The Works of the English Poets

OVID'S METAMORPHOSE S.

BOOK

XV.

THE

STORY OF CIPPUS.

OR as when Cippus in the current view'd

The fhooting horn that on his forehead flood,
His temples firft he feels, and with furprize
His touch confirms th' affurance of his eyes;
Straight to the skies his horned front he rears,
And to the Gods directs these pious prayers:

If this portent be profperous, O decree
To Rome th' event; if otherwife, to me.
An altar then of turf he haftes to raise,
Rich gums in fragrant exhalations blaze;
The panting entrails crackle as they fry,
And boding fumes pronounce a mystery.
Soon as the augur faw the holy fire,
And victims with prefaging figns expire,
To Cippus then he turns his eyes with speed,
And views the horny honours of his head:
Then cry'd, Hail, conqueror! thy call obey,
Those omens I behold prefage thy fway.

Rome waits thy nod, unwilling to be free,
And owns thy fovereign power as Fate's decree.
He faid-and Cippus, ftarting at th' event,
Spoke in these words his pious discontent:
Far hence, ye Gods, this execration fend,
And the great race of Romulus defend.
Better that I in exile live abhorr'd,

Than e'er the capitol should stile me lord.

This spoke, he hides with leaves his omen'd head;
Then prays, the fenate next convenes, and faid:
If augurs can forefee, a wretch is come,
Defign'd by destiny the bane of Rome.

Two horns (moft ftrange to tell) his temples crown;
If e'er he pass the walls, and gain the town,
Your laws are forfeit that ill-fated hour,
And liberty muft yield to lawless power.

Your gates he might have enter'd; but this arm
Seiz'd the ufurper, and with-held the harm.
Hafte, find the monfter out, and let him be
Condemn'd to all the fenate can decree;
Or ty'd in chains, or into exile thrown;
Or by the tyrant's death prevent your own.
The crowd fuch murmurs utter as they stand,
As fwelling furges breaking on the strand:
Or as when gathering gales fweep o'er the grove,
And their tall heads the bending cedars move.
Each with confufion gaz'd, and then began
To feel his fellow's brows, and find the man.
Cippus then shakes his garland off, and cries,
The wretch you want, I offer to your eyes.

The anxious throng look'd down, and, fad in thought,
All wish'd they had not found the fign they fought:
In hafte with laurel-wreaths his head they bind;
Such honour to fuch virtue was affign'd.
Then thus the fenate: Hear, O Cippus, hear;
So God-like is thy tutelary care,

That, fince in Rome thyfelf forbids thy ftay,
For thy abode those acres we convey

The plough-share can surround, the labour of a day.
In deathless records thou fhalt ftand inroll'd,

And Rome's rich posts shall shine with horns of gold.