What herbs, what plants, did not my nurse produce,
To make abortion by their powerful juice!
What medicines tried we not, to thee unknown!
Our first crime common; this was mine alone.
But the strong child, secure in his dark cell,
With nature's vigour did our arts repel.
And now the pale-faced empress of the night
Nine times had fill'd her orb with borrow'd light;
Not knowing 'twas my labour, I complain
Of sudden shootings, and of grinding pain;
My throes came thicker, and my cries increased,
Which with her hand the conscious nurse suppress'd.
To that unhappy fortune was I come,

Pain urged my clamours, but fear kept me dumb.
With inward struggling I restrain'd my cries,
And drunk the tears that trickled from my eyes.
Death was in sight, Lucina gave no aid,
And even my dying had my guilt betray'd.
Thou cam'st, and in thy countenance sat despair;
Rent were thy garments all, and torn thy hair;
Yet feigning comfort, which thou couldst not give,
Prest in thy arms, and whispering me to live;
For both our sakes, saidst thou, preserve thy life;
Live, my dear sister, and my dearer wife!
Raised by that name, with my last pangs I strove;
Such power have words, when spoke by those welove.
The babe, as if he heard what thou hadst sworn,
With hasty joy sprung 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 tempestuous council sate; 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 she meant,
Through the divided crowd unquestion'd went.
Just at the door the unhappy infant cried;
The grandsire heard him, and the theft he spied.
Swift as a whirlwind to the nurse he flies,
And deafs his stormy subjects with his cries.
With one fierce puff he blows the leaves away;
Exposed the self-discover'd infant lay.

The noise reach'd me, and my presaging mind
Too soon its own approaching woes divined.
Not ships at sea with winds are shaken more,
Nor seas themselves, when angry tempests 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 divulged my stain;
Scarce from my murder could his hands refrain.
I only answer'd him with silent tears;

They flow'd; my tongue was frozen up with fears.
His little grandchild he commands away,
To mountain wolves and every bird of prey.
The babe cried 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 guess my anguish by your own,
To see my bowels, and, what yet was worse,
Your bowels too, condemn'd to such a curse!
Out went the king; my voice its freedom found,
My breasts I beat, my blubber'd cheeks I wound.
And now appear'd the messenger of death;
Sad were his looks, and scarce he drew his breath,
To
say, "Your father sends you"-(with that word
His trembling hand presented me a sword ;)
"Your father sends 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 present shall be treasured in my heart.

Are these the nuptial gifts a bride receives?
And this the fatal dower a father gives?
Thou God of marriage, shun thy own disgrace,
And take thy torch from this detested place!
Instead of that, let furies light their brands,
And fire my pile with their infernal hands!
With happier fortune may my sisters wed,
Warn'd by the dire example of the dead.
For thee, poor babe, what crime could they pretend?
How could thy infant innocence offend?

A guilt there was; but, oh, that guilt was mine!
Thou suffer'st for a sin that was not thine.
Thy mother's grief and crime! but just enjoy'd,
Shewn to my sight, 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 save,
Nor weeping could I follow to thy grave;
Nor on thy tomb could offer my shorn hair,
Nor shew the grief which tender mothers bear.
Yet long thou shalt not from my arms be lost;
For soon I will o'ertake thy infant ghost.-
But thou, my love, and now my love's despair,
Perform his funerals with paternal care;
His scatter'd limbs with my dead body burn,
And once more join us in the pious urn.
If on my wounded breast thou drop'st a tear,
Think for whose sake my breast that wound did bear;
And faithfully my last desires fulfil,

As I perform my cruel father's will.

HELEN TO PARIS.

EPIST. XVII.*

THE ARGUMENT.

Helen, having received an epistle from Paris, returns the following answer; wherein she seems 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 expressed for her, though she much suspected his constancy; and at last discovers her inclination to be favourable to him; the whole letter shewing the extreme artifice of womankind.

WHEN loose epistles violate chaste eyes,
She half consents, who silently denies.
How dares a stranger, with designs so vain,
Marriage and hospitable rights prophane?
Was it for this your fleet did shelter find
From swelling seas, and every faithless wind?
For though a distant country brought you forth,
Your usage here was equal to your worth.
Does this deserve to be rewarded so?

Did

you come here a stranger, or a foe?

*This epistle was partly translated by Lord Mulgrave.

Your partial judgment may perhaps complain,
And think me barbarous for my just disdain;
Ill-bred then let me be, but not unchaste,
Nor my clear fame with any spot defaced.
Though in my face there's no affected frown,
Nor in my carriage a feign'd niceness shown,
I keep my honour still without a stain,
Nor has my love made any coxcomb vain.
Your boldness I with admiration see;
What hope had you to gain a queen like me?
Because a hero forced me once away,
Am I thought fit to be a second prey ?
Had I been won, I had deserved your blame,
But sure my part was nothing but the shame.
Yet the base theft to him no fruit did bear,
I'scaped unhurt by any thing but fear.
Rude force might some unwilling kisses gain;
But that was all he ever could obtain.

You on such terms would ne'er have let me go;
Were he like you, we had not parted so.
Untouch'd the youth restored me to my friends,
And modest usage made me some amends.
'Tis virtue to repent a vicious deed;
Did he repent, that Paris might succeed?
Sure 'tis some fate that sets me above wrongs,
Yet still exposes me to busy tongues.

I'll not complain; for who's displeased with love, If it sincere, discreet, and constant prove? But that I fear; not that I think you base, Or doubt the blooming beauties of my face ; But all your sex is subject to deceive, And ours, alas! too willing to believe. Yet others yield; and love o'ercomes the best; But why should I not shine above the rest? Fair Leda's story seems at first to be A fit example, ready form'd for me.

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