OCYRRHOE TRANSFORMED TO A MARE.

Old Chiron took the babe with secret joy, Proud of the charge of the celestial boy. His daughter too, whom on the sandy shore The nymph Chariclo to the centaur bore, With hair dishevelled on her shoulders came To see the child, Ocyrrhoee was her name; She knew her father's arts, and could rehearse The depths of prophecy in sounding verse. Once, as the sacred infant she surveyed, The god was kindled in the raving maid, _10 And thus she uttered her prophetic tale; 'Hail, great physician of the world, all hail; Hail, mighty infant, who in years to come Shalt heal the nations and defraud the tomb; Swift be thy growth! thy triumphs unconfined! Make kingdoms thicker, and increase mankind. Thy daring art shall animate the dead, And draw the thunder on thy guilty head: Then shalt thou die; but from the dark abode Rise up victorious, and be twice a god. _20 And thou, my sire, not destined by thy birth To turn to dust, and mix with common earth, How wilt thou toss, and rave, and long to die, And quit thy claim to immortality; When thou shalt feel, enraged with inward pains, The Hydra's venom rankling in thy veins'? The gods, in pity, shall contract thy date, And give thee over to the power of Fate.' Thus, entering into destiny, the maid The secrets of offended Jove betrayed; _30 More had she still to say; but now appears Oppressed with sobs and sighs, and drowned in tears. 'My voice,' says she, 'is gone, my language fails; Through every limb my kindred shape prevails: Why did the god this fatal gift impart, And with prophetic raptures swell my heart! What new desires are these? I long to pace O'er flowery meadows, and to feed on grass: I hasten to a brute, a maid no more; But why, alas! am I transformed all o'er? _40 My sire does half a human shape retain, And in his upper parts preserves the man.' Her tongue no more distinct complaints affords, But in shrill accents and mishapen words Pours forth such hideous wailings, as declare The human form confounded in the mare: Till by degrees accomplished in the beast, She neighed outright, and all the steed expressed. Her stooping body on her hands is borne, Her hands are turned to hoofs, and shod in horn; _50 Her yellow tresses ruffle in a mane, And in a flowing tail she frisks her train. The mare was finished in her voice and look, And a new name from the new figure took.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF BATTUS TO A TOUCHSTONE.

Sore wept the centaur, and to Phoebus prayed; But how could Phoebus give the centaur aid? Degraded of his power by angry Jove, In Elis then a herd of beeves he drove; And wielded in his hand a staff of oak, And o'er his shoulders threw the shepherd's cloak; On seven compacted reeds he used to play, And on his rural pipe to waste the day. As once, attentive to his pipe, he played, The crafty Hermes from the god conveyed _10 A drove, that separate from their fellows strayed. The theft an old insidious peasant viewed, (They called him Battus in the neighbourhood,) Hired by a wealthy Pylian prince to feed His favourite mares, and watch the generous breed. The thievish god suspected him, and took The hind aside, and thus in whispers spoke: 'Discover not the theft, whoe'er thou be, And take that milk-white heifer for thy fee.' 'Go, stranger,' cries the clown, 'securely on, _20 That stone shall sooner tell;' and showed a stone. The god withdrew, but straight returned again, In speech and habit like a country swain; And cries out, 'Neighbour, hast thou seen a stray Of bullocks and of heifers pass this way? In the recovery of my cattle join, A bullock and a heifer shall be thine.' The peasant quick replies, 'You'll find 'em there, In yon dark vale:' and in the vale they were. The double bribe had his false heart beguiled: _30 The god, successful in the trial, smiled; 'And dost thou thus betray myself to me? Me to myself dost thou betray?' says he: Then to a touchstone turns the faithless spy, And in his name records his infamy.

THE STORY OF AGLAUROS, TRANSFORMED INTO A STATUE.

This done, the god flew up on high, and passed O'er lofty Athens, by Minerva graced, And wide Munichia, whilst his eyes survey All the vast region that beneath him lay. 'Twas now the feast, when each Athenian maid Her yearly homage to Minerva paid; In canisters, with garlands covered o'er, High on their heads their mystic gifts they bore; And now, returning in a solemn train, The troop of shining virgins filled the plain. 10 The god well-pleased beheld the pompous show, And saw the bright procession pass below; Then veered about, and took a wheeling flight, And hovered o'er them: as the spreading kite, That smells the slaughtered victim from on high, Flies at a distance, if the priests are nigh, And sails around, and keeps it in her eye; So kept the god the virgin choir in view, And in slow winding circles round them flew. As Lucifer excels the meanest star, 20 Or as the full-orbed Phoebe, Lucifer, So much did Herse all the rest outvie, And gave a grace to the solemnity. Hermes was fired, as in the clouds he hung: So the cold bullet, that with fury slung From Balearic engines mounts on high, Glows in the whirl, and burns along the sky. At length he pitched upon the ground, and showed The form divine, the features of a god. He knew their virtue o'er a female heart, 30 And yet he strives to better them by art. He hangs his mantle loose, and sets to show The golden edging on the seam below; Adjusts his flowing curls, and in his hand Waves with an air the sleep-procuring wand; The glittering sandals to his feet applies, And to each heel the well-trimmed pinion ties. His ornaments with nicest art displayed, He seeks the apartment of the royal maid. The roof was all with polished ivory lined, 40 That, richly mixed, in clouds of tortoise shined. Three rooms, contiguous, in a range were placed, The midmost by the beauteous Herse graced; Her virgin sisters lodged on either side. Aglauros first the approaching god descried, And as he crossed her chamber, asked his name, And what his business was, and whence he came. 'I come,' replied the god, 'from heaven, to woo Your sister, and to make an aunt of you; I am the son and messenger of Jove, 50 My name is Mercury, my business, love; Do you, kind damsel, take a lover's part, And gain admittance to your sister's heart.' She stared him in the face with looks amazed, As when she on Minerva's secret gazed, And asks a mighty treasure for her hire, And, till he brings it, makes the god retire. Minerva grieved to see the nymph succeed; And now remembering the late impious deed, When, disobedient to her strict command, 60 She touched the chest with an unhallowed hand; In big-swoln sighs her inward rage expressed, That heaved the rising AEgis on her breast; Then sought out Envy in her dark abode, Defiled with ropy gore and clots of blood: Shut from the winds, and from the wholesome skies, In a deep vale the gloomy dungeon lies, Dismal and cold, where not a beam of light Invades the winter, or disturbs the night. Directly to the cave her course she steered; 70 Against the gates her martial lance she reared; The gates flew open, and the fiend appeared. A poisonous morsel in her teeth she chewed, And gorged the flesh of vipers for her food. Minerva loathing turned away her eye; The hideous monster, rising heavily, Came stalking forward with a sullen pace, And left her mangled offals on the place. Soon as she saw the goddess gay and bright, She fetched a groan at such a cheerful sight. 80 Livid and meagre were her looks, her eye In foul, distorted glances turned awry; A hoard of gall her inward parts possessed, And spread a greenness o'er her cankered breast; Her teeth were brown with rust; and from her tongue, In dangling drops, the stringy poison hung. She never smiles but when the wretched weep, Nor lulls her malice with a moment's sleep, Restless in spite: while watchful to destroy, She pines and sickens at another's joy; 90 Foe to herself, distressing and distressed, She bears her own tormentor in her breast. The goddess gave (for she abhorred her sight) A short command: 'To Athens speed thy flight; On cursed Aglauros try thy utmost art. And fix thy rankest venoms in her heart.' This said, her spear she pushed against the ground, And mounting from it with an active bound, Flew off to heaven: the hag with eyes askew Looked up, and muttered curses as she flew; 100 For sore she fretted, and began to grieve At the success which she herself must give. Then takes her staff, hung round with wreaths of thorn, And sails along, in a black whirlwind borne, O'er fields and flowery meadows: where she steers Her baneful course, a mighty blast appears, Mildews and blights; the meadows are defaced, The fields, the flowers, and the whole year laid waste; On mortals next and peopled towns she falls, And breathes a burning plague among their walls, 110 When Athens she beheld, for arts renowned, With peace made happy, and with plenty crowned, Scarce could the hideous fiend from tears forbear, To find out nothing that deserved a tear. The apartment now she entered, where at rest Aglauros lay, with gentle sleep oppressed. To execute Minerva's dire command, She stroked the virgin with her cankered hand, Then prickly thorns into her breast conveyed, That stung to madness the devoted maid; 120 Her subtle venom still improves the smart, Frets in the blood, and festers in the heart. To make the work more sure, a scene she drew, And placed before the dreaming virgin's view Her sister's marriage, and her glorious fate: The imaginary bride appears in state; The bridegroom with unwonted beauty glows, For Envy magnifies whate'er she shows. Full of the dream, Aglauros pined away In tears all night, in darkness all the day; 130 Consumed like ice, that just begins to run, When feebly smitten by the distant sun; Or like unwholesome weeds, that, set on fire, Are slowly wasted, and in smoke expire. Given up to Envy, (for in every thought, The thorns, the venom, and the vision wrought). Oft did she call on death, as oft decreed, Rather than see her sister's wish succeed, To tell her awful father what had passed: At length before the door herself she cast; 140 And, sitting on the ground with sullen pride, A passage to the love-sick god denied. The god caressed, and for admission prayed, And soothed, in softest words, the envenomed maid. In vain he soothed; 'Begone!' the maid replies, 'Or here I keep my seat, and never rise.' 'Then keep thy seat for ever!' cries the god, And touched the door, wide-opening to his rod. Fain would she rise, and stop him, but she found Her trunk too heavy to forsake the ground; 150 Her joints are all benumbed, her hands are pale, And marble now appears in every nail. As when a cancer in her body feeds, And gradual death from limb to limb proceeds; So does the dullness to each vital part Spread by degrees, and creeps into her heart; Till, hardening everywhere, and speechless grown, She sits unmoved, and freezes to a stone. But still her envious hue and sullen mien Are in the sedentary figure seen. 160

EUROPA'S RAPE.

When now the god his fury had allayed, And taken vengeance of the stubborn maid, From where the bright Athenian turrets rise He mounts aloft, and reascends the skies. Jove saw him enter the sublime abodes, And, as he mixed among the crowd of gods, Beckoned him out, and drew him from the rest, And in soft whispers thus his will expressed. 'My trusty Hermes, by whose ready aid Thy sire's commands are through the world conveyed, _10 Resume thy wings, exert their utmost force, And to the walls of Sidon speed they course; There find a herd of heifers wandering o'er The neighbouring hill, and drive them to the shore.' Thus spoke the god, concealing his intent. The trusty Hermes on his message went, And found the herd of heifers wandering o'er A neighbouring hill, and drove them to the shore; Where the king's daughter, with a lovely train Of fellow-nymphs, was sporting on the plain. _20 The dignity of empire laid aside, (For love but ill agrees with kingly pride,) The ruler of the skies, the thundering god, Who shakes the world's foundations with a nod, Among a herd of lowing heifers ran, Frisked in a bull, and bellowed o'er the plain. Large rolls of fat about his shoulders clung, And from his neck the double dewlap hung. His skin was whiter than the snow that lies Unsullied by the breath of southern skies; _30 Small shining horns on his curled forehead stand, As turned and polished by the workman's hand; His eye-balls rolled, not formidably bright, But gazed and languished with a gentle light. His every look was peaceful, and expressed The softness of the lover in the beast. Agenor's royal daughter, as she played Among the fields, the milk-white bull surveyed, And viewed his spotless body with delight, And at a distance kept him in her sight. _40 At length she plucked the rising flowers, and fed The gentle beast, and fondly stroked his head. He stood well pleased to touch the charming fair, But hardly could confine his pleasure there. And now he wantons o'er the neighbouring strand, Now rolls his body on the yellow sand; And now, perceiving all her fears decayed, Comes tossing forward to the royal maid; Gives her his breast to stroke, and downward turns His grisly brow, and gently stoops his horns. _50 In flowery wreaths the royal virgin dressed His bending horns, and kindly clapped his breast. Till now grown wanton, and devoid of fear, Not knowing that she pressed the Thunderer, She placed herself upon his back, and rode O'er fields and meadows, seated on the god. He gently marched along, and by degrees Left the dry meadow, and approached the seas; Where now he dips his hoofs and wets his thighs, Now plunges in, and carries off the prize. _60 The frighted nymph looks backward on the shore, And hears the tumbling billows round her roar; But still she holds him fast: one hand is borne Upon his back, the other grasps a horn: Her train of ruffling garments flies behind, Swells in the air and hovers in the wind. Through storms and tempests he the virgin bore, And lands her safe on the Dictean shore; Where now, in his divinest form arrayed, In his true shape he captivates the maid; _70 Who gazes on him, and with wondering eyes Beholds the new majestic figure rise, His glowing features, and celestial light, And all the god discovered to her sight.

BOOK III.

THE STORY OF CADMUS.

When now Agenor had his daughter lost, He sent his son to search on every coast; And sternly bid him to his arms restore The darling maid, or see his face no more, But live an exile in a foreign clime: Thus was the father pious to a crime. The restless youth searched all the world around; But how can Jove in his amours be found? When tired at length with unsuccessful toil, To shun his angry sire and native soil, _10 He goes a suppliant to the Delphic dome; There asks the god what new-appointed home Should end his wanderings and his toils relieve. The Delphic oracles this answer give: 'Behold among the fields a lonely cow, Unworn with yokes, unbroken to the plough; Mark well the place where first she lays her down, There measure out thy walls, and build thy town, And from thy guide, Boetia call the land, In which the destined walls and town shall stand.' _20 No sooner had he left the dark abode, Big with the promise of the Delphic god, When in the fields the fatal cow he viewed, Nor galled with yokes, nor worn with servitude: Her gently at a distance he pursued; And, as he walked aloof, in silence prayed To the great power whose counsels he obeyed. Her way through flowery Panope she took, And now, Cephisus, crossed thy silver brook; When to the heavens her spacious front she raised, _30 And bellowed thrice, then backward turning, gazed On those behind, till on the destined place She stooped, and couched amid the rising grass. Cadmus salutes the soil, and gladly hails The new-found mountains, and the nameless vales, And thanks the gods, and turns about his eye To see his new dominions round him lie; Then sends his servants to a neighbouring grove For living streams, a sacrifice to Jove. O'er the wide plain there rose a shady wood _40 Of aged trees; in its dark bosom stood A bushy thicket, pathless and unworn, O'errun with brambles, and perplexed with thorn: Amidst the brake a hollow den was found, With rocks and shelving arches vaulted round. Deep in the dreary den, concealed from day, Sacred to Mars, a mighty dragon lay, Bloated with poison to a monstrous size; Fire broke in flashes when he glanced his eyes; His towering crest was glorious to behold, _50 His shoulders and his sides were scaled with gold; Three tongues he brandished when he charged his foes; His teeth stood jagy in three dreadful rows. The Tyrians in the den for water sought, And with their urns explored the hollow vault: From side to side their empty urns rebound, And rouse the sleepy serpent with the sound. Straight he bestirs him, and is seen to rise; And now with dreadful hissings fills the skies, And darts his forky tongues, and rolls his glaring eyes. _60 The Tyrians drop their vessels in their fright, All pale and trembling at the hideous sight Spire above spire upreared in air he stood, And gazing round him, overlooked the wood: Then floating on the ground, in circles rolled; Then leaped upon them in a mighty fold. Of such a bulk, and such a monstrous size, The serpent in the polar circle lies, That stretches over half the northern skies. In vain the Tyrians on their arms rely, _70 In vain attempt to fight, in vain to fly: All their endeavours and their hopes are vain; Some die entangled in the winding train; Some are devoured; or feel a loathsome death, Swoln up with blasts of pestilential breath. And now the scorching sun was mounted high, In all its lustre, to the noonday sky; When, anxious for his friends, and filled with cares, To search the woods the impatient chief prepares. A lion's hide around his loins he wore, _80 The well-poised javelin to the field he bore, Inured to blood, the far-destroying dart, And, the best weapon, an undaunted heart. Soon as the youth approached the fatal place, He saw his servants breathless on the grass; The scaly foe amid their corps he viewed, Basking at ease, and feasting in their blood, 'Such friends,' he cries, 'deserved a longer date; But Cadmus will revenge, or share their fate.' Then heaved a stone, and rising to the throw _90 He sent it in a whirlwind at the foe: A tower, assaulted by so rude a stroke, With all its lofty battlements had shook; But nothing here the unwieldy rock avails, Rebounding harmless from the plaited scales, That, firmly joined, preserved him from a wound, With native armour crusted all around. 97 The pointed javelin more successful flew, Which at his back the raging warrior threw; Amid the plaited scales it took its course, _100 And in the spinal marrow spent its force. The monster hissed aloud, and raged in vain, And writhed his body to and fro with pain; And bit the spear, and wrenched the wood away; The point still buried in the marrow lay. And now his rage, increasing with his pain, Reddens his eyes, and beats in every vein; Churned in his teeth the foamy venom rose, Whilst from his mouth a blast of vapours flows, Such as the infernal Stygian waters cast; _110 The plants around him wither in the blast. Now in a maze of rings he lies enrolled, Now all unravelled, and without a fold; Now, like a torrent, with a mighty force, Bears down the forest in his boisterous course. Cadmus gave back, and on the lion's spoil Sustained the shock, then forced him to recoil; The pointed javelin warded off his rage: Mad with his pains, and furious to engage, The serpent champs the steel, and bites the spear, _120 Till blood and venom all the point besmear. But still the hurt he yet received was slight; For, whilst the champion with redoubled might Strikes home the javelin, his retiring foe Shrinks from the wound, and disappoints the blow. The dauntless hero still pursues his stroke, And presses forward, till a knotty oak Retards his foe, and stops him in the rear; Full in his throat he plunged the fatal spear, That in the extended neck a passage found, _130 And pierced the solid timber through the wound. Fixed to the reeling trunk, with many a stroke Of his huge tail, he lashed the sturdy oak; Till spent with toil, and labouring hard for breath, He now lay twisting in the pangs of death. Cadmus beheld him wallow in a flood Of swimming poison, intermixed with blood; When suddenly a speech was heard from high, (The speech was heard, nor was the speaker nigh,) 'Why dost thou thus with secret pleasure see, _140 Insulting man! what thou thyself shalt be?' Astonished at the voice, he stood amazed, And all around with inward horror gazed: When Pallas, swift descending from the skies, Pallas, the guardian of the bold and wise, Bids him plough up the field, and scatter round The dragon's teeth o'er all the furrowed ground; Then tells the youth how to his wondering eyes Embattled armies from the field should rise. He sows the teeth at Pallas's command, _150 And flings the future people from his hand. The clods grow warm, and crumble where he sows; And now the pointed spears advance in rows; Now nodding plumes appear, and shining crests, Now the broad shoulders and the rising breasts: O'er all the field the breathing harvest swarms, A growing host, a crop of men and arms. So through the parting stage a figure rears Its body up, and limb by limb appears By just degrees; till all the man arise, _160 And in his full proportion strikes the eyes. Cadmus surprised, and startled at the sight Of his new foes, prepared himself for fight: When one cried out, 'Forbear, fond man, forbear To mingle in a blind, promiscuous war.' This said, he struck his brother to the ground, Himself expiring by another's wound; Nor did the third his conquest long survive, Dying ere scarce he had begun to live. The dire example ran through all the field, _170 Till heaps of brothers were by brothers killed; The furrows swam in blood: and only five Of all the vast increase were left alive. Echion one, at Pallas's command, Let fall the guiltless weapon from his hand; And with the rest a peaceful treaty makes, Whom Cadmus as his friends and partners takes: So founds a city on the promised earth, And gives his new Boeotian empire birth. Here Cadmus reigned; and now one would have guessed _180 The royal founder in his exile blessed: Long did he live within his new abodes, Allied by marriage to the deathless gods; And, in a fruitful wife's embraces old, A long increase of children's children told: But no frail man, however great or high, Can be concluded blessed before he die. Actaeon was the first of all his race, Who grieved his grandsire in his borrowed face; Condemned by stern Diana to bemoan _190 The branching horns, and visage not his own; To shun his once-loved dogs, to bound away, And from their huntsman to become their prey. And yet consider why the change was wrought, You'll find it his misfortune, not his fault; Or if a fault, it was the fault of chance: For how can guilt proceed from ignorance?

THE TRANSFORMATION OF ACTAEON INTO A STAG.

In a fair chase a shady mountain stood, Well stored with game, and marked with trails of blood. Here did the huntsmen till the heat of day Pursue the stag, and load themselves with prey; When thus Actaeon calling to the rest: 'My friends,' says he, 'our sport is at the best. The sun is high advanced, and downward sheds His burning beams directly on our heads; Then by consent abstain from further spoils, Call off the dogs, and gather up the toils; 10 And ere to-morrow's sun begins his race, Take the cool morning to renew the chase.' They all consent, and in a cheerful train The jolly huntsmen, loaden with the slain, Return in triumph from the sultry plain. Down in a vale with pine and cypress clad, Refreshed with gentle winds, and brown with shade, The chaste Diana's private haunt, there stood Full in the centre of the darksome wood A spacious grotto, all around o'ergrown 20 With hoary moss, and arched with pumice-stone. From out its rocky clefts the waters flow, And trickling swell into a lake below. Nature had everywhere so played her part, That everywhere she seemed to vie with art. Here the bright goddess, toiled and chafed with heat, Was wont to bathe her in the cool retreat. Here did she now with all her train resort, Panting with heat, and breathless from the sport; Her armour-bearer laid her bow aside, 30 Some loosed her sandals, some her veil untied; Each busy nymph her proper part undressed; While Crocale, more handy than the rest, Gathered her flowing hair, and in a noose Bound it together, whilst her own hung loose. Five of the more ignoble sort by turns Fetch up the water, and unlade their urns. Now all undressed the shining goddess stood, When young Actaeon, wildered in the wood, To the cool grot by his hard fate betrayed, 40 The fountains filled with naked nymphs surveyed. The frighted virgins shrieked at the surprise, (The forest echoed with their piercing cries,) Then in a huddle round their goddess pressed: She, proudly eminent above the rest, With blushes glowed; such blushes as adorn The ruddy welkin, or the purple morn; And though the crowding nymphs her body hide, Half backward shrunk, and viewed him from aside. Surprised, at first she would have snatched her bow, 50 But sees the circling waters round her flow; These in the hollow of her hand she took, And dashed them in his face, while thus she spoke: 'Tell if thou canst the wondrous sight disclosed, A goddess naked to thy view exposed.' This said, the man began to disappear By slow degrees, and ended in a deer. A rising horn on either brow he wears, And stretches out his neck, and pricks his ears; Rough is his skin, with sudden hairs o'ergrown, 60 His bosom pants with fears before unknown. Transformed at length, he flies away in haste, And wonders why he flies away so fast. But as by chance, within a neighbouring brook, He saw his branching horns and altered look, Wretched Actaeon! in a doleful tone He tried to speak, but only gave a groan; And as he wept, within the watery glass He saw the big round drops, with silent pace, Run trickling down a savage hairy face. 70 What should he do? Or seek his old abodes, Or herd among the deer, and skulk in woods? Here shame dissuades him, there his fear prevails, And each by turns his aching heart assails. As he thus ponders, he behind him spies His opening hounds, and now he hears their cries: A generous pack, or to maintain the chase, Or snuff the vapour from the scented grass. He bounded off with fear, and swiftly ran O'er craggy mountains, and the flowery plain; 80 Through brakes and thickets forced his way, and flew Through many a ring, where once he did pursue. In vain he oft endeavoured to proclaim His new misfortune, and to tell his name; Nor voice nor words the brutal tongue supplies; From shouting men, and horns, and dogs he flies, Deafened and stunned with their promiscuous cries. When now the fleetest of the pack, that pressed Close at his heels, and sprung before the rest, Had fastened on him, straight another pair 90 Hung on his wounded haunch, and held him there, Till all the pack came up, and every hound Tore the sad huntsman, grovelling on the ground, Who now appeared but one continued wound. With dropping tears his bitter fate he moans, And fills the mountain with his dying groans. His servants with a piteous look he spies, And turns about his supplicating eyes. His servants, ignorant of what had chanced, With eager haste and joyful shouts advanced, 100 And called their lord Actaeon to the game: He shook his head in answer to the name; He heard, but wished he had indeed been gone, Or only to have stood a looker-on. But, to his grief, he finds himself too near, And feels his ravenous dogs with fury tear Their wretched master, panting in a deer.

THE BIRTH OF BACCHUS.

Actaeon's sufferings, and Diana's rage, Did all the thoughts of men and gods engage; Some called the evils which Diana wrought, Too great, and disproportioned to the fault: Others, again, esteemed Actaeon's woes Fit for a virgin goddess to impose. The hearers into different parts divide, And reasons are produced on either side. Juno alone, of all that heard the news, Nor would condemn the goddess, nor excuse: _10 She heeded not the justice of the deed, But joyed to see the race of Cadmus bleed; For still she kept Europa in her mind, And, for her sake, detested all her kind. Besides, to aggravate her hate, she heard How Semele, to Jove's embrace preferred, Was now grown big with an immortal load, And carried in her womb a future god. Thus terribly incensed, the goddess broke To sudden fury, and abruptly spoke. _20 'Are my reproaches of so small a force? 'Tis time I then pursue another course: It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die, If I'm indeed the mistress of the sky; If rightly styled among the powers above The wife and sister of the thundering Jove, (And none can sure a sister's right deny,) It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die. She boasts an honour I can hardly claim; Pregnant, she rises to a mother's name; _30 While proud and vain she triumphs in her Jove, And shows the glorious tokens of his love: But if I'm still the mistress of the skies, By her own lover the fond beauty dies.' This said, descending in a yellow cloud, Before the gates of Semele she stood. Old Beroe's decrepit shape she wears, Her wrinkled visage, and her hoary hairs; Whilst in her trembling gait she totters on, And learns to tattle in the nurse's tone. _40 The goddess, thus disguised in age, beguiled With pleasing stories her false foster-child. Much did she talk of love, and when she came To mention to the nymph her lover's name, Fetching a sigh, and holding down her head, ''Tis well,' says she, 'if all be true that's said; But trust me, child, I'm much inclined to fear Some counterfeit in this your Jupiter. Many an honest, well-designing maid, Has been by these pretended gods betrayed. _50 But if he be indeed the thundering Jove, Bid him, when next he courts the rites of love, Descend, triumphant from the ethereal sky, In all the pomp of his divinity; Encompassed round by those celestial charms, With which he fills the immortal Juno's arms.' The unwary nymph, insnared with what she said, Desired of Jove, when next he sought her bed, To grant a certain gift which she would choose; 'Fear not,' replied the god, 'that I'll refuse _60 Whate'er you ask: may Styx confirm my voice, Choose what you will, and you shall have your choice.' 'Then,' says the nymph, 'when next you seek my arms, May you descend in those celestial charms, With which your Juno's bosom you inflame, And fill with transport heaven's immortal dame.' The god surprised, would fain have stopped her voice: But he had swrorn, and she had made her choice. To keep his promise he ascends, and shrouds His awful brow in whirlwinds and in clouds; _70 Whilst all around, in terrible array, His thunders rattle, and his lightnings play. And yet, the dazzling lustre to abate, He set not out in all his pomp and state, Clad in the mildest lightning of the skies, And armed with thunder of the smallest size: Not those huge bolts, by which the giants slain, Lay overthrown on the Phlegraean plain. Twas of a lesser mould, and lighter weight; They call it thunder of a second-rate. _80 For the rough Cyclops, who by Jove's command Tempered the bolt, and turned it to his hand, Worked up less flame and fury in its make, And quenched it sooner in the standing lake. Thus dreadfully adorned, with horror bright, The illustrious god, descending from his height, Came rushing on her in a storm of light. The mortal dame, too feeble to engage The lightning's flashes and the thunder's rage, Consumed amidst the glories she desired, _90 And in the terrible embrace expired. But, to preserve his offspring from the tomb, Jove took him smoking from the blasted womb; And, if on ancient tales we may rely, Enclosed the abortive infant in his thigh. Here, when the babe had all his time fulfilled, Ino first took him for her foster-child; Then the Niseans, in their dark abode, Nursed secretly with milk the thriving god.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF TIRESIAS.

'Twas now, while these transactions passed on earth, And Bacchus thus procured a second birth, When Jove, disposed to lay aside the weight Of public empire and the cares of state, As to his queen in nectar bowls he quaffed, 'In troth,' says he, and as he spoke he laughed, 'The sense of pleasure in the male is far More dull and dead than what you females share.' Juno the truth of what was said denied; Tiresias therefore must the cause decide; _10 For he the pleasure of each sex had tried. It happened once, within a shady wood, Two twisted snakes he in conjunction viewed; When with his staff their slimy folds he broke, And lost his manhood at the fatal stroke. But, after seven revolving years, he viewed The self-same serpents in the self-same wood; 'And if,' says he, 'such virtue in you lie, That he who dares your slimy folds untie Must change his kind, a second stroke I'll try.' _20 Again he struck the snakes, and stood again New-sexed, and straight recovered into man. Him therefore both the deities create The sovereign umpire in their grand debate; And he declared for Jove; when Juno, fired More than so trivial an affair required, Deprived him, in her fury, of his sight, And left him groping round in sudden night. But Jove (for so it is in heaven decreed, That no one god repeal another's deed) _30 Irradiates all his soul with inward light, And with the prophet's art relieves the want of sight.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF ECHO.

Famed far and near for knowing things to come, From him the inquiring nations sought their doom; The fair Liriope his answers tried, And first the unerring prophet justified; This nymph the god Cephisus had abused, With all his winding waters circumfused, And on the Nereid got a lovely boy, Whom the soft maids even then beheld with joy. The tender dame, solicitous to know Whether her child should reach old age or no, _10 Consults the sage Tiresias, who replies, 'If e'er he knows himself, he surely dies.' Long lived the dubious mother in suspense, Till time unriddled all the prophet's sense. Narcissus now his sixteenth year began, Just turned of boy, and on the verge of man; Many a friend the blooming youth caressed, Many a love-sick maid her flame confessed: Such was his pride, in vain the friend caressed, The love-sick maid in vain her flame confessed. _20 Once, in the woods, as he pursued the chase, The babbling Echo had descried his face; She, who in others' words her silence breaks, Nor speaks herself but when another speaks. Echo was then a maid, of speech bereft, Of wonted speech; for though her voice was left, Juno a curse did on her tongue impose, To sport with every sentence in the close. Full often, when the goddess might have caught Jove and her rivals in the very fault, _30 This nymph with subtle stories would delay Her coming, till the lovers slipped away. The goddess found out the deceit in time, And then she cried, 'That tongue, for this thy crime, Which could so many subtle tales produce, Shall be hereafter but of little use.' Hence 'tis she prattles in a fainter tone, With mimic sounds, and accents not her own. This love-sick virgin, overjoyed to find The boy alone, still followed him behind; _40 When, glowing warmly at her near approach, As sulphur blazes at the taper's touch, She longed her hidden passion to reveal, And tell her pains, but had not words to tell: She can't begin, but waits for the rebound, To catch his voice, and to return the sound. The nymph, when nothing could Narcissus move, Still dashed with blushes for her slighted love, Lived in the shady covert of the woods, In solitary caves and dark abodes; _50 Where pining wandered the rejected fair, Till harassed out, and worn away with care, The sounding skeleton, of blood bereft, Besides her bones and voice had nothing left. Her bones are petrified, her voice is found In vaults, where still it doubles every sound.

THE STORY OF NARCISSUS.

Thus did the nymphs in vain caress the boy, He still was lovely, but he still was coy; When one fair virgin of the slighted train Thus prayed the gods, provoked by his disdain, 'Oh, may he love like me, and love like me in vain!' Rhamnusia pitied the neglected fair, And with just vengeance answered to her prayer. There stands a fountain in a darksome wood, Nor stained with falling leaves nor rising mud; Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests, _10 Unsullied by the touch of men or beasts: High bowers of shady trees above it grow, And rising grass and cheerful greens below. Pleased with the form and coolness of the place, And over-heated by the morning chase, Narcissus on the grassy verdure lies: But whilst within the crystal fount he tries To quench his heat, he feels new heats arise. For as his own bright image he surveyed, He fell in love with the fantastic shade; _20 And o'er the fair resemblance hung unmoved, Nor knew, fond youth! it was himself he loved. The well-turned neck and shoulders he descries, The spacious forehead, and the sparkling eyes; The hands that Bacchus might not scorn to show, And hair that round Apollo's head might flow, With all the purple youthfulness of face, That gently blushes in the watery glass. By his own flames consumed the lover lies, And gives himself the wound by which he dies. _30 To the cold water oft he joins his lips, Oft catching at the beauteous shade he dips His arms, as often from himself he slips. Nor knows he who it is his arms pursue With eager clasps, but loves he knows not who. What could, fond youth, this helpless passion move? What kindle in thee this unpitied love? Thy own warm blush within the water glows, With thee the coloured shadow comes and goes, Its empty being on thyself relies; _40 Step thou aside, and the frail charmer dies. Still o'er the fountain's watery gleam he stood, Mindless of sleep, and negligent of food; Still viewed his face, and languished as he viewed. At length he raised his head, and thus began To vent his griefs, and tell the woods his pain. 'You trees,' says he, 'and thou surrounding grove, Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love, Tell me, if e'er within your shades did lie A youth so tortured, so perplexed as I? _50 I who before me see the charming fair, Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not there: In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost; And yet no bulwarked town, nor distant coast, Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen, No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between. A shallow water hinders my embrace; And yet the lovely mimic wears a face That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine. _60 Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint, Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant. My charms an easy conquest have obtained O'er other hearts, by thee alone disdained. But why should I despair? I'm sure he burns With equal flames, and languishes by turns. Whene'er I stoop he offers at a kiss, And when my arms I stretch, he stretches his. His eye with pleasure on my face he keeps, He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps. _70 Whene'er I speak, his moving lips appear To utter something, which I cannot hear. 'Ah wretched me! I now begin too late To find out all the long-perplexed deceit; It is myself I love, myself I see; The gay delusion is a part of me. I kindle up the fires by which I burn, And my own beauties from the well return. Whom should I court? how utter my complaint? Enjoyment but produces my restraint, _80 And too much plenty makes me die for want. How gladly would I from myself remove! And at a distance set the thing I love. My breast is warmed with such unusual fire, I wish him absent whom I most desire. And now I faint with grief; my fate draws nigh; In all the pride of blooming youth I die. Death will the sorrows of my heart relieve. Oh, might the visionary youth survive, I should with joy my latest breath resign! _90 But oh! I see his fate involved in mine.' This said, the weeping youth again returned To the clear fountain, where again he burned; His tears defaced the surface of the well With circle after circle, as they fell: And now the lovely face but half appears, O'errun with wrinkles, and deformed with tears. 'All whither,' cries Narcissus, 'dost thou fly? Let me still feed the flame by which I die; Let me still see, though I'm no further blessed.' _100 Then rends his garment off, and beats his breast: His naked bosom reddened with the blow, In such a blush as purple clusters show, Ere yet the sun's autumnal heats refine Their sprightly juice, and mellow it to wine. The glowing beauties of his breast he spies, And with a new redoubled passion dies. As wax dissolves, as ice begins to run, And trickle into drops before the sun; So melts the youth, and languishes away, _110 His beauty withers, and his limbs decay; And none of those attractive charms remain, To which the slighted Echo sued in vain. She saw him in his present misery, Whom, spite of all her wrongs, she grieved to see. She answered sadly to the lover's moan, Sighed back his sighs, and groaned to every groan: 'Ah youth! beloved in vain,' Narcissus cries; 'Ah youth! beloved in vain,' the nymph replies. 'Farewell,' says he; the parting sound scarce fell _120 From his faint lips, but she replied, 'Farewell.' Then on the unwholesome earth he gasping lies, Till death shuts up those self-admiring eyes. To the cold shades his flitting ghost retires, And in the Stygian waves itself admires. For him the Naiads and the Dryads mourn, Whom the sad Echo answers in her turn; And now the sister-nymphs prepare his urn: When, looking for his corpse, they only found A rising stalk, with yellow blossoms crowned. _130

THE STORY OF PENTHEUS.

This sad event gave blind Tiresias fame, Through Greece established in a prophet's name. The unhallowed Pentheus only durst deride The cheated people, and their eyeless guide, To whom the prophet in his fury said, Shaking the hoary honours of his head; 'Twere well, presumptuous man, 'twere well for thee If thou wert eyeless too, and blind, like me: For the time comes, nay, 'tis already here, When the young god's solemnities appear; 10 Which, if thou dost not with just rites adorn, Thy impious carcase, into pieces torn, Shall strew the woods, and hang on every thorn. Then, then, remember what I now foretell, And own the blind Tiresias saw too well.' Still Pentheus scorns him, and derides his skill, But time did all the promised threats fulfil. For now through prostrate Greece young Bacchus rode, Whilst howling matrons celebrate the god. All ranks and sexes to his orgies ran, 20 To mingle in the pomps, and fill the train. When Pentheus thus his wicked rage express'd; 'What madness, Thebans, has your soul possess'd? Can hollow timbrels, can a drunken shout, And the lewd clamours of a beastly rout, Thus quell your courage? can the weak alarm Of women's yells those stubborn souls disarm, Whom nor the sword nor trumpet e'er could fright, Nor the loud din and horror of a fight? And you, our sires, who left your old abodes, 30 And fixed in foreign earth your country gods; Will you without a stroke your city yield, And poorly quit an undisputed field? But you, whose youth and vigour should inspire Heroic warmth, and kindle martial fire, Whom burnished arms and crested helmets grace, Not flowery garlands and a painted face; Remember him to whom you stand allied: The serpent for his well of waters died. He fought the strong; do you his courage show, 40 And gain a conquest o'er a feeble foe. If Thebes must fall, oh might the Fates afford A nobler doom from famine, fire, or sword! Then might the Thebans perish with renown: But now a beardless victor sacks the town; Whom nor the prancing steed, nor ponderous shield, Nor the hacked helmet, nor the dusty field, But the soft joys of luxury and ease, The purple vests, and flowery garlands, please. Stand then aside, I'll make the counterfeit 50 Renounce his godhead, and confess the cheat. Acrisius from the Grecian walls repelled This boasted power; why then should Pentheus yield? Go quickly, drag the audacious boy to me; I'll try the force of his divinity.' Thus did the audacious wretch those rites profane; His friends dissuade the audacious wretch in vain; In vain his grandsire urged him to give o'er His impious threats; the wretch but raves the more. So have I seen a river gently glide, 60 In a smooth course and inoffensive tide; But if with dams its current we restrain, It bears down all, and foams along the plain. But now his servants came besmeared with blood, Sent by their haughty prince to seize the god; The god they found not in the frantic throng But dragged a zealous votary along.

THE MARINERS TRANSFORMED TO DOLPHINS.

Him Pentheus viewed with fury in his look, And scarce withheld his hands, while thus he spoke: 'Vile slave! whom speedy vengeance shall pursue, And terrify thy base, seditious crew: Thy country and thy parentage reveal, And why thou join'st in these mad orgies tell.' The captive views him with undaunted eyes, And, armed with inward innocence, replies. 'From high Meonia's rocky shores I came, Of poor descent, Acaetes is my name: 10 My sire was meanly born; no oxen ploughed His fruitful fields, nor in his pastures lowed. His whole estate within the waters lay; With lines and hooks he caught the finny prey. His art was all his livelihood; which he Thus with his dying lips bequeathed to me: In streams, my boy, and rivers, take thy chance; There swims,' said he, 'thy whole inheritance. 'Long did I live on this poor legacy; Till tired with rocks, and my own native sky, 20 To arts of navigation I inclined, Observed the turns and changes of the wind: Learned the fit havens, and began to note The stormy Hyades, the rainy Goat, The bright Taeygete, and the shining Bears, With all the sailor's catalogue of stars. 'Once, as by chance for Delos I designed, My vessel, driven by a strong gust of wind, Moored in a Chian creek; ashore I went, And all the following night in Chios spent. 30 When morning rose, I sent my mates to bring Supplies of water from a neighbouring spring, Whilst I the motion of the winds explored; Then summoned in my crew, and went aboard. Opheltes heard my summons, and with joy Brought to the shore a soft and lovely boy, With more than female sweetness in his look, Whom straggling in the neighbouring fields he took. With fumes of wine the little captive glows, And nods with sleep, and staggers as he goes. 40 'I viewed him nicely, and began to trace Each heavenly feature, each immortal grace, And saw divinity in all his face. "I know not who," said I, "this god should be; But that he is a god I plainly see: And thou, whoe'er thou art, excuse the force These men have used; and, oh! befriend our course!" "Pray not for us," the nimble Dictys cried, Dictys, that could the main-top-mast bestride, And down the ropes with active vigour slide. 50 To the same purpose old Epopeus spoke, Who overlooked the oars, and timed the stroke; The same the pilot, and the same the rest; Such impious avarice their souls possessed. "Nay, heaven forbid that I should bear away Within my vessel so divine a prey," Said I; and stood to hinder their intent: When Lycabas, a wretch for murder sent From Tuscany, to suffer banishment, With his clenched fist had struck me overboard, 60 Had not my hands, in falling, grasped a cord. 'His base confederates the fact approve; When Bacchus (for 'twas he) began to move, Waked by the noise and clamours which they raised; And shook his drowsy limbs, and round him gazed: "What means this noise?" he cries; "am I betrayed? All! whither, whither must I be conveyed?" "Fear not," said Proreus, "child, but tell us where You wish to land, and trust our friendly care." "To Naxos then direct your course," said he; 70 "Naxos a hospitable port shall be To each of you, a joyful home to me." By every god that rules the sea or sky, The perjured villains promise to comply, And bid me hasten to unmoor the ship. With eager joy I launch into the deep; And, heedless of the fraud, for Naxos stand: They whisper oft, and beckon with the hand, And give me signs, all anxious for their prey, To tack about, and steer another way. 80 "Then let some other to my post succeed," Said I, "I'm guiltless of so foul a deed." "What," says Ethalion, "must the ship's whole crew Follow your humour, and depend on you?" And straight himself he seated at the prore, And tacked about, and sought another shore. 'The beauteous youth now found himself betrayed, And from the deck the rising waves surveyed, And seemed to weep, and as he wept he said; "And do you thus my easy faith beguile? 90 Thus do you bear me to my native isle? Will such a multitude of men employ Their strength against a weak, defenceless boy?" 'In vain did I the godlike youth deplore, The more I begged, they thwarted me the more. And now by all the gods in heaven that hear This solemn oath, by Bacchus' self, I swear, The mighty miracle that did ensue, Although it seems beyond belief, is true. The vessel, fixed and rooted in the flood, 100 Unmoved by all the beating billows stood. In vain the mariners would plough the main With sails unfurled, and strike their oars in vain; Around their oars a twining ivy cleaves, And climbs the mast and hides the cords in leaves: The sails are covered with a cheerful green, And berries in the fruitful canvas seen. Amidst the waves a sudden forest rears Its verdant head, and a new spring appears. 'The god we now behold with open eyes; 110 A herd of spotted panthers round him lies In glaring forms; the grapy clusters spread On his fair brows, and dangle on his head. And whilst he frowns, and brandishes his spear, My mates, surprised with madness or with fear, Leaped overboard; first perjured Madon found Rough scales and fins his stiffening sides surround; "Ah! what," cries one, "has thus transformed thy look?" Straight his own mouth grew wider as he spoke; And now himself he views with like surprise. 120 Still at his oar the industrious Libys plies; But, as he plies, each busy arm shrinks in, And by degrees is fashioned to a fin. Another, as he catches at a cord, Misses his arms, and, tumbling overboard, With his broad fins and forky tail he laves The rising surge, and flounces in the waves. Thus all my crew transformed around the ship, Or dive below, or on the surface leap, And spout the waves, and wanton in the deep. 130 Full nineteen sailors did the ship convey, A shoal of nineteen dolphins round her play. I only in my proper shape appear, Speechless with wonder, and half dead with fear, Till Bacchus kindly bid me fear no more. With him I landed on the Chian shore, And him shall ever gratefully adore.' 'This forging slave,' says Pentheus, 'would prevail O'er our just fury by a far-fetched tale: Go, let him feel the whips, the swords, the fire, 140 And in the tortures of the rack expire.' The officious servants hurry him away, And the poor captive in a dungeon lay. But, whilst the whips and tortures are prepared. The gates fly open, of themselves unbarred; At liberty the unfettered captive stands, And flings the loosened shackles from his hands.

THE DEATH OF PENTHEUS.

But Penthcus, grown more furious than before, Resolved to send his messengers no more, But went himself to the distracted throng, Where high Cithaeron echoed with their song. And as the fiery war-horse paws the ground, And snorts and trembles at the trumpet's sound; Transported thus he heard the frantic rout, And raved and maddened at the distant shout. A spacious circuit on the hill there stood, Level and wide, and skirted round with wood; 10 Here the rash Pentheus, with unhallowed eyes, The howling dames and mystic orgies spies. His mother sternly viewed him where he stood, And kindled into madness as she viewed: Her leafy javelin at her son she cast, And cries, 'The boar that lays our country waste! The boar, my sisters! aim the fatal dart, And strike the brindled monster to the heart.' Pentheus astonished heard the dismal sound, And sees the yelling matrons gathering round: 20 He sees, and weeps at his approaching fate, And begs for mercy, and repents too late. 'Help, help! my aunt Autonoee,' he cried; 'Remember how your own Actaeon died.' Deaf to his cries, the frantic matron crops One stretched-out arm, the other Ino lops. In vain does Pentheus to his mother sue, And the raw bleeding stumps presents to view: His mother howled; and heedless of his prayer, Her trembling hand she twisted in his hair, 30 'And this,' she cried, 'shall be Agave's share,' When from the neck his struggling head she tore, And in her hands the ghastly visage bore, With pleasure all the hideous trunk survey; Then pulled and tore the mangled limbs away, As starting in the pangs of death it lay. Soon as the wood its leafy honours casts, Blown off and scattered by autumnal blasts, With such a sudden death lay Pentheus slain, And in a thousand pieces strowed the plain. 40 By so distinguishing a judgment awed, The Thebans tremble, and confess the god.

BOOK IV.

THE STORY OF SALMACIS AND HERMAPHRODITES.

How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs, And what the secret cause, shall here be shown; The cause is secret, but the effect is known. The Naiads nursed an infant heretofore, That Cytherea once to Hermes bore: From both the illustrious authors of his race The child was named; nor was it hard to trace Both the bright parents through the infant's face. When fifteen years, in Ida's cool retreat, 10 The boy had told, he left his native seat, And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil; The pleasure lessened the attending toil. With eager steps the Lycian fields he crossed, And fields that border on the Lycian coast; A river here he viewed so lovely bright, It showed the bottom in a fairer light, Nor kept a sand concealed from human sight. The stream produced nor slimy ooze, nor weeds, Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds; 20 But dealt enriching moisture all around, The fruitful banks with cheerful verdure crowned, And kept the spring eternal on the ground. A nymph presides, nor practised in the chase, Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race; Of all the blue-eyed daughters of the main, The only stranger to Diana's train: Her sisters often, as 'tis said, would cry, 'Fie, Salmacis, what always idle! fie, Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize, 30 And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease.' Nor quiver she nor arrows e'er would seize, Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease. But oft would bathe her in the crystal tide, Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide; Now in the limpid streams she viewed her face, And dressed her image in the floating glass: On beds of leaves she now reposed her limbs, Now gathered flowers that grew about her streams: And then by chance was gathering, as she stood 40 To view the boy, and longed for what she viewed. Fain would she meet the youth with hasty feet, She fain would meet him, but refused to meet Before her looks were set with nicest care, And well deserved to be reputed fair. 'Bright youth,' she cries, 'whom all thy features prove A god, and, if a god, the god of love; But if a mortal, bless'd thy nurse's breast, Bless'd are thy parents, and thy sisters bless'd: But, oh! how bless'd! how more than bless'd thy bride, 50 Allied in bliss, if any yet allied. If so, let mine the stolen enjoyments be; If not, behold a willing bride in me.' The boy knew nought of love, and, touched with shame, He strove, and blushed, but still the blush became: In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose; The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows, And such the moon, when all her silver white Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light. The nymph still begs, if not a nobler bliss, 60 A cold salute at least, a sister's kiss: And now prepares to take the lovely boy Between her arms. He, innocently coy, Replies, 'Or leave me to myself alone, You rude, uncivil nymph, or I'll begone.' 'Fair stranger then,' says she, 'it shall be so;' And, for she feared his threats, she feigned to go; But hid within a covert's neighbouring green, She kept him still in sight, herself unseen. The boy now fancies all the danger o'er, 70 And innocently sports about the shore, Playful and wanton to the stream he trips, And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips. The coolness pleased him, and with eager haste His airy garments on the banks he cast; His godlike features, and his heavenly hue, And all his beauties were exposed to view. His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies, While hotter passions in her bosom rise, Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes. 80 She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms, And looks, and sighs, and kindles at his charms. Now all undressed upon the banks he stood, And clapped his sides and leaped into the flood: His lovely limbs the silver waves divide, His limbs appear more lovely through the tide; As lilies shut within a crystal case, Receive a glossy lustre from the glass. 'He's mine, he's all my own,' the Naiad cries, And flings off all, and after him she flies. 90 And now she fastens on him as he swims, And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs. The more the boy resisted, and was coy, The more she clipped and kissed the struggling boy. So when the wriggling snake is snatched on high In eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky, Around the foe his twirling tail he flings, And twists her legs, and writhes about her wings. The restless boy still obstinately strove To free himself, and still refused her love. 100 Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs entwined, 'And why, coy youth,' she cries, 'why thus unkind! Oh may the gods thus keep us ever joined! Oh may we never, never part again!' So prayed the nymph, nor did she pray in vain: For now she finds him, as his limbs she pressed, Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast; Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run Together, and incorporate in one: Last in one face are both their faces joined, 110 As when the stock and grafted twig combined Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind: Both bodies in a single body mix, A single body with a double sex. The boy, thus lost in woman, now surveyed The river's guilty stream, and thus he prayed: (He prayed, but wondered at his softer tone, Surprised to hear a voice but half his own:) You parent gods, whose heavenly names I bear, Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my prayer; 120 Oh grant, that whomsoe'er these streams contain, If man he entered, he may rise again Supple, unsinewed, and but half a man! The heavenly parents answered, from on high, Their two-shaped son, the double votary; Then gave a secret virtue to the flood, And tinged its source to make his wishes good.



TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS OF WALES,[12]

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO, NOV. 1714.

The Muse that oft, with sacred raptures fired, Has generous thoughts of liberty inspired, And, boldly rising for Britannia's laws, Engaged great Cato in her country's cause, On you submissive waits, with hopes assured, By whom the mighty blessing stands secured, And all the glories that our age adorn, Are promised to a people yet unborn. No longer shall the widowed land bemoan A broken lineage, and a doubtful throne; 10 But boast her royal progeny's increase, And count the pledges of her future peace. O, born to strengthen and to grace our isle! While you, fair Princess, in your offspring smile, Supplying charms to the succeeding age, Each heavenly daughter's triumphs we presage; Already see the illustrious youths complain, And pity monarchs doomed to sigh in vain. Thou too, the darling of our fond desires, Whom Albion, opening wide her arms, requires, 20 With manly valour and attractive air Shalt quell the fierce and captivate the fair. O England's younger hope! in whom conspire The mother's sweetness and the father's fire! For thee perhaps, even now, of kingly race, Some dawning beauty blooms in every grace, Some Carolina, to heaven's dictates true, Who, while the sceptred rivals vainly sue, Thy inborn worth with conscious eyes shall see, And slight the imperial diadem for thee. 30 Pleased with the prospect of successive reigns, The tuneful tribe no more in daring strains Shall vindicate, with pious fears oppressed, Endangered rights, and liberty distressed: To milder sounds each Muse shall tune the lyre, And gratitude, and faith to kings inspire, And filial love; bid impious discord cease, And soothe the madding factions into peace; Or rise ambitious in more lofty lays, And teach the nation their new monarch's praise, 40 Describe his awful look and godlike mind, And Caesar's power with Cato's virtue joined. Meanwhile, bright Princess, who, with graceful ease And native majesty, are formed to please, Behold those arts with a propitious eye, That suppliant to their great protectress fly! Then shall they triumph, and the British stage Improve her manners and refine her rage, More noble characters expose to view, And draw her finished heroines from you. 50 Nor you the kind indulgence will refuse, Skilled in the labours of the deathless Muse: The deathless Muse with undiminished rays Through distant times the lovely dame conveys: To Gloriana[13] Waller's harp was strung; The queen still shines, because the poet sung. Even all those graces, in your frame combined, The common fate of mortal charms may find, (Content our short-lived praises to engage, The joy and wonder of a single age,) 60 Unless some poet in a lasting song To late posterity their fame prolong, Instruct our sons the radiant form to prize. And see your beauty with their fathers' eyes.



TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER[14] ON HIS PICTURE OF THE KING.[15]

Kneller, with silence and surprise We see Britannia's monarch rise, A godlike form, by thee displayed In all the force of light and shade; And, awed by thy delusive hand, As in the presence-chamber stand. The magic of thy art calls forth His secret soul and hidden worth, His probity and mildness shows, His care of friends and scorn of foes: 10 In every stroke, in every line, Does some exalted virtue shine, And Albion's happiness we trace Through all the features of his face. Oh may I live to hail the day, When the glad nation shall survey Their sovereign, through his wide command, Passing in progress o'er the land! Each heart shall bend, and every voice In loud applauding shouts rejoice, 20 Whilst all his gracious aspect praise, And crowds grow loyal as they gaze. This image on the medal placed, With its bright round of titles graced, And stamped on British coins, shall live, To richest ores the value give, Or, wrought within the curious mould, Shape and adorn the running gold. To bear this form, the genial sun Has daily, since his course begun, 30 Rejoiced the metal to refine, And ripened the Peruvian mine. Thou, Kneller, long with noble pride, The foremost of thy art, hast vied With nature in a generous strife, And touched the canvas into life. Thy pencil has, by monarchs sought, From reign to reign in ermine wrought, And, in their robes of state arrayed, The kings of half an age displayed. 40 Here swarthy Charles appears, and there His brother with dejected air: Triumphant Nassau here we find, And with him bright Maria joined; There Anna, great as when she sent Her armies through the continent, Ere yet her hero was disgraced: Oh may famed Brunswick be the last, (Though heaven should with my wish agree, And long preserve thy art in thee,) 50 The last, the happiest British king, Whom thou shalt paint, or I shall sing! Wise Phidias, thus his skill to prove, Through many a god advanced to Jove, And taught the polished rocks to shine With airs and lineaments divine; Till Greece, amazed, and half afraid, The assembled deities surveyed. Great Pan, who wont to chase the fair, And loved the spreading oak, was there; 60 Old Saturn too, with up-cast eyes, Beheld his abdicated skies; And mighty Mars, for war renowned, In adamantine armour frowned; By him the childless goddess rose, Minerva, studious to compose Her twisted threads; the web she strung, And o'er a loom of marble hung: Thetis, the troubled ocean's queen. Matched with a mortal, next was seen, 70 Reclining on a funeral urn, Her short-lived darling son to mourn. The last was he, whose thunder slew The Titan race, a rebel crew, That, from a hundred hills allied In impious leagues, their king defied. This wonder of the sculptor's hand Produced, his art was at a stand: For who would hope new fame to raise, Or risk his well-established praise, 80 That, his high genius to approve, Had drawn a GEORGE, or carved a Jove!



THE PLAY-HOUSE.

Where gentle Thames through stately channels glides, And England's proud metropolis divides; A lofty fabric does the sight invade, And stretches o'er the waves a pompous shade; Whence sudden shouts the neighbourhood surprise, And thundering claps and dreadful hissings rise. Here thrifty R——[16] hires monarchs by the day, And keeps his mercenary kings in pay; With deep-mouth'd actors fills the vacant scenes, And rakes the stews for goddesses and queens: _10 Here the lewd punk, with crowns and sceptres graced, Teaches her eyes a more majestic cast; And hungry monarchs with a numerous train Of suppliant slaves, like Sancho, starve and reign. But enter in, my Muse; the stage survey, And all its pomp and pageantry display; Trap-doors and pit-falls, form the unfaithful ground, And magic walls encompass it around: On either side maim'd temples fill our eyes, And intermixed with brothel-houses rise; _20 Disjointed palaces in order stand, And groves obedient to the mover's hand O'ershade the stage, and flourish at command. A stamp makes broken towns and trees entire: So when Amphion struck the vocal lyre, He saw the spacious circuit all around, With crowding woods and rising cities crown'd. But next the tiring-room survey, and see False titles, and promiscuous quality, Confus'dly swarm, from heroes and from queens, _30 To those that swing in clouds and fill machines. Their various characters they choose with art, The frowning bully fits the tyrant's part: Swoln cheeks and swaggering belly make an host, Pale, meagre looks and hollow voice a ghost; From careful brows and heavy downcast eyes, Dull cits and thick-skull'd aldermen arise: The comic tone, inspir'd by Congreve, draws At every word, loud laughter and applause: The whining dame continues as before, _40 Her character unchanged, and acts a whore. Above the rest, the prince with haughty stalks Magnificent in purple buskins walks: The royal robes his awful shoulders grace, Profuse of spangles and of copper-lace: Officious rascals to his mighty thigh, Guiltless of blood, the unpointed weapon tie: Then the gay glittering diadem put on, Ponderous with brass, and starr'd with Bristol-stone. His royal consort next consults her glass, _50 And out of twenty boxes culls a face; The whitening first her ghastly looks besmears, All pale and wan the unfinish'd form appears; Till on her cheeks the blushing purple glows, And a false virgin-modesty bestows. Her ruddy lips the deep vermilion dyes; Length to her brows the pencil's arts supplies, And with black bending arches shades her eyes. Well pleased at length the picture she beholds, And spots it o'er with artificial molds; _60 Her countenance complete, the beaux she warms With looks not hers: and, spite of nature, charms. Thus artfully their persons they disguise, Till the last flourish bids the curtain rise. The prince then enters on the stage in state; Behind, a guard of candle-snuffers wait: There swoln with empire, terrible and fierce, He shakes the dome, and tears his lungs with verse: His subjects tremble; the submissive pit, Wrapt up in silence and attention, sit; _70 Till, freed at length, he lays aside the weight Of public business and affairs of state: Forgets his pomp, dead to ambitious fires, And to some peaceful brandy-shop retires; Where in full gills his anxious thoughts he drowns, And quaffs away the care that waits on crowns. The princess next her painted charms displays, Where every look the pencil's art betrays; The callow squire at distance feeds his eyes, And silently for paint and washes dies: _80 But if the youth behind the scenes retreat, He sees the blended colours melt with heat, And all the trickling beauty run in sweat. The borrow'd visage he admires no more, And nauseates every charm he loved before: So the famed spear, for double force renown'd, Applied the remedy that gave the wound. In tedious lists 'twere endless to engage, And draw at length the rabble of the stage, Where one for twenty years has given alarms, _90 And call'd contending monarchs to their arms; Another fills a more important post, And rises every other night a ghost; Through the cleft stage his mealy face he rears, Then stalks along, groans thrice, and disappears; Others, with swords and shields, the soldier's pride, More than a thousand times have changed their side, And in a thousand fatal battles died. Thus several persons several parts perform; Soft lovers whine, and blustering heroes storm. _100 The stern exasperated tyrants rage, Till the kind bowl of poison clears the stage. Then honours vanish, and distinctions cease; Then, with reluctance, haughty queens undress. Heroes no more their fading laurels boast, And mighty kings in private men are lost. He, whom such titles swell'd, such power made proud, To whom whole realms and vanquish'd nations bow'd, Throws off the gaudy plume, the purple train, And in his own vile tatters stinks again. _110



ON THE LADY MANCHESTER.

WRITTEN ON THE TOASTING-GLASSES OF THE KIT-CAT CLUB.

While haughty Gallia's dames, that spread O'er their pale cheeks an artful red, Beheld this beauteous stranger there, In native charms divinely fair; Confusion in their looks they show'd; And with unborrow'd blushes glow'd.



AN ODE.

1

The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled Heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied Sun from day to day Does his Creator's power display; And publishes, to every land, The work of an almighty hand.

2

Soon as the evening shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous tale; And nightly, to the listening Earth, Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets, in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.

3

What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball; What though no real voice, nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found: In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice; For ever singing as they shine: 'The hand that made us is divine.'



AN HYMN.

1 When all thy mercies, O my God, My rising soul surveys; Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise.

2 O how shall words with equal warmth The gratitude declare, That glows within my ravish'd heart! But thou canst read it there.

3 Thy providence my life sustain'd, And all my wants redress'd, When in the silent womb I lay, And hung upon the breast.

4 To all my weak complaints and cries Thy mercy lent an ear, Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt To form themselves in prayer.

5 Unnumber'd comforts to my soul Thy tender care bestow'd, Before my infant heart conceiv'd From whence these comforts flow'd.

6 When in the slippery paths of youth With heedless steps I ran, Thine arm unseen convey'd me safe, And led me up to man.

7 Through hidden dangers, toils, and death, It gently clear'd my way; And through the pleasing snares of vice, More to be fear'd than they.

8 When worn with sickness, oft hast thou With health renew'd my face; And when in sins and sorrows sunk, Reviv'd my soul with grace.

9 Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss Has made my cup run o'er, And in a kind and faithful friend Has doubled all my store.

10 Ten thousand thousand precious gifts My daily thanks employ; Nor is the least a cheerful heart, That tastes those gifts with joy.

11 Through every period of my life, Thy goodness I'll pursue; And after death, in distant worlds, The glorious theme renew.[17]

12 When nature fails, and day and night Divide thy works no more, My ever-grateful heart, O Lord, Thy mercy shall adore.

13 Through all eternity, to thee A joyful song I'll raise; For, oh! eternity's too short To utter all thy praise.



AN ODE.

1 How are thy servants blest, O Lord! How sure is their defence! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence.

2 In foreign realms, and lands remote, Supported by thy care, Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, And breath'd in tainted air.

3 Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil, Made every region please; The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd, And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas.

4 Think, O my soul, devoutly think, How, with affrighted eyes, Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep In all its horrors rise.

5 Confusion dwelt in every face, And fear in every heart; When waves on waves, and gulphs on gulphs, O'ercame the pilot's art.

6 Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord, Thy mercy set me free; Whilst, in the confidence of prayer, My soul took hold on thee.

7 For though in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave, I knew thou wert not slow to hear, Nor impotent to save.

8 The storm was laid, the winds retired, Obedient to thy will; The sea that roar'd at thy command, At thy command was still.

9 In midst of dangers, fears, and death, Thy goodness I'll adore; And praise thee for thy mercies past, And humbly hope for more.

10 My life, if thou preserv'st my life, Thy sacrifice shall be; And death, if death must be my doom, Shall join my soul to thee.



AN HYMN.

1 When rising from the bed of death, O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear, I see my Maker face to face; O how shall I appear!

2 If yet, while pardon may be found, And mercy may be sought, My heart with inward horror shrinks, And trembles at the thought:

3 When thou, O Lord, shalt stand disclos'd In majesty severe, And sit in judgment on my soul; O how shall I appear!

4 But thou hast told the troubled soul, Who does her sins lament, The timely tribute of her tears Shall endless woe prevent.

5 Then see the sorrows of my heart, Ere yet it be too late; And add my Saviour's dying groans, To give those sorrows weight.

6 For never shall my soul despair Her pardon to procure, Who knows thy only Son has died To make that pardon sure.



PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII.

1

The Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye: My noon-day walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend.

2

When in the sultry glebe I faint, Or on the thirsty mountain pant; To fertile vales and dewy meads My weary wandering steps he leads: Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, Amid the verdant landscape flow.

3

Though in the paths of death I tread, With gloomy horrors overspread, My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, For thou, O Lord, art with me still; Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, And guide me through the dreadful shade.

4

Though in a bare and rugged way, Through devious lonely wilds I stray, Thy bounty shall my wants beguile: The barren wilderness shall smile, With sudden greens and herbage crown'd, And streams shall murmur all around.



END OF ADDISON'S POEMS.

Footnotes:

[Footnote 2: 'Majesty:' King William.]

[Footnote 3: 'Seneffe:' lost by William to the French in 1674. Claverhouse fought with him at this battle.]

[Footnote 4: The four last lines of the second and third stanzas were added by Mr Tate.]

[Footnote 5: 'Eridanus:' the Po.]

[Footnote 6: 'Such as of late.' See Macaulay's 'Essay on Addison,' and the 'Life' in this volume, for an account of this extraordinary tempest.]

[Footnote 7: 'Tallard,' or Tallart: an eminent French marshal, taken prisoner at Blenheim; he remained in England for seven years.]

[Footnote 8: A comedy written by Sir Richard Steel.]

[Footnote 9: A dramatic poem written by the Lord Lansdown.]

[Footnote 10: 'Smith:' Edmund, commonly called 'Rag;' see Johnson's 'Poets.']

[Footnote 11: 'Lyaeus:' Bacchus.]

[Footnote 12: 'Princess of Wales:' Willielinina Dorothea Carolina of Brandenburg-Anspach—afterwards Caroline, Queen of George II.; she figures in the 'Heart of Mid-Lothian.']

[Footnote 13: 'Gloriana:' Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I. See our edition of Waller.]

[Footnote 14: 'Sir Godfrey Kneller:' born at Lubeck in 1648; became a painter of portraits; visited England; was knighted by William III.; died in 1723; lies in Westminster Abbey.]

[Footnote 15: This refers to a portrait of George I.]

[Footnote 16: 'R——:' Rich.]

[Footnote 17: Otherwise, 'Thy goodness I'll proclaim;' And, 'Resume the glorious theme.' ]



THE LIFE OF JOHN GAY.



This ingenious poet and child-like man was born, in 1688, at Barnstable, in Devonshire. His family, who were of Norman origin, had long possessed the manor of Goldworthy, or Holdworthy, which came into their hands through Gilbert Le Gay. He obtained possession of this estate by intermarrying with the family of Curtoyse, and gave his name, too, to a place called Hampton Gay, in Northamptonshire. The author of the "Fables" was brought up at the Free School of Barnstable—Pope says under one William Rayner, who had been educated at Westminster School, and who was the author of a volume of Latin and English verse, although Dr Johnson and others maintain that his master's name was Luck. On leaving school, Gay was bound apprentice to a mercer in London—a trade not the most propitious to poetry, and which he did not long continue to prosecute. In 1712, he published his "Rural Sports," and dedicated it to Pope, who was then rising toward the ascendant, having just published his brilliant tissue of centos, the "Essay on Criticism." Pope was pleased with the honour, and ever afterwards took a deep interest in Gay. In the same year Gay had been appointed domestic secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth. This lady was Anne Scott, the daughter and heiress of the Duke of Buccleuch, and widow of the well-known and hapless Duke of Monmouth, who had been beheaded in 1685. She plays a prominent part in the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," and of her a far greater poet than her secretary thus sings:—

"The Duchess mark'd his weary pace, His timid mien, and reverend face, And bade her page the menials tell That they should tend the old man well:

For she had known adversity, Though born in such a high degree; In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb."

Dr Johnson says of her, rather sarcastically, that she was "remarkable for her inflexible perseverance in her demand to be treated as a princess." One biographer of Gay asserts—but on what authority we know not—that this secretaryship was rewarded with a handsome salary. With her, however, our poet did not long agree. She was scarcely so kind to him as to the "Last Minstrel" who sung to her at Newark. By June 8th, 1714, (see a letter of Arbuthnot's of that date,) she had "turned Gay off," having probably been provoked by his indolence of disposition and improvidence of conduct.

Ere this, however, he had been admitted to the intimacy of Pope, and was hired or flattered by him to engage in the famous "Battle of the Wits," springing from the publication of the "Pastorals" of Ambrose Philips. This agreeable but nearly forgotten writer published some pastorals, which Steele, with his usual rashness and fatal favouritism, commended in the "Guardian" as superior to all productions of the class, (including Pope's,) except those of Theocritus, Virgil, and Spenser. Pope retorted in a style of inimitable irony, by a letter to the "Guardian," where he professedly gives the preference to Philips, but damages his claim by producing four specimens of his composition, and contrasting them with the better portions of his own. Not contented with this, he prevailed on Gay to satirise Philips in the "Shepherd's Week"—a poem which forms the reductio ad absurdum of that writer's plan, and exhibits rural life in more than the vulgarity and grossness which the author of the "Pastorals" had ascribed to it.

Gay shortly after wrote his "Fan," and his "Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London"—the former a mythological fiction, in three books, now entirely and deservedly neglected; the second still worthy of perusal on account of its fidelity to truth, in its pictures of the dirty London of 1713—a fidelity reminding you of Crabbe and of Swift; indeed, Gay is said to have been assisted in "Trivia" by the latter, who, we may not uncharitably suppose, supplied the filth of allusion and image which here and there taints the poem. In 1713, our author brought out on the stage a comedy, entitled the "Wife of Bath," which met with no success, and which, when reproduced seventeen years later, after the "Beggars' Opera" had taken the town by storm, fell as flat as before.

Gay had now fairly found his way into the centre of that brilliant circle called the Wits of Queen Anne. That was certainly one of the most varied in intellect and attainment which the world has ever seen. Highest far among them—we refer to the Tory side—darkled the stern brow of the author of "Gulliver's Travels," who had a mind cast by nature in a form of naked force, like a gloomy crag without a particle of beauty or any vegetation, save what will grow on the most horrid rocks, and the condition of whose existence there, seems to be that it deepens the desolation—a mind unredeemed by virtue save in the shape of remorse—unvisited by weakness, until it came transmuted into the tiger of madness—whose very sermons were satires on God and man—whose very prayers had a twang of blasphemy—whose loves were more loathsome than his hatreds, and yet over whose blasted might and most miserable and withered heart men mourn, while they shudder, blend tears with anathemas, and agree that the awful mystery of man itself is deepened by its relation to the mystery of the wickedness, remorse, and wretchedness of Jonathan Swift. Superior to him in outward show and splendour, but inferior in real intellect, and, if possible, in moral calibre, shone, although with lurid brilliance, the "fell genius" of St John or Henry Bolingbroke. In a former paper we said that Edmund Burke reminded us less of a man than of a tutelar Angel; and so we can sometimes think of the "ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke," with his subtle intellect, his showy, sophistical eloquence, his power of intrigue, his consummate falsehood, his vice and his infidelity as a "superior fiend"—a kind of human Belial—

"In act more graceful than humane: A fairer person lost not heaven: he seem'd

For dignity composed and high exploit; But all was false and hollow, though his tongue Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, to perplex and dash Maturest counsels."

These two were the giants of the Tory confederacy of wits. But little inferior to them in brilliance, if vastly less in intellectual size, was Pope, with his epigrammatic style, his compact sense—like stimulating essence contained in small smelling bottles—his pungent personalities, his elegant glitter, and his splendid simulation of moral indignation and moral purpose. Less known, but more esteemed than any of them where he was known, was Dr Arbuthnot—a physician of skill, as some extant medical works prove—a man of science, and author of an "Essay on the Usefulness of Mathematical Learning"—a scholar, as evinced by his examination of Woodward's "Account of the Deluge," his treatise on "Ancient Coins and Medals," and that on the "Altercation or Scolding of the Ancients"—a wit, whose grave irony, keen perception of the ridiculous, and magical power of turning the lead of learning into the most fine gold of humour, exhibited in his "Martinus Scriblerus," his "Epitaph on the notorious Colonel Chartres," and his "History of John Bull," still extract shouts, screams, and tears of mirth from thousands who scarce know the author's name—a politician without malice or self-seeking—and, best of all, a man without guile, and a Christian without cant. He, although a physician, was in effect the chaplain of the corps, and had enough to do in keeping them within due bounds; nay, is said on his deathbed to have called Pope to him, and given him serious advice in reference to the direction of his talents, and the restraint of his muse. Prior, though inferior to these, was no common man; and to learning, wit, and tale-telling power, added skill and energy in the conduct of public affairs. And last, (for Parnell, though beloved by this circle, could hardly be said to belong to it,) there was Gay, whom the others agreed to love and laugh at, who stood in much the same relation to the wits of Anne as Goldsmith did to those of George III., being at once their fool and their fondling; who, like Goldsmith, was

"In wit a man—simplicity a child;"

and who though he could not stab and sneer, and create new worlds more laughable than even this, like Swift, nor declaim and sap faith, like Bolingbroke, nor rhyme and glitter like Pope, nor discourse on medals and write comical "Pilgrims' Progresses" like Arbuthnot, nor pour out floods of learning like Prior in "Alma," could do things which they in their turn never equalled, (even as in Emerson's poem, "The Mountain and the Squirrel," the latter wisely remarks to the former—

"I cannot carry forests on my back, But neither can you crack a nut,")

could give a fabulous excellence to the construction and management of the "Fable;" extract interest from street crossings and scavengers, and let fly into the literary atmosphere an immortal Opera, the "Beggars'," which, though feathered by the moultings of the very basest night-birds, has pursued a career of triumph ever since.

To recur to the life of our poet. Losing his situation under the Duchess of Monmouth, he was patronised by the Earls of Oxford and Bolingbroke, and through them was appointed secretary to the Earl of Clarendon, who was going to Hanover as ambassador to that court. He was at this time so poor that, in order to equip himself with necessaries, such as shoes, stockings, and linen for the journey, he had to receive an advance of L100 from the treasury at Hanover. The Electoral Princess, afterwards Queen Caroline—wife of George II.—took some notice of Gay, and asked for a volume of his "Poems," when, as Arbuthnot remarks, "like a true poet," he was compelled to own that he had no copy in his possession. We suspect few poets, whether true or pretended, in our age would in this point resemble Gay.

Lord Clarendon's embassy lasted precisely fifteen days—Queen Anne having died in the meantime—and the Tory Government being consequently dismissed in disgrace. Poor Gay, who had offended the Whigs by dedicating his "Shepherd's Week" to Bolingbroke, came home in a worse plight than before. He had left England in a state of poverty—he returned to it in a state of proscription—although he perhaps felt comforted by an epistle of welcome from Pope, which did not, it is likely, affect him as it does us with the notion that its tricksy author was laughing in his sleeve.

Arbuthnot, who was a wiser friend, advised Gay to write an "Epistle on the Arrival of the Princess of Wales," which he did, and she and her lord were so far conciliated as to attend a play he now produced, entitled "What d'ye call it?"—a kind of hybrid between a farce and a tragedy—which, by the well-managed equivoque of its purpose, hit the house between wind and water; and not knowing "what" properly to "call it," and whether it should be applauded or damned, they gave the benefit of their doubts to the author. To its success, doubtless too, the presence and praise of the Prince and the Princess contributed. Gay now tried for a while the trade of a courtier—sooth to say, with little success. He was for this at once too sanguine and too simple. Pope said, with his usual civil sneer, in a letter to Swift, "the Doctor (Arbuthnot) goes to cards—Gay to court; the one loses money, the other time." It added to his chagrin, that having, in conjunction with Pope and Arbuthnot, produced, in 1717, a comedy, entitled "Three Months after Marriage," to satirise Dr Woodward, then famous as a fossilist; the piece, being personal and indecent, was not only hissed but hooted off the stage. The chief offence was taken at the introduction of a mummy and a crocodile on the stage. To divert his grief, he, at the suggestion of Lord Burlington, who paid his expenses, rambled into Devonshire, went next with Pultney to Aix, in France, and when afterwards on a visit to Lord Harcourt's seat, witnessed the incident of the two country lovers killed by lightning in each other's arms, to which Pope alludes in one of his letters, and Goldsmith in his "Vicar of Wakefield."

In 1720 he published his "Poems" by subscription. The general kindness felt for Gay, notwithstanding his faults and feebleness, now found a vent. The Prince and Princess of Wales not only subscribed, but gave him a liberal present, and some of the nobility, who regarded him as an agreeable plaything and lapdog of genius, took a number of copies. The result was that he gained a thousand pounds. He asked the advice of his friends how to dispose of this sum, and, as usual, took his own. Lewis, steward to Lord Oxford, advised him to entrust it to the funds, and live on the interest; Arbuthnot, to live upon the principal; Pope and Swift, to buy an annuity. Gay preferred to sink it in the South-Sea Bubble, then in all its glory. At first he imagined himself master of L20,000, and when advised to sell out and purchase as much as his wise friend Elijah Fenton said would "procure him a clean shirt and a shoulder of mutton every day," rejected the counsel, and in fine lost every farthing, and nearly lost next, through vexation, either his life or his reason.

Pope, who occasionally laughed at him, was now very kind, and partly through his assiduous attention, Gay recovered his health, spirits, and the use of his pen. He wrote a tragedy called the "Captives," and was invited to read it before the Princess of Wales. The sight of her and her assembled ladies frightened him, and in advancing he stumbled over a stool and overthrew a heavy japan screen. How he fared afterwards in the reading we are not informed; but as we are told that the Princess started and her ladies screamed, we fear it had been poorly. On this story Hawkesworth has founded an amusing story in the "Adventurer," and it was also, we think, in the eye of the author of the humorous tale, entitled "The Bashful Man." This unlucky play was afterwards acted seven nights, the author's third night being under the special patronage of her Royal Highness.

At the request of the same illustrious lady, he, in 1726, undertook to write a volume of "Fables" for the young Duke of Cumberland, afterwards of Culloden notoriety, and when at last, in 1727, the Prince became George II., and the Princess Queen Caroline, Gay's hopes of promotion boiled as high as his hopes of gain had during the South-Sea scheme. But here, too, he was deceived; and having only received the paltry appointment (as he deemed it, though the salary was L200,) of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa, a girl of two years old, he thought himself insulted. He first sent a message to the Queen that he was too old for the place,—an excuse which he made for himself, but which, being only thirty-nine, he would not have borne any other to make for him. He next condescended to court Mrs Howard, the mistress of George II., and that "good Howard" commemorated in the "Heart of Mid-Lothian;" but this too was in vain, and then he retired from the attempt, growling out probably (if we can imagine him in fable, not as Queen Caroline called him the "Hare," but a Bear) the words, "Put not your faith in princes." He was the more excusable, as, two years before, Sir Robert Walpole had, for his surmised Toryism, turned him out of the office of "Commissioner of the Lottery," which had brought him in L150 a-year.

But now for once Gay catches Fortune on the wheel. There is a lucky hour in almost all lives, provided it be waited for with patience, and with prudence improved. Swift had some years before observed to Gay, what an odd pretty sort of thing a Newgate pastoral would make. On this hint Gay acted, preferring, however, to expand it into a comedy. Hence came the "Beggars' Opera," a hit in literature second to none that ever occurred in that fluctuating region. It was first performed in 1728, although much of it had been written before, and only a few satirical strokes, founded on his disappointment at court, attested their recent origin. Swift and Pope watched its progress with interest, but without hope. Congreve pronounced that it would "either take greatly, or be damned confoundedly." Gibber at Drury Lane refused it; it was accepted by his rival Rich, and soon the on dit ran that it had made Gay Rich, and Rich Gay. On its first night there was a brilliant assemblage. What painter shall give their heads and faces on that anxious evening—Swift's lowering front—Pope's bright eyes contrasting with the blind orbs of Congreve (if he indeed were there)—Addison's quiet, thoughtful physiognomy, as of one retired into some "Vision of Mirza"—the Duke of Argyle, with his star and stately form and animated countenance—and poor Gay himself perhaps, like some other play-wrights in the same predicament, perspiring with trepidation, as if again about to recite the "Captives!" At first uncertainty prevails among the patron-critics, and strange looks are exchanged between Swift and Pope, till, by and by, the latter hears Argyle exclaim, "It will do, it must do! I see it in the eyes of 'em;" and then the critics breathe freely, and the applauses become incontrollable, and the curtain closes at last amidst thunders of applause; and Gay goes home triumphant, amidst a circle of friends, who do not know whether more to wonder at his success or at their own previous apprehensions. For sixty-three nights continuously the piece is acted in London; then it spreads through England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. Ladies sing its favourite songs, or carry them in their fans. Miss Fenton, who acted Polly, becomes a universal favourite, nay, a furor. Her pictures are engraved, her life written, and her sayings and jests published, and in fine, the Italian Opera, which the piece was intended to ridicule, is extinguished for a season. Notwithstanding this unparalleled success of the "Beggars' Opera," Gay gained only L400 by it, although by "Polly," the second part, (where Gay transports his characters to the colonies,) which the Lord Chamberlain suppressed, on account of its supposed immoral tendency, and which the author published in self-defence, he cleared nearly L1200.

Altogether now worth above L3000, having been admitted by the Duke of Queensberry into his house, who generously undertook the care alike of the helpless being's purse and person, and still in the prime of life, Gay might have looked forward, humanly speaking, to long years of comfort, social happiness, and increased fame. Dis aliter visum est. He had been delicate for some time, and on the 4th December 1732, at the age of 44, and in the course of a three days' attack of inflammation of the bowels, this irresolute but amiable and gifted person breathed his last, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. The last work he was occupied on was a second volume of "Fables," which was published after his death. He had become very popular, not merely for his powers, but for his presumed political principles, a "little Sacheverel," as Arbuthnot, his faithful friend and kind physician, calls him, and yet his modesty and simplicity of character remained entire, and he died while planning schemes of self-reformation, economy, and steady literary work. It is curious that Swift, when the letter arrived with the news of Gay's death, was so impressed with a presentiment of some coming evil, that he allowed it to lie five days unopened on his table. And when the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry erected a monument to his memory, Pope supplied an epitaph, familiar to most readers of poetry, and which is creditable to both. Two widow sisters survived Gay, amongst whom the profits of a posthumous opera, entitled "Achilles," as well as the small fortune which he left, were divided.

Gay's works lie in narrow compass, and hardly require minute criticism. His "Beggars' Opera" has the charm of daring singularity of plan, of great liveliness of song, and has some touches of light hurrying sarcasm, worthy of any pen. Burke used to deny its merit, but he was probably trying it b too lofty and ideal a standard. Hazlitt, on the other hand, has praised it overmuch, and perhaps "monstered" some of its "nothings." That it has power is proved by its effects on literature. It did not, we believe, create many robbers, but it created a large robber school in the drama and the novel; for instance, Schiller's "Robbers," Ainsworth's "Rookwood," and "Jack Shepherd," and Bulwer's "Paul Clifford," and "Eugene Aram," not to speak of the innumerable French tales and plays of a similar kind. The intention of these generally is not, perhaps, after all, to make an apology, far less an apotheosis of crime, but to teach us how there is a "soul of goodness" in all things. And has not Shakspeare long taught and been commended for teaching a similar lesson, although we cannot say of Gay and his brethren that they have "bettered the instruction?" Of "Trivia," we have spoken incidentally before; of "Rural Sports," and the "Shepherd's Week," it is unnecessary to say more than that the first is juvenile, and the second odd, graphic, and amusing. None of them is equal to the "Fables," and therefore we have decided on omitting them from our edition. In the "Fables," Gay is happy in proportion to the innocence and simplicity of his nature. He understands animals, because he has more than an ordinary share of the animal in his own constitution. AEsop, so far as we know, though an astute, was an uneducated and simple-minded man. Phaedrus was a myth, and we cannot, therefore, adduce him in point. But Fontaine was called the "Fable-tree," and Gay is just the Fable-tree transplanted from France to England. In so doing we do not question our poet's originality, but merely indicate a certain resemblance in spirit between two originals. An original in Fable-writing Gay certainly was. He has copied, neither in story, spirit, nor moral, any previous writer. His "Fables" are always graceful in literary execution, often interesting in story; their versification is ever smooth and flowing; and sometimes, as in the "Court of Death," their moral darkens into sublimity. On the whole, these "Fables," along with the "Beggars' Opera," and the delectable songs of "'Twas when the Seas were Roaring," and "Black-eyed Susan," shall long preserve the memory of their author. We have appended these two songs because of their rare excellence.