His eyes and hands the vanquish'd hero rear'd,
And to the chief his moving pray'r preferr❜d :
"Prince, I deserve, nor deprecate, my death:
Then, use thy fortune; take my forfeit breath!
Yet, if a parent's woes thy soul incline,
Think what thy father was; then pity mine!
Think at thy feet the hoary monarch thrown,
Grov'ling, and pleading for an only son!
Then save the son! in him the father save!
Nor bow his age, with sorrow, to the grave!
Or, oh! at least, this mercy I implore,
My breathless relics to my friends restore.
Thine is the conquest, lo! the Latian bands
Behold their gen'ral stretch his suppliant hands!
Restrain thy farther vengeance; 1 resign

My former claim; the royal fair is thine."

Awhile, the hero, touch'd with gen'rous woe,

Repress'd his hand, and gaz'd upon the foe.

His melting words to mercy now inclin'd,
Still more and more, the victor's noble mind;
When, lo! by chance, the golden belt he spy'd,
The belt of Pallas, glitt'ring at his side;
Which from the dying youth the warrior tore,
And the refulgent prize in triumph wore.
His eyes, fierce-flaming, o'er the trophy roll,
That wakes the slumbʼring vengeance in his soul.
Then with loud accents, and a dreadful look,
Stern and terrific, to the prince he spoke : [tend?
"Thou! wretch accurs'd! canst thou to grace pre-
Clad in the spoils of my dear murder'd friend?
Go then, a victim to his spirit, go;
'Tis Pallas, Pallas, gives the fatal blow.
Thus is his ghost aton'd."-The hero said;
And bury'd in his breast the furious blade.
With a deep groan the dying warrior fell,
And the majestic soul disdainful plung'd to Hell

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

PHILIP,

EARL STANHOPE, VISCOUNT MAHON, AND BARON

ELVASTON,

[*this translation is dedicated, by his lordship's humble servant and chaplain,

GIVE

BOOK I.

CHRISTOPHER PITT.

me, ye sacred Muses, to impart
The hidden secrets of your tuneful art;
Give me your awful mysteries to sing,
Unlock, and open wide, your sacred spring;
While from his infancy the bard I lead,
And set him on your mountain's lofty head;
Direct his course, and point him out the road
To sing in epic strains an hero or a god.
What youth, whose generous bosom pants for
praise,

Will dare with me to beat those arduous ways?
O'er high Parnassus' painful steeps to go,
And leave the groveling multitude below:
Where the glad Muses sing, and form the choir,
While bright Apollo strikes the silver lyre,
Approach thou first, great Francis, nor refuse
To pay due honours to the sacred Muse;
While Gallia waits for thy auspicious reign,
Till age completes the monarch in the man;
Meantime the Muse may bring some small relief,
To charm thy anguish, and suspend thy grief;
While guilty fortune's stern decrees detain
Thee and thy brother in the realms of Spain;
Far, far transported from your native place,
Your country's, father's, and your friend's embrace!
Such are the terms the cruel fates impose
On your great father, struggling with his woes,
Such are their hard conditions:-they require
The sons to purchase, and redeem, the sire.

But yet, brave youth, from grief, from tears, abstain,
Fate
may relent, and Heaven grow mild again;
At last, perhaps, the glorious day may come,
The day that brings our royal exile home;

When, to thy native realms in peace restor❜d,
The ravish'd crowds shall hail their passing lord;
When each transported city shall rejoice,
And nations bless thee with a public voice;
To the throng'd fanes the matrons shall repair;
Absolve their vows, and breathe their souls in prayer.
Till then, let every Muse engage thy love,
With me at large o'er high Parnassus rove,
Range every bower, and sport in every grove.

First then observe, that verse is ne'er confin'd
To one fixt measure, or determin'd kind ;
Though at its birth it sung the gods alone,
And then religion claim'd it for her own;
In sacred strains address'd the deity,
And spoke a language worthy of the sky;
New themes succeeding bards began to choose,
And in a wider field engag'd the Muse;
The common bulk of subjects to rehearse
In all the rich varieties of verse.
Yet none of all with equal honours shine
(But those which celebrate the Power Divine)
To those exalted measures, which declare
The deeds of heroes, and the sons of war.
From hence posterity the name bestow'd
On this rich present of the Delphic god;
Fame says, Phæmonoe in this measure gave
Apollo's answers from the Pythian cave. [choose,
But ere you write, consult your strength, and
A theme proportion'd justly to your Muse.
For though in chief these precepts are bestow'd
On him who sings an hero or a god;
To other themes their general use extends,
And serves in different views to different ends.
Whether the lofty Muse, with tragic rage,
Would proudly stalk in buskins on the stage;
Or in soft elegies our pity move,

And show the youth in all the flames of love;
Or sing the shepherd's woes in humble strains,
And the low humours of contending swains:
These faithful rules shall guide the bard along
In every measure, argument, and song.

Be sure (whatever you propose to write)
Let the chief motive be your own delight,
And well-weigh'd choice ;-a task enjoin'd refuse,
Unless a monarch should command your Muse.

Her awful secrets the bold poet sings,
And sets to view the principles of things;
Each part was fair, and beautiful the whole,
And every line was nectar to the soul.
By such degrees the verse, as ages roll'd,
Was stampt to form, and took the beauteous
Ausonia's bards drew off from every part
The barbarous dregs, and civilis'd the art.
Till, like the day, all shining and serene,
That drives the clouds, and clears the gloomy
scene,

[mould.

Refines the air, and brightens up the skies, See the majestic head of Virgil rise; Phœbus' undoubted son !—who clears the rust Of the rough ancients, and shakes off their dust. He on each line a nobler grace bestow'd; He thought, and spoke in every word a god. To grace this mighty bard, ye Muses, bring Your choicest flowers, and rifle all the spring; See! how the Grecian bards, at distance thrown, With reverence bow to this distinguish'd son; Immortal sounds his golden lines impart, 1 And nought can match his genius but his art. Ev'n Greece turns pale, and treinbles at his fame, Which shades the lustre of her Homer's name. 'Twas then Ausonia saw her language rise In all its strength and glory to the skies; Such glory never could she boast before, Nor could succeeding poets make it more. From that blest period the poetic state

$

Ran down the precipice of time and fate,
Degenerate souls succeed, a wretched train,
And her old fame at once drew back again.
One, to his genius trusts, in every part,
And scorns the rules and discipline of art.
While this, an empty tide of sound affords,
And roars and thunders in a storm of words.
Some, musically dull, all methods try

To win the ear with sweet stupidity;
Unruffled strains for solid wit dispense,

And give us numbers, when we call for sense.
Till from th' Hesperian plains and Tyber chas'd,
From Rome the banish'd sisters fled at last;
Driven by the barbarous nations, who from far
Burst into Latium with a tide of war.

Hence a vast change of their old manners sprung, The slaves were forc'd to speak their master's

tongue;

No honours now were paid the sacred Muse,
But all were bent on mercenary views ;
Till Latium saw with joy th' Aonian train
By the great Medici restor'd again;
Th' illustrious Medici, of Tuscan race,
Were born to cherish learning in disgrace,
New life on every science to bestow,
And lull the cries of Europe in her woe.
With pity they beheld those turns of fate,
And propp'd the ruins of the Grecian state;
For lest her wit should perish with her fame,
Their care supported still the Argive name;
They call'd th' aspiring youths from distant parts,
To plant Ausonia with the Grecian arts;
To bask in ease, and science to diffuse,
And to restore the empire of the Muse;
They sent to ravag'd provinces with care,
And cities wasted by the rage of war,

To buy the ancients' works, of deathless fame,
And snatch th' immortal labours from the flame;
To which the foes had doom'd each glorious piece,
Who reign and lord it in the realms of Greece.

(But we, ye gods, would rajse a foreign lord,
As yet untaught to sheath the civil sword!)
Through many a period this has been the fate,
And this the list of the poetic state.

Hence sacred Virgil from thy soul adore
Above the rest, and to thy utmost power
Pursue the glorious paths he struck before.
If he supplies not all your wants, peruse
Th' immortal strains of each Augustan Muse.
There stop-nor rashly seek to kuow the rest,
But drive the dire ambition from thy breast,
Till riper years and judgment form thy thoughts
To mark their beauties, and avoid their faults.
Meantime, ye parents, with attention hear,
And, thus advis'd, exert your utmost care;
The blameless tutor from a thousand choose,
One from his soul devoted to the Muse;
Who, pleas'd the tender pupil to improve,
Regards, and loves him, with a father's love.
Youth, of itself to numerous ills betray'd,
Requires a prop, and wants a foreign aid;
Unless a master's rules his mind incline
To love and cultivate the sacred Nine,
His thoughts a thousand objects will employ,
And from Parnassus lead the wandering boy.
So trusts the swain the saplings to the earth;
So hopes in time to see the sprouting birth;
Against the winds defensive props he forms,
To shield the future forest from the storms,
That each embolden'd plant at length may rise
In verdant pride, and shoot into the skies.

But let the guide, if e'er he would improve
His charge, avoid his hate, and win his love;
Lest in his rage wrong measures he may take,
And loath the Muses for the teacher's sake.
His soul then slacken'd from her native force,
Flags at the barrier, and forgets the course.
Nor by your anger be the youth o'er-aw'd,
But scorn th' ungenerous province of the rod;
Th' offended Muses never can sustain
To hear the shriekings of the tender train,
But, stung with grief and anguish, hang behind;
Damp'd is the sprightly vigour of the mind.
The boy no daring images inspire,

No bright ideas set his thoughts on fire:
He drags on heavily th' ungrateful load,
Grown obstinately dull, and season'd to the rod.
I know a pedant, who to penance brought
His trembling pupils for the lightest fault;
His soul transported with a storm of ire,
And all the rage that malice could inspire:
By turns the torturing scourges we might hear,
By turns the shrieks of wretches stunn'd the ear.
Still to my mind the dire ideas rise,
When rage unusual sparkled in his eyes;
When with the dreadful scourge insulting loud,
The tyrant terrify'd the blooming crowd-

A boy the fairest of the frighted train,
Who yet scarce gave the promise of a man,
Ah! dismal object idly pass'd the day
!
In all the thoughtless innocence of play;
When lo! th' imperious wretch, inflam'd with.

rage,

Fierce, and regardless of his tender age,
With fury storms; the fault his clamours urge:
His hand high-waving brandishes the scourge,
Tears, vows, and prayers, the tyrant's ears assail
In vain ;--nor tears, nor vows, nor prayers, prevail.
The trembling innocent from deep despair
Sicken'd, and breath'd his little soul in air.

For him, beneath his poplar, mourns the Po;
For him the tears of hoary Serius flow!
For him their tears the watery sisters shed,
Who lov'd him living, and deplor'd him dead!
The furious pedant, to restrain his rage,
Should mark th' example of a former age,
How fierce Alcides, warm'd with youthful ire,
Dash'd on his master's front his vocal lyre.
But yet, ye youths, confess your masters' sway,
And their commands implicitly obey.

Whoever then this arduous task pursues,
To form the bard, and cultivate the Muse,
Let him by softer means, and milder ways,
Warm his ambition with the love of praise;
Soon as his precepts shall engage his heart,
And fan the rising fire in every part,
Light is the task;-for then the eager boy
Pursues the voluntary toil with joy;
Disdains th' inglorious indolence of rest,
And feeds th' immortal ardour in his breast.

And here the common practice of the schools,
By known experience, justifies my rules,
The youths in social studies to engage;
For then the rivals burn with generous rage,
Each soul the stings of emulation raise,
And every little bosom beats for praise.
But gifts propos'd will urge them best to rise;
Fir'd at the glorious prospect of a prize,
With noble jealousy, the blooming bard
Reads, labours, glows, and strains for the reward;
Fears lest his happy rival win the race,
And raise a triumph on his own disgrace.

But when once season'd to the rage divine,
He loves and courts the raptures of the Nine;
The sense of glory, and the love of fame,
Serve but as second motives to the flame;
The thrilling pleasure all the bard subdnes,
Lock'd in the strict embraces of the Muse.
See! when harsh parents force the youth to quit,
For meaner arts, the dear delights of wit,
If e'er the wonted warmth his thoughts inspire,
And with past pleasures set his mind on fire;
How from his soul he longs, but longs in vain,
To haunt the groves and purling streams again;
No stern commands of parents can control,
No force can check the sallies of his soul.
So burns the courser season'd to the rein,
That spies his females on a distant plain,
And longs to act his pleasures o'er again.
Fir'd with remembrance of his joys, he bounds,
He foams and strives to reach the well-known
grounds;

The goring spurs his furious flames improve,
And rouse within him all the rage of love;
Ply'd with the scourge he still neglects his haste,
And moves reluctant, when he moves at last,
Reverts his eye, regrets the distant mare;
And neighs impatient for the dappled fair.

How oft the youth would long to change his
fate,

Who, high advanc'd to all the pomp of state,
With grief his gawdy load of grandeur views.
Lost at too high a distance from the Muse!
How oft he sighs by warbling streams to rove,
And quit the palace for the shady grove;
How oft in Tybur's cold retreats to lye,
And gladly stoop to cheerful poverty,
Beneath the rigour of the wint❜ry sky!
But yet how many curse their fruitless toil,
Who turn and cultivate a barren soil ?

This, ere too late, the master may divine
By a sure omen, and a certain sign;
The hopeful youth, determin'd by his choics,
Works without precept, and prevents advice,
Consults his teacher, plies his task with joy,
And a quick sense of glory fires the boy.
He challenges the crowd;-the conquest o'er,
He struts away the victor of an hour.
Then vanquish'd in his turn; o'erwhelm'd with
care,

He weeps, he pines, he sickens with despair;
Nor looks his little rivals in the face,
But flies for shelter to some lonely place,
To mourn his shame, and cover his disgrace.
His master's frowns impatient to sustain,
Straight he returns, and wins the day again.
This is the boy his better fates design
To rise the future darling of the Nine,
For him the Muses weave the sacred crown,
And bright Apollo claims him for his own.
Not the least hope th' unactive youth can raise,
Dead to the prospect, and the sense of praise;
Who your just rules with dull attention hears,
Nor lends his understanding, but his ears,
Resolv'd his parts in indolence to keep,
He lulls his drowsy faculties asleep;
The wretch your best endeavours will betray,
And the superfluous care is thrown away.

I fear for him, who ripens ere his prime;
For all productions there's a proper time.
Oh! may no apples in the spring appear,
Out-grow the seasons, and prevent the year,
Nor mellow yet, till autumn stains the vine,
And the full presses foam with floods of wine.
Torn from the parent tree too soon, they lie
Trod down by every swain who passes by.

Nor should the youth too strictly be confin'd,
'Tis sometimes proper to unbend his mind;
When tir'd with study, let him seek the plains
And mark the homely humours of the swains;
Or pleas'd the toils to spread, or horns to wind,
Hunt the fleet mountain-goat, or forest-bind.
Meantime the youth, impatient that the day
Should pass in pleasures unimprov'd away,
Steals from the shouting crowd, and quits the plains,
To sing the sylvan gods in rural strains;
Or calls the Muses to Albunea's shades,
Courts, and enjoys, the visionary maids.
So labour'd fields, with crops alternate blest,
By turns lie fallow, and indulge their rest;
The swain contented bids the hungry soil
Enjoy a sweet vicissitude from toil;
Till earth renews her genial powers to bear,
And pays his prudence with a bounteous year.

On a strict view your solid judgment frame,
Nor think that genius is in all the same;
How oft the youth, who wants the sacred fire,
Fondly mistakes for genius his desire?
Courts the coy Muses, though rejected still,
Nor Nature seconds his misguided will:
He strives, he toils with unavailing care;

Nor Heaven relents, nor Phoebus hears his prayer
He with success, perhaps, may plead a cause,
Shine at the bar, and flourish by the laws;
Perhaps discover Nature's secret springs,
And bring to light th' originals of things.
But sometimes precept will such force impart,
That Nature bends beneath the power ofart.

Besides, 'tis no light province to remove
From the rash boy the fiery pangs of love ;