FROM THE LATIN OF STATIUS.
WHEN by a thousand darts the Python slain
With orbs unroll'd lay covering all the plain
(Transfix'd as o'er Castalia's streams he hung,
And suck'd new poisons with his triple tongue),
To Argos' realms the victor-god resorts,
And enters old Crotopos' humble courts.
This rural prince one only daughter bless'd,
That all the charms of blooming youth possess'd;
Fair was her face, and spotless was her mind,
Where filial love with virgin sweetness join'd:
Happy! and happy still she might have proved,
Were she less beautiful or less beloved!
But Phoebus loved, and on the flowery side
Of Nemea's stream the yielding fair enjoy'd.
Now, ere ten moons their orb with light adorn,
The' illustrious offspring of the god was born;
The nymph, her father's anger to evade,
Retires from Argos to the silvan shade;
To woods and wilds the pleasing burden bears,
And trusts her infant to a shepherd's cares.
How mean a fate, unhappy child, is thine!
Ah! how unworthy those of race divine!
On flowery herbs in some green covert laid,
His bed the ground, his canopy the shade;
He mixes with the bleating lambs his cries,
While the rude swain his rural music tries
To call soft slumbers on his infant eyes.
Yet e'en in those obscure abodes to live
Was more, alas! than cruel Fate would give;
For on the grassy verdure as he lay,
And breathed the freshness of the early day,
Devouring dogs the helpless infant tore,
Fed on his trembling limbs, and lapp'd the gore.
The' astonish'd mother, when the rumour came,
Forgets her father, and neglects her fame;
With loud complaints she fills the yielding air,
And beats her breast, and rends her flowing hair;
Then wild with anguish to her sire she flies,
Demands the sentence, and contented dies.
But touch'd with sorrow for the deed too late,
The raging god prepares to' avenge her fate.
He sends a monster, horrible and fell,
Begot by furies in the depths of hell.
The pest a virgin's face and bosom bears;
High on her crown a rising snake appears,
Guards her black front, and hisses in her hairs:
About the realm she walks her dreadful round,
When night with sable wings o'erspreads the
ground,
Devours young babes before their parents' eyes,
And feeds and thrives on public miseries.
But generous rage the bold Choroebus warms, Choroebus! famed for virtue as for arms; Some few, like him, inspired with martial flame, Thought a short life well lost for endless fame. These, where two ways in equal parts divide, The direful monster from afar descried, Two bleeding babes depending at her side; Whose panting vitals, warm with life, she draws, And in their hearts imbrues her cruel claws. The youths surround her with extended spears; But brave Choroebus in the front appears;
Deep in her breast he plunged his shining sword, And hell's dire monster back to hell restored. The Inachians view the slain with vast surprise, Her twisting volumes, and her rolling eyes,
Her spotted breast and gaping womb imbrued
With livid poison and our children's blood.
The crowd in stupid wonder fix'd appear,
Pale e'en in joy, nor yet forget to fear.
Some with vast beams the squalid corse engage,
And weary all the wild efforts of rage.
The birds obscene, that nightly flock'd to taste,
With hollow screeches fled the dire repast;
And ravenous dogs, allured by scented blood,
And starving wolves ran howling to the wood.
But fired with rage, from cleft Parnassus' brow
Avenging Phoebus bent his deadly bow,
And hissing flew the feather'd shafts below:
A night of sultry clouds involved around
The towers, the fields, and the devoted ground :
And now a thousand lives together fled,
Death with his scithe cut off the fatal thread,
And a whole province in his triumph led.
But Phoebus ask'd why noxious fires appear, And raging Sirius blasts the sickly year? Demands their lives by whom his monster fell, And dooms a dreadful sacrifice to hell.
Bless'd be thy dust, and let eternal fame
Attend thy manes and preserve thy name,
Undaunted hero! who, divinely brave,
In such a cause disdain'd thy life to save,
But view'd the shrine with a superior look,
And its upbraided godhead thus bespoke-
'With piety, the soul's securest guard,
And conscious virtue, still its own reward,
Willing I come, unknowing how to fear,
Nor shalt thou, Phoebus, find a suppliant here:
Thy monster's death to me was owed alone,
And 'tis a deed too glorious to disown.
Behold him here, for whom, so many days,
Impervious clouds conceal'd thy sullen rays;
For whom, as man no longer claim'd thy care,
Such numbers fell by pestilential air!
But if the' abandon'd race of humankind
From gods above no more compassion find;
If such inclemency in heaven can dwell,
Yet why must unoffending Argos feel
The vengeance due to this unlucky steel?
On me, on me let all thy fury fall,
Nor err from me, since I deserve it all,
Unless our desert cities please thy sight,
Or funeral flames reflect a grateful light.
Discharge thy shafts, this ready bosom rend,
And to the shades a ghost triumphant send;
But for my country let my fate atone;
Be mine the vengeance, as the crime my own,'
Merit distress'd impartial Heaven relieves,
Unwelcome life relenting Phoebus gives;
For not the vengeful power, that glow'd with rage,
With such amazing virtue dared engage.
The clouds dispersed, Apollo's wrath expired,
And from the wondering god the' unwilling youth
retired.
FROM THE LATIN OF STATIUS,
How have I wrong'd thee, Sleep, thou gentlest
Of heaven! that I alone, at this dread hour,
Still from thy soft embraces am repress'd,
Nor drink oblivion on thy balmy breast?
Now every flock and every field is thine,
And seeming slumbers bend the mountain pine.
Hush'd is the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar,
And the smooth wave lies pillow'd on the shore.
But seven sad moons have seen this faded cheek,
And eyes too plainly that their vigils speak:
Aurora hears my plaint at her return,
And sheds her pitying dewdrops as I mourn.
And now some happy, some enraptured boy,
In the full pride of his permitted joy,
Clasping the fair, all blushes, to his breast,
Calls thee not, Sleep, nor courts thy worthless rest.
Come then to me-yet shed not here thy whole
Ambrosial influence o'er the wretched soul,
To that let happier easier hearts presume-
Touch me, more lightly, with thy passing plume!
REV. F. HODGSON*.
This poem has also been translated by Mr. Elton. The following are the concluding lines of his translation
Ah me! yet now, beneath night's lengthening shade,
Some youth's twined arms enfold the twining maid;
Willing he wakes, while midnight hours roll on,
And scorns thee, Sleep! and waves thee to be gone.
Come, then, from them! Oh, leave their bed for mine;
I bid thee not with all thy plumes incline
On my bow'd lids; this kindest boon beseems
The happy crowd that share thy softest dreams :
Let thy wand's tip but touch my closing eye,
Or, lightly hovering, skim, and pass me by.
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