter Camps with toils of War;  
While you, (alas, that I should find it so!)  
To shun my sight, your Native Soil forgo,  
And climb the frozen Alps, and tread th' eternal Snow.  
Ye Frosts and Snows her tender Body spare,  
Those are not Limbs for Ysicles to tear.  
For me, the wild's and Deserts are my Choice;  
The Muses, once my Care; my once harmonious Voice.  
There will I sing, forsaken and alone,  
The Rocks and hollow Caves shall echo to my Moan.  
The Rind of every Plant her Name shall know;  
And as the Rind extends, the Love shall grow.  
Then on Arcadian Mountains will I chase  
(Mixed with the Woodland Nymphs) the Savage Race.  
Nor Cold shall hinder me, with Horns and Hounds,  
To third the Thickets, or to leap the Mounds.  
And now methinks o'er steepy Rocks I go;  
And rush through sounding Woods, and bend the Parthian Bow:  
As if with Sports my Sufferings I could ease,  
Or by my Pains the God of Love appease.  
My Frenzy changes, I delight no more  
On Mountain tops, to chase the tusky Boar;  
No Game but hopeless Love my thoughts pursue:  
Once more ye Nymphs, and Songs, and sounding Woods adieu.  
Love altars not for us, his hard Decrees,  
Not though beneath the Thracian Clime we frieze;  
Or Italy's indulgent Heaven forgo;  
And in midwinter tread Scythonian Snow.  
Or when the Barks of Elms are scorched, we keep  
On Meroes' burning Plains the Lybian Sheep.  
In Hell, and Earth, and Seas, and Heaven above,  
Love conquers all; and we must yield to Love.  
My Muses, here your sacred Raptures end:  
The Verse was what I owed my suffering Friend.  
This while I sung, my Sorrows I deceived,  
And bending Osiers into Baskets weaved.  
The Song, because inspired by you, shall shine:  
And Gallus will approve, because 'tis mine.  
Gallus, for whom my holy Flames renew,  
Each hour, and every moment rise in view:  
As Alders, in the Spring, their Bowls extend;  
And heave so fiercely, that the Bark they rend.  
Now let us rise, for hoarseness oft invades  
The Singer's Voice, who sings beneath the Shades.  
From Juniper, unwholesome Dews distil,  
That blast the sooty Corn; the withering Herbage kill;  
Away, my Goats, away: for you have browzed your fill.    

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PHILIP Earl of Chesterfield, etc.  
My Lord,  
I Cannot begin my Address to your Lordship, better than in the words of Virgil, 
— Quod optanti, Divum promittere Nemo  
Auderet, volvenda Dies, en, attulit ultrò.  Seven Years together I have concealed the longing which I had to appear before you: A time as tedious as Aeneas passed in his wand'ring Voyage, before he reached the promised Italy. But I considered, that nothing which my meanness could produce, was worthy of your Patronage. At last this happy Occasion offered, of Presenting to you the best Poem of the best Poet. If I balked this opportunity, I was in despair of finding such another; and if I took it, I was still uncertain whether you would vouchsafe to accept it from my hands. 'Twas a bold venture which I made, in desiring your permission to lay my unworthy Labours at your feet. But my rashness has succeeded beyond my hopes: And you have been pleased not to suffer an Old Man to go discontented out of the World, for want of that protection, of which he had been so long Ambitious. I have known a Gentleman in disgrace, and not daring to appear before King Charles the Second, though he much desired it: At length he took the confidence to attend a fair Lady to the Court; and told His Majesty, that under her protection he had presumed to wait on him. With the same humble confidence I present myself before your Lordship, and attending on Virgil hope a gracious reception. The Gentleman succeeded, because the powerful Lady was his Friend; but I have too much injured my great Author, to expect he should intercede for me. I would have Translated him, but according to the literal French and Italian Phrases, I fear I have traduced him. 'Tis the fault of many a well-meaning Man, to be officious in a wrong place, and do a prejudice, where he had endeavoured to do a service. Virgil wrote his Georgics in the full strength and vigour of his Age, when his Judgement was at the height, and before his Fancy was declining. He had, (according to our homely Saying) his full swing at this Poem, beginning it about the Age of Thirty Five; and scarce concluding it before he arrived at Forty. 'Tis observed both of him, and Horace, and I believe it will hold in all great Poets; that though they wrote before with a certain heat of Genius which inspired them, yet that heat was not perfectly digested. There is required a continuance of warmth to ripen the best and Noblest Fruits. Thus Horace in his First and Second Book of Odes, was still rising, but came not to his Meridian till the Third. After which his Judgement was an overpoize to his Imagination: He grew too cautious to be bold enough, for he descended in his Fourth by slow degrees, and in his Satyrs and Epistles, was more a Philosopher and a Critic than a Poet. In the beginning of Summer the days are almost at a stand, with little variation of length or shortness, because at that time the Diurnal Motion of the Sun partakes more of a Right Line, than of a Spiral. The samè is the method of Nature in the frame of Man. He seems at Forty to be fully in his Summer Tropic; somewhat before, and somewhat after, he finds in his Soul but small increases or decays. From Fifty to Threescore the Balance generally holds even, in our colder Climates: For he loses not much in Fancy; and Judgement, which is the effect of Observation, still increases: His succeeding years afford him little more than the stubble of his own Harvest: Yet if his Constitution be healthful, his Mind may still retain a decent vigour; and the Glean of that Ephraim, in Comparison with others, will surpass the Vintage of Abiezer. I have called this somewhere by a bold Metaphor, a green Old Age; but Virgil has given me his Authority for the Figure.  Jam Senior; sed Cruda Deo, viridisque Senectus. 
Amongst those few who enjoy the advantage of a latter Spring, your Lordship is a rare Example: Who being now arrived at your great Clymacterique, yet give no proof of the least decay in your Excellent Judgement, and comprehension of all things, which are within the compass of Humane Understanding. Your Conversation is as easy as it is instructive, and I could never observe the least vanity or the least assuming in any thing you said: but a natural unaffected Modesty, full of good sense, and well digested. A clearness of Notion, expressed in ready and unstudied words. No Man has complained, or ever can, that you have discoursed too long on any Subject: for you leave us in an eagerness of Learning more; pleased with what we hear, but not satisfied, because you will not speak so much as we could wish. I dare not excuse your Lordship from this fault; for though 'tis none in you, 'tis one to all who have the happiness of being known to you. I must confess the Critics make it one of Virgil's Beauties, that having said what he thought convenient, he always left somewhat for the imagination of his Readers to supply: That they might gratify their fancies, by finding more, in what he had written, than at first they could; and think they had added to his thought, when it was all there beforehand, and he only saved himself the expense of words. However it was, I never went from your Lordship, but with a longing to return, or without a hearty Curse to him who invented Ceremonies in the World, and put me on the necessity of withdrawing, when it was my interest as well as my desire, to have given you a much longer trouble. I cannot imagine (if your Lordship will give me leave to speak my thoughts) but you have had a more than ordinary vigour in your Youth. For too much of heat is required at first, that there may not too little be left at last. A Prodigal Fire is only capable of large remains: And yours, my Lord, still burns the clearer in declining. The Blaze is not so fierce as at the first, but the Smoke is wholly vanished; and your Friends who stand about you, are not only sensible of a cheerful warmth, but are kept at an awful distance by its force. In my small Observations of Mankind, I have ever sound, that such as are not rather too full of Spirit when they are young, degenerate to dullness in their Age. Sobriety in our riper years is the effect of a well-concocted warmth; but where the Principles are only Phlegm, what can be expected from the waterish Matter, but an insipid Manhood, and a stupid old Infancy; Discretion in Leading-strings, and a confirmed ignorance on Crutches? Virgil in his Third Georgic, when he describes a Colt, who promises a Courser for the Race, or for the Field of Battle, shows him the first to pass the Bridge, which trembles under him, and to stem the torrent of the flood. His beginnings must be in rashness; a Noble Fault: But Time and Experience will correct that Error, and tame it into a deliberate and well-weighed Courage; which knows both to be cautious and to dare, as occasion offers. Your Lordship is a Man of Honour, not only so unstained, but so unquestioned, that you are the living Standard of that Heroic Virtue; so truly such, that if I would flatter you, I could not. It takes not from you, that you were born with Principles of Generosity and Probity: But it adds to you, that you have cultivated Nature, and made those Principles, the Rule and Measure of all your Actions. The World knows this, without my telling: Yet Poets have a right of Recording it to all Posterity. Dignum Laude Virum, Musa vetat Mori. Epaminondas, Lucullus, and the two first Caesar's, were not esteemed the worse Commanders, for having made Philosophy, and the Liberal Arts their Study. Cicero might have been their Equal, but that he wanted Courage. To have both these Virtues, and to have improved them both, with a softness of Manners, and a sweetness of Conversation, few of our Nobility can fill that Character: One there is, and so conspicuous by his own light, that he needs not  Digito monstrari, & possit Hic est. 
To be Nobly Born, and of an Ancient Family, is in the extremes of Fortune, either good or bad; for Virtue and Descent are no Inheritance. A long Series of Ancestors shows the Native with great advantage at the first; but if he any way degenerate from his Line, the least Spot is visible on Ermine. But to preserve this whiteness in its Original Purity, you, my Lord, have, like that Ermine, forsaken the common Track of Business, which is not always clean: You have chosen for yourself a private Greatness, and will not be polluted with Ambition. It has been observed in former times, that none have been so greedy of Employments, and of managing the Public, as they who have least deserved their Stations. But such only merit to be called Patriots, under whom we see their Country Flourish. I have laughed sometimes (for who would always be a Heraclitus?) when I have reflected on those Men, who from time to time have shot themselves into the World. I have seen many Successions of them; some bolting out upon the Stage with vast applause, and others hissed off, and quitting it with disgrace. But while they were in action, I have constantly observed, that they seemed desirous to retreat from Business: Greatness they said was nauseous, and a Crowd was troublesome; a quiet privacy was their Ambition. Some few of them I believe said this in earnest, and were making a provision against future want, that they might enjoy their Age with ease: They saw the happiness of a private Life, and promised to themselves a Blessing, which every day it was in their power to possess. But they deferred it, and lingered still at Court, because they thought they had not yet enough to make them happy: They would have more, and laid in to make their Solitude Luxurious. A wretched Philosophy, which Epicurus never taught them in his Garden: They loved the prospect of this quiet in reversion, but were not willing to have it in possession; they would first be Old, and made as sure of Health and Life, as if both of them were at their dispose. But put them to the necessity of a present choice, and they preferred continuance in Power: Like the Wretch who called Death to his assistance, but refused it when he came. The Great Scipio was not of their Opinion, who indeed sought Honours in his Youth, and endured the Fatigues with which he purchased them. He served his Country when it was in need of his Courage and his Conduct, till he thought it was time to serve himself: But dismounted from the Saddle, when he found the Beast which bore him, began to grow restiff and ungovernable. But your Lordship has given us a better Example of Moderation. You saw betimes that Ingratitude is not confined to Commonwealths; and therefore though you were formed alike, for the greatest of Civil Employments, and Military Commands, yet you pushed not your Fortune to rise in either; but contented yourself with being capable, as much as any whosoever, of defending your Country with your Sword, or assisting it with your Counsel, when you were called. For the rest, the respect and love which was paid you, not only in the Province where you live, but generally by all who had the happiness to know you, was a wise Exchange for the Honours of the Court: A place of forgetfulness, at the best, for well deservers. 'Tis necessary for the polishing of Manners, to have breathed that Air, but 'tis infectious even to the best Morals to live always in it. 'Tis a dangerous Commerce, where an honest Man is sure at the first of being Cheated; and he recovers not his Losses, but by learning to Cheat others. The undermining Smile becomes at length habitual; and the drift of his plausible Conversation, is only to flatter one, that he may betray another. Yet 'tis good to have been a looker on, without venturing to play; that a Man may know false Dice another time, though he never means to use them. I commend not him who never knew a Court, but him who forsakes it because he knows it. A young Man deserves no praise, who out of melancholy Zeal leaves the World before he has well tried it, and runs headlong into Religion. He who carries a Maidenhead into a Cloister, is sometimes apt to lose it there, and to repent of his Repentance. He only is like to endure Austerities, who has already found the inconvenience of Pleasures. For almost every Man will be making Experiments in one part or another of his Life: And the danger is the less when we are young: For having tried it early, we shall not be apt to repeat it afterwards. Your Lordship therefore may properly be said to have chosen a Retreat; and not to have chosen it till you had maturely weighed the advantages of rising higher with the hazards of the fall. Res non parta labour, sed relicta, was thought by a Poet, to be one of the requisites to a happy Life. Why should a reasonable Man put it into the power of Fortune to make him miserable, when his Ancestors have taken care to release him from her? Let him venture, says Horace, Qui Zonam perdidit. He who has nothing, plays securely, for he may win, and cannot be poorer if he loses. But he who is born to a plentiful Estate, and is Ambitious of Offices at Court, sets a stake to Fortune, which she can seldom answer: If he gains nothing, he loses all, or part of what was once his own; and if he gets, he cannot be certain but he may refund.  
In short, however he succeeds, 'tis Covetousness that induced him first to play, and Covetousness is the undoubted sign of ill sense at bottom. The Odds are against him that he loses, and one loss may be of more consequence to him, than all his former win. 'Tis like the present War of the Christians against the Turk; every year they gain a Victory, and by that a Town; but if they are once defeated, they lose a Province at a blow, and endanger the safety of the whole Empire. You, my Lord, enjoy your quiet in a Garden, where you have not only the leisure of thinking, but the pleasure to think of nothing which can discompose your Mind. A good Conscience is a Port which is Land-locked on every side, and where no Winds can possibly invade, no Tempests can arise. There a Man may stand upon the Shore, and not only see his own Image, but that of his Maker, clearly reflected from the undisturbed and silent waters. Reason was intended for a Blessing, and such it is to Men of Honour and Integrity; who desire no more, than what they are able to give themselves; like the happy Old Coricyan, whom my Author describes in his Fourth Georgic; whose Fruits and Salads on which he lived contented, were all of his own growth, and his own Plantation. Virgil seems to think that the Blessings of a Country Life are not complete, without an improvement of Knowledge by Contemplation and Reading.  
O Fortunatos nimium, bona si sua norint  
Agricolas!  
'Tis but half possession not to understand that happiness which we possess: A foundation of good Sense, and a cultivation of Learning, are required to give a seasoning to Retirement, and make us taste the blessing. God has bestowed on your Lordship the first of these, and you have bestowed on yourself the second. Eden was not made for Beasts, though they were suffered to live in it, but for their Master, who studied God in the Works of his Creation. Neither could the Devil have been happy there with all his Knowledge, for he wanted Innocence to make him so. He brought Envy, Malice, and Ambition into Paradise, which soured to him the sweetness of the Place. Wherever inordinate Affections are, 'tis Hell. Such only can enjoy the Country, who are capable of thinking when they are there, and have left their Passions behind them in the Town. Then they are prepared for Solitude; and in that Solitude is prepared for them Et secura quies, & nescia fallere vita.  
As I began this Dedication with a Verse of Virgil, so I conclude it with another. The continuance of your Health, to enjoy that Happiness which you so well deserve, and which you have provided for yourself, is the sincere and earnest Wish of  
Your Lordship's most Devoted, and most Obedient Servant, JOHN DRYDEN.   

AN ESSAY ON THE GEORGICS.  
VIRGIL may be reckoned the first who introduced three new kinds of Poetry among the Romans, which he Copied after three the Greatest Masters of Greece. Theocritus and Homer have still disputed for the advantage over him in Pastoral and Heroics, but I think all are Unanimous in giving him the precedence to Hesiod in his Georgies. The truth of it is, the Sweetness and Rusticity of a Pastoral cannot be so well expressed in any other Tongue as in the Greek, when rightly mixed and qualified with the Doric Dialect; nor can the Majesty of an Heroic Poem any where appear so well as in this Language, which has a Natural greatness in it, and can be often rendered more deep and sonorous by the Pronunciation of the jonians. But in the middle Style, where the Writers in both Tongues are on a Level: we see how far Virgil has excelled all who have written in the same way with him.  
There has been abundance of Criticism spent on Virgil's Pastorals and Aeneids, but the Georgics are a Subject which none of the Critics have sufficiently taken into their Consideration; most of 'em passing it over in silence, or casting it under the same head with Pastoral; a division by no means proper, unless we suppose the Style of a Husbandman ought to be imitated in a Georgic as that of a Shepherd is in Pastoral. But tho' the Scene of both these Poems lies in the same place; the Speakers in them are of a quite different Character, since the Precepts of Husbandry are not to be delivered with the simplicity of a Ploughman, but with the Address of a Poet. No Rules therefore that relate to Pastoral, can any way affect the Georgics, which fall under that Class of Poetry which consists in giving plain and direct Instructions to the Reader; whether they be Moral Duties, as those of Theognis and Pythagoras; or Philosophical Speculations, as those of Aratus and Lucretius; or Rules of Practice, as those of Hesiod and Virgil. Among these different kinds of Subjects, that which the Georgics goes upon, is I think the meanest and the least improving, but the most pleasing and delightful. Precepts of Morality, besides the Natural Corruption of our Tempers, which makes us averse to them, are so abstracted from Ideas of Sense, that they seldom give an opportunity for those Beautiful Descriptions and Images which are the Spirit and Life of Poetry. Natural Philosophy has indeed sensible Objects to work upon, but than it often puzzles the Reader with the Intricacy of its Notions, and perplexes him with the multitude of its Disputes. But this kind of Poetry I am now speaking of, addresses itself wholly to the Imagination: It is altogether Conversant among the Fields and Woods, and has the most delightful part of Nature for its Province. It raises in our Minds a pleasing variety of Scenes and Landscapes, whilst it teaches us: and makes the driest of its Precepts look like a Description. A Georgic therefore is some part of the Science of Husbandry put into a pleasing Dress, and set off with all the Beauties and Embellishments of Poetry. Now since this Science of Husbandry is of a very large extent, the Poet shows his Skill in singling out such Precepts to preceded on, as are useful, and at the same time most capable of Ornament. Virgil was so well acquainted with this Secret, that to set off his first Georgic, he has run into a set of Precepts, which are almost foreign to his Subject, in that Beautiful account he gives us of the Signs in Nature, which precede the Changes of the Wether.  
And if there be so much Art in the choice of fit Precepts, there is much more required in the Treating of 'em; that they may fall in after each other by a Natural unforced Method, and show themselves in the best and most advantageous Light. They should all be so finely wrought together into the same Piece, that no course Seam may discover where they join; as in a Curious Brede of Needlework, one Colour falls away by such just degrees, and another rises so insensibly, that we see the variety, without being able to distinguish the total vanishing of the one from the first appearance of the other. Nor is it sufficient to range and dispose this Body of Precepts into a clear and easy Method, unless they are delivered to us in the most pleasing and agreeable manner: For there are several ways of conveying the same Truth to the Mind of Man, and to choose the pleasantest of these ways, is that which chiefly distinguishes Poetry from Prose, and makes Virgil's Rules of Husbandry pleasanter to read than Varro's. Where the Prose-writer tells us plainly what ought to be done, the Poet often conceals the Precept in a description, and represents his Countryman performing the Action in which he would instruct his Reader. Where the one sets out as fully and distinctly as he can, all the parts of the Truth, which he would communicate to us; the other singles out the most pleasing Circumstance of this Truth, and so conveys the whole in a more diverting manner to the Understanding. I shall give one Instance out of a multitude of this nature, that might be found in the Georgics, where the Reader may see the different ways Virgil has taken to express the same thing, and how much pleasanter every manner of Expression is, than the plain and direct mention of it would have been. It is in the Second Georgic where he tells us what Trees will bear Grafting on each other.  
Et saepe alterius ramos impune videmus,  
Vertere in alterius, mutatamque; insita mala  
Ferre pyrum, & prunis lapidosa rubescere corna.  
— Steriles Platani malos gessere valentes,  
Castaneae fagos, ornusque; incanuit albo  
Flore pyri: Glandemque; sues fregere sub ulmis.  
— Nec longum tempus: & ingens  
Exijt ad Coelum ramis felicibus arbos;  
Miraturque novas frondes, & non sua poma.  
Here we see the Poet considered all the Effects of this Union between Trees of different kinds, and took notice of that Effect which had the most surprise, and by consequence the most delight in it, to express the capacity that was in them of being thus united. This way of Writing is every where much in use among the Poets, and is particularly practised by Virgil, who loves to suggest a Truth indirectly, and without giving us a full and open view of it: To let us see just so much as will naturally lead the Imagination into all the parts that lie concealed. This is wonderfully diverting to the Understanding, thus to receive a Precept, that enters as it were through a By-way, and to apprehend an Idea that draws a whole train after it: For here the Mind, which is always delighted with its own Discoveries, only takes the hint from the Poet, and seems to work out the rest by the strength of her own faculties.  
But since the inculcating Precept upon Precept, will at length prove tiresome to the Reader, if he meets with no other Entertainment, the Poet must take care not to encumber his Poem with too much Business; but sometimes to relieve the Subject with a Moral Reflection, or let it rest a while for the sake of a pleasant and pertinent digression. Nor is it sufficient to run out into beautiful and diverting digressions (as it is generally thought) unless they are brought in aptly, and are something of a piece with the main design of the Georgic: for they ought to have a remote alliance at least to the Subject, that so the whole Poem may be more uniform and agreeable in all its parts. We should never quite lose sight of the Country, tho' we are sometimes entertained with a distant prospect of it. Of this nature are Virgil's Descriptions of the Original of Agriculture, of the Fruitfulness of Italy, of a Country Life, and the like, which are not brought in by force, but naturally rise out of the principal Argument and Design of the Poem. I know no one digression in the Georgics that may seem to contradict this Observation, besides that in the latter end of the First Book, where the Poet launches out into a discourse of the Battle of Pharsalia, and the Actions of Augustus: But it's worth while to consider how admirably he has turned the course of his narration into its proper Channel, and made his Husbandman concerned even in what relates to the Battle, in those inimitable Lines, 
Scilicet & tempus veniet, cum finibus illis  
Agricola in curvo terram molitus aratro,  
Exesa inveniet scabra rubigine pila:  
Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanes,  
Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulchris.  And afterwards speaking of Augustus' Actions, he still remembers that Agriculture ought to be some way hinted at throughout the whole Poem.  
— Non ullus Aratro  
Dignus honos: squalent abductis arva colonis:  
Et curvae rigidum falces conflantur in Ensem.  
We now come to the Style which is proper to a Georgic; and indeed this is the part on which the Poet must lay out all his strength, that his words may be warm and glowing, and that every thing he describes may immediately present itself, and rise up to the Reader's view. He ought in particular to be careful of not letting his Subject debase his Style, and betray him into a meanness of Expression, but every where to keep up his Verse in all the Pomp of Numbers, and Dignity of words.  
I think nothing which is a Phrase or Sayingin common talk, should be admitted into a serious Poem: because it takes off from the Solemnity of the expression, and gives it too great a turn of Familiarity: much less ought the low Phrases and Terms of Art, that are adapted to Husbandry, have any place in such a Work as the Georgic, which is not to appear in the natural simplicity and nakedness of its Subject, but in the pleasantest Dress that Poetry can bestow on it. Thus Virgil, to deviate from the common form of words, would not make use of Tempore but Sidere in his first Verse, and every where else abounds with Metaphors, Grecisms, and Circumlocutions, to give his Verse the greater Pomp, and preserve it from sinking into a Plebeian Style. And herein consists Virgil's Masterpiece, who has not only excelled all other Poets, but even himself in the Language of his Georgics; where we receive more strong and lively Ideas of things from his words, than we could have done from the Objects themselves: and find our Imaginations more affected by his Descriptions, than they would have been by the very sight of what he describes.  
I shall now, after this short Scheme of Rules, consider the different success that Hesiod and Virgil have met with in this kind of Poetry, which may give us some further Notion of the Excellence of the Georgics. To begin with Hesiod; If we may guests at his Character from his Writings, he had much more of the Husbandman than the Poet in his Temper: He was wonderfully Grave, Discreet, and Frugal, he lived altogether in the Country, and was probably for his great Prudence the Oracle of the whole Neighbourhood. These Principles of good Husbandry ran through his Works, and directed him to the choice of Tillage, and Merchandise, for the Subject of that which is the most Celebrated of them. He is every where bend on Instruction, avoids all manner of Digressions, and does not stir out of the Field once in the whole Georgic. His Method in describing Month after Month with its proper Seasons and Employments, is too grave and fimple; it takes off from the surprise and variety of the Poem, and makes the whole look but like a modern Almanac in Verse. The Reader is carried through a course of Wether, and may beforehand guests whether he is to meet with Snow or Rain, Clouds or Sunshine in the next Description. His Descriptions indeed have abundance of Nature in them, but than it is Nature in her simplicity and undress. Thus when he speaks of January; the Wild-Beasts, says he, run shivering through the Woods with their Heads stooping to the ground, and their Tails clapped between their Legs; the Goats and Oxen are almost flayed with Cold; but it is not so bad with the Sheep, because they have a thick Coat of Wool about 'em. The Old Men too are bitterly pinched with the Wether, but the young Girls feel nothing of it, who sit at home with their Mothers by a warm Fireside. Thus does the Old Gentleman give himself up to a loose kind of Tattle, rather than endeavour after a just Poetical Description. Nor has he shown more of Art or Judgement in the Precepts he has given us, which are sown so very thick, that they clog the Poem too much, and are often so minute and full of Circumstances, that they weaken and un-nerve his Verse. But after all, we are beholding to him for the first rough sketch of a Georgic: where we may still discover something venerable in the Antickness of the Work; but if we would see the Design enlarged, the Figures reformed, the Colouring laid on, and the whole Piece finished, we must expect it from a greater Master's hand.  
Virgil has drawn out the Rules for Tillage and Planting into Two Books, which Hesiod has dispatched in half a one; but has so raised the natural rudeness and simplicity of his Subject with such a significancy of Expression, such a Pomp of Verse, such variety of Transitions, and such a solemn Air in his Reflections, that if we look on both Poets together, we see in one the plainness of a downright Countryman, and in the other, something of a Rustic Majesty, like that of a Roman Dictator at the Plow-Tail. He delivers the meanest of his Precepts with a kind of Grandeur, he breaks the Clods and tosses the Dung about with an air of gracefulness. His Prognostications of the Wether are taken out of Aratus, where we may see how judiciously he has picked out those that are most proper for his Husbandman's Observation; how he has enforced the Expression, and heightened the Images which he found in the Original.  
The Second Book has more wit in it, and a greater boldness in its Metaphors than any of the rest. The Poet with a great Beauty applies Oblivion, Ignorance, Wonder, Desire and the like to his Trees. The last Georgic has indeed as many Metaphors, but not so daring as this; for Humane Thoughts and Passions may be more naturally ascribed to a Bee, than to an Inanimate Plant. He who reads over the Pleasures of a Country Life, as they are described by Virgil in the latter end of this Book, can scarce be of Virgil's Mind, in preferring even the Life of a Philosopher to it.  
We may I think read the Poet's Clime in his Description, for he seems to have been in a sweat at the Writing of it. 
— O Quis me gelidis sub Montibus Haemi  
Sistat, & ingenti ramorum protegat umbr â!  And is every where mentioning among his chief Pleasures, the coolness of his Shades and Rivers, Vales and Grottos, which a more Northern Poet would have omitted for the description of a Sunny Hill, and Fireside.  
The Third Georgic seems to be the most laboured of 'em all; there is a wonderful Vigour and Spirit in the description of the Horse and Chariot-Race. The force of Love is represented in Noble Instances, and very Sublime Expressions. The Scythian Winter-piece appears so very cold and bleak to the Eye, that a Man can scarce look on it without shivering. The Murrain at the end has all the expressiveness that words can give. It was here that the Poet strained hard to outdo Lucretius in the description of his Plague; and if the Reader would see what success he had, he may find it at large in Scaliger.  
But Virgil seems no where so well pleased, as when he is got among his Bees in the Fourth Georgic: And Ennobles the Actions of so trivial a Creature, with Metaphors drawn from the most important Concerns of Mankind. His Verses are not in a greater noise and hurry in the Battles of Aeneas and Turnus, than in the Engagement of two Swarms. And as in his Aeneis he compares the Labours of his Trojans to those of Bees and Pismires, here he compares the Labours of the Bees to those of the Cyclops. In short, the last Georgic was a good Prelude to the Aeneis; and very well showed what the Poet could do in the description of what was really great, by his describing the Mock-grandeur of an Insect with so good a grace. There is more pleasantness in the little Platform of a Garden, which he gives us about the middle of this Book, than in all the spacious Walks and Water-works of Rapin's. The Speech of Proteus at the end can never be enough admired, and was indeed very fit to conclude so Divine a Work.  
After this particular account of the Beauties in the Georgics, I should in the next place endeavour to point out its imperfections, if it has any. But tho' I think there are some few parts in it that are not so Beautiful as the rest, I shall not presume to name them, as rather suspecting my own Judgement, than I can believe a fault to be in that Poem, which lay so long under Virgil's Correction, and had his last hand put to it. The first Georgic was probably Burlesqued in the Author's Life-time; for we still find in the Scholiasts a Verse that ridicules part of a Line Translated from Hesiod. Nudus Ara, sere Nudus— And we may easily guests at the Judgement of this extraordinary Critic, whoever he was, from his Censuring this particular Precept. We may be sure Virgil would not have Translated it from Hesiod, had he not discovered some Beauty in it; and indeed the Beauty of it is what I have before observed to be frequently met with in Virgil, the delivering the Precept so indirectly, and singling out the particular circumstance of Sowing and Ploughing naked, to suggest to us that these Employments are proper only in the hot Season of the Year.  
I shall not here compare the Style of the Georgics with that of Lucretius, which the Reader may see already done in the Preface to the Second Volume of Miscellany Poems; but shall conclude this Poem to be the most Complete, Elaborate, and finished Piece of all Antiquity. The Aeneis indeed is of a Nobler kind, but the Georgic is more perfect in its kind. The Aeneid has a greater variety of Beauties in it, but those of the Georgic are more exquisite. In short, the Georgic has all the perfection that can be expected in a Poem written by the greatest Poet in the Flower of his Age, when his Invention was ready, his Imagination warm, his Judgement settled, and all his Faculties in their full Vigour and Maturity.   

Virgil's Georgics.  

The First Book of the Georgics.  
The Argument.  
The Poet, in the beginning of this Book, propounds the general Design of each Georgic: And after a solemn Invocation of all the Gods who are any way related to his Subject, he addresses himself in particular to Augustus, whom he compliments with Divinity; and after strikes into his Business. He shows the different kinds of Tillage proper to different Soils, traces out the Original of Agriculture, gives a Catalogue of the Husbandman's Tools, specifies the Employments pecultar to each Season, describes the changes of the Wether, with the Signs in Heaven and Earth that fore-bode them. Instances many of the Prodigies that happened near the time of Julius Caesar 's Death. And shuts up all with a Supplication to the Gods for the Safety of Augustus, and the Prefervation of Rome.  

To Sr Thomas Trevor of the Inner Temple Knight His Majesties Attorney General.  
Geor.: 1 L. 1▪   

WHat makes a plenteous Harvest, when to turn  
The fruitful Soil, and when to sow the Corn;  
The Care of Sheep, of Oxen, and of Kine;  
And how to raise on Elms the teeming Vine:  
The Birth and Genius of the frugal Bee,  
I sing, Maecenas, and I sing to thee.   

The Deities! who Fields and Plains protect,  
Who rule the Seasons, and the Year direct;  
Bacchus and fost'ring Ceres, Powers Divine,  
Who gave us Corn for Mast, for Water Wine.  
Ye Fawns, propitious to the Rural Swains,  
Ye Nymphs that haunt the Mountains and the Plains,  
Join in my Work, and to my Numbers bring  
Your needful Succour, for your Gifts I sing.  
And thou, whose Trident struck the teeming Earth,  
And made a Passage for the Courser's Birth.  
And thou, for whom the Caean Shore sustains  
Thy Milky Herds, that graze the Flowery Plains.  
And thou, the Shepherds tutelary God,  
Leave, for a while, O Pan! thy loved Abode:  
And, if Arcadian Fleeces be thy Care,  
From Fields and Mountains to my Song repair.  
Inventor, Pallas, of the fattening Oil,  
Thou Founder of the Plough and Plough-man's Toil;  
And thou, whose Hands the Shrowd-like Cypress rear;  
Come all ye Gods and Goddesses, that wear  
The rural Honours, and increase the Year.  
You, who supply the Ground with Seeds of Grain;  
And you, who swell those Seeds with kindly Rain:  
And chiefly thou, whose undetermined State  
Is yet the Business of the God's Debate:  
Whether in after Times to be declared  
The Patron of the World, and Rome's peculiar Guard,  
Or o'er the Fruits and Seasons to preside,  
And the round Circuit of the Year to guide.  
Powerful of Blessings, which thou strewest around,  
And with thy Goddess Mother's Myrtle crowned.  
Or wilt thou, Caesar, choose the watery Reign,  
To smooth the Surges, and correct the Main?  
Then Mariners, in Storms, to thee shall pray,  
Even utmost Thule shall thy Power obey;  
And Neptune shall resign the Fasces of the Sea.  
The wat'ry Virgins for thy Bed shall strive,  
And Tethys all her Waves in Dowry give.  
Or wilt thou bless our Summers with thy Rays,  
And seated near the Balance, poise the Days:  
Where in the Void of Heaven a Space is free,  
Betwixt the Scorpion and the Maid for thee.  
The Scorpion ready to receive thy Laws,  
Yields half his Region, and contracts his Claws.  
Whatever part of Heaven thou shalt obtain,  
For let not Hell presume of such a Reign;  
Nor let so dire a Thirst of Empire move  
Thy Mind, to leave thy Kindred Gods above.  
Tho' Greece admires Elysium's blessed Retreat,  
Tho' Proserpina affects her silent Seat,  
And importuned by Ceres to remove,  
Prefers the Fields below to those above.  
But thou, propitious Caesar, guide my Course,  
And to my bold Endeavours add thy Force.  
Pity the Poet's and the Ploughman's Cares,  
Interest thy Greatness in our mean Affairs,  
And use thyself betimes to hear our Prayers.   

While yet the Spring is young, while Earth unbinds  
Her frozen Bosom to the Western Winds;  
While Mountain Snows dissolve against the Sun,  
And Streams, yet new, from Precipices run.  
Even in this early Dawning of the Year,  
Produce the Plough, and yoke the sturdy Steer,  
And goad him till he groans beneath his Toil,  
Till the bright Share is buried in the Soil.  
That Crop rewards the greedy Peasant's Pains,  
Which twice the Sun, and twice the Cold sustains,  
And bursts the crowded Barns, with more than promised Gains.  
But e'er we stir the yet unbroken Ground,  
The various Course of Seasons must be found;  
The Wether, and the setting of the Winds,  
The Culture suiting to the several Kind's  
Of Seeds and Plants; and what will thrive and rise,  
And what the Genius of the Soil denies.  
This Ground with Bacchus, that with Ceres' suits:  
That other loads the Trees with happy Fruits.  
A fourth with Grass, unbidden, decks the Ground:  
Thus Tmolus is with yellow Saffron crowned:  
India, black Ebon and white Ivory bears:  
And soft Idume weeps her odorous Tears.  
Thus Pontus sends her Beaver Stones from far;  
And naked Spaniards temper Steel for War.  
Epirus for th' Elean Chariot breeds,  
(In hopes of Palms,) a Race of running Steeds.  
This is the original Contract; these the Laws  
Imposed by Nature, and by Nature's Cause,  
On sundry Places, when Deucalion hurled  
his Mother's Entrails on the desert World:  
Whence Men, a hard laborious Kind, were born.  
Then borrow part of Winter for thy Corn;  
And early with thy Team the Gleeb in Furrows turn.  
That while the Turf lies open, and unbound,  
Succeeding Suns may bake the Mellow Ground.  
But if the Soil be barren, only scar  
The Surface, and but lightly print the Share,  
When cold Arcturus rises with the Sun:  
Lest wicked Weeds the Corn should overrun  
In watery Soils; or lest the barren Sand  
Should suck the Moisture from the thirsty Land.  
Both these unhappy Soils the Swain forbears,  
And keeps a Sabbath of alternate Years:  
That the spent Earth may gather heart again;  
And, bettered by Cessation, bear the Grain.  
At lest where Vetches, Pulse, and Tares have stood,  
And Stalks of Lupins grew (a stubborn Wood:)  
Th' ensuing Season, in return, may bear  
The bearded product of the Golden Year.  
For Flax and Oats will burn the tender Field,  
And sleepy Poppies harmful Harvests yield.  
But sweet Vicissitudes of Rest and Toil  
Make easy Labour, and renew the Soil.  
Yet sprinkle sordid Ashes all around,  
And load with fattening Dung thy fallow Ground.  
Thus change of Seeds for meager Soils is best;  
And Earth manured, not idle, though at rest.   

Long Practice has a sure Improvement found,  
With kindled Fires to burn the barren Ground;  
When the light Stubble, to the Flames resigned,  
Is driven along, and crackles in the Wind.  
Whether from hence the hollow Womb of Earth  
Is warmed with secret Strength for better Birth,  
Or when the latent Vice is cured by Fire,  
Redundant Humours through the Pores expire;  
Or that the Warmth distends the Chinks, and makes  
New Breathe, whence new Nourishment she takes;  
Or that the Heat the gaping Ground constrains,  
New Knits the Surface, and new Strings the Veins;  
Lest soaking Showers should pierce her secret Seat,  
Or freezing Boreas' i'll her genial Heat;  
Or scorching Suns too violently beat.   

Nor is the Profit small, the Peasant makes;  
Who smooths with Harrows, or who pounds with Rakes  
The crumbling Clods: Nor Ceres from on high  
Regards his Labours with a grudging Eye;  
Nor his, who ploughs across the furrowed Grounds,  
And on the Back of Earth inflicts new Wounds:  
For he with frequent Exercise Commands  
Th' unwilling Soil, and tames the stubborn Lands.   

Ye Swains, invoke the Powers who rule the Sky,  
For a moist Summer, and a Winter dry:  
For Winter drout rewards the Peasant's Pain,  
And brood's indulgent on the buried Grain.  
Hence Mysia boasts her Harvests, and the tops  
Of Gargarus admire their happy Crops.  
When first the Soil receives the fruitful Seed,  
Make no delay, but cover it with speed:  
So fenced from Cold; the pliant Furrows break,  
Before the surly Clod resists the Rake.  
And call the Floods from high, to rush amain  
With pregnant Streams, to swell the teeming Grain.  
Then when the fiery Suns too fiercely play,  
And shriveled Herbs on withering Stems decay,  
The wary Ploughman, on the Mountain's Brow,  
Undams his watery Stores, huge Torrents flow;  
And, rattling down the Rocks, large moisture yield,  
Tempering the thirsty Fever of the Field.  
And lest the Stem, too feeble for the freight,  
Should scarce sustain the head's unwieldy weight,  
Sends in his feeding Flocks betimes t'invade  
The rising bulk of the luxuriant Blade;  
ere yet th'aspiring Offspring of the Grain  
O'retops the ridges of the furrowed Plain:  
And drains the standing Waters, when they yield  
Too large a Bev'rage to the drunken Field.  
But most in Autumn, and the show'ry Spring,  
When dubious Months uncertain weather bring;  
When Fountains open, when impetuous Rain  
Swells hasty Brooks, and pours upon the Plain;  
When Earth with Slime and Mud is covered o'er,  
Or hollow places spew their wat'ry Store.  
Nor yet the Ploughman, nor the labouring Steer,  
Sustain alone the hazards of the Year:  
But glutton Geese, and the Strymonian Crane,  
With foreign Troops, invade the tender Grain:  
And towering Weeds malignant Shadows yield;  
And spreading Succ'ry chokes the rising Field.  
The Sire of Gods and Men, with hard Decrees,  
Forbids our Plenty to be bought with Ease:  
And wills that Mortal Men, inur'd to toil,  
Should exercise, with pains, the grudging Soil.  
Himself invented first the shining Share,  
And whetted Humane Industry by Care:  
Himself did Handicrafts and Arts ordain;  
Nor suffered Sloth to rust his active Reign.  
ere this, no Peasant vexed the peaceful Ground;  
Which only Turfs and Greene's for Altars found:  
No Fences parted Fields, nor Marks nor Bounds  
Distinguished Acres of litigious Grounds:  
But all was common, and the fruitful Earth  
Was free to give her unexacted Birth.  
Jove added Venom to the Viper's Brood,  
And swelled, with raging Storms, the peaceful Flood:  
Commissioned hungry Wolves t' infest the Fold,  
And shook from Oaken Leaves the liquid Gold.  
Removed from Humane reach the cheerful Fire,  
And from the Rivers bade the Wine retire:  
That studious Need might useful Arts explore;  
From furrowed Fields to reap the foodful Store:  
And force the Veins of clashing Flints t' expire  
The lurking Seeds of their Celestial Fire.  
Then first on Seas the hollowed Alder swum;  
Then Sailors quartered Heaven, and found a Name  
For every fixed and every wand'ring Star:  
The Pleiads, Hyads, and the Northern Car.  
Then Toils for Beasts, and Lime for Birds were found,  
And deep-mouth Dogs did Forest Walks surround:  
And casting Nets were spread in shallow Brooks,  
Drags in the Deep, and Baits were hung on Hooks.  
Then Saws were toothed, and sounding Axes made;  
(For Wedges first did yielding Wood invade.)  
And various Arts in order did succeed,  
(What cannot endless Labour urged by need?)   

First Ceres taught, the Ground with Grain to sow,  
And armed with Iron Shares the crooked Plough;  
When now Dodonian Oaks no more supplied  
Their Mast, and Trees their Forrest-fruit denied.  
Soon was his Labour doubled to the Swain,  
And blasting Mildews blackened all his Grain.  
Tough Thistles choked the Fields, and killed the Corn,  
And an unthrifty Crop of Weeds was born.  
Then Burrs and Brambles, an unbidden Crew  
Of graceless Guests, th' unhappy Field subdue:  
And Oats unblessed, and Darnel domineers,  
And shoots its head above the shining Ears.  
So that unless the Land with daily Care  
Is exercised, and with an Iron War,  
Of Rakes and Harrows, the proud Foes expelled,  
And Birds with clamours frighted from the Field;  
Unless the Boughs are lopped that shade the Plain,  
And Heaven invoked with Vows for fruitful Rain,  
On other Crops you may with envy look,  
And shake for Food the long abandoned Oak.  
Nor must we pass untold what Arms they wield,  
Who labour Tillage and the furrowed Field:  
Without whose aid the Ground her Corn denys,  
And nothing can be sown, and nothing rise.  
The crooked Plough, the Share, the towr'ing height  
Of Wagons, and the Cart's unwieldy weight;  
The Sled, the Tumbril, Hurdles and the Flail,  
The Fan of Bacchus, with the flying Sail.  
These all must be prepared, if Plowmen hope  
The promised Blessing of a Bounteous Crop.  
Young Elms with early force in Copses bow,  
Fit for the Figure of the crooked Plough.   

To Sr john Hawles▪ of Lincoln's Inn in the County of Midlesex Knt: His Majesty's Solicitor Gen ll:  
Geor 1. L. 240.   

Of eight Foot long a fastened Beam prepare,  
On either side the Head produce an Ear,  
And sink a Socket for the shining Share.  
Of Beech the Plough-tail, and the bending Yoke;  
Or softer Linden hardened in the Smoke.  
I could be long in Precepts, but I fear  
So mean a Subject might offend your Ear.  
Delve of convenient Depth your thrashing Floor;  
With tempered Clay, then fill and face it o'er:  
And let the weighty Rowler run the round,  
To smooth the Surface of th' unequal Ground;  
Lest cracked with Summer Heats the flooring flies,  
Or sinks, and through the Crannies Weeds arise.  
For sundry Foes the Rural Realm surround:  
The Field Mouse builds her Garner under ground,  
For gathered Grain the blind laborious Mole,  
In winding Mazes works her hidden Hole.  
In hollow Caverns Vermin make abode,  
The hissing Serpent, and the swelling Toad:  
The Corn devouring Weasel here abides,  
And the wise Ant her wintry Store provides.   

Mark well the flowering Almonds in the Wood;  
If odorous Blooms the bearing Branches load,  
The Glebe will answer to the Sylvan Reign,  
Great Heats will follow, and large Crops of Grain.  
But if a Wood of Leaves o'ershade the Tree,  
Such and so barren will thy Harvest be:  
In vain the Hind shall vex the thrashing Floor,  
For empty Chaff and Straw will be thy Store.  
Some steep their Seed, and some in Cauldrons boil  
With vigorous Nitre, and with Lees of Oil,  
O'er gentle Fires; th' exuberant Juice to drain,  
And swell the flattering Husks with fruitful Grain.  
Yet is not the Success for Years assured,  
Tho chosen is the Seed, and fully cured;  
Unless the Peasant, with his Annual Pain,  
Renews his Choice, and culls the largest Grain.  
Thus all below, whether by Nature's Curse,  
Or Fates Decree, degenerate still to worse.  
So the Boats brawny Crew the Current stem,  
And, slow advancing, struggle with the Stream:  
But if they slack their hands, or cease to strive,  
Then down the Flood with headlong haste they drive.   

Nor must the Ploughman less observe the Skies,  
When the Kids, Dragon, and Arcturus rise,  
Than Saylors homeward bend, who cut their Way  
Through Helle's stormy straits, and Oyster-breeding Sea.  
But when Astrea's Balance, hung on high,  
Betwixt the Nights and Days divides the Sky,  
Then Yoke your Oxen, sow your Winter Grain;  
Till cold December comes with driving Rain.  
Lineseed and fruitful Poppy bury warm,  
In a dry Season, and prevent the Storm.  
Sow Beans and Clover in a rotten Soil,  
And Millet rising from your Annual Toil;  
When with his Golden Horns, in full Career,  
The Bull beats down the Barriers of the Year;  
And Arg●s and the Dog forsake the Northern Sphere.   

But if your Care to Wheat alone extend,  
Let Maja with her Sister's first descend,  
And the bright Gnosian Diadem downward bend:  
Before you trust in Earth your future Hope;  
Or else expect a listless lazy Crop.  
Some Swains have sown before, but most have found  
A husky Harvest, from the grudging Ground.  
Vile Vetches would you sow, or Lentils lean,  
The Growth of Egypt, or the Kidney-bean?  
Begin when the slow Waggoner descends,  
Nor cease your sowing till Midwinter ends:  
For this, through twelve bright Signs Apollo guides  
The Year, and Earth in several Climes divides.  
Five Girdles bind the Skies, the torrid Zone  
Glows with the passing and repassing Sun.  
Far on the right and left, th' extremes of Heaven,  
To Frosts and Snows, and bitter Blasts are given.  
Betwixt the midst and these, the Gods assigned  
Two habitable Seats for Humane Kind:  
And cross their limits cut a sloping way,  
Which the twelve Signs in beauteous order sway.  
Two Poles turn round the Globe; one seen to rise  
O'er Scythian Hills, and one in Lybian Skies.  
The first sublime in Heaven, the last is whirled  
Below the Regions of the nether World.  
Around our Pole the spiry Dragon glides,  
And like a winding Stream the Bears divides;  
The less and greater, who by Fate's Decree  
Abhor to dive beneath the Southern Sea:  
There, as they say, perpetual Night is found  
In silence brooding on th' unhappy ground:  
Or when Aurora leaves our Northern Sphere,  
She lights the downward Heaven, and rises there.  
And when on us she breathes the living Light,  
Red Vesper kindles there the Tapers of the Night.  
From hence uncertain Seasons we may know;  
And when to reap the Grain, and when to sow:  
Or when to fell the Furzes, when 'tis meet  
To spread the flying Canvas for the Fleet.  
Observe what Stars arise or disappear;  
And the four Quarters of the rolling Year.  
But when cold Wether and continued Rain,  
The labouring Husband in his House restrain:  
Let him forecast his Work with timely care,  
Which else is huddled, when the Skies are fair:  
Then let him mark the Sheep, or whet the shining Share.  
Or hollow Trees for Boats, or number o'er  
His Sacks, or measure his increasing Store:  
Or sharpen Stakes, or head the Forks, or twine  
The Sallow Twigs to tie the straggling Vine:  
Or wicker Baskets wove, or air the Corn,  
Or grinded Grain betwixt two Marbles turn.  
No Laws, Divine or Human, can restrain  
From necessary Works, the labouring Swain.  
Even holidays and Feasts permission yield,  
The Meads to water, and to fence the Field,  
To Fire the Brambles, snare the Birds, and steep  
In wholesome Water-falls the woolly Sheep.  
And oft the drudging Ass is driven, with Toil,  
To neighbouring Towns with Apples and with Oil:  
Returning late, and loaden home with Gain  
Of bartered Pitch, and Hand-mills for the Grain.   

The lucky Days, in each revolving Moon,  
For Labour choose: The Fifth be sure to shun;  
That gave the Furies and pale Pluto Birth,  
And armed, against the Skies, the Sons of Earth.  
With Mountains piled on Mountains, thrice they strove  
To scale the steepy Battlements of Jove:  
And thrice his Lightning and red Thunder played,  
And their demolished Works in Ruin laid.  
The seventh is, next the Tenth, the best to join  
Young Oxen to the Yoke, and plant the Vine.  
Then Weavers stretch your Stays upon the Weft:  
The Ninth is good for Travel, bad for Theft.  
Some Works in dead of Night are better done;  
Or when the Morning Dew prevents the Sun.   

To Joseph Jekyll of the middle Temple Esq  
Geo: 1. l. 390   

Parched Meads and Stubble mow, by Phoebe's Light;  
Which both require the Coolness of the Night:  
For Moisture than abounds, and Pearly Rains  
Descend in Silence to refresh the Plains.  
The Wife and Husband equally conspire,  
To work by Night, and rake the Winter Fire:  
He sharpens Torches in the glimmering Room,  
She shoots the flying Shuttle through the Loom:  
Or boils in Kettles Must of Wine, and Skins  
With Leaves, the Dregs that overflow the Brims.  
And till the watchful Cock awakes the Day,  
She sings to drive the tedious hours away.  
But in warm Wether, when the Skies are clear,  
By Daylight reap the Product of the Year:  
And in the Sun your golden Grain display,  
And thrash it out, and winnow it by Day.  
Plough naked, Swain, and naked sow the Land,  
For lazy Winter numbs the labouring Hand.  
In Genial Winter, Swains enjoy their Store,  
Forget their Hardships, and recruit for more.  
The Farmer to full Bowls invites his Friends,  
And what he got with Pains, with Pleasure spends.  
So Saylors, when escaped from stormy Seas,  
First crown their Vessels, then indulge their Ease.  
Yet that's the proper Time to thrash the Wood  
For Mast of Oak, your Father's homely Food.  
To gather Laurel-berries, and the Spoil  
Of bloody Myrtles, and to press your Oil.  
For stalking Cranes to set the guileful Snare,  
T' enclose the Stags in Toils, and hunt the Hare.  
With Balearick Slings, or Gnossian Bow,  
To persecute from far the flying do.  
Then, when the Fleecy Skies new cloth the Wood,  
And cakes of rustling Ice come rolling down the Flood.   

Now sing we stormy Stars, when Autumn weighs  
The Year, and adds to Nights, and shortens Days;  
And Suns declining shine with feeble Rays:  
What Cares must then attend the toiling Swain;  
Or when the lowering Spring, with lavish Rain,  
Beats down the slender Stem and bearded Grain:  
While yet the Head is green, or lightly swelled  
With Milky-moisture, overlooks the Field.  
Even when the Farmer, now secure of Fear,  
Sends in the Swains to spoil the finished Year:  
Even while the Reaper fills his greedy hands,  
And binds the golden Sheafs in brittle bands:  
Oft have I seen a sudden Storm arise,  
From all the warring Winds that sweep the Skies:  
The heavy Harvest from the Root is torn,  
And whirled aloft the lighter Stubble born;  
With such a force the flying rack is driven;  
And such a Winter wears the face of Heaven:  
And oft whole sheets descend of slucy Rain,  
Sucked by the spongy Clouds from off the Main:  
The lofty Skies at once come pouring down,  
The promised Crop and golden Labours drown.  
The Dykes are filled, and with a roaring sound  
The rising Rivers float the nether ground;  
And Rocks the bellowing Voice of boiling Seas rebound.  
The Father of the Gods his Glory shrowds,  
Involved in Tempests, and a Night of Clouds.  
And from the middle Darkness flashing out,  
By fits he deals his fiery Bolts about.  
Earth feels the Motions of her angry God,  
Her Entrails tremble, and her Mountains nod;  
And flying Beasts in Forests seek abode:  
Deep horror seizes every Humane Breast,  
Their Pride is humbled, and their Fear confessed:   

To Thomas Vernon of Hanbury in Worcester- Shire Esq  
Geo: 1 L 475   

While he from high his rolling Thunder throws,  
And fires the Mountains with repeated blows:  
The Rocks are from their old Foundations rend;  
The Winds redouble, and the Rains augment:  
The Waves on heaps are dashed against the Shoar,  
And now the Woods, and now the Billows roar.   

In fear of this, observe the starry Signs,  
Where Saturn houses, and where Hermes joins.  
But first to Heaven thy due Devotions pay,  
And Annual Gifts on Ceres' Altars lay.  
When Winter's rage abates, when cheerful Hours  
Awake the Spring, and Spring awakes the Flowers,  
On the green Turf thy careless Limbs display,  
And celebrate the mighty Mother's day.  
For then the Hills with pleasing Shades are crowned,  
And Sleeps are sweeter on the silken Ground:  
With milder Beams the Sun securely shines;  
Fat are the Lambs, and luscious are the Wines.  
Let every Swain adore her Power Divine,  
And Milk and Honey mix with sparkling Wine:  
Let all the Choir of Clowns attend the Show,  
In long Procession, shouting as they go;  
Invoking her to bless their yearly Stores,  
Inviting Plenty to their crowded Floors.  
Thus in the Spring, and thus in Summer's Heat,  
Before the Sickles touch the ripening Wheat,  
On Ceres call; and let the labouring Hind  
With Oaken Wreaths his hollow Temples bind:  
On Ceres let him call, and Ceres' praise,  
With uncouth Dances, and with Country Lays.   

And that by certain signs we may presage  
Of Heats and Rains, and Wind's impetuous rage,  
The sovereign of the heavens has set on high  
The Moon, to mark the Changes of the Sky:  
When Southern blasts should cease, and when the Swain  
Should near their Folds his feeding Flocks restrain.  
For e'er the rising Winds begin to roar,  
The working Seas advance to wash the Shoar:  
Soft whispers run along the levy Woods,  
And Mountains whistle to the murmuring Floods:  
Even than the doubtful Billows scarce abstain  
From the tossed Vessel on the troubled Main:  
When crying Cormorants forsake the Sea,  
And stretching to the Covert wing their way:  
When sportful Coats run skimming o'er the Strand;  
When watchful Herons leave their watery Stand,  
And mounting upward, with erected flight,  
Gain on the Skies, and soar above the sight.  
And oft before tempest'our Winds arise,  
The seeming Stars fall headlong from the Skies;  
And, shooting through the darkness, gild the Night  
With sweeping Glories, and long trails of Light:  
And Chaff with eddy Winds is whirled around,  
And dancing Leaves are lifted from the Ground;  
And floating Feathers on the Waters play.  
But when the winged Thunder takes his way  
From the cold North, and East and West engage,  
And at their Frontiers meet with equal rage,  
The Clouds are crushed, a glut of gathered Rain  
The hollow Ditches fills, and floats the Plain,  
And Sailors furl their dropping Sheets amain.  
Wet weather seldom hurts the most unwise,  
So plain the Signs, such Prophets are the Skies:  
The wary Crane foresees it first, and sails  
Above the Storm, and leaves the lowly Vales:  
The Cow looks up, and from afar can find  
The change of Heaven, and snuffs it in the Wind.  
The Swallow skims the River's watery Face,  
The Frogs renew the Croaks of their loquacious Race.  
The careful Ant her secret Cell forsakes,  
And drags her Eggs along the narrow Tracks.  
At either Horn the Rainbow drinks the Flood,  
Huge Flocks of rising Rooks sorsake their Food,  
And, crying, seek the Shelter of the Wood  
Besides, the several sorts of watery Fowls,  
That swim the Seas, or haunt the standing Pools:  
The Swans that sail along the Silver Flood,  
And dive with stretching Necks to search their Food.  
Then lave their Backs with sprinkling Dews in vain,  
And stem tke Stream to meet the promised Rain.  
The Crow with clamorous Cries the Shower demands,  
And single stalks along the Desert Sands.  
The nightly Virgin, while her Wheel she plies,  
Foresees the Storm impending in the Skies,  
When sparkling Lamps their sputt'ring Light advance,  
And in the Sockets Oily Bubbles dance.   

Then after Showers, 'tis easy to descry  
Returning Suns, and a serener Sky:  
The Stars shine smarter, and the Moon adorns,  
As with unborrowed Beams, her sharpened Horns.  
The filmy Gossamer now flits no more,  
Nor Halcyons bask on the short Sunny Shoar:  
Their Litter is not tossed by Sow's unclean,  
But a blue droughty Mist descends upon the Plain.  
And Owls, that mark the setting Sun, declare  
A Starlight Evening, and a Morning fair.  
Towering aloft, avenging Nisus flies,  
While dared below the guilty Scylla lies.  
wherever frighted Scylla flies away,  
Swift Nisus follows, and pursues his Prey.  
Where injured Nisus takes his Airy Course,  
Thence trembling Scylla flies and shuns his Force.  
This punishment pursues th' unhappy Maid,  
And thus the purple Hair is dearly paid.  
Then, thrice the Ravens rend the liquid Air,  
And croaking Notes proclaim the settled fair.  
Then, round their Airy Palaces they fly,  
To greet the Sun; and seized with secret Joy,  
When Storms are overblown, with Food repair  
To their forsaken Nests, and callow Care.  
Not that I think their Breasts with Heavenly Souls  
Inspired, as Man, who Destiny controls.  
But with the changeful Temper of the Skies,  
As Rams condense, and Sunshine rarefies;  
So turn the Species in their altered Minds,  
Composed by Calms, and disoomposed by Winds.  
From hence proceeds the Birds harmonious Voice:  
From hence the Cows exult, and frisking Lambs rejoice.  
Observe the daily Circle of the Sun,  
And the short Year of each revolving Moon:  
By them thou shalt foresee the following day;  
Nor shall a starry Night thy Hopes betray.  
When first the Moon appears, if then she shrouds  
Her silver Crescent, tipped with sable Clouds;  
Conclude she bodes a Tempest on the Main,  
And brews for Fields impetuous Floods of Rain.  
Or if her Face with fiery Flushing glow,  
Expect the rattling Winds aloft to blow.  
But four Nights old, (for that's the surest Sign,)  
With sharpened Horns if glorious than she shine:  
Next Day, nor only that, but all the Moon,  
Till her revolving Race be wholly run;  
Are void of Tempests, both by Land and Sea,  
And Sailors in the Port their promised Vow shall pay.  
Above the rest, the Sun, who never lies;  
Foretells the change of Wether in the Skies:  
For if he rise, unwilling to his Race,  
Clouds on his Brows, and Spots upon his Face;  
Or if through Mists he shoots his sullen Beams,  
Frugal of Light, in loose and straggling Streams:  
Suspect a drizzling Day, with Southern Rain,  
Fatal to Fruits, and Flocks, and promised Grain.  
Or if Aurora, with half opened Eyes,  
And a pale sickly Cheek, salute the Skies;  
How shall the Vine, with tender Leaves, defend  
Her teeming Clusters, when the Storms descend?  
When ridgy Roofs and Tiles can scarce avail,  
To bar the Ruin of the rattling Hail.  
But more than all, the setting Sun survey,  
When down the Steep of Heaven he drives the Day.  
For oft we find him finishing his Race,  
With various Colours erring on his Face;  
If fiery red his glowing Globe descends,  
High Winds and furious Tempests he portends.  
But if his Cheeks are swollen with livid blue,  
He bodes wet Wether by his watery Hue.  
If dusky Spots are varied on his Brow,  
And, streaked with red, a troubled Colour show;  
That sullen Mixture shall at once declare  
Winds, Rain, and Storms, and Elemental War:  
What desperate Madman than would venture o'er  
The Frith, or haul his Cables from the Shoar?  
But if with Purple Rays he brings the Light,  
And a pure Heaven resigns to quiet Night:  
No rising Winds, or falling Storms, are nigh:  
But Northern Breezes through the Forest fly:  
And drive the rack, and purge the ruffled Sky.  
Th' unerring Sun by certain Signs declares,  
What the late Even, or early Morn prepares:  
And when the South projects a stormy Day,  
And when the clearing North will puff the Clouds away.   

The Sun reveals the Secrets of the Sky;  
And who dares give the Source of Light the Lie?  
The change of Empires often he declares,  
Fierce Tumults, hidden Treasons, open Wars.  
He first the Fate of Caesar did foretell,  
And pitied Rome, when Rome in Caesar fell.  
In Iron Clouds concealed the Public Light:  
And Impious Mortals feared Eternal Night.   

Nor was the Fact foretold by him alone:  
Nature herself stood forth, and seconded the Sun.  
Earth, Air, and Seas, with Prodigies were signed,  
And Birds obscene, and howling Dogs divined.  
What Rocks did Aetna's bellowing Mouth expire  
From her torn Entrails! and what Floods of Fire!  
What Clanks were heard, in Germane Skies afar,  
Of Arms and Armies, rushing to the War!  
Dire Earthquakes rend the solid Alps below,  
And from their Summets shook th' Eternal Snow.  
Pale Spectres in the close of Night were seen;  
And Voices heard of more than Mortal Men.  
In silent Groves, dumb Sheep and Oxen spoke;  
And Streams ran backward, and their Beds forsaken:  
The yawning Earth disclosed th' Abyss of Hell:  
The weeping Statues did the Wars foretell;  
And Holy Sweat from Brazen Idols fell.  
Then rising in his Might, the King of Floods,  
Rushed through the Forests, tore the lofty Woods;  
And rolling onward, with a sweepy Sway,  
Bore Houses, Herds, and labouring Hinds away.   

To William Dobyns of Lincoln's Inn Esq.  
Geo 1: 625.   

Blood sprang from Wells, Wolf's howled in Towns by Night,  
And boding Victims did the Priests affright.  
Such Peals of Thunder never poured from high;  
Nor lightning flashed from so serene a Sky.  
Red Meteors ran along th' Etherial Space;  
Stars disappeared, and Comets took their place.  
For this, th' Emathian Plains once more were strowed  
With Roman Bodies, and just Heaven thought good  
To fatten twice those Fields with Roman Blood.  
Then, after length of Time, the labouring Swains,  
Who turn the Turfs of those unhappy Plains,  
Shall rusty Piles from the ploughed Furrows take,  
And over empty Helmets pass the Rake.  
Amazed at Antic Titles on the Stones,  
And mighty Relics of Gygantick Bones.   

Ye home-born Deities, of Mortal Birth!  
Thou Father Romulus, and Mother Earth,  
Goddess unmoved! whose Guardian Arms extend  
O'er Tuscan Tiber's Course, and Roman towers defend;  
With youthful Caesar your joint Powers engage,  
Nor hinder him to save the sinking Age.  
O! let the Blood, already spilt, atone  
For the past Crimes of cursed Laomedon!  
Heaven wants thee there, and long the Gods, we know,  
Have grudged thee, Caesar, to the World below.  
Where Fraud and Rapine, Right and Wrong confound;  
Where impious Arms from every part resound,  
And monstrous Crimes in every Shape are crowned.  
The peaceful Peasant to the Wars is pressed;  
The Fields lie fallow in inglorious Rest.  
The Plain no Pasture to the Flock affords,  
The crooked Scytheses are straightened into Swords:  
And there Euphrates her soft Offspring Arms,  
And here the Rhine rebellows with Alarms:  
The neighbouring Cities range on several sides,  
Perfidious Mars long plighted Leagues divides,  
And o'er the wasted World in Triumph rides.  
So four fierce Coursers starting to the Race,  
Scow'r through the Plain, and lengthen every Pace:  
Nor Reigns, nor Curbs, nor threatening Cries they fear,  
But force along the trembling Charioteer.    

The Second Book of the Georgics.  
The Argument.  
The Subject of the following Book is Planting. In handling of which Argument, the Poet shows all the different Methods of raising Trees: Describes their Variety; and gives Rules for the management of each in particular. He than points out the Soils in which the several Plants thrive best: And thence takes occasion to run out into the Praises of Italy. After which he gives some Directions for discovering the Nature of every Soil; prescribes Rules for the Dressing of Vines, Olives, etc. And concludes the Georgic with a Panegyric on a Country Life.  

To Sr: r: William Bowyer Baronet of Denham Court in the County of Bucks.  
Geor.: 2. L. 1.   

THus far of Tillage, and of Heavenly Signs;  
Now sing my Muse the growth of generous Vines:  
The shady Groves, the Woodland Progeny,  
And the slow Product of Minerva's Tree.   

Great Father Bacchus! to my Song repair;  
For clustering Grapes are thy peculiar Care:  
For thee large Bunches load the bending Vine,  
And the last Blessings of the Year are thine.  
To thee his Joys the jolly Autumn owes,  
When the fermenting Juice the Vat overflows.  
Come strip with me, my God, come drench all o'er  
Thy Limbs in Must of Wine, and drink at every Poor.   

Some Trees their birth to bounteous Nature owe:  
For some without the pains of Planting grow.  
With Osiers thus the Banks of Brooks abound,  
Sprung from the watery Genius of the Ground:  
From the same Principles grey Willows come;  
Herculean Poplar, and the tender Broom.  
But some from Seeds enclosed in Earth arise:  
For thus the mastful Chestnut mates the Skies.  
Hence rise the branching Beech and vocal Oak,  
Where Jove of old Oraculously spoke.  
Some from the Root a rising Wood disclose;  
Thus Elms, and thus the savage Cherry grows.  
Thus the green Bays, that binds the Poet's Brows,  
Shoots and is sheltered by the Mother's Boughs.   

These ways of Planting, Nature did ordain,  
For Trees and Shrubs, and all the Sylvan Reign.  
Others there are, by late Experience found:  
Some cut the Shoots, and plant in furrowed ground:  
Some cover rooted Stalks in deeper Mould:  
Some cloven Stakes, and (wondrous to behold,)  
Their sharpened ends in Earth their footing place,  
And the dry Poles produce a living Race.  
Some bow their Vines, which buried in the Plain,  
Their tops in distant Arches rise again.  
Others no Root require, the labourer cuts  
Young Slips, and in the Soil securely puts.  
Even Stump of Olives, barred of Leaves, and dead,  
Revive, and oft redeem their withered head.  
'Tis usual now, an Inmate Graff to see,  
With Insolence invade a Foreign Tree:  
Thus Pears and Quinces from the Crabtree come;  
And thus the ruddy Cornel bears the Plum.   

Then let the Learned Gardener mark with care  
The Kind's of Stocks, and what those Kind's will bear:  
Explore the Nature of each several Tree;  
And known, improve with artful Industry:  
And let no spot of idle Earth be found,  
But cultivate the Genius of the Ground.  
For open Ismarus will Bacchus please;  
Taburnus loves the shade of Olive Trees.   

The Virtues of the several Soils I sing,  
Maecenas, now thy needful Succour bring!  
O thou! the better part of my Renown,  
Inspire thy Poet, and thy Poem crown:  
Embark with me, while I new Tracts explore,  
With flying sails and breezes from the shore:  
Not that my song, in such a scanty space,  
So large a Subject fully can embrace:  
Not though I were supplied with Iron Lungs,  
A hundred Mouths, filled with as many Tongues:  
But steer my Vessel with a steady hand,  
And coast along the Shore in sight of Land.  
Nor will I tyre thy Patience with a train  
Of Preface, or what ancient Poets feign.  
The Trees, which of themselves advance in Air,  
Are barren kinds, but strongly built and fair:  
Because the vigour of the Native Earth  
Maintains the Plant, and makes a Manly Birth.  
Yet these, receiving Graffs of other Kind,  
Or thence transplanted, change their savage Mind:  
Their Wildness lose, and quitting Nature's part,  
Obey the Rules and Discipline of Art.  
The same do Trees, that, sprung from barren Roots  
In open fields, transplanted bear their Fruits.  
For where they grow the Native Energy  
Turns all into the Substance of the Tree,  
Starves and destroys the Fruit, is only made  
For brawny bulk, and for a barren shade.  
The Plant that shoots from Seed, a sullen Tree  
At leisure grows, for late Posterity;  
The generous flavour lost, the Fruits decay,  
And savage Grapes are made the Birds ignoble prey.  
Much labour is required in Trees, to tame  
Their wild disorder, and in ranks reclaim.  
Well must the ground be digged, and better dressed,  
New Soil to make, and meliorate the rest.  
Old Stakes of Olive Trees in Plants revive;  
By the same Methods Paphian Myrtles live:  
But nobler Vines by Propagation thrive.  
From Roots hard Hazles, and from Cyens rise  
Tall Ash, and taller Oak that mates the Skies:  
Palm, Poplar, Fir, descending from the Steep  
Of Hills, to try the dangers of the Deep.  
The thin-leaved Arbute Hazle, graffs receives,  
And Planes huge Apples bear, that bore but Leaves.  
Thus Mastful Beech the bristly Chestnut bears,  
And the wild Ash is white with blooming Pears.  
And greedy Swine from grafted Elms are fed,  
With falling Acorns, that on Oaks are bred.   

But various are the ways to change the state  
Of Plants, to Bud, to Graff, t' Inoculate.  
For where the tender Rinds of Trees disclose  
Their shooting Gems, a swelling Knot there grows;  
Just in that space a narrow Slit we make,  
Then other Buds from bearing Trees we take:  
Inserted thus, the wounded Rind we close,  
In whose moist Womb th' admitted Infant grows.  
But when the smother Bowl from Knots is free,  
We make a deep Incision in the Tree;  
And in the solid Wood the Slip enclose,  
The bat'ning Bastard shoots again and grows:  
And in short space the laden Boughs arise,  
With happy Fruit advancing to the Skies.  
The Mother Plant admires the Leaves unknown,  
Of Alien Trees, and Apples not her own.   

Of vegetable Woods are various Kind's,  
And the same Species are of several Minds.  
Lotes, Willows, Elms, have different Forms allowed,  
So funeral Cypress rising like a shroud.   

To Gilbert Dolbin of Thindon in Northamptonshire Esq  
Geo: 2 L▪ 145.   

Fat Olive Trees of sundry Sorts appear:  
Of sundry Shapes their unctuous Berries bear.  
Radij long Olives, Orchit's round produce,  
And bitter Pausia, pounded for the Juice.  
Alcinous Orchard various Apples bears:  
Unlike are Bergamotes and pounder Pears.  
Nor our Italian Vines produce the Shape,  
Or Taste, or Flavour of the Lesbian Grape.  
The Thasian Vines in richer Soils abound,  
The Mareotique grow in barren Ground.  
The Psythian Grape we dry: Lagaean Juice,  
Will stammering Tongues, and staggering Feet produce.  
Rathe ripe are some, and some of later kind,  
Of Golden some, and some of Purple Rind.  
How shall I praise the Raethean Grape divine,  
Which yet contends not with Falernian Wine!  
Th' Aminean many a Consulship survives,  
And longer than the Lydian Vintage lives?  
Or high Phanaeus King of Chian growth:  
But for large quantities, and lasting both,  
The less Argitis bears the Prize away.  
The Rhodian, sacred to the Solemn Day,  
In second Services is poured to Jove;  
And best accepted by the Gods above.  
Nor must Bumastus his old Honours lose,  
In length and largeness like the Dugs of Cows.  
I pass the rest, whose every Race and Name,  
And Kind's, are less material to my Theme.  
Which who would learn, as soon may tell the Sands,  
Driven by the Western Wind on Lybian Lands.  
Or number, when the blust'ring Eurus roars,  
The Billows beating on Ionian Shores.   

Nor every Plant on every Soil will grow;  
The Sallow loves the watery Ground, and low.  
The Marshes, Alders; Nature seems t'ordain  
The rocky Cliff for the wild Ashe's reign:  
The baleful Yeugh to Northern Blasts assigns;  
To Shore's the Myrtles, and to Mounts the Vines.   

Regard th' extremest cultivated Coast,  
From hot Arabia to the Scythian Frost:  
All sort of Trees their several Countries know;  
Black Ebon only will in India grow:  
And odorous Frankincense on the Sabaean Bough.  
Balm slowly trickles through the bleeding Veins  
Of happy Shrubs, in Idumaean Plains.  
The green Egyptian Thorn, for Medicine good;  
With Ethiopes hoary Trees and woolly Wood,  
Let others tell: and how the Seres spin  
Their fleecy Forests in a slender Twine.  
With mighty Trunks of Trees on Indian shores,  
Whose height above the feathered Arrow soars,  
Shot from the toughest Bow; and by the Brawn  
Of expert Archers, with vast Vigour drawn.  
Sharp tasted Citrons Median Climes produce:  
Bitter the Rind, but generous is the Juice:  
A cordial Fruit, a present Antidote  
Against the direful Stepdam's deadly Draught:  
Who mixing wicked Weeds with Words impure,  
The Fate of envied Orphans would procure.  
Large is the Plant, and like a Laurel grows,  
And did it not a different Scent disclose,  
A Laurel were: the fragrant Flowers contemn  
The stormy Winds, tenacious of their Stem.  
With this the Medes, to labouring Age, bequeath  
New Lungs, and cure the sourness of the Breath.   

But neither Median Woods, (a plenteous Land,)  
Fair Ganges, Hermus rolling Golden Sand,  
Nor Bactria, nor the richer Indian Fields,  
Nor all the Gummy Stores Arabia yields;  
Nor any foreign Earth of greater Name,  
Can with sweet Italy contend in Fame.  
No Bulls, whose Nostrils breathe a living Flame,  
Have turned our Turf, no Teeth of Serpents here  
Were sown, an armed Host, and Iron Crop to bear.  
But fruitful Vines, and the fat Olives fraight,  
And Harvests heavy with their fruitful weight,  
Adorn our Fields; and on the cheerful Green,  
The grazing Flocks and lowing Herds are seen.  
The Warrior Horse, here bred, is taught to train,  
There flows Clitumnus through the flowery Plain;  
Whose Waves, for Triumphs after prosperous Wars,  
The Victim Ox, and snowy Sheep prepares.  
Perpetual Spring our happy Climate sees,  
Twice breed the Cattle, and twice bear the Trees;  
And Summer Suns recede by slow degrees.   

Our Land is from the Rage of Tigers freed,  
Nor nourishes the Lion's angry Seed;  
Nor poisonous Aconite is here produced,  
Or grows unknown, or is, when known, refused.  
Nor in so vast a length our Serpents glide,  
Or raised on such a spiry Volume ride.   

Next add our Cities of Illustrious Name,  
Their costly Labour and stupend'ous Frame:  
Our Forts on steepy Hills, that far below  
See wanton Streams, in winding Valleys flow.  
Our twofold Seas, that washing either side,  
A rich Recruit of Foreign Stores provide.  
Our spacious Lakes; thee, Larius, first; and next  
Benacus, with tempest'ous Billows vexed.  
Or shall I praise thy Ports, or mention make  
Of the vast Mound, that binds the Lucrine Lake.  
Or the disdainful Sea, that, shut from thence,  
Roars round the Structure, and invades the Fence.  
There, where secure the Julian Waters glide,  
Or where Avernus' Jaws admit the Tyrrhene Tide.  
Our Quarries deep in Earth, were famed of old,  
For Veins of Silver, and for Ore of Gold.  
Th' Inhabitants themselves, their Country grace;  
Hence rose the Marsian and Sabellian Race:  
Strong limbed and stout, and to the Wars inclined,  
And hard Ligurians, a laborious Kind.  
And Volscians armed with Iron-headed Darts.  
Besides an Offspring of undaunted Hearts,  
The Deccis, Marij, great Camillus came  
From hence, and greater Scipio's double Name:  
And mighty Caesar, whose victorious Arms,  
To farthest Asia, carry fierce Alarms:  
Avert unwarlike Indians from his Rome;  
Triumph abroad, secure our Peace at home.   

Hail, sweet Saturnian Soil! of fruitful Grain  
Great Parent, greater of Illustrious Men.  
For thee my tuneful Accents will I raise,  
And treat of Arts disclosed in Ancient Days:  
Once more unlock for thee the sacred Spring,  
And old Ascraean Verse in Roman Cities sing.   

The Nature of their several Soils now see,  
Their Strength, their Colour, their Fertility:  
And first for Heath, and barren hilly Ground,  
Where meager Clay and flinty Stones abound;  
Where the poor Soil all Succour seems to want,  
Yet this suffices the Palladian Plant.  
Undoubted Signs of such a Soil are found,  
For here wild Olive-shoots o'erspread the ground,  
And heaps of Berries strew the Fields around.  
But where the Soil, with fattening Moisture filled,  
Is clothed with Grass, and fruitful to be tilled:  
Such as in cheerful Vales we view from high;  
Which dripping Rocks with rolling Streams supply,  
And feed with Ooze; where rising Hillocks run  
In length, and open to the Southern Sun;  
Where Fern succeeds, ungrateful to the Plough,  
That gentle ground to generous Grapes allow.  
Strong Stocks of Vines it will in time produce,  
And overflow the Fats with friendly Juice.  
Such as our Priests in golden Goblets pour  
To Gods, the Givers of the cheerful hour.  
Then when the bloated Tuscan blows his Horn,  
And reeking Entrails are in Chargers born.   

If Herds or fleecy Flocks be more thy Care,  
Or Goats that graze the Field, and burn it bare:  
Then seek Tarentum's Lawns, and farthest Coast,  
Or such a Field as hapless Mantua lost:  
Where Silver Swans sail down the wat'ry Rode,  
And graze the floating Herbage of the Flood.  
There Crystal Streams perpetual tenor keep,  
Nor Food nor Springs are wanting to thy Sheep.  
For what the Day devours, the nightly Dew  
Shall to the Morn in Perly Drops renew.  
Fat crumbling Earth is fitter for the Plough,  
Putrid and loose above, and black below:  
For Ploughing is an imitative Toil,  
Resembling Nature in an easy Soil.  
No Land for Seed like this, no Fields afford  
So large an Income to the Village Lord:  
No toiling Teams from Harvest-labour come  
So late at Night, so heavy laden home.  
The like of Forest Land is understood,  
From whence the spleenful Ploughman grubs the Wood,  
Which had for length of Ages idle stood.  
Then Birds forsake the Ruins of their Seat,  
And flying from their Nests their Callow Young forget.  
The course lean Gravel, on the Mountain sides,  
Scarce dewy Bev'rage for the Bees provides:  
Nor Chalk nor crumbling Stones, the food of Snakes,  
That work in hollow Earth their winding Tracts.  
The Soil exhaling Clouds of subtle Dews,  
Imbibing moisture which with ease she spews;  
Which rusts not Iron, and whose Mould is clean,  
Well clothed with cheerful Grass, and ever green,  
Is good for Olives and aspiring Vines;  
Embracing Husband Elms in amorous twines,  
Is fit for feeding Cattle, fit to sow,  
And equal to the Pasture and the Plough.  
Such is the Soil of fat Campanian Fields,  
Such large increase Vesuvian Nola yields:  
And such a Country could Acerra boast,  
Till Clanius overflowed th' unhappy Coast.   

I teach thee next the differing Soils to know;  
The light for Vines, the heavyer for the Plough.  
Choose first a place for such a purpose fit,  
There dig the solid Earth, and sink a Pit:  
Next fill the hole with its own Earth again,  
And trample with thy Feet, and tread it in:  
Then if it rise not to the former height  
Of superfice, conclude that Soil is light;  
A proper Ground for Pasturage and Vines.  
But if the sullen Earth, so pressed, repines  
Within its native Mansion to retire,  
And stays without, a heap of heavy Mire;   

To George London of his ma ties: Royal Garden in S t James ' s Park Gent.  
Geo▪ 2 L 〈…〉   

'Tis good for Arable, a Glebe that asks  
Tough Teams of Oxen, and laborious Tasks.   

Salt Earth and bitter are not fit to sow,  
Nor will be tamed or mended with the Plough.  
Sweet Grapes degenerate there, and Fruits declined  
From their first flav'rous Taste, renounce their Kind.  
This Truth by sure Experiment is tried;  
For first an Ofier Colendar provide  
Of Twigs thick wrought, (such toiling Peasants twine,  
When through straight Passages they strain their Wine;)  
In this close Vessel place that Earth accursed,  
But filled brimful with wholesome Water first;  
Then run it through, the Drops will rope around,  
And by the bitter Taste disclose the Ground.  
The fatter Earth by handling we may find,  
With Ease distinguished from the meager Kind:  
Poor Soil will crumble into Dust, the Rich  
will to the Fingers cleave like clammy Pitch:  
Moist Earth produces Corn and Grass, but both  
Too rank and too luxuriant in their Growth.  
Let not my Land so large a Promise boast,  
Lest the lank Ears in length of Stem be lost.  
The heavier Earth is by her Weight betrayed,  
The lighter in the poising Hand is weighed:  
'Tis easy to distinguish by the Sight  
The Colour of the Soil, and black from white.  
But the cold Ground is difficult to know,  
Yet this the Plants that prosper there, will show;  
Black Ivy, Pitch Trees, and the baleful Yeugh.  
These Rules considered well, with early Care,  
The Vineyard destined for thy Vines prepare:  
But, long before the Planting, dig the Ground,  
With Furrows deep that cast a rising Mound:  
The Clods, exposed to Winter Winds, will bake:  
For putrid Earth will best in Vineyards take,  
And hoary Frosts, after the painful Toil  
Of delving Hinds, will rot the Mellow Soil.   

Some Peasants, not t' omit the nicest Care,  
Of the same Soil their Nursery prepare,  
With that of their Plantation; lest the Tree  
Translated, should not with the Soil agree.  
Beside, to plant it as it was, they mark  
The heavens four Quarters on the tender Bark;  
And to the North or South restore the Side,  
Which at their Birth did Heat or Cold abide.  
So strong is Custom; such Effects can Use  
In tender Souls of pliant Plants produce.   

Choose next a Province, for thy Vineyards Reign,  
On Hills above, or in the lowly Plain:  
If fertile Fields or Valleys be thy Choice,  
Plant thick, for bounteous Bacchus will rejoice  
In close Plantations there: But if the Vine  
On rising Ground be placed, or Hills supine,  
Extend thy loose Battalions largely wide,  
Opening thy Ranks and Files on either Side:  
But marshaled all in order as they Stand,  
And let no Soldier straggle from his Band.  
As Legions in the Field their Front display,  
To try the Fortune of some doubtful Day,  
And move to meet their Foes with sober Pace,  
Strict to their Figure, tho' in wider Space;  
Before the Battle joins, while from afar  
The Field yet glitters with the Pomp of War,  
And equal Mars, like an impartial Lord,  
Leaves all to Fortune, and the dint of Sword;  
So let thy Vines in Intervals be set,  
But not their Rural Discipline forget:  
Indulge their Width, and add a roomy Space,  
That their extremest Lines may scarce embrace:  
Nor this alone t'indulge a vain Delight,  
And make a pleasing Prospect for the Sight:  
But, for the Ground itself this only Way,  
Can equal Vigour to the Plants convey;  
Which crowded, want the room, their Branches to display.   

How deep they must be planted, wouldst thou know?  
In shallow Furrows Vines securely grow.  
Not so the rest of Plants; for Jove's own Tree,  
That holds the Woods in awful Sovereignty,  
Requires a depth of Lodging in the Ground;  
And, next the lower Skies, a Bed profound:  
High as his topmost Boughs to Heaven ascend,  
So low his Roots to Hell's Dominion tend.  
Therefore, nor Winds, nor Winter's Rage overthrows  
His bulky Body, but unmoved he grows.  
For length of Ages lasts his happy Reign,  
And Lives of Mortal Man contend in vain.  
Full in the midst of his own Strength he stands,  
Stretching his brawny Arms, and leafy Hands;  
His Shade protects the Plains, his Head the Hills commands   

The hurtful Hazle in thy Vineyard shun;  
Nor plant it to receive the setting Sun:  
Nor break the topmost Branches from the Tree;  
Nor prune, with blunted Knife, the Progeny.  
Root up wild Olives from thy laboured Lands:  
For sparkling Fire, from Hinds unwary Hands,  
Is often scattered o'er their unctuous rinds,  
And after spread abroad by raging Winds.  
For first the smouldering Flame the Trunk receives,  
Ascending thence, it crackles in the Leaves:  
At length victorious to the Top aspires,  
Involving all the Wood with smoky Fires,  
But most, when driven by Winds, the flaming Storm,  
Of the long Files destroys the beauteous Form.  
In Ashes then th' unhappy Vineyard lies,  
Nor will the blasted Plants from Ruin rise:  
Nor will the withered Stock be green again,  
But the wild Olive shoots, and shades th' ungrateful Plain.  
Be not seduced with Wisdom's empty Shows,  
To stir the peaceful Ground when Boreas blows.  
When Winter Frosts constrain the Field with Cold,  
The fainty Root can take no steady hold.  
But when the Golden Spring reveals the Year,  
And the white Bird returns, whom Serpents fear:  
That Season deem the best to plant thy Vines.  
Next that, is when Autumnal Warmth declines:  
e'er Heat is quite decayed, or Cold begun,  
Or Capricorn admits the Winter Sun.   

The Spring adorns the Woods, renews the Leaves;  
The Womb of Earth the genial Seed receives.  
For than Almighty Jove descends, and pours  
Into his buxom Bride his fruitful Showers.  
And mixing his large Limbs with hers, he feeds  
Her Births with kindly Juice, and fosters teeming Seeds.  
Then joyous Birds frequent the lonely Grove,  
And Beasts, by Nature stung, renew their Love.  
Then Fields the Blades of buried Corn disclose,  
And while the balmy Western Spirit blows,  
Earth to the Breath her Bosom dares expose.  
With kindly Moisture than the Plants abound,  
The Grass securely springs above the Ground;  
The tender Twig shoots upward to the Skies,  
And on the Faith of the new Sun relies.  
The swerving Vines on the tall Elms prevail,  
Unhurt by Southern Showers or Northern Hail.  
They spread their Gems the genial Warmth to share:  
And boldly trust their Buds in open Air.  
In this soft Season (so sweet Poets sing)  
The World was hatched by heavens Imperial King:  
In prime of all the Year, and holiday of Spring.  
Earth knew no Season then, but Spring alone:  
On the moist Ground the Sun serenely shone:  
Then Winter Winds their blustering Rage forbear,  
And in a silent Pomp proceeds the mighty Year.  
Sheep soon were sent to people flowery Fields,  
And savage Beasts were banished into wild's.  
Then Heaven was lighted up with Stars; and Man,  
A hard relentless Race, from Stones began.  
Nor could the tender, new Creation, bear  
Th' excessive Heats or Coldness of the Year:  
But chilled by Winter, or by Summer fired,  
The middle Temper of the Spring required.  
When Infant Nature was with Quiet crowned,  
And heavens Indulgence brooded on the Ground.   

For what remains, in depth of Earth secure  
Thy covered Plants, and dung with hot Manure;  
And Shells and Gravel in the Ground enclose;  
For through their hollow Chinks the Water flows:  
Which, thus imbibed, returns in misty Dews,  
And steaming up, the rising Plant renews.  
Some Husbandmen, of late, have found the Way,  
A hilly Heap of Stones above to lay,  
And press the Plants with Sherds of Potter's Clay.  
This Fence against immoderate Rain they found:  
Or when the Dog-star cleaves the thirsty Ground.  
Be mindful when thou hast entombed the Shoot,  
With Store of Earth around to feed the Root;  
With Iron Teeth of Rakes and Prongs, to move  
The crusted Earth, and loosen it above.  
Then exercise thy struggling Steers to plough  
Betwixt thy Vines, and teach thy feeble Row  
To mount on Reeds, and Wands, and, upward led,  
On Ashen Poles to raise their forky Head.  
On these new Crutches let them learn to walk,  
Till swerving upwards, with a stronger Stalk,  
They brave the Winds, and, clinging to their Gum  
On tops of Elms at length triumphant ride.  
But in their tender Nonage, while they spread  
Their Springing Leaves, and lift their Infant Head,  
And upward while they shoot in open Air,  
Indulge their Childhood, and the Nurseling spare.  
Nor exercise thy Rage on newborn Life,  
But let thy Hand supply the Pruning-knife;  
And crop luxuriant Stragglers, nor be loath  
To strip the Branches of their leafy Growth:  
But when the rooted Vines, with steady Hold,  
Can clasp their Elms, than Husbandman be bold  
To lop the disobedient Boughs, that strayed  
Beyond their Ranks: let crooked Steel invade  
The lawless Troops, which Discipline disclaim,  
And their superfluous Growth with Rigour tame.  
Next, fenced with Hedges and deep Ditches round,  
Exclude th' encroaching Cattle from thy Ground,  
While yet the tender Gems but just appear,  
Unable to sustain th' uncertain Year;  
Whose Leaves are not alone foul Winter's Prey,  
But oft by Summer Suns are scorched away;  
And worse than both, become th' unworthy Browse  
Of Buffal'os, salt Goats, and hungry Cows.  
For not December's Frost that burns the Boughs,  
Nor Dog-days parching Heat that splits the Rocks,  
Are half so harmful as the greedy Flocks:  
Their venomed By't, and Scars indented on the Stocks.   

To John Loving Esq of Little Ealing in the County of Middlesex.  
Geor 2. l. 530.   

For this the Malefactor Goat was laid  
On Bacchus' Altar, and his forfeit paid.  
At Athens thus old Comedy began,  
When round the Streets the reeling Actors ran;  
In Country Villages, and crossing ways,  
Contending for the Prizes of their Plays:  
And glad, with Bacchus, on the grassy soil,  
Leapt o'er the Skins of Goats besmeared with Oil.  
Thus Roman Youth derived from ruin'd Troy,  
In rude Saturnian Rhymes express their Joy:  
With Taunts, and Laughter loud, their Audience please,  
Deformed with Vizards, cut from Barks of Trees:  
In jolly Hymns they praise the God of Wine,  
Whose Earthen Images adorn the Pine;  
And there are hung on high, in honour of the Vine:  
A madness so devout the Vineyards fills.  
In hollow Valleys and on rising Hills;  
On what e'er side he turns his honest face,  
And dances in the Wind, those Fields are in his grace.  
To Bacchus therefore let us tune our Lays,  
And in our Mother Tongue resound his Praise.  
Thin Cakes in Chargers, and a Guilty Goat,  
Dragged by the Horns, be to his Altars brought;  
Whose offered Entrails shall his Crime reproach,  
And drip their Fatness from the Hazle Broach.  
To dress thy Vines new labour is required,  
Nor must the painful Husbandman be tired:  
For thrice, at least, in Compass of the Year,  
Thy Vineyard must employ the sturdy Steer,  
To turn the Glebe; besides thy daily pain  
To break the Clods, and make the Surface plain:  
T'unload the Branches or the Leaves to thin,  
That suck the Vital Moisture of the Vine.  
Thus in a Circle runs the Peasant's Pain,  
And the Year rowls within itself again.  
Even in the lowest Months, when Storms have shed  
From Vines the hairy Honours of their Head;  
Not then the drudging Hind his Labour ends;  
But to the coming Year his Care extends:  
Even than the naked Vine he persecutes;  
His Pruning Knife at once Reforms and Cuts.  
Be first to dig the Ground, be first to burn  
The Branches lopped, and first the Props return  
Into thy House, that bore the burdened Vines;  
But last to reap the Vintage of thy Wines.  
Twice in the Year luxuriant Leaves o'ershade  
The encumbered Vine; rough Brambles twice invade:  
Hard Labour both! commend the large excess  
Of spacious Vineyards; cultivate the less.  
Besides, in Woods the Shrubs of prickly Thorn,  
Sallows and Reeds, on Banks of Rivers born,  
Remain to cut; for Vineyards useful found,  
To stay thy Vines, and fence thy fruitful Ground.  
Nor when thy tender Trees at length are bound;  
When peaceful Vines from Pruning Hooks are free,  
When Husbands have surveyed the last degree,  
And utmost Files of Plants, and ordered every Tree;  
Even when they sing at ease in full Content,  
Insulting o'er the Toils they underwent;  
Yet still they find a future Task remain;  
To turn the Soil, and break the Clods again:  
And after all, their Joys are unsincere,  
While falling Rains on ripening Grapes they fear.  
Quite opposite to these are Olives found,  
No dressing they require, and dread no wound;  
Nor Rakes nor Harrows need, but fixed below,  
Rejoice in open Air, and unconcerndly grow.  
The Soil itself due Nourishment supplies:  
Plough but the Furrows, and the Fruits arise:  
Content with small Endeavours, till they spring.  
Soft Peace they figure, and sweet Plenty bring:  
Then Olives plant, and Hymns to Pallas sing.   

Thus Apple Trees, whose Trunks are strong to bear  
Their spreading Boughs, exert themselves in Air:  
Want no supply, but stand secure alone,  
Not trusting foreign Forces, but their own:  
Till with the ruddy freight the bending Branches groan.  
Thus Trees of Nature, and each common Bush,  
Uncultivated thrive, and with red Berry's blush.  
Vile Shrubs are shorn for Browse: the towering height  
Of unctuous Trees, are Torches for the Night.  
And shall we doubt, (indulging easy Sloth,)  
To sow, to set, and to reform their growth?  
To leave the lofty Plants; the lowly kind,  
Are for the Shepherd, or the Sheep designed.  
Even humble Broom and Osiers have their use,  
And Shade for Sleep, and Food for Flocks produce;  
Hedges for Corn, and Honey for the Bees:  
Besides the pleasing Prospect of the Trees.  
How goodly looks Cytorus, ever green  
With Boxes Groves, with what delight are seen  
Narycian Woods of Pitch, whose gloomy shade,  
Seems for retreat of thoughtful Muses made!  
But much more pleasing are those Fields to see,  
That need not Ploughs, nor Human Industry.  
Even cold Caucasean Rocks with Trees are spread,  
And wear green Forests on their hilly Head.  
Tho' bending from the blast of Eastern Storms,  
Tho' shent their Leaves, and shattered are their Arms;  
Yet Heaven their various Plants for use designs:  
For Houses Cedars, and for Shipping Pines.  
Cypress provides for Spokes, and Wheels of Wains:  
And all for Keels of Ships, that scour the watery Plains.  
Willows in Twigs are fruitful, Elms in Leaves,  
The War, from stubborn Myrtle Shafts receives:  
From Cornels javelins, and the tougher Yeugh  
Receives the bending Figure of a Bow.  
Nor Box, nor Limbs, without their use are made,  
Smooth-grained, and proper for the Turner's Trade:  
Which curious Hands may kerve, and Steel with Ease invade.  
Light Alder stems the Po's impetuous Tide,  
And Bees in hollow Oaks their Honey hide.  
Now balance, with these Gifts, the fumy Joys  
Of Wine, attended with eternal Noise.  
Wine urged to lawless Lust the Centauris Train,  
Through Wine they quarrelled, and through Wine were slain.   

Oh happy, if he knew his happy State!  
The Swain, who, free from Business and Debate;  
Receives his easy Food from Nature's Hand,  
And just Returns of cultivated Land!  
No Palace, with a lofty Gate, he wants,  
T' admit the Tides of early Visitants.  
With eager Eyes devouring, as they pass,  
The breathing Figures of Corinthian Brass.  
No Statues threaten, from high Pedestals;  
No Persian Arras hides his homely Walls,  
With Antic Vests; which through their shady fold,  
Betray the Streaks of ill dissembled Gold.  
He boasts no Wool, whose native white is died  
With Purple Poison of Assyrian Pride.  
No costly Drugs of Araby defile,  
With foreign Scents, the Sweetness of his Oil.  
But easy Quiet, a secure Retreat,  
A harmless Life that knows not how to cheat,  
With homebred Plenty the rich Owner bless,  
And rural Pleasures crown his Happiness.  
Unvexed with Quarrels, undisturbed with Noise,  
The Country King his peaceful Realm enjoys:  
Cool Grots, and living Lakes, the Flowery Pride  
Of Meads, and Streams that through the Valley glide;  
And shady Groves that easy Sleep invite,  
And after toilsome Days, a sweet repose at Night.  
Wild Beasts of Nature in his Woods abound;  
And Youth, of Labour patient, plow the Ground,  
Inur'd to Hardship, and to homely Fare.  
Nor venerable Age is wanting there,  
In great Examples to the Youthful Train:  
Nor are the Gods adored with Rites profane.  
From hence Astrea took her Flight, and here  
the Prints of her departing Steps appear.   

Ye sacred Muses, with whose Beauty fired,  
My Soul is ravished, and my Brain inspired:  
Whose Priest I am, whose holy Fillets wear;  
Would you your Virgil's first Petition hear,  
Give me the Ways of wand'ring Stars to know:  
The Depths of Heaven above, and Earth below.  
Teach me the various Labours of the Moon,  
And whence proceed th' Eclipses of the Sun.  
Why flowing Tides prevail upon the Main,  
And in what dark Recess they shrink again.  
What shakes the solid Earth, what Cause delays  
The Summer Nights, and shortens Winter Days.  
But if my heavy Blood restrain the Flight  
Of my free Soul, aspiring to the Height  
Of Nature, and unclouded Fields of Light:  
My next Desire is, void of Care and Strife,  
To lead a soft, secure, inglorious Life.  
A Country Cottage near a Crystal Flood,  
A winding Valley, and a lofty Wood  
Some God conduct me to the sacred Shades,  
Where Bacchanals are sung by Spartan Maids.  
Or lift me high to Hemus hilly Crown;  
Or in the Plains of Tempe lay me down:  
Or lead me to some solitary Place,  
And cover my Retreat from Human Race.   

Happy the Man, who, studying Nature's Laws,  
Through known Effects can trace the secret Cause.  
His Mind possessing, in a quiet state,  
Fearless of Fortune, and resigned to Fate.  
And happy too is he, who decks the Bowers  
Of Sylvans, and adores the Rural Powers:  
Whose Mind, unmoved, the Bribes of Courts can see;  
Their glittering Baits, and Purple Slavery.  
Nor hopes the People's Praise, nor fears their Frown,  
Nor, when contending Kindred tear the Crown,  
Will set up one, or pull another down.   

Without Concern he hears, but hears from far,  
Of Tumults and Descents, and distant War:  
Nor with a Superstitious Fear is awed,  
For what befalls at home, or what abroad.  
Nor envies he the Rich their heapy Store,  
Nor with a helpless Hand condoles the Poor.  
He feeds on Fruits, which, of their own accord,  
The willing Ground, and laden Trees afford.  
From his loved Home no Lucre him can draw;  
The Senate's mad Decrees he never saw;  
Nor heard, at bawling Bars, corrupted Law.  
Some to the Seas, and some to Camp's resort,  
And some with Impudence invade the Court.  
In foreign Countries others seek Renown,  
With Wars and Taxes others waste their own.  
And Houses burn, and household Gods deface,  
To drink in Bowls which glittering Gems enchase:  
To loll on Couches, rich with Cytron Steds,  
And lay their guilty Limbs in Tyrian Beds.  
This Wretch in Earth entombs his Golden Ore,  
Hovering and brooding on his buried Store.  
Some Patriot Fools to popular Praise aspire,  
By Public Speeches, which worse Fools admire.  
While from both Benches, with redoubled Sounds,  
Th' Applause of Lords and Commoners abounds.  
Some through Ambition, or through Thirst of Gold;  
Have slain their Brothers, or their Country sold:  
And leaving their sweet Homes, in Exile run  
To Lands that lie beneath another Sun.   

The Peasant, innocent of all these Ills,  
With crooked Ploughs the fertile Fallows tills;  
And the round Year with daily Labour fills.  
From hence the Country Markets are supplied:  
Enough remains for household Charge beside;  
His Wife, and tender Children to sustain,  
And gratefully to feed his dumb deserving Train.  
Nor cease his Labours, till the Yellow Field  
A full return of bearded Harvest yield:  
A Crop so plenteous, as the Land to load,  
O'ercome the crowded Barns, and lodge on Ricks abroad.  
Thus every several Season is employed:  
Some spent in Toil, and some in Ease enjoyed.  
The yeaning Ewes prevent the springing Year;  
The laded Boughs their Fruits in Autumn bear.  
'Tis then the Vine her liquid Harvest yields,  
Baked in the Sunshine of ascending Fields.  
The Winter comes, and then the falling Mast,  
For greedy Swine, provides a full repast.  
Then Olives, ground in Mills, their fatness boast,  
And Winter Fruits are mellowed by the Frost.  
His Cares are eased with Intervals of bliss,  
His little Children climbing for a Kiss,  
Welcome their Father's late return at Night;  
His faithful Bed is crowned with chaste delight.  
His Kine with swelling Udders ready stand,  
And, lowing for the Pail, invite the Milker's hand.  
His wanton Kids, with budding Horns prepared,  
Fight harmless Battles in his homely Yard:  
Himself in Rustic Pomp, on holidays,  
To Rural Powers a just Oblation pays;  
And on the Green his careless Limbs displays.  
The Hearth is in the midst; the Herdsmen round  
The cheerful Fire, provoke his health in Goblets crowned.  
He calls on Bacchus, and propounds the Prize;  
The Groom his Fellow Groom at Butts defies;  
And bends his Bow, and levels with his Eyes.  
Or stripped for Wrestling, smears his Limbs with Oil,  
And watches with a trip his Foe to foil.  
Such was the life the frugal Sabines led;  
So Remus and his Brother God were bred:  
From whom th' austere Etrurian Virtue rose,  
And this rude life our homely Fathers chose.  
Old Rome from such a Race derived her birth,  
(The Seat of Empire, and the conquered Earth:)  
Which now on seven high Hills triumphant reigns,  
And in that compass all the World contains.  
ere Saturn's Rebel Son usurped the Skies,  
When Beasts were only slain for Sacrifice:  
While peaceful Crete enjoyed her ancient Lord,  
ere sounding Hammers forged th' inhuman Sword:   

To William Walsh of Abberley in Worcester-shire Esq  
Geo: 2. l. 760.   

ere hollow Drums were beat, before the Breath  
Of brazen Trumpets rung the Peals of Death;  
The good old God his Hunger did assuage  
With Roots and Herbs, and gave the Golden Age.  
But over laboured with so long a Course,  
'tis time to set at ease the smoking Horse.    

The Third Book of the Georgics.  
The Argument.  
This Book begins with an Invocation of some Rural Deities, and a Compliment to Augustus: After which Virgil directs himself to Maecenas, and enters on his Subject. He lays down Rules for the Breeding and Management of Horses, Oxen, Sheep, Goats, and Dogs: And interweaves several pleasant Descriptions of a Chariot-Race, of the Battle of the Bulls, of the Force of Love, and of the Scythian Winter. In the latter part of the Book he relates the Diseases incident to cattle; and ends with the Description of a fatal Murrain that formerly raged among the Alps.  

THY Fields, propitious Pales, I rehearse;  
And sing thy Pastures in no vulgar Verse,  
Amphrysian Shepherd; the Lycaean Woods;  
Arcadia's flowery Plains, and pleasing Floods.   

5 All other Themes, that careless Minds invite,  
Are worn with use; unworthy me to write.  
Busiri's Altars, and the dire Decrees  
Of hard Euristheus, every Reader sees:  
Hylas the Boy, Latona's erring Isle,  
And Pelops Ivory Shoulder, and his Toil  
For fair Hippodamés, with all the rest  
Of Grecian Tales, by Poets are expressed:  
New ways I must attempt, my grovelling Name  
To raise aloft, and wing my flight to Fame.   

ay, first of Romans shall in Triumph come  
From conquered Greece, and bring her Trophies home:  
With Foreign Spoils adorn my native place;  
And with Idume's Palms, my Mantua grace.  
Of Parian Stone a Temple will I raise,  
Where the slow Mincius through the Valley strays:   

To the most Noble and Illustrious Prince Charles Duke of Richmond and Lenox Earl of Marsh and Darnley Baron of Siterington Knight of the most noble Order of the Garter.  
Geo▪ 3 l 1   

Where cooling Streams invite the Flocks to drink:  
And Reeds defend the winding Waters Brink.  
Full in the midst shall mighty Caesar stand:  
Hold the chief Honours; and the Dome command.  
Then I, conspicuous in my Tyrian Gown,  
(Submitting to his Godhead my Renown)  
A hundred Coursers from the Goal will drive;  
The rival Chariots in the Race shall strive.  
All Greece shall flock from far, my Games to see;  
The Whorlbat, and the rapid Race, shall be  
Reserved for Caesar, and ordained by me.  
Myself, with Olive crowned, the Gifts will bear:  
Even now methinks the public shouts I hear:  
The passing Pageants, and the Pomp's appear.  
ay, to the Temple will conduct the Crew:  
The Sacrifice and Sacrificers view;  
From thence return, attended with my Train,  
Where the proud Theatres disclose the Scene:  
Which interwoven Britain's seem to raise,  
And show the Triumph which their Shame displays.  
High o'er the Gate, in Elephant and Gold,  
The Crowd shall Caesar's Indian War behold;  
The Nile shall flow beneath; and on the side,  
His shattered Ships on Brazen Pillars ride.  
Next him Niphates with inverted Urn,  
And dropping Sedge, shall his Armenia mourn;  
And Asian Cities in our Triumph born.  
With backward Bows the Parthians shall be there;  
And, spurring from the Fight confess their Fear.  
A double Wreath shall crown our Caesar's Brows;  
Two differing Trophies, from two different Foes.  
Europe with afric in his Fame shall join;  
But neither Shoar his Conquest shall confine.  
The Parian Marble, there, shall seem to move,  
In breathing Statues, not unworthy Jove.  
Resembling Heroes, whose Etherial Root,  
Is Jove himself, and Caesar is the Fruit.  
Tros and his Race the Sculptor shall employ;  
And he the God, who built the Walls of Troy.  
Envy herself at last, grown pale and dumb;  
(By Caesar combated and overcome)  
Shall give her Hands; and fear the curling Snakes  
Of lashing Furies, and the burning Lakes:  
The Pains of famished Tantalus shall feel;  
And Sisyphus that labours up the Hill  
The rolling Rock in vain; and cursed Ixion's Wheel.   

Mean time we must pursue the Sylvan Lands;  
(Th' abode of Nymphs,) untouched by former Hands:  
For such, Maecenas, are thy hard Commands.  
Without thee nothing lofty can I sing;  
Come then, and with thyself thy Genius bring:  
With which inspired, I brook no dull delay.  
Cithaeron loudly calls me to my way;  
Thy Hounds, Taygetus, open and pursue their Prey.  
High Epidaurus urges on my speed,  
Famed for his Hills, and for his Horses breed:  
From Hills and Dales the cheerful Cries rebound:  
For Echo hunts along; and propagates the sound.   

A time will come, when my maturer Muse,  
In Caesar's Wars, a Nobler Theme shall choose.  
And through more Ages bear my Sovereign's Praise;  
Than have from Tithon passed to Caesar's Days.   

The Generous Youth, who studious of the Prize,  
The Race of running Coursers multiplies;  
Or to the Plough the sturdy Bullock breeds,  
May know that from the Dam the worth of each proceeds:  
The Mother Cow must wear a lowering look,  
Sour headed, strongly necked, to bear the Yoke.  
Her double Dew-lap from her Chin descends:  
And at her Thighs the ponderous burden ends.  
Long are her sides and large, her Limbs are great;  
Rough are her Ears, and broad her horny Feet.  
Her Colour shining Black, but flecked with white;  
She tosses from the Yoke; provokes the Fight:  
She rises in her Gate, is free from Fears;  
And in her Face a Bull's Resemblance bears:  
Her ample Forehead with a Star is crowned;  
And with her length of Tail she sweeps the Ground.  
The Bull's Insult at Four she may sustain;  
But, after Ten, from Nuptial Rites refrain.  
Six Seasons use; but then release the Cow,  
Unfit for Love, and for the labouring Plough.   

Now while their Youth is filled with kindly Fire,  
Submit thy Females to the lusty Sire:  
Watch the quick motions of the frisking Tail,  
Then serve their fury with the rushing Male,  
Indulging Pleasure lest the Breed should fail.   

In Youth alone, unhappy Mortals live;  
But, ah! the mighty Bliss is fugitive;  
Discoloured Sickness, anxious Labours come,  
And Age, and Death's inexorable Doom.   

Yearly thy Herds in vigour will impair;  
Recruit and mend 'em with thy Yearly care:  
Still propagate, for still they fall away,  
'Tis Prudence to prevent th' entire decay.   

Like Diligence requires the Courser's Race;  
In early Choice; and for a longer space.  
The Colt, that for a Stallion is designed,  
By sure Presages shows his generous Kind,  
Of able Body, sound of Limb and Wind.  
Upright he walks, on Pasterns firm and strait;  
His Motions easy; prancing in his Gate.  
The first to lead the Way, to tempt the Flood;  
To pass the Bridge unknown, nor fear the trembling Wood  
Dauntless at empty Noises; lofty necked;  
Sharp headed, Barrel bellied, broadly backed.  
Brawny his Chest, and deep, his Colour grey;  
For Beauty dappled, or the brightest Bay:  
Faint white and Dun will scarce the Rearing pay.   

The fiery Courser, when he hears from far,  
The sprightly Trumpet, and the shouts of War,  
Pricks up his Ears; and trembling with Delight,  
Shifts place, and paws; and hopes the promised Fight.  
On his right Shoulder his thick Mane reclined,  
Ruffles at speed; and dances in the Wind.  
His horny Hoofs are jetty black, and round;  
His Chine is double; starting, with a bound  
He turns the Turf, and shakes the solid Ground.  
Fire from his Eyes, Clouds from his Nostrils flow:  
He bears his Rider headlong on the Foe.   

Such was the Steed in Grecian Poets famed,  
Proud Cyllarus, by Spartan Castor tamed:  
Such Coursers bore to Fight the God of Thrace;  
And such, Achilles, was thy warlike Race.  
In such a Shape, old Saturn did restrain  
His Heavenly Limbs, and flowed with such a Mane.  
When, half surprised, and fearing to be seen,  
The Lecher galloped from his Jealous Queen:  
Ran up the ridges of the Rocks amain;  
And with shrill Neighing filled the Neigb'ring Plain.   

But worn with Years, when dire Diseases come,  
Then hide his not Ignoble Age, at Home:  
In Peace t' enjoy his former Palms and Pains;  
And gratefully be kind to his Remains.  
For when his Blood no Youthful Spirits move,  
He languishes and labours in his Love.  
And when the sprightly Seed should swiftly come,  
Dribling he drudges, and defrauds the Womb.  
In vain he burns, like fainty Stubble Fires;  
And in himself his former self requires.   

His Age and Courage weigh: Nor those alone,  
But note his Father's Virtues with his own;  
Observe if he disdains to yield the Prize;  
Of Loss impatient, proud of Victories.   

Hast thou beheld, when from the Goal they start,  
The Youthful Charioteers with beating Heart,  
Rush to the Race; and panting, scarcely bear  
Th' extremes of feverish hope, and chilling Fear;  
Stoop to the Reins, and lash with all their force;  
The flying Chariot kindles in the Course:  
And now aloft; and now allow they fly,  
Now seem to sink in Earth, and now to touch the Sky;  
No stop, no stay, but Clouds of Sand arise;  
Spurned, and cast backward on the Follower's Eyes.  
The hindmost blows the foam upon the first:  
Such is the love of Praise, an Honourable Thirst.   

Bold Ericthonius was the first, who joined  
Four Horses for the rapid Race designed;  
And o'er the dusty Wheels presiding sat;  
The Lapythae to Chariots, added State  
Of Bits and Bridles; taught the Steed to bond;  
To run the Ring, and trace the mazy round.  
To stop, to fly, the Rules of War to know:  
T' obey the Rider; and to dare the Foe.   

To choose a Youthful Steed, with Courage fired;  
To breed him, break him, back him, are required  
Experienced Masters; and in sundry Ways:  
Their Labours equal, and alike their Praise.  
But once again the battered Horse beware,  
The weak old Stallion will deceive thy care.  
Though Famous in his Youth for force and speed,  
Or was of Argos or Epirian breed,  
Or did from Neptune's Race, or from himself proceed.   

These things premised, when now the Nuptial time  
Approaches for the stately Steed to climb;  
With Food enable him, to make his Court;  
Distend his Chine, and pamper him for sport.  
Feed him with Herbs, whatever thou canst find,  
Of generous warmth; and of salacious kind.  
Then Water him, and (drinking what he can)  
Encourage him to thirst again, with Bran.  
Instructed thus, produce him to the Fair;  
And join in Wedlock to the longing Mare.  
For if the Sire be faint, or out of case,  
He will be copied in his famished Race:  
And sink beneath the pleasing Task assigned;  
(For all's too little for the craving Kind.)   

As for the Females, with industrious care  
Take down their Mettle, keep 'em lean and bare;  
When conscious of their past delight, and keen  
To take the leap, and prove the sport again;  
With scanty measure then supply their food;  
And, when athirst, restrain 'em from the flood:  
Their Body's harrass, sink 'em when they run;  
And fry their melting Marrow in the Sun.  
Starve 'em, when Barns beneath their burden groan,  
And winnowed Chaff, by western winds is blown.  
For Fear the rankness of the swelling Womb  
Should scant the passage, and confine the room.  
Lest the Fat Furrows should the sense destroy  
Of Genial Lust; and dull the Seat of Joy.  
But let 'em suck the Seed with greedy force;  
And there enclose the Vigour of the Horse.   

No more of Coursers yet: We now proceed  
To teeming Kine; and their laborious breed.  
First let 'em run at large; and never know  
The taming Yoke, or draw the crooked Plough.  
Let 'em not leap the Ditch, or swim the Flood;  
Or lumber o'er the Meads; or cross the Wood  
But range the Forest, by the silver side  
Of some cool Stream, where Nature shall provide  
Green Grass and fattening Clover for their fare!  
And Mossy Caverns for their Evening lare:  
With Rocks above, to shield the sharp Nocturnal air.  
About th' Alburnian Groves, with Holly green,  
Of winged Infects mighty swarms are seen:  
This flying Plague (to mark its quality;)  
Oestros the Grecians call: Asylus, we:  
A fierce loud buzzing Breeze; their stings draw blood;  
And drive the cattle gadding through the Wood  
Seized with unusual pains, they loudly cry,  
Tanagrus hastens thence; and leaves his Channel dry.  
This Curse the jealous Juno did invent;  
And first employed for Io's Punishment.  
To shun this Ill, the cunning Leach ordains  
In Summer's Sultry Heats (for then it reigns)  
To feed the Females, ere the Sun arise,  
Or late at Night, when Stars adorn the Skies.  
When she has calved, then set the Dam aside;  
And for the tender Progeny provide.  
Distinguish all betimes, with branding Fire;  
To note the Tribe, the Lineage, and The Sire.  
Whom to reserve for Husband of the Herd;  
Or who shall be to Sacrifice preferred;  
Or whom thou shalt to turn thy Glebe allow;  
To harrow Furrows, and sustain the Plough:  
The rest, for whom no Lot is yet decreed,  
May run in Pastures, and at pleasure feed.  
The Calf, by Nature and by Genius made  
To turn the Glebe, breed to the Rural Trade.  
Set him betimes to School; and let him be  
Instructed there in Rules of Husbandry:  
While yet his youth is flexible and green;  
Nor bad Examples of the World has seen.  
Early begin the stubborn Child to break;  
For his soft Neck, a supple Collar make  
Of bending Osiers; and (with time and care  
Enured that easy Servitude to bear)  
Thy flattering Method on the Youth pursue:  
Joined with his Schoolfellows, by two and two,  
Persuade 'em first to lead an empty Wheel,  
That scarce the dust can raise; or they can feel:  
In length of Time produce the labouring Yoke  
And shining Shares, that make the Furrow smoke.  
ere the licentious Youth be thus restrained,  
Or Moral Precepts on their Minds have gained;  
Their wanton appetites not only feed  
With delicates of Leaves, and marshy Weed,  
But with thy Sickle reap the rankest land:  
And minister the blade, with bounteous hand.  
Nor be with harmful parsimony won  
To follow what our homely Sires have done;  
Who filled the Pail with Beesting of the Cow:  
But all her Udder to the Calf allow.   

If to the Warlike Steed thy Studies bend,  
Or for the Prize in Chariots to contend;  
Near Pisa's Flood the rapid Wheels to guide,  
Or in Olympian Groves aloft to ride,  
The generous Labours of the Courser, first  
Must be with sight of Arms and sounds of Trumpets nursed:  
Inur'd the groaning Axletree to bear;  
And let him clashing Whips in Stables hear.  
Sooth him with Praise, and make him understand  
The loud Applauses of his Master's Hand:  
This from his Weaning, let him well be taught;  
And then betimes in a soft Snaffle wrought:  
Before his tender Joints with Nerves are knit;  
Guiltless of Arms, and trembling at the Bit.  
But when to four full Springs his years advance,  
Teach him to run the round, with Pride to prance;  
And (rightly managed) equal time to beat;  
To turn, to bound in measure; and Curvet.  
Let him, to this, with easy pains be brought:  
And seem to labour, when he labours not.  
Thus, formed for speed, he challenges the Wind;  
And leaves the Scythian Arrow far behind:  
He scours along the Field, with loosened Reins;  
And treads so light, he scarcely prints the Plains.  
Like Boreas in his Race, when rushing forth,  
He sweeps the Skies, and clears the cloudy North:  
The waving Harvest bends beneath his blast;  
The Forest shakes, the Groves their Honours cast;  
He flies aloft, and with impetuous roar  
Pursues the foaming Surges to the Shoar.  
Thus o'er th' Elean Plains, thy well-breathed Horse  
Sustains the goring Spurs, and wins the Course.  
Or, bred to Belgian Wagons, leads the Way;  
Untired at night, and cheerful all the Day.   

When once he's broken, feed him full and high:  
Indulge his Growth, and his gaunt sides supply.  
Before his Training, keep him poor and low;  
For his stout Stomach with his Food will grow;  
The pampered Colt will Discipline disdain,  
Impatient of the Lash, and restiff to the Rein.   

Wouldst thou their Courage and their Strength improve,  
Too soon they must not feel the stings of Love.  
Whether the Bull or Courser be thy Care,  
Let him not leap the Cow, nor mount the Mare.  
The youthful Bull must wander in the Wood;  
Behind the Mountain, or beyond the Flood:  
Or, in the Stall at home his Fodder find;  
Far from the Charms of that alluring Kind.  
With two fair Eyes his Mistress burns his Breast;  
He looks, and languishes, and leaves his Rest;  
Forsakes his Food, and pining for the Lass,  
Is joyless of the Grove, and spurns the growing grass.  
The soft Seducer, with enticing Looks,  
The bellowing Rivals to the Fight provokes.   

A beauteous Heifer in the Woods is bred;  
The stooping Warriors, aiming Head to Head,  
Engage their clashing Horns; with dreadful Sound  
The Forest rattles, and the Rocks rebound.  
They fence, they push, and pushing loudly roar;  
Their Dewlaps and their Sides are bathed in Gore.  
Nor when the War is over, is it Peace;  
Nor will the vanquished Bull his Claim release:  
But feeding in his Breast his ancient Fires,  
And cursing Fate, from his proud Foe retires.  
Driven from his Native Land, to foreign Grounds,  
He with a generous Rage resents his Wounds;  
His ignominious Flight, the Victor's boast,  
And more than both, the Loves, which unrevenged he lost.  
Often he turns his Eyes, and, with a Groan,  
Surveys the pleasing Kingdoms, once his own.   

To Sr justinian Isham of Lamport in Northampton Shire Baronet  
Geo 3. L 340.   

And therefore to repair his Strength he tries:  
Hardening his Limbs with painful Exercise,  
And rough upon the flinty Rock he lies.  
On prickly Leaves, and on sharp Herbs he feeds,  
Then to the Prelude of a War proceeds.  
His Horns, yet sore, he tries against a Tree:  
And meditates his absent Enemy.  
He snuffs the Wind, his heels the Sand excite;  
But, when he stands collected in his might,  
He roars, and promises a more successful Fight.  
Then, to redeem his Honour at a blow,  
He moveth his Camp, to meet his careless Foe.  
Not with more Madness, rolling from afar,  
The spumy Waves proclaim the watery War.  
And mounting upwards, with a mighty Roar,  
March onwards, and insult the rocky shore.  
They mate the middle Region with their height;  
And fall no less, than with a Mountain's weight;  
The Waters boil, and belching from below  
Black Sands, as from a forceful Engine throw.   

Thus every Creature, and of every Kind,  
The secret Joys of sweet Coition find:  
Not only Man's Imperial Race; but they  
That wing the liquid Air; or swim the Sea,  
Or haunt the Desert, rush into the flame:  
For Love is Lord of all; and is in all the same.   

'Tis with this rage, the Mother Lion stung,  
Scours o'er the Plain; regardless of her young:  
Demanding Rites of Love; she sternly stalks;  
And hunts her Lover in his lonely Walks.  
'Tis then the shapeless Bear his Den forsakes;  
In Woods and Fields a wild destruction makes.  
Boars whet their Tusks; to battle Tigers move;  
Enraged with Hunger, more enraged with Love.  
Then woe to him, that in the desert Land  
Of Lybia travels, o'er the burning Sand.  
The Stallion snuffs the well-known Scent afar;  
And snorts and trembles for the distant Mare:  
Nor Bits nor Bridles can his Rage restrain;  
And rugged Rocks are interposed in vain:  
He makes his way o'er Mountains, and contemns  
Unruly Torrents, and unfoorded Streams.  
The bristled Boar, who feels the pleasing Wound,  
New grinds his arming Tusks, and digs the Ground.  
The sleepy Lecher shuts his little Eyes;  
About his churning Chaps the frothy bubbles rise:  
He rubs his sides against a Tree; prepares  
And hardens both his Shoulders for the Wars.  
What did the Youth, when Love's unerring Dart  
Transfixed his Liver; and inflamed his heart?  
Alone, by night, his watery way he took;  
About him, and above, the Billows broke:  
The Sluices of the Sky were open spread;  
And rolling Thunder rattled o'er his Head.  
The raging Tempest called him back in vain;  
And every boding Omen of the Main.  
Nor could his Kindred; nor the kindly Force  
Of weeping Parents, change his fatal Course.  
No, not the dying Maid who must deplore  
His floating Carcase on the Sestian shore.   

I pass the Wars that spotted Linx's make  
With their fierce Rivals, for the Females sake:  
The howling Wolves, the Mastiffs amorous rage;  
When even the fearsul Stag dares for his Hind engage.  
But far above the rest, the furious Mare,  
Barred from the Male, is frantic with despair.  
For when her pouting Vent declares her pain,  
She tears the Harness, and she rends the Reyn;  
For this; (when Venus gave them rage and power)  
Their Masters mangled Members they devour;  
Of Love defrauded in their longing Hour.  
For Love they force through Thickets of the Wood,  
They climb the steepy Hills, and stem the Flood.   

When at the Spring's approach their Marrow burns,  
(For with the Spring their genial Warmth returns)  
The Mares to Cliffs of rugged Rocks repair,  
And with wide Nostrils snuff the Western Air:  
When (wondrous to relate) the Parent Wind,  
Without the Stallion, propagates the Kind.  
Then fired with amorous rage, they take their Flight  
Through Plains, and mount the Hills unequal height;  
Nor to the North, nor to the Rising Sun,  
Nor Southward to the Rainy Regions run,  
But boring to the West, and hovering there,  
With gaping Mouths, they draw prolific air:  
With which impregnate, from their Groins they shed  
A slimy Juice, by false Conception bred.  
The Shepherd knows it well; and calls by Name  
Hippomanes, to note the Mother's Flame.  
This, gathered in the Planetary Hour,  
With noxious Weeds, and spelled with Words of power▪  
Dire Stepdame's in the Magic Bowl infuse;  
And mix, for deadly Draughts, the poisonous Juice.  
But time is lost, which never will renew,  
While we too far the pleasing Path pursue;  
Surveying Nature, with too nice a view.   

Let this suffice for Herds: our following Care  
Shall woolly Flocks, and shaggy Goats declare.  
Nor can I doubt what Oil I must bestow,  
To raise my Subject from a Ground so low:  
And the mean Matter which my Theme affords,  
T'embellish with Magnificence of Words.  
But the commanding Muse my Chariot guides;  
Which o'er the dubious Cliff securely rides:  
And pleased I am, no beaten Road to take:  
But first the way to new discoveries make.   

Now, sacred Pales, in a lofty strain,  
I sing the Rural Honours of thy Reign.  
First with assiduous care, from Winter keep  
Well foddered in the Stalls, thy tender, Sheep.  
Then spread with Straw, the bedding of thy Fold;  
With Fern beneath, to fend the bitter Gold.  
That free from Gouts thou may'st preserve thy Care:  
And clear from Scabs, produced by freezing Air.  
Next let thy Goats officiously be nursed;  
And led to living Streams; to quench their Thirst.  
Feed 'em with Winter-brouze, and for their lare  
A Cot that opens to the South prepare:  
Where basking in the Sunshine they may lie,  
And the short Remnants of his Heat enjoy.  
This during Winter's drisly Reign be done:  
Till the new Ram receives th' exalted Sun:  
For hairy Goats of equal profit are  
With woolly Sheep, and ask an equal Care.  
'Tis true, the Fleece, when drunk with Tyrian Juice,  
Is dearly sold; but not for needful use:  
For the salacious Goat increases more;  
And twice as largely yields her milky Store.  
The still distended Udders never fail;  
But when they seem exhausted swell the Pail.  
Mean time the Pastor shears their hoary Beards;  
And eases of their Hair, the loaden Herds.  
Their Camelots', warm in Tents, the Soldier hold;  
And shield the wretched Mariner from Cold.   

On Shrubs they browse, and on the bleaky Top  
Of rugged Hills, the thorny Bramble crop.   

To the Right Worshipful Sr. Thomas Mompesson of Bathampton in the County of Wilts, Knight.  
Geor.: 3. l. 465   

Attended with their Family they come  
At Night unasked, and mindful of their home;  
And scarce their swelling Bags the threshold overcome.  
So much the more thy diligence bestow  
In depth of Winter, to defend the Snow:  
By how much less the tender helpless Kind,  
For their own ills, can fit Provision find.  
Then minister the browse, with bounteous hand;  
And open let thy Stacks all Winter stand.  
But when the Western Winds with vital power  
Call forth the tender Grass, and budding Flower;  
Then, at the last, produce in open Air  
Both Flocks; and send 'em to their Summer fare.  
Before the Sun, while Hesperus appears;  
First let 'em sip from Herbs the pearly tears  
Of Morning Dews: And after break their Fast  
On Green-sword Ground; (a cool and grateful taste:)  
But when the day's fourth hour has drawn the Dews,  
And the Sun's sultry heat their thirst renews;  
When creaking Grasshoppers on Shrubs complain,  
Then lead 'em to their watering Troughs again.  
In Summer's heat, some bending Valley find,  
Closed from the Sun, but open to the Wind:  
Or seek some ancient Oak, whose Arms extend  
In ample breadth, thy Cattle to defend:  
Or solitary Grove, or gloomy Glade:  
To shield 'em with its venerable Shade.  
Once more to watering lead; and feed again  
When the low Sun is sinking to the Main.  
When rising Cynthia sheds her silver Dews;  
And the cool Evening-breeze the Meads renews:  
When Linnets fill the Woods with tunesul sound,  
And hollow shores the Halcyons Voice rebound.   

Why should my Muse enlarge on Lybian Swains;  
Their scattered Cottages, and ample Plains?  
Where oft the Flocks, without a Leader stray;  
Or through continued Deserts take their way;  
And, feeding, add the length of Night to day.  
Whole Months they wander, grazing as they go;  
Nor Folds, nor hospitable Harbour know.  
Such an extent of Plains, so vast a space  
Of Wild's unknown, and of untasted Grass  
Allures their Eyes: The Shepherd last appears,  
And with him all his Patrimony bears:  
His House and household Gods! his trade of War,  
His Bow and Quiver; and his trusty Cur.  
Thus, under heavy Arms, the Youth of Rome  
Their long laborious Marches overcome;  
Cheerly their tedious Travels undergo:  
And pitch their sudden Camp before the Foe.   

Not so the Scythian Shepherd tends his Fold;  
Nor he who bears in Thrace the bitter cold:  
Nor he, who treads the bleak Meotian Strand;  
Or where proud Ister rolls his yellow Sand.  
Early they stall their Flocks and Herds; for there  
No Grass the Fields, no Leaves the Forests wear.  
The frozen Earth lies buried there, below  
A hilly heap, seven Cubits deep in Snow:  
And all the West Allies of stormy Boreas' blow.   

The Sun from far, peeps with a sickly face;  
Too weak the Clouds, and mighty Fogs to chase;  
When up the Skies, he shoots his rosy Head;  
Or in the ruddy Ocean seeks his Bed.  
Swift Rivers, are with sudden Ice constrained;  
And studded Wheels are on its back sustained.  
An Hostry now for Wagons; which before  
Tall Ships of burden, on its Bosom bore.   

To John Dormer of Rowshan in the County of Oxford Esq  
Geo: 3: L 570.   

The brazen Cauldrons, with the Frost are flawed;  
The Garment, stiff with Ice, at Hearths is thawed.  
With Axes first they cleave the Wine, and thence  
By weight, the solid portions they dispense.  
From Locks uncombed, and from the frozen Beard,  
Long Icicles depend, and crackling Sounds are heard.  
Mean time perpetual Sleet, and driving Snow,  
Obscure the Skies, and hang on Herds below.  
The starving Cattle perish in their Stalls,  
Huge Oxen stand enclosed in wint'ry Walls  
Of Snow congealed; whole Herds are buried there  
Of mighty Stags, and scarce their Horns appear.  
The dexterous Huntsman wounds not these afar,  
With Shafts, or Darts, or makes a distant War  
With Dogs; or pitches Toils to stop their Flight:  
But close engages in unequal Fight.  
And while they strive in vain to make their way  
Through hills of Snow, and pitifully bray;  
Assaults with dint of Sword, or pointed Spears,  
And homeward, on his Back, the joyful burden bears.  
The Men to subterranean Caves retire;  
Secure from Cold; and crowd the cheerful Fire:  
With Trunks of Elms and Oaks, the Hearth they load,  
Nor tempt th' inclemency of Heaven abroad.  
Their jovial Nights, in frolics and in play  
They pass, to drive the tedious Hours away.  
And their cold Stomaches with crowned Goblets cheer,  
Of windy Cider, and of barmy Beer.  
Such are the cold Ryphean Race; and such  
The savage Scythian, and unwarlike Dutch.  
Where Skins of Beasts, the rude Barbarians wear;  
The spoils of Foxes, and the furry Bear.   

Is Wool thy care? Let not thy Cattle go  
Where Bushes are, where Burrs and Thistles grow;  
Nor in too rank a Pasture let 'em feed:  
Then of the purest white select thy Breed.  
Even though a snowy Ram thou shalt behold,  
Prefer him not in haste, for Husband to thy Fold.  
But search his Mouth; and if a swarthy Tongue  
Is underneath his humid palate hung;  
Reject him, lest he darken all the Flock;  
And substitute another from thy Stock.  
'twas thus with Fleeces milky white (if we  
May trust report,) Pan God of Arcady  
Did bribe thee Cynthia; nor didst thou disdain  
When called in woody shades, to cure a Lover's pain.   

If Milk be thy design; with plenteous hand  
Bring Clover-grass; and from the marshy Land  
Salt Herbage for the fodd'ring Rack provide;  
To fill their Bags, and swell the milky Tide:  
These raise their Thirst, and to the Taste restore  
The savour of the Salt, on which they fed before.   

Some, when the Kids their Dams too deeply drain,  
With gags and muzzles their soft Mouths restrain.  
Their morning Milk, the Peasants press at Night:  
Their Evening Meal, before the rising Light  
To Market bear: or sparingly they steep  
With seas'ning Salt, and stored, for Winter keep.   

Nor last, forget thy faithful Dogs: but feed  
With fattening Whey the Mastiffs generous breed;  
And Spartan Race: who for the Folds relief  
Will prosecute with Cries the Nightly Thief:  
Repulse the prouling Wolf, and hold at Bay,  
The Mountain Robbers, rushing to the Prey.  
With cries of Hounds, thou may'st pursue the fear  
Of flying Hares, and chase the fallow Deer;  
Rouse from their desert Dens, the bristled Rage  
Of Boars, and beamy Stags in Toils engage.   

With smoke of burning Cedar scent thy Walls:  
And fume with stinking Galbanum thy Stalls:  
With that rank Odour from thy dwelling Place  
To drive the Viper's brood, and all the venomed Race.  
For often under Stalls unmoved, they lie,  
Obscure in shades, and shunning heavens broad Eye.  
And Snakes, familiar, to the Hearth succeed,  
Disclose their Eggs, and near the Chimney breed.  
Whether, to roofy Houses they repair,  
Or Sun themselves abroad in open Air,  
In all abodes of pestilential Kind,  
To Sheep and Oxen, and the painful Hind.  
Take, Shepherd take, a plant of stubborn Oak;  
And labour him with many a sturdy stroke:  
Or with hard Stones, demolish from afar  
His haughty Crest, the seat of all the War.  
Invade his hissing Throat, and winding spires;  
Till stretched in length, th' unfolded Foe retires.  
He drags his Tail; and for his Head provides:  
And in some secret cranny slowly glides;  
But leaves exposed to blows, his Back and battered sides.   

In fair Calabria's Woods, a Snake is bred,  
With curling Crest, and with advancing Head:  
Waving he rolls, and makes a winding Track;  
His Belly spotted, burnished is his Back:  
While Springs are broken, while the Southern Air  
And dropping heavens, the moistened Earth repair,  
He lives on standing Lakes, and trembling Bogs,  
And fills his Maw with Fish, or with loquacious Frogs.  
But when, in muddy Pools, the water sinks;  
And the chapt Earth is furrowed o'er with Chinks;  
He leaves the Fens, and leaps upon the Ground;  
And hissing, rowls his glaring Eyes around.  
With Thirst inflamed, impatient of the heats,  
He rages in the Fields, and wide Destruction threats.  
Oh let not Sleep, my closing Eyes invade,  
In open Plains, or in the secret Shade,  
When he, renewed in all the speckled Pride  
Of pompous Youth, has cast his slough aside:  
And in his Summer Liv'ry rowls along:  
Erect, and brandishing his forky Tongue,  
Leaving his Nest, and his imperfect Young;  
And thoughtless of his Eggs, forgets to rear  
The hopes of Poison, for the following Year.   

The Causes and the Signs shall next be told,  
Of every Sickness that infects the Fold.  
A scabby Tetter on their pelts will stick,  
When the raw Rain has pierced 'em to the quick:  
Or searching Frosts, have eaten through the Skin,  
Or burning Icicles are lodged within:  
Or when the Fleece is shorn, if sweat remains  
Unwashed, and soaks into their empty Veins:  
When their defenceless Limbs, the Brambles tear;  
Short of their Wool, and naked from the Sheer.   

Good Shepherds after shearing, drench their Sheep,  
And their Flocks Father (forced from high to leap)  
Swims down the Stream, and plunges in the deep.  
They oint their naked Limbs with mothered Oil;  
Or from the Founts where living Sulphurs boil,  
They mix a Medicine to foment their Limbs;  
With Scum that on the molten Silver swims.  
Fat Pitch, and black Bitumen, add to these,  
Besides, the waxen labour of the Bees:  
And Hellebore, and Squills deep rooted in the Seas,  
Receipts abound; but searching all thy Store,  
The best is still at hand, to launch the Sore:   

To Fredrick Filney of Filney Hall in Hantshire Esq  
Geo 3: L 721   

And cut the Head; for till the Core be found,  
The secret Vice is fed, and gathers Ground:  
While making fruitless Moan, the Shepherd stands,  
And, when the launching Knife requires his hands,  
Vain help, with idle Prayers from Heaven demands.  
Deep in their Bones when Fevers fix their seat,  
And rack their Limbs; and lick the vital heat;  
The ready Cure to cool the raging Pain,  
Is underneath the Foot to breathe a Vein.  
This remedy the Scythian Shepherds found:  
Th' Inhabitants of Thracia's hilly Ground,  
And Gelons use it; when for Drink and Food  
They mix their cruddled Milk with Horses Blood.   

But where thou seest a single Sheep remain  
In shades aloof, or couched upon the Plain;  
Or listlesly to crop the tender Grass;  
Or late to lag behind, with truant pace;  
Revenge the Crime; and take the traitor's head,  
ere in the faultless Flock the dire Contagion spread.   

On Winter Seas we fewer Storms behold,  
Than foul Diseases that infect the Fold.  
Nor do those ills, on single Body's prey;  
But oftener bring the Nation to decay;  
And sweep the present Stock, and future Hope away.   

A dire Example of this Truth appears:  
When, after such a length of rolling Years,  
We see the naked Alps, and thin Remains  
Of scattered Cotts, and yet unpeopled Plains:  
Once filled with grazing Flocks, the Shepherds happy Reigns.   

Here from the vicious Air, and sickly Skies,  
A Plague did on the dumb Creation rise:  
During th' Autumnal Heats th' Infection grew,  
Tame Cattle, and the Beasts of Nature slew.  
Poisoning the Standing Lakes; and Pools Impure:  
Nor was the foodful Grass in Fields secure.  
Strange Death! For when the thirsty fire had drunk  
Their vital Blood, and the dry Nerves were shrunk;  
When the contracted Limbs were cramped, even than  
A wat'rish Humour swelled and oozed again:  
Converting into Bane the kindly Juice,  
Ordained by Nature for a better use.  
The Victim Ox, that was for Altars pressed,  
Trimmed with white Ribbons, and with Garlands dressed,  
Sunk of himself, without the God's Command:  
Preventing the slow Sacrificer's Hand.  
Or, by the holy Butcher, if he fell,  
Th' inspected Entrails, could no Fates foretell.  
Nor, laid on Altars, did pure Flames arise;  
But Clouds of smouldering Smoke, forbade the Sacrifice.  
Scarcely the Knife was reddened with his Gore,  
Or the black Poison stained the sandy Floor.  
The thriven Calves in Meads their Food forsake,  
And render their sweet Souls before the plenteous Rack.  
The fawning Dog runs mad; the wheasing Swine  
With Coughs is choked; and labours from the Chine:  
The Victor Horse, forgetful of his Food,  
The Palm renounces, and abhors the Flood.  
He paws the Ground, and on his hanging Ears  
A doubtful Sweat in clammy drops appears:  
Parched is his Hide, and rugged are his Hairs.  
Such are the Symptoms of the young Disease;  
But in time's process, when his pains increase,  
He rolls his mournful Eyes, he deeply groans  
With patient sobbing, and with manly Moans.  
He heaves for Breath: which, from his Lungs supplied,  
And fetched from far, distends his labouring side.  
To his rough palate, his dry Tongue succeeds;  
And roapy Gore, he from his Nostrils bleeds.  
A Drench of Wine has with success been used;  
And through a Horn, the generous Juice infused:  
Which timely taken opened his closing Jaws;  
But, if too late, the Patient's death did cause.  
For the too vigorous Dose, too fiercely wrought;  
And added Fury to the Srength it brought.  
Recruited into Rage, he grinds his Teeth  
In his own Flesh, and feeds approaching Death.  
Ye Gods, to better Fate, good Men dispose;  
And turn that Impious Error on our Foes!   

The Steer, who to the Yoke was bred to bow,  
(Studious of Tillage; and the crooked Plough)  
Falls down and dies; and dying spews a Flood  
Of foamy Madness, mixed with clotted Blood.  
The Clown, who cursing Providence repines,  
His Mournful Fellow from the Team disjoins:  
With many a groan, forsakes his fruitless care;  
And in th' unfinished Furrow, leaves the Share.  
The pineing Steer, no Shades of lofty Woods,  
Nor flowery Meads can ease; nor Crystal floods  
Rolled from the Rock: His flabby Flanks decrease;  
His Eyes are settled in a stupid peace.  
His bulk too weighty for his Thighs is grown;  
And his unwieldy Neck, hangs drooping down.  
Now what avails his well-deserving Toil  
To turn the Glebe; or smooth the rugged Soil!  
And yet he never supped in solemn State,  
Nor undigested Feasts did urge his Fate;  
Nor day, to Night, luxuriously did join;  
Nor surfeited on rich Campanian Wine.  
Simple his Bev'rage; homely was his Food;  
The wholesome Herbage, and the running Flood:  
No dreadful Dreams awaked him with affright;  
His Pains by Day, secured his Rest by Night.   

'Twas then that Buffalo's, ill paired, were seen  
To draw the Carr of Jove's Imperial Queen  
For want of Oxen: and the labouring Swain  
Scratched with a Rake, a Furrow for his Grain:  
And covered, with his hand, the shallow Seed again.  
He Yokes himself, and up the Hilly height,  
With his own Shoulders, draws the Waggon's weight.   

The nightly Wolf, that round th' Enclosure prouled  
To leap the Fence; now plots not on the Fold.  
Tamed with a sharper Pain. The fearful do  
And flying Stag, amidst the Greyhouds go:  
And round the Dwellings roam of Man, their fiercer Foe.  
The scaly Nations of the Sea profound,  
Like Shipwrecked Carcases are driven aground:  
And mighty Phocae, never seen before  
In shallow Streams, are stranded on the shore.  
The Viper dead, within her Hole is found:  
Defenceless was the shelter of the ground.  
The water-Snake, whom Fish and Paddocks fed,  
With staring Scales lies poisoned in his Bed:  
To Birds their Native heavens contagious prove,  
From Clouds they fall, and leave their Souls above.   

Besides, to change their Pasture 'tis in vain:  
Or trust to Physic; Physic is their Bane.  
The Learned Leeches in despair depart:  
And shake their Heads, desponding of their Art.   

Tisiphone, let loose from under ground,  
Majestically pale, now treads the round:  
Before her drives Diseases, and affright;  
And every moment rises to the sight:  
Aspiring to the Skies; encroaching on the light.  
The Rivers and their Banks, and Hills around,  
With lowings, and with dying Bleats resound.  
At length, she strikes an Universal Blow;  
To Death at once whole Herds of Cattle go:  
Sheep, Oxen, Horses fall; and, heaped on high,  
The differing Species in Confusion lie.  
Till warned by frequent ills, the way they found,  
To lodge their loathsome Carrion underground.  
For, useless to the Currier were their Hides:  
Nor could their tainted Flesh with Ocean Tides  
Be freed from Filth; nor could Vulcanian Flame  
The Stench abolish; or the Savour tame.  
Nor safely could they shear their fleecy Store;  
(Made drunk with poisonous Juice, and stiff with Gore:)  
Or touch the Web: But if the Vest they wear,  
Red Blisters rising on their Paps appear,  
And flaming Carbuncles; and noisome Sweat,  
And clammy Dews, that loathsome Lice beget:  
Till the slow creeping Evil eats his way,  
Consumes the parching Limbs; and makes the Life his prey.    

The Fourth Book of the Georgics.  
The Argument.  
Virgil has taken care to raise the Subject of each Georgic: In the First he has only dead Matter on which to work. In the second he just steps on the World of Life, and describes that degree of it which is to be found in Vegetables. In the third he advances to Animals. And in the last, singles out the Bee, which may be reckoned the most sagacious of 'em, for his Subject.  
In this Georgic he shows us what Station is most proper for the Bees, and when they begin to gather Honey: how to call 'em home when they swarm; and how to part 'em when they are engaged in Battle. From hence he takes occasion to discover their different Kind's; and, after an Excursion relates their prudent and politic Administration of Affairs and the several Diseases that often rage in their Hives, with the proper Symptoms and Remedies of each Disease. In the last place he lays down a method of repairing their Kind, supposing their whole Breed lost; and gives at large the History of its Invention.  

THE Gifts of Heaven my following Song pursues,  
Aerial Honey, and Ambrosial Dews.  
Maecenas, read this other part, that sings  
Fmbatteled Sqadrons and adventurous Kings:  
A mighty Pomp, tho' made of little Things.  
Their Arms, their Arts, their Manners I disclose,  
And how they War, and whence the People rose:  
Slight is the Subject, but the Praise not small,  
If Heaven assist, and Phoebus hear my Call.   

First, for thy Bees a quiet Station find,  
And lodge 'em under Covert of the Wind:  
For Winds, when homeward they return, will drive  
The loaded Carriers from their Evening Hive.  
Far from the Cows and Goat's insulting Crew,  
That trample down the Flowers, and brush the Dew:  
The painted Lizard, and the Birds of Prey,  
Foes of the frugal Kind, be far away.   

To Richard Norton of Southwick in Hantshire Esq.  
Geo 4: L 1   

The Titmouse, and the Peckers hungry Brood,  
And Progne, with her Bosom stained in Blood:  
These rob the trading Citizens, and bear  
The trembling Captives through the liquid Air;  
And for their callow young a cruel Feast prepare.  
But near a living Stream their Mansion place,  
Edged round with Moss, and tufts of matted Grass:  
And plant (the Winds impetuous rage to stop,)  
Wild Olive Trees, or Palms, before the buisy Shop:  
That when the youthful Prince, with loud alarm,  
Calls out the venturous Colony to swarm;  
When first their way through yielding Air they wing,  
New to the Pleasures of their native Spring;  
The Banks of Brooks may make a cool retreat  
For the raw Soldiers from the scalding Heat:  
And neighbouring Trees, with friendly Shade invite  
The Troops unused to long laborious Flight.  
Then o'er the running Stream, or standing Lake,  
A Passage for thy weary People make;  
With Osier Floats the standing Water strew;  
Of massy Stones make Bridges, if it flow:  
That basking in the Sun thy Bees may lie,  
And resting there, their flaggy Pinions dry:  
When late returning home, the laden Host,  
By raging Winds is wrecked upon the Coast.  
Wild Thyme and Savoury set around their Cell,  
Sweet to the Taste, and fragrant to the Smell:  
Set rows of Rosemary with flow'ring Stem,  
And let the purple violets drink the Stream.   

Whether thou build the Palace of thy Bees  
With twisted Osiers, or with Barks of Trees;  
Make but a narrow Mouth: for as the Cold  
Congeals into a Lump the liquid Gold;  
So 'tis again dissolved by Summer's heat,  
And the sweet Labours both Extremes defeat.  
And therefore, not in vain, th' industrious Kind  
With dawby Wax and Flowers the Chinks have lined.  
And, with their Stores of gathered Glue, contrive  
To stop the Vents, and Crannies of their Hive.  
Not Bird-lime, or Idean Pitch produce  
A more tenacious Mass of clammy Juice.   

Nor Bees are lodged in Hives alone, but found  
In Chambers of their own, beneath the Ground:  
Their vaulted Roofs are hung in Pumices,  
And in the rotten Trunks of hollow Trees.   

But plaster thou the chinky Hives with Clay,  
And leafy Branches o'er their Lodgings lay.  
Nor place them where too deep a Water flows,  
Or where the Yeugh their poisonous Neighbour grows:  
Nor roast red Crabs t' offend the niceness of their Nose.  
Nor near the steaming Stench of muddy Ground;  
Nor hollow Rocks that render back the Sound,  
And doubled Images of Voice rebound.   

For what remains, when Golden Suns appear,  
And under Earth have driven the Winter Year:  
The winged Nation wanders through the Skies,  
And o'er the Plains, and shady Forest flies:  
Then stooping on the Meads and leafy Bowers;  
They skim the Floods, and sip the purple Flowers.  
Exalted hence, and drunk with secret Joy,  
Their young Succession all their Cares employ:  
They breed, they brood, instruct and educate,  
And make Provision for the future State:  
They work their waxen Lodgings in their Hives,  
And labour Honey to sustain their Lives.  
But when thou seest a swarming Cloud arise,  
That sweeps aloft, and darkens all the Skies:   

To the Right Honble: Sr. William Trumbull Kt. Principal Secretary of State & one of his Mai ties: Most Hon ble: Priry Council.  
Geo: 4. l. 85.   

The Motions of their hasty Flight attend;  
And know to Floods, or Woods, their airy march they bend.  
Then Melfoil beat, and Honey-suckles pound,  
With these alluring Savours strew the Ground;  
And mix with tinkling Brass, the Cymbals droning Sound.  
Straight to their ancient Cells, recalled from Air,  
The reconciled Deserters will repair.  
But if intestine Broils alarm the Hive,  
(For two Pretenders oft for Empire strive)  
The Vulgar in divided Factions jar;  
And murmuring Sounds proclaim the Civil War.  
Inflamed with Ire, and trembling with Disdain,  
Scarce can their Limbs, their mighty Souls contain.  
With Shouts, the Coward's Courage they excite,  
And martial Clangors call 'em out to fight:  
With hoarse Alarms the hollow Camp rebounds,  
That imitates the Trumpets angry Sounds:  
Then to their common Standard they repair;  
The nimble Horsemen scour the Fields of Air.  
In form of Battle drawn, they issue forth,  
And every Knight is proud to prove his Worth.  
Pressed for their Country's Honour, and their King's,  
On their sharp Beaks they whet their pointed Stings;  
And exercise their Arms, and tremble with their Wings.  
Full in the midst, the haughty Monarches ride,  
The trusty Guards come up, and close the Side;  
With Shouts the daring Foe to Battle is defied.  
Thus in the Season of unclouded Spring,  
To War they follow their undaunted King:  
Crowd thro'their Gates, and in the Fields of Light,  
The shocking Squadrons meet in mortal Fight:  
Headlong they fall from high, and wounded wound,  
And heaps of slaughtered Soldiers bite the Ground.  
Hard Hailstones lie not thicker on the Plain;  
Nor shaken Oaks such Showers of Acorns rain.  
With gorgeous Wings the Marks of sovereign sway,  
The two contending Princes make their way;  
Intrepid through the midst of danger go;  
Their friends encourage, and amaze the Foe.  
With mighty Souls in narrow Bodies pressed,  
They challenge, and encounter Breast to Breast;  
So fixed on Fame, unknowing how to fly,  
And obstinately bend to win or die;  
That long the doubtful Combat they maintain,  
Till one prevails (for one can only Reign.)  
Yet all those dreadful deeds, this deadly fray,  
A cast of scattered Dust will soon allay,  
And undecided leave the Fortune of the day.  
When both the Chiefs are sund'red from the Fight,  
Then to the lawful King restore his Right.  
And let the wasteful Prodigal be slain,  
That he, who best deserves, alone may reign.  
With ease distinguished is the Regal Race,  
One Monarch wears an honest open Face;  
Large are his Limbs, and Godlike to behold,  
His Royal Body shines with specks of Gold,  
And ruddy Skales; for Empire he designed,  
Is better born, and of a Nobler Kind.  
That other looks like Nature in disgrace,  
Gaunt are his sides, and sullen is his face:  
And like their grizly Prince appears his gloomy Race:  
Grim, ghastly, rugged, like a thirsty train  
That long have travelled through a desert plain,  
And spit from their dry Chaps the gathered dust again.  
The better Brood, unlike the Bastard Crew,  
Are marked with Royal streaks of shining hue;  
glittering and ardent, though in Body less:  
From these at pointed Seasons hope to press  
Huge heavy Honey-Combs, of Golden Juice,  
Not only sweet, but pure, and fit for use:  
T'allay the Strength and Hardness of the Wine,  
And with old Bacchus, new Metheglin join.   

But when the Swarms are eager of their play,  
And loath their empty Hives, and idly stray,  
Restrain the wanton Fugitives, and take  
A timely Care to bring the Truants back.  
The Task is easy: but to clip the Wings  
Of their highflying Arbitrary Kings:  
At their Command, the People swarm away;  
Confine the Tyrant, and the Slaves will stay.   

Sweet Gardens, full of Saffron Flowers, invite  
The wand'ring Gluttons, and retard their Flight.  
Besides, the God obscene, who frights away,  
With his Lath Sword, the thieves and Birds of Prey.  
With his own hand, the Guardian of the Bees,  
For Slips of Pines, may search the Mountain Trees:  
And with wild Thyme and Savoury, plant the Plain,  
Till his hard horny Fingers ache with Pain:  
And deck with fruitful Trees the Fields around,  
And with refreshing Waters drench the Ground.   

Now, did I not so near my Labours end,  
Strike Sail, and hastening to the Harbour tend;  
My Song to Flowery Gardens might extend.  
To teach the vegetable Arts, to sing  
The Paestan Roses, and their double Spring:  
How Succ'ry drinks the running Streams, and how  
Green Beds of Parsley near the River grow;  
How Cucumbers along the Surface creep,  
With crooked Bodies, and with Bellies deep.  
The late Narcissus, and the winding Trail  
Of Bearsfoot, Myrtles green, and Ivy pale.  
For where with stately towers Tarentum stands,  
And deep Galesus soaks the yellow Sands,  
I chanced an Old Corycian Swain to know,  
Lord of few Acres, and those barren too;  
Unfit for Sheep or Vines, and more unfit to sow:  
Yet labouring well his little Spot of Ground,  
Some scattering Potherbs here and there he found:  
Which cultivated with his daily Care,  
And bruised with Vervain, were his frugal Fare.  
Sometimes white Lyllies did their Leaves afford,  
With wholesome Poppy-flow'rs, to mend his homely Board:  
For late returning home he supped at ease,  
And wisely deemed the Wealth of Monarches less:  
The little of his own, because his own, did please.  
To quit his Care, he gathered first of all  
In Spring the Roses, Apples in the Fall:  
And when cold Winter split the Rocks in twain,  
And Ice the running Rivers did restrain,  
He stripped the Bearsfoot of its leafy growth;  
And, calling Western Winds, accused the Spring of sloth.  
He therefore first among the Swains was found,  
To reap the Product of his laboured Ground,  
And squeeze the Combs with Golden Liquor Crowned.  
His Limbs were first in Flowers, his lofty Pines,  
With friendly Shade, secured his tender Vines.  
For every Bloom his Trees in Spring afford,  
An Autumn Apple was by tale restored.  
He knew to rank his Elms in even rows;  
For Fruit the grafted Peartree to dispose:  
And tame to Plums, the sourness of the Sloes.  
With spreading Planes he made a cool retreat,  
To shade good Fellows from the Summer's heat.  
But streighten'd in my space, I must forsake  
This Task; for others afterwards to take.   

Describe we next the Nature of the Bees,  
bestowed by Jove for secret Services:  
When by the tinkling Sound of Timbrels led,  
The King of Heaven in Cretan Caves they fed.  
Of all the Race of Animals, alone  
The Bees have common Cities of their own:  
And common Sons, beneath one Law they live,  
And with one common Stock their Traffic drive.  
Each has a certain home, a several Stall:  
All is the States, the State provides for all.  
Mindful of coming Cold, they share the Pain:  
And hoard, for Winter's use, the Summer's gain.  
Some o'er the Public Magazines preside,  
And some are sent new Forage to provide:  
These drudge in Fields abroad, and those at home  
Lay deep Foundations for the laboured Comb,  
With dew, Narcissus Leaves, and clammy Gum.  
To pitch the waxen Flooring some contrive:  
Some nurse the future Nation of the Hive:  
Sweet Honey some condense, some purge the Grout;  
The rest, in Cells apart, the liquid Nectar shut.  
All, with united Force, combine to drive  
The lazy Drones from the laborious Hive.  
With Envy stung, they view each others Deeds:  
With Diligence the fragrant Work proceeds.  
As when the Cyclops, at th' Almighty Nod,  
New Thunder hasten for their angry God:  
Subdued in Fire the Stubborn Metal lies,  
One brawny Smith the puffing Bellows plies;  
And draws, and blows reciprocating Air:  
Others to quench the hissing Mass prepare:  
With lifted Arms they order every Blow,  
And chime their sounding Hammers in a Row;  
With strokes of Anvils Aetna groans below.  
Strongly they strike, huge Flakes of Flames expire,  
With Tongues they turn the Steel, and vex it in the Fire.  
If little things with great we may compare,  
Such are the Bees, and such their native Care:  
Studious of Honey, each in his Degree,  
The youthful Swain, the grave experienced Bee:  
That in the Field; this in Affairs of State,  
Employed at home, abides within the Gate:  
To fortify the Combs, to build the Wall,  
To prop the Ruins lest the Fabric fall:  
But late at Night, with weary Pinions come  
The labr'ring Youth, and heavy laden home.  
Plains, Meads, and Orchards all the day he plies,  
The gleans of yellow Thime distend his Thighs:  
He spoils the Saffron Flowers, he sips the blues  
Of violets, wilding Blooms, and Willow Dews.  
Their Toil is common, common is their Sleep;  
They shake their Wings when Morn begins to peep;  
Rush through the City Gates without delay,  
Nor ends their Work, but with declining Day:  
Then having spent the last remains of Light,  
They give their Bodies due repose at Night:  
When hollow Murmurs of their Evening Bells,  
Dismiss the sleepy Swains, and toll 'em to their Cells.  
When once in Beds their weary Limbs they steep,  
No buzzing Sounds disturb their Golden Sleep.  
'Tis sacred Silence all. Nor dare they stray,  
When Rain is promised, or a stormy Day:  
But near the City Walls their Watering take,  
Nor Forage far, but short Excursions make.   

And as when empty Barks on Billows float,  
With sandy Ballast Sailors trim the Boat;  
So Bees bear Gravel Stones, whose poising Weight  
Steers through the whistling Winds their steady Flight.   

But what's more strange, their modest Appetites,  
Averse from Venus, fly the nuptial Rites.  
No lust enervates their Heroic Mind,  
Nor wastes their Strength on wanton Womankind.  
But in their Mouths reside their Genial Powers,  
They gather Children from the Leaves and Flowers.  
Thus make they Kings to fill the Regal Seat;  
And thus their little Citizens create:  
And waxen Cities build, and Palaces of State.  
And oft on Rocks their tender Wings they tear,  
And sink beneath the Burdens which they bear.  
Such Rage of Honey in their Bosom beats:  
And such a Zeal they have for flowery Sweets.   

Thus tho' the race of Life they quickly run;  
Which in the space of seven short Years is done,  
Th' immortal Line in sure Succession reigns,  
The Fortune of the Family remains:  
And Grandsire's Grandsons the long List contains.   

Besides, not Egypt, India, Media more  
With servile Awe, their Idol King adore:  
While he survives, in Concord and Content  
The Commons live, by no Divisions rend;  
But the great Monarch's Death dissolves the Government.  
All goes to Ruin, they themselves contrive  
To rob the Honey, and subvert the Hive.  
The King presides, his Subject's Toil surveys;  
The servile Rout their careful Caesar praise:  
Him they extol, they worship him alone,  
They crowd his Levees, and support his Throne:  
They raise him on their shoulders with a Shout:  
And when their Sov'raigns' Quarrel calls 'em out,  
His Foes to mortal Combat they defy,  
And think it honour at his feet to die.   

Induced by such Examples, some have taught  
That Bees have Portions of Etherial Thought:  
Endued with Particles of Heavenly Fires:  
For God the whole created Mass inspires;  
Through Heaven, and Earth, and Ocean's depth he throws  
His Influence round, and kindles as he goes.  
Hence Flocks, and Herds, and Men, and Beasts, and Fowls  
With Breath are quickened; and attract their Souls.  
Hence take the Forms his Prescience did ordain,  
And into him at length resolve again.  
No room is left for Death, they mount the Sky,  
And to their own congenial Planets fly.   

Now when thou hast decreed to seize their Stores,  
And by Prerogative to break their Doors:  
With sprinkled Water first the City choke,  
And then pursue the Citizens with Smoak.  
Two Honey Harvests fall in every Year:  
First, when the pleasing Pleyades appear,  
And springing upward spurn the briny Seas:  
Again, when their affrighted Choir surveys  
The watery Scorpion mend his Pace behind,  
With a black Train of Storms, and winter Wind;  
They plunge into the Deep, and safe Protection find.  
Prone to Revenge, the Bees, a wrathful Race,  
When once provoked assault th' Agressor's Face:  
And through the purple Veins a passage find;  
There fix their Stings, and leave their Souls behind.   

But if a pinching Winter thou foresee,  
And wouldst preserve thy famished Family;  
With fragrant Thyme the City fumigate,  
And break the waxen Walls to save the State.  
For lurking Lizards often lodge, by Stealth,  
Within the Suburbs, and purloyn their Wealth.  
And Worms that eat the Light, a dark Retreat  
Have found in Combs, and undermined the Seat.  
Or lazy Drones, without their Share of Pain;  
In Winter Quarters free, devour the Gain:  
Or Wasps infest the Camp with loud Alarms,  
And mix in Battle with unequal Arms:  
Or secret Moths are there in Silence fed;  
Or Spiders in the Vault, their snary Webs have spread.   

The more oppressed by Foes, or Famine pined;  
The more increase thy Care to save the sinking Kind.  
With Greene's and Flowers recruit their empty Hives,  
And seek fresh Forage to sustain their Lives.   

But since they share with us one common Fate,  
In Health and Sickness, and in Turns of State;  
Observe the Symptoms when they fall away,  
And languish with insensible Decay.  
They change their Hue, with haggered Eyes they stare,  
Lean are their Looks, and shagged is their Hair:  
And Crowds of dead, that never must return  
To their loved Hives, in decent Pomp are born:  
Their Friends attend the Hearse, the next Relations Mourn.  
The sick, for Air before the Portal gasp,  
Their feeble Legs within each other clasp.  
Or idle in their empty Hives remain,  
Benumbed with Cold, and listless of their Gain.  
Soft Whispers then, and broken Sounds are heard,  
As when the Woods by gentle Winds are stirred.  
Such stifled noise as the close Furnace hides,  
Or dying Murmurs of departing Tides.  
This when thou seest, Galbanean Odours use,  
And Honey in the sickly Hive infuse.  
Through reeden Pipes convey the Golden Flood,  
T' invite the People to their wont Food.  
Mix it with thickened Juice of sodden Wines,  
And Raisins from the Grapes of Psythian Vines:  
To these add pounded Galls, and Roses dry,  
And with Cecropian Thyme, strong scented Centaury.   

A Flower there is that grows in Meadow Ground,  
Amellus called, and easy to be found;  
For from one Root the rising Stem bestows  
A Wood of Leaves, and vi'let-purple Boughs:  
The Flower itself is glorious to behold,  
And shines on Altars like refulgent Gold:  
Sharp to the Taste, by Shepherds near the Stream  
Of Mella found, and thence they gave the Name.  
Boyl this restoring Root in generous Wine,  
And set beside the Door, the sickly Stock to dine.  
But if the labouring Kind be wholly lost,  
And not to be retrieved with Care or Cost;  
'Tis time to touch the Precepts of an Art,  
Th' Arcadian Master did of old impart:  
And how he stocked his empty Hives again;  
Renewed with putrid Gore of Oxen slain.  
An ancient Legend I prepare to sing,  
And upward follow Fame's immortal Spring.   

For where with sev'nfold Horns mysterious Nile  
Surrounds the Skirts of Egypt's fruitful Isle,  
And where in Pomp the Sunburnt People ride  
On painted Barges, o'er the teeming Tide,  
Which pouring down from Ethiopian Lands,  
Makes green the Soil with Slime, and black prolific Sands;  
That length of Region, and large Tract of Ground,  
In this one Art a sure relief have found.  
First, in a place, by Nature closely, they build  
A narrow Flooring, guttered, walled, and tiled.  
In this, four Windows are contrived, that strike  
To the four Winds opposed, their Beams oblique.  
A Steer of two Years old they take, whose Head  
Now first with burnished Horns begins to spread:  
They stop his Nostrils, while he strives in vain  
To breathe free Air, and struggles with his Pain.  
Knocked down, he dies: his Bowels bruised within,  
Betray no Wound on his unbroken Skin.  
Extended thus, in this obscene Abode,  
They leave the Beast; but first sweet Flowers are strowed  
Beneath his Body, broken Boughs and Thyme,  
And pleasing Cassia just renewed in prime.  
This must be done, ere Spring makes equal Day,  
When Western Winds on curling Waters play:  
ere painted Meads produce their Flowery Crops,  
Or Swallows twitter on the Chimney Tops.  
The tainted Blood, in this close Prison penned,  
Begins to boil and through the Bones ferment.  
Then, wondrous to behold, new Creatures rise,  
A moving Mass at first, and short of Thighs;  
Till shooting out with Legs, and imped with Wings,  
The Grubs proceed to Bees with pointed Stings:  
And more and more affecting Air, they try  
Their tender Pinions, and begin to fly:  
At length, like Summer Storms from spreading Clouds,  
That burst at once, and pour impetuous Floods;  
Or Flights of Arrows from the Parthian Bows,  
When from afar they gall embattled Foes;  
With such a Tempest through the Skies they Steer;  
And such a form the winged Squadrons bear.   

What God, O Muse! this useful Science taught?  
Or by what Man's Experience was it brought?   

Sad Aristaeus from fair Tempe fled,  
His Bees with Famine, or Diseases dead:  
On Peneus' Banks he stood, and near his holy Head.  
And while his falling Tears the Stream supplied,  
Thus mourning, to his Mother Goddess cried.  
Mother Cyrene, Mother, whose abode  
Is in the depth of this immortal Flood:  
What boots it, that from Phoebus' Loins I spring,  
The third by him and thee, from heavens high King?  
O! Where is all thy boasted Pity gone,  
And Promise of the Skies to thy deluded Son?  
Why didst thou me, unhappy me, create?  
Odious to Gods, and born to bitter Fate.  
Whom▪ scarce my Sheep, and scarce my painful Plough,  
The needsul Aids of Human Life allow;  
So wretched is thy Son, so hard a Mother thou.  
Proceed, inhuman Parent in thy Scorn;  
Root up my Trees, with Blites destroy my Corn;  
My Vineyards Ruin, and my Sheepfolds burn.  
Let loose thy Rage, let all thy Spite be shown,  
Since thus thou hat'st the Praises of thy Son.  
But from her Mossy Bower below the Ground,  
His careful Mother heard the Plaintive sound;  
Encompassed with her Sea-green Sisters round.  
One common Work they plied: their Distaffs full  
With carded Locks of blue Milesian Wool.  
Spio with Drymo brown, and Xanthe fair,  
And sweet Phyllodoce with long dishevelled Hair:  
Cydippe with Licorias, one a Maid,  
And one that once had called Lucina's Aid.  
Clio and Beroe, from one Father both,  
Both girt with Gold, and clad in particoloured Cloth.  
Opis the meek, and Deiopeia proud;  
Nisaea softly, with Ligaea loud;  
Thalia joyous, Ephyre the sad,  
And Arethusa once Diana's Maid,  
But now, her Quiver left, to Love betrayed.  
To these, Climene the sweet Theft declares,  
Of Mars and Vulcan's unavailing Cares:  
And all the Rapes of Gods, and every Love,  
From ancient Chaos down to youthful Jove.   

Thus while she sings, the Sisters turn the Wheel,  
Empty the wooly Rock, and fill the Reel.  
A mournful Sound, again the Mother hears;  
Again the mournful Sound invades the Sister's Ears:  
Starting at once from their green Seats, they rise;  
Fear in their Heart, Amazement in their Eyes.  
But Arethusa leaping from her Bed,  
First lists above the Waves her beauteous Head;  
And, crying from afar, thus to Cyrene said.  
O Sister! not with causeless Fear possessed,  
No Stranger Voice disturbs thy tender Breast.  
'Tis Aristeus, 'tis thy darling Son,  
Who to his careless Mother makes his Moan.  
Near his Paternal Stream he sadly stands,  
With downcast Eyes, wet Cheeks, and folded Hands:  
Upbraiding Heaven from whence his Lineage came,  
And cruel calls the Gods, and cruel thee, by Name.   

Cyrene moved with Love, and seized with Fear,  
Cries out, conduct my Son, conduct him here:  
'Tis lawful for the Youth, derived from Gods,  
To view the Secrets of our deep Abodes.  
At once she waved her Hand on either side,  
At once the Ranks of swelling Streams divide.  
Two rising Heaps of liquid Crystal stand,  
And leave a Space betwixt, of empty Sand.  
Thus safe received, the downward tract he treads,  
Which to his Mother's watery Palace leads.  
With wondering Eyes he views the secret Store  
Of Lakes, that penned in hollow Caverns, roar.  
He hears the crackling Sound of Coral Woods,  
And sees the secret Source of subterranean Floods.  
And where, distinguished in their several Cells,  
The Fount of Phasis; and of Lycus dwells;  
Where swift Enipeus in his Bed appears,  
And Tiber his Majestic Forehead rears.  
Whence Anio flows, and Hypanis, profound,  
Breaks through th' opposing Rocks with raging Sound.  
Where Po first issues from his dark abodes,  
And, awful in his Cradle, rules the Floods.  
Two Golden Horns on his large Front he wears,  
And his grim Face a Bull's Resemblance bears.  
With rapid Course he seeks the sacred Main,  
And fattens, as he runs, the fruitful Plain.   

Now to the Court arrived, th' admiring Son  
Beholds the vaulted Roofs of Pory Stone;  
Now to his Mother Goddess tells his Grief,  
Which she with Pity hears, and promises Relief.  
Th' officious Nymphs, attending in a Ring,  
With Waters drawn from their perpetual Spring,  
From earthly dregs his Body purify,  
And rub his Temples, with fine Towels, dry:  
Then load the Tables with a liberal Feast,  
And honour with full Bowls their friendly Guest.  
The sacred Altars are involved in Smoak,  
And the bright Choir their kindred Gods invoke.   

To Sr Bartholomen Shewer of the Middle Temple. Knt.  
Go: 4. l. 535.   

Two Bowls the Mother fills with Lydian Wine;  
Then thus, Let these be poured, with Rites divine,  
To the great Authors of our wat'ry Line.  
To Father Ocean, this; and this, she said,  
Be to the Nymphs his sacred Sisters paid,  
Who rule the wat'ry Plains, and hold the woodland Shade.  
She sprinkled thrice, with Wine, the Vestal Fire,  
Thrice to the vaulted Roof the Flames aspire.  
Raised with so blessed an Omen, she begun,  
With Words like these, to cheer her drooping Son.  
In the Carpathian Bottom makes abode  
The Shepherd of the Seas, a Prophet and a God;  
High o'er the Main in wat'ry Pomp he rides,  
His azure Carr and finny Coursers guides:  
Proteus his Name: to his Pallenian Port,  
I see from far the weary God resort.  
Him, not alone, we River Gods adore,  
But aged Nereus hearkens to his Lore.  
With sure foresight, and with unerring Doom,  
He sees what is, and was, and is to come.  
This Neptune gave him, when he gave to keep  
His scaly Flocks, that graze the wat'ry deep.  
Implore his Aid, for Proteus only knows  
The secret Cause, and Cure of all thy Woes.  
But first the wily Wizard must be caught,  
For unconstrained he nothing tells for naught;  
Nor is with Prayers, or Bribes, or Flattery bought.  
Surprise him first, and with hard Fetters bind;  
Then all his Frauds will vanish into Wind.  
I will myself conduct thee on thy Way,  
When next the Southing Sun inflames the Day:  
When the dry Herbage thirsts for Dews in vain,  
And Sheep, in Shades, avoid the parching Plain.  
Then will I lead thee to his secret Seat;  
When weary with his Toil, and scorched with Heat,  
The wayward Sire frequents his cool Retreat.  
His Eyes with heavy Slumber overcast;  
With Force invade his Limbs, and bind him fast:  
Thus surely bound, yet be not over bold,  
The slipp'ry God will try to lose his hold:  
And various Forms assume, to cheat thy sight;  
And with vain Images of Beasts affright.  
With foamy Tusks he seems a bristly Boar,  
Or imitates the Lion's angry Roar;  
Breaks out in crackling Flames to shun thy Snares,  
A Dragon hisses, or a Tiger stairs:  
Or with a Wile, thy Caution to betray,  
In fleeting Streams attempts to slide away.  
But thou, the more he varies Forms, beware  
To strain his Fetters with a stricter Care:  
Till tiring all his Arts, he turns again  
To his true Shape, in which he first was seen.   

This said, with Nectar she her Son anoints;  
Infusing Vigour through his mortal Joints:  
Down from his Head the liquid Odours ran;  
He breathed of Heaven, and looked above a Man.   

Within a Mountain's hollow Womb, there lies  
A large Recess, concealed from Human Eyes;  
Where heaps of Billows, driven by Wind and Tide,  
In Form of War, their wat'ry Ranks divide;  
And there, like Sentries set, without the Mouth abide:  
A Station safe for Ships, when Tempests roar,  
A silent Harbour, and a covered Shoar.  
Secure within resides the various God,  
And draws a Rock upon his dark Abode.   

To Simon Harcourt of Stanton Harcourt in the County of Oxon Esq..  
Geo 4: L: 635.   

Hither with silent Steps, secure from Sight,  
The Goddess guides her Son, and turns him from the Light:  
Herself, involved in Clouds, precipitates her Flight.   

'Twas Noon; the sultry Dog-star from the Sky  
Scorched Indian Swains, the riveled Grass was dry;  
The Sun with flaming Arrows pierced the Flood,  
And, darting to the bottom, baked the Mud:  
When weary Proteus, from the briny Waves,  
Retired for Shelter to his wont Caves:  
His finny Flocks about their Shepherd play,  
And rolling round him, spirit the bitter Sea.  
Unweildily they wallow first in Ooze,  
Then in the shady Covert seek Repose.  
Himself their Herdsman, on the middle Mount,  
Takes of his mustered Flocks a just Account.  
So, seated on a Rock, a Shepherd's Groom  
Surveys his Evening Flocks returning Home:  
When lowing Calves, and bleating Lambs, from far,  
Provoke the prouling Wolf to nightly War.  
Th' Occasion offers, and the Youth complies:  
For scarce the weary God had closed his Eyes;  
When rushing on, with shouts, he binds in Chains  
The drowsy Prophet, and his Limbs constrains.  
He, not unmindful of his usual Art,  
First in dissembled Fire attempts to part:  
Then roaring Beasts, and running Streams he tries,  
And wearies all his Miracles of Lies:  
But having shifted every Form to scape,  
Convinced of Conquest, he resumed his shape:  
And thus, at length, in human Accent spoke▪  
Audacious Youth, what madness could provoke  
A Mortal Man t' invade a sleeping God?  
What Buis'ness brought thee to my dark abode?   

To this, th' audacious Youth; Thou knowst full well  
My Name, and Buis'ness, God, nor need I tell:  
No Man can Proteus cheat; but Proteus leave  
Thy fraudful Arts, and do not thou deceive.  
following the God's Command, I come t'implore  
Thy Help, my perished People to restore.   

The Seer, who could not yet his Wrath assuage,  
Rolled his green Eyes, that sparkled with his Rage;  
And gnashed his Teeth, and cried, No vulgar God  
Pursues thy Crimes, nor with a Common Rod.  
Thy great Misdeeds have met a due Reward,  
And Orpheus' dying Prayers at length are heard.  
For Crimes, not his, the Lover lost his Life,  
And at thy Hands requires his murdered Wife:  
Nor (if the Fates assist not) canst thou scape  
The just Revenge of that intended Rape.  
To shun thy lawless Lust, the dying Bride,  
Unwary, took along the River's side:  
Nor, at her Heels perceived the deadly Snake,  
That kept the Bank, in Covert of the Brake.  
But all her fellow Nymphs the Mountains tear  
With loud Laments, and break the yielding Air:  
The Realms of Mars remurmured all around,  
And Echoes to th' Athenian Shores rebound.  
Th' unhappy Husband, Husband now no more,  
Did on his tuneful Harp his Loss deplore,  
And sought, his mournful Mind with Music to restore.  
On thee, dear Wife, in Deserts all alone,  
He called, sighed, sung, his Griefs with Day begun,  
Nor were they finished with the setting Sun.  
Even to the dark Dominions of the Night,  
He took his way, through Forest's void of Light:  
And dared amidst the trembling Ghosts to sing,  
And stood before th' inexorable King.  
Th' Infernal Troops like passing Shadows glide,  
And, listening, crowd the sweet Musician's side.  
Not flocks of Birds when driven by Storms, or Night,  
Stretch to the Forest with so thick a flight.  
Men, Matrons, Children, and th' unmarried Maid,   


* This whole Line is taken from the Marquis of Normanby 's Translation.  The mighty Heroes more Majestic shade;  
And Youths on Funeral Piles before their Parents laid.  
All these Cocytus' bounds with squalid Reeds,  
With Muddy Ditches, and with deadly Weeds:  
And baleful Styx encompasses around,  
With Nine slow circling Streams, th' unhappy ground.  
Even from the depths of Hell the Damned advance,  
Th' Infernal Mansions nodding seem to dance;  
The gaping three-mouthed Dog forgets to snarl,  
The Furies hearken, and their Snakes uncurl:  
Ixion seems no more his Pains to feel,  
But leans attentive on his standing Wheel.   

All Dangers past, at length the lovely Bride,  
In safety goes, with her Melodious Guide;  
Longing the common Light again to share,  
And draw the vital breath of upper Air:  
He first, and close behind him followed she,  
For such was Proserpine's severe Decree.  
When strong Desires th' impatient Youth invade;  
By little Caution and much love betrayed:  
A fault which easy Pardon might receive,  
Were Lovers Judges, or could Hell forgive.  
For near the Confines of Etherial Light,  
And longing for the glimmering of a sight,  
Th' unwary Lover cast his Eyes behind,  
Forgetful of the Law, nor Master of his Mind.  
Strait all his Hopes exhaled in empty Smoke;  
And his long Toils were forfeit for a Look.  
Three flashes of blue lightning gave the sign  
Of Covenants broke, three peals of Thunder join.  
Then thus the Bride; What fury seized on thee,  
Unhappy Man! to lose thyself and Me?  
Dragged back again by cruel Destinies,  
An Iron Slumber shuts my swimming Eyes.  
And now farewell, involved in Shades of Night,  
For ever I am ravished from thy sight.  
In vain I reach my feeble hands, to join  
In sweet Embraces; ah! no longer thine!  
She said, and from his Eyes the fleeting Fair  
Retired like subtle Smoke dissolved in Air;  
And left her hopeless Lover in despair.  
In vain, with folding Arms, the Youth assayed  
To stop her flight, and strain the flying Shade:  
He prays, he raves, all Means in vain he tries,  
With rage inflamed, astonished with surprise;  
But she returned no more, to bless his longing Eyes.  
Nor would th' Infernal Ferryman once more  
Be bribed, to waft him to the farther shore.  
What should He do, who twice had lost his Love?  
What Notes invent, what new Petitions move?  
Her Soul already was consigned to Fate,  
And shivering in the leaky Sculler sat.  
For seven continued Months, if Fame say true,  
The wretched Swain his Sorrows did renew;  
By Strymon's freezing Streams he sat alone,  
The Rocks were moved to pity with his moan:  
Trees bend their heads to hear him sing his Wrongs,  
Fierce Tigers couched around, and lolled their fawning Tongues.   

So, close in Poplar Shades, her Children gone,  
The Mother Nightingale laments alone:  
Whose Nest some prying Churl had found, and thence,  
By Stealth, conveyed th' unfeathered Innocence.  
But she supplies the Night with mournful Strains,  
With one continued Tenor still complains;  
Which fills the Forest, and the neighbouring Plains.   

Sad Orpheus thus his tedious Hours employs,  
Averse from Venus, and from nuptial Joys.  
Alone he tempts the frozen Floods, alone  
Th' unhappy Climes, where Spring was never known:  
He mourned his wretched Wife, in vain restored,  
And Pluto's unavailing Boon deplored.   

The Thracian Matrons, who the Youth accused,  
Of Love disdained, and Marriage Rites refused:  
With Furies, and Nocturnal Orgies fired,  
At length, against his sacred Life conspired.  
Whom even the savage Beasts had spared, they killed,  
And strewed his mangled Limbs about the Field.  
Then, when his Head, from his fair Shoulders torn,  
Washed by the Waters, was on Hebrus born;  
Even than his trembling Tongue invoked his Bride;  
With his last Voice, Eurydice, he cried,  
Eurydice, the Rocks and River-banks replied.  
This answer Proteus gave, nor more he said,  
But in the Billows plunged his hoary Head;  
And where he leaped, the Waves in Circles widely spread.   

The Nymph returned, her drooping Son to cheer,  
And bade him banish his superfluous fear:  
For now, said she, the Cause is known, from whence  
Thy Woe succeeded, and for what Offence:  
The Nymphs, Companions of th'unhappy Maid,  
This punishment upon thy Crimes have laid;  
And sent a Plague among thy thriving Bees.  
With Vows and suppliant Prayers their Powers appease:  
The soft Napaean Race will soon repent  
Their Anger, and remit the Punishment.  
The secret in an easy Method lies;  
Select four Brawny Bulls for Sacrifice,  
Which on Lycaeus graze, without a Guide;  
Add four fair Heifers yet in Yoke untried:  
For these, four Altars in their Temple rear,  
And then adore the Woodland Powers with Prayer.  
From the slain Victims pour the streaming Blood,  
And leave their Bodies in the shady Wood:  
Nine Mornings thence, Lethean Poppy bring,  
T' appease the Manes of the Poet's King:  
And to propitiate his offended Bride,  
A fatted Calf, and a black Ewe provide:  
This finished, to the former Woods repair.  
His Mother's Precepts he performs with care;  
The Temple visits, and adores with Prayer.  
Four Altars raises, from his Herd he culls,  
For Slaughter, four the fairest of his Bulls;  
Four Heifers from his Female Store he took,  
All fair, and all unknowing of the Yoke.  
Nine Mornings thence, with Sacrifice and Prayers,  
The Powers atoned, he to the Grove repairs.  
Behold a Prodigy! for from within  
The broken Bowels, and the bloated Skin,  
A buzzing noise of Bees their Ears alarms,  
Strait issue through the Sides assembling Swarms:  
Dark as a Cloud they make a wheeling Flight,  
Then on a neighbouring Tree, descending, light:  
Like a large Cluster of black Grapes they show,  
And make a large dependence from the Bough.   

To the Hon ble: John Granville second Son to John EARL of BATH one of the Come ●s: appointed by Act of Parliamt: t: for Examining Taking & Stating the Public Accounts of the Kingdom.  
Geor.: 4: l. 795.   

Thus have I sung of Fields, and Flocks, and Trees,  
And of the waxen Work of labouring Bees;  
While mighty Caesar, thundering from afar,  
Seeks on Euphrates Banks the Spoils of War:  
With conquering Arms asserts his Country's Cause,  
With Arts of Peace the willing People draws:  
On the glad Earth the Golden Age renews,  
And his great Father's Path to Heaven pursues.  
While I at Naples pass my peaceful Days,  
Affecting Studies of less noisy Praise;  
And bold, through Youth, beneath the Beechen Shade,  
The Lays of Shepherds, and their Loves have played.     

TO THE MOST HONOURABLE John, Lord Marquess of Normanby, EARL of MULGRAVE, etc. AND Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.  
A HEROIC Poem, truly such, is undoubtedly the greatest Work which the Soul of Man is capable to perform. The Design of it, is to form the Mind to Heroic Virtue by Example; 'tis conveyed in Verse, that it may delight, while it instructs: The Action of it is always one, entire, and great. The least and most trivial Episodes, or under-Actions, which are interwoven in it, are parts either necessary, or convenient to carry on the main Design. Either so necessary, that without them the Poem must be Imperfect, or so convenient, that no others can be imagined more suitable to the place in which they are. There is nothing to be left void in a firm Building; even the Cavities ought not to be filled with Rubbish, which is of a perishable kind, destructive to the strength: But with Brick or Stone, though of less pieces, yet of the same Nature, and fitted to the Crannies. Even the least portions of them must be of the Epic kind; all things must be Grave, Majestical, and Sublime: Nothing of a Foreign Nature, like the trifling Novels, which Aristotle and others have inserted in their Poems. By which the Reader is miss-led into another sort of Pleasure, opposite to that which is designed in an Epic Poem. One raises the Soul and hardens it to Virtue, the other softens it again and unbends it into Vice. One conduces to the Poet's aim, the completing of his Work; which he is driving on, labouring and hastening in every Line: the other slackens his pace, diverts him from his Way, and locks him up like a Knight Errand in an Enchanted Castle, when he should be pursuing his first Adventure. Statius, as Bossu has well observed, was ambitious of trying his strength with his Master Virgil, as Virgil had before tried his with Homer. The Grecian gave the two Romans an Example, in the Games which were Celebrated at the Funerals of Patroclus. Virgil imitated the Invention of Homer, but changed the Sports. But both the Greek and Latin Poet, took their occasions from the Subject; though to confess the Truth, they were both Ornamental, or at best, convenient parts of it, rather than of necessity arising from it. Statius, who through his whole Poem, is noted for want of Conduct and Judgement; instead of staying, as he might have done, for the Death of Capaneus, Hippomedon, Tideus, or some other of his Seven Champions, (who are Heroes all alike) or more properly for the Tragical end of the two Brothers, whose Exequys the next Successor had leisure to perform, when the Siege was raised, and in the Interval betwixt the Poets first Action, and his second; went out of his way, as it were on propense Malice to commit a Fault. For he took his opportunity to kill a Royal Infant, by the means of a Serpent, (that Author of all Evil) to make way for those Funeral Honours, which he intended for him. Now if this Innocent had been of any Relation to his Thebais; if he had either farthered or hindered the taking of the Town, the Poet might have found some sorry Excuse at least, for detaining the Reader from the promised Siege. I can think of nothing to plead for him, but what I verily believe he thought himself; which was, that as the Funerals of Anchises were solemnised in Sicily, so those of Archemorus should be celebrated in Candy. For the last was an Island; and a better than the first, because Jove was Born there. On these terms, this Capaneus of a Poet engaged his two Immortal Predecessors, and his Success was answerable to his Enterprise.  
If this Oeconomy must be observed in the minutest Parts of an Epic Poem, which, to a common Reader, seem to be detached from the Body, and almost independent of it; what Soul, tho' sent into the World with great advantages of Nature, cultivated with the liberal Arts and Sciences; conversant with Histories of the Dead, and enriched with Observations on the Living, can be sufficient to inform the whole Body of so great a Work? I touch here but transiently, without any strict Method, on some few of those many Rules of imitating Nature, which Aristotle drew from Homer's Iliads and Odysseys, and which he fitted to the Drama; furnishing himself also with Observations from the Practice of the Theatre, when it flourished under Aeschilus, Eurypides, and Sophocles. For the Original of the Stage was from the Epic Poem. Narration, doubtless, preceded Acting, and gave Laws to it: What at first was told Artfully, was, in process of time, represented gracefully to the sight, and hearing. Those Episodes of Homer, which were proper for the Stage, the Poets amplified each into an Action: Out of his Limbs they formed their Bodies: What he had Contracted they Enlarged: Out of one Hercules were made infinite of Pigmies; yet all endued with humane Souls: For from him, their great Creator, they have each of them the Divinae particulam Aurae. They flowed from him at first, and are at last resolved into him. Nor were they only animated by him, but their Measure and Symmetry was owing to him. His one, entire, and great Action was Copied by them according to the proportions of the Drama: If he finished his Orb within the Year, it sufficed to teach them, that their Action being less, and being also less diversified with Incidents, their Orb, of consequence, must be circumscribed in a less compass, which they reduced, within the limits either of a Natural or an Artificial Day. So that as he taught them to amplify what he had shortened, by the same Rule applied the contrary way, he taught them to shorten what he had amplified. Tragedy is the minature of Humane Life; an Epic Poem is the draught at length. Here, my Lord, I must contract also, for, before I was aware, I was almost running into a long digression, to prove that there is no such absolute necessity that the time of a Stage-Action should so strictly be confined to Twenty Four Hours, as never to exceed them, for which Aristotle contends, and the Grecian Stage has practised. Some longer space, on some occasions, I think may be allowed, especially for the English Theatre, which requires more variety of Incidents than the French. Corneille himself, after long Practice, was inclined to think, that the time allotted by the Ancients was too short to raise and finish a great Action: And better a Mechanic Rule were stretched or broken, than a great Beauty were omitted. To raise, and afterwards to calm the Passions, to purge the Soul from Pride, by the Examples of Humane Miseries, which befall the greatest; in few words, to expel Arrogance, and introduce Compassion, are the great effects of Tragedy. Great, I must confess, if they were altogether as true as they are pompous. But are Habits to be introduced at three Hours warning? Are radical Diseases so suddenly removed? A Mountebank may promise such a Cure, but a skilful Physician will not undertake it. An Epic Poem is not in so much haste; it works leisurely; the Changes which it makes are slow; but the Cure is likely to be more perfect. The effects of Tragedy, as I said, are too violent to be lasting. If it be answered that for this Reason Tragedies are often to be seen, and the Dose to be repeated; this is tacitly to confess, that there is more Virtue in one Heroic Poem than in many Tragedies. A Man is humbled one Day, and his Pride returns the next. Chemical Medicines are observed to Relieve oftener than to Cure: For 'tis the nature of Spirits to make swift impressions, but not deep. Galenical Decoctions, to which I may properly compare an Epic Poem, have more of Body in them; they work by their substance and their weight. It is one Reason of Aristotle's to prove, that Tragedy is the more Noble, because it turns in a shorter Compass; the whole Action being circumscribed within the space of Four-and-Twenty Hours. He might prove as well that a Mushroom is to be preferred before a Peach, because it shoots up in the compass of a Night. A Chariot may be driven round the Pillar in less space than a large Machine, because the Bulk is not so great: Is the Moon a more Noble Planet than Saturn, because she makes her Revolution in less than Thirty Days, and He in little less than Thirty Years? Both their Orbs are in proportion to their several Magnitudes; and, consequently, the quickness or slowness of their Motion, and the time of their circumvolutions, is no Argument of the greater or less Perfection. And besides, what Virtue is there in a Tragedy, which is not contained in an Epic Poem? Where Pride is humbled, Virtue rewarded, and Vice punished; and those more amply treated, than the narrowness of the Drama can admit? The shining Qualitiy of an Epic Hero, his Magnanimity, his Constancy, his Patience, his Piety, or whatever Characteristical Virtue his Poet gives him, raiseth first our Admiration: We are naturally prone to imitate what we admire: And frequent Acts produce a habit. If the Hero's chief quality be vicious, as for Example, the Choler and obstinate desire of Vengeance in Achilles, yet the Moral is Instructive: And besides, we are informed in the very proposition of the Iliads, that this anger was pernicious: That it brought a thousand ills on the Grecian Camp. The Courage of Achilles is proposed to imitation, not his Pride and Disobedience to his General, nor his brutal Cruelty to his dead Enemy, nor the selling his Body to his Father. We abhor these Actions while we read them, and what we abhor we never imitate: The Poet only shows them like Rocks or Quicksands, to be shunned.  
By this Example the Critics have concluded that it is not necessary the Manners of the Hero should be virtuous. They are Poetically good if they are of a Piece. Though where a Character of perfect Virtue is set before us, 'tis more lovely: for there the whole Hero is to be imitated. This is the Aeneas of our Author: this is that Idea of perfection in an Epic Poem, which Painters and Statuaries have only in their minds; and which no hands are able to express. These are the Beauties of a God in a Humane Body. When the Picture of Achilles is drawn in Tragedy, he is taken with those Warts, and Moles, and hard Features, by those who represent him on the Stage, or he is no more Achilles: for his Creator Homer has so described him. Yet even thus he appears a perfect Hero, though an imperfect Character of Virtue. Horace Paints him after Homer, and delivers him to be Copied on the Stage with all those imperfections. Therefore they are either not faults in a Heroic Poem, or faults common to the Drama. After all, on the whole merits of the Cause, it must be acknowledged that the Epic Poem is more for the Manners, and Tragedy for the Passions. The Passions, as I have said, are violent: and acute Distempers require Medicines of a strong and speedy operation. Ill habits of the Mind are like Chronical Diseases, to be corrected by degrees, and Cured by Alteratives: wherein though Purges are sometimes necessary, yet Diet, good Air, and moderate Exercise, have the greatest part. The Matter being thus stated, it will appear that both sorts of Poetry are of use for their proper ends. The Stage is more active, the Epic Poem works at greater leisure, yet is active too, when need requires. For Dialogue is imitated by the Drama, from the more active parts of it. One puts off a Fit like the Quinquina, and relieves us only for a time; the other roots out the Distemper, and gives a healthful habit. The Sun enlightens and cheers us, dispels Fogs, and warms the ground with his daily Beams; but the Corn is sowed, increases, is ripened, and is reaped for use in process of time, and in its proper Season. I proceed from the greatness of the Action, to the Dignity of the Actors, I mean to the Persons employed in both Poems. There likewise Tragedy will be seen to borrow from the Epopee; and that which borrows is always of less Dignity, because it has not of its own. A Subject, 'tis true, may lend to his Sovereign, but the act of borrowing makes the King inferior, because he wants, and the Subject supplies. And suppose the Persons of the Drama wholly Fabulous, or of the Poet's Invention, yet Heroic Poetry gave him the Examples of that Invention, because it was first, and Homer the common Father of the Stage. I know not of any one advantage, which Tragedy can boast above Heroic Poetry, but that it is represented to the view, as well as read: and instructs in the Closet, as well as on the Theatre. This is an uncontended Excellence, and a chief Branch of its Prerogative; yet I may be allowed to say without partiality, that herein the Actors share the Poet's praise. Your Lordship knows some Modern Tragedies which are beautiful on the Stage, and yet I am confident you would not read them. Tryphon the Stationer complains they are seldom asked for in his Shop. The Poet who Flourished in the Scene, is damned in the Ruelle; nay more, he is not esteemed a good Poet by those who see and hear his Extravagancies with delight. They are a sort of stately Fustian, and lofty Childishness. Nothing but Nature can give a sincere pleasure; where that is not imitated, 'tis Grotesque Painting, the fine Woman ends in a Fishes Tail.  
I might also add, that many things, which not only please, but are real Beauties in the reading, would appear absurd upon the Stage: and those not only the Speciosa Miracula, as Horace calls them; of Transformations, of Scylla, Antiphates, and the Lestrigons, which cannot be represented even in Operas; but the prowess of Achilles or Aeneas would appear ridiculous in our Dwarf-Heroes of the Theatre. We can believe they routed Armies in Homer or in Virgil, but ne Hercules contraduos in the Drama. I forbear to instance in many things which the Stage cannot or ought not to represent. For I have said already more than I intended on this Subject, and should fear it might be turned against me; that I plead for the pre-eminence of Epic Poetry, because I have taken some pains in translating Virgil; if this were the first time that I had delivered my Opinion in this Dispute. But I have more than once already maintained the Rights of my two Masters against their Rivals of the Scene, even while I wrote Tragedies myself, and had no thoughts of this present Undertaking. I submit my Opinion to your Judgement, who are better qualified than any Man I know to decide this Controversy. You come, my Lord, instructed in the Cause, and needed not that I should open it. Your Essay of Poetry, which was published without a Name, and of which I was not honoured with the Confidence, I read over and over with much delight, and as much instruction: and, without flattering you, or making myself more Moral than I am, not without some Envy. I was loath to be informed how an Epic Poem should be written, or how a Tragedy should be contrived and managed in better Verse and with more judgement than I could teach others. A Native of Parnassus, and bred up in the Studies of its Fundamental Laws, may receive new Lights from his Contemporaries, but 'tis a grudging kind of praise which he gives his Benefactors. He is more obliged than he is willing to acknowledge: there is a tincture of Malice in his Commendations. For where I own I am taught, I confess my want of Knowledge. A Judge upon the Bench, may, out of good Nature, or at least interest, encourage the Plead of a puny Councillor, but he does not willingly commend his Brother Sergeant at the Bar, especially when he controls his Law, and exposes that ignorance which is made Sacred by his Place. I gave the unknown Author his due Commendation, I must confess, but who can answer for me, and for the rest of the Poets, who heard me read the Poem, whether we should not have been better pleased to have seen our own Names at the bottom of the Title Page? perhaps we commended it the more, that we might seem to be above the Censure. We are naturally displeased with an unknown Critic, as the Ladies are with a Lampooner, because we are bitten in the dark, and know not where to fasten our Revenge. But great Excellencies will work their way through all sorts of opposition. I applauded rather out of decency than Affection; and was Ambitious, as some yet can witness, to be acquainted with a Man, with whom I had the honour to Converse, and that almost daily, for so many years together. Heaven knows if I have heartily forgiven you this deceit. You extorted a Praise which I should willingly have given had I known you. Nothing had been more easy than to commend a Patron of a long standing. The World would join with me, if the Encomiums were just; and if unjust, would excuse a grateful Flatterer. But to come Anonymous upon me, and force me to commend you against my interest, was not altogether so fair, give me leave to say, as it was Politic. For by concealing your Quality, you might clearly understand how your Work succeeded; and that the general approbation was given to your Merit not your Titles. Thus like Apelles you stood unseen behind your own Venus, and received the praises of the passing Multitude: the Work was commended, not the Author: And I doubt not this was one of the most pleasing Adventures of your Life.  
I have detained your Lordship longer than I intended in this Dispute of preference betwixt the Epic Poem, and the Dramae: and yet have not formally answered any of the Arguments which are brought by Aristotle on the other side, and set in the fairest light by Dacier. But I suppose, without looking on the Book, I may have touched on some of the Objections. For in this Address to your Lordship, I design not a Treatise of Heroic Poetry, but write in a loose Epistolary way, somewhat tending to that Subject, after the Example of Horace, in his First Epistle of the Second Book to Augustus Caesar, and of that to the Piso's, which we call his Art of Poetry. In both of which he observes no Method that I can trace, whatever Scaliger the Father, or Heinsius may have seen, or rather think they had seen. I have taken up, laid down, and resumed as often as I pleased the same Subject: and this loose proceeding I shall use through all this Prefatory Dedication. Yet all this while I have been Sailing with some side-wind or other toward the Point I proposed in the beginning; the Greatness and Excellency of an Heroic Poem, with some of the difficulties which attend that work. The Comparison therefore which I made betwixt the Epopee and the Tragedy was not altogether a digression; for 'tis concluded on all hands, that they are both the Masterpieces of Humane Wit.  
In the mean time I may be bold to draw this Corollary from what has been already said, That the File of Heroic Poets is very short: all are not such who have assumed that lofty Title in Ancient or Modern Ages, or have been so esteemed by their partial and ignorant Admirers.  
There have been but one great Ilias and one Aeneis in so many Ages. The next, but the next with a long interval betwixt, was the Jerusalem: I mean not so much in distance of time, as in Excellency. After these three are entered, some Lord Chamberlain should be appointed, some Critic of Authority should be set before the door, to keep out a Crowd of little Poets, who press for Admission, and are not of Quality. Maevius would be deafening your Lordship's Ears with his Fortunam Priami, Cantabo, & Nobile Bellum. mere Fustian, as Horace would tell you from behind, without pressing forward, and more smoke than fire. Pulci, Boyardo, and Ariosto, would cry out, make room for the Italian Poets, the descendants of Virgil in a right Line. Father Le Moin with his Saint Lovis; and Scudery with his Alaric, for a godly King, and a Gothick Conqueror; and Chapelain would take it ill that his Maid should be refused a place with Helen and Lavinia. Spencer has a better plea for his Fairy-Queen, had his action been finished, or had been one. And Milton, if the Devil had not been his Hero instead of Adam, if the Giant had not foiled the Knight, and driven him out of his strong hold, to wander through the World with his Lady Errand: and if there had not been more Machining Persons than Humane, in his Poem. After these, the rest of our English Poets shall not be mentioned. I have that Honour for them which I ought to have: but if they are Worthies, they are not to be ranked amongst the three whom I have named, and who are established in their Reputation.  
Before I quitted the Comparison betwixt Epic Poetry and Tragedy, I should have acquainted my Judge with one advantage of the former over the latter, which I now casually remember out of the Preface of Segrais before his Translation of the Aeneis, or out of Bossu, no matter which. The stile of the Heroic Poem is and aught to be more lofty than that of the Drama. The Critic is certainly in the right, for the Reason already urged: The work of Tragedy is on the Passions, and in Dialogue, both of them abhor strong Metaphors, in which the Epopee delights. A Poet cannot speak too plainly on the Stage: for Volat irrevocabile verbum; the sense is lost if it be not taken flying: but what we read alone we have leisure to digest. There an Author may beautify his Sense by the boldness of his Expression, which if we understand not fully at the first, we may dwell upon it, till we find the secret force and excellence. That which cures the Manners by alterative Physic, as I said before, must proceed by insensible degrees; but that which purges the Passions, must do its business all at once, or wholly fail of its effect, at least in the present Operation, and without repeated Doses. We must beat the Iron while 'tis hot, but we may polish it at leisure. Thus, my Lord, you pay the Fine of my forgetfulness, and yet the merits of both Causes are where they were, and undecided, till you declare whether it be more for the benefit of Mankind to have their Manners in general corrected, or their Pride and hardheartedness removed.  
I must now come closer to my present business: and not think of making more invasive Wars abroad, when like Hannibal, I am called back to the defence of my own Country. Virgil is attacked by many Enemies: He has a whole Confederacy against him, and I must endeavour to defend him as well as I am able. But their principal Objections being against his Moral, the duration or length of time taken up in the action of the Poem, and what they have to urge against the Manners of his Hero, I shall omit the rest as mere Cavils of Grammarians: at the worst but casual slips of a Great Man's Pen, or inconsiderable faults of an admirable Poem, which the Author had not leisure to review before his Death. Macrobius has answered what the Ancients could urge against him: and some things I have lately read in Tanneguy le Feurè, Valois, and another whom I name not, which are scarce worth answering. They begin with the Moral of his Poem, which I have elsewhere confessed, and still must own not to be so Noble as that of Homer. But let both be fairly stated, and without contradicting my first Opinion, I can show that Virgil's was as useful to the Romans of his Age, as Homer's was to the Grecians of his; in what time soever he may be supposed to have lived and flourished. Homer's Moral was to urge the necessity of Union, and of a good understanding betwixt Confederate States and Princes engaged in a War with a Mighty Monarch: as also of Discipline in an Army, and obedience in the several Chiefs, to the Supreme Commander of the joint Forces. To inculcate this, he sets forth the ruinous Effects of Discord in the Camp of those Allies, occasioned by the quarrel betwixt the General, and one of the next in Office under him. Agamemnon gives the provocation, and Achilles resents the injury. Both Parties are faulty in the Quarrel, and accordingly they are both punished: the Agressor is forced to sue for peace to his Inferior, on dishonourable Conditions; the Deserter resuses the satisfaction offered, and his Obstinacy costs him his best Friend. This works the Natural Effect of Choler, and turns his Rage against him, by whom he was last Affronted, and most sensibly. The greater Anger expels the less; but his Character is still preserved. In the mean time the Grecian Army receives Loss on Loss, and is half destroyed by a Pestilence into the Bargain.  Quicquid delirant Reges plectuntur Achivi. 
As the Poet, in the first part of the Example, had shown the bad effects of Discord, so after the Reconcilement, he gives the good effects of Unity. For Hector is slain, and then Troy must fall. By this, 'tis probable, that Homer lived when the Persian Monarchy was grown formidable to the Grecians: and that the joint Endeavours of his Countrymen, were little enough to preserve their common Freedom, from an encroaching Enemy. Such was his Moral, which all Critics have allowed to be more Noble than that of Virgil: though not adapted to the times in which the Roman Poet lived. Had Virgil flourished in the Age of Ennius, and addressed to Scipio, he had probably taken the same Moral, or some other not unlike it. For then the Romans were in as much danger from the Carthaginian Commonwealth, as the Grecians were from the Persian Monarchy. But we are to consider him as writing his Poem in a time when the Old Form of Government was subverted, and a new one just Established by Octavius Caesar: In effect by force of Arms, but seemingly by the Consent of the Roman People. The Commonwealth had received a deadly Wound in the former Civil Wars betwixt Marius and Sylla. The Commons, while the first prevailed, had almost shaken off the Yoke of the Nobility; and Marius and Cinna, like the Captains of the Mobb, under the specious Pretence of the Public Good, and of doing Justice on the Oppressors of their Liberty, revenged themselves, without Form of Law, on their private Enemies. Sylla, in his turn, proscribed the Heads of the adverse Party: He too had nothing but Liberty and Reformation in his Mouth; (for the Cause of Religion is but a Modern Motive to Rebellion, invented by the Christian Priesthood, refining on the Heathen:) Sylla, to be sure, meant no more good to the Roman People than Marius before him, whatever he declared; but Sacrificed the Lives, and took the Estates of all his Enemies, to gratify those who brought him into Power: Such was the Reformation of the Government by both Parties. The Senate and the Commons were the two Bases on which it stood; and the two Champions of either Faction, each destroyed the Foundations of the other side: So the Fabric of consequence must fall betwxt them: And Tyranny must be built upon their Ruins. This comes of altering Fundamental Laws and Constitutions. Like him, who being in good Health, lodged himself in a Physician's House, and was over-persuaded by his Landlord to take Physic, of which he died, for the benefit of his Doctor. Stavo been (was written on his Monument) ma, perstar meglio, sto qui.  
After the Death of those two Usurpers, the Commonwealth seemed to recover, and held up its Head for a little time: But it was all the while in a deep Consumption, which is a flattering Disease. Pompey, Crassus, and Caesar, had found the Sweets of Arbitrary Power; and each being a check to the others growth, struck up a false Friendship amongst themselves; and divided the Government betwixt them, which none of them was able to assume alone. These were the public Spirited Men of their Age, that is, Patriots for their own Interest. The Commonwealth looked with a florid Countenance in their Management, spread in Bulk, and all the while was wasting in the Vitals. Not to trouble your Lordship with the Repetition of what you know: After the death of Crassus, Pompey found himself out-witted by Caesar; broke with him, overpowered him in the Senate, and caused many unjust Decrees to pass against him: Caesar thus injured, and unable to resist the Faction of the Nobles, which was now uppermost (for he was a Marian) had recourse to Arms; and his Cause was just against Pompey, but not against his Country, whose Constitution ought to have been sacred to him; and never to have been Violated on the account of any private Wrong. But he prevailed, and Heaven declaring for him, he became a Providential Monarch, under the Title of Perpetual Dictator. He being Murdered by his own Son, whom I neither dare commend, nor can justly blame (though Dante in his Inferno, has put him and Cassius, and Judas Iscariot betwixt them, into the great Devil's Mouth) the Commonwealth popped up its Head for the third time, under Brutus and Cassius, and then sunk for ever.  
Thus the Roman People were grossly gulled: twice or thrice over: and as often enslaved in one Century, and under the same pretence of Reformation. At last the two Battles of Philippi, gave the decisive stroke against Liberty; and not long after, the Commonwealth was turned into a Monarchy, by the Conduct and good Fortune of Augustus. 'Tis true, that the despotic Power could not have fallen into better Hands, than those of the first and second Caesar. Your Lordship well knows what Obligations Virgil had to the latter of them: He saw, beside, that the Commonwealth was lost without ressource: The Heads of it destroyed; the Senate new moulded, grown degenerate; and either bought off, or thrusting their own Necks into the Yoke, out of fear of being forced. Yet I may safely affirm for our great Author (as Men of good Sense are generally Honest) that he was still of Republic principles in Heart.  Secretisque Piis, his dantem jura Catonem. 
I think, I need use no other Argument to justify my Opinion, than that of this one Line, taken from the Eighth Book of the Eneis. If he had not well studied his Patron's Temper, it might have Ruined him with another Prince. But Augustus was not discontented, at least that we can find, that Cato was placed, by his own Poet, in Elysium; and there giving Laws to the Holy Souls, who deserved to be separated from the Vulgar sort of good Spirits. For his Conscience could not but whisper to the Arbitrary Monarch, that the Kings of Rome were at first Elective, and Governed not without a Senate: That Romulus was no Hereditary Prince, and though, after his Death, he received Divine Honours, for the good he did on Earth, yet he was but a God of their own making: that the last Tarquin was Expelled justly, for Overtacts of Tyranny, and Maladministration; for such are the Conditions of an Elective Kingdom: And I meddle not with others: being, for my own Opinion, of Montaigns' Principles, that an Honest Man ought to be contented with that Form of Government, and with those Fundamental Constitutions of it, which he received from his Ancestors, and under which himself was Born: Though at the same time he confessed freely, that if he could have chosen his Place of Birth, it should have been at Venice: Which for many Reasons I dislike, and am better pleased to have been born an English Man.  
But to return from my long rambling: I say that Virgil having maturely weighed the Condition of the Times in which he lived: that an entire Liberty was not to be retrieved: that the present Settlement had the prospect of a long continuance in the same Family, or those adopted into it: that he held his Paternal Estate from the Bounty of the Conqueror, by whom he was likewise enriched, esteemed and cherished: that this Conqueror, though of a bad kind, was the very best of it: that the Arts of Peace flourished under him: that all Men might be happy if they would be quiet: that now he was in possession of the whole, yet he shared a great part of his Authority with the Senate: That he would be chosen into the Ancient Offices of the Commonwealth, and Ruled by the Power which he derived from them; and Prorogued his Government from time to time: Still, as it were, threatening to dismiss himself from Public Cares, which he exercised more for the common Good, than for any delight he took in greatness: These things, I say, being considered by the Poet, he concluded it to be the Interest of his Country to be so Governed: To infuse an awful Respect into the People, towards such a Prince: By that respect to confirm their Obedience to him; and by that Obedience to make them Happy. This was the Moral of his Divine Poem: Honest in the Poet: Honourable to the Emperor, whom he derives from a Divine Extraction; and reflecting part of that Honour on the Roman People, whom he derives also from the Trojans; and not only profitable, but necessary to the present Age; and likely to be such to their Posterity. That it was the received Opinion, that the Romans were descended from the Trojans, and Julius Caesar from Julus the Son of Aeneas, was enough for Virgil; tho' perhaps he thought not so himself: Or that Aeneas ever was in Italy, which Bochartus manifestly proves. And Homer, where he says that Jupiter hated the House of Priam, and was resolved to transfer the Kingdom to the Family of Aeneas, yet mentions nothing of his leading a Colony into a Foreign Country, and settling there: But that the Romans valued themselves on their Trojan Ancestry, is so undoubted a Truth, that I need not prove it. Even the Seals which we have remaining of Julius Caesar, which we know to be Antique, have the Star of Venus over them, though they were all graven after his Death, as a Note that he was Deified. I doubt not but it was one Reason, why Augustus should be so passionately concerned for the preservation of the Aeneis, which its Author had Condemned to be Burnt, as an Imperfect Poem, by his last Will and Testament; was, because it did him a real Service as well as an Honour; that a Work should not be lost where his Divine Original was Celebrated in Verse, which had the Character of Immortality stamped upon it.  
Neither were the great Roman Families which flourished in his time, less obliged by him than the Emperor. Your Lordship knows with what Address he makes mention of them, as Captains of Ships, or Leaders in the War; and even some of Italian Extraction are not forgotten. These are the single Stars which are sprinkled through the Aeneis: But there are whole Constellations of them in the Fifth Book. And I could not but take notice, when I Translated it, of some Favourite Families to which he gives the Victory, and awards the Prizes, in the Person of his Hero, at the Funeral Games which were Celebrated in Honour of Anchises. ay, Insist not on their Names: But am pleased to find the Memmii amongst them, derived from Mnestheus, because Lucretius Dedicates to one of that Family, a Branch of which destroyed Corinth. I likewise either found or formed an Image to myself of the contrary kind; that those who lost the Prizes, were such as had disobliged the Poet, or were in disgrace with Augustus, or Enemies to Maecenas: And this was the Poetical Revenge he took. For genus irritabile Vatum, as Horace says. When a Poet is throughly provoked, he will do himself Justice, however dear it cost him, Animamque, in Vulnere ponit. I think these are not bare Imaginations of my own, though I find no trace of them in the Commentatours: But one Poet may judge of another by himself. The Vengeance we defer, is not forgotten. I hinted before, that the whole Roman People were obliged by Virgil, in deriving them from Troy; an Ancestry which they affected. We, and the French are of the same Humour: They would be thought to descend from a Son, I think, of Hector: And we would have our Britain, both Named and Planted by a descendant of Aeneas. Spencer favours this Opinion what he can. His Prince Arthur, or whoever he intends by him, is a Trojan. Thus the Hero of Homer was a Grecian, of Virgil a Roman, of Tasso an Italian.  
I have transgressed my Bounds, and gone farther than the Moral led me. But if your Lordship is not tired, I am safe enough.  
Thus far, I think, my Author is defended. But as Augustus is still shadowed in the Person of Aeneas, of which I shall say more, when I come to the Manners which the Poet gives his Hero: I must prepare that Subject by showing how dexterously he managed both the Prince and People, so as to displease neither, and to do good to both, which is the part of a Wise and an Honest Man: And proves that it is possible for a Courtier not to be a Knave: I shall continue still to speak my Thoughts like a freeborn Subject as I am; though such things, perhaps, as no Dutch Commentator could, and I am sure no Frenchman durst. I have already told your Lordship my Opinion of Virgil; that he was no Arbitrary Man. Obliged he was to his Master for his Bounty, and he repays him with good Counsel, how to behave himself in his new Monarchy, so as to gain the Affections of his Subjects, and deserve to be called the Father of his Country. From this Consideration it is, that he chose for the groundwork of his Poem, one Empire destroyed, and another raised from the Ruins of it. This was just the Parallel. Aeneas could not pretend to be Priam's Heir in a Lineal Succession: For Anchises the Heroe's Father, was only of the second Branch of the Royal Family: And Helenus, a Son of Priam, was yet surviving, and might lawfully claim before him. It may be Virgil mentions him on that Account. Neither has he forgotten Atis, in the Fifth of his Aeneis, the Son of Polites, youngest Son to Priam; who was slain by Pyrrhus, in the Second Book. Atis, then, the Favourite Companion of Ascanius, had a better Right than he; tho' I know he was introduced by Virgil, to do Honour to the Family, from which Julius Caesar was descended by the Mother's side. Aeneas had only Married Creusa, Priam's Daughter, and by her could have no Title, while any of the Male Issue were remaining. In this case, the Poet gave him the next Title, which is, that of an Elective King. The remaining Trojans chose him to lead them forth, and settle them in some Foreign Country. Ilioneus in his Speech to Dido, calls him expressly by the Name of King. Our Poet, who all this while had Augustus in his Eye, had no desire he should seem to succeed by any right of Inheritance, derived from Julius Caesar; such a Title being but one degree removed from Conquest. For what was introduced by force, by force may be removed. 'Twas better for the People that they should give, than he should take. Since that Gift was indeed no more at bottom than a Trust. Virgil gives us an Example of this, in the Person of Mezentius. He Governed Arbitrarily, he was expelled: And came to the deserved End of all Tyrants. Our Author shows us another sort of Kingship in the Person of Latinus. He was descended from Saturn, and as I remember, in the Third Degree. He is described a just and a gracious Prince; solicitous for the Welfare of his People; always Consulting with his Senate to promote the common Good. We find him at the head of them, when he enters into the Council-Hall. Speaking first, but still demanding their Advice, and steering by it as far as the Iniquity of the Times would suffer him. And this is the proper Character of a King by Inheritance, who is born a Father of his Country. Aeneas, tho' he Married the Heiress of the Crown, yet claimed no Title to it during the Life of his Father-in-Law. Pater arma Latinus habeto, etc. are Virgil's Words. As for himself, he was contented to take care of his Country Gods, who were not those of Latium. Wherein our Divine Author seems to relate to the after practice of the Romans, which was to adopt the Gods of those they Conquered, or received as Members of their Commonwealth. Yet withal, he plainly touches at the Office of the High Priesthood, with which Augustus was invested: And which made his Person more Sacred and inviolable, than even the Tribunitial Power. It was not therefore for nothing, that the most Judicious of all Poets, made that Office vacant, by the Death of Panthus, in the Second Book of the Aeneis, for his Hero ro succeed in it; and consequently for Augustus to enjoy. I know not that any of the Commentatours have taken notice of that passage. If they have not, I am sure they ought: And if they have, I am not indebted to them for the Observation: The words of Virgil are very plain.  Sacra, suosque tibi, commendat Troja Penates. 
As for Augustus, or his Uncle Julius, claiming by descent from Aeneas; that Title is already out of doors. Aeneas succeeded not, but was Elected. Troy was foredoomed to fall for ever.  
Postquam res Asiae, Priamique evertere Regnum,  
Immeritum, visum superis. Aeneis the 3d, line the 1st.  
Augustus 'tis true, had once resolved to rebuild that City, and there to make the Seat of Empire: But Horace writes an Ode on purpose to deter him from that Thought; declaring the place to be accursed, and that the Gods would as often destroy it as it should be raised. Hereupon the Emperor laid aside a Project so ungrateful to the Roman People: But by this, my Lord, we may conclude that he had still his Pedigree in his Head; and had an Itch of being thought a Divine King, if his Poets had not given him better Counsel.  
I will pass by many less material Objections, for want of room to Answer them: What follows next is of great Importance, if the Critics can make out their Charge; for 'tis levelled at the Manners which our Poet gives his Hero; and which are the same which were eminently seen in his Augustus. Those Manners were Piety to the Gods, and a dutiful Affection to his Father; Love to his Relations; Care of his People; Courage and Conduct in the Wars; Gratitude to those who had obliged him; and Justice in general to Mankind.  
Piety, as your Lordship sees, takes place of all, as the chief part of his Character: And the word in Latin is more full than it can possibly be expressed in any Modern Language; for there it comprehends not only Devotion to the Gods, but Filial Love and tender Affection to Relations of all sorts. As instances of this, the Deities of Troy and his own Penates are made the Companions of his Flight: They appear to him in his Voyage, and advise him; and at last he replaces them in Italy, their Native Country. For his Father he takes him on his Back: He leads his little Son, his Wife follows him; but losing his Footsteps through Fear or Ignorance, he goes back into the midst of his Enemies to find her; and leaves not his pursuit till her Ghost appears, to forbid his farther search. I will say nothing of his Duty to his Father while he lived; his Sorrow for his Death; of the Games instituted in Honour of his Memory; or seeking him, by his Command, even after Death, in the Elysian Fields. I will not mention his Tenderness for his Son, which every where is visible; Of his raising a Tomb for Polydorus, the Obsequies for Misenus, his pious remembrance of Deiphobus: The Funerals of his Nurse: His Grief for Pallas, and his Revenge taken on his Murderer; whom, otherwise by his Natural Compassion, he had forgiven: And then the Poem had been left imperfect: For we could have had no certain prospect of his Happiness, while the last Obstacle to it was unremoved. Of the other parts which compose his Character, as a King, or as a General, I need say nothing: The whole Aeneis is one continued Instance, of some one or other of them: And where I find any thing of them taxed, it shall suffice me, as briefly as I can, to vindicate my Divine Master to your Lordship, and by you to the Reader. But herein, Segrais, in his admirable Preface to his Translation of the Aeneis, as the Author of the Dauphin's Virgil justly calls it; has prevented me. Him I follow; and what I borrow from him, am ready to acknowledge to him. For, impartially speaking, the French are as much better Critics than the English, as they are worse Poets. Thus we generally allow that they better understand the management of a War, than our Islanders; but we know we are superior to them, in the day of Battle. They value themselves on their Generals; we on our Soldiers. But this is not the proper place to decide that Question, if they make it one. I shall sayperhaps as much of other Nations, and their Poets, excepting only Tasso: and hope to make my Assertion good, which is but doing Justice to my Country. Part of which Honour will reflect on your Lordship, whose Thoughts are always just; your Numbers harmonious; your Words chosen; your Expressions strong and manly; your Verse flowing, and your turns as happy as they are easy. If you would set us more Copies, your Example would make all Precepts needless. In the mean time, that little you have Written is owned, and that particularly by the Poets, (who are a Nation not over-lavish of praise to their Contemporaries,) as a principal Ornament of our Language: But the sweetest Essences are always confined in the smallest Glasses.  
When I speak of your Lordship, 'tis never a digression, and therefore I need beg no pardon for it; but take up Segrais where I left him: And shall use him less often than I have occasion for him. For his Preface is a perfect piece of Criticism, full and clear, and digested into an exact Method; mine is loose, and, as I intended it, Epistolary. Yet I dwell on many things which he durst not touch: For 'tis dangerous to offend an Arbitrary Master: And every Patron who has the Power of Augustus, has not his Clemency. In short, my Lord, I would not Translate him, because I would bring you somewhat of my own. His Notes and Observations on every Book, are of the same Excellency; and for the same Reason I omit the greater part.  
He takes notice that Virgil is Arraigned for placing Piety before Valour; and making that Piety the chief Character of his Hero. I have said already from Bossu, that a Poet is not obliged to make his Hero a Virtuous Man: Therefore neither Homer nor Tasso are to be blamed, for giving what predominant quality they pleased to their first Character. But Virgil, who designed to form a perfect Prince, and would insinuate, that Augustus, whom he calls Aeneas in his Poem, was truly such, found himself obliged to make him without blemish; thoroughly Virtuous; and a thorough Virtue both begins and ends in Piety. Tasso, without question, observed this before me; and therefore split his Hero in two. He gave Godfrey Piety, and Rinaldo Fortitude; for their chief Qualities or Manners. Homer, who had chosen another Moral, makes both Agamemnon and Achilles vicious: For his design was to instruct in Virtue, by showing the deformity of Vice. I avoid repetitione of that I have said above. What follows is Translated literally from Segrais.  
Virgil had considered that the greatest Virtues of Augustus consisted in the perfect Art of Governing his People; which caused him to Reign for more than Forty Years in great Felicity. He considered that his Emperor was Valiant, Civil, Popular, Eloquent, Politic, and Religious. He has given all these Qualities to Aeneas. But knowing that Piety alone comprehends the whole Duty of Man towards the Gods; towards his County, and towards his Relations, he judged, that this aught to be his first Character, whom he would set for a Pattern of Perfection. In reality, they who believe that the Praises which arise from Valour, are superior to those, which proceed from any other Virtues, have not considered (as they ought), that Valour, destitute of other Virtues, cannot render a Man worthy of any true esteem. That Quality which signifies no more than an intrepid Courage, may be separated from many others which are good, and accompanied with many which are ill. A Man may be very Valiant, and yet Impious and Vicious. But the same cannot be said of Piety; which excludes all ill Qualities, and comprehends even Valour itself, with all other Qualities which are good. Can we, for Example, give the praise of Valour to a Man who should see his Gods profaned, and should want the Courage to defend them? To a Man who should abandon his Father, or desert his King in his last Necessity?  
Thus far Segrais, in giving the preference to Piety before Valour. I will now follow him, where he considers this Valour, or intrepid Courage, singly in itself; and this also Virgil gives to his Aeneas, and that in a Heroical Degree.  
Having first concluded, that our Poet did for the best in taking the first Character of his Hero, from that Essential Virtue on which the rest depend, he proceeds to tell us, that in the Ten Years war of Troy, he was considered as the second Champion of his Country; allowing Hector the first place; and this, even by the Confession of Homer, who took all occasions of setting up his own Countrymen the Grecians, and of undervaluing the Trojan Chiefs. But Virgil, (whom Segrais forgot to cite,) makes Diomedes give him a higher Character for Strength and Courage. His Testimony is this in the Eleventh Book.  
— stetimus tela aspera contra,  
Contulimusque manus: Experto, credit, quantus  
In clypeum afsurgat, quo turbine torqueat hastam.  
Si duo preterea tales Idaea tulisset  
Terra viros; ultro Inachias venisset ad Vrbes  
Dardanus, & versis lugeret Graecia fatis.  
Quicquid apud durae cessatum est moenia Trojae,  
Hectoris, Aeeneaeque manu victoria Grajûm  
Haesit; & in decumum vestigia rettulit annum.  
Ambo animis, ambo insignes praestantibus armis:  
Hic pietate prior.  
I give not here my Translation of these Verses; though I think I have not ill succeeded in them; because your Lordship is so great a Master of the Original, that I have no reason to desire you should see Virgil and me so near together: But you may please, my Lord, to take notice, that the Latin Author refines upon the Greek; and insinuates, That Homer had done his Hero Wrong, in giving the advantage of the Duel to his own Countryman: Though Diomedes was manifestly the second Champion of the Grecians: And Ulysses preferred him before Ajax, when he chose him for the Companion of his Nightly Expedition: For he had a Head-piece of his own; and wanted only the fortitude of another, to bring him off with safety; and that he might compass his Design with Honour.  
The French Translator thus proceeds: They who accuse Aeneas for want of Courage, either understand not Virgil, or have read him slightly; otherwise they would not raise an Objection so easy to be Answered: Hereupon he gives so many instances of the Heroe's Valour, that to repeat them after him would tyre your Lordship, and put me to the unnecessary trouble of Transcribing the greatest part of the three last Aeneids. In short, more could not be expected from an Amadis, a Sir Lancelot, or the whole round Table, than he performs. Proxima quaeque metit gladio, is the perfect Account of a Knight Errand. If it be replied, continues Segrais, that it was not difficult for him to undertake and achieve such hardy Erterprises, because he wore Enchanted Arms. That Accusation, in the first place, must fall on Homer ere it can reach Virgil. Achilles was as well provided with them as Aeneas, though he was invulnerable without them: And, Ariosto, the two Tasso's, Bernardo and Torquato, even our own Spencer; in a word, all Modern Poets have Copied Homer as well as Virgil: He is neither the first nor last; but in the midst of them; and therefore is safe if they are so. Who knows, says Segrais, but that his fated Armour was only an Allegorical Defence, and signified no more than that he was under the peculiar protection of the Gods; born, as the Astrologers will tell us out of Virgil (who was well versed in the Chaldaean Mysteries) under the favourable influence of Jupiter, Venus, and the Sun: But I insist not on this, because I know you believe not there is such an Art: though not only Horace and Persius, but Augustus himself, thought otherwise. But in defence of Virgil, I dare positively say, that he has been more cautious in this particular than either his Predecessor, or his Descendants. For Aeneas was actually wounded, in the Twelfth of the Aeneis; though he had the same God-Smith to Forge his Arms, as had Achilles. It seems he was no War-luck, as the Scots commonly call such Men, who they say, are Iron-free, or Lead-free. Yet after this Experiment, that his Arms were not impenetrable, when he was Cured indeed by his Mother's help, because he was that day to conclude the War by the death of Turnus, the Poet durst not carry the Miracle too far, and restore him wholly to his former Vigour: He was still too weak to overtake his Enemy; yet we see with what Courage he attacks Turnus, when he faces and renews the Combat. I need say no more, for Virgil defends himself, without needing my assistance; and proves his Hero truly to deserve that Name. He was not then a Second-rate Champion, as they would have him, who think Fortitude the first Virtue in a Hero. But being beaten from this hold, they will not yet allow him to be Valiant; because he wept more often, as they think, than well becomes a Man of Courage.  
In the first place, if Tears are Arguments of Cowardice, What shall I say of Homer's Hero? shall Achilles pass for timorous because he wept? and wept on less occasions than Aeneas? Herein Virgil must be granted to have excelled his Master. For once both Heroes are described lamenting their lost Loves: Briseis was taken away by force from the Grecian: Cerusa was lost for ever to her Husband. But Achilles went roaring along the salt Seashore, and like a Booby, was complaining to his Mother, when he should have revenged his Injury by Arms. Aeneas took a Nobler Course; for having secured his Father and his Son, he repeated all his former Dangers to have found his Wife, if she had been above ground. And here your Lordship may observe the Address of Virgil; it was not for nothing, that this Passage was related with all these tender Circumstances. Aeneas told it; Dido heard it: That he had been so affectionate a Husband, was no ill Argument to the coming Dowager, that he might prove as kind to her. Virgil has a thousand secret Beauties, tho' I have not leisure to remark them.  
Segrais on this Subject of a Heroe's shedding Tears, observes that Historians commend Alexander for weeping, when he read the mighty Actions of Achilles. And Julius Caesar is likewise praised, when out of the same Noble Envy, he wept at the Victories of Alexander. But if we observe more closely, we shall find, that the tears of Aeneas were always on a laudable Occasion. Thus he weeps out of Compassion, and tenderness of Nature, when in the Temple of Carthage he beholds the Pictures of his Friends, who Sacrificed their Lives in Defence of their Country. He deplores the lamentable End of his Pilot Palinurus; the untimely death of young Pallas his Confederate; and the rest, which I omit. Yet even for these Tears his wretched Critics dare condemn him. They make Aeneas little better than a kind of a St. Swithen Hero, always raining. One of these Censors is bold enough to argue him of Cowardice; when in the beginning of the First Book, he not only weeps, but trembles at an approaching Storm.  
Extemplò Aeneae solvuntur frigore Membra:  
Ingemit & duplices tendens ad syderas palmas, etc.  
But to this I have answered formerly; that his fear was not for himself, but for his People. And who can give a Sovereign a better Commendation, or recommend a Hero more to the affection of the Reader? They were threatened with a Tempest, and he wept; he was promised Italy, and therefore he prayed for the accomplishment of that Promise. All this in the beginning of a Storm, therefore he showed the more early Piety, and the quicker sense of Compassion. Thus much I have urged elsewhere in the defence of Virgil; and since I have been informed, by Mr. Moyl, a young Gentleman, whom I can never sufficiently commend, that the Ancients accounted drowning an accursed Death. So that if we grant him to have been afraid, he had just occasion for that fear, both in relation to himself, and to his Subjects. I think our Adversaries can carry this Argument no farther, unless they tell us that he ought to have had more confidence in the promise of the Gods: But how was he assured that he had understood their Oracles aright? Helenus' might be mistaken, Phoebus might speak doubtfully, even his Mother might flatter him, that he might prosecute his Voyage, which if it succeeded happily, he should be the Founder of an Empire. For that she herself was doubtful of his Fortune, is apparent by the Address she made to Jupiter on his behalf. To which the God makes answer in these words: 
Parce metu, Cytherea, manent immota tuorum,  
Fata tibi, etc.   
Notwithstanding which, the Goddess, though comforted, was not assured: For even after this, through the course of the whole Aeneis, she still apprehends the interest which Juno might make with Jupiter against her Son. For it was a moot Point in Heaven, whether he could alter Fate or not. And indeed, some passages in Virgil would make us suspect, that he was of Opinion, Jupiter might defer Fate, though he could not alter it. For in the latter end of the Tenth Book, he introduces Juno begging for the Life of Turnus, and flattering her Husband with the power of changing Destiny. Tua qui potes, orsa reflectas. To which he graciously answers: 
Si mora praesentis lethi tempusque caduco  
Oratur Juveni, meque hoc ita ponere sentis,  
Tolle fugâ Turnum, atque instantibus Eripe fatis.  
Hactenus indulsisse vacat. Sin altior istis  
Sub precibus venia ulla latet, totumque moveri,  
Mutarive putas bellum, spes pascis inaneis.   
But that he could not alter those Decrees, the King of Gods himself confesses, in the Book above cited: when he comforts Hercules, for the death of Pallas, who had invoked his aid, before he threw his Lance at Turnus.  
— Trojae sub moenibus altis,  
Tota Nati Cecidere Deûm; quin occidit unâ  
Sarpedon mea progenies: etiam sua Turnum  
Fata manent: metasque dati pervenit ad aevi.  
Where he plainly acknowledges, that he could not save his own Son, or prevent the death which he foresaw. Of his power to defer the blow, I once occasionally discoursed with that Excellent Person Sir Robert Howard: who is better conversant than any Man I know, in the Doctrine of the Stoics, and he set me right; from the concurrent testimony of Philosophers and Poets, that Jupiter could not retard the effects of Fate, even for a moment. For when I cited Virgil as favouring the contrary opinion in that Verse, Tolle fugâ Turnum, atque instantibus eripe fatis.  
He replied, and I think with an exact Judgement, that when Jupiter gave Juno leave to withdraw Turnus from the present danger, it was because he certainly fore-knew that his Fatal hour was not come: that it was in Destiny for Juno at that time to save him; and that he himself obeyed Destiny, in giving her that leave.  
I need say no more in justification of our Heroe's Courage, and am much deceived, if he ever be attacked on this side of his Character again. But he is Arraigned with more show of Reason by the Ladies; who will make a numerous Party against him, for being false to Love, in forsaking Dido. And I cannot much blame them; for to say the truth, 'tis an ill Precedent for their Gallants to follow. Yet if I can bring him off, with Flying Colours, they may learn experience at her cost; and for her sake, avoid a Cave, as the worst shelter they can choose from a shower of Rain, especially when they have a Lover in their Company.  
In the first place, Segrais observes with much accuteness, that they who blame Aeneas for his insensibility of Love, when he left Carthage, contradict their former accusation of him, for being always Crying, Compassionate, and Effeminately sensible of those Misfortunes which befell others. They give him two contrary Characters, but Virgil makes him of a piece, always grateful, always tenderhearted. But they are impudent enough to discharge themselves of this blunder, by laying the Contradiction at Virgil's door. He, they say, has shown his Hero with these inconsistent Characters: Acknowledging, and Ungrateful, Compassionate, and Hard-hearted; but at the bottom, Fickle, and Self-interested. For Dido had not only received his weatherbeaten Troops before she saw him, and given them her protection, but had also offered them an equal share in her Dominion.  
Vultis & his mecum pariter considere Regnis?  
Vrbem quam statuo, vestra est.  
This was an obligement never to be forgotten: and the more to be considered, because antecedent to her Love. That passion, 'tis true, produced the usual effects of Generosity, Gallantry, and care to please, and thither we refer them. But when she had made all these advances, it was still in his power to have refused them: After the Intrigue of the Cave, call it Marriage, or Enjoment only, he was no longer free to take or leave; he had accepted the favour, and was obliged to be Constant, if he would be grateful.  
My Lord, I have set this Argument in the best light I can, that the Ladies may not think I write booty: and perhaps it may happen to me, as it did to Doctor Cudworth, who has raised such strong Objections against the being of a God, and Providence, that many think he has not answered them. You may please at least to hear the adverse Party. Segrais pleads for Virgil, that no less than an Absolute Command from Jupiter, could excuse this insensibility of the Hero, and this abrupt departure, which looks so like extreme ingratitude. But at the same time, he does wisely to remember you, that Virgil had made Piety the first Character of Aeneas: And this being allowed, as I am afraid it must, he was obliged, antecedent to all other Considerations, to search an Asylum for his Gods in Italy. For those very Gods, I say, who had promised to his Race the Universal Empire. Could a Pious Man dispense with the Commands of Jupiter to satisfy his passion; or take it in the strongest sense, to comply with the obligations of his gratitude? Religion, 'tis true, must have Moral Honesty for its groundwork, or we shall be apt to suspect its truth; but an immediate Revelation dispenses with all Duties of Morality. All Casuists agree, that Theft is a breach of the Moral Law: yet if I might presume to mingle Things Sacred with Profane, the Israelites only spoiled the Egyptians, not robbed them, because the propriety was transferred; by a Revelation to their Lawgiver. I confess Dido was a very Infidel in this Point: for she would not believe, as Virgil makes her say, that ever Jupiter would send Mercury on such an Immoral Errand. But this needs no Answer; at lest no more than Virgil gives it: Fata obstant, placidasque viri Deus obstruit aures.  
This notwithstanding, as Segrais confesses, he might have shown a little more sensibility when he left her; for that had been according to his Character.  
But let Virgil answer for himself; he still loved her; and struggled with his inclinations, to obey the Gods.  
Curam sub Corde premebat,  
Multa gemens; magnoque animum labefactus Amore.  
Upon the whole Matter, and humanely speaking, I doubt there was a fault somewhere; and Jupiter is better able to bear the blame, than either Virgil or Aeneas. The Poet it seems had found it out, and therefore brings the deserting Hero and the forsaken Lady to meet together in the lower Regions; where he excuses himself when 'tis too late, and accordingly she will take no satisfaction, nor so much as hear him. Now Segrais is forced to abandon his defence, and excuses his Author, by saying that the Aeneis is an imperfect Work, and that Death prevented the Divine Poet from reviewing it; and for that Reason he had condemned it to the fire; though at the same time, his two Translators must acknowledge, that the Sixth Book is the most Correct of the whole Aeneis. Oh, how convenient is a Machine sometimes in a Heroic Poem! This of Mercury is plainly one, and Virgil was constrained to use it here, or the honesty of his Hero would be ill-defended. And the Fair Sex however, if they had the Desertour in their power, would certainly have shown him no more mercy, than the Bacchanals did Orpheus. For if too much Constancy may be a fault sometimes, then want of Constancy, and Ingratitude after the last Favour, is a Crime that never will be forgiven. But of Machine's, more in their proper place: where I shall show, with how much judgement they have been used by Virgil; and in the mean time pass to another Article of his defence on the present Subject: where if I cannot clear the Hero, I hope at least to bring off the Poet; for here I must divide their Causes. Let Aeneas trust to his Machine, which will only help to break his Fall, but the Address is incomparable. Plato, who borrowed so much from Homer, and yet concluded for the Banishment of all Poets, would at least have Rewarded Virgil, before he sent him into Exile. But I go farther, and say, that he ought to be acquitted, and deserved beside, the Bounty of Augustus, and the gratitude of the Roman People. If after this, the Ladies will stand out, let them remember, that the Jury is not all agreed; for Octavia was of his Party, and was also of the first Quality in Rome; she was present at the reading of the Sixth Aeneid, and we know not that she condemned Aeneas; but we are sure she presented the Poet, for his admirable Elegy on her Son Marcellus.  
But let us consider the secret Reasons which Virgil had, for thus framing this Noble Episode, wherein the whole passion of Love is more exactly described than in any other Poet. Love was the Theme of his Fourth Book; and though it is the shortest of the whole Aeneis, yet there he has given its beginning, its progress, its traverses, and its conclusion. And had exhausted so entirely this Subject, that he could resume it but very slightly in the Eight ensuing Books.  
She was warmed with the graceful appearance of the Hero, she smothered those Sparkles out of decency, but Conversation blew them up into a Flame. Then she was forced to make a Confident of her whom she best might trust, her own Sister, who approves the passion, and thereby augments it, then succeeds her public owning it; and after that, the consummation. Of Venus and Juno, Jupiter and Mercury I say nothing, for they were all Machining work; but possession having cooled his Love, as it increased hers, she soon perceived the change, or at least grew suspicious of a change; this suspicion soon turned to Jealousy, and Jealousy to Rage; then she disdains and threatens, and again is humble, and entreats; and nothing availing, despairs, curses, and at last becomes her own Executioner. See here the whole process of that passion, to which nothing can be added. I dare go no farther, lest I should lose the connection of my Discourse.  
To love our Native Country, and to study its Benefit and its Glory, to be interessed in its Concerns, is Natural to all Men, and is indeed our common Duty. A Poet makes a farther step; for endeavouring to do honour to it, 'tis allowable in him even to be partial in its Cause; for he is not tied to truth, or fettered by the Laws of History. Homer and Tasso are justly praised for choosing their Heroes out of Greece and Italy; Virgil indeed made his a Trojan, but it was to derive the Romans, and his own Augustus from him; but all the three Poets are manifestly partial to their Heroes, in favour of their Country. For Dares Phrygius reports of Hector, that he was slain Cowardly; Aeneas according to the best account, slew not Mezentius, but was slain by him: and the Chronicles of Italy tell us little of that Rinaldo d'Estè who Conquers Jerusalem in Tasso. He might be a Champion of the Church; but we know not that he was so much as present at the Siege. To apply this to Virgil, he thought himself engaged in Honour to espouse the Cause and Quarrel of his Country against Carthage. He knew he could not please the Romans better, or oblige them more to Patronise his Poem, than by disgracing the Foundress of that City. He shows her ungrateful to the Memory of her first Husband, doting on a Stranger; enjoyed, and afterwards forsaken by him. This was the Original, says he, of the immortal hatred betwixt the two Rival Nations. 'Tis true, he colour's the falsehood of Aeneas by an express Command from Jupiter, to forsake the Queen, who had obliged him: but he knew the Romans were to be his Readers, and them he bribed, perhaps at the expense of his Heroe's honesty, but he gained his Cause however; as Pleading before Corrupt Judges. They were content to see their Founder false to Love, for still he had the advantage of the Amour: It was their Enemy whom he forsook, and she might have forsaken him, if he had not got the start of her: she had already forgotten her Vows to her Sichaeus; and varium & mutabile semper femina, is the sharpest Satire in the fewest words that was ever made on Womankind; for both the Adjectives are Neuter, and Animal must be understood, to make them Grammar. Virgil does well to put those words into the mouth of Mercury. If a God had not spoken them, neither durst he have written them, nor I translated them. Yet the Deity was forced to come twice on the same Errand: and the second time, as much a Hero as Aeneas was, he frighted him. It seems he feared not Jupiter so much as Dido. For your Lordship may observe, that as much intent as he was upon his Voyage, yet he still delayed it, till the Messenger was obliged to tell him plainly, that if he weighed not Anchor in the Night, the Queen would be with him in the Morning. Notumque furens quid femina possit; she was Injured, she was Revengeful, she was Powerful. The Poet had likewise before hinted, that her People were naturally perfidious: For he gives their Character in their Queen, and makes a Proverb of Punica fides, many Ages before it was invented.  
Thus I hope, my Lord, that I have made good my Promise, and justified the Poet, whatever becomes of the false Knight. And sure a Poet is as much privileged to lie, as an Ambassador, for the Honour and Interest of his Country; at least as Sir Henry Wootton has defined.  
This naturally leads me to the defence of the Famous Anachronism, in making Aeneas and Dido Contemporaries. For 'tis certain that the Hero lived almost two hundred years before the Building of Carthage. One who imitates Bocaline, says that Virgil was accused before Apollo for this Error. The God soon found that he was not able to defend his Favourite by Reason, for the Case was clear: he therefore gave this middle Sentence; That any thing might be allowed to his Son Virgil on the account of his other Merits; That being a Monarch he had a dispensing Power, and pardoned him. But that this special Act of Grace might never be drawn into Example, or pleaded by his puny Successors, in justification of their ignorance; he decreed for the future, No Poet should presume to make a Lady die for Love two hundred years before her Birth. To Moralise this Story, Virgil is the Apollo, who has this Dispensing Power. His great Judgement made the Laws of Poetry, but he never made himself a Slave to them: Chronology at best is but a Cobweb-Law, and he broke through it with his weight. They who will imitate him wisely, must choose as he did, an obscure and a remote Aera, where they may invent at pleasure, and not be easily contradicted. Neither he, nor the Romans had ever read the Bible, by which only his false computation of times can be made out against him: this Segrais says in his defence, and proves it from his Learned Friend Bochartus, whose Letter on this Subject, he has Printed at the end of the Fourth Aeneid, to which I refer your Lordship, and the Reader. Yet the Credit of Virgil was so great, that he made this Fable of his own Invention pass for an Authentic History, or at least as credible as any thing in Homer. Ovid takes it up after him, even in the same Age, and makes an ancient Heroine of Virgil's new-created Dido; Dictates a Letter for her just before her death, to the ingrateful Fugitive; and very unluckily for himself, is for measuring a Sword with a Man so much superior in force to him on the same subject. I think I may be Judge of this, because I have Translated both. The Famous Author of the Art of Love has nothing of his own, he borrows all from a greater Master in his own profession; and which is worse, improves nothing which he finds. Nature fails him, and being forced to his old shift, he has recourse to Witticism. This passes indeed with his Soft Admirers, and gives him the preference to Virgil in their esteem. But let them like for themselves, and not prescribe to others, for our Author needs not their Admiration.  
The Motives that induced Virgil to Coin this Fable, I have showed already; and have also begun to show that he might make this Anacronism, by superseding the mechanic Rules of Poetry, for the same Reason, that a Monarch may dispense with, or suspend his own Laws, when he finds it necessary so to do; especially if those Laws are not altogether fundamental. Nothing is to be called a fault in Poetry, says Aristotle, but what is against the Art; therefore a Man may be an admirable Poet, without being an exact Chronologer. Shall we dare, continueth Segrais, to condemn Virgil, for having made a Fiction against the order of time, when we commend Ovid and other Poets who have made many of their Fictions against the Order of Nature? For what are else the splendid Miracles of the Metamorphoses? Yet these are Beautiful as they are related; and have also deep Learning and instructive Mythologies couched under them: But to give, as Virgil does in this Episode, the Original Cause of the long Wars betwixt Rome and Carthage, to draw Truth out of Fiction, after so probable a manner, with so much Beauty, and so much for the Honour of his Country, was proper only to the Divine Wit of Maro; and Tasso in one of his Discourses, admires him for this particularly. 'Tis not lawful indeed, to contradict a Point of History, which is known to all the World; as for Example, to make Hannibal and Scipio Contemporaries with Alexander; but in the dark Recesses of Antiquity, a great Poet may and aught to feign such things as he finds not there, if they can be brought to embellish that Subject which he treats. On the other side, the pains and diligence of ill Poets is but thrown away, when they want the Genius to invent and feign agreeably. But if the Fictions be delightful, which they always are, if they be natural, if they be of a piece; if the beginning, the middle, and the end be in their due places, and artfully united to each other, such Works can never fail of their deserved Success. And such is Virgil's Episode of Dido and Aeneas; where the sourest Critic must acknowledge ' that if he had deprived his Aeneis of so great an Ornament, because he found no traces of it in Antiquity, he had avoided their unjust Censure, but had wanted one of the greatest Beauties of his Poem. I shall say more of this, in the next Article of their Charge against him, which is want of Invention. In the mean time I may affirm in honour of this Episode, that it is not only now esteemed the most pleasing entertainment of the Aeneis, but was so accounted in his own Age; and before it was mellowed into that reputation, which time has given it; for which I need produce no other testimony, than that of Ovid, his Contemporary.  
Nec pars ulla magis legitur de Corpore toto  
Quam non legitimo faedere, junctus Amor.  
Where by the way, you may observe, my Lord, that Ovid in those words, Non legitimo faedere junctus Amor, will by no means allow it to be a lawful Marriage betwixt Dido and Aeneas. He was in Banishment when he wrote those Verses, which I cite from his Letter to Augustus. You, Sir, says he, have sent me into Exile for writing my Art of Love, and my wanton Elegies; yet your own Poet was happy in your good graces, though he brought Dido and Aeneas into a Cave, and left them there not over-honestly together. May I be so bold to ask your Majesty, is it a greater fault to teach the Art of unlawful Love, than to show it in the Action? But was Ovid the Courtpoet so bad a Courtier, as to find no other Plea to excuse himself, than by a plain accusation of his Master? Virgil confessed it was a Lawful Marriage betwixt the Lovers; that Juno the Goddess of Matrimony had ratified it by her presence, for it was her business to bring Matters to that issue. That the Ceremonies were short we may believe, for Dido was not only amorous, but a Widow. Mercury himself, though employed on a quite contrary Errand, yet owns it a Marriage by an innuendo: PalchramqueVxorius Vrbem Extruis— He calls Aeneas not only a Husband, but upbraids him with being a fond Husband, as the word Vxorius implies. Now mark a little, if your Lordship pleases, why Virgil is so much concerned to make this Marriage (for he seems to be the Father of the Bride himself, and to give her to the Bridegroom) it was to make way for the Divorce which he intended afterwards; for he was a finer Flatterer than Ovid: and I more than conjecture that he had in his eye the Divorce which not long before had passed betwixt the Emperor and Scribonia. He drew this dimple in the Cheek of Aeneas, to prove Augustus of the same Family, by so remarkable a Feature in the same place. Thus, as we say in our homespun English Proverb, He killed two Birds with one stone; pleased the Emperor by giving him the resemblance of his Ancestor; and gave him such a resemblance as was not scandalous in that Age. For to leave one Wife and take another, was but a matter of Gallantry at that time of day among the Romans. Neque haec in faedera veni, is the very Excuse which Aeneas makes, when he leaves his Lady. I made no such Bargain with you at our Marriage, to live always drudging on at Carthage; my business was Italy, and I never made a secret of it. If I took my pleasure, had not you your share of it? I leave you free at my departure, to comfort yourself with the next Stranger who happens to be Shipwrecked on your Coast. Be as kind an Hostess as you have been to me, and you can never fail of another Husband. In the mean time, I call the Gods to witness, that I leave your Shore unwillingly; for though Juno made the Marriage, yet Jupiter Commands me to forsake you. This is the effect of what he says, when it is dishonoured out of Latin Verse, into English Prose. If the Poet argued not aright, we must pardon him for a poor blind Heathen, who knew no better Morals.  
I have detained your Lordship longer than I intended on this Objection: Which would indeed weigh something in a Spiritual Court; but I am not to defend our Poet there. The next I think is but a Cavil, though the Cry is great against him, and has continued from the time of Macrobius to this present Age. I hinted it before. They lay no less than want of Invention to his Charge. A capital Crime I must acknowledge. For a Poet is a Maker, as the word signifies: And who cannot make, that is, invent, has his Name for nothing. That which makes this Accusation look so strange at the first sight, is, That he has borrowed so many things from Homer, Appollonius Rhodius, and others who preceded him. But in the first place, if Invention is to be taken in so strict a sense, that the Matter of a Poem must be wholly new, and that in all its Parts; then Scaliger has made out, says Segrais, that the History of Troy was no more the Invention of Homer, than of Virgil. There was not an Old Woman, or almost a Child, but had it in their Mouths, before the Greek Poet or his Friends digested it into this admirable order in which we read it. At this rate, as Solomon has told us, there is nothing new beneath the Sun: Who then can pass for an Inventor, if Homer, as well as Virgil must be deprived of that Glory? Is Versailles the less a New Building, because the Architect of that Palace has imitated others which were built before it? Walls, Doors and Windows, Apartments, Offices, Rooms of convenience and Magnificence, are in all great Houses. So Descriptions Figures, Fables, and the rest, must be in all Heroic Poems. They are the Common Materials of Poetry, furnished from the Magazine of Nature: Every Poet has as much right to them, as every Man has to Air or Water. Quid prohibetis Aquas? Vsus communis aquarum est. But the Argument of the Work, that is to say, its principal Action, the Oeconomy and Disposition of it; these are the things which distinguish Copies from Originals. The Poet, who borrows nothing from others, is yet to be Born. He and the Jews Messias will come together. There are parts of the Aeneis, which resemble some parts both of the Ilias and of the Odysseys; as for Example, Aeneas descended into Hell, and Ulysses had been there before him: Aeneas loved Dido, and Ulysses loved Calypso: In few words, Virgil has imitated Homer's Odysseys in his first six Books, and in his six last the Ilias. But from hence can we infer, that the two Poets write the same History? Is there no invention in some other parts of Virgil's Aeneis? The disposition of so many various matters, is not that his own? From what Book of Homer had Virgil his Episode of Nysus and Euryalus, of Mezentius and Lausus? From whence did he borrow his Design of bringing Aeneas into Italy, of Establishing the Roman Empire on the Foundations of a Trojan Colony; to say nothing of the honour he did his Patron, not only in his descent from Venus, but in making him so like him in his best Features, that the Goddess might have mistaken Augustus for her Son. He had indeed the Story from common Fame, as Homer had his from the Egyptian Priestess. Aeneadum Genetrix was no more unknown to Lucretius than to him. But Lucretius taught him not to form his Hero; to give him Piety or Valour for his Manners; and both in so eminent a degree, that having done what was possible for Man, to save his King and Country; his Mother was forced to appear to him and restrain his Fury, which hurried him to death in their Revenge. But the Poet made his Piety more successful; he brought off his Father and his Son; and his Gods witnessed to his Devotion, by putting themselves under his Protection; to be re-placed by him in their promised Italy. Neither the Invention, nor the Conduct of this great Action, were owing to Homer or any other Poet. 'Tis one thing to Copy, and another thing to imitate from Nature. The Copyer is that servile Imitator, to whom Horace gives no better a Name than that of Animal: He will not so much as allow him to be a Man. Raphael imitated Nature: They who Copy one of Raphael's Pieces, imitate but him, for his Work is their Original. They Translate him as I do Virgil; and fall as short of him as I of Virgil. There is a kind of Invention in the imitation of Raphael; for though the thing was in Nature, yet the Idea of it was his own. Ulysses' Travelled, so did Aeneas; but neither of them were the first Travellers; for Cain went into the Land of Nod, before they were born: And neither of the Poets ever heard of such a Man. If Ulysses had been killed at Troy, yet Aeneas must have gone to Sea, or he could never have arrived in Italy. But the designs of the two Poets were as different as the Courses of their Heroes; one went Home, and the other sought a Home. To return to my first similitude: Suppose Apelles and Raphael had each of them Painted a burning Troy; might not the Modern Painter have succeeded as well as the Ancient, tho' neither of them had seen the Town on Fire? For the draughts of both were taken from the Ideas which they had of Nature. Cities had been burnt before either of them were in Being. But to Close the Simile as I begun it; they would not have designed after the same manner. Apelles would have distinguished Pyrrhus from the rest of all the Grecians, and showed him forcing his entrance into Priam's Palace; there he had set him in the fairest Light, and given him the chief place of all his Figures, because he was a Grecian, and he would do Honour to his Country. Raphael, who was an Italian, and descended from the Trojans, would have made Aeneas the Hero of his piece: And perhaps not with his Father on his Back; his Son in one hand, his Bundle of Gods in the other, and his Wife following; (for an Act of Piety, is not half so graceful in a Picture as an Act of Courage:) He would rather have drawn him killing Androgeos, or some other, Hand to Hand; and the blaze of the Fires should have darted full upon his Face, to make him conspicuous amongst his Trojans. This I think is a just Comparison betwixt the two Poets in the Conduct of their several designs. Virgil cannot be said to copy Homer: The Grecian had only the advantage of writing first. If it be urged that I have granted a resemblance in some parts; yet therein Virgil has excelled him: For what are the Tears of Calypso for being left, to the Fury and Death of Dido? Where is there the whole process of her Passion, and all its violent Effects to be found, in the languishing Episode of the Odysseys? If this be to Copy, let the Critics show us the same Disposition, Features, or Colouring in their Original. The like may be said of the Descent to Hell; which was not of Homer's Invention neither: He had it from the Story of Orpheus and Eurydice. But to what end did Ulysses make that Journey? Aeneas undertook it by the express Commandment of his Father's Ghost: There he was to show him all the succeeding Heroes of his Race; and next to Romulus, (mark, if you please, the Address of Virgil) his own Patron Augustus Caesar. Anchises was likewise to instruct him, how to manage the Italian War; and how to conclude it with his Honour. That is, in other words, to lay the Foundations of that Empire which Augustus was to Govern. This is the Noble Invention of our Author: But it has been Copied by so many Signpost Daubers; that now 'tis grown fulsome, rather by their want of Skill, than by the Commonness.  
In the last place I may safely grant, that by reading Homer, Virgil was taught to imitate his Invention: That is, to imitate like him; which is no more, than if a Painter studied Raphael, that he might learn to design after his manner. And thus I might imitate Virgil, if I were capable of writing an Heroic Poem, and yet the Invention be my own: But I should endeavour to avoid a servile Copying. I would not give the same Story under other Names: With the same Characters, in the same Order, and with the same Sequel: For every common Reader to find me out at the first sight for a Plagiary: And cry, this I read before in Virgil, in a better Language, and in better Verse: This is like merry Andrew on the low Rope, copying lubberly the same Tricks, which his Master is dextrously performing on the high.  
I will trouble your Lordship but with one Objection more; which I know not whether I found in Le Feure or Valois, but I am sure I have read it in another French Critic, whom I will not name, because I think it is not much for his Reputation. Virgil, in the heat of Action, suppose for Example, in describing the fury of his Hero in a Battle, when he is endeavouring to raise our concernments to the highest pitch, turns short on the sudden into some similitude, which diverts, say they, your attention from the main Subject, and mispends it on some trivial Image. He pours cold Water into the Cauldron when his business is to make it boil.  
This Accusation is general against all who would be thought Heroic Poets; but I think it touches Virgil less than any. He is too great a Master of his Art, to make a Blott which may so easily be hit. Similitudes, as I have said, are not for Tragedy, which is all violent, and where the Passions are in a perpetual ferment; for there they deaden where they should animate; they are not of the nature of Dialogue, unless in Comedy: A Metaphor is almost all the Stage can suffer, which is a kind of Similitude comprehended in a word. But this Figure has a contrary effect in Heroic Poetry: There 'tis employed to raise the Admiration, which is its proper business. And Admiration is not of so violent a nature as Fear or Hope, Compassion or Horror, or any Concernment we can have for such or such a Person on the Stage. Not but I confess, that Similitudes and Descriptions, when drawn into an unreasonable length, must needs nauseate the Reader. Once I remember, and but once; Virgil makes a Similitude of fourteen Lines; and his description of Fame is about the same number. He is blamed for both; and I doubt not but he would have contracted them, had he lived to have reviewed his Work: But Faults are no Precedents. This I have observed of his Similitudes in general, that they are not placed, as our unobserving Critics tell us, in the heat of any Action: But commonly in its declining: When he has warmed us in his Description, as much as possibly he can; then, lest that warmth should languish, he renews it by some apt Similitude, which illustrates his Subject, and yet palls not his Audience. I need give your Lordship but one Example of this kind, and leave the rest to your Observation, when next you review the whole Aeneis in the Original unblemished by my rude Translation. 'Tis in the first Book, where the Poet describes Neptune composing the Ocean, on which Aeolus had raised a Tempest, without his permission. He had already chidden the Rebellious Winds for obeying the Commands of their Usurping Master: He had warned them from the Seas, He had beaten down the Billows with his Mace; dispelled the Clouds, restored the Sunshine, while Triton and Cymothoe were heaving the Ships from off the Quicksands; before the Poet would offer at a Similitude for illustration.  
Ac, veluti magno in populo cum saepe coorta est  
Seditio, saevitque animis ignobile vulgus,  
Jamque faces, & saxa volant, furor arma ministrat;  
Tum, pietate gravem, ac meritis si forte virum quem  
Conspexere, silent, arrectisque auribus adstant:  
Ille regit dictis animos, & pectora mulcet:  
Sic cunctus pelagi cecidit fragor, aequora postquam  
Prospiciens genitor, caeloque invectus aperto  
Flectit equos, currúque volans dat lora secundo.  
This is the first Similitude which Virgil makes in this Poem: And one of the longest in the whole; for which Reason I the rather cite it. While the Storm was in its fury, any Allusion had been improper: For the Poet could have compared it to nothing more impetuous than itself; consequently he could have made no Illustration. If he could have illustrated, it had been an ambitious Ornament out of season, and would have diverted our Concernment: Nunc, non erat hisce locus; and therefore he deferred it to its proper place.  
These are the Criticisms of most moment which have been made against the Aeneis, by the Ancients or Moderns. As for the particular Exceptions against this or that passage, Macrobius and Pontanus have answered them already. If I desired to appear more Learned than I am, it had been as easy for me to have taken their Objections and Solutions, as it is for a Country Parson to take the Expositions of the Fathers out of Junius and Tremellius: Or not to have named the Authors from whence I had them: For so Ruaeus, otherwise a most judicious Commentator on Virgil's Works, has used Pontanus, his greatest Benefactor, of whom, he is very silent, and I do not remember that he once citys him.  
What follows next, is no Objection; for that implies a Fault: And it had been none in Virgil, if he had extended the time of his Action beyond a Year. At lest Aristotle has set no precise limits to it. Homer's, we know, was within two Months: Tasso I am sure exceeds not a Summer: And if I examined him, perhaps he might be reduced into a much less compass. Bossu leaves it doubtful whether Virgil's Action were within the Year, or took up some Months beyond it. Indeed the whole Dispute is of no more concernment to the common Reader, than it is to a Ploughman, whether February this Year had 28 or 29 Days in it. But for the satisfaction of the more Curious, of which number, I am sure your Lordship is one; I will Translate what I think convenient out of Segrais, whom perhaps you have not read: For he has made it highly probable, that the Action of the Aeneis began in the Spring, and was not extended beyond the Autumn. And we have known Campaigns that have begun sooner, and have ended later.  
Ronsard and the rest whom Segrais names, who are of Opinion that the Action of this Poem takes up almost a Year and half; ground their Calculation thus. Anchises died in Sicily at the end of Winter, or beginning of the Spring. Aeneas, immediately after the Interment of his Father, puts to Sea for Italy: He is surprised by the Tempest described in the beginning of the first Book; and there it is that the Scene of the Poem opens; and where the Action must Commence. He is driven by this Storm on the Coasts of Africa: He stays at Carthage all that Summer, and almost all the Winter following: Sets Sail again for Italy just before the beginning of the Spring; meets with contrary Winds, and makes Sicily the second time: This part of the Action completes the Year. Then he celebrates the Aniversary of his Father's Funerals, and shortly after arrives at Cumes, and from thence his time is taken up in his first Treaty with Latinus; the Overture of the War; the Siege of his Camp by Turnus; his going for Succours to relieve it: His return: The raising of the Siege by the first Battle: The twelve days Truce: The second Battle: The Assault of Laurentum, and the single Fight with Turnus; all which, they say, cannot take up less than four or five Months more; by which Account we cannot suppose the entire Action to be contained in a much less compass than a Year and half.  
Segrais reckons another way; and his computation is not condemned by the learned Ruaeus, who compiled and Published the Commentaries on our Poet, which we call the Dauphin's Virgil.  
He allows the time of Year when Anchises died; to be in the latter end of Winter, or the beginning of the Spring; he acknowledges that when Aeneas is first seen at Sea afterwards, and is driven by the Tempest on the Coast of Africa, is the time when the Action is naturally to begin: He confesses farther, that Aeneas left Carthage in the latter end of Winter; for Dido tells him in express terms, as an Argument for his longer stay, Quinetiam Hyberno moliris sydere Classem.  
But whereas Ronsard's Followers suppose that when Aeneas had buried his Father, he set Sail immediately for Italy, (tho' the Tempest drove him on the Coast of Carthage.) Segrais will by no means allow that Supposition; but thinks it much more probable that he remained in Sicily till the midst of July or the beginning of August; at which time he places the first appearance of his Hero on the Sea; and there opens the Action of the Poem. From which beginning, to the Death of Turnus, which concludes the Action, there need not be supposed above ten Months of intermediate time: For arriving at Carthage in the latter end of Summer, staying there the Winter following; departing thence in the very beginning of the Spring; making a short abode in Sicily the second time, landing in Italy, and making the War, may be reasonably judged the business but of three Months. To this the Ronsardians reply, that having been for Seven Years before in quest of Italy, and having no more to do in Sicily, than to inter his Father; after that Office was performed, what remained for him, but, without delay, to pursue his first Adventure? To which Segrais answers, that the Obsequies of his Father, according to the Rites of the Greeks and Romans, would detain him for many days: That a longer time must be taken up in the refitting of his Ships, after so tedious a Voyage; and in refreshing his Weatherbeaten Soldiers on a friendly Coast. These indeed are but Suppositions on both sides, yet those of Segrais seem better grounded. For the Feast of Dido, when she entertained Aeneas first, has the appearance of a Summer's Night, which seems already almost ended, when he begins his Story: Therefore the Love was made in Autumn; the Hunting followed properly when the Heats of that scorching Country were declining: The Winter was passed in jollity, as the Season and their Love required; and he left her in the latter end of Winter, as is already proved. This Opinion is fortified by the Arrival of Aeneas at the Mouth of Tiber; which marks the Season of the Spring, that Season being perfectly described by the singing of the Birds, saluting the dawn; and by the Beauty of the place, which the Poet seems to have painted expressly in the Seventh Aeneid.  
Aurora in roseis fulgebat lutea bigis:  
cum venti posuere; variae circumque, supraque  
Assuetae ripis volucres, & fluminis alveo,  
Aethera mulcebant cantu.  
The remainder of the Action required but three Months more; for when Aeneas went for Succour to the Tuscans, he found their Army in a readiness to march; and wanting only a Commander: So that according to this Calculation, the Aeneis takes not up above a Year complete, and may be comprehended in less compass.  
This, amongst other Circumstances, treated more at large by Segrais, agrees with the rising of Orion, which caused the Tempest, described in the beginning of the first Book. By some passages in the Pastorals, but more particularly in the Georgics, our Poet is found to be an exact Astronomer, according to the Knowledge of that Age. Now Ilioneus (whom Virgil twice employs in Embassies, as the best Speaker of the Trojans) attributes that Tempest to Orion in his Speech to Dido.  Cum subito, assurgens fluctu nimbosus Orion. 
He must mean either the Heliacal or Achronical rising of that Sign. The Heliacal rising of a Constellation, is when it comes from under the Rays of the Sun, and begins to appear before Daylight. The Achronical rising, on the contrary, is when it appears at the close of Day, and in opposition of the Sun's diurnal Course.  
The Heliacal rising of Orion, is at present computed to be about the sixth of July; and about that time it is, that he either causes, or presages Tempests on the Seas.  
Segrais has observed farther, that when Anna Counsels Dido to stay Aeneas during the Winter; she speaks also of Orion; Dum pelago desaevit hyems, & aquosus Orion.  
If therefore Ilioneus, according to our Supposition, understand the Heliacal rising of Orion: Anna must mean the Achronical, which the different Epithets given to that Constellation, seem to manifest. Ilioneus calls him nimbosus, Anna aquosus. He is tempestuous in the Summer when he rises Heliacally, and Rainy in the Winter when he rises Achronically. Your Lordship will pardon me for the frequent repetition of these cant words; which I could not avoid in this abbreviation of Segrais; who I think deserves no little commendation in this new Criticism. I have yet a word or two to say of Virgil's Machine's, from my own observation of them. He has imitated those of Homer, but not Copied them. It was established long before this time, in the Roman Religion as well as in the Greek; that there were Gods; and both Nations, for the most part, worshipped the same Deities; as did also the Trojans: From whom the Romans, I suppose, would rather be thought to derive the Rites of their Religion, than from the Grecians; because they thought themselves descended from them. Each of those Gods had his proper Office, and the chief of them their particular Attendants. Thus Jupiter had in propriety, Ganymede and Mercury; and Juno had Iris. It was not then for Virgil to create new Ministers; he must take what he found in his Religion. It cannot therefore be said that he borrowed them from Homer, any more than Apollo, Diana, and the rest, whom he uses as he finds occasion for them, as the Grecian Poet did: But he invents the occasions for which he uses them. Venus, after the destruction of Troy, had gained Neptune entirely to her Party; therefore we find him busy in the beginning of the Aeneis, to calm the Tempest raised by Aeolus, and afterwards conducting the Trojan Fleet to Cumes in safety, with the loss only of their Pilot; for whom he Bargains. I name those two Examples amongst a hundred which I omit; to prove that Virgil, generally speaking, employed his Machine's in performing those things, which might possibly have been done without them. What more frequent than a Storm at Sea, upon the rising of Orion? What wonder, if amongst so many Ships there should one be overset, which was commanded by Orontes; though half the Winds had not been there, which Aeolus employed? Might not Palinurus, without a Miracle, fall asleep, and drop into the Sea, having been overwearied with watching, and secure of a quiet passage, by his observation of the Skies? At lest Aeneas, who knew nothing of the Machine of Somnus, takes it plainly in this Sense.  
O nimium Coelo & Pelago confise sereno,  
Nudus in ignotâ Palinure jacebis arenâ.  
But Machine's sometimes are specious things to amuse the Reader, and give a colour of probability to things otherwise incredible. And besides, it soothed the vanity of the Romans, to find the Gods so visibly concerned in all the Actions of their Predecessors. We who are better taught by our Religion, yet own every wonderful Accident which befalls us for the best, to be brought to pass by some special Providence of Almighty God; and by the care of guardian Angels: And from hence I might infer, that no Heroic Poem can be writ on the Epicuraean Principles. Which I could easily demonstrate, if there were need to prove it, or I had leisure.  
When Venus opens the Eyes of her Son Aeneas, to behold the Gods who Combated against Troy, in that fatal Night when it was surprised; we share the pleasure of that glorious Vision, (which Tasso has not ill Copied in the sacking of Jerusalem.) But the Greeks had done their business; though neither Neptune, Juno, or Pallas, had given them their Divine assistance. The most crude Machine which Virgil uses, is in the Episode of Camilla, where Opis by the command of her Mistress, kills Aruns. The next is in the Twelfth Aeneid, where Venus cures her Son Aeneas. But in the last of these, the Poet was driven to a necessity; for Turnus was to be slain that very day: And Aeneas, wounded as he was, could not have Engaged him in single Combat, unless his Hurt had been miraculously healed. And the Poet had considered that the Dittany which she brought from Crete, could not have wrought so speedy an effect, without the Juice of Ambrosia, which she mingled with it. After all, that his Machine might not seem too violent, we see the Hero limping after Turnus. The Wound was skinned; but the strength of his Thigh was not restored. But what Reason had our Author to wound Aeneas at so critical a time? And how came the Cuisses to be worse tempered than the rest of his Armour, which was all wrought by Vulcan and his Journeymen? These difficulties are not easily to be solved, without confessing that Virgil had not life enough to correct his Work: Tho' he had reviewed it, and found those Errors which he resolved to mend: But being prevented by Death, and not willing to leave an imperfect work behind him, he ordained, by his last Testament, that his Aeneis should be burned. As for the death of Aruns, who was shot by a Goddess, the Machine was not altogether so outrageous, as the wounding Mars and Venus by the Sword of Diomedes. Two Divinities, one would have thought, might have pleaded their Prerogative of Impassibility, or, at least not to have been wounded by any mortal Hand. Beside that the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 which they shed, was so very like our common Blood, that it was not to be distinguished from it, but only by the Name and Colour. As for what Horate says in his Art of Poetry; that no Machine's are to be used, unless on some extraordinary occasion, Nec Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus. That Rule is to be applied to the Theatre, of which he is then speaking, and means no more than this, that when the Knot of the Play is to be untied, and no other way is left, for making the discovery; then and not otherwise, let a God descend upon a Rope, and clear the Business to the Audience: But this has no relation to the Machine's which are used in an Epic Poem.  
In the last place, for the Dira, or Flying-Pest, which flapping on the Shield of Turnus, and fluttering about his Head, disheartened him in the Duel, and presaged to him his approaching Death, I might have placed it more properly amongst the Objections. For the Critics, who lay want of Courage to the Charge of Virgil's Hero; quote this Passage as a main proof of their Assertion. They say our Author had not only secured him before the Duel, but also in the beginning of it, had given him the advantage in impenetrable Arms, and in his Sword: (for that of Turnus was not his own, which was forged by Vulcan for his Father) but a Weapon which he had snatched in haste, and by mistake, belonging to his Charioteer Metiscus. That after all this, Jupiter, who was partial to the Trojan, and distrustful of the Event, though he had hung the Balance, and given it a jog of his hand to weigh down Turnus, thought convenient to give the Fates a collatteral Security, by sending the Screech-Owl to discourage him. For which they quote these words of Virgil.  
Non me tua turbida virtus,  
Terret ait; Dii me terrent, & Jupiter Hostis.  
In answer to which, I say, that this Machine is one of those which the Poet uses only for Ornament, and not out of Necessity. Nothing can be more Beautiful, or more Poetical than his description of the three Dirae, or the setting of the Balance, which our Milton has borrowed from him, but employed to a different end: For first he makes God Almighty set the Scales for St. Michael and Satan, when he knew no Combat was to follow; then he makes the good Angel's Scale descend, and the Devils mount; quite contrary to Virgil, if I have Translated the three Verses, according to my Author's Sense. 
Jupiter ipse duas, aequato Examine lances  
Sustinet; & fata imponit diversa duorum:  
Quem damnet labour, & quo vergat pondere lethum.   
For I have taken these words Quem damnet labour, in the Sense which Virgil gives them in another place; Damnabis tu quoque votis; to signify a prosperous Event. Yet I dare not condemn so great a Genius as Milton: For I am much mistaken if he alludes not to the Text in Daniel, where Belshazzar was put into the Balance, and found too light: This is digression, and I return to my Subject. I said above, that these two Machine's of the Balance, and the Dira, were only Ornamental, and that the success of the Duel had been the same without them. For when Aeneas and Turnus stood fronting each other before the Altar, Turnus looked dejected, and his Colour faded in his Face, as if he desponded of the Victory before the Fight; and not only he, but all his Party, when the strength of the two Champions was judged by the proportion of their Limbs, concluded it was impar pugna, and that their Chief was overmatched: Whereupon Juturna (who was of the same Opinion) took his opportunity to break the Treaty and renew the War. Juno herself had plainly told the Nymph beforehand, that her Brother was to Fight Imparibus fatis; nec Diis, nec viribus aequis; So that there was no need of an Apparition to fright Turnus. He had the presage within himself of his impending Destiny. The Dirae only served to confirm him in his first Opinion, that it was his Destiny to die in the ensuing Combat. And in this sense are those words of Virgil to be taken. 
Non me tua turbida virtus  
Terret ait; Dii me terrent, & Jupiter Hostis.   
I doubt not but the Adverb (solùm) is to be understood; 'tis not your Valour only that gives me this concernment; but I find also, by this portent, that Jupiter is my Enemy. For Turnus fled before, when his first Sword was broken, till his Sister supplied him with a better; which indeed he could not use; because Aeneas kept him at a distance with his Spear. I wonder Ruaeus saw not this, where he charges his Author so unjustly, for giving Turnus a second Sword, to no purpose. How could he fasten a blow, or make a thrust, when he was not suffered to approach? Besides, the chief Errand of the Dira, was to warn Juturna from the Field, for she could have brought the Chariot again, when she saw her Brother worsted in the Duel. I might farther add, that Aeneas was so eager of the Fight, that he left the City, now almost in his Possession, to decide his quarrel with Turnus by the Sword: Whereas Turnus had manifestly declined the Combat, and suffered his Sister to convey him as far from the reach of his Enemy as she could. I say not only suffered her, but consented to it; for 'tis plain, he knew her by these words; 
O soror, & dudum agnovi, cum prima per artem,  
Faedera turbasti, teque haec in bella dedisti;  
Et nunc nequicquam fallis Dea.—   
I have dwelled so long on this Subject, that I must contract what I have to say, in reference to my Translation: Unless I would swell my Preface into a Volume, and make it formidable to your Lordship, when you see so many Pages yet behind. And indeed what I have already written either in justification or praise of Virgil, is against myself; for presuming to Copy, in my course English, the Thoughts and Beautiful Expressions of this inimitable Poet: Who flourished in an Age when his Language was brought to its last perfection, for which it was particularly owing to him and Horace. I will give your Lordship my Opinion, that those two Friends had consulted each others Judgement, wherein they should endeavour to excel; and they seem to have pitched on Propriety of Thought, Elegance of Words, and Harmony of Numbers. According to this Model, Horace writ his Odes and Epods: For his Satyrs and Epistles, being intended wholly for instruction, required another Style: Ornari res ipsa negat, contenta doceri:  
And therefore as he himself professes, are Sermoni propiora, nearer Prose than Verse. But Virgil, who never attempted the Lyric Verse, is every where Elegant, sweet and flowing in his Hexameters. His words are not only chosen, but the places in which he ranks them for the sound; he who removes them from the Station wherein their Master sets them, spoils the Harmony. What he says of the sybil's Prophecies, may be as properly applied to every word of his: They must be read, in order as they lie; the least breath discomposes them, and somewhat of their Divinity is lost. I cannot boast that I have been thus exact in my Verses, but I have endeavoured to follow the Example of my Master: And am the first Englishman, perhaps, who made it his design to copy him in his Numbers, his choice of Words, and his placing them for the sweetness of the sound. On this last Consideration, I have shunned the Caesura as much as possibly I could. For wherever that is used, it gives a roughness to the Verse, of which we can have little need, in a Language which is over-stock'd with Consonants. Such is not the Latin, where the Vowels and Consonants are mixed in proportion to each other: yet Virgil judged the Vowels to have somewhat of an overbalance, and therefore tempers their sweetness with Caesuras. Such difference there is in Tongues, that the same Figure which roughens one, gives Majesty to another: and that was it which Virgil studied in his Verses. Ovid uses it but rarely; and hence it is that his Versification cannot so properly be called sweet, as luscious. The Italians are forced upon it, once or twice in every line, because they have a redundancy of Vowels in their Language. Their Metal is so soft, that it will not Coin without Alloy to harden it. On the other side, for the Reason already named, 'tis all we can do to give sufficient sweetness to our Language: We must not only choose our words for Elegance, but for sound. To perform which, a Mastery in the Language is required; the Poet must have a Magazine of Words, and have the Art to manage his few Vowels to the best advantage, that they may go the farther. He must also know the nature of the Vowels, which are more sonorous, and which more soft and sweet; and so dispose them as his present occasions require: All which, and a thousand secrets of Versification beside, he may learn from Virgil, if he will take him for his Guide. If he be above Virgil, and is resolved to follow his own Verve (as the French call it,) the Proverb will fall heavily upon him; Who teaches himself, has a Fool for his Master.  
Virgil employed Eleven Years upon his Aeneis, yet he left it as he thought himself imperfect. Which when I seriously consider, I wish, that instead of three years which I have spent in the Translation of his Works, I had four years more allowed me to correct my Errors, that I might make my Version somewhat more tolerable than it is. For a Poet cannot have too great a reverence for his Readers, if he expects his Labours should survive him. Yet I will neither plead my Age nor Sickness in excuse of the faults which I have made: That I wanted time is all I have to say. For some of my Subscribers grew so clamorous, that I could no longer defer the Publication. I hope from the Candour of your Lordship, and your often experienced goodness to me, that if the faults are not too many, you will make allowances with Horace.  
Si plura nitent in Carmine, non ego paucis  
Offendar macalis, quas aut incuria fudit,  
Aut humana parùm cavit Natura.  
You may please also to observe, that there is not, to the best of my remembrance, one Vowel gaping on another for want of a Caesura, in this whole Poem. But where a Vowel ends a word, the next begins either with a Consonant, or what is its equivalent; for our W and H aspirate, and our Dipthongues are plainly such: The greatest latitude I take, is in the Letter Y, when it concludes a word, and the first Syllable of the next begins with a Vowel. Neither need I have called this a latitude, which is only an explanation of this general Rule. That no Vowel can be cut off before another, when we cannot sink the Pronunciation of it: As He, She, Me, ay, etc. Virgil thinks it sometimes a Beauty, to imitate the Licence of the Greeks, and leave two Vowels opening on each other, as in that Verse of the Third Pastoral, Et succus pecori & lac subducitur Agnis.  
But nobis non licet, esse tam disertis. At least if we study to refine our Numbers. I have long had by me the Materials of an English Prosodia, containing all the Mechanical Rules of Versification, wherein I have treated with some exactness of the Feet, the Quantities, and the Pauses. The French and Italians know nothing of the two first; at least their best Poets have not practised them. As for the Pauses, Malherb first brought them into France, within this last Century: And we see how they adorn their Alexandrins. But as Virgil propounds a Riddle which he leaves unsolved: 
Dic quibus in terris, inscripti nomina Regum  
Nascantur flores, & Phyllida solus habeto.  So I will give your Lordship another, and leave the Exposition of it to your acute Judgement. I am sure there are few who make Verses, have observed the sweetness of these two Lines in Cooper's Hill. 
Tho' deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;  
Strong without rage, without overflowing, full.  And there are yet fewer who can find the Reason of that sweetness. I have given it to some of my Friends in Conversation, and they have allowed the Criticism to be just. But since the evil of false quantities is difficult to be cured in any Modern Language; since the French and the Italians as well as we, are yet ignorant what feet are to be used in Heroic Poetry; since I have not strictly observed those Rules myself, which I can teach others; since I pretend to no Dictatorship among my Fellow-Poets; since if I should instruct some of them to make well-running Verses, they want Genius to give them strength as well as sweetness; and above all, since your Lordship has advised me not to publish that little which I know, I look on your Counsel as your Command, which I shall observe inviolably, till you shall please to revoke it, and leave me at liberty to make my thoughts public. In the mean time, that I may arrogate nothing to myself, I must acknowledge that Virgil in Latin, and Spencer in English, have been my Masters. Spencer has also given me the boldness to make use sometimes of his Alexandrin Line, which we call, though improperly, the Pindaric; because Mr. Cowley has often employed it in his Odes. It adds a certain Majesty to the Verse, when 'tis used with Judgement, and stops the sense from overflowing into another Line. Formerly the French, like us, and the Italians, had but five Feet, or ten Syllables in their Heroic Verse: but since Ronsard's time, as I suppose, they found their Tongue too weak to support their Epic Poetry, without the addition of another Foot. That indeed has given it somewhat of the run, and measure of a Trimeter; but it runs with more activity than strength: Their Language is not strung with Sinews like our English. It has the nimbleness of a Greyhound, but not the bulk and body of a Mastiff. Our Men and our Verses over-bear them by their weight; and Pondere non Numero, is the British Motto. The French have set up Purity for the Standard of their Language; and a Masculine Vigour is that of ours. Like their Tongue is the Genius of their Poets, light and trifling in comparison of the English; more proper for Sonnets, Madrigals, and Elegies, than Heroic Poetry. The turn on Thoughts and Words is their chief Talon, but the Epic Poem is too stately to receive those little Ornaments. The Painters draw their Nymphs in thin and airy Habits, but the weight of Gold and of Embroideries is reserved for Queens and Goddesses. Virgil is never frequent in those Turns, like Ovid, but much more sparing of them in his Aeneis, than in his Pastorals and Georgics.  Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere Manes. 
That turn is Beautiful indeed; but he employs it in the Story of Orpheus and Eurydice, not in his great Poem. I have used that Licence in his Aeneis sometimes: but I own it as my fault. 'Twas given to those who understand no better. 'Tis like Ovid's Semivirumque bovem, semibovemque virum. The Poet found it before his Critics, but it was a darling Sin which he would not be persuaded to reform. The want of Genius, of which I have accused the French, is laid to their Charge by one of their own great Authors, though I have forgotten his Name, and where I read it. If Rewards could make good Poets, their great Master has not been wanting on his part in his bountiful Encouragements: For he is wise enough to imitate Augustus, if he had a Maro. The Triumvir and Proscriber had descended to us in a more hideous form than they now appear, if the Emperor had not taken care to make Friends of him and Horace. I confess the Banishment of Ovid was a Blot in his Escutcheon, yet he was only Banished, and who knows but his Crime was Capital, and then his Exile was a Favour? Ariosto, who with all his faults, must be acknowledged a great Poet, has put these words into the mouth of an Evangelist, but whether they will pass for Gospel now, I cannot tell.  
Non fu si santo ni benigno Augusto,  
Come la tuba di Virgilio suona;  
L'haver havuto, in poesia buon gusto  
La proscrittione, iniqua gli perdona.  
But Heroic Poetry is not of the growth of France, as it might be of England, if it were Cultivated. Spencer wanted only to have read the Rules of Bossu: for no Man was ever Born with a greater Genius, or had more Knowledge to support it. But the performance of the French is not equal to their Skill; and hitherto we have wanted Skill to perform better. Segrais, whose Preface is so wonderfully good, yet is wholly destitute of Elevation; though his Version is much better than that of the two Brothers, or any of the rest who have attempted Virgil. Hannibal Caro is a great Name amongst the Italians, yet his Translation of the Aeneis is most scandalously mean, though he has taken the advantage of writing in Blank Verse, and freed himself from the shackles of modern Rhyme: (if it be modern, for Le Clerc has told us lately, and I believe has made it out, that David's Psalms were written in as errand Rhyme as they are Translated.) Now if a Muse cannot run when she is unfettered, 'tis a sign she has but little speed. I will not make a digression here, though I am strangely tempted to it; but will only say, that he who can write well in Rhyme, may write better in Blank Verse. Rhyme is certainly a constraint even to the best Poets, and those who make it with most ease; though perhaps I have as little reason to complain of that hardship as any Man, excepting Quarles, and Withers. What it adds to sweetness, it takes away from sense; and he who loses the least by it, may be called a gainer: it often makes us swerve from an Author's meaning. As if a Mark be set up for an Archer at a great distance, let him aim as exactly as he can, the least wind will take his Arrow, and divert it from the White. I return to our Italian Translator of the Aeneis: He is a Foot-Poet, he Lackeys by the side of Virgil at the best, but never mounts behind him. Doctor Morelli, who is no mean Critic in our Poetry, and therefore may be presumed to be a better in his own Language, has confirmed me in this Opinion by his Judgement, and thinks withal, that he has often mistaken his Master's Sense. I would say so, if I durst, but I am afraid I have committed the same fault more often, and more grossly: For I have forsaken Ruaeus, (whom generally I follow) in many places, and made Expositions of my own in some, quite contrary to him. Of which I will give but two Examples, because they are so near each other in the Tenth Aeneid. — Sorti Pater aequus utrique. Pallas says it to Turnus just before they Fight. Ruaeus thinks that the word Pater is to be referred to Evander the Father of Pallas. But how could he imagine that it was the same thing to Evander, if his Son were slain, or if he overcame. The Poet certainly intended Jupiter the common Father of Mankind; who, as Pallas hoped, would stand an impartial Spectator of the Combat, and not be more favourable to Turnus, than to him. The Second is not long after it, and both before the Duel is begun. They are the words of Jupiter, who comforts Hercules for the death of Pallas, which was immediately to ensue, and which Hercules could not hinder (though the young Hero had addressed his Prayers to him for his assistance:) Because the Gods cannot control Destiny— the Verse follows. Sic ait; atque oculos Rutulorum rejicit arvis. Which the same Ruaeus thus construes. Jupiter after he had said this; immediately turns his eyes to the Rutulian Fields, and beholds the Duel. I have given this place another Exposition, that he turned his Eyes from the Field of Combat, that he might not behold a sight so unpleasing to him. The word Rejicit I know will admit of both senses; but Jupiter having confessed that he could not alter Fate, and being grieved he could not, in consideration of Hercules, it seems to me that he should avert his Eyes, rather than take pleasure in the Spectacle. But of this I am not so confident as the other, though I think I have followed Virgil's sense.  
What I have said, though it has the face of arrogance, yet is intended for the honour of my Country; and therefore I will boldly own, that this English Translation has more of Virgil's Spirit in it, than either the French, or the Italian. Some of our Countrymen have translated Episodes, and other parts of Virgil, with great Success. As particularly your Lordship, whose Version of Orpheus and Eurydice, is eminently good. Amongst the dead Authors, the Silenus of my Lord Roscommon cannot be too much commended. I say nothing of Sir John Denham, Mr. Waller, and Mr. Cowley; 'tis the utmost of my Ambition to be thought their Equal, or not to be much inferior to them, and some others of the Living. But 'tis one thing to take pains on a Fragment, and Translate it perfectly; and another thing to have the weight of a whole Author on my shoulders. They who believe the burden light, let them attempt the Fourth, Sixth or Eighth Pastoral, the First or Fourth Georgick; and amongst the Aeneids, the Fourth, the Fifth, the Seventh, the Ninth, the Tenth, the Eleventh, or the Twelfth; for in these I think I have succeeded best.  
Long before I undertook this Work, I was no stranger to the Original. I had also studied Virgil's Design, his disposition of it, his Manners, his judicious management of the Figures, the sober retrenchments of his Sense, which always leaves somewhat to gratify our imagination, on which it may enlarge at pleasure; but above all, the Elegance of his Expressions, and the harmony of his Numbers. For, as I have said in a former Dissertation, the words are in Poetry, what the Colours are in Painting. If the Design be good, and the Draught be true, the Colouring is the first Beauty that strikes the Eye. Spencer and Milton are the nearest in English to Virgil and Horace in the Latin; and have endeavoured to form my Style by imitating their Masters. I will farther own to you, my Lord, that my chief Ambition is to please those Readers, who have discernment enough to prefer Virgil before any other Poet in the Latin Tongue. Such Spirits as he desired to please, such would I choose for my Judges, and would stand or fall by them alone. Segrais has distinguished the Readers of Poetry, according to their capacity of judging, into three Classes: (He might have said the same of Writers too if he had pleased.) In the lowest Form he places those whom he calls Les Petits Esprits: such things as are our Upper-Gallery Audience in a Playhouse; who like nothing but the Husk and Rhind of Wit; prefer a Quibble, a Conceit, an Epigram, before solid Sense, and Elegant Expression: These are Mobb-Readers: If Virgil and Martial stood for Parliament-Men, we know already who would carry it. But though they make the greatest appearance in the Field, and cry the loudest, the best on't is, they are but a sort of French Hugonots, or Dutch Boors, brought over in Herds, but not Naturalised: who have not Land of two Pounds per Annum in Parnassus, and therefore are not privileged to Poll. Their Authors are of the same level; fit to represent them on a Mountebank's-Stage, or to be Masters of the Ceremonies in a Bear-Garden. Yet these are they who have the most Admirers. But it often happens, to their mortification, that as their Readers improve their Stock of Sense, (as they may by reading better Books, and by Conversation with Men of Judgement,) they soon forsake them: And when the Torrent from the Mountains falls no more, the swelling Writer is reduced into his shallow Bed, like the Mançanares at Madrid, with scarce water to moisten his own Pebbles. There are a middle sort of Readers (as we hold there is a middle state of Souls) such as have a farther insight than the former; yet have not the capacity of judging right; (for I speak not of those who are bribed by a Party, and know better if they were not corrupted;) but I mean a Company of warm young Men, who are not yet arrived so far as to discern the difference betwixt Fustian, or ostentatious Sentences, and the true sublime. These are above liking Martial, or Owen's Epigrams, but they would certainly set Virgil below Statius, or Lucan. I need not say their Poets are of the same Paste with their Admirers. They affect greatness in all they write, but 'tis a bladdered greatness, like that of the vain Man whom Seneca describes: An ill habit of Body, full of Humours, and swelled with Dropsy. Even these too desert their Authors, as their Judgement ripens. The young Gentlemen themselves are commonly miss-led by their Pedagogue at School, their Tutor at the University, or their Governor in their Travels. And many of those three sorts are the most positive Blockheads in the World. How many of those flatulent Writers have I known, who have sunk in their Reputation, after Seven or Eight Editions of their Works? for indeed they are Poets only for young Men. They had great success at their first appearance; but not being of God, as a Wit said formerly, they could not stand.  
I have already named two sorts of Judges, but Virgil wrote for neither of them: and by his Example, I am not ambitious of pleasing the lowest, or the middle form of Readers.  
He chose to please the most Judicious: Souls of the highest Rank, and truest Understanding. These are few in number; but whoever is so happy as to gain their approbation, can nover lose it, because they never give it blindly. Then they have a certain Magnetism in their Judgement, which attracts others to their Sense. Every day they gain some new Proselyte, and in time become the Church. For this Reason, a well-weighed Judicious Poem, which at its first appearance gains no more upon the World than to be just received, and rather not blamed, than much applauded, insinuates itself by insensible degrees into the liking of the Reader: The more he studies it, the more it grows upon him; every time he takes it up, he discovers some new Graces in it. And whereas Poems which are produced by the vigour of Imagination only, have a gloss upon them at the first, which Time wears off; the Works of Judgement, are like the Diamond, the more they are polished, the more lustre they receive. Such is the difference betwixt Virgil's Aeneis, and Marini's Adone. And if I may be allowed to change the Metaphor, I would say, that Virgil is like the Fame which he describes; Mobilitate viget, viresque acquirit eundo.  
Such a sort of Reputation is my aim, though in a far inferior degree, according to my Motto in the Title Page: Sequiturque Patrem, non passibus aequis; and therefore I appeal to the Highest Court of Judicature, like that of the Peers, of which your Lordship is so great an Ornament.  
Without this Ambition which I own, of desiring to please the Judices Natos, I could never have been able to have done any thing at this Age, when the fire of Poetry is commonly extinguished in other Men. Yet Virgil has given me the Example of Entellus for my Encouragement: When he was well heated, the younger Champion could not stand before him. And we find the Elder contended not for the Gift, but for the Honour; Nec dona moror. For Dampier has informed us, in his Voyages, that the Air of the Country which produces Gold, is never wholesome.  
I had long since considered, that the way to please the best Judges, is not to Translate a Poet literally; and Virgil lest of any other. For his peculiar Beauty lying in his choice of Words, I am excluded from it by the narrow compass of our Heroic Verse, unless I would make use of Monosyllables only, and those clogged with Consonants, which are the dead weight of our Mother-Tongue. 'Tis possible, I confess, though it rarely happens, that a Verse of Monosyllables may sound harmoniously; and some Examples of it I have seen. My first Line of the Aeneis is not harsh: Arms, and the Man I Sing, who forced by Fate, etc.  
But a much better instance may be given from the last Line of Manilius, made English by our Learned and Judicious Mr. Creech.  Nor could the World have born so fierce a Flame. 
Where the many Liquid Consonants are placed so Artfully, that they give a pleasing sound to the Words, though they are all of one Syllable.  
'Tis true, I have been sometimes forced upon it in other places of this Work, but I never did it out of choice: I was either in haste, or Virgil gave me no occasion for the Ornament of Words; for it seldom happens but a Monosyllable Line turns Verse to Prose, and even that Prose is rugged, and unharmonious. Philarchus, I remember, taxes Balzac for placing Twenty Monosyllables in file, without one dissyllable betwixt them. The way I have taken, is not so straight as Metaphrase, nor so loose as Paraphrase: Some things too I have omitted, and sometimes have added of my own. Yet the omissions I hope, are but of Circumstances, and such as would have no grace in English; and the Additions, I also hope, are easily deduced from Virgil's Sense. They will seem (at least I have the Vanity to think so), not stuck into him, but growing out of him. He studies brevity more than any other Poet, but he had the advantage of a Language wherein much may be comprehended in a little space. We, and all the Modern Tongues, have more Articles and Pronouns, besides signs of Tenses and Cases, and other Barbarities on which our Speech is built by the faults of our Forefathers. The Romans founded theirs upon the Greek: And the Greeks, we know, were labouring many hundred years upon their Language, before they brought it to perfection. They rejected all those Signs, and cut off as many Articles as they could spare; comprehending in one word, what we are constrained to express in two; which is one Reason why we cannot write so concisely as they have done. The word Pater, for Example, signifies not only a Father, but your Father, my Father, his or her Father, all included in a word.  
This inconvenience is common to all Modern Tongues, and this alone constrains us to employ more words than the Ancients needed. But having before observed, that Virgil endeavours to be short, and at the same time Elegant, I pursue the Excellence, and forsake the Brevity. For there he is like Ambergreace, a Rich Perfume, but of so close and glutinous a Body, that it must be opened with inferior scents of Musk or Civet, or the sweetness will not be drawn out into another Language.  
On the whole Matter, I thought fit to steer betwixt the two Extremes, of Paraphrase, and literal Translation: To keep as near my Author as I could, without losing all his Graces, the most Eminent of which, are in the Beauty of his words: And those words, I must add, are always Figurative. Such of these as would retain their Elegance in our Tongue, I have endeavoured to graft on it; but most of them are of necessity to be lost, because they will not shine in any but their own. Virgil has sometimes two of them in a Line; but the scantiness of our Heroic Verse, is not capable of receiving more than one: And that too must expiate for many others which have none. Such is the difference of the Languages, or such my want of skill in choosing words. Yet I may presume to say, and I hope with as much reason as the French Translator, that taking all the Materials of this divine Author, I have endeavoured to make Virgil speak such English, as he would himself have spoken, if he had been born in England, and in this present Age. I acknowledge, with Segrais, that I have not succeeded in this attempt, according to my desire: yet I shall not be wholly without praise, if in some sort I may be allowed to have copied the Clearness, the Purity, the Easiness and the Magnificence of his Style. But I shall have occasion to speak farther on this Subject, before I end the Preface.  
When I mentioned the Pindaric Line, I should have added, that I take another Licence in my Verses: For I frequently make use of Triplet Rhymes, and for the same Reason: Because they bound the Sense. And therefore I generally join these two Licenses together: And make the last Verse of the Triplet a Pindaric: For besides, the Majesty which it gives, it confines the sense within the barriers of three Lines, which would languish if it were lengthened into four. Spencer is my Example for both these privileges of English Verses. And Chapman has followed him in his Translation of Homer. Mr. Cowley has given in to them after both: And all succeeding Writers after him. I regard them now as the Magna Charta of Heroic Poetry; and am too much an Englishman to lose what my Ancestors have gained for me. Let the French and Italians value themselves on their Regularity: Strength and Elevation are our Standard. I said before, and I repeat it, that the affected purity of the French, has unsinewed their Heroic Verse. The Language of an Epic Poem is almost wholly figurative: Yet they are so fearful of a Metaphor, that no Example of Virgil can encourage them to be bold with safety. Sure they might warm themselves by that sprightly Blaze, without approaching it so close as to sing their Wings; they may come as near it as their Master. Not that I would discourage that purity of diction, in which he excels all other Poets. But he knows how far to extend his Franchises: And advances to the verge, without venturing a Foot beyond it. On the other side, without being injurious to the Memory of our English Pindar, I will presume to say, that his Metaphors are sometimes too violent, and his Language is not always pure. But at the same time, I must excuse him. For through the Iniquity of the times, he was forced to Travel, at an Age, when, instead of Learning Foreign Languages, he should have studied the Beauties of his Mother Tongue: Which like all other Speeches, is to be cultivated early, or we shall never Write it with any kind of Elegance. Thus by gaining abroad he lost at home: Like the Painter in the Arcadia, who going to see a Skirmish, had his Arms lop'd off: and returned, says Sir Philip Sidney, well instructed how to draw a Battle, but without a Hand to perform his Work.  
There is another thing in which I have presumed to deviate from him and Spencer. They both make Hemysticks (or half Verses) breaking off in the middle of a Line. I confess there are not many such in the Fairy Queen: And even those few might be occasioned by his unhappy choice of so long a Stanza. Mr. Cowley had found out, that no kind of Staff is proper for an Heroic Poem; as being all too lirical: Yet though he wrote in Couplets, where Rhyme is freer from constraint, he frequently affects half Verses: of which we find not one in Homer, and I think not in any of the Grcek Poets, or the Latin, excepting only Virgil; and there is no question but he thought, he had Virgil's Authority for that Licence. But I am confident, our Poet never meant to leave him or any other such a Precedent. And I ground my Opinion on these two Reasons. First, we find no Example of a Hemystick in any of his Pastorals or Georgics. For he had given the last finishing Strokes to both these Poems: But his Aeneis he left so uncorrect, at least so short of that perfection at which he aimed, that we know how hard a Sentence He passed upon it: And in the second place, I reasonably presume, that he intended to have filled up all those Hemysticks, because in one of them we find the sense imperfect: Quem tibi jam Trojâ— Which some foolish Grammarian, has ended for him, with a half Line of Nonsense. Peperit fumante Crëusa. For Ascanius must have been born some Years before the burning of that City; which I need not prove. On the other side we find also, that he himself filled up one Line in the sixth Aeneid, the Enthusiasm seizing him, while he was reading to Augustus.  
Misenum Aeolidem, quo non praestantior alter  
Aere, ciere viros.—  
To which he added in that transport. Martemque accendere Cantu. And never was any Line more nobly finished; for the reasons which I have given in the Book of Painting. On these Considerations I have shunned Hemysticks: Not being willing to imitate Virgil to a Fault; like Alexander's Courtiers, who affected to hold their Necks awry, because he could not help it: I am confident your Lordship is by this time of my Opinion; and that you will look on those half lines hereafter, as the imperfect products of a hasty Muse: Like the Frogs and Serpents in the Nile; part of them kindled into Life; and part a lump of unformed unanimated Mudd.  
I am sensible that many of my whole Verses, are as imperfect as those halves; for want of time to digest them better: But give me leave to make the Excuse of Boccace: Who when he was upbraided, that some of his Novels had not the Spirit of the rest, returned this Answer, that Charlemagne who made the Paladins; was never able to raise an Army of them. The Leaders may be Heroes, but the multitude must consist of Common Men.  
I am also bound to tell your Lordship, in my own defence: That from the beginning of the first Georgick to the end of the last Aeneid; I found the difficulty of Translation growing on me in every succeeding Book. For Virgil, above all Poets, had a stock, which I may call almost inexhaustible of figurative, Elegant, and sounding Words. I who inherit but a small portion of his Genius, and write in a Language so much inferior to the Latin, have found it very painful to vary Phrases, when the same sense returns upon me. Even he himself, whether out of necessity or choice, has often expressed the same thing in the same words; and often repeated two or three whole Verses, which he had used before. Words are not so easily Coined as Money: And yet we see that the Credit not only of Banks, but of Exchequers cracks, when little comes in, and much goes out. Virgil called upon me in every line for some new word: And I paid so long, that I was almost Bankrupt. So that the latter end must needs be more burdensome than the beginning or the middle. And consequently the Twelfth Aeneid cost me double the time of the first and second. What had become of me, if Virgil had taxed me with another Book? I had certainly been reduced to pay the Public in hammered Money for want of Milled; that is in the same old Words which I had used before: And the Receivers must have been forced to have taken any thing, where there was so little to be had.  
Besides this difficulty (with which I have struggled, and made a shift to pass it over) there is one remaining, which is insuperable to all Translators. We are bound to our Author's Sense, though with the latitudes already mentioned (for I think it not so sacred, as that one jota must not be added or diminished on pain of an Anathema.) But Slaves we are; and labour on another Man's Plantation; we dress the Vine-yard, but the Wine is the Owners: If the Soil be sometimes Barren, than we are sure of being scourged: If it be fruitful, and our Care succeeds, we are not thanked; for the proud Reader will only say, the poor drudge has done his duty. But this is nothing to what follows; for being obliged to make his Sense intelligible, we are forced to untune our own Verses, that we may give his meaning to the Reader. He who Invents is Master of his Thoughts and Words: He can turn and vary them as he pleases, till he renders them harmonious. But the wretched Translator has no such privilege: For being tied to the Thoughts, he must make what Music he can in the Expression. And for this reason it cannot always be so sweet as that of the Original. There is a beauty of Sound, as Segrais has observed, in some Latin Words, which is wholly lost in any Modern Language. He instances in that Mollis Amaracus, on which Venus lays Cupid in the First Aeneid. If I should Translate it Sweet Marjoram, as the word signifies; the Reader would think I had mistaken Virgil: For those Village-words, as I may call them, gives us a mean Idea of the thing; but the Sound of the Latin is so much more pleasing, by the just mixture of the Vowels with the Consonants, that it raises our Fancies, to conceive somewhat more Noble than a common Herb; and to spread Roses under him, and strew Lilies over him; a Bed not unworthy the Grandson of the Goddess.  
If I cannot Copy his Harmonious Numbers, how shall I imitate his noble Flights; where his Thoughts and Words are equally sublime?  
Quem quisquis studet aemulari,  
— Caeratis ope Dedalaeâ  
Nititur pennis, vitreo daturus  
Nomina Ponto.  
What Modern Language, or what Poet can express the Majestic Beauty of this one Verse amongst a thousand others! 
Aude Hospes contemnere opes, & te quoque dignum  
Finge Deo.  For my part I am lost in the admiration of it: I contemn the World, when I think on it, and myself when I Translate it.  
Lay by Virgil, I beseech your Lordship, and all my better sort of Judges, when you take up my Version, and it will appear a passable Beauty, when the Original Muse is absent: But like Spencer's false Florimell made of Snow, it melts and vanishes, when the true one comes in sight. I will not excuse but justify myself for one pretended Crime, with which I am liable to be charged by false Critics, not only in this Translation, but in many of my Original Poems; that I latinize too much. 'Tis true, that when I find an English word, significant and sounding, I neither borrow from the Latin or any other Language: But when I want at home, I must seek abroad.  
If sounding Words are not of our growth and Manufacture, who shall hinder me to Import them from a Foreign Country? I carry not out the Treasure of the Nation, which is never to return: but what I bring from Italy, I spend in England: Here it remains, and here it circulates; for if the Coin be good, it will pass from one hand to another. I Trade both with the Living and the Dead, for the enrichment of our Native Language. We have enough in England to supply our necessity; but if we will have things of Magnificence and Splendour, we must get them by Commerce. Poetry requires Ornament, and that is not to be had from our Old Teuton Monosyllables; therefore if I find any Elegant Word in a Classic Author, I propose it to be Naturalised, by using it myself: and if the Public approves of it, the Bill passes. But every Man cannot distinguish betwixt Pedantry and Poetry: Every Man therefore is not fit to innovate. Upon the whole matter, a Poet must first be certain that the Word he would Introduce is Beautiful in the Latin; and is to consider, in the next place, whether it will agree with the English Idiom: After this, he ought to take the Opinion of judicious Friends, such as are Learned in both Languages: And lastly, since no Man is infallible, let him use this Licence very sparingly; for if too many Foreign Words are poured in upon us, it looks as if they were designed not to assist the Natives, but to Conquer them.  
I am now drawing towards a Conclusion, and suspect your Lordship is very glad of it. But permit me first, to own what Helps I have had in this Undertaking. The late Earl of Lauderdail, sent me over his new Translation of the Aeneis; which he had ended before I engaged in the same Design. Neither did I then intent it: But some Proposals being afterwards made me by my Bookseller, I desired his Lordship's leave, that I might accept them, which he freely granted; and I have his Letter yet to show, for that permission. He resolved to have Printed his Work; which he might have done two Years before I could Publish mine: and had performed it, if Death had not prevented him. But having his Manuscript in my hands, I consulted it as often as I doubted of my Author's sense. For no Man understood Virgil better than that Learned Noble Man. His Friends, I hear, have yet another, and more Correct Copy of that Translation by them: which had they pleased to have given the Public, the Judges must have been convinced, that I have not flattered him. Besides this help, which was not inconsiderable, Mr. Congreve has done me the Favour to review the Aeneis; and compare my Version with the Original. I shall never be ashamed to own, that this Excellent Young Man, has showed me many Faults, which I have endeavoured to Correct. 'Tis true, he might have easily found more, and then my Translation had been more Perfect.  
Two other Worthy Friends of mine, who desire to have their Names concealed, seeing me straitened in my time, took Pity on me, and gave me the Life of Virgil, the two Prefaces to the Pastorals, and the Georgics, and all the Arguments in Proof to the whole Translation. Which perhaps, has occasioned a Report that the two First Poems are not mine. If it had been true, that I had taken their Verses for my own, I might have gloried in their Aid; and like Terence, have farthered the Opinion, that Scipio and Laelius joined with me. But the same Style being continued through the whole, and the same Laws of Versification observed, are proofs sufficient, that this is one Man's Work: And your Lordship is too well acquainted with my manner, to doubt that any part of it is another's.  
That your Lordship may see I was in earnest, when I promised to hasten to an end, I will not give the Reasons, why I Writ not always in the proper terms of Navigation, Land-Service, or in the Cant of any Profession. I will only say, that Virgil has avoided those proprieties, because he Writ not to Mariners, Soldiers, Astronomers, Gardeners, Peasants, etc. but to all in general, and in particular to Men and Ladies of the first Quality: who have been better Bred than to be too nicely knowing in the Terms. In such cases, 'tis enough for a Poet to write so plainly, that he may be understood by his Readers: To avoid impropriety, and not affect to be thought Learned in all things.  
I have omitted the Four Preliminary Lines of the First Aeneid: Because I think them inferior to any Four others, in the whole Poem: and consequently, believe they are not Virgil's. There is too great a gap betwixt the Adjective vicina in the Second Line, and the Substantive Arva in the latter end of the Third, which keeps his meaning in obscurity too long: And is contrary to the clearness of his Style. Vt quamvis avidis Is too ambitious an Ornament to be his, and Gratum opus Agricolis, Are all words unnecessary, and Independent of what he had said before. Horrentia Martis Arma, Is worse than any of the rest. Horrentia is such a flat Epithet, as Tully would have given us in his Verses. 'Tis a mere filler; to stop a vacancy in the Hexameter, and connect the Preface to the Work of Virgil. Our Author seems to sound a Charge, and begins like the clangour of a Trumpet; Arma, virumque cano; Trojae qui primus ab oris.  
Scarce a word without an R. and the Vowels for the greater part sonorous. The Prefacer began with Ille ego, which He was constrained to patch up in the Fourth line with At nunc, to make the Sense cohere. And if both those words are not notorious botches, I am much deceived, though the French Translator thinks otherwise. For my own part, I am rather of Opinion, that they were added by Tucca and Varius, than Retrenched.  
I know it may be answered by such as think Virgil the Author of the four Lines; that he asserts his Title to the Aeneis, in the beginning of this Work, as he did to the two former, in the last lines of the fourth Georgic. I will not reply otherwise to this, than by desiring them to compare these four Lines with the four others; which we know are his, because no Poet but he alone could write them. If they cannot distinguish Creeping from Flying, let them lay down Virgil, and take up Ovid de Ponto in his stead. My Master needed not the assistance of that Preliminary Poet to prove his Claim. His own Majestic Mien discovers him to be the King, amidst a Thousand Courtiers. It was a superfluous Office, and therefore I would not set those Verses in the Front of Virgil. But have rejected them to my own Preface.  
ay, who before, with Shepherds in the Groves,  
Sung to my Oaten Pipe, their Rural Loves,  
And issuing thence, compelled the Neighbouring Field  
A plenteous Crop of rising Corn to yield,  
Manured the Glebe, and stocked the fruitful Plain,  
(A Poem grateful to the greedy Swain.) etc.  
If there be not a tolerable Line in all these six, the Prefacer, gave me no occasion to write better. This is a just Apology in this place. But I have done great Wrong to Virgil in the whole Translation: Want of Time, the Inferiority of our Language; the inconvenience of Rhyme, and all the other Excuses I have made, may alleviate my Fault, but cannot justify the boldness of my Undertaking. What avails it me to acknowledge freely, that I have not been able to do him right in any line? For even my own Confession makes against me; and it will always be returned upon me, Why then did you attempt it? To which, no other Answer can be made, than that I have done him less Injury than any of his former Libelers.  
What they called his Picture, had been drawn at length, so many times, by the Daubers of almost all Nations, and still so unlike him, that I snatched up the Pencil with disdain: being satisfied before hand, that I could make some small resemblance of him, though I must be content with a worse likeness. A Sixth Pastoral, a Pharmaceutria, a single Orpheus, and some other Features, have been exactly taken: But those Holiday Authors writ for Pleasure; and only showed us what they could have done, if they would have taken pains, to perform the whole.  
Be pleased, My Lord, to accept, with your wont goodness, this unworthy Present, which I make you. I have taken off one trouble from you, of defending it, by acknowledging its Imperfections: And though some part of them are covered in the Verse; (as Ericthonius road always in a Chariot, to hide his lameness.) Such of them as cannot be concealed, you will please to connive at, though in the strictness of your Judgement, you cannot Pardon. If Homer was allowed to nod sometimes, in so long a Work, it will be no wonder if I often fall asleep. You took my Aurengzeb into your Protection, with all his faults: And I hope here cannot be so many, because I Translate an Author, who gives me such Examples of Correctness. What my Jury may be, I know not; but 'tis good for a Criminal to plead before a favourable Judge: If I had said Partial, would your Lordship have forgiven me? Or will you give me leave to acquaint the World, that I have many times been obliged to your Bounty since the Revolution. Though I never was reduced to beg a Charity, nor ever had the Impudence to ask one, either of your Lordship, or your Noble Kinsman the Earl of Dorset, much less of any other, yet when I least expected it, you have both remembered me. So inherent it is in your Family not to forget an Old Servant. It looks rather like Ingratitude on my part, that where I have been so often obliged, I have appeared so seldom to return my thanks: and where I was also so sure of being well received. Somewhat of Laziness was in the case; and somewhat too of Modesty: But nothing of Disrespect, or of Unthankfulness. I will not say that your Lordship has encouraged me to this Presumption, lest if my Labours meet with no success in Public, I may expose your Judgement to be Censured. As for my own Enemies I shall never think them worth an Answer; and if your Lordship has any, they will not dare to Arraign you for your want of Knowledge in this Art, till they can produce somewhat betterof their own, than your Essay on Poetry. 'Twas on this Consideration, that I have drawn out my Preface to so great a length. Had I not addressed to a Poet, and a Critic of the first Magnitude, I had myself been taxed for want of Judgement, and shamed my Patron for want of Understanding. But neither will you, My Lord, so soon be tired as any other, because the Discourse is on your Art; Neither will the Learned Reader think it tedious, because it is ad Clerum. At least, when he begins to be weary, the Church Doors are open. That I may pursue the Allegory with a short Prayer, after a long Sermon:  
May you Live happily and long, for the Service of your Country, the Encouragement of good Letters and the Ornament of Poetry; which cannot be wished more earnestly by any Man, than by  
Your Lordships, most Humble, Most Obliged, and most Obedient Servant. John Dryden.   


To his Royal Highness PRINCE GEORGE of DENMARK. &   

Virgil's Aeneis.  
The First Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
The Trojans, after a seven Years Voyage, set sail for Italy, but are overtaken by a dreadful Storm, which Aeolus raises at Juno 's Request. The Tempest sinks one, and scatters the rest: Neptune drives off the Winds and calms the Sea. Aeneas with his own Ship, and six more, arrives safe at an African Port. Venus complains to Jupiter of her Son's Misfortunes. Jupiter comforts her, and sends Mercury to procure him a kind Reception among the Carthaginians. Aeneas going out to discover the Country, meets his Mother in the Shape of an Huntress, who conveys him in a Cloud to Carthage; where he sees his Friends whom he thought lost, and receives a kind Entertainment from the Queen. Dido by a device of Venus begins to have a Passion for him, and after some Discourse with him, desires the History of his Adventures since the Siege of Troy, which is the Subject of the two following Books.  

ARms, and the Man I sing, who, forced by Fate,  
And haughty Juno's unrelenting Hate;  
Expelled and exiled, left the Trojan Shoar:  
Long Labours, both by Sea and Land he bore;  
And in the doubtful War, before he won  
The Latian Realm, and built the destined Town:  
His banished Gods restored to Rites Divine,  
And settled sure Succession in his Line:  
From whence the Race of Alban Fathers come,  
And the long Glories of Majestic Rome.   

O Muse! the Causes and the Crimes relate,  
What Goddess was provoked, and whence her hate:  
For what Offence the Queen of Heaven began  
To persecute so brave, so just a Man!  
Involved his anxious Life in endless Cares,  
Exposed to Wants, and hurried into Wars!  
Can Heavenly Minds such high resentment show;  
Or exercise their Spite in Human Woe?   

Against the Tiber's Mouth, but far away,  
An ancient Town was seated on the Sea:  
A Tyrian Colony; the People made  
Stout for the War, and studious of their Trade.  
Carthage the Name, beloved by Juno more  
Than her own Argos, or the Samian Shoar.  
Here stood her Chariot, here, if Heaven were kind,  
The Seat of awful Empire she designed.  
Yet she had heard an ancient Rumour fly,  
(Long cited by the People of the Sky;)  
That times to come should see the Trojan Race  
Her Carthage ruin, and her towers deface:  
Nor thus confined, the Yoke of sovereign Sway,  
Should on the Necks of all the Nations lay.  
She pondered this, and feared it was in Fate;  
Nor could forget the War she waged of late,  
For conquering Greece against the Trojan State.  
Besides long Causes working in her Mind,  
And secret Seeds of Envy lay behind.  
Deep graven in her Heart, the Doom remained  
Of partial Paris, and her Form disdained:  
The Grace bestowed on ravished Ganymede,  
Electra's Glories, and her injured Bed.  
Each was a Cause alone, and all combined  
To kindle Vengeance in her haughty Mind.  
For this, far distant from the Latian Coast,  
She drove the Remnants of the Trojan Host:  
And seven long Years th' unhappy wandering Train,  
Were tossed by Storms, and scattered through the Main.  
Such Time, such Toil required the Roman Name,  
Such length of Labour for so vast a Frame.   

Now scarce the Trojan Fleet with Sails and Oars,  
Had left behind the Fair Sicilian Shores:  
Ent'ring with cheerful Shouts the wat'ry Reign,  
And ploughing frothy Furrows in the Main:  
When labouring still, with endless discontent,  
The Queen of Heaven did thus her Fury vent.   

Then am I vanquished, must I yield, said she,  
And must the Trojans reign in Italy?  
So Fate will have it, and Jove adds his Force;  
Nor can my Power divert their happy Course.  
Could angry Pallas, with revengeful Spleen,  
The Grecian Navy burn, and drown the Men?  
She for the Fault of one offending Foe,  
The Bolts of Jove himself presumed to throw:  
With Whirlwinds from beneath she tossed the Ship,  
And bore exposed the Bosom of the deep:  
Then, as an Eagle gripes the trembling Game,  
The Wretch yet hissing with her Father's Flame,  
She strongly seized, and with a burning Wound,  
Transfixed and naked, on a Rock she bound.  
But I, who walk in awful State above,  
The Majesty of Heaven, the Sister-wife of Jove;  
For length of Years, my fruitless Force employ  
Against the thin remains of ruin'd Troy.  
What Nations now to Juno's Power will pray,  
Or Offerings on my slighted Altars lay?   

Thus raged the Goddess, and with Fury fraught,  
The restless Regions of the Storms she sought.  
Where in a spacious Cave of living Stone,  
The Tyrant E'lus from his Airy Throne,  
With Power Imperial curbs the struggling Winds,  
And sounding Tempests in dark Prisons binds.  
This Way, and that, th' impatient Captives tend,  
And pressing for Release, the Mountains rend;  
High in his Hall, th' undaunted Monarch stands,  
And shakes his Sceptre, and their Rage commands:  
Which did he not, their unresisted Sway  
Would sweep the World before them, in their Way:  
Earth, Air, and Seas through empty Space would roll,  
And Heaven would fly before the driving Soul.  
In fear of this, the Father of the Gods  
Confined their Fury to those dark Abodes,  
And lock'd'em safe within, oppressed with Mountain loads:  
Imposed a King, with arbritrary Sway,  
To lose their Fetters, or their Force allay.  
To whom the suppliant Queen her Prayers addressed,  
And thus the tenor of her Suit expressed.   

O E'lus! for to thee the King of Heaven  
The Power of Tempests, and of Winds has given:  
Thy Force alone their Fury can restrain,  
And smooth the Waves, or swell the troubled Main.  
A race of wandering Slaves, abhorred by me,  
With prosperous Passage cut the Tuscan Sea:  
To fruitful Italy their Course they steer,  
And for their vanquished Gods design new Temples there.  
Raise all thy Winds, with Night involve the Skies;  
Sink, or disperse my fatal Enemies.  
Twice seven, the charming Daughters of the Main,  
Around my Person wait, and bear my Train:  
Succeed my Wish, and second my Design,  
The fairest, Deiopeia, shall be thine;  
And make thee Father of a happy Line.   

To this the God— 'Tis yours, O Queen! to will  
The Work, which Duty binds me to fulfil.  
These airy Kingdoms, and this wide Command,  
Are all the Presents of your bounteous Hand:  
Yours is my sovereign's Grace, and, as your Guest,  
I sit with Gods at their Celestial Feast.  
Raise Tempests at your Pleasure, or subdue;  
Dispose of Empire, which I hold from you.  
He said, and hurled against the Mountain side,  
His quivering Spear, and all, the God applied.  
The raging Winds rush through the hollow Wound,  
And dance aloft in Air, and skim along the Ground:  
Then settling on the Sea, the Surges sweep;  
Raise liquid Mountains, and disclose the deep.  
South, East, and West, with mixed Confusion roar,  
And roll the foaming Billows to the Shoar.  
The Cables crack, the Sailors fearful Cries  
Ascend; and sable Night involves the Skies;  
And Heaven itself is ravished from their Eyes.  
Loud Peals of Thunder from the Poles ensue,  
Then flashing Fires the transient Light renew:  
The Face of things a frightful Image bears,  
And present Death in various Forms appears.  
Struck with unusual Fright, the Trojan Chief,  
With lifted Hands and Eyes, invokes Relief.  
And thrice, and four times happy those, he cried,  
That under Ilian Walls before their Parents died.  
Tydides', bravest of the Grecian Train,  
Why could not I by that strong Arm be slain,  
And lie by noble Hector on the Plain,  
Or great Sarpedon, in those bloody Fields,  
Where Simois rolls the Bodies, and the Shields  
Of Heroes, whose dismembered Hands yet bear  
The Dart aloft, and clench the pointed Spear?  
Thus while the Pious Prince his Fate bewails,  
Fierce Boreas drove against his flying Sails,  
And rend the Sheets: The raging Billows rise,  
And mount the tossing Vessel to the Skies:  
Nor can the shivering Oars sustain the Blow;  
The Galley gives her side, and turns her Prow:  
While those astern descending down the Steep,  
Through gaping Waves behold the boiling deep.  
Three Ships were hurried by the Southern Blast,  
And on the secret Shelves with Fury cast.  
Those hidden Rocks, th' Ausonian Sailors knew,  
They called them Altars, when they rose in view,  
And showed their spacious Backs above the Flood.  
Three more, fierce Eurus in his angry Mood,  
Dashed on the Shallows of the moving Sand,  
And in mid Ocean left them moored aland.  
Orontes Bark that bore the Lycian Crew,  
(A horrid Sight) even in the Hero's view,  
From Stem to Stern, by Waves was overborne:  
The trembling Pilot, from his Rudder torn,  
Was headlong hurled; thrice round, the Ship was tossed,  
Then bulged at once, and in the deep was lost.  
And here and there above the Waves were seen  
Arms, Pictures, precious Goods, and floating Men.  
The stoutest Vessel to the Storm gave way,  
And sucked through loosened Planks the rushing Sea.  
Ilioneus was her Chief: Alethes old,  
Achates faithful, Abas young and bold  
Endured not less: their Ships, with gaping Seams,  
Admit the Deluge of the briny Streams.   

Mean time Imperial Neptune heard the Sound  
Of raging Billows breaking on the Ground:  
Displeased, and fearing for his Wat'ry Reign,  
He reared his awful Head above the Main:  
Serene in Majesty, then rolled his Eyes  
Around the Space of Earth, and Seas, and Skies.  
He saw the Trojan Fleet dispersed, distressed  
By stormy Winds and wintry Heaven oppressed.  
Full well the God his Sister's envy knew,  
And what her Aims, and what her Arts pursue:  
He summoned Eurus and the western Blast,  
And first an angry glance on both he cast:  
Then thus rebuked; Audacious Winds! from whence  
This bold Attempt, this Rebel Insolence?  
Is it for you to ravage Seas and Land,  
Unauthorised by my supreme Command?  
To raise such Mountains on the troubled Main?  
Whom I— But first 'tis fit, the Billows to restrain,  
And then you shall be taught obedience to my Reign.  
Hence, to your Lord my Royal Mandate bear,  
The Realms of Ocean and the Fields of Air  
Are mine, not his; by fatal Lot to me  
The liquid Empire fell, and Trident of the Sea.  
His Power to hollow Caverns is confined,  
There let him reign, the Jailor of the Wind:  
With hoarse Commands his breathing Subjects call,  
And boast and bluster in his empty Hall.  
He spoke: And while he spoke, he smoothed the Sea,  
Dispelled the Darkness, and restored the Day:  
Cymothoe, Triton, and the Sea-green Train  
Of beauteous Nymphs, the Daughters of the Main,  
Clear from the Rocks the Vessels with their hands;  
The God himself with ready Trident stands,  
And opes the Deep, and spreads the moving sands;  
Then heaves them off the shoals: where e'er he guides  
His finny Coursers, and in Triumph rides,  
The Waves unruffle and the Sea subsides.  
As when in Tumults rise th' ignoble Crowed,  
Mad are their Motions, and their Tongues are loud;  
And Stones and Brands in rattling Volleys fly,  
And all the Rustic Arms that Fury can supply:  
If then some grave and Pious Man appear,  
They hush their Noise, and lend a listening Ear;  
He soothes with sober Words their angry Mood,  
And quenches their innate Desire of Blood.  
So when the Father of the Flood appears,  
And o'er the Seas his sovereign Trident rears,  
Their Fury falls: He skims the liquid Plains,  
High on his Chariot, and with loosened Reins,  
Majestic moves along, and awful Peace maintains.  
The weary Trojans ply their shattered Oars,  
To nearest Land, and make the Lybian Shores.   

Within a long Recess there lies a Bay,  
An Island shades it from the rolling Sea,  
And forms a Port secure for Ships to ride,  
Broke by the jutting Land on either side:  
In double Streams the briny Waters glide.  
Betwixt two rows of Rocks, a Sylvan Scene  
Appears above, and Groves for ever green:  
A Grott is formed beneath, with Mossy Seats,  
To rest the Nereids, and exclude the Heats.  
Down through the Crannies of the living Walls  
The Crystal Streams descend in murmuring Falls.  
No Haulsers need to bind the Vessels here,  
Nor bearded Anchors, for no Storms they fear.  
seven Ships within this happy Harbour meet,  
The thin Remainders of the scattered Fleet.  
The Trojans, worn with Toils, and spent with Woes,  
Leap on the welcome Land, and seek their wished Repose.  
First, good Achates, with repeated strokes  
Of clashing Flints, their hidden Fire provokes;  
Short Flame succeeds, a Bed of withered Leaves  
The dying Sparkles in their Fall receives:  
Caught into Life, in smoking Fumes they rise,  
And, fed with stronger Food, invade the Skies.  
The Trojans, dropping wet, or stand around  
The cheerful blaze, or lie along the Ground:  
Some dry their Corn infected with the Brine,  
Then grind with Marbles, and prepare to dine.  
Aeneas climbs the Mountain's airy Brow,  
And takes a Prospect of the Seas below:  
If Capys thence, or Antheus he could spy;  
Or see the Streamers of Caicus' fly.  
No Vessels were in view: But, on the Plain,  
Three beamy Stags command a Lordly Train  
Of branching Heads; the more ignoble Throng  
Attend their stately Steps, and slowly graze along.  
He stood; and while secure they fed below,  
He took the Quiver, and the trusty Bow  
Achates used to bear; the Leaders first  
He laid along, and then the Vulgar pierced:  
Nor ceased his Arrows, till the shady Plain  
seven mighty Bodies, with their Blood distain.  
For the seven Ships he made an equal Share,  
And to the Port returned, Triumphant from the War.  
The Jars of generous Wine, (Acestes Gist,  
When his Trinacrian Shores the Navy left)  
He set abroach, and for the Feast prepared;  
In equal Portions, with the Venison shared.  
Thus while he dealt it round, the pious Chief,  
With cheerful Words, allayed the common Grief.  
Endure, and conquer; Jove will soon dispose  
To future Good, our past and present Woes.  
With me, the Rocks of Scylla you have tried;  
Th' inhuman Cyclops, and his Den defied.  
What greater Ills hereafter can you bear?  
Resume your Courage, and dismiss your Care.  
An Hour will come, with Pleasure to relate  
Your Sorrows past, as Benefits of Fate.  
Through various Hazards, and Events we move  
To Latium, and the Realms foredoomed by Jove.  
Called to the Seat, (the Promise of the Skies,)  
Where Trojan Kingdoms once again may rise.  
Endure the Hardships of your present State,  
Live, and reserve yourselves for better Fate.   

These Words he spoke; but spoke not from his Heart;  
His outward Smiles concealed his inward Smart.  
The jolly Crew, unmindful of the past,  
The Quarry share, their plenteous Dinner haste:  
Some strip the Skin, some portion out the Spoil;  
The Limbs yet trembling, in the Cauldrons boil:  
Some on the Fire the reeking Entrails broil.  
Stretched on the grassy Turf, at ease they dine;  
Restore their Strength with Meat, and cheer their Souls with Wine.  
Their Hunger thus appeased, their Care attends,  
The doubtful Fortune of their absent Friends:  
Alternate Hopes and Fears, their Minds possess,  
Whether to deem 'em dead, or in Distress.  
Above the rest, Aeneas mourns the Fate  
Of brave Orontes, and th' uncertain State  
Of Gyas, Lycus, and of Amycus:  
The Day, but not their Sorrows, ended thus.  
When, from aloft, Almighty Jove surveys  
Earth, Air, and Shores, and navigable Seas,  
At length on Lybian Realms he fixed his Eyes:  
Whom, pondering thus on Human Miseries,  
When Venus saw, she with a lowly Look,  
Not free from Tears, her Heavenly Sire bespoke.   

O King of Gods and Men, whose awful Hand,  
Disperses Thunder on the Seas and Land;  
Disposing all with absolute Command:   

To her Royal Highness the Princess Anne of Denmark  
A 1. l. 295   

To her Grace Mary Duchess of Ormond   

How could my Pious Son thy Power incense,  
Or what, alas! is vanished Troy's Offence?  
Our hope of Italy not only lost,  
On various Seas, by various Tempests tossed,  
But shut from every Shoar, and barred from every Coast.   

You promised once, a Progeny Divine,  
Of Romans, rising from the Trojan Line,  
In aftertimes should hold the World in awe,  
And to the Land and Ocean give the Law.  
How is your Doom reversed, which eased my Care;  
When Troy was ruined in that cruel War?  
Then Fates to Fates I could oppose; but now,  
When Fortune still pursues her former Blow,  
What can I hope? what worse can still succeed?  
What end of Labours has your Will decreed?  
Antenor, from the midst of Grecian Hosts,  
Could pass secure, and pierce th' Illyrian Coasts:  
Where rolling down the Steep, Timavus raves,  
And through nine Channels disembogues his Waves.  
At length he founded Padua's happy Seat,  
And gave his Trojans a secure Retreat:  
There fixed their Arms, and there renewed their Name,  
And there in Quiet rules, and crowned with Fame.  
But we, descended from your sacred Line,  
Entitled to your Heaven, and Rites Divine,  
Are banished Earth, and, for the Wrath of one,  
Removed from Latium, and the promised Throne.  
Are these our Sceptres? These our due Rewards?  
And is it thus that Jove his plighted Faith regards?   

To whom, the Father of th'immortal Race,  
Smiling with that serene indulgent Face,  
With which he drives the Clouds, and clears the Skies:  
First gave a holy Kiss, than thus replies.   

Daughter, dismiss thy Fears: To thy desire  
The Fates of thine are fixed, and stand entire.  
Thou shalt behold thy wished Lavinian Walls,  
And, ripe for Heaven, when Fate Aeneas calls,  
Then shalt thou bear him up, sublime, to me;  
No Councils have reversed my firm Decree.  
And lest new Fears disturb thy happy State,  
Know, I have searched the Mystic Rolls of Fate:  
Thy Son (nor is th' appointed Season far)  
In Italy shall wage successful War:  
Shall tame fierce Nations in the bloody Field,  
And sovereign Laws impose, and Cities build.  
Till, after every Foe subdu'd, the Sun  
Thrice through the Signs his Annual Race shall run:  
This is his time prefixed. Ascanius then,  
Now called Julus, shall begin his Reign.  
He thirty rolling Years the Crown shall wear:  
Then from Lavinium shall the Seat transfer:  
And, with hard Labour, Alba-longa build;  
The Throne with his Succession shall be filled,  
Three hundred Circuits more: then shall be seen,  
Ilia the fair, a Priestess and a Queen.  
Who full of Mars, in time, with kindly Throws,  
Shall at a Birth two goodly Boys disclose.  
The Royal Babes a tawny Wolf shall drain,  
Then Romulus his Grandsire's Throne shall gain.  
Of Martial towers the Founder shall become,  
The People Romans call, the City Rome.  
To them, no Bounds of Empire I assign;  
Nor term of Years to their immortal Line.  
Ev'● haughty Juno, who, with endless Broils,  
Earth, Seas, and Heaven, and Jove himself turmoils;  
At length atoned, her friendly Power shall join,  
To cherish and advance the Trojan Line.  
The subject World shall Rome's Dominion own,  
And, prostrate, shall adore the Nation of the Gown.  
An Age is ripening in revolving Fate,  
When Troy shall overturn the Grecian State:  
And sweet Revenge her conquering Sons shall call,  
To crush the People that conspired her Fall.  
Then Caesar from the Julian Stock shall rise,  
Whose Empire Ocean, and whose Fame the Skies  
Alone shall bond. Whom, fraught with Eastern Spoils,  
Our Heaven, the just Reward of Human Toils,  
Securely shall reward with Rites Divine;  
And Incense shall ascend before his sacred Shrine.  
Then dire Debate, and impious War shall cease,  
And the stern Age be softened into Peace:  
Then banished Faith shall once again return,  
And Vestal Fires in hallowed Temples burn;  
And Remus with Quirinus shall sustain,  
The righteous Laws, and Fraud and Force restrain.  
Janus himself before his Fane shall wait,  
And keep the dreadful issues of his Gate,  
With Bolts and Iron Bars: within remains  
Imprisoned Fury, bound in brazen Chains:  
High on a Trophy raised, of useless Arms,  
He sits, and threats the World with vain Alarms.   

He said, and sent Cyllenius with Command  
To free the Ports, and open the Punic Land  
To Trojan Guests; lest ignorant of Fate,  
The Queen might force them from her Town and State.  
Down from the Steep of Heaven Cyllenius flies,  
And cleaves with all his Wings the yielding Skies.  
Soon on the Lybian Shoar descends the God;  
Performs his Message, and displays his Rod:  
The surly Murmurs of the People cease,  
And, as the Fates required, they give the Peace.  
The Queen herself suspends the rigid Laws,  
The Trojans pities, and protects their Cause.   

Mean time, in Shades of Night Aeneas lies;  
Care seized his Soul, and Sleep forsaken his Eyes.  
But when the Sun restored the cheerful Day,  
He rose, the Coast and Country to survey,  
Anxious and eager to discover more:  
It looked a wild uncultivated Shoar:  
But whether Human Kind, or Beasts alone  
Possessed the newfound Region, was unknown.  
Beneath a hollow Rock his Fleet he hides;  
Tall Trees surround the Mountains shady sides:  
The bending Brow above, a safe Retreat provides.  
Armed with two pointed Darts, he leaves his Friends,  
And true Achates on his steps attends.  
Lo, in the deep Recesses of the Wood,  
Before his Eyes his Goddess Mother stood:  
A Huntress in her Habit and her Mien;  
Her dress a Maid, her Air confessed a Queen.  
Bare were her Knees, and knots her Garments bind;  
Lose was her Hair, and wantoned in the Wind;  
Her Hand sustained a Bow, her Quiver hung behind.  
She seemed a Virgin of the Spartan Blood:  
With such Array Harpalice bestrode  
Her Thracian Courser, and outstriped the rapid Flood.  
Ho! Strangers! have you lately seen, she said,  
One of my Sisters, like myself arrayed;  
Who crossed the Lawn, or in the Forest strayed?  
A Painted Quiver at her Back she bore;  
Varied with Spots, a Linx's Hide she wore:  
And at full Cry pursued the tusky Boar?  
Thus Venus: Thus her Son replied again;  
None of your Sisters have we heard or seen,   

To the Right Honble: Anne Countess of Exeter Wife to the Right Honble: John Earl of Exeter Baron Coecill of Burleigh  
A 1. l. 435   

O virgin! or what other Name you bear  
A 'bove that stile; O more than mortal fair!  
Your Voice and Mien Celestial birth betray!  
If, as you seem, the Sister of the Day;  
Or one at least of chaste Diana's Train,  
Let not an humble Suppliant sue in vain:  
But tell a Stranger, long in Tempests tossed,  
What Earth we tread, and who commands the Coast?  
Then on your Name shall wretched Mortals call;  
And offered Victims at your Altars fall.  
I dare not, she replied, assume the Name  
Of Goddess, or Celestial Honours claim:  
For Tyrian Virgins Bows and Quivers bear,  
And Purple Buskins o'er their Ankles wear.  
Know, gentle Youth, in Lybian Lands you are:  
A People rude in Peace, and rough in War.  
The rising City, which from far you see,  
Is Carthage; and a Tyrian Colony.  
Phenician Dido rules the growing State,  
Who fled from Tyre, to shun her Brother's hate:  
Great were her wrongs, her Story full of Fate;  
Which I will sum in short. Sichaeus known  
For wealth, and Brother to the Punic Throne,  
Possessed fair Dido's Bed: And either heart  
At once was wounded with an equal Dart.  
Her Father gave her, yet a spotless Maid;  
Pygmalion then the Tyrian Sceptre swayed:  
One who contemned Divine and Humane Laws:  
Then Strife ensued, and cursed Gold the Cause.  
The Monarch, blinded with desire of Wealth;  
With Steel invades his Brother's life by stealth;  
Before the sacred Altar made him bleed,  
And long from her concealed the cruel deed.  
Some Tale, some new Pretence, he daily coined,  
To soothe his Sister, and delude her Mind.  
At length, in dead of Night, the Ghost appears  
Of her unhappy Lord: the Spectre stairs,  
And with erected Eyes his bloody Bosom bears.  
The cruel Altars, and his Fate he tells,  
And the dire Secret of his House reveals.  
Then warns the Widow, with her household Gods,  
To seek a Refuge in remote abodes.  
Last, to support her, in so long a way,  
He shows her where his hidden Treasure lay.  
Admonished thus, and seized with mortal fright,  
The Queen provides Companions of her flight:  
They meet; and all combine to leave the State,  
Who hate the Tyrant, or who fear his hate.  
They seize a Fleet, which ready rigged they find:  
Nor is Pigmalion's Treasure left behind.  
The Vessels, heavy laden, put to Sea  
With prosperous winds; a Woman leads the way.  
I know not, if by stress of Wether driven,  
Or was their fatal Course disposed by Heaven;  
At last they landed, where from far your Eyes  
May view the Turrets of new Carthage rise:  
There bought a space of Ground, which Byrsa called  
From the Bulls hide, they first enclosed, and walled.  
But whence are you, what Country claims your Birth?  
What seek you, Strangers, on our Lybian Earth?   

To whom, with sorrow streaming from his Eyes,  
And deeply sighing, thus her Son replies:  
Could you with Patience hear, or I relate,  
O Nymph! the tedious Annals of our Fate!  
Through such a train of Woes if I should run,  
The day would sooner than the Tale be done!  
From ancient Troy, by Force expelled, we came,  
If you by chance have heard the Trojan Name:  
On various Seas by various Tempests tossed,  
At length we landed on your Lybian Coast.  
The Good Aeneas am I called, a Name,  
While Fortune favoured, not unknown to Fame:  
My household Gods, Companions of my Woes,  
With pious Care I rescued from our Foes.  
To fruitful Italy my Course was bend,  
And from the King of Heaven is my Descent.  
With twice ten Sail I crossed the Phrygian Sea;  
Fate, and my Mother Goddess, led my Way.  
Scarce seven, the thin Remainders of my Fleet,  
From Storms preserved, within your Harbour meet:  
Myself distressed, an Exile, and unknown,  
Debarred from Europe, and from Asia thrown,  
In Lybian Deserts wander thus alone.   

His tender Parent could no longer bear;  
But, interposing, sought to soothe his Care.  
Who e'er you are, not unbeloved by Heaven,  
Since on our friendly Shoar your Ships are driven:  
Have Courage: To the Gods permit the rest,  
And to the Queen expose your just Request.  
Now take this earnest of Success, for more▪  
Your scattered Fleet is joined upon the Shoar;  
The Winds are changed, your Friends from danger free,  
Or I renounce my Skill in Augury.  
Twelve Swans behold, in beauteous order move,  
And stoop with closing Pinions from above:  
Whom late the Bird of Jove had driven along,  
And through the Clouds pursued the scattering Throng:  
Now all united in a goodly Team,  
They skim the Ground, and seek the quiet Stream.  
As they, with Joy returning, clap their Wings,  
And ride the Circuit of the Skies in Rings:  
Not otherwise your Ships, and every Friend,  
Already hold the Port, or with swift Sails descend.  
No more Advice is needful, but pursue  
The Path before you, and the Town in view.  
Thus having said, she turned, and made appear  
Her Neck refulgent, and dishevelled Hair;  
Which flowing from her Shoulders, reached the Ground,  
And widely spread Ambrosial Scents around:  
In length of Train descends her sweeping Gown,  
And by her graceful Walk, the Queen of Love is known.  
The Prince pursued the parting Deity,  
With Words like these: Ah! whither do you fly?  
Unkind and cruel, to deceive your Son  
In borrowed Shapes, and his Embrace to shun:  
Never to bless my Sight, but thus unknown;  
And still to speak in Accents not your own.  
Against the Goddess these Complaints he made;  
But took the Path, and her Commands obeyed.  
They march obscure, for Venus' kindly shrowds,  
With Mists, their Persons, and involves in Clouds:  
That, thus unseen, their Passage none might stay,  
Or force to tell the Causes of their Way.  
This part performed, the Goddess flies sublime,  
To visit Paphos; and her native Clime:  
Where Garlands ever green, and ever fair,  
With Vows are offered, and with solemn Prayer:  
A hundred Altars in her Temple Smoke,  
A thousand bleeding Hearts her Power invoke.   

They climb the next Ascent, and, looking down,  
Now at a nearer Distance view the Town:  
The Prince, with Wonder, sees the stately towers,  
Which late were Huts, and Shepherd's homely Bowers.  
The Gates and Streets; and hears, from every part,  
The Noise, and buisy Concourse of the Mart.  
The toiling Tyrians on each other call,  
To ply their Labour: Some extend the Wall,  
Some build the Citadel; the brawny Throng,  
Or dig, or push unwieldy Stones along.  
Some for their Dwellings choose a Spot of Ground,  
Which, first designed, with Ditches they surround.  
Some Laws ordain, and some attend the Choice  
Of holy Senates, and elect by Voice.  
Here some design a Mole, while others there  
Lay deep Foundations for a Theatre:  
From Marble Quarries mighty Columns hew,  
For Ornaments of Scenes, and future view.  
Such is their Toil, and such their buisy Pains,  
As exercise the Bees in flowery Plains;  
When Winter past, and Summer scarce begun,  
Invites them forth to labour in the Sun:  
Some lead their Youth abroad, while some condense  
Their liquid Store, and some in Cells dispense.  
Some at the Gate stand ready to receive  
The Golden Burden, and their Friends relieve.  
All, with united Force, combine to drive  
The lazy Drones from the laborious Hive;  
With Envy stung▪ they view each others Deeds;  
The fragrant Work with Diligence proceeds.  
Thrice happy you, whose Walls already rise;  
Aeneas said; and viewed, with lifted Eyes,  
Their lofty towers; then ent'ring at the Gate,  
Concealed in Clouds, (prodigious to relate)  
He mixed, unmarked, among the buisy Throng,  
Born by the Tide, and passed unseen along.   

Full in the Centre of the Town there stood,  
Thick set with Trees, a venerable Wood:  
The Tyrians landing near this holy Ground,  
And digging here, a prosperous Omen found:  
From under Earth a Courser's Head they drew,  
Their Growth and future Fortune to foreshow:  
This fatal Sign their Foundress Juno gave,  
Of a Soil fruitful, and a People brave.  
Sidonian Dido here with solemn State  
Did Juno's Temple build, and consecrate:  
Enriched with Gifts, and with a Golden Shrine;  
But more the Goddess made the Place Divine.  
On Brazen Steps the Marble Threshold rose,  
And brazen Plates the Cedar Beams enclose:  
The Rafters are with brazen coverings crowned,  
The lofty Doors on brazen Hinges sound.  
What first Aeneas in this place beheld,  
Revived his Courage, and his Fear expelled.  
For while, expecting there the Queen, he raised  
His wondering Eyes, and round the Temple gazed;  
Admired the Fortune of the rising Town,  
The striving Artists, and their Arts renown:  
He saw in order painted on the Wall,  
Whatever did unhappy Troy befall:  
The Wars that Fate around the World had blown,  
All to the Life, and every Leader known.  
There Agamemnon, Priam here he spies,  
And fierce Achilles who both Kings defies.  
He stopped, and weeping said, O Friend! even here  
The Monuments of Trojan Woes appear!  
Our known Disasters fill even foreign Lands:  
See there, where old unhappy Priam stands!  
Even the Mute Walls relate the Warrior's Fame,  
And Trojan Griefs the Tyrians Pity claim.  
He said, his Tears a ready Passage find,  
Devouring what he saw so well designed;  
And with an empty Picture fed his Mind▪  
For there he saw the fainting Grecians yield,  
And here the trembling Trojans quit the Field,  
Pursued by fierce Achilles through the Plain,  
On his high Chariot driving o'er the Slain.  
The Tents of Rhesus next, his Grief renew,  
By their white Sails betrayed to nightly view.  
And wakesul Diomedes, whose cruel Sword  
The Sentries slew; nor spared their slumbering Lord.  
Then took the fiery Steeds, ere yet the Food  
Of Troy they taste, or drink the Xanthian Flood.  
Elsewhere he saw where Troilus defied  
Achilles, and unequal Combat tried.  
Then, where the Boy disarmed with loosened Reins,  
Was by his Horses hurried o'er the Plains:  
Hung by the Neck and Hair, and dragged around,  
The hostile Spear yet sticking in his Wound;  
With tracks of Blood inscribed the dusty Ground.   

Mean time the Trojan Dames oppressed with Woe,  
To Pallas Fane in long Precession go,  
In hopes to reconcile their Heavenly Foe:  
They weep, they beat their Breasts, they rend their Hair,  
And rich embroidered Vests for Presents bear:  
But the stern Goddess stands unmoved with Prayer.  
Thrice round the Trojan Walls Achilles drew  
The Corpse of Hector, whom in Fight he slew.  
Here Priam sues, and there, for Sums of Gold,  
The lifeless Body of his Son is sold.  
So sad an Object, and so well expressed,  
Drew Sighs and Groans from the grieved Heroes Breast:  
To see the Figure of his lifeless Friend,  
And his old Sire his helpless Hand extend.  
Himself he saw amidst the Grecian Train,  
Mixed in the bloody Battle on the Plain.  
And swarthy Memnon in his Arms he knew  
His pompous Ensigns, and his Indian Crew.  
Penthesilea there, with haughty Grace,  
Leads to the Wars an Amazonian Race:  
In their right Hands a pointed Dart they wield;  
The left, for Ward, sustains the Lunar Shield.  
Athwart her Breast a Golden Belt she throws,  
Amidst the Press alone provokes a thousand Foes:  
And dares her Maiden Arms to Manly Force oppose.  
Thus, while the Trojan Prince employs his Eyes,  
Fixed on the Walls with wonder and surprise;  
The Beauteous Dido, with a numerous Train,  
And pomp of Guards, ascends the sacred Fane.  
Such on Eurota's Banks, or Cynthus' height,  
Diana seems; and so she charms the sight,  
When in the Dance the graceful Goddess leads  
The Choir of Nymphs, and overtops their Heads.  
Known by her Quiver, and her lofty Mien,  
She walks Majestic, and she looks their Queen:  
Latona sees her shine above the rest,  
And feeds with secret Joy her silent Breast.  
Such Dido was; with such becoming State,  
Amidst the Crowd, she walks serenely great.  
Their Labour to her future Sway she speeds,  
And passing with a gracious Glance proceeds:  
Then mounts the Throne, high placed before the Shrine;  
In Crowds around the swarming People join.  
She takes Petitions, and dispenses Laws,  
Hears, and determines every Private Cause.  
Their Tasks in equal Portions she divides,  
And where unequal, there by Lots decides.  
Another Way by chance Aeneas bends  
His Eyes, and unexpected sees his Friends:  
Antheus, Sergestus grave, Cloanthus strong,  
And at their Backs a mighty Trojan Throng:  
Whom late the Tempest on the Billows tossed,  
And widely scattered on another Coast.  
The Prince, unseen, surprised with Wonder stands,  
And longs, with joyful haste to join their Hands:  
But doubtful of the wished Event, he stays,  
And from the hollow Cloud his Friends surveys:  
Impatient till they told their present State,  
And where they left their Ships, and what their Fate;  
And why they came, and what was their Request:  
For these were sent commissioned by the rest,  
To sue for leave to land their sickly Men,  
And gain Admission to the Gracious Queen.  
Ent'ring, with Cries they filled the holy Fane;  
Then thus, with humble Voice, Ilioneus began.  
O Queen! indulged by Favour of the Gods,  
To found an Empire in these new Abodes;  
To build a Town, with Statutes to restrain  
The wild Inhabitants beneath thy Reign:  
We wretched Trojans tossed on every Shore,  
From Sea to Sea, thy Clemency implore:  
Forbid the Fires our Shipping to deface,  
Receive th' unhappy Fugitives to Grace,  
And spare the remnant of a Pious Race.  
We come not with design of wasteful Prey,  
To drive the Country, force the Swains away:  
Nor such our Strength, nor such is our Desire,  
The vanquished dare not to such Thoughts aspire.  
A Land there is, Hesperia named of old,  
The Soil is fruitful, and the Men are bold:  
Th' Oenotrians held it once, by common Fame,  
Now called Italia, from the Leaders Name.  
To that sweet Region was our Voyage bend,  
When Winds, and every warring Element,  
Disturbed our Course, and far from sight of Land,  
Cast our torn Vessels on the moving Sand:  
The Sea came on; the South with mighty Roar,  
Dispersed and dashed the rest upon the Rocky Shoar.  
Those few you see escaped the Storm, and fear,  
Unless you interpose, a Shipwreck here:  
What Men, what Monsters, what inhuman Race,  
What Laws, what barbarous Customs of the Place,  
Shut up a desert Shoar to drowning Men,  
And drives us to the cruel Seas again!  
If our hard Fortune no Compassion draws,  
Nor hospitable Rights, nor human Laws,  
The Gods are just, and will revenge our Cause.  
Aeneas was our Prince, a juster Lord,  
Or nobler Warrior, never drew a Sword:  
Observant of the Right, religious of his Word.  
If yet he lives, and draws this vital Air:  
Nor we his Friends of Safety shall despair;  
Nor you, great Queen, these Offices repent,  
Which he will equal, and perhaps prevent.  
We want not Cities, nor Sicilian Coasts,  
Where King Acestes Trojan Lineage boasts.  
Permit our Ships a Shelter on your Shores,  
Refitted from your Woods with Planks and Oars;  
That if our Prince be safe, we may renew  
Our destined Course, and Italy pursue.  
But if, O best of Men! the Fates ordain  
That thou art swallowed in the Lybian Main:  
And if our young julus be no more,  
Dismiss our Navy from your friendly Shoar.  
That we to good Acestes may return,  
And with our Friends our common Losses mourn.  
Thus spoke Ilioneus; the Trojan Crew  
With Cries and Clamours his Request renew.  
The modest Queen a while, with downcast Eyes,  
Pondered the Speech; then briefly thus replies.   

Trojans dismiss your Fears: my cruel Fate,  
And doubts attending an unsettled State,  
Force me to guard my Coast, from Foreign Foes.  
Who has not heard the story of your Woes?  
The Name and Fortune of your Native Place,  
The Fame and Valour of the Phrygian Race?  
We Tyrians are not so devoid of Sense,  
Nor so remote from Phoebus' influence.  
Whether to Latian Shores your Course is bend,  
Or driven by Tempest's from your first intent,  
You seek the good Acestes Government;  
Your Men shall be received, your Fleet repaired,  
And sail, with Ships of Convoy for your guard;  
Or, would you stay, and join your friendly Powers,  
To raise and to defend the Tyrian towers;  
My Wealth, my City, and myself are yours.  
And would to Heaven the Storm, you felt, would bring  
On Carthaginian Coasts your wandering King.  
My People shall, by my Command, explore  
The Ports and Creeks of every winding shore;  
And Towns, and wild's, and shady Woods, in quest  
Of so renowned and so desired a Guest.  
Raised in his Mind the Trojan Hero stood,  
And longed to break from out his Ambient Cloud;  
Achates found it; and thus urged his way;  
From whence, O Goddess born, this long delay?  
What more can you desire, your Welcome sure,  
Your Fleet in safety, and your Friends secure?  
One only wants; and him we saw in vain  
Oppose the Storm, and swallowed in the Main.  
Orontes in his Fate our Forfeit paid,  
The rest agrees with what your Mother said.  
Scarce had he spoken, when the Cloud gave way,  
The Mists flew upward, and dissolved in day.  
The Trojan Chief appeared in open sight,  
August in Visage, and serenely bright.  
His Mother Goddess, with her hands Divine,  
Had formed his Curling Locks, and made his Temples shine:  
And given his rolling Eyes a sparkling grace;  
And breathed a youthful vigour on his Face:  
Like polished Ivory, beauteous to behold,  
Or Parian Marble, when enchased in Gold:  
Thus radiant from the circling Cloud he broke;  
And thus with manly modesty he spoke.   

He whom you seek am I: by Tempests tossed,  
And saved from Shipwreck on your Lybian Coast:  
Presenting, gracious Queen, before your Throne,  
A Prince that owes his Life to you alone.  
Fair Majesty, the Refuge and Redress  
Of those whom Fate pursues, and Wants oppress.  
You, who your pious Offices employ  
To save the Relics of abandoned Troy;  
Receive the Shipwrecked on your friendly Shore,  
With hospitable Rites relieve the Poor:  
Associate in your Town a wand'ring Train,  
And Strangers in your Palace entertain.  
What thanks can wretched Fugitives return,  
Who scattered through the World in exile mourn?  
The Gods, (if Gods to Goodness are inclined,)  
If Acts of mercy touch their Heavenly Mind;  
And more than all the Gods, your generous heart,  
Conscious of worth, requite its own desert!  
In you this Age is happy, and this Earth:  
And Parents more than Mortal gave you birth.   

To the Right Honble: Elizabeth Countess Dowager of Winchelsea & ct.  
A 1. l: 875.   

While rolling Rivers into Seas shall run,  
And round the space of Heaven the radiant Sun;  
While Trees the Mountain tops with Shades supply,  
Your Honour, Name, and Praise shall never die.  
What e'er abode my Fortune has assigned,  
Your Image shall be present in my Mind.  
Thus having said; he turned with pious haste,  
And joyful his expecting Friends embraced:  
With his right hand Ilioneus was graced,  
Serestus with his left; then to his breast  
Cloanthus and the Noble Gyas pressed;  
And so by turns descended to the rest.   

The Tyrian Queen stood fixed upon his Face,  
Pleased with his motions, ravished with his grace:  
Admired his Fortunes, more admired the Man;  
Then recollected stood; and thus began.   

What Fate, O Goddess born, what angry Powers  
Have cast you shipwrecked on our barren Shores?  
Are you the great Aeneas, known to Fame,  
Who from Celestial Seed your Lineage claim!  
The same Aeneas whom fair Venus bore  
To famed Anchises on th' Idaean Shore?  
It calls into my mind, tho' then a Child,  
When Teucer came from Salamis exiled;  
And sought my Father's aid, to be restored:  
My Father Belus then with Fire and Sword  
Invaded Cyprus, made the Region bare,  
And, Conquering, finished the successful War.  
From him the Trojan Siege I understood,  
The Grecian Chiefs, and your Illustrious Blood.  
Your Foe himself the Dardan Valour praised,  
And his own Ancestry from Trojans raised.  
Enter, my Noble Guest; and you shall find,  
If not a costly welcome, yet a kind.  
For I myself, like you, have been distressed;  
Till Heaven afforded me this place of rest.  
Like you an Alien in a Land unknown;  
I learn to pity Woes, so like my own.  
She said, and to the Palace led her Guest,  
Then offered Incense, and proclaimed a Feast.  
Nor yet less careful for her absent Friends,  
Twice ten fat Oxen to the Ships she sends:  
Besides a hundred Boars, a hundred Lambs,  
With bleating cries, attend their Milky Dams.  
And Jars of generous Wine, and spacious Bowls,  
She gives to cheer the Sailors drooping Souls.  
Now Purple Hangings clothe the Palace Walls,  
And sumptuous Feasts are made in splendid Halls:  
On Tyrian Carpets, richly wrought, they dine;  
With loads of Massy Plate the Side-boards shine.  
And Antique Vafes all of Gold Embossed;  
(The Gold itself inferior to the Cost:)  
Of curious Work, where on the sides were seen  
The Fights and Figures of Illustrious Men;  
From their first Founder to the present Queen.   

The Good Aeneas, whose Paternal Care  
julus' absence could no longer bear,  
Dispatched Achates to the Ships in haste,  
To give a glad Relation of the past;  
And, fraught with precious Gifts, to bring the Boy  
Snatched from the Ruins of unhappy Troy:  
A Robe of Tissue, stiff with golden Wire;  
An upper Vest, once Helen's rich Attire;  
From Argos by the famed Adultress brought,  
With Golden flowers and winding foliage wrought;  
Her Mother Leda's Present, when she came  
To ruin Troy, and set the World on flame.  
The Sceptre Priam's eldest Daughter bore,  
Her orient Necklace, and the Crown she wore;  
Of double texture, glorious to behold;  
One order set with Gems, and one with Gold.  
Instructed thus, the wise Achates goes:  
And in his diligence his duty shows.   

But Venus, anxious for her Son's Affairs,  
New Councils tries; and new Designs prepares:  
That Cupid should assume the Shape and Face  
Of sweet Ascanius, and the sprightly grace:  
Should bring the Prefents, in her Nephew's stead,  
And in Eliza's Veins the gentle Poison shed.  
For much she feared the Tyrians, double tongued,  
And knew the Town to Juno's care belonged.  
These thoughts by Night her Golden Slumbers broke;  
And thus alarmed, to winged Love she spoke.  
My Son, my strength, whose mighty Power alone  
Controls the thunderer, on his awful Throne;  
To thee thy much afflicted Mother flies,  
And on thy Succour, and thy Faith relies.  
Thou knowst, my Son, how Jove's revengeful Wife,  
By force and Fraud, attempts thy Brother's life.  
And often hast thou mourned with me his Pains:  
Him Dido now with Blandishment detains;  
But I suspect the Town where Juno reigns.  
For this, 'tis needful to prevent her Art,  
And fire with Love the proud Phoenician's heart.  
A Love so violent, so fond, so sure,  
That neither Age can change, nor Art can cure.  
How this may be performed, now take my mind:  
Ascanius, by his Father is designed  
To come, with Presents, laden from the Port,  
To gratify the Queen, and gain the Court.  
I mean to plunge the Boy in pleasing Sleep,  
And, ravished, in Idalian Bowers to keep;  
Or high Cythaera: That the sweet Deceit  
May pass unseen, and none prevent the Cheat,  
Take thou his Form and Shape. I beg the Grace  
But only for a Night's revolving Space;  
Thyself a Boy, assume a Boy's dissembled Face.  
That when amidst the fervour of the Feast,  
The Tyrian hugs, and fonds thee on her Breast,  
And with sweet Kisses in her Arms constrains,  
Thou may'st infuse thy Venom in her Veins.  
The God of Love obeys, and sets aside  
His Bow, and Quiver, and his plumy Pride:  
He walks julus in his Mother's Sight,  
And in the sweet Resemblance takes Delight.   

The Goddess then to young Ascanius flies,  
And in a pleasing Slumber seals his Eyes;  
Lulled in her Lap, amidst a Train of Loves,  
She gently bears him to her blissful Groves:  
Then with a Wreath of Myrtle crowns his Head,  
And softly lays him on a flowery Bed.  
Cupid mean time assumed his Form and Face,  
following Achates with a shorter Pace;  
And brought the Gifts. The Queen, already sat  
Amidst the Trojan Lords, in shining State,  
High on a Golden Bed: Her Princely Guest  
Was next her side, in order sat the rest.  
Then Canisters with Bread are heaped on high;  
Th' Attendants Water for their Hands supply;  
And having washed, with silken Towels dry.  
Next fifty Handmaids in long order bore  
The Censers, and with Fumes the Gods adore.  
Then Youths, and Virgins twice as many, join  
To place the Dishes, and to serve the Wine.   

To the most Honble. Ursula Marchioness of Normaneby  
A 1. l 995   

The Tyrian Train, admitted to the Feast,  
Approach, and on the painted Couches rest.  
All on the Trojan Gifts, with Wonder gaze;  
But view the beauteous Boy with more amaze.  
His Rosy-coloured Cheeks, his radiant Eyes,  
His Motions, Voice, and Shape, and all the God's disguise.  
Nor pass unpraised the Vest and Veil Divine,  
Which wandering Foliage and rich Flowers entwine.  
But far above the rest, the Royal Dame,  
(Already doomed to Love's disastrous Flame;)  
With Eyes insatiate, and tumultuous Joy,  
Beholds the Presents, and admires the Boy.  
The guileful God, about his Father long,  
With Child's play, and false Embraces hung;  
Then sought the Queen: She took him to her Arms,  
With greedy Pleasure, and devoured his Charms.  
Unhappy Dido little thought what Guest,  
How dire a God she drew so near her Breast.  
But he, not mindless of his Mother's Prayer,  
Works in the pliant Bosom of the Fair;  
And moulds her Heart anew, and blots her former Care.  
The dead is to the living Love resigned,  
And all Aeneas enters in her Mind.   

Now, when the Rage of Hunger was appeased,  
The Meat removed, and every Guest was pleased;  
The Golden Bowls with sparkling Wine are crowned,  
And through the Palace cheerful Cries resound.  
From gilded Roofs depending Lamps display  
Nocturnal Beams, that emulate the Day.  
A Golden Bowl, that shone with Gems Divine,  
The Queen commanded to be crowned with Wine;  
The Bowl that Belus used, and all the Tyrian Line.  
Then, Silence through the Hall proclaimed, she spoke:  
O hospitable Jove! we thus invoke,  
With solemn Rites, thy sacred Name and Power!  
Bless to both Nations this auspicious Hour.  
So may the Tojan and the Tyrian Line,  
In lasting Concord, from this Day combine.  
Thou, Bacchus, God of Joys and friendly Cheer,  
And gracious Juno, both be present here:  
And you, my Lords of Tyre, your Vows address  
To Heaven with mine, to ratify the Peace.  
The Goblet than she took, with Nectar crowned,  
(Sprinkling the first Libations on the Ground,)  
And raised it to her Mouth with sober Grace,  
Then sipping, offered to the next in place.  
'Twas Bitias whom she called, a thirsty Soul,  
He took the Challenge, and embraced the Bowl:  
With Pleasure swilled the Gold, nor ceased to draw,  
Till he the bottom of the Brimmer saw.  
The Goblet goes around: jopas brought  
His Golden Lyre, and sung what ancient Atlas taught.  
The various Labours of the wandering Moon,  
And whence proceed th' Eclipses of the Sun.  
Th' Original of Men, and Beasts; and whence  
The Rains arise, and Fires their Warmth dispense;  
And fixed, and erring Stars, dispose their Influence.  
What shakes the solid Earth, what Cause delays  
The Summer Nights, and shortens Winter Days.  
With Peals of Shouts the Tyrians praise the Song;  
Those Peals are echoed by the Trojan Throng.  
Th' unhappy Queen with Talk prolonged the Night,  
And drank large Draughts of Love with vast Delight.  
Of Priam much enquired, of Hector more;  
Then asked what Arms the swarthy Memnon wore;  
What Troops he landed on the Trojan Shore.  
The Steeds of Di'mede varied the Discourse,  
And fierce Achilles, with his matchless Force.  
At length, as Fate and her ill Stars required,  
To hear the Series of the War desired.  
Relate at large, my Godlike Guest, she said,  
The Grecian Stratagems, the Town betrayed;  
The fatal Issue of so long a War,  
Your Flight, your Wand'ring, and your Woes declare.  
For since on every Sea, on every Coast,  
Your Men have been distressed, your Navy tossed,  
seven times the Sun has either Tropic viewed,  
The Winter banished, and the Spring renewed.    

The Second Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
Aeneas relates how the City of Troy was taken, after a Ten Years Siege, by the Treachery of Sinon, and the Stratagem of a wooden Horse. He declares the fixed Resolution he had taken not to survive the Ruins of his Country, and the various Adventures he met with in the Defence of it: at last having been before advised by Hector 's Ghost, and now by the Appearance of his Mother Venus, he is prevailed upon to leave the Town, and settle his Household-gods in another Country. in order to this, he carries off his Father on his Shoulders, and leads his little Son by the Hand, his Wife following him behind. When he comes to the Place appointed for the general Rendezvous, he finds a great Confluence of People, but misses his Wife, whose Ghost afterwards appears to him, and tells him the Land which was designed for him.  

ALL were attentive to the Godlike Man;  
When from the lofty Couch he thus began.  
Great Queen, what you command me to relate,  
Renews the sad remembrance of our Fate.  
An Empire from its old Foundations rend,  
And every Woe the Trojans underwent:  
A Peopled City made a Desert Place;  
All that I saw, and part of which I was:  
Not even the hardest of our Foes could hear,  
Nor stern Ulysses tell without a Tear.  
And now the latter Watch of wasting Night,  
And setting Stars to kindly Rest invite.  
But since you take such Interest in our Woe,  
And Troy's disastrous end desire to know:  
I will restrain my Tears, and briefly tell  
What in our last and fatal Night befell.   

By Destiny compelled, and in Despair,  
The Greeks grew weary of the tedious War:   

To the most Illustrious Prince Charles Duke of Somerset, Knight of the most Noble Order of the Garter.  
A 2. l: 1.   

And by Minerva's Aid a Fabric reared,  
Which like a Steed of monstrous height appeared;  
The Sides were plancked with Pine, they feigned it made  
For their Return, and this the Vow they paid.  
Thus they pretend, but in the hollow Side,  
Selected Numbers of their Soldiers hide:  
With inward Arms the dire Machine they load,  
With Iron Bowels stuff the dark Abode.  
In sight of Troy lies Tenedos, an Isle,  
(While Fortune did on Priam's Empire smile)  
Renowned for Wealth, but since a faithless Bay,  
Where Ships exposed to Wind and Wether lay.  
There was their Fleet concealed: We thought for Greece  
Their Sails were hoist, and our Fears release.  
The Trojans cooped within their Walls so long,  
Unbar their Gates, and issue in a Throng,  
Like swarming Bees, and with Delight survey  
The Camp deserted, where the Grecians lay:  
The Quarters of the several Chiefs they showed,  
Here Phoenix, here Achilles made abode,  
Here joined the Battles, there the Navy road.  
Part on the Pile their wondering Eyes employ,  
(The Pile by Pallas raised to ruin Troy.)  
Thymaetes first ('tis doubtful whether hired,  
Or so the Trojan Destiny required)  
Moved that the Ramparts might be broken down,  
To lodge the fatal Engine in the Town.  
But Capys, and the rest of sounder Mind,  
The fatal Present to the Flames designed;  
Or to the watery deep: At least to bore  
The hollow sides, and hidden Frauds explore:  
The giddy Vulgar, as their Fancies guide,  
With Noise say nothing, and in parts divide.  
jaocoon, followed by a numerous Crowd,  
Ran from the Fort; and cried, from far, aloud;  
O wretched Countrymen! what Fury reigns?  
What more than Madness has possessed your Brains?  
Think you the Grecians from your Coasts are gone,  
And are Ulysses Arts no better known?  
This hollow Fabric either must enclose,  
Within its blind Recess, our secret Foes;  
Or 'tis an Engine raised above the Town,  
T' overlook the Walls, and then to batter down.  
Somewhat is sure designed; by Fraud or Force;  
Trust not their Presents, nor admit the Horse.  
Thus having said, against the Steed he threw  
His forceful Spear, which, hissing as it flew,  
Pierced through the yielding Planks of jointed Wood,  
And trembling in the hollow Belly stood.  
The sides transpierced, return a rattling Sound,  
And Groans of Greeks enclosed come issuing through the Wound.  
And had not Heaven the fall of Troy designed,  
Or had not Men been fated to be blind,  
Enough was said and done, t' inspire a better Mind:  
Then had our Lances pierced the treacherous Wood,  
And Ilian towers, and Priam's Empire stood.  
Mean time, with Shouts, the Trojan Shepherds bring  
A captive Greek in Bands, before the King:  
Taken, to take; who made himself their Prey,  
T' impose on their Belief, and Troy betray.  
Fixed on his Aim, and obstinately bend  
To die undaunted, or to circumvent.  
About the Captive, tides of Trojans flow;  
All press to see, and some insult the Foe.  
Now hear how well the Greeks their Wiles disguised,  
Behold a Nation in a Man comprised.  
Trembling the Miscreant stood, unarmed and bound;  
He stared, and rolled his haggered Eyes around:  
Then said, Alas! what Earth remains, what Sea  
Is open to receive unhappy me!  
What Fate a wretched Fugitive attends,  
Scorned by my Foes, abandoned by my Friends.  
He said, and sighed, and cast a rueful Eye:  
Our Pity kindles, and our Passions die.  
We cheer the Youth to make his own Defence,  
And freely tell us what he was, and whence:  
What News he could impart, we long to know,  
And what to credit from a captive Foe.   

His fear at length dismissed, he said, what e'er  
My Fate ordains, my Words shall be sincere:  
I neither can, nor dare my Birth disclaim,  
Greece is my Country, Sinon is my Name:  
Though plunged by Fortune's Power in Misery,  
'Tis not in Fortune's Power to make me lie.  
If any chance has hither brought the Name  
Of Palamedes, not unknown to Fame,  
Who suffered from the Malice of the times;  
Accused and sentenced for pretended Crimes:  
Because these fatal Wars he would prevent;  
Whose Death the wretched Greeks too late lament;  
Me, than a Boy, my Father, poor and bare  
Of other Means, committed to his Care:  
His Kinsman and Companion in the War.  
While Fortune favoured, while his Arms support  
The Cause, and ruled the Counsels of the Court,  
I made some figure there; nor was my Name  
Obscure, nor I without my share of Fame.  
But when Ulysses, with fallacious Arts,  
Had made Impression in the People's Hearts;  
And forged a Treason in my Patron's Name,  
(I speak of things too far divulged by Fame)  
My Kinsman fell; then I, without support,  
In private mourned his Loss, and left the Court.  
Mad as I was, I could not bear his Fate  
With silent Grief, but loudly blamed the State:  
And cursed the direful Author of my Woes.  
'Twas told again, and hence my Ruin rose.  
I threatened, if indulgent Heaven once more  
Would land me safely on my Native Shore,  
His Death with double Vengeance to restore.  
This moved the Murderer's Hate, and soon ensued  
Th' Effects of Malice from a Man so proud.  
Ambiguous Rumours thro' the Camp he spread,  
And sought, by Treason, my devoted Head:  
New Crimes invented, left unturned no Stone,  
To make my Gild appear, and hide his own.  
Till Calchas was by Force and Threatening wrought:  
But why— Why dwell I on that anxious Thought?  
If on my Nation just Revenge you seek,  
And 'tis t' appear a Foe, t' appear a Greek;  
Already you my Name and Country know,  
Assuage your thirst of Blood, and strike the Blow:  
My Death will both the Kingly Brothers please,  
And set insatiate Ithacus at ease.  
This fair unfinished Tale, these broken starts,  
Raised expectations in our longing Hearts;  
Unknowing as we were in Grecian Arts.  
His former trembling once again renewed,  
With acted Fear, the Villain thus pursued.   

Long had the Grecians (tired with fruitless Care,  
And wearied with an unsuccessful War,)  
Resolved to raise the Siege, and leave the Town;  
And had the Gods permitted, they had gone.  
But oft the Wintry Seas, and Southern Winds,  
Withstood their passage home, and changed their Minds.  
Portents and Prodigies their Souls amazed;  
But most, when this stupendous Pile was raised.  
Then flaming Meteors, hung in Air, were seen,  
And Thunders rattled through a Sky serene:  
Dismayed, and fearful of some dire Event,  
Eurypylus, t'enquire their Fate, was sent;  
He from the Gods this dreadful Answer brought;  
O Grecians, when the Trojan Shores you sought,  
Your Passage with a Virgin's Blood was bought:  
So must your safe Return be bought again;  
And Grecian Blood, once more atone the Main.  
The spreading Rumour round the People ran;  
All feared, and each believed himself the Man.  
Ulysses took th'advantage of their fright;  
Called Calchas, and produced in open sight:  
Than bade him name the Wretch, ordained by Fate,  
The Public Victim, to redeem the State.  
Already some presaged the dire Event,  
And saw what Sacrifice Ulysses meant.  
For twice five days the good old Seer withstood  
Th' intended Treason, and was dumb to Blood.  
Till Tired with endless Clamours, and pursuit  
Of Ithacus, he stood no longer Mute:  
But, as it was agreed, pronounced, that I  
Was destined by the wrathful Gods to die.  
All praised the Sentence, pleased the storm should fall  
On one alone, whose Fury threatened all.  
The dismal day was come, the Priests prepare  
Their leavened Cakes; and Fillets for my Hair.  
I followed nature's Laws, and must avow  
I broke my Bonds, and fled the fatal blow.  
Hid in a weedy Lake all Night I lay,  
Secure of Safety when they sailed away.  
But now what further Hopes for me remain,  
To see my Friends or Native Soil again?  
My tender Infants, or my careful Sire;  
Whom they returning will to Death require?  
Will perpetrate on them their first Design,  
And take the forfeit of their heads for mine?  
Which, O if Pity mortal Minds can move!  
If there be Faith below, or Gods above!  
If Innocence and Truth can claim desert,  
Ye Trojans from an injured Wretch avert.  
False Tears true Pity move: the King Commands  
To lose his Fetters, and unbind his hands:  
Then adds these friendly words; dismiss thy Fears,  
Forget the Greeks, be mine as thou wert theirs.  
But truly tell, was it for Force or Guile,  
Or some Religious End, you raised the Pile?  
Thus said the King. He full of fraudful Arts,  
This well invented Tale for Truth imparts.  
Ye Lamps of Heaven! he said, and lifted high  
His hands now free, thou venerable Sky,  
Inviolable Powers, adored with dread,  
Ye fatal Fillets, that once bound this head,  
Ye sacred Altars, from whose flames I fled!  
Be all of you adjured; and grant I may,  
Without a Crime, th' ungrateful Greeks betray!  
Reveal the Secrets of the guilty State,  
And justly punish whom I justly hate!  
But you, O King, preseve the Faith you gave,  
If I to save myself your Empire save.  
The Grecian Hopes, and all th' Attempts they made,  
Were only founded on Minerva's Aid.  
But from the time when impious Diomedes,  
And false Ulysses, that inventive Head,  
Her fatal Image from the Temple drew,  
The sleeping Guardians of the Castle slew,  
Her Virgin Statue with their bloody Hands  
Polluted, and profaned her holy Bands:  
From thence the Tide of Fortune left their Shore,  
And ebbed much faster than it flowed before:  
Their Courage languished, as their Hopes decayed,  
And Pallas, now averse, refused her Aid.  
Nor did the Goddess doubtfully declare  
Her altered Mind, and alienated Care:  
When first her fatal Image touched the Ground,  
She sternly cast her glaring Eyes around;  
That sparkled as they rolled, and seemed to threat:  
Her Heavenly Limbs distilled a briny Sweat.  
Thrice from the Ground she leaped, was seen to wield  
Her brandished Lance, and shake her horrid Shield.  
Then Calchas bade our Host for flight prepare,  
And hope no Conquest from the tedious War:  
Till first they sailed for Greece; with Prayers besought  
Her injured Power, and better Omens brought.  
And now their Navy ploughs the wat'ry Main,  
Yet, soon expect it on your Shores again,  
With Pallas pleased; as Calchas did ordain.  
But first, to reconcile the blue-eyed Maid,  
For her stolen Statue, and her Tower betrayed;  
Warned by the Seer, to her offended Name  
We raised, and dedicate this wondrous Frame:  
So lofty, lest through your forbidden Gates  
It pass, and intercept our better Fates.  
For, once admitted there, our hopes are lost;  
And Troy may then a new Palladium boast.  
For so Religion and the Gods ordain;  
That if you violate with Hands profane  
Minerva's Gift, your Town in Flames shall burn,  
(Which Omen, O ye Gods, on Grecia turn!)  
But if it climb, with your assisting Hands,  
The Trojan Walls, and in the City stands;  
Then Troy shall Argos and Mycenae burn,  
And the reverse of Fate on us return.   

With such Deceits he gained their easy Hearts,  
Too prone to credit his perfidious Arts.  
What Diomedes, nor Thetis' greater Son,  
A thousand Ships, nor ten years' Siege had done:  
False Tears and fawning Words the City won.  
A greater Omen, and of worse portent,  
Did our unwary Minds with fear torment:  
Concurring to produce the dire Event.  
Laocoon, Neptune's Priest by Lot that Year,  
With solemn pomp then sacrificed a Steer.  
When, dreadful to behold, from Sea we spied  
Two Serpents ranked abreast, the Seas divide,  
And smoothly sweep along the swelling Tide.  
Their flaming Crests above the Waves they show,  
Their Bellies seem to burn the Seas below:  
Their speckled Tails advance to steer their Course,  
And on the sounding Shoar the flying Billows force.  
And now the Strand, and now the Plain they held,  
Their ardent Eyes with bloody streaks were filled:  
Their nimble Tongues they brandished as they came,  
And licked their hissing Jaws, that sputtered Flame.  
We fled amazed; their destined Way they take,  
And to Laocoon and his Children make:   

To the Right Honble: James Earl of Salisbury &  
A 2. l. 290.   

And first around the tender Boys they wind,  
Then with their sharpened Fangs their Limbs and Bodies grind.  
The wretched Father, running to their Aid  
With pious Haste, but vain, they next invade:  
Twice round his waste their winding Volumes rolled,  
And twice about his gasping Throat they fold.  
The Priest, thus doubly choked, their Crests divide,  
And towering o'er his Head, in Triumph ride.  
With both his Hands he labours at the Knots,  
His Holy Fillets the blue Venom blots:  
His roaring fills the flitting Air around.  
Thus, when an Ox receives a glancing Wound,  
He breaks his Bands, the fatal Altar flies,  
And with loud Bellow breaks the yielding Skies.  
Their Tasks performed, the Serpents quit their prey,  
And to the Tower of Pallas make their way:  
Couched at her Feet, they lie protected there,  
By her large Buckler, and protended Spear.  
Amazement seizes all; the gen'ral Cry  
Proclaims Laocoon justly doomed to die.  
Whose hand the Will of Pallas had withstood,  
And dared to violate the Sacred Wood  
All vote t' admit the Steed, that Vows be paid,  
And Incense offered to th' offended Maid.  
A spacious Breach is made, the Town lies bare,  
Some hoisting Levers, some the Wheels prepare,  
And fasten to the Horses Feet: the rest  
With Cables haul along th' unwieldy Beast.  
Each on his Fellow for Assistance calls:  
At length the fatal Fabric mounts the Walls,  
Big with Destruction. Boys with Chaplets crowned,  
And Quires of Virgins sing, and dance around.  
Thus raised aloft, and then descending down,  
It enters o'er our Heads, and threats the Town.  
O sacred City! built by Hands Divine!  
O valiant Heroes of the Trojan Line!  
Four times he struck; as oft the clashing sound  
Of Arms was heard, and inward Groans rebound.  
Yet mad with Zeal, and blinded with our Fate,  
We hawl along the Horse, in solemn state;  
Then place the dire Portent within the Tower.  
Cassandra cried, and cursed th' unhappy Hour;  
Foretold our Fate; but by the God's decree  
All heard, and none believed the Prophecy.  
With Branches we the Fanes adorn, and waste  
In jollity, the Day ordained to be the last.  
Mean time the rapid heavens rolled down the Light,  
And on the shaded Ocean rushed the Night:  
Our Men secure, nor Guards nor Sentries held,  
But easy Sleep their weary Limbs compelled.  
The Grecians had embarked their Naval Powers  
From Tenedos, and sought our well known Shores:  
Safe under Covert of the silent Night,  
And guided by th' Imperial Galley's light.  
When Sinon, favoured by the Partial Gods,  
Unlocked the Horse, and opened his dark abodes:  
Restored to vital Air our hidden Foes,  
Who joyful from their long Confinement rose.  
Tysander bold, and Sthenelus their Guide,  
And dire Ulysses down the Cable slide:  
Then Thoas, Athamas, and Pyrrhus haste;  
Nor was the Podalyrian Hero last:  
Nor injured Menelaus, nor the famed  
Epeus, who the fatal Engine framed.  
A nameless Crowd succeed; their Forces join  
T' invade the Town, oppressed with Sleep and Wine.  
Those few they find awake, first meet their Fate,  
Then to their Fellows they unbar the Gate.  
'Twas in the dead of Night, when Sleep repairs  
Our Bodies worn with Toils, our Minds with Cares,  
When Hector's Ghost before my sight appears:  
A bloody shroud he seemed, and bathed in Tears.  
Such as he was, when, by foul Treason slain,  
Thessalian Coursers dragged him o'er the Plain.  
Swollen were his Feet, as when the Thongs were thrust  
Through the bored holes, his Body black with dust.  
Unlike that Hector, who returned from toils  
Of War Triumphant, in Aeacian Spoils:  
Or him, who made the fainting Greeks retire,  
And launched against their Navy Phrygian Fire.  
His Hair and Beard stood stiffened with his gore;  
And all the Wounds he for his Country bore,  
Now streamed afresh, and with new Purple ran:  
I wept to see the visionary Man:  
And while my Trance continued, thus began.  
O Light of Trojans, and Support of Troy,  
Thy Father's Champion, and thy Country's Joy!  
O, long expected by thy Friends! from whence  
Art thou so late returned for our Defence?  
Do we behold thee, wearied as we are,  
With length of Labours, and with Toils of War?  
After so many funerals of thy own,  
Art thou restored to thy declining Town?  
But say, what Wounds are these? What new Disgrace  
Deforms the Manly Features of thy Face?  
To this the Spectre no Reply did frame;  
But answered to the Cause for which he came:  
And, groaning from the bottom of his Breast,  
This Warning, in these mournful Words expressed.  
O Goddess-born! escape, by timely flight,  
The Flames, and Horrors of this fatal Night.  
The Foes already have possessed the Wall,  
Troy nods from high, and totters to her Fall.  
Enough is paid to Priam's Royal Name,  
More than enough to Duty and to Fame.  
If by a Mortal Hand my Father's Throne  
Could be defended, 'twas by mine alone:  
Now Troy to thee commends her future State,  
And gives her God's Companions of thy Fate:  
From their assistance happier Walls expect,  
Which, wandering long, at last thou shalt erect.  
He said, and brought me, from their blessed abodes,  
The venerable Statues of the Gods:  
With ancient Vesta from the sacred Choir,  
The Wreaths and Relics of th' Immortal Fire.   

Now peals of Shouts come thundering from afar,  
Cries, Threats, and loud Laments, and mingled War:  
The Noise approaches, though our Palace stood  
Aloof from Streets, encompassed with a Wood  
Louder, and yet more loud, I hear th' Alarms  
Of Human Cries distinct, and clashing Arms:  
Fear broke my Slumbers; I no longer stay,  
But mount the Terrace, thence the Town survey,  
And hearken what the frightful Sounds convey.  
Thus when a flood of Fire by Winds is born,  
Crackling it rowls, and mows the standing Corn:  
Or Deluges, descending on the Plains,  
Sweep o'er the yellow Year, destroy the pains  
Of labouring Oxen, and the Peasant's gains:  
Unroot the Forest Oaks, and bear away  
Flocks, Folds, and Trees, an undistinguished Prey.  
The Shepherd climbs the Cliff, and sees from far,  
The wasteful Ravage of the wat'ry War.  
Then Hector's Faith was manifestly cleared;  
The Grecian Frauds in open light appeared.  
The Palace of Deiphobus ascends  
In smoky Flames, and catches on his Friends.  
Ucalegon burns next; the Seas are bright  
With splendour, not their own; and shine with Trojan light.  
New Clamours, and new Clangors now arise,  
The sound of Trumpets mixed with fight cries.  
With frenzy seized, I run to meet th' Alarms,  
Resolved on death, resolved to die in Arms.  
But first to gather Friends, with them t'oppose,  
If Fortune favoured, and repel the Foes.  
Spurred by my courage, by my Country fired;  
With sense of Honour, and Revenge inspired.   

Pantheus, Apollo's Priest, a sacred Name,  
Had scaped the Grecian Swords, and passed the Flame;  
With Relics loaden, to my Doors he fled,  
And by the hand his tender Grandson led.  
What hope, O Pantheus! whither can we run?  
Where make a stand? and what may yet be done?  
Scarce had I said, when Pantheus, with a groan,  
Troy is no more, and Ilium was a Town!  
The fatal Day, th' appointed Hour is come,  
When wrathful Jove's irrevocable doom  
Transfers the Trojan State to Grecian hands.  
The Fire consumes the Town, the Foe commands:  
And armed Hosts, an unexpected Force,  
Break from the Bowels of the Fatal Horse.  
Within the Gates, proud Sinon throws about  
The flames, and Foes for entrance press without.  
With thousand others, whom I fear to name,  
More than from Argos, or Mycenae came.  
To several Posts their Parties they divide;  
Some block the narrow Streets, some scour the wide.  
The bold they kill, th' unwary they surprise;  
Who fights finds Death, and Death finds him who flies.  
The Warders of the Gate but scarce maintain  
Th' unequal Combat, and resist in vain.  
I Herd; and Heaven, that wellborn Souls inspires,  
Prompts me, through lifted Swords, and rising Fires  
To run, where clashing Arms and Clamour calls,  
And rush undaunted to defend the Walls.  
Ripheus and Iph'itus by my side engage,  
For Valour one Renowned, and one for Age.  
Dymas and Hypanis by Moonlight knew  
My motions, and my Mien, and to my Party drew;  
With young Choroebus, who by Love was led  
To win Renown, and fair Cassandra's Bed;  
And lately brought his Troops to Priam's aid:  
Forewarned in vain, by the Prophetic Maid.  
Whom, when I saw, resolved in Arms to fall,  
And that one Spirit animated all;  
Brave Souls, said I, but Brave, alas! in vain:  
Come, finish what our Cruel Fates ordain.  
You see the desperate state of our Affairs;  
And heavens protecting Powers are deaf to Prayers.  
The passive Gods behold the Greeks defile  
Their Temples, and abandon to the Spoil  
Their own Abodes: we, feeble few, conspire  
To save a sinking Town, involved in Fire.  
Then let us fall, but fall amidst our Foes,  
Despair of Life, the Means of Living shows.  
So fierce a Speech encouraged their desire  
Of Death, and added fuel to their fire.   

As hungry Wolves, with raging appetite,  
Scour through the fields, nor fear the stormy Night;  
Their Whelps at home expect the promised Food,  
And long to temper their dry Chaps in Blood:  
So rushed we forth at once, resolved to die,  
Resolved in Death the last Extremes to try.  
We leave the narrow Lanes behind, and dare  
Th' unequal Combat in the public Square:  
Night was our Friend, our Leader was Despair.  
What Tongue can tell the Slaughter of that Night?  
What Eyes can weep the Sorrows and Affright!  
An ancient and imperial City falls,  
The Streets are filled with frequent Funerals:  
Houses and Holy Temples float in Blood,  
And hostile Nations make a common Flood.  
Not only Trojans fall, but in their turn,  
The vanquished Triumph, and the Victor's mourn.  
Ours take new Courage from Despair and Night;  
Confused the Fortune is, confused the Fight.  
All parts resound with Tumults, Plaints, and Fears,  
And grisly Death in sundry shapes appears.  
Androgeos fell among us, with his Band,  
Who thought us Grecians newly come to Land:  
From whence, said he, my Friends this long delay?  
You loiter, while the Spoils are born away:  
Our Ships are laden with the Trojan Store,  
And you like Truants come too late ashore.  
He said, but soon corrected his Mistake,  
Found, by the doubtful Answers which we make:  
Amazed, he would have shunned th' unequal Fight,  
But we, more numerous, intercept his flight.  
As when some Peasant in a bushy Brake,  
Has with unwary Footing pressed a Snake;  
He starts aside, astonished, when he spies  
His rising Crest, blue Neck, and rolling Eyes;  
So from our Arms, surprised Androgeos flies.  
In vain; for him and his we compassed round,  
Possessed with Fear, unknowing of the Ground;  
And of their Lives an easy Conquest found.  
Thus Fortune on our first Endeavour smiled:  
Choraebus then, with youthful Hopes beguiled,  
Swollen with Success, and of a daring Mind,  
This new Invention fatally designed.  
My Friends, said he, since Fortune shows the way,  
'Tis fit we should th' auspicious Guide obey.  
For what has she these Grecian Arms bestowed,  
But their Destruction, and the Trojans good?  
Then change we Shields, and their Devices bear,  
Let Fraud supply the want of Force in War.  
They find us Arms; this said, himself he dressed  
In dead Androgeos' Spoils, his upper Vest,  
His painted Buckler, and his plumy Crest.  
Thus Ripheus, Dymas, all the Trojan Train  
Lay down their own Attire, and strip the slain.  
mixed with the Greeks, we go with ill Presage,  
Flattered with hopes to glut our greedy Rage:  
Unknown, assaulting whom we blindly meet,  
And strew, with Grecian Carcases, the Street.  
Thus while their straggling Parties we defeat,  
Some to the Shoar and safer Ships retreat:  
And some oppressed with more ignoble Fear,  
Remount the hollow Horse, and pant in secret there.   

But ah! what use of Valour can be made,  
When heavens propitious Powers refuse their Aid!  
Behold the royal Prophetess, the Fair  
Cassandra, dragged by her dishevelled Hair;  
Whom not Minerva's Shrine, nor sacred Bands,  
In safety could protect from sacrilegious Hands:  
On Heaven she cast her Eyes, she sighed, she cried,  
('Twas all she could) her tender Arms were tied.  
So sad a Sight Choraebus could not bear,  
But fired with Rage, distracted with Despair;   

To the Right Honble. William OBryen Earl of Inchiquin in the Kingdom of Ireland & ct  
A 2. l: 545.   

Amid the barbarous Ravishers he flew:  
Our Leader's rash Example we pursue.  
But storms of Stones, from the proud Temple's height,  
Pour down, and on our battered Helms alight.  
We from our Friends received this fatal Blow,  
Who thought us Grecians, as we seemed in show.  
They aim at the mistaken Crests, from high,  
And ours beneath the ponderous Ruin lie.  
Then, moved with Anger and Disdain, to see  
Their Troops dispersed, the Royal Virgin free:  
The Grecians rally, and their Powers unite;  
With Fury charge us, and renew the Fight.  
The Brother-Kings with Ajax join their force,  
And the whole Squadron of Thessalian Horse.   

Thus, when the Rival Winds their Quarrel try,  
Contending for the Kingdom of the Sky;  
South, East, and West, on airy Coursers born,  
The Whirlwind gathers, and the Woods are torn:  
Then Nereus strikes the deep, the Billows rise,  
And, mixed with Ooze and Sand, pollute the Skies.  
The Troops we squandered first, again appear  
From several Quarters, and enclose the Rear.  
They first observe, and to the rest betray  
Our different Speech; our borrowed Arms survey.  
Oppressed with odds, we fall; Choraebus first,  
At Pallas' Altar, by Peneleus pierced.  
Then Ripheus followed, in th'unequal Fight;  
Just of his Word, observant of the right;  
Heaven thought not so: Dymas their Fate attends,  
With Hypanis, mistaken by their Friends.  
Nor Pantheus, thee, thy Mitre nor the Bands  
Of awful Phoebus, saved from impious Hands.  
Ye Trojan Flames your Testimony bear,  
What I performed, and what I suffered there:  
No Sword avoiding in the fatal Strife,  
Exposed to Death, and prodigal of Life.  
Witness, ye heavens! I live not by my Fault,  
I strove to have deserved the Death I sought.  
But when I could not fight, and would have died,  
Born off to distance by the growing Tide,  
Old Iphitus and I were hurried thence,  
With Pelias wounded, and without Defence.  
New Clamours from th' invested Palace ring;  
We run to die, or disengage the King.  
So hot th' Assault, so high the Tumult rose,  
While ours defend, and while the Greeks oppose;  
As all the Dardan and Argolick Race  
Had been contracted in that narrow Space:  
Or as all Ilium else were void of Fear,  
And Tumult, War, and Slaughter only there.  
Their Targets in a Tortoise cast, the Foes  
Secure advancing, to the Turret's rose:  
Some mount the scaling Ladders, some more bold  
Swerve upwards, and by Posts and Pillars hold:  
Their left hand gripes their Bucklers, in th' ascent,  
While with the right they seize the Battlement.  
From their demolished towers the Trojans throw  
Huge heaps of Stones, that falling, crush the Foe:  
And heavy Beams, and Rafters from the sides,  
(Such Arms their last necessity provides:)  
And gilded Roofs come tumbling from on high,  
The marks of State, and ancient Royalty.  
The Guards below, fixed in the Pass, attend  
The Charge undaunted, and the Gate defend.  
Renewed in Courage with recovered Breath,  
A second time we ran to tempt our Death:  
To clear the Palace from the Foe, succeed  
The weary living, and revenge the dead.  
A Postern-door, yet unobserved and free,  
Joined by the length of a blind Gallery,  
To the King's Closet led; a way well known  
To Hector's Wife, while Priam held the Throne:  
Through which she brought Astyanax, unseen,  
To cheer his Grandsire, and his Grandsire's Queen.  
Through this we pass, and mount the Tower, from whence  
With unavailing Arms the Trojans make defence.  
From this the trembling King had oft descried  
The Grecian Camp, and saw their Navy ride.  
Beams from its lofty height with Swords we hue;  
Then wrenching with our hands, th' Assault renew.  
And where the Rafters on the Columns meet,  
We push them headlong with our Arms and Feet.  
The Lightning flies not swifter than the Fall;  
Nor Thunder louder than the ruin'd Wall:  
Down goes the top at once; the Greeks beneath  
Are piecemeal torn, or pounded into Death.  
Yet more succeed, and more to death are sent;  
We cease not from above, nor they below relent.  
Before the Gate stood Pyrrhus, threatening loud,  
With glittering Arms conspicuous in the Crowd.  
So shines, renewed in Youth, the crested Snake,  
Who slept the Winter in a thorny Brake:  
And casting off his Slough, when Spring returns,  
Now looks aloft, and with new Glory burns:  
Restored with poisonous Herbs, his ardent sides  
Reflect the Sun, and raised on Spires he rides:  
High o'er the Grass, hissing he rowls along,  
And brandishes by fits his sorky Tongue.  
Proud Periphas, and fierce Automedon,  
His Father's Charioteer, together run  
To force the Gate: The Scyrian Infantry  
Rush on in Crowds, and the barred Passage free.  
Ent'ring the Court, with Shouts the Skies they rend,  
And flaming Firebrands to the Roofs ascend.  
Himself, among the foremost, deals his Blows,  
And with his Axe repeated Strokes bestows  
On the strong Doors: then all their Shoulders ply,  
Till from the Posts the brazen Hinges fly.  
He hews apace, the double Bars at length  
Yield to his Axe, and unresisted Strength.  
A mighty Breach is made; the Rooms concealed  
Appear, and all the Palace is revealed.  
The Halls of Audience, and of public State,  
And where the lonely Queen in secret sat.  
Armed Soldiers now by trembling Maids are seen,  
With not a Door, and scarce a Space between.  
The House is filled with loud Laments and Cries,  
And Shrieks of Women rend the vaulted Skies.  
The fearful Matrons run from place to place,  
And kiss the Thresholds, and the Posts embrace.  
The fatal work inhuman Pyrrhus plies,  
And all his Father sparkles in his Eyes.  
Nor Bars, nor fight Guards his force sustain;  
The Bars are broken, and the Guards are slain.  
In rush the Greeks, and all the Apartments fill;  
Those few Defendants whom they find, they kill.  
Not with so fierce a Rage, the foaming Flood  
Roars, when he finds his rapid Course withstood:  
Bears down the Dams with unresisted sway,  
And sweeps the Cattle and the Cots away.  
These Eyes beheld him, when he marched between  
The Brother-Kings: I saw th' unhappy Queen,  
The hundred Wives, and where old Priam stood,  
To slain his hallowed Altar with his Blood.  
The fifty Nuptial Beds: (such Hopes had he,  
So large a Promise of a Progeny.)  
The Posts of plated Gold, and hung with Spoils,  
Fell the Reward of the proud Victor's Toils.  
Where e'er the raging Fire had left a space,  
The Grecians enter, and possess the Place.  
Perhaps you may of Priam's Fate inquire.  
He, when he saw his Regal Town on fire,  
His ruin'd Palace, and his ent'ring Foes,  
On every side inevitable woes;  
In Arms, disused, invests his Limbs decayed  
Like them, with Age; a late and useless aid.  
His feeble shoulders scarce the weight sustain:  
Loaded, not armed, he creeps along, with pain;  
Despairing of Success; ambitious to be slain!  
Uncovered but by Heaven, there stood in view  
An Altar; near the hearth a Laurel grew;  
Doddered with Age, whose Boughs encompass round  
The Household Gods, and shade the holy Ground.  
Here Hecuba, with all her helpless Train  
Of Dames, for shelter sought, but sought in vain.  
Driven like a Flock of Doves along the sky,  
Their Images they hug, and to their Altars fly.  
The Queen, when she beheld her trembling Lord,  
And hanging by his side a heavy Sword,  
What Rage, she cried, has seized my Husband's mind;  
What Arms are these, and to what use designed?  
These times want other aids: were Hector here,  
Even Hector now in vain, like Priam would appear.  
With us, one common shelter thou shalt find,  
Or in one common Fate with us be joined.  
She said, and with a last Salute embraced  
The poor old Man, and by the Laurel placed.  
Behold Polites, one of Priam's Sons,  
Pursued by Pyrrhus, there for safety runs.  
Thro Swords, and Foes, amazed and hurt, he flies  
Through empty Courts, and open Galleries:  
Him Pyrrhus, urging with his Lance, pursues;  
And often reaches, and his thrusts renews.  
The Youth transfixed, with lamentable Cries  
Expires, before his wretched Parent's Eyes.  
Whom, gasping at his feet, when Priam saw,  
The Fear of death gave place to Nature's Law.  
And shaking more with Anger, than with Age,  
The Gods, said He, requite thy brutal Rage:  
As sure they will, Barbarian, sure they must,  
If there be Gods in Heaven, and Gods be just:  
Who tak'st in Wrongs an insolent delight;  
With a Son's death t'infect a Father's sight.  
Not He, whom thou and lying Fame conspire  
To call thee his; Not He, thy vaunted Sire,  
Thus used my wretched Age: The Gods he feared,  
The Laws of Nature and of Nations heard.  
He cheered my Sorrows, and for Sums of Gold  
The bloodless Carcase of my Hector sold.  
Pitied the Woes a Parent underwent,  
And sent me back in safety from his Tent.   

This said, his feeble hand a Javelin threw,  
Which fluttering, seemed to loiter as it flew:  
Just, and but barely, to the Mark it held,  
And faintly tinckled on the Brazen Shield.   

Then Pyrrhus thus: go thou from me to Fate;  
And to my Father my foul deeds relate.  
Now die: with that he dragged the trembling Sire,  
Slidd'ring through clottered Blood, and holy Mire,  
(The mingled Paste his murdered Son had made,)  
Hauled from beneath the violated Shade;  
And on the Sacred Pile, the Royal Victim laid.   

To the Right Hon ble Roger Earl of Orrery Baron of Broghill & ct  
A 2. l: 765.   

His right Hand held his bloody Falchion bare;  
His left he twisted in his hoary Hair:  
Then, with a speeding Thrust, his Heart he found:  
The lukewarm Blood came rushing through the wound,  
And sanguine Streams distained the sacred Ground.  
Thus Priam fell: and shared one common Fate  
With Troy in Ashes, and his ruin'd State:  
He, who the Sceptre of all Asia swayed,  
Whom Monarches like domestic Slaves obeyed,  
On the bleak Shoar now lies th' abandoned King,  

* This whole line is taken from Sir John Derhan.  A headless Carcase, and a nameless thing.   

Then, not before, I felt my curdled Blood  
Congeal with Fear; my Hair with horror stood:  
My Father's Image filled my pious Mind;  
Lest equal Years might equal Fortune find.  
Again I thought on my forsaken Wife;  
And trembled for my Son's abandoned Life.  
I looked about; but found myself alone:  
Deserted at my need, my Friends were gone.  
Some spent with Toil, some with Despair oppressed,  
Leaped headlong from the Heights; the Flames consumed the (rest.  
Thus, wandering in my way, without a Guide,  
The graceless Helen in the Porch I spied  
Of Vesta's Temple: there she lurked alone;  
Muffled she sat, and what she could, unknown:  
But, by the Flames, that cast their Blaze around,  
That common Bane of Greece and Troy, I found.  
For Ilium burned, she dreads the Trojan Sword;  
More dreads the Vengeance of her injured Lord;  
Even by those Gods, who refuged her, abhorred.  
Trembling with Rage, the Strumpet I regard;  
Resolved to give her Gild the due reward.  
Shall she triumphant sail before the Wind,  
And leave in Flames, unhappy Troy behind?  
Shall she, her Kingdom and her Friends review,  
In State attended with a Captive Crew;  
While unrevenged the good old Priam falls,  
And Grecian Fires consume the Trojan Walls?  
For this the Phrygian Fields, and Xanthian Flood  
Were swelled with Bodies, and were drunk with Blood?  
'Tis true a Soldier can small Honour gain,  
And boast no Conquest from a Woman slain:  
Yet shall the Fact not pass without Applause,  
Of Vengeance taken in so just a Cause.  
The punished Crime shall set my Soul at ease:  
And murmuring Manes of my Friends appease.  
Thus while I rave, a gleam of pleasing Light  
Spread o'er the Place, and shining Heavenly bright,  
My Mother stood revealed before my Sight.  
Never so radiant did her Eyes appear;  
Not her own Star confessed a Light so clear.  
Great in her Charms, as when on Gods above  
She looks, and breathes herself into their Love.  
She held my hand, the destined Blow to break:  
Then from her rosy Lips began to speak.  
My Son, from whence this Madness, this neglect  
Of my Commands, and those whom I protect?  
Why this unmanly Rage? Recall to mind  
Whom you forsake, what Pledges leave behind.  
Look if your helpless Father yet survive;  
Or if Ascanius, or Creusa live.  
Around your House the greedy Grecians err;  
And these had perished in the nightly War,  
But for my Presence and protecting Care.  
Not Helen's Face, nor Paris was in fault;  
But by the Gods was this Destruction brought.  
Now cast your Eyes around; while I dissolve  
The Mists and Films that mortal Eyes involve:  
Purge from your sight the Dross, and make you see  
The Shape of each avenging Deity.  
Enlightened thus, my just Commands fulfil;  
Nor fear Obedience to your Mother's Will.  
Where you disordered heap of Ruin lies,  
Stones rend from Stones, where Clouds of dust arise,  
Amid that smother, Neptune holds his place:  
Below the Wall's foundation drives his Mace:  
And heaves the Building from the solid Base.  
Look where, in Arms, Imperial Juno stands,  
Full in the Scaean Gate, with loud Commands;  
Urging on Shore the tardy Grecian Bands.  
See Pallas, of her snaky Buckler proud,  
Bestrides the Tower, refulgent through the Cloud:  
See Jove new Courage to the Foe supplies,  
And arms against the Town, the partial Deities.  
Haste hence, my Son; this fruitless Labour end:  
Haste where your trembling Spouse, and Sire attend:  
Haste, and a Mother's Care your Passage shall befriend.  
She said: and swiftly vanished from my Sight,  
Obscure in Clouds, and gloomy Shades of Night.  
I looked, I listened; dreadful Sounds I hear;  
And the dire Forms of hostile Gods appear.  
Troy sunk in Flames I saw, nor could prevent;  
And Ilium from its old Foundations rend.  
Rend like a Mountain Ash, which dared the Winds;  
And stood the sturdy Strokes of labouring Hinds:  
About the Roots the cruel Axe resounds,  
The Stump are pierced, with oft repeated Wounds.  
The War is felt on high, the nodding Crown  
Now threats a Fall, and throws the leafy Honours down.  
To their united Force it yields, though late;  
And mourns with mortal Groans th' approaching Fate:  
The Roots no more their upper load sustain;  
But down she falls, and spreads a ruin through the Plain.   

Descending thence, I scape through Foes, and Fire:  
Before the Goddess, Foes and Flames retire.  
Arrived at home, he for whose only sake,  
Or most for his, such Toils I undertake,  
The good Anchises, whom, by timely Flight,  
I purposed to secure on Ida's height,  
Refused the Journey: Resolute to die,  
And add his funerals to the fate of Troy:  
Rather than Exile and old Age sustain.  
Go you, whose Blood runs warm in every Vein:  
Had Heaven decreed that I should Life enjoy,  
Heaven had decreed to save unhappy Troy.  
'Tis sure enough, if not too much for one;  
Twice to have seen our Ilium overthrown.  
Make haste to save the poor remaining Crew;  
And give this useless Corpse a long Adieu.  
These weak old Hands suffice to stop my Breath:  
At least the pitying Foes will aid my Death,  
To take my Spoils: and leave my Body bare:  
As for my Sepulchre let Heaven take Care.  
'Tis long since I, for my Celestial Wife,  
Loathed by the Gods, have dragged a lingering Life:  
Since every Hour and Moment I expire,  
Blasted from Heaven by Jove's avenging Fire.  
This oft repeated, he stood fixed to die:  
Myself, my Wife, my Son, my Family,  
Entreat, pray, beg, and raise a doleful Cry.  
What, will he still persist, on Death resolve,  
And in his Ruin all his House involve!  
He still persists, his reasons to maintain;  
Our Prayers, our Tears, our loud Laments are vain.   

Urged by Despair, again I go to try  
The fate of Arms, resolved in Fight to die.   

To the Right Honble, Rob 't: Ld. Constable Vis nt. Dunbar in the Kingdom of Scotland  
A 2. l. 915.   

What hope remains, but what my Death must give?  
Can I without so dear a Father live?  
You term it Prudence, what I Baseness call:  
Could such a Word from such a Parent fall?  
If Fortune please, and so the Gods ordain,  
That nothing should of ruin'd Troy remain:  
And you conspire with Fortune, to be slain;  
The way to Death is wide, th' Approaches near:  
For soon relentless Pyrrhus will appear,  
Reeking with Priam's Blood: The wretch who slew  
The Son (inhuman) in the Father's view,  
And then the Sire himself, to the dire Altar drew.   

O Goddess Mother, give me back to fate;  
Your Gift was undesired, and came too late.  
Did you for this, unhappy me convey  
Through Foes and Fires to see my House a Prey?  
Shall I, my Father, Wife, and Son, behold  
weltering in Blood, each others Arms enfold?  
Haste, gird my Sword, tho' spent, and overcome:  
'Tis the last Summons to receive our Doom.  
I hear thee, Fate, and I obey thy Call:  
Not unrevenged the Foe shall see my Fall.  
Restore me to the yet unfinished Fight:  
My Death is wanting to conclude the Night.  
Armed once again, my glittering Sword I wield,  
While th' other hand sustains my weighty Shield:  
And forth I rush to seek th' abandoned Field.  
I went; but sad Creusa stopped my way,  
And cross the Threshold in my Passage lay;  
Embraced my Knees; and when I would have gone  
Showed me my feeble Sire, and tender Son.  
If Death be your design, at least, said she,  
Take us along, to share your Destiny.  
If any farther hopes in Arms remain,  
This Place, these Pledges of your Love, maintain.  
To whom do you expose your Father's Life,  
Your Son's, and mine, your now forgotten Wife!  
While thus she fills the House with clamorous Cries,  
Our Hearing is diverted by our Eyes.  
For while I held my Son, in the short space,  
Betwixt our Kisses and our last Embrace;  
Strange to relate, from young julus' Head  
A lambent Flame arose, which gently spread  
Around his Brows, and on his Temples fed.  
Amazed, with running Water we prepare  
To quench the sacred Fire, and shake his Hair;  
But old Anchises, versed in Omens, reared  
His hands to Heaven, and this request preferred.  
If any Vows, Almighty Jove, can bend  
Thy Will, if Piety can Prayers commend,  
Confirm the glad Presage which thou art pleased to send.  
Scarce had he said, when, on our left, we hear  
A peal of rattling Thunder roll in Air:  
There shot a streaming Lamp along the Sky,  
Which on the winged Lightning seemed to fly;  
From o'er the Roof the blaze began to move;  
And trailing vanished in th' Idean Grove.  
It swept a path in Heaven, and shone a Guide;  
Then in a steaming stench of Sulphur died.   

The good old Man with suppliant hands implored  
The God's protection, and their Star adored.  
Now, now, said he, my Son, no more delay,  
I yield, I follow where Heaven shows the way.  
Keep (O my Country Gods) our dwelling Place,  
And guard this Relic of the Trojan Race:  
This tender Child; these Omens are your own;  
And you can yet restore the ruin'd Town.  
At least accomplish what your Signs foreshow:  
I stand resigned, and am prepared to go.   

To the Right Honble: Marry Countess Dowager of Northampton  
A 2. l. 985.   

He said; the crackling Flames appear on high,  
And driving Sparkles dance along the Sky.  
With Vulcan's rage the rising Winds conspire;  
And near our Palace roll the flood of Fire.  
Haste, my dear Father, ('tis no time to wait)  
And load my Shoulders with a willing Fraight.  
What e'er befalls, your Life shall be my care,  
One Death, or one deliverance we will share.  
My hand shall lead our little Son; and you  
My faithful Consort, shall our Steps purfue.  
Next, you my Servants, heed my strict Commands:  
Without the Walls a ruin'd Temple stands,  
To Ceres' hollowed once; a Cypress nigh  
Shoots up her venerable Head on high;  
By long Religion kept: there bend your Feet;  
And in divided Parties let us meet.  
Our Country Gods, the Relics, and the Bands,  
Hold you, my Father, in your guiltless Hands:  
In me 'tis impious holy things to bear,  
Red as I am with Slaughter, new from War:  
Till in some living Stream I cleanse the Gild  
Of dire Debate, and Blood in Battle spilt.  
Thus, ordering all that Prudence could provide,  
I cloth my Shoulders with a Lion's Hide;  
And yellow Spoils: Then, on my bending Back,  
The welcome load of my dear Father take.  
While on my better Hand Ascanius hung,  
And with unequal Paces tripped along.  
Creusa kept behind: by choice we stray  
Through every dark and every devious Way.  
ay, who so bold and dauntless just before,  
The Grecian Darts and shock of Lances bore,  
At every Shadow now am seized with Fear:  
Not for myself, but for the Charge I bear.  
Till near the ruin'd Gate arrived at last,  
Secure, and deeming all the Danger past;  
A frightful noise of trampling Feet we hear;  
My Father looking through the Shades, with fear,  
Cried out, haste, haste my Son, the Foes are nigh;  
Their Swords, and shining Armour I descry.  
Some hostile God, for some unknown Offence,  
Had sure bereft my Mind of better Sense:  
For while through winding Ways I took my Flight;  
And sought the shelter of the gloomy Night;  
Alas! I lost Creusa: hard to tell  
If by her fatal Destiny she fell,  
Or weary sat, or wandered with affright;  
But she was lost for ever to my sight.  
I knew not, or reflected, till I meet  
My Friends, at Ceres' now deserted Seat:  
We met: not one was wanting, only she  
Deceived her Friends, her Son, and wretched me.  
What mad expessions did my Tongue refuse!  
Whom did I not of Gods or Men accuse!  
This was the fatal Blow, that pained me more  
Than all I felt from ruin'd Troy before.  
Stung with my Loss, and raving with Despair,  
Abandoning my now forgotten Care,  
Of Counsel, Comfort, and of Hope bereft,  
My Sire, my Son, my Country Gods, I left.  
In shining Armour once again I sheathe  
My Limbs, not feeling Wounds, nor fearing Death.  
Then headlong to the burning Walls I run,  
And seek the Danger I was forced to shun.  
I tread my former Tracks: through Night explore  
Each Passage, every Street I crossed before.  
All things were full of Horror and Affright,  
And dreadful even the silence of the Night.  
Then, to my Father's House I make repair,  
With some small Glimpse of hope to find her there:  
Instead of her the cruel Greeks I met;  
The house was filled with Foes, with Flames beset.  
Driven on the wings of Winds, whole sheets of Fire,  
Through Air transported, to the Roofs aspire.  
From thence to Priam's Palace I resort;  
And search the Citadel, and desert Court.  
Then, unobserved, I pass by Juno's Church;  
A guard of Grecians had possessed the Porch:  
There Phoenix and Ulysses watch the Prey:  
And thither all the Wealth of Troy convey.  
The Spoils which they from ransacked Houses brought;  
And golden Bowls from burning Altars caught.  
The Tables of the Gods, the Purple Vests;  
The People's Treasure, and the Pomp of Priests.  
A rank of wretched Youths, with pinioned Hands,  
And captive Matrons in long Order stands.  
Then, with ungoverned Madness, I proclaim,  
Through all the silent Streets, Creusa's Name.  
Creusa still I call: At length she hears;  
And sudden, through the Shades of Night appears.  
Appears, no more Creusa, nor my Wife:  
But a pale Spectre, larger than the Life.  
Aghast, astonished, and struck dumb with Fear,  
I stood; like Bristles rose my stiffened Hair.  
Then thus the Ghost began to soothe my Grief:  
Nor Tears, nor Cries can give the dead Relief;  
Desist, my much loved Lord, t'indulge your Pain:  
You bear no more than what the Gods ordain.  
My Fates permit me not from hence to fly;  
Nor he, the great controller of the Sky.  
Long wand'ring Ways for you the Powers decree:  
On Land hard Labours, and a length of Sea.  
Then, after many painful Years are past,  
On Latium's happy Shore you shall be cast:  
Where gentle Tiber from his Bed beholds  
The flowery Meadows, and the feeding Folds.  
There end your Toils: And there your Fates provide  
A quiet Kingdom, and a Royal Bride:  
There Fortune shall the Trojan Line restore;  
And you for lost Creusa weep no more.  
Fear not that I shall watch with servile Shame,  
Th' imperious Looks of some proud Grecian Dame:  
Or, stooping to the Victor's Lust, disgrace  
My Goddess Mother, or my Royal Race.  
And now, farewell: the Parent of the Gods  
Restrains my fleeting Soul in her Abodes:  
I trust our common Issue to your Care.  
She said: And gliding passed unseen in Air.  
I strove to speak, but Horror tied my Tongue;  
And thrice about her Neck my Arms I flung;  
And thrice deceived, on vain Embraces hung.  
Light as an empty Dream at break of Day,  
Or as a blast of Wind, she rushed away.   

Thus, having passed the Night in fruitless Pain,  
I, to my longing Friends, return again.  
Amazed th' augmented Number to behold,  
Of Men, and Matrons mixed, of young and old:  
A wretched Exiled Crew together brought,  
With Arms appointed, and With Treasure fraught.  
Resolved, and willing under my Command,  
To run all hazards both of Sea and Land.  
The Morn began, from Ida, to display  
Her rosy Cheeks, and Phosphor led the day;  
Before the Gates the Grecians took their Post:  
And all pretence of late Relief was lost.  
I yield to Fate, unwillingly retire;  
And loaded, up the Hill convey my Sire.    

The Third Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
Aeneas proceeds in his Relation: He gives an Account of the Fleet with which he sailed, and the Success of his first Voyage to Thrace; from thence he directs his Course to Delos, and asks the Oracle what place the Gods had appointed for his Habitation? By a mistake of the Oracle's Answer, he settles in Crete; his household Gods give him the true sense of the Oracle, in a Dream. He follows their advice, and makes the best of his way for Italy: He is cast on several Shores, and meets with very surprising Adventures, till at length he lands on Sicily: where his Father Anchises dies. This is the place which he was sailing from when the Tempest rose and threw him upon the Carthaginian Coast.  

To the Right Honble. William Stanley Earl of Derby & ct L d of Man & the Isles  
A e. l. 2.   

WHen Heaven had overturned the Trojan State,  
And Priam's Throne, by too severe a Fate:  
When ruin'd Troy became the Grecians Prey,  
And Ilium's lofty towers in Ashes lay:  
Warned by Celestial Omens, we retreat,  
To seek in foreign Lands a happier Seat.  
Near old Antandros, and at Ida's foot,  
The Timber of the sacred Groves we cut:  
And build our Fleet; uncertain yet to find  
What place the Gods for our Repose assigned.  
Friends daily flock; and scarce the kindly Spring  
Began to clothe the Ground, and Birds to sing;  
When old Anchises summoned all to Sea:  
The Crew, my Father and the Fates obey.  
With Sighs and Tears I leave my native Shore,  
And empty Fields, where Ilium stood before.  
My Sire, my Son, our less, and greater Gods,  
All sail at once; and tempt the briny Floods.   

Against our Coast appears a spacious Land,  
Which once the fierce Lycurgus did command:  
Thracia the Name; the People bold in War;  
Vast are their Fields, and Tillage is their Care.  
A hospitable Realm while Fate was kind;  
With Troy in friendship and Religion joined.  
I land; with luckless Omens, then adore  
Their Gods, and draw a Line along the Shore:  
I lay the deep Foundations of a Wall;  
And Enos, named from me, the City call.  
To Dionaean Venus Vows are paid,  
And all the Powers that rising Labours aid;  
A Bull on Jove's Imperial Altar laid.  
Not far, a rising Hillock stood in view;  
Sharp Myrtles, on the sides, and Cornels grew.  
There, while I went to crop the Sylvan Scenes,  
And shade our Altar with their leafy Greene's;  
I pulled a Plant; with horror I relate  
A Prodigy so strange, and full of Fate.  
The rooted Fibers' rose; and from the Wound,  
Black bloody Drops distilled upon the Ground.  
Mute, and amazed, my Hair with Horror stood;  
Fear shrunk my Sinews, and congealed my Blood.  
Man'd once again, another Plant I try;  
That other gushed with the same sanguine Dye.  
Then, fearing Gild, for some Offence unknown,  
With Prayers and Vows the Driads I atone:  
With all the Sisters of the Woods, and most  
The God of Arms, who rules the Thracian Coast:  
That they, or he, these Omens would avert;  
Release our Fears, and better signs impart.  
Cleared, as I thought, and fully fixed at length  
To learn the Cause, I tugged with all my Strength;  
I bent my knees against the Ground; once more  
The violated Myrtle ran with purple Gore.  
Scarce dare I tell the Sequel: From the Womb  
Of wounded Earth, and Caverns of the Tomb,  
A Groan, as of a troubled Ghost, renewed  
My Fright, and then these dreadful Words ensued.  
Why dost thou thus my buried Body rend?  
O spare the Corpse of thy unhappy Friend!  
Spare to pollute thy pious Hands with Blood:  
The Tears distil not from the wounded Wood;  
But every drop this living Tree contains,  
Is kindred Blood, and ran in Trojan Veins:  
O fly from this unhospitable Shore,  
Warned by my Fate; for I am Polydore!  
Here loads of Lances, in my Blood embrued,  
Again shoot upward, by my Blood renewed.   

My faltering Tongue, and shivering Limbs declare  
My Horror, and in Bristles rose my Hair.  
When Troy with Grecian Arms was closely penned,  
Old Priam, fearful of the Wars Event,  
This hapless Polydore to Thracia sent.  
Loaded with Gold, he sent his Darling, far  
From Noise and Tumults, and destructive War:  
Committed to the faithless Tyrant's Care.  
Who, when he saw the Power of Troy decline,  
Forsook the weaker, with the strong to join.  
Broke every Bond of Nature, and of Truth;  
And murdered, for his Wealth, the Royal Youth.  
O sacred Hunger of pernicious Gold,  
What bands of Faith can impious Lucre hold!  
Now, when my Soul had shaken off her Fears,  
I call my Father, and the Trojan Peers:  
Relate the Prodigies of Heaven; require.  
What he commands, and their Advice desire.  
All vote to leave that execrable Shore,  
Polluted with the Blood of Polydore.  
But e'er we sail, his Funeral Rites prepare;  
Then, to his Ghost, a Tomb and Altars rear,  
In mournful Pomp the Matrons walk the round:  
With baleful Cypress, and blue Fillets crowned;  
With Eyes dejected, and with Hair unbound.  
Then Bowls of tepid Milk and Blood we pour,  
And thrice invoke the Soul of Polydore.  
Now when the raging Storms no longer reign;  
But Southern Gales invite us to the Main;  
We launch our Vessels, with a prosperous Wind;  
And leave the Cities and the Shores behind.   

An Island in th' Aegean Main appears:  
Neptune and wat'ry Doris claim it theirs.  
It floated once, till Phoebus fixed the sides  
To rooted Earth, and now it braves the Tides.  
Here, born by friendly Winds, we come ashore  
With needful ease our weary Limbs restore;  
And the Sun's Temple, and his Town adore.   

Anius the Priest, and King, with Laurel crowned,  
His hoary Locks with purple Fillets bound,  
Who saw my Sire the Delian Shore ascend,  
Came forth with eager haste to meet his Friend.  
Invites him to his Palace; and in sign  
Of ancient Love, their plighted Hands they join.  
Then to the Temple of the God I went;  
And thus, before the Shrine, my Vows present.  
Give, O Thymbraeus, give a resting place,  
To the sad Relics of the Trojan Race:  
A Seat secure, a Region of their own,  
A lasting Empire, and a happier Town.  
Where shall we fix, where shall our Labours end,  
Whom shall we follow, and what Fate attend?  
Let not my Prayers a doubtful Answer find,  
But in clear Auguries unveil thy Mind.   

To the Right Honble: Nathanael Lord Bishop of Durham  
A 3 l: 220   

Scarce had I said, He shook the holy Ground:  
The Laurels, and the lofty Hills around:  
And from the Tripos rushed a bellowing sound.  
Prostrate we fell; confessed the present God,  
Who gave this Answer from his dark Abode.  
Undaunted Youths, go seek that Mother Earth  
From which your Ancestors derive their Birth.  
The Soil that sent you forth, her Ancient Race,  
In her old Bosom, shall again embrace.  
Through the wide World th' Eneian House shall reign,  
And children's Children shall the Crown sustain.  
Thus Phoebus did our future Fates disclose;  
A mighty Tumult, mixed with Joy, arose.   

All are concerned to know what place the God  
Assigned and where determined our abode.  
My Father, long revolving in His Mind,  
The Race and Lineage of the Trojan Kind,  
Thus answered their demands: Ye Princes, hear  
Your pleasing Fortune; and dispel your fear.  
The fruitful Isle of Crete well known to Fame,  
Sacred of old to Jove's Immortal Name.  
In the mid Ocean lies, with large Command;  
And on its Plains a hundred Cities stand.  
Another Ida rises there; and we  
From thence derive our Trojan Ancestry.  
From thence, as 'tis divulged by certain Fame,  
To the Rhaetean Shore's old Teucrus came.  
There fixed, and there the Seat of Empire chose,  
ere Ilium and the Trojan towers arose.  
In humble Vales they built their soft abodes:  
Till Cybele, the Mother of the Gods,  
With tinkling Cymbals charmed th' Idean Woods▪  
She, secret Rites and Ceremonies taught,  
And to the Yoke, the savage Lions brought.  
Let us the Land, which Heaven appoints, explore;  
Appease the Winds, and seek the Gnossian Shore.  
If Jove assists that passage of our Fleet,  
The third propitious dawn discovers Crect.  
Thus having said, the Sacrifices laid  
On smoking Altars, to the Gods He paid.  
A Bull, to Neptune an Oblation due,  
Another Bull to bright Apollo slew:  
A milk white Ewe the Western Winds to please;  
And one coal black to calm the stormy Seas.  
ere this, a flying Rumour had been spread,  
That fierce Idomeneus from Crete was fled;  
Expelled and exiled; that the Coast was free  
From Foreign or Domestic Enemy:  
We leave the Delian Ports, and put to Sea:  
By Naxos, famed for Vintage, make our way:  
Then green Donysa pass; and Sail in sight  
Of Paros Isle, with Marble Quarries white.  
We pass the scattered Isles of Cyclades;  
That, scarce distinguished, seem to stud the Seas.  
The shouts of Sailors double near the shores;  
They stretch their Canvas, and they ply their Oars.  
All hands aloft, for Crect for Crect they cry,  
And swiftly through the foamy Billows fly.  
Full on the promised Land at length we bore,  
With Joy descending on the Cretan Shore.  
With eager haste a rising Town I frame,  
Which from the Trojan Pergamus I name:  
The Name itself was grateful; I exhort  
To found their Houses, and erect a Fort.  
Our Ships are hauled upon the yellow strand,  
The Youth begin to till the laboured Land.  
And I myself new Marriages promote,  
Give Laws: and Dwellings I divide by Lot.  
When rising Vapours choke the wholesome Air,  
And blasts of noisome Winds corrupt the Year:  
The Trees, devouring Caterpillars burn:  
Parched was the Grass, and blited was the Corn.  
Nor scape the Beasts: for Syrius from on high,  
With pestilential Heat infects the Sky:  
My Men, some fall, the rest in Fever's fry.  
Again my Father bids me seek the Shore  
Of sacred Delos; and the God implore:  
To learn what end of Woes we might expect,  
And to what Clime, our weary Course direct.   

'Twas Night, when every Creature, void of Cares,  
The common gift of balmy Slumber shares:  
The Statues of my Gods, (for such they seemed)  
Those Gods whom I from flaming Troy redeemed,  
Before me stood; Majestically bright,  
Full in the Beams of Phoebe's entering light.  
Then thus they spoke; and eased my troubled Mind:  
What from the Delian God thou go'st to find,  
He tells thee here; and sends us to relate:  
Those Powers are we, Companions of thy Fate,  
Who from the burning Town by thee were brought;  
Thy Fortune followed, and thy safety wrought.  
Through Seas and Lands, as we thy Steps attend,  
So shall our Care thy Glorious Race befriend.  
An ample Realm for thee thy Fates ordain;  
A Town, that o'er the conquered World shall reign.  
Thou, mighty Walls for mighty Nations build;  
Nor let thy weary Mind to Labours yield:  
But change thy Seat; for not the Delian God,  
Nor we, have given thee Crete for our Abode.  
A Land there is, Hesperia called of old,  
The Soil is fruitful, and the Natives bold.  
Th' Oenotrians held it once; by later Fame,  
Now called Italia from the Leader's Name.   

Jäsius there, and Dardanus were born:  
From thence we came, and thither must return.  
Rise, and thy Sire with these glad Tidings greet;  
Search Italy, for Jove denies thee Crect.  
Astonished at their Voices, and their sight,  
(Nor were they Dreams, but Visions of the Night;  
I saw, I knew their Faces, and descried  
In perfect View, their Hair with Fillets tied:)  
I started from my Couch, a clammy Sweat  
On all my Limbs, and shivering Body sat.  
To Heaven I lift my Hands with pious haste,  
And sacred Incense in the Flames I cast.  
Thus to the Gods their perfect Honours done,  
More cheerful to my good old Sire I run:  
And tell the pleasing News; in little space  
He found his Error, of the double Race.  
Not, as before he deemed, derived from Crect;  
No more deluded by the doubtful Seat.  
Then said, O Son, turmoiled in Trojan Fate;  
Such things as these Cassandra did relate.  
This Day revives within my Mind, what she  
Foretold of Troy renewed in Italy;  
And Latian Lands: but who could then have thought,  
That Phrygian Gods to Latium should be brought;  
Or who believed what mad Cassandra taught?  
Now let us go, where Phoebus leads the way:  
He said, and we with glad Consent obey.  
Forsake the Seat; and leaving few behind,  
We spread our sails before the willing Wind.  
Now from the sight of Land, our Galleys move,  
With only Seas around, and Skies above.  
When o'er our Heads, descends a burst of Rain;  
And Night, with sable Clouds involves the Main:  
The ruffling Winds the foamy Billows raise:  
The scattered Fleet is forced to several Ways:  
The face of Heaven is ravished from our Eyes,  
And in redoubled Peals the roaring Thunder flies.  
Cast from our Course, we wander in the Dark;  
No Stars to guide, no point of Land to mark.  
Even Palinurus no distinction found  
Betwixt the Night and Day; such Darkness reigned around.  
Three starless Nights the doubtful Navy strays  
Without Distinction, and three Sunless Days.  
The fourth renews the Light, and from our Shrowds  
We view a rising Land like distant Clouds:  
The Mountain tops confirm the pleasing Sight;  
And curling Smoke ascending from their Height.  
The Canvas falls; their Oars the Sailors ply;  
From the rude strokes the whirling Waters fly.  
At length I land upon the Strophades;  
Safe from the danger of the stormy Seas:  
Those Isles are compassed by th' Ionian Main;  
The dire Abode where the foul Harpies reign:  
Forced by the winged Warriors to repair  
To their old Homes, and leave their costly Fare.  
Monsters more fierce, offended Heaven ne'er sent  
From Hell's Abyss, for Human Punishment.  
With Virgin-faces, but with Wombs obscene,  
Foul Paunches, and with Ordure still unclean:  
With Claws for Hands, and Looks for ever lean.   

We landed at the Port; and soon beheld  
Fat Herds of Oxen graze the flowery Field:  
And wanton Goats without a Keeper strayed:  
With Weapons we the welcome Prey invade.  
Then call the Gods, for Partners of our Feast:  
And Jove himself the chief invited Guest.  
We spread the Tables, on the greensword Ground:  
We feed with Hunger, and the Bowls go round.  
When from the Mountain tops, with hideous Cry,  
And clattering Wings, the hungry Harpies fly:  
They snatch the Meat; defiling all they find:  
And parting leave a loathsome Stench behind.  
Close by a hollow Rock, again we sit;  
New dress the Dinner, and the Beds refit:  
Secure from Sight, beneath a pleasing Shade;  
Where tufted Trees a native Arbour made.  
Again the Holy Fires on Altars burn:  
And once again the ravenous Birds return:  
Or from the dark Recesses where they lie▪  
Or from another Quarter of the Sky.  
With filthy Claws their odious Meal repeat,  
And mix their loathsome Ordures with their Meat.  
I bid my Friends for Vengeance then prepare;  
And with the Hellish Nation wage the War.  
They, as commanded, for the Fight provide,  
And in the Grass their glittering Weapons hide:  
Then, when along the crooked Shoar we hear  
Their clattering Wings, and saw the Foes appear;  
Misenus sounds a charge: We take th' Alarm;  
And our strong hands with Swords and Bucklers arm.  
In this new kind of Combat, all employ  
Their utmost Force, the Monsters to destroy.  
In vain; the fated Skin is proof to Wounds:  
And from their Plumes the shining Sword rebounds.  
At length rebuffed, they leave their mangled Prey,  
And their stretched Pinions to the Skies display.  
Yet one remained, the Messenger of Fate;  
High on a craggy Cliff Celaeno sat,  
And thus her dismal Errand did relate.   

To the Right Reverend Dr: John Hartstonge B p: of Ossory in Kilkenny Son of Sr. Standish Hartstonge Bart  
A 3. l. 315.   

What, not contented with our Oxen slain,  
Dare you with Heaven an impious War maintain,  
And drive the Harpies from their Native Reign?  
Heed therefore what I say; and keep in mind  
What Jove decrees, what Phoebus has designed:  
And I, the Fury's Queen, from both relate:  
You seek th' Italian Shores, foredoomed by Fate:  
Th' Italian Shores are granted you to find:  
And a safe Passage to the Port assigned.  
But know, that e'er your promised Walls you build,  
My Curses shall severely be fulfilled.  
Fierce Famine is your Lot, for this Misdeed,  
Reduced to grind the Plates on which you feed.  
She said; and to the neighbouring Forest flew:  
Our Courage fails us, and our Fears renew.  
Hopeless to win by War, to Prayers we fall:  
And on th' offended Harpies humbly call.  
And whether Gods, or Birds obscene they were,  
Our Vows for Pardon, and for Peace prefer.  
But old Anchises, offering Sacrifice,  
And lifting up to Heaven his Hands, and Eyes;  
Adored the greater Gods: Avert, said he,  
These Omens, render vain this Prophecy:  
And from th' impending Curse, a Pious People free.  
Thus having said, he bids us put to Sea;  
We lose from Shore our Haulsers, and obey:  
And soon with swelling Sails, pursue the wat'ry Way.  
Amidst our course Zacynthian Woods appear;  
And next by rocky Neritoes we steer:  
We fly from Ithaca's detested Shore,  
And curse the Land which dire Ulysses bore.  
At length Leucates cloudy top appears;  
And Phoebus' Temple, which the Sailor fears.  
Resolved to breath a while from Labour past,  
Our crooked Anchors from the Prow we cast;  
And joyful to the little City haste.  
Here safe beyond our Hopes, our Vows we pay  
To Jove, the Guide and Patron of our way.  
The Customs of our Country we pursue;  
And Trojan Games on Actium Shore's renew.  
Our Youth, their naked Limbs besmear with Oil;  
And exercise the Wrestlers noble Toil.  
Pleased to have sailed so long before the Wind;  
And left so many Grecian Towns behind.  
The Sun had now fulfilled his Annual Course,  
And Boreas on the Seas displayed his Force:  
I fixed upon the Temples lofty Door,  
The brazen Shield which vanquished Abas bore:  
The Verse beneath, my Name and Action speaks,  
These Arms, Aeneas took from Conquering Greeks.  
Then I command to weigh; the Seamen ply  
Their sweeping Oars, the smokeing Billows fly.  
The sight of high Phaeacia soon we lost:  
And skimed along Epirus rocky Coast.  
Then to Chaonia's Port our Course we bend,  
And landed, to Buthrotus heights ascend.  
Here wondrous things were loudly blazed by Fame;  
How Helenus revived the Trojan Name;  
And reigned in Greece: That Priam's captive Son  
Succeeded Pyrrhus in his Bed and Throne.  
And fair Andromache, restored by Fate,  
Once more was happy in a Trojan Mate.  
I leave my Galleys riding in the Port;  
And long to see the new Dardanian Court.  
By chance, the mournful Queen, before the Gate,  
Then solemnised her former Husband's Fate.   

To The Honble. D r: Io n: Montague Master of Trinity College in Cambridge  
A 3. l: 415.   

Green Altars raised of Turf, with Gifts she Crowned;  
And sacred Priests in order stand around;  
And thrice the Name of hapless Hector sound.  
The Grove itself resembles Ida's Wood;  
And Simois seemed the well dissembled Flood.  
But when, at nearer distance, she beheld  
My shining Armour, and my Trojan Shield;  
Astonished at the sight, the vital Heat  
Forsakes her Limbs, her Veins no longer beat:  
She faints, she falls, and scarce recovering strength,  
Thus, with a falt'ring Tongue, she speaks at length.   

Are you alive, O Goddess born! she said,  
Or if a Ghost, then where is Hector's Shade?  
At this, she cast a loud and frightful Cry:  
With broken words, I made this brief Reply.  
All of me that remains, appears in sight,  
I live; if living be to loath the Light.  
No Phantom; but I drag a wretched life;  
My Fate resembling that of Hector's Wife.  
What have you suffered since you lost your Lord,  
By what strange blessing are you now restored!  
Still are you Hector's, or is Hector fled,  
And his Remembrance lost in Pyrrhus' Bed?  
With Eyes dejected, in a lowly tone,  
After a modest pause, she thus begun.   

Oh only happy Maid of Priam's Race,  
Whom Death delivered from the Foes embrace!  
Commanded on Achilles' Tomb to die,  
Not forced, like us, to hard Captivity:  
Or in a haughty Master's Arms to lie.  
In Grecian Ships unhappy we were born:  
Endured the Victor's Lust, sustained the Scorn:  
Thus I submitted to the lawless pride  
Of Pyrrhus, more a Handmaid than a Bride.  
Cloyed with Possession, He forsook my Bed,  
And Helen's lovely Daughter sought to wed.  
Then me, to Trojan Helenus' resigned:  
And his two Slaves in equal Marriage joined.  
Till young Orestes, pierced with deep despair,  
And longing to redeem the promised Fair,  
Before Apollo's Altar slew the Ravisher.  
By Pyrrhus' death the Kingdom we regained:  
At least one half with Helenus remained;  
Our part, from Chaon, He Chaonia calls:  
And names, from Pergamus, his rising Walls.  
But you, what Fates have landed on our Coast,  
What Gods have sent you, or what Storms have tossed?  
Does young Ascanius' life and health enjoy,  
Saved from the Ruins of unhappy Troy!  
O tell me how his Mother's loss he bears,  
What hopes are promised from his blooming years,  
How much of Hector in his Face appears?  
She spoke: and mixed her Speech with mournful Cries:  
And fruitless Tears came trickling from her Eyes.  
At length her Lord descends upon the Plain;  
In pomp, attended with a numerous Train:  
Receives his Friends, and to the City leads;  
And Tears of Joy amidst his Welcome sheds.  
Proceeding on, another Troy I see;  
Or, in less compass, Troy's Epitome.  
A rivulet by the name of Xanthus ran:  
And I embrace the Scaean Gate again.  
My Friends in Porticoes were entertained;  
And Feasts and Pleasures through the City reigned.  
The Tables filled the spacious Hall around:  
And Golden Bowls with sparkling Wine were crowned.  
Two days we passed in mirth, till friendly Gales,  
Blown from the South, supplied our swelling Sails.  
Then to the Royal Seer I thus began:  
O thou who knowst beyond the reach of Man,  
The Laws of Heaven, and what the Stars decree,  
Whom Phoebus taught unerring Prophecy,  
From his own Tripod, and his holy Tree:  
Skilled in the winged Inhabitants of Air,  
What Auspexes their notes, and flights declare:  
O say; for all Religious Rites portend  
A happy Voyage, and a prosperous End:  
And every Power and Omen of the Sky,  
Direct my Course for destined Italy:  
But only dire Celaeno, from the Gods,  
A dismal Famine fatally forebodes:  
O say what Dangers I am first to shun:  
What Toils to vanquish, and what Course to run.   

The Prophet first with Sacrifice adores  
The greater Gods; their Pardon then implores:  
Unbinds the Fillet from his holy Head;  
To Phoebus next, my trembling Steps he led:  
Full of religious Doubts, and awful dread.  
Then with his God possessed, before the Shrine,  
These words proceeded from his Mouth Divine.  
O Goddess-born, (for heavens appointed Will,  
With greater Auspexes of good than ill,  
Fore-shows thy Voyage, and thy Course directs;  
Thy Fates conspire, and Jove himself protects:)  
Of many things, some few I shall explain,  
Teach thee to shun the dangers of the Main,  
And how at length the promised Shore to gain.  
The rest the Fates from Helenus conceal;  
And Juno's angry Power forbids to tell.  
First then, that happy Shore, that seems so nigh,  
Will far from your deluded Wishes fly:  
Long tracts of Seas divide your hopes from Italy.  
For you must cruise along Sicilian Shores;  
And stem the Currents with your struggling Oars:  
Then round th' Italian Coast your Navy steer;  
And after this to Circe's Island veer.  
And last, before your new Foundations rise,  
Must pass the Stygian Lake, and view the nether Skies.  
Now mark the Signs of future Ease and Rest;  
And bear them safely treasured in thy Breast.  
When in the shady Shelter of a Wood,  
And near the Margin of a gentle Flood,  
Thou shalt behold a Sow upon the Ground,  
With thirty sucking young encompassed round;  
The Dam and Offspring white as falling Snow:  
These on thy City shall their Name bestow:  
And there shall end thy Labours and thy Woe.  
Nor let the threatened Famine fright thy Mind,  
For Phoebus will assist; and Fate the way will find.  
Let not thy Course to that ill Coast be bend,  
Which fronts from far th' Epirian Continent;  
Those parts are all by Grecian Foes possessed:  
The savage Locrians here the Shore's infested:  
There fierce Idomeneus his City builds,  
And guards with Arms the Salentinian Fields.  
And on the Mountain's brow Petilia stands,  
Which Philoctetes with his Troops commands.  
Even when thy Fleet is landed on the Shore,  
And Priests with holy Vows the Gods adore;  
Then with a Purple Veil involve your Eyes,  
Lest hostile Faces blast the Sacrifice.  
These Rites and Customs to the Rest commend;  
That to your Pious Race they may descend.   

When parted hence, the Wind that ready waits  
For Sicily, shall bear you to the straits:  
Where proud Pelorus opes a wider way,  
Tack to the Larboard, and stand off to Sea:  
Veer Starboard Sea and Land. Th' Italian Shore,  
And fair Sicilia's Coast were one, before  
An Earthquake caused the Flaw, the roaring Tides  
The Passage broke, that Land from Land divides:  
And where the Lands retired, the rushing Ocean rides.  
Distinguished by the straits, on either hand,  
Now rising Cities in long order stand;  
And fruitful Fields: So much can Time invade  
The mouldering Work, that beauteous Nature made.  
Far on the right, her Dogs foul Scylla hides:  
Charybdis roaring on the left presides;  
And in her greedy Whirl-pool sucks the Tides:  
Then Spouts them from below; with Fury driven,  
The Waves mount up, and wash the face of Heaven.  
But Scylla from her Den, with open Jaws,  
The sinking Vessel in her Eddy draws;  
Then dashes on the Rocks: A Human Face,  
And Virgin Bosom, hides her Tails disgrace.  
Her Parts obscene below the Waves descend,  
With Dogs enclosed; and in a Dolphin end.  
'Tis safer, then, to bear aloof to Sea,  
And coast Pachynus, though with more delay;  
Than once to view misshapen Scylla near,  
And the loud yell of watery Wolves to hear.   

Besides, if Faith to Helenus be due,  
And if Prophetic Phoebus tell me true;  
Do not this Precept of your Friend forget;  
Which therefore more than once I must repeat.  
Above the rest, great Juno's Name adore:  
Pay Vows to Juno; Juno's Aid implore.  
Let Gifts be to the mighty Queen designed;  
And mollify with Prayers her haughty Mind.  
Thus, at the length, your Passage shall be free,  
And you shall safe descend on Italy.  
Arrived at Cumae, when you view the Flood  
Of black Avernus, and the sounding Wood,  
The mad prophetic Sibyl you shall find,  
Dark in a Cave, and on a Rock reclined.  
She sings the Fates, and in her frantic fits,  
The Notes and Names inscribed, to Leafs commits.  
What she commits to Leaves, in order laid,  
Before the Caverns Entrance are displayed:  
Unmoved they lie, but if a Blast of Wind  
Without, or Vapours issue from behind,  
The Leaves are born aloft in liquid Air,  
And she resumes no more her Museful Care:  
Nor gathers from the Rocks her scattered Verse;  
Nor sets in order what the Winds disperse.  
Thus, many not succeeding, most upbraid  
The Madness of the visionary Maid;  
And with loud Curses leave the mystic Shade.   

Think it not loss of time a while to stay;  
Though thy Companions chide thy long delay:  
Tho' summoned to the Seas, tho' pleasing Gales  
Invite thy Course, and stretch thy swelling Sails.  
But beg the sacred Priestess to relate  
With willing Words, and not to write thy Fate.  
The fierce Italian People she will show;  
And all thy Wars, and all thy Future Woe;  
And what thou may'st avoid, and what must undergo.  
She shall direct thy Course, instruct thy Mind;  
And teach thee how the happy Shores to find.  
This is what Heaven allows me to relate:  
Now part in Peace; pursue thy better Fate,  
And raise, by strength of Arms, the Trojan State▪   

This, when the Priest with friendly Voice declared,  
He gave me Licence, and rich Gifts prepared:  
Bounteous of Treasure, he supplied my want  
With heavy Gold, and polished Elephant.  
Then Dodonaean Caldrons put on Bord,  
And every Ship with Sums of Silver stored.  
A trusty Coat of Mail to me he sent,  
Thrice chained with Gold, for Use and Ornament:  
The Helm of Pyrrhus added to the rest,  
That flourished with a Plume and waving Crest.  
Nor was my Sire forgotten, nor my Friends:  
And large Recruits he to my Navy sends;  
Men, Horses, Captains, Arms, and warlike Stores:  
Supplies new Pilots, and new sweeping Oars.  
Mean time, my Sire commands to hoist our Sails;  
Lest we should lose the first auspicious Gales.  
The Prophet blessed the parting Crew: and last,  
With Words like these, his ancient Friend embraced.  
Old happy Man, the Care of Gods above,  
Whom Heavenly Venus honoured with her Love,  
And twice preserved thy Life, when Troy was lost;  
Behold from far the wished Ausonian Coast:  
There land; but take a larger Compass round;  
For that before is all forbidden Ground.  
The Shore that Phoebus has designed for you,  
At farther distance lies, concealed from view.  
Go happy hence, and seek your new Abodes;  
Blessed in a Son, and favoured by the Gods:  
For I with useless words prolong your stay;  
When Southern Gales have summoned you away.   

Nor less the Queen our parting thence deplored;  
Nor was less bounteous than her Trojan Lord.  
A noble Present to my Son she brought,  
A Robe with Flowers on Golden Tissue wrought;  
A Phrygian Vest; and loads, with Gifts beside  
Of precious Texture, and of Asian Pride.  
Accept, she said, these Monuments of Love;  
Which in my Youth with happier Hands I wove:  
Regard these Trifles for the Giver's sake;  
'tis the last Present Hector's Wife can make.  
Thou call'st my lost Astyanax to mind:  
In thee his Features, and his Form I find.  
His Eyes so sparkled with a lively Flame;  
Such were his Motions, such was all his Frame;  
And ah! had Heaven so pleased, his Years had been the same.   

With Tears I took my last adieu, and said,  
Your Fortune, happy pair, already made,  
Leaves you no farther Wish: My different state,  
Avoiding one, incurs another Fate.  
To you a quiet Seat the Gods allow,  
You have no Shores to search, no Seas to plow,  
Nor Fields of flying Italy to chase:  
(Deluding Visions, and a vain Embrace!)  
You see another Simois, and enjoy  
The labour of your Hands another Troy;  
With better Auspice than her ancient towers:  
And less obnoxious to the Grecian Powers.  
If e'er the Gods, whom I with Vows adore,  
Conduct my Steps to Tiber's happy Shore:  
If ever I ascend the Latian Throne,  
And build a City I may call my own,  
As both of us our Birth from Troy derive,  
So let our Kindred Lines in Concord live:  
And both in Acts of equal Friendship strive.  
Our Fortunes, good or bad, shall be the same▪  
The double Troy shall differ but in Name:  
That what we now begin, may never end;  
But long, to late Posterity descend.   

To Edward Browne Dr. in Physic.  
A 3. l. 625.   

Near the Ceraunean Rocks our Course we bore:  
(The shortest passage to th' Italian shore:)  
Now had the Sun withdrawn his radiant Light,  
And Hills were hid in dusky Shades of Night:  
We land; and on the bosom of the Ground  
A safe Retreat, and a bare Lodging found;  
Close by the Shore we lay; the Sailors keep  
Their watches, and the rest securely sleep.  
The Night proceeding on with silent pace,  
Stood in her noon; and viewed with equal Face,  
Her steepy rise, and her declining Race.  
Then wakeful Palinurus rose, to spy  
The face of Heaven, and the Nocturnal Sky;  
And listened every breath of Air to try:  
Observes the Stars, and notes their sliding Course,  
The Pleiads, Hyads, and their wat'ry force;  
And both the Bears is careful to behold;  
And bright Orion armed with burnished Gold.  
Then when he saw no threatening Tempest Nigh,  
But a sure promise of a settled Sky;  
He gave the Sign to weigh; we break our sleep;  
Forsake the pleasing Shore, and plow the deep.  
And now the rising Morn, with rosy light  
Adorns the Skies, and puts the Stars to flight:  
When we from far, like bluish Mists, descry  
The Hills, and then the Plains of Italy.  
Achates first pronounced the Joyful sound;  
Then Italy the cheerful Crew rebound.  
My Sire Anchises crowned a Cup with Wine:  
And offering, thus implored the Powers Divine.  
Ye Gods, presiding over Lands and Seas,  
And you who raging Winds and Waves appease,  
Breath on our swelling Sails a prosperous Wind:  
And smooth our Passage to the Port assigned.  
The gentle Gales their flagging force renew;  
And now the happy Harbour is in view.  
Minerva's Temple then salutes our sight;  
Placed, as a Landmark, on the Mountain's height:  
We furl our Sails, and turn the Prows to shore;  
The curling Waters round the Galleys roar:  
The Land lies open to the raging East,  
Then, bending like a Bow, with Rocks compressed,  
Shuts out the Storms; the Winds and Waves complain,  
And vent their malice on the Cliffs in vain.  
The Port lies hid within; on either side  
Two Towering Rocks the narrow mouth divide.  
The Temple, which aloft we viewed before,  
To distance flies, and seems to shun the Shore.  
Scarce landed, the first Omens I beheld  
Were four white Steeds that cropped the flowery Field.  
War, War is threatened from this Foreign Ground,  
(My Father cried) where warlike Steeds are found.  
Yet, since reclaimed to Chariots they submit,  
And bend to stubborn Yokes, and champ the Bit,  
Peace may succeed to Warr. Our way we bend  
To Pallas, and the sacred Hill ascend.  
There, prostrate to the fierce Virago pray;  
Whose Temple was the Landmark of our way.  
Each with a Phrygian Mantle veiled his Head;  
And all Commands of Helenus obeyed;  
And pious Rites to Grecian Juno paid.  
These deuce performed, we stretch our Sails, and stand  
To Sea, forsaking that suspected Land.  
From hence Tarentum's Bay appears in view;  
For Hercules renowned, if Fame be true.  
Just opposite, Lacinian Juno stands;  
Caulonian towers and Scylacaean Strands.  
For Shipwrecks feared: Mount Aetna thence we spy,  
Known by the smoky Flames which Cloud the Sky.  
Far off we hear the Waves, with surly sound  
Invade the Rocks, the Rocks their groans rebound.  
The Billows break upon the sounding Strand;  
And roll the rising Tide, impure with Sand.  
Then thus Anchises, in Experience old,  
'Tis that Charybdis which the Seer foretold:  
And those the promised Rocks; bear off to Sea:  
With haste the frighted Mariners obey.  
First Palinurus to the Larboored veered;  
Then all the Fleet by his Example steered.  
To Heaven aloft on ridgy Waves we ride;  
Then down to Hell descend, when they divide.  
And thrice our Galleys knocked the stony ground,  
And thrice the hollow Rocks returned the sound,  
And thrice we saw the Stars, that stood with dews around.  
The flagging Winds forsook us, with the Sun;  
And wearied, on Cyclopean Shores we run.  
The Port capacious, and secure from Wind,  
Is to the foot of thundering Aetna joined.  
By turns a pitchy Cloud she rowls on high;  
By turns hot Embers from her entrails fly;  
And flakes of mounting Flames, that lick the Sky.  
Oft from her Bowels massy Rocks are thrown,  
And shivered by the force come piece-meal down.  
Oft liquid Lakes of burning Sulphur flow,  
Fed from the fiery Springs that boil below.  
Enceladus they say, transfixed by Jove,  
With blasted Limbs came tumbling from above:  
And, where he fell, th' Avenging Father drew  
This flaming Hill, and on his Body threw:  
As often as he turns his weary sides,  
He shakes the solid Isle, and smoke the Heaven's hides.  
In shady Woods we pass the tedious Night,  
Where bellowing Sounds and Groans our Souls affright  
Of which no Cause is offered to the sight.  
For not one Star was kindled in the Sky;  
Nor could the Moon her borrowed Light supply:  
For misty Clouds invovled the Firmament;  
The Stars were muffled, and the Moon was penned.  
Scarce had the rising Sun the day revealed;  
Scarce had his heat the pearly dews dispelled;  
When from the Woods there bolts, before our sight,  
Somewhat, betwixt a Mortal and a Spirit.  
So thin, so ghastly meager, and so wan,  
So bare of flesh, he scarce resembled Man.  
This thing, all tattered, seemed from far t'implore  
Our pious aid, and pointed to the Shore.  
We look behind; then view his shaggy Beard;  
His clothes were tagged with Thorns, and Filth his Limbs besmeared:  
The rest, in Mien, in habit, and in Face,  
Appeared a Greek; and such indeed he was.  
He cast on us, from far, a frightful view,  
Whom soon for Trojans and for Foes he knew:  
Stood still, and paused; then all at once began  
To stretch his Limbs, and trembled as he ran.  
Soon as approached, upon his Knees he falls,  
And thus with Tears and Sighs for pity calls.  
Now by the Powers above, and what we share  
As Nature's common Gift, this vital Air,  
O Trojans take me hence: I beg no more,  
But bear me far from this unhappy Shore.  
'Tis true I am a Greek, and farther own,  
Among your Foes besieged th' Imperial Town;  
For such Demerits if my death be due,  
No more for this abandoned life I sue:  
This only Favour let my Tears obtain,  
To throw me headlong in the rapid Main:  
Since nothing more than Death my Crime demands,  
I die content, to die by human Hands.  
He said, and on his Knees my Knees embraced,  
I bade him boldly tell his Fortune past;  
His present State, his Lineage and his Name;  
Th' occasion of his Fears, and whence he came.  
The good Anchises raised him with his Hand;  
Who, thus encouraged, answered our Demand:  
From Ithaca my native Soil I came  
To Troy, and Achaemenides my Name.  
Me, my poor Father, with Ulysses sent;  
(Oh had I stayed, with Poverty content!)  
But fearful for themselves, my Countrymen  
Left me forsaken in the Cyclops Den.  
The Cave, though large, was dark, the dismal Flore  
Was paved with mangled Limbs and putrid Gore.  
Our monstrous Host, of more than Human Size,  
Erects his Head, and stairs within the Skies.  
Bellowing his Voice, and horrid is his Hue.  
Ye Gods, remove this Plague from Mortal View!  
The Joints of slaughtered Wretches are his Food:  
And for his Wine he quaffs the streaming Blood.  
These Eyes beheld, when with his spacious Hand  
He seized two Captives of our Grecian Band;  
Stretched on his Back, he dashed against the Stones  
Their broken Bodies, and their crackling Bones:  
With spouting Blood the Purple Pavement swims,  
While the dire Glutton grinds the trembling Limbs.   

Not unrevenged, Ulysses bore their Fate,  
Nor thoughtless of his own unhappy State:  
For, gorged with Flesh, and drunk with Human Wine,  
While fast asleep the Giant lay supine;  
Snoring aloud, and belching from his Maw  
His indigested Foam, and Morsels raw:  
We pray, we cast the Lots, and then surround  
The monstrous Body, stretched along the Ground:  
Each, as he could approach him, lends a hand  
To boar his Eyeball with a flaming Brand.  
Beneath his frowning Forehead lay his Eye,  
(For only one did the vast Frame supply;)  
But that a Globe so large, his Front it filled,  
Like the Sun's disk, or like a Grecian Shield.  
The Stroke succeeds; and down the Pupil bends;  
This Vengeance followed for our slaughtered Friends.  
But haste, unhappy Wretches, haste to fly;  
Your Cables cut, and on your Oars rely.  
Such, and so vast as Polypheme appears,  
A hundred more this hated Island bears:  
Like him in Caves they shut their woolly Sheep,  
Like him, their Herds on tops of Mountains keep;  
Like him, with mighty Strides, they stalk from Steep to Steep.  
And now three Moons their sharpened Horns renew  
Since thus in Woods and wild's, obscure from view,  
I drag my loathsome Days with mortal Fright;  
And in deserted Caverns lodge by Night.  
Oft from the Rocks a dreadful Prospect see,  
Of the huge Cyclops, like a walking Tree:  
From far I hear his thundering Voice resound;  
And trampling Feet that shake the solid Ground.  
Cornels, and savage Berries of the Wood,  
And Roots and Herbs have been my meager Food.   

While all around my longing Eyes I cast,  
I saw your happy Ships appear at last.  
On those I fixed my hopes, to these I run,  
'Tis all I ask this cruel Race to shun:   

To Wm. Gibbons D r.: in Physic  
A 3. l. 865.   

What other Death you please yourselves, bestow.  
Scarce had he said, when on the Mountain's brow,  
We saw the Gyant-Shepherd stalk before  
His following Flock, and leading to the Shore.  
A monstrous Bulk, deformed, deprived of Sight,  
His Staff a trunk of Pine, to guide his steps aright.  
His ponderous Whistle from his Neck descends;  
His woolly Care their pensive Lord attends:  
This only Solace his hard Fortune sends.  
Soon as he reached the Shore, and touched the Waves,  
From his bored Eye the gutt'ring Blood he laves:  
He gnashed his Teeth and groaned; through Seas he strides,  
And scarce the topmost Billows touched his sides.   

Seized with a sudden Fear, we run to Sea,  
The Cables cut, and silent haste away:  
The well deserving Stranger entertain;  
Then, buckling to the Work, our Oars divide the Main.  
The Giant hearkened to the dashing Sound:  
But when our Vessels out of reach he found,  
He strided onward; and in vain essayed  
Th' Ionian Deep, and durst no farther wade.  
With that he roared aloud; the dreadful Cry  
Shakes Earth, and Air, and Seas; the Billows fly  
Before the bellowing Noise, to distant Italy.  
The neighbouring Aetna trembled all around;  
The winding Caverns echo to the sound.  
His brother Cyclops hear the yelling Roar;  
And, rushing down the Mountains, crowd the Shoar:  
We saw their stern distorted looks, from far,  
And one eyed Glance, that vainly threatened War.  
A dreadful Council, with their heads on high;  
The misty Clouds about their Foreheads fly:  
Not yielding to the towering Tree of Jove;  
Or tallest Cypress of Diana's Grove.  
New Pangs of mortal Fear our Minds assail,  
We tug at every Oar, and hoist up every Sail;  
And take th' Advantage of the friendly Gale.  
Forewarned by Helenus, we strive to shun  
Charibdis' Gulf, nor dare to Scylla run.  
An equal Fate on either side appears;  
We, tacking to the left, are free from Fears.  
For from Pelorus Point, the North arose,  
And drove us back where swift Pantagias flows.  
His Rocky Mouth we pass; and make our Way  
By Thapsus, and Megara's winding Bay;  
This Passage Achaemenides had shown,  
Tracing the Course which he before had run.   

Right o're-against Plemmyrium's watery Strand,  
There lies an Isle once called th' Ortygian Land:  
Alphëus, as Old Fame reports, has found  
From Greece a secret Passage underground:  
By Love to beauteous Arethusa led,  
And mingling here, they roll in the same Sacred Bed.  
As Helenus enjoined, we next adore  
Diana's Name, Protectress of the Shore.  
With prosperous Gales we pass the quiet Sounds  
Of still Elorus and his fruitful Bounds.  
Then doubling Cape Pachynus, we survey  
The rocky Shore extended to the Sea.  
The Town of Camarine from far we see;  
And fenny Lake undrained by Fates decree.  
In sight of the Geloan Fields we pass,  
And the large Walls, where mighty Gela was:  
Then Agragas with lofty Summets crowned;  
Long for the Race of warlike Steeds renowned:  
We passed Selinus, and the Palmy Land,  
And widely shun the Lilybaean Strand,  
Unsafe, for secret Rocks, and moving Sand.  
At length on Shore the weary Fleet arrived;  
Which Drepanums unhappy Port received.  
Here, after endless Labours, often tossed  
By raging Storms, and driven on every Coast,  
My dear, dear Father, spent with Age, I lost.  
Ease of my Cares, and Solace of my Pain,  
Saved through a thousand Toils, but saved in vain:  
The Prophet, who my future Woes revealed,  
Yet this, the greatest and the worst, concealed.  
And dire Celoeno, whose foreboding Skill  
Denounced all else, was silent of this Ill:  
This my last Labour was. Some friendly God,  
From thence conveyed us to your blessed Abode.   

Thus to the listening Queen, the Royal Guest  
His wandering Course, and all his Toils expressed;  
And here concluding, he retired to rest.    

The Fourth Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
Dido discovers to her Sister her Passion for Aeneas, and her thoughts of marrying him. She prepares a Hunting-Match for his Entertainment. Juno by Venus 's consent raises a Storm, which separates the Hunters, and drives Aeneas and Dido into the same Cave, where their Marriage is supposed to be completed. Jupiter dispatches Mercury to Aeneas, to warn him from Carthage; Aeneas secretly prepares for his Voyage: Dido finds out his Design, and to put a stop to it, makes use of her own, and her Sister's Entreaties, and discovers all the variety of Passions that are incident to a neglected Lover: When nothing would prevail upon him, she contrives her own Death, with which this Book concludes.  

BUT anxious Cares already seized the Queen:  
She fed within her Veins a Flame unseen:  
The Heroe's Valour, Acts, and Birth inspire  
Her Soul with Love, and fann the secret Fire.  
His Words, his Looks imprinted in her Heart,  
Improve the Passion, and increase the Smart.  
Now, when the Purple Morn had chased away  
The dewy Shadows, and restored the Day;  
Her Sister first, with early Care she sought,  
And thus in mournful Accents eased her Thought.  
My dearest Anna, what new Dreams affright  
My labouring Soul; what Visions of the Night  
Disturb my Quiet, and distract my Breast,  
With strange Ideas of our Trojan Guest?  
His Worth, his Actions, and Majestic Air,  
A Man descended from the Gods declare:  
Fear never harbours in a Noble Mind,  
But Modesty, with just Assurance joined.   

To the Right Honble. John Earl of Exeter Baron Coecill of Burleigh & ct  
A 4. l: 1.   

Then, what he suffered, when by Fate betrayed,  
What brave Attempts for falling Troy he made!  
Such were his Looks, so gracefully he spoke,  
That were I not resolved against the Yoke  
Of hapless Marriage; never to be cursed  
With second Love, so fatal was my first;  
To this one Error I might yield again:  
For since Sichaeus was untimely slain,  
This only Man, is able to subvert  
The fixed Foundations of my stubborn Heart.  
And to confess my Frailty, to my shame,  
Somewhat I find within, if not the same,  
Too like the Sparkles of my former Flame.   

But first let yawning Earth a Passage rend;  
And let me through the dark Abyss descend;  
First let avenging Jove, with Flames from high,  
Drive down this Body, to the nether Sky,  
Condemned with Ghosts in endless Night to lie;  
Before I break the plighted Faith I gave;  
No; he who had my Vows, shall ever have;  
For whom I loved on Earth, I worship in the Grave.   

She said; the Tears ran gushing from her Eyes,  
And stopped her Speech: her Sister thus replies.  
O dearer than the vital Air I breath,  
Will you to Grief your blooming Years bequeath?  
Condemned to waste in Woes, your lonely Life,  
Without the Joys of Mother, or of Wife.  
Think you these Tears, this pompous Train of Woe,  
Are known, or valued by the Ghosts below?  
I grant, that while your Sorrows yet were green,  
It well became a Woman, and a Queen,  
The Vows of Tyrian Princes to neglect,  
To scorn Hyarbas, and his Love reject;  
With all the Lybian Lords of mighty Name,  
But will you fight against a pleasing Flame!  
This little Spot of Land, which Heaven bestows,  
On every side is hemmed with warlike Foes:  
Getulian Cities here are spread around;  
And fierce Numidians there your Frontiers bound;  
Here lies a barren Wast of thirsty Land,  
And there the Syrteses raise the moving Sand:  
Barcaean Troops befiege the narrow Shore;  
And from the Sea Pygmalion threatens more.  
Propitious Heaven, and gracious Juno, lead  
This wandering Navy to your needful Aid:  
How will your Empire spread, your City rise  
From such an Union, and with such Allies!  
Implore the Favour of the Powers above;  
And leave the Conduct of the rest to Love.  
Continue still your hospitable way,  
And still invent occasions of their Stay;  
Till Storms, and winter Winds, shall cease to threat,  
And Planks and Oars, repair their shattered Fleet.   

These Words, which from a Friend, and Sister came,  
With Ease resolved the Scruples of her Fame;  
And added Fury to the kindled Flame.  
Inspired with Hope, the Project they pursue;  
On every Altar Sacrifice renew;  
A chosen Ewe of two Years old they pay  
To Ceres, Bacchus, and the God of Day:  
Preferring Juno's Power: For Juno ties  
The Nuptial Knot, and makes the Marriage Joys.  
The beauteous Queen before her Altar stands,  
And holds the Golden Goblet in her Hands:  
A milk-white Heifar she with Flowers adorns,  
And pours the ruddy Wine betwixt her Horns;   

To the Lady Mary Giffard  
A 4. l. 80.   

And while the Priests with Prayer the Gods invoke,  
She feeds their Altars with Sabaean Smoke.  
With hourly Care the Sacrifice renews,  
And anxiously the panting Entrails Views.  
What Priestly Rites, alas! what Pious Art,  
What Vows avail to cure a bleeding Heart!  
A gentle Fire she feeds within her Veins;  
Where the soft God secure in silence reigns.   

Sick with desire, and seeking him she loves,  
From Street to Street, the raving Dido roves.  
So when the watchful Shepherd, from the Blind,  
Wounds with a random Shaft the careless Hind;  
Distracted with her pain she flies the Woods,  
Bounds o'er the Lawn, and seeks the silent Floods;  
With fruitless Care; for still the fatal Dart  
Sticks in her side; and rankles in her Heart.  
And now she leads the Trojan Chief, along  
The lofty Walls, amidst the busy Throng;  
Displays her Tyrian Wealth, and rising Town,  
Which Love, without his Labour, makes his own.  
This Pomp she shows to tempt her wondering Guest;  
Her falt'ring Tongue forbids to speak the rest.  
When Day declines, and Feasts renew the Night,  
Still on his Face she feeds her famished sight;  
She longs again to hear the Prince relate  
His own Adventures, and the Trojan Fate:  
He tells it o'er and o'er; but still in vain;  
For still she begs to hear it, once again.  
The Hearer on the Speaker's Mouth depends;  
And thus the Tragic Story never ends.   

Then, when they part, when Phoebe's paler Light  
Withdraws, and falling Stars to Sleep invite,  
She last remains, when when every Guest is gone,  
Sits on the Bed he pressed, and sighs alone;  
Absent, her absent Hero sees and hears;  
Or in her Bosom young Ascanius bears:  
And seeks the Father's Image in the Child,  
If Love by Likeness might be so beguiled.   

Mean time the rising towers are at a stand:  
No Labours exercise the youthful Band:  
Nor use of Arts, nor Toils of Arms they know;  
The Mole is left unfinished to the Foe.  
The Mounds, the Works, the Walls, neglected lie,  
And, left unbuilt, are shorter of the Sky.   

But when Imperial Juno, from above,  
Saw Dido fettered in the Chains of Love;  
Hot with the Venom, which her Veins inflamed,  
And by no sense of Shame to be reclaimed:  
With soothing Words to Venus she begun.  
High Praises, endless Honours you have won,  
And mighty Trophies with your worthy Son:  
Two Gods a silly Woman have undone.  
Nor am I ignorant, you both suspect  
This rising City, which my Hands erect:  
But shall Celestial Discord never cease?  
'Tis better ended in a lasting Peace.  
You stand possessed of all your Soul desired;  
Poor Dido with consuming Love is fired:  
Your Trojan with my Tyrian let us join,  
So Dido shall be yours, Aeneas mine:  
One common Kingdom, one united Line.  
Elisa shall a Dardan Lord obey,  
And lofty Carthage for a dower convey.  
Then Venus, who her hidden Fraud descried,  
(Which would the Sceptre of the World, misguide  
To Lybian Shores,) thus artfully replied,  
Who but a Fool, would Wars with Juno choose,  
And such Alliance, and such Gifts refuse?  
If Fortune with our joint Desires comply:  
The Doubt is all from Jove, and Destiny.  
Lest he forbid, with absolute Command,  
To mix the People in one common Land.  
Or will the Trojan, and the Tyrian Line,  
In lasting Leagues, and sure Succession join?  
But you, the Partner of his Bed and Throne,  
May move his Mind; my Wishes are your own.   

Mine, said Imperial Juno, be the Care;  
Time urges, now, to perfect this Affair:  
Attend my Counsel, and the Secret share.  
When next the Sun his rising Light displays,  
And guilds the World below, with Purple Rays;  
The Queen, Aeneas, and the Tyrian Court,  
Shall to the shady Woods, for Sylvan Game, resort.  
There, while the Huntsmen pitch their Toils around,  
And cheerful Horns, from Side to Side, resound;  
A Pitchy Cloud shall cover all the Plain  
With Hail, and Thunder, and tempestuous Rain:  
The fearful Train shall take their speedy Flight,  
Dispersed, and all involved in gloomy Night:  
One Cave a grateful Shelter shall afford  
To the fair Princess, and the Trojan Lord.  
I will myself, the bridal Bed prepare,  
If you, to bless the Nuptials, will be there:  
So shall their Loves be crowned with due Delights,  
And Hymen shall be present at the Rites.  
The Queen of Love consents, and closely smiles  
At her vain Project, and discovered Wiles.   

The rosy Morn was risen from the Main,  
And Horns and Hounds awake the Princely Train:  
They issue early through the City Gate,  
Where the more wakeful Huntsmen ready wait,  
With Nets, and Toils, and Darts, beside the force  
Of Spartan Dogs, and swift Massylian Horse.  
The Tyrian Peers, and Officers of State,  
For the slow Queen, in Antichambers wait:  
Her lofty Courser, in the Court below,  
(Who his Majestic Rider seems to know,)  
Proud of his Purple Trappings, paws the Ground;  
And champs the Golden Bit; and spreads the Foam around.  
The Queen at length appears: On either Hand  
The brawny Guards in Martial Order stand.  
A flow'rd Cymarr, with Golden Fringe, she wore;  
And at her Back a Golden Quiver bore:  
Her flowing Hair, a Golden Caul restrains;  
A golden Clasp, the Tyrian Robe sustains.  
Then young Ascanius, with a sprightly Grace,  
Leads on the Trojan Youth to view the Chase.  
But far above the rest in beauty shines  
The great Aeneas, when the Troop he joins:  
Like fair Apollo, when he leaves the frost  
Of wintry Xanthus, and the Lycian Coast;  
When to his Native Delos he resorts,  
Ordains the Dances, and renews the Sports:  
Where painted Scythians, mixed with Cretan Bands,  
Before the joyful Altars join their Hands.  
Himself, on Cynthus walking, sees below  
The merry Madness of the sacred Show.  
Green Wreaths of Bays his length of Hair enclose,  
A Golden Fillet binds his awful Brows:  
His Quiver sounds: Not less the Prince is seen  
In manly Presence, or in lofty Mien.   

Now had they reached the Hills, and stormed the Seat  
Of savage Beasts, in Dens, their last Retreat;  
The Cry pursues the Mountain-Goats; they bound  
From Rock to Rock, and keep the craggy Ground:   

To The Right Honble. Hugh Ld Clifford Baron of Chudleigh in the County of Devon,  
A 4. l. 230.   

Quite otherwise the Stags, a trembling Train,  
In Herds unsingled, scour the dusty Plain;  
And a long Chase, in open view, maintain.  
The glad Ascanius, as his Courser guides,  
Spurs through the Vale; and these and those outrides.  
His Horse's flanks and sides are forced to feel  
The clanking lash, and goring of the Steel.  
Impatiently he views the feeble Prey,  
Wishing some Nobler Beast to cross his way.  
And rather would the tusky Boar attend,  
Or see the Lion from the Hills descend.   

Mean time, the gathering Clouds obscure the Skies;  
From Pole to Pole the forky Lightning flies;  
The rattling Thunders roll; and Juno pours  
A wintry Deluge down; and founding Showers.  
The Company dispersed, to Coverts ride,  
And seek the homely Cotts, or Mountains hollow side.  
The rapid Rains, descending from the Hills,  
To rolling Torrents raise the creeping Rills.  
The Queen and Prince, as Love or Fortune guides,  
One common Cavern in her Bosom hides.  
Then first the trembling Earth the signal gave;  
And flashing Fires enlighten all the Cave:  
Hell from below, and Juno from above,  
And howling Nymphs, were conscious to their Love.  
From this ill Omend Hour, in Time arose  
Debate and Death, and all succeeding woes.   

The Queen whom sense of Honour could not move  
No longer made a Secret of her Love;  
But called it Marriage, by that specious Name,  
To veil the Crime and sanctify the Shame.   

The loud Report through Lybian Cities goes;  
Fame, the great Ill, from fmall beginnings grows.  
Swift from the first; and every Moment brings  
New Vigour to her flights, new Pinions to her wings.  
Soon grows the Pygmy to Gygantic size;  
Her Feet on Earth, her Forehead in the Skies:  
Enraged against the Gods, revengful Earth  
Produced her last of the Titanian birth.  
Swift is her walk, more swift her winged haste:  
A monstrous Fantom, horrible and vast;  
As many Plumes as raise her lofty flight,  
So many piercing Eyes enlarge her sight:  
Millions of opening Mouths to Fame belong;  
And every Mouth is furnished with a Tongue:  
And round with listening Ears the flying Plague is hung.  
She fills the peaceful Universe with Cries;  
No Slumbers ever close her wakeful Eyes.  
By Day from lofty towers her Head she shows;  
And spreads through trembling Crowds disastrous News.  
With Court Informers haunts, and Royal Spies,  
Things done relates, not done she feigns; and mingles Truth with Lies.  
Talk is her business; and her chief delight  
To tell of Prodigies, and cause affright.  
She fills the People's Ears with Dido's Name;  
Who, lost to Honour, and the sense of Shame,  
Admits into her Throne and Nuptial Bed  
A wand'ring Guest, who from his Country fled:  
Whole days with him she passes in delights;  
And wastes in Luxury long Winter Nights.  
Forgetful of her Fame, and Royal Trust;  
Dissolved in Ease, abandoned to her Lust.   

The Goddess widely spreads the loud Report;  
And flies at length to King Hyarba's Court.  
When first possessed with this unwelcome News,  
Whom did he not of Men and Gods accuse!  
This Prince, from ravished Garamantis born,  
A hundred Temples did with Spoils adorn,  
In Ammon's Honour, his Celestial Sire;  
A hundred Altars fed, with wakeful Fire:  
And through his vast Dominions, Priests ordained,  
Whose watchful Care these holy Rites maintained.  
The Gates and Columns were with Garlands crowned,  
And Blood of Victim Beasts enrich the Ground.   

He, when he heard a Fugitive could move  
The Tyrian Princess, who disdained his Love,  
His Breast with Fury burned, his Eyes with Fire;  
Mad with Despair, impatient with Desire.  
Then on the Sacred Altars pouring Wine,  
He thus with Prayers implored his Sire divine.  
Great Jove, propitious to the Moorish Race,  
Who feast on painted Beds, with Offerings grace  
Thy Temples, and adore thy Power Divine  
With offered Victims, and with sparkling Wine:  
Seest thou not this? or do we fear in vain  
Thy boasted Thunder, and thy thoughtless Reign?  
Do thy broad Hands the forky Lightnings lance,  
Thine are the Bolts, or the blind work of Chance?  
A wand'ring Woman builds, within our State,  
A little Town, bought at an easy Rate;  
She pays me Homage, and my Grants allow,  
A narrow space of Lybian Lands to plough.  
Yet scorning me, by Passion blindly led,  
Admits a banished Trojan to her Bed:  
And now this other Paris, with his Train  
Of conquered Cowards, must in Africa reign!  
(Whom, what they are, their Looks and Garb confess;  
Their Locks with Oil perfumed, their Lydian dress:)  
He takes the Spoil, enjoys the Princely Dame;  
And I, rejected I, adore an empty Name.   

His Vows, in haughty Terms, he thus preferred,  
And held his Altar's Horns; the mighty thunderer heard,  
Then cast his Eyes on Carthage, where he found  
The lustful Pair, in lawless pleasure drowned.  
Lost in their Loves, insensible of Shame;  
And both forgetful of their better Fame.  
He calls Cyllenius; and the God attends;  
By whom his menacing Command he sends.  
Go, mount the Western Winds, and cleave the Sky;  
Then, with a swift descent, to Carthage fly:  
There find the Trojan Chief, who wastes his Days  
In slothful Riot, and inglorious Ease.  
Nor minds the future City, given by Fate;  
To him this Message from my Mouth relate.  
Not so, fair Venus hoped, when twice she won  
Thy Life with Prayers; nor promised such a Son.  
Hers was a Hero, destined to command  
A Martial Race; and rule the Latian Land.  
Who should his ancient Line from Teucer draw;  
And, on the conquered World, impose the Law.  
If Glory cannot move a Mind so mean,  
Nor future Praise, from fading Pleasure wean,  
Yet why should he defraud his Son of Fame;  
And grudge the Romans their Immortal Name!  
What are his vain Designs! what hopes he more,  
From his long lingering on a hostile Shore?  
Regardless to redeem his Honour lost,  
And for his Race to gain th' Ausonian Coast!  
Bid him with Speed the Tyrian Court forsake;  
With this Command the slumbering Warrior wake.   

Hermes obeys; with Golden Pinions binds  
His flying Feet, and mounts the Western Winds:  
And whether o'er the Seas or Earth he flies,  
With rapid Force, they bear him down the Skies.   

To John Walkeden of the Inner Temple Esq: r  
A 4. l. 230.   

But first he grasps within his awful Hand,  
The mark of sovereign Power, his Magic Wand:  
With this, he draws the Ghosts from hollow Graves,  
With this he drives them down the Stygian Waves;  
With this he seals in Sleep, the wakeful sight;  
And Eyes, though closed in Death restores to Light.  
Thus armed, the God begins his Airy Race;  
And drives the racking Clouds along the liquid Space.  
Now sees the Tops of Atlas, as he flies;  
Whose brawny Back supports the starry Skies:  
Atlas, whose Head with Piny Forests crowned,  
Is beaten by the Winds; with foggy Vapours bound.  
Snows hide his Shoulders; from beneath his Chin  
The Founts of rolling Streams their Race begin:  
A beard of Ice on his large Breast depends:  
Here poised upon his Wings, the God descends.  
Then, rested thus, he from the towering height  
Plunged downward, with precipitated Flight:  
Lights on the Seas, and skims along the Flood:  
As Waterfowl, who seek their fishy Food,  
Less, and yet less, to distant Prospect show,  
By turns they dance aloft, and dive below:  
Like these, the steerage of his Wings he plies;  
And near the surface of the Water flies.  
Till having passed the Seas, and crossed the Sands,  
He closed his Wings, and stooped on Lybian Lands:  
Where Shepherds once were housed in homely Sheds,  
Now towers within the Clouds, advance their Heads.  
Arriving there, he found the Trojan Prince,  
New Ramparts raising for the Town's defence:  
A Purple Scarf, with Gold embroidered o'er,  
(Queen Dido's Gift) about his Waste he wore;  
A Sword with glittering Gems diversified,  
For Ornament, not use, hung idly by his side.  
Then thus, with winged Words, the God began;  
(Resuming his own Shape) degenerate Man,  
Thou Woman's Property, what mak'st thou here,  
These foreign Walls, and Tyrian towers to rear?  
Forgetful of thy own? All powerful Jove,  
Who sways the World below, and Heaven above,  
Has sent me down, with this severe Command:  
What means thy lingering in the Lybian Land?  
If Glory cannot move a Mind so mean,  
Nor future Praise, from flitting Pleasure wean,  
Regard the Fortunes of thy rising Heir;  
The promised Crown let young Ascanius wear.  
To whom th' Ausonian Sceptre, and the State  
Of Rome's Imperial Name, is owed by Fate.  
So spoke the God; and speaking took his flight,  
Involved in Clouds; and vanished out of sight.   

The Pious Prince was seized with sudden Fear;  
Mute was his Tongue, and upright stood his Hair:  
Revolving in his Mind the stern Command,  
He longs to fly, and loathes the charming Land.  
What should he say, or how should he begin,  
What Course, alas! remains, to steer between  
Th' offended Lover, and the Powerful Queen!  
This way, and that, he turns his anxious Mind,  
And all Expedients tries, and none can find:  
Fixed on the Deed, but doubtful of the Means;  
After long Thought to this Advice he leans.  
Three Chiefs he calls, commands them to repair  
The Fleet, and ship their Men with silent Care:  
Some plausible Pretence he bids them find,  
To colour what in secret he designed.  
Himself, mean time, the softest Hours would choose,  
Before the Lovesick Lady heard the News.  
And move her tender Mind, by slow degrees,  
To suffer what the sovereign Power decrees:  
Jove will inspire him, when, and what to say:  
They hear with Pleasure, and with haste obey.   

But soon the Queen perceives the thin Disguise;  
(What Arts can blind a jealous Woman's Eyes!)  
She was the first to find the secret Fraud,  
Before the fatal News was blazed abroad.  
Love, the first Motions of the Lover hears,  
Quick to presage, and even in Safety fears.  
Nor impious Fame was wanting to report  
The Ships repaired; the Trojans thick Resort,  
And purpose to forsake the Tyrian Court.  
Frantic with Fear, impatient of the Wound,  
And impotent of Mind, she roves the City round.  
Less wild the Bacchanalian Dames appear,  
When, from afar, their nightly God they hear,  
And howl about the Hills, and shake the wreathy Spear.  
At length she finds the dear perfidious Man;  
Prevents his formed Excuse, and thus began.  
Base and ungrateful, could you hope to fly,  
And undisovered scape a Lover's Eye!  
Nor could my Kindness your Compassion move,  
Nor plighted Vows, nor dearer bands of Love!  
Or is the Death of a despairing Queen  
Not worth preventing, though too well foreseen?  
Even when the Wint'ry Winds command your stay,  
You dare the Tempests, and defy the Sea.  
False, as you are, suppose you were not bound  
To Lands unknown, and foreign Coasts to found;  
Were Troy restored, and Priam's happy Reign,  
Now durst you tempt for Troy, the raging Main?  
See, whom you fly; am I the Foe you shun?  
Now by those holy Vows, so late begun,  
By this right Hand, (since I have nothing more  
To challenge, but the Faith you gave before;)  
I beg you by these Tears too truly shed,  
By the new Pleasures of our Nuptial Bed;  
If ever Dido, when you most were kind,  
Were pleasing in your Eyes, or touched your Mind;  
By these my Prayers, if Prayers may yet have Place,  
Pity the Fortunes of a falling Race.  
For you I have provoked a Tyrant's Hate,  
Incensed the Lybian, and the Tyrian State;  
For you alone I suffer in my Fame;  
Bereft of Honour, and exposed to Shame:  
Whom have I now to trust, (ungrateful Guest,)  
That only Name remains of all the rest!  
What have I left, or whither can I fly;  
Must I attend Pygmalion's Cruelty!  
Or till Hyarba shall in Triumph lead  
A Queen, that proudly scorned his proffered Bed!  
Had you deferred, at least, your hasty Flight,  
And left behind some Pledge of our delight,  
Some Babe to bless the Mother's mournful sight;  
Some young Aeneas, to supply your place;  
Whose Features might express his Father's Face;  
I should not then complain to live bereft  
Of all my Husband, or be wholly left.   

Here paused the Queen; unmoved he holds his Eyes,  
By Jove's Command; nor suffered Love to rise,  
Tho' heaving in his Heart; and thus at length, replies.  
Fair Queen, you never can enough repeat  
Your boundless Favours, or I own my Debt:  
Nor can my Mind forget Eliza's Name,  
While vital Breath inspires this Mortal Frame.  
This, only let me speak in my Defence,  
I never hoped a secret Flight from hence:  
Much less pretended to the Lawful Claim  
Of Sacred Nuptials, or, a Husband's Name.  
For if indulgent Heaven would leave me free,  
And not submit my Life to Fate's Decree,  
My Choice would lead me to the Trojan Shore,  
Those Relics to review, their Dust adore;  
And Priam's ruin'd Palace to restore.  
But now the Delphian Oracle Commands,  
And Fate invites me to the Latian Lands.  
That is the promised Place to which I steer,  
And all my Vows are terminated there.  
If you, a Tyrian, and a Stranger born,  
With Walls and towers a Lybian Town adorn;  
Why may not we, like you, a Foreign Race,  
Like you seek shelter in a Foreign Place?  
As often as the Night obscures the Skies  
With humid Shades, or twinkling Stars arise,  
Anchises angry Ghost in Dreams appears;  
Chides my delay, and fills my Soul with fears:  
And young Ascanius justly may complain,  
Of his defrauded Fate, and destined Reign.  
Even now the Herald of the Gods appeared,  
Waking I saw him, and his Message heard.  
From Jove he came commissioned, Heavenly bright  
With Radiant Beams, and manifest to Sight.  
The Sender and the Sent, I both attest,  
These Walls he entered, and those Words expressed.  
Fair Queen, oppose not what the God's command;  
Forced by my Fate, I leave your happy Land.   

Thus, while he spoke, already She began,  
With sparkling Eyes, to view the guilty Man:  
From Head to Foot surveyed his Person o'er,  
Nor longer these outrageous Threats forbore.  
False as thou art, and more than false, forsworn;  
Not sprung from Noble Blood, nor Goddess-born,  
But hewn from hardened Entrails of a Rock;  
And rough Hyrcanian Tigers gave thee suck.  
Why should I fawn, what have I worse to fear?  
Did he once look, or lent a listening Ear;  
Sighed when I sobbed, or shed one kindly Tear?  
All Symptoms of a base Ungrateful Mind,  
So foul, that which is worse, 'tis hard to find.  
Of Man's Injustice, why should I complain?  
The Gods, and Jove himself behold in vain  
Triumphant Treason, yet no Thunder flies:  
Nor Juno views my Wrongs with equal Eyes;  
Faithless is Earth, and Faithless are the Skies!  
Justice is fled, and Truth is now no more;  
I saved the Shipwrecked Exile on my Shore:  
With needful Food his hungry Trojans fed;  
I took the Traitor to my Throne and Bed:  
Fool that I was— 'tis little to repeat  
The rest, I stored and Rigged his ruin'd Flect.  
I rave, I rave: A God's Command he pleads,  
And makes Heaven accessary to his Deeds.  
Now Lycian Lots, and now the Delian God;  
Now Hermes is employed from Jove's abode,  
To warn him hence; as if the peaceful State  
Of Heavenly Powers were touched with Humane Fate!  
But go; thy flight no longer I detain;  
Go seek thy promised Kingdom through the Main:  
Yet if the heavens will hear my Pious Vow,  
The faithless Waves, not half so false as thou;  
Or secret Sands, shall Sepulchers afford  
To thy proud Vessels, and their perjured Lord.  
Then shalt thou call on injured Dido's Name;  
Dido shall come, in a black Sulph'ry flame;  
When death has once dissolved her Mortal frame.  
Shall smile to see the Traitor vainly weep,  
Her angry Ghost arising from the Deep,  
Shall haunt thee waking, and disturb thy Sleep.  
At least my Shade thy Punishment shall know;  
And Fame shall spread the pleasing News below.   

Abruptly here she stops: Then turns away  
Her loathing Eyes, and shuns the sight of Day.  
Amazed he stood, revolving in his Mind  
What Speech to frame, and what Excuse to find.  
Her fearful Maids their fainting Mistress led;  
And softly laid her on her Ivory Bed.   

But good Aeneas, tho' he much desired  
To give that Pity, which her Grief required,  
Tho' much he mourned, and laboured with his Love,  
Resolved at length, obeys the Will of Jove:  
Reviews his Forces; they with early Care  
Unmoor their Vessels, and for Sea prepare.  
The Fleet is soon afloat, in all its Pride:  
And well calked Galleys in the Harbour ride.  
Then Oaks for Oars they felled; or as they stood,  
Of its green Arms despoiled the growing Wood  
Studious of Flight: The Beach is covered o'er  
With Trojan Bands that blacken all the Shore:  
On every side are seen, descending down,  
Thick swarms of Soldiers loaden from the Town.  
Thus, in Battalia, march embodied Ants,  
Fearful of Winter, and of future Wants,  
T' invade the Corn, and to their Cells convey  
The plundered Forage of their yellow Prey.  
The sable Troops, along the narrow Tracks,  
Scarce bear the weighty Burden on their Backs:  
Some set their Shoulders to the ponderous Grain;  
Some guard the Spoil, some lash the lagging Train;  
All ply their several Tasks, and equal Toil sustain.  
What Pangs the tender Breast of Dido tore,  
When, from the Tower, she saw the covered Shore,  
And heard the Shouts of Sailors from afar,  
Mixed with the Murmurs of the wat'ry War?  
All powerful Love, what Changes canst thou cause  
In Human Hearts, subjected to thy Laws!  
Once more her haughty Soul the Tyrant bends;  
To Prayers and mean Submissions she descends.  
No female Arts or Aids she left untried,  
Nor Counsels unexplored, before she died.  
Look, Anna, look; the Trojans crowd to Sea,  
They spread their Canvas, and their Anchors weigh.  
The shouting Crew, their Ships with Garlands binds;  
Invoke the Sea-Gods, and invite the Winds.  
Could I have thought this threatening Blow so near,  
My tender Soul had been forewarned to bear.  
But do not you my last Request deny,  
With yond perfidious Man your Interest try;  
And bring me News, if I must live or die.  
You are his Favourite, you alone can find  
The dark recesses of his inmost Mind:  
In all his trusted Secrets you have part,  
And know the soft Approaches to his Heart.  
Haste then, and humbly seek my haughty Foe;  
Tell him, I did not with the Grecians go;  
Nor did my Fleet against his Friends employ,  
Nor swore the Ruin of unhappy Troy.  
Nor moved with Hands profane his Father's Dust;  
Why should he then reject a suit so just!  
Whom does he shun, and whither would he fly;  
Can he this last, this only Prayer deny!  
Let him at least his dangerous Flight delay,  
Wait better Winds, and hope a calmer Sea.  
The Nuptials he disclaims I urge no more;  
Let him pursue the promised Latian Shore.  
A short delay is all I ask him now,  
A pause of Grief; an interval from Woe:  
Till my soft Soul be tempered to sustain  
Accustomed Sorrows, and inur'd to Pain.  
If you in Pity grant this one Request,  
My Death shall leave you of my Crown possessed.  
This mournful message, Pious Anna bears,  
And seconds, with her own, her Sister's Tears:  
But all her Arts are still employed in vain;  
Again she comes, and is refused again.  
His hardened Heart nor Prayers nor threatenings move;  
Fate, and the God, had stopped his Ears to Love.   

As when the Winds their airy Quarrel try;  
Justling from every quarter of the Sky;  
This way and that, the Mountain Oak they bend,  
His Boughs they shatter, and his Branches rend;  
With Leaves, and falling Mast, they spread the Ground,  
The hollow Valleys echo to the Sound:  
Unmoved, the Royal Plant their Fury mocks;  
Or shaken, clings more closely to the Rocks:  
Far as he shoots his towering Head on high,  
So deep in Earth his fixed Foundations lie.  
No less a Storm the Trojan Hero bears;  
Thick Messages and loud Complaints he hears;  
And bandied Words, still beating on his Ears.  
Sighs, Groans and Tears, proclaim his inward Pains,  
But the firm purpose of his Heart remains.   

The wretched Queen, pursued by cruel Fate,  
Begins at length the light of Heaven to hate:  
And loathes to live: Then dire Portents she sees,  
To hasten on the Death her Soul decrees.  
Strange to relate: for when before the Shrine  
She pours, in Sacrifice, the Purple Wine,  
The Purple Wine is turned to putrid Blood:  
And the white offered Milk, converts to Mud.  
This dire Presage, to her alone revealed,  
From all, and even her Sister, she concealed.  
A Marble Temple stood within the Grove,  
Sacred to Death, and to her murdered Love;  
That honoured Chapel she had hung around  
With snowy Fleeces, and with Garlands crowned:  
Oft, when she visited this lonely Dome,  
Strange Voices issued from her Husband's Tomb:  
She thought she heard him summon her away;  
Invite her to his Grave; and chide her stay.  
Hourly 'tis heard, when with a bodeing Note  
The solitary Screech-Owl strains her Throat:  
And on a Chimney's top, or Turret's height,  
With Songs obscene, disturbs the Silence of the Night.  
Besides, old Prophecies augment her Fears;  
And stern Aeneas in her Dreams appears,  
disdainful as by Day: She seems alone,  
To wander in her Sleep, thro' ways unknown,  
Guidless and dark: or, in a Desert Plain,  
〈◊〉 seek her Subjects, and to seek in vain.  
〈…〉 k Pentheus, when distracted with his Fear,  
He saw two Suns, and double Thebes appear:  
Or mad Orestes, when his Mother's Ghost  
●ull in his Face, infernal Torches tossed;  
And shook her snaky locks: He shuns the sight,  
Flies o'er the Stage, surprised with mortal fright;  
The Furies guard the Door; and intercept his flight.   

Now, sinking underneath a load of Grief,  
From Death alone, she seeks her last Relief:  
The Time and Means, resolved within her Breast,  
She to her mournful Sister, thus addressed.  
(Dissembling hope, her cloudy front she clears,  
And a false Vigour in her Eyes appears.)  
Rejoice she said, instructed from above,  
My Lover I shall gain, or lose my Love.  
Nigh rising Atlas, next the falling Sun,  
Long tracts of Ethiopian Climates run:  
There, a Massylian Priestess I have found,  
Honoured for Age; for Magic Arts renowned:  
Th' Hesperian Temple was her trusted Care;  
'Twas she supplied the wakeful Dragons Fare.  
She Poppy-Seeds in Honey taught to steep;  
Reclaimed his Rage; and soothed him into sleep.  
She watched the Golden Fruit; her Charms unbind  
The Chains of Love; or fix them on the Mind.  
She stops the Torrents, leaves the Channel dry;  
Repels the Stars; and backward bears the Sky.  
The yawning Earth rebellows to her Call;  
Pale Ghosts ascend; and Mountain Ashes fall.  
Witness, ye Gods, and thou my better part,  
How loath I am to try this impious Art!  
Within the secret Court, with silent Care,  
Erect a lofty Pile, exposed in Air:  
Hang on the topmost part, the Trojan Vest;  
Spoils, Arms, and Presents of my faithless Guest.  
Next, under these, the bridal Bed be placed,  
Where I my Ruin in his Arms embraced:  
All Relics of the Wretch are doomed to Fire;  
For so the Priestess, and her Charms require.  
Thus far she said, and farther Speech forbears:  
A Mortal Paleness in her Face appears:  
Yet, the mistrustless Anna, could not find  
The secret Funeral, in these Rites designed;  
Nor thought so dire a Rage possessed her Mind.  
Unknowing of a Train concealed so well,  
She feared no worse than when Sichaeus fell:  
Therefore obeys. The fatal Pile they rear,  
Within the secret Court, exposed in Air.  
The cloven Holms and Pines are heaped on high;  
And Garlands on the hollow Spaces lie.  
Sad Cypress, Vervain, Yew, compose the Wreath;  
And every baleful green denoting Death.  
The Queen, determined to the fatal Deed,  
The Spoils and Sword he left, in order spread:  
And the Man's Image on the Nuptial Bed.   

And now (the sacred Altars placed around)  
The Priestess enters, with her Hair unbound,  
And thrice invokes the Powers below the Ground.  
Night, Erebus, and Chaos she proclaims,  
And threefold Hecat, with her hundred Names,  
And three Diana's: next she sprinkles round,  
With feigned Avernian Drops, the hallowed ground;  
Culls hoary Simples, found by Phoebe's Light,  
With brazen Sickles reaped at Noon of Night.  
Then mixes baleful Juices in the Bowl:  
And cuts the Forehead of a newborn Foal;  
Robbing the Mother's love. The destined Queen  
Observes, assisting at the Rites obscene:  
A leavened Cake in her devoted Hands  
She holds, and next the highest Altar stands:  
One tender Foot was shod, her other bare;  
Girt was her gathered Gown, and lose her Hair.  
Thus dressed, she summoned with her dying Breath,  
The heavens and Planets conscious of her Death:  
And every Power, if any rules above,  
Who minds, or who revenges injured Love.   

'Twas dead of Night, when weary Bodies close  
Their Eyes in balmy Sleep, and soft Repose:   

To Henry Tasburgh Esq of Bodney in the County of Norfolk.  
A 4. l. 730.   

The Winds no longer whisper through the Woods,  
Nor murmuring Tides disturb the gentle Floods.  
The Stars in silent order moved around,  
And Peace, with downy wings, was brooding on the ground.  
The Flocks and Herds, and particoloured Fowl,  
Which haunt the Woods, or swim the weedy Pool;  
Stretched on the quiet Earth securely lay,  
Forgetting the past Labours of the day.  
All else of Nature's common Gift partake;  
Unhappy Dido was alone awake.  
Nor Sleep nor Ease the Furious Queen can find,  
Sleep fled her Eyes, as Quiet fled her mind.  
Despair, and Rage, and Love, divide her heart;  
Despair and Rage had some, but Love the greater part.   

Then thus she said within her secret Mind:  
What shall I do, what Succour can I find!  
Become a Suppliant to Hyarba's Pride,  
And take my turn, to Court and be denied!  
Shall I with this ungrateful Trojan go,  
Forsake an Empire, and attend a Foe?  
Himself I refuged, and his Train relieved;  
'tis true; but am I sure to be received?  
An Exile follows whom a Queen relieved!  
Can Gratitude in Trojan Souls have place!  
Laomedon still lives in all his Race!  
Then, shall I seek alone the Churlish Crew,  
Or with my Fleet their flying Sails pursue?  
What force have I but those, whom scarce before  
I drew reluctant from their Native Shore?  
Will they again Embark at my desire,  
Once more sustain the Seas, and quit their second Tire?  
Rather with Steel thy guilty Breast invade,  
And take the Fortune thou thyself hast made.  
Your pity, Sister, first seduced my Mind;  
Or seconded too well, what I designed.  
These dear-bought Pleasures had I never known,  
Had I continued free, and still my own;  
Avoiding Love; I had not found Despair:  
But shared with Savage Beasts the Common Air.  
Like them a lonely life I might have led,  
Not mourned the Living, nor disturbed the Dead.  
These Thoughts she brooded in her anxious Breast;  
On Board, the Trojan found more easy rest.  
Resolved to sail, in Sleep he passed the Night;  
And ordered all things for his early flight.   

To whom once more the winged God appears;  
His former Youthful Mien and Shape he wears,  
And with this new alarm invades his Ears.  
Sleepest thou, O Goddess born! and canst thou drown  
Thy needful Cares, so near a Hostile Town?  
Beset with Foes; nor hearest the Western Gales  
Invite thy passage, and Inspire thy sails?  
She harbours in her Heart a furious hate;  
And thou shalt find the dire Effects too late;  
Fixed on Revenge, and Obstinate to die:  
Haste swiftly hence, while thou hast power to fly.  
The Sea with Ships will soon be covered o'er,  
And blazing Firebrands kindle all the Shore.  
Prevent her rage, while Night obscures the Skies;  
And sail before the purple Morn arise.  
Who knows what Hazards thy Delay may bring?  
Woman's a various and a changeful Thing.  
Thus Hermes in the Dream; then took his flight,  
Aloft in Air unseen; and mixed with Night.   

Twice warned by the Celestial Messenger,  
The pious Pious arose with hasty fear:  
Then roused his drowsy Train without delay,  
Haste to your banks; your crooked Anchors weigh;  
And spread your flying Sails, and stand to Sea.  
A God commands; he stood before my sight;  
And urged us once again to speedy flight.  
O sacred Power, what Power so ere thou art,  
To thy blessed Orders I resign my heart:  
Led thou the way; protect thy Trojan Bands;  
And prosper the Design thy Will Commands.  
He said, and drawing forth his flaming Sword,  
His thundering Arm divides the many twisted Cord:  
An emulating Zeal inspires his Train;  
They run, they snatch; they rush into the main.  
With headlong haste they leave the desert Shores,  
And brush the liquid Seas with labouring Oars.   

Aurora now had left her Saffron Bed,  
And beams of early Light the heavens o'erspread,  
When from a Tower the Queen, with wakeful Eyes,  
Saw Day point upward from the rosy Skies:  
She looked to Seaward, but the Sea was void,  
And scarce in ken the sailing Ships descried:  
Stung with despite, and furious with despair,  
She struck her trembling Breast, and tore her Hair.  
And shall th' ungrateful Traitor go, she said,  
My Land forsaken, and my Love betrayed?  
Shall we not Arm, not rush from every Street,  
To follow, sink, and burn his perjured Fleet?  
Haste, haul my Galleys out, pursue the Foe:  
Bring flaming Brands, set sail, and swiftly row.  
What have I said? where am I? Fury turns  
My Brain; and my distempered Bosom burns.  
Then, when I gave my Person and my Throne,  
This Hate, this Rage, had been more timely shown.  
See now the promised Faith, the vaunted Name,  
The Pious Man, who, rushing through the Flame,  
Preserved his Gods; and to the Phrygian Shore  
The Burden of his feeble Father bore!  
I should have torn him piecemeal; strowed in Floods  
His scattered Limbs, or left exposed in Woods:  
Destroyed his Friends and Son; and from the Fire  
Have set the reeking Boy before the Sire.  
Events are doubtful, which on Battles wait;  
Yet where's the doubt, to Souls secure of Fate!  
My Tyrians, at their injured Queen's Command,  
Had tossed their Fires amid the Trojan Band:  
At once extinguished all the faithless Name;  
And I myself, in vengeance of my Shame,  
Had fallen upon the Pile to mend the Funeral Flame.  
Thou Sun, who viewst at once the World below,  
Thou Juno, Guardian of the Nuptial Vow,  
Thou Hecat, harken from thy dark abodes;  
Ye Furies, Fiends, and violated Gods,  
All Powers invoked with Dido's dying breath,  
Attend her Curses, and avenge her death.  
If so the Fates ordain, and Jove commands,  
Th' ungrateful Wretch should find the Latian Lands,  
Yet let a Race untamed, and haughty Foes,  
His peaceful Entrance with dire Arms oppose;  
Oppressed with Numbers in th' unequal Field,  
His Men discouraged, and himself expelled,  
Let him for Succour sue from place to place,  
Torn from his Subjects, and his Son's embrace:  
First let him see his Friends in Battle slain;  
And their untimely Fate lament in vain:  
And when, at length, the cruel War shall cease;  
On hard Conditions may he buy his Peace.  
Nor let him then enjoy supreme Command;  
But fall untimely, by some hostile Hand:  
And lie unburied on the barren Sand.  
These are my Prayers, and this my dying Will:  
And you my Tyrians every Curse fulfil.  
Perpetual Hate, and mortal Wars proclaim,  
Against the Prince, the People, and the Name.  
These grateful Offerings on my Grave bestow;  
Nor League, nor Love, the jarring Nations know:  
Now, and from hence in every future Age,  
When Rage excites your Arms, and Strength supplies the Rage:  
Rise some Avenger of our Lybian Blood,  
With Fire and Sword pursue the perjured Brood:  
Our Arms, our Seas, our Shores, opposed to theirs,  
And the same hate descend on all our Heirs.   

This said, within her anxious Mind she weighs  
The Means of cutting short her odious Days.  
Then to Sicheus' Nurse, she briefly said,  
(For when she left her Country, hers was dead)  
Go Barcè, call my Sister; let her Care  
The solemn Rites of Sacrifice prepare:  
The Sheep, and all th' attoneing Offerings bring;  
Sprinkling her Body from the Crystal Spring  
With living Drops: then let her come, and thou  
With sacred Fillets, bind thy hoary Brow.  
Thus will I pay my Vows, to Stygian Jove;  
And end the Cares of my disastrous Love.  
Then cast the Trojan Image on the Fire;  
And as that burns, my Passion shall expire.   

The Nurse moves onward, with officious Care,  
And all the speed her aged Limbs can bear.  
But furious Dido, with dark Thoughts involved,  
Shaken at the mighty Mischief she resolved.  
With livid Spots distinguished was her Face,  
Red were her rolling Eyes, and discomposed her Pace:  
Ghastly she gazed, with Pain she drew her Breath,  
And Nature shivered at approaching Death.   

Then swiftly to the fatal place she passed;  
And mounts the Funeral Pile, with furious haste.  
Unsheaths the Sword the Trojan left behind,  
(Not for so dire an Enterprise designed,)  
But when she viewed the Garments loosely spread,  
Which once he wore, and saw the conscious Bed,  
She paused, and, with a Sigh, the Robes embraced;  
Then on the Couch her trembling Body cast,  
Repressed the ready Tears, and spoke her last.  
Dear Pledges of my Love, while Heaven so pleased,  
Receive a Soul, of Mortal Anguish eased:  
My fatal Course is finished; and I go  
A glorious Name, among the Ghosts below.  
A lofty City by my Hands is raised;  
Pygmalion punished, and my Lord appeased.  
What could my Fortune have afforded more,  
Had the false Trojan never touched my Shore!  
Then kissed the Couch; and must I die, she said;  
And unrevenged; 'tis doubly to be dead!  
Yet even this Death with Pleasure I receive;  
On any Terms, 'tis better than to live.  
These Flames, from far, may the false Trojan view;  
These boding Omens his base flight pursue.  
She said, and struck: Deep entered in her side  
The piercing Steel, with reeking Purple died:  
Clogged in the Wound the cruel Weapon stands;  
The spouting Blood came streaming on her Hands.  
Her sad Attendants saw the deadly Stroke,  
And with loud Cries the sounding Palace shook.  
Distracted from the fatal sight they fled;  
And thro' the Town the dismal Rumour spread.  
First from the frighted Court, the Yell began,  
Redoubled thence from House to House it ran:  
The groans of Men, with Shrieks, Laments, and Cries  
Of mixing Women, mount the vaulted Skies.  
Not less the Clamour, than if ancient Tyre,  
Or the new Carthage, set by Foes on Fire,  
The rolling Ruin, with their loved Abodes,  
Involved the blazing Temples of their Gods.  
Her Sister hears, and, furious with Despair,  
She beats her Breast, and rends her yellow Hair:  
And calling on Eliza's Name aloud,  
Runs breathless to the Place, and breaks the Crowd.  
Was all that Pomp of Woe for this prepared,  
These Fires, this Funeral Pile, these Altars reared;  
Was all this Train of Plots contrived, said she,  
All only to deceive unhappy me?  
Which is the worst, didst thou in Death pretend  
To scorn thy Sister, or delude thy Friend!  
Thy summoned Sister, and thy Friend had come:  
One Sword had served us both, one common Tomb.  
Was I to raise the Pile, the Powers invoke,  
Not to be present at the fatal Stroke?  
At once thou hast destroyed thyself and me;  
Thy Town, thy Senate, and thy Colony!  
Bring Water, bathe the Wound; while I in death  
Lay close my Lips to hers; and catch the flying Breath.  
This said, she mounts the Pile with eager haste;  
And in her Arms the gasping Queen embraced:  
Her Temples chafed; and her own Garments tore  
To staunch the streaming Blood, and cleanse the Gore.  
Thrice Dido tried to raise her drooping Head,  
And fainting thrice, fell groveling on the Bed.  
Thrice opened her heavy Eyes, and sought the Light,  
But having found it, sickened at the sight;  
And closed her Lids at last, in endless Night.  
Then Juno, grieving that she should sustain  
A Death so lingering, and so full of Pain;  
Sent Iris down, to free her from the Strife  
Of labouring Nature, and dissolve her Life.  
For since she died, not doomed by heavens Decree,  
Or her own Crime; but Human Casualty;  
And rage of Love, that plunged her in Despair,  
The Sisters had not cut the topmost Hair;  
Which Proserpina, and they can only know;  
Nor made her sacred to the Shades below.  
Downward the various Goodess took her flight;  
And drew a thousand Colours from the Light:  
Then stood above the dying Lover's Head,  
And said, I thus devote thee to the dead.  
This Offering to the Infernal Gods I bear:  
Thus while she spoke, she cut the fatal Hair;  
The struggling Soul was loosed; and Life dissolved in Air.    

The Fifth Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
Aeneas setting sail from afric, is driven by a Storm on the Coasts of Sicily: Where he is hospitably received by his friend Acestes, King of part of the Island, and born of Trojan Parentage. He applieth himself to celebrate the Memory of his Father with Divine Honours: And accordingly institutes Funeral Games, and appoints Prizes for those who should conquer in them. While the Ceremonies were performing, Juno sends Iris to persuade the Trojan Women to burn the Ships, who upon her instigation set fire to them, which burned four, and would have consumed the rest, had not Jupiter by a miraculous Shower extinguished it. Upon this Aeneas by the advice of one of his Generals, and a Vision of his Father, builds a City for the Women, Old Men, and others, who were either unfit for War, or weary of the Voyage, and sails for Italy: Venus procures of Neptune a safe Voyage for him and all his Men, excepting only his Pilot Palinurus, who was unfortunately lost.  

To the most Illustrious Prince Charles Duke of St Alban Master Falconer to his Majesty's tie. and Captain of the Honble. Band of Gent Pensioners  
A 5. l. 2.   

MEan time the Trojan cuts his wat'ry way,  
Fixed on his Voyage, thro' the curling Sea:  
Then, casting back his Eyes, with dire Amaze,  
Sees on the Punic Shore the mounting Blaze.  
The Cause unknown; yet his presaging Mind,  
The Fate of Dido from the Fire divined:  
He knew the stormy Souls of Womankind:  
What secret Springs their eager Passions move,  
How capable of Death for injured Love.  
Dire Auguries from hence the Trojans draw;  
Till neither Fires, nor shining Shores they saw.  
Now Seas and Skies, their Prospect only bound;  
An empty space above, a floating Field around.  
But soon the heavens with shadows were o'erspread;  
A swelling Cloud hung hovering o'er their Head:  
Livid it looked, (the threatening of a Storm;)  
Then Night and Horror Ocean's Face deform.  
The Pilot, Palinurus, cried aloud,  
What Gusts of Wether from that gathering Cloud  
My Thoughts presage; ere yet the Tempest roars,  
Stand to your Tackle, Mates, and stretch your Oars;  
Contract your swelling Sails, and luff to Wind:  
The frighted Crew perform the Task assigned.  
Then, to his fearless Chief, not Heaven, said he,  
Tho Jove himself should promise Italy,  
Can stem the Torrent of this raging Sea.  
Mark how the shifting Winds from West arise,  
And what collected Night involves the Skies!  
Nor can our shaken Vessels live at Sea,  
Much less against the Tempest force their way;  
'Tis Fate diverts our Course; and Fate we must obey.  
Not far from hence, if I observed aright  
The southing of the Stars, and Polar Light,  
Sicilia lies; whose hospitable Shores  
In safety we may reach with struggling Oars.  
Aeneas then replied, too sure I find,  
We strive in vain against the Seas, and Wind:  
Now shift your Sails: What place can please me more  
Than what you promise, the Sicilian Shore;  
Whose hallowed Earth Anchises Bones contains,  
And where a Prince of Trojan Lineage reigns?  
The Course resolved, before the Western Wind  
They scud amain; and make the Port assigned.   

Mean time Acestes, from a lofty Stand,  
Beheld the Fleet descending on the Land;  
And not unmindful of his ancient Race,  
Down from the Cliff he ran with eager Pace;  
And held the Hero in a strict Embrace.  
Of a rough Lybian Bear the Spoils he wore;  
And either Hand a pointed Javelin bore.  
His Mother was a Dame of Dardan Blood;  
His Sire Crinisus, a Sicilian Flood;  
He welcomes his returning Friends ashore  
With plenteous Country Cates; and homely Store.   

Now, when the following Morn had chased away  
The flying Stars, and light restored the Day,  
Aeneas called the Trojan Troops around;  
And thus bespoke them from a rising Ground.  
Offspring of Heaven, Divine Dardanian Race,  
The Sun revolving through th' Etherial Space,  
The shining Circle of the Year has filled,  
Since first this Isle my Father's Ashes held:  
And now the rising Day renews the Year,  
(A Day for ever sad, for ever dear,)  
This would I celebrate with Annual Games,  
With Gifts on Altars piled, and holy Flames,  
Tho banished to Getulia's barren Sands,  
Caught on the Grecian Seas, or hostile Lands:  
But since this happy Storm our Fleet has driven,  
(Not, as I deem, without the Will of Heaven,)  
Upon these friendly Shores, and flowery Plains,  
Which hide Anchises, and his blessed Remains;  
Let us with Joy perform his Honours due;  
And pray for prosperous Winds, our Voyage to renew.  
Pray, that in Towns, and Temples of our own,  
The Name of great Anchises may be known;  
And yearly Games may spread the God's renown.  
Our Sports, Acestes of the Trojan Race,  
With royal Gifts, ordained, is pleased to grace:  
Two Steers on every Ship the King bestows;  
His Gods and ours, shall share your equal Vows.  
Besides, if nine days hence, the rosy Morn  
Shall with unclouded Light the Skies adorn,  
That Day with solemn Sports I mean to grace;  
Light Galleys on the Seas, shall run a wat'ry Race.  
Some shall in Swiftness for the Goal contend,  
And others try the twanging Bow to bend:  
The strong with Iron Gauntlets armed shall stand,  
Opposed in Combat on the yellow Sand.  
Let all be present at the Games prepared;  
And joyful Victors wait the Just Reward.  
But now assist the Rites, with Garlands crowned;  
He said, and first his Brows with Myrtle bound.  
Then Helymus, by his Example led,  
And old Acestes, each adorned his Head;  
Thus, young Ascanius, with a sprightly Grace,  
His Temples tied, and all the Trojan Race.   

Aeneas then advanced amidst the Train,  
By thousands followed through the fruitful Plain,  
To great Anchises Tomb: Which when he found,  
He poured to Bacchus, on the hallowed Ground,  
Two Bowls of sparkling Wine, of Milk two more,  
And two from offered Bulls of Purple Gore.  
With Roses then the Sepulchre he strowed;  
And thus, his Father's Ghost bespoke aloud.  
Hail, O ye Holy Manes; hail again  
Paternal Ashes, now reviewed in vain!  
The Gods permitted not, that you, with me,  
Should reach the promised Shores of Italy;  
Or Tiber's Flood, what Flood so ere it be.  
Scarce had he finished, when, with speckled Pride,  
A Serpent from the Tomb began to glide;  
His hugy Bulk on seven high Volumes rolled;  
Blue was his breadth of Back, but streaked with scaly Gold:  
Thus riding on his Curls, he seemed to pass  
A rolling Fire along; and sing the Grass.  
More various Colours through his Body run,  
Than Iris when her Bow imbibes the Sun;  
Betwixt the rising Altars, and around,  
The sacred Monster shot along the Ground;  
With harmless play amidst the Bowls he passed;  
And with his lolling Tongue assayed the Taste:  
Thus fed with Holy Food, the wondrous Guest  
Within the hollow Tomb retired to rest.  
The Pious Prince, surprised at what he viewed,  
The Funeral Honours with more Zeal renewed:  
Doubtful if this the Place's Genius were,  
Or Guardian of his Father's Sepulchre.  
Five Sheep, according to the Rites, he slew;  
As many Swine, and Steers of sable Hue;  
New generous Wine he from the Goblets poured,  
And called his Father's Ghost, from Hell restored.  
The glad Attendants in long Order come,  
Offering their Gifts at great Anchises Tomb:  
Some add more Oxen, some divide the Spoil,  
Some place the Chargers on the grassy Soil;  
Some blow the Fires and offered Entrails broil.   

Now came the Day desired; the Skies were bright  
With rosy Lustre of the rising Light:  
The bordering People, roused by sounding Fame  
Of Trojan Feasts, and great Acestes Name;  
The crowded Shore with Acclamations fill,  
Part to behold, and part to prove their Skill.  
And first the Gifts in Public view they place,  
Green Laurel Wreaths, and Palm, (the Victor's grace:)  
Within the Circle, Arms and Tripods lie;  
Ingots of Gold, and Silver, heaped on high;  
And Vests embroidered of the Tyrian dye.  
The Trumpet's clangor then the Feast proclaims;  
And all prepare for their appointed Games.  
Four Galleys first, which equal Rowers bear,  
Advancing, in the wat'ry Lists appear.  
The speedy Dolphin, that outstrips the Wind,  
Boar Mnestheus, Author of the Memmian kind:  
Gyas, the vast Chimeras Bulk commands,  
Which rising like a towering City stands:  
Three Trojans tug at every labouring Oar;  
Three Banks in three degrees the Sailors bore;  
Beneath their sturdy Strokes the Billows roar.  
Sergesthus, who began the Sergian Race,  
In the great Centaur took the leading Place:  
Cloanthus on the Sea-green Scylla stood;  
From whom Cluentius draws his Trojan Blood.   

Far in the Sea, against the foaming Shoar,  
There stands a Rock; the raging Billows roar  
Above his Head in Storms; but when 'tis clear,  
Uncurl their ridgy Backs, and at his Foot appear.  
In Peace below the gentle Waters run;  
The Cormorants above, lie basking in the Sun.  
On this the Hero fixed an Oak in sight,  
The mark to guide the Mariners aright.  
To bear with this, the Seamen stretch their Oars;  
Then round the Rock they steer, and seek the former Shores.  
The Lots decide their place; above the rest,  
Each Leader shining in his Tyrian Vest:  
The common Crew, with Wreaths of Poplar Boughs.  
Their Temple's crown, and shade their sweaty Brows.  
Besmeared with Oil, their naked Shoulders shine;  
All take their Seats, and wait the sounding sign.  
They gripe their Oars, and every panting Breast  
Is raised by turns with Hope, by turns with Fear depressed.   

To the Right Honble: Arthur Herbert Earl of Torrington & Baron of Torbay  
A 5 l: 160   

The clangor of the Trumpet gives the Sign;  
At once they start, advancing in a Line:  
With shouts the Sailors rend the starry Skies,  
Lashed with their Oars, the smoky Billows rise;  
Sparkles the briny Main, and the vexed Ocean fries.  
Exact in time, with equal Strokes they row;  
At once the brushing Oars, and brazen prow  
Dash up the sandy Waves, and open the Depths below.  
Not fiery Coursers, in a Chariot Race,  
Invade the Field with half so swift a Pace.  
Not the fierce Driver with more Fury lends  
The sounding Lash; and, ere the Stroke descends,  
Low to the Wheels his pliant Body bends.  
The partial Crowd their Hopes and Fears divide;  
And aid, with eager shouts, the favoured Side.  
Cries, Murmurs, Clamours, with a mixing Sound,  
From Woods to Woods, from Hills to Hills rebound.   

Amidst the loud Applauses of the Shore,  
Gyas outstriped the rest, and sprung before;  
Cloanthus, better manned, pursued him fast;  
But his o're-masted Galley checked his Haste.  
The Centaur, and the Dolphin, brush the brine  
With equal Oars, advancing in a Line:  
And now the mighty Centaur seems to lead,  
And now the speedy Dolphin gets a head:  
Now Board to Board the rival Vessels row;  
The Billows lave the Skies, and Ocean groans below.  
They reached the Mark; proud Gyas and his Train,  
In Triumph road the Victors of the Main:  
But steering round, he charged his Pilot stand  
More close to Shore, and skim along the Sand.  
Let others bear to Sea. Menaetes heard,  
But secret shelves too cautiously he feared:  
And fearing, sought the Deep; and still aloof he steered.  
With louder Cries the Captain called again;  
Bear to the rocky Shore, and shun the Main.  
He spoke, and speaking at his stern he saw  
The bold Cloanthus near the Shelving draw;  
Betwixt the mark and him the Scylla stood,  
And in a closer Compass ploughed the Flood,  
He passed the Mark; and wheeling got before;  
Gyas blasphemed the Gods, devoutly swore,  
Cried out for Anger, and his Hair he tore.  
Mindless of others Lives, (so high was grown  
His rising Rage,) and careless of his own:  
The trembling Dotard to the Deck he drew,  
Then hoist up, and overboard he threw,  
This done he seized the Helm; his Fellows cheered;  
Turned short upon the Shelves, and madly steered.   

Hardly his Head, the plunging Pilot rears,  
Clogged with his clothes, and cumbered with his Years:  
Now dropping wet, he climbs the Cliff with Pain;  
The Crowd that saw him fall, and float again,  
Shout from the distant Shore; and loudly laughed,  
To see his heaving Breast disgorge the briny Draught.  
The following Centaur, and the Dolphin's Crew,  
Their vanished hopes of Victory renew:  
While Gyas lags, they kindle in the Race,  
To reach the Mark; Sergesthus takes the place:  
Mnestheus pursues; and while around they wind,  
Comes up, not half his Gally's length behind.  
Then, on the Deck amidst his Mates appeared,  
And thus their drooping Courages he cheered.  
My Friends, and Hector's Followers heretofore;  
Exert your Vigour, tug the labouring Oar;  
Stretch to your Strokes, my still unconquered Crew,  
Whom from the flaming Walls of Troy I drew.  
In this, our common Interest, let me find  
That strength of Hand, that courage of the Mind,  
As when you stemmed the strong Malaean Flood,  
And o'er the Syrteses broken Billows rowed.  
I seek not now the foremost Palm to gain;  
Tho yet— But ah, that haughty Wish is vain!  
Let those enjoy it whom the Gods ordain.  
But to be last, the Lags of all the Race,  
Redeem yourselves and me from that Disgrace.  
Now one and all, they tug amain; they row  
At the full stretch, and shake the Brazen Prow.  
The Sea beneath 'em sinks; their labouring sides  
Are swelled, and Sweat runs gutt'ring down in Tides.  
Chance aids their daring with unhoped Success;  
Sergesthus, eager with his Beak, to press  
Betwixt the Rival Gally and the Rock;  
Shuts up th' unwieldy Centaur in the Lock.  
The Vessel struck, and with the dreadful shock  
Her Oars she shivered, and her Head she broke.  
The trembling Rowers from their Banks arise,  
And anxious for themselves renounce the Prize.  
With Iron Poles they heave her off the Shores;  
And gather, from the Sea, their floating Oars.  
The Crew of Mnestheus, with elated Minds,  
Urge their Success, and call the willing Winds:  
Then ply their Oars, and cut their liquid way;  
In larger Compass on the roomy Sea.  
As when the Dove her Rocky Hold forsakes,  
Roused in a Fright, her sounding Wings she shakes  
The Cavern rings with clatt'ring; out she flies,  
And leaves her Callow Care, and cleaves the Skies;  
At first she flutters; but at length she springs,  
To smother flight, and shoots upon her Wings:  
So Mnestheus in the Dolphin cuts the Sea,  
And flying with a force, that force assists his Way.  
Sergesthus in the Centaur soon he passed,  
Wedged in the Rocky Shoals, and sticking fast.  
In vain the Victor he with Cries implores,  
And practices to row with shattered Oars.  
Then Mnestheus bears with Gyas, and outflies:  
The Ship without a Pilot yields the Prize.  
Unvanquished Scylla now alone remains;  
Her he pursues; and all his vigour strains.  
Shouts from the favouring Multitude arise,  
Applauding Echo to the Shouts replies;  
Shouts, Wishes, and Applause run rattling through the Skies.  
These Clamours with disdain the Scylla heard;  
Much grudged the Praise, but more the robbed Reward:  
Resolved to hold their own, they mend their pace;  
All obstinate to die, or gain the Race.  
Raised with Success, the Dolphin swistly ran,  
(For they can Conquer who believe they can:)  
Both urge their Oars, and Fortune both supplies;  
And both, perhaps had shared an equal Prize;  
When to the Seas Cloanthus holds his Hands,  
And Succour from the Watery Powers Demands:  
Gods of the liquid Realms, on which I row,  
If given by you, the Laurel bind my Brow,  
Assist to make me guilty of my Vow.  
A Snow-white Bull shall on your Shore be slain,  
His offered Entrails cast into the Main;  
And ruddy Wine from Golden Goblets thrown,  
Your grateful Gift and my Return shall own.  
The Choir of Nymphs, and Phorcus from below,  
With Virgin Panopea, heard his Vow;  
And old Portunus, with his breadth of Hand,  
Pushed on, and sped the Galley to the Land.  
Swift as a Shaft, or winged Wind, she flies;  
And darting to the Port, obtains the Prize.   

The Herald summons all, and then proclaims  
Cloanthus conqueror of the Naval Games.  
The Prince with Laurel crowns the Victor's Head,  
And three fat Steers are to his Vessel led;  
The Ships Reward: with generous Wine beside;  
And Sums of Silver, which the Crew divide.  
The Leaders are distinguished from the rest;  
The Victor honoured with a nobler Vest:  
Where Gold and Purple strive in equal Rows;  
And Needlework its happy Cost bestows.  
There, Ganymede is wrought with living Art,  
Chase through Ida's Groves the trembling Hart:  
Breathless he seems, yet eager to pursue;  
When from aloft, descends in open view,  
The Bird of Jove; and sousing on his Prey,  
With crooked Talons bears the Boy away.  
In vain, with lifted Hands, and gazing Eyes,  
His Guards behold him soaring through the Skies;  
And Dogs pursue his Flight, with imitated Cries.   

Mnestheus the second Victor was declared;  
And summoned there, the second Prize he shared.  
A Coat of Mail, which brave Demoleus bore;  
More brave Aeneas from his Shoulders tore;  
In single Combat on the Trojan Shore.  
This was ordained for Mnestheus to possess;  
In War for his Defence; for Ornament in Peace.  
Rich was the Gift, and glorious to behold;  
But yet so ponderous with its Plates of Gold,  
That scarce two Servants could the Weight sustain;  
Yet, loaded thus, Demoleus o'er the Plain  
Pursued, and lightly seized the Trojan Train.  
The Third succeeding to the last Reward,  
Two goodly Bowls of Massy Silver shared;  
With Figures prominent, and richly wrought:  
And two Brass Caldrons from Dodona brought.   

Thus, all rewarded by the Heroe's hands,  
Their conquering Temples bound with Purple Bands.  
And now Sergesthus, clearing from the Rock,  
Brought back his Galley shattered with the shock.  
Forlorn she looked, without an aiding Oar;  
And howted, by the Vulgar, made to Shoar.  
As when a Snake, surprised upon the Road,  
Is crushed athwart her Body by the load  
Of heavy Wheels; or with a Mortal Wound  
Her Belly bruised, and trodden to the Ground:  
In vain, with loosened curls, she crawls along,  
Yet fierce above, she brandishes her Tongue:  
Glares with her Eyes, and bristles with her Scales,  
But grovelling in the Dust, her parts unsound she trails.  
So slowly to the Port the Centaur tends,  
But what she wants in Oars, with Sails amends:  
Yet, for his Galley saved, the grateful Prince,  
Is pleased th' unhappy Chief to recompense.  
Pholoe, the Cretan Slave, rewards his Care,  
Beauteous herself, with lovely Twins, as fair.   

From thence his way the Trojan Hero bend,  
Into the neighbouring Plain, with Mountains penned;  
Whose sides were shaded with surrounding Wood:  
Full in the midst of this fair Valley stood  
A Native Theatre, which rising flow,  
By just degrees, o'erlooked the Ground below.  
High on a Sylvan Throne the Leader sat;  
A numerous Train attend in Solemn State;  
Here those, that in the rapid Course delight,  
Desire of Honour, and the Prize invite.  
The Rival Runners, without Order stand,  
The Trojans, mixed with the Sicilian Band.  
First Nisus, with Euryalus, appears,  
Euryalus a Boy of blooming Years;  
With sprightly Grace, and equal Beauty crowned:  
Nisus, for Friendship to the Youth, renowned.  
Diores, next, of Priam's Royal Race,  
Then Salius, joined with Patron took their Place:  
But Patron in Arcadia had his Birth,  
And Salius his, from Acarnanian Earth.  
Then two Sicilian Youths, the Names of these  
Swift Helymus, and lovely Panopes:  
Both jolly Huntsmen, both in Forests bred,  
And owning old Acestes for their Head.  
With several others of Ignobler Name;  
Whom Time has not delivered o'er to Fame.   

To these the Hero thus his Thoughts explained,  
In Words, which gen'ral Approbation gained.  
One common Largess is for all designed:  
The Vanquished and the Victor shall be joined.  
Two Darts of polished Steel, and Gnosian Wood,  
A Silvered studded Axe alike bestowed.  
The foremost three have Olive Wreaths decreed;  
The first of these obtains a stately Steed  
Adorned with Trappings; and the next in Fame,  
The Quiver of an Amazonian Dame;  
With feathered Thracian Arrows well supplied,  
A Golden Belt shall gird his Manly side;  
Which with a sparkling Diamond shall be tied:  
The third this Grecian Helmet shall content.  
He said; to their appointed Base they went:  
With beating Hearts th' expected Sign receive,  
And, starting all at once, the Barrier leave.  
Spread out, as on the winged Winds, they flew,  
And seized the distant Goal with greedy view.  
Shot from the Crowd, swift Nisus all o'repassed;  
Nor Storms, nor Thunder, equal half his haste.  
The next, but tho' the next, yet far disjoined,  
Came Salius, and Euryalus behind;  
Then Helymus, whom young Diores plied,  
Step after step, and almost side by side:  
His Shoulders pressing, and in longer Space,  
Had won, or left at least a dubious Race.   

Now spent, the Goal they almost reach at last;  
When eager Nisus, hapless in his haste,  
Slipped first, and slipping, fell upon the Plain,  
Soaked with the Blood of Oxen, newly slain:  
The careless Victor had not marked his way;  
But treading where the treacherous Puddle lay,  
His Heels flew up; and on the grassy Floor,  
He fell, besmeared with Filth, and Holy Gore.  
Not mindless then, Euryalus, of thee,  
Nor of the Sacred Bonds of Amity;  
He strove th' immediate Rival's hope to cross;  
And caught the Foot of Salius as he rose:  
So Salius lay extended on the Plain;  
Euryalus springs out, the Prize to gain;  
And leaves the Crowd; applauding Peals attend  
The Victor to the Goal, who vanquished by his Friend.  
Next Helymus, and then Diores came;  
By two Misfortunes made the third in Fame.   

But Salius enters; and, exclaiming loud  
For Justice, deafens, and disturbs the Crowd:  
Urges his Cause may in the Court be heard;  
And pleads the Prize is wrongfully conferred.  
But Favour for Euryalus appears;  
His blooming Beauty, with his tender Tears,   

To Anthony Hammond of Somersham in the County of Huntingdon Esqr.  
A 5. l: 425.   

Had bribed the Judges to protect his Claim;  
Besides Diores does as loud exclaim:  
Who vainly reaches at the last Reward,  
If the first Palm on Salius be conferred.  
Then thus the Prince; let no Disputes arise:  
Where Fortune placed it, I award the Prize.  
But Fortune's Errors give me leave to mend,  
At least to pity my deserving Friend.  
He said, and from among the Spoils, he draws,  
(ponderous with shaggy Main, and Golden Paws)  
A Lion's Hide; to Salius this he gives:  
Nisus, with Envy sees the Gift, and grieves.  
If such Rewards to vanquished Men are due,  
He said, and Falling is to rise by you,  
What Prize may Nisus from your Bounty claim,  
Who merited the first Rewards and Fame?  
In falling, both an equal Fortune tried;  
Would Fortune for my Fall so well provide!  
With this he pointed to his Face, and showed  
His Hands, and all his Habit smeared with Blood.  
Th' indulgent Father of the People smiled;  
And caused to be produced an ample Shield;  
Of wondrous Art by Didymaon wrought,  
Long since from Neptune's Bars in Triumph brought.  
This given to Nisus; he divides the rest;  
And equal Justice, in his Gifts, expressed.  
The Race thus ended, and Rewards bestowed;  
Once more the Prince bespeaks th' attentive Crowd.  
If there be here, whose dauntless Courage dare  
In Gauntlet fight, with Limbs and Body bare,  
His Opposite sustain in open view,  
Stand forth the Champion; and the Games renew.  
Two Prizes I propose, and thus divide,  
A Bull with gilded Horns, and Fillets tied,  
Shall be the Portion of the conquering Chief:  
A Sword and Helm shall cheer the Loser's Grief.   

Then haughty Dares in the Lists appears;  
Stalking he strides, his Head erected bears:  
His nervous Arms the weighty Gauntlet wield;  
And loud Applauses echo through the Field.  
Dares alone, in Combat used to stand  
The match of mighty Paris hand to hand:  
The same, at Hector's funerals undertook  
Gygantick Butes, of th' Amician Stock;  
And by the Stroke of his resistless Hand,  
Stretched the vast Bulk upon the yellow Sand.  
Such Dares was; and such he strod along,  
And drew the Wonder of the gazing Throng.  
His brawny Back, and ample Breast he shows;  
His lifted Arms around his Head he throws;  
And deals, in whistling Air, his empty Blows.  
His Match is sought; but through the trembling Band,  
Not one dares answer to the proud Demand.  
Presuming of his Force, with sparkling Eyes,  
Already he devours the promised Prize.  
He claims the Bull with awless Insolence;  
And having seized his Horns, accosts the Prince.  
If none my matchless Valour dares oppose,  
How long shall Dares wait his dastard Foes?  
Permit me, Chief, permit without Delay,  
To lead this uncontended Gift away.  
The Crowd assents; and, with redoubled Cries,  
For the proud Challenger demands the Prize.   

Acestes, fired with just Disdain, to see  
The Palm usurped without a Victory;  
Reproached Entellus thus, who sat beside,  
And heard, and saw unmoved, the Trojan's Pride:  
Once, but in vain, a Champion of Renown,  
So tamely can you bear the ravished Crown?  
A Prize in triumph born before your sight,  
And shun for fear the danger of the Fight?  
Where is our Eryx now, the boasted Name,  
The God who taught your thundering Arm the Game;  
Where now your baffled Honour, where the Spoil  
That filled your House, and Fame that filled our Isle?  
Entellus, thus: My Soul is still the same,  
Unmoved with Fear, and moved with Martial Fame:  
But my i'll Blood is curdled in my Veins;  
And scarce the Shadow of a Man remains.  
Oh, could I turn to that fair Prime again,  
That Prime, of which this Boaster is so vain,  
The Brave who this decrepit Age defies,  
Should feel my force, without the promised Prize.  
He said, and rising at the word, he threw  
Two ponderous Gauntlets down, in open view:  
Gauntlets, which Eryx want in Fight to wield,  
And sheathe his hands with in the listed field.  
With Fear and Wonder seized, the Crowd beholds  
The Gloves of Death, with seven distinguished folds,  
Of tough Bull Hides; the space within is spread  
With Iron, or with loads of heavy Lead.  
Dares himself was daunted at the sight,  
Renounced his Challenge, and refused to fight.  
Astonished at their weight the Hero stands,  
And poised the ponderous Engines in his hands.  
What had your wonder, said Entellus, been,  
Had you the Gauntlets of Alcides seen,  
Or viewed the stern debate on this unhappy Green!  
These which I bear, your Brother Eryx bore,  
Still marked with battered Brains, and mingled Gore.  
With these he long sustained th' Herculean Arm;  
And these I wielded while my Blood was warm:  
This languished Frame, while better Spirits fed,  
ere Age unstrung my Nerves, or Time o'resnowed my Head.  
But if the Challenger these Arms refuse,  
And cannot wield their weight, or dare not use;  
If great Aeneas, and Acestes join  
In his Request, these Gauntlets I resign:  
Let us with equal Arms perform the Fight,  
And let him leave to Fear, since I resign my Right.  
This said, Entellus for the Strife prepares;  
Stripped of his quilted Coat, his Body bears:  
Composed of mighty Bones and Brawn, he stands,  
A goodly towering Object on the Sands.  
Then just Aeneas equal Arms supplied,  
Which round their Shoulders to their Wrists they tied.  
Both on the tiptoe stand, at full extent,  
Their Arms aloft, their Bodies inly bend;  
Their Heads from aiming Blows they bear a far;  
With clashing Gauntlets then provoke the War.  
One on his Youth and pliant Limbs relies;  
One on his Sinews, and his Giant size.  
The last is stiff with Age, his Motion slow,  
He heaves for Breath, he staggers to and fro;  
And Clouds of issuing Smoke his Nostrils loudly blow.  
Yet equal in Success, they ward, they strike;  
Their ways are different, but their Art alike.  
Before, behind, the blows are dealt; around  
Their hollow sides the rattling Thumps resound.  
A Storm of Strokes, well meant, with fury flies,  
And errs about their Temples, Ears, and Eyes.  
Nor always errs; for oft the Gauntlet draws  
A sweeping stroke, along the crackling Jaws.   

To Henry St John of Lydiard Tregoz Esqr.  
A 5. l: 590.   

Heavy with Age, Entellus stands his Ground,  
But with his warping Body wards the Wound.  
His Hand, and watchful Eye keep even pace;  
While Dares traverses, and shifts his place.  
And like a Captain, who beleaguers round,  
Some strong built Castle, on a rising Ground,  
Views all th' approaches with observing Eyes,  
This, and that other part, in vain he tries;  
And more on Industry, than Force relies.  
With Hands on high, Entellus threats the Foe;  
But Dares watched the Motion from below,  
And slipped aside, and shunned the long descending Blow.  
Entellus wastes his Forces on the Wind;  
And thus deluded of the Struck designed,  
Headlong, and heavy fell: his ample Breast,  
And weighty Limbs, his ancient Mother pressed.  
So falls a hollow Pine, that long had stood  
On Ida's height, or Erymanthus Wood,  
Torn from the Roots: the differing Nations rise,  
And Shouts, and mingled Murmurs, rend the Skies.  
Acestes runs, with eager haste, to raise  
The fallen Companion of his youthful Days:  
Dauntless he rose, and to the Fight returned:  
With shame his glowing Cheeks, his Eyes with fury burned.  
Disdain, and conscious Virtue fired his Breast;  
And with redoubled Force his Foe he pressed.  
He lays on load with either Hand, amain,  
And headlong drives the Trojan o'er the Plain.  
Nor stops, nor stays; nor rest, nor Breath allows,  
But Storms of Strokes descend about his Brows;  
A rattling Tempest, and a Hail of Blows.  
But now the Prince, who saw the wild Increase  
Of Wounds, commands the Combatants to cease:  
And bounds Entellus Wrath, and bids the Peace.  
First to the Trojan spent with Toil he came,  
And soothed his Sorrow for the suffered Shame.  
What Fury seized my Friend, the Gods, said he,  
To him propitious, and averse to thee,  
Have given his Arm superior Force to thine;  
'Tis Madness to contend with Strength Divine.  
The Gauntlet Fight thus ended, from the Shore,  
His faithful Friends unhappy Dares bore:  
His Mouth and Nostrils, poured a Purple Flood;  
And pounded Teeth, came rushing with his Blood.  
Faintly he staggered thro' the hissing Throng;  
And hung his Head, and trailed his Legs along.  
The Sword and Casque, are carried by his Train;  
But with his Foe the Palm and Ox remain.   

The Champion, then, before Aeneas came,  
Proud of his Prize; but prouder of his Fame;  
O Goddess-born, and you Dardanian Host,  
Mark with Attention, and forgive my Boast:  
Learn what I was, by what remains; and know  
From what impending Fate, you saved my Foe.  
Sternly he spoke; and then confronts the Bull;  
And, on his ample Forehead, aiming full,  
The deadly Stroke descending, pierced the Skull.  
Down drops the Beast; nor needs a second Wound:  
But sprawls in pangs of Death; and spurns the Ground.  
Then, thus: In Dares stead I offer this;  
Eryx, accept a nobler Sacrifice:  
Take the last Gift my withered Arms can yield,  
Thy Gauntlets I resign; and here renounce the Field.   

This done, Aeneas orders, for the close,  
The strife of Archers, with contending Bows.  
The Mast, Sergesthus shattered Galley bore,  
With his own Hands, he raises on the Shore.   

To Stephen Waller Dr: of Laws  
A 5. l. 645.   
A fluttering Dove upon the Top they tie,  
The living Mark, at which their Arrows fly.  
The rival Archers in a Line advance;  
Their turn of Shooting to receive from Chance.  
A Helmet holds their Names: The Lots are drawn,  
On the first Scroll was read Hippocoon:  
The People shout; upon the next was found  
Young Mnestheus, late with Naval Honours crowned.  
The third contained Eurytion's Noble Name,  
Thy Brother, Pandarus, and next in Fame:  
Whom Pallas urged the Treaty to confound,  
And send among the Greeks a feathered Wound.  
Acestes in the bottom, last remained;  
Whom not his Age from Youthful Sports restrained.  
Soon, all with Vigour bend their trusty Bows,  
And from the Quiver each his Arrow chose,  
Hippocoon's was the first: with forceful sway  
It flew, and, whizzing, cut the liquid way:  
Fixed in the Mast the feathered Weapon stands,  
The fearful Pigeon flutters in her Bands;  
And the Tree trembled: and the shouting Cries  
Of the pleased People, rend the vaulted Skies.  
Then Mnestheus to the head his Arrow drove,  
With lifted Eyes; and took his Aim above;  
But made a glancing Shot, and missed the Dove.  
Yet missed so narrow, that he cut the Cord  
Which fastened, by the Foot, the flitting Bird.  
The Captive thus released, away she flies,  
And beats with clapping Wings, the yielding Skies.  
His Bow already bend, Eurytion stood,  
And having first invoked his Brother God,  
His winged Shaft with eager haste he sped;  
The fatal Message reached her as she fled:  
She leaves her Life aloft, she strikes the Ground;  
And renders back the Weapon in the Wound.  
Acestes grudging at his Lot, remains,  
Without a Prize to gratify his Pains.  
Yet shooting upward, sends his Shaft, to show  
An Archer's Art, and boast his twanging Bow.  
The pointed Arrow gave a dire Portent;  
And latter Augurs judge from this Event.  
Chafed by the speed, it fired; and as it flew,  
A Trail of following Flames, ascending drew:  
Kindling they mount; and mark the shiny Way:  
Across the Skies as falling Meteors play,  
And vanish into Wind; or in a Blaze decay.  
The Trojans and Sicilians wildly stare:  
And trembling, turn their Wonder into Prayer.  
The Dardan Prince put on a smiling Face,  
And strained Acestes with a close Embrace:  
Then honouring him with Gifts above the rest,  
Turned the bad Omen, nor his Fears confessed.  
The Gods, said he, this Miracle have wrought;  
And ordered you the Prize without the Lot.  
Accept this Goblet rough with figured Gold,  
Which Thracian Cisseus gave my Sire of old:  
This Pledge of ancient Amity receive,  
Which to my second Sire I justly give.  
He said, and with the Trumpets chearsul sound,  
Proclaimed him Victor, and with Laurel crowned.  
Nor good Eurytion envied him the Prize;  
Tho' he transfixed the Pigeon in the Skies.  
Who cut the Line, with second Gifts was graced;  
The third was his, whose Arrow pierced the Mast.  
The Chief, before the Games were wholly done,  
Called Periphantes, Tutor to his Son;  
And whispered thus; with speed Ascanius find,  
And if his Childish Troop be ready joined;  
On Horseback let him grace his Grandsire's Day,  
And lead his Equals armed, in just Array.  
He said, and calling out, the Cirque he clears;  
The Crowd withdrawn, an open Plain appears.  
And now the Noble Youths, of Form Divine,  
Advance before their Fathers, in a Line:  
The Rider's grace the Steeds; the Steeds with Glory shine.  
Thus marching on, in Military Pride,  
Shouts of Applause resound from side to fide.  
Their Casques, adorned with Laurel Wreaths, they wear.  
Each brandishing aloft a Cornel Spear.  
Some at their Backs their guilded Quivers bore;  
Their Chains of burnished Gold hung down before.  
Three graceful Troops they formed upon the Green;  
Three graceful Leaders at their Head were seen;  
Twelve followed every Chief, and left a Space between.  
The first young Priam led; a lovely Boy,  
Whose Grandsire was th' unhappy King of Troy:  
His Race in after times was known to Fame,  
New Honours adding to the Latian Name;  
And well the Royal Boy his Thracian Steed became.  
White were the Fetlocks of his Feet before;  
And on his Front a snowy Star he bore:  
Then beauteous Atys, with julus' bred,  
Of equal Age, the second Squadron led.  
The last in Order, but the first in place,  
First in the lovely Features of his Face;  
Road fair Ascanius on a fiery Steed,  
Queen Dido's Gift, and of the Tyrian breed.  
Sure Coursers for the rest the King ordains;  
With Golden Bits adorned, and Purple Reins.  

The pleased Spectators peals of Shouts renew;  
And all the Parents in the Children view:  
Their Make, their Motions, and their sprightly Grace;  
And Hopes and Fears alternate in their Face.   

Th' unfledged Commanders, and their Martial Train,  
First make the Circuit of the sandy Plain,  
Around their Sires: And at th' appointed Sign,  
Drawn up in beauteous Order form a Line:  
The second Signal sounds; the Troop divides,  
In three distinguished parts, with three distinguished Guides.  
Again they close, and once again dis-join,  
In Troop to Troop opposed, and Line to Line.  
They meet, they wheel, they throw their Darts afar  
With harmless Rage, and well dissembled War.  
Then in a round the mingled Bodies run;  
Flying they follow, and pursuing shun.  
Broken they break, and rallying, they renew  
In other Forms the Military show.  
At last, in order, undiscerned they join;  
And march together, in a friendly Line.  
And, as the Cretan Labyrinth of old,  
With wandering Ways, and many a winding fold,  
Involved the weary Feet, without redress,  
In a round Error, which denied recess;  
So fought the Trojan Boys in warlike Play,  
Turned, and returned, and still a different way.  
Thus Dolphins, in the Deep, each other chase,  
In Circles, when they swim around the wat'ry Race.  
This Game, these Carousels Ascanius taught;  
And, building Alba, to the Latins brought.  
Showed what he learned: The Latin Sires impart,  
To their succeeding Sons, the graceful Art:  
From these Imperial Rome received the Game;  
Which Troy, the Youths the Trojan Troop, they name.   

To the most Illustrious Prince William Duke of Gloucester & ct.  
A 5. l. 7●●.   

Thus far the sacred Sports they celebrate:  
But Fortune soon resumed her ancient hate.  
For while they pay the dead his Annual deuce,  
Those envied Rites Saturnian Juno views.  
And sends the Goddess of the various bow,  
To try new Methods of Revenge below:  
Supplies the Winds to wing her Airy way;  
Where in the Port secure the Navy lay.  
Swiftly fair Iris down her Arch descends;  
And undiscerned her fatal Voyage ends.  
She saw the gathering Crowd; and gliding thence,  
The desert Shore, and Fleet without defence.  
The Trojan Matrons on the Sands alone,  
With Sighs and Tears, Anchises death bemoan.  
Then, turning to the Sea their weeping Eyes,  
Their pity to themselves, renews their Cries.  
Alas! said one, what Oceans yet remain  
For us to sail; what Labours to sustain!  
All take the Word; and with a gen'ral groan,  
Implore the Gods for Peace; and Places of their own.  
The Goddess, great in Mischief, views their pains;  
And in a Woman's Form her heavenly Limbs restrains.  
In Face and Shape, old Beroe she became,  
Doriclus Wife, a venerable Dame;  
Once blessed with Riches, and a Mother's Name.  
Thus changed, amidst the crying Crowed she ran,  
Mixed with the Matrons, and these words began.  
O wretched we, whom not the Grecian Power,  
Nor Flames destroyed, in Troy's unhappy hour!  
O wretched we, reserved by Cruel Fate,  
Beyond the Ruins of the sinking State!  
Now seven revolving Years are wholly run,  
Since this improsp'rous Voyage we begun:  
Since tossed from Shores to Shores, from Lands to Lands,  
Inhospitable Rocks and barren Sands;  
Wandering in Exile, through the stormy Sea,  
We search in vain for flying Italy.  
Now Cast by Fortune on this kindred Land,  
What should our Rest, and rising Walls withstand,  
Or hinder here to fix our banished Band?  
O, Country lost, and Gods redeemed in vain,  
If still in endless Exile we remain!  
Shall we no more the Trojan Walls renew,  
Or Streams of some dissembled Simois view!  
Haste, join with me, th' unhappy Fleet consume:  
Cassandra bids, and I declare her doom.  
In sleep I saw her; she supplied my hands,  
(For this I more than dreamt) with flaming Brands:  
With these, said she, these wandering Ships destroy;  
These are your fatal Seats, and this your Troy.  
Time calls you now, the precious Hour employ.  
Slack not the good Presage, while Heaven inspires  
Our Minds to dare, and gives the ready Fires.  
See Neptune's Altars minister their Brands;  
The God is pleased; the God supplies our hands.  
Then, from the Pile, a flaming Fir she drew,  
And, tossed in Air, amidst the Galleys threw.  
Wrapped in a maze, the Matrons wildly stare:  
Then Pyrgo, reverenced for her hoary Hair,  
Pyrgo, the Nurse of Priam's numerous Race,  
No Beroe this, though she belies her Face:  
What Terrors from her frowning Front arise;  
Behold a Goddess in her ardent Eyes!  
What Rays around her heavenly Face are seen,  
Mark her Majestic Voice, and more than mortal Mien!  
Beroe but now I left; whom pined with pain,  
Her Age and Anguish from these Rites detain.  
She said; the Matrons, seized with new Amaze,  
Rowl their malignant Eyes, and on the Navy gaze.  
They fear, and hope, and neither part obey:  
They hope the fated Land, but fear the fatal Way.  
The Goddess, having done her Task below,  
Mounts up on equal Wings, and bends her painted Bow.  
Struck with the sight, and seized with Rage Divine;  
The Matrons prosecute their mad Design:  
They shriek aloud, they snatch, with Impious Hands,  
The food of Altars, Firs, and flaming Brands.  
Green Leaves, and Saplings, mingled in their haste;  
And smoking Torches on the Ships they cast.  
The Flame, unstopped at first, more Fury gains;  
And Vulcan rides at large with loosened Reins:  
Triumphant to the painted Sterns he soars,  
And seizes in his way, the Banks, and crackling Oars.  
Eumelus was the first, the News to bear,  
While yet they crowd the Rural Theatre.  
Then what they hear, is witnessed by their Eyes;  
A storm of Sparkles, and of Flames arise.  
Ascanius took th' Alarm, while yet he led  
His early Warriors on his prancing Steed.  
And spurring on, his Equals soon o'repassed,  
Nor could his frighted Friends reclaim his haste.  
Soon as the Royal Youth appeared in view,  
He sent his Voice before him as he flew;  
What Madness moves you, Matrons, to destroy  
The last Remainders of unhappy Troy!  
Not hostile Fleets, but your own hopes you burn,  
And on your Friends, your fatal Fury turn.  
Behold your own Ascanius: while he said,  
He drew his glittering Helmet from his Head;  
In which the Youths to sportful Arms he led.  
By this, Aeneas and his Train appear;  
And now the Women, seized with Shame and Fear,  
Dispersed, to Woods and Caverns take their Flight;  
Abhor their Actions, and avoid the Light:  
Their Friends acknowledge, and their Error find;  
And shake the Goddess from their altered Mind.  
Not so the raging Fires their Fury cease;  
But lurking in the Seams, with seeming Peace,  
Work on their way, amid the smouldering Tow,  
Sure in Destruction, but in Motion slow.  
The silent Plague, through the green Timber eats,  
And vomits out a tardy Flame, by fits.  
Down to the Keels, and upward to the Sails,  
The Fire descends, or mounts; but still prevails:  
Nor Buckets poured, nor strength of Human Hand,  
Can the victorious Element withstand.  
The Pious Hero rends his Robe, and throws  
To Heaven his Hands, and with his Hands his Vows.  
O Jove, he cried, if Prayers can yet have place;  
If thou abhorr'st not all the Dardan Race;  
If any spark of Pity still remain;  
If Gods are Gods, and not invoked in vain;  
Yet spare the Relics of the Trojan Train.  
Yet from the Flames our burning Vessels free:  
Or let thy Fury fall alone on me.  
At this devoted Head thy Thunder throw,  
And send the willing Sacrifice below.  
Scarce had he said, when Southern Storms arise,  
From Pole to Pole, the forky Lightning flies;  
Loud rattling shakes the Mountains, and the Plain:  
Heaven bellies downward, and descends in Rain.  
Whole Sheets of Water from the Clouds are sent,  
Which hissing through the Planks, the Flames prevent:  
And stop the fiery Pest: Four Ships alone  
Burn to the waist; and for the Fleet atone.  
But doubtful thoughts the Hero's Heart divide;  
If he should still in Sicily reside,  
Forgetful of his Fates; or tempt the Main,  
In hope the promised Italy to gain.  
Then Nautes, old, and wise, to whom alone  
The Will of Heaven, by Pallas was fore-shown;  
Versed in Portents, experienced and inspired,  
To tell Events, and what the Fates required:  
Thus while he stood, to neither part inclined,  
With cheerful Words relieved his labouring Mind.  
O Goddess-born, resigned in every state,  
With Patience bear, with Prudence push your Fate.  
By suffering well, our Fortune we subdue;  
Fly when she frowns, and when she calls pursue.  
Your Friend Acestes is of Trojan Kind,  
To him disclose the Secrets of your Mind:  
Trust in his Hands your old and useless Train,  
Too numerous for the Ships which yet remain:  
The feeble, old, indulgent of their Ease,  
The Dames who dread the Dangers of the Seas,  
With all the dastard Crew, who dare not stand  
The shock of Battle with your Foes by Land;  
Here you may build a common Town for all;  
And from Acestes name, Acesta call.  
The Reasons, with his Friend's Experience joined,  
Encouraged much, but more disturbed his Mind.  
'Twas dead of Night; when to his slumbering Eyes,  
His Father's Shade descended from the Skies;  
And thus he spoke: O more than vital Breath  
Loved while I lived, and dear even after Death;  
O Son, in various Toils and Troubles tossed,  
The King of Heaven employs my careful Ghost  
On his Commands; the God who saved from Fire  
Your flaming Fleet, and heard your just desire:  
The Wholesome Counsel of your Friend receive;  
And here, the Coward Train, and Women leave:  
The chosen Youth, and those who nobly dare,  
Transport; to tempt the Dangers of the War.  
The stern Italians will their Courage try;  
Rough are their Manners, and their Minds are high.  
But first to Pluto's Palace you shall go,  
And seek my Shade among the blessed below.  
For not with impious Ghosts my Soul remains,  
Nor suffers, with the Damned, perpetual Pains;  
But breathes the living Air of soft Elysian Plains.  
The chaste Sibylla shall your steps convey;  
And Blood of offered Victims free the way.  
There shall you know what Realms the Gods assign;  
And learn the Fates and Fortunes of your Line.  
But now, farewell; I vanish with the Night;  
And feel the blast of heavens approaching Light:  
He said, and mixed with Shades, and took his airy flight.  
Whether so fast, the filial Duty cried,  
And why, ah why, the wished Embrace denied!  
He said, and rose: as holy Zeal inspires  
He rakes hot Embers, and renews the Fires.  
His Country Gods and Vesta, then adores  
With Cakes and Incense; and their Aid implores.  
Next, for his Friends, and Royal Host he sent,  
Revealed his Vision and the God's intent,  
With his own Purpose: All, without delay,  
The Will of Jove, and his Desires obey.  
They list with Women each degenerate Name,  
Who dares not hazard Life, for future Fame.  
These they cashier; the brave remaining few,  
Oars, Banks, and Cables half consumed renew.  
The Prince designs a City with the Plough;  
The Lots their several Tenements allow.  
This part is named from Ilium, that from Troy;  
And the new King ascends the Throme with Joy.  
A chosen Senate from the People draws;  
Appoints the Judges, and ordains the Laws.  
Then on the top of Eryx, they begin  
To raise a Temple to the Paphian Queen:  
Anchises, last, is honoured as a God,  
A Priest is added, annual Gifts bestowed;  
And Groves are planted round his blessed Abode,  
Nine days they pass in Feasts, their Temples crowned;  
And fumes of Incense in the Fanes abound.  
Then, from the South arose a genntle Breeze,  
That curled the smoothness of the glassy Seas:  
The rising Winds, a ruffling Gale afford,  
And call the merry Mariners aboard.   

Now loud Laments along the Shores resound,  
Of parting Friends in close Embraces bound.  
The trembling Women, the degenerate Train,  
Who shunned the frightful dangers of the Main;  
Even those desire to fail, and take their share  
Of the rough Passage, and the promised War.  
Whom Good Aeneas cheers; and recommends  
To their new Master's Care, his fearful Friends.  
On Eryx Altars three sat Calves he lays;  
A Lamb new fallen to the stormy Seas;  
Then flips his Haulsers, and his Anchors weighs.  
High on the Deck, the Godlike Hero stands;  
With Olive crowned; a Charger in his Hands;  
Then cast the reeking Entrails in the brine,  
And poured the Sacrifice of Purple Wine.  
Fresh Gales arise, with equal Strokes they vie,  
And brush the buxom Seas, and o'er the Billows fly.   

Mean time the Mother-Goddess, full of Fears,  
To Neptune thus addressed, with tender Tears.  
The Pride of Jove's Imperious Queen, the Rage,  
The malice which no Sufferings can assuage,  
Compel me to these Prayers: Since neither Fate,  
Nor Time, nor Pity, can remove her hate.  
Even Jove is thwarted by his haughty Wife;  
Still vanquished, yet she still renews the Strife.  
As if 'twere little to consume the Town  
Which awed the World; and wore th' Imperial Crown:  
She prosecutes the Ghost of Troy with Pains;  
And gnaws, even to the Bones, the last Remains.  
Let her the Causes of her Hatred tell;  
But you can witness its Effects too well.  
You saw the Storm she raised on Lybian Floods,  
That mixed the mounting Billows with the Clouds.  
When, bribing Aeolus, she shook the Main;  
And moved Rebellion in your wat'ry Reign.  
With Fury she possessed the Dardan Dames;  
To burn their Fleet with execrable Flames.  
And forced Aeneas, when his Ships were lost,  
To leave his Followers on a Foreign Coast.  
For what remains, your Godhead I implore;  
And trust my Son to your protecting Power.  
If neither Jove's, nor Fate's decree withstand,  
Secure his Passage to the Latian Land.   

Then thus the mighty Ruler of the Main,  
What may not Venus hope, from Neptune's Reign?  
My Kingdom claims your Birth: my late Defence  
Of your endangered Fleet, may claim your Confidence.  
Nor less by Land than Sea, my Deeds declare,  
How much your loved Aeneas is my Care.  
Thee Xanthus, and thee Simois I attest:  
Your Trojan Troops, when proud Achilles pressed,   

To Edmond Waller of Beacon's Field in the County of Bucks Esq  
A 5. l. 1075   

And drove before him headlong on the Plain  
And dashed against the Walls the trembling T●●●●  
When Floods were filled with bodies of the slain.  
When Crimson Xanthus, doubtful of his way,  
Stood up on ridges to behold the Sea;  
New heaps came tumbling in, and choked his way:  
When your Aeneas fought, but fought with odds  
Of Force unequal, and unequal Gods;  
I spread a Cloud before the Victor's sight,  
Sustained the vanquished, and secured his flight.  
Even then secured him, when I sought with joy  
The vowed destruction of ungrateful Troy.  
My Will's the same: Fair Goddess fear no more,  
Your Fleet shall safely gain the Latian Shore:  
Their lives are given; one destined Head alone  
Shall perish, and for Multitudes atone.  
Thus having armed with Hopes her anxious Mind,  
His finny Team Saturnian Neptune joined.  
Then, adds the foamy Bridle to their Jaws;  
And to the loosened Reins permits the Laws.  
High on the Waves his Azure Car he guides,  
Its Axles' thunder, and the Sea subsides;  
And the smooth Ocean rowls her silent Tides.  
The Tempests fly before their Father's face,  
Trains of inferior Gods his Triumph grace;  
And Monster Whales before their Master play,  
And Quires of Tritons crowd the wat'ry way.  
The Martial'd Powers, in equal Troops divide,  
To right and left: the Gods his better side  
Inclose, and on the worse the Nymphs and Nereids ride.   

Now smiling Hope, with sweet Vicissitude,  
Within the Hero's Mind, his Joys renewed.  
He calls to raise the Masts, the Sheats display;  
The Cheerful Crew with diligence obey;  
They scud before the Wind, and sail in open Sea.  
A Head of all the Master Pilot steers,  
And as he leads, the following Navy veers.  
The Steeds of Night had travelled half the Sky,  
The drowsy Rowers on their Benches lie;  
When the soft God of Sleep, with easy flight,  
Descends, and draws behind a trail of Light.  
Thou Palinurus art his destined Prey;  
To thee alone he takes his fatal way.  
Dire Dreams to thee, and Iron Sleep he bears;  
And lighting on thy Prow, the Form of Phorbas wears.  
Then thus the Traitor God began his Tale:  
The Winds, my Friend, inspire a pleasing gale;  
The Ships, without thy Care, securely sail.  
Now steal an hour of sweet Repose; and I  
Will take the Rudder, and thy room supply.  
To whom the yawning Pilot, half asleep;  
Me dost thou bid to trust the treacherous Deep!  
The Harlot-smiles of her dissembling Face,  
And to her Faith commit the Trojan Race?  
Shall I believe the Siren South again,  
And, oft betrayed, not know the Monster Main?  
He said, his fastened hands the Rudder keep,  
And fixed on Heaven, his Eyes repel invading Sleep.  
The God was wroth, and at his Temples threw  
A Branch in Lethe dipped, and drunk with Stygian Dew:  
The Pilot, vanquished by the Power Divine,  
Soon closed his swimming Eyes, and lay supine.  
Scarce were his Limbs extended at their length,  
The God, insulting with superior Strength,  
Fell heavy on him, plunged him in the Sea,  
And, with the Stern, the Rudder tore away.  
Headlong he fell, and struggling in the Main,  
Cried out for helping hands, but cried in vain:  
The Victor Daemon mounts obscure in Air;  
While the Ship sails without the Pilot's care.  
On Neptune's Faith the floating Fleet relies;  
But what the Man forsook, the God supplies;  
And o'er the dangerous Deep secure the Navy flies.  
Glides by the Syren's Cliffs, a shelfy Coast,  
Long infamous for Ships, and Sailors lost;  
And white with Bones: Th' impetuous Ocean roars;  
And Rocks rebellow from the sounding Shores.  
The watchful Hero felt the knocks; and found  
The tossing Vessel sailed on shoaly Ground.  
Sure of his Pilot's loss, he takes himself  
The Helm, and steers aloof, and shuns the Shelf.  
Inly he grieved; and groaning from his Breast,  
Deplored his Death; and thus his Pain expressed:  
For Faith reposed on Seas, and on the flattering Sky,  
Thy naked Corpse is doomed, on Shore's unknown to lie.    

The Sixth Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
The Sibyl foretells Aeneas the Adventures he should meet with in Italy. She attends him to Hell; describing to him the various Scenes of that Place, and conducting him to his Father Anchises. Who instructs him in those sublime Mysteries of the Soul of the World, and the Transmigration: And shows him that glorious Race of Heroes, which was to descend from him, and his Posterity.  

HE said, and wept: Then spread his Sails before  
The Winds, and reached at length the Cuman Shore:  
Their Anchors dropped, his Crew the Vessels moor.  
They turn their Heads to Sea; their Sterns to Land;  
And greet with greedy Joy th' Italian Strand.  
Some strike from clashing Flints their fiery Seed;  
Some gather Sticks, the kindled Flames to feed:  
Or search for hollow Trees, and fell the Woods,  
Or trace thro' Valleys the discovered Floods.  
Thus, while their several Charges they fulfil,  
The Pious Prince ascends the sacred Hill  
Where Phoebus is adored; and seeks the Shade,  
Which hides from sight, his venerable Maid.  
Deep in a Cave the Sibyl makes abode;  
Thence full of Fate returns, and of the God.  
Thro Trivia's Grove they walk; and now behold,  
And enter now, the Temple roofed with Gold.  
When Dedalus, to shun the Cretan Shore,  
His heavy Limbs on jointed Pinions bore,  
(The first who sailed in Air,) 'tis sung by Fame,  
To the Cumaean Coast at length he came;  
And, here alighting, built this costly Frame.   

To the Right Hon ble Basil Earl of Denbigh Vis-count Fielding Baron Newenham Padox & St Lis  
A 6. l. ●   

Inscribed to Phoebus, here he hung on high  
The steerage of his Wings, that cut the Sky:  
Then o'er the lofty Gate his Art embossed  
Androgeos Death, and Offerings to his Ghost.  
seven Youths from Athens yearly sent, to meet  
The Fate appointed by revengeful Crect.  
And next to these the dreadful Urn was placed,  
In which the destined Name by Lots were cast:  
The mournful Parents stand around in Tears;  
And rising Crect against their Shore appears.  
There too, in living Sculpture, might be seen  
The mad Affection of the Cretan Queen:  
Then how she cheats her bellowing Lover's Eye:  
The rushing leap, the doubtful Progeny,  
The lower part a Beast, a Man above,  
The Monument of their polluted Love.  
Nor far from thence he graved the wondrous Maze;  
A thousand Doors, a thousand winding Ways;  
Here dwells the Monster, hid from Human View,  
Not to be found, but by the faithful Clue:  
Till the kind Artist, moved with Pious Grief,  
Lent to the loving Maid this last Relief.  
And all those erring Paths described so well,  
That Theseus conquered, and the Monster fell.  
Here hapless Icarus had found his part;  
Had not the Father's Grief restrained his Art.  
He twice essayed to cast his Son in Gold;  
Twice from his Hands he dropped the forming Mould.   

All this with wondering Eyes Aeneas viewed:  
Each varying Object his Delight renewed.  
Prepared to read the rest, Achates came,  
And by his side the mad divining Dame;  
The Priestess of the God, Deiphobe her Name.  
Time suffers not, she said, to feed your Eyes  
With empty Pleasures: haste the Sacrifice.  
seven Bullocks yet unyoked, for Phoebus choose,  
And for Diana seven unspotted Ewes.  
This said, the Servants urge the Sacred Rites;  
While to the Temple she the Prince invites.  
A spacious Cave, within its farmost part,  
Was hewed and fashioned by laborious Art.  
Through the Hills hollow sides: Before the place,  
A hundred Doors a hundred Entries grace:  
As many Voices issue; and the sound  
Of Sibyl's Words as many times rebound.  
Now to the Mouth they come: Aloud she cries,  
This is the time, inquire your Destinies.  
He comes, behold the God Thus while she said,  
(And shivering at the sacred Entry stayed)  
Her Colour changed, her Face was not the same,  
And hollow Groans from her deep Spirit came.  
Her Hair stood up; convulsive Rage possessed  
Her trembling Limbs, and heaved her labouring Breast.  
Greater than Human Kind she seemed to look:  
And with an Accent, more than Mortal, spoke.  
Her staring Eyes with sparling Fury roll;  
When all the God came rushing on her Soul.  
Swiftly she turned, and foaming as she spoke,  
Why this Delay, she cried; the Powers invoke.  
Thy Prayers alone can open this abode,  
Else vain are my Demands, and dumb the God.  
She said no more: The trembling Trojans hear;  
O'erspread with a damp Sweat, and holy Fear.  
The Prince himself, with awful Dread possessed,  
His Vows to great Apollo thus addressed.  
Indulgent God, propitious Power to Troy,  
Swift to relieve, unwilling to destroy;  
Directed by whose Hand, the Dardan Dart  
Pierced the proud Grecian's only Mortal part:  
Thus far, by Fates Decrees, and thy Commands,  
Through ambient Seas, and through devouring Sands,  
Our exiled Crew has sought th' Ausonian Ground:  
And now, at length, the flying Coast is found.  
Thus far the Fate of Troy, from place to place,  
With Fury has pursued her wandering Race:  
Here cease ye Powers, and let your Vengeance end,  
Troy is no more, and can no more offend.  
And thou, O sacred Maid, inspired to see  
Th' Event of things in dark Futurity;  
Give me, what Heaven has promised to my Fate,  
To conquer and command the Latian State:  
To fix my wandering Gods; and find a place  
For the long Exiles of the Trojan Race.  
Then shall my grateful Hands a Temple rear  
To the twin Gods, with Vows and solemn Prayer;  
And Annual Rites, and Festivals, and Games,  
Shall be performed to their auspicious Names.  
Nor shalt thou want thy Honours in my Land,  
For there thy faithful Oracles shall stand,  
Preserved in Shrines: and every Sacred Lay,  
Which, by thy Mouth, Apollo shall convey.  
All shall be treasured, by a chosen Train  
Of holy Priests, and ever shall remain.  
But, oh! commit not thy prophetic Mind  
To flitting Leaves, the sport of every Wind:  
Lest they disperse in Air our empty Fate:  
Write not, but, what the Powers ordain, relate.   

Struggling in vain, impatient of her Load,  
And labouring underneath the ponderous God,  
The more she strove to shake him from her Breast,  
With more, and far superior Force he pressed:  
Commands his Entrance, and without Control,  
Usurps her Organs, and inspires her Soul.  
Now, with a furious Blast, the hundred Doors  
open of themselves; a rushing Wirlwind roars  
Within the Cave; and Sibyl's Voice restores.   

Escaped the Dangers of the wat'ry Reign,  
Yet more, and greater Ills, by Land remain.  
The Coast so long desired, (nor doubt th' Event)  
Thy Troops shall reach, but having reached, repent.  
Wars, horrid Wars I view; a field of Blood;  
And Tiber rolling with a Purple Flood.  
Simois nor Xanthus shall be wanting there;  
A new Achilles shall in Arms appear:  
And he, too, Goddess-born: fierce Juno's Hate,  
Added to hostile Force, shall urge thy Fate.  
To what strange Nations shalt not thou resort,  
Driven to solicit Aid at every Court!  
The Cause the same which Ilium once oppressed,  
A foreign Mistress, and a foreign Guest.  
But thou, secure of Soul, unbent with Woes,  
The more thy Fortune frowns, the more oppose.  
The dawnings of thy Safety, shall be shown,  
From whence thou lest shalt hope, a Grecian Town.   

Thus, from the dark Recess, the Sibyl spoke,  
And the resisting Air the Thunder broke;  
The Cave rebellowed; and the Temple shook.  
Th' ambiguous God, who ruled her labouring Breast,  
In these mysterious Words his Mind expressed:  
Some Truths revealed, in Terms involved the rest.  
At length her Fury fell; her foaming ceased,  
And, ebbing in her Soul, the God decreased.  
Then thus the Chief: no Terror to my view,  
No frightful Face of Danger can be new.   

To Sr Fleetwood Sheppard Knight, Gent: Usher of the Black-will Rod  
A ● l. 150.   

Inur'd to suffer, and resolved to dare,  
The Fates, without my Power, shall be without my Care.  
This let me crave, since near your Grove the Road  
To Hell lies open, and the dark Abode,  
Which Acheron surrounds, th' innavigable Flood:  
Conduct me through the Regions void of Light,  
And lead me longing to my Father's sight.  
For him, a thousand Dangers I have sought;  
And, rushing where the thickest Grecians fought,  
Safe on my Back the sacred Burden brought.  
He, for my sake, the raging Ocean tried,  
And Wrath of Heaven; my still auspicious Guide,  
And bore beyond the strength decrepit Age supplied.  
Oft since he breathed his last, in dead of Night,  
His reverend Image stood before my sight;  
Enjoined to seek below, his holy Shade;  
Conducted there, by your unerring aid.  
But you, if pious Minds by Prayers are won,  
Oblige the Father, and protect the Son.  
Yours is the Power; nor Proserpina in vain  
Has made you Priestess of her nightly Reign.  
If Orpheus, armed with his enchanting Lyre,  
The ruthless King with Pity could inspire;  
And from the Shades below redeem his Wife:  
If Pollux, offering his alternate Life,  
Could free his Brother; and can daily go  
By turns aloft, by turns descend below:  
Why name I Theseus, or his greater Friend,  
Who trod the downward Path, and upward could ascend!  
Not less than theirs, from Jove my Lineage came:  
My Mother greater, my Descent the same.  
So prayed the Trojan Prince; and while he prayed  
His Hand upon the holy Altar laid.  
Then thus replied the Prophetess Divine:  
O Goddess born! of Great Anchises Line;  
The Gates of Hell are open Night and day;  
Smooth the Descent, and easy is the Way:  
But, to return, and view the cheerful Skies;  
In this the Task, and mighty Labour lies.  
To few great Jupiter imparts this Grace:  
And those of shining Worth, and Heavenly Race.  
Betwixt those Regions, and our upper Light,  
Deep Forests, and impenetrable Night  
Possess the middle space: Th' Infernal Bounds  
Cocytus, with his sable Waves, surrounds.  
But if so dire a Love your Soul invades;  
As twice below to view the trembling Shades;  
If you so hard a Toil will undertake,  
As twice to pass th' innavigable Lake;  
Receive my Counsel. In the Neighbouring Grove  
There stands a Tree; the Queen of Stygian Jove  
Claims it her own; thick Woods, and gloomy Night,  
Conceal the happy Plant from Humane sight.  
One Bough it bears; but, wondrous to behold;  
The ductile Rind, and Leaves, of Radiant Gold:  
This, from the vulgar Branches must be torn,  
And to fair Proserpina, the Present born:  
ere leave be given to tempt the nether Skies:  
The first thus rend, a second will arise;  
And the same Metal the same room supplies.  
Look round the Wood, with lifted Eyes, to see  
The lurking Gold upon the fatal Tree:  
Then rend it off, as holy Rites command:  
The willing Metal will obey thy hand,  
Following with ease, if, favoured by thy Fate,  
Thou art foredoomed to view the Stygian State:  
If not, no labour can the Tree constrain:  
And strength of stubborn Arms, and Steel are vain.  
Besides, you know not, while you here attend  
Th' unworthy Fate of your unhappy Friend:  
Breathless he lies: And his unburied Ghost,  
Deprived of Funeral Rites, pollutes your Host.  
Pay first his Pious Deuce: And for the dead,  
Two sable Sheep around his Hearse be led.  
Then, living Turfs upon his Body lay;  
This done, securely take the destined Way,  
To find the Regions destitute of Day.  
She said: and held her Peace. Aeneas went  
Sad from the Cave, and full of Discontent;  
Unknowing whom the sacred Sibyl meant.  
Achates, the Companion of his Breast,  
Goes grieving by his side; with equal Cares oppressed.  
Walking, they talked, and fruitlessly divined  
What Friend, the Priestess by those Words designed.  
But soon they found an Object to deplore;  
Misenus lay extended on the Shore.  
Son to the God of Winds; none so renowned,  
The Warrior Trumpet in the Field to sound:  
With breathing Brass to kindle fierce Alarms;  
And rouse to dare their Fate, in honourable Arms.  
He served great Hector; and was ever near;  
Not with his Trumpet only, but his Spear.  
But, by Pelides Arms, when Hector fell,  
He chose Aeneas, and he chose as well.  
Swollen with Applause, and aiming still at more,  
He now provokes the Sea Gods from the Shore;  
With Envy Triton heard the Martial sound,  
And the bold Champion, for his Challenge, drowned.  
Then cast his mangled Carcase on the Strand▪  
The gazing Crowd around the Body stand.  
All weep, but most Aeneas mourns his Fate;  
And hastens to perform the Funeral state.  
In Altarwise, a stately Pile they rear;  
The Basis broad below, and top advanced in Air.  
An ancient Wood, fit for the Work designed,  
(The shady Covert of the Savage Kind)  
The Trojans found: The sounding Axe is plied:  
Firs, Pines, and Pitch-Trees, and the towering Pride  
Of Forest Ashes, feel the fatal Stroke:  
And piercing Wedges cleave the stubborn Oak.  
Huge Trunks of Trees, felled from the steepy Crown  
Of the bare Mountains, roll with Ruin down.  
Armed like the rest the Trojan Prince appears:  
And, by his pious Labour, urges theirs.  
Thus while he wrought, revolving in his Mind,  
The ways to compass what his Wish designed,  
He cast his Eyes upon the gloomy Grove;  
And then with Vows implored the Queen of Love.  
O may thy Power, propitious still to me,  
Conduct my steps to find the fatal Tree,  
In this deep Forest; since the Sibyl's Breath  
Foretold, alas! too true, Misenus Death.  
Scarce had he said, when full before his sight  
Two Doves, descending from their Airy Flight,  
Secure upon the grassy Plain alight.  
He knew his Mother's Birds: and thus he prayed:  
Be you my Guides, with your auspicious Aid:  
And lead my Footsteps, till the Branch be found,  
Whose glittering Shadow guilds the sacred Ground:  
And thou, great Parent! with Celestial Care,  
In this Distress, be present to my Prayer.  
Thus having said, he stopped: With watchful sight,  
Observing still the motions of their Flight.   

To Sr: r: Tho: Dyke of Horeham in the County of Sussex Bart:  
A 6. l. 280   

To M rs: Anne Baynard Daughter of Dr. Edn d: Baynard of the Family of Leckham in the County of Wilts  
A 6. l 31●   

What course they took, what happy Signs they show.  
They fed, and fluttering by degrees, withdrew  
Still farther from the Place; but still in view.  
hoping, and flying, thus they led him on  
To the slow Lake; whose baleful Stench to shun,  
They winged their Flight aloft; then, stooping low,  
Perched on the double Tree, that bears the golden Bough.  
Through the green Leaves the glittering Shadows glow;  
As on the sacred Oak, the wintry Misleto:  
Where the proud Mother views her precious Brood;  
And happier Branches, which she never sowed.  
Such was the glitt'ring; such the ruddy Rind,  
And dancing Leaves, that wantoned in the Wind.  
He seized the shining Bough with griping hold;  
And rend away, with ease, the lingering Gold.  
Then, to the Sibyl's Palace bore the Prize.  
Mean time, the Trojan Troops, with weeping Eyes,  
To dead Misenus pay his Obsequies.  
First, from the Ground, a lofty Pile they rear,  
Of Pitch-trees, Oaks, and Pines, and unctuous Fir:  
The Fabrick's Front with Cypress Twigs they strew;  
And stick the sides with Boughs of baleful Yeugh.  
The topmost part, his glittering Arms adorn;  
Warm Waters, then, in brazen Caldrons born,  
Are poured to wash his Body, Joint by Joint:  
And fragrant Oils the stiffened Limbs anoint.  
With Groans and Cries Misenus they deplore:  
Then on a Bier, with Purple covered o'er,  
The breathless Body, thus bewailed, they lay:  
And fire the Pile, their Faces turned away:  
(Such reverend Rites their Fathers used to pay.)  
Pure Oil, and Incense, on the Fire they throw:  
And Fat of Victims, which his Friends bestow.  
These Gifts, the greedy Flames to Dust devour;  
Then, on the living Coals, red Wine they pour:  
And last, the Relics by themselves dispose;  
Which in a brazen Urn the Priests enclose.  
Old Chorineus compassed thrice the Crew;  
And dipped an Olive Branch in holy Dew;  
Which thrice he sprinkled round; and thrice aloud  
Invoked the dead, and then dismissed the Crowd.   

But good Aeneas ordered on the Shore  
A stately Tomb; whose top a Trumpet bore:  
A Soldiers Falchion, and a Sea-man's Oar.  
Thus was his Friend interred: And deathless Fame  
Still to the lofty Cape consigns his Name.   

These Rites performed, the Prince, without delay,  
Hastes to the nether World, his destined Way.  
Deep was the Cave; and downward as it went  
From the wide Mouth, a rocky rough Descent;  
And here th' access a gloomy Grove defends;  
And there th' unnavigable Lake extends.  
O'er whose unhappy Waters, void of Light,  
No Bird presumes to steer his Airy Flight;  
Such deadly Stenches from the depth arise,  
And steaming Sulphur, that infects the Skies.  
From hence the Grecian Bards their Legends make,  
And give the name Avernus to the Lake.  
Four sable Bullocks, in the Yoke untaught,  
For Sacrifice the pious Hero brought.  
The Priestess pours the Wine betwixt their Horns:  
Then cuts the curling Hair; that first Oblation burns.  
Invoking Hecate hither to repair;  
(A powerful Name in Hell, and upper Air.)  
The sacred Priests with ready Knives bereave  
The Beasts of Life; and in full Bowls receive  
The streaming Blood: A Lamb to Hell and Night,  
(The sable Wool without a streak of white)  
Aeneas offers: And, by Fates decree,  
A barren Heifar, Proserpina to thee.  
With Holocausts he Pluto's Altar fills:  
seven brawny Bulls with his own Hand he kills:  
Then on the broiling Entrails Oil he pours;  
Which, ointed thus, the raging Flame devours.  
Late, the Nocturnal Sacrifice begun;  
Nor ended, till the next returning Sun.  
Then Earth began to bellow, Trees to dance;  
And howling Dogs in glimmering Light advance;  
ere Hecate came: Far hence be Souls profane,  
The Sibyl cried, and from the Grove abstain.  
Now, Trojan, take the way thy Fates afford:  
Assume thy Courage, and unsheathe thy Sword.  
She said, and passed along the gloomy Space:  
The Prince pursued her Steps with equal pace.   

Ye Realms, yet unrevealed to human sight,  
Ye Gods, who rule the Regions of the Night,  
Ye gliding Ghosts, permit me to relate  
The mystic Wonders of your silent State.   

Obscure they went thro' dreary Shades, that led  
Along the waste Dominions of the dead:  
Thus wander Travellers in Woods by Night,  
By the Moon's doubtful, and malignant Light:  
When Jove in dusky Clouds involves the Skies;  
And the faint Crescent shoots by fits before their Eyes.   

Just in the Gate, and in the Jaws of Hell,  
Revengeful Cares, and sullen Sorrows dwell;  
And pale Diseases, and repining Age;  
Want, Fear, and Famine's unresisted rage.  
Here Toils, and Death, and Death's half-brother, Sleep,  
Forms terrible to view, their Sentry keep:  
With anxious Pleasures of a guilty Mind,  
Deep Frauds before, and open Force behind:  
The Furies Iron Beds, and Strife that shakes  
Her hissing Tresses, and unfolds her Snakes.  
Full in the midst of this infernal Road,  
An Elm displays her dusky Arms abroad;  
The God of Sleep there hides his heavy Head:  
And empty Dreams on every Leaf are spread.  
Of various Forms unnumbered Spectres more;  
Centaurs, and double Shapes, besiege the Door:  
Before the Passage horrid Hydra stands,  
And Briareus with all his hundred Hands:  
Gorgon's, Geryon with his triple Frame;  
And vain Chimaera vomits empty Flame.  
The Chief unsheathed his shining Steel, prepared,  
Tho seized with sudden Fear, to force the Guard.  
Offering his brandished Weapon at their Face;  
Had not the Sibyl stopped his eager Pace,  
And told him what those empty Fantomes were;  
Forms without Bodies, and impassive Air.  
Hence to deep Acheron they take their way;  
Whose troubled Eddies, thick with Ooze and Clay,  
Are whirled aloft, and in Cocytus lost:  
There Charon stands, who rules the dreary Coast:  
A sordid God; down from his hoary Chin  
A length of Beard descends; uncombed, unclean:  
His Eyes, like hollow Furnaces on Fire:  
A Girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene Attire.  
He spreads his Canvas, with his Pole he steers;  
The Freights of flitting Ghosts in his thin Bottom beats.  
He looked in Years; yet in his Years were seen  
A youthful Vigour, and Autumnal green.  
An Airy Crowd came rushing where he stood;  
Which filled the Margin of the fatal Flood.   

To John Lenknor Esqr:: of West Deane in the County of Sussex  
A 6. l: 390   

Husbands and Wives, Boys and unmarried Maids;  
And mighty Heroes more Majestic Shades.  
And Youths, entombed before their Father's Eyes,  
With hollow Groans, and Shrieks, and feeble Cries:  
Thick as the Leaves in Autumn strew the Woods:  
Or Fowls, by Winter forced, forsake the Floods,  
And wing their hasty flight to happier Lands:  
Such, and so thick, the shivering Army stands:  
And press for passage with extended hands.   

Now these, now those, the surly Boatman bore:  
The rest he drove to distance from the Shore.  
The Hero, who beheld with wondering Eyes,  
The Tumult mixed with Shrieks, Laments, and Cries;  
Asked of his Guide, what the rude Concourse meant?  
Why to the Shore the thronging People bend?  
What Forms of Law, among the Ghosts were used?  
Why some were ferried o'er, and some refused?   

Son of Anchises, Offspring of the Gods,  
The Sibyl said; you see the Stygian Floods,  
The Sacred Stream, which heavens Imperial State  
Attests in Oaths, and fears to violate.  
The Ghosts rejected, are th' unhappy Crew  
Deprived of Sepulchers▪ and Funeral due.  
The Boatman Charon; those, the buried host,  
He Ferries over to the Farther Coast.  
Nor dares his Transport Vessel cross the Waves,  
With such whose Bones are not composed in Graves.  
A hundred years they wander on the Shore,  
At length, their Penance done, are wafted o'er.  
The Trojan Chief his forward pace repressed;  
Revolving anxious Thoughts within his Breast.  
He saw his Friends, who whelmed beneath the Waves,  
Their Funeral Honours claimed, and asked their quiet Graves.  
The lost Leucaspis in the Crowd he knew;  
And the brave Leader of the Lycian Crew:  
Whom, on the Tyrrhene Seas, the Tempests met;  
The Sailors mastered, and the Ship o'reset.  
Amidst the Spirits Palinurus pressed;  
Yet fresh from life; a new admitted Guest.  
Who, while he steering viewed the Stars, and bore  
His Course from Africa, to the Latian Shore,  
Fell headlong down. The Trojan fixed his view;  
And scarcely through the gloom the sullen Shadow knew.  
Then thus the Prince. What envious Power, O Friend,  
Brought your loved life to this disastrous end?  
For Phoebus, ever true in all he said,  
Has, in your fate alone, my Faith betrayed?  
The God foretold you should not die, before  
You reached, secure from Seas, th' Italian Shore?  
Is this th' unerring Power? The Ghost replied,  
Nor Phoebus flattered, nor his Answers lied;  
Nor envious Gods have sent me to the Deep:  
But while the Stars, and course of Heaven I keep,  
My wearied Eyes were seized with fatal sleep.  
I fell; and with my weight, the Helm constrained,  
Was drawn along, which yet my gripe retained.  
Now by the Winds, and raging Waves, I swear,  
Your Safety, more than mine, was then my Care:  
Lest, of the Guide bereft, the Rudder lost,  
Your Ship should run against the the rocky Coast.  
Three blust'ring Nights, born by the Southern blast,  
I floated; and discovered Land at last:  
High on a Mounting Wave, my head I bore:  
Forcing my Strength, and gathering to the Shore:  
Panting, but but past the danger, now I seized  
The Craggy Cliffs, and my tired Members eased:  
While, cumbered with my dropping clothes, I lay,  
The cruel Nation, covetous of Prey,  
Stained with my Blood th' unhospitable Coast:  
And now, by Winds and Waves, my lifeless Limbs are tossed.  
Which O avert, by yond Etherial Light  
Which I have lost, for this eternal Night:  
Or if by dearer ties you may be won,  
By your dead Sire, and by your living Son,  
Redeem from this Reproach, my wandering Ghost;  
Or with your Navy seek the Velin Coast:  
And in a peaceful Grave my Corpse compose:  
Or, if a nearer way your Mother shows,  
Without whose Aid, you durst not undertake  
This frightful Passage o'er the Stygian Lake;  
Lend to this Wretch your Hand, and waft him o'er  
To the sweet Banks of yond forbidden Shore.  
Scarce had he said, the Prophetess began;  
What Hopes delude thee, miserable Man?  
Think'st thou thus unintombed to cross the Floods,  
To view the Furies, and Infernal Gods;  
And visit, without leave, the dark abodes?  
Attend the term of long revolving Years:  
Fate, and the dooming Gods, are deaf to Tears.  
This Comfort of thy dire Misfortune take;  
The Wrath of Heaven, inflicted for thy sake,  
With Vengeance shall pursue th' inhuman Coast.  
Till they propitiate thy offended Ghost,  
And raise a Tomb, with Vows, and solemn Prayer;  
And Palinurus name the Place shall bear.  
This calmed his Cares: soothed with his future Fame;  
And pleased to hear his propagated Name.   

Now nearer to the Stygian Lake they draw:  
Whom from the Shore, the surly Boatman saw:  
Observed their Passage through the shady Wood;  
And marked their near Approaches to the Flood:  
Then thus he called aloud, inflamed with Wrath;  
Mortal, what e'er, who this forbidden Path  
In Arms presum'st to tread, I charge thee stand,  
And tell thy Name, and Buis'ness in the Land.  
Know this, the Realm of Night; the Stygian Shore:  
My Boat conveys no living Bodies o'er:  
Nor was I pleased great Theseus once to bear;  
Who forced a Passage with his pointed Spear;  
Nor strong Alcides, Men of mighty Fame;  
And from th' immortal Gods their Lineage came.  
In Fetters one the barking Porter tied,  
And took him trembling from his sovereign's side:  
Two sought by Force to seize his beauteous Bride.  
To whom the Sibyl thus, compose thy Mind:  
Nor Frauds are here contrived, nor Force designed.  
Still may the Dog the wandering Troops constrain  
Of Airy Ghosts; and vex the guilty Train;  
And with her grisly Lord his lovely Queen remain.  
The Trojan Chief, whose Lineage is from Jove,  
Much famed for Arms, and more for filial Love,  
Is sent to seek his Sire, in your Elysian Grove.  
If neither Piety, nor heavens Command,  
Can gain his Passage to the Stygian Strand,  
This fatal Present shall prevail, at least;  
Then showed the shining Bough, concealed within her Vest.  
No more was needful: for the gloomy God  
Stood mute with Awe, to see the Golden Rod:  
Admired the destined Offering to his Queen;  
(A venerable Gift so rarely seen)  
His Fury thus appeased, he puts to Land:  
The Ghosts forsake their Seats, at his Command:  
He clears the Deck, receives the mighty Freight,  
The leaky Vessel groans beneath the weight.  
Slowly he sails; and scarcely stems the Tides:  
The pressing Water pours within her sides.  
His Passengers at length are wafted o'er;  
Exposed in muddy Weeds, upon the miry Shore.  
No sooner landed, in his Den they found  
The triple Porter of the Stygian Sound:  
Grim Cerberus; who soon began to rear  
His crested Snakes, and armed his bristling Hair.  
The prudent Sibyl had before prepared  
A Sop, in Honey steeped, to charm the Guard.  
Which, mixed with powerful Drugs, she cast before  
His greedy grinning Jaws, just opened to roar:  
With three enormous Mouths he gapes; and straight,  
With Hunger pressed, devours the pleasing Bait.  
Long draughts of Sleep his monstrous Limbs enslave;  
He reels, and falling, fills the spacious Cave.  
The Keeper charmed, the Chief without Delay  
Passed on, and took th' irremeable way.  
Before the Gates, the Cries of Babes new born,  
Whom Fate had from their tender Mothers torn,  
Assault his Ears: Then those, whom Form of Laws  
Condemned to die, when Traitors judged their Cause.  
Nor want they Lots, nor Judges to review  
The wrongful Sentence, and award a new.  
Minos, the strict Inquisitor, appears;  
And Lives and Crimes, with his Assessors, hears.  
Round, in his Urn, the blended Balls he rowls;  
Absolves the Just, and dooms the Guilty Souls.  
The next in Place, and Punishment, are they  
Who prodigally throw their Souls away.  
Fools, who repining at their wretched State,  
And loathing anxious life, suborned their Fate.  
With late Repentance, now they would retrieve  
The Bodies they forsook, and wish to live.  
Their Pains and Poverty desire to bear,  
To view the Light of Heaven, and breathe the vital Air:  
But Fate forbids; the Stygian Floods oppose;  
And, with nine circling Streams, the captive Souls enclose.   

Not far from thence, the mournful Fields appear;  
So called from Lovers that inhabit there.  
The Souls, whom that unhappy Flame invades,  
In secret Solitude, and Myrtle Shades,  
Make endless Moans, and pining with Desire,  
Lament too late, their unextinguished Fire.  
Here Procris, Eryphile here, he found  
Baring her Breast, yet bleeding with the Wound  
Made by her Son. He saw Pasiphae there,  
With Phaedra's Ghost, a foul incestuous pair;  
chaste Laodamia, with Evadne, moves:  
Unhappy both; but loyal in their Loves.  
Caeneus, a Woman once, and once a Man;  
But ending in the Sex she first began.  
Not far from these Phoenician Dido stood;  
Fresh from her Wound, her Bosom bathed in Blood.  
Whom, when the Trojan Hero hardly knew,  
Obscure in Shades, and with a doubtful view,  
(Doubtful as he who sees through dusky Night,  
Or thinks he sees the Moon's uncertain Light:)  
With Tears he first approached the sullen Shade;  
And, as his Love inspired him, thus he said.  
Unhappy Queen! then is the common breath  
Of Rumour true, in your reported Death,  
And I, alas, the Cause! by Heaven, I vow,  
And all the Powers that rule the Realms below,   

To John Pulteney of the Parish of St:: James' Westminster Esq.  
A 6. l. 615   

Unwilling I forsook your friendly State:  
Commanded by the Gods, and forced by Fate.  
Those Gods, that Fate, whose unresisted Might  
Have sent me to these Regions, void of Light,  
Through the vast Empire of eternal Night.  
Nor dared I to presume, that, pressed with Grief,  
My Flight should urge you to this dire Relief.  
Stay, stay your Steps, and listen to my Vows:  
'Tis the last Interview that Fate allows!  
In vain he thus attempts her Mind to move,  
With Tears, and Prayers, and late repenting Love.  
Disdainfully she looked; then turning round,  
But fixed her Eyes unmoved upon the Ground.  
And, what he says, and swears, regards no more  
Than the deaf Rocks, when the loud Billows roar.  
But whirled away, to shun his hateful sight,  
Hid in the Forest, and the Shades of Night.  
Then sought Sichaeus, through the shady Grove,  
Who answered all her Cares, and equalled all her Love.  
Some pious Tears the pitying Hero paid;  
And followed with his Eyes the flitting Shade.  
Then took the forward Way, by Fate ordained,  
And, with his Guide, the farther Fields attained;  
Where, severed from the rest, the Warrior Souls remained.  
Tideus he met, with Meleager's Race;  
The Pride of Armies, and the Soldiers Grace;  
And pale Adrastus with his ghastly Face.  
Of Trojan Chiefs he viewed a numerous Train:  
All much lamented, all in Battle slain.  
Glaucus and Medon, high above the rest,  
Antenor's Sons, and Ceres sacred Priest:  
And proud Ideus, Priam's Charioteer;  
Who shakes his empty Reins, and aims his Airy Spear.  
The gladsome Ghosts, in circling Troops, attend,  
And with unwearyed Eyes behold their Friend.  
Delight to hover near; and long to know  
What buis'ness brought him to the Realms below.   

But Argive Chiefs, and Agamemnon's Train,  
When his refulgent Arms flashed through the shady Plain,  
Fled from his well known Face, with wont Fear,  
As when his thundering Sword, and pointed Spear,  
Drove headlong to their Ships, and gleaned the routed Rear.  
They raised a feeble Cry, with trembling Notes:  
But the weak Voice deceived their gasping Throats.  
Here Priam's Son, Deiphobus, he found:  
Whose Face and Limbs were one continued Wound.  
Dishonest, with lop'd Arms, the Youth appears:  
Spoiled of his Nose, and shortened of his Ears.  
He scarcely knew him, striving to disown  
His blotted Form, and blushing to be known.  
And therefore first began. O Teucer's Race,  
Who durst thy faultless Figure thus deface?  
What heart could wish, what hand inflict this dire Disgrace?  
'twas famed, that in our last and fatal Night,  
Your single Prowess long sustained the Fight:  
Till tired, not forced, a glorious Fate you chose:  
And fell upon a Heap of slaughtered Foes.  
But in remembrance of so brave a Deed,  
A Tomb, and Funeral Honours I decreed:  
Thrice called your Manes, on the Trojan Plains:  
The place your Armour, and your Name retains.  
Your Body too I sought; and had I found,  
Designed for Burial in your Native Ground.   

The Ghost replied, your Piety has paid  
All needful Rites, to rest my wandering Shade:  
But cruel Fate, and my more cruel Wife,  
To Grecian Swords betrayed my sleeping Life.   

To Christopher Knight Esq of Chanton in Hantshire  
A 6. l. 675.   

These are the Monuments of Helen's Love:  
The Shame I bear below, the Marks I bore above.  
You know in what deluding Joys we passed  
The Night, that was by Heaven decreed our last.  
For when the fatal Horse, descending down,  
Pregnant with Arms, overwhelmed th' unhappy Town;  
She feigned Nocturnal Orgies: left my Bed,  
And, mixed with Trojan Dames, the Dances led.  
Then, waving high her Torch, the Signal made,  
Which roused the Grecians from their Ambuscade.  
With Watching overworn, with Cares oppressed,  
Unhappy I had laid me down to rest;  
And heavy Sleep my weary Limbs possessed.  
Mean time my worthy Wife, our Arms mislaid;  
And from beneath my head my Sword conveyed:  
The Door unlatched; and with repeated calls,  
Invites her former Lord within my walls.  
Thus in her Crime her confidence she placed:  
And with new Treasons would redeem the past.  
What need I more, into the Room they ran;  
And meanly murdered a defenceless Man.  
Ulysses, basely born, first led the way:  
Avenging Powers! with Justice if I pray,  
That Fortune be their own another day.   

But answer you; and in your turn relate,  
What brought you, living, to the Stygian State?  
Driven by the Winds and Errors of the Sea,  
Or did you heavens Superior Doom obey?  
Or tell what other Chance conducts your way?  
To view, with Mortal Eyes, our dark Retreats,  
Tumults and Torments of th' Infernal Seats?  
While thus, in talk, the flying Hours they pass,  
The Sun had finished more than half his Race:  
And they, perhaps, in Words and Tears had spent  
The little time of stay, which Heaven had lent.  
But thus the Sibyl chides their long delay;  
Night rushes down, and headlong drives the Day:  
'tis here, in different Paths, the way divides:  
The right, to Pluto's Golden Palace guides:  
The left to that unhappy Region tends,  
Which to the depth of Tartarus descends;  
The Seat of Night profound, and punished Fiends.  
Then thus Deiphobus: O Sacred Maid!  
Forbear to chide; and be your Will Obeyed:  
Lo to the secret Shadows I retire,  
To pay my Penance till my Years expire.  
Proceed Auspicious Prince, with Glory Crowned,  
And born to better Fates than I have found.  
He said; and while he said, his Steps he turned  
To Secret Shadows; and in silence Mourned.  
The Hero, looking on the left, espied  
A lofty Tower, and strong on every side  
With treble Walls, which Phlegeton surrounds,  
Whose fiery Flood the burning Empire bounds:  
And pressed betwixt the Rocks, the bellowing noise resounds.  
Wide is the fronting Gate, and raised on high  
With Adamantine Columns, threats the Sky.  
Vain is the force of Man, and heavens as van,  
To crush the Pillars which the Pile sustain.  
Sublime on these a Tower of Steel is reared;  
And dire Tisiphone there keeps the Ward.  
Gird in her sanguine Gown, by Night and Day,  
Observant of the Souls that pass the downward way:  
From hence are heard the Groans of Ghosts, the pains  
Of sounding Lashes, and of dragging Chains.  
The Trojan stood astonished at their Cries;  
And asked his Guide, from whence those Yells arise?  
And what the Crimes and what the Tortures were,  
And loud Laments that rend the liquid Air?  
She thus replied: The chaste and holy Race,  
Are all forbidden this polluted Place.  
But Hecate, when she gave to rule the Woods,  
Then led me trembling through these dire Abodes:  
And taught the Tortures of th' avenging Gods.  
These are the Realms of unrelenting Fate:  
And awful Rhadamanthus rules the State.  
He hears and judges each committed Crime;  
Inquires into the Manner, Place, and Time.  
The conscious Wretch must all his Acts reveal:  
Loath to confefs, unable to conceal:  
From the first Moment of his vital Breath,  
To his last Hour of unrepenting Death.  
Strait, o'er the guilty Ghost, the Fury shakes  
The sounding Whip, and brandishes her Snakes:  
And the pale Sinner, with her Sisters, takes.  
Then, of itself, unfolds th' Eternal Door:  
With dreadful Sounds the brazen Hinges roar.  
You see, before the Gate, what stalking Ghost  
Commands the Guard, what Sentries keep the Post:  
More formidable Hydra stands within;  
Whose Jaws with Iron Teeth severely grin.  
The gaping Gulf, low to the Centre lies;  
And twice as deep as Earth is distant from the Skies.  
The Rivals of the Gods, the Titan Race,  
Here singed with Lightning, roll within th' unfathomed space.  
Here lie th' Alaean Twins, (I saw them both)  
Enormous Bodies, of Gigantic Growth;  
Who dared in Fight the thunderer to defy;  
Affect his Heaven, and force him from the Sky.  
Salmoneus, suffering cruel Pains, I found,  
For emulating Jove; the rattling Sound  
Of Mimic Thunder, and the glittering Blaze  
Of pointed Lightnings, and their forky Rays.  
Through Elis, and the Grecian Towns he flew:  
Th' audacious Wretch four fiery Coursers drew:  
He waved a Torch aloft, and, madly vain,  
Sought Godlike Worship from a Servile Train.  
Ambitious Fool, with horny Hoofs to pass  
O'er hollow Arches, of resounding Brass;  
To rival Thunder, in its rapid Course:  
And imitate inimitable Force.  
But he, the King of Heaven, obscure on high,  
Barred his red Arm, and launching from the Sky  
His writhe Bolt, not shaking empty Smoke,  
Down to the deep Abyss the flaming Felon struck.  
There Tityus was to see; who took his Birth  
From Heaven, his Nursing from the foodful Earth.  
Here his Gygantic Limbs, with large Embrace,  
Enfold nine Acres of Infernal Space.  
A ravenous Vulture in his opened side,  
Her crooked Beak and cruel Talons tried:  
Still for the growing Liver digged his Breast;  
The growing Liver still supplied the Feast.  
Still are his Entrails fruitful to their Pains:  
Th' immortal Hunger lasts, th' immortal Food remains.  
Ixion and Pirithous I could name;  
And more Thessalian Chiefs of mighty Fame.  
High o'er their Heads a mouldering Rock is placed,  
That promises a fall; and shakes at every Blast.  
They lie below, on Golden Beds displayed,  
And genial Feasts, with Regal Pomp, are made.  
The Queen of Furies by their sides is set;  
And snatches from their Mouths th' untasted Meat.  
Which, if they touch, her hissing Snakes she rears:  
Tossing her Torch, and thundering in their Ears.  
Then they, who Brothers better Claim disown,  
Expel their Parents, and usurp the Throne;  
Defraud their Clients, and to Lucre sold,  
Sat brooding on unprofitable Gold:  
Who dare not give, and even refuse to lend  
To their poor Kindred, or a wanting Friend:  
Vast is the Throng of these; nor less the Train  
Of lustful Youths, for foul Adultery slain.  
Hosts of Deserters, who their Honour sold,  
And basely broke their Faith for Bribes of Gold:  
All these within the Dungeon's depth remain:  
Despairing Pardon, and expecting Pain.  
Ask not what Pains; nor farther seek to know  
Their Process, or the Forms of Law below.  
Some roll a weighty Stone; some laid along,  
And bound with burning Wires, on Spokes of Wheels are hung.  
Unhappy Theseus, doomed for ever there,  
Is fixed by Fate on his Eternal Chair:  
And wretched Phlegias warns the World with Cries;  
(Could Warning make the World more just or wise,)  
Learn Righteousness, and dread th' avenging Deities.  
To Tyrant's others have their Country sold,  
Imposing Foreign Lords, for Foreign Gold:  
Some have old Laws repealed, new Statutes made;  
Not as the People pleased, but as they paid.  
With Incest some their Daughter's Bed profaned,  
All dared the worst of Ills, and what they dared, attained.  
Had I a hundred Mouths, a hundred Tongues,  
And Throats of Brass, inspired with Iron Lungs,  
I could not half those horrid Crimes repeat:  
Nor half the Punishments those Crimes have met.  
But let us haste our Voyage to pursue;  
The Walls of Pluto's Palace are in view.  
The Gate, and Iron Arch above it, stands:  
On Anvils laboured by the Cyclops Hands.  
Before our farther way the Fates allow,  
Here must we fix on high the Golden Bough.  
She said, and through the gloomy Shades they passed,  
And chose the middle Path: Arrived at last,  
The Prince, with living Water, sprinkled o'er  
His Limbs, and Body; then approached the Door.  
Possessed the Porch, and on the Front above  
He fixed the fatal Bough, required by Pluto's Love.  
These Holy Rites performed, they took their Way,  
Where long extended Plains of Pleasure lay.  
The verdant Fields with those of Heaven may vie;  
With Aether vested, and a Purple Sky:  
The blissful Seats of Happy Souls below:  
Stars of their own, and their own Suns they know.  
Their Airy Limbs in Sports they exercise,  
And, on the Green, contend the Wrestler's Prize.  
Some, in Heroic Verse, divinely sing;  
Others in artful Measures lead the ring.  
The Thracian Bard, surrounded by the rest,  
There stands conspicuous in his flowing Vest.  
His flying Fingers, and harmonious Quill,  
Strike seven distinguished Notes, and seven at once they fill.  
Here found they Teucer's old Heroic Race;  
Born better times and happier Years to grace.  
Assaracus and Ilus here enjoy  
Perpetual Fame, with him who founded Troy.  
The Chief beheld their Chariots from afar;  
Their shining Arms, and Coursers trained to War:  
Their Lances fixed in Earth, their Steeds around,  
Free from their Harness, graze the flowery Ground.  
The love of Horses which they had, alive,  
And care of Chariots, after Death survive.  
Some cheerful Souls, were feasting on the Plain;  
Some did the Song, and some the Choir maintain.  
Beneath a Laurel Shade, where mighty Po  
Mounts up to Woods above, and hides his Head below.  
Here Patriots live, who, for their Country's good,  
In fight Fields, were prodigal of Blood:  
Priests of unblemished Lives here make Abode;  
And Poets worthy their inspiring God:  
And searching Wits, of more Mechanic parts,  
Who graced their Age with new invented Arts.  
Those who, to worth, their Bounty did extend;  
And those who knew that Bounty to commend.  
The Heads of these with holy Fillets bound;  
And all their Temples were with Garlands crowned.   

To these the Sibyl thus her Speech addressed:  
And first, to him surrounded by the rest;  
Towering his Height, and ample was his Breast;  
Say happy Souls, Divine Musaeus say,  
Where lives Anchises, and where lies our Way  
To find the Hero, for whose only sake  
We sought the dark Abodes, and crossed the bitter Lake?  
To this the Sacred Poet thus replied;  
In no fixed place the Happy Souls reside.  
In Groves we live; and lie on mossy Beds  
By Crystal Streams, that murmur through the Meads:  
But pass yond easy Hill, and thence descend,  
The Path conducts you to your Journeys end.  
This said, he led them up the Mountain's brow,  
And shows them all the shining Fields below;  
They wind the Hill, and through the blissful Meadows go.  
But old Anchises, in a flowery Vale,  
Review'd his mustered Race; and took the Tale.  
Those Happy Spirits, which ordained by Fate,  
For future Being's, and new Bodies wait.  
With studious Thought observed th' illustrious Throng;  
In Nature's Order as they passed along.  
Their Names, their Fates, their Conduct, and their Care,  
In peaceful Senates, and successful War.  
He, when Aeneas on the Plain appears,  
Meets him with open Arms, and falling Tears.  
Welcome, he said, the Gods undoubted Race,  
O long expected to my dear Embrace;  
Once more 'tis given me to behold your Face!  
The Love, and Pious Duty which you pay,  
Have passed the Perils of so hard a way.  
'Tis true, computing times, I now believed  
The happy Day approached; nor are my Hopes deceived.  
What length of Lands, what Oceans have you passed,  
What Storms sustained, and on what Shores been cast?  
How have I feared your Fate! But feared it most,  
When Love assailed you, on the Lybian Coast.  
To this, the Filial Duty thus replies;  
Your sacred Ghost, before my sleeping Eyes,  
Appeared; and often urged this painful Enterprise.  
After long tossing on the Tyrrhene Sea,  
My Navy rides at Anchor in the Bay.  
But reach your Hand, oh Parent Shade, nor shun  
The dear Embraces of your longing Son!  
He said; and falling Tears his Face bedew:  
Then thrice, around his Neck, his Arms he threw;  
And thrice the flitting Shadow slipped away;  
Like Winds, or empty Dreams that fly the Day.  
Now in a secret Vale, the Trojan sees  
A separate Grove, through which a gentle Breeze  
Plays with a passing Breath, and whispers through the Trees.  
And just before the Confines of the Wood,  
The gliding Lethe leads her silent Flood.  
About the Boughs an Airy Nation flew,  
Thick as the humming Bees, that hunt the Golden Dew;  
In Summer's heat, on tops of Lilies feed,  
And creep within their Bells, to suck the balmy Seed.  
The winged Army roams the Fields around;  
The Rivers and the Rocks remurmur to the sound.  
Aeneas wondering stood: Then asked the Cause,  
Which to the Stream the Crowding People draws.  
Then thus the Sire. The Souls that throng the Flood  
Are those, to Whom, by Fate, are other Bodies owed:  
In Lethe's Lake they long Oblivion taste;  
Of future Life secure, forgetful of the Past.  
Long has my Soul desired this time, and place,  
To set before your sight your glorious Race.  
That this presaging Joy may fire your Mind,  
To seek the Shores by Destiny designed.  
O Father, can it be, that Souls sublime,  
Return to visit our Terrestrial Clime?  
And that the Generous Mind, released by Death,  
Can Covet lazy Limbs, and Mortal Breath?  
Anchises then, in order, thus begun  
To clear those Wonders to his Godlike Son.  
Know first, that Heaven, and Earth's compacted Frame,  
And flowing Waters, and the starry Flame,  
And both the Radiant Lights, one Common Soul  
Inspires, and feeds, and animates the whole.  
This Active Mind infused through all the Space,  
Unites and mingles with the mighty Mass.  
Hence Men and Beasts the Breath of Life obtain;  
And Birds of Air, and Monsters of the Main.  
Th' Etherial Vigour is in all the same,  
And every Soul is filled with equal Flame:  
As much as Earthy Limbs, and gross allay  
Of Mortal Members, subject to decay,  
Blunt not the Beams of Heaven and edge of Day.  
From this course Mixture of Terrestrial parts,  
Desire, and Fear, by turns possess their Hearts:  
And Grief, and Joy: Nor can the grovelling Mind,  
In the dark Dungeon of the Limbs confined,  
Assert the Native Skies; or own its heavenly Kind.  
Nor Death itself can wholly wash their Stains;  
But long contracted Filth, even in the Soul remains.  
The Relics of inveterate Vice they wear;  
And Spots of Sin obscene, in every Face appear.  
For this are various Penances enjoined;  
And some are hung to bleach, upon the Wind;  
Some plunged in Waters, others purged in Fires,  
Till all the Dregs are drained: and all the Rust expires:  
All have their Manes, and those Manes bear:  
The few, so cleansed to these Abodes repair:  
And breath, in ample Fields, the soft Elysian Air.  
Then are they happy, when by length of time  
The Scurf is worn away, of each committed Crime.  
No Speck is left, of their habitual Stains;  
But the pure Aether of the Soul remains.  
But, when a Thousand rolling Years are past,  
(So long their Punishments and Penance last;)  
Whole Droves of Minds are, by the driving God,  
Compelled to drink the deep Lethaean Flood:  
In large forgetful draughts to steep the Cares  
Of their past Labours, and their Irksome Years.  
That, unrememb'ring of its former Pain,  
The Soul may suffer mortal Flesh again.  
Thus having said; the Father Spirit, leads  
The Priestess and his Son through Swarms of Shades.  
And takes a rising Ground, from thence to see  
The long Procession of his Progeny.  
Survey (pursued the Sire) this airy Throng;  
As, offered to thy view, they pass along.  
These are th' Italian Names, which Fate will join  
With ours, and graft upon the Trojan Line.  
Observe the Youth who first appears in sight;  
And holds the nearest Station to the Light:  
Already seems to snuff the vital Air;  
And leans just forward, on a shining Spear,  
Silvius is he: thy last begotten Race;  
But first in order sent, to fill thy place,  
An Alban Name; but mixed with Dardan Blood;  
Born in the Covert of a shady Wood:  
Him fair Lavinia, thy surviving Wife,  
Shall breed in Groves, to lead a solitary Life.  
In Alba he shall fix his Royal Seat:  
And, born a King, a Race of Kings beget.  
Then Procas, Honour of the Trojan Name,  
Capys, and Numitor, of endless Fame.  
A second Silvius after these appears;  
Silvius Aeneas, for thy Name he bears.  
For Arms and Justice equally renowned;  
Who, late restored, in Alba shall be crowned.  
How great they look, how vig'rously they wield  
Their weighty Lances, and sustain the Shield!  
But they, who crowned with Oaken Wreaths appear,  
Shall Gabian Walls, and strong Fidena rear:  
Nomentum, Bola, with Pometia, found;  
And raise Colatian towers on Rocky Ground.  
All these shall then be Towns of mighty Fame;  
Tho' now they lie obscure; and Lands without a Name.  
See Romulus the great, born to restore  
The Crown that once his injured Grandsire wore.  
This Prince, a Priestess of our Blood shall bear;  
And like his Sire in Arms he shall appear.  
Two rising Crests his Royal Head adorn;  
Born from a God, himself to Godhead born.  
His Sire already signs him for the Skies,  
And marks his Seat amidst the Deities.  
Auspicious Chief! thy Race in times to come  
Shall spread the Conquests of Imperial Rome.  
Rome whose ascending towers shall Heaven invade;  
Involving Earth and Ocean in her Shade.  
High as the Mother of the Gods in place;  
And proud, like her, of an Immortal Race.  
Then when in Pomp she makes the Phrygian round;  
With Golden Turrets on her Temples crowned:  
A hundred Gods her sweeping Train supply;  
Her Offspring all, and all command the Sky.  
Now fix your Sight, and stand intent, to see  
Your Roman Race, and Julian Progeny.  
The mighty Caesar waits his vital Hour;  
Impatient for the World, and grasps his promised Power.  
But next behold the Youth of Form Divine,  
Caesar himself, exalted in his Line;  
Augustus, promised oft, and long foretold,  
Sent to the Realm that Saturn ruled of old;  
Born to restore a better Age of Gold.  
Africa, and India, shall his Power obey,  
He shall extend his propagated Sway,  
Beyond the Solar Year; without the starry Way.  
Where Atlas turns the rolling heavens around;  
And his broad Shoulders with their Lights are crowned.  
At his fore-seen Approach, already quake  
The Caspian Kingdoms, and Maeotian Lake.  
Their Seers behold the Tempest from afar;  
And threatening Oracles denounce the War.  
Nile hears him knocking at his sev'nfold Gates;  
And seeks his hidden Spring, and fears his Nephew's Fates▪  
Nor Hercules more Lands or Labours knew,  
Not tho' the brazen-footed Hind he slew;   

To Robert Harley of Bramton Castle in the County of Hereford Esq  
A 6. l. 1085.   

Freed Erymanthus from the foaming Boar,  
And dipped his Arrows in Lernaean Gore.  
Nor Bacchus, turning from his Indian War,  
By Tigers drawn triumphant in his Car,  
From Nisus top descending on the Plains;  
With curling Vines around his purple Reins.  
And doubt we yet through Dangers to pursue  
The Paths of Honour, and a Crown in view?  
But what's the Man, who from afar appears,  
His Head with Olive crowned, his Hand a Censer bears?  
His hoary Beard, and holy Vestments bring  
His lost Idea back: I know the Roman King.  
He shall to peaceful Rome new Laws ordain:  
Called from his mean abode, a Sceptre to sustain.  
Him, Tullus next in Dignity succeeds;  
An active Prince, and prone to Martial Deeds.  
For fight Fields his Troops he shall prepare,  
Disused to Toils, and Triumphs of the War.  
By dint of Sword his Crown he shall increase;  
And scour his Armour from the Rust of Peace.  
Whom Ancus follows, with a fawning Air;  
But vain within, and proudly popular.  
Next view the Tarquin Kings: Th' avenging Sword  
Of Brutus, justly drawn, and Rome restored.  
He first renews the Rods, and Axe severe;  
And gives the Consuls Royal Robes to wear.  
His Sons, who seek the Tyrant to sustain,  
And long for Arbitrary Lords again,  
With Ignominy scourged, in open sight,  
He dooms to Death deserved; asserting Public Right.  
Unhappy Man, to break the Pious Laws  
Of Nature, pleading in his Child's Cause!  
Howe'er the doubtful Fact is understood,  
'Tis Love of Honour, and his Country's good:  
The Consul, not the Father, sheds the Blood.  
Behold Torquatus the same Track pursue;  
And next, the three devoted Deccis view.  
The Drusian Line, Camillus loaded home  
With Standards well redeemed, and foreign Foes o'ercome.  
The Pair you see in equal Armour shine;  
(Now, Friends below, in close Embraces join:  
But when they leave the shady Realms of Night,  
And, clothed in Bodies, breathe your upper Light,)  
With mortal Hate each other shall pursue:  
What Wars, what Wounds, what Slaughter shall ensue!  
From Alpine Heights the Father first descends;  
His Daughter's Husband in the Plain attends:  
His Daughter's Husband arms his Eastern Friends.  
Embrace again, my Sons, be Foes no more:  
Nor slain your Country with her children's Gore.  
And thou, the first, lay down thy lawless claim;  
Thou, of my Blood, who bearest the Julian Name.  
Another comes, who shall in Triumph ride;  
And to the Capitol his Chariot guide;  
From conquered Corinth, rich with Grecian Spoils.  
And yet another, famed for Warlike Toils,  
On Argos shall impose the Roman Laws:  
And, on the Greeks, revenge the Trojan Cause:  
Shall drag in Chains their Achillaean Race;  
Shall vindicate his Ancestors Disgrace:  
And Pallas, for her violated Place.  
Great Cato there, for Gravity renowned,  
And conquering Cossus goes with Laurels crowned.  
Who can omit the Gracchis, who declare  
The Scipio's Worth, those Thunderbolts of War,  
The double Bane of Carthage? Who can see,  
Without esteem for virtuous Poverty,  
Severe Fabritius, or can cease t' admire  
The Ploughman Consul in his Course Attire!  
Tired as I am, my Praise the Fabiuses claim;  
And thou great Hero, greatest of thy Name;  
Ordained in War to save the sinking State,  
And, by Delays, to put a stop to Fate!  
Let others better mould the running Mass  
Of Metals, and inform the breathing Brass;  
And soften into Flesh a Marble Face:  
Plead better at the Bar; describe the Skies,  
And when the Stars descend, and when they rise.  
But, Rome, 'tis thine alone, with awful sway,  
To rule Mankind; and make the World obey;  
Disposing Peace, and War, thy own Majestic Way.  
To tame the Proud, the fettered Slave to free;  
These are Imperial Arts, and worthy thee.  
He paused: And while with wondering Eyes they viewed  
The passing Spirits, thus his Speech renewed.  
See great Marcellus! how, untired in Toils,  
He moves with Manly grace, how rich with Regal Spoils  
He, when his Country, (threatened with Alarms,)  
Requires his Courage, and his Conquering Arms,  
Shall more than once the Punic Bands affright:  
Shall kill the Gaulish King in single Fight:  
Then, to the Capitol in Triumph move,  
And the third Spoils shall grace Feretrian Jove.  
Aeneas, here, beheld of Form Divine  
A Godlike Youth, in glittering Armour shine:  
With great Marcellus keeping equal pace;  
But gloomy were his Eyes, dejected was his Face:  
He saw, and, wondering, asked his airy Guide,  
What, and of whence was he, who pressed the Hero's side?  
His Son, or one of his Illustrious Name,  
How like the former, and almost the same:  
Observe the Crowds that compass him around;  
All gaze, and all admire, and raise a shouting sound:  
But hovering Mists around his Brows are spread,  
And Night, with sable Shades, involves his Head.  
Seek not to know (the Ghost replied with Tears)  
The Sorrows of thy Sons, in future Years.  
This Youth (the blissful Vision of a day)  
Shall just be shown on Earth, and snatched away.  
The Gods too high had raised the Roman State;  
Were but their Gifts as permanent as great.  
What groans of Men shall fill the Martian Field!  
How fierce a Blaze his flaming Pile shall yield!  
What Funeral Pomp shall floating Tiber see,  
When, rising from his Bed, he views the sad Solemnity!  
No Youth shall equal hopes of Glory give:  
No Youth afford so great a Cause to grieve.  
The Trojan Honour, and the Roman Boast;  
Admired when living, and Adored when lost!  
Mirror of ancient Faith in early Youth!  
Undaunted Worth, Inviolable Truth!  
No Foe unpunished in the fight Field,  
Shall dare thee Foot to Foot, with Sword and Shield.  
Much less, in Arms oppose thy matchless Force,  
When thy sharp Spurs shall urge thy foaming Horse.  
Ah, couldst thou break through Fates severe Decree,  
A new Marcellus shall arise in thee!  
Full Canisters of fragrant Lilies bring,  
Mixed with the Purple Roses of the Spring:  
Let me with Funeral Flowers his Body strew;  
This Gift which Parents to their Children owe,  
This unavailing Gift, at least I may bestow!  
Thus having said, He led the Hero round  
The confines of the blessed Elysian Ground.  
Which, when Anchises to his Son had shown,  
And fired his Mind to mount the promised Throne,  
He tells the future Wars, ordained by Fate;  
The Strength and Customs of the Latian State:  
The Prince, and People: And fore-arms his Care  
With Rules, to push his Fortune, or to bear.  
Two Gates the silent House of Sleep adorn;  
Of polished Ivory this, that of transparent Horn:  
Of various things discoursing as he passed,  
Anchises hither bends his Steps at last.  
Then, through the Gate of Ivory, he dismissed  
His valiant Offspring, and Divining Guest.  
Straight to the Ships Aeneas took his way;  
Embarked his Men, and skimed along the Sea:  
Still Coasting, till he gained Cajeta's Bay.  
At length on Oozy ground his Galleys moor:  
Their Heads are turned to Sea, their Sterns to Shoar.    

The Seventh Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
King Latinus entertains Aeneas, and promises him his only Daughter, Lavinia, the Heiress of his Crown. Turnus being in Love with her, favoured by her Mother, and stirred up by Juno, and Allecto, breaks the Treaty which was made, and engages in his Quarrel, Mezentius, Camilla, Messapus, and many others of the Neighbouring Princes; whose Forces and the Names of their Commanders are here particularly related.  

AND thou, O Matron of Immortal Fame!  
Here Dying, to the Shore hast left thy Name:  
Cajeta still the place is called from thee,  
The Nurse of great Aeneas Infancy.  
Here rest thy Bones in rich Hesperia's Plains,  
Thy Name ('tis all a Ghost can have) remains.   

Now, when the Prince her Funeral Rites had paid,  
He ploughed the Tyrrhene Seas with Sails displayed.  
From Land a gentle Breeze arose by Night,  
Serenely shone the Stars, the Moon was bright,  
And the Sea trembled with her Silver Light.  
Now near the Shelves of Circe's Shores they run,  
(Circe the rich, the Daughter of the Sun)  
A dangerous Coast: The Goddess wastes her Days  
In joyous Songs, the Rocks resound her Lays:  
In spinning, or the Loom, she spends the Night,  
And Cedar Brands supply her Father's Light.  
From hence were heard, (rebellowing to the Main,)  
The Roars of Lions that refuse the Chain,  
The Grunts of Bristled Boars, and Groans of Bears,  
And Herds of Howling Wolves that stun the Sailors Ears.   

To the Right Hon ble Henry Earl of Romney Viscount Sidney of Shippy Baron Milton Master General of the Ordinance Ld Warden of the Cinque Ports & ct  
A 7. l: 2.   

These from their Caverns, at the close of Night,  
Fill the sad Isle with Horror and Affright.  
Darkling they mourn their Fate, whom Circe's Power  
(That watched the Moon, and Planetary Hour)  
With Words and wicked Herbs, from Human Kind  
Had altered, and in Brutal Shapes confined.  
Which Monsters, lest the Trojans pious Host  
Should bear, or touch upon th' enchanted Coast;  
Propitious Neptune steered their Course by Night,  
With rising Gales, that sped their happy Flight.  
Supplied with these, they skim the sounding Shore,  
And hear the swelling Surges vainly roar.  
Now when the rosy Morn began to rise,  
And waved her Saffron Streamer through the Skies;  
When Thetis blushed in Purple, not her own,  
And from her Face the breathing Winds were blown:  
A sudden Silence sat upon the Sea,  
And sweeping Oars, with Struggling, urge their Way.   

The Trojan, from the Main beheld a Wood,  
Which thick with Shades, and a brown Horror, stood:  
Betwixt the Trees the Tiber took his Course,  
With Whirlpools dimpled; and with downward Force.  
That drove the Sand along, he took his Way,  
And rolled his yellow Billows to the Sea.  
About him, and above, and round the Wood,  
The Birds that haunt the Borders of his Flood;  
That bathed within, or basked upon his side,  
To tuneful Songs their narrow Throats applied.  
The Captain gives Command, the joyful Train  
Glide through the gloomy Shade, and leave the Main.   

Now, Erato, thy Poet's Mind inspire,  
And fill his Soul with thy Celestial Fire.  
Relate what Latium was, her ancient Kings:  
Declare the past, and present State of things,  
When first the Trojan Fleet Ausonia sought;  
And how the Rivals loved, and how they fought.  
These are my Theme, and how the War began,  
And how concluded by the Godlike Man.  
For I shall sing of Battles, Blood, and Rage,  
Which Princes, and their People did engage:  
And haughty Souls, that moved with mutual Hate,  
In fight Fields pursued and found their Fate:  
That roused the Tyrrhene Realm with loud Alarms,  
And peaceful Italy involved in Arms.  
A larger Scene of Action is displayed,  
And, rising hence, a greater Work is weighed.   

Latinus old and mild, had long possessed  
The Latian Sceptre, and his People blessed:  
His Father Faunus: a Laurentian Dame  
His Mother, fair Marica was her Name.  
But Faunus came from Picus, Picus drew  
His Birth from Saturn, if Records be true.  
Thus King Latinus, in the third Degree,  
Had Saturn Author of his Family.  
But this old peaceful Prince, as Heaven decreed,  
Was blessed with no Male Issue to succeed:  
His Sons in blooming Youth were snatched by Fate;  
One only Daughter heired the Royal State.  
Fired with her Love, and with Ambition led,  
The neighbouring Princes court her nuptial Bed.  
Among the Crowd, but far above the rest,  
Young Turnus to the Beauteous Maid addressed.  
Turnus, for great Descent, and graceful Mien,  
Was first, and favoured by the Latian Queen:  
With him she strove to join Lavinia's Hand:  
But dire Portents the purposed Match withstand.   

Deep in the Palace, of long Growth there stood  
A Laurels Trunk, a venerable Wood;  
Where Rites Divine were paid; whose holy Hair  
Was kept, and cut with superstitious Care.  
This Plant Latinus, when his Town he walled,  
Then found, and from the Tree Laurentum called:  
And last in Honour of his new Abode,  
He vowed the Laurel, to the Lawrels God.  
It happened once, (a bodeing Prodigy,)  
A swarm of Bees, that cut the liquid Sky,  
Unknown from whence they took their airy flight,  
Upon the topmost Branch in Clouds alight:  
There, with their clasping Feet together clung,  
And a long Cluster from the Laurel hung.  
An ancient Augur prophesied from hence:  
Behold on Latian Shores a foreign Prince!  
From the same parts of Heaven his Navy stands,  
To the same parts on Earth: his Army lands;  
The Town he conquers, and the Tower commands.  
Yet more, when fair Lavinia fed the Fire  
Before the Gods, and stood beside her Sire;  
Strange to relate, the Flames, involved in Smoke  
Of Incense, from the sacred Altar broke;  
Caught her dishevelled Hair, and rich Attire;  
Her Crown and Jewels crackled in the Fire:  
From thence the fuming Trail began to spread,  
And lambent Glories danced about her Head.  
This new Portent the Seer with Wonder views;  
Then pausing, thus his Prophecy renews.  
The Nymph who scatters flaming Fires around,  
Shall shine with Honour, shall herself be crowned:  
But, caused by her irrevocable Fate,  
War shall the Country waste, and change the State.  
Latinus, frighted with this dire Ostent,  
For Counsel to his Father Faunus went:  
And sought the Shades renowned for Prophecy,  
Which near Albunea's sulphurous Fountain lie.  
To these the Latian, and the Sabine Land  
Fly, when distressed, and thence Relief demand.  
The Priest on Skins of Offerings takes his Ease;  
And nightly Visions in his Slumber sees:  
A swarm of thin aerial Shapes appears,  
And, fluttering round his Temples, deafs his Ears:  
These he consults, the future Fates to know,  
From Powers above, and from the Fiends below.  
Here, for the God's advice, Latinus flies,  
Offering a hundred Sheep for Sacrifice:  
Their wooly Fleeces, as the Rites required,  
He laid beneath him, and to Rest retired.  
No sooner were his Eyes in Slumber bound,  
When, from above, a more than Mortal Sound  
Invades his Ears; and thus the Vision spoke:  
Seek not, my Seed, in Latian Bands to Yoke  
Our fair Lavinia, nor the Gods provoke.  
A foreign Son upon thy Shore descends,  
Whose Martial Fame from Pole to Pole extends.  
His Race in Arms, and Arts of Peace renowned,  
Not Latium shall contain, nor Europe bound:  
'Tis theirs what e'er the Sun surveys around.  
These Answers in the silent Night received,  
The King himself divulged, the Land believed:  
The Fame through all the Neighbouring Nations flew,  
When now the Trojan Navy was in view.   

Beneath a shady Tree the Hero spread  
His Table on the Turf, with Cakes of Bread;  
And, with his Chiefs, on Forest Fruits he fed.  
They sat, and (not without the God's Command)  
Their homely Fare dispatched; the hungry Band   

To Anthony Henly of the Grange in Hantshire Esqr::  
A 7 l. 152   

Invade their Trenchers next, and soon devour,  
To mend the scanty Meal, their Cakes of Flower.  
Ascanius this observed, and, smiling, said,  
See, we devour the Plates on which we fed.  
The Speech had Omen, that the Trojan Race  
Should find Repose, and this the Time and Place.  
Aeneas took the Word, and thus replies;  
(Confessing Fate with Wonder in his Eyes)  
All hail, O Earth! all hail my household Gods,  
Behold the destined place of your Abodes!  
For thus Anchises prophesied of old,  
And this our fatal place of Rest foretold.  
" When on a Foreign Shore, instead of Meat,  
" By Famine forced, your Trenchers you shall eat;  
" Than Ease your weary Trojans will attend:  
" And the long Labours of your Voyage end.  
" Remember on that happy Coast to build:  
" And with a Trench enclose the fruitful Field.  
This was that Famine, this the fatal place,  
Which ends the Wandering of our exiled Race.  
Then, on to Morrow's Dawn, your Care employ,  
To search the Land, and where the Cities lie,  
And what the Men; but give this Day to Joy.   

Now pour to Jove, and after Jove is blest,  
Call great Anchises to the Genial Feast:  
Crown high the Goblets with a cheerful Draught;  
Enjoy the present Hour, adjourn the future Thought.   

Thus having said, the Hero bound his Brows.  
With leafy Branches, then performed his Vows:  
Adoring first the Genius of the Place;  
Then Earth, the Mother of the Heavenly Race;  
The Nymphs, and native Godheads yet unknown,  
And Night, and all the Stars that gild her sable Throne.  
And ancient Cybel, and Idaean Jove;  
And last his Sire below, and Mother Queen above.   

Then heavens high Monarch thundered thrice aloud,  
And thrice he shook aloft, a Golden Cloud.  
Soon through the joyful Camp a Rumour flew,  
The time was come their City to renew:  
Then every Brow with cheerful Green is crowned,  
The Feasts are doubled, and the Bowls go round.   

When next the rosy Morn disclosed the Day,  
The Scouts to several parts divide their Way,  
To learn the Natives Names, their Towns, explore  
The Coasts, and Trending of the crooked Shore:  
Here Tiber flows, and here Numicus stands,  
Here warlike Latins hold the happy Lands.   

The Pious Chief, who sought by peaceful Ways,  
To found his Empire, and his Town to raise;  
A hundred Youths from all his Train elects;  
And to the Latian Court their Course directs:  
(The spacious Palace where their Prince resides;)  
And all their heads with Wreaths of Olive hides.  
They go commissioned to require a Peace;  
And carry Presents to procure Access.  
Thus while they speed their Pace, the Prince designs  
His new elected Seat, and draws the Lines:  
The Trojans round the place a Rampire cast,  
And Palisades about the Trenches placed.   

Mean time the Train, proceeding on their way,  
From far the Town, and lofty towers survey:  
At length approach the Walls: without the Gate  
They see the Boys, and Latian Youth debate  
The Martial Prizes on the dusty Plain;  
Some drive the Cars, and some the Courser's rain:  
Some bend the stubborn Bow for Victory;  
And some with Darts their active Sinews try.  
A posting Messenger dispatched from hence,  
Of this fair Troop advised their aged Prince;  
That foreign Men, of mighty Stature, came;  
Uncouth their Habit, and unknown their Name.  
The King ordains their entrance, and ascends  
His Regal Seat, surrounded by his Friends.  
The Palace built by Picus, vast and Proud,  
Supported by a hundred Pillars stood  
And round incompased with a rising Wood  
The Pile o'relooked the Town, and drew the sight;  
Surprised at once with Reverence and Delight.  
There Kings received the Marks of sovereign Power:  
In State the Monarches marched, the Lictors bore  
Their Awful Axes, and the Rods before.  
Here the Tribunal stood, the House of Prayer;  
And here the sacred Senators repair:  
All at large Tables, in long order set,  
A Ram their Offering, and a Ram their Meat.  
Above the Portal, Carved in Cedar Wood,  
Placed in their Ranks, their Godlike Grandsires stood.  
Old Saturn, with his crooked Scythe, on high;  
And Italus, that led the Colony:  
And ancient Janus, with his double Face,  
And Bunch of Keys, the Porter of the place.  
There good Sabinus, planter of the Vines,  
On a short Pruning-hook his Head reclines:  
And studiously surveys his generous Wines.  
Then Warlike Kings, who for their Country fought,  
And honourable Wounds from Battle brought.  
Around the Posts hung Helmets, Darts, and Spears;  
And Captive Chariots, Axes, Shields, and Bars,  
And broken Beaks of Ships, the Trophies of their Wars.  
Above the rest, as Chief of all the Band,  
Was Picus placed, a Buckler in his hand;  
His other waved a long divining Wand.  
Gird in his Gabin Gown the Hero sat:  
Yet could not with his Art avoid his Fate.  
For Circe long had loved the Youth in vain,  
Till Love, refused, converted to Disdain:  
Then mixing powerful Herbs, with Magic Art,  
She changed his Form, who could not change his heart.  
Constrained him in a Bird, and made him fly,  
With particoloured Plumes, a Chattering Pye.  
On this high Temple, on a Chair of State,  
The Seat of Audience, old Latinus sat;  
Then gave admiffion to the Trojan Train,  
And thus, with pleasing accents, he b●gan.  
Tell me, ye Trojans, for that Name you own,  
Nor is your Course upon our Coasts unknown;  
Say what you seek, and whither were you bound?  
Were you by stress of Wether cast aground?  
Such dangers as on Seas are often seen,  
And oft befall to miserable Men?  
Or come, your Shipping in our Ports to lay,  
Spent and disabled in so long a way?  
Say what you want, the Latians you shall find  
Not forced to Goodness, but by Will inclined:  
For since the time of Saturn's holy Reign,  
His Hospitable Customs we retain.  
I call to mind, but (Time the Tale has worn,)  
Th' Arunci told; that Dardanus, tho' born  
On Latian Plains, yet sought the Phrygian Shore,  
And Samothracia, Samos called before:  
From Tuscan Coritum he claimed his Birth,  
But after, when exempt from Mortal Earth,  
From thence ascended to his kindred Skies,  
A God, and as a God augments their Sacrifice.  
He said. Ilioneus made this Reply,  
O King, of Faunus' Royal Family!   

To George Stepney Esqr. His Majesty's ties. Envoy Extra ry: to Several Princes in, Germany and one of the Coincill of Trade  
A 7. l. 2●●   

Nor Wint'ry Winds to Latium forced our way,  
Nor did the Stars our wandering Course betray.  
Willing we sought your Shores, and hither bound,  
The Port so long desired, at length we found.  
From our sweet Homes and ancient Realms expelled;  
Great as the greatest that the Sun beheld.  
The God began our Line, who rules above,  
And as our Race, our King descends from Jove:  
And hither are we come, by his Command,  
To crave Admission in your happy Land.  
How dire a Tempest, from Mycenae poured,  
Our Plains, our Temples, and our Town devoured;  
What was the Waste of War, what fierce Alarms  
Shook Asia's Crown with European Arms;  
Even such have heard, if any such there be,  
Whose Earth is bounded by the frozen Sea:  
And such as born beneath the burning Sky,  
And sultry Sun betwixt the Tropics lie.  
From that dire Deluge, through the wat'ry Waste,  
Such length of Years, such various Perils passed:  
At last escaped, to Latium we repair,  
To beg what you without your Want may spare;  
The common Water, and the common Air.  
Sheds which ourselves will build, and mean abodes,  
Fit to receive and serve our banished Gods.  
Nor our Admission shall your Realm disgrace,  
Nor length of time our Gratitude efface.  
Besides, what endless Honour you shall gain  
To save and shelter Troy's unhappy Train.  
Now, by my sovereign, and his Fate I swear,  
Renowned for Faith in Peace, for Force in War;  
Oft our Alliance other Lands desired,  
And what we seek of you, of us required.  
Despise not then, that in our Hands we bear  
These Holy Boughs, and sue with Words of Prayer.  
Fate and the Gods, by their supreme Command,  
Have doomed our Ships to seek the Latian Land.  
To these abodes our Fleet Apollo sends;  
Here Dardanus was born, and hither tends:  
Where Tuscan Tiber rowls with rapid Force,  
And where Numicus opes his Holy Source.  
Besides our Prince presents, with his Request,  
Some small Remains of what his Sire possessed.  
This Golden Charger, snatched from burning Troy,  
Anchises did in Sacrifice employ:  
This Royal Robe, and this Tiara wore  
Old Priam, and this Golden Sceptre bore  
In full Assemblies, and in solemn Games;  
These Purple Vests were weaved by Dardan Dames.   

Thus while he spoke, Latinus rolled around  
His Eyes, and fixed a while upon the Ground.  
Intent he seemed, and anxious in his Breast;  
Not by the Sceptre moved, or Kingly Vest:  
But pondering future Things of wondrous Weight;  
Succession, Empire, and his Daughter's Fate:  
On these he mused within his thoughtful Mind;  
And then revolved what Faunus had divined.  
This was the Foreign Prince, by Fate decreed  
To share his Sceptre, and Lavinia's Bed:  
This was the Race, that sure Portents foreshow  
To sway the World, and Land and Sea subdue.  
At length he raised his cheerful Head, and spoke▪  
The Powers, said he, the Powers we both invoke,  
To you, and yours, and mine, propitious be,  
And firm our Purpose with their Augury.  
Have what you ask; your Presents I receive,  
Land where, and when you please, with ample Leave:  
Partake and use my Kingdom as your own;  
All shall be yours, while I command the Crown.  
And if my wished Alliance please your King,  
Tell him he should not send the Peace, but bring:  
Then let him not a Friend's Embraces fear;  
The Peace is made when I behold him here.  
Besides this Answer, tell my Royal Guest,  
I add to his Commands, my own Request:  
One only Daughter heirs my Crown and State,  
Whom, not our Oracles, nor Heaven, nor Fate,  
Nor frequent Prodigies permit to join  
With any Native of th' Ausonian Line.  
A foreign Son-in-Law shall come from far,  
(Such is our Doom) a Chief renowned in War:  
Whose Race shall bear aloft the Latian Name,  
And through the conquered World diffuse our Fame.  
Himself to be the Man the Fates require,  
I firmly judge, and what I judge, desire.  
He said, and then on each bestowed a Steed;  
Three hundred Horses, in high Stables f●d,  
Stood ready, shining all, and smoothly dressed;  
Of these he chose the fairest and the best,  
To mount the Trojan Troop; at his Command,  
The Steeds caparisoned with Purple stand;  
With Golden Trappings, glorious to behold,  
And champ betwixt their Teeth the foaming Gold.  
Then to his absent Guest the King decreed  
A pair of Coursers born of Heavenly Breed:  
Who from their Nostrils breathed Etherial Fire;  
Whom Circe stole from her Celestial Sire:  
By substituting Mares, produced on Earth,  
Whose Wombs conceived a more than Mortal Birth.  
These draw the Chariot which Latinus sends;  
And the rich Present to the Prince commends.  
Sublime on stately Steeds the Trojans born;  
To their expecting Lord with Peace return.   

But jealous Juno, from Pachynus height,  
As she from Argos took her airy Flight,  
Beheld, with envious Eyes, this hateful Sight.  
She saw the Trojan, and his joyful Train  
Descend upon the Shore, desert the Main;  
Design a Town, and with unhoped Success  
Th' Ambassadors return with promised Peace.  
Then pierced with Pain, she shook her haughty Head;  
Sighed from her inward Soul; and thus she said.  
O hated Offspring of my Phrygian Foes!  
O Fates of Troy, which Juno's Fates oppose!  
Could they not fall unpityed, on the Plain,  
But slain revive, and taken, scape again?  
When execrable Troy in Ashes lay,  
Through Fires, and Swords, and Seas, they forced their Way.  
Then vanquished Juno must in vain contend,  
Her Rage disarmed, her Empire at an end.  
Breathless and tired, is all my Fury spent,  
Or does my glutted Spleen at length relent?  
As if 'twere little from their Town to chase,  
I through the Seas pursued their exiled Race:  
Engaged the Heavn's, opposed the Stormy Main;  
But Billows roared, and Tempests raged in vain.  
What have my Scylla's and my Sirtes done,  
When these they overpass, and those they eat?  
On Tyber's Shores they land, secure of Fate,  
Triumphant o'er the Storms and Juno's Hate.  
Mars could in mutual Blood the Centauris bath,  
And Jove himself gave way to Cynthia's Wrath;  
Who sent the tusky Boar to Calydon:  
What great Offence had either People done?  
But I, the Comfort of the Thunderer,  
Have waged a long and unsuccessful War:  
With various Arts and Arms in vain have toiled,  
And by a Mortal Man at length am foiled.  
If native Power prevail not, shall I doubt  
To seek for needful Succour from without:  
If Jove and Heaven my just Desires deny,  
Hell shall the Power of Heaven and Jove supply.  
Grant that the Fates have firmed, by their Decree,  
The Trojan Race to reign in Italy;  
At least I can defer the Nuptial Day,  
And with protracted Wars the Peace delay:  
With Blood the dear Alliance shall be bought;  
And both the People to Destruction brought.  
So shall the Son-in-Law, and Father join,  
With Ruin, War, and Waste of either Line.  
O fatal Maid! thy Marriage is endowed  
With Phrygian, Latian, and Rutulian Blood!  
Bellona leads thee to thy Lover's Hand,  
Another Queen brings forth another Brand;  
To burn with foreign Fires her native Land!  
A second Paris, differing but in Name,  
Shall fire his Country with a second Flame.   

Thus having said, she sinks beneath the Ground,  
With furious haste, and shoots the Stygian Sound;  
To rouse Allecto from th' Infernal Seat  
Of her dire Sisters, and their dark Retreat.  
This Fury, fit for her Intent, she chose;  
One who delights in Wars, and Human Woes.  
Even Pluto hates his own misshapen Race:  
Her Sister-Furies fly her hideous Face:  
So frightful are the Forms the Monster takes,  
So fierce the Hissing of her speckled Snakes.  
Her Juno finds, and thus inflames her Spite:  
O Virgin Daughter of Eternal Night,  
Give me this once thy Labour, to sustain  
My Right, and execute my just disdain.  
Let not the Trojans, with a feigned Pretence  
Of proffered Peace, delude the Latian Prince:  
Expel from Italy that odious Name,  
And let not Juno suffer in her Fame.  
'Tis thine to ruin Realms, overturn a State,  
Betwixt the dearest Friends to raise Debate;  
And kindle kindred Blood to mutual Hate.  
Thy Hand o'er Towns the funeral Torch displays,  
And forms a thousand Ills ten thousand Ways.  
Now shake from out thy fruitful Breast, the Seeds  
Of Envy, Discord, and of Cruel Deeds:  
Confound the Peace established, and prepare  
Their Souls to Hatred, and their Hands to War.  
Smeared as she was with black Gorgonean Blood,  
The Fury sprang above the Stygian Flood:  
And on her wicker Wings, sublime through Night,  
She to the Latian Palace took her Flight.  
There sought the Queen's Apartment, stood before  
The peaceful Threshold, and besieged the Door.  
Restless Amata lay, her swelling Breast  
Fired with Disdain for Turnus dispossessed,  
And the new Nuptials of the Trojan Guest.  
From her black bloody Locks the Fury shakes  
Her darling Plague, the Favourite of her Snakes:  
With her full Force she threw the poisonous Dart,  
And fixed it deep within Amata's Heart.  
That thus envenomed she might kindle Rage,  
And sacrifice to Strife her House and Husbands Age.  
Unseen, unfelt, the fiery Serpent skims  
Betwixt her Linen, and her naked Limbs.  
His baleful Breath inspiring, as he glides,  
Now like a Chain around her Neck he rides;  
Now like a Fillet to her Head repairs,  
And with his Circling Volumes folds her Hairs:  
At first the silent Venom slid with ease,  
And seized her cooler Senses by degrees;  
Then ere th' infected Mass was fired too far,  
In Plaintive Accents she began the War:  
And thus bespoke her Husband; Shall, she said,  
A wand'ring Prince enjoy Lavinia's Bed?  
If Nature plead not in a Parent's Heart,  
Pity my Tears, and pity her Desert:  
I know, my dearest Lord, the time will come,  
You would, in vain, reverse your Cruel doom:  
The faithless Pirate soon will set to Sea,  
And bear the Royal Virgin far away!  
A Guest like him, a Trojan Guest before,  
In show of friendship, sought the Spartan Shore;  
And ravished Helen from her Husband bore.  
Think on a King's inviolable Word;  
And think on Turnus, her once plighted Lord:  
To this false Foreigner you give your Throne,  
And wrong a Friend, a Kinsman, and a Son.  
Resume your ancient Care; and if the God  
Your Sire, and you, resolve on Foreign Blood:  
Know all are Foreign, in a larger Sense,  
Not born your Subjects, or derived from hence.  
Then if the Line of Turnus you retrace;  
He springs from Inachus of Argive Race.  
But when she saw her Reasons idly spent,  
And could not move him from his fixed Intent;  
She flew to rage; for now the Snake possessed  
Her vital parts, and poisoned all her Breast;  
She raves, she runs with a distracted pace,  
And fills, with horrid howls, the public Place.  
And, as young Striplings whip the Top for sport,  
On the smooth Pavement of an empty Court;  
The wooden Engine flies and whirls about,  
Admired, with Clamours, of the Beardless rout;  
They lash aloud, each other they provoke,  
And lend their little Souls at every stroke:  
Thus fares the Queen, and thus her fury blows  
Amidst the Crowd, and kindles as she goes.  
Nor yet content, she strains her Malice more,  
And adds new Ills to those contrived before:  
She flies the Town, and, mixing with a throng  
Of madding Matrons, bears the Bride along:  
Wandering through Woods and wild's, and devious ways,  
And with these Arts the Trojan Match delays.  
She feigned the Rites of Bacchus! cried aloud,  
And to the Buxom God the Virgin vowed.  
Evoe, O Bacchus thus began the Song,  
And Evoe! answered all the Female Throng:  
O Virgin! worthy thee alone, she cried;  
O worthy thee alone, the Crew replied.  
For thee she feeds her Hair, she leads thy Dance,  
And with thy winding Ivy crowns her Lance.  
Like fury seized the rest; the progress known,  
All seek the Mountains, and forsake the Town:  
All Clad in Skins of Beasts the Javelin bear,  
Give to the wanton Winds their flowing Hair:  
And shrieks and shouts rend the passive Air.  
The Queen, herself, inspired with Rage Divine,  
Shook high above her head a flaming Pine:  
Then rolled her haggared Eyes around the throng,  
And sung, in Turnus' Name, the Nuptial Song:   

To Coll l: Thomas Farrington of the Parish of St: James' Westminster  
A 7. l. 559   

Io ye Latian Dames, if any here  
Hold, your unhappy Queen, Amata, dear;  
If there be here, she said, who dare maintain  
My Right, nor think the Name of Mother vain:  
Unbind your Fillets, lose your flowing Hair,  
And Orgies, and Nocturnal Rites prepare.  
Amata's Breast the Fury thus invades,  
And fires with Rage, amid the Sylvan Shades.  
Then when she found her Venom spread so far,  
The Royal House embroiled in Civil War:  
Raised on her dusky Wings she cleaves the Skies,  
And seeks the Palace where young Turnus lies▪  
His Town, as Fame reports, was built of old  
By Danae, pregnant with Almighty Gold:  
Who fled her Father's Rage, and with a Train  
Of following Argives, through the stormy Main,  
Driven by the Southern Blasts, was fated here to reign.   

'Twas Ardua once, now Ardea's Name it bears:  
Once a fair City, now consumed with Years.  
Here in his lofty Palace Turnus lay,  
Betwixt the Confines of the Night and Day,  
Secure in Sleep: The Fury laid aside  
Her Looks and Limbs, and with new methods tried,  
The foulness of th' insernal Form to hide.  
Propped on a Staff, she takes a trembling Mien,  
Her Face is furrowed, and her Front obscene:  
Deep dinted Wrinkles on her Cheek she draws,  
Sunk are her Eyes, and toothless are her Jaws:  
Her hoary Hair with holy Fillets bound,  
Her Temples with an Olive Wreath are crowned.  
Old Chalibe, who kept the sacred Fane  
Of Juno, now she seemed, and thus began,  
Appearng in a Dream, to rouse the careless Man.  
Shall Turnus then such endless Toil sustain,  
In fight Fields, and conquer Towns in vain:  
Win, for a Trojan Head to wear the Prize,  
Usurp thy Crown, enjoy thy Victories?  
The Bride and Sceptre which thy Blood has bought,  
The King transfers, and Foreign Heirs are sought:  
Go now, deluded Man, and seek again  
New Toils, new Dangers on the dusty Plain.  
Repel the Tuscan Foes, their City seize,  
Protect the Latians in luxurious Ease.  
This Dream all-powerful Juno sends, I bear  
Her mighty Mandates, and her Words you hear.  
Haste, arm your Ardeans, issue to the Plain,  
With Fate to friend, assault the Trojan Train:  
Their thoughtless Chiefs, their painted Ships that lie  
In Tyber's Mouth, with Fire and Sword destroy.  
The Latian King, unless he shall submit,  
Own his old Promise, and his new forget;  
Let him, in Arms, the Power of Turnus prove,  
And learn to fear whom he disdains to Love.  
For such is heavens Command. The youthful Prince  
With Scorn replied, and made this bold Defence.  
You tell me, Mother, what I knew before,  
The Phrygian Fleet is landed on the Shore:  
I neither fear, nor will provoke the War;  
My Fate is Juno's most peculiar Care.  
But Time has made you dote, and vainly tell  
Of Arms imagined, in your lonely Cell:  
Go, be the Temple and the Gods your Care,  
Permit to Men the Thought of Peace and War.   

These haughty Words Alecto's Rage provoke,  
And frighted Turnus trembled as she spoke.  
Her Eyes grow stiffened, and with Sulphur burn,  
Her hideous Looks, and hellish Form return:  
Her curling Snakes, with Hissing fill the Place,  
And open all the Furies of her Face:  
Then, darting Fire from her malignant Eyes,  
She cast him backward as he strove to rise,  
And, lingering, sought to frame some new Replies.  
High on her Head she rears two twisted Snakes,  
Her Chains she rattles, and her Whip she shakes;  
And churning bloody Foam, thus loudly speaks.  
Behold whom Time has made to dote, and tell  
Of Arms, imagined in her lonely Cell:  
Behold the Fates Infernal Minister;  
War, Death, Destruction, in my Hand I bear.   

Thus having said, her smould'ring Torch impressed,  
With her full Force, she plunged into his Breast.  
Aghast he waked, and, starting from his Bed,  
Cold Sweat, in clammy Drops, his Limbs o'erspread.  
Arms, Arms, he cries, my Sword and Shield prepare;  
He breathes Defiance, Blood, and Mortal War.  
So when with crackling Flames a Cauldron fries,  
The bubbling Waters from the Bottom rise:  
Above the Brims they force their fiery way;  
Black Vapours climb aloft, and cloud the Day.   

The Peace polluted thus, a chosen Band  
He first commissions to the Latian Land;  
In threatening Embassy: Then raised the rest,  
To meet in Arms th' intruding Trojan Guest:  
To force the Foes from the Lavinian Shore,  
And Italy's endangered Peace restore.  
Himself alone, an equal Match he boasts,  
To fight the Phrygian and Ausonian Hosts.  
The Gods invoked, the Rutuli prepare  
Their Arms, and warm each other to the War.  
His Beauty these, and those his blooming Age,  
The rest his House, and his own Fame engage.   

While Turnus urges thus his Enterprise;  
The Stygian Fury to the Trojans flies:  
New Frauds invents, and takes a steepy Stand,  
Which overlooks the Vale with wide Command;  
Where fair Ascanius, and his youthful Train,  
With Horns and Hounds a hunting Match ordain,  
And pitch their Toils around the shady Plain.  
The Fury fires the Pack; they snuff, they vent,  
And fill their hungry Nostrils with the Scent.  
'Twas of a well grown Stag, whose Antlers rise  
High o'er his Front, his Beams invade the Skies:  
From this light Cause, th' Infernal Maid prepares  
The Country Churls to Mischief, Hate, and Wars.   

The stately Beast, the Two Tyrrheidae bred,  
Snatched from his Dam, and the tame Youngling fed.  
Their Father Tyrrheus did his Fodder bring,  
Tyrrheus, chief Ranger to the Latian King:  
Their Sister Silvia cherished with her Care  
The little Wanton, and did Wreaths prepare  
To hang his budding Horns: with Ribbons tied  
His tender Neck, and combed his silken Hide;  
And bathed his Body. Patient of Command,  
In time he grew, and growing used to Hand.  
He waited at his Master's Board for Food;  
Then sought his savage Kindred in the Wood:  
Where grazing all the Day, at Night he came  
To his known Lodgings, and his Country Dame.   

This household Beast, that used the Woodland Grounds,  
Was viewed at first by the young Hero's Hounds;  
As down the Stream he swum, to seek Retreat  
In the cool Waters, and to quench his Heat.  
Ascanius' young, and eager of his Game,  
Soon bend his Bow, uncertain in his Aim:   

To the Right Honble: the Lady Mary Sackvile daughter to Charles Earl of Dorset & Middlesex  
A 7. l. 675.   

But the dire Fiend the fatal Arrow guides,  
Which pierced his Bowels through his panting sides.  
The bleeding Creature issues from the Floods,  
Possessed with Fear, and seeks his known abodes;  
His old familiar Hearth, and household Gods.  
He falls, he fills the House with heavy Groans,  
Implores their Pity, and his Pain bemoans.  
Young Silvia beats her Breast, and cries aloud  
For Succour, from the clownish Neighbourhood:  
The Churls assemble; for the Fiend, who lay  
In the close Woody Covert, urged their way.  
One with a Brand, yet burning from the Flame;  
Armed with a knotty Club, another came:  
What e'er they catch or find, without their Care,  
Their Fury makes an Instrument of War.  
Tyrrheus, the Foster-Father of the Beast,  
Then clenched a Hatchet in his horny Fist:  
But held his Hand from the descending Stroke,  
And left his Wedge within the cloven Oak,  
To whet their Courage, and their Rage provoke.  
And now the Goddess, exercised in Ill,  
Who watched an Hour to work her impious Will,  
Ascends the Roof, and to her crooked Horn,  
Such as was then by Latian Shepherds born,  
Adds all her Breath, the Rocks and Woods around,  
And Mountains, tremble at th' infernal Sound.  
The Sacred Lake of Trivia from afar,  
The Veline Fountains, and sulphureous Nar,  
Shake at the baleful Blast, the Signal of the War.  
Young Mothers wildly stare, with Fear possessed,  
And strain their helpless Infants to their Breast.   

The Clowns, a boisterous, rude, ungoverned Crew,  
With furious haste to the loud Summons flew.  
The Powers of Troy then issuing on the Plain,  
With fresh Recruits their youthful Chief sustain:  
Not theirs a raw and unexperienced Train,  
But a firm Body of embattled Men.  
At first, while Fortune favoured neither side,  
The Fight with Clubs and burning Brands was tried:  
But now, both Parties reinfored, the Fields  
Are bright with flaming Swords and brazen Shields.  
A shining Harvest either Host displays,  
And shoots against the Sun with equal Rays.   

Thus when a black-browed Gust begins to rise,  
White Foam at first on the curled Ocean fries;  
Then roars the Main, the Billows mount the Skies:  
Till by the Fury of the Storm full blown,  
The muddy Bottom o'er the Clouds is thrown.   

First Almon falls, old Tyrrheus eldest Care,  
Pierced with an Arrow from the distant War:  
Fixed in his Throat the flying Weapon stood,  
And stopped his Breath, and drank his vital Blood.  
Huge Heaps of slain above the Body rise;  
Among the rest, the rich Galesus lies:  
A good old Man, while Peace he preached in vain,  
Amidst the Madness of th' unruly Train.  
Five Herds, five bleating Flocks his Pastures filled,  
His Lands a hundred Yoke of Oxen tilled.  
Thus, while in equal Scales their Fortune stood,  
The Fury bathed them in each others Blood.  
Then having fixed the Fight, exulting flies,  
And bears fulfilled her Promise to the Skies.  
To Juno thus she speaks; Behold, 'tis done,  
The Blood already drawn, the War begun;  
The Discord is complete, nor can they cease  
The dire Debate, nor you command the Peace.  
Now since the Latian and the Trojan Brood  
Have tasted Vengeance, and the Sweets of Blood;  
Speak, and my Power shall add this Office more:  
The Neighbouring Nations of th' Ausonian Shore  
Shall hear the dreadful Rumour, from afar,  
Of armed Invasion, and embrace the War.  
Then Juno thus; The grateful Work is done,  
The Seeds of Discord sowed, the War begun:  
Frauds, Fears, and Fury have possessed the State,  
And fixed the Causes of a lasting Hate:  
A bloody Hymen shall th' Alliance join  
Betwixt the Trojan and Ausonian Line:  
But thou with Speed to Night and Hell repair,  
For not the Gods, nor angry Jove will bear  
Thy lawless wandering walks, in upper Air.  
Leave what remains to me. Saturnia said:  
The sullen Fiend her sounding Wings displayed;  
Unwilling left the Light, and sought the nether Shade.   

In midst of Italy, well known to Fame,  
There lies a Lake, Amsanctus is the Name,  
Below the lofty Mounts: On either side  
Thick Forests, the forbidden Entrance hide:  
Full in the Centre of the sacred Wood  
An Arm arises of the Stygian Flood;  
Which, breaking from beneath with bellowing sound,  
Whirls the black Waves and rattling Stones around.  
Here Pluto pants for Breath from out his Cell,  
And opens wide the grinning Jaws of Hell.  
To this Infernal Lake the Fury flies;  
Here hides her hated Head, and frees the labouring Skies.  
Saturnian Juna now, with double Care,  
Attends the fatal Process of the War.  
The Clowns returned, from Battle bear the slain,  
Implore the Gods, and to their King complain.  
The Corpse of Almon and the rest are shown,  
Shrieks, Clamours, Murmurs fill the frighted Town.  
Ambitious Turnus in the Press appears,  
And, aggravating Crimes, augments their Fears:  
Proclaims his Private Injuries aloud,  
A Solemn Promise made, and disavowed;  
A foreign Son is sought, and a mixed Mongrel Brood.  
Then they, whose Mothers, frantic with their Fear,  
In Woods and wild's the Flags of Bacchus bear,  
And lead his Dances with dishevelled hair,  
Increase the Clamour, and the War demand,  
(Such was Amata's Interest in the Land)  
Against the Public Sanctions of the Peace,  
Against all Omens of their ill Success;  
With Fates averse, the Rout in Arms resort,  
To Force their Monarch, and insult the Court.  
But like a Rock unmoved, a Rock that braves  
The raging Tempest and the rising Waves,  
Propped on himself he stands: His solid sides  
Wash off the Seaweeds, and the sounding Tides:  
So stood the Pious Prince unmoved: and long  
Sustained the madness of the noisy Throng.  
But when he found that Juno's Power prevailed,  
And all the Methods of cool Counsel sailed,  
He calls the Gods to witness their offence,  
Disclaims the War, asserts his Innocence.  
Hurried by Fate, he cries, and born before  
A furious Wind, we leave the faithful Shore:  
O more than Madmen! you yourselves shall bear  
The guilt of Blood and Sacrilegious War:  
Thou, Turnus, shalt atone it by thy Fate,  
And pray to Heaven for Peace, but pray too late.  
For me, my stormy Voyage at an end,  
I to the Port of Death securely tend.  
The Funeral Pomp which to your Kings you pay,  
Is all I want, and all you take away.  
He said no more, but in his Walls confined,  
Shut out the Woes which he too well divined:  
Nor with the rising Storm would vainly strive,  
But left the Helm, and let the Vessel drive.  
A solemn Custom was observed of old,  
Which Latium held, and now the Romans hold;  
Their Standard, when in fight Fields they rear  
Against the fierce Hyrcanians, or declare  
The Scythian, Indian, or Arabian War:  
Or from the boasting Parthians would regain  
Their Eagles lost in Carrhae's bloody Plain:  
Two Gates of Steel (the Name of Mars they bear)  
And still are worshipped with religious Fear;  
Before his Temple stand: The dire abode,  
And the feared Issues of the furious God,  
Are fenced with Brazen Bolts; without the Gates,  
The wary Guardian Janus doubly waits.  
Then, when the sacred Senate votes the Wars,  
The Roman Consul their Decree declares,  
And in his Robes the sounding Gates unbars.  
The Youth in Military Shouts arise,  
And the loud Trumpets break the yielding Skies.  
These Rites of old by sovereign Princes used,  
Were the King's Office, but the King refused.  
Deaf to their Cries, nor would the Gates unbar  
Of sacred Peace, or lose th' imprisoned War:  
But hid his Head, and, safe from loud Alarms,  
Abhorred the wicked Ministry of Arms.  
Than heavens Imperious Queen came down from high;  
At her Approach the Brazen Hinges fly,  
The Gates are forced, and every falling Bar,  
And like a Tempest issues out the War.  
The peaceful Cities of th' Ausonian Shore,  
Lulled in their Ease, and undisturbed before;  
Are all on Fire, and some with studious Care,  
Their restiff Steeds in sandy Plains prepare:  
Some their soft Limbs in painful Marches try,  
And War is all their Wish, and Arms the gen'ral Cry.  
Part scour the rusty Shields with Seam, and part  
New grind the blunted Axe, and point the Dart:  
With Joy they view the waving Ensigns fly,  
And hear the Trumpet's Clangor pierce the Sky.  
Five Cities forge their Arms; th' Atinian Powers,  
Antemnae, Tybur with her lofty towers,  
Ardea the proud, the Crustumerian Town:  
All these of old were places of Renown.  
Some hammer Helmets for the fight Field,  
Some twine young Sallows to support the Shield;  
The Croslet some, and some the Cuishes mould,  
With Silver plated, and with ductile Gold.  
The rustic Honours of the Scythe and Share,  
Give place to Swords and Plumes, the Pride of War.  
Old Falchions are new tempered in the Fires:  
The sounding Trumpet every Soul inspires.  
The Word is given, with eager Speed they lace  
The shining Head-piece, and the Shield embrace.  
The neighing Steeds are to the Chariot tied,  
The trusty Weapon sits on every side.   

And now the mighty Labour is begun,  
Ye Muses open all your Helicon.  
Sing you the Chiefs that swayed th' Ausonian Land,  
Their Arms, and Armies under their Command:  
What Warriors in our ancient Clime were bred,  
What Soldiers followed, and what Heroes led.  
For well you know, and can record alone,  
What Fame to future times conveys but darkly down.   

Mezentius first appeared upon the Plain,  
Scorn fate upon his Brows, and sour Disdain;  
Defying Earth and Heaven: Etruria lost,  
He brings to Turnus' Aid his baffled Host.  
The charming Lausus, full of youthful Fire,  
Road in the Rank, and next his sullen Sire:  
To Turnus only second in the Grace  
Of Manly Mien, and features of the Face.  
A skilful Horseman, and a Huntsman bred,  
With Fates averse a thousand Men he led:  
His Sire unworthy of so brave a Son;  
Himself well worthy of a happier Throne.   

Next Aventinus drives his Chariot round  
The Latian Plains, with Palms and Laurels crowned.  
Proud of his Steeds he smokes along the Field,  
His Father's Hydra fills his ample Shield.  
A hundred Serpents hiss about the Brims;  
The Son of Hercules he justly seems,  
By his broad Shoulders and Gigantic Limbs.  
Of Heavenly part, and part of Earthly Blood,  
A mortal Woman mixing with a God.  
For strong Alcides, after he had slain  
The triple Geryon, drove from conquered Spain  
His captive Herds, and thence in Triumph led;  
On Tuscan Tyber's flowery Banks they fed.  
Then on Mount Aventine, the Son of Jove  
The Priestess Rhea found, and forced to Love.   

For Arms his Men long Piles and Jav'lins bore,  
And Poles with pointed Steel their Foes in Battle gore.  
Like Hercules himself, his Son appears,  
In Savage Pomp a Lion's Hide he wears;  
About his Shoulders hangs the shaggy Skin,  
The Teeth, and gaping Jaws severely grin.  
Thus like the God his Father, homely dressed,  
He strides into the Hall, a horrid Guest.   

Then two Twin-Brothers from fair Tybur came,  
(Which from their Brother tybur's took the Name,)  
Fierce Coras, and Catillus, void of Fear,  
Armed Argive Horse they led, and in the Front appear.  
Like Cloud-born Centaurs, from the Mountain's height,  
With rapid Course descending to the Fight;  
They rush along, the rattling Woods give way,  
The Branches bend before their sweepy Sway.   

Nor was Praeneste's Founder wanting there,  
Whom Fame reports the Son of Mulciber:  
Found in the Fire, and fostered in the Plains;  
A Shepherd and a King at once he reigns,  
And leads to Turnus Aid his Country Swains.  
His own Praeneste sends a chosen Band,  
With those who plough Saturnia's Gabine Land:  
Besides the Succour which cold Anien yields,  
The Rocks of Hernicus, and rosy Fields;  
Anagnia fat, and Father Amasene,  
A numerous Rout, but all of naked Men:  
Nor Arms they wear, nor Swords and Bucklers wield,  
Nor drive the Chariot through the dusty Field:  
But whirl from Leathern Slings huge Balls of Lead;  
And Spoils of yellow Wolves adorn their Head:  
The Left Foot naked, when they march to fight,  
But in a Bull's raw Hide they sheathe the Right.   

Messapus next, (great Neptune was his Sire)  
Secure of Steel, and fated from the Fire;  
In Pomp appears: And with his Ardour warms  
A heartless Train, unexercised in Arms:  
The just Faliscans he to Battle brings,  
And those who live where Lake Ciminia springs;  
And where Feronia's Grove and Temple stands,  
Who till Fescennian or Flavinian Lands:  
All these in order march, and marching sing  
The warlike Actions of their Sea-born King.  
Like a long Team of Snowy Swans on high,  
Which clap their Wings, and cleave the liquid Sky,  
When homeward from their wat'ry Pastures born,  
They sing, and Asia's Lakes their Notes return.  
Not one who heard their Music from afar,  
Would think these Troops an Army trained to War:  
But Flocks of Fowl, that when the Tempests roar,  
With their hoarse gambling seek the silent Shoar.   

Then Clausus came, who led a numerous Band  
Of Troops embodied, from the Sabine Land:  
And in himself alone, an Army brought,  
'Twas he the noble Claudian Race begot:  
The Claudian Race, ordained, in times to come,  
To share the Greatness of Imperial Rome.  
He led the Cures forth of old Renown,  
Mutuscans from their Olive-bearing Town;  
And all th' Eretian Powers: Besides a Band  
That followed from Velinums dewy Land:  
And Amiternian Troops, of mighty Fame,  
And Mountaineers, that from Severus came.  
And from the craggy Cliffs of Tetrica,  
And those where yellow Tiber takes his way,  
And where Himella's wanton Waters play.  
Casperia sends her Arms, with those that lie  
By Fabaris, and fruitful Foruli:  
The warlike Aids of Horta next appear,  
And the cold Nursians come to close the Rear:  
Mixed with the Natives born of Latin Blood,  
Whom Allia washes with her fatal Flood.  
Not thicker Billows beat the Lybian Main,  
When pale Orion sets in wint'ry Rain;  
Not thicker Harvests on rich Hermus' rise,  
Or Lycian Fields, when Phoebus burns the Skies;  
Than stand these Troops: Their Bucklers ring around,  
Their Trampling turns the Turf, and shakes the solid Ground.   

High in his Chariot then Halesus came,  
A Foe by Birth to Troy's unhappy Name:  
From Agamemnon born; to Turnus' Aid,  
A thousand Men the youthful Hero led;  
Who till the Massick Soil, for Wine renowned,  
And fierce Auruncans from their Hilly Ground:  
And those who live by Sidicinian Shores,  
And where, with shoaly Fords Vulturnus roars;  
Cales and Osca's old Inhabitants,  
And rough Saticulans inur'd to Wants:  
Light demi-Launces from afar they throw,  
Fastened with Leathern Thongs to gall the Foe.  
Short crooked Swords in closer Fight they wear,  
And on their warding Arm light Bucklers bear.   

Nor Oebalus, shalt thou be left unsung,  
From Nymph Semethis and old Telon sprung:  
Who then in Teleboan Capri reigned,  
But that short Isle th' ambitious Youth disdained;  
And o'er Campagnia stretched his ample Sway;  
Where swelling Sarnus seeks the Tyrrhene Sea:  
O'er Batulum, and where Abella sees,  
From her high towers, the Harvest of her Trees.  
All these (as was the Teuton use of old)  
Wield Brazen Swords, and Brazen Bucklers hold:  
Sling weighty Stones when from afar they fight;  
Their Casques are Cork, a Covering thick and light.  
Next these in Rank, the warlike Ufens went,  
And led the Mountain Troops that Nursia sent.  
The rude Equicolae his Rule obeyed,  
Hunting their Sport, and Plundering was their Trade.  
In Arms they ploughed, to Battle still prepared;  
Their Soil was barren, and their Hearts were hard.   

Umbro the Priest the proud Marrubians led,  
By King Archippus sent to Turnus' aid;  
And peaceful Olives crowned his hoary head.  
His Wand and holy Words, the Viper's rage,  
And venomed wounds of Serpents, could assuage.  
He, when he pleased with powerful Juice to steep  
Their Temples, shut their Eyes in pleasing Sleep.  
But vain were Marsian Herbs, and Magic Art,  
To cure the Wound given by the Dardan Dart.  
Yet his untimely Fate, th' Angitian Woods  
In sighs remurmured, to the Fucine Floods.  
The Son of famed Hippolytus was there;  
Famed as his Sire, and as his Mother fair.  
Whom in Egerian Groves Aricia bore,  
And nursed his Youth along the Marshy Shore:  
Where great Diana's peaceful Altars flame,  
In fruitful Fields, and Virbius was his Name.  
Hippolytus, as old Records have said,  
Was by his Stepdame sought to share her Bed:  
But when no Female Arts his Mind could move,  
She turned to furious Hate her impious Love.  
Torn by Wild Horses on the sandy Shore,  
Another's Crimes th' unhappy Hunter bore;  
Glutting his Father's Eyes with guiltless gore.  
But chaste Diana, who his death deplored,  
With Aesculapian Herbs his life restored.  
Then Jove, who saw from high, with just disdain,  
The dead inspired with Vital Breath again,  
Struck to the Centre with his flaming Dart  
Th' unhappy Founder of the Godlike Art.  
But Trivia kept in secret Shades alone,  
Her care, Hippolytus, to Fate unknown;  
And called him Virbius in th' Egerian Grove:  
Where then he lived obscure, but safe from Jove.  
For this, from Trivia's Temple and her Wood,  
Are Coursers driven, who shed their Master's Blood;  
Affrighted by the Monsters of the Flood.  
His Son, the Second Virbius, yet retained  
His Father's Art, and Warrior Steeds he reined.  
Amid the Troops, and like the leading God,  
High o'er the rest in Arms the Graceful Turnus road:  
A triple Pile of Plumes his Crest adorned,  
On which with belching Flames Chimaera burned:  
The more the Winds his kindled Course inspire,  
The more with fury burned the blazing Fire.  
Fair Io graced his Shield, but Io now  
With Horns exalted stands, and seems to low:  
(A noble charge) her Keeper by her side,  
To watch her Walks his hundred Eyes applied.  
And on the Brims her Sire, the wat'ry God,  
Rolled from a Silver Urn his Crystal Flood.  
A Cloud of Foot succeeds, and fills the Fields  
With Swords and pointed Spears, and clattering Shields;  
Of Argives, and of old Sicanian Bands,  
And those who Blow the rich Sutulian Lands;  
Auruncan Youth and those Sacrana yieids,  
And the proud Labicans with painted Shields.  
And those who near Numician Streams reside,  
And those whom Tyber's holy Forests hide;  
Or Circe's Hills from the main Land divide.  
Where Ufens glides along the lowly Lands,  
Or the black Water of Pomptina stands.  
Last from the Volscians fair Camilla came;  
And led her warlike Troops, a Warrior Dame:   

To Charles Fox of the Parish of St: Martins in the Fields Esqr.  
A 7. l. 1075.   

Unbred to Spinning, in the Loom unskilled,  
She chose the nobler Pallas of the Field.  
mixed with the first, the fierce Virago fought,  
Sustained the Toils of Arms, the Danger sought:  
Outstriped the Winds in speed upon the Plain,  
Flew o'er the Fields, nor hurt the bearded Grain:  
She swept the Seas, and as she skimed along,  
Her flying Feet unbathed on Billows hung.  
Men, Boys, and Women stupid with Surprise,  
Where e'er she passes, fix their wondering Eyes:  
Longing they look, and gaping at the Sight,  
Devour her o'er and o'er with vast Delight.  
Her Purple Habit sits with such a Grace  
On her smooth Shoulders, and so suits her Face:  
Her Head with Ringlets of her Hair is crowned,  
And in a Golden Caul the Curls are bound.  
She shakes her Myrtle Javelin: And, behind,  
Her Lycian Quiver dances in the Wind.    

The Eighth Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
The War being now begun, both the Generals make all possible Preparations. Tumus sends to Diomedes. Aeneas goes in Person to beg Succours from Evander and the Tuscans. Evander receives him kindly, furnishes him with Men, and sends his Son Pallas with him. Vulcan, at the Request of Venus, makes Arms for her Son Aeneas, and draws on his Shield the most memorable Actions of his Posterity.  

WHen Turnus had assembled all his Powers;  
His Standard planted on Laurentum's towers;  
When now the sprightly Trumpet, from afar,  
Had given the Signal of approaching War,  
Had roused the neighing Steeds to scour the Fields,  
While the fierce Riders clattered on their Shields,  
Trembling with Rage, the Latian Youth prepare  
To join th' Allies, and headlong rush to War.  
Fierce Ufens, and Messapus, led the Crowd;  
With bold Mezentius, who blasphemed aloud.  
These, thro' the Country took their wasteful Course;  
The Fields to forage, and to gather Force.  
Then Venulus to Diomedes they send,  
To beg his Aid Ausonia to defend:  
Declare the common Danger; and inform  
The Grecian Leader of the growing Storm:  
Aeneas landed on the Latian Coast,  
With banished Gods, and with a baffled Host;  
Yet now aspired to Conquest of the State;  
And claimed a Title from the Gods and Fate.  
What numerous Nations in his Quarrel came,  
And how they spread his formidable Name:   

To the Right Honble. Tho Earl of Ailesbury & Elgin Viscount Bruce of Ampthill Baron Bruce of Whorleton Shelton and Kinloss & ct.  
A 8. l. 2.   

What he designed, what Mischiefs might arise,  
If Fortune favoured his first Enterprise,  
Was left for him to weigh: whose equal Fears,  
And common Interest was involved in theirs.  
While Turnus and th' Allies thus urge the War,  
The Trojan floating in a Flood of Care,  
Beholds the Tempest which his Foes prepare.  
This way and that he turns his anxious Mind;  
Thinks, and rejects the Counsels he designed.  
Explores himself in vain, in every part,  
And gives no rest to his distracted Heart.   

So when the Sun by Day, or Moon by Night,  
Strike, on the polished Brass, their trembling Light,  
The glittering Species here and there divide;  
And cast their dubious Beams from side to side:  
Now on the Walls, now on the Pavement play,  
And to the Ceiling flash the glaring Day.  
'Twas Night: And weary Nature lulled asleep  
The Birds of Air, and Fishes of the Deep;  
And Beasts, and Mortal Men: The Trojan Chief  
Was laid on Tyber's Banks, oppressed with Grief,  
And found in silent Slumber late Relief.  
Then, through the Shadows of the Poplar Wood,  
Arose the Father of the Roman Flood;  
An Azure Robe was o'er his Body spread,  
A Wreath of shady Reeds adorned his Head:  
Thus, manifest to Sight, the God appeared▪  
And with these pleasing Words his Sorrow cheered.  
Undoubted Offspring of Etherial Race,  
O long expected in this promised Place,  
Who, thro' the Foes, hast born thy banished Gods,  
Restored them to their Hearths, and old Abodes;  
This is thy happy Home! The Clime where Fate  
Ordains thee to restore the Trojan State.  
Fear not, the War shall end in lasting Peace;  
And all the Rage of haughty Juno cease.   

And that this nightly Vision may not seem  
Th' Effect of Fancy, or an idle Dream,  
A Sow beneath an Oak shall lie along;  
All white herself, and white her thirty Young.  
When thirty rolling Years have run their Race,  
Thy Son, Ascanius, on this empty Space,  
Shall build a Royal Town, of lasting Fame;  
Which from this Omen shall receive the Name.  
Time shall approve the Truth: For what remains,  
And how with sure Success to crown thy Pains,  
With Patience next attend. A banished Band,  
Driven with Evander from th' Arcadian Land,  
Have planted here: and placed on high their Walls;  
Their Town the Founder, Palanteum calls:  
Derived from Pallas, his great Grandsire's Name:  
But the fierce Latians old Possession claim:  
With War infesting the new Colony;  
These make thy Friends, and on their Aid rely.  
To thy free Passage I submit my Streams:  
Wake Son of Venus from thy pleasing Dreams;  
And, when the setting Stars are lost in Day,  
To Juno's Power thy just Devotion pay.  
With Sacrifice the wrathful Queen appease;  
Her Pride at length shall fall, her Fury cease.  
When thou returnest victorious from the War,  
Perform thy Vows to me with grateful Care.  
The God am I, whose yellow Water flows  
Around these Fields, and fattens as it goes:  
Tiber my Name: among the rolling Floods,  
Renowned on Earth, esteemed among the Gods.  
This is my certain Seat: In Times to come,  
My Waves shall wash the Walls of mighty Rome.  
He said; and plunged below, while yet he spoke:  
His Dream Aeneas and his Sleep forsaken.  
He rose, and looking up, beheld the Skies  
With Purple blushing, and the Day arise.  
Then, Water in his hollow Palm he took,  
From Tyber's Flood; and thus the Powers bespoke.  
Laurentian Nymphs, by whom the Streams are fed,  
And Father Tiber, in thy sacred Bed  
Receive Aeneas; and from Danger keep.  
Whatever Fount, whatever holy deep,  
Conceals thy wat'ry Stores; where e'er they rise,  
And, bubbling from below, salute the Skies:  
Thou King of horned Floods, whose plenteous Urn  
Suffices Fatness to the fruitful Corn,  
For this thy kind Compassion of our Woes,  
Shalt share my Morning Song, and Evening Vows.  
But, oh! be present to thy People's Aid;  
And firm the gracious Promise thou hast made.  
Thus having said, two Galleys, from his Stores,  
With Care he chooses; Man's, and fits with Oars.  
Now on the Shore the fatal Swine is found:  
Wondrous to tell; she lay along the Ground:  
Her well fed Offspring at her Udders hung;  
She white herself, and white her thirty young.  
Aeneas takes the Mother, and her Brood,  
And all on Juno's Altar are bestowed.  
The following Night, and the succeeding Day,  
Propitious Tiber smoothed his wat'ry Way:  
He rolled his River back; and poised he stood;  
A gentle Swelling, and a peaceful Flood.  
The Trojans mount their Ships; they put from Shore,  
Born on the Waves, and scarcely dip an Oar.  
Shouts from the Land give Omen to their Course;  
And the pitched Vessels glide with easy Force.  
The Woods and Waters, wonder at the Gleam  
Of Shields, and painted Ships, that stem the Stream.  
One Summer's Night, and one whole Day they pass,  
Betwixt the green-wood Shades; and cut the liquid Glass.  
The fiery Sun had finished half his Race;  
Looked back, and doubted in the middle Space:  
When they from far beheld the rising towers,  
The Tops of Sheds, and Shepherds lowly Bowers:  
Thin as they stood, which, then of homely Clay,  
Now rise in Marble, from the Roman Sway.  
These Cots, (Evander's Kingdom, mean and poor)  
The Trojan saw; and turned his Ships to Shore.  
'Twas on a solemn Day: Th' Arcadian States,  
The King and Prince without the City Gates,  
Then paid their Offerings in a sacred Grove,  
To Hercules, the Warrior Son of Jove.  
Thick Clouds of rolling Smoke involve the Sky:  
And Fat of Entrails on his Altar fry.   

But when they saw the Ships that stemmed the Flood,  
And glittered through the Covert of the Wood,  
They rose with Fear; and left th' unfinished Feast:  
Till dauntless Pallas reassured the rest,  
To pay the Rites. Himself without delay  
A Javelin seized, and singly took his Way.  
Then gained a rising Ground; and called from far.  
Resolve me, Strangers, whence, and what you are;  
Your Buis'ness here; and bring you Peace or War?  
High on the Stern, Aeneas took his Stand,  
And held a Branch of Olive in his Hand;  
While thus he spoke. The Phrygians Arms you see;  
Expelled from Troy, provoked in Italy  
By Latian Foes, with War unjustly made:  
At first affianced, and at last betrayed.  
This Message bear: The Trojans and their Chief  
Bring holy Peace; and beg the King's Relief.  
Struck with so great a Name, and all on fire,  
The Youth Replies, Whatever you require,  
Your Fame exacts: Upon our Shores descend,  
A welcome Guest, and what you wish, a Friend.  
He said; and downward hasting to the Strand,  
Embraced the Stranger Prince, and joined his Hand.  
Conducted to the Grove, Aeneas broke  
The silence first, and thus the King bespoke.  
Best of the Greeks, to whom, by Fates Command,  
I bear these peaceful Branches in my hand;  
Undaunted I approach you; though I know  
Your Birth is Grecian, and your Land my Foe:  
From Atreus tho' your ancient Lineage came;  
And both the Brother Kings your Kindred claim:  
Yet, my self-conscious Worth, your high Renown,  
Your Virtue, through the Neighbouring Nations blown,  
Our Fathers mingled Blood, Apollo's Voice,  
Have led me hither, less by Need than Choice.  
Our Founder Dardanus, as Fame has sung,  
And Greeks acknowledge, from Electra sprung:  
Electra from the Loins of Atlas came;  
Atlas whose Head sustains the Starry Frame.  
Your Sire is Mercury; whom long before  
On cold Cyllene's top fair Maja bore.  
Maja the fair, on Fame if we rely,  
Was Atlas' Daughter, who sustains the Sky.  
Thus from one common Source our Streams divide:  
Ours is the Trojan, yours th' Arcadian side.  
Raised by these Hopes, I sent no News before:  
Nor asked your leave, nor did your Faith implore;  
But come, without a Pledge, my own Ambassador.  
The same Rutulians, who with Arms pursue  
The Trojan Race, are equal Foes to you.  
Our Host expelled, what farther Force can stay  
The Victor Troops from Universal Sway?  
Then will they stretch their Power athwart the Land;  
And either Sea from side to side command.  
Receive our offered Faith: and give us thine;  
Ours is a generous, and experienced Line:  
We want not Hearts, nor Bodies for the War;  
In Council cautious, and in Fields we dare.  
He said; and while he spoke, with piercing Eyes,  
Evander viewed the Man with vast surprise.  
Pleased with his Action, ravished with his Face,  
Then answered briefly, with a Royal grace.  
O Valiant Leader of the Trojan Line,  
In whom the Features of thy Father shine;  
How I recall Anchises, how I see  
His Motions, Mien, and all my Friend in thee!  
Long though it be, 'tis fresh within my Mind,  
When Priam, to his Sister's Court designed  
A welcome Visit, with a friendly stay;  
And, through th' Arcadian Kingdom took his way.  
Then, past a Boy, the callow Down began  
To shade my Chin, and call me first a Man.  
I saw the shining Train, with vast delight,  
And Priam's goodly Person pleased my sight:  
But great Anchises, far above the rest,  
With awful Wonder fired my Youthful Breast.  
I longed to join, in Friendship's holy Bands,  
Our mutual Hearts, and plight our mutual Hands.  
I first accosted him: I sued, I sought,  
And, with a loving force, to Pheneus brought.  
He gave me, when at length constrained to go,  
A Lycian Quiver, and a Gnossian Bow:  
A Vest embroidered, glorious to behold,  
And two rich Bridles, with their Bits of Gold,  
Which my Son's Coursers in obedience hold.  
The League you ask I offer, as your Right:  
And when to Morrow's Sun reveals the Light,  
With swift Supplies you shall be sent away:  
Now celebrate, with us, this solemn Day;  
Whose Holy Rites admit no long Delay.  
Honour our Annual Feast; and take your Seat  
With friendly Welcome, at a homely Treat.  
Thus having said, the Bowls (removed for Fear)  
The Youths replaced; and soon restored the Cheer.  
On sods of Turf he set the Soldiers round;  
A Maple Throne, raised higher from the Ground,  
Received the Trojan Chief: And o'er the Bed,  
A Lion's shaggy Hide for Ornament they spread.  
The Loaves were served in Canisters; the Wine  
In Bowls, the Priest renewed the Rites Divine:  
Broiled Entrails are their Food; and Beefs continued Chine.  
But, when the Rage of Hunger was repressed,  
Thus spoke Evander to his Royal Guest.  
These Rites, these Altars, and this Feast, O King,  
From no vain Fears, or Superstition spring:  
Or blind Devotion, or from blinder Chance;  
Or heady Zeal, or brutal Ignorance:  
But, saved from Danger, with a grateful Sense,  
The Labours of a God we recompense.  
See, from afar, yond Rock that mates the Sky;  
About whose Feet such Heaps of Rubbish lie:  
Such indigested Ruin; bleak and bare,  
How desert now it stands, exposed in Air!  
'Twas once a Robber's Den; enclosed around  
With living Stone, and deep beneath the Ground.  
The Monster Cacus, more than half a Beast,  
This Hold, impervious to the Sun, possessed.  
The Pavement ever foul with Human Gore;  
Heads, and their mangled Members, hung the Door.  
Vulcan this Plague begot: And, like his Sire,  
Black Clouds he belched, and flakes of livid Fire.  
Time, long expected, eased us of our Load:  
And brought the needful Presence of a God.  
Th' avenging Force of Hercules, from Spain,  
Arrived in Triumph, from Geryon slain;  
Thrice lived the Giant, and thrice lived in vain.  
His Prize, the lowing Herds, Alcides drove  
Near Tyber's Bank, to graze the shady Grove.  
Allured with Hope of Plunder, and intent  
By Force to rob, by Fraud to circumvent;  
The brutal Cacus, as by Chance they strayed,  
Four Oxen thence, and four fair Kine conveyed.  
And, lest the printed Footsteps might be seen,  
He dragged 'em backwards to his rocky Den.  
The Tracks averse, a lying Notice gave;  
And led the Searcher backward from the Cave.  
Mean time the Herdsman Hero shifts his place:  
To find fresh Pasture, and untrodden Grass.  
The Beasts, who missed their Mates, filled all around  
With Bellow, and the Rocks restored the Sound.  
One Heifar who had heard her Love complain,  
Roared from the Cave; and made the Project vain.  
Alcides' found the Fraud: With Rage he shook,  
And tossed about his Head his knotted Oak.  
Swift as the Winds, or Scythian Arrows flight,  
He clomb, with eager haste, th' Aerial height.  
Then first we saw the Monster mend his Pace:  
Fear in his Eyes, and Paleness in his Face,  
Confessed the God's approach: Trembling he springs,  
As Terror had increased his Feet with Wings:  
Nor stayed for Stairs; but down the Depth he threw  
His Body; on his Back the Door he drew.  
The Door, a Rib of living Rock; with Pains  
His Father hewed it out, and bound with Iron Chains.  
He broke the heavy Links; the Mountain closed;  
And Bars and Levers to his Foe opposed.  
The Wretch had hardly made his Dungeon fast;  
The fierce Avenger came with bounding haste:  
Surveyed the Mouth of the forbidden hold;  
And here and there his raging Eyes he rolled.  
He gnashed his Teeth; and thrice he compassed round  
With winged speed the Circuit of the Ground.  
Thrice at the Cavern's Mouth he pulled in vain,  
And, panting, thrice desisted from his Pain.  
A pointed flinty Rock, all bare, and black,  
Grew gibbous from behind the Mountains Back:  
Owls, Ravens, all ill Omens of the Night,  
Here built their Nests, and hither winged their Flight.  
The leaning Head hung threatening o'er the Flood:  
And nodded to the left: The Hero stood  
Adverse, with planted Feet, and from the right,  
Tugged at the solid Stone with all his might.  
Thus heaved, the fixed Foundations of the Rock  
Gave way: Heaven echoed at the rattling Shock.  
Tumbling it choked the Flood: On either side  
The Banks leap backward; and the Streams divide.  
The Sky shrunk upward with unusual Dread:  
And trembling Tiber dived beneath his Bed.  
The Court of Cacus stands revealed to sight;  
The Cavern glares with new admitted Light.  
So the penned Vapours with a rumbling Sound  
Heave from below; and rend the hollow Ground:  
A sounding Flaw succeeds: And from on high,  
The Gods, with Hate beheld the nether Sky:  
The Ghosts repine at violated Night;  
And curse th' invading Sun; and sicken at the sight.  
The graceless Monster caught in open Day,  
Enclosed, and in Despair to fly away;  
Howls horrible from underneath, and fills  
His hollow Palace, with unmanly Yells.  
The Hero stands above; and from afar  
Plies him with Darts, and Stones, and distant War.  
He, from his Nostrils, and huge Mouth, expires  
Black Clouds of Smoke, amidst his Father's Fires.  
Gathering, with each repeated Blast, the Night:  
To make uncertain Aim, and erring Sight.  
The wrathful God, then plunges from above,  
And where in thickest Waves the Sparkles drove,  
There lights; and wades thro' Fumes, and gropes his Way;  
Half singed, half stifled, till he grasps his Prey.  
The Monster, spewing fruitless Flames, he found;  
He squeezed his Throat, he writhed his Neck around,  
And in a Knot his crippled Members bound.  
Then, from their Sockets, tore his burning Eyes;  
Rolled on a heap the breathless Robber lies.  
The Doors, unbarred, receive the rushing Day;  
And through Lights disclose the ravished Prey.  
The Bulls redeemed, breathe open Air again;  
Next, by the Feet, they drag him from his Den.  
The wondering Neighbourhood, with glad surprise,  
Behold his shagged Breast, his Giant Size,  
His Mouth that flames no more, and his extinguished Eyes.  
From that auspicious Day, with Rites Divine,  
We worship at the Hero's Holy Shrine.  
Potitius first ordained these annual Vows,  
As Priests, were added the Pinarian House:  
Who raised this Altar in the Sacred Shade;  
Where Honours, ever due, for ever shall be paid.  
For these Deserts, and this high Virtue shown,  
Ye warlike Youths, your Heads with Garlands crown.  
Fill high the Goblets with a sparkling Flood:  
And with deep Draughts invoke our common God.  
This said, a double Wreath Evander twined:  
And Poplars black and white his Temples bind.  
Then Brims his ample Bowl: With like Design  
The rest invoke the Gods, with sprinkled Wine.  
Mean time the Sun descended from the Skies;  
And the bright Evening-Star began to rise.  
And now the Priests, Potitius at their Head,  
In Skins of Beasts involved, the long Procession led:  
Held high the flaming Tapers in their Hands;  
As Custom had prescribed their holy Bands:  
Then with a second Course the Tables load:  
And with full Chargers offer to the God.  
The Salij sing; and cense his Altars round  
With Saban Smoke, their Heads with Poplar bound.  
One Choir of old, another of the young;  
To dance, and bear the Burden of the Song.  
The Lay records the Labours, and the Praise,  
And all th' Immortal Acts of Hercules.  
First, how the mighty Babe, when swathed in Bands,  
The Serpents strangled, with his Infant Hands:  
Then, as in Years, and matchless Force he grew,  
Th' Oechalian Walls, and Trojan overthrew.  
Besides a thousand Hazards they relate,  
Procured by Juno's, and Euristheus' Hate.  
Thy Hands, unconquered Hero, could subdue  
The Cloud-born Centaurs, and the Monster Crew.  
Nor thy resistless Arm the Bull withstood:  
Nor He the roaring Terror of the Wood  
The triple Porter of the Stygian Seat,  
With lolling Tongue, lay fawning at thy Feet:  
And, seized with Fear, forgot his mangled Meat.  
Th' Infernal Waters trembled at thy Sight;  
Thee, God, no face of Danger could Affright.  
Not huge Typheous, nor th' unnumbered Snake,  
Increased with hissing Heads, in Lerna's Lake.  
Hail Jove's undoubted Son! An added Grace  
To Heaven, and the great Author of thy Race.  
Receive the gratful Offerings, which we pay,  
And smile propitious on thy solemn Day.  
In Numbers, thus, they sung: Above the rest,  
The Den, and Death of Cacus crown the Feast.  
The Woods to hollow Vales convey the Sound;  
The Vales to Hills, and Hills the Notes rebound.  
The Rites performed, the cheerful Train retire.  
Betwixt young Pallas, and his aged Sire  
The Trojan passed, the City to survey;  
And pleafing Talk beguiled the tedious Way.  
The Stranger cast around his curious Eyes;  
New Objects viewing still, with new Surprise.  
With greedy Joy inquires of various Things;  
And Acts and Monuments of Ancient Kings.  
Then thus the Founder of the Roman towers:  
These Woods were first the Seat of Sylvan Powers,  
Of Nymphs, and Fauns, and savage Men, who took  
Their Birth from Trunks of Trees, and stubborn Oak.  
Nor Laws they knew, nor Manners, nor the Care  
Of labouring Oxen, or the shining Share:  
Nor Arts of Gain, nor what they gained to spare.  
Their Exercise the Chase: the running Flood  
Supplied their Thirst; the Trees supplied their Food.  
Then Saturn came, who fled the Power of Jove,  
Robbed of his Realms, and banished from above.   

To the Hon ble. Robert Bruce Second son to Robert late Earl of Ailesbury   

The Men, dispersed on Hills, to Towns he brought;  
And Laws ordained, and Civil Customs taught:  
And Latium called the Land where safe he lay,  
From his Unduteous Son, and his Usurping Sway.  
With his mild Empire, Peace and Plenty came:  
And hence the Golden Times derived their name.  
A more degenerate, and discoloured Age,  
Succeeded this, with Avarice and Rage.  
Th' Ausonians, then, and bold Sicanians came;  
And Saturn's Empire often changed the name.  
Then Kings, Gygantick Tiber, and the rest,  
With Arbitrary Sway the Land oppressed.  
For Tiber's flood was Albula before:  
Till, from the Tyrant's Fate, his name it bore.  
I last arrived, driven from my native home,  
By Fortune's Power, and Fate's resistless Doom.  
Long tossed on Seas I sought this happy Land:  
Warned by my Mother Nymph, and called by heavens Command.   

Thus, walking on, he spoke: and showed the Gate,  
Since called Carmental by the Roman State;  
Where stood an Altar, Sacred to the Name  
Of old Carmenta, the Prophetic Dame:  
Who to her Son foretold th' Aenean Race,  
Sublime in Fame, and Rome's Imperial Place.  
Then shows the Forest, which in after times,  
Fierce Romulus, for perpetrated Crimes,  
A Sacred Refuge made: with this, the Shrine  
Where Pan below the Rock had Rites Divine.  
Then tells of Argus' death, his murdered Guest,  
Whose Grave, and Tomb, his Innocence attest.  
Thence, to the steep Tarpeian Rock he leads;  
Now Roofed with Gold; then thatched with homely Reeds.  
A Reverend fear (such Superstition reigns  
Among the rude) even then possessed the Swains.  
Some God they knew, what God they could not tell,  
Did there amidst the sacred horror dwell.  
Th' Arcadians thought him Jove; and said they saw  
The mighty thunderer with Majestic awe;  
Who shook his Shield, and dealt his Bolts around;  
And scattered Tempests on the teeming Ground.  
Then saw two heaps of Ruins; once they stood  
Two stately Towns, on either side the Flood.  
Saturnia's and Janicula's Remains:  
And, either place, the Founder's Name retains.  
Discoursing thus together, they resort  
Where poor Evander kept his Country Court.  
They viewed the ground of Rome's litigious Hall;  
Once Oxen lowed, where now the Lawyers bawl.  
Then, stooping, through the Narrow Gate they pressed,  
When thus the King bespoke his Trojan Guest.  
Mean as it is, this Palace, and this Door,  
Received Alcides, than a Conqueror.  
Dare to be poor: accept our homely Food  
Which feasted him; and emulate a God.  
Then, underneath a lowly Roof, he led  
The weary Prince; and laid him on a Bed:  
The stuffing Leaves, which Hides of Bears o'erspread.   

Now Night had shed her silver Dews around,  
And with her sable Wings embraced the Ground,  
When Love's fair Goddess, anxious for her Son;  
(New Tumults rising, and new Wars begun)  
Couched with her Husband, in his Golden Bed,  
With these alluring Words invokes his aid.  
And, that her pleasing Speech his Mind may move,  
Inspires each accent with the Charms of Love.  
While Cruel Fate conspired with Grecian Powers,  
To levelly with the Ground the Trojan towers;  
I asked not Aid th' unhappy to restore:  
Nor did the Succour of thy Skill implore.  
Nor urged the Labours of my Lord in vain;  
A sinking Empire longer to sustain.  
Tho' much I owed to Priam's House; and more  
The Dangers of Aeneas did deplore.  
But now by Jove's Command, and Fates Decree,  
His Race is doomed to reign in Italy;  
With humble Suit I beg thy needful Art,  
O still propitious Power, that rules my Heart!  
A Mother knelt a suppliant for her Son.  
By Thetis and Aurora thou wert won  
To forge impenetrable Shields; and grace,  
With fated Arms, a less illustrious Race.  
Behold, what haughty Nations are combined  
Against the Relics of the Phrygian Kind;  
With Fire and Sword my People to destroy;  
And conquer Venus twice, in conquering Troy.  
She said; and straight her Arms, of snowy hue,  
About her unresolving Husband threw.  
Her soft Embraces soon infuse Desire:  
His Bones and Marrow sudden Warmth inspire;  
And all the Godhead feels the wont Fire.  
Not half so swift the rattling Thunder flies,  
Or forky Lightnings flash along the Skies.  
The Goddess, proud of her successful Wiles,  
And conscious of her Form, in secret Smiles.  
Then thus, the Power, obnoxious to her Charms,  
Panting, and half dissolving in her Arms:  
Why seek you Reasons for a Cause so just;  
Or your own Beauties, or my Love distrust?  
Long since, had you required my helpful Hand,  
Th' Artificer, and Art you might command,  
To labour Arms for Troy: Nor Jove, nor Fate,  
Confined their Empire to so short a Date.  
And, if you now desire new Wars to wage,  
My Skill I promise; and my Pains engage.  
Whatever melting Metals can conspire,  
Or breathing Bellows, or the forming Fire,  
Is freely yours: Your anxious Fears remove:  
And think no Task is difficult to Love.  
Trembling he spoke; and eager of her Charms,  
He snatched the willing Goddess to his Arms;  
Till in her Lap infused, he lay possessed  
Of full Desire, and sunk to pleasing Rest.  
Now when the Night her middle race had rode;  
And his first Slumber had refreshed the God;  
The time when early Housewives leave the Bed;  
And living Embers on the Hearth they spread;  
Supply the Lamp, and call the Maids to rise,  
With yawning Mouths, and with half opened Eyes;  
They ply the Distaff by the winking Light;  
And to their daily Labour add the Night.  
Thus frugally they earn their children's Bread:  
And uncorrupted keep the Nuptial Bed.  
Not less concerned, nor at a later Hour,  
Rose from his downy Couch the forging Power.   

Sacred to Vulcan's Name an Isle there lay,  
Betwixt Sicilia's Coasts and Lipare;  
Raised high on smoking Rocks, and deep below,  
In hollow Caves the Fires of Aetna glow.  
The Cyclops here their heavy Hammers deal;  
Loud Strokes, and hissings of tormented Steel  
Are heard around: The boiling Waters roar;  
And smoky Flames through fuming Tunnels soar.  
Hither, the Father of the Fire, by Night,  
Through the brown Air precipitates his Flight.   

To Christopher Rich of Gray's Inn Esq  
A 8. l: 560   

On their Eternal Anvils here he found  
The Brethren beating, and the Blows go round:  
A load of pointless Thunder now there lies  
Before their Hands, to ripen for the Skies:  
These Darts, for angry Jove, they daily cast:  
Consumed on Mortals with prodigious waste.  
Three Rays of writhe Rain, of Fire three more,  
Of winged Southern Winds, and cloudy Store  
As many parts, the dreadful Mixture frame:  
And Fears are added, and avenging Flame.  
Inferior Ministers, for Mars repair  
His broken Axeltrees, and blunted War:  
And send him forth again, with furbished Arms,  
To wake the lazy War, with Trumpets loud Alarms.  
The rest refresh the scaly Snakes, that fold  
The Shield of Pallas; and renew their Gold.  
Full on the Crest the Gorgon's Head they place,  
With Eyes that roll in Death, and with distorted Face.   

My Sons, said Vulcan, set your Tasks aside,  
Your Strength, and Master Skill, must now be tried.  
Arms, for a Hero forge: Arms that require  
Your Force, your Speed, and all your forming Fire.  
He said: They set their former Work aside:  
And their new Toils with eager haste divide.  
A Flood of molten Silver, Brass, and Gold,  
And deadly Steel, in the large Furnace rolled;  
Of this, their artful Hands a Shield prepare;  
Alone sufficient to sustain the War.  
seven Orbs within a spacious round they close;  
One stirs the Fire, and one the Bellows blows.  
The hissing Steel is in the Smithy drowned;  
The Grot with beaten Anvils groans around.  
By turns their Arms advance, in equal time:  
By turns their Hands descend, and Hammers chime.  
They turn the glowing Mass, with crooked Tongues:  
The fiery Work proceeds, with Rustic Songs.  
While, at the Lemnian God's Command, they urge  
Their Labours thus, and ply th' Eolian Forge:  
The cheerful Morn salutes Evander's Eyes;  
And Songs of chirping Birds invite to rise.  
He leaves his lowly Bed; his Buskins meet  
Above his Ankles; Sandals sheathe his Feet:  
He sets his trusty Sword upon his side;  
And o'er his Shoulder throws a Panther's Hide.  
Two Menial Dogs before their Master pressed:  
Thus clad, and guarded thus, he seeks his Kingly Guest.  
Mindful of promised Aid, he mends his Pace:  
But meets Aeneas in the middle Space.  
Young Pallas did his Father's Steps attend;  
And true Achates waited on his Friend.  
They join their Hands; a secret Seat they chufe;  
Th' Arcadian first, their former Talk renews.  
Undaunted Prince, I never can believe  
The Trojan Empire lost, while you survive.  
Command th' Assistance of a faithful Friend:  
But feeble are the Succours I can send.  
Our narrow Kingdom, here the Tiber bounds;  
That other side the Latian State surrounds;  
Insults our Walls, and wastes our fruitful Grounds.  
But mighty Nations I prepare, to join  
Their Arms with yours, and aid your just Design.  
You come, as by your better Genius sent:  
And Fortune seems to favour your intent.  
Not far from hence there stands a Hilly Town,  
Of ancient Building, and of high Renown;  
Torn from the Tuscans, by the Lydian Race;  
Who gave the Name of Caere, to the Place  
Once Agyllina called: It flourished long  
In Pride of Wealth; and warlike People strong.  
Till cursed Mezentius, in a fatal Hour,  
Assumed the Crown, with Arbitrary Power.  
What Words can paint those execrable Times;  
The Subject's Sufferings, and the Tyrant's Crimes!  
That Blood, those Murders, O ye Gods replace  
On his own Head, and on his impious Race!  
The living, and the Dead, at his Command  
Were coupled, Face to Face, and Hand to Hand:  
Till choked with Stench, in loathed Embraces tied,  
The lingering Wretches pined away, and died.  
Thus plunged in Ills, and meditating more,  
The People's Patience tired, no longer bore  
The raging Monster: But with Arms beset  
His House, and Vengeance and Destruction threat.  
They fire his Palace: While the Flame ascends,  
They force his Guards; and execute his Friends.  
He cleaves the Crowd; and favoured by the Night,  
To Turnus' friendly Court directs his flight.  
By just Revenge the Tuscans set on Fire,  
With Arms, their King to Punishment require:  
Their numerous Troops, now mustered on the Strand,  
My Counsel shall submit to your Command.  
Their Navy swarms upon the Coasts: They cry  
To hoist their Anchors; but the Gods deny.  
An ancient Augur, skilled in future Fate,  
With these foreboding Words restrains their Hate.  
Ye brave in Arms, ye Lydian Blood, the Flower  
Of Tuscan Youth, and choice of all their Power,  
Whom just Revenge against Mezentius arms,  
To seek your Tyrant's Death, by lawful Arms:  
Know this; no Native of our Land may lead  
This powerful People: Seek a Foreign Head.   

Awed with these Words, in Camps they still abide;  
And wait with longing Looks their promised Guide.  
Tarchon, the Tuscan Chief, to me has sent  
Their Crown, and every Regal Ornament:  
The People join their own with his Desire;  
And All, my Conduct, as their King, require.  
But the i'll Blood that creeps within my Veins,  
And Age, and lifeless Limbs unfit for Pains,  
And a Soul conscious of its own Decay,  
Have forced me to refuse Imperial Sway.  
My Pallas were more fit to mount the Throne;  
And should, but he's a Sabine Mother's Son;  
And half a Native: But in you combine  
A Manly Vigour, and a Foreign Line.  
Where Fate and smiling Fortune show the Way,  
Pursue the ready Path to sovereign Sway.  
The Staff of my declining Days, my Son,  
Shall make your good or ill Success his own.  
In fight Fields from you shall learn to dare:  
And serve the hard Apprenticeship of War.  
Your matchless Courage, and your Conduct view;  
And early shall begin t' admire and copy you.  
Besides, two hundred Horse he shall command:  
Tho' few, a warlike and well chosen Band.  
These in my Name are listed: And my Son  
As many more has added in his own.  
Scarce had he said; Achates and his Guest,  
With downcast Eyes their silent Grief expressed:  
Who short of Succours; and in deep Despair,  
Shaken at the dismal Prospect of the War.  
But his bright Mother, from a breaking Cloud,  
To cheer her Issue, thundered thrice aloud.  
Thrice, forky Lightning flashed along the Sky;  
And Tyrrhene Trumpets thrice were heard on high.  
Then, gazing up, repeated Peals they hear:  
And, in a Heaven serene, refulgent Arms appear;  
Red'ning the Skies, and glittering all around,  
The tempered Metals clash; and yield a Silver sound.  
The rest stood trembling, struck with awe divine,  
Aeneas only conscious to the Sign:  
Presaged th' Event; and joyful viewed, above,  
Th' accomplished Promise of the Queen of Love.  
Then, to th' Arcadian King: This Prodigy  
(Dismiss your Fear) belongs alone to me.  
Heaven calls me to the War: Th' expected Sign  
Is given of promised Aid, and Arms Divine.  
My Goddess-Mother; whose Indulgent Care,  
Foresaw the Dangers of the growing War;  
This Omen gave; when Bright Vulcanian Arms,  
Fated from force of Steel by Stygian Charms,  
Suspended, shone on high: She than foreshowed  
Approaching Fights, and Fields to float in Blood.  
Turnus shall dearly pay for Faith forsworn;  
And Corpse, and Swords, and Shields, on Tiber born,  
Shall choke his Flood: Now sound the loud Alarms;  
And Latian Troops prepare your perjured Arms.   

He said; and rising from his homely Throne,  
The Solemn Rites of Hercules begun:  
And on his Altars waked the sleeping Fires:  
Then cheerful to his Household-Gods retires.  
There offers chosen Sheep: Th' Arcadian King  
And Trojan Youth the same Oblations bring.  
Next of his Men, and Ships, he makes review,  
Draws out the best, and ablest of the Crew.  
Down with the falling Stream the Refuse run:  
To raise with joyful News his drooping Son.  
Steeds are prepared to mount the Trojan Band;  
Who wait their Leader to the Tyrrhene Land.  
A sprightly Courser, fairer than the rest,  
The King himself presents his Royal Guest.  
A Lions Hide his Back and Limbs enfold;  
Precious with studded work, and Paws of Gold.  
Fame through the little City spreads aloud  
Th' intended March, amid the fearful Crowd:  
The Matrons beat their Breasts; dissolve in Tears;  
And double their Devotion in their Fears.  
The War at hand appears with more affright:  
And rises every Moment to the sight.  
Then, old Evander, with a close embrace,  
Strained his departing Friend; and Tears o'erflow his Face:  
Would Heaven, said he, my strength and youth recall,  
Such as I was beneath Preneste's Wall;  
Then when I made the foremost Foes retire,  
And set whole heaps of conquered Shields on Fire.  
When Herilus in single Fight I slew;  
Whom with three lives Feronia did endue:  
And thrice I sent him to the Stygian Shore;  
Till the last Ebbing Soul returned no more:  
Such, if I stood renewed, not these Alarms,  
Nor Death, should rend me from my Pallas arms:  
Nor proud Mezentius, thus unpunished, boast  
His Rapes and Murders on the Tuscan Coast.  
Ye Gods! and mighty Jove, in pity bring  
Relief, and hear a Father, and a King.  
If Fate and you, reserve these Eyes, to see  
My Son return with peace and Victory;  
If the loved Boy shall bless his Father's sight;  
If we shall meet again with more delight;  
Then draw my Life in length, let me sustain,  
In hopes of his Embrace, the worst of Pain.  
But if your hard Decrees, which O I dread,  
Have doomed to death his undeserving head;  
This, O this very Moment, let me die;  
While Hopes and Fears in equal balance lie.  
While yet Possessed of all his Youthful Charms,  
I strain him close within these Aged Arms:  
Before that fatal news my Soul shall wound!  
He said, and, swooning, sunk upon the ground;  
His Servants bore him off: And softly laid  
His languished Limbs upon his homely Bed.   

The Horsemen march; the Gates are opened wide;  
Aeneas at their head, Achates by his side.  
Next these the Trojan Leaders road along:  
Last, follows in the Rear, th' Arcadian Throng.  
Young Pallas shone conspicuous o'er the rest;  
Guilded his Arms, Embroidered was his Vest.  
So, from the Seas, exerts his radiant head  
The Star, by whom the Lights of Heaven are led:  
Shakes from his rosy Locks the perly Dews;  
Dispels the darkness, and the Day renews.  
The trembling Wives, the Walls and Turrets crowd;  
And follow, with their Eyes, the dusty Cloud:  
Which Winds disperse by fits; and show from far  
The blaze of Arms, and Shields, and shining War.  
The Troops, drawn up in beautiful Array,  
O'er heathy Plains pursue the ready way.  
Repeated peals of shouts are heard around:  
The Neighing Coursers answer to the sound:  
And shake with horny Hoofs the solid ground.   

A greenwood Shade, for long Religion known,  
Stands by the Streams that wash the Tuscan Town:  
Encompassed round with gloomy Hills above,  
Which add a holy horror to the Grove.  
The first Inhabitants, of Grecian Blood,  
That sacred Forest to Sylvanus vowed:  
The Guardian of their Flocks, and Fields; and pay  
Their due Devotions on his annual day.  
Not far from hence, along the River's side,  
In Tents secure, the Tuscan Troops abide;  
By Tarchon led. Now, from a rising ground,  
Aeneas cast his wondering Eyes around;  
And all the Tyrrhene Army had in sight,  
Stretched on the spacious Plain from left to right.  
Thither his warlike Train the Trojan led;  
Refreshed his Men, and wearied Horses fed.   

Mean time the Mother Goddess, crowned with Charms,  
Breaks through the Clouds, and brings the fated Arms.  
Within a winding Vale she finds her Son,  
On the cool Rivers ' Banks, retired alone.  
She shows her heavenly Form, without disguise,  
And gives herself to his desiring Eyes.  
Behold, she said, performed, in every part  
My promise made; and Vulcan's laboured Art.  
Now seek, secure, the Latian Enemy;  
And haughty Turnus to the Field defy.  
She said: And having first her Son embraced;  
The radiant Arms beneath an Oak she placed.  
Proud of the Gift, he rolled his greedy sight  
Around the Work, and gazed with vast delight.  
He lifts, he turns, he poizes, and admires  
The Crested Helm, that vomits radiant Fires:  
His hands the fatal Sword, and Corslet hold:  
One keen with tempered Steel, one stiff with Gold.  
Both ample, flaming both, and beamy bright:  
So shines a Cloud, when edged with adverse Light.  
He shakes the pointed Spear; and longs to try  
The plated Cuishes, on his manly thigh,  
But most admires the Shields Mysterious mould,  
And Roman Triumphs rising on the Gold.   

To Sr. Godfrey Kneller Knight Principal Painter to his Majesty  
A 8. l. 805   

For those, embossed, the Heavenly Smith had wrought,  
(Not in the Rolls of future Fate untaught,)  
The Wars in Order, and the Race Divine  
Of Warriors, issuing from the Julian Line.  
The Cave of Mars was dressed with mossy Greene's:  
There, by the Wolf, were laid the Martial Twins.  
Intrepid on her swelling Dugs they hung;  
The foster Damn lolled out her fawning Tongue:  
They sucked secure, while bending Back her Head,  
She licked their tender Limbs; and formed them as they fed.  
Not far from thence new Rome appears, with Games  
Projected for the Rape of Sabine Dames.  
The Pit resounds with Shrieks: A War succeeds,  
For breach of Public Faith, and unexampled Deeds.  
Here for Revenge the Sabine Troops contend:  
The Romans there with Arms the Prey defend.  
Wearied with tedious War, at length they cease;  
And both the Kings and Kingdoms plight the Peace.  
The friendly Chiefs, before Jove's Altar stand;  
Both armed, with each a Charger in his Hand:  
A fatted Sow, for Sacrifice is led;  
With Imprecations on the perjured Head.  
Near this, the Traitor Metius, stretched between  
Four fiery Steeds, is dragged along the Green;  
By Tullus doom: The Brambles drink his Blood;  
And his torn Limbs are left, the Vulture's Food.  
There, Porsena to Rome proud Tarquin brings;  
And would by Force restore the banished Kings.  
One Tyrant, for his fellow Tyrant fights:  
The Roman Youth assert their Native Rights.  
Before the Town the Tuscan Army lies:  
To win by Famine, or by Fraud surprise.  
Their King, half threatening, half disdaining stood:  
While Cocles broke the Bridge; and stemmed the Flood.  
The Captive Maids there tempt the raging Tide:  
Scaped from their Chains, with Clelia for their Guide.   

High on a Rock Heroick Manlius stood;  
To guard the Temple, and the Temple's God:  
Then Rome was poor; and there you might behold  
The Palace, thatched with Straw, now roofed with Gold.  
The Silver Goofe before the shining Gate  
There flew; and by her Cackle, saved the State.  
She told the Gauls approach: Th' approaching Gauls,  
Obscure in Night, ascend, and seize the Walls.  
The Gold, dissembled well their yellow Hair:  
And Golden Chains on their white Necks they wear.  
Gold are their Vests: Long Alpine Spears they wield:  
And their left Arm sustains a length of Shield.  
Hard by, the leaping Salian Priests advance:  
And naked through the Streets the mad Luperci dance:  
In Caps of Wool. The Targets dropped from Heaven:  
Here modest Matrons in soft Litters driven,  
To pay their Vows in solemn Pomp appear:  
And odorous Gums in their chaste Hands they bear.  
Far hence removed, the Stygian Seats are seen:  
Pains of the damned, and punished Catiline:  
Hung on a Rock the Traitor; and around,  
The Furies hissing from the nether Ground.  
Apart from these, the happy Souls, he draws:  
And Cato's holy Ghost, dispensing Laws.  
Betwixt the Quarters, flows a Golden Sea:  
But foaming Surges, there, in Silver play.  
The dancing Dolphins, with their Tails, divide  
The glittering Waves; and cut the precious Tide.  
Amid the Main, two mighty Fleets engage  
Their Brazen Beaks; opposed with equal Rage.  
Actium, surveys the well disputed Prize:  
Leucate's wat'ry Plain, with foamy Billows fries.  
Young Caesar, on the Stern, in Armour bright;  
Here leads the Romans and their Gods to fight:  
His beamy Temples shoot their Flames afar;  
And o'er his Head is hung the Julian Star.  
Agrippa seconds him, with prosperous Gales:  
And, with propitious Gods, his Foes assails.  
A Naval Crown, that binds his Manly Brows,  
The happy Fortune of the Fight foreshows.   

Ranged on the Line opposed, Antonius brings  
Barbarian Aids, and Troops of Eastern Kings.  
Th' Arabians near, and Bactrians from afar,  
Of Tongues discordant, and a mingled War.  
And, rich in gaudy Robes, amidst the Strife,  
His ill Fate follows him; th' Egyptian Wife.  
Moving they fight: With Oars, and forky Prows,  
The Froth is gathered; and the Water glows.  
It seems, as if the Cycladeses again  
Were rooted up, and justled in the Main:  
Or floating Mountains, floating Mountains meet:  
Such is the fierce Encounter of the Fleet.  
Fire-balls are thrown; and pointed javelins fly:  
The Fields of Neptune take a Purple Dye.  
The Queen herself, amidst the loud Alarms,  
With Cymbals tossed her fainting Soldiers warms.  
Fool as she was; who had not yet divined  
Her cruel Fate; nor saw the Snakes behind.  
Her Country Gods, the Monsters of the Sky,  
Great Neptune, Pallas, and Love's Queen, defy.  
The Dog Anubis barks, but barks in vain;  
Nor longer dares oppose th' Aetherial Train.  
Mars, in the middle of the shining Shield  
Is graved, and strides along the liquid Field.  
The Dirae souse from Heaven, with swift Descent:  
And Discord, died in Blood, with Garments rend,  
Divides the Press: Her Steps, Bellona treads,  
And shakes her Iron Rod above their Heads.  
This seen, Apollo, from his Actium height,  
Pours down his Arrows: At whose winged flight  
The trembling Indians, and Egyptians yield:  
And soft Sabaeans quit the wat'ry Field.  
The fatal Mistress hoists her silken Sails;  
And, shrinking from the Fight, invokes the Gales.  
Aghast she looks; and heaves her Breast, for Breath:  
Panting, and pale with fear of future Death.  
The God had figured her, as driven along,  
By Winds and Waves; and scudding through the Throng.  
Just opposite, sad Nilus, opens wide  
His Arms, and ample Bosom, to the Tide.  
And spreads his Mantle o'er the winding Coast:  
In which he wraps his Queen, and hides the flying Ho●●●  
The Victor, to the Gods his Thanks expressed▪  
And Rome triumphant, with his Presence blessed.  
Three hundred Temples in the Town he placed:  
With Spoils and Altars every Temple graced.  
Three shining Nights, and three succeeding Days,  
The Fields resound with Shouts; the Streets with Praise  
The Domes with Songs, the Theatres with Plays.  
All Altars flame: Before each Altar lies,  
Drenched in his Gore, the destined Sacrifice.  
Great Caesar sits sublime upon his Throne;  
Before Apollo's Porch of Parian Stone:  
Accepts the Presents vowed for Victory;  
And hangs the monumental Crowns on high.  
Vast Crowds of vanquished Nations march along:  
Various in Arms, in Habit, and in Tongue.  
Here, Mulciber assigns the proper Place  
For Carians, and th' ungirt Numidian Race;  
Then ranks the Thracians in the second Row;  
With Scythians, expert in the Dart and Bow.  
And here the tamed Euphrates humbly glides;  
And there the Rhine submits her swelling Tides.  
And proud Araxes, whom no Bridge could bind:  
The Danes unconquered Offspring, march behind;  
And Morini, the last of Human Kind.   

These Figures, on the Shield divinely wrought,  
By Vulcan laboured, and by Venus brought,  
With Joy and Wonder fill the Hero's thought.  
Unknown the Names, he yet admires the Grace;  
And bears aloft the Fame, and Fortune of his Race.    

The Ninth Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
Turnus takes Advantage of Aeneas 's Absence, fires some of his Ships, (which are transformed into Sea-Nymphs) and assaults his Camp. The Trojans reduced to the last Extremities, send Nisus and Euryalus to recall Aeneas; which furnishes the Poet with that admirable Episode of their Friendship, Generosity; and the conclusion of their Adventures.  

WHile these Affairs in distant Places passed,  
The various Iris Juno sends with haste,  
To find bold Turnus, who, with anxious Thought,  
The secret Shade of his great Grandsire sought.  
Retired alone she found the daring Man;  
And opened her rosy Lips, and thus began.  
What none of all the Gods could grant thy Vows;  
That, Turnus, this auspicious Day bestows.  
Aeneas, gone to seek th' Arcadian Prince,  
Has left the Trojan Camp without defence;  
And, short of Succours there; employs his Pains  
In Parts remote to raise the Tuscan Swains:  
Now snatch an Hour that favours thy Designs,  
Unite thy Forces, and attack their Lines.  
This said, on equal Wings she poised her Weight,  
And formed a radiant Rainbow in her flight.   

The Daunian Hero lifts his Hands and Eyes;  
And thus invokes the Goddess as she flies.  
Iris, the Grace of Heaven, what Power Divine  
Has sent thee down, through dusky Clouds to shine?  
See they divide; immortal Day appears;  
And glittering Planets dancing in their Spheres!   

To the Right Honble. Robert Earl of Sunderland Ld. Chamberlain of his Majesty's Household &  
A 9 l. 2.   

With Joy, these happy Omens I obey;  
And follow to the War, the God that leads the Way.   

Thus having said, as by the Brook he stood,  
He scooped the Water from the Crystal Flood;  
Then with his Hands the drops to Heaven he throws,  
And loads the Powers above with offered Vows.   

Now march the bold confederates through the Plain;  
Well horsed, well clad, a rich and shining Train:  
Messapus leads the Van; and in the Rear,  
The Sons of Tyrrheus in bright Arms appear.  
In the Main Battle, with his flaming Crest,  
The mighty Turnus towers above the rest:  
Silent they move; majestically slow,  
Like ebbing Nile, or Ganges in his flow.  
The Trojans view the dusty Cloud from far;  
And the dark Menace of the distant War.  
Caicus from the Rampire saw it rise,  
Blackening the Fields, and thickening through the Skies.  
Then to his Fellows thus aloud he calls,  
What rolling Clouds, my Friends, approach the Walls?  
Arm, arm, and man the Works; prepare your Spears,  
And pointed Darts; the Latian Host appears.   

Thus warned, they shut their Gates; with Shouts ascend  
The Bulwarks, and secure their Foes attend.  
For their wise Gen'ral with foreseeing Care,  
Had charged them not to tempt the doubtful War:  
Nor, tho' provoked, in open Fields advance;  
But close within their Lines attend their chance.  
Unwilling, yet they keep the strict Command;  
And sourly wait in Arms the Hostile Band.  
The fiery Turnus flew before the rest,  
A Pye-balled Steed of Thracian Strain he pressed;  
His Helm of massy Gold; and Crimson was his Crest.  
With twenty Horse to fecond his Designs,  
An unexpected Foe, he faced the Lines.   

Is there, he said, in Arms who bravely dare,  
His Leader's Honour, and his Danger share?  
Then, spurring on, his brandished Dart he threw,  
In sign of War, applauding Shouts ensue.   

Amazed to find a dastard Race that run  
Behind the Rampires, and the Battle shun,  
He rides around the Camp, with rolling Eyes,  
And stops at every Post; and every Passage tries.  
So roams the nightly Wolf about the Fold,  
Wet with descending Showers, and stiff with cold;  
He howls for Hunger, and he grins for Pain;  
His gnashing Teeth are exercised in vain:  
And impotent of Anger, finds no way  
In his distended Paws to grasp the Prey.  
The Mothers listen; but the bleating Lambs  
Securely swig the Dug, beneath the Dams.  
Thus ranges eager Turnus o'er the Plain,  
Sharp with Desire, and furious with Disdain:  
Surveys each Passage with a piercing Sight;  
To force his Foes in equal Field to fight.  
Thus, while he gazes round, at length he spies  
Where, fenced with strong Redoubts, their Navy lies;  
Close underneath the Walls: The washing Tide  
Secures from all approach this weaker side.  
He takes the wished Occasion; fills his Hand  
With ready Fires, and shakes a flaming Brand:  
Urged by his Presence, every Soul is warmed,  
And every Hand with kindled Sirs is armed.  
From the fired Pines the scattering Sparkles fly;  
Fat Vapours mixed with Flames involve the Sky.  
What Power, O Muses, could avert the Flame  
Which threatened, in the Fleet, the Trojan Name!  
Tell: For the Fact through length of Time obscure,  
Is hard to Faith; yet shall the Fame endure.   

'Tis said, that when the Chief prepared his flight,  
And felled his Timber from Mount Ida's height,  
The Grandam Goddess than approached her Son,  
And with a Mother's Majesty begun.  
Grant me, she said, the sole Request I bring.  
Since conquered Heaven has owned you for its King:  
On Ida's Brows, for Ages past, there stood,  
With Sirs and Maples filled, a shady Wood:  
And on the Summit rose a Sacred Grove,  
Where I was worshipped with Religious Love;  
Those Woods, that Holy Grove, my long delight,  
I gave the Trojan Prince, to speed his flight.  
Now filled with Fear, on their behalf I come;  
Let neither Winds o'reset, nor Waves entomb  
The floating Forests of the Sacred Pine;  
But let it be their Safety to be mine.  
Then thus replied her awful Son; who rowls  
The radiant Stars, and Heaven and Earth controls;  
How dare you, Mother, endless Date demand,  
For Vessels moulded by a Mortal Hand?  
What then is Fate? Shall bold Aeneas ride  
Of Safety certain, on th' uncertain Tide?  
Yet what I can, I grant: When, wafted o'er,  
The Chief is landed on the Latian Shore,  
Whatever Ships escape the raging Storms,  
At my Command shall change their fading Forms  
To Nymphs Divine: and plow the wat'ry Way,  
Like Dotis, and the Daughters of the Sea.   

To seal his sacred Vow, by Styx he swore,  
The Lake of liquid Pitch, the dreary Shore;  
And Phlegeton's innavigable Flood,  
And the black Regions of his Brother God:  
He said; and shook the Skies with his Imperial Nod.   

And now at length the numbered Hours were come,  
Prefixed by Fate's irrevocable Doom,  
When the great Mother of the Gods was free  
To save her Ships, and finish Jove's Decree.  
First, from the Quarter of the Morn, there sprung  
A Light that signed the heavens, and shot along:  
Then from a Cloud, fringed round with Golden Fires,  
Were Timbrels heard, and Berecynthian Quires:  
And last a Voice, with more than Mortal Sounds,  
Both Hosts in Arms opposed, with equal Horror wounds.   

O Trojan Race, your needless Aid forbear;  
And know my Ships are my peculiar Care.  
With greater ease the bold Rutulian may,  
With hissing Brands, attempt to burn the Sea,  
Than sing my sacred Pines. But you my Charge,  
Loosed from your crooked Anchors launch at large,  
Exalted each a Nymph: Forsake the Sand,  
And swim the Seas, at Cybele's Command.  
No sooner had the Goddess ceased to speak,  
When lo, th' obedient Ships, their Haulsers break;  
And, strange to tell, like Dolphins in the Main,  
They plunge their Prows, and dive, and spring again:  
As many beauteous Maids the Billows sweep,  
As road before tall Vessels on the Deep.  
The Foes, surprised with Wonder, stood aghast,  
Messapus curbed his fiery Courser's haste;  
Old Tiber roared; and raising up his Head,  
Called back his Waters to their Oozy Bed.  
Turnus alone, undaunted, bore the Shock;  
And with these Words his trembling Troops bespoke▪  
These Monsters for the Trojans Fate are meant,  
And are by Jove for black Presages sent.  
He takes the Cowards last Relief away;  
For fly they cannot; and, constrained to stay,  
Must yield unfought, a base inglorious Prey.   

To Thomas Foley Junr: r: of Great Witley Court in the County of Worcester Esq.  
A 9 l. 130.   

The liquid half of all the Globe, is lost;  
Heaven shuts the Seas, and we secure the Coast.  
Theirs is no more, than that small spot of Ground,  
Which Millions of our Martial Troops surround.  
Their Fates I fear not; or vain Oracles;  
'Twas given to Venus, they should cross the Seas:  
And land secure upon the Latian Plains,  
Their promised Hour is passed, and mine remains.  
'Tis in the Fate of Turnus, to destroy  
With Sword and Fire the faithless Race of Troy.  
Shall such Affronts as these, alone inflame  
The Grecian Brothers, and the Grecian Name?  
My Cause and theirs is one; a fatal Strife,  
And final Ruin, for a ravished Wife.  
Was't not enough, that, punished for the Crime,  
They fell; but will they fall a second Time?  
One would have thought they paid enough before,  
To curse the costly Sex; and durst offend no more.  
Can they securely trust their feeble Wall,  
A slight Partition, a thin Interval,  
Betwixt their Fate and them; when Troy, tho' built  
By Hands Divine, yet perished by their Gild?  
Lend me, for once, my Friends, your valiant Hands,  
To force from out their Lines these dastard Bands.  
Less than a thousand Ships will end this War;  
Nor Vulcan needs his fated Arms prepare.  
Let all the Tuscans, all th' Arcadians join,  
Nor these, nor those shall frustrate my Design.  
Let them not fear the Treasons of the Night;  
The robbed Palladium, the pretended flight:  
Our Onset shall be made in open Light.  
No wooden Engine shall their Town betray,  
Fires they shall have around, but Fires by Day.  
No Grecian Babes before their Camp appear,  
Whom Hector's Arms detained, to the tenth tardy Year.  
Now, since the Sun is rolling to the West,  
Give we the silent Night to neeedful Rest:  
Refresh your Bodies, and your Arms prepare,  
The Morn shall end the small Remains of War.   

The Post of Honour to Messapus falls,  
To keep the Nightly Guard; to watch the Walls;  
To pitch the Fires at Distances around,  
And close the Trojans in their scanty Ground.  
Twice seven Rutulian Captains ready stand;  
And twice seven hundred Horse these Chiefs command:  
All clad in shining Arms the Works invest;  
Each with a radiant Helm, and waving Crest.  
Stretched at their length, they press the grassy Ground;  
They laugh, they sing, the jolly Bowls go round:  
With Lights, and cheerful Fires renew the Day;  
And pass the wakeful Night in Feasts and Play.   

The Trojans, from above, their Foes beheld;  
And with armed Legions all the Rampires filled:  
Seized with Affright, their Gates they first explore,  
Join Works to Works with Bridges; Tower to Tower:  
Thus all things needful for Defence, abound;  
Mnestheus, and brave Seresthus walk the round:  
Commissioned by their Absent Prince, to share  
The common Danger, and divide the Care.  
The Soldiers draw their Lots; and as they fall,  
By turns relieve each other on the Wall.   

Nigh where the Foes their utmost Guards advance,  
To watch the Gate, was warlike Nisus chance.  
His Father Hyrtacus of Noble Blood;  
His Mother was a Hunt'ress of the Wood:  
And sent him to the Wars; well could he bear  
His Lance in fight, and dart the flying Spear:  
But better skilled unerring Shafts to send:  
Beside him stood Euryalus his Friend.  
Euryalus, than whom the Trojan Host  
No fairer Face, or fweeter Air could boast.  
Scarce had the Down to shade his Cheeks begun;  
One was their Care, and their Delight was one.  
One Common hazard in the War they shared;  
And now were both by choice upon the Guard.   

Then Nisus, thus: Or do the Gods inspire  
This warmth, or make we Gods of our Desire?  
A generous ardour boils within my Breast,  
Eager of Action, Enemy to Rest:  
This urges me to fight, and fires my Mind,  
To leave a memorable Name behind.  
Thou see'st the Foe secure: how faintly shine  
Their scattered Fires! the most in Sleep supine;  
Along the ground, an easy Conquest lie;  
The wakeful few, the fuming Flagon ply:  
All hushed around. Now hear what I revolve;  
A Thought unripe; and scarcely yet resolve.  
Our absent Prince both Camp and Council mourn;  
By Message both would hasten his return:  
If they confer what I demand, on thee,  
(For Fame is Recompense enough for me)  
Methinks, beneath yond Hill, I have espied  
A way that safely will my passage guide.   

Euryalus stood listening while he spoke;  
With love of Praise, and noble Envy struck;  
Then to his ardent Friend exposed his Mind:  
All this alone, and leaving me behind,  
Am I unworthy, Nisus, to be joined?  
Think'st thou I can my share of Glory yield,  
Or send thee unassisted to the Field?  
Not so my Father taught my Childhood Arms;  
Born in a Siege, and bred among Alarms!  
Nor is my Youth unworthy of my Friend,  
Nor of the heaven-born Hero I attend.  
The thing called Life, with ease I can disclaim;  
And think it over sold to purchase Fame.   

Then Nisus, thus; alas! thy tender years  
Would minister new matter to my Fears:  
So may the Gods, who view this friendly Strife,  
Restore me to thy loved Embrace with life,  
Condemned to pay my Vows (as sure I trust,)  
This thy Request is Cruel and Unjust.  
But if some Chance, as many Chances are,  
And doubtful Hazards in the deeds of War;  
If one should reach my Head, there let it fall,  
And spare thy Life; I would not perish all.  
Thy bloomy Youth deserves a longer date;  
Live thou to mourn thy Love's unhappy Fate:  
To bear my mangled Body from the Foe;  
Or buy it back, and Funeral Rites bestow.  
Or if hard Fortune shall those Deuce deny,  
Thou canst at least an empty Tomb supply.  
O let not me the Widow's Tears renew;  
Nor let a Mother's Curse my Name pursue;  
Thy Pious Parent, who, for love of thee,  
Forsook the Coasts of friendly Sicily,  
Her Age, committing to the Seas and Wind,  
When every weary Matron stayed behind.  
To this, Euryalus, you plead in vain,  
And but protract the Cause you cannot gain:  
No more delays, but haste. With that he wakes  
The nodding Watch; each to his Office takes.  
The Guard relieved, the generous Couple went  
To find the Council at the Royal Tent.  
All Creatures else forgot their daily Care;  
And Sleep, the common Gift of Nature, share:  
Except the Trojan Peers, who wakeful sat  
In nightly Council for th' endangered State.  
They vote a Message to their absent Chief;  
Show their Distress; and beg a swift Relief.  
Amid the Camp a silent Seat they chose,  
Remote from Clamour, and secure from Foes.  
On their left Arms their ample Shields they bear,  
The right reclined upon the bending Spear.  
Now Nisus and his Friend approach the Guard,  
And beg Admission, eager to be heard:  
Th' Affair important, not to be deferred.  
Ascanius bids 'em be conducted in;  
Ordering the more experienced to begin.  
Then Nisus thus. Ye Fathers lend your Ears;  
Nor judge our bold Attempt beyond our Years.  
The Foe securely drenched in Sleep and Wine,  
Neglect their Watch; the Fires but thinly shine:  
And where the Smoke, in cloudy Vapours flies,  
Covering the Plain, and curling to the Skies,  
Betwixt two Paths, which at the Gate divide,  
Close by the Sea, a Passage we have spied,  
Which will our way to great Aeneas guide.  
Expect each Hour to see him safe again,  
Loaded with Spoils of Foes in Battle slain.  
Snatch we the lucky Minute while we may:  
Nor can we be mistaken in the way;  
For hunting in the Vale, we both have seen  
The rising Turrets, and the Stream between;  
And know the winding Course, with every Ford.  
He ceased: And old Alethes took the Word.   

Our Country Gods, in whom our Trust we place,  
Will yet from Ruin save the Trojan Race:  
While we behold such dauntless Worth appear  
In dawning Youth; and Souls so void of Fear.  
Then, into Tears of Joy the Father broke;  
Each in his longing Arms by Turns he took:  
Panted and paused; and thus again he spoke.  
Ye brave young Men, what equal Gifts can we,  
In recompencc of such Desert, decree?  
The greatest, sure, and best you can receive,  
The Gods, and your own conscious Worth will give.  
The rest our grateful Gen'ral will bestow;  
And young Ascanius till his Manhood owe.   

And I, whose Welfare in my Father lies,  
Ascanius adds, by the great Deities,  
By my dear Country, by my household Gods,  
By hoary Vesta's Rites, and dark Abodes,  
Adjure you both; (on you my Fortune stands,  
That and my Faith I plight into your Hands:)  
Make me but happy in his safe Return,  
Whose wanted Presence I can only mourn;  
Your common Gift shall two large Goblets be,  
Of Silver, wrought with curious Imagery;  
And high embossed, which, when old Priam reigned,  
My conquering Sire at sacked Arisba gained.  
And more, two Tripods cast in antic Mould,  
With two great Talents of the finest Gold:  
Beside a costly Bowl, engraved with Art,  
Which Dido gave, when first she gave her Heart.  
But if in conquered Italy we reign,  
When Spoils by Lot the Victor shall obtain;  
Thou saw'st the Courser by proud Turnus pressed,  
That, Nisus, and his Arms, and nodding Crest,  
And Shield, from Chance exempt, shall be thy Share;  
Twelve labouring Slaves, twelve Handmaids young and fair,  
All clad in rich Attire, and trained with Care.  
And last, a Latian Field with fruitful Plains;  
And a large Portion of the King's Domains.  
But thou, whose Years are more to mine allied,  
No Fate my vowed Affection shall divide  
From thee, Heroic Youth; be wholly mine:  
Take full Possession; all my Soul is thine.  
One Faith, one Fame, one Fate shall both attend;  
My Life's Companion, and my Bosom Friend.  
My Peace shall be committed to thy Care,  
And to thy Conduct, my Concerns in War.   

Then thus the young Euryalus replied;  
Whatever Fortune, good or bad betid,  
The same shall be my Age, as now my Youth;  
No time shall find me wanting to my Truth.  
This only from your Goodness let me gain;  
(And this ungranted, all Rewards are vain)  
Of Priam's Royal Race my Mother came;  
And sure the best that ever bore the Name:  
Whom neither Troy, nor Sicily could hold  
From me departing, but o'respent, and old,  
My Fate she followed; ignorant of this,  
Whatever Danger, neither parting Kiss,  
Nor pious Blessing taken, her I leave;  
And, in this only Act of all my Life deceive.  
By this right Hand, and conscious Night I swear,  
My Soul so sad a farewell could not bear.  
Be you her Comfort; fill my vacant place,  
(Permit me to presume so great a Grace)  
Support her Age, forsaken and distressed,  
That hope alone will fortify my Breast  
Against the worst of Fortunes, and of Fears.  
He said: The moved Assistants melt in Tears.   

Then thus Ascanius, (wonder-struck to see  
That Image of his filial Piety;)  
So great Beginnings, in so green an Age,  
Exact the Faith, which I again engage.  
Thy Mother all the Dues shall justly claim  
Creusa had; and only want the Name.  
whate'er Event thy bold Attempt shall have,  
'Tis Merit to have born a Son so brave.  
Now by my Head, a sacred Oath, I swear,  
(My Father used it) what returning here  
Crowned with Success, I for thyself prepare,  
That, if thou fail, shall thy loved Mother share.   

He said; and weeping while he spoke the Word,  
From his broad Belt he drew a shining Sword,  
Magnificent with Gold. Lycaon made,  
And in an Ivory Scabbard sheathed the Blade:  
This was his Gift: Great Mnestheus gave his Friend  
A Lion's Hide, his Body to defend:  
And good Alethes furnished him beside,  
With his own trusty Helm, of Temper tried.   

Thus armed they went. The Noble Trojans wait  
Their issuing forth, and follow to the Gate.  
With Prayers and Vows, above the rest appears  
Ascanius, manly far beyond his Years.  
And Messages committed to their Care,  
Which all in Winds were lost, and flitting Air.   

The Trenches first they passed: Then took their Way  
Where their proud Foes in pitched Pavilions lay;  
To many fatal, ere themselves were slain:  
They found the careless Host dispersed upon the Plain.  
Who gorged, and drunk with Wine, supinely snore;  
Unharnassed Chariots stand along the Shore:  
Amidst the Wheels and Reins, the Goblet by,  
A Medley of Debauch and War they lie.  
Observing Nisus showed his Friend the sight;  
Behold a Conquest gained without a Fight.   

To the Honble: Colonel George Cholmondeley Colonel of his Majesties Troop of Granadier Guards & Groom of his Maj ties: Bedchamber  
A 9 l. 435.   

Occasion offers, and I stand prepared;  
There lies our Way; be thou upon the Guard,  
And look around; while I securely go,  
And a hue Passage, thro' the sleeping Foe.  
Softly he spoke; then striding, took his way,  
With his drawn Sword, where haughty Rhamnes lay:  
His Head raised high, on Tapestry beneath,  
And heaving from his Breast, he drew his Breath:  
A King and Prophet by King Turnus loved;  
But Fate by Prescience cannot be removed.  
Him, and his sleeping Slaves he slew. Then spies  
Where Rhemus, with his rich Retinue lies:  
His Armor-bearer first, and next he kills  
His Charioteer, entrenched betwixt the Wheels  
And his loved Horses: Last invades their Lord;  
Full on his Neck he drives the fatal Sword:  
The gasping Head flies off; a Purple flood  
Flows from the Trunk, that welters in the Blood:  
Which by the spurning Heels, dispersed around,  
The Bed besprinkles, and bedews the Ground.  
Lamus the bold, and Lamyrus the strong,  
He slew; and than Serranus fair and young:  
From Dice and Wine the Youth retired to Rest,  
And puffed the fumy God from out his Breast:  
Even than he dreamt of Drink and lucky Play;  
More lucky had it lasted till the Day.   

The famished Lion thus, with Hunger bold;  
O'releaps the Fences of the Nightly Fold;  
And tears the peaceful Flocks: With silent Awe  
Trembling they lie, and pant beneath his Paw.   

Nor with less Rage Euryalus employs  
The wrathful Sword, or fewer Foes destroys:  
But on th' ignoble Crowd his Fury flew:  
He Fadus, Hebesus, and Rhaetus slew.  
Oppressed with heavy Sleep the former fall,  
But Rhoetus wakeful, and observing all:  
Behind a spacious Jar he slinked for fear;  
The fatal Iron found, and reached him there.  
For as he rose, it pierced his naked side;  
And reeking, thence returned in Crimson died.  
The Wound pours out a Stream of Wine and Blood,  
The Purple Soul comes floating in the flood.   

Now where Messapus Quartered they arrive;  
The Fires were fainting there, and just alive.  
The Warriour-Horses tied in order fed;  
Nisus observed the Discipline, and said,  
Our eager thirst of Blood may both betray;  
And see the scattered Streaks of dawning day,  
Foe to Nocturnal Thefts: No more, my Friend,  
Here let our glutted Execution end:  
A Lane through slaughtered Bodies we have made:  
The bold Euryalus, tho' loath, obeyed.  
Of Arms, and Arras, and of Plate they find  
A precious load; but these they leave behind.  
Yet fond of gaudy Spoils the Boy would stay  
To make the rich Caparison his prey,  
Which on the steed of conquered Rhamnes lay.  
Nor did his Eyes less longingly behold  
The Girdle-Belt, with Nails of burnished Gold.  
This Present Cedicus the Rich, bestowed  
On Remulus, when Friendship first they vowed:  
And absent, joined in hospitable ties;  
He dying, to his Heir bequeathed the Prize:  
Till by the Conquering Ardean Troops oppressed  
He fell; and they the Glorious Gift possessed.  
These glittering Spoils (now made the Victor's gain)  
He to his body suits; but suits in vain.  
Messapus Helm he finds among the rest,  
And laces on, and wears the waving Crest.  
Proud of their Conquest, prouder of their Prey,  
They leave the Camp; and take the ready way.   

But far they had not passed, before they spied  
Three hundred Horse with Volscens for their Guide.  
The Queen a Legion to King Turnus sent,  
But the swift Horse the slower Foot outwent;  
And now advancing, sought the Leader's Tent.  
They saw the Pair; for through the doubtful shade  
His shineing Helm Euryalus betrayed,  
On which the Moon with full reflection played.  
'Tis not for nought, cried Volscens, from the Crowed,  
These Men go there; then raised his Voice aloud:  
Stand, stand: why thus in Arms, and whither bend;  
From whence, to whom, and on what Errand sent?  
Silent they scud away, and haste their flight,  
To Neighbouring Woods, and trust themselves to night.  
The speedy Horse all passages belay,  
And spur their smoking Steeds to Cross their way;  
And watch each Entrance of the winding Wood;  
Black was the Forest, thick with Beech it stood:  
Horrid with Fern, and intricate with Thorn,  
Few Paths of Humane Feet or Tracks of Beasts were worn  
The darkness of the Shades, his heavy Prey,  
And Fear, misled the Younger from his way.  
But Nisus hit the Turns with happier haste,  
And thoughtless of his Friend, the Forest passed:  
And Alban Plains, from Alba's Name so called,  
Where King Latinus then his Oxen stalled.  
Till turning at the length, he stood his ground,  
And missed his Friend, and cast his Eyes around;  
Ah Wretch, he cried, where have I left behind  
Th' unhappy Youth, where shall I hope to find?  
Or what way take! again He ventures back:  
And treads the Mazes of his former tract.  
He winds the Wood, and listening hears the noise  
Of trampling Coursers, and the Rider's voice.  
The sound approached, and suddenly he viewed  
The Foes enclosing, and his Friend pursued:  
Forelayed and taken, while he strove in vain,  
The shelter of the friendly Shades to gain.  
What should he next attempt! what Arms employ,  
What fruitless Force to free the Captive Boy?  
Or desperate should he rush and lose his Life,  
With odds oppressed, in such unequal strife?  
Resolved at length, his pointed Spear he shook;  
And casting on the Moon a mournful look,  
Guardian of Groves, and Goddess of the Night;  
Fair, Queen, he said, direct my Dart aright:  
If e'er my Pious Father for my sake  
Did grateful Offerings on thy Altars make;  
Or I increased them with my Sylvan toils,  
And hung thy Holy Roofs, with Savage Spoils;  
Give me to scatter these. Then from his Ear  
He poised, and aimed, and launched the trembling Spear.  
The deadly Weapon, hiffing from the Grove,  
Impetuous on the back of Sulmo drove:  
Pierced his thin Armour, drank his Vital Blood,  
And in his Body left the broken Wood  
He staggers round, his Eyeballs roll in Death,  
And with short sobs he gasps away his Breath.  
All stand amazed; a second Javelin flies,  
With equal strength, and quivers through the Skies;  
This through thy Temples, Tagus, forced the way,  
And in the Brainpan warmly buried lay.  
Fierce Volscens foams with Rage, and gazing round,  
Descried not him who gave the Fatal Wound:   

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A 9 l. 590   

Nor knew to fix Revenge: but thou, he cries,  
Shalt pay for both, and at the Prisoner flies,  
With his drawn Sword. Then struck with deep Despair,  
That cruel sight the Lover could not bear:  
But from his Covert rushed in open view,  
And sent his Voice before him as he flew.  
Me, me, he cried, turn all your Swords alone  
On me; the Fact confessed, the Fault my own.  
He neither could nor durst, the guiltless Youth;  
Ye Moon and Stars bear Witness to the Truth!  
His only Crime, (if Friendship can offend,)  
Is too much Love; to his unhappy Friend.  
Too late he speaks; the Sword, which Fury guides,  
Driven with full Force, had pierced his tender Sides.  
Down fell the beauteous Youth; the yawning Wound  
Gushed out a Purple Stream, and stained the Ground.  
His snowy Neck reclines upon his Breast,  
Like a fair Flower by the keen Share oppressed:  
Like a white Poppy sinking on the Plain,  
Whose heavy Head is overcharged with Rain.  
Despair, and Rage, and Vengeance justly vowed,  
Drove Nisus headlong on the hostile Crowd:  
Volscens he seeks; on him alone he bends;  
Born back, and bored, by his surrounding Friends,  
Onward he pressed: and kept him still in sight;  
Then whirled aloft his Sword, with all his might:  
Th' unnerring Steel descended while he spoke;  
Pierced his wide Mouth, and through his Weazon broke:  
Dying, he flew; and staggering on the Plain,  
With smimming Eyes he sought his Lover slain:  
Then quiet on his bleeding Bosom fell;  
Content in Death, to be revenged so well.   

O happy Friends! for if my Verse can give  
Immortal Life, your Fame shall ever live:  
Fixed as the Capitol's Foundation lies;  
And spread, where e'er the Roman Eagle flies!   

The conquering Party, first divide the Prey,  
Then their slain General to the Camp convey.  
With Wonder, as they went, the Troops were filled,  
To see such Numbers whom so few had killed.  
Serranus, Rhamnes, and the rest they found;  
Vast Crowds the dying and the dead surround:  
And the yet reeking Blood overflows the Ground.  
All knew the Helmet which Messapus lost;  
But mourned a Purchase, that so dear had cost.  
Now rose the ruddy Morn from Tithon's Bed;  
And with the Dawns of Day the Skies o'erspread.  
Nor long the Sun his daily Course withheld,  
But added Colours to the World revealed.  
When early Turnus' wak'ning with the Light,  
All clad in Armour calls his Troops to fight.  
His Martial Men with fierce Harangues he fired;  
And his own Ardour, in their Souls inspired.  
This done, to give new Terror to his Foes,  
The Heads of Nisus, and his Friend he shows,  
Raised high on pointed Spears: A ghastly Sight;  
Loud peals of Shouts ensue, and barbarous Delight.   

Mean time the Trojans run, where Danger calls,  
They line their Trenches, and they man their Walls:  
In Front extended to the left they stood:  
Safe was the right surrounded by the Flood.  
But casting from their towers a frightful view,  
They saw the Faces, which too well they knew;  
Tho' then disguised in Death, and smeared all o'er  
With Filth obscene, and dropping putrid Gore.  
Soon hasty Fame, through the sad City bears  
The mournful Message to the Mother's Ears:  
An icy Cold benumbs her Limbs: She shakes:  
Her Cheeks the Blood, her Hand the Web forsakes.  
She runs the Rampires round amidst the War,  
Nor fears the flying Darts: She rends her Hair,  
And fills with loud Laments the liquid Air.  
Thus then, my loved Euryalus appears;  
Thus looks the Prop of my declining Years!  
Was't on this Face, my famished Eyes I fed,  
Ah how unlike the living, is the dead!  
And couldst thou leave me, cruel, thus alone,  
Not one kind Kiss from a departing Son!  
No Look, no last adieu before he went,  
In an illboding Hour to Slaughter sent!  
Cold on the Ground, and pressing foreign Clay,  
To Latian Dogs, and Fowls he lies a Prey!  
Nor was I near to close his dying Eyes,  
To wash his Wounds, to weep his Obsequies:  
To call about his Corpse his crying Friends,  
Or spread the Mantle, (made for other ends,)  
On his dear Body, which I wove with Care,  
Nor did my daily Pains, or nightly labour spare.  
Where shall I find his Corpse, what Earth sustains  
His Trunk dismembered, and his cold Remains?  
For this, alas, I left my needful Ease,  
Exposed my Life to Winds, and winter Seas!  
If any pity touch Rutulian Hearts,  
Here empty all your Quivers, all your Darts:  
Or if they fail, thou Jove conclude my Woe,  
And send me Thunderstruck to Shades below!   

Her Shrieks and Clamours, pierce the Trojans Ears,  
Unman their Courage, and augment their Fears:  
Nor young Ascanius could the sight sustain,  
Nor old Ilioneus his Tears restrain:  
But Actor and Idoeus, jointly sent,  
To bear the madding Mother to her Tent.  
And now the Trumpets terribly from far,  
With rattling Clangor, rouse the sleepy War.  
The Soldier's Shouts succeed the Brazen Sounds;  
And Heaven, from Pole to Pole, the Noise rebounds.  
The Volscians bear their Shields upon their Head,  
And rushing forward, from a moving Shed;  
These fill the Ditch, those pull the Bulwarks down:  
Some raise the Ladders, others scale the Town.  
But where void Spaces on the Walls appear,  
Or thin Defence, they pour their Forces there.  
With Poles and missive Weapons from afar,  
The Trojans keep aloof the rising War.  
Taught by their ten Years Siege defensive fight;  
They roll down Ribs of Rocks, an unresisted Weight:  
To break the Penthouse with the ponderous Blow;  
Which yet the patient Volscians undergo.  
But could not bear th' unequal Combat long;  
For where the Trojans find the thickest Throng,  
The Ruin falls: Their shattered Shields give way,  
And their crushed Heads become an easy Prey.  
They shrink for Fear, abated of their Rage,  
Nor longer dare in a blind Fight engage.  
Contented now to gall them from below  
With Darts and Slings, and with the distant Bow.   

Elsewhere Mezentius, terrible to view,  
A blazing Pine within the Trenches threw.  
But brave Messapus, Neptune's warlike Son,  
Broke down the Palisades, the Trenches Won,  
And loud for Ladders calls, to scale the Town.   

Calliope begin: Ye sacred Nine,  
Inspire your Poet in his high Design;  
To sing what Slaughter manly Turnus made:  
What Souls he sent below the Stygian Shade.  
What Fame the Soldiers with their Captain share,  
And the vast Circuit of the fatal War.  
For you in singing Martial Facts excel;  
You best remember; and alone can tell.   

There stood a Tower, amazing to the sight,  
Built up of Beams; and of stupendous height;  
Art, and the nature of the Place conspired,  
To furnish all the Strength, that War required.  
To levelly this, the bold Italians join;  
The wary Trojans obviate their design:  
With weighty Stones overwhelm their Troops below,  
Shoot through the Loopholes, and sharp javelins throw.  
Turnus, the Chief, tossed from his thundering Hand,  
Against the wooden Walls, a flaming Brand:  
It stuck, the fiery Plague: The Winds were high;  
The Planks were seasoned, and the Timber dry.  
Contagion caught the Posts: It spread along,  
Scorched, and to distance drove the scattered Throng.  
The Trojans fled; the Fire pursued amain,  
Still gathering fast upon the trembling Train;  
Till crowding to the Corners of the Wall,  
Down the Defence, and the Defenders fall.  
The mighty flaw makes Heaven itself resound,  
The Dead, and dying Trojans strew the Ground.  
The Tower that followed on the fallen Crew,  
Whelmed o'er their Heads, and buried whom it slew:  
Some stuck upon the Darts themselves had sent;  
All, the same equal Ruin underwent.   

Young Lycus and Helenor only scape;  
Saved, how they know not, from the steepy Leap.  
Helenor, elder of the two; by Birth,  
On one side Royal, one a Son of Earth,  
Whom to the Lydian King, Lycimnia bore,  
And sent her boasted Bastard to the War:  
(A Privilege which none but Freemen share.)  
'Slight were his Arms, a Sword and Silver Shield,  
No Marks of Honour charged its empty Field.  
Light as he fell, so light the Youth arose,  
And rising found himself amidst his Foes.  
Nor flight was left, nor hopes to force his Way;  
Emboldened by Despair, he stood at Bay:  
And like a Stag, whom all the Troop surrounds  
Of eager Huntsmen, and invading Hounds;  
Resolved on Death, he dissipates his Fears,  
And bounds aloft, against the pointed Spears:  
So dares the Youth, secure of Death; and throws  
His dying Body, on his thickest Foes.   

But Lycus, swifter of his Feet, by far,  
Runs, doubles, winds and turns, amidst the War:  
Springs to the Walls, and leaves his Foes behind,  
And snatches at the Beam he first can find.  
Looks up, and leaps aloft at all the stretch,  
In hopes the helping Hand of some kind Friend to reach.  
But Turnus followed hard his hunted Prey,  
(His Spear had almost reached him in the way,  
Short of his Reins, and scarce a Span behind,)  
Fool, said the Chief, tho' fleeter than the Wind,  
Couldst thou presume to scape, when I pursue?  
He said, and downward by the Feet he drew  
The trembling Dastard: at the Tug he falls,  
Vast Ruins come along, rend from the smoking Walls.  
Thus on some silver Swan, or timorous Hare,  
Jove's Bird comes sousing down, from upper Air;  
Her crooked Talons truss the fearful Prey:  
Then out of sight she soars, and wings her way.  
So seizes the grim Wolf the tender Lamb,  
In vain lamented by the bleating Dam.   

Then rushing onward, with a barbr'ous cry,  
The Troops of Turnus to the Combat fly.  
The Ditch with Faggots filled, the daring Foe  
Tossed Firebrands to the steepy Turrets throw.   

Ilioneus, as bold Lucetius came  
To force the Gate, and feed the kindling Flame,  
Rolled down the Fragment of a Rock so right,  
It crushed him double underneath the weight.  
Two more young Liger and Asylas slew;  
To bend the Bow young Liger better knew;  
Asylas best the pointed Javelin threw.  
Brave Caeneus laid Ortygius on the Plain,  
The Victor Caeneus was by Turnus slain.  
By the same Hand, Clonius and Itys fall,  
Sagar, and Ida, standing on the Wall.  
From Capys Arms his Fate Privernus found;  
Hurt by Themilla first; but slight the Wound;  
His Shield thrown by, to mitigate the smart,  
He clapped his Hand upon the wounded part:  
The second Shaft came swift and unespyed,  
And pierced his Hand, and nailed it to his side:  
Transfixed his breathing Lungs, and beating heart;  
The Soul came issuing out, and hissed against the Dart.   

The Son of Arcens shone amid the rest,  
In glittering Armour, and a Purple Vest.  
Fair was his Face, his Eyes inspiring Love,  
Bred by his Father in the Martian Grove;  
Where the fat Altars of Palicus flame,  
And sent in Arms to purchase early Fame.  
Him, when he spied from far the Tuscan King,  
Laid by the Lance, and took him to the Sling:  
Thrice whirled the Thong around his head, and threw:  
The heated Lead half melted as it flew:  
It pierced his hollow Temples and his Brain;  
The Youth came tumbling down, and spurned the Plain.   

Then Young Ascanius, who before this day  
Was wont in Woods to shoot the savage Prey,  
First bend in Martial Strife, the twanging Bow;  
And exercised against a Humane Foe.  
With this bereft Numanus of his life,  
Who Turnus younger Sister took to Wife.  
Proud of his Realm, and of his Royal Bride,  
Vaunting before his Troops, and lengthened with a Stride,  
In these Insulting terms, the Trojans he defied.  
Twice Conquered Cowards, now your shame is shown,  
Cooped up a second time within your Town!  
Who dare not issue forth in open Field,  
But hold your Walls before you for a Shield:  
Thus threat you War, thus our Alliance force!  
What Gods what madness hither steered your Course!  
You shall not find the Sons of Atreus here,  
Nor need the Frauds of sly Ulysses fear.  
Strong from the Cradle, of a sturdy Brood,  
We bear our newborn Infants to the Flood;  
There bathed amid the Stream, our Boys we hold,  
With Winter hardened, and inur'd to Cold.  
They wake before the Day to range the Wood,  
Kill e'er they eat, nor taste unconquered Food.  
No Sports, but what belong to War they know,  
To break the stubborn Colt, to bend the Bow.  
Our youth, of Labour patient, earn their Bread;  
Hardly they work, with frugal Diet fed.  
From Ploughs and Harrows sent to seek Renown,  
They fight in Fields, and storm the shaken Town.  
No part of Life from Toils of War is free;  
No change in Age, or difference in Degree.  
We plough, and till in Arms; our Oxen feel,  
Instead of Goads, the Spur, and pointed Steel:  
Th' inverted Lance makes Furrows in the Plain;  
Even time that changes all, yet changes us in vain:  
The Body, not the Mind: Nor can control  
Th' immortal Vigour, or abate the Soul.  
Our Helms defend the Young, disguise the Grey:  
We live by Plunder, and delight in Prey.  
Your Vests embroidered with rich Purple shine;  
In Sloth you Glory, and in Dances join.  
Your Vests have sweeping Sleeves: With female Pride,  
Your Turbans underneath your Chins are tied.  
Go, Phrygians, to your Dindymus again;  
Go, less than Women, in the Shapes of Men.  
Go, mixed with Eunuches, in the Mother's Rites,  
Where with unequal Sound the Flute invites.  
Sing, dance, and howl by turns in Ida's Shade;  
Resign the War to Men, who know the Martial Trade.   

This foul Reproach, Ascanius could not hear  
With Patience, or a vowed Revenge forbear.  
At the full stretch of both his Hands, he drew,  
And almost joined the Horns of the tough Yew.  
But first, before the Throne of Jove he stood;  
And thus with lifted Hands invoked the God.  
My first Attempt, great Jupiter succeed;  
An annual Offering in thy Grove shall bleed:  
A snow-white Steer, before thy Altar led,  
Who like his Mother bears aloft his Head,  
Butts with his threatening Brows, and bellowing stands,  
And dares the Fight, and spurns the yellow Sands.   

Jove bowed the heavens, and lent a gracious Ear,  
And thundered on the left, amidst the clear.  
Sounded at once the Bow; and swiftly flies  
The feathered Death, and hisfes through the Skies.  
The Steel through both his Temples forced the way:  
Extended on the Ground, Numanus lay.  
Go now, vain Boaster, and true Valour scorn;  
The Phrygians twice subdued, yet make this third Return.  
Ascanius said no more: The Trojans shake  
The heavens with Shouting, and new Vigour take.   

Apollo then bestrode a Golden Cloud,  
To view the feats of Arms, and fight Crowd;  
And thus the beardless Victor, he bespoke aloud.  
Advance Illustrious Youth, increase in Fame,  
And wide from East to West extend thy Name.  
Offspring of Gods thyself; and Rome shall owe  
To thee, a Race of Demigods below.  
This is the Way to Heaven: The Powers Divine  
From this beginning date the Julian Line.  
To thee, to them, and their victorious Heirs,  
The conquered War is due; and the vast World is theirs.  
Troy is too narrow for thy Name. He said,  
And plunging downward shot his radiant Head;  
Dispelled the breathing Air, that broke his Flight,  
Shorn of his Beams, a Man to Mortal sight.  
Old Butes Form he took, Anchises Squire,  
Now left to rule Ascanius, by his Sire:  
His wrinkled Visage, and his hoary Hairs,  
His Mien, his Habit, and his Arms he wears;  
And thus salutes the Boy, too forward for his Years.  
Suffice it thee, thy Father's worthy Son,  
The warlike Prize thou hast already won:  
The God of Archers gives thy Youth a part  
Of his own Praise; nor envies equal Art.  
Now tempt the War no more. He said, and flew  
Obscure in Air, and vanished from their view.  
The Trojans, by his Arms, their Patron know;  
And hear the twanging of his Heavenly Bow.  
Then duteous Force they use; and Phoebus' Name,  
To keep from Fight, the Youth too fond of Fame.  
Undaunted they themselves no Danger shun:  
From Wall to Wall, the Shouts and Clamours run.  
They bend their Bows; they whirl their Slings around:  
Heaps of spent Arrows fall; and strew the Ground;  
And Helms, and Shields, and rattling Arms resound.  
The Combat thickens, like the Storm that flies  
From Westward, when the Show'ry Kids arise:  
Or patt'ring Hail comes pouring on the Main,  
When Jupiter descends in hardened Rain.  
Or bellowing Clouds burst with a stormy Sound,  
And with an armed Winter strew the Ground.   

Pand'rus and Bitias, Thunderbolts of War,  
Whom Hiera, to bold Alcanor bore  
On Ida's Top, two Youths of Height and Size,  
Like Sirs that on their Mother Mountain rise;  
Presuming on their Force, the Gates unbar,  
And of their own Accord invite the War.  
With Fates averse, against their King's Command,  
Armed on the right, and on the left they stand;  
And flank the Passage: Shining Steel they wear,  
And waving Crests, above their Heads appear.  
Thus two tall Oaks, that Padus Banks adorn,  
Lift up to Heaven their leafy Heads unshorn;  
And overpressed with Nature's heavy load,  
Dance to the whistling Winds, and at each other nod.  
In flows a Tide of Latians, when they see  
The Gate set open, and the Passage free.  
Bold Quercens, with rash Tmarus rushing on,  
Equicolus, that in bright Armour shone,  
And Haemon first, but soon repulsed they fly,  
Or in the well-defended Pass they die.  
These with Success are fired, and those with Rage;  
And each on equal Terms at length engage.  
Drawn from their Lines, and issuing on the Plain,  
The Trojans hand to hand the Fight maintain.   

Fierce Turnus in another Quarter fought,  
When suddenly th' unhoped for News was brought;  
The Foes had left the fastness of their Place,  
Prevailed in Fight, and had his Men in Chase.  
He quits th' Attack, and, to prevent their Fate,  
Runs, where the Giant Brothers guard the Gate.  
The first he met, Antiphates the brave,  
But base begotten on a Theban Slave;  
Sarpedon's Son he slew: The deadly Dart  
Found Passage through his Breast, and pierced his Heart.  
Fixed in the Wound th' Italian Cornel stood;  
Warmed in his Lungs, and in his vital Blood.  
Aphidnus next, and Erymanthus dies,  
And Meropes, and the Gygantick Size  
Of Bitias, threatening with his ardent Eyes.  
Not by the feeble Dart he fell oppressed,  
A Dart were lost, within that roomy Breast;  
But from a knotted Lance, large, heavy, strong;  
Which roared like Thunder as it whirled along:  
Not two Bull-hides th' impetuous Force withhold;  
Nor Coat of double Male, with Scales of Gold.  
Down sunk the Monster-Bulk, and pressed the Ground;  
His Arms and clattering Shield, on the vast Body sound.  
Not with less Ruin, than the Bajan Mole,  
(Raised on the Seas the Surges to control,)  
At once comes tumbling down the rocky Wall,  
Prove to the Deep the Stones disjointed fall,  
Of the vast Pile; the scattered Ocean flies;  
Black Sands, discoloured Froth, and mingled Mud arise.  
The frighted Billows roll, and seek the Shores:  
Then trembles Prochyta, than Ischia roars:  
Typheous thrown beneath, by Jove's Command,  
Astonished at the Flaw, that shakes the Land,  
Soon shifts his weary Side, and scarce awake,  
With Wonder feels the weight press lighter on his Back.   

The Warrior God the Latian Troops inspired;  
New strung their Sinews, and their Courage fired:  
But chills the Trojan Hearts with cold Affright;  
Then black Despair precipitates their Flight.   

When Pandarus beheld his Brother killed,  
The Town with Fear, and wild Confusion filled,  
He turns the Hinges of the heavy Gate  
With both his Hands; and adds his Shoulders to the weight.  
Some happier Friends, within the Walls enclosed;  
The rest shut out, to certain Death exposed.  
Fool as he was, and frantic in his Care,  
T' admit young Turnus, and include the War.  
He thrust amid the Crowd, securely bold;  
Like a fierce Tiger penned amid the Fold.  
Too late his blazing Buckler they descry;  
And sparkling Fires that shot from either Eye:  
His mighty Members, and his ample Breast,  
His ratt'ling Armour, and his Crimson Crest.   

Far from that hated Face the Trojans fly;  
All but the Fool who sought his Destiny.  
Mad Pandarus steps forth, with Vengeance vowed  
For Bitias' Death, and threatens thus aloud.  
These are not Ardea's Walls, nor this the Town  
Amata proffers with Lavinia's Crown:  
'Tis hostile Earth you tread; of hope bereft,  
No means of safe Return by flight are left.  
To whom with Countenance calm, and Soul sedate,  
Thus Turnus: Then begin; and try thy Fate:  
My Message to the Ghost of Priam bear,  
Tell him a new Achilles sent thee there.   

A Lance of tough ground-Ash the Trojan threw,  
Rough in the Rind, and knotted as it grew,  
With his full force he whirled it first around;  
But the soft yielding Air received the wound:  
Imperial Juno turned the Course before;  
And fixed the wandering Weapon in the door.   

But hope not thou, said Turnus, when I strike,  
To shun thy Fate, our Force is not alike:  
Nor thy Steel tempered by the Lemnian God:  
Then rising, on is utmost stretch he stood:  
And aimed from high, the full descending blow  
Cleaves the broad Front, and beardless Cheeks in two:  
Down sinks the Giant with a thundering sound,  
His ponderous Limbs oppress the trembling ground;  
Blood, Brains, and Foam, gush from the gaping Wound.  
Scalp, Face, and Shoulders, the keen Steel divides;  
And the shared Visage hangs on equal sides.  
The Trojans fly from their approaching Fate:  
And had the Victor then secured the Gate,  
And, to his Troops without, unclosed the Barrs;  
One lucky Day had ended all his Wars.  
But boiling Youth, and blind Desire of Blood,  
Pushed on his Fury, to pursue the Crowd:  
Hamstringed behind unhappy Gyges died;  
Then Phalaris is added to his side:  
The pointed javelins from the dead he drew,  
And their Friends Arms against their Fellows threw.  
Strong Halys stands in vain; weak Phlegys flies;  
Saturnia, still at hand, new Force and Fire supplies.   

To Mr John Clos Jerman  
A 9 l. 1010.   

Then Halius, Prytanis, Alcander fall;  
(Engaged against the Foes who scaled the Wall:)  
But whom they feared without, they found within:  
At last, tho' late, by Lynceus he was seen.  
He calls new Succours, and assaults the Prince,  
But weak his Force, and vain is their Defence.  
Turned to the right, his Sword the Hero drew;  
And at one blow the bold Aggressor slew.  
He joints the Neck: And with a stroke so strong  
The Helm flies off; and bears the Head along.  
Next him, the Huntsman Amycus he killed,  
In Darts, envenomed, and in Poison skilled.  
Then Clytius fell beneath his fatal Spear,  
And Creteus, whom the Muses held so dear:  
He fought with Courage, and he sung the fight:  
Arms were his buis'ness, Verses his delight.   

The Trojan Chiefs behold, with Rage and Grief,  
Their slaughtered Friends, and hasten their Relief.  
Bold Mnestheus rallies first the broken Train,  
Whom brave Seresthus, and his Troop sustain.  
To save the living, and revenge the dead;  
Against one warrior's Arms all Troy they led.  
O, void of Sense and Courage, Mnestheus cried,  
Where can you hope your Coward Heads to hide?  
Ah, where beyond these Rampires can you run!  
One Man, and in your Camp enclosed, you eat!  
Shall then a single Sword such Slaughter boast,  
And pass unpunished from a numerous Host?  
Forsaking Honour, and renouncing Fame,  
Your Gods, your Country, and your King you shame.   

This just Reproach their Virtue does excite,  
They stand, they join, they thicken to the Fight.   

Now Turnus doubts, and yet disdains to yield;  
But with slow paces measures back the Field.  
And Inches to the Walls, where Tyber's Tide,  
Washing the Camp, defends the weaker side.  
The more he loses, they advance the more;  
And tread in every Step he trod before.  
They shout, they bear him back, and whom by Might  
They cannot Conquer, they oppress with Weight.   

As compassed with a Wood of Spears around,  
The Lordly Lion, still maintains his Ground.  
Grins horrible, retires, and turns again;  
Threats his distended Paws, and shakes his Mane;  
He loses while in vain he presses on,  
Nor will his Courage let him dare to run:  
So Turnus fares; and unresolved of flight,  
Moves tardy back, and just recedes from fight.  
Yet twice, enraged, the Combat he renews;  
Twice breaks, and twice his broken Foes pursues:  
But now they swarm; and with fresh Troops supplied,  
Come rolling on, and rush from every side.  
Nor Juno, who sustained his Arms before,  
Dares with new strength suffice th' exhausted store.  
For Jove, with sour Commands, sent Iris down,  
To force th' Invader from the frighted Town.   

With Labour spent, no Longer can he wield  
The heavy Falchion, or sustain the Shield:  
Overwhelmed with Darts, which from afar they fling,  
The Weapons round his hollow Temples ring:  
His golden Helm gives way: with stony blows  
Battered, and flat, and beaten to his Brows.  
His Crest is rashed away; his ample Shield  
Is falsified, and round with javelins filled.   

The Foe now faint, the Trojans overwhelm:  
And Mnestheus lays hard load upon his Helm.  
Sick sweat succeeds, he drops at every poor,  
With driving Dust his Cheeks are pasted o'er.  
Shorter and shorter every Gasp he takes,  
And vain Efforts, and hurtless Blows he makes.  
Armed as he was, at length, he leaped from high;  
Plunged in the Flood, and made the Waters fly.  
The yellow God, the welcome Burden bore,  
And wiped the Sweat, and washed away the Gore:  
Then gently wafts him to the farther Coast;  
And sends him safe to cheer his anxious Host.    

The Tenth Book of the Aeneis.  
Jupiter calling a Council of the Gods, forbids them to engage in either Party. At Aeneas 's return there is a bloody Battle: Turnus killing Pallas; Aeneas, Lausus and Mezentius. Mezentius is described as an Atheist; Lausus as a pious and virtuous Youth: The different Actions and Death of these two, are the Subject of a Noble Episode.  

THE Gates of Heaven unfold; Jove summons all  
The Gods to Council, in the Common Hall.  
Sublimely seated, he surveys from far  
The Fields, the Camp, the Fortune of the War;  
And all th' inferior World: From first to last  
The sovereign Senate in Degrees are placed.   

Then thus th' Almighty Sire began. Ye Gods,  
Natives, or Denizens, of blessed Abodes;  
From whence these Murmurs, and this change of Mind,  
This backward Fate from what was first designed?  
Why this protracted War? When my Commands  
Pronounced a Peace, and gave the Latian Lands.  
What Fear or Hope on either part divides  
Our heavens, and arms our Powers on different sides?  
A lawful Time of War at length will come,  
(Nor need your haste anticipate the Doom,)  
When Carthage shall contest the World with Rome:  
Shall force the rigid Rocks, and Alpine Chains;  
And like a Flood come pouring on the Plains.  
Then is your time for Faction and Debate,  
For partial Favour, and permitted Hate.  
Let now your immature Dissension cease;  
Sat quiet, and compose your Souls to Peace.   

To the Right Honble: john Ld. Viscount Fitzharding of Beare-haven and Bawn Berkley of Rathdowne in the Kingdom of Ireland & Master of the Horse to Her Royal Highness the Princess Anne of Denmark  
A 10. l. 1.   

Thus Jupiter in few unfolds the Charge:  
But lovely Venus thus replies at large.  
O Power immense, Eternal Energy!  
(For to what else Protection can we fly,)  
Seest thou the proud Rutulians, how they dare  
In Fields, unpunished, and insult my Care?  
How lofty Turnus vaunts amidst his Train,  
In shining Arms, triumphant on the Plain?  
Even in their Lines and Trenches they contend;  
And scarce their Walls the Trojan Troops defend:  
The Town is filled with Slaughter, and o'refloats,  
With a red Deluge, their increasing Moats.  
Aeneas ignorant, and far from thence,  
Has left a Camp exposed, without Defence.  
This endless outrage shall they still sustain?  
Shall Troy renewed be forced, and fired again?  
A second Siege my banished Issue fears,  
And a new Diomedes in Arms appears.  
One more audacious Mortal will be found;  
And I thy Daughter wait another Wound.  
Yet, if with Fates averse, without thy Leave,  
The Latian Lands my Progeny receive;  
Bear they the Pains of violated Law,  
And thy Protection from their Aid withdraw.  
But if the Gods their sure Success foretell,  
If those of Heaven consent with those of Hell,  
To promise Italy; who dare debate  
The Power of Jove, or fix another Fate?  
What should I tell of Tempests on the Main,  
Of Aeolus usurping Neptune's Reign?  
Of Iris sent; with Bachanalian Heat,  
T' inspire the Matrons, and destroy the Fleet.  
Now Juno to the Stygian Sky descends,  
Solicits Hell for Aid, and arms the Fiends.  
That new Example wanted yet above:  
An Act that well became the Wife of Jove.  
Allecto, raised by her, with Rage inflames  
The peaceful Bosoms of the Latian Dames.  
Imperial Sway no more exalts my Mind:  
(Such hopes I had indeed, while Heaven was kind)  
Now let my happier Foes possess my place,  
Whom Jove prefers before the Trojan Race;  
And conquer they, whom you with Conquest grace.  
Since you can spare, from all your wide Command,  
No spot of Earth, no hospitable Land,  
Which may my wandering Fugitives receive;  
(Since haughty Juno will not give you leave)  
Then, Father, (if I still may use that Name)  
By ruin'd Troy, yet smoking from the Flame,  
I beg you let Ascanius, by my Care,  
Be freed from Danger, and dismissed the War:  
Inglorious let him live, without a Crown;  
The Father may be cast on Coasts unknown,  
Struggling with Fate; but let me save the Son.  
Mine is Cythera, mine the Cyprian towers;  
In those Recesses, and those sacred Bowers,  
Obscurely let him rest; his Right resign  
To promised Empire, and his Julian Line.  
Then Carthage may th' Ausonian Towns destroy,  
Nor fear the Race of a rejected Boy.  
What profits it my Son, to scape the Fire,  
Armed with his Gods, and loaded with his Sire;  
To pass the Perils of the Seas and Wind,  
Evade the Greeks, and leave the War behind;  
To reach th' Italian Shores: If after all,  
Our second Pergamus is doomed to fall?  
Much better had he curbed his high Desires,  
And hovered o'er his ill extinguished Fires.  
To Simois Banks the Fugitives restore,  
And give them back to War, and all the Woes before.   

Deep indignation swelled Saturnia's Heart:  
And must I own, she said, my secret Smart?  
What with more decence were in silence kept,  
And but for this unjust Reproach had slept?  
Did God, or Man, your Favourite Son advise,  
With War unhoped the Latians to surprise?  
By Fate you boast, and by the God's Decree,  
He left his Native Land for Italy:  
Confess the Truth; by mad Cassandra, more  
Than Heaven, inspired, he sought a foreign Shore!  
Did I persuade to trust his second Troy,  
To the raw Conduct of a beardless Boy?  
With Walls unfinished, which himself forsakes,  
And through the Waves a wandering Voyage makes?  
When have I urged him meanly to demand  
The Tuscan Aid, and arm a quiet Land?  
Did I or Iris give this mad Advice,  
Or made the Fool himself the fatal Choice?  
You think it hard, the Latians should destroy  
With Swords your Trojans, and with Fires your Troy:  
Hard and unjust indeed, for Men to draw  
Their Native Air, nor take a foreign Law:  
That Turnus is permitted still to live,  
To whom his Birth a God and Goddess give:  
But yet 'tis just and lawful for your Line,  
To drive their Fields, and Force with Fraud to join.  
Realms, not your own, among your Clans divide,  
And from the Bridegroom tear the promised Bride:  
Petition, while you public Arms prepare;  
Pretend a Peace, and yet provoke a War.  
'Twas given to you, your darling Son to shroud,  
To draw the Dastard from the fight Crowd;  
And for a Man obtend an empty Cloud.  
From flaming Fleets you turned the Fire away,  
And changed the Ships to Daughters of the Sea.  
But 'tis my Crime, the Queen of Heaven offends,  
If she presume to save her suffering Friends.  
Your Son, not knowing what his Foes decree,  
You say is absent: Absent let him be.  
Yours is Cythera, yours the Cyprian towers,  
The soft Recesses, and the Sacred Bowers.  
Why do you then these needless Arms prepare,  
And thus provoke a People prone to War?  
Did I with Fire the Trojan Town deface,  
Or hinder from return your exiled Race?  
Was I the Cause of Mischief, or the Man,  
Whose lawless Lust the bloody War began?  
Think on whose Faith th' Adulterous Youth relied;  
Who promised, who procured the Spartan Bride?  
When all th' united States of Greece combined,  
To purge the World of the perfidious Kind;  
Then was your time to fear the Trojan Fate:  
Your Quarrels and Complaints are now too late.   

Thus Juno. Murmurs rise, with mixed Applause;  
Just as they favour, or dislike the Cause:  
So Winds, when yet unfledged in Woods they lie,  
In whispers first their tender Voices try:  
Then issue on the Main with bellowing rage,  
And Storms to trembling Mariners presage.   

Then thus to both replied th' Imperial God,  
Who shakes heavens Axels with his awful Nod.  
(When he begins, the silent Senate stand  
With reverence, listening to the dread Command:  
The Clouds dispel; the Winds their Breath restrain;  
And the hushed Waves lie flatted on the Main.)   

Coelestials! Your attentive Ears incline;  
Since, said the God, the Trojans must not join  
In wished Alliance with the Latian Line;  
Since endless jarrings, and immortal Hate,  
Tend but to discompose our happy State;  
The War henceforward be resigned to Fate.  
Each to his proper Fortune stand or fall,  
Equal and unconcerned I look on all.  
Rutulians, Trojans, are the same to me;  
And both shall draw the Lots their Fates decree.  
Let these assault; if Fortune be their Friend;  
And if she favours those, let those defend:  
The Fates will find their way. The thunderer said;  
And shook the sacred Honours of his Head;  
Attesting Styx, th' Inviolable Flood,  
And the black Regions of his Brother God  
Trembled the Poles of Heaven; and Earth confessed the Nod.  
This end the Sessions had: The Senate rise,  
And to his Palace wait their sovereign through the Skies.   

Mean time, intent upon their Siege, the Foes  
Within their Walls the Trojan Host enclose:  
They wound, they kill, they watch at every Gate:  
Renew the Fires, and urge their happy Fate.   

Th' Aeneans wish in vain their wanted Chief,  
Hopeless of flight, more hopeless of Relief:  
Thin on the towers they stand; and even thofe few,  
A feeble, fainting, and dejected Crew:  
Yet in the face of Danger some there stood:  
The two bold Brothers of Sarpedon's Blood,  
Asius, and Acmon: both th' Assaraci;  
Young Haemon, and tho' young, resolved to die.  
With these were Clarus and Thymaetes joined;  
Tiber and Castor, both of Lycian Kind.  
From Acmon's Hands a rolling Stone there came,  
So large, if half deserved a Mountain's Name:  
Strong sinewed was the Youth, and big of Bone,  
His Brother Mnestheus could not more have done:  
Or the great Father of th' intrepid Son.  
Some Firebrands throw, some flights of Arrows send;  
And some with Darts, and some with Stones defend.   

Amid the Press appears the beauteous Boy,  
The Care of Venus, and the Hope of Troy.  
His lovely Face unarmed, his Head was bare,  
In ringlets o'er his Shoulders hung his Hair.  
His Forehead circled with a Diadem;  
Distinguished from the Crowd, he shines a Gem,  
Enchased in Gold, or Polished Ivory set,  
Amidst the meaner foil of sable Jet.   

Nor Ismarus was wanting to the War,  
Directing Ointed Arrows from afar;  
And Death with Poison armed: In Lydia born,  
Where plenteous Harvests the fat Fields adorn:  
Where proud Pactolus floats the fruitful Lands,  
And leaves a rich manure of Golden Sands.  
There Capys, Author of the Capuan Name:  
And there was Mnestheus too increased in Fame:  
Since Turnus from the Camp He cast with shame.   

Thus Mortal War was waged on either side,  
Mean time the Hero cuts the Nightly Tide.  
For, anxious, from Evander when he went,  
He sought the Tyrrhene Camp, and Tarchon's Tent;  
Exposed the Cause of coming to the Chief;  
His Name, and Country told, and asked Relief:  
Proposed the Terms; his own small strength declared,  
What Vengeance proud Mezentius had prepared:  
What Turnus, bold and violent, designed;  
Then showed the slippery state of Humane-kind,  
And fickle Fortune; warned him to beware:  
And to his wholesome Counsel added Prayer.  
Tarchon, without delay, the Treaty signs;  
And to the Trojan Troops the Tuscan joins.   

They soon set sail; nor now the Fates withstand;  
Their Forces trusted with a Foreign Hand.  
Aeneas leads; upon his Stern appear,  
Two Lions carved, which rising Ida bear:  
Ida, to wandering Trojans ever dear.  
Under their grateful Shade Aeneas sat,  
Revolving Wars Events, and various Fate.  
His left young Pallas kept, fixed to his side,  
And oft of Winds enquired, and of the Tide:  
Oft of the Stars, and of their wat'ry Way;  
And what he suffered both by Land and Sea.   

Now sacred Sisters open all your Spring,  
The Tuscan Leaders, and their Army sing;  
Which followed great Aeneas to the War:  
Their Arms, their Numbers, and their Names declare.   

A thousand Youths brave Massicus obey,  
Born in the Tiger, through the foaming Sea;  
From Asium brought, and Cosa, by his Care;  
For Arms, light Quivers, Bows, and Shafts they bear.  
Fierce Abas next, his Men bright Armour wore;  
His Stern, Apollo's Golden Statue bore.  
Six hundred Populonea sent along,  
All skilled in Martial Exercise, and strong.  
Three hundred more for Battle Ilva joins,  
An Isle renowned for Steel, and unexhausted Mines.  
Asylas on his Prow the third appears,  
Who Heaven interprets, and the wandering Stars:  
From offered Entrails Prodigies expounds,  
And Peals of Thunder, with presaging Sounds.  
A thousand Spears in warlike Order stand,  
Sent by the Pisans under his Command.   

Fair Astur follows in the wat'ry Field,  
Proud of his managed Horse, and painted Shield.  
Gravisca, noisome from the neighbouring Fen,  
And his own Coere sent three hundred Men:  
With those which Minio's Fields, and Pyrgi gave;  
All bred in Arms, unanimous and brave.   

Thou Muse the Name of Cyniras' renew,  
And brave Cupavo followed but by few:  
Whose Helm confessed the Lineage of the Man,  
And bore, with Wings displayed, a silver Swan.  
Love was the fault of his famed Ancestry,  
Whose Forms, and Fortunes in his Ensigns fly.  
For Cycnus loved unhappy Phaeton,  
And sung his Loss in Poplar Groves, alone;  
Beneath the Sister shades to soothe his Grief;  
Heaven heard his Song, and hastened his Relief:  
And changed to snowy Plumes his hoary Hair,  
And winged his Flight, to chant aloft in Air.  
His Son Cupavo brushed the briny Flood;  
Upon his Stern a brawny Centaur stood,  
Who heaved a Rock, and threatening still to throw,  
With lifted Hands, alarmed the Seas below:  
They seemed to fear the formidable Sight,  
And rolled their Billows on, to speed his Flight.   

Ocnus was next, who led his Native Train,  
Of hardy Warriors, through the wat'ry Plain.  
The Son of Manto, by the Tuscan Stream,  
From whence the Mantuan Town derives the Name.  
An ancient City, but of mixed Descent,  
Three several Tribes compose the Government:  
Four Towns are under each; but all obey  
The Mantuan Laws, and own the Tuscan Sway.   

Hate to Mezentius, armed five hundred more,  
Whom Mincius from his Sire Benacus bore;  
(Mincius with Wreaths of Reeds his forehead covered o'er.)  
These grave Auletes leads. A hundred sweep,  
With stretching Oars at once the glassy deep:  
Him, and his Martial Train, the Triton bears,  
High on his Poop the Sea-green God appears:  
Frowning he seems his crooked Shell to sound,  
And at the Blast the Billows dance around.  
A hairy Man above the Waste he shows,  
A Porpoise Tail beneath his Belly grows;  
And ends a Fish: His Breast the Waves divides,  
And Froth and Foam augment the murmuring Tides.   

Full thirty Ships transport the chosen Train,  
For Troy's Relief, and scour the briny Main.   

Now was the World sorsaken by the Sun,  
And Phoebe half her nightly Race had run.  
The careful Chief, who never closed his Eyes,  
Himself the Rudder holds, the Sails supplies.  
A Choir of Nereids meet him on the Flood,  
Once his own Galleys, hewn from Ida's Wood:  
But now as many Nymphs the Sea they sweep,  
As road before tall Vessels on the Deep.  
They know him from afar; and, in a Ring,  
Inclose the Ship that bore the Trojan King.  
Cymodoce, whose Voice excelled the rest,  
Above the Waves advanced her snowy Breast,  
Her right Hand stops the Stern, her left divides  
The curling Ocean, and corrects the Tides:  
She spoke for all the Choir; and thus began,  
With pleasing Words to warn th' unknowing Man.  
Sleeps our loved Lord? O Goddess-born! awake,  
Spread every Sail, pursue your wat'ry Track;  
And haste your Course. Your Navy once were we,  
From Ida's Height descending to the Sea:  
Till Turnus, as at Anchor fixed we stood,  
Presumed to violate our holy Wood  
Then loosed from Shore we fled his Fires profane;  
(Unwillingly we broke our Master's Chain)  
And since have sought you through the Tuscan Main.  
The mighty Mother changed our Forms to these,  
And gave us Life Immortal in the Seas.  
But young Ascanius, in his Camp distressed,  
By your insulting Foes is hardly pressed.  
Th' Arcadian Horsemen, and Etrurian Host  
Advance in order on the Latian Coast:  
To cut their way the Daunian Chief designs,  
Before their Troops can reach the Trojan Lines.  
Thou, when the rosy Morn restores the Light,  
First arm thy Soldiers for th' ensuing Fight:  
Thyself the fated Sword of Vulcan wield,  
And bear aloft th' impenetrable Shield.  
To Morrow's Sun, unless my Skill be vain,  
Shall see huge heaps of Foes in Battle slain.  
Parting, she spoke; and with Immortal Force,  
Pushed on the Vessel in her wat'ry Course:  
(For well she knew the Way) impelled behind,  
The Ship flew forward, and outstriped the Wind.  
The rest make up: Unknowing of the cause  
The Chief admires their Speed, and happy Omens draws.   

Then thus he prayed, and fixed on Heaven his Eyes;  
Hear thou, great Mother of the Deities!  
With Turrets crowned, (on Ida's holy Hill,  
Fierce Tigers, reined and curbed, obey thy Will.)  
Firm thy own Omens, lead us on to fight,  
And let thy Phrygians conquer in thy right.   

He said no more. And now renewing Day  
Had chased the Shadows of the Night away.  
He charged the Soldiers with preventing Care,  
Their Flags to follow, and their Arms prepare;  
Warned of th' ensuing Fight, and bad'em hope the War.   

Now, from his lofty Poop, he viewed below  
His Camp encompassed, and th' enclosing Foe.  
His blazing Shield embraced, he held on high;  
The Camp receive the sign, and with loud Shouts reply.  
Hope arms their Anger: From their towers they throw  
Their Darts with double Force, and drive the Foe.  
Thus, at the signal given, the Cranes arise  
Before the stormy South, and blacken all the Skies.   

King Turnus wondered at the Fight renewed;  
Till, looking back, the Trojan Fleet he viewed:  
The Seas with swelling Canvas covered o'er;  
And the swift Ships descending on the Shore.  
The Latians saw from far, with dazzled Eyes,  
The radiant Crest that seemed in Flames to rise,  
And dart diffusive Fires around the Field;  
And the keen glitt'ring of the Golden Shield.   

Thus threatening Comets, when by Night they rise,  
Shoot sanguine Streams, and sadden all the Skies:  
So Sirius, flashing forth sinister Lights,  
Pale humane kind with Plagues, and with dry Famine frights.  
Yet Turnus, with undaunted Mind is bend  
To man the Shores, and hinder their Descent:  
And thus awakes the Courage of his Friends.  
What you so long have wished, kind Fortune sends:  
In equal Arms to meet th' invading Foe:  
You find, and find him at Advantage now.  
Yours is the Day, you need but only dare:  
Your Swords will make you Masters of the War.  
Your Sires, your Sons, your Houses, and your Lands,  
And dearest Wives, are all within your Hands.  
Be mindful of the Race from whence you came;  
And emulate in Arms your Father's Fame.  
Now take the Time, while staggering yet they stand  
With Feet unfirm; and prepossess the Strand:  
Fortune befriends the bold. Nor more he said,  
But balanced whom to leave, and whom to lead:  
Then these elects, the Landing to prevent;  
And those he leaves to keep the City penned.   

Mean time the Trojan sends his Troops ashore:  
Some are by Boats exposed, by Bridges more.  
With labouring Oars they bear along the Strand,  
Where the Tide languishes, and leap aland.  
Tarchon observes the Coast with careful Eyes,  
And where no Ford he finds, no Water fries,  
Nor Billows with unequal Murmurs roar;  
But smoothly slide along, and swell the Shoar;  
That Course he steered, and thus he gave command,  
Here ply your Oars, and at all hazard land:  
Force on the Vessel that her Keel may wound  
This hated Soil, and furrow hostile Ground.  
Let me securely land, I ask no more,  
Then sink my Ships, or shatter on the Shore.   

This fiery Speech inflames his fearful Friends,  
They tug at every Oar; and every Stretcher bends:  
They run their Ships aground, the Vessels knock,  
(Thus forced ashore) and tremble with the shock.  
Tarchon's alone was lost, that stranded stood,  
Stuck on a Bank, and beaten by the Flood.  
She breaks her Back, the loosened Sides give way,  
And plunge the Tuscan Soldiers in the Sea.  
Their broken Oars, and floating Planks withstand  
Their Passage, while they labour to the Land;  
And ebbing Tides bear back upon th' uncertain Sand.   

Now Turnus leads his Troops, without delay,  
Advancing to the Margin of the Sea.  
The Trumpets sound: Aeneas first assailed  
The Clowns new raised and raw; and soon prevailed.   

To the Right Honble: S r: Robert Howard Auditor of his Majesty's ties. Exchequer, and one of the Lords of his Maj ties. most Honble: Prioy Council  
A 10. l. 450.   

Great Theron fell, an Omen of the Fight:  
Great Theron large of Limbs, of Giant height.  
He first in open Field defied the Prince,  
But Armour scaled with Gold was no Defence  
Against the fated Sword, which opened wide  
His plated Shield, and pierced his naked side.   

Next, Lycus fell; who, not like others born,  
Was from his wretched Mother ripped and torn:  
Sacred, O Phoebus! from his Birth to thee,  
For his beginning Life from biting Steel was free.  
Not far from him was Gyas laid along,  
Of monstrous Bulk; with Cisseus fierce and strong:  
Vain Bulk and Strength; for when the Chief assailed,  
Nor Valour, nor Herculean Arms availed;  
Nor their famed Father, wont in War to go  
With great Alcides, while he toiled below.  
The noisy Pharos next received his Death,  
Aeneas writhed his Dart, and stopped his bawling Breath.  
Then wretched Cydon had received his Doom,  
Who courted Clytius in his beardless Bloom,  
And sought with lust obscene polluted Joys:  
The Trojan Sword had cured his love of Boys,  
Had not his seven bold Brethren stopped the Course  
Of the fierce Champion, with united Force.  
seven Darts were thrown at once, and some rebound  
From his bright Shield, some on his Helmet sound:  
The rest had reached him, but his Mother's Care  
Prevented those, and turned aside in Air.   

The Prince then called Achates, to supply  
The Spears, that knew the way to Victory.  
Those fatal Weapons, which inur'd to Blood,  
In Grecian Bodies under Ilium stood:  
Not one of those my Hand shall toss in vain  
Against our Foes, on this contended Plain.  
He said: Then seized a mighty Spear, and threw;  
Which, winged with Fate, through Maeon's Buckler flew:  
Pierced all the brazen Plates, and reached his Heart:  
He staggered with intolerable Smart.  
Alcanor saw; and reached, but reached in vain,  
His helping Hand, his Brother to sustain.  
A second Spear, which kept the former Course,  
From the same Hand, and sent with equal Force,  
His right Arm pierced, and holding on, bereft  
His use of both, and pinioned down his left.  
Then Numitor, from his dead Brother drew  
Th' ill-omend Spear, and at the Trojan threw:  
Preventing Fate directs the Lance awry,  
Which glancing, only marked Achates Thigh.   

In Pride of Youth the Sabine Clausus came,  
And from afar, at Driops took his Aim.  
The Spear flew hissing through the middle Space,  
And pierced his Throat, directed at his Face:  
It stopped at once the Passage of his Wind,  
And the free Soul to flitting Air resigned:  
His Forehead was the first that struck the Ground;  
Life-blood, and Life rushed mingled through the Wound.  
He slew three Brothers of the Borean Race,  
And three, whom Ismarus, their Native Place,  
Had sent to War, but all the Sons of Thrace.  
Halesus next, the bold Aurunci leads;  
The Son of Neptune to his Aid succeeds,  
Conspicuous on his Horse: On either Hand  
These fight to keep, and those to win the Land.  
With mutual Blood th' Ausonian Soil is died,  
While on its Borders each their Claim decide.   

As wint'ry Winds contending in the Sky,  
With equal force of Lungs their Titles try.  
They rage, they roar; the doubtful rack of Heaven  
Stands without Motion, and the Tide undriv'n:  
Each bent to conquer, neither side to yield;  
They long suspend the Fortune of the Field.  
Both Armies thus perform what Courage can:  
Foot set to Foot, and crowded Man to Man.   

But in another part, th' Arcadian Horse,  
With ill Success engage the Latin Force.  
For where th' impetuous Torrent rushing down,  
Huge craggy Stones, and rooted Trees had thrown:  
They left their Coursers, and unused to Fight  
On Foot, were scattered in a shameful flight.  
Pallas, who with Disdain and Grief, had viewed  
His Foes pursuing, and his Friends pursued;  
Used threatenings mixed with Prayers, his last Ressource;  
With these to move their Minds, with those to fire their Force.  
Which way, Companions! Whether would you run?  
By you yourselves, and mighty Battles won;  
By my great Sire, by his established Name,  
And early promise of my Future Fame;  
By my Youth emulous of equal Right,  
To share his Honours, eat ignoble Flight.  
Trust not your Feet, your Hands must hew your way  
Through yond black Body, and that thick Array:  
'Tis through that forward Path that we must come:  
There lies our Way, and that our Passage home.  
Nor Powers above, nor Destinies below,  
Oppress our Arms; with equal Strength we go;  
With Mortal Hands to meet a Mortal Foe.  
See on what Foot we stand: A scanty Shore;  
The Sea behind, our Enemies before:  
No Passage left, unless we swim the Main;  
Or forcing these, the Trojan Trenches gain.  
This said, he strode with eager haste along,  
And bore amidst the thickest of the Throng.  
Lagus, the first he met, with Fate to Foe,  
Had heaved a Stone of mighty Weight to throw:  
Stooping, the Spear descended on his Chine,  
Just where the Bone distinguished either Loin:  
It stuck so fast, so deeply buried lay,  
That scarce the Victor forced the Steel away.   

Hisbon came on, but while he moved too slow  
To wished Revenge, the Prince prevents his Blow:  
For warding his at once, at once he pressed;  
And plunged the fatal Weapon in his Breast.  
Then lewd Anchemolus he laid in Dust,  
Who stained his Stepdam's Bed with impious Lust.  
And after him the Daucian Twins were slain,  
Laris and Thimbrus, on the Latian Plain:  
So wondrous like in Feature, Shape, and Size,  
As caused an Error in their Parents Eyes.  
Grateful Mistake! but soon the Sword decides  
The nice Distinction, and their Fate divides.  
For Thimbrus Head was lop'd: and Laris Hand  
Dismembered, sought its Owner on the Strand:  
The trembling Fingers yet the Falchion strain,  
And threaten still th' intended Stroke in vain.   

Now, to renew the Charge, th' Arcadians came:  
Sight of such Acts, and sense of honest Shame,  
And Grief, with Anger mixed, their Minds inflame.  
Then, with a casual Blow was Rhaeteus' slain,  
Who chanced, as Pallas threw, to cross the Plain:  
The flying Spear was after Ilus sent,  
But Rhaeteus' happened on a Death unmeant:  
From Teuthras, and from Tires while he fled,  
The Lance, athwart his Body, laid him dead:  
Rolled from his Chariot with a Mortal Wound,  
And intercepted Fate, he spurned the Ground.   

As, when in Summer, welcome Winds arise,  
The watchful Shepherd to the Forest flies,  
And fires the midmost Plants; Contagion spreads,  
And catching Flames infect the neighbouring Heads;  
Around the Forest flies the furious Blast,  
And all the leafy Nation sinks at last;  
And Vulcan rides in Triumph o'er the Waste;  
The Pastor pleased with his dire Victory,  
Beholds the satiate Flames in Sheets ascend the Sky:  
So Pallas' Troops their scattered Strength unite;  
And pouring on their Foes, their Prince delight.   

Halesus came, fierce with desire of Blood,  
(But first collected in his Arms he stood)  
Advancing then, he plied the Spear so well,  
Ladon, Demodocus, and Pheres fell:  
Around his Head he tossed his glittering Brand,  
And from Strimonius hewed his better Hand,  
Held up to guard his Throat: Then hurled a Stone  
At Thoas ample Front, and pierced the Bone:  
It struck beneath the space of either Eye,  
And Blood, and mingled Brains, together fly.  
Deep skilled in future Fates, Halesus Sire,  
Did with the Youth to lonely Groves retire:  
But when the Father's Mortal Race was run,  
Dire Destiny laid hold upon the Son,  
And hauled him to the War: to find beneath  
Th' Evandrian Spear, a memorable Death.   

Pallas th' Encounter seeks, but e'er he throws,  
To Tuscan Tiber thus addressed his Vows:  
O sacred Stream direct my flying Dart;  
And give to pass the proud Halesus Heart:  
His Arms and Spoils thy holy Oak shall bear:  
Pleased with the Bribe, the God received his Prayer.  
For while his Shield protects a Friend distressed,  
The Dart came driving on, and pierced his Breast.   

But Lausus, no small portion of the War,  
Permits not Panic Fear to reign too far,  
Caused by the Death of so renowned a Knight;  
But by his own Example cheers the Fight.  
Fierce Abas first he slew, Abas, the stay  
Of Trojan Hopes, and hindrance of the Day.  
The Phrygian Troops escaped the Greeks in vain,  
They, and their mixed Allies, now load the Plain.   

To the rude shock of War both Armies came,  
Their Leaders equal, and their Strength the same.  
The Rear so pressed the Front, they could not wield  
Their angry Weapons, to dispute the Field.  
Here Pallas urges on, and Lausus there,  
Of equal Youth and Beauty both appear,  
But both by Fate forbid to breathe their Native Air.  
Their Congress in the Field great Jove withstands,  
Both doomed to fall, but fall by greater Hands.   

Mean time Juturna warns the Daunian Chief  
Of Lausus Danger, urging swift Relief.  
With his driven Chariot he divides the Crowd,  
And making to his Friends, thus calls aloud:  
Let none presume his needless Aid to join;  
Retire, and clear the Field, the Fight is mine:  
To this right Hand is Pallas only due:  
Oh were his Father here my just Revenge to view!  
From the forbidden Space his Men retired;  
Pallas, their Awe, and his stern Words admired:  
Surveyed him o'er and o'er with wondering sight,  
Struck with his haughty Mien, and towering Height.  
Then to the King; your empty Vaunts forbear:  
Success I hope, and Fate I cannot fear.  
Alive or dead, I shall deserve a Name:  
Jove is impartial, and to both the same.  
He said, and to the void advanced his Pace;  
Pale Horror sat on each Arcadian Face.  
Then Turnus, from his Chariot leaping light,  
Addressed himself on Foot to single Fight.  
And, as a Lion, when he spies from far  
A Bull, that seems to meditate the War;  
Bending his Neck, and spurning back the Sand,  
Runs roaring downward from his hilly Stand:  
Imagine eager Turnus not more slow,  
To rush from high on his unequal Foe.   

Young Pallas, when he saw the Chief advance  
Within due distance of his flying Lance;  
Prepares to charge him first: Resolved to try  
If Fortune would his want of Force supply.  
And thus to Heaven and Hercules addressed.  
Alcides, once on Earth Evander's Guest,  
His Son adjures you by those Holy Rites,  
That hospitable Board, those Genial Nights;  
Assist my great Attempt to gain this Prize,  
And let proud Turnus' view, with dying Eyes,  
His ravished Spoils. 'Twas heard, the vain Request;  
Alcides mourned: And stifled Sighs within his Breast.  
Then Jove, to soothe his Sorrow, thus began:  
Short bounds of Life are set to Mortal Man,  
'Tis Virtue's work alone to stretch the narrow Span.  
So many Sons of Gods in bloody Fight,  
Around the Walls of Troy, have lost the Light:  
My own Sarpedon fell beneath his Foe,  
Nor I, his mighty Sire, could ward the Blow.  
Even Turnus shortly shall resign his Breath;  
And stands already on the Verge of Death.  
This said, the God permits the fatal Fight,  
But from the Latian Fields averts his sight.   

Now with full Force his Spear young Pallas threw;  
And having thrown, his shining Falchion drew:  
The Steel just grazed along the Shoulder Joint,  
And marked it slightly with the glancing Point.  
Fierce Turnus first to nearer distance drew,  
And poised his pointed Spear before he threw:  
Then, as the winged Weapon whized along;  
See now, said he, whose Arm is better strung.  
The Spear kept on the fatal Course, unstay'd  
By Plates of Ir'n, which o'er the Shield were laid:  
Through folded Brass, and tough Bull-hides it passed,  
His Corslet pierced, and reached his Heart at last.  
In vain the Youth tugs at the broken Wood,  
The Soul comes issuing with the vital Blood:  
He falls; his Arms upon his Body sound;  
And with his bloody Teeth he bites the Ground.   

Turnus bestrode the Corpse: Arcadians hear,  
Said he; my Message to your Master bear:  
Such as the Sire deserved, the Son I send:  
It costs him dear to be the Phrygians Friend.  
The lifeless Body, tell him, I bestow  
Unasked, to please his wandering Ghost below.  
He said, and trampled down with all the Force  
Of his left Foot, and spurned the wretched Corpse:  
Then snatched the shining Belt, with Gold inlaid;  
The Belt Eurytion's artful Hands had made:  
Where fifty fatal Brides, expressed to sight,  
All, in the compass of one mournful Night,  
Deprived their Bridegrooms of returning Light.   

To Sr: r: john Leveson Gower of Trentham in, Staffordshire Baronet  
A 10. l. 690.   

In an ill Hour insulting Turnus tore  
Those Golden Spoils, and in a worse he wore.  
O Mortals! blind in Fate, who never know  
To bear high Fortune, or endure the low!  
The Time shall come, when Turnus, but in vain,  
Shall wish untouched the Trophies of the slain:  
Shall wish the fatal Belt were far away;  
And curse the dire Remembrance of the Day.   

The sad Arcadians from th' unhappy Field,  
Bear back the breathless Body on a Shield.  
O Grace and Grief of War! at once restored  
With Praises to thy Sire, at once deplored.  
One Day first sent thee to the fight Field,  
Beheld whole heaps of Foes in Battle killed;  
One Day beheld thee dead, and born upon thy Shield.  
This dismal News, not from uncertain Fame,  
But sad Spectators, to the Hero came:  
His Friends upon the brink of Ruin stand,  
Unless relieved by his victorious Hand.  
He whirls his Sword around, without delay,  
And hews through adverse Foes an ample Way;  
To find fierce Turnus, of his Conquest proud:  
Evander, Pallas, all that Friendship owed  
To large Deserts, are present to his Eyes;  
His plighted Hand, and hospitable Ties.   

Four Sons of Sulmo, four whom Ufens bred,  
He took in fight, and living Victims led,  
To please the Ghost of Pallas; and expire  
In Sacrifice, before his Funeral Fire.  
At Magus next he threw: He stooped below  
The flying Spear, and shunned the promised Blow.  
Then creeping, clasped the Hero's Knees, and prayed▪  
By young julus, by thy Father's Shade,  
O spare my Life, and send me back to see  
My longing Sire, and tender Progeny.  
A lofty House I have, and Wealth untold,  
In Silver Ingots, and in Bars of Gold:  
All these, and Sums besides, which see no Day,  
The Ransom of this one poor Life shall pay.  
If I survive, shall Troy the less prevail?  
A single Soul's too light to turn the Scale.  
He said. The Hero sternly thus replied:  
Thy Barrs, and Ingots, and the Sums beside,  
Leave for thy children's Lot. Thy Turnus broke  
All Rules of War, by one relentless Stroke  
When Pallas fell: So deems, nor deems alone,  
My Father's Shadow, but my living Son.  
Thus having said, of kind Remorse bereft,  
He seized his Helm, and dragged him with his left:  
Then with his right Hand, while his Neck he wreathed,  
Up to the hilts his shining Falchion sheathed.   

Apollo's Priest, Emonides, was near,  
His holy Fillets on his Front appear;  
glittering in Arms he shone amidst the Crowd;  
Much of his God, more of his Purple proud:  
Him the fierce Trojan followed through the Field;  
The holy Coward fell: And forced to yield,  
The Prince stood o'er the Priest; and at one Blow,  
Sent him an Offering to the Shades below.  
His Arms Seresthus on his Shoulders bears,  
Designed a Trophy to the God of Wars.   

Vulcanian Caeculus renews the Fight;  
And Umbro born upon the Mountain's Height:  
The Champion cheers his Troops t' encounter those:  
And seeks Revenge himself on other Foes.  
At Anxur's Shield he drove, and at the Blow,  
Both Shield and Arm to Ground together go.  
Anxur had boasted much of magic Charms,  
And thought he wore impenetrable Arms;  
So made by muttered Spells: And from the Spheres,  
Had Life secured, in vain, for length of Years.  
Then Tarquitus the Field in Triumph trod;  
A Nymph his Mother, and his Sire a God.  
Exulting in bright Arms he braves the Prince;  
With his protended Lance He makes defence:  
Bears back his feeble Foe; then pressing on,  
Arrests his better Hand, and drags him down.  
Stands o'er the prostrate Wretch, and as he lay,  
Vain Tales inventing, and prepared to pray:  
Mows off his Head, the Trunk a Moment stood,  
Then sunk, and rolled along the Sand in Blood.   

The vengeful Victor thus upbraids the slain;  
Lie there, proud Man unpityed, on the Plain:  
Lie there, inglorious, and without a Tomb,  
Far from thy Mother, and thy Native Home:  
Exposed to savage Beasts, and Birds of Prey;  
Or thrown for Food to Monsters of the Sea.   

On Lycus and Antaeus next he ran,  
Two Chiefs of Turnus, and who led his Van.  
They fled for Fear; with these he chased along,  
Camers the yellow Locked, and Numa strong,  
Both great in Arms, and both were fair, and young:  
Camers, was Son to Volscens lately slain;  
In Wealth surpassing all the Latian Train,  
And in Amycla fixed his silent, easy Reign.   

And as Aegeon, when with Heaven he strove,  
Stood opposite in Arms to mighty Jove;  
Moved all his hundred Hands, provoked the War,  
Defied the forky Lightning from afar:  
At fifty Mouths his flaming Breath expires,  
And Flash for Flash returns, and Fires for Fires:  
In his right Hand as many Swords he wields,  
And takes the Thunder on as many Shields:  
With Strength like his the Trojan Hero stood,  
And soon the Fields with falling Corpse were strewed,  
When once his Falchion found the Taste of Blood.   

With Fury scarce to be conceived, he flew  
Against Niphaeus, whom four Coursers drew.  
They, when they see the fiery Chief advance,  
And pushing at their Chests his pointed Lance;  
Wheeled with so swift a Motion, mad with Fear,  
They threw their Master headlong from the Chair:  
They stare, they start, nor stop their Course before  
They bear the bounding Chariot to the Shore.   

Now Lucagus, and Liger scour the Plains,  
With two white Steeds, but Liger holds the Reins,  
And Lucagus the lofty Seat maintains.  
Bold Brethren both, the former waved in Air  
His flaming Sword; Aeneas couched his Spear,  
Unused to Threats, and more unused to Fear.  
Then Liger thus. Thy Confidence is vain  
To scape from hence, as from the Trojan Plain:  
Nor these the Steeds which Diomedes bestrode,  
Nor this the Chariot where Achilles road:  
Nor Venus' Veil is here, nor Neptune's Shield:  
Thy fatal Hour is come; and this the Field.  
Thus Liger vainly vaunts: The Trojan Peer  
Returned his answer with his flying Spear.  
As Lucagus to lash his Horses bends,  
Prone to the Wheels, and his left Foot protends:  
Prepared for Fight, the fatal Dart arrives,  
And through the borders of his Buckler drives.  
Passed through; and pierced his Groin, the deadly Wound,  
Cast from his Chariot, rolled him on the Ground.  
Whom thus the Chief upbraids with scornful spite:  
Blame not the slowness of your Steeds in flight;  
Vain Shadows did not force their swift Retreat:  
But you yourself forsake your empty Seat.  
He said, and seized at once the loosened Rein,  
(For Liger lay already on the Plain,  
By the same Shock) then, stretching out his Hands,  
The Recreant thus his wretched Life demands.  
Now by thyself, O more than Mortal Man!  
By her and him from whom thy Breath began,  
Who formed thee thus Divine, I beg thee spare  
This forfeit Life, and hear thy Suppliant's Prayer.  
Thus much he spoke, and more he would have said,  
But the stern Hero turned aside his Head,  
And cut him short. I hear another Man,  
You talked not thus before the Fight began;  
Now take your turn: And, as a Brother should,  
Attend your Brother to the Stygian Flood:  
Then through his Breast his fatal Sword he sent,  
And the Soul issued at the bloody Vent.   

As Storms the Skies, and Torrents tear the Ground,  
Thus raged the Prince, and scattered Deaths around:  
At length Ascanius, and the Trojan Train,  
Broke from the Camp, so long besieged in vain.  
Mean time the King of Gods and Mortal Man,  
Held Conference with his Queen, and thus began:  
My Sister Goddess, and well pleasing Wife,  
Still think you Venus' Aid supports the Strife;  
Sustains her Trojans: Or themselves alone,  
With inborn Valour force their Fortune on?  
How fierce in Fight, with Courage undecayed;  
Judge if such Warriors want immortal Aid.  
To whom the Goddess, with the charming Eyes,  
Soft in her Tone submissively replies.  
Why, O my loving Lord, whose Frown I fear,  
And cannot, unconcerned, your Anger bear;  
Why urge you thus my Grief? When if I still,  
(As once I was) were Mistress of your Will:  
From your Almighty Power, your pleasing Wife  
Might gain the Grace of lengthening Turnus' Life:  
Securely snatch him from the fatal Fight,  
And give him to his aged Father's sight.  
Now let him perish, since you hold it good,  
And glut the Trojans with his pious Blood.  
Yet from our Lineage he derives his Name,  
And in the fourth degree, from God Pilumnus came:  
Yet he devoutly pays you Rites Divine,  
And offers daily Incense at your Shrine.   

Then shortly thus the sovereign God replied;  
Since in my Power and Goodness you confide;  
If for a little Space, a lengthened Span,  
You beg Reprieve for this expiring Man:  
I grant you leave to take your Turnus hence,  
From Instant Fate, and can so far dispense.  
But if some secret Meaning lies beneath,  
To save the short-lived Youth from destined Death:  
Or if a farther Thought you entertain,  
To change the Fates; you feed your hopes in vain.   

To whom the Goddess thus, with weeping Eyes,  
And what if that Request your Tongue denies,  
Your Heart should grant; and not a short Reprieve,  
But length of certain Life to Turnus give.  
Now speedy Death attends the guiltless Youth,  
If my presaging Soul divines with Truth.  
Which, O! I wish might err through causeless Fears,  
And you, (for you have Power) prolong his Years.   

Thus having said, involved in Clouds, she flies,  
And drives a Storm before her through the Skies.  
Swift she descends, alighting on the Plain,  
Where the fierce Foes a dubious Fight maintain.  
Of Air condensed, a Spectre soon she made,  
And what Aeneas was, such seemed the Shade.  
Adorned with Dardan Arms, the Phantom bore  
His Head aloft, a Plumy Crest he wore:  
This Hand appeared a shining Sword to wield,  
And that sustained an imitated Shield:  
With manly Mien He stalked along the Ground;  
Nor wanted Voice belied, nor vaunting Sound.  
(Thus haunting Ghosts appear to waking Sight,  
Or dreadful Visions in our Dreams by Night.)  
The Spectre seems the Daunian Chief to dare,  
And flourishes his empty Sword in Air:  
At this advancing Turnus hurled his Spear;  
The Phantom wheeled, and seemed to fly for Fear.  
Deluded Turnus thought the Trojan fled,  
And with vain hopes his haughty Fancy fed.  
Whether, O Coward, (thus he calls aloud,  
Nor found he spoke to Wind, and chased a Cloud;)  
Why thus forsake your Bride? Receive from me  
The fated Land you sought so long by Sea.  
He said, and brandishing at once his Blade,  
With eager Pace pursued the flying Shade.  
By chance a Ship was fastened to the Shore,  
Which from old Clusium King Osinius bore:  
The Planks were ready laid for safe ascent;  
For shelter there the trembling Shadow bend:  
And skip'd, and skulked, and under Hatches went.  
Exulting Turnus, with regardless haste,  
Ascends the Plank, and to the Galley passed:  
Scarce had he reached the Prow, Saturnia's Hand  
The Haulsers' cuts, and shoots the Ship from Land.  
With Wind in Poop, the Vessel ploughs the Sea,  
And measures back with speed her former Way.  
Mean time Aeneas seeks his absent Foe,  
And sends his slaughtered Troops to Shades below.   

The guileful Phantom now forsook the shroud,  
And flew sublime, and vanished in a Cloud.  
Too late young Turnus the Delusion found,  
Far on the Sea, still making from the Ground.  
Then thankless for a Life redeemed by Shame;  
With sense of Honour stung, and forfeit Fame:  
Fearful besides of what in Fight had passed,  
His Hands, and haggered Eyes to Heaven he cast.  
O Jove! he cried, for what Offence have I  
Deserved to bear this endless Infamy:  
Whence am I forced, and whether am I born,  
How, and with what Reproach shall I return?  
Shall ever I behold the Latian Plain,  
Or see Laurentum's lofty towers again?  
What will they say of their deserting Chief?  
The War was mine, I fly from their Relief:  
I led to Slaughter, and in Slaughter leave;  
And even from hence their dying Groans receive.  
Here overmatched in Fight, in heaps they lie,  
There scattered o'er the Fields ignobly fly.  
Gape wide, O Earth! and draw me down alive,  
Or, oh ye pitying Winds, a Wretch relieve;  
On Sands or Shelves the splitting Vessel drive:  
Or set me Shipwrecked on some desert Shore,  
Where no Rutulian Eyes may see me more:  
Unknown to Friends, or Foes, or conscious Fame,  
Lest she should follow, and my flight proclaim.   

Thus Turnus raved, and various Fates revolved,  
The Choice was doubtful, but the Death resolved.  
And now the Sword, and now the Sea took place:  
That to revenge, and this to purge Disgrace.  
Sometimes he thought to swim the stormy Main,  
By stretch of Arms the distant Shore to gain:  
Thrice he the Sword assayed, and thrice the Flood;  
But Juno moved with Pity both withstood:  
And thrice repressed his Rage: strong Gales supplied,  
And pushed the Vessel o'er the swelling Tide.  
At length she land's him on his Native Shores,  
And to his Father's longing Arms restores.   

Mean time, by Jove's Impulse, Mezentius armed:  
Succeeding Turnus; with his ardour warmed  
His fainting Friends, reproached their shameful flight,  
Repelled the Victors, and renewed the Fight.  
Against their King the Tuscan Troops conspire,  
Such is their Hate, and such their fierce desire  
Of wished Revenge: On him, and him alone,  
All Hands employed, and all their Darts are thrown.  
He, like a solid Rock by Seas enclosed,  
To raging Winds and roaring Waves opposed;  
From his proud Summit looking down, disdains  
Their empty Menace, and unmoved remains.   

Beneath his Feet fell haughty Hebrus dead,  
Then Latagus; and Palmus as he fled:  
At Latagus a weighty Stone he flung,  
His Face was flatted, and his Helmet rung.  
But Palmus from behind receives his Wound,  
Hamstringed he falls, and grovels on the Ground:  
His Crest and Armour from his Body torn,  
Thy Shoulders, Lausus, and thy Head adorn.  
Evas and Mymas, both of Troy, he slew,  
Mymas his Birth from fair Theano drew:  
Born on that fatal Night, when, big with Fire,  
The Queen produced young Paris to his Sire.  
But Paris in the Phrygian Fields was slain,  
Unthinking Mymas on the Latian Plain.   

And as a savage Boar on Mountains bred,  
With forest Mast, and fattening Marshes fed;  
When once he sees himself in Toils enclosed,  
By Huntsmen and their eager Hounds opposed:  
He whets his Tusks, and turns, and dares the War:  
Th' Invaders dart their javelins from afar;  
All keep aloof, and safely shout around,  
But none presumes to give a nearer Wound.  
He frets and froths, erects his bristled Hide,  
And shakes a Grove of Lances from his Side:  
Not otherwise the Troops, with Hate inspired,  
And just Revenge, against the Tyrant fired;  
Their Darts with Clamour at a distance drive:  
And only keep the languished War alive.   

From Coritus came Acron to the Fight,  
Who left his Spouse betrothed, and unconsummate Night.  
Mezentius sees him through the Squadrons ride,  
Proud of the Purple Favours of his Bride.  
Then, as a hungry Lion, who beholds  
A Gamesome Goat, who frisks about the Folds;  
Or beamy stag that grazes on the Plain:  
He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising Mane;  
He grins, and opens wide his greedy Jaws,  
The Prey lies panting underneath his Paws:  
He fills his famished Maw, his Mouth runs o'er  
With unchewed Morsels, while he churns the Gore:  
So proud Mezentius rushes on his Foes,  
And first unhappy Acron overthrows:  
Stretched at his length, he spurns the swarthy Ground,  
The Lance besmeared with Blood, lies broken in the wound.   

Then with Disdain the haughty Victor viewed  
Orodes flying, nor the Wretch pursued:  
Nor thought the Dastard's Back deserved a Wound,  
But running gained th' Advantage of the Ground.  
Then turning short, he met him Face to Face,  
To give his Victory the better grace.  
Orodes falls, in equal Fight oppressed:  
Mezentius fixed his Foot upon his Breast,  
And rested Lance: And thus aloud he cries,  
Lo here the Champion of my Rebels lies.  
The Fields around with Io Paean ring,  
And peals of Shouts applaud the conquering King.  
At this the vanquished, with his dying Breath,  
Thus faintly spoke, and prophesied in Death:  
Nor thou, proud Man, unpunished shalt remain;  
Like Death attends thee on this fatal Plain.  
Then, sourly smiling, thus the King replied,  
For what belongs to me let Jove provide:  
But die thou first, whatever Chance ensue:  
He said, and from the Wound the Weapon drew:  
A hovering Mist came swimming o'er his sight,  
And sealed his Eyes in everlasting Night.   

By Caedicus, Alcathous was slain,  
Sacrator laid Hydaspes on the Plain:  
Orses the strong to greater Strength must yield;  
He, with Parthenius, were by Rapo killed.  
Then brave Messapus Ericetes slew,  
Who from Lycaon's Blood his Lineage drew.  
But from his headstrong Horse his Fate he found,  
Who threw his Master as he made a bound,  
The Chief alighting, stuck him to the Ground.  
Then Clonius hand to hand, on Foot assails,  
The Trojan sinks, and Neptune's Son prevails.   

Agis the Lycian stepping forth with Pride,  
To single Fight the boldest Foe defied.  
Whom Tuscan Valerus by Force o'ercome,  
And not belied his mighty Father's Fame.  
Salius to Death the great Antronius fent,  
But the same Fate the Victor underwent:  
Slain by Nealces Hand, well skilled to throw  
The flying Dart, and draw the far-deceiving Bow.   

Thus equal Deaths are dealt with equal Chance;  
By turns they quit their Ground, by turns advance:  
Victors, and vanquished, in the various Field,  
Nor wholly overcome, nor wholly yield.  
The Gods from Heaven survey the fatal Strife,  
And mourn the Miseries of Human Life.  
Above the rest two Goddesses appear  
Concerned for each: Here Venus, Juno there:  
Amidst the Crowd Infernal Atè shakes  
Her Scourge aloft, and Crest of hissing Snakes.   

Once more the proud Mezentius, with Disdain,  
Brandished his Spear, and rushed into the Plain:  
Where towering in the midmost Ranks he stood,  
Like tall Orion stalking o'er the Flood:  
When with his brawny Breast he cuts the Waves,  
His Shoulders scarce the topmost Billow laves.  
Or like a Mountain Ash, whose Roots are spread,  
Deep fixed in Earth, in Clouds he hides his Head.   

The Trojan Prince beheld him from afar,  
And dauntless undertook the doubtful War.  
Collected in his Strength, and like a Rock,  
Poised on his Base, Mezentius stood the Shock.  
He stood, and measuring first with careful Eyes,  
The space his Spear could reach, aloud he cries:  
My strong right Hand, and Sword, assist my Stroke;  
(Those only Gods Mezentius will invoke)  
His Armour from the Trojan Pirate torn,  
By my triumphant Lausus shall be worn.   

To Sr: r: Charles Orby Baronet of Burton Pednarden in the County of Lincoln  
A 10. l. 1125.   

He said, and with his utmost force he threw  
The massy Spear, which, hissing as it flew,  
Reached the Celestial Shield that stopped the course;  
But glancing thence, the yet unbroken Force  
Took a new bend obliquely, and betwixt  
The Side and Bowels famed Anthores fixed.  
Anthores had from Argos travelled far,  
Alcides' Friend, and Brother of the War:  
Till tired with Toils, fair Italy he chose,  
And in Evander's Palace sought Repose:  
Now falling by another's Wound, his Eyes  
He casts to Heaven, on Argos thinks, and dies.   

The pious Trojan than his Javelin sent,  
The Shield gave way: Through treble Plates it went  
Of solid Brass, of Linen trebly rolled,  
And three Bull-hides which round the Buckler rolled.  
All these it passed, resistless in the Course,  
Transpierced his Thigh, and spent its dying Force.  
The gaping Wound gushed out a Crimson Flood;  
The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile Blood,  
His Falchion drew, to closer Fight addressed,  
And with new Force his fainting Foe oppressed.   

His Father's Peril Lausus viewed with Grief,  
He sighed, he wept, he ran to his Relief.  
And here, Heroic Youth, 'tis here I must  
To thy immortal Memory be just;  
And sing an Act so noble and so new,  
Posterity will scarce believe 'tis true.  
Pained with his Wound, and useless for the Fight,  
The Father sought to save himself by Flight:  
Encumbered, slow he dragged the Spear along,  
Which pierced his thigh, and in his Buckler hung.  
The pious Youth, resolved on Death, below  
The lifted Sword, springs forth to face the Foe;  
Protects his Parent, and prevents the Blow.  
Shouts of Applause ran ringing through the Field,  
To see the Son the vanquished Father shield:  
All fired with generous Indignation strive;  
And with a storm of Darts, to distance drive  
The Trojan Chief; who held at Bay from far,  
On his Vulcanian Orb sustained the War.   

As when thick Hail comes rattling in the Wind,  
The Ploughman, Passenger, and labouring Hind,  
For shelter to the neighbouring Covert fly;  
Or housed, or safe in hollow Caverns lie:  
But that o'erblown, when Heaven above 'em smiles,  
Return to Travel, and renew their Toils:  
Aeneas thus overwhelmed on every side,  
The storm of Darts, undaunted, did abide;  
And thus to Lausus loud with friendly threatening cried.  
Why wilt thou rush to certain Death, and Rage  
In rash Attempts, beyond thy tender Age:  
Betrayed by pious Love? Nor thus forborn  
The Youth desists, but with insulting Scorn  
Provokes the lingering Prince: Whose Patience tired,  
Gave Place, and all his Breast with Fury fired.  
For now the Fates prepared their cruel Shears;  
And lifted high the flaming Sword appears:  
Which full descending, with a frightful sway,  
Thro Shield and Corslet forced th'impetuous Way,  
And buried deep in his fair Bosom lay.  
The purple Streams through the thin Armour strove,  
And drenched th' embroidered Coat his Mother wove:  
And Life at length forsook his heaving Heart,  
Loath from so sweet a Mansion to depart.   

But when, with Blood, and Paleness all o'erspread,  
The pious Prince beheld young Lausus dead;  
He grieved, he wept, the sight an Image brought  
Of his own filial Love; a sadly pleasing Thought.  
Then stretched his Hand to hold him up, and said,  
Poor hapless Youth! what Praises can be paid  
To Love so great, to such transcendent Store  
Of early Worth, and sure Presage of more?  
Accept what e'er Aeneas can afford,  
Untouched thy Arms, untaken be thy Sword:  
And all that pleased thee living still remain  
Inviolate, and sacred to the slain.  
Thy Body on thy Parents I bestow,  
To rest thy Soul, at least if Shadows know,  
Or have a sense of human Things below.  
There to thy fellow Ghosts with Glory tell,  
'Twas by the great Aeneas hand I fell.  
With this his distant Friends he beckons near,  
Provokes their Duty, and prevents their Fear:  
Himself assists to lift him from the Ground,  
With clotted Locks, and Blood that welled from out the Wound.   

Mean time his Father, now no Father, stood,  
And washed his Wounds by Tyber's yellow Flood:  
Oppressed with Anguish, panting, and o'respent,  
His fainting Limbs against an Oak he leaned.  
A Bough his Brazen Helmet did sustain,  
His heavier Arms lay scattered on the Plain.  
A chosen Train of Youth around him stand,  
His drooping Head was rested on his hand:  
His grisly Beard his pensive Bosom sought,  
And all on Lausus ran his restless thought.  
Careful, concerned his Danger to prevent,  
He much enquired, and many a Message sent  
To warn him from the Field: Alas! in vain,  
Behold his mournful Followers bear him slain:  
O'er his broad Shield still gushed the yawning Wound,  
And drew a bloody Trail along the Ground.   

Far off he heard their Cries, far off divined  
The dire Event, with a foreboding Mind.  
With Dust he sprinkled first his hoary Head,  
Then both his lifted hands to Heaven he spread;  
Last, the dear Corpse embracing, thus he said.  
What Joys, alas! could this frail Being give,  
That I have been so covetous to live?  
To see my Son, and such a Son, resign  
His Life a Ransom for preserving mine?  
And am I then preserved, and art thou lost?  
How much too dear has that Redemption cost!  
'Tis now my bitter Banishment I feel;  
This is a Wound too deep for time to heal.  
My Gild thy growing Virtues did defame;  
My Blackness blotted thy unblemished Name.  
Chased from a Throne, abandoned, and exiled  
For foul Misdeeds, were Punishments too mild:  
I owed my People these, and from their hate,  
With less Resentment could have born my Fate.  
And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight  
Of hated Men, and of more hated Light:  
But will not long. With that he raised from Ground  
His fainting Limbs, that staggered with his Wound.  
Yet with a Mind resolved, and unappaled  
With Pains or Perils, for his Courser called:  
Well mouthed, well managed, whom himself did dress,  
With daily Care, and mounted with Success;  
His Aid in Arms, his Ornament in Peace.   

Soothing his Courage with a gentle Stroke,  
The Steed seemed sensible, while thus he spoke.  
O Rhaebus we have lived too long for me,  
(If Life and long were Terms that could agree)  
This Day thou either shalt bring back the Head,  
And bloody Trophies of the Trojan dead:  
This Day thou either shalt revenge my Woe  
For murdered Lausus, on his cruel Foe;  
Or if inexorable Fate deny  
Our Conquest, with thy conquered Master die:  
For after such a Lord, I rest secure,  
Thou wilt no foreign Reins, or Trojan Load endure.  
He said: And strait th' officious Courser knelt  
To take his wont Weight. His Hands he fills  
With pointed javelins: On his Head he laced  
His glittering Helm, which terribly was graced  
With waving Horsehair, nodding from afar;  
Then spurred his thundering Steed amidst the War.  
Love, Anguish, Wrath, and Grief, to Madness wrought,  
Despair, and secret Shame, and conscious thought  
Of inborn Worth, his labouring Soul oppressed,  
Rolled in his Eyes, and raged within his Breast.  
Then loud he called Aeneas thrice by Name,  
The loud repeated Voice to glad Aeneas came.  
Great Jove, he said, and the far-shooting God,  
Inspire thy Mind to make thy Challenge good.  
He spoke no more, but hastened, void of Fear,  
And threatened with his long protended Spear.   

To whom Mezentius thus. Thy Vaunts are vain,  
My Lausus lies extended on the Plain:  
He's lost! thy Conquest is already won,  
The wretched Sire is murdered in the Son.  
Nor Fate I fear, but all the Gods defy,  
Forbear thy Threats, my Business is to die;  
But first receive this parting Legacy.  
He said: And strait a whirling Dart he sent:  
Another after, and another went.  
Round in a spacious Ring he rides the Field,  
And vainly plies th' impenetrable Shield:  
Thrice road he round, and thrice Aeneas wheeled.  
Turned as he turned; the Golden Orb withstood  
The Strokes, and bore about an Iron Wood  
Impatient of Delay, and weary grown,  
Still to defend, and to defend alone:  
To wrench the Darts which in his Buckler light,  
Urged, and o're-laboured in unequal Fight:  
At length resolved, he throws with all his Force,  
Full at the Temples of the Warrior Horse.  
Just where the Stroke was aimed, th' unerring Spear  
Made way, and stood transfixed through either Ear.  
Seized with unwonted Pain, surprised with Fright,  
The wounded Steed curvets; and, raised upright,  
Lights on his Feet before: His Hoofs behind  
Spring up in Air aloft, and lash the Wind.  
Down comes the Rider headlong from his height,  
His Horse came after with unwieldy weight:  
And flound'ring forward, pitching on his Head,  
His Lord's encumbered Sholuder overlaid.   

From either Host the mingled Shouts, and Cries,  
Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the Skies.  
Aeneas hastening, waved his fatal Sword  
High o'er his head, with this reproachful Word.  
Now, where are now thy Vaunts, the fierce Disdain  
Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty Strain?   

Struggling, and wildly staring on the Skies,  
With scarce recovered Sight, he thus replies.  
Why these insulting Words, this waste of Breath,  
To Souls undaunted, and secure of Death?  
'Tis no Dishonour for the Brave to die,  
Nor came I here with hope of Victory:  
Nor ask I Life, nor fought with that design,  
As I had used my Fortune, use thou thine.  
My dying Son contracted no such Band;  
The Gift is hateful from his Murd'rer's hand.   

To Tho: Hopkins of the Middle Temple Esq.   

For this, this only Favour let me sue,  
(If Pity can to conquered Foes be due)  
Refuse it not: But let my Body have,  
The last Retreat of Human Kind, a Grave.  
Too well I know th' insulting People's Hate;  
Protect me from their Vengeance after Fate:  
This Refuge for my poor Remains provide,  
And lay my much loved Lausus by my side:  
He said, and to his Throat the Sword applied.  
The Crimson Stream distained his Arms around,  
And the disdainful Soul came rushing through the Wound.    

The Eleventh Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
Aeneas erects a Trophy of the Spoils of Mezentius; grants a Truce for burying the dead; and sends home the Body of Pallas with great Solemnity. Latinus calls a Council to propose offers of Peace to Aeneas, which occasions great Animosity betwixt Turnus and Drances: In the mean time there is a sharp Engagement of the Horse; wherein Camilla signalises herself; is killed: And the Latin Troops are entirely defeated.  

SCarce had the rosy Morning raised her Head  
Above the Waves, and left her wat'ry Bed;  
The Pious Chief, whom double Cares attend  
For his unburied Soldiers, and his Friend:  
Yet first to Heaven performed a Victor's Vows;  
He barred an ancient Oak of all her Boughs:  
Then on a rising Ground the Trunk he placed;  
Which with the Spoils of his dead Foe he graced.  
The Coat of Arms by proud Mezentius worn,  
Now on a naked Snag in Triumph born,  
Was hung on high; and glittered from afar:  
A Trophy sacred to the God of War.  
Above his Arms, fixed on the leafless Wood,  
Appeared his Plumy Crest, distilling Blood;  
His brazen Buckler on the left was seen;  
Truncheons of shivered Lances hung between:  
And on the right was placed his Corslet, bored;  
And to the Neck was tied his unavailing Sword.  
A Crowd of Chiefs enclose the Godlike Man:  
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began.   

Our Toils, my Friends, are crowned with sure Success:  
The greater Part performed, achieve the less.   

To the Right Noble Charles Duke of Shrensbury Marquis of Alton Earl of Shrensbury Wexford & Water-ford, Baron Talbot Strange of Blackmere Gifford of Brimsfield & ct One of the Lords of his Ma. ties most Hon. ble Privy Council Principal Secretary of State, and Knight of the most Noble Order of the Garter.  
A 11. l. 1.   

Now follow cheerful to the trembling Town;  
Press but an Entrance, and presume it won.  
Fear is no more: For fierce Mezentius lies,  
As the first Fruits of War, a Sacrifice.  
Turnus shall fall extended on the Plain;  
And in this Omen is already slain.  
Prepared in Arms pursue your happy Chance;  
That none unwarned may plead his Ignorance:  
And I, at heavens appointed Hour, may find  
Your warlike Ensigns waving in the Wind.  
Mean time the Rites and Funeral Pomps prepare,  
Due to your dead Companions of the War:  
The last Respect the living can bestow,  
To shield their Shadows from Contempt below.  
That conquered Earth be theirs for which they fought;  
And which for us with their own blood they bought.  
But first the Corpse of our unhappy Friend,  
To the sad City of Evander send:  
Who not inglorious in his Age's bloom  
Was hurried hence by too severe a Doom.   

Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his Way,  
Where, new in Death, lamented Pallas lay:  
Acaetes watched the Corpse; whose Youth deserved  
The Father's Trust, and now the Son he served  
With equal Faith, but less auspicious Care:  
Th' Attendants of the slain, his Sorrow share.  
A Troop of Trojans mixed with these appear,  
And mourning Matrons with dishevelled Hair.  
Soon as the Prince appears, they raise a Cry;  
All beat their Breasts, and Echoes rend the Sky.  
They rear his drooping Forehead from the Ground;  
But when Aeneas viewed the grisly Wound  
Which Pallas in his Manly Bosom bore,  
And the fair Flesh distained with Purple Gore:  
First, melting into Tears, the pious Man  
Deplored so sad a sight, than thus began.   

Unhappy Youth! When Fortune gave the rest  
Of my full Wishes, she refused the best!  
She came; but brought not thee along; to bless  
My longing Eyes, and share in my Success:  
She grudged thy safe Return the Triumphs due  
To prosperous Valour, in the public View.  
Not thus I promised, when thy Father lent  
Thy needful Succour with a sad Consent;  
Embraced me parting for th' Etrurian Land,  
And sent me to possess a large Command.  
He warned, and from his own Experience told,  
Our Foes were warlike, disciplined, and bold:  
And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return,  
Rich Odours on his loaded Altars burn;  
While we, with vain officious Pomp, prepare  
To send him back his Portion of the War;  
A bloody breathless Body: which can owe  
No farther Debt, but to the Powers below.  
The wretched Father, ere his Race is run,  
Shall view the Funeral Honours of his Son.  
These are my Triumphs of the Latian War;  
Fruits of my plighted Faith, and boasted Care.  
And yet, unhappy Sire, thou shalt not see  
A Son, whose Death disgraced his Ancestry:  
Thou shalt not blush, old Man, however grieved:  
Thy Pallas no dishonest Wound received.  
He died no Death to make thee wish, too late,  
Thou hadst not lived to see his shameful Fate:  
But what a Champion has th' Ausonian Coast,  
And what a Friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!   

Thus having mourned, he gave the Word around,  
To raise the lifeless Body from the Ground;  
And chose a thousand Horse, the flower of all  
His warlike Troops, to wait the Funeral:  
To bear him back, and share Evander's Grief;  
(A well becoming, but a weak Relief.)  
Of Oaken Twigs they twist an easy Bier;  
Then on their Shoulders the sad Burden rear.  
The Body on this Rural Hearse is born,  
Strewed Leaves and Funeral Green's the Bier adorn.  
All pale he lies, and looks a lovely Flower,  
New cropped by Virgin Hands, to dress the Bower;  
Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below,  
No more to Mother Earth or the green Stem shall owe.  
Then two fair Vests, of wondrous Work and Cost,  
Of Purple woven, and with Gold embossed,  
For Ornament the Trojan Hero brought,  
Which with her Hands Sidonian Dido wrought.  
One Vest arrayed the Corpse, and one they spread  
O'er his closed Eyes, and wrapped around his Head:  
That when the yellow Hair in Flame should fall,  
The catching Fire might burn the Golden Caul.  
Besides, the Spoils of Foes in Battle slain,  
When he descended on the Latian Plain:  
Arms, Trappings, Horses, by the Hearse are led  
In long Array, (th' Achievements of the Dead.)  
Then, pinioned with their hands behind, appear  
Th' unhappy Captives, marching in the Rear:  
Appointed Offerings in the Victor's Name,  
To sprinkle with their Blood, the Funeral Flame.  
Inferior Trophies by the Chiefs are born;  
Gauntlets and Helms, their heads and hands adorn:  
And fair Inscriptions fixed, and Titles read,  
Of Latian Leaders conquered by the Dead.   

Acaetes on his Pupil's Corpse attends,  
With feeble Steps; supported by his Friends:  
Pausing at every Pace; in Sorrow drowned,  
Betwixt their Arms he sinks upon the Ground.  
Where groveling, while he lies in deep Despair,  
He beats his Breast, and rends his hoary Hair.  
The Champion's Chariot next is seen to roll,  
Besmeared with hostile blood, and honourably foul.  
To close the Pomp, Aethon, the Steed of State,  
Is led, the funerals of his Lord to wait.  
Stripped of his Trappings, with a sullen Pace  
He walks, and the big Tears run rolling down his Face.  
The Lance of Pallas, and the Crimson Crest,  
Are born behind; the Victor seized the rest.  
The March begins: The Trumpets hoarsly sound,  
The Pikes and Lances trail along the Ground.  
Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian Horse,  
To Pallantean towers direct their Course,  
In long Procession ranked; the pious Chief  
Stopped in the Rear, and gave a vent to Grief.  
The public Care, he said, which War attends  
Diverts our present Woes, at least suspends:  
Peace with the Manes of great Pallas dwell;  
Hail holy Relics, and a last farewell!  
He said no more, but inly though he mourned,  
Restrained his Tears, and to the Camp returned.   

Now Suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand  
A Truce, with Olive Branches in their hand.  
Obtest his Clemency, and from the Plain  
Beg leave to draw the Bodies of their slain.  
They plead, that none those common Rites deny  
To conquered Foes, that in fair Battle die.  
All cause of Hate was ended in their Death;  
Nor could he War with Bodies void of Breath.  
A King, they hoped, would hear a King's Request:  
Whose Son he once was called, and once his Guest.   

Their Suit, which was too just to be denied,  
The Hero grants, and farther thus replied:  
O Latian Princes, how severe a Fate  
In causeless Quarrels has involved your State!  
And armed against an unoffending Man,  
Who sought your Friendship ere the War began!  
You beg a Truce, which I would gladly give,  
Not only for the slain, but those who live.  
I came not hither but by heavens Command,  
And sent by Fate to share the Latian Land.  
Nor wage I Wars unjust; your King denied  
My proffered Friendship, and my promised Bride.  
Left me for Turnus; Turnus then should try  
His Cause in Arms, to Conquer or to die.  
My Right and his are in dispute: The slain  
Fell without fault, our Quarrel to maintain.  
In equal Arms let us alone contend;  
And let him vanquish, whom his Fates befriend.  
This is the way, so tell him, to possess  
The Royal Virgin, and restore the Peace.  
Bear this my Message back; with ample leave  
That your slain Friends may Funeral Rites receive.   

Thus having said, th' Ambassadors amazed,  
Stood mute a while, and on each other gazed:  
Drances, their Chief, who harboured in his Breast  
Long hate to Turnus, as his Foe professed,  
Broke silence first, and to the Godlike Man,  
With graceful action bowing, thus began.   

Auspicious Prince, in Arms a mighty Name,  
But yet whose Actions far transcend your Fame;  
Would I your Justice or your Force express,  
Thought can but equal; and all Words are less:  
Your Answer we shall thankfully relate,  
And Favours granted to the Latian State:  
If wished Success our Labour shall attend,  
Think Peace concluded, and the King your Friend:  
Let Turnus leave the Realm to your Command;  
And seek Alliance in some other Land:  
Build you the City which your Fates assign;  
We shall be proud in the great Work to join.   

Thus Drances; and his Words so well persuade  
The rest impower'd, that soon a Truce is made.  
Twelve days the term allowed: And during those,  
Latians and Trojans, now no longer Foes,  
Mixed in the Woods, for Funeral Piles prepare,  
To fell the Timber, and forget the War.  
Loud Axes through the groaning Groves resound:  
Oak, Mountain Ash, and Poplar, spread the Ground:  
Sirs fall from high: And some the Trunks receive,  
In Loaden Wains, with Wedges some they cleave.  
And now the Fatal News, by Fame is blown  
Through the short Circuit of th' Arcadian Town,  
Of Pallas slain: By Fame, which just before  
His Triumphs on distended Pinions bore.  
Rushing from out the Gate, the People stand,  
Each with a Funeral Flambeau in his hand:  
Wildly they stare, distracted with amaze:  
The Fields are lightened with a fiery blaze,  
That cast a sullen Splendour on their Friends,  
(The marching Troop which their dead Prince attends.)  
Both Parties meet: They raise a doleful Cry:  
The Matrons from the Walls with shrieks reply;  
And their mixed mourning rends the vaulted Sky.  
The Town is filled with Tumult and with Tears;  
Till the loud Clamours reach Evander's Ears:  
Forgetful of his State, he runs along,  
With a disordered pace, and cleaves the Throng:   

To Sr. Walter Kirkham Blount of Sodington in the County of Worcester Bart.  
A 11. l. 215   

Falls on the Corpse, and groaning there he lies,  
With silent Grief that speaks but at his Eyes:  
Short Sighs and Sobs succeed; till Sorrow breaks  
A Passage, and at once he weeps and speaks.   

O Pallas! thou hast failed thy plighted Word!  
To fight with Caution, not to tempt the Sword:  
I warned thee, but in vain; for well I knew  
What Perils youthful Ardour would pursue:  
That boiling Blood would carry thee too far;  
Young as thou wert in Dangers, raw to War!  
O cursed Essay of Arms, disastrous Doom,  
Prelude of bloody Fields, and Fights to come!  
Hard Elements of unauspicious War,  
Vain Vows to Heaven, and unavailing Care!  
Thrice happy thou, dear Partner of my Bed,  
Whose holy Soul the Stroke of Fortune fled:  
Praescious of Ills, and leaving me behind,  
To drink the Dregs of Life by Fate assigned.  
Beyond the Goal of Nature I have gone;  
My Pallas late set out, but reached too soon.  
If, for my League against th' Ausonian State,  
Amidst their Weapons I had found my Fate,  
(Deserved from them,) than I had been returned  
A breathless Victor, and my Son had mourned.  
Yet will I not my Trojan Friend upbraid,  
Nor grudge th' Alliance I so gladly made.  
'Twas not his Fault my Pallas fell so young,  
But my own Crime for having lived too long.  
Yet, since the Gods had destined him to die,  
At least he led the way to Victory:  
First for his Friends he won the fatal Shore,  
And sent whole Herds of slaughtered Foes before:  
A Death too great, too glorious to deplore.  
Nor will I add new Honours to thy Grave;  
Content with those the Trojan Hero gave.  
That Funeral Pomp thy Phrygian Friends designed;  
In which the Tuscan Chiefs, and Army joined:  
Great Spoils, and Trophies gained by thee, they bear:  
Then let thy own Achievements be thy share.  
Even thou, O Turnus, hadst a Trophy stood,  
Whose mighty Trunk had better graced the Wood,  
If Pallas had arrived, with equal length  
Of Years, to match thy Bulk with equal Strength.  
But why, unhappy Man, dost thou detain  
These Troops, to view the Tears thou sheddest in vain!  
Go, Friends, this Message to your Lord relate;  
Tell him, that if I bear my bitter Fate,  
And after Pallas Death, live lingering on,  
'Tis to behold his Vengeance for my Son.  
I stay for Turnus; whose devoted Head  
Is owing to the living and the dead:  
My Son and I expect it from his Hand;  
'Tis all that he can give, or we demand.  
Joy is no more: But I would gladly go,  
To greet my Pallas with such News below.   

The Morn had now dispelled the Shades of Night;  
Restoring Toils, when she restored the Light:  
The Trojan King, and Tuscan Chief, command  
To raise the Piles, along the winding Strand:  
Their Friends convey the dead to Funeral Fires;  
Black smould'ring Smoke from the green Wood expires;  
The Light of Heaven is choked, and the new Day retires.  
Then thrice around the kindled Piles they go:  
(For ancient Custom had ordained it so)  
Thrice Horse and Foot about the Fires are led,  
And thrice with loud Laments they hail the dead.   

To the Hon ble John Noel Esq 2d Son to the Rt Honble: Baptist late Ld Viscount Campden Baron of Ridlington & Ilmington  
A 11. l. 290.   

Tears trickling down their Breasts bedew the Ground;  
And Drums and Trumpets mix their mournful Sound.  
Amid the Blaze, their pious Brethren throw  
The Spoils, in Battle taken from the Foe:  
Helms, Bits embossed, and Swords of shining Steel;  
One casts a Target, one a Chariot Wheel:  
Some to their Fellows their own Arms restore;  
The Falchions which in luckless Fight they bore:  
Their Bucklers pierced, their Darts bestowed in vain,  
And shivered Lances gathered from the Plain.  
Whole Herds of offered Bulls about the Fire,  
And bristled Boars, and wooly Sheep expire.  
Around the Piles a careful Troop attends,  
To watch the wasting Flames, and weep their burning Friends.  
Lingering along the Shore, till dewy Night,  
New decks the Face of Heaven with starry Light.   

The conquered Latians, with like Pious Care,  
Piles without number for their Dead prepare;  
Part, in the Places where they fell, are laid;  
And part are to the neighbouring Fields conveyed.  
The Corpse of Kings, and Captains of Renown,  
Born off in State, are buried in the Town:  
The rest, unhonoured, and without a Name,  
Are cast a common heap to feed the Flame.  
Trojans and Latians vie with like desires:  
To make the Field of Battle shine with Fires:  
And the promiscuous Blaze to Heaven aspires.   

Now had the Morning thrice renewed the Light,  
And thrice dispelled the Shadows of the Night;  
When those who round the wasted Fires remain,  
Perform the last sad Office to the slain:  
They rake the yet warm Ashes, from below;  
These, and the Bones unburned, in Earth bestow:  
These Relics with their Country Rites they grace;  
And raise a mount of Turf to mark the place.   

But in the Palace of the King, appears  
A Scene more solemn, and a Pomp of Tears.  
Maids, Matrons, Widows, mix their common Moans:  
Orphans their Sires, and Sires lament their Sons.  
All in that universal Sorrow share,  
And curse the Cause of this unhappy War.  
A broken League, a Bride unjustly sought,  
A Crown usurped, which with their Blood is bought!  
These are the Crimes, with which they load the Name  
Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim.  
Let him, who lords it o'er th' Ausonian Land,  
Engage the Trojan Hero hand to hand:  
His is the Gain, our Lot is but to serve:  
'Tis just, the sway he seeks, he should deserve.  
This Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite,  
His Foe expects, and dares him to the Fight.  
Nor Turnus wants a Party to support  
His Cause and Credit, in the Latian Court.  
His former Acts secure his present Fame;  
And the Queen shades him with her mighty Name.   

While thus their factious Minds with Fury burn;  
The Legates from th' Aetolian Prince return:  
Sad News they bring, that after all the Cost,  
And Care employed, their Embassy is lost:  
That Diomedes refused his Aid in War;  
Unmoved with Presents, and as deaf to Prayer.  
Some new Alliance must elsewhere be sought;  
Or Peace with Troy on hard Conditions bought.   

Latinus, sunk in Sorrow, finds too late,  
A Foreign Son is pointed out by Fate:  
And till Aeneas shall Lavinia wed,  
The wrath of Heaven is hovering o'er his Head.   

Rem nulli obscuram nostrae nec vocis egentem  
Consulis Ô bone Rex Cuncti se scire fatentur  
Quid fortuna ferat populi sed dicere mussant  
Det libertatem fande flatusque remittat  
Cujus ob auspicum infaustum moresque sinistros  
Dicam equidem licet arma mihi mortemque minetur  
Lumina tot cecidisse ducum totamque videmus  
Consedisse urbem luctu  
To the most Honble. John's Marquis of Normanby Earl of Mulgrave & Kt. of the most noble Order of the Garter  
A 11. l. 365   

The Gods, he saw, espoused the juster side,  
When late their Titles in the Field were tried:  
Witness the fresh Laments, and Funeral Tears undried.   

Thus, full of anxious Thought, he summons all  
The Latian Senate to the Council Hall:  
The Princes come, commanded by their Head,  
And crowd the Paths that to the Palace lead.  
Supreme in Power, and reverenced for his Years,  
He takes the Throne, and in the midst appears:  
Majestically sad, he sits in State,  
And bids his Envoys their Success relate.   

When Venulus began, the murmuring Sound  
Was hushed, and sacred Silence reigned around.  
We have, said he, performed your high Command;  
And passed with Peril a long Tract of Land:  
We reached the Place desired, with Wonder filled,  
The Grecian Tents, and rising towers beheld.  
Great Diomedes has compassed round with Walls  
The City, which Argyripa he calls;  
From his own Argos named: We touched, with Joy,  
The Royal Hand that razed unhappy Troy.  
When introduced, our Presents first we bring,  
Then crave an instant Audience from the King:  
His Leave obtained, our Native Soil we name;  
And tell th' important Cause for which we came.  
Attentively he heard us, while we spoke;  
Then, with soft Accents, and a pleasing Look,  
Made this return. Ausonian Race, of old  
Renowned for Peace, and for an Age of Gold,  
What Madness has your altered Minds possessed,  
To change for War hereditary Rest?  
Solicit Arms unknown, and tempt the Sword,  
(A needless Ill your Ancestors abhorred?)  
We; (for myself I speak, and all the Name  
Of Grecians, who to Troy's Destruction came;)  
Omitting those who were in Battle slain,  
Or born by rolling Simois to the Main:  
Not one but suffered, and too dearly bought  
The Prize of Honour which in Arms he sought.  
Some doomed to Death, and some in Exile driven,  
Outcasts, abandoned by the Care of Heaven:  
So worn, so wretched, so despised a Crew,  
As even old Priam might with Pity view.  
Witness the Vessels by Minerva tossed  
In Storms, the vengeful Capharaean Coast;  
Th' Euboean Rocks! The Prince, whose Brother led  
Our Armies to revenge his injured Bed,  
In Egypt lost; Ulysses, with his Men,  
Have seen Charybdis, and the Cyclops Den:  
Why should I name Idomeneus, in vain  
Restored to Sceptres, and expelled again?  
Or young Achilles by his Rival slain?  
Even he, the King of Men, the foremost Name  
Of all the Greeks, and most renowned by Fame,  
The proud Revenger of another's Wife,  
Yet by his own Adult'ress lost his Life:  
Fell at his Threshold, and the Spoils of Troy,  
The foul Polluters of his Bed enjoy.  
The Gods have envied me the sweets of Life,  
My much loved Country, and my more loved Wife:  
Banished from both, I mourn; while in the Sky  
Transformed to Birds, my lost Companions fly:  
Hovering about the Coasts they make their Moan;  
And cuff the Cliffs with Pinions not their own.  
What squalid Spectres, in the dead of Night,  
Break my short Sleep, and skim before my sight!  
I might have promised to myself those Harms,  
Mad as I was, when I with Mortal Arms  
Presumed against Immortal Powers to move;  
And violate with Wounds the Queen of Love.  
Such Arms, this Hand shall never more employ;  
No Hate remains with me to ruined Troy.  
I war not with its Dust; nor am I glad  
To think of past Events, or good or bad.  
Your Presents I return: What e'er you bring  
To buy my Friendship, send the Trojan King.  
We met in fight, I know him to my Cost;  
With what a whirling force his Lance he tossed:  
heavens what a spring was in his Arm, to throw:  
How high he held his Shield, and rose at every blow!  
Had Troy produced two more, his Match in Might,  
They would have changed the Fortune of the Fight:  
Th' Invasion of the Greeks had been returned:  
Our Empire wasted, and our Cities burned.  
The long Defence the Trojan People made,  
The War protracted, and the Siege delayed,  
Were due to Hector's and this Heroe's hand:  
Both brave alike, and equal in Command;  
Aeneas, not inferior in the Field,  
In pious reverence to the Gods, excelled.  
Make peace, ye Latians, and avoid with Care  
Th' impending Dangers of a fatal War.  
He said no more; but with this cold Excuse,  
Refused th' Alliance, and advised a Truce.   

Thus Venulus concluded his Report.  
A Jarring Murmur filled the factious Court:  
As when a Torrent rowls with rapid force,  
And dashes o'er the Stones that stop the Course;  
The Flood, constrained within a scanty space,  
Roars horrible along th' uneasy race:  
White foam in gathering Eddies floats around:  
The rocky Shore's rebellow to the sound.  
The Murmur ceased: Then from his lofty Throne  
The King invoked the Gods, and thus begun.  
I wish, ye Latins, what we now debate  
Had been resolved before it was too late:  
Much better had it been for you and me,  
Unforced by this our last Necessity,  
To have been earlier wise; than now to call  
A Council, when the Foe surrounds the Wall.  
O Citizens! we wage unequal War,  
With men, not only heavens peculiar Care,  
But heavens own Race: Unconquered in the Field,  
Or Conquered, yet unknowing how to yield.  
What Hopes you had in Diomedes, lay down:  
Our Hopes must centre on ourselves alone.  
Yet those how feeble, and, indeed, how vain,  
You see too well; nor need my Words explain.  
Vanquished without ressource; laid flat by Fate,  
Factions within, a Foe without the Gate;  
Not but I grant, that all performed their parts,  
With manly Force, and with undaunted Hearts:  
With our united Strength the War we waged;  
With equal Numbers, equal Arms engaged:  
You see th' Event.— Now hear what I propose,  
To save our Friends, and satisfy our Foes:  
A Tract of Land the Latins have possessed  
Along the Tiber, stretching to the West,  
Which now Rutulians and Auruncans till:  
And their mixed Cattle graze the fruitful Hill;  
Those Mountains filled with Firs, that lower Land,  
If you consent, the Trojan shall Command.  
Called into part of what is ours; and there,  
On terms agreed, the common Country share.  
There let 'em build, and settle if they please;  
Unless they choose once more to cross the Seas,  
In search of Seats remote from Italy;  
And from unwelcome Inmates set us free.  
Then twice ten Galleys let us build with Speed,  
Or twice as many more, if more they need;  
Materials are at hand: A well-grown Wood  
Runs equal with the Margin of the Flood:  
Let them the Number, and the Form assign;  
The Care and Cost of all the Stores be mine.  
To treat the Peace, a hundred Senators  
Shall be commissioned hence with ample Powers;  
With Olive crowned: The Presents they shall bear,  
A Purple Robe, a Royal Ivory Chair;  
And all the marks of Sway that Latian Monarches wear;  
And Sums of Gold. Among yourselves debate  
This great Affair, and save the sinking State.   

Then Drances took the word; who grudged, long since,  
The rising Glories of the Daunian Prince.  
Factious and rich, bold at the Council Board,  
But cautious in the Field, he shunned the Sword;  
A closely Caballer, and Tongue-valiant Lord.  
Noble his Mother was, and near the Throne,  
But what his Father's Parentage, unknown.  
He rose, and took th' Advantage of the Times,  
To load young Turnus with invidious Crimes.   

Such Truths, O King, said he, your Words contain,  
As strike the Sense, and all Replies are vain.  
Nor are your Loyal Subjects now to seek  
What common Needs require; but fear to speak.  
Let him give leave of Speech, that haughty Man,  
Whose Pride this unauspicious War began:  
For whose Ambition (let me dare to say,  
Fear set apart, tho' Death is in my Way)  
The Plains of Latium run with Blood arround;  
So many Valiant Heros bite the Ground:  
Dejected Grief in every Face appears;  
A Town in Mourning, and a Land in Tears.  
While he th' undoubted Author of our Harms,  
The Man who menaces the Gods with Arms,  
Yet, after all his Boasts, forsook the Fight,  
And sought his safety in ignoble Flight.   

Now, best of Kings, since you propose to send  
Such bounteous Presents to your Trojan Friend;  
Add yet a greater at our joint Request,  
One which he values more than all the rest;  
Give him the fair Lavinia for his Bride:  
With that Alliance let the League be tied:  
And for the bleeding Land a lasting Peace provide.  
Let Insolence no longer awe the Throne,  
But with a Father's Right bestow your own.  
For this Maligner of the general Good,  
If still we fear his Force, he must be wooed:  
His haughty Godhead we with Prayers implore,  
Your Sceptre to release, and our just Rights restore.  
O cursed Cause of all our Ills, must we  
Wage Wars unjust, and fall in Fight for thee!  
What right hast thou to rule the Latian State,  
And send us out to meet our certain Fate?  
'Tis a destructive War; from Turnus' Hand  
Our Peace and public safety we demand.  
Let the fair Bride to the brave Chief remain;  
If not, the Peace without the Pledge is vain.  
Turnus, I know you think me not your Friend,  
Nor will I much with your Belief contend:  
I beg your Greatness not to give the Law  
In others Realms, but, beaten, to withdraw.  
Pity your own, or pity our Estate;  
Nor twist our Fortunes with your sinking Fate.  
Your Interest is the War should never cease;  
But we have felt enough, to wish the Peace:  
A Land exhausted to the last remains,  
Depopulated Towns, and driven Plains.  
Yet, if desire of Fame, and thirst of Power,  
A Beauteous Princess, with a Crown in dower,  
So fire your Mind, in Arms assert your Right;  
And meet your Foe, who dares you to the Fight.  
Mankind, it seems, is made for you alone;  
We, but the Slaves who mount you to the Throne:  
A base ignoble Crowd, without a Name,  
Unwept, unworthy of the Funeral Flame:  
By Duty bound to forfeit each his Life,  
That Turnus may possess a Royal Wife.  
Permit not, Mighty Man, so mean a Crew  
Should share such Triumphs; and detain from you  
The Post of Honour, your unquestioned Due:  
Rather alone your matchless Force employ;  
To merit, what alone you must enjoy.   

These Words, so full of Malice, mixed with Art,  
Inflamed with Rage the youthful Hero's Heart.  
Then groaning from the bottom of his Breast,  
He heaved for Wind, and thus his Wrath expressed.  
You, Drances, never want a Stream of Words,  
Then, when the Public Need requires our Swords.  
First in the Council-hall to steer the State;  
And ever foremost at a Tongue debate.  
While our strong Walls secure us from the Foe,  
ere yet with Blood our Ditches overflow:  
But let the potent Orator declaim,  
And with the brand of Coward blot my Name;  
Free Leave is given him, when his fatal Hand  
Has covered with more Corpse the sanguine Strand;  
And high as mine his towering Trophies stand.  
If any Doubt remains who dares the most,  
Let us decide it at the Trojans cost:  
And issue both abrest, where Honour calls;  
Foes are not far to seek without the Walls.  
Unless his noisy Tongue can only fight;  
And Feet were given him but to speed his Flight.  
I beaten from the Field? I forced away?  
Who, but so known a Dastard, dares to say?  
Had he but even beheld the Fight, his Eyes  
Had witnessed for me what his Tongue denies:  
What heaps of Trojans by this Hand were slain,  
And how the bloody Tiber swelled the Main.  
All saw, but he, th' Arcadian Troops retire,  
In scattered Squadrons, and their Prince expire.  
The Giant Brothers, in their Camp, have found  
I was not forced with ease to quit my Ground.  
Not such the Trojans tried me, when enclosed,  
I singly their united Arms opposed:  
First forced an Entrance through their thick Array;  
Then, glutted with their Slaughter, freed my Way.  
'Tis a destructive War? So let it be,  
But to the Phrygian Pirate, and to thee.  
Mean time proceed to fill the People's Ears  
With false Reports, their Minds with panic Fears:  
Extol the Strength of a twice conquered Race,  
Our Foes encourage, and our Friends debase.  
Believe thy Fables, and the Trojan Town  
Triumphant stands, the Grecians are o'erthrown:  
Suppliant at Hector's Feet Achilles lies;  
And Diomedes from fierce Aeneas flies.  
Say rapid Aufidus with awful Dread  
Runs backward from the Sea, and hides his Head,  
When the great Trojan on his Bank appears:  
For that's as true as thy dissembled Fears  
Of my Revenge: Dismiss that Vanity,  
Thou, Drances, art below a Death from me.  
Let that vile Soul in that vile Body rest;  
The Lodging is well worthy of the Guest.   

Now, Royal Father, to the present state  
Of our Affairs, and of this high Debate;  
If in your Arms thus early you diffide,  
And think your Fortune is already tried;  
If one Defeat has brought us down so low;  
As never more in Fields to meet the Foe;  
Then I conclude for Peace: 'Tis time to treat,  
And lie like Vassals at the Victor's Feet.  
But oh, if any ancient Blood remains,  
One drop of all our Father's in our Veins;  
That Man would I prefer before the rest,  
Who dared his Death with an undaunted Breast;  
Who comely fell, by no dishonest Wound,  
To shun that Sight; and dying gnawed the Ground.  
But if we still have fresh Recruits in store,  
If our Confederates can afford us more;  
If the contended Field we bravely fought;  
And not a bloodless Victory was bought:  
Their Losses equalled ours, and for their slain,  
With equal Fires they filled the shining Plain;  
Why thus unforced should we so tamely yield;  
And e'er the Trumpet sounds, resign the Field?  
Good unexpected, Evils unforeseen,  
Appear by Turns, as Fortune shifts the Scene:  
Some, raised aloft, come tumbling down amain;  
Then fall so hard, they bound and rise again.  
If Diomedes refuse his Aid to lend,  
The great Messapus yet remains our Friend:  
Tolumnius, who foretells Events, is ours;  
Th' Italian Chiefs, and Princes, join their Powers:  
Nor lest in Number, nor in Name the last,  
Your own brave Subjects have your Cause embraced.  
Above the rest, the Volscian Amazon  
Contains an Army in herself alone:  
And heads a Squadron, terrible to sight,  
With glittering Shields, in Brazen Armour bright.  
Yet if the Foe a single Fight demand,  
And I alone the Public Peace withstand;  
If you consent, he shall not be refused,  
Nor find a Hand to Victory unused.  
This new Achilles, let him take the Field,  
With fated Armour, and Vulcanian Shield;  
For you, my Royal Father, and my Fame,  
I, Turnus, not the least of all my Name,  
Devote my Soul. He calls me hand to hand,  
And I alone will answer his Demand.  
Drances shall rest secure, and neither share  
The Danger, nor divide the Prize of War.   

While they debate; nor these nor those will yield;  
Aeneas draws his Forces to the Field:  
And moves his Camp. The Scouts, with flying Speed  
Return, and through the frighted City spread  
Th' unpleasing News, the Trojans are descried,  
In Battle marching by the River side;  
And bending to the Town. They take th' Alarm,  
Some tremble, some are bold, all in Confusion arm.  
Th' impetuous Youth press forward to the Field;  
They clash the Sword, and clatter on the Shield:  
The fearful Matrons raise a screaming Cry;  
Old feeble Men with fainter Groans reply:  
A jarring Sound results, and mingles in the Sky.  
Like that of Swans remurm'ring to the Floods;  
Or Birds of differing kinds in hollow Woods.  
Turnus th' occasion takes, and cries aloud,  
Talk on, ye acquaint Haranguers of the Crowd:  
Declaim in praise of Peace, when Danger calls;  
And the fierce Foes in Arms approach the Walls.  
He said, and turning short, with speedy Pace,  
Casts back a scornful Glance, and quits the Place.   

Thou, Volusus, the Volscian Troops command  
To mount; and lead thyself our Ardean Band.  
Messapus, and Catillus, post your Force  
Along the Fields, to charge the Trojan Horse.  
Some guard the Passes, others man the Wall;  
Drawn up in Arms, the rest attend my Call.   

They swarm from every Quarter of the Town;  
And with disordered haste the Rampires crown.  
Good old Latinus, when he saw, too late,  
The gathering Storm, just breaking on the State,  
Dismissed the Council, till a fitter time.  
And owned his easy Temper as his Crime:  
Who, forced against his reason, had complied  
To break the Treaty for the promised Bride.   

Some help to sink new Trenches, others aid  
To ram the Stones, or raise the Palisade.  
Hoarse Trumpets sound th' Alarm: Around the Walls  
Runs a distracted Crew, whom their last Labour calls.  
A sad Procession in the Streets is seen,  
Of Matrons that attend the Mother Queen:  
High in her Chair she sits, and at her side,  
With downcast Eyes appears the fatal Bride.  
They mount the Cliff, where Pallas' Temple stands;  
Prayers in their Mouths, and Presents in their Hands:  
With Censers, first they fume the sacred Shrine;  
Then in this common Supplication join.  
O Patroness of Arms, unspotted Maid,  
Propitious hear, and lend thy Latins Aid:  
Break short the Pirat's Lance; pronounce his Fate,  
And lay the Phrygian low before the Gate.  
Now Turnus arms for Fight: His Back and Breast,  
Well tempered Steel, and scaly Brass invest:  
The Cuishes, which his brawny Thighs enfold,  
Are mingled Metal damasked o'er with Gold.  
His faithful Falchion sits upon his side;  
Nor Casque, nor Crest, his manly Features hide:  
But bare to view, amid surrounding Friends,  
With Godlike Grace, he from the Tower descends.  
Exulting in his Strength, he seems to dare  
His absent Rival, and to promise War.   

Freed from his Keepers, thus with broken Reins,  
The wanton Courser prances o'er the Plains:  
Or in the Pride of Youth o'releaps the Mounds;  
And snuffs the Females in forbidden Grounds.  
Or seeks his watering in the well known Flood,  
To quench his Thirst, and cool his fiery Blood:  
He swims luxuriant, in the liquid Plain,  
And o'er his Shoulder flows his waving Mane:  
He neighs, he snorts, he bears his Head on high;  
Before his ample Chest the frothy Waters fly.   

Soon as the Prince appears without the Gate,  
The Volcians, with their Virgin Leader, wait  
His last Commands. Then with a graceful Mien,  
Lights from her lofty Steed, the Warrior Queen:  
Her Squadron imitates, and each descends;  
Whose common Suit Camilla thus commends.   

If Sense of Honour, if a Soul secure  
Of inborn Worth, that can all Tests endure,  
Can promise aught; or on itself rely,  
Greatly to dare, to conquer or to die:  
Then, I alone, sustained by these, will meet  
The Tyrrhene Troops, and promise their Defeat.  
Ours be the Danger, ours the sole Renown;  
You, Gen'ral, stay behind, and guard the Town.   

Turnus a while stood mute, with glad Surprise,  
And on the fierce Virago fixed his Eyes:  
Then thus returned: O Grace of Italy,  
With what becoming Thanks can I reply!  
Not only Words lie labouring in my Breast;  
But Thought itself is by thy Praise oppressed.  
Yet rob me not of all, but let me join  
My Toils, my Hazard, and my Fame, with thine.  
The Trojan, (not in Stratagem unskilled,)  
Sends his light Foot before to scour the Field:  
Himself, through steep Ascents, and thorny Brakes,  
A larger Compass to the City takes.  
This news my Scouts confirm: And I prepare  
To foil his Cunning, and his Force to dare.  
With chosen Foot his Passage to forelay;  
And place an Ambush in the winding way.  
Thou, with thy Volscians, face the Tuscan Horse:  
The brave Messapus shall thy Troops enforce;  
With those of Tibur; and the Latian Band:  
Subjected all to thy Supreme Command.   

This said, he warns Messapus to the War:  
Then every Chief exhorts, with equal Care.  
All thus encouraged, his own Troops he joins,  
And hastes to prosecute his deep Designs.   

Enclosed with Hills, a winding Valley lies,  
By Nature formed for Fraud, and fitted for Surprise:  
A narrow Track, by Human Steps untrode,  
Leads, through perplexing Thorns, to this obscure abode.  
High o'er the Vale a steepy Mountain stands;  
Whence the surveying Sight the nether Ground commands.  
The top is level: an offensive Seat  
Of War; and from the War a safe Retreat.  
For, on the right, and left, is room to press  
The Foes at hand, or from afar distress:  
To drive 'em headlong downward; and to pour  
On their descending backs, a stony shower.  
Thither young Turnus took the well known way;  
Possessed the Pass, and in blind Ambush lay.   

Mean time, Latonian Phoebe from the Skies,  
Beheld th' approaching War with hateful Eyes.  
And called the lightfoot Opis, to her aid,  
Her most belov'd, and ever trusty Maid.  
Then with a sigh began: Camilla goes  
To meet her Death, amidst her Fatal Foes.  
The Nymph I loved of all my Mortal Train;  
Invested with Diana's Arms, in vain.  
Nor is my kindness for the Virgin, new,  
'Twas born with Her, and with her Years it grew:  
Her Father Metabus, when forced away  
From old Privernum, for Tyrannic sway;  
Snatched up, and saved from his prevailing Foes,  
This tender Babe, Companion of his Woes.  
Casmilla was her Mother; but he drowned,  
One hissing Letter in a softer sound,  
And called Camilla. Thro the Woods, he flies;  
Wrapped in his Robe the Royal Infant lies.  
His Foes in sight, he mends his weary pace;  
With shouts and clamours they pursue the Chase.  
The Banks of Amasene at length he gains;  
The raging Flood his farther flight restrains:  
Raised o'er the Borders with unusual Rains.  
Prepared to Plunge into the Stream, He fears:  
Not for himself, but for the Charge he bears.  
Anxious he stops a while; and thinks in haste;  
Then, desperate in Distress, resolves at last.  
A knotty Lance of well-boiled Oak he bore;  
The middle part with Cork he covered o'er:  
He closed the Child within the hollow Space;  
With Twigs of bending Osier bound the Case.  
Then poised the Spear, heavy with Human Weight;  
And thus invoked my Favour for the Freight.  
Accept, great Goddess of the Woods, he said,  
Sent by her Sire, this dedicated Maid:  
Through Air she flies a Suppliant to thy Shrine;  
And the first Weapons that she knows, are thine.  
He said; and with full Force the Spear he threw:  
Above the sounding Waves Camilla flew.  
Then, pressed by Foes, he stemmed the stormy Tide;  
And gained, by stress of Arms, the farther Side.  
His fastened Spear he pulled from out the Ground;  
And, Victor of his Vows, his Infant Nymph unbound.  
Nor after that, in Towns which Walls enclose,  
Would trust his hunted Life amidst his Foes.  
But rough, in open Air he chose to lie:  
Earth was his Couch, his Covering was the Sky.  
On Hills unshorn, or in a desert Den,  
He shunned the dire Society of Men.  
A Shepherd's solitary Life he led:  
His Daughter with the Milk of Mares he fed;  
The Dugs of Bears, and every Savage Beast,  
He drew, and through her Lips the Liquor pressed.  
The little Amazon could scarcely go,  
He loads her with a Quiver and a Bow:  
And, that she might her staggering Steps command,  
He with a slender Javelin fills her Hand:  
Her flowing Hair no golden Fillet bound;  
Nor swept her trailing Robe the dusty Ground.  
Instead of these, a Tyger's Hide o'erspread  
Her Back and Shoulders, fastened to her Head.  
The flying Dart she first attempts to fling;  
And round her tender Temples tossed the Sling:  
Then, as her Strength with Years increased, began  
To pierce aloft in Air the soaring Swan:  
And from the Clouds to fetch the Heron and the Crane.  
The TuscanMatrons with each other vied,  
To bless their Rival Sons with such a Bride:  
But she disdains their Love; to share with me  
The Sylvan Shades, and vowed Virginity.  
And, oh! I wish, contented with my Cares  
Of Savage Spoils, she had not sought the Wars:  
Then had she been of my Celestial Train;  
And shunned the Fate that dooms her to be slain.  
But, since opposing heavens Decree, she goes  
To find her Death among forbidden Foes;  
Haste with these Arms, and take thy steepy flight,  
Where, with the Gods averse, the Latins fight:  
This Bow to thee, this Quiver, I bequeath,  
This chosen Arrow to revenge her Death.  
By what e'er Hand Camilla shall be slain,  
Or of the Trojan, or Italian Train,  
Let him not pass unpunished from the Plain.  
Then, in a hollow Cloud, myself will Aid,  
To bear the breathless Body of my Maid:  
Unspoiled shall be her Arms, and unprofaned  
Her holy Limbs with any Human Hand:  
And in a Marble Tomb laid in her Native Land.   

She said: The faithful Nymph descends from high  
With rapid flight, and cuts the sounding Sky;  
Black Clouds and stormy Winds around her Body fly.   

By this, the Trojan and the Tuscan Horse,  
Drawn up in Squadrons, with united Force,  
Approach the Walls; the sprightly Coursers bound;  
Press forward on their Bits, and shift their Ground:  
Shields, Arms, and Spears, flash horrible from far;  
And the Fields glitter with a waving War.  
Opposed to these, come on with furious Force,  
Messapus, Coras, and the Latian Horse;  
These in the Body placed; on either hand  
Sustained, and closed by fair Camillas Band.  
Advancing in a Line, they couch their Spears;  
And less and less the middle Space appears.  
Thick Smoak obscures the Field: And scarce are seen  
The neighing Coursers, and the shouting Men.  
In distance of their Darts they stop their Course;  
Then Man to Man they rush, and Horse to Horse.  
The face of Heaven their flying javelins hide;  
And Deaths unseen are dealt on either side.  
Tyrrhenus, and Aconteus, void of Fear,  
By mettled Coursers born in full Career,  
Meet first opposed: and, with a mighty Shock,  
Their Horse's Heads against each other knock.  
Far from his Steed is fierce Aconteus cast;  
As with an engine's force, or Lightning's blast:  
He rowls along in Blood, and breathes his last.  
The Latin Squadrons take a sudden fright;  
And sling their Shields behind, to save their Backs in flight.  
Spurring at speed to their own Walls they drew;  
Close in the rear the Tuscan Troops pursue:  
And urge their flight. Asylas leads the Chase;  
Till seized with Shame they wheel about and face:  
Receive their Foes, and raise a threatening Cry:  
The Tuscans take their turn to fear and fly.   

So swelling Surges, with a thundering Roar,  
Driven on each others Backs, insult the Shoar;  
Bound o'er the Rocks, encroach upon the Land;  
And far upon the Beach eject the Sand.  
Then backward with a Swing, they take their Way;  
Repulsed from upper Ground, and seek their Mother Sea:  
With equal hurry quit th' invaded Shore;  
And swallow back the Sand, and Stones they spewed before.  
Twice were the Tuscans Masters of the Field,  
Twice by the Latins, in their turn repelled.  
Ashamed at length, to the third Charge they ran  
Both Hosts resolved, and mingled Man to Man:  
Now dying Groans are heard, the Fields are strowed  
With falling Bodies, and are drunk with Blood:  
Arms, Horses, Men, on heaps together lie:  
Confused the Fight, and more confused the Cry.  
Orsilochus, who durst not press too near  
Strong Remulus, at distance drove his Spear;  
And stuck the Steel beneath his Horse's Ear:  
The fiery Steed, impatient of the Wound,  
Curvets, and springing upward with a Bound,  
His helpless Lord cast backward on the Ground.  
Catillus' pierced jolas' first; then drew  
His reeking Lance, and at Herminius threw:  
The mighty Champion of the Tuscan Crew.  
His Neck and Throat unarmed, his Head was bare,  
But shaded with a length of yellow Hair:  
Secure, he fought, exposed on every part,  
A spacious mark for Swords, and for the Dart:  
Across the Shoulders came the flying Wound;  
Transfixed, he fell, and doubled to the Ground.   

The Sands with streaming Blood are sanguine died;  
And Death with Honour, sought on either side.   

Resistless through the War, Camilla road;  
In Danger unappalled, and pleased with Blood.  
One side was bare for her exerted Breast;  
One Shoulder with her painted Quiver pressed.  
Now from afar her Fatal javelins play;  
Now with her Axe's edge she hews her Way:  
Diana's Arms upon her Shoulder found;  
And when, too closely pressed, she quits the Ground;  
From her bend Bow she sends a backward Wound.  
Her Maids, in Martial Pomp, on either side,  
Larina, Tulla, fierce Tarpeia ride;  
Italians all: in Peace, their Queen's delight:  
In War the bold Companions of the Fight.   

So marched the Thracian Amazons of old,  
When Thermodon with bloody Billows rolled:  
Such Troops as these in shining Arms were seen;  
When Theseus met in Fight their Maiden Queen.  
Such to the Field Penthesilea led,  
From the fierce Virgin when the Grecians fled:  
With such, returned Triumphant from the War;  
Her Maids with Cries attend the lofty Carr:  
They clash with manly force their Moony Shields;  
With Female Shouts refound the Phrygian Fields.   

Who foremost, and who last, Heroic Maid,  
On the cold Earth were by thy Courage laid?  
Thy Spear, of Mountain Ash, Eumenius first,  
With fury driven, from side to side transpierced:  
A purple Stream came spouting from the Wound;  
Bathed in his Blood he lies, and bites the Ground.  
Lyris and Pagasus at once she slew;  
The former, as the slackened Reins he drew,  
Of his faint steed: the latter, as he stretched  
His Arm to prop his Friend, the Javelin reached.  
By the same Weapon, sent from the same Hand,  
Both fall together, and both spurn the Sand.  
Amastrus next is added to the slain:  
The rest in Rout she follows o'er the Plain.  
Tereus, Harpalicus, Demophoon,  
And Chromys, at full Speed her Fury shun.  
Of all her deadly Darts, not one she lost;  
Each was attended with a Trojan Ghost.  
Young Ornithus bestrode a Hunter Steed,  
Swift for the Chase, and of Apulian Breed:  
Him, from afar, she spied in Arms unknown;  
O'er his broad Back an Ox's hide was thrown:  
His Helm a Wolf, whose gaping Jaws were spread,  
A covering for his Cheeks, and grinned around his Head.  
He clenched within his Hand an Iron Prong;  
And towered above the rest, conspicuous in the Throng.  
Him soon she singled from the flying Train,  
And slew with ease: Then thus insults the slain.  
Vain Hunter didst thou think through Woods to chase  
The Savage Herd, a vile and trembling Race:  
Here cease thy Vaunts, and own my Victory;  
A Woman-Warrior was too strong for thee.  
Yet if the Ghosts demand the Conqu'ror's Name,  
Confessing great Camilla, save thy Shame.  
Then Butes, and Orsilochus, she slew:  
The bulkiest Bodies of the Trojan Crew.  
But Butes Breast to Breast: the Spear descends  
Above the Gorget, where his Helmet ends;  
And o'er the Shield which his left Side defends.  
Orsilochus and she, their Coursers ply;  
He seems to follow, and she seems to fly.  
But in a narrower Ring she makes the Race;  
And then he flies, and she pursues the Chase.  
Gathering at length on her deluded Foe,  
She swings her Axe, and rises to the Blow:   

To the Right Honble▪ William Berkley Baron Berkley of Stratton & ct.  
A 11. l. 1035.   

Full on the Helm behind, with such a sway  
The Weapon falls, the riven Steel gives way:  
He groans, he roars, he sues in vain for Grace;  
Brains, mingled with his Blood, besmear his Face.  
Astonished Aunus just arrives by Chance,  
To see his Fall, nor farther dares advance:  
But fixing on the horrid Maid his Eye,  
He stairs, and shakes, and finds it vain to fly.  
Yet like a true Ligurian, born to cheat,  
(At least while Fortune favoured his Deceit)  
Cries out aloud, what Courage have you shown,  
Who trust your Courser's Strength, and not your own?  
Forego the vantage of your Horse, alight,  
And then on equal Terms begin the Fight:  
It shall be seen, weak Woman, what you can,  
When Foot to Foot, you combat with a Man.  
He said: She glows with Anger and Disdain,  
Dismounts with speed to dare him on the Plain;  
And leaves her Horse at large among her Train.  
With her drawn Sword defies him to the Field;  
And marching, lists aloft her maiden Shield:  
The Youth, who thought his Cunning did succeed,  
Reins round his Horse, and urges all his Speed.  
Adds the remembrance of the Spur, and hides  
The goring Rowels in his bleeding Sides.  
Vain Fool, and Coward, cries the lofty Maid,  
Caught in the Train, which thou thyself hast laid!  
On others practise thy Ligurian Arts;  
Thin Stratagems, and Tricks of little Hearts  
Are lost on me. Nor shalt thou safe retire,  
With vaunting Lies to thy fallacious Sire.  
At this, so fast her flying Feet she sped,  
That soon she strained beyond his Horse's Head:  
Then turning short, at once she seized the Rein,  
And laid the Boaster groveling on the Plain.  
Not with more ease the Falcon from above,  
Trusses, in middle Air, the trembling Drove:  
Then Plumes the Prey, in her strong Pounces bound:  
The Feathers foul with Blood come tumbling to the ground.   

Now mighty Jove, from his superior height,  
With his broad Eye surveys th' unequal Fight.  
He fires the Breast of Tarchon with Disdain;  
And sends him to redeem th' abandoned Plain.  
Betwixt the broken Ranks the Tuscan rides,  
And these encourages, and those he chides:  
Recalls each Leader, by his Name, from flight;  
Renews their Ardour; and restores the Fight.  
What Panic Fear has seized your Souls, O shame,  
O Brand perpetual of th' Etrurian Name;  
Cowards incurable, a Woman's Hand  
Drives, breaks, and scatters your ignoble Band!  
Now cast away the Sword, and quit the Shield:  
What use of Weapons which you dare not wield?  
Not thus you fly your Female Foes, by Night,  
Nor shun the Feast, when the full Bowls invite:  
When to fat Offerings the glad Augur calls;  
And the shrill Hornpipe sounds to Bacchanals.  
These are your studied Cares; your lewd Delight;  
Swift to debauch; but slow to Manly Fight.  
Thus having said, he spurs amid the Foes;  
Not managing the Life he meant to lose.  
The first he found he seized, with headlong haste,  
In his strong Gripe; and clasped around the Waste:  
'Twas Venulus; whom from his Horse he tore,  
And, (laid athwart his own,) in Triumph bore.  
Loud Shouts ensue: The Latins turn their Eyes,  
And view th' unusual sight with vast Surprise.  
The fiery Tarchon, flying o'er the Plains,  
Pressed in his Arms the ponderous Prey sustains:  
Then, with his shortened Spear, explores around  
His jointed Arms, to fix a deadly Wound.  
Nor less the Captive struggles for his Life;  
He writhes his Body to prolong the Strife:  
And, fencing for his naked Throat, exerts  
His utmost Vigour, and the point averts.   

So stoops the yellow Eagle from on high,  
And bears a speckled Serpent through the Sky;  
fastening his crooked Talons on the Prey:  
The Prisoner hisses through the liquid Way,  
Resists the Royal Hawk, and tho' oppressed,  
She fights in Volumes, and erects her Crest:  
Turned to her Foe, she stiffens every Scale;  
And shoots her forky Tongue, and whisks her threatening Tail.  
Against the Victor all Defence is weak;  
Th' imperial Bird still plies her with his Beak:  
He tears her Bowels, and her Breast he gores;  
Then claps his Pinions, and securely soars.   

Thus, through the midst of circling Enemies,  
Strong Tarchon snatched and bore away his Prize:  
The Tyrrhene Troops, that shrunk before, now press  
The Latins, and presume the like Success.   

Then, Aruns doomed to Death, his Arts assayed  
To murder, unespyed, the Volscian Maid,  
This way, and that his winding Course he bends;  
And wheresoever she turns, her Steps attends.  
When she retires victorious from the Chase,  
He wheels about with Care, and shifts his place:  
When rushing on, she seeks her Foes in Fight,  
He keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight:  
He threats, and trembles, trying every Way  
Unseen to kill, and safely to betray.   

Chloreus, the Priest of Cybele, from far,  
glittering in Phrygian Arms amidst the War,  
Was by the Virgin viewed: The Steed he pressed  
Was proud with Trappings; and his brawny Chest  
With Scales of guilded Brass was covered o'er:  
A Robe of Tyrian Dye the Rider wore.  
With deadly Wounds he gauled the distant Eoe;  
Gnossian his Shafts, and Lycian was his Bow:  
A Golden Helm his Front, and head surrounds;  
A guilded Quiver from his Shoulder sounds.  
Gold, weaved with Linen, on his Thighs he wore:  
With Flowers of Needlework distinguished o'er:  
With Golden Buckles bound, and gathered up before.  
Him, the fierce Maid beheld with ardent Eyes;  
Fond and Ambitious of so Rich a Prize:  
Or that the Temple might his Trophies hold,  
Or else to shine herself in Trojan Gold:  
Blind in her haste, she chases him alone,  
And seeks his Life, regardless of her own.  
This lucky Moment the sly Traitor chose:  
Then, starting from his Ambush up he rose,  
And threw, but first to Heaven addressed his Vows.  
O Patron of Soractes high Abodes,  
Phoebus the Ruling Power among the Gods;  
Whom first we serve, whole Woods of unctuous Pine  
Are felled for thee, and to thy Glory shine;  
By thee protected, with our naked Soles,  
Through Flames unsinged we march, and tread the kindled Coals:  
Give me, propitious Power, to wash away  
The Stains of this dishonourable Day:  
Nor Spoils, nor Triumph, from the Fact I claim;  
But with my future Actions trust my Fame.  
Let me, by stealth; this Female Plague o'ercome;  
And from the Field, return inglorious home.   

To Arthur manwaring of Ightfield in the County of Salop Esqr::  
A 11. l. 1150.   

Apollo heard, and granting half his Prayer,  
Shuffled in Winds the rest, and tossed in empty Air.  
He gives the Death desired; his safe return,  
By Southern Tempests to the Seas is born.   

Now, when the Javelin whizzed along the Skies,  
Both Armies on Camilla turned their Eyes,  
Directed by the Sound: Of either Host,  
Th' unhappy Virgin, tho' concerned the most,  
Was only deaf; so greedy was she bend  
On Golden Spoils, and on her Prey intent:  
Till in her Pap the winged Weapon stood  
Infixed; and deeply drunk the purple Blood.  
Her sad Attendants hasten to sustain  
Their dying Lady drooping on the Plain.  
Far from their sight the trembling Aruns flies,  
With beating Heart, and Fear confused with Joys;  
Nor dares he farther to pursue his Blow;  
Or even to bear the sight of his expiring Foe.   

As when the Wolf has torn a Bullocks Hide,  
At unawares, or ranched the Shepherd's Side:  
Conscious of his audacious deed, he flies,  
And claps his quivering Tail between his Thighs:  
So, speeding once, the Wretch no more attends;  
But spurring forward herds among his Friends.  
She wrenched the Javelin with her dying Hands;  
But wedged within her Breast the Weapon stands:  
The Wood she draws, the steely Point remains,  
She staggers in her Seat, with agonizing Pains:  
A gathering Mist o'reclouds her cheerful Eyes;  
And from her Cheeks the rosy Colour flies.  
Then, turns to her, whom, of her Female Train,  
She trusted most, and thus she speaks with Pain.  
Acca, 'tis past! He swims before my sight,  
Inexorable Death; and claims his right.  
Bear my last Words to Turnus, fly with speed,  
And bid him timely to my Charge succeed:  
Repel the Trojans, and the Town relieve:  
Farewell; and in this Kiss my parting Breath receive.  
She said; and sliding, sunk upon the Plain;  
Dying, her opened Hand forsakes the Rein;  
Short, and more short, she pants: By slow degrees  
Her Mind the Passage from her Body frees.  
She drops her Sword, she nods her plumy Crest;  
Her drooping Head declining on her Breast:  
In the last Sigh her struggling Soul expires;  
And murmuring with Disdain, to Stygian Sounds retires.   

A Shout, that struck the Golden Stars, ensued:  
Despair and Rage, the languished Fight renewed.  
The Trojan Troops, and Tuscans in a Line,  
Advance to charge; the mixed Arcadians join.   

But Cynthia's Maid, high seated, from afar  
Surveys the Field, and fortune of the War:  
Unmoved a while, till prostrate on the Plain,  
weltering in Blood, she sees Camilla slain;  
And round her Corpse, of Friends and Foes a fight Train.  
Then, from the bottom of her Breast, she drew  
A mournful Sigh, and these sad Words ensue:  
Too dear a Fine, ah much lamented Maid,  
For warring with the Trojans, thou hast paid!  
Nor ought availed, in this unhappy Strife,  
Diana's sacred Arms, to save thy Life.  
Yet unrevenged thy Goddess will not leave  
Her Vot'ries Death, nor with vain Sorrow grieve.  
Branded the Wretch, and be his Name abhorred;  
But after Ages shall thy Praise record.  
Th' inglorious Coward soon shall press the Plain;  
Thus vows thy Queen, and thus the Fates ordain.   

High o'er the Field, there stood a hilly Mound;  
Sacred the Place, and spread with Oaks around;  
Where, in a Marble Tomb, Dercennus lay,  
A King that once in Latium bore the Sway.  
The beauteous Opis thither bend her flight,  
To mark the Traitor Aruns, from the height.  
Him, in refulgent Arms she soon espied,  
Swollen with success, and loudly thus she cried.  
Thy backward steps, vain boaster, are too late;  
Turn, like a Man at length, and meet thy Fate.  
Charged with my Message to Camilla go;  
And say I sent thee to the Shades below;  
An Honour undeserved from Cynthia's Bow.   

She said: and from her Quiver chose with speed  
The winged Shaft, predestined for the Deed:  
Then, to the stubborn Yew her strength applied;  
Till the far distant Horns approached on either side.  
The Bowstring touched her Breast, so strong she drew;  
Whizzing in Air the fatal Arrow flew.  
At once the twanging Bow, and sounding Dart  
The Traitor heard, and felt the point within his heart.  
Him, beating with his heels, in pangs of death,  
His flying Friends to foreign Fields bequeath.  
The Conquering Damsel, with expanded Wings,  
The welcome Message to her Mistress brings.   

Their Leader lost, the Volscians quit the Field;  
And, unsustained, the Chiefs of Turnus yield.  
The frighted Soldiers, when their Captains fly,  
More on their speed than on their Strength rely.  
Confused in flight, they bear each other down:  
And spur their Horses headlong to the Town.  
Driven by their Foes, and to their Fears resigned,  
Not once they turn; but take their Wounds behind.  
These drop the Shield, and those the Lance forego;  
Or on their Shoulders bear the slackened Bow.  
The Hoofs of Horses with a rattling sound,  
Beat short, and thick, and shake the rotten ground.  
Black clouds of dust, come rolling in the Sky,  
And o'er the darkened Walls, and Rampires fly.  
The trembling Matrons, from their lofty Stands,  
Rend Heaven with Female Shrieks; and wring their Hands  
All pressing on, Pursuers and pursued,  
Are crushed in Crowds, a Mingled multitude.  
Some happy few escape: the Throng too late  
Rush on for Entrance, till they choke the Gate.  
Even in the sight of home, the wretched Sire  
Looks on, and sees his helpless Son expire.  
Then, in a fright, the folding Gates they close:  
But leave their Friends excluded with their Foes.  
The vanquished cry; the Victors loudly shout;  
'tis Terror all within; and Slaughter all without.  
Blind in their Fear, they bounce against the wall,  
Or to their Moats pursued, precipitate their fall.   

The Latian Virgins, valiant with despair,  
Armed on the Towrs the Common Danger share:  
So much of Zeal their Country's Cause inspired;  
So much Camilla's great Example fired.  
Poles, sharpened in the flames, from high they throw;  
With imitated Darts to gall the Foe.  
Their Lives, for Godlike freedom they bequeath;  
And crowd each other to be first in death.  
Mean time, to Turnus, ambushed in the shade,  
With heavy tidings, came th' Unhappy Maid.  
The Volscians overthrown, Camilla killed,  
The Foes entirely Masters of the Field,  
Like a resistless Flood, come rolling on:  
The cry goes off the Plain, and thickens to the Town.   

Inflamed with Rage, (for so the Furies fire  
The Daunian's Breast, and so the Fates require,)  
He leaves the hilly Pass, the Woods in vain  
Possessed, and downward issues on the Plain:  
Scarce was he gone, when to the straits, now freed  
From secret Foes, the Trojan Troops succeed.  
Through the black Forest, and the ferny Brake,  
Unknowingly secure, their Way they take.  
From the rough Mountains to the Plain descend;  
And there, in Order drawn, their Line extend.  
Both Armies, now, in open Fields are seen:  
Nor far the distance of the Space between.  
Both to the City bend: Aeneas sees,  
Through smoking Fields, his hastening Enemies.  
And Turnus views the Trojans in Array,  
And hears th' approaching Horses proudly neigh.  
Soon had their Hosts in bloody Battle joined;  
But westward to the Sea the Sun declined.  
Entrenched before the Town, both Armies lie:  
While Night with sable Wings o'respreads the Sky.    

The Twelfth Book of the Aeneis.  
The Argument.  
Turnus challenges Aeneas to a single Combat: Articles are agreed on, but broken by the Rutili, who wound Aeneas: He is miraculously cured by Venus, forces Turnus to a Duel, and concludes the Poem with his Death.  

WHen Turnus saw the Latins leave the Field;  
Their Armies broken, and their Courage quelled;  
Himself become the Mark of public Spite,  
His Honour questioned for the promised Fight:  
The more he was with Vulgar hate oppressed;  
The more his Fury boiled within his Breast:  
He roused his Vigour for the last Debate;  
And raised his haughty Soul, to meet his Fate.   

As when the Swains the Lybian Lion chase,  
He makes a sour Retreat, nor mends his Pace;  
But if the pointed Javelin pierce his Side,  
The lordly Beast returns with double Pride:  
He wrenches out the Steel, he roars for Pain;  
His sides he lashes, and erects his Mane.  
So Turnus fares; his Eyeballs flash with Fire,  
And his wide Nostrils Clouds of Smoke expire.   

Trembling with Rage, around the Court he ran;  
At length approached the King, and thus began.  
No more excuses or Delays: I stand  
In Arms prepared to Combat, hand to hand,  
This base Deserter of his Native Land.  
The Trojan, by his Word, is bound to take  
The same Conditions which himself did make.   

To the Right Honble: Philip Lord Stanhope Earl of Chesterfield Baron of Shelford in the Kingdom of England  
A 12. l. 1.   

Renew the Truce, the solemn Rites prepare;  
And to my single Virtue trust the War.  
The Latians unconcerned shall see the Fight;  
This Arm unaided shall assert your Right:  
Then, if my prostrate Body press the Plain,  
To him the Crown, and beauteous Bride remain.   

To whom the King sedately thus replied;  
Brave Youth, the more your Valour has been tried,  
The more becomes it us, with due Respect  
To weigh the chance of War, which you neglect.  
You want not Wealth, or a successive Throne,  
Or Cities, which your Arms have made your own;  
My Towns and Treasures are at your Command;  
And stored with blooming Beauties is my Land:  
Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,  
Unmarried, fair, of Noble Families.  
Now let me speak; and you with Patience hear,  
Things which perhaps may grate a Lover's Ear:  
But sound Advice, proceeding from a heart,  
Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful Art.   

The Gods, by Signs, have manifestly shown,  
No Prince, Italian born, should heir my Throne:  
Oft have our Augurs, in Prediction skilled,  
And oft our Priests, a Foreign Son revealed.  
Yet, won by Worth, that cannot be withstood,  
Bribed by my Kindness to my kindred Blood,  
Urged by my Wife, who would not be denied;  
I promised my Lavinia for your Bride:  
Her from her plighted Lord by force I took;  
All ties of Treaties, and of Honour broke:  
On your Account I waged an impious War,  
With what Success 'tis needless to declare;  
I, and my Subjects feel; and you have had your Share.  
Twice vanquished, while in bloody Fields we strive,  
Scarce in our Walls, we keep our Hopes alive:  
The rolling Flood runs warm with human Gore;  
The Bones of Latians, blanche the neighbouring Shore:  
Why put I not an end to this Debate,  
Still unresolved, and still a Slave to Fate?  
If Turnus' Death a lasting Peace can give,  
Why should I not procure it, while you live.  
Should I to doubtful Arms your Youth betray,  
What would my Kinsmen, the Rutulians, say?  
And should you fall in Fight, (which Heaven defend)  
How curse the Cause, which hastened to his end,  
The Daughter's Lover, and the Father's Friend?  
Weigh in your Mind, the various Chance of War,  
Pity your Parent's Age; and ease his Care.   

Such balmy Words he poured, but all in vain;  
The proffered Medicine but provoked the Pain.  
The wrathful Youth disdaining the Relief,  
With intermitting Sobs, thus vents his Grief.  
The care, O best of Fathers, which you take  
For my Concerns, at my Desire, forsake.  
Permit me not to languish out my Days;  
But make the best exchange of Life for Praise.  
This Arm, this Lance, can well dispute the Prize;  
And the Blood follows, where the Weapon flies:  
His Goddess Mother is not near, to shroud  
The flying Coward, with an empty Cloud.   

But now the Queen, who feared for Turnus' Life,  
And loathed the hard Conditions of the Strife,  
Held him by Force; and, dying in his Death,  
In these sad Accents gave her Sorrow breath.  
O Turnus I adjure thee by these Tears;  
And what e'er price Amata's Honour bears  
Within thy Breast, since thou art all my hope,  
My sickly Mind's repose, my sinking Age's Prop;  
Since on the safety of thy Life alone,  
Depends Latinus, and the Latian Throne:  
Refuse me not this one, this only Prayer;  
To wave the Combat, and pursue the War.  
Whatever chance attends this fatal Strife,  
Think it includes in thine Amata's Life.  
I cannot live a Slave; or see my Throne  
Usurped by Strangers, or a Trojan Son.   

At this, a Flood of Tears Lavinia shed;  
A crimson Blush her beauteous Face o'erspread;  
Varying her Cheeks by Turns, with white and red.  
The driving Colours, never at a stay,  
Run here and there; and flush, and fade away.  
Delightful change! Thus Indian Ivory shows,  
Which with the bordering Paint of Purple glows;  
Or Lilies damasked by the neighbouring Rose.  
The Lover gazed, and burning with desire,  
The more he looked, the more he fed the Fire:  
Revenge, and jealous Rage, and secret Spite;  
Rowl in his Breast, and rouse him to the Fight.   

Then fixing on the Queen his ardent Eyes,  
Firm to his first intent, he thus replies.  
O Mother, do not by your Tears prepare  
Such boding Omens, and prejudge the War.  
Resolved on Fight, I am no longer free  
To shun my Death, if Heaven my Death decree.   

Then turning to the Herald, thus pursues;  
Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful News,  
Denounce from me, that when to Morrow's Light  
Shall gild the heavens, he need not urge the Fight:  
The Trojan and Rutulian Troops, no more  
Shall die, with mutual Blood, the Latian Shore:  
Our single Swords the Quarrel shall decide,  
And to the Victor be the beauteous Bride.   

He said, and striding on, with speedy Pace,  
He sought his Coursers of the Thracian Race.  
At his Approach, they toss their Heads on high;  
And proudly neighing, promise Victory.  
The Sires of these Orythia sent from far,  
To grace Pilumnus, when he went to War.  
The drifts of Thracian Snows were scarce so white  
Nor Northern Winds in fleetness matched their Flight.  
Officious Grooms stand ready by his Side;  
And some with Combs their flowing Manes divide,  
And others stroke their Chests, and gently soothe their Pride.   

He sheathed his Limbs in Arms; a tempered Mass  
Of golden Metal those, and Mountain Brass.  
Then to his Head his glittering Helm he tied;  
And gird his faithful Falchion to his side.  
In his Aetnean Forge, the God of Fire  
That Falchion laboured sor the Hero's Sire:  
Immortal Keenness on the Blade bestowed,  
And plunged it hissing in the Stygian Flood.  
Propped on a Pillar, which the Ceiling bore,  
Was placed the Lance Auruncan Actor wore;  
Which with such Force he brandished in his Hand,  
The tough Ash trembled like an Osyer Wand.  
Then cried, O ponderous Spoil of Actor slain,  
And never yet by Turnus tossed in vain,  
Fail not this Day thy wont Force: But go,  
Sent by this Hand, to pierce the Trojan Foe:  
Give me to tear his Corslet from his Breast,  
And from that Eunuch Head, to rend the Crest:  
Dragged in the Dust, his frizzled Hair to soil;  
Hot from the vexing Ir'n, and smeared with fragrant Oil.   

Thus while he raves, from his wide Nostrils flies  
A fiery Steam, and Sparkles from his Eyes.  
So fares the Bull in his loved Female's sight;  
Proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight:  
He tries his goring Horns against a Tree;  
And meditates his absent Enemy:  
He bushes at the Winds, he digs the Strand  
With his black Hoofs, and spurns the yellow Sand.   

Nor less the Trojan, in his Lemnian Arms,  
To future Fight his Manly Courage warms:  
He whets his Fury, and with Joy prepares,  
To terminate at once the lingering Wars.  
To cheer his chiefs, and tender Son, relates  
What Heaven had promised, and expounds the Fates.  
Then to the Latian King he sends, to cease  
The Rage of Arms, and ratifies the Peace.   

The Morn ensuing from the Mountain's height,  
Had scarcely spread the Skies with rosy Light;  
Th' Etherial Coursers bounding from the Sea,  
From out their flaming Nostrils breathed the Day:  
When now the Trojan and Rutulian Guard,  
In friendly Labour joined, the List prepared.  
Beneath the Walls, they measure out the Space;  
Then sacred Altars rear, on sods of Grass;  
Where, with Religious Rites, their common Gods they place.  
In purest white, the Priests their Heads attire,  
And living Waters bear, and holy Fire:  
And o'er their Linen Hoods, and shaded Hair,  
Long twisted Wreaths of sacred Vervain wear.   

In Order issuing from the Town, appears  
The Latin Legion, armed with pointed Spears;  
And from the Fields, advancing on a Line,  
The Trojan and the Tuscan Forces join:  
Their various Arms afford a pleasing Sight;  
A peaceful Train they seem, in Peace prepared for Fight.   

Betwixt the Ranks the proud Commanders ride,  
glittering with Gold, and Vests in Purple died.  
Here Mnestheus Author of the Memmian Line,  
And there Messapus born of Seed Divine.  
The Sign is given, and round the listed Space,  
Each Man in order fills his proper Place.  
Reclining on their ample Shields, they stand;  
And fix their pointed Lances in the Sand.  
Now, studious of the sight, a numerous Throng  
Of either Sex promiscuous, old and young,  
Swarm from the Town: By those who rest behind,  
The Gates and Walls, and Houses tops are lined.   

Mean time the Queen of Heaven beheld the sight,  
With Eyes unpleased, from Mount Albano's height:  
(Since called Albano, by succeeding Fame,  
But then an empty Hill, without a Name.)  
She thence surveyed the Field, the Trojan Powers,  
The Latian Squadrons, and Laurentine towers.  
Then thus the Goddess of the Skies bespoke,  
With Sighs and Tears, the Goddess of the Lake;  
King Turnus' Sister, once a lovely Maid,  
ere to the Lust of lawless Jove betrayed:  
Compressed by Force, but by the grateful God,  
Now made the Nais of the neighbouring Flood.   

O Nymph, the Pride of living Lakes, said she,  
O most renowned, and most beloved by me,  
Long hast thou known, nor need I to record  
The wanton sallies of my wandering Lord:  
Of every Latian fair, whom Jove misled,  
To mount by Stealth my violated Bed,  
To thee alone I grudged not his Embrace;  
But gave a part of Heaven, and an unenvied Place.   

To the Honble. Brigadier Edward Fitzpatrick   

Now learn from me, thy near approaching Grief,  
Nor think my Wishes want to thy Relief.  
While fortune favoured, nor heavens King denied,  
To lend my Succour to the Latian side,  
I saved thy Brother, and the sinking State:  
But now he struggles with unequal Fate;  
And goes with God's averse, o'rematched in Might,  
To meet inevitable Death in Fight:  
Nor must I break the Truce, nor can sustain the sight.  
Thou, if thou dar'st, thy present Aid supply;  
It well becomes a Sister's Care to try.   

At this the lovely Nymph, with Grief oppressed,  
Thrice tore her Hair, and beat her comely Breast.  
To whom Saturnia thus; thy Tears are late;  
Haste, snatch him, if he can be snatched from Fate:  
New Tumults kindle, violate the Truce;  
Who knows what changeful Fortune may produce?  
'Tis not a Crime t' attempt what I decree,  
Or if it were, discharge the Crime on me.  
She said, and, sailing on the winged Wind,  
Left the sad Nymph suspended in her Mind.   

And now in Pomp the peaceful Kings appear:  
Four Steeds the Chariot of Latinus bear:  
Twelve golden Beams around his Temples play,  
To mark his Lineage from the God of Day.  
Two snowy Coursers Turnus' Chariot yoke,  
And in his Hand two Massy Spears he shook:  
Then issued from the Camp, in Arms Divine,  
Aeneas, Author of the Roman Line:  
And by his side Ascanius took his Place,  
The second Hope of Rome's Immortal Race.  
Adorned in white, a reverend Priest appears;  
And Offerings to the flaming Altars bears;  
A Porket, and a Lamb, that never suffered Shears.  
Then, to the rising Sun he turns his Eyes,  
And strews the Beasts, designed for Sacrifice,  
With Salt, and Meal: With like officious Care  
He marks their Foreheads, and he eclipse their Hair.  
Betwixt their Horns the Purple Wine he sheds,  
With the same generous Juice the Flame he feeds.  
Aeneas then unsheathed his shining Sword,  
And thus with pious Prayers the Gods adored.   

Allseeing Sun, and thou Ausonian Soil,  
For which I have sustained so long a Toil,  
Thou King of Heaven, and thou the Queen of Air,  
(Propitious now, and reconciled by Prayer,)  
Thou God of War, whose unresisted Sway  
The Labours and Events of Arms obey;  
Ye living Fountains, and ye running Floods,  
All Powers of Ocean, all Etherial Gods,  
Hear, and bear Record: if I fall in Field,  
Or Recreant in the Fight, to Turnus yield,  
My Trojans shall increase Evander's Town;  
Ascanius shall renounce th' Ausonian Crown:  
All Claims, all Questions of Debate shall cease;  
Nor he, nor they, with Force infringe the Peace.  
But if my juster Arms prevail in Fight,  
As sure they shall, if I divine aright,  
My Trojans shall not o'er th' Italians Reign;  
Both equal, both unconquered shall remain:  
Joined in their Laws, their Lands, and their Abodes;  
I ask but Altars for my weary Gods:  
The Care of those Religious Rites be mine;  
The Crown to King Latinus I resign:  
His be the sovereign Sway. Nor will I share  
His Power in Peace, or his Command in War.  
For me, my Friends another Town shall frame,  
And bless the rising towers, with fair Lavinia's Name.   

Thus he. Then with erected Eyes and Hands,  
The Latian King before his Altar stands.  
By the same Heaven, said he, and Earth, and Main,  
And all the Powers, that all the three contain;  
By Hell below, and by that upper God,  
Whose Thunder signs the Peace, who seals it with his Nod;  
So let Latona's double Offspring hear,  
And double fronted Janus, what I swear;  
I touch the sacred Altars, touch the Flames,  
And all those Powers attest, and all their Names:  
Whatever Chance befall on either Side,  
No term of time this Union shall divide:  
No Force, no Fortune, shall my Vows unbind,  
Or shake the steadfast Tenor of my Mind:  
Not tho' the circling Seas should break their Bound,  
O'erflow the Shores, or sap the solid Ground;  
Not tho' the Lamps of Heaven their Spheres forsake,  
Hurled down, and hissing in the nether Lake:  
Even as this Royal Sceptre, (for he bore  
A Sceptre in his Hand) shall never more  
Shoot out in Branches, or renew the Birth;  
(An Orphan now, cut from the Mother Earth  
By the keen Axe, dishonoured of its Hair,  
And cased in Brass, for Latian Kings to bear.)   

When thus in public view the Peace was tied,  
With solemn Vows, and sworn on either side,  
All deuce performed which holy Rites require;  
The Victim Beasts are slain before the Fire:  
The trembling Entrails from their Bodies torn,  
And to the fattened Flames in Chargers born.   

Already the Rutulians deemed their Man  
O'rematched in Arms, before the Fight began.  
First rising Fears are whispered through the Crowd;  
Then, gathering sound, they murmur more aloud.  
Now side to side, they measure with their Eyes  
The Champion's bulk, their Sinews, and their Sise:  
The nearer they approach, the more is known  
Th' apparent Disadvantage of their own.  
Turnus himself, appears in public sight,  
Conscious of Fate, desponding of the Fight.  
Slowly he moves; and at his Altar stands  
With eyes dejected, and with trembling hands:  
And while he mutters undistinguished Prayers,  
A livid deadness in his Cheeks appears.   

With anxious Pleasure when Juturna viewed  
Th' increasing Fright of the mad Multitude,  
When their short Sighs, and thickening Sobs she heard,  
And found their ready Minds for Change prepared;  
Dissembling her immortal Form, she took  
Camertus Mien, his Habit, and his Look;  
A Chief of ancient Blood: in Arms well known  
Was his great Sire, and he, his greater Son.  
His Shape assumed, amid the Ranks she ran,  
And humouring their first Motions, thus began.   

For shame, Rutulians, can you bear the sight,  
Of one exposed for all, in single Fight?  
Can we, before the Face of Heaven, confess  
Our Courage colder, or our Numbers less?  
View all the Trojan Host, th' Arcadian Band,  
And Tuscan Army; count 'em as they stand,  
Undaunted to the Battle, if we go,  
Scarce every second Man will share a Foe.  
Turnus, 'tis true, in this unequal Strife  
Shall lose, with Honour, his devoted Life:  
Or change it rather for immortal Fame,  
Succeeding to the Gods, from whence he came:  
But you, a servile, and inglorious Band,  
For Foreign Lords shall sow your Native Land:  
Those fruitful Fields, your fight Fathers gained,  
Which have so long their lazy Sons sustained.   

With Words like these, she carried her Design;  
A rising Murmur runs along the Line.  
Then even the City Troops, and Latians, tired  
With tedious War, seem with new Souls inspired:  
Their Champion's Fate with Pity they lament;  
And of the League, so lately sworn, repent.   

Nor fails the Goddess to foment the Rage  
With lying Wonders, and a false Presage:  
But adds a Sign, which, present to their Eyes,  
Inspires new Courage, and a glad Surprise.  
For, sudden, in the fiery Tracts above,  
Appears in Pomp th' Imperial Bird of Jove:  
A plump of Fowl he spies, that swim the Lakes;  
And o'er their Heads his sounding Pinions shakes.  
Then stooping on the fairest of the Train,  
In his strong Talons trussed a silver Swan.  
Th' Italians wonder at th' unusual sight;  
But while he lags, and labours in his flight,  
Behold the Dastard Fowl return anew;  
And with united force the Foe pursue:  
clamorous around the Royal Hawk they fly;  
And thick'ning in a Cloud, o'ershade the Sky.  
They cuff, they scratch, they cross his airy Course;  
Nor can th' encumbered Bird sustain their Force:  
But vexed, not vanquished, drops the ponderous Prey;  
And, lightened of his Burden, wings his Way.   

Th' Ausonian Bands with Shouts salute the sight:  
Eager of Action, and demand the Fight.  
Then King Tolumnius, versed in Augur's Arts,  
Cries out, and thus his boasted Skill imparts.  
At length 'tis granted, what I long desired;  
This, this is what my frequent Vows required.  
Ye Gods, I take your Omen, and obey;  
Advance, my Friends, and charge, I lead the Way.  
These are the Foreign Foes, whose impious Band,  
Like that rapacious Bird, infest our Land:  
But soon, like him, they shall be forced to Sea  
By Strength united, and forego the Prey:  
Your timely Succour to your Country bring;  
Haste to the Rescue; and redeem your King.   

He said: And pressing onward, through the Crew,  
Poised in his lifted Arm, his Launce he threw.  
The winged Weapon, whistling in the Wind,  
Came driving on; nor missed the Mark designed.  
At once the Cornel rattled in the Skies;  
At once tumultuous Shouts, and Clamours rise.  
Nine Brothers in a goodly Band there stood,  
Born of Arcadian mixed with Tuscan Blood:  
Gylippus Sons: The fatal Javelin flew,  
Aimed at the midmost of the friendly Crew.  
A Passage through the jointed Arms it found,  
Just where the Belt was to the Body bound;  
And struck the gentle Youth, extended on the Ground.  
Then fired with pious Rage, the generous Train  
Run madly forward, to revenge the slain.  
And some with eager haste their javelins throw;  
And some, with Sword in hand, assault the Foe.   

The wished Insult the Latin Troops embrace;  
And meet their Ardour in the middle Space.  
The Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian Line,  
With equal Courage obviate their Design.  
Peace leaves the violated Fields; and Hate  
Both Armies urges to their mutual Fate.  
With impious Haste their Altars are o'erturned,  
The Sacrifice half broiled, and half unburned.  
Thick Storms of Steel from either Army fly,  
And Clouds of clashing Darts obscure the Sky:  
Brands from the Fire, are missive Weapons made;  
With Chargers, Bowls, and all the Priestly Trade.  
Latinus frighted, hastens from the Fray,  
And bears his unregarded Gods away.  
These on their Horse's vault, those yoke the Car;  
The rest with Swords on high, run headlong to the War.   

Messapus, eager to confound the Peace,  
Spurred his hot Courser through the fight Press,  
At King Aulestes; by his Purple known  
A Tuscan Prince, and by his Regal Crown:  
And with a Shock encountering, bore him down.  
Backward he fell; and as his Fate designed,  
The Ruins of an Altar were behind:  
There pitching on his Shoulders, and his Head,  
Amid the scattering Fires he lay supinely spread.  
The beamy Spear, descending from above,  
His Cuirass pierced, and through his Body drove.  
Then, with a scornful Smile, the Victor cries;  
The Gods have found a fitter Sacrifice.  
Greedy of Spoils, th' Italians strip the dead  
Of his rich Armour; and uncrown his Head.   

Priest Chorinaeus armed his better Hand,  
From his own Altar, with a blazing Brand:  
And, as Ebusus with a thundering Pace  
Advanced to Battle, dashed it on his Face:  
His bristly Beard shines out with sudden Fires,  
The crackling Crop a noisome scent expires.  
Following the blow, he seized his curling Crown  
With his left Hand; his other cast him down.  
The prostrate Body with his Knees he pressed;  
And plunged his holy Poniard in his Breast.   

While Podalirius, with his Sword, pursued  
The Shepherd Alsus through the flying Crowd,  
Swiftly he turns; and aims a deadly blow,  
Full on the Front of his unwary Foe.  
The broad Axe enters, with a crashing Sound,  
And cleaves the Chin, with one continued Wound:  
Warm Blood, and mingled Brains, besmear his Arms around.  
An Iron Sleep his stupid Eyes oppressed,  
And sealed their heavy Lids in endless rest.  
But good Aeneas rushed amid the Bands,  
Bare was his Head, and naked were his Hands,  
In sign of Truce: Then thus he cries aloud,  
What sudden Rage, what new Desire of Blood  
Inflames your altered Minds? O Trojans cease  
From impious Arms, nor violate the Peace.  
By Human Sanctions, and by Laws Divine,  
The Terms are all agreed, the War is mine.  
Dismiss your Fears, and let the Fight ensue;  
This Hand alone shall right the Gods and you:  
Our injured Altars, and their broken Vow,  
To this avenging Sword the faithless Turnus owe.   

Thus while he spoke, unmindful of Defence,  
A winged Arrow struck the Pious Prince.  
But whether from some Human Hand it came,  
Or Hostile God, is left unknown by Fame:  
No Human Hand, or Hostile God was found,  
To boast the Triumph of so base a Wound.   

When Turnus saw the Trojan quit the Plain,  
His Chiefs dismayed, his Troops a fainting Train:  
Th' unhoped Event his heightened Soul inspires,  
At once his Arms and Coursers he requires.  
Then, with a leap, his lofty Chariot gains,  
And with a ready hand assumes the Reins.  
He drives impetuous, and where ere he goes,  
He leaves behind a Lane of slaughtered Foes.  
These his Lance reaches, over those he rowls  
His rapid Car, and crushes out their Souls:  
In vain the vanquished fly; the Victor sends  
The dead men's Weapons at their living Friends.   

Thus on the Banks of Hebrus freezing Flood  
The God of battle's in his angry Mood,  
Clashing his Sword against his brazen Shield,  
Le's lose the Reins, and scours along the Field:  
Before the Wind his fiery Coursers fly,  
Groans the sad Earth, resounds the rattling Sky.  
Wrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair,  
Dire Faces, and deformed, surround the Car;  
Friends of the God, and Followers of the War.   

With Fury not unlike, nor less Disdain,  
Exulting Turnus flies along the Plain:  
His smoking Horses, at their utmost Speed,  
He lashes on; and urges o'er the dead.  
Their Fetlocks run with Blood; and when they bound,  
The Gore, and gathering Dust, are dashed around.  
Thamyris and Pholus, Masters of the War,  
He killed at hand, but Sthelenus afar:  
From far the Sons of Imbracus he slew,  
Glaucus, and Lads, of the Lycian Crew:  
Both taught to fight on Foot, in Battle joined;  
Or mount the Courser that outstrips the Wind.   

Mean time Eumedes, vaunting in the Field,  
New fired the Trojans, and their Foes repelled.  
This Son of Dolon bore his Grandsire's Name;  
But emulated more his Father's Fame.  
His guileful Father, sent a nightly Spy,  
The Grecian Camp and Order to descry:  
Hard Enterprise, and well he might require  
Achilles Carr, and Horses for his hire:  
But, met upon the Scout, th' Etolian Prince  
In Death bestowed a juster Recompense.   

Fierce Turnus viewed the Trojan from afar;  
And launched his Javelin from his lofty Carr:  
Then lightly leaping down pursued the Blow,  
And, pressing with his Foot, his prostrate Foe,  
Wrenched from his feeble hold the shining Sword;  
And plunged it in the Bosom of its Lord.  
Possess, said he, the fruit of all thy Pains,  
And measure, at thy length, our Latian Plains.  
Thus are my Foes rewarded by my hand,  
Thus may they build their Town, and thus enjoy the Land.   

Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew,  
Whom o'er his Neck his flound'ring Courser threw.  
As when loud Boreas with his blust'ring Train,  
Stoops from above, incumbent on the Main;  
Where e'er he flies, he drives the Rack before;  
And rowls the Billows on th' Aegean Shore:  
So where resistless Turnus takes his Course,  
The scattered Squadrons bend before his force:  
His Crest of Horse's Hair is blown behind,  
By adverse Air; and rustles in the Wind.   

This, haughty Phegeus saw with high Disdain,  
And as the Chariot rolled along the Plain,  
Light from the Ground he leapt, and seized the Rein.  
Thus hung in Air, he still retained his hold;  
The Coursers frighted, and their Course controlled.  
The Lance of Turnus reached him as he hung,  
And pierced his plated Arms; but passed along,  
And only razed the Skin: he turned, and held  
Against his threatening Foe his ample Shield:   

To Thomas Hobbs Dr: in Phisic  
En: 12. l 570.   

Then called for Aid: but while he cried in vain,  
The Chariot bore him backward on the Plain.  
He lies reversed; the Victor King descends,  
And strikes so justly where his Helmet ends,  
He lops the Head. The Latian Fields are drunk  
With streams that issue from the bleeding Trunk.   

While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield,  
The wounded Prince is forced to leave the Field:  
Strong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried,  
And young Ascanius, weeping by his side,  
Conduct him to his Tent: Scarce can he rear  
His Limbs from Earth, supported on his Spear.  
Resolved in Mind, regardless of the Smart,  
He tugs with both his Hands, and breaks the Dart.  
The Steel remains. No readier way he found  
To draw the Weapon, than t' enlarge the Wound.  
Eager of Fight, impatient of delay,  
He begs; and his unwilling Friends obey.   

japis was at hand to prove his Art,  
Whose blooming Youth so fired Apollo's Heart,  
That for his Love he proffered to bestow  
His tuneful Harp, and his unerring Bow.  
The pious Youth, more studious how to save  
His aged Sire, now sinking to the Grave,  
Preferred the power of Plants, and silent Praise  
Of healing Arts, before Phoebeian Bays.   

Propped on his Lance the pensive Hero stood,  
And heard, and saw unmoved, the mourning Crowd.  
The famed Physician tucks his Robes around,  
With ready Hands, and hastens to the Wound.  
With gentle Touches he performs his part,  
This way and that, soliciting the Dart,  
And exercises all his Heavenly Art.  
All softening Simples, known of sovereign Use,  
He presses out, and pours their noble Juice;  
These first infused, to lenify the Pain,  
He tugs with Pincers, but he tugs in vain.  
Then, to the Patron of his Art he prayed;  
The Patron of his Art refused his Aid.   

Mean time the War approaches to the Tents;  
Th' Alarm grows hotter, and the Noise augments:  
The driving Dust proclaims the Danger near,  
And first their Friends, and then their Foes appear;  
Their Friend's retreat, their Foes pursue the Rear.  
The Camp is filled with Terror and Affright,  
The hissing Shafts within the Trench alight:  
An undistinguished Noise ascends the Sky;  
The Shouts of those who kill, and Groans of those who die.   

But now the Goddess Mother, moved with Grief,  
And pierced with Pity, hastens her Relief.  
A Branch of healing Dittany she brought;  
Which in the Cretan Fields with Care she sought:  
Rough is the Stem, which woolly Leaves surround;  
The Leaves with Flowers, the Flowers with Purple crowned:  
Well known to wounded Goats; a sure Relief  
To draw the pointed Steel, and ease the Grief.  
This Venus brings, in Clouds involved; and brews  
Th' extracted Liquor with Ambrosian Dews,  
And odorous Panacee: Unseen she stands,  
Tempering the mixture with her Heavenly Hands:  
And pours it in a Bowl, already crowned  
With Juice of medc'nal herbs prepared to bathe the Wound.  
The Leech, unknowing of superior Art,  
Which aids the Cure, with this foments the part;  
And in a Moment ceased the raging smart.  
Staunched is the Blood, and in the bottom stands:  
The Steel, but scarcely touched with tender Hands,  
Moves up, and follows of its own Accord;  
And Health and Vigour are at once restored.  
japis first perceived the closing Wound;  
And first the Footsteps of a God he found.  
Arms, Arms, he cries, the Sword and Shield prepare,  
And send the willing Chief, renewed to War.  
This is no Mortal Work, no Cure of mine,  
Nor Art's effect, but done by Hands Divine:  
Some God our General to the Battle fends;  
Some God preserves his Life for greater Ends.   

The Hero arms in haste: His hands enfold  
His Thighs with Cuisses of refulgent Gold:  
Inflamed to fight, and rushing to the Field,  
That Hand sustaining the Celestial Shield,  
This gripes the Lance; and with such Vigour shakes,  
That to the Rest the beamy Weapon quakes.  
Then, with a close Embrace he strained his Son;  
And kissing through his Helmet, thus begun.  
My Son, from my Example learn the War,  
In Camps to suffer, and in Fields to dare:  
But happier Chance than mine attend thy Care.  
This Day my hand thy tender Age shall shield,  
And crown with Honours of the conquered Field:  
Thou, when thy riper Years shall send thee forth,  
To toils of War, be mindful of my Worth:  
Assert thy birthright; and in Arms be known,  
For Hector's Nephew, and Aeneas' Son.   

He said, and, striding, issued on the Plain;  
Anteus, and Mnestheus, and a numerous Train  
Attend his Steps: The rest their Weapons take,  
And crowding to the Field, the Camp forsake.  
A cloud of blinding Dust is raised around;  
Labours beneath their Feet the trembling ground.   

Now Turnus, posted on a Hill, from far  
Beheld the progress of the moving War:  
With him the Latins viewed the covered Plains;  
And the i'll Blood ran backward in their Veins.  
Juturna saw th' advancing Troops appear;  
And heard the hostile Sound, and fled for Fear.  
Aeneas leads; and draws a sweeping Train,  
Closed in their Ranks, and pouring on the Plain.  
As when a Whirlwind rushing to the Shore,  
From the mid Ocean, drives the Waves before:  
The painful Hind, with heavy Heart foresees,  
The flatted Fields, and slaughter of the Trees;  
With like impetuous Rage the Prince appears,  
Before his doubled Front; nor less Destruction bears.  
And now both Army's shock, in open Field;  
Osiris is by strong Thymbraeus killed.  
Archetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain;  
(All famed in Arms, and of the Latian Train;)  
By Gyas, Mnestheus, and Achates Hand:  
The fatal Augur falls, by whofe command  
The Truce was broken, and whose Lance embrued  
With Trojan Blood, th' unhappy Fight renewed.  
Loud Shouts and Clamours rend the liquid Sky;  
And o'er the Field the frighted Latins fly.  
The Prince disdains the Dastards to pursue,  
Nor moves to meet in Arms the fight few:  
Turnus alone, amid the dusky Plain,  
He seeks, and to the Combat calls in vain.  
Juturna heard, and seized with Mortal Fear,  
Forced from the Beam her Brother's Charioteer;  
Assumes his Shape, his Armour, and his Mien;  
And like Metiscus, in his Seat is seen.   

As the black Swallow near the Palace plies;  
O'er empty Courts, and under Arches flies;  
Now hawks aloft, now skims along the Flood,  
To furnish her loquacious Nest with Food:  
So drives the rapid Goddess o'er the Plains;  
The smoking Horses run with loosened Reins.  
She steers a various Course among the Foes;  
Now here, now there, her conquering Brother shows:  
Now with a strait, now with a wheeling flight,  
She turns, and bends, but shuns the single Fight.  
Aeneas, fired with Fury, breaks the Crowd,  
And seeks his Foe, and calls by name aloud:  
He runs within a narrower Ring, and tries  
To stop the Chariot, but the Chariot flies.  
If he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears,  
And far away the Daunian Hero bears.   

What should he do! nor Arts nor Arms avail;  
And various Cares in vain his Mind assail.  
The great Messapus thundering through the Field,  
In his left hand two pointed javelins held;  
Encountering on the Prince, one Dart he drew,  
And with unerring aim, and utmost Vigour threw.  
Aeneas saw it come, and stooping low  
Beneath his Buckler, shunned the threatening blow.  
The Weapon hissed above his Head, and tore  
The waving Plume, which on his Helm he wore.  
Forced by this hostile Act, and fired with spite,  
That flying Turnus still declined the Fight;  
The Prince, whose Piety had long repelled  
His inborn ardour, now invades the Field:  
Invokes the Powers of violated Peace,  
Their Rites, and injured Altars to redress:  
Then, to his Rage abandoning the Rein,  
With Blood and slaughtered Bodies fills the Plain.   

What God can tell, what Numbers can display  
The various Labours of that fatal Day!  
What Chiefs, and Champions fell on either side,  
In Combat slain, or by what Deaths they died?  
Whom Turnus, whom the Trojan Hero killed:  
Who shared the Fame, and fortune of the Field?  
Jove, couldst thou view, and not avert thy sight,  
Two jarring Nations joined in cruel fight,  
Whom Leagues of lasting Love so shortly shall unite!   

Aeneas' first Rutulian Sucro found,  
Whose Valour made the Trojans quit their Ground:  
Betwixt his Ribs the Javelin drove so just,  
It reached his Heart, nor needs a second Thrust.  
Now Turnus, at two blows, two Brethren slew;  
First from his Horse fierce Amycus he threw;  
Then leaping on the Ground, on Foot assailed  
Diores, and in equal Fight prevailed.  
Their lifeless Trunks he leaves upon the place;  
Their Heads distilling Gore, his Chariot grace.   

Three cold on Earth the Trojan Hero threw;  
Whom without respite at one Charge he slew.  
Cethegus, Tanais, Tagus, fell oppressed,  
And sad Onythes, added to the rest;  
Of Theban Blood, whom Peridia bore.   

Turnus, two Brothers from the Lycian Shore,  
And from Apollo's Fane to Battle sent,  
O'erthrew, nor Phoebus could their Fate prevent.  
Peaceful Menaetes after these he killed,  
Who long had shunned the Dangers of the Field:  
On Lerna's Lake a silent Life he led,  
And with his Nets and Angle earned his Bread.  
Nor pompous Cares, nor Palaces he knew,  
But wisely from th' infectious World withdrew.  
Poor was his House; his Father's painful Hand  
Discharged his Rent, and ploughed fewer Land.   

As Flames among the lofty Woods are thrown,  
On different sides, and both by Winds are blown,  
The Laurels crackle in the sputt'ring Fire;  
The frighted Silvans from their Shades retire:  
Or as two neighbouring Torrents fall from high,  
Rapid they run; the foamy Waters fry:  
They roll to Sea with unresisted Force,  
And down the Rocks precipitate their Course:  
Not with less rage the Rival Heroes take  
Their different Ways; nor less Destruction make.  
With Spears afar, with Swords at hand they strike;  
And zeal of Slaughter fires their Souls alike.  
Like them, their dauntless Men maintain the Field,  
And Hearts are pierced unknowing how to yield:  
They blow for blow return, and wound for wound;  
And heaps of Bodies raise the level Ground.   

Murranus, boasting of his Blood, that springs  
From a long Royal Race of Latian Kings,  
Is by the Trojan from his Chariot thrown,  
Crushed with the weight of an unwieldy Stone:  
Betwixt the Wheels he fell; the Wheels that bore  
His living Load, his dying Body tore.  
His starting Steeds, to shun the glittering Sword,  
Paw down his trampled Limbs, forgetful of their Lord.   

Fierce Hillus threatened high; and face to face  
Affronted Turnus in the middle space:  
The Prince encountered him in full Career,  
And at his Temples aimed his deadly Spear:  
So fatally the flying Weapon sped,  
That through his Brazen Helm it pierced his Head.  
Nor Cisseus couldst thou scape from Turnus' hand,  
In vain the strongest of th' Arcadian Band:  
Nor to Cupentus could his Gods afford,  
Availing Aid against th' Aenean Sword:  
Which to his naked Heart pursued the Course:  
Nor could his plated Shield sustain the Force.   

jolas' fell, whom not the Grecian Powers,  
Nor great Subvertor of the Trojan towers,  
Were doomed to kill, while Heaven prolonged his Date:  
But who can pass the Bounds prefixed by Fate?  
In high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he held  
Two Palaces, and was from each expelled:  
Of all the mighty Man, the last Remains  
A little spot of Foreign Earth contains.   

And now both Hosts their broken Troops unite,  
In equal Ranks, and mix in mortal Fight.  
Seresthus, and undaunted Mnestheus join  
The Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian Line:  
Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads  
The Latin Squadrons, and to Battle leads.  
They strike, they push, they throng the scanty space;  
Resolved on Death, impatient of Disgrace;  
And where one falls, another fills his Place.   

The Cyprian Goddess now inspires her Son  
To leave th' unfinished Fight, and storm the Town.  
For while he rowls his Eyes around the Plain,  
In quest of Turnus, whom he seeks in vain,  
He views th' ungarded City from afar,  
In careless quiet, and secure of War:  
Occasion offers, and excites his Mind,  
To dare beyond the Task he first designed.  
Resolved, he calls his Chiefs: they leave the Fight;  
Attended thus, he takes a neighbouring Height:  
The crowding Troops about their Gen'ral stand,  
All under Arms, and wait his high Command.  
Then thus the lofty Prince: Hear and obey,  
Ye Trojan Bands, without the least delay.  
Jove is with us, and what I have decreed  
Requires our utmost Vigour, and our Speed.  
Your instant Arms against the Town prepare;  
The source of Mischief, and the Seat of War.  
This Day the Latian towers, that mate the Sky,  
Shall levelly with the Plain in Ashes lie:  
The People shall be Slaves; unless in time  
They kneel for Pardon, and repent their Crime.  
Twice have our Foes been vanquished on the Plain;  
Then shall I wait till Turnus will be slain?  
Your Force against the perjured City bend:  
There it began, and there the War shall end.  
The Peace profaned our rightful Arms requires:  
Cleanse the polluted Place with purging Fires.   

He finished; and one Soul inspiring all,  
Formed in a Wedge, the Foot approach the Wall.  
Without the Town, an unprovided Train  
Of gaping, gazing Citizens are slain.  
Some Firebrands, others scaling Ladders bear;  
And those they toss aloft, and these they rear:  
The Flames now launched, the feathered Arrows fly,  
And Clouds of missive Arms obscure the Sky.  
Advancing to the Front, the Hero stands,  
And stretching out to Heaven his Pious Hands;  
Attests the Gods, asserts his Innocence,  
Upbraids with breach of Faith th' Ausonian Prince:  
Declares the Royal Honour doubly stained,  
And twice the Rites of holy Peace profaned.   

Dissenting Clamours in the Town arise;  
Each will be heard, and all at once advise.  
One part for Peace, and one for War contends:  
Some would exclude their Foes, and some admit their Friends.  
The helpless King is hurried in the Throng;  
And what e'er Tide prevails, is born along.   

Thus when the Swain, within a hollow Rock,  
Invades the Bees, with suffocating Smoke,  
They run around, or labour on their Wings,  
Disused to flight; and shoot their sleepy Stings:  
To shun the bitter Fumes in vain they try;  
Black Vapours, issuing from the Vent, involve the Sky.   

But Fate, and envious Fortune, now prepare  
To plunge the Latins in the last despair.  
The Queen, who saw the Foes invade the Town;  
And brands on tops of burning Houses thrown:  
Cast round her Eyes, distracted with her Fear;  
No Troops of Turnus in the Field appear.  
Once more she stairs abroad, but still in vain:  
And then concludes the Royal Youth is slain.  
Mad with her Anguish, impotent to bear  
The mighty Grief, she loathes the vital Air.  
She calls herself the Cause of all this Ill,  
And owns the dire Effects of her ungoverned Will:  
She raves against the Gods, she beats her Breast,  
She tears with both her hands her Purple Vest.  
Then round a Beam a running Noose she tied;  
And, fastened by the Neck, obscenely died.   

Soon as the fatal News by Fame was blown,  
And to her Dames, and to her Daughter known;  
The sad Lavinia rends her yellow Hair,  
And rosy Cheeks; the rest her Sorrow share:  
With Shrieks the Palace rings, and Madness of Despair.  
The spreading Rumour fills the Public Place;  
Confusion, Fear, Distraction, and Disgrace,  
And silent shame, are seen in every Face.  
Latinus tears his Garments as he goes,  
Both for his public, and his private Woes:  
With Filth his venerable Beard besmears,  
And sordid Dust deforms his Silver Hairs.  
And much he blames the softness of his Mind,  
Obnoxious to the Charms of Womankind,  
And soon seduced to change, what he so well designed:  
To break the solemn League so long desired,  
Nor finish what his Fates, and those of Troy required.   

Now Turnus rowls aloof o'er empty Plains,  
And here and there some straggling Foes he gleans.  
His flying Coursers please him less and less,  
Ashamed of easy Fight, and cheap Success.  
Thus half contented, anxious in his Mind,  
The distant Cries come driving in the Wind:  
Shouts from the Walls, but Shouts in Murmurs drowned;  
A jarring mixture, and a boding sound.  
Alas, said he, what mean these dismal Cries,  
What doleful Clamours from the Town arise?  
Confused he stops, and backward pulls the Reins:  
She, who the Driver's Office now sustains,  
Replies; Neglect, my Lord, these new Alarms;  
Here fight, and urge the Fortune of your Arms:  
There want not others to defend the Wall:  
If by your Rival's Hand th' Italians fall,  
So shall your fatal Sword his Friends oppress,  
In Honour equal, equal in Success.   

To this, the Prince; O Sister, (for I knew  
The Peace infringed, proceeded first from you,)  
I knew you, when you mingled first in Fight,  
And now in vain you would deceive my Sight:  
Why, Goddess, this unprofitable Care?  
Who sent you down from Heaven, involved in Air,  
Your share of Mortal Sorrows to sustain,  
And see your Brother bleeding on the Plain?  
For, to what Power can Turnus have recourse,  
Or how resist his Fates prevailing force!  
These Eyes beheld Murranus bite the Ground,  
Mighty the Man, and mighty Was the Wound.  
I heard my dearest Friend, with dying Breath,  
My Name invoking to revenge his Death:  
Brave Ufens fell with Honour on the Place;  
To shun the shameful sight of my disgrace.  
On Earth supine, a Manly Corpse he lies;  
His Vest and Armour are the Victor's Prize.  
Then, shall I see Laurentum in a flame,  
Which only wanted to complete my shame?  
How will the Latins hoot their Champion's flight;  
How Drances will be pleased, and point them to the sight!  
Is Death so hard to bear? Ye Gods below,  
(Since those above so small Compassion show,)  
Receive a Soul unsullied yet with shame,  
Which not belies my great Forefather's Name.   

He said: And while he spoke, with flying speed,  
Came Sages urging on his foamy Steed;  
Fixed on his wounded Face a Shaft he bore,  
And seeking Turnus sent his Voice before:  
Turnus, on you, on you alone depends  
Our last Relief; compassionate your Friends.  
Like Lightning, fierce Aeneas, rolling on,  
With Arms invests, with Flames invades the Town:  
The Brands are tossed on high; the Winds conspire  
To drive along the Deluge of the Fire:  
All Eyes are fixed on you; your Foes rejoice;  
Even the King staggers, and suspends his Choice:  
Doubts to deliver, or defend the Town;  
Whom to reject, or whom to call his Son.  
The Queen, on whom your utmost hopes were placed,  
Herself suborning Death, has breathed her last.  
'Tis true, Messapus, fearless of his Fate,  
With fierce Atinas Aid, defends the Gate:  
On every side surrounded by the Foe;  
The more they kill, the greater Numbers grow;  
An Iron Harvest mounts, and still remains to mow.  
You, far aloof from your forsaken Bands,  
Your rolling Chariot drive o'er empty Sands.   

Stupid he sat, his Eyes on Earth declined,  
And various Cares revolving in his Mind:  
Rage boiling from the bottom of his Breast,  
And Sorrow mixed with Shame, his Soul oppressed:  
And conscious Worth lay labouring in his Thought;  
And Love by Jealousy to Madness wrought.  
By slow degrees his Reason drove away  
The Mists of Passion, and resumed her Sway.  
Then, rising on his Car, he turned his Look;  
And saw the Town involved in Fire and Smoke.  
A wooden Tower with Flames already blazed,  
Which his own Hands on Beams and Rafters raised:  
And Bridges laid above to join the Space;  
And Wheels below to roll from place to place.  
Sister, the Fates have vanquished: Let us go  
The way which Heaven and my hard Fortune show.  
The Fight is fixed: Nor shall the branded Name  
Of a base Coward blot your Brother's Fame.  
Death is my choice; but suffer me to try  
My Force, and vent my Rage before I die.  
He said, and leaping down without delay,  
Thro Crowds of scattered Foes he freed his way.  
Striding he passed, impetuous as the Wind,  
And left the grieving Goddess far behind.  
As when a Fragment, from a Mountain torn  
By raging Tempests, or by Torrents born,  
Or sapped by time, or loosened from the Roots,  
Prone through the Void the Rocky Ruin shoots,  
Rolling from Crag to Crag, from Steep to Steep;  
Down sink, at once the Shepherds and their Sheep,  
Involved alike, they rush to nether Ground,  
Stun'd with the shock they fall, and stun'd from Earth rebound:  
So Turnus, hasting headlong to the Town,  
Should'ring and shoving, bore the Squadrons down.  
Still pressing onward, to the Walls he drew,  
Where Shafts, and Spears, and Darts promiscuous flew;  
And sanguine Streams the slippery Ground imbrue.  
First stretching out his Arm, in sign of Peace,  
He cries aloud, to make the Combat cease:  
Rutulians hold, and Latin Troops retire;  
The Fight is mine, and me the Gods require.  
'tis just that I should vindicate alone  
The broken Truce, or for the Breach atone.  
This Day shall free from Wars th' Ausonian State;  
Or finish my Misfortunes in my Fate.   

Both Armies from their bloody Work desist:  
And bearing backward, form a spacious List.  
The Trojan Hero who received from Fame  
The welcome Sound, and heard the Champion's Name,  
Soon leaves the taken Works, and mounted Walls,  
Greedy of War, where greater Glory calls.  
He springs to Fight, exulting in his Force;  
His jointed Armour rattles in the Course.  
Like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows,  
Or Father Apennine, when white with Snows,  
His Head Divine, obscure in Clouds he hides:  
And shakes the sounding Forest on his sides.   

The Nations overawed, surcease the Fight,  
immovable their Bodies, fixed their sight:  
Even Death stands still; nor from above they throw  
Their Darts, nor drive their battering Rams below.  
In silent Order either Army stands;  
And drop their Swords, unknowing, from their Hands.  
Th' Ausonian King beholds, with wondering sight,  
Two mighty Champions matched in single Fight:  
Born under Climes remote; and brought by Fate,  
With Swords to try their Titles to the State.   

Now in closed Field, each other from afar  
They view; and rushing on, begin the War.  
They launch their Spears, than hand to hand they meet;  
The trembling Soil resounds beneath their Feet:  
Their Bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,  
And flakes of Fire from their hard Helmets fly.  
Courage conspires with Chance; and both engage  
With equal Fortune, and with mutual Rage.   

As when two Bulls for their fair Female fight,  
In Sila's Shades, or on Taburnus height;  
With Horns adverse they meet: the Keeper flies;  
Mute stands the Herd, the Heifers roll their Eyes;  
And wait th' Event; which Victor they shall bear,  
And who shall be the Lord, to rule the lusty Year:  
With rage of Love the jealous Rivals burn,  
And Push for Push, and Wound for Wound return:  
Their Dewlaps gored, their sides are laved in Blood;  
Loud Cries and roaring Sounds rebellow through the Wood:  
Such was the Combat in the listed Ground;  
So clash their Swords and so their Shields resound.   

Jove sets the Beam; in either Scale he lays  
The Champion's Fate, and each exactly weighs.  
On this side Life, and lucky Chance ascends:  
Loaded with Death, that other Scale descends.  
Raised on the Stretches, young Turnus aims a blow,  
Full on the Helm of his unguarded Foe:  
Shrill Shouts and Clamours ring on either side;  
As Hopes and Fears their panting Hearts divide.  
But all in pieces flies the Traitor Sword,  
And, in the middle Struck deserts his Lord.  
Now 'tis but Death, or Flight: disarmed he flies,  
When in his Hand, an unknown Hilt he spies.  
Fame says that Turnus, when his Steeds he joined,  
Hurrying to War, disordered in his Mind,  
Snatched the first Weapon, which his haste could find.  
'Twas not the fated Sword his Father bore;  
But that his Charioteer Metiscus wore.  
This, while the Trojans fled, the Toughness held;  
But vain against the great Vulcanian Shield,  
The mortal-tempered Steel deceived his Hand:  
The shivered fragments shone amid the Sand.   

Surprised with fear, he fled along the Field;  
And now forthright, and now in Orbits wheeled.  
For here the Trojan Troops the List surround;  
And there the Pass is closed with Pools and marshy Ground.  
Aeneas hastens, tho' with heavier Pace,  
His Wound so newly knit, retards the Chase:  
And oft his trembling Knees their Aid refuse,  
Yet pressing foot by foot his Foe pursues.   

Thus, when a fearful Stag is closed around  
With Crimson Toils, or in a River found;  
High on the Bank the deepmouthed Hound appears;  
Still opening, following still, where e'er he steers:  
The persecuted Creature, to, and fro,  
Turns here and there, to scape his Vmbrian Foe:  
Steep is th' Ascent; and if he gains the Land,  
The Purple Death is pitched along the Strand:  
His eager Foe determined to the Chase,  
Stretched at his length gains Ground at every Pace:  
Now to his beamy Head he makes his way,  
And now he holds, or thinks he holds his Prey:   

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Aen: 12. L 1120.   

Just at the pinch the Stag springs out with fear,  
He bites the Wind, and fills his sounding Jaws with Air.  
The Rocks, the Lakes, the Meadows ring with Cries;  
The mortal Tumult mounts, and thunders in the Skies.   

Thus flies the Daunian Prince: and, flying, blames  
His tardy Troops; and calling by their Names,  
Demands his trusty Sword. The Trojan threats  
The Realm with Ruin, and their ancient Seats  
To lay in Ashes, if they dare supply  
With Arms or Aid, his vanquished Enemy:  
Thus menacing, he still pursues the Course,  
With Vigour, tho' diminished of his Force.  
Ten times, already, round the listed place,  
One Chief had fled, and t'other given the Chase:  
No trivial Prize is played; for on the Life  
Or Death of Turnus, now depends the Strife.   

Within the space, an Olive Tree had stood,  
A sacred Shade, a venerable Wood,  
For Vows to Faunus paid, the Latins Guardian God.  
Here hung the Vests, and Tablets were engraved,  
Of sinking Mariners, from Shipwreck saved.  
With heedless Hands the Trojans felled the Tree,  
To make the Ground enclosed for Combat free.  
Deep in the Root, whether by Fate, or Chance,  
Or erring haste, the Trojan drove his Lance:  
Then stooped, and tugged with Force immense to free  
Th' encumbered Spear from the tenacious Tree:  
That whom his fainting Limbs pursued in vain,  
His flying Weapon might from far attain.   

Confused with Fear, bereft of Human Aid,  
Then Turnus to the Gods, and first to Faunus prayed.  
O Faunus pity, and thou Mother Earth,  
Where I thy foster Son received my Birth,  
Hold fast the Steel; if my Religious Hand  
Your Plant has honoured, which your Foes profaned;  
Propitious hear my pious Prayer! He said,  
Nor with successless Vows invoked their Aid.  
Th' incumbent Hero, wrenched, and pulled, and strained;  
But still the stubborn Earth the Steel detained.  
Juturna took her time; and while in vain  
He strove, assumed Metiscus Form again:  
And, in that imitated Shape, restored  
To the despairing Prince, his Daunian Sword.  
The Queen of Love, who, with Disdain and Grief,  
Saw the bold Nymph afford this prompt Relief;  
T' assert her Offspring, with a greater Deed,  
From the tough Root the lingering Weapon freed.   

Once more erect, the Rival Chiefs advance;  
One trusts the Sword, and one the pointed Lance:  
And both resolved alike, to try their fatal Chance.   

Mean time Imperial Jove to Juno spoke,  
Who from a shining Cloud beheld the shock;  
What new Arrest, O Queen of Heaven, is sent  
To stop the Fates now labouring in th' Event.  
What farther hopes are left thee to pursue  
Divine Aeneas, (and thou knowst it too,)  
Foredoomed to these Celestial Seats is due?  
What more Attempts for Turnus can be made,  
That thus thou ling'rest in this lonely Shade!  
Is it becoming of the due Respect,  
And awful Honour of a God Elect,  
A Wound unworthy of our State to feel;  
Patient of Human Hands, and earthly Steel?  
Or seems it Just, the Sister should restore,  
A second Sword, when one was lost before;  
And arm a conquered Wretch, against his Conqueror?  
For what without thy knowledge and avow,  
Nay more, thy Dictate, durst Juturna do?  
At last, in deference to my Love, forbear  
To lodge within thy Soul this anxious Care:  
Reclined upon my Breast, thy Grief unload;  
Who should relieve the Goddess, but the God?  
Now, all things to their utmost Issue tend;  
Pushed by the Fates to their appointed End:  
While leave was given thee, and a lawful Hour  
For Vengeance, Wrath, and unresisted Power:  
Tossed on the Seas thou couldst thy Foes distress,  
And driven ashore, with Hostile Arms oppress:  
Deform the Royal House; and from the side  
Of the Just Bridegroom, tear the plighted Bride:   

Now cease at my Command. The thunderer said:  
And with dejected Eyes this Answer Juno made.  
Because your dread Decree too well I knew;  
From Turnus, and from Earth unwilling I withdrew.  
Else should you not behold me here alone,  
Involved in empty Clouds, my Friends bemoan:  
But girt with vengeful Flames, in open sight,  
Engaged against my Foes in Mortal Fight.  
'Tis true Juturna mingled in the Strife  
By my Command, to save her Brother's Life;  
At least to try: But by the Stygian Lake,  
(The most Religious Oath the Gods can take,)  
With this restriction, not to bend the Bow,  
Or toss the Spear, or trembling Dart to throw.  
And now resigned to your Superior Might,  
And tired with fruitless Toils, I loathe the Fight.  
This let me beg, (and this no Fates withstand)  
Both for myself, and for your Father's Land,  
That when the Nuptial Bed shall bind the Peace;  
(Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,)  
The Laws of either Nation be the same;  
But let the Latins still retain their Name:  
Speak the same Language which they spoke before;  
Wear the same Habits, which their Grandsires wore:  
Call them not Trojans: Perish the Renown,  
And Name of Troy, with that detested Town.  
Latium be Latium still; let Alba reign,  
And Rome's immortal Majesty remain.   

Then thus the Founder of Mankind replies:  
(Unruffled was his Front, serene his Eyes,)  
Can Saturn's Issue, and heavens other Heir,  
Such endless Anger in her Bosom bear?  
Be Mistress, and your full Desires obtain:  
But quench the Choler you foment in vain.  
From ancient Blood th' Ausonian People sprung,  
Shall keep their Name, their Habit, and their Tongue.  
The Trojans to their Customs shall be tied,  
I will, myself, their common Rites provide;  
The Natives shall command, the Foreigners subside.  
All shall be Latium; Troy without a Name:  
And her lost Sons forget from whence they came.  
From Blood so mixed, a pious Race shall flow,  
Equal to Gods, excelling all below.  
No Nation more Respect to you shall pay,  
Or greater Offerings on your Altars lay.  
Juno consents, well pleased that her Desires  
Had found Success, and from the Cloud retires.   

The Peace thus made, the thunderer next prepares  
To force the wat'ry Goddess from the Wars.  
Deep in the dismal Regions, void of Light,  
Three Daughters at a Birth were born to Night:  
These their brown Mother, brooding on her Care,  
Endued with windy Wings to flit in Air:  
With Serpents girt alike; and crowned with hissing Hair.  
In Heaven the Dirae called, and still at hand,  
Before the Throne of angry Jove they stand.  
His Ministers of Wrath; and ready still  
The Minds of Mortal Men with Fears to fill:  
When e'er the moody Sire, to wreak his Hate  
On Realms, or Towns deserving of their Fate,  
Hurls down Diseases, Death, and deadly Care,  
And terrifies the guilty World with War.  
One Sister Plague of these from Heaven he sent,  
To fright Juturna with a dire Portent.  
The Pest comes whirling down: by far more slow  
Springs the swift Arrow from the Parthian Bow,  
Or Cydon Yew; when traversing the Skies,  
And drenched in poisonous Juice, the sure Destruction flies.  
With such a sudden, and unseen a flight,  
Shot through the Clouds the Daughter of the Night.  
Soon as the Field enclosed she had in view,  
And from afar her destined Quarry knew:  
Contracted, to the boding Bird she turns,  
Which haunts the ruin'd Piles, and hallowed Urns;  
And beats about the Tombs with nightly Wings;  
Where Songs obsence on Sepulchers she sings.  
Thus lessened in her Form, with frightful Cries,  
The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,  
Flaps on his Shield, and flutters o'er his Eyes.   

A lazy Chillness crept along his Blood,  
Choked was his Voice, his Hair with Horror stood.  
Juturna from afar beheld her fly,  
And knew th' ill Omen, by her screaming Cry,  
And stridour of her Wings. Amazed with Fear,  
Her comely Breast she beat, and rend her flowing Hair.  
Ah me, she cries, in this unequal Strife,  
What can thy Sister more to save thy Life!  
Weak as I am, can I, alas, contend  
In Arms, with that inexorable Fiend!  
Now, now, I quit the Field! forbear to fright  
My tender Soul, ye baleful Birds of Night!  
The lashing of your Wings I know too well:  
The sounding Flight, and Funeral Screams of Hell!  
These are the Gifts you bring from haughty Jove,  
The worthy Recompense of ravished Love!  
Did he for this exempt my Life from Fate?  
O hard Conditions of Immortal State!  
Tho' born to Death, not privileged to die,  
But forced to bear imposed Eternity!  
Take back your envious Bribes, and let me go  
Companion to my Brother's Ghost below!  
The Joys are vanished: Nothing now remains,  
Of Life Immortal, but Immortal Pains.  
What Earth will open her devouring Womb,  
To rest a weary Goddess in the Tomb!  
She drew a length of Sighs; nor more she said;  
But in her Azure Mantle wrapped her Head:  
Then plunged into her Stream, with deep Despair,  
And her last Sobs came bubbling up in Air.   

Now stern Aeneas waves his weighty Spear  
Against his Foe, and thus upbraids his Fear,  
What farther Subterfuge can Turnus find;  
What empty Hopes are harboured in his Mind?  
'Tis not thy Swiftness can secure thy Flight:  
Not with their Feet, but Hands, the Valiant fight.  
Vary thy Shape in thousand Forms, and dare  
What Skill and Courage can attempt in War:  
Wish for the Wings of Winds, to mount the Sky;  
Or hid, within the hollow Earth to lie.  
The Champion shook his Head; and made this short reply.  
No threats of thine, my manly Mind can move:  
'tis Hostile Heaven I dread; and Partial Jove.  
He, said no more: but with a Sigh, repressed  
The mighty Sorrow, in his swelling Breast.  
Then, as he rolled his troubled Eyes around,  
An Antique Stone he saw: the Common Bound  
Of Neighbouring Fields; and Barrier of the Ground:  
So vast, that Twelve strong Men of modern Days,  
Th' enormous weight from Earth could hardly raise.  
He heaved it at a Lift: and poised on high,  
Ran staggering on, against his Enemy.  
But so disordered, that he scarcely knew  
His Way: or what unwieldy weight he threw.  
His knocking Knees are bend beneath the Load:  
And shivering Cold congeals his vital Blood.  
The Stone drops from his arms: and falling short,  
For want of Vigour, mocks his vain Effort.  
And as, when heavy Sleep has closed the sight,  
The sickly Fancy labours in the Night:  
We seem to run; and destitute of Force  
Our sinking Limbs forsake us in the Course:  
In vain we heave for Breath; in vain we cry:  
The Nerves unbraced, their usual Strength deny;  
And, on the Tongue the falt'ring Accents die:  
So Turnus fared: what ever means he tried  
All force of Arms, and points of Art employed,  
The Fury flew athwart; and made th' Endeavour void.   

A thousand various Thoughts his Soul confound:  
He stared about; nor Aid nor Issue found:  
His own Men stop the Pass; and his own Walls surround.  
Once more he pauses; and looks out again:  
And seeks the Goddess Charioteer in vain.  
Trembling he views the Thundering Chief advance:  
And brandishing aloft the deadly Lance:  
Amazed he cow'rs beneath his conquering Foe,  
Forgets to ward; and waits the coming Blow.  
Astonished while he stands, and fixed with Fear,  
Aimed at his Shield he sees th' impending Spear.   

The Hero measured first, with narrow view,  
The destined Mark: And rising as he threw,  
With its full swing the fatal Weapon flew.  
Not with less Rage the rattling Thunder falls;  
Or Stones from battering Engines break the Walls:  
Swift as a Whirlwind, from an Arm so strong,  
The Lance drove on; and bore the Death along.  
Nought could his sev'nfold Shield the Prince avail,  
Nor ought beneath his Arms the Coat of Mail;  
It pierced through all; and with a grizly Wound,  
Transfixed his Thigh, and doubled him to Ground.  
With Groans the Latins rend the vaulted Sky:  
Woods, Hills, and Valleys, to the Voice reply.   

Now low on Earth the lofty Chief is laid;  
With Eyes cast upward, and with Arms displayed;  
And Recreant thus to the proud Victor prayed.  
I know my Death deserved, nor hope to live:  
Use what the Gods, and thy good Fortune give.   

Yet think; oh think, if Mercy may be shown,  
(Thou hadst a Father once; and hast a Son:)  
Pity my Sire, now sinking to the Grave;  
And for Anchises sake, old Daunus save!  
Or, if thy vowed Revenge pursue my Death;  
Give to my Friends my Body void of Breath!  
The Latian Chiefs have seen me beg my Life;  
Thine is the Conquest, thine the Royal Wife:  
Against a yielded Man, 'tis mean ignoble Strife.   

In deep Suspense the Trojan seemed to stand;  
And just prepared to strike repressed his Hand.   

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Aen: 12. L. 1360.   

He rolled his Eyes, and every Moment felt  
His manly Soul with more Compassion melt.  
When, casting down a casual Glance, he spied  
The Golden Belt that glittered on his side:  
The fatal Spoils which haughty Turnus tore  
From dying Pallas, and in Triumph wore.  
Then roused anew to Wrath, he loudly cries,  
(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his Eyes:)  
Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to Grace pretend,  
Clad, as thou art, in Trophies of my Friend?  
To his sad Soul a grateful Offering go;  
'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly Blow.  
He raised his Arm aloft; and at the Word,  
Deep in his Bosom drove the shining Sword.  
The streaming Blood distained his Arms around:  
And the disdainful Soul came rushing through the Wound.    
FINIS.   

POSTSCRIPT TO THE READER.  
WHAT Virgil wrote in the vigour of his Age, in Plenty and at Ease, I have undertaken to Translate in my Declining Years: struggling with Wants, oppressed with Sickness, curbed in my Genius, liable to be misconstrued in all I write; and my Judges, if they are not very equitable, already prejudiced against me, by the Lying Character which has been given them of my Morals. Yet steady to my Principles, and not dispirited with my Afflictions, I have, by the Blessing of God on my Endeavours, overcome all difficulties; and, in some measure, acquitted myself of the Debt which I owed the Public, when I undertook this Work. In the first place therefore, I thankfully acknowledge to the Almighty Power, the Assistance he has given me in the beginning, the Prosecution, and Conclusion of my present Studies, which are more happily performed than I could have promised to myself, when I laboured under such Discouragements. For, what I have done, Imperfect as it is, for want of Health and leisure to Correct it, will be judged in after Ages, and possibly in the present, to be no dishonour to my Native Country; whose Language and Poetry would be more esteemed abroad, if they were better understood. Somewhat (give me leave to say) I have added to both of them in the choice of Words; and Harmony of Numbers which were wanting, especially the last, in all our Poets, even in those who being endued with Genius, yet have not Cultivated their Mother-Tongue with sufficient Care; or relying on the Beauty of their Thoughts, have judged the Ornament of Words, and sweetness of Sound unnecessary. One is for raking in Chaucer (our English Ennius) for antiquated Words, which are never to be revived, but when Sound or Significancy is wanting in the present Language. But many of his deserve not this Redemption, any more than the Crowds of Men who daily die, or are slain for sixpence in a Battle, merit to be restored to Life, if a Wish could revive them. Others have no Ear for Verse, nor choice of Words; nor distinction of Thoughts; but mingle Farthings with their Gold to make up the Sum. Here is a Field of Satire opened to me: But since the Revolution, I have wholly renounced that Talon. For who would give Physic to the Great when he is uncalled? To do his Patient no good, and endanger himself for his Prescription? Neither am I ignorant, but I may justly be Condemned for many of those Faults, of which I have too liberally Arraigned others.  Cynthia's Aurem vellit, & admonuit. 
'Tis enough for me, if the Government will let me pass unquestioned. In the mean time, I am obliged in gratitude, to return my Thanks to many of them, who have not only distinguished me from others of the same Party, by a particular exception of Grace, but without considering the Man, have been Bountiful to the Poet: Have encouraged Virgil to speak such English, as I could teach him, and rewarded his Interpreter, for the pains he has taken in bringing him over into Britain, by defraying the Charges of his Voyage. Even Cerberus, when he had received the Sop, permitted Aeneas to pass freely to Elysium. Had it been offered me, and I had refused it, yet still some gratitude is due to such who were willing to oblige me. But how much more to those from whom I have received the Favours which they have offered to one of a different Persuasion. Amongst whom I cannot omit naming the Earls of Derby and of Peterborough. To the first of these, I have not the Honour to be known; and therefore his liberality as much unexpected, as it was undeserved. The present Earl of Peterborough has been pleased long since to accept the tenders of my Service: His Favours are so frequent to me, that I receive them almost by prescription. No difference of Interests or Opinion have been able to withdraw his Protection from me: And I might justly be condemned for the most unthankful of Mankind, if I did not always preserve for him a most profound Respect and inviolable Gratitude. I must also add, that if the last Aeneid shine amongst its Fellows, 'tis owing to the Commands of Sir William Trumball, one of the Principal Secretaries of State, who recommended it, as his Favourite, to my Care: and for his sake particularly I have made it mine. For who would confess weariness, when he enjoined a fresh Labour? I could not but invoke the assistance of a Muse, for this last Office.  
Extremum hunc Arethusa:—  
Negat quis Carmina Gallo?  
Neither am I to forget the Noble Present which was made me by Gilbert Dolben Esq the worthy Son of the late Archbishop of York: who, when I began this Work, enriched me with all the several Editions of Virgil, and all the Commentaries of those Editions in Latin. Amongst which, I could not but prefer the Dolphins; as the last, the shortest, and the most Judicious. Fabrini I had also sent me from Italy; but either he understands Virgil very imperfectly, or I have no knowledge of my Author.  
Being Invited by that worthy Gentleman, Sir William Bowyer, to Denham-Court, I Translated the first Georgic at his House, and the greatest part of the last Aeneid. A more friendly Entertainment no Man ever found. No wonder therefore if both those Versions surpass the rest, and own the satisfaction I received in his Converse, with whom I had the honour to be bred in Cambridge, and in the same College. The Seventh Aeneid was made English at Burleigh, the Magnificent Abode of the Earl of Exeter: In a Village belonging to his Family I was born, and under his Roof I endeavoured to make that Aeneid appear in English with as much lustre as I could: though my Author has not given the finishing strokes either to it, or to the Eleventh, as I perhaps could prove in both, if I durst presume to Criticise my Master.  
By a Letter from Will. Walsh of Abberley Esq (who has so long honoured me with his Friendship, and who, without flattery, is the best Critic of our Nation,) I have been informed that his Grace the Duke of Shrewsbury has procured a Printed Copy of the Pastorals, Georgics, and six first Aeneids, from my Bookseller, and has read them in the Country, together with my Friend. This Noble Person having been pleased to give them a Commendation, which I presume not to insert; has made me vain enough to boast of so great a favour, and to think I have succeeded beyond my hopes; the Character of his Excellent Judgement, the acuteness of his Wit, and his general Knowledge of good Letters, being known as well to all the World, as the sweetness of his disposition, his Humanity, his easiness of access, and desire of obliging those who stand in need of his protection, are known to all who have approached him; and to me in particular, who have formerly had the honour of his Conversation. Whoever has given the World the Translation of part of the third Georgic, which he calls The Power of Love, has put me to sufficient pains to make my own not inferior to his: As my Lord Roscommon's Silenus had formerly given me the same trouble. The most Ingenious Mr. Addison of Oxford has also been as troublesome to me as the other two, and on the same account. After his Bees, my latter Swarm is scarcely worth the hiving. Mr. Cowley's praise of a Country Life is Excellent; but 'tis rather an imitation of Virgil, than a Version. That I have recovered in some measure the health which I had lost by too much application to this Work, is owing, next to God's Mercy, to the Skill and Care of Dr. Guibbons, and Dr. Hobbs, the two Ornaments of their Profession; whom I can only pay by this Acknowledgement. The whole Faculty has always been ready to oblige me: and the only one of them who endeavoured to defame me, had it not in his power. I desire pardon from my Readers for saying so much in relation to myself, which concerns not them: and with my acknowledgements to all my Subscribers, have only to add, that the few Notes which follow, are par manner d'acquit, because I had obliged myself by Articles, to do somewhat of that kind. These scattering Observations are rather guesses at my Author's meaning in some passages, than proofs that so he meant. The Unlearned may have recourse to any Poetical Dictionary in English, for the Names of Persons, Places, or Fables, which the Learned need not: But that little which I say, is either new or necessary. And the first of these qualifications never fails to invite a Reader, if not to please him.   

NOTES and OBSERVATIONS ON Virgil's Works IN ENGLISH.  
PAstoral 1. Line 6. There first the Youth of Heavenly Birth I viewed. Virgil means Octavius Caesar: Heir to Julius: who perhaps had not arrived to his Twentieth Year, when Virgil saw him first. Vide his Life. Of Heavenly Birth or Heavenly Blood; because the Julian Family was derived from Julus, Son to Aeneas, and Grandson to Venus.  
Pastoral 2d. Line 65. The Short Narcissus, That is, of short continuance.  
Pastoral 3d. Line 95. For him, the God of Shepherds and their Sheep, Phoebus, not Pan, is here called the God of Shepherds: The Poet alludes to the same Story, which he touches in the beginning of the Second Georgic, where he calls Phoebus the Amphrysian Shepherd, because he fed the Sheep and Oxen of Admetus (with whom he was in Love) on the Hill Amphrysus.  
Pastoral 4th. Line 73. Begin Auspicious Boy, etc. In Latin thus. Incipe parve Puer, risu cognoscere Matrem, etc. I have Translated the Passage to this Sense; that the Infant smiling on his Mother, singles her out from the rest of the Company about him. Erythraeus, Bembus, and Joseph Scaliger, are of this Opinion. Yet they and I may be mistaken. For immediately after, we find these words, Cui non risere Parents, which imply another Sense, as if the Parents smiled on the Newborn Infant: And that the Babe on whom they vouchsafed not to smile, was born to ill Fortune. For they tell a Story, that when Vulcan, the only Son of Jupiter and Juno came into the World, he was so hard favoured, that both his Parents frowned on him: And Jupiter threw him out of Heaven; he fell on the Island Lemnos, and was Lame ever afterwards. The last Line of the Pastoral seems to justify this Sense, Nec Deus hunc Mensâ, Dea nec dignata Cubili est. For though he married Venus, yet his Mother Juno was not present at the Nuptials to bless them; as appears by his Wife's Incontinence. They say also, that he was banished from the Banquets of the Gods: If so, that Punishment could be of no long continuance, for Homer makes him present at their Feasts; and composing a Quarrel betwixt his Parents, with a Bowl of Nectar. The matter is of no great Consequence; and therefore I adhere to my Translation, for these two Reasons: First, Virgil has this following Line. Matri long a docem tulerunt fastidia Menses, as if the Infants smiling on his Mother, was a Reward to her for bearing him ten Months in her Body, four Weeks longer than the usual time. Secondly, Catullus is cited by Joseph Scaliger, as favouring this Opinion, in his Epithalamium of Manlius Torquatus.  
Torquatus, volo parvolus  
Matris è gremio suae  
Porrigens teneras Manus  
Dulcè rideat ad Patrem, etc.  
What if I should steer betwixt the two Extremes, and conclude, that the Infant, who was to be happy, must not only smile on his Parents, but also they on him? For Scaliger notes that the Infants who smiled not at their Birth, were observed to be 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, or sullen (as I have Translated it) during all their Life: And Servius, and almost all the Modern Commentators affirm, that no Child was thought Fortunate on whom his Parents smiled not, at his Birth. I observe farther, that the Ancients thought the Infant who came into the World at the end of the Tenth Month, was Born to some extraordinary Fortune, good or Bad. Such was the Birth of the late Prince of Condé, of whom his Mother was not brought to Bed, till almost Eleven Months were expired after his Father's Death: Yet the College of Physicians at Paris, concluded he was Lawfully begotten. My Ingenious Friend, Anthony Henly Esq desired me to make a Note on this Passage of Virgil: Adding what I had not Read; that the Jews have been so Superstitious, as to observe not only the first Look or Action of an Infant, but also the first Word which the Parent, or any of the Assistants spoke after the Birth: And from thence they gave a Name to the Child alluding to it.  
Pastoral 6. My Lord Roscommon's Notes on this Pastoral, are equal to his excellent Translation of it; and thither I refer the Reader.  
The Eighth and Tenth Pastorals are already Translated to all manner of advantage, by my excellent Friend, Mr. Stafford. So is the Episode of Camilla, in the Eleventh Eneid.  
This Eight Pastoral is Copied by our Author from two Bucolics of Theocritus. Spencer has followed both Virgil and Theocritus, in the Charms which he employs for Curing Britomartis of her Love. But he had also our Poet's Ceiris in his Eye: For there not only the Enchantments are to be found; but also the very Name of Britomartis.  
In the Ninth Pastoral, Virgil has made a Collection of many scattering Passages, which he had Translated from Theocritus: And here he has bound them into a Nosegay.  
Georgic the First. The Poetry of this Book is more sublime than any part of Virgil, if I have any Taste. And if ever I have Copied his Majestic Style 'tis here. The Compliment he makes Augustus almost in the beginning, is ill imitated by his Successors Lucan and Statius. They Dedicated to Tyrants; and their Flatteries are gross and fulsome. Virgil's Address is both more lofty and more just. In the three last Lines of this Georgic, I think I have discovered a secret Compliment to the Emperor, which none of the Commentators have observed. Virgil had just before described the Miseries which Rome had undergone betwixt the Triumvirs and the Commonwealth-Party: In the close of all, he seems to excuse the Crimes committed by his Patron Caesar, as if he were constrained against his own Temper to those violent Proceedings, by the necessity of the Times in general, but more particularly by his two Partners, Anthony and Lepidus. Fertur Equis Auriga, nec audit Currus habenas. They were the Headstrong Horses, who hurried Octavius, the trembling Charioteer along, and were deaf to his▪ reclaiming them. I observe farther; that the present Wars, in which all Europe, and part of Asia are engaged at present; are waged in the same places here described: Atque hinc Euphrates, illinc Germania Bellum, etc. As if Virgil had Prophesied of this Age.  
Georgic. 2d. The Praises of Italy, (Translated by the Learned, and every way Excellent Mr. Chetwood) which are Printed in one of the Miscellany Poems, are the greatest Ornament of this Book. Wherein for want of sufficient skill in Gardening, Agriculture, etc. I may possibly be mistaken in some Terms. But concerning Grafting, my Honoured Friend Sir William Bowyer has assured me, that Virgil has shown more of Poetry than Skill, at least in relation to our more Northern Climates. And that many of our Stocks will not receive such Grafts, as our Po●t tells us would Bear in Italy. Nature has consired with Art to make the Garden at Denham-Court, of Sir William's own Plantation, one of the most delicious Spots of Ground in England: It contains not above Five Acres, (just the compass of Alcinous his Garden, described in the Odysseys:) But Virgil says in this very Georgic, Laudato ingentia Rura; Exiguum colito.  
Georgic 3d. Line the 45th. Next him, Niphates with inverted Urn, etc. It has been objected to me, that I understood not this Passage of Virgil, because I call Niphates a River, which is a Mountain in Armenia. But the River arising from the same Mountain, is also called Niphates. And having spoken of Nile before, I might reasonably think, that Virgil rather meant to couple two Rivers, than a River and a Mountain.  
Line 224. The Male has done, etc. The transition is obscure in Virgil. He began with Cows, then proceeds to treat of Horses: Now returns to Cows▪  
Line 476. Till the new Ram receives th' Exalted Sun. Astrologers tell us, that the Sun receives his Exaltation in the Sign Aries: Virgil perfectly understood both Astronomy and Astrology.  
Georgic 4. Line 27. That when the Youthful Prince. My most Ingenious Friend Sir Henry Shere, has observed through a Glass-Hive, that the Young Prince of the Bees, or Heir presumptive of the Crown, approaches the King's Apartment with great Reverence; and for three successive Mornings demands permission, to lead forth a Colony of that Years Bees. If his Petition be granted, which he seems to make by humble hum; the Swarm arises under his Conduct: If the Answer be, le Roy s'avisera, that is, if the Old Monarch think it not convenient for the Public good, to part with so many of his Subjects; the next Morning the Prince is found dead, before the Threshold of the Palace.  
Line 477. The Poet here records the Names of Fifty River Nymphs. And for once I have Translated them all. But in the Aeneis I thought not myself obliged to be so exact; for in naming many Men who were killed by Heroes, I have omitted some, which would not sound in English Verse.  
Line 660. The Episode of Orpheus and Eurydice begins here. And contains the only Machine which Virgil uses in the Georgics. I have observed in the Epistle before the Aeneis, that our Author seldom employs Machine's but to adorn his Poem: And that the Action which they seemingly perform, is really produced without them. Of this Nature is the Legend of the Bees restored by Miracle; when the Receipt which the Poet gives, would do the Work without one. The only Beautiful Machine which I remember in the Modern Poets, is in Ariosto. Where God commands St. Michael to take care, that Paris then Besieged by the Saracens, should be succoured by Rinaldo. In order to this, he enjoins the Archangel to find Silence and Discord. The first to Conduct the Christian Army to relieve the Town, with so much secrecy, that their March should not be discovered; the latter to enter the Camp of the Infidels, and there to sow Dissension among the Principal Commanders. The Heavenly Messenger takes his way to an Ancient Monastery; not doubting there to find Silence in her primitive Abode. But instead of Silence finds Discord: The Monks, being divided into Factions, about the choice of some New Officer, were at Snic and Snee with their drawn Knives. The satire needs no Explanation. And here it may be also observed, that Ambition, Jealousy, and Worldly Interest, and point of Honour, had made variance both in the Cloister and the Camp; and strict Discipline had done the Work of Silence, in Conducting the Christian Army to surprise the Turks.  
Aeneid 1. Line 111. And make thee Father of a happy Line. This was an obliging Promise to Aeolus; who had been so unhappy in his former Children, Macareus and Canacè.  
Line 196. 
The Realms of Ocean, and the Fields of Air  
Are mine, not his.   
Poetically speaking, the Fields of Air, are under the Command of Juno; and her Vicegerent Aeolus. Why then does Neptune call them His? I answer, because being God of the Seas, Aeolus could raise no Tempests in the Atmosphere above them without his leave. But why does Juno Address to her own Substitute? I answer, He had an immediate Power over the Winds, whom Juno desires to employ on her Revenge. That Power was absolute by Land; which Virgil plainly insinuates: For when Boreas and his Brethren were let loose, he says at first terras turbine perflant: Then adds, Incubuere Mari: To raise a Tempest on the Sea was Usurpation on the Prerogative of Neptune; who had given him no leave, and therefore was enraged at his Attempt. I may also add, that they who are in Passion, as Neptune then was, are apt to assume to themselves, more than is properly their due.  
Line 450. 
O Virgin— etc.  
If as you seem the Sister of the Day,  
Or one at least of chaste Diana's Train.   
Thus, in the Original.  
O Quam te memorem Virgo—  
Aut Phoebi Soror, aut Nympharum Sanguinis una.  
This is a Family Compliment, which Aeneas here bestows on Venus. His Father Anchises had used the very same to that Goddess when he Courted her. This appears by that very Ancient Greek Poem, in which that Amour is so beautifully described, and which is thought Homer's: Though it seems to be Written before his Age.  
Line 980. 
Her Princely Guest was next her side.   
This, I confess, is improperly Translated; and according to the Modern Fashion of sitting at Table. But the Ancient custom of lying on Beds, had not been understood by the Unlearned Reader.  
Aeneid the Second. The Destruction of Veii is here shadowed under that of Troy: Livy in his Description of it, seems to have emulated in his Prose, and almost equalled the Beauty of Virgil's Verse.  
Aeneid the 3d. Verse 132. 
And children's Children shall the Crown sustain. Et Nati Natorum, & qui nascentur ab illis.   
Virgil Translated this Verse from Homer: Homer had it from Orpheus; and Orpheus from an Ancient Oracle of Apollo. On this Account it is, that Virgil immediately Subjoins these Words, Haec Phoebus, etc. Eustathius takes notice, that the Old Poets were wont to take whole Paragraphs from one another, which justifies our Poet for what he borrows from Homer. Bochartus in his Letter to Segrais, mentions an Oracle which he found in the fragments of an Old Greek Historian: The Sense whereof is this in English; that when the Empire of the Priamidae should be destroyed, the Line of Anchises should succeed. Venus therefore, says the Historian, was desirous to have a Son by Anchises, tho' he was then in his decrepit Age: Accordingly she had Aeneas. After this she sought occasion to ruin the Race of Priam; and set on foot the Intrigue of Alexander, (or Paris) with Helena: She being ravished, Venus pretended still to favour the Trojans; lest they should restore Helen, in case they should be reduced to the last Necessity. Whence it appears, that the Controversy betwixt Juno and Venus, was on no trivial account; but concerned the Succession to a great Empire.  
Aeneid the 4th. Li. 945. 
And must I die, she said,  
And unrevenged? 'tis doubly to be dead!  
Yet even this Death with pleasure I receive:  
On any Terms, 'tis better than to live.   
This is certainly the Sense of Virgil; on which I have paraphrased, to make it plain. His Words are these; Moriemur Inultae?  Sed Moriamur ait; sic, sic juvat ire sub Vmbras. 
Servius makes an Interrogation at the Word sic; thus, sic? Sic juvat ire sub Vmbras Which Mr. Cowley justly Censures: But his own judgement may perhaps be questioned: For he would retrench the latter part of the Verse, and leave it a Hemystic. Sed Moriamur ait. That Virgil never intended to have left any Hemystic, I have proved already in the Preface. That this Verse was filled up by him, with these words, sic, juvat ire sub Vmbras, is very probable; if we consider the weight of them. For this procedure of Dido, does not only contain, that, dira Execratio, quae nullo expiatur Carmine (as Horace observes in his Canidia) but besides that, Virgil, who is full of Allusions to History, under another Name, describes the Decii, devoting themselves to Death this way, though in a better Cause, in order to the Destruction of the Enemy. The Reader, who will take the pains to Consult Livy, in his accurate Description of those Decii, thus devoting themselves, will find a great resemblance betwixt these two Passages. And 'tis judiciously observed upon that Verse, — Nulla fides populis nec foedera sunto. That Virgil uses in the word sunto a verbum juris, a form of speaking on Solemn and Religious Occasions: Livy does the like. Note also that Dido puts herself into the Habitus Gabinus, which was the girding herself round with one Sleeve of her Vest, which is also according to the Roman Pontifical, in this dreadful Ceremony, as Livy has observed: which is a farther confirmation of this Conjecture. So that upon the whole matter, Dido only doubts whether she should die before she had taken her Revenge, which she rather wished: But considering that this devoting herself was the most certain and infallible way of compassing her Vengeance, she thus exclaims; 
Sic, sic juvat ire sub umbras:  
Hauriat hunc oculis ignem crudelis ab alto  
Dardanus, & nostrae secum ferat omnia mortis.  
Those Flames from far, may the false Trojan view;  
Those boding Omens his base Flight pursue.   
Which Translation I take to be according to the Sense of Virgil. I should have added a Note on that former Verse.  Infelix Dido, nunc te fata impia tangunt. 
Which in the Edition of Heinsius is thus Printed. Nunc te facta impia tangunt? The word facta instead of fata, is reasonably altered. For Virgil says afterwards, she died not by Fate, nor by any deserved Death. Nec Fato, meritâ nec morte peribat, etc. When I Translated that Passage, I doubted of the Sense: And therefore omitted that Hemystic; Nunc te fata impia tangunt. But Heinsius is mistaken only in making an Interrogation point, instead of a Period. The words facta impia, I suppose are genuine: For she had perjured herself in her second Marriage. Having firmly resolved, as she told her Sister, in the beginning of this Aeneid, never to love again, after the Death of her first Husband; and had confirmed this Resolution, by a Curse on herself, if she should alter it.  
Sed mihi vel tellus optem, prius ima dehiscat, etc.  
Ant, pudor, quam te violem, aut tua jura resolvam.  
Ille meos, primus, qui me sibi junxit, amores,  
Abstulit: Ille habeat secum, servetque sepulcro.  
Aeneid the 5th. A great part of this Book is borrowed from Apollonius Rhodius. And the Reader may observe the great Judgement and distinction of our Author in what he borrows from the Ancients, by comparing them. I conceive the Reason why he omits the Horse-race in the Funeral Games, was because he shows Ascanius afterwards on Horseback, with his Troops of Boys, and would not wear that Subject threadbare; which Statius, in the next Age described so happily. Virgil seems to me, to have excelled Homer in all those Sports, and to have laboured them the more, in Honour of Octavius, his Patron; who instituted the like Games for perpetuating the Memory of his Uncle Julius. Piety, as Virgil calls it, or dutifulness to Parents, being a most popular Virtue among the Romans.  
Aeneid the 6th. Line 586.  
The next in place and Punishment are they,  
Who prodigally throw their Lives away, etc.  
Proxima sorte tenent maesti loca, qui sibi letum  
Insontes peperere manu, lucemque perosi,  
Projecere animas, etc.  
This was taken, amongst many other things, from the Tenth Book of Plato de Republicâ: No Commentator besides Fabrini, has taken notice of it. Self-murder was accounted a great Crime by that Divine Philosopher: But the Instances which he brings, are too many to be inserted in these short Notes. Sir Robert Howard in his Translation of this Aeneid, which was Printed with his Poems in the Year 1660; has given us the most Learned, and the most Judicious Observations on this Book, which are extant in our Language.  
Line 734. 
Lo to the secret Shadows I retire,  
To pay my Penance, till my Years expire.   
These two Verses in English seem very different from the Latin. Discedam; explebo numerum, reddarque tenebris.  
Yet they are the Sense of Virgil; at least, according to the common Interpretation of this place: I will withdraw from your Company; retire to the Shades, and perform my Penance of a Thousand Years. But I must confess the Interpretation of those two words, explebo numerum is somewhat Violent, if it be thus understood, minuam numerum; that is, I will lessen your Company by my departure. For Deiphobus being a Ghost, can hardly be said to be of their Number. Perhaps the Poet means by explebo numerum, absolvam sententiam: As if Deiphobus replied to the Sibil, who was angry at his long Visit: I will only take my last leave of Aeneas, my Kinsman and my Friend, with one hearty good-wish for his Health and welfare, and then leave you to prosecute your Voyage. That Wish is expressed in the words immediately following. I Decus, I nostrum, etc. Which contain a direct Answer to what the Sibyl said before: When she upbraided their long Discourse, Nos flendo ducimus horas. This Conjecture is new, and therefore left to the discretion of the Reader.  
L. 981. 
Know first that Heaven, and Earth's compacted Frame,  
And flowing Waters, and the Starry Flame,  
And both the radiant Lights, etc.  
Principio Coelum, & terras, composque liquentes,  
Lucentemque globum Lunae, Titaniaque Astra, etc.   
Here the Sun is not expressed, but the Moon only; though a less, and also a less radiant Light. Perhaps the Copies of Virgil are all false; and that instead of Titaniaque Astra, he writ Titanaque & Astra; and according to those words I have made my Translation. 'Tis most certain, that the Sun ought not to be omitted; for he is frequently called the Life and Soul of all the World: And nothing bids so fair for a visible Divinity to those who know no better, than that glorious Luminary. The Platonists call God the archetypal Sun, and the Sun the visible Deity, the inward vital Spirit in the Centre of the Universe, or that Body to which that Spirit is united, and by which-it exerts itself most powerfully. Now it was the received Hypothesis amongst the Pythagoreans, that the Sun was situate in the Centre of the World: Plato had it from them, and was himself of the same Opinion; as appears by a passage in the Timaeus: From which Noble Dialogue is this part of Virgil's Poem taken.  
L. 1157. 
Great Cato there, for gravity renowned, etc.  
Quis te Magne Cato, etc.   
There is no Question but Virgil here means Cato Major, or the Censor. But the Name of Cato being also mentioned in the Eighth Aeneid, I doubt whether he means the same Man in both places. I have said in the Preface, that our Poet was of Republican Principles; and have given this for one Reason of my Opinion, that he praised Cato in that Line, Secretisque piis, his dantem jura Catonem. And accordingly placed him in the Elysian Fields. Montaign thinks this was Cato the Utican, the great Enemy of Arbitrary Power, and a professed Foe to Julius Caesar. Ruaeus would persuade us that Virgil meant the Censor. But why should the Poet name Cato twice, if he intended the same person? Our Author is too frugal of his Words and Sense, to commit Tautologies in either. His Memory was not likely to betray him into such an Error. Nevertheless I continue in the same Opinion, concerning the Principles of our Poet. He declares them sufficiently in this Book: Where he praises the first Brutus for expelling the Tarquins, giving Liberty to Rome, and putting to Death his own Children, who conspired to restore Tyranny: He calls him only an unhappy Man, for being forced to that severe Action.  
Infelix, utcunque ferent ea facta Minores,  
Vincet amor Patriae, laudumque immensa Cupido.  
Let the Reader weigh these two Verses, and he must be convinced that I am in the right: And that I have not much injured my Master in my Translation of them.  
Line 1140. 
Embrace again, my Sons; be Foes no more;  
Nor slain your Country with her children's gore:  
And thou the first, lay down thy lawless claim;  
Thou of my Blood, who bearest the Julian Name.   
This Note, which is out of its proper place, I deferred on purpose, to place it here: Because it discovers the Principles of our Poet more plainly than any of the rest.  

Tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo,  
Projice tela manu, Sanguis meus!  Anchises here speaks to Julius Caesar; And commands him first to lay down Arms; which is a plain condemnation of his Cause. Yet observe our Poet's incomparable Address: For though he shows himself sufficiently to be a Commonwealthsman's; yet in respect to Augustus, who was his Patron, he uses the Authority of a Parent, in the Person of Anchises; who had more right to lay this Injunction on Caesar than on Pompey; because the latter was not of his Blood. Thus our Author cautiously veils his own opinion, and takes Sanctuary under Anchises; as if that Ghost would have laid the same Command on Pompey also, had he been lineally descended from him. What could be more judiciously contrived, when this was the Aeneid which he chose to read before his Master?  
Line 1222. 
A new Marcellus shall arise in thee.  
In Virgil thus. Tu Marcellus eris.   
How unpoetically and baldly had this been translated; Thou shalt Marcellus be! Yet some of my Friends were of Opinion, that I mistook the Sense of Virgil in my Translation. The French Interpreter, observes nothing on this place; but that it appears by it, the Mourning of Octavia was yet fresh, for the loss of her Son Marcellus, whom she had by her first Husband: And who died in the Year aburbe conditâ, 731. And collects from thence that Virgil, reading this Aeneid before her, in the same Year, had just finished it: That from this time to that of the Poet's Death, was little more than four Years. So that supposing him to have written the whole Aeneis in eleven Years; the first six Books must have taken up seven of those Years: On which Account the six last, must of necessity be less correct.  
Now for the false judgement of my Friends, there is but this little to be said for them; the words of Virgil, in the Verse preceding are these, — Siqua fata aspera rumpas. As if the Poet had meant, if you break through your hard Destiny, so as to be born, you shall be called Marcellus: But this cannot be the Sense: for though Marcellus was born, yet he broke not through those hard Decrees, which doomed him to so immature a death. Much less can Virgil mean, you shall be the same Marcellus by the Transmigration of his Soul. For according to the System of our Author, a Thousand Years must be first elapsed, before the Soul can return into a Humane Body; but the first Marcellus was slain in the second Punic War. And how many hundred Years were yet wanting, to the accomplishing his penance, may with ease be gathered, by computing the time betwixt Scipio and Augustus. By which 'tis plain, that Virgil cannot mean the same Marcellus; but one of his Descendants; whom I call a new Marcellus; who so much resembled his Ancestor, perhaps in his Features, and his Person, but certainly in his Military Virtues, that Virgil cries out, quantum instar in ipso est! which I have translated, How like the former, and almost the same.  
Line, 1236, and 1237. 
Two Gates the silent House of Sleep adorn;  
Of polished Ivory this; that of transparent Horn.   
By the carelessness of the Amanuensis, the two next Lines are wanting, which I thus supply out of the Original Copy. 
True Visions through transparent Horn arise,  
Through polished Ivory pass deluding Lies.   
Virgil borrowed this Imagination from Homer, Odysseys the 19th. Line 562. The Translation gives the reason, why true Prophetic Dreams are said to pass through the Gate of Horn, by adding the Epithet transparent: Which is not in Virgil; whose Words are only these; 
Sunt geminae Somni portae; quarum altera fertur  
Cornea—   
What is pervious to the Sight is clear; and (alluding to this Property,) the Poet infers such Dreams are of Divine Revelation. Such as pass through the Ivory Gate, are of the contrary Nature; polished Lies. But there is a better Reason to be given: For the Ivory alludes to the Teeth, the Horn to the Eyes. What we see is more credible, than what we only hear; that is, Words that pass through the Portal of the Mouth, or, Hedge of the Teeth: (which is Homer's expression for speaking.)  
Aen. the 7th. Li. 109. 
Strange to relate, the Flames involved in Smoke, etc.   
Virgil, in this place, taketh notice of a great Secret in the Roman Divination: The Lambent Fires, which rose above the Head, or played about it, were Signs of Prosperity, such were those which he observed in the second Aeneid: which were seen mounting from the Crown of Ascanius,  
Ecce levis summo de vertice visus juli.  
Fundere lumen apex.  
Smoky Flames, (or involved in Smoke) were of a mixed Omen; such were those which are here described: For Smoke signifies Tears, because it produces them, and Flames Happiness. And therefore Virgil says that this Ostent was not only mirabile visu, but horrendum.  
Line 367. 
One only Daughter heirs my Crown and State.   
This has seemed to some an odd Passage: That a King should offer his Daughter and Heir, to a Stranger Prince, and a wanderer, before he had seen him, and when he had only heard of his arrival on his Coasts: But these Critics have not well considered the Simplicity of former times; when the Heroines almost courted the Marriage of illustrious Men. Yet Virgil here observes the rule of Decency; Lavinia offers not herself: 'Tis Latinus, who propounds the Match: And he had been foretold, both by an Augur, and an Oracle, that he should have a foreign Son-in-Law; who was also a Hero. Fathers, in those ancient Ages, considering Birth and Virtue, more than Fortune, in the placing of their Daughters. Which I could prove by various Examamples: The contrary of which being now practised, I dare not say in our Nation, but in France, has not a little darkened the Lustre of their Nobility. That Lavinia was averse to this Marriage, and for what reason, I shall prove in its proper place.  
L. 1020. And where Abella sees, from her high towers, the Harvest of her Trees. I observe that Virgil names not Nola, which was not far distant from Abella: perhaps, because that City, (the same in which Augustus died afterwards;) had once refused to give him entertainment; if if we may believe the Author of his Life. Homer heartily curses another City which had used him on the same manner: But our Author thought his Silence of the Nolans a sufficient correction. When a Poet passes by a Place or Person, though a fair Occasion offers of rememb'ring them, 'tis a sign he is, or thinks himself, much disobliged.  
Aen. 8. L. 34. 
So when the Sun by Day, the Moon by Night,  
Strike on the polished Brass their trembling Light, etc.   
This Similitude is literally taken from Apollonius Rhodius; and 'tis hard to say, whether the Original or the Translation excels. But in the Shield which he describes afterwards in this Aeneid, he as much transcends his Master Homer; as the Arms of Glaucus were richer than those of Diomedes. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
Lines 115, and 116. 
Aeneas takes the Mother, and her Brood,  
And all on Juno 's Altar are bestowed.   
The Translation is infinitely short of Virgil, whose Words are these; 
— Tibi enim, tibi maxima Juno  
Mactat sacra ferens, & cum grege sistit ad aram.   
For I could not turn the word Enim into English with any grace. Though it was of such necessity, in the Roman Rites, that a Sacrifice could not be performed without it; 'tis of the same nature, (if I may presume to name that sacred Mystery) in our words of Consecration at the Altar.  
Aeneid the 9th. line 853, 854. 
At the full stretch of both his Hands, he drew;  
And almost joined the Horns of the tough Yew.   
The first of these Lines, is all of Monosyllables; and both Verses are very rough: But of choice; for it had been easy for me to have smoothed them. But either my Ear deceives me, or they express the thing which I intended in their Sound: For the stress of a Bow which is drawn to the full extent, is expressed in the harshness of the first Verse, clogged not only with Monosyllables, but with Consonants; and these words, the tough Yew, which conclude the second line, seem as forceful, as they are Unharmonious. Homer and Virgil are both frequent in their adapting Sounds to the thing they signify. One Example will serve for both; because Virgil borrowed the following Verses from Homer's Odysseys.  
Vnà Eurusque Notusque ruunt creberque procellis  
Africus, & vastos volvunt ad litora fluctus.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉;  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
Our Language is not often capable of these Beauties: though sometimes I have copied them, of which these Verses are an instance.  
Line 1095. 
His ample Shield—  
Is falsified; and round with Javelins filled.   
When I read this Aeneid to many of my Friends, in company together, most of them quarrelled at the word falsified, as an Innovation in our Language. The fact is confessed; for I remember not to have read it in any English Author; though perhaps it may be found in Spencer's Fairy Queen: But suppose it be not there: Why am I forbidden to borrow from the Italian, (a polished Language) the word which is wanting in my Native Tongue? Terence has often Grecised: Lucretius has followed his Example; and pleaded for it; sic quia me cogit patrii Sermonis Egestas. Virgil has confirmed it by his frequent practice, and even Cicero in Prose, wanting terms of Philosophy in the Latin Tongue, has taken them from Aristotle's Greek. Horace has given us a Rule for Coining Words, si Graeco fonte cadunt. Especially when other words are joined with them, which explain the Sense. I use the word falsify in this place, to mean that the Shield of Turnus was not of Proof against the Spears and Jaulins of the Trojans; which had pierced it through and through (as we say) in many places. The words which accompany this new one, make my meaning plain; according to the Precept which Horace gave. But I said I borrowed the Word from the Italian: Vide Ariosto, Cant. 26. 
Ma si l'Vsbergo d' Ambi era perfetto  
Che mai poter falsarlo in nessun Canto.   
Falsar cannot otherwise be turned, than by falsified; for his shield was falsed, is not English. I might indeed have contented myself with saying his Shield was pierced, and board, and stuck with Javelins; Nec sufficit Vmbo Ictibus. They who will not admit a new word, may take the old; the matter is not worth dispute.  
Aeneid the 10th. A Choir of Nereids, etc. These were transformed from Ships to Sea-Nymphs: This is almost as violent a Machine, as the death of Aruns by a Goddess in the Episode of Camilla. But the Poet makes use of it with greater Art: For here it carries on the main Design. These new made Divinities, not only tell Aeneas what had passed in his Camp during his absence; and what was the present Distress of his Besieged People; and that his Horsemen whom he had sent by Land, were ready to join him at his Descent; but warn him to provide for Battle the next day, and foretell him good success: So that this Episodical Machine is properly a part of the great Poem; For besides what I have said, they push on his Navy with Celestial Vigour, that it might reach the Port more speedily, and take the Enemy more unprovided to resist the Landing. Whereas the Machine relating to Camilla, is only Ornamental: For it has no effect, which I can find, but to please the Reader, who is concerned, that her Death should be revenged.  
Lines 241, 243. 
Now Sacred Sisters, open all your Spring,  
The Tuscan Leaders, and their Army sing;   
The Poet here begins to tell the Names of the Tuscan Captains who followed Aeneas to the War: And I observe him to be very particular in the description of their Persons, and not forgetful of their Manners: Exact also, in the Relation of the Numbers which each of them Command. I doubt not but as in the fifth Book, he gave us the Names of the Champions, who contended for the several Prizes, that he might oblige many of the most Ancient Roman Families, their Descendants; and as in the 7th Book, he Mustered the Auxiliary Forces of the Latins, on the same Account; so here he gratifies his Tuscan Friends, with the like remembrance of their Ancestors; and above the rest, Maecenas his great Patron: Who being of a Royal Family in Etruria, was probably represented under one of the Names here mentioned, then known among the Romans, though at so great a distance, unknown to us. And for his sake chiefly, as I guess, he makes Aeneas (by whom he always means Augustus) to seek for Aid in the Country of Maecenas, thereby to endear his Protector to his Emperor; as if there had been a former Friendship betwixt their Lines. And who knows, but Maecenas might pretend that the Cilnian Family was derived from Tarchon, the Chief Commander of the Tuscans.  
Line 662. 
Nor I, his mighty Sire, could ward the Blow.   
I have mentioned this Passage in my Preface to the Aeneis; to prove, that Fate was superior to the Gods; and that Jove could neither defer nor alter its Decrees. Sir Robert Howard has since, been pleased to send me the concurrent Testimony of Ovid; 'tis in the last Book of his Metamorphoses; where Venus complains, that her Descendant, Julius Caesar, was in danger of being Murdered by Brutus and Cassius, at the head of the Commonwealth-Faction, and desires them to prevent that Barbarous Assassination. They are moved to Compassion; they are concerned for Caesar; but the Poet plainly tells us, that it was not in their power to change Destiny: All they could do, was to testify their sorrow for his approaching Death, by foreshowing it with Signs and Prodigies, as appears by the following Lines.  
Talia nequicquàm toto Venus aurea Coelo  
Verba jacit: Superosque movet: Qui rumpere quanquam  
Ferrea non possunt veterum decreta Sororum,  
Signa tamen luctus dant haud incerta futuri.  
Then she Addresses to her Father Jupiter, hoping Aid from him, because he was thought Omnipotent. But he, it seems, could do as little as the rest, for he answers thus.  
— sola insuperabile Fatum  
Nata, movere paras? intres' licet ipsa sororum  
Tecta trium; cernes illic molimine vasto  
Ex aere, & solido rerum tabularia ferro:  
Quae neque concursum Coeli, neque fulminis iram,  
Nec metuunt ullas tuta atque aeterna ruinas.  
Invenies illic incisa Adamante perenni  
Fata tui Generis, legi ipse, animoque notavi,  
Et referam: ne sis etiamnum ignara futuri.  
Hic sua complevit; (pro quo Cytherea laboras,)  
Tempora, perfectis quos Terrae debuit, annis, etc.  
Jupiter you see is only Library-Keeper, or Custos Rotulorum to the Fates: For he offers his Daughter a Cast of his Office, to give her a Sight of their Decrees; which the inferior Gods were not permitted to read without his leave. This agrees with what I have said already in the Preface; that they not having seen the Records, might believe they were his own Handwriting; and consequently at his disposing either to blot out, or alter, as he saw convenient. And of this Opinion was Juno in those words, tua qui potes orsa reflectas. Now the abode of those Destinies being in Hell, we cannot wonder why the Swearing by Styx, was an inviolable Oath amongst the Gods of Heaven, and that Jupiter himself should fear to be accused of Forgery by the Fates, if he altered any thing in their Decrees. Chaos, Night, and Erebus, being the most Ancient of the Deities, and instituting those fundamental Laws, by which he was afterwards to govern. Hesiod gives us the Genealogy of the Gods, and I think I may safely infer the rest. I will only add, that Homer was more a Fatalist than Virgil: For it has been observed, that the word 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, or Fortune, is not to be found in his two Poems; but instead of it, always 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
Aeneid the 12. lines 888, and 889. 
Sea-born Messapus with Atinas, heads  
The Latin Squadrons; and to Battle leads.   
The Poet had said, in the preceding lines, that Mnestheus, Seresthus, and Asylas, led on the Trojans, the Tuscans, and the Arcadians: But none of the Printed Copies, which I have seen, mention any Leader of the Rutulians and Latins, but Messapus the Son of Neptune. Ruaeus takes notice of this passage, and seems to wonder at it; but gives no Reason, why Messapus is alone without a Coadjutor.  
The four Verses of Virgil run thus. 
Totae adeò conversae acies, omnesque Latini  
Omnes Dardanidae, Mnestheus, acerque Seresthus  
Et Messapus equum Domitor, & fortis Asylas,  
Tuscorumque Phalanx, Evandrique Arcadis alae.   
I doubt not but the third Line was Originally thus, Et Messapus equum domitor, & fortis Atinas:  
For the two Names of Asylas and Atinas are so like, that one might easily be mistaken for the other by the Transcribers. And to fortify this Opinion, we find afterward, in the relation of Sages to Turnus, that Atinas is joined with Messapus.  
Soli, pro portis, Messapus & acer Atinas  
Sustentant aciem.—  
In general I observe, not only in this Aeneid, but in all thesixth last Books, that Aeneas is never seen on Horseback, and but once before as I remember, in the Fourth when he Hunts with Dido. The Reason of this, if I guess aright, was a secret Compliment which the Poet made to his Countrymen the Romans; the strength of whose Armies consisted most in Foot; which, I think, were all Romans and Italians. But their Wings or Squadrons, were made up of their Allies, who were Foreigners.  
Aeneid the 12. Lines 100, 101, 102. 
At this, a flood of Tears Lavinia shed;  
A crimson Blush her beauteous Face o'erspread;  
Varying her Cheeks, by turns, with white and red.   
Amata, ever partial to the Cause of Turnus, had just before desired him, with all manner of earnestness, not to engage his Rival in single Fight; which was his present Resolution. Virgil, though in favour of his Hero, he never tells us directly, that Lavinia preferred Turnus to Aeneas, yet has insinuated this preference twice before. For mark in the 7th Aeneid, she left her Father, who had promised her to Aeneas without ask her consent: And followed her Mother into the Woods, with a Troop of Bacchanals, where Amata sung the Marriage Song, in the Name of Turnus; which if she had disliked, she might have opposed. Then in the 11th. Aeneid, when her Mother went to the Temple of Pallas, to invoke her Aid against Aeneas; whom she calls by no better Name than Phrygius Praedo, Lavinia sits by her in the same Chair or Litter, juxtaque Comes Lavinia Virgo,— Oculos dejecta decoros. What greater sign of Love, than Fear and Concernment for the Lover? In the lines which I have quoted she not only sheds Tears but changes Colour. She had been bred up with Turnus, and Aeneas was wholly a Stranger to her. Turnus in probability was her first Love; and favoured by her Mother, who had the Ascendant over her Father. But I am much deceived, if (besides what I have said) there be not a secret Satire against the Sex, which is lurking under this Description of Virgil, who seldom speaks well of Women: Better indeed of Camilla, than any other; for he commends her Beauty and Valour: Because he would concern the Reader for her Death. But Valour is no very proper Praise for Womankind; and Beauty is common to the Sex. He says also somewhat of Andromache, but transiently: And his Venus is a better Mother than a Wife, for she owns to Vulcan she had a Son by another Man. The rest are Juno's, Diana's, Dido's, Amatas, two mad Prophetesses, three Harpies on Earth, and as many Furies under ground. This Fable of Lavinia includes a secret Moral; that Women in their choice of Husbands, prefer the younger of their Suitors to the Elder; are insensible of Merit, fond of Handsomeness; and generally speaking, rather hurried away by their Appetite, than governed by their Reason.  
L. 1191, & 1192. 
This let me beg; (and this no Fates withstand)  
Both for myself, and for your Father's Land, etc.   
The words in the Original are these, pro Latio obtestor, pro Majestate tuorum. Virgil very artfully uses here the word Majestas; which the Romans loved so well, that they appropriated it to themselves. Majestas Populi Ramani. this Title applied to Kings, is very Modern, and that is all I will say of it at present: Though the word requires a larger Note. In the word tuorum, is included the sense of my Translation, Your Father's Land: Because Saturn the Father of Jove, had governed that part of Italy, after his expulsion from Crete. But that on which I most insist, is the Address of the Poet, in this Speech of Juno. Virgil was sufficiently sensible, as I have said in the Preface, that whatever the common Opinion was, concerning the Descent of the Romans from the Trojans; yet the Ancient Customs, Rites, Laws, and Habits, of those Trojans were wholly lost, and perhaps also that they had never been: And for this Reason, he introduces Juno in this place; requesting of Jupiter, that no Memory might remain of Troy, (the Town she hated) that the People hereafter should not be called Trojans, nor retain any thing which belonged to their Predecessors. And why might not this also be concerted betwixt our Author and his Friend Horace, to hinder Augustus from Re-building Troy, and removing thither the Seat of Empire, a design so unpleasing to the Romans? But of this, I am not positive, because I have not consulted d'Acier, and the rest of the Critics, to ascertain the time in which Horace writ the Ode relating to that Subject.  
L. 1224, & 1225. 
Deep in the dismal Regions, void of Light,  
Three Sisters, at a Birth, were born to Night.   
The Father of these, (not here mentioned) was Acheron: the Names of the three, were Allecto, Maegera, and Tisiphone. They were called Furies in Hell, on Earth Harpies, and in Heaven Dirae: Two of these assisted at the Throne of Jupiter, and were employed by him, to punish the wickedness of Mankind. These two must be Megaera, and Tisiphone: Not Allecto: For Juno expressly commands her to return to Hell, from whence she came; and gives this Reason. 
Te super Aetherias errare licentius auras,  
Haud Pater ipse velit summi Regnator Olympi:  
Cede locis.   
Probably this Dira, unnamed by the Poet in this Place; might be Tisiphone, for though we find her in Hell, in the sixth Aeneid, employed in the punishment of the damned, Continuo sontes, Vltrix accincta flag ello Tisiphone quatit insultans, etc. Yet afterwards she is on Earth in the Tenth Aeneid, and amidst the Battle. Pallida Tisiphone media inter Millia saevit. Which I guess to be Tisiphone, the rather, by the Etymology of her Name; which is compounded of 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 ulciscor; and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 caedes. Part of her Errand being to affright Turnus, with the Stings of a guilty Conscience; and denounce Vengeance against him for breaking the first Treaty, by refusing to yield Lavinia to Aeneas, to whom she was promised by her Father, and consequently, for being the Author of an unjust War; and also for violating the second Treaty, by declining the single combat, which he had stipulated with his Rival, and called the Gods to witness before their Altars. As for the Names of the Harpies, (so called on Earth) Hesiod tells us they were Iris, Aello, and Ocypete. Virgil calls one of them Celaeno: This I doubt not was Allecto; whom Virgil calls in the third Aeneid, Furiarum maxima: And in the sixth again, by the same Name — Furiarum maxima, juxta accubat. That she was the chief of the Furies, appears by her description in the seventh Aeneid: To which, for haste, I refer the Reader.  
FINIS.