by John Dryden
She thought (so like her Love the Shade appears)
That Ceyx spake the Words, and Ceyx shed the Tears.
She groan’d, her inward Soul with Grief opprest,
She sigh’d, she wept; and sleeping beat her Breast: 380
Then stretch’d her Arms t’ embrace his Body bare,
Her clasping Arms inclose but empty Air:
At this not yet awake, she cry’d, O stay,
One is our Fate, and common is our way!
So dreadful was the Dream, so loud she spoke, 385
That starting sudden up, the Slumber broke:
Then cast her Eyes around in hope to view
Her vanish’d Lord, and find the Vision true:
For now the Maids, who waited her Commands,
Ran in with lighted Tapers in their Hands. 390
Tir’d with the Search, not finding what she seeks,
With cruel Blows she pounds her blubber’d Cheeks;
Then from her beaten Breast the Linnen tare,
And cut the golden Caull that bound her Hair.
Her Nurse demands the Cause; with louder Cries 395
She prosecutes her Griefs, and thus replies.
No more Alcyone; she suffer’d Death
With her lov’d Lord, when Ceyx lost his Breath:
No Flatt’ry, no false Comfort, give me none,
My Shipwreck’d Ceyx is for ever gone; 400
I saw, I saw him manifest in view,
His Voice, his Figure, and his Gestures knew:
His Lustre lost, and ev’ry living Grace,
Yet I retain’d the Features of his Face;
Though with pale Cheeks, wet Beard, and dropping Hair, 405
None but my Ceyx cou’d appear so fair:
I would have strain’d him with a strict Embrace,
But through my arms he slip’d, and vanish’d from the Place:
There, ev’n just there, he stood; and as she spoke
Where last the Spectre was, she cast her Look: 410
Fain wou’d she hope, and gaz’d upon the Ground
If any printed Footsteps might be found.
Then sigh’d and said: This I too well foreknew,
And my prophetick Fear presag’d too true:
’Twas what I beg’d, when with a bleeding Heart 415
I took my leave, and suffer’d Thee to part,
Or I to go along, or Thou to stay,
Never, ah never to divide our way!
Happier for me, that all our Hours assign’d
Together we had liv’d; e’en not in Death disjoin’d! 420
So had my Ceyx still been living here,
Or with my Ceyx I had perish’d there:
Now I die absent, in the vast profound;
And Me without my Self the Seas have drown’d:
The Storms were not so cruel; should I strive 425
To lengthen Life, and such a Grief survive;
But neither will I strive, nor wretched Thee
In Death forsake, but keep thee Company.
If not one common Sepulcher contains
Our Bodies, or one Urn, our last Remains, 430
Yet Ceyx and Alcyone shall join,
Their Names remember’d in one common Line.
No farther Voice her mighty Grief affords,
For Sighs come rushing in betwixt her Words,
And stop’d her Tongue; but what her Tongue deny’d, 435
Soft Tears, and Groans, and dumb Complaints supply’d.
’Twas Morning; to the Port she takes her way,
And stands upon the Margin of the Sea:
That Place, that very Spot of Ground she sought,
Or thither by her Destiny was brought; 440
Where last he stood: And while she sadly said
‘T was here he left me, lingring here delay’d
His parting Kiss; and there his Anchors weigh’d.
Thus speaking, while her Thoughts past Actions trace,
And call to mind admonish’d by the Place, 445
Sharp at her utmost Ken she cast her Eyes,
And somewhat floating from afar descries;
It seem’d a Corps adrift, to distant Sight,
But at a distance who could judge aright?
It wafted nearer yet, and then she knew 450
That what before she but surmis’d, was true:
A Corps it was, but whose it was, unknown,
Yet mov’d, howe’er, she made the Case her own:
Took the bad Omen of a shipwreck’d Man,
As for a Stranger wept, and thus began. 455
Poor Wretch, on stormy Seas to lose thy Life,
Unhappy thou, but more thy widdow’d Wife!
At this she paus’d; for now the flowing Tide
Had brought the Body nearer to the side:
The more she looks, the more her Fears increase 460
At nearer Sight; and she’s her self the less:
Now driv’n ashore, and at her Feet it lies,
She knows too much, in knowing whom she sees:
Her Husband’s Corps; at this she loudly shrieks,
’Tis he, ’tis he, she cries, and tears her Cheeks, 465
Her Hair, her Vest, and stooping to the Sands
About his Neck she cast her trembling Hands.
And is it thus, O dearer than my Life,
Thus, thus return’st Thou to thy longing Wife!
She said, and to the neighb’ring Mole she strode, 470
(Rais’d there to break th’ Incursions of the Flood;)
Headlong from hence to plunge her self she springs,
But shoots along supported on her Wings;
A Bird new-made about the Banks she plies,
Not far from Shore; and short Excursions tries; 475
Nor seeks in Air her humble Flight to raise,
Content to skim the Surface of the Seas:
Her Bill, tho’ slender, sends a creaking Noise,
And imitates a lamentable Voice:
Now lighting where the bloodless Body lies, 480
She with a Funeral Note renews her Cries.
At all her stretch her little Wings she spread,
And with her feather’d Arms embrac’d the Dead:
Then flick’ring to his palid Lips, she strove
To print a Kiss, the last essay of Love: 485
Whether the vital Touch reviv’d the Dead,
Or that the moving Waters rais’d his Head
To meet the Kiss, the Vulgar doubt alone;
For sure a present Miracle was shown.
The Gods their Shapes to Winter-Birds translate, 490
But both obnoxious to their former Fate.
Their conjugal Affection still is ty’d,
And still the mournful Race is multiply’d;
They bill, they tread; Alcyone compress’d
Sev’n days sits brooding on her floating Nest: 495
A wintry Queen: Her Sire at length is kind,
Calms ev’ry Storm, and hushes ev’ry Wind:
Prepares his Empire for his Daughter’s Ease,
And for his hatching Nephews smooths the Seas.
Æsacus transformed into a Cormorant. From the Eleventh Book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses
THESE some old Man sees wanton in the Air,
And praises the unhappy constant Pair.
Then to his Friend the long-neck’d Corm’rant shews,
The former Tale reviving others Woes:
That sable Bird, he cries, which cuts the Flood 5
With slender Legs, was once of Royal Blood;
His Ancestors from mighty Tros proceed,
The brave Laomedon, and Ganymede,
(Whose Beauty tempted Jove to steal the Boy)
And Priam, hapless Prince! who fell with Troy. 10
Himself was Hector’s Brother, and (had Fate
But giv’n this hopeful Youth a longer Date)
Perhaps had rival’d warlike Hector’s Worth,
Tho’ on the Mother�
�s side of meaner Birth;
Fair Alyxothoe, a Country Maid, 15
Bare Æsacus by stealth in Ida’s Shade.
He fled the noisy Town, and pompous Court,
Lov’d the lone Hills, and simple rural Sport,
And seldom to the City would resort.
Yet he no rustick Clownishness profest, 20
Nor was soft Love a Stranger to his Breast:
The Youth had long the Nymph Hesperie woo’d,
Oft thro’ the Thicket or the Mead pursu’d:
Her haply on her Father s Bank he spy’d,
While fearless she her silver Tresses dry’d; 25
Away she fled: Not Stags with half such Speed,
Before the prowling Wolf, scud o’er the Mead;
Not Ducks, when they the safer Flood forsake,
Pursu’d by Hawks, so swift regain the Lake.
As fast he follow’d in the hot Career; 30
Desire the Lover wing’d, the Virgin Fear.
A Snake unseen now pierc’d her heedless Foot;
Quick thro’ the Veins the venom’d Juices shoot:
She fell, and ‘scaped by Death his fierce Pursuit.
Her lifeless Body, frighted, he embrac’d, 35
And cry’d, Not this I dreaded, but thy Haste:
O had my Love been less, or less thy Fear!
The Victory thus bought is far too dear.
Accursed Snake! Yet I more curs’d than he!
He gave the Wound; the Cause was giv’n by me. 40
Yet none shall say, that unreveng’d you dy’d.
He spoke; then climb’d a Cliff’s o’er-hanging Side
And, resolute, leap’d on the foaming Tide.
Tethys receiv’d him gently on the Wave;
The Death he sought deny’d, and Feathers gave. 45
Debarr’d the surest Remedy of Grief,
And forc’d to live, he curst th’ unask’d Relief.
Then on his airy Pinions upward flies,
And at a second Fall successless tries;
The downy Plume a quick Descent denies. 50
Enrag’d, he often dives beneath the Wave,
And there in vain expects to find a Grave.
His ceaseless Sorrow for th’ unhappy Maid
Meager’d his Look, and on his Spirits prey’d.
Still near the sounding Deep he lives; his Name 55
From frequent Diving and Emerging came.
The Twelfth Book of the Metamorphoses, wholly translated
Connection to the end of the Eleventh Book
Æsacus, the Son of Priam, loving a Country-Life, forsakes the Court: Living obscurely, he falls in Love with a Nymph; who, flying from him, was kill’d by a Serpent; for Grief of this, he would have drown’d himself; but, by the pity of the Gods, is turned into a Cormorant. Priam, not hearing of Æsacus, believes him to be dead, and raises a Tomb to preserve his Memory. By this Transition, which is one of the finest in all Ovid, the Poet naturally falls into the Story of the Trojan War, which is summ’d up, in the present Book, but so very briefly, in many Places, that Ovid seems more short than Virgil, contrary to his usual Style. Yet the House of Fame, which is here describ’d, is one of the most beautiful Pieces in the whole Metamorphoses. The Fight of Achilles and Cygnus, and the Fray betwixt the Lapythæ and Centaurs, yield to no other part of this Poet: And particularly the Loves and Death of Cyllarus and Hylonome, the Male and Female Centaur, are wonderfully moving
Priam, to whom the Story was unknown,
As dead, deplor’d his Metamorphos’d Son:
A Cenotaph his Name and Title kept,
And Hector round the Tomb, with all his Brothers wept.
This pious Office Paris did not share; 5
Absent alone; and Author of the War,
Which, for the Spartan Queen, the Grecians drew
T’ avenge the Rape, and Asia to subdue.
A thousand Ships were man’d, to sail the Sea:
Nor had their just Resentments found delay, 10
Had not the Winds and Waves oppos’d their way.
At Aulis, with United Pow’rs they meet,
But there, Cross-winds or Calms detain’d the Fleet.
Now, while they raise an Altar on the Shore,
And Jove with solemn Sacrifice adore; 15
A boding Sign the Priests and People see:
A Snake of size immense, ascends a Tree,
And in the leafy Summet, spy’d a Neast,
Which, o’er her Callow young, a Sparrow press’d.
Eight were the Birds unfledg’d; their Mother flew; 20
And hover’d round her Care; but still in view:
Till the fierce Reptile first devour’d the Brood;
Then siez’d the flutt’ring Dam, and drunk her Blood.
This dire Ostent, the fearful People view;
Calchas alone, by Phœbus taught, foreknew 25
What Heav’n decreed: and with a smiling Glance,
Thus gratulates to Greece her happy Chance.
O Argives, we shall Conquer; Troy is ours,
But long Delays shall first afflict our Pow’rs:
Nine Years of Labour, the nine Birds portend; 30
The Tenth shall in the Town’s Destruction end.
The Serpent, who his Maw obscene had fill’d,
The Branches in his curl’d Embraces held:
But as in Spires he stood, he turn’d to Stone:
The stony Snake retain’d the Figure still his own. 35
Yet not for this the Wind-bound Navy weigh’d,
Slack were their Sails; and Neptune disobey’d.
Some thought him loath the Town shou’d be destroy’d,
Whose Building had his Hands divine employ’d:
Not so the Seer; who knew, and known foreshow’d, 40
The Virgin Phœbe with a Virgin’s Blood
Must first be reconcil’d; the common Cause
Prevail’d; and Pity yielding to the Laws,
Fair Iphigenia the devoted Maid
Was, by the weeping Priests, in Linnen-Robes array’d; 45
All mourn her Fate; but no Relief appear’d:
The Royal Victim bound, the Knife already rear’d:
When that offended Pow’r, who caus’d their Woe,
Relenting ceas’d her Wrath; and stop’d the coming Blow.
A Mist before the Ministers she cast; 50
And, in the Virgin’s room, a Hind she plac’d.
Th’ Oblation slain, and Phœbe reconcil’d,
The Storm was hush’d, and dimpled Ocean smil’d:
A favourable Gale arose from Shore,
Which to the Port desir’d the Grecian Gallies bore. 55
Full in the midst of this Created Space,
Betwixt Heav’n, Earth, and Skies, there stands a Place,
Confining on all three; with triple Bound;
Whence all Things, though remote, are view’d around;
And thither bring their Undulating Sound. 60
The Palace of loud Fame; her Seat of Pow’r;
Plac’d on the Summet of a lofty Tow’r;
A thousand winding Entries long and wide,
Receive of fresh Reports a flowing Tide.
A thousand Crannies in the Walls are made; 65
Nor Gate nor Bars exclude the busy Trade.
’Tis built of Brass the better to diffuse
The spreading Sounds, and multiply the News:
Where Eccho’s in repeated Eccho’s play:
A Mart for ever full; and open Night and Day. 70
Nor Silence is within, nor Voice express,
But a deaf Noise of Sounds that never cease;
Confus’d, and Chiding, like the hollow Roar
Of Tides, receding from th’ insulted Shore:
Or like the broken Thunder, heard from far, 75
When Jove to distance drives the rowling War.
The Courts are fill’d with a tumultuous Din
Of Crowds, or issuing forth
, or entring in:
A thorough fare of News: Where some devise
Things never heard; some mingle Truth with Lies: 80
The troubled Air with empty Sounds they beat;
Intent to hear; and eager to repeat.
Error sits brooding there; with added Train
Of vain Credulity; and Joys as vain:
Suspicion, with Sedition join’d, are near; 85
And Rumors rais’d, and Murmurs mix’d, and Panique Fear.
Fame sits aloft; and sees the subject Ground,
And Seas about, and Skies above; enquiring all around.
The Goddess gives th’ Alarm; and soon is known
The Grecian Fleet, descending on the Town. 90
Fix’d on Defence the Trojans are not slow
To guard their Shore from an expected Foe.
They meet in Fight: By Hector’s fatal Hand
Protesilaus falls; and bites the Strand:
Which with expence of Blood the Grecians won; 95
And prov’d the Strength unknown of Priam’s Son.
And to their Cost the Trojan Leaders felt
The Grecian Heroes; and what Deaths they dealt.
From these first Onsets, the Sigæan Shore
Was strew’d with Carcasses; and stain’d with Gore: 100
Neptunian Cygnus Troops of Greeks had slain;
Achilles in his Carr had scow’r’d the Plain:
And clear’d the Trojan Ranks: Where e’er he fought,
Cygnus, or Hector, through the Fields he sought:
Cygnus he found; on him his Force essay’d: 105
For Hector was to the tenth Year delay’d.
His white man’d Steeds, that bow’d beneath the Yoke
He chear’d to Courage, with a gentle Stroke;
Then urg’d his fiery Chariot on the Foe:
And rising, shook his Lance, in act to throw. 110
But first, he cry’d, O Youth, be proud to bear
Thy Death, enobled, by Pelides Spear.
The Lance pursu’d the Voice without delay;
Nor did the whizzing Weapon miss the way:
But pierc’d his Cuirass, with such Fury sent; 115
And sign’d his Bosom with a Purple Dint.
At this the Seed of Neptune; Goddess-born,
For Ornament, not Use, these Arms are worn;
This Helm, and heavy Buckler, I can spare;
As only Decorations of the War: 120
So Mars is arm’d for Glory, not for Need.
’Tis somewhat more from Neptune to proceed,
Than from a Daughter of the Sea to spring:
Thy Sire is Mortal; mine is Ocean’s King.
Secure of Death, I shou’d contemn thy Dart, 125
Tho’ naked, and impassible depart:
He said, and threw: The trembling Weapon pass’d