A stranger hilt he spies, and shakes in vain :
All, all his hopes in flight alone remain;
And, swifter than the wind, he darts along the
plain.

For when the chief first vaulted on the car
With headlong haste, and rush'd into the war,
He left his father's temper'd sword, 'tis said,
And seiz'd his charioteer Metiscus' blade;
And, ev'n with this, the growing slaughter spread,
While from his rage the trembling Trojans fled.
But when the mortal steel a stroke bestow'd
On heav'nly arms, the labour of a god!
The falchion, faithless to the warrior's hand,
Broke short-the fragments glitter'd on the sand.
O'er the wide field distracted Turnus springs,
And flies with wild affright in mazy rings:
For here he views th' embattled Trojan pow'rs;
Here a vast lake; and there the Latian tow'rs.
But still his foe, though tardy from his wound,
Treads all his steps, unrav'ling ev'ry round.
As the fleet stag, by the stanch hound pursu'd,
Now bounds above the banks, now shoots along the
flood;

[sky.

Now from the meshy toils with terrour springs,
Scar'd by the plumes, that dance upon the strings:
He starts, he pants, he stares with wild amaze,
And flies his op'ning foe a thousand ways.
Close at his heels, the deep-mouth'd furious hound
Turns, as he turns, and traces all the ground.
On his full stretch he makes his eager way,
And holds, or thinks he holds, the trembling prey.
Forth darts the stag-his foe, cast far behind,
Catches but empty air, and bites the wind.
The hunters shout; the streams, the rocks, reply;
And the tumultuous peals run rattling round the
Thus, flying in distress, the Daunian lord
Calls on his friends; demands his trusty sword.
But the great Trojan, with a lofty cry,
Forbids the bands the weapon to supply;
Denouncing death, and threat'ning all around,
Th' imperial town to level with the ground.
O'er ten large circuits, with a rapid pace,
This hero leads, and that pursues, the chase.
No light reward must crown their eager strife;
The long-contending prize is Turnus' noble life!
To Faunus sacred had an olive stood :
The shipwreck'd sailors, on the hallow'd wood,
Hung their devoted vests in honour of the god.
But late, to leave the field for combat free,
The Trojans fell'd the venerable tree.
Full in the root, Æneas drove his spear:
The dart, deep riveted, stood trembling there:
The hero, struggling with incessant pain,
Now bends to disengage the lance again;
And with his dart, at least, o'ertake the foe,
Who, frighted, to the god preferr'd his vow.

"Thy suppliant's pray'r, in pity, Faunus, hear, And thou, kind mother Earth, detain the spear; If still I honour'd with a pious hand

Your plant, by guilty Troy with steel profan'd."
Thus he; the god attends his humble strain;
The Trojan labours at the root in vain :
There as he tugs the lance with all his might,
Fierce, and impatient to renew the fight,
Once more Juturna to the chief restor'd
(In brave Metiscus' form) his temper'd sword.
This heav'nly Venus view'd with high disdain,
And from the root releas'd the dart again.
Renew'd in might, the tow'ring chiefs advance;
One shook the sword, and one the flaming lance.

Their heaving bosoms swell with stern delight,
Pant for the combat, and demand the fight.
Then to his consort, who the war survey'd
Thron'd on a golden cloud, the thund'rer said:
"What schemes, my queen, are left, with vain
debate,

Ev'n yet to check the ripe events of fate?.
You know, and own, Æneas soon must rise
From Earth, already sacred to the skies.
Long since, those glories to the chief are ow'd,
And Heav'n now opens to receive the god.
To what fond purpose then this fruitless care?
To linger in the clouds, and urge the war?
Say, was it just, to wake the dire alarms?
To violate a god with mortal arms,
When the bold sister to the chief restor❜d,
By thy assistance, his paternal sword?
(For what without thy succour could she dare?)
And sent the vanquish'd Turnus to the war?
At length, at length, the needless strife give o'er,
At my request, indulge your rage no more;
Nor let revenge, dire enemy to rest,
For ever prey on that immortal breast.
Oh let thy lord thy secret sorrow share,
Or, more than share it, give me all thy care!
To their last sacred point the fates are come;
Here, here they fix'd th' unalterable doom.
The Latian court in ruins could you lay,
And drive the Trojans o'er the land and sea;
Profane with blood the holy bridal rite,
Rekindle war, and urge them to the fight;
This we indulg'd: now give thy efforts o'er
At our command; and thwart the fates no more."
So spoke th' imperial sov'reign of the skies;
And, in submissive terms, the queen replies:
"Great sire! because thy sacred will I know,
I left my Turnus to his doom below.
Nor had I sat, but at the will of Jove,
Disgrac'd and pensive, in the clouds above;
But in the front of fight my foes engag'd,
And, wrapt in flames, thro' all the battle rag'd;
I bade Juturna mingle in the strife,
Nay, venture more, to save a brother's life.
That charge I own; but not to bend a bow,
Or hurl a single jav'lin at the foe.

This, this, I swear, by the black Stygian floods,
The sole dread sanction of th' immortal gods:
Now back to Heav'n, great father, I repair,
And from this hour renounce the hateful war.
But yet I beg, O sov'reign of the sky!
What not the hardest laws of fate deny;
For your own Latium I implore this grace,
This honour for your own majestic race;
When by these nuptials both the realms combine,
And in firm leagues of peace and friendship join;
Still may the Latians, still remain the same,
Nor take from Troy their language, garb, or
name!

May the great race of Alban monarchs reign;
Kings after kings, the regal line sustain;
And from th' Italian blood may Rome arise,
In all her pride and glory, to the skies.
But may a long oblivion quite destroy,
The last, last ruins, with the name of Troy !"
The goddess spoke; and, with a smile, replies
The sire of men, and monarch of the skies:
"Can Saturn's other heir, who reigns above,
Th' imperial sister, and the wife, of Jove,
With endless schemes of vengeance break her rest ?
Why burns such wrath in a celestial breast?

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; I 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 slumb'ring 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,

BOOK I.

CHRISTOPHER PITT,

Give 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 Į 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;

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.

(If we may hope those golden times to see,
When bards become the care of majesty !)
Free and spontaneous the smooth numbers glide,
Where choice determines, and our wills preside;
But, at command, we toil with fruitless pain,
And drag th' involuntary load in vain.

Nor, at its birth, indulge your warm desire,
On the first glimmering of the sacred fire;
Defer the mighty task; and weigh your power,
And every part in every view explore;
And let the theme in different prospects roll
Deep in your thoughts, and grow into the soul.
But ere with sails unfurl'd you fly away,
And cleave the bosom of the boundless sea;
A fund of words and images prepare,
And lay the bright materials up with care,
Which, at due time, occasion may produce,
All rang'd in order for the poet's use.
Some happy objects by mere chance are brought
From hidden causes to the wandering thought;
Which, if once lost, you labour long in vain
To catch th' ideal fugitives again.
Nor must I fail their conduct to extol,
Who, when they lay the basis of the whole,
Explore the ancients with a watchful eye,
Lay all their charms and elegancies by,
Then to their use the precious spoils apply.
At first without the least restraint compose,
And mould the future poem into prose;
A full and proper series to maintain,
And draw the just connection in a chain;
By stated bounds your progress to control,
To join the parts, and regulate the whole.

And now 'tis time to spread the opening sails Wide to the wanton winds and flattering gales; 'Tis time we now prescribe the genuine laws To raise the beauteous fabric with applause; But first some method requisite appears To form the boy, and mould his tender years. In vain the bard the sacred wreath pursues, Unless train'd up and season'd to the Muse. Soon as the prattling innocent shall reach To the first use and rudiments of speech, Ev'n then, by Helicon he ought to rove, Ev'n then the tuneful Nine should win his love By just degrees.—But make his guide your choice For his chaste phrase and elegance of voice; That he at first successfully may teach The methods, laws, and discipline of speech; Lest the young charge, mistaking right and wrong, With vicious habits prejudice his tongue. Habits, whose subtle seeds may mock your art, And spread their roots and poison thro' his heart. Whence none shall move me to approve the wretch, Who wildly borne above the vulgar reach, And big with vain pretences to impart Vast shows of learning, and a depth of art, For sense th' impertinence of terms affords ; An idle cant of formidable words; The pride of pedants, the delight of fools; The vile disgrace, and lumber of the schools: In vain the circling youths, a blooming throng, Dwell on th' eternal jargon of his tongue. Deluded fools!-The same is their mistake, Who at the limpid stream their thirst may slake, Yet choose the tainted waters of the lake. Let no such pest approach the blooming care, Deprave his style, and violate his ear; But far, ob far, to some remoter place Drive the vile wretch to teach a barbarous race!

Now to the Muse's stream the pupil bring,
To drink large draughts of the Pierian spring;
And from his birth the sacred bard adore,
Nurst by the Nine, on Mincio's flowery shore;
And ask the gods his numbers to inspire,
With like invention, majesty, and fire.
He reads Ascanius' deeds with equal flame,
And longs with him to run at nobler game.
For youths of ages past he makes his moan,
And learns to pity years so like his own;
Which with too swift, and too severe a doom,
The fate of war had hurried to the tomb.
His eyes, for Pallas, and for Lausus, flow,
Mourn with their sires, and weep another's woe.
But when Euryalus, in all his charms,

Is snatch'd by fate from his dear mother's arms,
And as he rolls in death, the purple flood
Streams out, and stains his snowy limbs with blood,
His soul the pangs of generous sorrow pierce,
And a new tear steals out at every verse.
Meantime with bolder steps the youth proceeds,
And the Greek poets in succession reads;
Seasons to either tongue his tender ears;
Compares the heroes' glorious characters;
Sees, how Æneas is himself alone,

The draught of Peleus' and Laertes' son;
How, by the poet's art, in one, conspire
Ulysses' conduct, and Achilles' fire.

But now, young bard, with strict attention hear,
And drink my precepts in at either ear;
Since mighty crowds of poets you may find,
Crowds of the Grecian and Ausonian kind,
Learn hence what bards to quit or to pursue,
To shun the false, and to embrace the true;
Nor is it hard to cull each noble piece,
And point out every glorious son of Greece;
Above whose numbers Homer sits on high,
And shines supreme in distant majesty;
Whom with a reverent eye the rest regard,
And owe their raptures to the sovereign bard;
Through him the god their panting souls inspires,
Swells every breast, and warms with all his fires,
Blest were the poets with the hallow'd rage,
Train'd up in that and the succeeding age:
As to his time each poet nearer drew,
His spreading fame in just proportion grew,
By like degrees the next degenerate race
Sunk from the height of honour to disgrace.
And now the fame of Greece extinguish'd lies,
Her ancient language with her glory dies.
Her banish'd princes mourn their ravish'd crowns,
Driven from their old hereditary thrones;
Her drooping natives rove o'er worlds unknown,
And weep their woes in regions not their own;
She feels through all her states the dreadful blow,
And mourns the fury of a barbarous foe. [maids

But when our bards brought o'er th' Aonian From their own Helicon to Tyber's shades ; When first they settled on Hesperia's plains, Their numbers ran in rough unpolish'd strains. Void of the Grecian art their measures flow'd; Pleas'd the wild satyrs, and the sylvan crowd. Low shrubs and lofty forests whilom rung With uncouth verse, and antiquated song; Nor yet old Ennius sung in artless strains, Fights, arms, and bosts embattel'd on the plains, Who first aspir'd to pluck the verdant crown From Grecian heads, and fix it on his own. New wonders the succeeding bards explore, Which slept conceal'd in Nature's womb before;

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 [mould.
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,

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,
And nought can match his genius but his art.
Ev'n Greece turns pale, and trembles 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 pafts,
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 raise 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 know 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 arge: 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.