The fair Europa, struck with sudden dread, All pale and trembling started from her bed; Silent she sat, and thought the vision true, Still seem'd their forms to strive before her view: At length she utter'd thus the voice of fear; "Ye god's, what spectres to my sight appear? What dreams are these, in Fancy's livery drest, That haunt my sleep, and break my golden rest? And who that form that seem'd so wond'rous kind?

The dear idea still delights my mind.

30

She, like a mother, press'd me in her arms :
But, O ye gods! that send such strange alarms,
Preserve these visionary scenes from harms."
She said, and lightly from her couch she sprung,
Then sought her comrades, beautiful and young,
Her social mates; with them she lov❜d to lave
Her limbs unblemish'd in the crystal wave:
With them on lawns the sprightly dance to lead,
Or pluck sweet lilies in the flowery mead.
The nymphs assembled soon, a beauteous band!
With each a curious basket in her hand;
Then reach'd those fields where oft they play'd
before,

41

50

The fragrant fields along the sea-beat shore,
To gather flowers, and hear the billows roar.
Europa's basket, radiant to behold,
The work of Vulcan, was compos'd of gold;
He gave it Libya, mighty Neptune's bride,
She Telephassa, next in blood ally'd;
From her bequeath'd to fair Europa came
This splendid basket of celestial frame.
Fait in the work the milk-white lo stood
In roughen'd gold, and lowing paw'd the flood,
(For Vulcan there had pour'd the azure main)
A heifer still, nor yet transform'd again.
Two men stood figur'd on the ocean's brim,
Who watch'd the cow, that scem'd inclin'd to swim.
Jove too appear'd enamour'd on the strand,
And strok'd the lovely heifer with his hand :
Till, on the banks of Nile again array'd,
In native beauty shone the blooming maid :
The sev'n-mouth'd Nile in silver currents roll'd,
And Jove was sculptur'd in refulgent gold.
Near piping Hermes sleepless Argus lies,
Watching the heifer with his hundred eyes:
From Argus slain a painted peacock grew,
Fluttering his feathers stain'd with various hue,
And, as a ship expands her swelling sail,
He round the basket spread his starry tail,
Such were the scenes the Lemnian god display'd,
And such the basket of the Tyrian maid.

The lovely damsels gather'd flow'rets bright,
Sweet to the smell, and beauteous to the sight;
The fragrant hyacinth of purple hue,
Narcissus, wild thyme, and the violet blue;
Some the gilt crocus or pale lily chose,
But fair Europa cropp'd the blooming rose;
And all her mates excell'd in radiant mien,
As midst the Graces shines the Cyprian queen,
Not long, alas! in these fair fields she shone,
Nor long unloos'd preserv'd her virgin zone;

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70

80

51. The milk-white lö] The fabie of lö is told at large by Ovid in the first book of the Metamorphoses, and finely translated by Mr. Dryden; to whom I refer the curious reader, the story being too long to insert here.

81. Saturnian Jove beheld, &c.] Ovid has told the story of the Rape of Europa in the second book of the Metamorphoses; which, to prevent the trouble of referring to the particular similar passages, I shall give altogether under this note, in the language of Mr. Addison. The English reader will see at one view, even through the medium of translation, how closely the Roman has copied the Sicilian bard.

The dignity of empire laid aside,
The ruler of the skies, the thundering god,
Who shakes the world's foundations with a nod,
Among a herd of lowing heifers ran,

Frisk'd in a bull, and bellow'd o'er the plain.
Large rolls of fat about his shoulders clung,
And from his neck the double dewlap hung.
His skin was whiter than the snow that lies
Unsully'd by the breath of southern skies;
Small shining horns on his curl'd forehead stand,
As turn'd and polish'd by the workman's hand;
His eye-balls roll'd, not formidably bright,
But gaz'd and languish'd with a gentle light.
His every look was peaceful, and exprest
The softness of the lover in the beast.

Agenor's royal daughter, as she play'd
Among the fiel ls, the milk-white bull survey'd,
And view'd his spotless body with delight,
And at a distance kept him in her sight.
At length she pluck'd the rising flowers, and fed
The gentle beast, and fondly strok'd his head.
He stood well-pleas'd to touch the charming fair,
But hardly could confine his pleasure there.
And now he wantons on the neighb'ring strand,
Now rolls his body on the yellow sand;
And now, perceiving all her fears decay'd,
Comes tossing forward to the royal maid;

Gives her his breast to stroke, and downwards

turns

His grizly brow, and gently stoops his horns.
In flowery wreaths the royal virgin drest
His bending horns, and kindly clapp'd his breast.
Till now grown wanton, and devoid of fear,
Not knowing that she press'd the Thunderer,
She plac'd herself upon his back, and rode
O'er fields and meadows, seated on the god.

He gently march'd along, and by degrees
Left the dry meadow, and approach'd the seas;
Where he now dips his hoofs, and wets his thighs,
Now plunges in, and carries off the prize.
The frighted nymph looks backward on the shore,
And hears the tumbling billows round her roar;
But still she holds him fast: one hand is borne
Upon his back, the other grasps a horn;
Her train of ruffling garments flies behind,
Swells in the air, and hovers in the wind. [bore,
Through storms and tempests he the virgi
And lands her safe on the Dictæan shore;
Where now, in his divinest form array'd,
In his true shape he captivates the maid,

Soon let my eyes my great conductor hail,
For not without a deity I sail."

Thus spoke the nymph, and thus the bull reply'd:

170

Courage, fair maid, nor fear the foaming tide; Though now a bull I seem to mortal eyes, Thou soon shalt see me ruler of the skies. What shape I please, at will I take and keep, And now a bull I cross the boundless deep; For thy bright charms inspire my breast with love: But soon shall Crete's fair isle, the nurse of Jove, Receive Europa on its friendly strand, To join with me in Hymen's blissful band: From thee shall kings arise in long array, To rule the world with delegated sway."

Thus spoke the god; and what he spoke prov'd

true :

For soon Crete's lofty shore appear'd in view:
Jove straight assum'd another form and air,
And loos'd her zone; the Hours the couch pre-
pare.
180
The nymph Europa thus, through powerful love,
Became the bride of cloud-compelling Jove:
From her sprung mighty kings in long array,
Who rul'd the world with delegated sway.

IDYLLIUM III.

ON THE DEATH OF BION.

YE woods, with grief your waving summits bow,
Ye Dorian fountains, murmur as ye flow,
From weeping urns your copious sorrows shed,
And bid the rivers mourn for Bion dead:
Ye shady groves, in robe of sable hue
Bewail; ye plants, in pearly drops of dew:
Ye drooping flowers, diffuse a languid breath;
And die with sorrow at sweet Bion's death:
Ye roses change from red to sickly pale,
And all ye bright anemonies, bewail:
Now, Hyacinth, thy doleful letters show
Inscrib'd in larger characters of woe
For Bion dead, the sweetest shepherd swain.
Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strain!
Ye nightingales, that perch among the sprays,
Tune to melodious elegy your lays,
And bid the streams of Arethuse deplore
Bion's sad fate; lov'd Bion is no more:

10

Idyll. III.-Some have been so absurd as to ascribe this beautiful idyllium to Theocritus, because it was originally inserted in the collection that went under his name: but that he is not the author of it, is plain from a passage in this very idyllium, which mentions Theocritus as bewailing the death of Bion.

Moschus in this idyllium so frequently alludes to Bion's, on the death of Adonis, that it will be unnecessary to point out all the resembling places,

11. Now, Hyacinth, thy doleful letters show] The story of the transformation of Hyacinthus is told by Ovid in the tenth book of the Metamorphoses:

Ipse suos gemitus foliis inscribit, et as a,

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful strain! Ye swans of Strymon, in loud notes complain, Pensive, yet sweet, and droop the sickly wing, As when your own sad elegy ye sing, All the fair damsels of Oëagria tell, And all the nymphs that in Bistonia dwell, That Doric Orpheus charms no more the plains, Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful strains! No more he sooths his oxen at the yoke, No more he chants beneath the lonely oak, 30 Compell'd, alas! a doleful dirge to sing, To the grim god, the deaf Tartarean king. And now each straggling heifer strays alone, And to the silent mountains makes her moan; The bulls loud bellowing o'er the forests rove, Forsake their pasture, and forget their love.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful lay! Thy fate, O Bion, wept the god of day; Pan griev'd; the dancing Satyrs and the Fauns March'd slow and sad, and sigh'd along the lawns: Then wail'd the nymphs that o'er the streams preside,

41

Fast flow'd their tears, and swell'd the crystal tide.

Mute Echo now laments the rocks among,
Griev'd she no more can imitate thy song.
The flow'rets fade, and wither'd are the trees,
Those lose their beauty, and their verdure these,
The ewes no more with milky udders thrive,
No more drops honey from the fragrant hive;
The bees, alas! have lost their little store,
And what avails it now to work for more,
When from thy lips the honey's stolen away?
Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful lay!
Ne'er did the dolphin on the azure main
In such pathetic energy complain;

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33. And now each straggling heifer strays alone] See a similar passage in Virgil's fifth eclogue as translated by Dryden :

The swains forgot their sheep, nor near the brink
Of running waters brought their herds to drink,
The thirsty cattle, of themselves, abstain'd
From water, and their grassy fare disdain'd:
The death of Daphnis woods and hills deplore.

41. Then wail'd the nymphs that o'erthe streams preside, [tide. Fast flow'd their tears, and swell'd the crystal Thus Ovid on the death of Orpheus, Metamorph, b. 11.

lacrymis quoque flumina dicunt Increvisse suis; obscuraque carbasa pullo Naiades et Dryades, passosque habuere capillos Naiads and Dryads with dishevell❜d hair Promiscuous weep, and scarfs of sable wear; Nor could the river gods conceal their moan, But with new floods of tears augment their own. 53. Ne'er did the dolphin, &c.] Dolphins are said to utter a mournful cry, like a man in dis tress, and to be wonderfully fond of harmony; witness the fable of Arion. Longepierre thinks

the god upon its leaves

The sad expression of his sorrow weaves;
And to this hour the mournful purple wears
Ai, ai, inscrib'd in funeral characters.
Ozell.

(as Plutarch relates) being assassinated, his body was thrown into the sea, and received by a shoal of dolphins, and, on the very day when the feast of Neptune was celebrated, brought by them ashore near the city of Molicria; by which means the

Which dead in wintry sepulchres appear,
Revive in spring, and bloom another year:
But we, the great, the brave, the learn'd, the wise,
Soon as the hand of Death has clos'd our eyes,

IDYLLIUM IV.

151

In tombs forgotten lie, no suns restore,
We sleep, for ever sleep, to wake no more.
Thou too liest buried with the silent dead:
Fate spares the witlings, but thy vital thread
Snapp'd cruel chance! and now 'tis my hard lot
To hear the dull bards (but I envy not)
Grate their harsh sonnets, flashy, rude, and vain :
Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful straiu!
O hapless Bion! poison was thy fate;
The baneful potion circumscrib'd thy date:
How could fell poison cause effect so strange,
Touch thy sweet lips, and not to honey change?
How could the savage wretch, that nix'd the
draught,

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Hear heavenly music with a murderous thought? Could not thy songs his hellish purpose sway?

MEGARA.

MEGARA.

"WHY these complaints, and whence that dreadful sigh?

Why on thy cheek do thus the roses die?
Is it to see thy glorious son sustain,
From worthless hands, pre-eminence of pain?
A lion tortur'd by a fawn!--Great Jove!
Why such injurious treatment must I prove?
Why with such adverse omens was I born?
Wretch that I am! e'er since the nuptial morn
When to my arms my matchless lord was given,
Dear have I priz'd him as the light of Heaven;
And prize him still sure noue has suffer'd
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more,

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful lay! But soon just vengeance will his crime pursue, While I with pious tears thy tomb bedew. Could I like Orpheus, as old poets tell, Or mighty Hercules, descend to Hell; To Pluto's dreary mansion I would go, To hear what music Bion plays below. List to my counsel, gentle shepherd-swain, And softly warble some Sicilian strain, (Such as, when living, gave divine delight) To sooth the empress of the realms of night; For she, ere Pluto seiz'd the trembling maid, Sung Dorian lays, and in these meadows play'd. Nor unrewarded shall thy numbers prove, The dame will pity, though she cannot love; 180 As once she heard the Thracian's tuneful prayer, And gave him back Eurydice the fair, She'll pity now thy more melodious strain,

And send thee to thy hills and woods again.

Could I in powerful harmony excel,

The Sun, that sinks into the main,

Sets, with fresh light to rise again :
But we, when once our breath is fled,
Die, and are number'd with the dead.
With endless night we close our day,
And sleep eternity away.

Admirable is that of Job, chap. 14. "Man cometh forth as a flower, and is cut down.-There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease:-But man dieth, and wasteth away; yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he? He lieth down, and riseth not, till the Heavens be no more."

of the gods that he should serve Eurestheus twelve years, was thrown into so deep a melancholy, that it turned at length into a furious frenzy: during which he put away his wife Megara, and murdered all the children he had by her, which are supposed to have been twelve, because the king imposed on him the same number of labours, as an expiation for their murder, after he had recovered his senses. Hercules is supposed to have been absent on one of these expeditions, when this dialogue com

mences.

21. But as a bird bewails, &c.] Virgil has hap pily imitated this beautiful simile in his Georgies, book 4. ver. 511.

Qualis populeâ morens Philomela sub umbrą
Amissos queritur fœtus; quos durus arator
Observans nido implumes detraxit: at illa
Flet noctem, ramoque sedens miserabile carmen
Integrat, et moestis late loca questibus implet.

Which is as happily translated by Dryden.
So, close in poplar shades, her children gone,
The mother-nightingale laments alone:
Whose nest some prying churl had found, and
thence,

By stealth, convey'd th' unfeather'd innocence.
But she supplies the night with mournful strains,
And melancholy music fills the plains.