THE RITES AT HIS BROTHER'S GRAVE. And now-for ever bless thee, and farewell! A PICTURE, FROM THE NUPTIALS OF JULIA AND MANLIUS. AND soon, to inake thee truly blest, PERFIDY OF MAN. FROM THE NUPTIALS OF PELEUS AND THETIS. The oath of man: let never woman hope ATYS. Borne swiftly o'er the seas to Phrygia's woody strand, Atys with rapid haste infuriate leap'd to land; Where high-inwoven groves in solemn darkness meet, Rushed to the mighty Deity's remote and awful seat; And wildered in his brain, fierce inspiration's prey, There with a broken flint he struck his sex away. Soon as he then beheld his comely form unmann'd, While yet the purple blood flowed reeking on the land; Seized in his snowy grasp the drum, the timbrel light, That still is heard, dread Cybele, at thine initiate rite, ✦ A passage in Otway's Orphan is in the same strain: "Trust not a man; we are by nature false, Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and inconstant: When a man talks of love, with caution hear him; But if he swears, he'll certainly deceive you." Dryden also, in Palamon and Arcite, alluding to Lover's vows, calls them "A train of lies That, made in lust, conclude in perjuries." And struck the quivering skin, whence hollow echoes flew, And raised this panting song to his infuriate crew. "Ye priests of Cybele, or rather let me say, For ye are men no longer, ye priestesses, away! Together pierce the forest, great Cybele's domains, Ye vagrant flocks of her on Dindymus who reigns. Ye, like devoted exiles, who, seeking foreign lands, Have follow'd me your leader, have bow'd to my commands; Have cross'd the salt-sea wave, have dar'd the raging storms, And, loathing woman's love, unmann'd your lusty forms; The sense of error past let laughing frenzy blind; Let doubt, let thought itself, be driven from the mind. Haste, haste, together haste to Cybele divine! Seek we her Phrygian grove and dark sequester'd shrine, Where cymbals clash, where drums resound their deepening tone, Where Phrygia's crooked pipe breathes out its solemn drone, Where votaresses toss their ivy-circled brows, And urge with piercing yells their consecrated vows, Where the delirious train disport as chance may lead : Thither our vows command in mystic dance to speed." Thus Atys, female now, to female comrades sung. The frantic chorus rose from many a panting tongue; Re-echoed the deep timbrel, the hollow cymbals rang, And all to verdant Ida run madly at the clang. Though breathless, still impetuous with inspiration's force Raving and bewilder'd, scarce conscious of her course, As the unbroken heifer will fly the threaten'd yoke, Atys through gloomy woods, where never sunbeam broke, Loud striking the light timbrel, rush'd on with bounding stride, And all the frantic priestesses pursue their rapid guide. The fearful fane at length their panting ardour stops, Each, faint and unrefresh'd, in leaden slumber drops. In languor most profound their eyelids are deprest, And all extatic rage is lull'd in torpid rest. But when again the sun returning to the skies Put forth his golden brow; when now his radiant eyes Throughout wide heaven, and earth, and ocean pour'd their light; And with thunder-pacing steeds, he chas'd the shades of night; When slumber's reign serene had frenzy's flame subdued, When Atys her fell deed in clearer reason view'd, Beheld in what abode her future lot was placed, And, ah! how low she stood, in Nature's rank disgraced; Then, hurried to despair by passion's rising tide, Again she wildly sought the country's sea-girt side; And, casting her full eyes o'er boundless ocean's flow, Address'd her native land in these plaintive strains of woe. 66 My country, oh my country, creatress, parent earth! My country, my dear country, that sustain'd me from my birth! Must I for dreary woods forsake thy smiling shore, And see my friends, my home, my parents never more? No more the Forum seek, or the gay Palæstra's court, Or urge, as wont of old, each fam'd gymnastic sport? Oh wretched, wretched man! while years shall slowly roll, For ever, o'er and o'er again, for ever grieve, my soul! What grace, what beauty 's there, that I did not enjoy? I, when in manhood's prime, a youth, or yet a boy, The flower of all who trod the firm gymnastic floor, The victor mid the crowd, who the wrestler's prizes bore. My gates were ever throng'd, and full my threshold swarm'd; With blooming garlands hung, that love-sick maidens formd, My mansion gaily glitter'd, each morning, as I sped At earliest blush of sunrise, with lightness, from my bed. And must I ever now a maniac votaress rave, Heaven's devoted handmaid, to Cybele a slave? Her frantic orgies ply, disgrac'd in Nature's plan, A part of what I was, a maim'd, a barren man; And dwell in Ida's caves, which snow for ever chills; And pass my savage life on Phrygia's rugged hills, Placed with the sylvan stag, the forest-ranging boar? Oh! now how soon I rue the deed, how bitterly deplore!" As from her rosy lips these wandering murmurs broke, They rose to heaven, and bore the unwonted words she spoke: Indignantly unyoking her lions on the plain, And rousing the grim beast that bore the left hand rein, Great Cybele, enrag'd, her dread injunction told, And thus to fury waked the tyrant of the fold. "Haste, fierce one, haste away! rush on with glaring ire, With inspiration's rage, with frenzy's goad of fire, Drive the too daring youth, who would my service fly, Again to seek the gloom of yonder forest high. Haste lash thyself to rage till all thy flank be sore: Let all around re-echo to thine appalling roar: Toss with thy sinewy neck on high thy glossy mane." So spake terrific Cybele and loosed her lion's rein. Gladly the beast awakes his ruthlessness of mind, Bounds, rages, reckless leaves the thicket crush'd behind, Then swiftly gained the beach, wash'd by the foamy flood Where Atys, in despair, amid the breakers stood, And springing fiercely forth the wretch, no longer brave, Into the forest plung'd, and in a living grave There pass'd her long devoted life, a priestess and a slave. Oh great, oh fearful goddess! oh Cybele divine! Oh goddess, who has placed on Dindymus a shrine! Far be from my abode thy sacred frenzy's fire, Madden more willing votaries, more daring minds inspire. LESBIA'S DISGRACE. ADDRESSED TO CELIUS. OH Cælius! think, our Lesbia, once thy pride; Lesbia, that Lesbia, whom Catullus priz'd More than himself and all the world beside, Now gives, for hire, to profligates despis'd, In the dark alley, or the common lane, The charms he lov'd, the love he sigh'd to gain. TO LESBIA. THOU told'st me, in our days of love, That I had all that heart of thine; That, e'en to share the couch of Jove, Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine. How purely wert thou worshipp'd then! Not with the vague and vulgar fires Which beauty wakes in soulless men, But loved, as children by their sires. That flattering dream, alas, is o'er ; I know thee now-and, though these eyes Doat on thee wildly as before, Yet, e'en in doating, I despise. Yes. sorceress,-mad as it may seem,With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee, That passion e'en outlives esteem, And I, at once, adore-and scorn thee. *There are many contradictory stories about Atys. According to Catullus, he was a beautiful youth, who having landed with a few companions in Phrygia, hurried to the grove of the goddess Cybele, and there, struck with a superstitious frenzy, qualified himself for the service of that divinity. Then, snatching up the musical instruments used in her worship, and exhorting his companions to follow, he traverses the woods and mountains, till having, at length, reached the temple of Cybele, he drops down exhausted by fatigue and mental distraction. Being tranquillized, however, by a night's repose, he becomes sensible of his folly and wretchedness, returns to the sea-shore, and, casting his eyes over the ocean homeward, compares his former happiness with his present degraded condition.-It is lamentable that a poem of such energy and pathos (as this undoubtedly is,) should have so puerile a conclusion. Cybele, dreading the defection of her new votary, lets loose a lion from her car, which drives Atys back to her groves "There to find a living grave, And pass her long-devoted life, a priestess and a slave." LABERIUS. [Died 43 B. C.1 A ROMAN knight of respectable family and | His sole object was to degrade the Roman knightcharacter, and a composer of Mimes; but chiefly hood, to subdue their spirit of independence and known to posterity by a prologue which he wrote honour, and to strike the people with a sense of and spoke, on being compelled by Julius Cæsar his unlimited sway. It was the same policy to appear upon the stage. Though acquitting which afterwards led him, and his successors in himself with grace and spirit as an actor, he the empire, to convert their senators into gladicould not refrain from expressing his detestation ators and buffoons, and to encourage men of the of the tyranny which had made him such. In noblest families, their Fabii and Mamerci, to caone of the scenes he personated a Syrian slave, per about the stage, barefooted and smeared with and, whilst escaping from the lash of his master, soot, for the amusement of the rabble. exclaimed-"Porro, Quirites, libertatem perdidimus;" and shortly after added-"Necesse est multos timeat, quem multi timent;" at which the eyes of the whole audience were instantly turned towards Cæsar, who was present in the theatre. It was not merely to entertain the people, who, (as it has been justly observed,) would have been as well amused with the representation of any other actor, nor to wound the private feelings of Laberius, that Cæsar forced him on the stage. Laberius did not long survive his mortification. Retiring from Rome, he died at Puteoli, about ten months after the assassination of Cæsar. The titles, and a few fragments, of his Mimes are still extant; but, excepting the prologue, these remains are too inconsiderable and detached for us to judge either of their subject or their merits.* * See Dunlop's History of Roman Literature, vol. i., p. 554. PROLOGUE. And thither I return-as what? a mime! NECESSITY-the current of whose sway Nor meed of praise, nor any lure beside, Lo, in mine age how easily I fall! What scenic virtues bring I to the stage? One honied speech from Cæsar's tongue was all; What powers of voice to grace the mimic scene? For how might I resist his sovereign will, 426 As creeping ivy kills the strangled tree, PUBLIUS VIRGILIUS MARO. [Born 70,-Died 19, B. C.] THIS great poet was born at the village of | race, and always in terms of the sincerest affecAndes near Mantua, during the first consulship tion and esteem. of Pompey and Crassus, and in the year of Rome 683. Of his father little more is known than that he was possessed of sense to feel, and of means to confer on his son, the advantages of a Jiberal education. He sent him, at seven years of age, to Cremona, and from thence, at sixteen, to Milan; at both which places he is said to have prosecuted his studies with ardour and diligence, and to have thus laid the foundation of that varied learning, for which he was no less distinguished than for his lofty and elegant genius. In particular, he acquired that taste for the literature and philosophy of Greece, which is so discernible in all his writings. His instructor in philosophy was Syro, the Epicurean, whose doctrines, however, he afterwards abandoned for the loftier ones of the academic school. Having lost his little patrimony, which, with other lands in the neighbourhood of Cremona and Mantua, had been allotted to the disbanded soldiery of the civil wars, he repaired to Rome, where, through the efforts of Varus, Pollio, and others, he not only obtained restitution of his farm, but even acquired the future favour and friendship of the conqueror himself. This event he has celebrated in his first Eclogue. At the request of his new patron, he is said to have undertaken the Georgics, and, seven years afterwards, the Eneid; but so dissatisfied was he with the latter, that he left it, with a dying injunction on his friends to destroy it. Of his works it would require a pen like his own to describe them in the language they deserve. "I look on Virgil," says Mr. Dryden, "as a succinct, grave, and majestic writer; one who weighed not only every thought, but every word and syllable; who was still aiming to crowd his sense into as narrow a compass as he possibly could. His verse is everywhere sounding the very thing in your ears, whose sense it bears; yet the numbers are perpetually varied, to increase the delight of the reader; so that the same sounds are never repeated twice together.-Though he is smooth, where smoothness is required, yet is he so far from affecting it, that he seems rather to disdain it; frequently makes use of Synalæphas, and concludes his sense in the middle of his verse. He is everywhere above conceits of epigrammatic wit and gross hyperboles; he maintains majesty in the midst of plainness; he shines, but glares not; and is stately without ambition, (which is the vice of Lucan.) I drew my definition of poetical wit from my particular consideration of him; for propriety of thoughts and words are only to be found in him. This exact propriety of Virgil I particularly regarded as a part of his character, but must confess, to my shame, that I have not been able to translate any part of him so well as to make him appear wholly like himself. For where the original is close, no version can reach it in the same compass.-Tasso tells us, in his letters, that Sperone Speroni, a great Italian wit who was his contemporary, observed of Virgil and Tully, that the Latin orator endeavoured to imitate the copiousness of Homer, the Greek poet; and that the Latin poet made it his business to reach the conciseness of Demosthenes, the Greek orator. Virgil, therefore, being so very sparing of his words, can never be translated, as he ought, in any modern tongue. To make him copious is to alter his character; and to translate him, line for Virgil died at Brundusium, on his way back from Athens to Rome, whither he was proceeding with Augustus. His ashes were conveyed to Naples, in the neighbourhood of which a tomb, believed by the inhabitants to be his, is still pointed out to the inquiring traveller. From the little which we are able to glean of his life and character, he seems to have been a man of modesty and worth, admired and beloved by his brother-poets, as well as by all the other great and eminent men of his age. He is frequently mentioned by Ho-line, is impossible." FROM THE PASTORALS. TITYRUS AND MELIBUS. of his friends, recovered his estate, as an instance of his gratitude, composed the following Pastoral, where he sets out his own good fortune in the person of Tityrus, and the calamities of his Mantuan neighbours in the character of Melibœus. AUGUSTUS, having settled himself in the Roman empire, and wishing to reward his veteran troops for their services, distributed among them all the lands that lay about Cremona and Mantua, turning out the right owners for having sided BENEATH the shades which beechen boughs dif with his enemies. Virgil, who was a sufferer among the rest, having, through the intercession | You, Tityrus, entertain your silvan muse. fuse, MELIBUS. |