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The fair Liriope his answers try'd,
And first th' unerring prophet justify'd;
This nymph the god Cephisus had abus'd,
With all his winding waters circumfus'd,
And on the Nereid got a lovely boy,
Whom the soft maids ev'n then beheld with joy.
The tender dame, solicitous to know
Whether her child should reach old age or no,
Consults the sage Tiresias, who replies,
"If e'er he knows himself, he surely dies."
Long liv'd the dubious mother in suspense,
Till time unriddled all the prophet's sense.

Narcissus now his sixteenth year began,
Just turn'd of boy, and on the verge of man;
Many a friend the blooming youth caress'd,
Many a love-sick maid her flame confess'd.
Such was his pride, in vain the friend caress'd,
The love-sick maid in vain her flame confess'd.

Once, in the woods, as he pursued the chase,
The babbling Echo had descried his face;
She, who in others' words her silence breaks,
Nor speaks herself but when another speaks.
Echo was then a maid, of speech bereft,
Of wonted speech; for though her voice was left,
Juno a curse did on her tongue impose,
To sport with every sentence in the close.
Full often, when the goddess might have caught
Jove and her rivals in the very fault,
This nymph with subtle stories would delay
Her coming, till the lovers slipp'd away.
The goddess found out the deceit in time,

Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests,
Unsully'd by the touch of men or beasts;
High bowers of shady trees above it grow,
And rising grass and cheerful greens below.
Pleas'd with the form and coolness of the place,
And over-heated by the morning chase,
Narcissus on the grassy verdure lies:
But whilst within the crystal fount he tries
To quench his heat, he feels new heats arise.
For, as his own bright image he survey'd,
He fell in love with the fantastic shade;
And o'er the fair resemblance hung unmov'd,
Nor kenw, fond youth!, it was himself he lov'd,
The well-turn'd neck and shoulders he descries,
The spacious forehead and the sparkling eyes;
The hands that Bacchus might not scorn to show,
And hair that round Apollo's head might flow,
With all the purple youthfulness of face,
That gently blushes in the watery glass.

By his own flames consum'd, the lover lies,
And gives himself the wound by which he dies.
To the cold water oft he joins his lips,
Oft catching at the beauteous shade he dips
His arms, as often from himself he slips.
Nor knows he who it is his arms pursue
With eager clasps, but loves he knows not who.
What could, fond youth, this helpless passion
move?

What kindle in thee this unpity'd love?
Thy own warm blush within the water glows,
With thee the colour'd shadow comes and goes,

And then she cry'd, "That tongue, for this thy Its empty being on thyself relies;

crime,

Which could so many subtle tales produce,

Shall be hereafter but of little use."

Hence 'tis she prattles in a fainter tone,
With mimic sounds, and accents not her own.
This love-sick virgin, over-joy'd to find
The boy alone, still follow'd him behind;
When glowing warmly at her near approach,
As sulphur blazes at the taper's touch,
She long'd her hidden passion to reveal,
And tell her pains, but had not words to tell:
She can't begin, but waits for the rebound,
To catch his voice, and to return the sound.
The nymph, when nothing could Narcissus

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Step thou aside, and the frail charmer dies.

Still o'er the fountain's watery gleam he stood,
Mindless of sleep, and negligent of food;
Still view'd his face, and languish'd as he view'd.
At length he rais'd his head, and thus began
To vent his griefs, and tell the woods his pain:
"You trees," says he, "and thou surrounding

grove,

Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love,
Tell me, if e'er within your shades did lie
A youth so tortur'd, so perplex'd as I!

I who before me see the charming fair,
Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not
there:

In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost;
And yet no bulwark'd town, nor distant coast,
Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen,
No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between.
A shallow water hinders my embrace;
And yet the lovely mimic wears a face
That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join
My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine.
Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint;
Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant.
My charms an easy conquest have obtain'd
O'er other hearts, by thee alone disdain'd.
But why should I despair? I'm sure he burns
With equal flames and languishes by turns.
Whene'er I stoop, he offers at a kiss:
And when my arms I stretch, he stretches his.
His eye with pleasure on my face he keeps,
He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps.
Whene'er I speak, his moving lips appear
To utter something which I cannot hear.

"Ah, wretched me! I now begin too late
To find out all the long perplex'd deceit;
It is myself I love, myself I see;
The gay delusion is a part of me.

I kindle up the fires by which I burn,
And my own beauties from the well return.
Whom should I court? How utter my complaint?
Enjoyment but produces my restraint,
And too much plenty makes me die for want.
How gladly would I from myself remove!
And at a distance set the thing I love.
My breast is warm'd with such unusual fire,
I wish him absent whom I most desire.

And now I faint with grief; my fate draws nigh;
In all the pride of blooming youth I die.
Death will the sorrows of my heart relieve.
O might the visionary youth survive,
I should with joy my latest breath resign!
But, oh! I see his fate involv'd in mine."

This said, the weeping youth again return'd
To the clear fountain where again he burn'd;
His tears defac'd the surface of the well,
With circle after circle, as they fell:
And now the lovely face but half appears,
O'er-run with wrinkles, and deform'd with tears.
"Ah, whither," cries Narcissus, "dost thou fly?
Let me still feed the flame by which I die;
Let me still see, though I'm no further blest."
Then rends his garment off, and beats his breast:
His naked bosom redden'd with the blow,
In such a blush as purple clusters show,
Ere yet the Sun's autumnal heats refine
The sprightly juice, and mellow it to wine.
The glowing beauties of his breast he spies,
And with a new redoubled passion dies.
As wax dissolves, as ice begins to run,
And trickle into drops before the Sun,
So melts the youth, and languishes away:
His beauty withers, and his limbs decay,
And none of those attractive charms remain,
To which the slighted Echo sued in vain.

She saw him in his present misery,
Whom, spite of all her wrongs, she griev'd to see.
She answer'd sadly to the lover's moan,
Sigh'd back his sighs, and groan'd to every
groan;

"Ah, youth! belov'd in vain," Narcissus cries;
"Ah, youth! belov'd in vain," the nymph replies.
"Farewel," says he: the parting sound scarce fell
From his faint lips, but she reply'd, "Farewel."
Then on th' unwholesome earth he gasping lies,
Till death shuts up those self-admiring eyes.
To the cold shades his flitting ghost retires,
And in the Stygian waves itself admires.
For him the Naiads and the Dryads mourn,
Whom the sad Echo answers in her turn:
And now the sister-nymphs prepare his urn;
When, looking for his corpse, they only found
A rising stalk with yellow blossoms crown'd.

THE STORY OF PENTHEUS.

THIS sad event gave blind Tiresias fame, Through Greece establish'd in a prophet's name.

Th' unhallow'd Pentheus only durst deride The cheated people, and their eyeless guide. To whom the prophet in his fury said, Shaking the hoary honours of his head; "Twere well, presumptuous man, 'twere well for thee

If thou wert eyeless too, and blind, like me:
For the time comes, nay, 'tis already here,
When the young god's solemnities appear;

Which if thou dost not with just rites adorn,
Thy impious carcase, into pieces torn,
Shall strew the woods, and hang on every thorn.
Then, then, remember what I now foretel,
And own the blind Tiresias saw too well,"
Still Pentheus scorns him, and derides his skill;
But time did all the prophet's threats fulfil.
For now through prostrate Greece young Bacchus
rode,

Whilst howling matrons celebrate the god.
All ranks and sexes to his orgies ran,

To mingle in the pomps, and fill the train. When Pentheus thus his wicked rage express'd; "What madness, Thebans, has your soul pos

sess'd?

Can hollow timbrels, can a drunken shout,
And the lewd clamours of a beastly rout,
Thus quell your courage? Can the weak alarm
Of women's yell those stubborn souls disarm,
Whom nor the sword nor trumpet e'er could
fright,

Nor the loud din and horrour of a fight?
And you, our sires, who left your old abodes,
And fix'd in foreign earth your country gods;
Will you without a stroke your city yield,
And poorly quit an undisputed field!
But you, whose youth and vigour should inspire
Heroic warmth, and kindle martial fire,
Whom burnish'd arms and crested helmets grace,
Not flowery garlands and a painted face;
Remember him to whom you stand ally'd:
The serpent for his well of waters dy'd.
He fought the strong; do you his courage show,
And gain a conquest o'er a feeble foe.
If Thebes must fall, oh, might the fates afford
A nobler doom, from famine, fire, or sword!
Then might the Thebans perish with renown:
But now a beardless victor sacks the town;
Whom nor the prancing steed, nor ponderous
shield,

Nor the hack'd helmet, nor the dusty field,
But the soft joys of luxury and ease,
The purple vests, and flowery garland please.
Stand then aside, I'll make the counterfeit
Renounce his godhead, and confess the cheat,
Acrisius from the Grecian walls repell'd
This boasted power; why then should Pentheus
yield?

Go quickly, drag th' audacious boy to me;
I'll try the force of his divinity."

Thus did th' audacious wretch those rites profane;
His friends dissuade th' audacious wretch in

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*Vile slave, whom speedy vengeance shall pursue, | By every God that rules the sea or sky,
And terrify thy base seditious crew:
Thy country, and thy parentage reveal,
And, why thou join'st in these mad orgies, tell."
The captive views him with undaunted eyes,
And, arm'd with inward innocence, replies:
"From high Meonia's rocky shores I came,
Of poor descent, Accetes is my name:
My sire was meanly born; no oxen plough'd
His fruitful fields, nor in his pastures low'd.
His whole estate within the waters lay;
With lines and hooks he caught the finny prey;
His art was all his livelihood; which he
Thus with his dying lips bequeath'd to me:
In streams, my boy, and rivers, take thy chance;
There swims, said he, thy whole inheritance,

"Long did I live on this poor legacy,
Till tir'd with rocks and my own native sky,
To arts of navigation I inclin'd;
Observ'd the turns and changes of the wind:
Learn'd the fit havens, and began to note
The stormy Hyades, the rainy Goat,
The bright Taygete, and the shining Bears,
With all the sailor's catalogue of stars.
"Once, as by chance for Delos I design'd,
My vessel driv'n by a strong gust of wind,
Moor'd in a Chian creek: ashore I went,
And all the following night in Chios spent.
When morning rose, I sent my mates to bring
Supplics of water from a neighbouring spring,
Whilst I the motion of the winds explor'd;
Then summon'd-in my crew, and went aboard.
Opheltes heard my summons, and with joy
Brought to the shore a soft and lovely boy,
With more than female sweetness in his look,
Whom straggling in the neighbouring fields he took.
With fumes of wine the little captive glows,
And nods with sleep, and staggers as he goes.
I view'd him nicely, and began to trace
Each heavenly feature, each immortal grace,
And saw divinity in all his face.

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I know not who,' said I, this god should be;
But that he is a god I plainly see:
And thou, whoe'er thou art, excuse the force
These men have us'd, and oh befriend our course!'
Pray not for us,' the nimble Dictys cry'd;
Dictys, that could the main-top-mast bestride,
And down the ropes with active vigour slide.
To the same purpose old Epopeus spoke,
Who over-look'd the oars, and tim'd the stroke;
The same the pilot, and the same the rest;

Such impious avarice their souls possest.

Nay, Heaven forbid that I should bear away
Within my vessel so divine a prey,'
Said I; and stood to hinder their intent:
When Lycabas, a wretch for murder sent
From Tuscany, to suffer banishment,

With his clench'd fist had struck me over-board,
Had not my hands in falling grasp'd a cord.

"His base confederates the fact approve;
When Bacchus (for 'twas he) began to move,
Wak'd by the noise and clamours which they rais'd;
And shook his drowsy limbs and round him gaz'd:
'What means this noise?' he cries; 'am I betray'd?
Ah! whither, whither must I be convey'd?'
'Fear not,' said Proteus, 'child, but tell us where
You wish to land, and trust our friendly care.'
To Naxos then direct your course,' says he;
Naxos a hospitable port shall be

To each of you, a joyful home to me.'

The perjur'd villains promise to comply,
And bid me hasten to unmoor the ship.
With eager joy I lanch into the deep;
And, heedless of the fraud, for Naxos stand:
They whisper oft, and beckon with the hand.
And give me signs, all anxious for their prey,
To tack about, and steer another way.
"Then let some other to my post succeed,'
Said I, I'm guiltless of so foul a deed.'
'What,' says Ethalion, 'must the ship's whole crew
Follow your humour, and depend on you?'
And straight himself he seated at the prore,
And tack'd about, and sought another shore.
"The beauteous youth now found himself be-
And from the deck the rising waves survey'd, [tray'd,
And seem'd to weep, and as he wept he said;
And do you thus iny easy faith beguile?
Thus do you bear me to my native isle?
Will such a multitude of men employ
Their strength against a weak defenceless boy?"
"In vain did I the godlike youth deplore,
The more I begg'd, they thwarted me the more.
And now, by all the gods in Heaven that hear
This solemn oath, by Bacchus' self I swear,
The mighty miracle that did ensue,
Although it seems beyond belief, is true.
The vessel, fix'd and rooted in the flood,
Unmov'd by all the beating billows stood.
In vain the mariners would plough the main
With sails unfurl'd, and strike their oars in vain;
Around their oars a twining ivy cleaves,

And climbs the mast, and hides the cords in leaves:
The sails are covered with a cheerful green,
And berries in the fruitful canvas seen.
Amidst the waves a sudden forest rears
Its verdant head, and a new spring appears.

"The god we now behold with open eyes;
A herd of spotted panthers round him lies
In glaring forms; the grapy clusters spread
On his fair brows, and dangle on his head.
And whilst he frowns, and brandishes his spear,
My mates, surpris'd with madness or with fear,
Leap'd over-board; first perjur'd Madon found
Rough scales and fins his stiffening sides surround:
Ah, what,' cries one, has thus transform'd thy

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look?'

Straight his own mouth grew wider as he spoke:
And now himself he views with like surprise.
Still at his oar th' industrious Libys plies;
But, as he plies, each busy arm shrinks in,
And by degrees is fashion'd to a fin.
Another, as he catches at a cord,

Misses his arms, and, tumbling over board,
With his broad fins and forky tail he laves
The rising surge, and flounces in the waves,
Thus all my crew transform'd, around the ship,
Or dive below, or on the surface leap,
And spout the waves, and wanton in the deep.
Full nineteen sailors did the ship convey,
A shole of nineteen dolphins round her play.
I only in my proper shape appear,
Speechless with wonder, and half dead with fear,
Till Bacchus kindly bid me fear no more.
With him I landed on the Chian shore,
And him shall ever gratefully adore."
"This forging slave," says Pentheus, "would
O'er our just fury by a far-fetch'd tale;
Go, let him feel the whips, the swords, the fire,
And in the tortures of the rack expire."

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Th' officious servants hurry him away,
And the poor captive in a dungeon lay.
But, whilst the whips and tortures are prepar'd,
The gates fly open, of themselves unbarr'd;
At liberty th' unfetter'd captive stands,
And flings the loosen'd shackles from his hands.

THE DEATH OF PENTHEUS.

BUT Pentheus, grown more furious than before,
Resolv'd to send his messengers no more,
But went himself to the distracted throng,
Where high Citharon echo'd with their song.
And as the fiery war-horse paws the ground,
And snorts and trembles at the trumpet's sound;
Transported thus he heard the frantic rout,
And rav'd and madden'd at the distant shout.

A spacious circuit on the hill there stood,
Level and wide, and skirted round with wood;
Here the rash Pentheus, with unhallow'd eyes,
The howling dames and mystic orgies spies.
His mother sternly view'd him where he stood,
And kindled into madness as she view'd:
Her leafy javelin at her son she cast;

And cries, "The boar that lays our country waste!
The boar, my sisters! aim the fatal dart,
And strike the brindled monster to the heart."

Pentheus astonish'd heard the dismal sound,
And sees the yelling matrons gathering round;
He sees, and weeps at his approaching fate,
And begs for mercy, and repents too late.
"Help, help! my aunt Autonoe," he cry'd;
"Remember how your own Actæon dy'd."
Deaf to his cries, the frantic matron crops
One stretch'd-out arm, the other Ino lops.
In vain does Pentheus to his mother sue,
And the raw bleeding stumps presents to view:
His mother howl'd; and, heedless of his prayer,
Her trembling hand she twisted in his hair,
"And this," she cried, "shall be Agava's share."
When from the neck his struggling head she tore,
And in her hands the ghastly visage bore,
With pleasure all the hideous trunk survey;
Then pull'd and tore the mangled limbs away,
As starting in the pangs of death it lay.
Soon as the wood its leafy honours casts,
Blown off and scatter'd by autumnal blasts,
With such a sudden death lay Pentheus slain,
And in a thousand pieces strew'd the plain.

By so distinguishing a judgment aw'd, The Thebans tremble, and confess the god.

THE STORY OF SALMACIS AND HERMAFHRODITUS..

FROM THE FOURTH BOOK OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.

How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams,
Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs,
And what the secret cause, shall here be shown;
The cause is secret, but th' effect is known.
The Naiads nurst an infant heretofore,
That Cytherea once to Herines bore:
From both th' illustrious authors of his race
The child was nam'd; nor was it hard to trace
Both the bright parents through the infant's face.

When fifteen years, in Ida's cool retreat, The boy had told, he left his native seat, And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil: The pleasure lessen'd the attending toil. With eager steps the Lycian fields he crust, And fields that border on the Lycian coast; A river here he view'd so lovely bright, It show'd the botton in a fairer light, Nor kept a sand conceal'd from human sight: The stream produc'd nor slimy ooze, nor weeds, Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds; But dealt enriching moisture all around, The fruitful banks with cheerful verdure crown'd, And kept the spring eternal on the ground. A nymph presides, nor practis'd in the chase, Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race; Of all the blue-eyed daughters of the main, The only stranger to Diana's train: Her sisters often, as 'tis said, would cry, Fy, Salmacis, what always idle! fy; Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize, And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease." Nor quiver she nor arrows e'er would seize, Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease. But oft would bathe her in the crystal tide, Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide; Now in the limpid streams she view'd her face, And dress'd her image in the floating glass: On beds of leaves she now repos'd her limbs, Now gather'd flowers that grew about her streams; And then by chance was gathering, as she stood To view the boy, and long for what she view'd.

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Fain would she meet the youth with hasty feet,
She fain would meet him, but refus'd to meet
Before her looks were set with nicest care,
And well deserv'd to be reputed fair.
"Bright youth," she cries, "whom all thy features
"A god, and if a god, the god of love;
But if a mortal, blest thy nurse's breast:
Blest are thy parents, and thy sisters blest;
But, oh, how blest! how more than blest thy bride,
Ally'd in bliss, if any yet ally'd.

If so, let mine the stol'n enjoyments be;
If not, behold a willing bride in me."

[shame,

The boy knew nought of love, and touch'd with He strove, and blusht, but still the blush became; In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose; The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows, And such the Moon, when all her silver white Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light. The nymph still begs, if not a nobler bliss, A cold salute at least, a sister's kiss: And now prepares to take the lovely boy Between her arms. He, innocently coy, Replies, "Or leave me to myself alone, You rude uncivil nymph, or I'll be gone." "Fair stranger, then," says she," it shall be so;" And, for she fear'd his threat, she feign'd to go; But, hid within a covert's neighbouring green, She kept him still in sight, herself unseen. The boy now fancies all the danger o'er, And innocently sports about the shore; Playful and wanton to the stream he trips, And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips. The coolness pleas'd him, and with eager haste His airy garments on the banks he cast; His godlike features, and his heavenly hue, And all his beauties were expos'd to view. His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies, While hotter passions in her bosom rise,

Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes.
She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms,
And looks and sighs, and kindles at his charms.
Now all undrest upon the banks he stood,
And clapt his sides, and leapt into the flood:
His lovely limbs the silver waves divide,
His limbs appear more lovely through the tide ;
As lilies shut within a crystal case,

Receive a glossy lustre from the glass.

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He's mine, he's all my own," the Naiad cries; And flings off all, and after him she flies, And now she fastens on him as he swims, And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs. The more the boy resisted, and was coy, The more she claspt, and kist the struggling boy. So when the wriggling snake is snatch'd on high In eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky, Around the foe his twirling tail he flings,

And twists her legs, and writhes about her wings.

The restless boy still obstinately strove
To free himself, and still refus'd her love.
Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs intwin'd,
And "Why, coy youth," she cries, “why thus un-
kind?

Oh may the gods thus keep us ever join'd!
Oh may we never, never part again!"
So pray'd the nymph, nor did she pray in vain:
For now she finds him, as his limbs she prest,
Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast;
Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run
Together, and incorporate in one :
Last in one face are both their faces join'd,
As when the stock and grafted twig combin'd
Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind :
Both bodies in a single body mix,

A single body with a double sex.

The boy, thus lost in woman, now survey'd
The river's guilty stream, and thus he pray'd,
(He pray'd, but wonder'd at his softer tone,
Surpris'd to hear a voice but half his own:)
"You parent gods, whose heavenly names I bear,
Hear your hermaphrodite, and grant my prayer;
Oh grant, that whomsoe'er these streams contain,
If man he enter'd, he may rise again
Supple, unsinew'd, and but half a man!"

The heavenly parents answer'd from on high
Their two-shap'd son, the double votary;
Then gave a secret virtue to the flood,
And ting'd its source to make his wishes good.

NOTES

ON SOME OF THE FOREGOING STORIES IN OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.

ON THE STORY OF PHAETON.

THE story of Phaeton is told with a greater air of majesty and grandeur than any other in all Ovid. It is indeed the most important subject he treats of, except the Deluge; and I cannot but believe that this is the conflagration he hints at in the first book;

Esse quoque in fatis reminiscitur affore tempus, 2uo mare, quo tellus, correptaque regia cœli Ardeat, et mundi moles operosa laboret; (though the learned apply those verses to the future burning of the world) for it fully answers that description, if the

VOL. IX.

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Cœli miserere tui, circumspice utrumque, Fumat uterque polus

Fumat uterque polus-comes up to correptaque regia cœli. Besides, it is Ovid's custom to prepare the reader for a following story, by giving some intimations of it in a foregoing one, which was more particularly necessary to be done before he led us into so strange a story as this he is now upon.

P. 545. col. 1, 1. 34. For in the portal, &c.] We have here the picture of the universe drawn in little. -Balænarumque prementem

Ægeona suis immania terga lacertis. Egeon makes a diverting figure in it,

-Facies non omnibus una,

Nec diversa tamen: qualem decet esse sororum. The thought is very pretty, of giving Doris and her daughters such a difference in their looks as is natural to different persons, and yet such a likeness as showed their affinity.

Terra viros, urbesque gerit, sylvasque, ferasque, Fluminaque, et nymphas, et cætera numina ruris. The less important figures are well huddled tother in the promiscuous description at the end, which very well represents what the painters call a groupe.

-Circum caput omne micantes

Deposuit radios; propiusque accedere jussit.

P. 545. col. 2. 1. 21. And flung the blaze, &c.] It gives us a great image of Phœbus, that the youth was forced to look on him at a distance, and not able to approach him until he had laid aside the circle of rays that cast such a glory about his head. And indeed we may every where observe in Ovid, that he never fails of a due loftiness in his ideas, though he wants it in his words. And this I think infinitely better than to have sublime expressions and mean thoughts, which is generally the true character of Claudian and Statius. But this is not considered by them who run down Ovid in the gross, for a low middle way of writing. What can be more simple and unadorned, than his description of Enceladus in the fifth book?

Nititur ille quidem, pugnatque resurgere sæpe, Dextra sed Ausonio manus est subjecta Peloro, Læva, Pachyne, tibi, Lilibæo crura premuntur, Degravat Etna caput, sub quâ resupinus arenas Ejectat, flammamque fero vomit ore Typhæus. But the image we have here is truly great and sublime, of a giant vomiting out a tempest of fire, and heaving up all Sicily, with the body of an island upon his breast, and a vast promontory on either arm.

There are few books that have had worse commentators on them than Ovid's Metamorphoses. Those of the graver sort have been wholly taken up in the mythologies; and think they have appeared very judicious, if they have shown us out of an old author that Ovid is mistaken in a pedigree, or has turned such a person into a wolf that ought to have been made a tiger. Others have employed themselves on what never entered into the poet's thoughts, in adapting a dull moral to every story, and making the persons of his poems

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