Galatea, a lady of Horace's acquaintance, was meditating a voyage to Greece, when Horace, having the story of Europa to tell, ingeniously turned that into an occasion for telling it. Under stress of rhyme I have been compelled, if not to coin a new word, at least to employ an old word in a new sense. By 'iron stile,' in the twelfth stanza, the critical reader is entreated to understand, not the stilus used by the ancients in writing, but the weapon which would be indicated by the augmentative of the Italian stiletto-that is to say, a short pointed sword like that which formed part of the equipment of a Roman foot-soldier. LET to the impious, the chattering jay And pregnant bitch, as omens lead the way, Let serpent interrupt their destined course Her whom I fear for, from the east invoke Be happy, Galatea, wheresoe'er You please of me live mindful: nor forbear XXVII. IMPIOS parrae recinentis omen Ducat, et praegnans canis, aut ab agro Rumpat et serpens iter institutum, Antequam stantes repetat paludes Sis licet felix ubicunque mavis, Yet, see how prone Orion hurries on Let wives and children of our foes deplore So too Europa, daring to confide Busied of late with flowers, she wandered through The fields, and wreathed for nymphs their chaplets due: Now, in the dusky night nought meets her view Save stars, and billows reeling. So soon as unto potent Crete she came, Crete, hundred-citied,-'Sire,' she cried, 'oh name Of daughter, which henceforth I ne'er may claim, Oh duty, foiled by passion! Whence come, and whither? can one death atone My base offence? or, still by vice undone, Sed vides quanto trepidet tumultu Hostium uxores puerique caecos Sic et Europe niveum doloso Nuper in pratis studiosa florum, et Quae simul centum tetigit potentem Unde? Quo veni? Levis una mors est Virginum culpae. Vigilansne ploro Turpe commissum? An vitiis carentem Ludit imago Emerging, vacant, from the ivory gate Than when fresh flowrets culling? How, to mine anger were that monster vile, Shameless, I quitted the paternal home: Shameless, I put off death. Ah, should there some One of the gods be listening-may I roam Naked 'mid lions raging: Ere ugly leanness my fair cheeks depress, My absent father taunts me: 'Why delay Do rather rocks, death-pointed, captivate, Trust the swift storm, unless from royal state |