« ForrigeFortsett »
About the mountain, thrice, but thrice in vain, He strove to force the quarry at the gate, And thrice sat down o'erwearied in the vale. There stood a pointed rock, abrupt and rude, That high o'erlooked the rest, close at the back Of the fell monster's den, where birds obscene Of ominous note resorted, choughs and daws. This, as it leaned obliquely to the left, Threatening the stream below, he from the right Pushed with his utmost strength, and to and fro He shook the mass, loosening its lowest base, Then shoved it from its seat; down fell the pile; Sky thundered at the fall; the banks give way, The affrighted stream flows upward to his source. Behold the kennel of the brute exposed, The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chance Earth yawning to the centre should disclose The mansions, the pale mansions of the dead, Loathed by the gods, such would the gulf appear, And the ghosts tremble at the sight of day. The monster braying with unusual din Within his hollow lair, and sore amazed To see such sudden inroads of the light, Alcides pressed him close with what at hand Lay readiest, stumps of trees, and fragments huge Of millstone size. He, (for escape was none,) Wondrous to tell! forth from his gorge discharged A smoky cloud that darkened all the den; Wreath after wreath he vomited amain, The smothering vapour mixed with fiery sparks; No sight could penetrate the veil obscure. The hero, more provoked, endured not this, But with a headlong leap he rushed to where The thickest cloud enveloped his abode; There grasped he Cacus, spite of all his fires, Till crushed within his arms, the monster shows His bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard, And his pressed eyeballs start. Soon he tears down The barricade of rock, the dark abyss Lies open; and the imprisoned bulls, the theft He had with oaths denied, are brought to light; By the heels the miscreant carcase is dragged forth, His face, his eyes, all terrible, his breast Beset with bristles, and his sooty jaws Are viewed with wonder never to be cloyed. Hence the celebrity thou seest, and hence This festal day. Potitius first enjoined Posterity these solemn rites, he first With those who bear the great Pinarian name To Hercules devoted, in the grove This altar built, deemed sacred in the highest By us, and sacred ever to be deemed. 2-L.
Come, then, my friends, and bind your youthful brows
The steer, with forecast provident to store
The hoarded grain, or manage what they had,
But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs,
Or fed voracious on their hunted prey.
An exile from Olympus, and expelled
His native realm by thunder-bearing Jove,
First Saturn came. He from the mountains drew
This herd of men untractable and fierce,
And gave them laws, and called his hiding place,
This growth of forests, Latium. Such the peace
I lis land possessed, the golden age was then,
So famed in story; till by slow degrees
Far other times, and of far different hue,
Succeeded, thirst of gold and thirst of blood.
Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hosts
From Sicily, and Latium often changed
Her master and her name. At length arose
Kings, of whom Tybris of gigantic form
Was chief; and we Italians since have called
The river by his name; thus Albula,
(So was the country called in ancient days),
Was quite forgot. Me from my native land
An exile, through the dangerous ocean driven,
Resistless fortune and relentless fate
Placed where thou seest me. Phoebus, and
The nymph Carmentis, with maternal care
Attendant on my wanderings, fixed me here.
[Ten lines omitted.]
He said, and showed him the Tarpeian rock,
Where once two towns, Ianiculum ,
By Janus this, and that by Saturn built,
Dare to despise magnificence, my friend,
[The Episode of Venus and Vulcan omitted.]
While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employed,
OVID. TRIST. LIB. V. ELEG. XII.
Scribis, ut oblectem.
You bid me write to amuse the tedious hours,
And save from withering my poetic powers;
Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flow
From the free mind, not fettered down by woe.
Restless amidst unceasing tempests tossed,
Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most.
Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain;
Or childless Niobe from tears refrain,
Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train?
Does grief or study most befit the mind
To this remote, this barbarous nook confined?
Could you impart to my unshaken breast
The fortitude by Socrates possessed,
Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine,
For what is human strength to wrath divine?
Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so,
My sufferings would have laid that wisdom low.
Could I forget my country, thee and all,
And e'en the offence to which I owe my fall,
Yet fear alone would freeze the poet's vein,
While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain.
Add that the fatal rust of long disuse
Unfits me for the service of the Muse.
Thistles and weeds are all we can expect
From the best soil impoverished by neglect;
Unexercised, and to his stall confined,
The fleetest racer would be left behind:
The best built bark that cleaves the watery way,
Laid useless by, would moulder and decay,—
No hope remains that time shall me restore,
Mean as I was, to what I was before.
Think how a series of desponding cares
Benumbs the genius and its force impairs.
How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet,
My verse constrained to move with measured feet,
Reluctant and laborious limps along,
And proves itself a wretched exile's song.
What is it tunes the most melodious lays?
'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise,
A noble thirst, and not unknown to me,
While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea.
But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame?
No, rather let the world forget my name.
Is it because that world approved my strain,
You prompt me to the same pursuit again?
No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse,
I charge my hopeless ruin on the Muse,
And, like Perillus, meet my just desert,
The victim of my own pernicious art;
Fool that I was to be so warned in vain,
And shipwrecked once, to tempt the deep again i
1ll fares the bard in this unlettered land,
None to consult, and none to understand.
The purest verse has no admirers here,
Their own rude language only suits their ear.
Rude as it is, at length familiar grown,
I learn it, and almost unlearn my own ;—
Yet to say truth, even here the Muse disdains
Confinement, and attempts her former strains,
But finds the strong desire is not the power,
And what her taste condemns, the flames devour.
A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom,
And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome;
But oh the cruel art, that could undo
Its votary thus! would that could perish too!
HOR. UB. I. ODE IX.
Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum
Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow
The streams, congealed, forget to flow; Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pil?
Of fuel on the hearth; Broach the best cask, and make old Winter smile
With seasonable mirth.
This be our part,—let Heaven dispose the rest; If Jove command, the winds shall sleep