BOOK I.

THE

WORKS

OF

JOHN DRYDEN,

NOW FIRST COLLECTED

_IN EIGHTEEN VOLUMES_.

ILLUSTRATED

WITH NOTES,

HISTORICAL, CRITICAL, AND EXPLANATORY,

AND

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,

BY

WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

VOL. XIV.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR WILLIAM MILLER, ALBEMARLE STREET

BY JAMES BALLANTYNE AND CO. EDINBURGH.

1808.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME FOURTEENTH.

PAGE.

The Georgics, translated from Virgil 1

Dedication to the Earl of Chesterfield 3

An Essay on the Georgics, by Mr Addison 14

Book I. 27

Book II. 49

Book III. 73

Book IV. 98

Notes on Book IV. 123

Æneis 125

Dedication to the Marquis of Normanby,

Earl of Mulgrave, &c. 127

Book I. 231

Notes on Book I. 262

Book II. 264

Book III. 296

Notes on Book III. 323

Book IV. 324

Note on Book IV. 353

Book V. 355

Book VI. 388

Notes on Book VI. 424

Book VII. 429

Notes on Book VII. 461

THE GEORGICS.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

PHILIP,

EARL OF CHESTERFIELD, &c.[1]

MY LORD,

I cannot begin my address to your lordship better than in the words of

Virgil:

----_Quod optanti divûm promittere nemo

Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultro._

Seven years together I have concealed the longing which I had to appear

before you: a time as tedious as Æneas passed in his wandering 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. It was 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. It is 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

judgment 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. It is 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 judgment was an overpoise to his

imagination: he grew too cautious to be bold enough; for he descended

in his Fourth by slow degrees, and, in his Satires 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 same 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 three score, 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 gleanings 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._

Among those few who enjoy the advantage of a latter spring, your

lordship is a rare example; who, being now arrived at your great

climacteric, yet give no proof of the least decay of your excellent

judgment and comprehension of all things which are within the compass

of human 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 even 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 it is none in

you, it is 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

before-hand, and he only saved himself the expence 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 found, that such as are not rather

too full of spirit when they are young, degenerate to dulness 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, shews 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 Cæsars, 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, et dicier, "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 shews 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

tract 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 make 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 him 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 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.[2] 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. It

is necessary, for the polishing of manners, to have breathed that air;

but it is infectious, even to the best morals, to live always in it.

It is a dangerous commerce, where an honest man is sure at the first

of being cheated, and he recovers not his loses, 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 it is 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 labore, 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, it is 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 winnings. It is 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 Corycian, whom my author

describes in his Fourth Georgic, whose fruits and sallads, 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, sua si bona nôrint,

Agricolas!_

It is 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, et 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Philip Stanhope, second Earl of Chesterfield, born in

1634. He was a man of considerable talent and political activity; was

active in forwarding the Restoration; and enjoyed at the court of

Charles II. several offices, but was now retired. He died in 1713.

[2] Dryden's praise, though often hyperbolical, is always

founded on some circumstances appropriate to its object. Lord

Chesterfield, who had enjoyed offices of honour at the court of Charles

II., now lived in retirement at an elegant villa, according to Mr

Malone, near Twickenham.

AN ESSAY ON THE GEORGICS.

BY MR ADDISON.[3]

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 "Georgics."

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 a

Heroic poem anywhere appear so well as in this language, which has

a natural greatness in it, and can he often rendered more deep and

sonorous by the pronunciation of the Ionians. 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

"Æneïs:" but the "Georgics" are a subject which none of the critics

have sufficiently taken into their consideration; most of them 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 a Pastoral. But, though 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

Georgic goes upon, is, I think, the meanest and 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 then it often puzzles the reader with the intricacy

of its notion, 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 proceed 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 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 weather.

And, if there be so much art in the choice of fit precepts, there is

much more required in the treating of them, 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 in the same piece, that no coarse seam may discover where they

join; as, in a curious brede of needle-work, 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 chuse 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 sæpe alterius ramos impune videmus

Vertere in alterius, mutatamque insita mala

Ferre pyrum, et prunis lapidosa rubescere corna.

--Steriles platani malos gessere valentes:

Castaneæ fagus, ornusque incanuit albo

Flore pyri; glandemque sues fregere sub ulmis.

----Nec longum tempus; et ingens

Exiit ad cælum ramis felicibus arbos;

Miraturque novas frondes, et 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 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, though 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 is 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 et tempus veniet, cum finibus illis

Agricola, incurvo terram molitus aratro,

Exesa inveniet scabrâ rubigine pila,

Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanes,

Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulcris._

And afterwards, speaking of Augustus's 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 curvæ 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 saying in 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 master-piece, 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 guess 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 neighbourhood.--These principles of good husbandry

ran through his works, and directed him to the choice of tillage and

merchandize, for the subject of that which is the most celebrated of

them. He is every where bent 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 simple; it takes off from the

surprise and variety of the poem, and makes the whole look but like a

modern almanack in verse. The reader is carried through a course of

weather, and may beforehand guess 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 then 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 clapt 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 them. The old

men too are bitterly pinched with the weather: but the young girls feel

nothing of it, who sit at home with their mothers by a warm fire-side."

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 judgment 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 unnerve

his verse. But, after all, we are beholden to him for the first rough

sketch of a Georgic; where we may still discover something venerable in

the antiqueness 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 of 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 plough-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 weather

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 human 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! qui me gelidis in vallibus Hæmi

Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbrâ!_--

and is every where mentioning, among his chief pleasures, the coolness

of his shades and rivers, vales and grottoes, which a more northern

poet would have omitted for the description of a sunny hill, and

fire-side.

The Third Georgic seems to be the most laboured of them 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 out-do

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 Æneas and Turnus, than in the engagement of two swarms. And as, in

his Æneïs, 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 Æneïs,

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. 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, though 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 guess at the judgment 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

Æneïs, indeed, is of a nobler kind; but the Georgic is more perfect in

its kind. The Æneïs 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 judgment settled, and all his faculties in their full vigour

and maturity.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Addison had already distinguished himself as a man of

letters, and as an admirer of Dryden, by a copy of verses addressed to

our author, and by a translation of the Fourth Book of the Georgics,

exclusive of the story of Aristæus. This last performance is liberally

commended by Dryden in the Postscript to Virgil. The following Essay,

which has been much admired for judicious criticism contained in

elegant language, was sent by him to our author, but without permission

to prefix the writer's name. This circumstance led Tickell to throw

some reflection on Dryden, as if he had meant to assume to himself

the merit of the composition. This charge was refuted by Steele, in

a letter to Congreve, prefixed to an edition of the comedy of "The

Drummer," in 1722, who proves, that the Essay was the same paper which

Dryden calls the Preface to the Georgics, and which he acknowledges to

have been sent by a friend, whose name he was not at liberty to make

public. See the article _Addison_ in the "Biographia Britannica."

GEORGICS.

BOOK I.

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 peculiar to each season; describes the changes of

the weather, with the signs in heaven and earth that forbode them;

instances many of the prodigies that happened near the time of Julius

Cæsar's death; and shuts up all with a supplication to the gods for

the safety of Augustus, and the preservation of Rome._[4]

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, Mæcenas, and I sing to thee.

Ye deities! who fields and plains protect,

Who rule the seasons, and the year direct,

Bacchus and fostering Ceres, powers divine,

Who gave us corn for mast, for water, wine--

Ye Fauns, 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 Cæan shore sustains

The 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 ploughman'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 gods' 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 strew'st around,

And with thy goddess mother's myrtle crowned.

Or wilt thou, Cæsar, chuse 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 watery virgins for thy bed shall strive,

And Tethys all her waves in dowry give.

Or wilt thou bless our summers with thy ray

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;

Though Greece admires Elysium's blest retreat,

Though Proserpine affects her silent seat,

And, importuned by Ceres to remove,

Prefers the fields below to those above),

Be thou propitious, Cæsar! 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 and grant 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, ere we stir the yet unbroken ground,

The various course of seasons must be found;

The weather, and the setting of the winds,

The culture suiting to the several kinds

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 the Elean chariot, breeds

(In hopes of palms) a race of running steeds.

This is th' 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 glebe 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 over-run

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 least where vetches, pulse, and tares, have stood,

And stalks of lupines grew, (a stubborn wood,)

The ensuing season, in return, may bear

The bearded product of the golden year:[5]

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 meagre 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 breathings, 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 chill 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

The 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 drought rewards the peasant's pain,

And broods 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 shrivelled 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, to invade

The rising bulk of the luxuriant blade,

Ere yet the aspiring offspring of the grain

O'ertops the ridges of the furrowed plain;

And drains the standing waters, when they yield

Too large a beverage to the drunken field:

But most in autumn, and the showery 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 watery 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 succory 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, inured to toil,

Should exercise, with pains, the grudging soil;

Himself invented first the shining share,

And whetted human 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 greens 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 human 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 swam;

Then sailors quartered heaven, and found a name

For every fixed and every wandering star--

The Pleiads, Hyads, and the Northern Car.

Then toils for beasts, and lime for birds, were found,

And deep-mouthed 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 forest-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 burs and brambles, an unbidden crew

Of graceless guests, the unhappy fields subdue;

And oats unblest, 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 others'[6] 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 denies,

And nothing can be sown, and nothing rise--

The crooked plough, the share, the towering height

Of waggons, 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 ploughmen hope

The promised blessing of a bounteous crop.

Young elms, with early force, in copses bow,

Fit for the figure of the crooked plough.

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 roller run the round,

To smooth the surface of the 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 wintery 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, the exuberant juice to drain,

And swell the flattering husks with fruitful grain.

Yet is not the success for years assured,

Though 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 Fate's decree, degenerate still to worse.

So the boat's 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 sailors homeward bent, who cut their way

Through Helle's stormy straits, and oyster-breeding sea.

But, when Astræa'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.

Linseed 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 Argo[7] and the Dog forsake the northern sphere. }

But, if your care to wheat alone extend, }

Let Maia with her sisters first descend, }

And the bright Gnossian 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 mid-winter 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, the extremes of heaven

To frosts and snows and bitter blasts are given:

Betwixt the midst and these, the gods assigned

Two habitable seats for human 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 Libyan 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 northern sea.[8]

There, as they say, perpetual night is found

In silence brooding on the 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 weather 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 weave, 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

To float the meadows, or 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 chuse: 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.

Parched meads and stubble mow by Phœbe's light,

Which both require the coolness of the night;

For moisture then 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 skims,

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 weather, when the skies are clear,

By day-light 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 sailors, 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 fathers' 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'inclose the stags in toils, and hunt the hare;

With Balearic slings, or Gnossian bow,

To persecute from far the flying doe,

Then, when the fleecy skies new clothe 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 low'ring 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 sheaves 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 borne:

With such a force the flying rack is driven,

And such a winter wears the face of heaven:

And oft whole sheets descend of sluicy rain,

Sucked by the spongy clouds from off the main:

The lofty skies[9] at once come pouring down,

The promised crop and golden labours drown.

The dikes 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 shrouds,

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 human breast;

Their pride is humbled, and their fear confessed,

While he from high his rolling thunder throws,

And fires the mountains with repeated blows:

The rocks are from their old foundations rent;

The winds redouble, and the rains augment:

The waves on heaps are dashed against the shore;

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;[10]

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, ere the rising winds begin to roar,

The working seas advance to wash the shore;

Soft whispers run along the leafy woods,

And mountains whistle to the murmuring floods.

Even then 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 coots 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 tempestuous 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 forsake 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 the 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 sputtering 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 shore:

Their litter is not tossed by sows unclean;

But a blue droughty mist descends upon the plain;

And owls, that mark the setting sun, declare

A star-light 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 the 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 over-blown, 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 rains condense, and sunshine rarefies,

So turn the species in their altered minds,

Composed by calms, and discomposed 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 then 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 weather in the skies:

For, if he rise unwilling to his race,

Clouds on his brow, 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 swoln with livid blue,

He bodes wet weather 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 then would venture o'er

The frith, or haul his cables from the shore?

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. }

The 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 Cæsar did foretell,

And pitied Rome, when Rome in Cæsar 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 Ætna's bellowing mouth expire

From her torn entrails! and what floods of fire!

What clanks were heard, in German skies afar,

Of arms, and armies rushing to the war!

Dire earthquakes rent the solid Alps below,

And from their summits shook the 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 forsook:

The yawning earth disclosed the 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.

Blood sprang from wells, wolves howled in towns by night,

And boding victims did the priests affright.

Such peals of thunder never poured from high,

Nor forky lightnings flashed from such a sullen sky.

Red meteors ran across the etherial space;

Stars disappeared, and comets took their place.

For this, the 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 antique titles on the stones,

And mighty reliques of gigantic bones.

Ye home-born deities, of mortal birth!

Thou father Romulus, and mother Earth,

Goddess unmoved! whose guardian arms extend

O'er Tuscan Tyber's course, and Roman towers defend;

With youthful Cæsar 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, Cæsar, 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 scythes 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,

Scour through the plain, and lengthen every pace;

Nor reins, nor curbs, nor threatening cries, they fear,

But force along the trembling charioteer.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] 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, it is 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 Cæsar, 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, Antony and Lepidus,

_Fertur equis auriga, neque audit currus habenas_.

They were the head-strong 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:

_Hinc movet Euphrates, illinc Germania, bellum, &c._

as if Virgil had prophesied of this age.

[5] Dr Carey reads _ear_. I have not disturbed the text,

though his conjecture is ingenious.

[6] Restored by Dr Carey. The first and second editions have

_other_.

[7] First edit. Argos; restored by Dr Carey.

[8] _Southern,_ according to the earlier editions; but, as Dr

Carey observes, this must be a mistake of the pen or press.

[9] Dr Carey places a comma after skies, and thus makes _come_

the preterite participle, instead of the verb in the present tense. But

I have followed Dryden's punctuation, which gives a plain meaning.

[10] Dr Carey reads _serenely_, but there is no occasion to

disturb the text. The word _securely_, though bold, is poetical, and

implies the reliance which the husbandman places upon the steady and

serene radiance of the sun.

GEORGICS,

BOOK II.

ARGUMENT.

_The subject of the following book is planting: in handling of which

argument, the poet shews all the different methods of raising trees

describes their variety, and gives rules for the management of each in

particular. He then 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 dressing of vines, olives,

&c. and concludes the Georgic with a panegyric on a country life_.[11]

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 o'erflows.

Come, strip with me, my god! come drench all o'er

Thy limbs in must of wine, and drink at every pore.

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 inclosed in earth, arise;

For thus the mastful chesnut 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 bay, 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 (wonderous 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 stumps of olives, bared 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 kinds of stocks, and what those kinds 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.--

Mæcenas, 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 tire 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 method Paphian myrtles live; }

But nobler vines by propagation thrive. }

From roots hard hazels, and from cions, 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 hazel-graffs receives;

And planes huge apples bear, that bore but leaves.

Thus mastful beech the bristly chesnut 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, to 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 the admitted infant grows.

But, when the smoother bole from knots is free,

We make a deep incision in the tree,

And in the solid wood the slip inclose;

The batt'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 kinds,

And the same species are of several minds.

Lotes, willows, elms, have different forms allowed;

So funeral cypress, rising like a shrowd.

Fat olive-trees of sundry sorts appear,

Of sundry shapes their unctuous berries bear.

Radii long olives, Orchites round produce,

And bitter Pausia, pounded for the juice.

Alcinoüs' orchard various apples bears:

Unlike are bergamots 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 Mareotic grow in barren ground.

The Psythian grape we dry: Lagean juice

Will stammering tongues and staggering feet produce.

Rath ripe are some, and some of later kind,

Of golden some, and some of purple rind.

How shall I praise the Rhætian grape divine,

Which yet contends not with Falernian wine?

The Aminean many a consulship survives,

And longer than the Lydian vintage lives,

Or high Phanæus, 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 kinds, are less material to my theme;

Which who would learn, as soon may tell the sands,

Driven by the western wind on Libyan lands,

Or number, when the blustering 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 to ordain

The rocky cliff for the wild ashes reign;

The baleful yew to northern blasts assigns,

To shores the myrtles, and to mounts the vines.

Regard the extremest cultivated coast,

From hot Arabia to the Scythian frost:

All sorts of trees their several countries know; }

Black ebon only will in India grow, }

And odorous frankincense on the Sabæan bough. }

Balm slowly trickles through the bleeding veins

Of happy shrubs in Idumæan plains.

The green Egyptian thorn, for medicine good,

With Æthiops' 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 stepdame'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 olive's freight,

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 war,

The victim ox and snowy sheep prepare.

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 stupendous 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 tempestuous 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.

The 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 Decii, Marii, great Camillus, came

From hence, and greater Scipio's double name,

And mighty Cæsar, 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 Ascræan verse in Roman cities sing.

The nature of the several soils now see,

Their strength, their colour, their fertility:

And first for heath, and barren hilly ground,

Where meagre 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 vats 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 borne.

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 watery road,

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 pearly 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 surly 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 coarse lean gravel, on the mountain-sides,

Scarce dewy beverage for the bees provides;

Nor chalk nor crumbling stones, the food of snakes,

That work in hollow earth their winding tracks.

The soil exhaling clouds of subtile 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 the land that joins Vesuvius yields;

And such a country could Acerræ boast,

Till Clanius overflowed the unhappy coast.

I teach thee next the differing soils to know,

The light for vines, the heavier for the plough.

Chuse 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,

'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 by the plough.

Sweet grapes degenerate there; and fruits, declined

From their first flavorous taste, renounce their kind.

This truth by sure experiment is tried;

For first an osier colander provide

Of twigs thick wrought, (such toiling peasants twine,

When through strait passages they strain their wine:)

In this close vessel place that earth accursed,

But filled brimfull 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 meagre 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 yew. }

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 to 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 heaven's 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.

Chuse next a province for thy vineyard's 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 marshalled 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, though 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 to 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, would'st 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 o'erthrows

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 hazel 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 in smoky fires;

But most, when, driven by winds, the flaming storm

Of the long files destroys the beauteous form.

In ashes then the 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 the 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,

Ere 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 then 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 then 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, (let me dare to sing,) }

The world was hatched by heaven's imperial king-- }

In prime of all the year, and holidays of spring. }

Then did the new creation first appear;

Nor other was the tenor of the year,

When laughing heaven did the great birth attend;

And eastern winds their wintery breath suspend:

Then sheep first saw the sun in open fields;

And savage beasts were sent to stock the wilds;

And golden stars flew up to light the skies;

And man's relentless race from stony quarries rise.

Nor could the tender new creation bear

The excessive heats or coldness of the year,

But, chilled by winter, or by summer fired,

The middle temper of the spring required,

When warmth and moisture did at once abound,

And heaven's 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 inclose;

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 shards of potters' 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 sturdy steers to plough

Betwixt thy vines, and teach the 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 guide,

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 nurselings spare;

Nor exercise thy rage on new-born life;

But let thy hand supply the pruning-knife,

And crop luxuriant stragglers, nor be loth

To strip the branches of their leafy growth.

But, when the rooted vines, with steady hold,

Can clasp their elms, then, 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 the encroaching cattle from thy ground,

While yet the tender gems but just appear,

Unable to sustain the uncertain year;

Whose leaves are not alone foul winter's prey,

But oft by summer suns are scorched away,

And, worse than both, become the unworthy browze }

Of buffaloes, 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 bite, and scars indented on the stocks. }

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,

Leaped o'er the skins of goats besmeared with oil.

Thus Roman youth, derived from ruined 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 vineyard fills;

In hollow valleys and on rising hills,

On whate'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 hazel 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,

To 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 rolls 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 then 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 lopt; 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 laboured 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. }

Nay,[12] 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 unconcernedly 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 berries blush.

Vile shrubs are shorn for browze; 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 sheep, 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 boxen groves! with what delight are seen

Narycian woods of pitch, whose gloomy shade

Seems for retreat of heavenly 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.

Though bending from the blast of eastern storms,

Though 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 yew

Receives the bending figure of a bow.

Nor box, nor limes, without their use are made, }

Smooth-grained, and proper for the turner's trade; }

Which curious hands may carve, 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 Centaurs' train;

Through wine they quarrelled, and through wine were slain.

O 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,

To 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 dyed

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 home-bred 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 soft repose at night.

Wild beasts of nature in his woods abound;

And youth, of labour patient, plough the ground,

Inured 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 Astræa 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 poet's first petition hear;

Give me the ways of wandering stars to know,

The depths of heaven above, and earth below:

Teach me the various labours of the moon,

And whence proceed the 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 Hæmus' 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 sacred 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 his own peace disturbs with pity for 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 camps, 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 with glittering gems enchase,

To loll on couches, rich with citron 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

Of public speeches, which worse fools admire,

While, from both benches, with redoubled sounds,

The 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 sun-shine 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 crown'd.

He calls on Bacchus, and propounds the prize; }

The groom his fellow-groom at buts defies, }

And bends his bow, and levels with his eyes; }

Or, stript 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 the 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 the inhuman sword,

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] The Praises of Italy, (translated by the learned and

every way excellent Mr Chetwood,) which are printed in one of my

Miscellany Poems, are the greatest ornament of this book: wherein, for

want of sufficient skill in gardening, agriculture, &c. I may possibly

be mistaken in some terms. But, concerning grafting, my honoured friend

Sir William Bowyer has assured me, that Virgil has shewn 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 poet

tells us would bear in Italy. Nature has conspired 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 Alcinoüs's garden, described in the

Odysses:) but Virgil says, in this very Georgic,

----_Laudato ingentia rura;

Exiguum colito_.

[12] Dryden seems to have left this verse unfinished, for all

editions prior to Dr Carey's read _Nor_. It is probable, he meant to

give the sentence a different construction from what it now presents,

but, having changed his purpose, forgot to alter the beginning.

GEORGICS.

BOOK III.

ARGUMENT.

_This book begins with the invocation of some rural deities, and a

compliment to Augustus; after which Virgil directs himself to Mæcenas,

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 Lycæan woods,

Arcadia's flowery plains, and pleasing floods.

All other themes, that careless minds invite,

Are worn with use, unworthy me to write.

Busiris' altars, and the dire decrees

Of hard Eurystheus, every reader sees:

Hylas the boy, Latona's erring isle,

And Pelops' ivory shoulder, and his toil

For fair Hippodame, 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.

I, 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,

Where cooling streams invite the flocks to drink,

And reeds defend the winding water's brink.

Full in the midst shall mighty Cæsar 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 Cæsar, 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 pomps appear.

I 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 Britons seem to raise,

And shew the triumph which their shame displays.

High o'er the gate, in elephant and gold,

The crowd shall Cæsar's Indian war behold:

The Nile shall flow beneath; and, on the side,

His shattered ships on brazen pillars ride.

Next him Niphates,[13] with inverted urn,

And dropping sedge,[14] shall his Armenia mourn;

And Asian cities in our triumph borne.

With backward bows the Parthians shall be there,

And, spurring from the fight, confess their fear.

A double wreath shall crown our Cæsar's brows--

Two differing trophies, from two different foes.

Europe with Afric in his fame shall join;

But neither shore his conquest[15] 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 Cæsar 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 Cæsar 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 curst Ixion's wheel. }

Meantime we must pursue the sylvan lands, }

(The abode of nymphs,) untouched by former hands: }

For such, Mæcenas, 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: }

Cithæron loudly calls me to my way; }

Thy hounds, Täyg'tus, 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 Cæsar's wars, a nobler theme shall chuse,

And through more ages bear my sovereign's praise,

Than have from Tithon past to Cæsar'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 gait, 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 them with thy yearly care:

Still propagate; for still they fall away:

'Tis prudence to prevent the 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 shews his generous kind: }

Of able body, sound of limb and wind, }

Upright he walks, on pasterns firm and straight;

His motions easy; prancing in his gait;

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 gray; }

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 trumpets, 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 Pollux tamed:

Such coursers bore to fight the god of Thrace;

And such, Achilles, was thy warlike race.

In such a shape, grim Saturn did restrain

His heavenly limbs, and flowed with such a mane,

When, half-surprised, and fearing to be seen,

The lecher gallopped from his jealous queen,

Ran up the ridges of the rocks amain,

And with shrill neighings filled the neighbouring plain.

But, worn with years, when dire diseases come,

Then hide his not ignoble age at home,

In peace to 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,

Dribbling he drudges, and defrauds the womb.

In vain he burns, like hasty stubble-fires,

And in himself his former self requires.

His age and courage weigh; nor those alone,

But note his father's virtues and 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 heaving heart

Rush to the race; and, panting, scarcely bear

The 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 alow, and now aloft, they fly,

As borne through air, and seem to touch the sky.

No stop, no stay: but clouds of sand arise,

Spurned, and cast backward on the followers' eyes.

The hindmost blows the foam upon the first:

Such is the love of praise, an honourable thirst.

Bold Erichthonius was the first who joined

Four horses for the rapid race designed,

And o'er the dusty wheels presiding sate:

The Lapithæ, to chariots, add the state

Of bits and bridles: taught the steed to bound,

To run the ring, and trace the mazy round;

To stop, to fly, the rules of war to know;

To obey the rider, and to dare the foe.

To chuse 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 them 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 them from the flood;

Their bodies harass; sink them when they run;

And fry their melting marrow in the sun.

Starve them, 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 them suck the seed with greedy force,

And close involve the vigour of the horse.

The male has done:[16] thy care must now proceed

To teeming females, and the promised breed.

First let them run at large, and never know

The taming yoke, or draw the crooked plough.

Let them 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 noontide lair, }

With rocks above, to shield the sharp nocturnal air. }

About the Alburnian groves, with holly green,

Of winged insects mighty swarms are seen:

This flying plague (to mark its quality)

Œstros 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 Iö'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 smooth the 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

Inured that easy servitude to bear)

Thy flattering method on the youth pursue:

Joined with his school-fellows by two and two,

Persuade them 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 furrows 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 beestings 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;

Inured the groaning axle-tree 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,

Untried in 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 shore.

Thus, o'er the Elean plains, thy well-breathed horse

Impels the flying car, and wins the course,

Or, bred to Belgian waggons, leads the way,

Untired at night, and chearful 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.

Would'st 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 wood 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:

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 moves his camp, to meet his careless foe.

Not more with 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 Libya, 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 unforded 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 lynxes make

With their fierce rivals for the female's sake,

The howling wolves', the mastiffs' amorous rage;

When even the fearful 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 rein.

For this (when Venus gave them rage and power)

Their master's 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 (wonderous 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 stepdames 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,

To 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 cold;

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 them with winter-browze; and, for their lair,

A cote, that opens to the south, prepare;

Where basking in the sun-shine they may lie,

And the short remnants of his heat enjoy.

This during winter's drisly reign be done,

Till the new Ram receives the exalted sun.[17]

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.

Meantime the pastor shears their hoary beards,

And eases of their hair the loaden herds.

Their cam'lots, warm in tents, the soldier hold,

And shield the shivering mariner from cold.

On shrubs they browze, and, on the bleaky top

Of rugged hills, the thorny bramble crop.

Attended with their bleating kids, 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 browze 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 them to their summer fare.

Before the sun while Hesperus appears,

First let them sip from herbs the pearly tears

Of morning dews, and after break their fast

On green-sward 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 grashoppers on shrubs complain,

Then lead them 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 them 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 tuneful sound,

And hollow shores the halcyon's voice rebound.

Why should my Muse enlarge on Libyan 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 wilds 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 Mæotian 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,

A hostry now for waggons, which before

Tall ships of burden on its bosom bore.

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,

Meantime perpetual sleet, and driving snow,

Obscure the skies, and hang on herds below.

The starving cattle perish in their stalls;

Huge oxen stand inclosed in wintery 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 the inclemency of heaven abroad.

Their jovial nights in frolics and in play

They pass, to drive the tedious hours away,

And their cold stomachs with crowned goblets cheer

Of windy cyder, and of barmy beer.

Such are the cold Rhipæan 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 burs and thistles grow;

Nor in too rank a pasture let them 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 foddering 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 seasoning 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 fold's relief,

Will prosecute with cries the nightly thief,

Repulse the prowling 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,

Rouze 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 heaven's 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, the 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, rolls 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 livery rolls 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 them 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 shear.

Good shepherds, after shearing, drench their sheep: }

And their flock's 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 med'cine 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 lance the sore,

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 lancing-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:

The inhabitants of Thracia's hilly ground,

And Gelons, use it, when for drink and food

They mix their crudled milk with horses' blood.

But, where thou seest a single sheep remain

In shades aloof, or couched upon the plain,

Or listlessly 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 bodies 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 cots, 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 the autumnal heats the 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 then

A waterish 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 prest,

Trimmed with white ribbons, and with garlands drest,

Sunk of himself, without the god's command,

Preventing the slow sacrificer's hand.

Or, by the holy butcher if he fell,

The 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 wheezing 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 ropy 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, op'd 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 strength 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 the unfinished furrow leaves the share.

The pining 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 beverage, 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 buffaloes, ill paired, were seen

To draw the car 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 the enclosure prowled

To leap the fence, now plots not on the fold,

Tamed with a sharper pain. The fearful doe, }

And flying stag, amidst the greyhounds 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 phocæ, 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 leaches 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 under ground:

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] 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. DRYDEN.

[14] Dr Carey reads _dropping_; but there is no authority, and

seemingly no necessity, for the change.

[15] Dr Carey reads _conquests_, in the plural; but the word,

in the singular, implies more emphatically a career of victory.

[16] The transition is obscure in Virgil. He began with cows,

then proceeds to treat of horses, now returns to cows. DRYDEN.

[17] Astrologers tell us, that the sun receives his exaltation

in the sign Aries: Virgil perfectly understood both astronomy and

astrology.

GEORGICS.

BOOK IV.

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, he singles out the Bee, which may be reckoned the

most sagacious of them, for his subject._

_In this Georgic, he shews us what station is most proper for the

bees, and when they begin to gather honey; how to call them home when

they swarm; and how to part them when they are engaged in battle. From

hence he takes occasion to discover their different kinds; 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,

Aërial honey, and ambrosial dews.

Mæcenas, read this other part, that sings }

Embattled squadrons, and adventurous kings-- }

A mighty pomp, though 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 Phœbus hear my call.

First, for thy bees a quiet station find,

And lodge them 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 goats' 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--

The titmouse, and the pecker's hungry brood,

And Procne, 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 busy shop;

That, when the youthful prince,[18] with proud 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 strow;

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 savory set around their cell,

Sweet to the taste, and fragrant to the smell:

Set rows of rosemary with flowering 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, the industrious kind

With dauby 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 birdlime, or Idæan 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 yew, their pois'nous neighbour, grows; }

Nor roast red crabs, to 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,

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 cymbal's 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 them out to fight;

With hoarse alarms the hollow camp rebounds,

That imitate the trumpet's 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.

Prest 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 monarchs 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 through 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 prest,

They challenge, and encounter breast to breast;

So fixed on fame, unknowing how to fly,

And obstinately bent to win or die,

That long the doubtful combat they maintain,

Till one prevails--for one can only reign.

Yet all these 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 sundered 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;

Shaped to his size, and godlike to behold,

His royal body shines with specks of gold,

And ruddy scales; 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 grisly prince appear 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 honeycombs, of golden juice,

Not only sweet, but pure, and fit for use,

To 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 high-flying 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 wandering 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 savory 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 Pæstan roses, and their double spring;

How succory 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 bear's-foot, myrtles green, and ivy pale:

For, where with stately towers Tarentum stands,

And deep Galæsus 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 pot-herbs here and there he found,

Which, cultivated with his daily care,

And bruised with vervain, were his frugal fare.

Sometimes white lilies did their leaves afford,

With wholsome poppy-flowers, to mend his homely board;

For, late returning home, he supped at ease, }

And wisely deemed the wealth of monarchs 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 bear's-foot 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 limes 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 pear-tree 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, straitened 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 state's, 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 other's deeds;

With diligence the fragrant work proceeds.

As, when the Cyclops, at the 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 laboured anvils Ætna groans below. }

Strongly they strike; huge flakes of flames expire;

With tongs 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 busy 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 labouring youth, and heavy laden, home.

Plains, meads, and orchards, all the day he plies;

The gleans of yellow thyme 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 them 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, the 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[19] though the race of life they quickly run,

Which in the space of seven short years is done,

The immortal line in sure succession reigns; }

The fortune of the family remains, }

And grandsires' grandsires[20] 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 rent; }

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 subjects' toil surveys.

The servile rout their careful Cæsar 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 sovereign's quarrel calls them 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 ethereal 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 smoke.

Two honey-harvests fall in every year:

First, when the pleasing Pleiades 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 the aggressor'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 would'st 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 purloin their wealth;

And worms, that shun the light,[21] 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 greens and flowers recruit their empty hives,

And seek fresh forage to sustain their lives.

But, since they share with man 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 haggard 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 borne: }

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,

To invite the people to their wonted 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 violet-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.

Boil 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,

The 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 seven-fold horns mysterious Nile

Surrounds the skirts of Egypt's fruitful isle,

And where in pomp the sun-burnt 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 close, 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 pent,

Begins to boil, and through the bones ferment.

Then (wonderous to behold) new creatures rise,

A moving mass at first, and short of thighs;

'Till, shooting out with legs, and imp'd 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 Aristæus from fair Tempe fled-- }

His bees with famine or diseases dead:-- }

On Penëus's 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 Phœbus' loins I spring,

The third, by him and thee, from heaven's 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 needful 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 blights destroy my corn; }

My vineyards ruin, and my sheepfolds burn. }

Let loose thy rage; let all thy spite be shown,

Since thus thy hate pursues 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.[22] }

One common work they plied; their distaffs full

With carded locks of blue Milesian wool.

Spio, with Drymo brown, and Xantho fair,

And sweet Phyllodoce with long dishevelled hair;

Cydippe with Lycorias, one a maid,

And one that once had called Lucina's aid;

Clio and Beroë, from one father both;

Both girt with gold, and clad in party-coloured cloth;

Opis the meek, and Deiopeia proud;

Nisæa lofty, with Ligea loud;

Thalia joyous, Ephyre the sad, }

And Arethusa, once Diana's maid, }

But now (her quiver left) to love betrayed. }

To these Clymene 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 woolly rock, and fill the reel.

A mournful sound again the mother hears;

Again the mournful sound invades the sisters' 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 lifts above the waves her beauteous head, }

And, crying from afar, thus to Cyrene said:-- }

"O sister, not with causeless fear possest!

No stranger voice disturbs thy tender breast.

'Tis Aristæus, '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 track he treads,

Which to his mother's watery palace leads.

With wondering eyes he views the secret store

Of lakes, that pent in hollow caverns, roar;

He hears the crackling sounds 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 Tyber his majestic forehead rears;

Whence Anio flows, and Hypanis profound

Breaks through the 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, the 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.

The 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 smoke;

And the bright choir their kindred gods invoke.

Two bowls the mother fills with Lydian wine; }

Then thus: "Let these be poured, with rites divine, }

To the great authors of our watery line-- }

To father Ocean, this; and this," she said, }

"Be to the nymphs his sacred sisters paid, }

Who rule the watery 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 blest 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 watery pomp he rides,

His azure car 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 watery 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 nought; }

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 slippery god will try to loose his hold,

And various forms assume, to cheat thy sight,

And with vain images of beasts affright;

With foamy tusks he seems[23] 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 stares;

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 watery ranks divide, }

And there, like centries set, without the mouth abide: }

A station safe for ships, when tempests roar,

A silent harbour, and a covered shore.

Secure within resides the various god,

And draws a rock upon his dark abode.

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 rivelled 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 wonted caves.

His finny flocks about their shepherd play,

And, rolling round him, spirt the bitter sea.

Unwieldily 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 prowling wolf to nightly war.

The 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 drowzy 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 to invade a sleeping god?

What business brought thee to my dark abode?"

To this, the audacious youth:--"Thou know'st full well

My name and business, god; nor need I tell.

No man can Proteus cheat: but, Proteus, leave

Thy fraudful arts, and do not thou deceive.

Following the gods' command, I come to 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.[24]

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 remurmur all around,

And echoes to the Athenian shores rebound.

The 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 forests void of light,

And dared amidst the trembling ghosts to sing,

And stood before the inexorable king.

The 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 the unmarried maid, }

The mighty hero's more majestic shade,[25] }

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, the unhappy ground.

Even from the depths of hell the damned advance;

The 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 pain 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 the 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,

The unwary lover cast his eyes behind,

Forgetful of the law, nor master of his mind.

Straight 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 subtile smoke dissolved in air, }

And left her hopeless lover in despair. }

In vain, with folding arms, the youth essayed

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 the infernal ferry-man 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 sate.

For seven continued months, if Fame say true,

The wretched swain his sorrows did renew:

By Strymon's freezing streams he sate alone:

The rocks were moved to pity with his moan:

Trees bent 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 the unfeathered innocence

But she supplies the night with mournful strains;

And melancholy music fills the plains.

Sad Orpheus thus his tedious hours employs,

Averse from Venus, and from nuptial joys.

Alone he tempts the frozen floods, alone

The 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 borne,

Even then 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 the 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 Napæan race will soon repent[26]

Their anger, and remit the punishment.

The secret in an easy method lies;

Select four brawny bulls for sacrifice,

Which on Lycæus 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, Lethæan poppy bring,

To appease the manes of the poet's[27] 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 his ears alarms:

Straight 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 dependance from the bough.

Thus have I sung of fields, and flocks, and trees,

And of the waxen work of labouring bees;

While mighty Cæsar, thundering from afar,

Seeks on Euphrates' banks the spoils of war;

With conquering arts 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] Note I.

[19] Dr Carey reads, "_through_ the race of life they quickly

run," and has altered the punctuation to the sense thus conveyed; but I

retain the reading of the first edition--_though_--which is clearly the

meaning of Virgil. The original is as follows:

_Ergo ipsas_ quamvis _angusti terminus ævi

Excipiat, neque enim plus septima ducitur æstas,

At genus immortale manet_, &c.

[20] The first edition has _grandsons_.

[21] By the list of _errata_ to the first edition, we are

directed to read, "lizards shunning light;" but as lizards had been

mentioned in the preceding couplet, the correction itself seems

erroneous. I follow Dr Carey in rejecting it.

[22] Note II.

[23] Dr Carey proposes to read _will seem_, according to the

second edition, and to adapt the whole sentence to that construction;

but the present tense seems more poetical, as placing the manœuvres

of Proteus more vividly before Aristæus. If Dryden thought of adopting

the future, he did not complete his purpose. I have therefore followed

the original edition.

[24] Note III.

[25] This whole line is taken from the Marquis of Normanby's

translation.--DRYDEN.

[26] Dr Carey reads _relent_; but _repent_ is here used in

a well known scriptural sense; not as expressing remorse, but simple

pity.

[27] _Poet-king_, in Dr Carey's edition: but the original

edition reads as above.

NOTES ON GEORGICS, IV.

Note I.

_That, when the youthful prince_--P. 99.

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 year's bees. If his petition be granted, (which he

seems to make by humble hummings,) the swarm arises under his conduct.

If the answer be, _le roi 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.

Note II.

_Encompassed with her sea-green sisters round._--P. 112.

The poet here records the names of fifteen river-nymphs; and for once

I have translated them all; but, in the Æneïs, 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.

Note III.

----_Orpheus' dying prayers at length are heard._--P. 117.

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 Æneïs, that our author seldom employs machines 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 do 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

dissention 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.

ÆNEIS.

TO

THE MOST HONOURABLE

JOHN,

LORD MARQUIS OF NORMANBY,

EARL OF MULGRAVE,[28] &c.

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. It is 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 Ariosto,[29] and others, have inserted in their poems; by which

the reader is misled 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-errant, 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 judgment,

instead of staying, as he might have done, for the death of Capaneus,

Hippomedon, Tydeus, or some other of his seven champions, (who are

heroes all alike,) or more properly for the tragical end of the two

brothers, whose exequies the next successor had leisure to perform when

the siege was raised, and in the interval betwixt the poet's first

action and his second--went out of his way, as it were on prepense

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 Thebaïs--if he had

either furthered 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. On these terms, this Capaneus of a poet engaged

his two immortal predecessors; and his success was answerable to his

enterprise.[30]

If this œconomy 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, though 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 Æschylus,

Euripides, 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 infinity of pygmies,

yet all endued with human souls; for from him, their great creator,

they have each of them the _divinæ particulam auræ_. 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

miniature of human life; an epic poem is the draught at length.[31]

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 human miseries, which befal 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 it is 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 quality of an epic hero, his magnanimity,

his constancy, his patience, his piety, or whatever characteristical

virtue his poet gives him, raises 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.[32] We abhor these actions while we read them; and what

we abhor, we never imitate. The poet only shews 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, it is more lovely; for there the whole hero is to

be imitated. This is the Æneas 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 human 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.[33] 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, it

is 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"[34] complains, they are seldom asked for in his shop. The

poet who flourished in the scene, is damned in the _ruelle_;[35] 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, it is 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 Læstrygons, which

cannot be represented even in operas; but the prowess of Achilles or

Æneas would appear ridiculous in our dwarf-heroes of the theatre. We

can believe they routed armies, in Homer or in Virgil; but _ne Hercules

contra duos_ 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,[36] 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,"[37] 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 loth 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 judgment, 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

it is 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 pleadings of a puny counsellor; but he

does not willingly commend his brother serjeant at the bar, especially

when he controuls 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.[38]

I have detained your lordship longer than I intended in this dispute

of preference betwixt the epic poem and the drama, 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 Cæsar, and in 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

a 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 it is concluded on all

hands, that they are both the master-pieces of human 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 Æneïs, in so many

ages. The next, but the next with a long interval betwixt, was

the Jerusalem;[39] 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. Mævius would be deafening your lordship's ears with his

_Fortunam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellum_--

mere fustian, as Horace would tell you from behind, without pressing

forward, and more smoke than fire. Pulci, Boiardo, and Ariosto,[40]

would cry out, "make room for the Italian poets, the descendants of

Virgil in a right line:" father Le Moine, with his saint Louis; and

Scudery with his Alaric, for a godly king and a Gothic conqueror;

and Chapelain would take it ill that his _Maid_ should be refused a

place with Helen and Lavinia.[41] Spencer[42] 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 errant; and if there had not

been more machining persons than human 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 Ségrais before his translation of the Æneïs, or out of Bossu, no

matter which: "The style of the heroic poem is, and ought 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 a 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 it

is 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 hard-heartedness 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 Fèvre, 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.[43] But let both be

fairly stated; and, without contradicting my first opinion, I can shew,

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

aggressor is forced to sue for peace to his inferior on dishonourable

conditions: the deserter refuses 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:

_Quidquid delirant reges, plectuntur Achivi_.

As the poet, in the first part of the example, had shewn 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 it is probable, that Homer lived when the Median 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 Assyrian or Median 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 Cæsar, 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 mob, 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;[44]) 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 betwixt 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 ben_:

(was written on his monument) _ma, per star meglio, sto quì_.

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 Cæsar, had found the sweets of arbitrary power; and, each

being a check to the other's 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 outwitted by Cæsar, broke with him,

overpowered him in the senate, and caused many unjust decrees to pass

against him. Cæsar, 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,[45] 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.

It is true, that the despotic power could not have fallen into better

hands than those of the first and second Cæsar. Your lordship well

knows what obligations Virgil had to the latter of them: he saw,

beside, that the commonwealth was lost without resource; 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 republican

principles in his heart.

_Secretosque pios, his dantem jura Catonem._[46]

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 Æneïs. 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 overt acts

of tyranny, and mal-administration; for such are the conditions of

an elective kingdom: and I meddle not with others, being, for my own

opinion, of Montaigne's 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 Englishman.

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;[47]--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 Cæsar from Iülus the

son of Æneas, was enough for Virgil; though perhaps he thought not so

himself, or that Æneas 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 Æneas, 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 Cæsar, 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

one reason, why Augustus should be so passionately concerned for the

preservation of the Æneïs, 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 Æneïs: 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. I

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 Mæcenas; and this was the

poetical revenge he took: for _genus irritabile vatum_, as Horace

says.[48] When a poet is thoroughly 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 commentators; 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 Æneas. Spenser 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 Æneas, (of which I shall say more, when I

come to the manners which the poet gives his hero,) I must prepare that

subject, by shewing 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 free-born 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 ground-work of his poem, one empire destroyed,

and another raised from the ruins of it. This was just the parallel.

Æneas could not pretend to be Priam's heir in a lineal succession;

for Anchises, the hero'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 Priamus, in the fifth of his Æneïs,

the son of Polites, youngest son to Priam, who was slain by Pyrrhus, in

the second book. Æneas had only married Creüsa, 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 Cæsar, (such a title

being but one degree removed from conquest,) for what was introduced

by force, by force may be removed. It was 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 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. Æneas,

though 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_,

&c. 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 Panthûs in the second book of

the Æneïs, for his hero to succeed in it, and consequently for Augustus

to enjoy. I know not that any of the commentators 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 Æneas,

that title is already out of doors. Æneas succeeded not, but was

elected. Troy was fore-doomed to fall for ever.

_Postquam res Asiæ Priamique evertere gentem

Immeritam visum superis._--Æneïs, Lib. III. v. 1.

Augustus, it is 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.[49]

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 it is 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 until 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 his death, in the Elysian fields. I will not mention his

tenderness for his son, which everywhere is visible--of his raising a

tomb for Polydorus, the obsequies for Misenus, his pious remembrance

of Deïphobus, 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 Æneïs 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 Ségrais, in his admirable preface to his

translation of the Æneïs, 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 perhaps say 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, it is never a digression, and therefore

I need beg no pardon for it; but take up Ségrais 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 it is 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 Æneas 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 shewing

the deformity of vice. I avoid repetition of what I have said above.

What follows, is translated literally from Ségrais.

"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 Æneas. But, knowing that piety

alone comprehends the whole duty of man towards the gods, towards his

country, and towards his relations, he judged, that this ought 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 prophaned, 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 Ségrais, 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 Æneas, 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

Ségrais forgot to cite) makes Diomede give him a higher character for

strength and courage. His testimony is this, in the Eleventh Book:

----------------_Stetimus tela aspera contra,

Contulimusque manus: experto credite, quantus

In clypeum assurgat, quo turbine torqueat hastam.

Si duo præterea tales Idæa tulisset

Terra viros, ultro Inachias venisset ad urbes

Dardanus, et versis lugeret Græcia fatis.

Quidquid apud duræ cessatum est mœnia Trojæ,

Hectoris Æneæque manu victoria Graiûm

Hæsit, et in decumum vestigia retulit annum.

Ambo animis, ambo insignes præstantibus 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 Diomede 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 headpiece

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 Æneas 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 hero's valour, that to

repeat them after him would tire your lordship, and put me to the

unnecessary trouble of transcribing the greatest part of the three last

Æneids. In short, more could not be expected from an Amadis, a Sir

Lancelot, or the whole Round Table, than he performs. _Proxima quæque

metit gladio_, is the perfect account of a knight-errant. "If it be

replied," continues Ségrais, "that it was not difficult for him to

undertake and achieve such hardy enterprises, 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 Æneas,

though he was invulnerable without them.[50] And Ariosto, the two

Tassos, (Bernardo and Torquato,) even our own Spenser--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 Ségrais, "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 Chaldean

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 Æneas was actually wounded, in the

Twelfth of the Æneis; though he had the same godsmith[51] to forge his

arms as had Achilles. It seems he was no _warluck_,[52] 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 Æneas? Herein Virgil must be granted to

have excelled his master. For once both heroes are described lamenting

their lost loves: Briseïs was taken away by force from the Grecians;

Creüsa was lost for ever to her husband. But Achilles went roaring

along the salt sea-shore, and, like a booby, was complaining to his

mother, when he should have revenged his injury by arms. Æneas 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. Æneas 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,

though I have not leisure to remark them.

Ségrais, on this subject of a hero shedding tears, observes, that

historians commend Alexander for weeping when he read the mighty

actions of Achilles; and Julius Cæsar 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 Æneas

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 Æneas little better than a kind of St Swithin[53] 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--

_Extemplo Æneæ solvuntur frigore membra:

Ingemit; et duplices tendens ad sidera palmas_, &c.

But to this I have answered formerly, that his fear was not for

himself, but for his people. And what 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

shewed 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 Moyle,[54] 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; Phœbus 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 metû, Cytherea: manent immota tuorum

Fata tibi_, &c.

notwithstanding which, the goddess, though comforted, was not assured;

for, even after this, through the course of the whole Æneïs, 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 præsentis leti, 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 inanes._

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--

------_Trojæ sub mænibus altis,

Tot nati cecidere deûm; quin occidit unâ

Sarpedon, mea progenies. Etiam sua Turnum

Fata manent, metasque dati pervenit ad ævi_--

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,[55] who is better conversant, than any man that 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 exact judgment, that, when Jupiter gave

Juno leave to withdraw Turnus from the present danger, it was because

he certainly foreknew that his fatal hour was not come; that it was

in destiny for Juno at that time to save him; and that himself obeyed

destiny, in giving her that leave.

I need say no more in justification of our hero's courage, and am

much deceived, if he ever be attacked on this side of his character

again. But he is arraigned with more shew 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,

it is 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

chuse from a shower of rain, especially when they have a lover in their

company.

In the first place, Ségrais observes with much acuteness, that they

who blame Æneas 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

befel others. They give him two contrary characters; but Virgil makes

him of a piece, always grateful, always tender-hearted. But they are

impudent enough to discharge themselves of this blunder, by laying

the contradiction at Virgil's door. He, say they, has shewn 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 weather-beaten

troops before she saw him, and given them her protection, but had also

offered them an equal share in her dominion--

_Vultis et his mecum pariter considere regnis?

Urbem 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, it is 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 enjoyment 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,[56] 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.

Ségrais 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 Æneas; 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, it is true, must have moral honesty for its

ground-work, 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 prophane, the Israelites only spoiled the

Egyptians, not robbed them, because the propriety was transferred by a

revelation to their law-giver. 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 least no more than Virgil gives it--

_Fata obstant; placidasque viri Deus obstruit aures._

This notwithstanding, as Ségrais confesses, he might have shewn 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 humanly speaking, I doubt there was a fault

somewhere: and Jupiter is better able to bear the blame, than either

Virgil or Æneas. 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 it is too late;

and accordingly she will take no satisfaction, nor so much as hear

him. Now Ségrais is forced to abandon his defence, and excuses his

author, by saying, that the Æneïs 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;[57] though, at the same time, his two

translators must acknowledge, that the Sixth Book is the most correct

of the whole Æneïs. 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 deserter in their power, would

certainly have shewn 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 machines, more in their proper place; where

I shall shew, with how much judgment 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 Æneas

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 of the first quality in

Rome; she was also present at the reading of the Sixth Æneïd: and we

know not that she condemned Æneas; 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 Æneïs, 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.[58]

To love our native country, and to study its benefit and its glory, to

be interested 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, it is 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 chusing 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: Æneas,

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'Este,

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 patronize his poem,

than by disgracing the foundress of that city. He shews 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. It is true, he colours

the falsehood of Æneas 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 expence of his hero'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 Sichæus; and _varium

et mutabile semper femina_, is the sharpest satire, in the fewest

words, that ever was made on woman-kind; 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 Æneas 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 the people were naturally perfidious; for he gives their character

in the 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 Wotton has defined.[59]

This naturally leads me to the defence of the famous anachronism, in

making Æneas and Dido contemporaries; for it is certain, that the hero

lived almost two hundred years before the building of Carthage. One

who imitates Boccalini, 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 moralize this story, Virgil is the

Apollo who has this dispensing power. His great judgment 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 chuse, as he did, an obscure

and a remote æra, 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 Ségrais 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 Æneïd, 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 ungrateful 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.[60] 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 shewed

already; and have also begun to shew, that he might make this

anachronism, 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,

continues Ségrais, 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 else are

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. It is 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 ought 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 Æneas; where the sourest critic

must acknowledge, that, if he had deprived his Æneïs 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 Æneïs, 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 fœdere junctus amor_--

where, by the way, you may observe, my lord, that Ovid, in those words,

_Non legitimo fœdere junctus amor_, will by no means allow it to be

a lawful marriage betwixt Dido and Æneas. He was in banishment when he

wrote those verses, which I cite from his letter to Augustus: "You,

Sir," saith 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 Æneas 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 shew it in

the action?" But was Ovid, the court-poet, 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 inuendo--_pulchramque uxorius

urbem exstruis_. He calls Æneas not only a husband, but upbraids him

for being a fond husband, as the word _uxorius_ 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.[61] He

drew this dimple in the cheek of Æneas, to prove Augustus of the same

family, by so remarkable a feature in the same place. Thus, as we say

in our home-spun 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 hæc in fœdera veni_, is

the very excuse which Æneas 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 a 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 saith, 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 hath 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,[62] as the word signifies; and

he, who cannot make, that is, invent, hath his name for nothing. That

which makes this accusation look so strange[63] at the first sight, is,

that he has borrowed so many things from Homer, Apollonius 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 hath made out, saith

Ségrais, 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

hath 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 hath 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

hath as much right to them, as every man hath to air or water.

_Quid prohibetis aquas? Usus communis aquarum est._

But the argument of the work, that is to say, its principal action,

the œconomy 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 Æneïs, which resemble some parts both of the

Ilias and of the Odysses; as, for example, Æneas descended into hell,

and Ulysses had been there before him; Æneas loved Dido, and Ulysses

loved Calypso; in few words, Virgil hath imitated Homer's Odysses 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 Æneïs? The disposition of so

many various matters, is not that his own? From what book of Homer

had Virgil his episode of Nisus and Euryalus, of Mezentius and Lausus?

From whence did he borrow his design of bringing Æneas 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 her 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.

_Æneadûm 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 replaced

by him in their promised Italy. Neither the invention nor the conduct

of this great action were owing to Homer, or any other poet. It is one

thing to copy, and another thing to imitate from nature. The copier

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

Æneas: 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 Æneas

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, though 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 began it; they would not have designed it after

the same manner: Apelles would have distinguished Pyrrhus from the rest

of all the Grecians, and shewed 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 Æneas 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 Odysses?

If this be to copy, let the critics shew us the same dispositions,

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? Æneas 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 Cæsar. 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 hath been copied by so many sign-post daubers,

that now it is 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 a 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 so dexterously performing on the high.

I will trouble your lordship but with one objection more, which I

know not whether I found in Le Fèvre, or Valais; 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.[64] 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 mis spends

it on some trivial image. He pours cold water into the cauldron, when

his business is to make it boil.[65]

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 blot 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 it is 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 Æneïs in the original, unblemished by my rude translation. It

is in the first book, where the poet describes Neptune composing the

ocean, on which Æolus 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 Cymothoë were heaving the ships from

off the quick-sands, before the poet would offer at a similitude for

illustration:

_Ac, veluti magno in populo cum sæpe coorta est

Seditio, sævitque animis ignobile vulgus,_

_Jamque faces et saxa volant; furor arma ministrat;

Tum, pietate gravem ac meritis si forte virum quem

Conspexere, silent, arrectisque auribus adstant;

Ille regit dictis animos, et pectora mulcet:

Sic cunctus pelagi cecidit fragor, æquora postquam

Prospiciens genitor, cæloque invectus aperto,

Flectit equos, currûque 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 his locus_; and therefore

he deferred it to its proper place.[66]

These are the criticisms of most moment which have been made against

the Æneïs 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,[67] and not to have named the authors from whence

I had them; for so Ruæus, 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 cites 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 least 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 Ségrais, whom perhaps you have not read; for he has made it

highly probable, that the action of the Æneïs 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 Ségrais 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. Æneas, 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 Afric; 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 anniversary of his father's funeral, and

shortly after arrives at Cumæ; 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.

Ségrais reckons another way; and his computation is not condemned by

the learned Ruæus, who compiled and published the commentaries on our

poet, which we call the Dauphin's Virgil.

He allows the time of the year when Anchises died to be in the latter

end of winter, or the beginning of the spring: he acknowledges, that,

when Æneas is first seen at sea afterwards, and is driven by the

tempest on the coast of Afric, is the time when the action is naturally

to begin: he confesses, further, that Æneas left Carthage in the latter

end of winter; for Dido tells him in express terms, as an argument for

his longer stay,

_Quinetiam hiberno moliris sidere classem._

But, whereas Ronsard's followers suppose, that, when Æneas had buried

his father, he set sail immediately for Italy, (though the tempest

drove him on the coast of Carthage,) Ségrais 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 ten 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 Ségrais 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 weather-beaten soldiers on a friendly coast. These

indeed are but suppositions on both sides; yet those of Ségrais seem

better grounded: for the feast of Dido, when she entertained Æneas

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

Æneas at the mouth of Tyber; 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 Æneid:

_Aurora in roseis fulgebat lutea bigis,

Cum venti posuere.--------

--------Variæ, circumque supraque,

Assuetæ ripis volucres, et fluminis alveo,

Æthera mulcebant cantu._------

The remainder of the action required but three months more: for,

when Æneas 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 Æneïs takes not up above a year complete, and may

be comprehended in less compass.

This, amongst other circumstances treated more at large by Ségrais,

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 day-light; the achronical

rising, on the contrary, is when it appears at the close of day, and in

opposition to 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.

Ségrais has observed farther, that, when Anna counsels Dido to stay

Æneas during the winter, she speaks also of Orion--

_Dum pelago desævit hiems, et 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 Ségrais, who, I think, deserves no little commendation

in this new criticism.[68]

I have yet a word or two to say of Virgil's machines, 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

for Virgil then 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 Æneïs, to calm the tempest raised by Æolus, and

afterwards conducting the Trojan fleet to Cumæ 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 machines 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 Æolus employed? Might

not Palinurus, without a miracle, fall asleep, and drop into the sea,

having been over-wearied with watching, and secure of a quiet passage,

by his observation of the skies? At least Æneas, who knew nothing of

the machine of Somnus, takes it plainly in this sense:

_O nimium cælo et pelago confise sereno,

Nudus in ignotâ, Palinure, jacebis arenâ_.

But machines 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 befals 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

Epicurean principles; which I could easily demonstrate, if there were

need to prove it, or I had leisure.[69]

When Venus opens the eyes of her son Æneas, 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, nor 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 Æneïd, where Venus cures

her son Æneas. But, in the last of these, the poet was driven to a

necessity; for Turnus was to be slain that very day; and Æneas, 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 Æneas

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; though

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 Æneïs

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 Diomede. Two divinities, one would have thought,

might have pleaded their prerogative of impassibility, or at least

not have been wounded by any mortal hand; beside that the ιχωρ, 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

Horace says in his Art of Poetry, that no machines 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 machines

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 collateral security, by

sending the screech-owl to discourage him: for which they quote these

words of Virgil,

----_Non me tua turbida virtus

Terret, ait: dî me terrent, et Jupiter hostis_.[70]

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 Diræ,

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 Gabriel and Satan, when he knew no combat was to

follow; then he makes the good angel's scale descend, and the Devil's

mount, quite contrary to Virgil, if I have translated the three verses

according to my author's sense:

_Jupiter ipse duas æquato examine lances

Sustinet; et fata imponit diversa duorum;

Quem damnet labor, et quo vergat pondere letum_.

for I have taken these words, _quem damnet labor_, 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 machines of the balance and the Dira were only ornamental, and

that the success of the duel had been the same without them: for, when

Æneas 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 this

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 dîs nec viribus æquis_;

so that there was no need of an apparition to fright Turnus: he had the

presage within himself of his impending destiny. The Dira 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: dî me terrent, et Jupiter hostis_.[71]

I doubt not but the adverb _solum_ is to be understood; "It is 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 Æneas kept him at a

distance with his spear. I wonder Ruæus 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 Æneas

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 it is plain, he knew her,

by these words:

_O soror, et dudum agnovi, cum prima per artem

Fœdera turbâsti, teque hæc in bella dedisti;

Et nunc necquidquam fallis dea_.----

I have dwelt 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 coarse 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 other's judgment, 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 Epodes: for his Satires 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

everywhere 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 set

them, spoils the harmony. What he says of the Sibyl'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 _cæsura_ 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 overstocked with consonants.[72] 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

over-balance, and therefore tempers their sweetness with _cæsuras_.

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, it is all we can do to give

sufficient sweetness to our language: we must not only chuse 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 Æneïs; 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 that 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 maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,

Aut humana parum 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 _cæsura_,

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 diphthongs, 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_, _I_, &c. 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, et 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, Malherbe first brought them into France within this last

century; and we see how they adorn their Alexandrines. But, as Virgil

propounds a riddle, which he leaves unsolved--

_Dic, quibus in terris, inscripti nomina regum

Nascantur flores; et Phyllida solus habeto_--

so I will give your lordship another, and leave the exposition of it

to your acute judgment. I am sure there are few who make verses, have

observed the sweetness of these two lines in Cooper's Hill:

Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;

Strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full--[73]

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 Spenser in English, have

been my masters. Spenser has also given me the boldness to make use

sometimes of his Alexandrine 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 it is used with judgment,

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 overbear 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 talent; 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 Æneïs, 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 Æneïs sometimes; but I own it as my fault. It was given to those

who understand no better. It is 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[74] 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:[75] but whether they will pass for gospel now, I cannot

tell.

_Non fù 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. Spenser 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. Ségrais, 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 Æneïs 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 errant rhyme as they are translated. Now, if a Muse cannot run

when she is unfettered, it is 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.[76] 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 Æneïs. He is a foot-poet, he

lacquies by the side of Virgil at the best, but never mounts behind

him. Doctor Morelli,[77] 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 judgment, and thinks, withal, that

he has often mistaken his master's sense. I would say so, if I durst,

but am afraid I have committed the same fault more often, and more

grossly; for I have forsaken Ruæus, (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 Æneid--

---- ----_Sorti Pater æquus utrique_.

Pallas says it to Turnus, just before they fight. Ruæus 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 controul destiny. The

verse follows:

_Sic ait; atque oculos Rutulorum rejicit arvis_,--

which the same Ruæus 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.[78]

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;[79] it is 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 it is 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 Georgic;

and, amongst the Æneïds, 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 leave 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.[80] Spenser and Milton are

the nearest, in English, to Virgil and Horace in the Latin; and I have

endeavoured to form my style by imitating their masters. I will further

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

chuse for my judges, and would stand or fall by them alone. Ségrais 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 rind of

wit; prefer a quibble, a conceit, an epigram, before solid sense and

elegant expression; these are mob 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 Huguenots, or Dutch

boors, brought over in herds, but not naturalized; 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 judgment,) 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.[81] 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 taste with their admirers. They affect greatness in all they

write; but it is 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 judgment

ripens. The young gentlemen themselves are commonly misled 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 never lose it, because they

never give it blindly. Then they have a certain magnetism in their

judgment, 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 judgment are like the diamond; the more they are polished, the

more lustre they receive. Such is the difference betwixt Virgil's Æneïs

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 æquis_: 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 least 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. It is 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 Æneïs is not

harsh--

Arms, and the man I sing, who, forced by fate, &c.

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 borne 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.

It is 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 strait 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 ambergris, 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 graff 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 chusing 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 Ségrais, 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 licences together, and make the

last verse of the triplet a Pindaric:[82] 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. Spenser

is my example for both these privileges of English verses; and Chapman

has followed him in his translation of Homer. Mr Cowley has given

into 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 singe 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.[83] Thus,

by gaining abroad, he lost at home; like the painter in the "Arcadia,"

who, going to see a skirmish, had his arms lopped 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 Spenser. They both make hemisticks, (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 a heroic poem, as being all too lyrical: 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 Greek 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 hemistick in any

of his Pastorals or Georgics; for he had given the last finishing

strokes to both these poems: but his Æneïs he left so incorrect, 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

hemisticks, 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 Æneïd, the enthusiasm seizing

him, while he was reading to Augustus:

_Misenum Æolidem, quo non præstantior alter

Ære 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

hemisticks; 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.[84] 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 mud.

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 Georgic to the end of the last Æneïd, 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 Æneïd 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.[85]

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

_iota_ 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

vineyard, but the wine is the owner's: if the soil be sometimes barren,

then 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 Ségrais 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 Æneïd. 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, give 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 æmulari,

----cæratis ope Dædaleâ

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, et 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.[86]

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 Spenser's false

Florimel 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. It is true, that, when I find an English word significant and

sounding, I neither borrow from the Latin, nor 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 naturalized, by using

it myself; and, if the public approves of it, the bill passes. But

every man cannot distinguish between 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 Lauderdale[87] sent me over his new

translation of the Æneïs, which he had ended before I engaged in the

same design. Neither did I then intend 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

nobleman. 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 Æneïs, and compare my version with the

original. I shall never be ashamed to own, that this excellent young

man has shewed me many faults, which I have endeavoured to correct. It

is 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 prose to the whole translation;

which, perhaps, has caused a report, that the two first poems are

not mine.[88] 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

fathered the opinion that Scipio and Lælius 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, &c. 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, it is 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 Æneïd, because

I think them inferior to any four others in the whole poem, and

consequently believe they are not Virgil's.[89] 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.

_Ut quamvis avido_

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. It is 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 clangor

of a trumpet:

_Arma, virumque cano, Trojæ 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 the 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 Æneïs 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[90] to my own preface.

I, 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,) &c.

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 libellers.

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 wonted 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 Erichthonius rode

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 judgment, 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 "Aureng-Zebe"[91] 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 it is 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,[92] 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 judgment 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 want of knowledge in this art,

till they can produce somewhat better of their own, than your "Essay

on Poetry." It was 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

judgment, 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[93]_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 Lordship's

Most humble,

Most obliged, and

Most obedient servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] Mulgrave's early and intimate connection with our author

has been often noticed in the course of this edition. In the reign of

William III. he remained in a sort of disgrace, from his attachment

to the exiled king: yet, in 1694, he was created Marquis of Normanby:

in the reign of the queen, he rose still higher; and it is said, that

the dignities, offices, and influence, which he then enjoyed, were the

reward of the ambitious love which he had dared to entertain for that

princess, when she was only the Lady Anne, second daughter to the Duke

of York.--See _Dryden's Life_; also _Dedication to Aureng-Zebe_, Vol.

V. p. 174.

[29] The early editions, by an absurd and continued blunder,

read Aristotle. Ariosto, and indeed all the heroic Italian poets, Tasso

excepted, have chequered their romantic fictions with lighter stories,

such as those of Jocondo and of Adonio, in the "Orlando Furioso."

But neither Ariosto, nor his predecessors Boiardo and Pulci, ever

entertained the idea of writing a regular epic poem after the ancient

rules. On the contrary, they often drop the mask in the middle of the

romantic wonders which they relate; and plainly shew, how very far

they are from considering the narrative as serious. It was, therefore,

consistent with their plan, to admit such light and frivolous

narratives, as might relieve the general gravity of their tale, which

resembled an epic poem as little as a melo-drama does a tragedy.

[30] I quote, from Mr Malone, Mr Harte's vindication of

Statius; premising, however, that it is far from amounting to an

exculpation of that boisterous author, whose works have fallen into

oblivion even among scholars, in due proportion to the ripening of

poetical taste.

"Mr Dryden, in his excellent Preface to the Æneid, takes occasion

to quarrel with Statius, and calls the present book (the Sixth) 'an

ill-timed and injudicious episode.' I wonder so severe a remark could

pass from that gentleman, who was an admirer of our author, even to

superstition. I own I can scarce forgive myself to contradict so

great a poet, and so good a critic: _talium enim virorum ut admiratio

maxima, ita censura difficilis_. However, the present case may admit

of very alleviating circumstances. It may be replied, in general, that

the design of this book was to give a respite to the main action,

introducing a mournful, but pleasing variation, from terror to pity.

It is also highly probable, that Statius had an eye to the funeral

obsequies of Polydore and Anchises, mentioned in the third and fifth

books of Virgil. We may also look upon them as a prelude, opening

the mind by degrees to receive the miseries and horror of a future

war. This is intimated in some measure by the derivation of the word

_Archemorus_."--_Note on Mr Walter Harte's Translation of the Sixth

Book of the Thebaid._

Notwithstanding what Mr Harte has stated, our author seldom mentions

Statius, without reprobating his turgid and bombast stile.

[31] Dryden, as was excellently observed by Sir Samuel Garth,

in his "Funeral Eulogy," always thought that species of composition

most excellent upon which his labour had been more immediately

employed. In the "Essay upon Dramatic Poesy," he had preferred the

tragedy to the epic poem, and here he has reversed their station and

rank. I think the principal distinction is noticed below. Tragedy is

addressed, as it were, to the eye; and the whole scene to be enjoyed,

even in perusal, must be supposed present to the observation. But

epic poetry is, by its nature, narrative; and, therefore, while it is

capable of the beauties of more extended description, and more copious

morality, it is excluded from that immediate and energetic appeal to

the senses manifested in the drama.

[32] The cant of supposing, that the Iliad contained an

obvious and intentional moral, was at this time so established

among the critics, that even Dryden durst not shake himself free of

it. In all probability, the ancient blind bard only thought of so

arranging his splendid tale of Troy divine, that it should arrest the

attention of his hearers. Doubtless, an admirable moral may be often

extracted from his poem; because it contains an accurate picture of

human nature, which can never be truly presented, without conveying

a lesson of instruction. But it may shrewdly be suspected, that the

moral was as little intended by the author, as it would have been the

object of a historian, whose work is equally pregnant with morality,

though a detail of facts be only intended. We may be pretty sure, that

Homer meant his Achilles, the favourite of the gods, as a character

approaching perfection; and if he is cruel, proud, disobedient, and

vengeful, I am afraid it was only because these attributes, in a savage

state, are deemed as little derogatory from the character of a hero,

as dissipation and gallantry are blemishes in that of a modern fine

gentleman.

[33] The opinion of Horace is a confirmation of what is

stated above. None of the ancients ventured to impute the rudeness of

Homer's characters to the barbarity of the poet's age. The faults which

they could not shut their eyes against, must, they thought, have been

equally apparent to the bard himself; although, in all probability, he

meant, that these very attributes in his heroes should be considered as

virtues.

[34] "_Bibliopola Tryphon_," a character twice mentioned by

Martial, Epig. Lib. IV. 72. XIII. 3. Dryden probably means Tonson.

[35] A Gallicism for the toilette, at which the ladies of

Dryden's time, in imitation of their neighbours of France, were wont to

receive visits, and hear recitations and readings.

[36] Dryden, in the "Essay on Dramatic Poesy," maintains the

cause of Shakespeare and Jonson against the French dramatists.

[37] It appeared first in 1682, and drew the public attention

by much sound criticism, expressed in pointed language; although

the verse is so untunable and rugged, as to sound very disagreeably

to modern ears. Dryden is mentioned with only a qualified degree of

respect, and that paid solely to his satirical powers:

The laureat here may justly claim our praise,

Crowned by Mac-Flecnoe with immortal bays;

Yet once his Pegasus has borne dead weight,

Rid by some lumpish minister of state.

The last couplet alludes to the "Hind and Panther."

[38] Our author mentions elsewhere, "The Essay of Poetry,

which I publicly valued before I knew the author of it." Vol. XII.

p. 275. Although his lordship's experiment proved thus successful, I

may be permitted to hint, that most noble authors may find it rather

hazardous.

[39] Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered," seems to have been the

first heroic poem attempted upon a classical model, after the revival

of literature.

[40] Pulci wrote the "Movagante Maggiore," Boiardo the

"Orlando Innamorato," and Ariosto the well-known continuation of that

poem, called the "Orlando Furioso." The first two poems, like the

"Amadigi," and a number of others in the same taste, are rather to be

considered as an improvement upon the old metrical romances, than as

attempts at epic poetry. At the same time, these authors do not always

expect their readers to receive with gravity, the marvels which they

narrate; but introduce at every turn some ludicrous image, to shew how

little they are themselves serious. Although Ariosto is immeasurably

distinguished by brilliancy of imagination, and beauty of expression,

from the rest of those romancers, yet even his delightful work may

be more properly termed a romance of chivalry than an epic poem; a

distinction which the Tuscan bard can hardly regret, since it has

afforded, throughout Europe, more general delight than all the epics in

the world, if we except those of Homer and Virgil.

[41] "La Pucelle D'Orleans." It will hardly, I hope, be

expected, that an editor of Dryden should be deeply read in the French

epopee, which of all styles of poetry is the most uniformly stiff and

freezing.

[42] That Spenser's twelve champions, each of whom was to

atchieve a distinct and separate adventure, could ever have been so

brought together, as to entitle the "Fairy Queen" to be called a

regular epic, may be justly doubted, I confess I think it probable,

that the difficulty of concluding his work, was one great cause of its

being left unfinished.

Dryden's objection to the "Paradise Lost," is founded on the unhappy

termination, which is contrary to the rules of the epopee. Even so it

has been disputed, whether a tragedy, which ends happily, is properly

and regularly entitled to the name. Yet the story is more completely

winded up in the "Paradise Lost," than in the "Iliad," where Troy is

left standing, after all the battles which are fought about it. Our

reverence for the ancients, in this and many other instances, has been

driven to superstitious bigotry.

[43] In the following comparison, our author assumes, that the

"Iliad" was actually written with a view to its moral tendency. But

considering the matter fairly, and without prejudice, there is as much

reason for supposing, that Shakespeare had a great public purpose to

accomplish in every one of his plays; which we know were only written

to fill the Bull or the Fortune theatres, as the songs of Homer were

recited, minstrel-like, for the supply of his daily wants. But both

these gifted men had an intuitive knowledge of human nature, which

cannot be justly described, without an evident, though undesigned,

moral pressing itself on the hearers. Virgil's poem, however, had

certainly a political, if not a moral purpose; for, while it gratified

the nobles of the court of Augustus, by deducing their descent from the

followers of Æneas, it tamed their republican spirit, by describing the

monarchy of the emperor, not as an usurpation, but a hereditary, though

interrupted succession, from the wandering Prince of Troy.

[44] This is one of our author's unseemly and far too frequent

sneers at the clerical order, for which he is severely reprehended by

Milbourne.

[45] Here again Milbourne is very clamorous for authority, and

exclaims, that it is one of the fundamental laws of Parnassus to write

true history. Dryden probably rested upon the scandalous tale, that

Cæsar intrigued with Servilia, the mother of Brutus; though it seems

more likely, that he applied to his assassin the endearing epithet of

_my son_, merely as a term of affectionate friendship.

[46] The sense which our author has put on this line, has

been warmly disputed; many commentators contending, that the elder

Cato, called the Censor, and not Cato of Utica, is the person therein

honoured. Pope held the same opinion with our poet, and abandoned it;

and Spence, quoted by Mr Malone, thus expresses himself:--"Virgil

represents the blessed in Elysium, and Cato giving laws to them. This

agrees best with the character of Cato the Censor. See Plutarch's

account of the Elder Cato; of his strict judgments and laws; of

the statue set up to his honour in the temple of Salus, and of the

inscription under it, in his Life of that great lawgiver. Seneca

speaks as highly of him in that capacity, as of Scipio in the military

way: _M. Porcius Censorius, quem tam rei publicæ profuit nasci, quam

Scipionem; alter enim cum hostibus nostris bellum, alter cum moribus

gessit_. Epist. lxxxvii. If Cato Uticensis could have been placed at

all in Elysium by Virgil, (who says, that such as kill themselves are

in another part of Hades,) he would, at least, be a very improper

person to be set by him in so eminent a situation there."

[47] This is disputed by the learned Heyne. "De _consilio_ quod poeta

in Æneide conscribenda sequutus sit, et de _fine_, quem propositum

habuerit, multa varii comminiscuntur. Nihil quidem magis alienum esse

potest ab epico carmine quam _allegoria_; jugulat enim totam ejus vim,

rerum et hominum dignitatem attenuat, gratum animi errorem excutit,

et æstum inter legendum refrigerat, voluptatemque omnem intercipit.

Certatim tamen viri docti argutiis suis Æneæ personam nobis eripere,

et Augustum submittere allaborarunt. Etiam ex parata nova in Latio

sede miseros Trojanos exturbarunt; adumbratum esse a poeta novum tum

Romæ constitutum unius principatum. Simili acumine alii arcana, nescio

quæ, dominationis Augusteæ consilia, in Æneide condenda deprehendere

sibi visi sunt. Ita SPENCIUS, elegantis ingenii vir, [Polymetis, Dial.

iii. p. 17. sqq.] πολιτικὸν epos esse Æneidem sibi persuasum habebat;

neque aliud quicquam poetam spectasse, quam ut animis libertatis ereptæ

desiderio ægris fomenta admoveret, et novum principem approbaret.

Nihil tamen Æneæ personam, fortunam, facta, et fata habere videas,

quod ei consilio respondeat; nullus in Æneide populus est liber, qui

dominum accipiat; nulla regni seu imperii, monarchiam vocamus, bona

videas exposita aut commendata; verbo nihil occurrit, quo libertatis

amore contacti animi adduci aut allici possint, ut a bono principe

malint tuto regnari quam cum libertatis vano nomine paucorum potentium

dominatione vexari. In Juliæ gentis honorem, quæ ab Iulo Æneæ filio

originem ducere videri volebat, nonnulla passim suaviter memorari, ad

Augusti laudes ingeniose alia inseri, ipsa carminis lectione manifestum

sit, et a veteribus quoque Grammaticis jam monitum est locis pluribus;

sed, quantam vim ea res ad dominationem Augusti commendandam habere

potuerit, mihi non satis constare lubenter fateor. Neque, si nova

Æneæ sedes in Latio divinis humanisque juribus vallata fuerit, quale

inde propugnaculum novo Augusti regno partum sit, intelligo; ut adeo,

si demonstrari hoc possit, poetæ consilium illud in Æneide condenda

propositum fuisse, parum feliciter eum in eo perficiendo et exsequendo

versatum videri dicerem.

"In eandem tamen opinionem jam ante Spencium inciderat vir doctus

inter Francogallos, [L'Abbé Vatry,] qui imprimis similitudinem inter

Æneæ et Augusti personam et fortunam diserte persequitur. Ingeniose

eum ludere non neges; et convenit ei cum multis aliis doctis viris,

qui opinantur, Augustum sub Æneæ persona esse adumbratum; eo referunt

multa alia. Videas nonnullos tam egregie sibi placere in hoc invento,

ut undique conquirant et venentur ea, quæ ad Augustum accommodari

possint. Sic oris dignitas (lib. i. 589, _Os humerosque deos_.) cum

assentatione in Augustum memorata est. Ignoscenda hæc putem alicui ex

media assentatorum turba, qui Æneide lecta unam vel alteram Æneæ laudem

ad Augustum traheret, ut Principi palparet. Sed, ut MARO tam dissimiles

personas, fortunas, virtutes et facta ac res gestas, inter se comparare

voluerit, mihi quidem, si ejus judicium et elegantiam recte teneo,

parum probabile videtur. Sapientior erat poeta, et rei poeticæ

intelligentior, quam ut talem cogitationem in animum admitteret. Nam

præterquam quod Æneæ characterem non invenit, sed ab aliis jam traditum

accepit, circumspiciendæ erant a poeta virtutes Æneæ ejusmodi, quæ in

epico argumento vim et splendorem haberent, et factorum, quæ enarranda

erant, causas idoneas suppeditarent. Quod si ille studium suum ponere

voluisset maxime in hoc, et Æneas Augusto assimularetur, quam multa et

quam parum consentanea epicæ narrationi, argumento, operis characteri,

temporum rationi, illaturus in carmen suum fuisset!

"Eadem fere via carmen πολιτικὸν conditum a poeta visum jam olim erat

R. Patri le Bossu, ut Romanos partim ad amplectendum et probandum

præsentem rerum statum adducere, partim Augustum ad moderationem ac

clementiam adhortari, et a dominationis libidine et impotentia revocare

voluerit. Sed nec huic consilio ulla ex parte respondet Æneidis sive

argumentum sive tractatio: profugus ex urbe incensa Æneas novam sedem

quærit, armis vim illatam propulsat, et sic porro; quid tandem his

inest, quod ad imperandi artes ac virtutes spectet? Fabulæ tamen

Virgilianæ universe inesse, et in singulis carminis partibus aut locis

ac versibus occurrere talia, quæ principibus pro salubribus præceptis

commendari possint, nemo neget; quin potius inter utilitates, quæ

poetarum carminibus debentur, præcipue hoc commemorandum est. Verum

non propterea dici potest ac debet, in condendo carmine et in fabula

deligenda et ordinanda tale præceptum propositum poetæ fuisse, cujus

explicandi caussa narrationem institueret. Narrare ille voluit ac

debuit rem magnam et arduam et mirabilem. Quod narratio illa, et

delectatio quæ inde accipitur, cum utilitate ad omnes hominum ordines,

inprimisque ad principum animos conjuncta est, hoc epicæ narrationi

per se consentaneum est; ipsa enim rei natura ita fert, ut magnorum

virorum facta magna et præclara sine summo ad hominum animos, mores

ac virtutem, fructu exponi et narrari nequeant, multo magis si cum

sententiarum splendore et orationis ornatu instituta sit narratio."

VIRG. a C. G. Heyne. Disquisit. i. de Carm. Epico.

[48] I suspect our author spoke from recollection of some of

his own satirical strokes. Even in the "Hind and Panther," Sunderland,

a convert to the religion defended by the poet, and Petre, the king's

own chaplain and bosom counsellor, do not escape.

[49] The prophecy of Juno, in the Third Ode of the Third Book.

[50] Dryden had forgot, what he must certainly have known,

that the fiction of Achilles being invulnerable, bears date long

posterior to the days of Homer. In the Iliad he is actually wounded.

[51] The same compound is used in "Absalom and Achitophel," as

has been noticed by Mr Malone:

Gods they had tried of every shape and size,

That godsmiths could produce, or priests devise.

[52] The Scots, about Dryden's time, had many superstitions

concerning individuals, whom they supposed to be shot-proof, by virtue

of a satanic charm. The famous Viscount of Dundee was supposed to

be invulnerable to bullets of lead; and when Archbishop Sharpe was

murdered, the assassins having missed him, although very near when they

first discharged their pieces, imputed the scorched marks left by the

powder on his skin to contusions received from their balls. But the

word _warlock_, or _warlough_, means a male sorcerer in general; and

has not, as Dryden seems to suppose, any reference to this particular

charm. It seems rather to be derived from _wird_ and _laere_, a

compound which would imply "skilled in futurity."

[53] The vulgar, to use Gay's account, believe,

How if on Swithin's feast the welkin lowers,

And every pent-house streams with hasty showers;

Twice twenty days shall clouds their fleeces drain,

And wash the pavements with incessant rain.

[54] The son of Sir Walter Moyle, an accomplished scholar,

whom Dryden elsewhere mentions with esteem. He died in 1621.

[55] It is agreeable to see, from this and other passages,

that, notwithstanding an intervening rupture, our author, at the latter

end of his life, was on good terms with his brother-in-law, to whom he

was so much indebted at the commencement of his poetical career.

[56] Author of the "True Intellectual System of the Universe,"

folio, 1678.

[57] Milbourne is very severe on our author for crediting

this story, of Virgil having condemned the Æneïd to the flames. But

it is sanctioned by the Elder Pliny. "_D. Augustus carmina Virgilii

cremari contra testamenti ejus verecundiam, vetuit; majusque ita vati

testimonium contigit, quam si ipse sua probasset._"--HIST. NAT. vii.

30.

[58] I am afraid, this passage, given as a just description of

love, serves to confirm what is elsewhere stated, that Dryden's ideas

of the female sex and of the passion were very gross and malicious.

[59] "_Legatus est vir bonus, peregrè missus ad mentiendum

reipublicæ causa_;" a sentence which Sir Henry wrote in the _Album_

of Christopher Flecamore, as he passed through Germany, when he went

as ambassador to Venice. These words, says his biographer, Isaac

Walton, "he could have been content should have been thus Englished:

_An ambassador is an honest man, sent to_ lie _abroad for the good

of his country_: but the word _mentiendum_ not admitting of a double

meaning, like _lie_, (which at that time signified to _sojourn_, as

well as to utter criminal falshood,) this pleasantry brought my Lord

Ambassador into some trouble; Jasper Scioppius, a Romanist, about

eight years afterwards, asserting in one of his works, that this was

an acknowledged principle of the religion professed by King James, and

those whom he employed as his representatives in foreign countries."

See the Life of Sir Henry Wotton, p. 38. edit. 1670.--MALONE, p. 486.

Note.

[60] See the "Translation of Dido's Epistle to Æneas," Vol.

xii. p. 34.

[61]: The emperor Augustus divorced Scribonia, his second wife,

in order to make room for his marriage with Livia. But the argument of

our author from the Æneïd seems far-fetched.

[62] This original and expressive word for a poet was long

retained in Scotland.--See Dunbar's Lament for the Death of the Makyrs.

[63] Mr Malone reads--_so strong_; but _strange_ here seems to

signify _alarming_, or _startling_.

[64] Dacier.

[65] I fear there is something in this objection. Virgil, who

lived in a peaceful court, does not draw his battles with the animation

and reality of Homer, who, if he was not himself a warrior, was the

poet of a rude and warlike age.

[66] Unquestionably the description, in the passage quoted,

and the simile, aid each other with great mutual effect.

[67] Commentators on the Scripture, mentioned by our author in

the "Religio Laici," where, speaking of Dickenson's translation of Pere

Simon's "Critical History of the Old Testament," he calls it

A treasure, which, if country curates buy,

They Junius and Tremellius may defy.--Vol. X. p. 44.

[68] This display of learning seems a little out of place.

Undoubtedly it was important, if the accusation had been, that Virgil

had misplaced his seasons. But, as to the mere length of time employed

in his epic, there seems no better reason why it should be a year than

a month, or two years than one, so long as the interest is effectually

maintained.

[69] Our author seems always to have had a view to form

the machinery of an epic poem, upon the principles of the Platonic

philosophy, which he proposed to adapt to the guardian angels of

kingdoms, mentioned by the prophet Daniel. Vol. xii. p. 25.

[70] These lines are inaccurately quoted, for

----_Non me tua fervida terrent

Dicta, ferox_, &c.

Æneid xii. l. 895.

[71] Misquoted again; for

----_non me tua fervida terrent

Dicta, ferox_.

I think the passage may easily be interpreted without disparagement of

Æneas's valour, even without adopting Dryden's construction. Turnus, a

brave and proud man, reduced to the humiliating situation of confessing

his fears, naturally imputes them to the more honourable cause, a

dread, namely, of supernatural interference. To confess his terror to

arise from the force of his mortal adversary, would have been degrading

to his character.

[72] It is singular, that, under this conviction, Dryden

should have complied with the custom of his age, in striking out the

vowel before the end of such words as _winged_.

[73] This celebrated couplet occurs in Sir John Denham's

"Cooper's Hill," a poem which was praised beyond its merit by the

author's contemporaries. After allowing that the lines are smooth and

sonorous, which indeed were infrequent qualities of the versification

of the period, I fear much of their merit lies in the skilful

antithesis of the attributes of the river.

[74] Louis XIV.; whom Dryden probably in his heart compared

with disadvantage to the needy Charles, who loved literary merit

without rewarding it; the saturnine James, who rewarded without loving

it; and the phlegmatic William, who did neither the one nor the other.

[75] St John, in his conversation with Astolfo, on the

latter's arrival in the Moon.

[76] This is not expressed with sufficient precision.

Undoubtedly one possessing those true poetic qualities, which consist

in the thought and not in the mere arrangement of expression, will

shine most in the easiest structure of versification. But there is a

very inferior, yet not altogether contemptible kind of poet, whose

merit consists more in melody of versification, and neatness or even

felicity of expression, than in his powers of conception. Such bards

will do well to avail themselves of the melody of rhyme.

[77] A learned physician of Dryden's time.

[78] There can be, I think, little doubt, that in both these

passages the poet has detected the true and poetical sense of the

author, which has escaped the mere commentator.

[79] All of whom had made slight and partial attempts as

translators from Virgil.

[80] This comparison our author has detailed in his preface to

Fresnoy's "Art of Painting."

"I am now come, though with the omission of many likenesses, to the

third part of Painting, which is called cromatic, or colouring.

Expression, and all that belongs to words, is that in a poem which

colouring is in a picture. The colours well chosen in their proper

places, together with the lights and shadows which belong to them,

lighten the design, and make it pleasing to the eye. The words, the

expressions, the tropes and figures, the versification, and all the

other elegancies of sound, as cadences, turns of words upon the

thought, and many other things which are all parts of expression,

perform exactly the same office, both in dramatic and epic poetry. Our

author calls colouring--_lena sororis_; in plain English, the bawd of

her sister, the design or drawing: she clothes, she dresses her up, she

paints her, she makes her appear more lovely than naturally she is, she

procures for the design, and makes lovers for her; for the design of

itself is only so many naked lines. Thus in poetry, the expression is

that which charms the reader, and beautifies the design, which is only

the outlines of the fables."

[81] This river, which flows past Madrid, is distinguished by

the splendour of its bridge, and the scantiness of its waters.

[82] Now more commonly called an Alexandrine. Pope had perhaps

this passage in his memory, when he composed the famous triplet

descriptive of Dryden's versification:

Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join

The varying verse, the full resounding line,

The long majestic march, and energy divine.

[83] He alludes to Cowley, who was forced abroad by the ill

fate of the royal party in the civil wars.

[84] Our author has, however, availed himself of this licence

in his earlier poetry.

[85] The confusion occasioned by the rules of the mint,

then recently adopted, created great inconvenience and distress to

individuals. It is often mentioned in the correspondence between Tonson

and Dryden.

[86] Nevertheless, our author, long before undertaking the

translation of Virgil, had given a noble paraphrase of these lines in

the Hind's address to the Panther:

This mean retreat did mighty Pan contain;}

Be emulous of him, and pomp disdain, }

And dare not to debase your soul to gain.}

_Vol. X. p. 184._

[87] Richard, fourth earl of Lauderdale, nephew of that

respectable minister the Duke of Lauderdale. "He had a fine genius for

poetry," says Sir Robert Douglas, in his Peerage of Scotland; "witness

his elegant translation of Virgil."

[88] Dr Knightly Chetwood and Mr Addison. The former wrote the

"Life of Virgil," and the "Preface to the Pastorals;" the latter, the

"Essay on the Georgics." See Introductory Notes on these Pieces.

[89]

_Ille ego, qui quondam gracili modulatus avena

Carmen, et, egressus silvis, vicina coegi

Ut quamvis avido parerent arva colono,

Gratum opus agricolis; at nunc horrentia Martis_...

The characteristic modesty of our author, as well as the rugged and

turgid structure of these lines, have authorised modern critics to

conclude, that neither the sense nor expression of these four lines

resembles the genuine productions of Virgil.

[90] A Latinism for "throwing back."

[91] See Vol. V. p. 174.

[92] Their mothers were half sisters, being both daughters of

Lionel Cranfield, earl of Middlesex.

[93] _Concio ad Clerum_, a sermon preached before a learned

body.

ÆNEÏS,

BOOK I.

ARGUMENT.

_The Trojans, after a seven years' voyage, set sail for Italy, but are

overtaken by a dreadful storm, which Æolus raises at Juno's request.

The tempest sinks one, and scatters the rest. Neptune drives off the

Winds, and calms the sea. Æneas, 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. Æneas, going out to

discover the country, meets his mother, in the shape of a 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 shore.

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 Tyber'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 shore.

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 Ganymed,

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 the 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,

Entering with cheerful shouts the watery 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 bare 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 ruined 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 Æolus, from his airy throne,

With power imperial curbs the struggling winds,

And sounding tempests in dark prisons binds.

This way, and that, the impatient captives tend,

And, pressing for release, the mountains rend.

High in his hall the 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 locked them safe within, oppressed with mountain loads; }

Imposed a king, with arbitrary sway,

To loose their fetters, or their force allay;

To whom the suppliant queen her prayers addressed,

And thus the tenor of her suit expressed:--

"O Æolus! 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."[94] }

To this the god:--"'Tis yours, O queen! to will

The work, which duty binds me to fulfill.

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 shore.

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 Simoïs 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 rent 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 the 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 a-land.

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: Aletes 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 watery 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 wintery 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,

Un-authorized 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.[95] 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.

Cymothoë, 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'er he guides }

His finny coursers, and in triumph rides, }

The waves unruffle, and the sea subsides. }

As, when in tumults rise the ignoble crowd,

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 sooths 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 Libyan 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 grot is formed beneath, with mossy seats,

To rest the Nereïds, and exclude the heats.

Down through the crannies of the living walls,

The crystal streams descend in murmuring falls.

No halsers 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 fiery 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.

Æneas 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 Caïcus 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' gift,

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;

The 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 them dead, or in distress.

Above the rest, Æneas mourns the fate

Of brave Orontes, and the 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 Libyan 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; }

Disposes all with absolute command; }

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 shore, and barred from every coast. }

You promised once, a progeny divine,

Of Romans, rising from the Trojan line,

In after-times 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 the 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 the immortal race,

Smiling with that serene indulgent face,

With which he drives the clouds and clears the skies,

First gave a holy kiss; then 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 Æneas 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 the 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 subdued, the sun

Thrice through the signs his annual race shall run:

This is his time prefixed. Ascanius then,

Now called Iülus, 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 throes,

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.

Even 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 Cæsar from the Julian stock shall rise,

Whose empire ocean, and whose fame the skies,

Alone shall bound; whom, fraught with eastern spoils,

Our heaven, the just reward of human toils,

Securely shall repay 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 ope 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 Libyan shore 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 Æneas lies:

Care seized his soul, and sleep forsook 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 shore:

But, whether human kind, or beasts alone,

Possessed the new-found region, was unknown.

Beneath a ledge of rocks his fleet he hides: }

Tall trees surround the mountain's 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; }

Loose 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 Harpalyce bestrode }

Her Thracian courser, and out-stripped 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 lynx'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,

O virgin! or what other name you bear

Above that style:--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,[96]

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 Libyan 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.

Phœnician 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. Sichæus, 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 human 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 sooth his sister, and delude her mind.

At length, in dead of night, the ghost appears }

Of her unhappy lord: the spectre stares, }

And, with erected eyes, his bloody bosom bares. }

The cruel altars, and his fate, he tells,

And the dire secret of his house reveals,

Then warns the widow, and 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 Pygmalion'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 weather 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 bull's hide) they first inclosed, and walled.

But whence are you? what country claims your birth?

What seek you, strangers, on our Libyan 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 Libyan coast.

The good Æneas 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 bent;

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 Libyan deserts wander thus alone." }

His tender parent could no longer bear,

But, interposing, sought to sooth his care.

"Whoe'er you are--not unbeloved by heaven,

Since on our friendly shore 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 shore;

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 shrouds,

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 shepherds' homely bowers)

The gates and streets; and hears, from every part,

The noise and busy 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 chuse 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 busy 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 other's deeds;

The fragrant work with diligence proceeds.

"Thrice happy you, whose walls already rise!"

Æneas said, and viewed, with lifted eyes,

Their lofty towers: then entering at the gate,

Concealed in clouds, (prodigious to relate,)

He mixed, unmarked, among the busy throng,

Borne 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 foreshew:

This fated 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 inclose:

The rafters are with brazen coverings crowned;

The lofty doors on brazen hinges sound.

What first Æneas 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 art's renown--

He saw, in order painted on the wall,

Whatever did unhappy Troy befall--

The wars that fame 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 wakeful Diomede, whose cruel sword

The centries 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 Troïlus 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. }

Meantime the Trojan dames, oppressed with woe, }

To Pallas' fane in long procession 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 hero's breast,

To see the figure of his lifeless friend,

And his old sire his helpless hands 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 Eurotas' 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 lot decides.

Another way by chance Æneas 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.

Entering, with cries they filled the holy fane;

Then thus, with lowly 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 the 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--

The Œnotrians held it once--by common fame,

Now called Italia, from the leader's name.

To that sweet region was our voyage bent,

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 shore.

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 shore to drowning men,

And drive 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. }

Æneas 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 augment.

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 Libyan main,

And if our young Iülus be no more,

Dismiss our navy from your friendly shore,

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 Phœbus' influence.

Whether to Latian shores your course is bent, }

Or, driven by tempests 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 wilds, 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 friend 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 Libyan 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 reliques of abandoned Troy;

Receive the shipwrecked on your friendly shore,

With hospitable rites relieve the poor;

Associate in your town a wandering 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.

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.

Whate'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 he graced,[97] }

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 Æneas, known to fame,

Who from celestial seed your lineage claim?

The same Æneas, whom fair Venus bore

To famed Anchises on the Idæan shore?

It calls into my mind, though 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 vases, 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 Æneas, whose paternal care

Iülus' 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 counsels tries, and new designs prepares:

That Cupid should assume the shape and face

Of sweet Ascanius, and the sprightly grace;

Should bring the presents, 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

Controuls the Thunderer on his awful throne,

To thee thy much-afflicted mother flies,

And on thy succour and thy faith relies.

Thou know'st, 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 Phœnician's heart--

A love so violent, so strong, 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 Cythera, 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 Iülus 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 meantime assumed his form and face,

Following Achates with a shorter pace,

And brought the gifts. The queen already sate

Amidst the Trojan lords, in shining state,

High on a golden bed: her princely guest

Was next her side;[98] in order sate the rest.

Then canisters with bread are heaped on high; }

The 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.

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 the hero long,

With children'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 Æneas 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 Trojan 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 then 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: Iöpas brought

His golden lyre, and sung what ancient Atlas taught--

The various labours of the wandering moon,

And whence proceed the eclipses of the sun;

The 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.

The unhappy queen with talk prolonged the night,

And drank large draughts of love with vast delight;

Of Priam much inquired, of Hector more; }

Then asked what arms the swarthy Memnon wore, }

What troops he landed on the Trojan shore; }

The steeds of Diomede 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 god-like guest," she said,

"The Grecian stratagems, the town betrayed:

The fatal issue of so long a war,

Your flight, your wanderings, 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."

FOOTNOTES:

[94] This was an obliging promise to Æolus, who had been so

unhappy in his former children, Macareus and Canace.--DRYDEN.

[95] Note I.

[96] Note II.

[97] The early editions read, _was graced_; but Dr Carey

judiciously substitutes _he_, for the preservation of both sense and

grammar.

[98] Note III.

NOTES ON ÆNEÏS, BOOK I.

Note I.

_The realms of ocean, and the fields of air,

Are mine, not his._--P. 237.

Poetically speaking, the _fields of air_ are under the command of

Juno, and her vicegerent Æolus. Why then does Neptune call them his? I

answer, Because, being god of the seas, Æolus could raise no tempest

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 a passion, as Neptune then was, are apt to assume to

themselves more than is properly their due.

Note II.

_O virgin!----&c.

If, as you seem, the sister of the day,

Or one at least of chaste Diana's train._--P. 244.

Thus in the original--

_O quam te memorem, virgo--------

An Phœbi soror, an nympharum sanguinis una?_

This is a family compliment, which Æneas 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[99], in which that

amour is so beautifully described, and which is thought Homer's, though

it seems to be written before his age.

Note III.

----_Her princely guest

Was next her side._--P. 259.

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[99] The Hymn on Venus.

ÆNEÏS,