PART of the STORY of ORPHEUS.
Being a Tranflation out of the Fourth Book of
IS not for nothing when juft heav'n does frown; The injur'd ORPHEUS calls thefe judgments Whofe fpoufe, avoiding to become thy prey, [down; And all his joys at once were fnatch'd away; The nymph, fore-doom'd that fatal way to pass, Spy'd not the ferpent lurking in the grass: A mournful cry the fpacious valley fills, With echoing groans from all the neighb'ring hills; The Dryades roar out in deep despair,
And with united voice bewail the fair.
For fuch a lofs he fought no vain relief, But with his lute indulg'd the tender grief; Along the shore he oft would wildly stray, With doleful notes begin, and end the day. At length to hell a frightful journey made, Pafs'd the wide-gaping gulph, and difmal shade: Vifits the ghofts, and to that king repairs, Whofe heart's inflexible to human prayers.
All hell is ravish'd with fo fweet a fong; Light fouls and airy fpirits glide along
In troops, like millions of the feather'd kind, Driv'n home by night, or fome tempestuous wind: Matrons and men, raw youths and unripe maids; And mighty heroes' more majeftick fhades; And fons entomb'd before their parents face; These the black waves of bounding Styx embrace Nine times circumfluent; clogg'd with noisome weeds, And all that filth which standing water breeds. Amazement reach'd ev'n the deep caves of death; The fifters with blue fnaky curls took breath; IXION'S wheel awhile unmov'd remain'd,
And the fierce dog his three-mouth'd voice restrain'd. When fafe return'd, and all these dangers past, His wife, reftor'd to breathe fresh air at laft, Following (for fo PROSERPINA was pleas'd) A fudden rage th' unwary lover feiz'd, He, as the first bright glimpse of day-light shin'd, Could not refrain to cast one look behind; A fault of love! could hell compaffion find. A dreadful found thrice shook the Stygian coaft, His hopes quite fled, and all his labour loft! Why haft thou thus undone thyself and me? What rage is this? Oh, I am fnatch'd from thee! (She faintly cry'd) Night and the pow'rs of hell Surround my fight; Oh, ORPHEUS! oh, farewel! My hands stretch forth to reach thee as before; But all in vain, for I am thine no more; No more allow'd to view thy face, or day! Then from his eyes, like smoke, she fleets away.
Much he would fain have spoke: but fate, alas! Would ne'er again consent to let him pass. Thus twice undone, what course remain❜d to take, To gain her back, already pafs'd the lake? What tears, what patience could procure him ease? Or, ah! what vows the angry pow'rs appease? 'Tis faid, he fev'n long moons bewail'd his lofs To bleak and barren rocks, on whose cold moss, While languishing he fung his fatal flame, He mov'd ev'n trees, and made fierce tygers tame, So the fad nightingale, when childless made By some rough fwain who ftole her young away, Bewails her lofs beneath a poplar shade, Mourns all the night, in murmurs wastes the day; Her melting fongs a doleful pleasure yield, And melancholy mufick fills the field.
Marriage, nor love, could ever move his mind; But all alone, beat by the northern wind, Shiv'ring on Tanais banks the bard remain'd, And of the Gods' unfruitful gift complain'd. Ciconian dames, enrag'd to be despis'd, As they the feast of BACCHUS folemniz'd, Slew the poor youth, and strew'd about his limbs; His head, torn off from the fair body, swims Down that swift current where the Heber flows, And fill its tongue in doleful accents goes. Ah, poor EURYDICE! he dying cry'd; EURYDICE refounds from every fide.
Written in the Year 1675.
OW vain, and how infenfible a beaft Is man! who yet would lord it o'er the reft! Philofophers and poets vainly ftrove,
In ev'ry age the lumpish mafs to move: But those were pedants, if compar'd with these, Who knew not only to instruct, but please: Poets alone found the delightful way, Myfterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers, that when once men grew Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too. SATIRE has always fhin'd among the rest, And is the boldelt way, perhaps the best, To fhew men freely all their fouleft faults; To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts. In this great work the wife took diff'rent ways, Tho' each deferving its peculiar praise:
Some did our follies with just sharpness blame; While others laugh'd, and scorn'd us into shame; But, of these two, the last succeeded best; As men hit righteft, when they fhoot in jeft. Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides, And cenfure those who cenfur'd all befides; In all things elfe they juftly are preferr'd; In this alone methinks the ancients err'd: Against the groffeft follies they declaim, Hard they purfue, but hunt ignoble game. Nothing is easier than fuch blots to hit, And but the talent of a vulgar wit:
Befides, 'tis labour loft; for who would teach -SLY to write, or TE- -to preach? 'Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall. But, with fharp eyes thofe nicer faults to find, Which lie obfcurely in the wifeft mind, That little speck, which all the rest will spoil; To wash off this, would be a noble toil; Beyond the loofe-writ libels of this age, Or the fore'd scenes of our declining stage: Above the reach of ev'ry little wit, Who, yet, will smile to fee a greater hit. But ev❜n the greatest, tho' expos'd the most, Of fuch correction fhould have cause to boast; In fuch a fatire they might court a share, And each vain fool would fancy he was there, Old ftory-tellers then will pine and die, To find their antiquated wit laid by; Like her who mifs'd her name in a lampoon, And figh'd, to find herfelf decay'd fo foon.
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