The loves thou never can'st enjoy, resign;
Nor rashly lose another life with thine.
Then will we, eager as our joys, remove
To Dian's shrine, the patroness of love!
High o'er ber head in triumph shall be plac'd
The golden fruit, with this inscription grac'd;
"Ye hapless lovers, hence, for ever know
Acontius gain'd the nymph who caus'd his woe!"
Here cease my hand-I tremble, lest each line
Should wound a soul so griev'd, so touch'd as thine.
No more my thoughts th' ungrateful tqil pursue;
Pleasure farewell, and thou, my dear, adieu!

PART OF PINDAR'S FIRST PYTHIAN
ODE PARAPHRASED.

Χρυσέα φόρμιτς Απολλω

ARGUMENT.

This ode is address'd to Hieron king of Sicily, as
is also the first of the Olympics. Pindar takes
occasion to begin with an encomium on music,
finely describing its effects upon the passions.
We must suppose this art to be one of his hero's
more distinguishable excellencies; as it ap-
pears from several passages in the ode above.
From thence he expatiates in the praise of
poetry; and inveighs very severely upon those
who either contemn, or have no taste for that
divine science. Their misfortunes and punish-
ments are instanc'd by those of Typhoeus:
whom the poets imagine to be imprisoned by
Jupiter under mount Etna. The digres-
sions in this ode are the most inartificial and
surprising of any in the whole author. We
are once more in the hero's native country;
every thing opens agreeably to the eye, and
the poem proceeds after Pindar's usual man-

ner.

STROPHE 1,

GENTLE lyre, begin the strain;
Wake the string to voice again.
Music rules the world above;
Music is the food of love.
Soft'ned by the pow'r of sound,
Human passions melt away:
Melancholy feels no wound,

Envy sleeps, and fears decay.

Entranc'd in pleasure Jove's dread eagle lies,
Nor grasps the bolt, nor darts his fiery eyes.
ANTISTROPHE (.

See, Mars awak'd by loud alarms
Rolls o'er the field his sanguine eyes,
His heart tumultuous beats to arms,
And terrours glare, and furies rise!
Hark the pleasing lutes complain,
In a softly-breathing strain;
Love and slumber seal his eye
By the gentle charms opprest:
From his rage he steals a sigh,
Sinking on Dione's breast.
EPODE I.

Verse,gentle Verse from Heav'n descending came,
Cust by the wicked, hateful to the vain:
Tyrants and slaves profane his sacred name,
Deaf to the tender lay, or vocal strain....

In fires of Hell Typhæus glows,
Imprison'd by the wrath of Jove;
No ease his restless fury knows,
Nor sounds of joy, nor pleasing love.
Where, glitt'ring faintly on the eye,
Sicilian Etna props the sky

With mountains of eternal snow;
He darts his fiery eyes in vain,
And heaves, and roars, and bites his chain
In impotence of woe.

STROPHE II.

Angry flames like scarlet glowing.
Fiery torrents ever flowing,
Smoke along the with'ring plain
Ere they rush into the main.
When the sable veil of night
Stretches o'er the shaded sky,
Fires of sulphur gleam with light,
Burning rocks disparted fly.
Sudden, by turns the flashing flames arise,
Four down the winds, or tremble up the skies.
ANTISTROPHE II.

In fair Sicilia's rich domain,

Where flow'rs and fruits eternal blow,
Where Plenty spreads her peaceful reign,
And seas surround, and fountains flow,
Bright Religion lifts her eye,
Wand'ring through the kindred-sky.
Hail thou, everlasting Jove,
Parent of th' Aonian quire;
Touch my raptur'd soul with love,
Warm me with celestial fire!

EPODE II.

The pious mariner when first he sweeps
The foaming billows, and exalts his sails,
Propitiates ev'ry pow'r that rules the deeps,
Led by new hopes, and borne by gentle gales.
So ere the Muse, disus'd to sing,
Emblazons her fair hero's praise:
(What time she wakes the trembling string,
Attemper'd to the vocal lays)
Prostrate in humble guise she bends,
While some celestial pow'r descends

To guide her airy flights along:
God of the silver bow, give ear;
(Whom Tenedos, and Chrysa fear)
Observant of the song!

STROPHE III.

Gentle wishes, chaste desires,
Holy Hymen's purer fires :
Lives of innocence and pleasure,
Moral virtue's mystic treasure;
Wisdom, eloquence, and love,
All are blessings from above.
Hence regret, distaste, dispraise,
Guilty nights, uneasy days:
Repining jealousies, calm friendly wrongs,
And fiercer envy, and the strife of tongues.

ANTISTROPHE III.

When Virtue bleeds beneath the laws,
Or ardent nations rise in arms,
Thy mercies judge the doubtful cause,
Thy courage ev'ry breast alarms.
Kindling with heroic fire
Once again I sweep the lyre.

Fair as summer's evening skies,
Enls thy life serene, and glorious;
Happy hero, great and wise,
O'er thy foes, and self victorious.

THE EPISODE OF ORPHEUS AND
EURYDICE,

TRANSLATED FROM THE FOURTH GEORGIC OF
VIRGIL.

At chorus æqualis Dryadum—

HER Sudden death the mountain-Dryads mourn'd
And Rhodope's high brow the dirge return'd:
Bleak Orythya trembled at their woe,
And silver Hebrus inurmur'd in his flow.
While to his mournful harp, unseen, alone,
Despairing Orpheus warbled out his moan.
With rosy dawn his plaintive lays begun,
His plaintive voice sung down the setting Sun.
Now in the frantic bitterness of woe
Silent he treads the dreary realms below,
His loss in tender numbers to deplore,

And touch'd the souls who ne'er were touch'd
before.

Mov'd with the pleasing harmony of song,

The shadowy spectres round the poet throng:
Num'rous as birds that o'er the forest play,
(When evening Phoebus rolls the light away:
Or when high Jove in wintry seasons pours
A sudden deluge from descending show'rs.)
The mother's ghost, the father's rev'rend shade,
The blooming hero, and th' uumarry'd maid:
The new-born beir who soon lamented dies,
And feeds the flames before his parent's eyes;
All whom Cocytus' sable water bounds,

And Styx with thrice three wand'ring streams
surrounds.

See, the dread regions tremble and admire!
Ev'n Pain unmov'd stands heark'ning to the lyre.
Intent, Ixion stares, nor seems to feel
The rapid motions of the whirling wheel.
Th' unfolding snakes around the furies play,
As the pale sisters listen to the lay.

Nor was the poet's moving suit deny'd,
Again to realms above he bears his bride,
When (stern decree!) he turns his longing eyes...
'Tis done, she's lost, for ever ever flies-
Too small the fault, too lasting was the pain,
Could love but judge, or Hell relent again!
Amaz'd he stands, and by the glimpse of day
Just sees th' unbody'd shadow flit away.
When thus she cry'd-"Ah, too unthoughtful
Thus for one look to violate thy vows!
Fate bears me back, again to Hell I fly,
Eternal darkness swims before my eye!
Again the melancholy plains I see, [thee!"
Ravish'd from life, from pleasure, and from
She said, and sinking into endless night,
Like exhalations vanish'd from the sight.
In vain he sprung to seize her, wept, or pray'd,
Swift glides away the visionary shade.

[spouse,

How wilt thou now, unhappy Orpheus, tell Thy second loss, and melt the pow'rs of Hell? Cold are those lips that blest thy soul before, And her fair eyes must roll on thine no more. Sev'n tedious moons despairing, wild he stood, And told his woes to Strymon's freezing flood.

Beneath his feet eternal snows were spread,
And airy rocks hang nodding o'er his head,
The savage beasts in circles round him play,
And rapid streams stand list'ning to the lay.

So when the shepherd swain with curious eyes
Marks the fair nest, and makes the young his
Sad Philomel, in poplar shades alone, [prize:
In vain renews her lamentable moan.
From night to morn she chants her tender love,
And mournful music dies along the grove.

No thoughts of pleasure now his soul employ,
Averse to Venus and the nuptial joy:
Wild as the winds o'er Thracia's plains he roves,
O'er the bleak mountains, and the leafless groves.
When stung with rage the Bacchanalian train
Rush'd to the bard, and stretch'd him on the

plain;

(Nor sounds, nor pray'rs their giddy fury move,
And he must cease to live, or learn to love)
See, from his shoulders in a moment flies
His bleeding head, and now, ah now he dies!
Yet as he dy'd, Eurydice he mourn'd,
Eurydice, the trembling banks return'd;
Eurydice, with hollow voice he cry'd,
Eurydice, ran murm'ring down the tide.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY

HERTFORD,

UPON THE BIRTH OF LORD BEAUCHAMP.

ONCE more inspir'd, I touch the trembling
string;

What Muse for Hertford will refuse to sing?
Thine are the fav'rite strains, and may they be
Sacred to praise, to beauty, and to thee!

Sudden, methinks, in vision I survey
The glorious triumphs of th' expected day:
Fair lovely sights in opening scenes appear,
And airy music trembles on my ear;
Surrounding eyes devour the beauteous boy,
And ev'ry bosom beats with sounds of joy.

Rise from thy slumbers, gentle infant, rise!
Lift thy fair head, unfold thy radiant eyes,
Whose lovely light must other counts adorn,
And wound the hearts of beauties yet unborn,
Subdue the sex, that triumphs in its pride,
And humble those, who charm the world beside.
Descend, ye gentle Nine! descend, and spread
Laurels and bays around his infant-head.
Bid noble passions in his bosom roll,
And beams of fancy dawn upon his soul;
In soften'd music bid his accents flow,
Piercing, and gentle as descending snow:
Bid him be all that can his birth commend;
The daring patriot, and unshaken friend;
Admir'd, yet humble, modest, though severe,
Abroad obliging, and at home sincere;
Good, just, and affable in each degree:
Such is the father, such the son shall be!
These humble strains, indulgent Hertford,

spare;

Forgive the Muse, O fairest of the fair!
First in thy shades (where silver Kennet glides,
Fair Marlbro's turrets trembling in his tides:
Where Peace and Plenty hold their gentle reign,
And lavish Nature decks the fruitful plain:
Where the fam❜d mountain lifts its walks on high,
As varying prospects open on the eye)

HUSH'D in suspence the gath'ring waters stood,
When thus began the parent of the flood;
What time emerging from the wave, she prest
Her verdant tresses dropping on her breast.

"Of all the nymphs Achaia boasts," (she said)
"Was Arethusa once the fairest maid.
None lov'd so well, to spread in early dawn
The trembling meshes o'er the dewy lawn:

Tho' dress and beauty scarce deserv'd my care,
Yet ev'ry tongue confess'd me to be fair.

The charms which others strive for, I resign,

"It chane'd one morn, returning from the QUUM dormiret Amor, rapuit clam pulchra

"Naked and swift I flew, (my clothes behind) As fast beside a murm'ring stream, Fear strung my nerves, and shame enrag'd my

1

'Tis hard to say, what mysteries of fate,
What turns of fortune on-good writers wait.
The party-slave will wound 'em as he can,
And damns the merit, if he hates the man.
Nay, ev'n the bards with wit and laurels crown'd,
Bless'd in each strain, in ev'ry art renown'd,
Misled by pride, and taught to sin by pow'r,
Still search around for those they may devour;
Like savage monarchs on a guilty throne,
Who crush all might that can invade their own.
Others who hate, yet want the soul to dare,
So ruin bards-as beaus deceive the fair:
On the pleas'd ear their soft deceits employ;
Smiling they wound, and praise but to destroy.
These are th' unhappy crimes of modern days,
And can the best of poets hope for praise?

How small a part of human blessings share
The wise, the good, the noble, or the fair!
Short is the date unhappy wit can boast,
A blaze of glory in a moment lost,
Fortune, still envious of the great man's praise,
Curses the coxcomb with a length of days.
So (Hector dead) amid the female quire,
Unmanly Paris tun'd the silver lyre,

Attend ye Britons! in so just a cause
'Tis sure a scandal, to withhold applause ;
Nor let posterity reviling say,
Thus unregarded Fenton pass'd away!
Yet if the Muse may faith or merit claim,
(A Muse too just to bribe with venal fame)
Soon shalt thou shine "in majesty avow'd;
As thy own goddess breaking thro' a cloud."1
Fame, like a nation-debt, tho' long delay'd,
With mighty int'rest must at last be paid.

Like Vinci's strokes, thy verses we behold;
Correctly graceful, and with labour bold.
At Sappho's woes we breathe a tender sigh,
And the soft sorrow steals from ev'ry eye.
Here Spenser's thoughts in solemn numbers roll,
Here lofty Milton seems to lift the soul.
There sprightly Chaucer charms our hours away
With stories quaint, and gentle roundelay.

Muse at that name each thought of pride
recall,

Ah, think how soon the wise and glorious fall!
What though the sisters ev'ry grace impart,
To smooth thy verse, and captivate the heart:
What though your charms, my fair Cleora! shine
Eright as your eyes, and as your sex divine:
Yer shall the verses, and the charms decay,
The boast of youth, the blessing of a day!
Not Chaucer's beauties could survive the rage
Of wasting envy, and devouring age:
One mingled heap of ruin now we see:
Thus Chaucer is, and Fenton thus shall be !

TO MR. POPE.

To move the springs of nature as we please,
To think with spirit, but to write with ease:
With living words to warm the conscious heart,
Or please the soul with nicer charms of art,
For this the Grecian soar'd in epic strains,
And softer Maro left the Mantuan plains:
Melodious Spenser felt the lover's fire,
And awful Milton strung his Heav'nly lyre.

4 Epistle to Southerne.

'Tis yours, like these, with curious toil to trace
The pow'rs of language, harmony, and grace,
How nature's self with living lustre shines;
How judgment strengthens, and how art refines;
How to grow bold with conscious sense of fame,
And force a pleasure which we dare not blame:
To charm us more thro' negligence than pains,
And give ev'n life and action to the strains:
Led by some law, whose pow'rful impulse guides
Each happy stroke, and in the soul presides :
Some fairer image of perfection, giv'n
T'inspire mankind, itself deriv'd from Heav'n.

O ever worthy, ever crown'd with praise;
Blest in thy life, and blest in all thy lays!
Add that the sisters ev'ry thought refine:
Or ev❜n thy life be faultless as thy line;
Yet envy still with fiercer rage pursues,
Obscures the virtue, and defames the Muse.
A soul like thine, in pains, in grief resign'd,
Views with vain scorn the malice of mankind:
Not critics, but their planets prove unjust :
And are they blam'd who sin because they must?
Yet sure not so must all peruse thy lays;

I cannot rival-and yet dare to praise.
A thousand charms at once my thoughts engage,
Sappho's soft sweetness, Pindar's warmer rage,
Statius' free vigour, Virgil's studious care,
And Homer's force, and Ovid's easier air.

So seems some picture, where exact design,
And curious pains, and strength and sweetness
join:
[tows,
Where the free thought its pleasing grace bes-
And each warm stroke with living colour glows:
Soft without weakness, without labour fair;
Wrought up at once with happiness and care!

How blest the man that from the world removes
To joys that Mordaunt, or his Pope approves ;
Whose taste exact each author can explore,
And live the present and past ages o'er:
Who free from pride, from penitence, or strife,
Move calmly forward to the verge of life ·
Such be my days, and such my fortunes be,
To live by reason, and to write by thee!

Nor deem this verse, tho' humble, thy disgrace,
All are not born the glory of their race:
Yet all are born t' adore the great man's name,
And trace his footsteps in the paths to fame.
The Muse, who now this early homage pays,
First learn'd from thee to animate her lays:
A Muse as yet unhonour'd, but unstain'd,
Who prais'd no vices, no preferment gain'd;
Unbiass'd or to censure or commend,
Who knows no envy, and who grieves no friend;
Perhaps too fond to make those virtues known,
And fix her fame immortal on thy own.