Driven by my people from my fathers' throne,
I gave my heir an exile's lot alone.
To my wrong'd country many deaths I owed;
And well for thee my guilty blood had flow'd:
Yet still I breathe with men, and drink the day-
But will not long.' Thus speaking, whence he lay
He rose upon his halting thigh with pain;
Check'd by the potent wound, but check'd in vain ;
And, with a soul that pain and death defied,
Call'd for his horse, his solace and his pride
(His valued steed, who still had borne his weight
When conquest crown'd him on the field of fate);
And, as the favourite stoop'd his sorrowing crest,
His ear, that seem'd intelligent, address'd:
Rhoebus! we long have lived, if long there be In the poor term of mortal destiny;
Either, this day the Dardan's head and spoils,
In reeking triumph borne, shall grace thy toils;
And thou, the avenger of my hapless boy,
Shalt share with me the glory and the joy;
Or, if our daring shall our power exceed,
With honour and with me at once shalt bleed.
For well, my noble horse! I know thy soul
Too high to bear a Phrygian lord's control.'
He spoke; and, rising to his seat, bestrode
The horse, familiar with his wonted load:
Then fill'd both hands with darts; whilst o'er
his brows,
Crown'd with its floating crest, the helmet glows.
Thus arm'd, he rushes to the bleeding fight:
And shame, grief, rage his madden'd heart excite.
Thrice with his utmost voice he calls the foe:
Eneas hears, and lifts his ardent vow:
'So may great Jove, so Phoebus grant thou stand
The challenged conflict, hand opposed to hand!'
No more he said; but, with his threatening lance, Sprang to prevent the challenger's advance. Then he; Why seek, most savage as thou art! When thou hast slain my child, to daunt my heart? Thy force could reach me only through my son : His death alone Mezentius has undone. Death is a phantasy beneath my care; And not a god has heard my coward prayer. Cease then! I come to die, nor ask to live: But first accept the presents that I give.'
Then, with his steed careering widely round, With spear succeeding spear he strove to wound. Thrice circled he, and thrice Æneas wheel'd; And, watchful as the foe begirt the field, Bore the thick battle on his golden shield: Till, wearied from its fretted orb to wrest Dart after dart, in fight unequal press'd; Long pondering how to act, at length he broke In vengeance forth, and aim'd the fatal stroke. The furious spear, with well directed force, Tore through the temples of the warrior horse. High rears the steed and, frantic with the pain, Lashes, and hurls his rider on the plain; Then, headlong following, on his lord he lies. From either host loud clamours mount the skies: While the glad victor, with an eager spring, Bares his dread falchion o'er the prostrate king; And proudly cries; Say! where Mezentius now? The raging spirit and the lofty brow?'
To him the Tuscan, as on heaven, amazed, With eyes just opening from his trance he gazed;
"Why thus, fell foe! with insult sharpen death? Take without guilt, for so thou mayst, my breath! 'Twas not on other terms than these we fought: Nor other league with thee my Lausus sought.
But, if such grace a vanquish'd foe may find,
Ah! let my body be to earth resign'd.
Too well I know, and dread, alas! too late,
The infuriate vengeance of my people's hate.
From this protect me, and avert its doom;
And let me slumber in my Lausus' tomb.'
Then to the expected steel he gave his throat: And the warm streams of life o'er all his armour float. SYMMONS.
FROM THE LATIN OF HORACE.
ODE XXXVIII. BOOK I.
I HATE the pomp that Persia shows,
And garlands of the linden made;
Seek not for me the curious rose,
With bloom in Winter's lap display'd.
Boy, let the myrtle be thy care,
And simply deck thy brows and mine;
The myrtle only will I wear,
Drinking beneath the shady vine.
REV. F. HODGSON.
ODE VII. BOOK III.
WHY fall those tears on fair Asterie's breast?
Spring's earliest zephyrs shall restore,
With faith, that cannot change, with fortune bless'd,
Thy lover to his native shore.
A distant port withholds him from thy sight,
Whilst adverse tempests rend the deep:
And his lone pleasure through the wakeful night
Is but to think of thee, and weep.
In vain fair Chloe spreads her festive snare,
And bids her prompted friend in vain,
With words of artful sympathy declare
The sighing progress of her pain.
In vain she tells, his constant heart to prove,
How from the dame cold Peleus fled,
And found a fit reward of slighted love,
The verge of hell for beauty's bed:
How Argos' amorous queen, with cruel thought,
To heal a woman's wounded pride,
Her credulous lord to her dire humour wrought,
And the chaste fool had nearly died.
In vain her treacherous eloquence assails
With soft insinuating aim;
Deaf as a rock to her allusive tales,
His ears, his heart reject her claim.
But thou, whilst thus his manly faith disarms
The artillery of the wanton fair,
Beware thy gallant neighbour's graceful charms,
Ah, lest he charm too much beware!
What though he winds at will the fiery steed,
The martial plain's superior pride;
What though his arms victoriously precede
Each youth who swims the Tuscan tide;
Still from thy threshold, at approach of eve,
Let thy barr'd gate his steps deny ;
And though his lyre melodiously may grieve
With airs of tenderest minstrelsy,
Trust not the open'd casement with thine ear, But let the baffled gallant find,
That whilst he artful swears thou art severe, He may not hope to prove thee kind!
WHAT years from Inachus divide,
Codrus, who for his country died,
You tell, and acus's line,
And the sad tale of Troy divine :'
But what the price of Chian; who
Heats for his friend the bagnio;
When I, and at whose genial board,
Shall shut out winter-not a word!
Quick, boy! a bumper to the moon,
Again-one more to night's mid noon,
One to Murena. Three or nine,
As measures, best the cup combine.
Nine, rapt transported poets claim,
Who madden with the Muses' flame:
Link'd with her naked sisters she,
The modest Grace permits but three,
Anxious from feuds her train to save-
O'tis delicious thus to rave!
Why does yon pipe its tones forget?
Why mute the lyre, the flageolet?
Pshaw! what frugality of flowers!
More roses! This wild din of ours,
Old splenetic! let Lycus hear,
And-pair'd not match'd—his wedded dear.
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