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PART OF THE STORY

O F

ORPHEU S.

BEING A TRANSLATION OUT OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF VIRGIL'S GEORGIC.

"TIS

IS not for nothing when juft heaven does frown ; The injur'd Orpheus calls thefe judgments down; Whofe fpoufe, avoiding to become thy prey, And all his joys at once were fuatch'd away; The nymph, fore-doom'd that fatal way to pass, Spy'd not the ferpent lurking in the grafs : A mournful cry the fpacious valley fills, With echoing groans from all the neighbouring hills; The Dryades roar out in deep defpair,

And with united voice bewail the fair.

For fuch a lofs he fought no vain relief,
But with his lute indulg'd the tender grief;
Along the fhore he oft' would wildly stray,
With doleful notes begin and end the day.
At length to hell a frightful journey made,
Pafs'd the wide-gaping gulph and dismal shade;
Visits the ghosts, and to that king repairs
Whofe heart's inflexible to human prayers.
All hell is ravish'd with so sweet a fong;
Light fouls and airy fpirits glide along

In

In troops, like millions of the feather'd kind,
Driven home by night, or fome tempeftuous wind:
Matrons and men, raw youths and unripe maids;
And mighty heroes' more majeftic fhades;
And fons entomb'd before their parents face;
These the black waves of bounding Styx embrace
Nine times circumfluent; clogg'd with noifome weeds,
And all that filth which standing water breeds.
Amazement reach'd ev'n the deep caves of death;
The filters with blue fnaky curls took breath;
Ixion's wheel awhile unmov'd remain'd,

And the fierce dog his three-mouth'd voice reftrain'd.
When fafe return'd, and all thefe dangers paft,
His wife, reftor'd to breathe fresh air at last,
Following (for fo Proferpina was pleas'd)
A fudden rage th' unwary lover seiz'd,

He, as the firft bright glimpse of day-light shin'd,
Could not refrain to caft one look behind;
A fault of love! could hell compaffion find.
A dreadful found thrice fhook the Stygian coaft,
His hopes quite fled, and all his labour loft!
Why hast thou thus undone thyself and me ?
What rage is this? oh, I am fnatch'd from thee!
(She faintly cry'd) Night and the powers of hell
Surround my fight; oh, Orpheus! oh, farewell!
My hands ftretch forth to reach thee as before;
But all in vain, for I am thine no more ;

No more allow'd to view thy face, or day!---
Then from his eyes, like smoke, fhe fleets away.

F 2

}

Much

Much he would fain have spoke : but fate, alas!
Would ne'er again consent to let him pass.

Thus twice undone, what courfe remain'd to take,
To gain her back, already pass'd the lake ?
What tears, what patience, could procure him ease?
Or, ah! what vows the angry powers appease?
'Tis faid, he feven long moons bewail'd his lofs
To bleak and barren rocks, on whose cold mofs,
While languishing he fung his fatal flame,
He mov'd ev'n trees, and made fierce tigers taine.
So the fad nightingale, when childless made
By fome rough fwain who ftole her young away,
Bewails her lofs beneath a poplar fhade,

Mourns all the night, in murmurs waftes the day;
Her melting fongs a doleful pleasure yield,
And melancholy mufic fills the field.

Marriage nor love could ever move his mind;
But all alone, beat by the northern wind,
Shivering on Tanais' banks the bard remain'd,
And of the god's unfruitful gift complain'd.
Circonian dames, enrag'd to be defpis'd,
As they the feast of Bacchus folemniz'd,
Slew the poor youth, and ftrew'd about his limbs;
His head, torn off from the fair-body, fwims
Down that fwift current where the Heber flows,
And ftill its tongue in doleful accents goes.
Ah, poor Eurydice! he dying cry'd;
Eurydice refounds from every fide.

AN

A N

ESSAY ON POETRY*.

0

F all thofe arts in which the wife excel,
Nature's chief mafter-piece is writing well:

No writing lifts exalted man fo high,
As facred and foul-moving poefy:

No kind of work requires fo nice a touch,
And, if well finish'd, nothing shines so much.
But heaven forbid we should be so profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes,
Dazzling our minds, fets off the slightest rhymes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done :
True wit is everlasting, like the fun,

Which, though fometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd,'

Number and rhyme, and that harmonious found,

Which not the niceft ear with harshness wound,
Are neceffary, yet but vulgar arts;

And all in vain thefe fuperficial parts

Contribute to the ftructure of the whole,
Without a genius too; for that's the foul:

*The "Effay on Satire," which was written by this noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed among the Poems of the latter.

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A fpirit which infpires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flame that glows amidft conceptions fit;
Ev'n fomething of divine, and more than wit;
Itfelf unfeen, yet all things by it shown,
Defcribing all men, but defcrib'd by none.
Where doft thou dwell? what caverns of the brain
Can fuch a vaft and mighty thing contain?

When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy abfence mourn,
Oh! where doft thou retire ? and why doft thou return,
Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away,
From pleasures of the night, and business of the day?
Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain

To check thy course, and use the needful rein,
As all is dulnefs, when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad :
And judgment has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or fenfe,
But on the world, on manners, and on men;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen ;
Reafon is that fubftantial ufeful part,

Which gains the head, while t' other wins the heart.
Here I fhall all the various forts of verfe,

And the whole art of poetry rehearse;

But who that task would after Horace do?
The best of masters, and examples too!
Echoes at beft, all we can fay is vain;
Dull the defign, and fruitlefs were the pain.
'Tis true, the ancients we may rob with eafe;
But who with that mean fhift himself can please,

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