And now the long protracted wars are o'er, The soft adult'rer shines no more; No more does Hector's force the Trojans shield, That drove whole armies back, and singly clear'd the field. To Mars his offspring of the Trojan line: But far be Rome from Troy disjoin'd, May endless billows rise between, and storms unnumber'd roar. Still let the curst detested place, Where Priam lies, and Priam's faithless race, And frisk upon the tombs of kings. May tigers there, and all the savage kind, Her brinded whelps securely lay, Or, coucht, in dreadful slumbers waste the day. Rome and the Roman capitol shall rise Th' illustrious exiles unconfin'd Shall triumph far and near, and rule mankind. In vain the sea's intruding tide Europe from Afric shall divide, And part the sever'd world in two: Through Afric's sands their triumphs they shall spread, And the long train of victories pursue Those glitt'ring ills conceal'd within the mine, Till storms and tempests their pursuits confine ; Nor tempt the vengeance of the gods anew. Thrice should Apollo's self the city raise, Thrice should my fav'rite Greeks his works confound, And hew the shining fabric to the ground; Thrice should her captive dames to Greece return, And their dead sons and slaughter'd husbands mourn. But hold, my muse, forbear thy towering flight, Nor bring the secrets of the gods to light: In vain would thy presumptuous verse Th' immortal rhetoric rehearse;" The mighty strains, in lyric numbers bound, Rehearse;] A word Mr. Addison is very fond of, because it afforded a rhyme for verse: but it disgraces an ode, and should, indeed, be banished from all poetry. OVID'S METAMORPHOSES. BOOK II. THE STORY OF PHAETON. THE sun's bright palace, on high columns rais'd, And with a milder gleam refresh'd the sight; On earth a different landskip courts the eyes, And nymphs, and streams, and woods, and rural deities. On either gate were six engraven signs. Here Phaeton, still gaining on th' ascent, To his suspected father's palace went, Till pressing forward through the bright abode, Mr. Addison appears to have been much taken with the native graces of Ovid's poetry. The following translations are highly finished and even laboured (if I may so speak) into an ease, which resembles very much, and almost equals, that of his author. VOL. I. I He saw at distance, or the dazzling light Phoebus beheld the youth from off his throne; "Light of the world," the trembling youth replies, "Illustrious parent! since you don't despise The parent's name, some certain token give, That I may Clymenè's proud boast believe, Nor longer under false reproaches grieve." The tender sire was touch'd with what he said, 66 For anguish thrice his radiant head he shook; Thy lot is mortal, but thy wishes fly Beyond the province of mortality : There is not one of all the gods that dares (However skill'd in other great affairs) To mount the burning axle-tree, but I; Not Jove himself, the ruler of the sky, That hurls the three-fork'd thunder from above, Dares try his strength; yet who so strong as Jove? The steeds climb up the first ascent with pain: And when the middle firmament they gain, If downward from the heavens my head I bow, And see the earth and ocean hang below, Ev'n I am seiz'd with horror and affright, And my own heart misgives me at the sight. A mighty downfal steeps the ev'ning stage, And steady reins must curb the horses' rage. Tethys herself has fear'd to see me driv'n Down headlong from the precipice of heav'n. Besides, consider what impetuous force Turns stars and planets in a different course: I steer against their motions; nor am I Borne back by all the current of the sky. But how could you resist the orbs that roll In adverse whirls, and stem the rapid pole? But you perhaps may hope for pleasing woods, And stately domes, and cities fill'd with gods; While through a thousand snares your progress lies, Where forms of starry monsters stock the skies: For, should you hit the doubtful way aright, The Bull with stooping horns stands opposite; Next him the bright Hæmonian Bow is strung; And next, the Lion's grinning visage hung: The Scorpion's claws here clasp a wide extent, And here the Crab's in lesser clasps are bent. Nor would you find it easy to compose The mettled steeds, when from their nostrils flows The scorching fire, that in their entrails glows. Ev'n I their head-strong fury scarce restrain, When they grow warm and restiff to the rein. |