his character to be fo; and if I retrench it, he is 1 no longer Ovid. It will be replied, that he receives advantage by this lopping of his fuperfluous branches; but I rejoin, that a tranflator has no fuch right. When a painter copies from the life, I fuppofe he has no privilege to alter features and lineaments, under pretence that his picture will look better; perhaps the face which he has drawn would be more exact, if the eyes or nofe were altered; but it is his business to make it refemble the original. In two cafes only there may a feeming difficulty arife; that is, if the thought be notorioufly trivial or difhoneft: but the fame anfwer will ferve for both, that then they ought not to be tranflated: Et quæ
Defperes tractata nitefcere poffe, relinquas."
poet, but his particular turn of thoughts and expreffion, which are the characters that diftinguifh, and as it were individuate, him from all other writers. When we are come thus far, it is time to look into ourfelves, to conform our genius to his, to give his thought either the fame turn, if our tongue will bear it, or, if not, to vary but the drefs, not to alter or deftroy the fubftance. The like care must be taken of the more outward ornaments, the words. When they appear (which is but feldom) literally graceful, it were an injury to the author, that they fhould be changed: but ince every language is fo full of its own proprieties, that what is beautiful in one, is often barbarous, nay fometimes nonfenfe, in another, it would be unreasonable to limit a tranflator to the narrow compafs of his author's words. It is enough, if he choose out fome expreffion which does not vitiate the fenfe. I fuppofe he may Thus I have ventured to give my opinion on ftretch his chain to fuch a latitude; but, by inno- this fubject, against the authority of two great vation of thoughts, methinks, he breaks it. Ey men; but I hope without offence to either of this means, the fpirit of an auther may be tranf- their memories; for I both loved them living, fofed, and yet not loft: and thus it is plain, that and reverence them now they are dead. But if, the reafon alleged by Sir John Denham has no after what I have urged, it be thought by better farther force than to expreffion; for thought, if it judges, that the praife of a translation confists in be tranflated truly, cannot be loft in another lan- adding new beautics to the piece, thereby to reguage; but the words that convey it to our ap- compenfe the lofs which it fuftains by change of rehenfion (which are the image and ornanient of language, I fhall be willing to be taught better, that thought) may be fo ill chofen, as to make it and to recant. In the mean time, it feems to me, appear in an unhandfome drefs, and rob it of its that the true reafon, why we have fo few versions native luftre. There is, therefore, a liberty to which are tolerable, is not from the too clofe purbe allowed for the expreffion: neither is it necef- fuing of the author's fenfe; but because there are fary that words and lines fhould be confined to fo few who have all the talents which are requithe measure of their original. The fenfe of an fite for tranflation, and that there is fo little author, generally speaking, to be facred and in- praife, and fo fmall encouragement, for fo conf violable. If the fancy of Ovid be luxuriant, it is derable a part of learning.
Macareus and Canace, fon and daughter to Aolus, God of the Winds, loved cach other incestuoufly. Canace was delivered of a son, and committed him to her nurse, to be fecretly conveyed away. The infant, crying out, by that means was discovered to Bolus; who, enraged at the wickednefs of his children, commanded the babe to be expofed to wild beasts on the mountains; and withal, fent a fword to Canace, with this meffage, That her crimes would instruct her how to use it. With this fword the flew herself: but before she died, fhe writ the following letter to her brother Macareus, who had taken fanctuary in the temple of Apollo.
Ir ftreaming blood my fatal letter stain,
Imagine, ere 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 pofture thou behold'st me write :
In this my cruel father would delight.
O! were he prefent, that his eyes and hands
Might fee and urge the death which he come
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 kiffes found:
My cheeks no longer did their colour boast;
My food grew loathfome, and my strength I loft:
Still, ere I fpoke, a figh would ftop my tongue;
Shert were my lumbers, and my nights were
long.
I knew not from my love these griefs did grow;
Yet was, alas, the thing I did not know.
My wily nurse by long experience found,
And first discover'd to my foul its wound.
blaft,'Tis love, faid fhe; and then my down-caft eyes,
And guilty dumbnefs, witness'd my furprife.
Forc'd at the laft, my fhameful pain I tell :
And, oh, what follow'd we both know too well!
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
Than all the raging winds more dreadful, he,
Uamov'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
Are underneath his wide dominion caft:
Thofe he can rule: but his tempestuous 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 sword?
That hour which join'd us
came before its
To death we had been one without a crime.
What herbs, what plants, did not my nurse pro- | I only answer'd him with filent tears:
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 emprefs of the night
Nine times had fil''d her orb with borrow'd light:
Not knowing 'twas my labour, I complain
Of Ludden fhootings, and of grinding pain :
My throes came thicker, and my cries increas'd,
Which with her hand the conscious nurfe fup-
prefs'd.
To that unhappy fortune was I come :
Pain urg'd my clamours, but fear kept me dumb.
With inward struggling I reftrain' 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'ft, 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) preserve thy life;
Live, my dear fifter, and my dearer wife.
Rais'd by that name, with my laft pangs I frove;
Such power have words, when spoke by thofe we
love.
The babe, as if he heard what thou hadft fworn,
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 paffage 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 crowd unqueftion'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 nurfe he flics,
And deafs his ftormy fubjects with his cries.
With one fierce puff he blows the leaves away:
Expos'd the felf-discover'd infant lay.
The noife reach'd me; and my prefaging 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 ftain:
Scarce from my murder could his hands refrain.
They flow'd: my tongue was frozen up with fears.
His little grand-child he commands away,
To mountain wolves and every bird of prey.
The babe try'd out, as if he understood;
And begg'd his pardon with what voice he
could.
| By what expressions can my grief be shown?
(Yet you may guefs my anguish by your own :)
To fee my bowels, and, what yet was worse.
Your bowels too, condemn'd to fuch a curfe!
Out went the king: my voice its freedom
found,
My breasts I beat, my blubber'd cheeks I wound.
And now appear'd the meffenger of death;
Sad were his looks, and scarce he drew his breath,
To fay, "Your father fends you"-(with that
word,
His trembling hands prefented me a fword):
"Your father fends you this; and lets you know,
"That your own crimes the use of it will show."
Too well I know the sense those words impart.
His prefent fhall be treasur'd in my heart.
Are these the nuptial gifts a bride receives?
And this the fatal dower a father gives?
Thou God of Marriage, fhun thy own difgrace,
And take thy torch from this detefted place:
Instead of that, let furies light their brands,
And fire my pile with their infernal hands.
With happier fortune may my fifters wed,
Warn'd by the dire example of the dead.
For thee, poor babe, what crime could they pre-
tend?
How could thy infant innocence offend?
A guilt there was; but, oh, that guilt was mine!
Thou fuffer'ft for a fin that was not thine.
Thy mother's grief and crime! but just enjoy'd,
Shewn to my fight, and born to be destroy'd!
Unhappy offspring of my teeming womb!
Dragg'd headlong from thy cradle to thy tomb!
Thy unoffending life I could not fave;
Nor weeping could I follow to thy grave;
Nor on thy tomb could offer my fhorn hair;
Nor fhew the griei which tender mothers bear.
Yet long thou shalt not from my arms be loft;
For foon I will o'ertake thy infant ghost.
But thou, my love, and now my love's despair,
Perform his funerals with paternal care,
His fcatter'd limbs with my dead body burn,
And once more join us in the pious urn.
If on my wounded breast thou dropp'st a tear,
Think for whofe fake my breast that wound did
And faithfully my last defires fulfil, As I perform my cruel father's will.
Helen, having received an epistle from Paris, returns the following anfwer: wherein the feems at first to chide him for his presumption in writing as he had done, which could only proceed from his low opinion of her virtue; then owns herself to be sensible of the passion, which he had expreffed for her, though the much fufpected his conftancy; and at last discovers her inclination to be favourable to him: the whole letter fhewing the extreme artifice of womankind.
WHEN loofe epifles violate chafte eyes,
She half confents, who filently denies.
How dares a flranger, with defigns fo vain,
Marriage and hofpitable rights prophane?
Was it for this, your fleet did fhelter find
From fwelling feas, and every faithlefs wind?
(For though a diftant country brought you forth,
Your ufage here was equal to your worth).
Does this deferve to be rewarded fo?
Did you come here a ftranger or a foe?
Your partial judgment may perhaps complain,
And think me barbarous for my juft difdain.
Il-bred then let me be, but not unchafte,
Not my clear fame with any spot defac'd.
Though in my face there's no affected frown,
Nor in my carriage a feign'd niceness shown,
I keep my honour fill without a stain,
Nor has my love made any coxcomb vain.
Your boldness I with admiration fee.
What hope had you to gain a queen like me?
Because a hero forc'd me once away,
Am I thought fit to be a fec nd prey?
Had I been won, I had deferv'd your blame;
Fut fure my part was nothing but the shame.
Yet the bafe theft to him no fruit did bear:
I 'cap'd unhurt by any thing but fear.
Rude force might fome unwilling kiffes gain;
But that was all he ever could obtain.
You on fuch terms would ne'er have let me go:
Were he like you, we had not parted fo.
Untouch'd the youth reator'd me to my friends;
And modeft nlage made me fome amends.
VOL. VI.
'Tis virtue to repent a vicious deed.
Did he repent, that Paris might fucceed?
Sure 'tis fome fate that lets me above wrongs,
Yet ftill expofes me to buty tongues.
I'll not complain; for who's difpleas'd with love,
If it fincere, difcreet, and conftant prove?
But that I fear; not that I think you base,
Or doubt the blooming beauties of my face:
But all your fex is fubject to deceive;
And ours, alas, too willing to believe.
Yet others yield; and love o'ercomes the beft:
But why should I not fhine above the rest?
Fair Leda's ftory feems at first to be
A fit example ready form'd for me.
But fhe was cozen'd by a borrow'd fhape,
And under harmless feathers felt a rape.
If I fhould yield, what reafon could I ufe?
By what mistake the loving crime excufe?
Her fault was in her powerful lover loft;
But of what Jupiter have I to boast ?
Though you to heroes and to kings fucceed,
Our famous race does no addition need;
And great alliances but ufelefs prove
To one that comes herf. If from mighty Jove.
Go then, and boaft in fome lefs haughty place
Your Phrygian blood, and Priam's ancient race;
Which I would fhew I valued, if I durft:
You are the fifth from Jove, but I the first.
The crown of Troy is powerful, I confess;
But I have reafon to think ours no lefs.
Your letter, fill'd with promifes of all
That men can good, or women pleasant, call,
Z
Gives expectation fuch an ample field,
As would move Goddeffes themfelves to yield.
But if I e'er offend great Juno's laws,
Yourself fhall be the dear, the only caufe:
Either my honour I'll to death maintain,
Or follow you, without mean thoughts of gain.
Not that fo fair a prefent I defpife:
We like the gift, when we the giver prize.
But 'tis your love moves me, which made you take
Such pains, and ran fuch hazards for my fake.
I have perceiv'd (though I diffembled too)
A thousand things that love has made you do.
Your cager eyes would almost dazzle mine;
In which (wild man) your wanton thoughts would
fhine.
Sometimes you'd figh, fometimes diforder'd ftand,
And with unufual ardor prefs my hand;
Contrive just after me to take the glass,
Nor would you let the leaft occafion pass;
When oft I fear'd I did not mind alone,
And blushing fate for things which you have done;
Then murmur'd to myself, He'll for my fake
Do any thing; I hope 'twas no mistake.
Oft I have read within this pleasing grove,
Under my name, thofe charming words, I love.
1, frowning, feem'd not to believe your flame;
But now, alas, am come to write the fame.
If I were capable to do amifs,
I could not but be fenfible of this:
![[ocr errors]](https://books.google.se/books/content?id=697eoP7sGLwC&hl=sv&output=html_text&pg=PA354&img=1&zoom=3&q=father&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U2dEHR4Kd-gt-9CPWNWcYm2VzyyXA&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=503,696,8,6)
For oh! your face has fuch peculiar charms,
That who can hold from flying to your arms!
But what I ne'er can have without offence,
May fome bleft maid poffefs with innocence.
Pleasure may tempt, but virtue more fhould
O learn of me to want the thing you love.
What you defire is fought by all mankind:
As you have eyes, fo others are not blind.
Like you they fee, like you my charms adore;
They with not lefs, but you dare venture more.
Oh! had you then upon our coafts been brought,
My virgin-love when thousand rivals fought,
You had I feen, you fhould have had my voice;
Nor could my husband justly blame my choice:
For both our hopes, alas! you come too late;
Another now is mafter of my fate.
More to my wish I could have liv'd with you,
And yet my prefent lot can undergo.
Ceafe to folicit a weak woman's will,
And urge not her you love to fo much ill;
But let me live contented as I may,
And make not my unfpotted fame your prey.
Some right you claim, fince, naked to your
Three Goddeffes difputed beauty's prize :
One offer'd valour; t'other crowns; but fhe
Obtain'd her caufe, who fmiling promis'd me.
But first I am not of belief fo light,
To think fuch nymphs would fhew you fuch a fight:
Yet granting this, the other part is feign'd;
A bribe so mean your sentence had not gain’d.
With partial eyes I fhould myself regard,
To think that Venus made me her reward:
I humbly am content with human praise;
A Goddess's applaufe would envy raife.
But be it as you fay; for, 'tis confeft,
The men who flatter higheft, please us best:
That I fufpect it, ought not to displease;
For miracles are not believ'd with cafe.
One joy I have, that I had Venus' voice;
A greater yet, that you confirm'd her choice;
That proffer'd laurels, promis'd fovereignty,
Juno and Pallas, you contemn'd for me.
Am I your empire then, and your renown?
What heart of rock, but must by this be won?
And yet bear witnefs, O you Powers above,
How rude I am in all the arts of love!
My hand is yet untaught to write to men:
This is th' effay of my unpractis'd pen.
Happy thofe nymphs whom use has perfe&
made!
I think all crime, and tremble at a fhade.
Ev'n while I write, my fearful, confcious eyes
Look often back, mifdoubting a surprise:
For now the rumor spreads among the crowd,
At court in whispers, but in town aloud.
Diffemble you, whate'er
you hear them fay.
To leave off loving were your better way:
Yet if you will diffemble it, you may.
Love fecretly: the ablence of my lord
More freedom gives, but does not all afford:
Long is his journey, long will be his stay,
Call'd by affairs of confequence away.
To go, or not, when unrefolv'd he stood,
I bid him make what swift return he could:
Then kifling me, he said, I recommend
All to thy care, but most my Trojan friend.
I fmil'd at what he innocently said,
And only anfwer'd, You fhall be obey'd.
Propitious winds have borne him far from hence;
But let not this fecure your confidence.
Abfent he is; yet abfent he commands:
You know the proverb, "Princes have long
"hands.'
My fame's my burden; for the more I'm prais'd,
A jufter ground of jealouty is rais'd.
![[ocr errors]](https://books.google.se/books/content?id=697eoP7sGLwC&hl=sv&output=html_text&pg=PA354&img=1&zoom=3&q=father&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U2dEHR4Kd-gt-9CPWNWcYm2VzyyXA&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=686,1101,13,7)
Were I lefs fair, I might have been more bleft:
Great beauty, through great danger, is poffefs'd.
To leave me here, his venture was not hard,
Because he thought my virtue was my guard.
He fear'd my face, but trufcd to my life;
The beauty doubted, but believ'd the wife.
You bid me ufe th' occafion while I can,
Put in our hands by the good, easy man.
I would, and yet I doubt 'twixt love and fear;
One draws me from you, and one brings me neat,
Our flames are mutual, and my husband's gone:
The nights are long; I fear to lie alone.
One houfe contains us, and weak walls divide;
And you're too preffing to be long deny'd.
Let me not live, but every thing confpires
To join our loves, and yet my-fear retires.
You court with words, when you should force
employ :
A rape is requifite to fhame-fac'd joy.
|