The sick, for air, before the portal gasp,
Their feeble legs within each other clasp,
Or idle in their empty hives remain,
Benumb'd with cold, or listless of their gain.
Soft whispers then and broken sounds are heard,
As when the woods by gentle winds are stirr'd,
Such stifled noise as the close furnace hides,
Or dying murmurs of departing tides.

This when thou seest, Galbanean odours use,
And honey in the sickly hive infuse.
Through reeden pipes convey the golden flood,
T' invite the people to their wonted food:
Mix it with thicken'd juice of sodden wines,
And raisins from the grapes of Psythian vines:
To these add pounded galls, and roses dry,

And with Cecropian thyme, strong-scented cen

taury.

A flower there is that grows in meadow ground, Amellus call'd, and easy to be found: For from one root the rising stem bestows A wood of leaves, and violet-purple boughs. The flower itself is glorious to behold, And shines on altars like refulgent gold:

Sharp to the taste, by shepherds near the stream
Of Mella found, and thence they gave the name.
Boil this restoring root in generous wine,

And set beside the door the sickly stock to dine.
But if the labouring kind be wholly lost,
And not to be retriev'd with care or cost,
'Tis time to touch the precepts of an art,
Th' Arcadian master did of old impart:
And how he stock'd his empty hives again;
Renew'd with putrid gore of oxen slain.
An ancient legend I prepare to sing,

And upward follow Fame's immortal spring:

For where, with sevenfold horns, mysterious Nile
Surrounds the skirts of Fgypt's fruitful isle,
And where in pomp the sunburnt people ride,
On painted barges, o'er the teemmg tide,
Which, pouring down from Ethi pian lands,
Makes green the soil with slime, and black prolific
sands;

That length of region, and large tract of ground,
In this one art a sure relief have found.
First, in a place, by nature close, thy build
A narrow flooring. gutter'd, wall'd, and til'd.
In this, four windows are contriv'd, that strike
To the four winds oppos'd, their beams oblique.
A steer of two years old they take, whose head
Now first with burnish'd horns begins to spread:
They stop his nostrils, while he strives, in vain,
To breathe free air, and struggles with his pain.
Knock'd down, he dies: his bowels bruis'd within,
Betray no wound on his unbroken skin.
Extended thus, in his obscene abode,
[strow'd
They leave the beast; but first sweet flowers are
Beneath his body, broken boughs and thyme,
And pleasing cassia just renew'd in prime.

This must be done, ere spring makes equal day,
When western winds on curling waters play:
Ere painted meads produce their flowery crops,
Or swallows twitter on the chimney-tops.
The tainted blood, in this close prison pent,
Begins to boil, and through the bones ferment.
Then, wondrous to behold, new creatures rise,
A moving mass at first, and short of thighs;
Till shooting out with legs, and imp'd with wings,
The grubs proceed to bees with pointed stings:
And more and more affecting air, they try
Their tender pinions, and begin to fly.

At length, like summer storms from spreading

clouds,

That burst at once, and pour impetuous floods,
Or flights of arrows from the Parthian bows,
When from afar they gall embattled foes,
With such a tempest through the skies they steer,
And such a form the winged squadrons bear.

What god, O Muse! this useful science taught?

Or by what wan's experience was it brought?
Sad Aristæus from fair Tempe fled,
His bees with famine, or diseases, dead;
On Peneus' banks he stood, and near his holy head.
And while his falling tears the stream supply'd,
Thus mourning, to his mother goddess cry'd:
"Mother Cyrene, mother, whose abode
Is in the depth of this immortal flood:
What boots it, that from Phœbus' loins I spring,
The third, by him and thee, from Heaven's high
O! where is all thy boasted pity gone,
[king?
And promise of the skies to thy deluded son?
Why didst thou me, unhappy me, create?
Odious to gods, and born to bitter fate!
Whom, scarce my sheep, and scarce my painful

plough,

The needful aids of human life allow:
So wretched is thy son, so hard a mother thou.
Proceed, inhuman parent, in thy scorn;
Root up my trees, with blights destroy my corn;
My vineyards ruin, and my sheep-folds burn.
Let loose thy rage, let all thy spite be shown,
Since thus thy hate pursues the praises of thy son."
But from her mossy bower below the ground,
His careful mother heard the plaintive sound,
Encompass'd with her sea-green sisters round.
One common work they ply'd: their distaffs full
With carded locks of blue Milesian wool.
Spio with Drymo brown, and Xanthe fair,
And sweet Phyllodoce, with long dishevell'd hair:
Cydippe with Licorias, one a maid,
And one that once had call'd Lucina's aid.
Clio and Beroe, from one father both,
Both girt withgold, and elad in party-colour'd cloth.
Opis the meck, and Deiopeia proud;
Nisæa lofty, with Ligæa loud;
Thalia joyous, Ephyrè the sad,
And Arethusa, once Diana's maid,
But now, her quiver left, to love betray'd.
To those, Clymene the sweet theft declares
Of Mars, and Vulcan's unavailing tears:
And all the rapes of gods, and every love,
From ancient Chaos down to youthful Jove.

Thus while she sings, the sisters turn the wheel,

Empty the woolly rack, and fill the reel.
A mournful sound again the mother hears;
Again the mournful sound invades the sister's ears:
Starting at once from their green seats, they rise;
Fear in their heart, amazement in their eyes,
But Arethusa, leaping from her bed,
First lifts above the waves her beauteous head;
And, crying from afar, thus to Cyrene said:
"O sister! not with causeless fear possest,
No stranger voice disturbs thy tender breast.
'Tis Aristæus, 'tis thy darling son,
Who to his careless mother makes his moan.
Near his paternal stream he sadly stands,
With downcast eyes, wet cheeks, and folded hands:
Upbraiding Heaven from whence his lineage came,
And cruel calls the gods, and cruel thee, by name."
Cyrene, mov'd with love, and seiz'd with fear,
Cries out, "Conduct my son, conduct him here:

No man can Proteus cheat; but, Proteus, leave
Thy fraudful arts, and do not thou deceive.
Following the gods' command, I come t' implore
Thy help, my perish'd people to restore."

The seer, who could not yet his wrath assuage,
Roll'd his green eyes, that sparkled with his rage;
And gnash'd his teeth, and cry'd, " No vulgar god
Pursues thy crimes, nor with a common rod.
Thy great misdeeds have met a due reward,
And Orpheus' dying prayers at length are heard,
For crimes, not his, the lover lost his life,
And at thy hands requires his murder'd wife;
Nor (if the Fates assist not) canst thou 'scape
The just revenge of that intended rape.
To shun thy lawless lust, the dying bride,
Unwary, took along the river's side:
Nor at her heels perceiv'd the deadly snake,
That keeps the bank, in covert of the brake.
But all her fellow-nymphs the mountains tear
With loud laments, and break the yielding air:
The realms of Mars remurmur'd all around,
And echoes to th' Athenian shores rebound.

Then thus the bride: 'What fury seiz'd on thee,
Unhappy man! to lose thyself and me?
Dragg'd back again by cruel destinies,
An iron slumber shut my swimming eyes.
And now farewell, involv'd in shades of night,
For ever I am ravish'd from thy sight.
In vain I reach my feeble hands to join
In sweet embraces; ah! no longer thine!"
She said, and from his eyes the fleeting fair
Retir'd like subtle smoke dissolv'd in air;
And left her hopeless lover in despair.
In vain, with folding arms, the youth essay'd
To stop her flight, and strain the flying shade:
He prays, he raves, all means in vain he tries,
With rage inflam'd, astonish'd with surprise:
But she return'd no more, to bless his longing eyes.
Nor would th' infernal ferryman once more
Be brib'd, to waft him to the farther shore.
What should he do, who twice had lost his love?
What notes invent, what new petitions move?
Her soul already was consign'd to fate,
And shivering in the leaky sculler sate.
For seven continued months, if fame say true,
The wretched swain his sorrows did renew;
By Strymon's freezing streams he sate alone,
The rocks were mov'd to pity with his moan:
Trees bent their heads to hear him sing his wrongs:
Fierce tigers couch'd around, and loll'd their fawn-

ing tongues.

He took his way, through forests void of light: And dar'd amidst the trembling ghosts to sing, And stood before th' inexorable king.

So, close in poplar shades, her children gone,
The mother nightingale laments alone,
Whose nest some prying churl had found, and

:

Th' infernal troops like passing shadows glide,
And, listening, crowd the sweet musician's side.
Nor flocks of birds, when driven by storms or night,
Stretch to the forest with so thick a flight,
Men, matrons, children, and th' unmarry'd maid,
The mighty hero's more majestic shade 1;

And youths on funeral piles before their parents
All these Cocytus bounds with squalid reeds, [laid.
With muddy ditches, and with deadly weeds :
And baleful Styx encompasses around,
ground.
With nine slow circling streams, th' unhappy
Ev'n from the depths of Hell the damn'd advance,
Th' infernal mansions nodding seem to dance:
The gaping three-mouth'd dog forgets to snarl,
The Furies hearken, and their snakes uncurl:
Ixion seems no more his pain to feel,

But leans attentive on his standing wheel.

"All dangers past, at length the lovely bride In safety goes, with her melodious guide; Longing the common light again to share, And draw the vital breath of upper air: He first, and close behind him follow'd she, For such was Proserpine's severe decree. When strong desires th' impatient youth invade; By little caution and much love betray'd; A fault which easy pardon might receive, Were lovers judges, or could Hell forgive. For near the confines of etherial light, And longing for the glimmering of a sight, Th' unwary lover cast his eyes behind, Forgetful of the law, nor master of his mind. Straight all his hopes exhal'd in empty smoke; And his long toils were forfeit for a look. Three flashes of blue lightning gave the sign Of covenants broke, three peals of thunder join.

thence,

By stealth, convey'd th' unfeather'd innocence; But she supplies the night with mournful strains, And melancholy music fills the plains.

"Sad Orpheus thus his tedious hours employs, Averse from Venus, and from nuptial joys. Alone he tempts the frozen floods, alone Th' unhappy climes, where spring was never known; He mourn'd his wretched wife, in vain restor'd, And Pluto's unavailing boon deplor'd.

"The Thracian matrons, who the youth accus'd Of love disdain'd, and marriage-rites refus'd, With furies and nocturnal orgies fir'd, At length, against his sacred life conspir'd. Whom ev'n the savage beasts had spar'd, they kill'd, And strew'd his mangled limbs about the field, Then, when his head from his fair shoulders torn, Wash'd by the waters, was on Hebrus borne; Ev'n then his trembling tongue invok'd his bride; With his last voice, 'Eurydice!' he cry'd, Eurydice!' the rocks and river-banks reply'd." This answer Proteus gave, nor more he said, But in the billows plung'd his hoary head;

،

And where he leap'd, the waves in circles widely spread.

The nymph return'd, her drooping son to cheer, And bade him banish his superfluous fear:

For now," said she, "the cause is known, from

nutest parts of an epic poem, which, to a common reade., seem to be detached from the body, and almost independent of it, what soul, though sent into the world with great advantages of nature, cultivated with the liberal arts and sciences, conversant with histories of the dead, and enriched with observations on the living, can be sufficient to inform the whole body of so great a work? I touch here but transiently, without any strict method, on some few of those many rules of imitating nature, which Aristotle drew from Homer's Iliads and Odysses, and which he fitted to the drama; furnishing himself also with observations from the practice of the theatre, when it flourished under Æschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles. For the original of the stage was from the epic poem. Narration, doubtless, preceded acting, and gave laws to it: what at first was told artfully, was, in process of time, represented gracefully to the sight and hearing. Those episodes of Homer, which were proper for the stage, the poets amplified each into an action: out of his limbs they formed their bodies: what he had contracted they enlarged: out of one Hercules were made infinity of pygmies; yet all endued with human souls: for from him, their great creator, they have each of them the divinæ particulam auræ. They flowed from him at first, and are at last resolved into him. Nor were they only animated by him, but their measure and symmetry was owing to him. His one, entire, and great action was copied by them according to the proportions of the drama: if he finished his orb within the year, it sufficed to teach them, that their action being less, and being also less diversified with incidents, their orb, of consequence, must be circumscribed in a less compass, which they reduced within the limits either of a natural or an artificial day: so that as he taught them to amplify what he had shortened, by the same rule applied the contrary way, he taught them to shorten what he had amplified. Tragedy is the miniature of human life: an epic poem is the draught at length. Here, my lord, I must contract also: for, before I was aware, I was almost running into a long digression, to prove that there is no such absolute necessity that the time of a stage-action should so strictly be confined to twenty-four hours, as never to exceed them, for which Aristotle contends, and the Grecian stage has practised. Some longer space, on some occasions, I think may be allowed, especially for the English theatre, which requires more variety of incidents than the French. Corneille himself, after long practice, was inclined to think, that the time allotted by the ancients was too

short to raise and finish a great action and better a mechanic rule were stretched or broken, than a great beauty were omitted. To raise, and afterwards to calm the passions, to purge the soul from pride, by the examples of human miseries, which befal the greatest; in few words, to expel arrogance, and introduce compassion, are the great effects of tragedy. Great, I must confess, if they were altogether as true as they are pompous. But are habits to be introduced at three hours' warning? Are radical diseases so suddenly removed? A mountebank may promise such a cure, but a skilful physician will not undertake it. An epic poem is not so much in haste: it works leisurely; the changes which it makes are slow; but the cure is likely to be more perfect. The effects of tragedy, as I said, are too violent to be lasting. If it be answered, that for this reason tragedies are often to be seen, and the dose to be repeated; this is tacitly to confess, that there is more virtue in one heroic poem, than in many tragedies. A man is humbled one day, and his pride returns the next. Chymical medicines are observed to relieve oftener than to cure: for it is the nature of spirits to make swift impressions, but not deep. Galenical decoctions, to which I may properly compare an epic poem, have more of body in them; they work by their substance and their weight. It is one reason of Aristotle's to prove that tragedy is the more noble, because it turns in a shorter compass: the whole action being circumscribed within the space of four-andtwenty hours. He might prove as well that a mushroom is to be preferred before a peach, because it shoots up in the compass of a night. A chariot may be driven round the pillar in less space than a large machine, because the bulk is not so great: is the Moon a more noble planet than Saturn, because she makes her revolution in less than thirty days, and he in little less than thirty years? Both their orbs are in proportion to their several magnitudes; and, consequently, the quickness or slowness of their motion, and the time of their circumvolutions, is no argument of the greater or less perfection. And besides, what virtue is there in a tragedy, which is not contained in an epic poem: where pride is humbled, virtue rewarded, and vice punished; and those more amply treated, than the narrowness of the drama can admit? The shining quality of an epic hero, his magnanimity, his constancy, his patience, his piety, or whatever characteristical virtue his poet gives him, raises first our admiration: we are naturally prone to imitate what we admire: and frequent acts produce a habit. If the hero's