CANACE TO MACARE US,

EPIST. XI.

THE ARGUMENT.

Macareus and Canace, fon and daughter to Æolus, God of the Winds, loved each other incestuously: Canace was delivered of a fon, and committed him to her nurse, to be fecretly conveyed away. The infant crying out, by that means was discovered to Æolus, who, inraged at the wickedness of his children, commanded the babe to be expofed to wild beafts on the mountains: and withal, fent a fword to Canace, with this message, That her crimes would inftruct her how to use it. With this fword fhe flew herself: but before he died, she writ the following letter to her brother Macareus, who had taken fanctuary in the temple of Apollo.

F ftreaming blood my fatal letter stain,

IF

Imagine, ere you read, the writer flain ;

One hand the fword, and one the pen employs,
And in my lap the ready paper lies.

Think in this posture thou behold'st me write :
In this my cruel father would delight.

O! were he prefent, that his eyes and hands
Might fee, and urge, the death which he commands:

VOL. IV.

N

Than

Than all the raging winds more dreadful, he,
Unmov'd, without a tear, my wounds would fee.
Joye juftiy plac'd him on a ftormy throne,
His people's temper is so like his own.

The North and South, and each contending blast,
Are underneath his wide dominion caft:
Those he can rule: but his tempeftuous mind;
Is, like his airy kingdom, unconfin'd.

Ah! what avail my kindred Gods above,
That in their number I can reckon Jove?
What help will all my heavenly friends afford,
When to my breaft I lift the pointed sword ?
That hour, which join'd us, came before its time:
In death we had been one without a crime.
Why did thy flames beyond a brother's move?
Why lov'd thee with more than fifter's love?
For I lov'd too; and, knowing not my wound,
A fecret pleasure in thy kifiès found:
My cheeks no longer did their colour boaft,
My food grew loathiome, and my strength I loft:
Still ere I fpoke, a figh would stop my tongue;
Short were my flumbers, and my nights were long.
I knew not from my love thefe grief's did grow,
Yet was, alas, the thing I did not know.
My wily nurse by long experience found,
And first discover'd to my foul its wound.
'Tis love, faid the ; and then my down-caft eyes,
And guilty dumbnefs, witness'd my furprize.
Forc'd at the laft, my fhameful pain I tell :
And, oh, what follow'd we both know too well!

2

" When,

"When, half denying, more than half content, "Embraces warm'd me to a full confent.

"Then with tumultuous joys my heart did beat,
"And guilt that made them anxious made them great."
But now my fwelling womb heav'd up my breast,
And rifing weight my finking limbs oppreft.

What herbs, what plants, did not my nurse produce,
To make abortion by their powerful juicę?
What medicines try'd we not, to thee unknown ?
Our first crime common; this was mine alone.
But the ftrong child, fecure in his dark cell,
With nature's vigour did our arts repel.
And now the pale-fac'd emprefs of the night
Nine times had fill'd her orb with borrow'd light:
Not knowing 'twas my labour, I complain
Of fudden fhootings, and of grinding pain :
My throes came thicker, and my cries increas'd,
Which with her hand the confcious nurfe fupprefs'd.
To that unhappy fortune was I come,

Pain urg'd my clamours, but fear kept me dumb.
With inward struggling I restrain'd my cries,
And drunk the tears that trickled from my eyes.
Death was in fight, Lucina gave no aid;
And ev❜n my dying had my guilt betray'd.
Thou cam'ft, and in thy countenance fate defpair;
Rent were thy garments all, and torn thy hair :
Yet, feigning comfort, which thou couldst not give,
(Preft in thy arms, and whispering me to live) :
For both our fakes, (faidft thou) preserve thy life;
Live, my dear sister, and my dearer wife.

Rais'd by that name, with my last pangs I ftrove:
Such power have words, when spoke by those we love.
The babe, as if he heard what thou hadft fworn,
With hafty joy fprung forward to be born.
What helps it to have weather'd out one storm?
Fear of our father does another form.

High in his hall, rock'd in a chair of state,
The king with his tempeftuous council fate.
Through this large room our only paffage lay,
By which we could the new-born babe convey.
Swath'd in her lap, the bold nurse bore him out,
With olive-branches cover'd round about;
And, muttering prayers, as holy rites fhe meant,
Through the divided croud unqueftion'd went.
Juft at the door, th' unhappy infant cry'd :
The grandfire heard him, and the theft he spy'd.
Swift as a whirlwind to the nurfe he flies,
And deafs his ftormy fubjects with his cries.
With one fierce puff he blows the leaves away :
Expos'd the felf-discover'd infant lay.

The noise reach'd me, and my prefaging mind
Too foon its own approaching woes divin'd.
Not fhips at fea with winds are fhaken more,
Nor feas themselves, when angry tempests roar,
Than I, when my loud father's voice I hear:
The bed beneath me trembled with my fear.
He rush'd upon me, and divulg'd my stain ;
Scarce from my murder could his hands refrain.
I only anfwer'd him with filent tears;
They flow'd; my tongue was frozen up with fears.

His little grand-child he commands away,
To mountain wolves and every bird of prey.
The babe cry'd out, as if he understood,

And begg'd his pardon with what voice he could.
By what expreffions can my grief be shown?
(Yet you may guess my anguish by your own :)
To fee my bowels, and, what yet was worse,
Your bowels too, condemn'd to fuch a curfe!
Out went the king; my voice its freedom found,
My breafts I beat, my blubber'd cheeks I wound.
And now appear'd the meffenger of death;

Sad were his looks, and scarce he drew his breath,
To fay, "Your father fends you"-(with that word
His trembling hands prefented me a sword) :

"Your father fends you this; and lets you know,
"That your own crimes the use of it will fhow."
Too well I know the fenfe those words impart :
His prefent fhall be treasur'd in my heart.
Are these the nuptial gifts a bride receives ?
And this the fatal dower a father gives?
Thou God of Marriage, fhun thy own difgrace,
And take thy torch from this detefted place :
Instead of that, let furies light their brands,
And fire my pile with their infernal hands.
With happier fortune may my fifters wed;
Warn'd by the dire example of the dead.
For thee, poor babe, what crime could they pretend !
How could thy infant innocence offend?

A guilt there was; but, oh, that guilt was mine!
Thou fuffer'ft for a fin that was not thine.