cant. In the mean time, it seems to me, that the true reafon, why we have fo few versions which are tolerable, is not from the too close pursuing of the author's fenfe; but because there are fo few, who have all the talents which are requifite for tranflation, and that there is fo little praife, and fo fmall encouragement, for fo confiderable a part of learning.

CANACE

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 nurfe, to be fecretly conveyed away. The infant crying out, by that means was discovered to Eolus, who, inraged at the wickedness of his children, commanded the babe to be exposed to wild beafts on the mountains: and withal, fent a fword to Canace, with this message, That her crimes would inftru&t her how to use it. With this fword she 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 ftain,

IF

Imagine, ére 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 present, 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.
Jove justly plac'd him on a stormy throne,
His people's temper is fo 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 fword?
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 I thee with more than fifter's love?
For I lov'd too; and, knowing not my wound,
A fecret pleasure in thy kifles found:
My cheeks no longer did their colour boast,
My food grew loathfome, and my ftrength I loft:
Still ere I fpoke, a sigh would stop my tongue;
Short were my flumbers, and my nights were long,
I knew not from my love thefe griefs did grow,
Yet was, alas, the thing I did not know.
My wily nurfe by long experience found,
And first discover'd to my foul its wound.
'Tis love, faid fhe; and then my down-caft eyes,
And guilty dumbnefs, witnefs'd my furprize.
Forc'd at the last, my shameful 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 opprest,
What herbs, what plants, did not my nurse produce,
To make abortion by their powerful juice?
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 empress 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 reftrain'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'st, and in thy countenance fate despair;
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) preferve thy life;
Live, my dear fifter, 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 sworn,
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 passage 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 unquestion'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 nurse he flies,
And deafs his ftormy fubjects with his cries.
With one fierce puff he blows the leaves away:
Expos'd the self-discover'd infant lay.
The noise reach'd me, and my presaging mind
Too foon its own approaching woes divin'd.
Not fhips at fea with winds are shaken more,
Nor feas themselves, when angry tempefts 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.
Į only answer'd him with filent tears;

They flow'd: my tongue was frozen up with fears.