Targum Part 9

But when within the horse, the wondrous work of Epeius, Enter'd the n.o.ble Greeks, with me their chosen commander, Where we reclin'd thick and close, and one o'er the other we panted,-- Then whilst the rest of the chiefs and princes high of the Argives Wip'd away feminine tears, and each shook in every member, Him in that hour of dread these orbs of vision beheld not Either grow pallid or quake, or away from his cheek fresh and downy Wiping the tears--O no! and ever he begg'd for the signal Forth from the horse to emerge; and with ill intent to the Trojan, Ever his spear he grip'd, or rattled the hilt of his falchion-- But when with ruin dread we raz'd the city of Priam Fraught with the choicest prey the hero mounted his vessel, Free from all scathe; his form nor smit from afar by the jav'lin, Nor by the sword from near; no rare result of the combat, For the tremendous Mars is no respecter of persons.

Scarce had I spoke when the Shade of Eacus' swift-footed grandson Stalk'd with huge strides away o'er the flowery gra.s.s of the meadow, Glad at the heart that its boy was fam'd 'mongst the brave as a warrior.

HYMN

To Thetis and Neoptolemus.

From the Greek of Heliodorus.

Of Thetis I sing with her locks of gold-shine, The daughter of Nereus, lord of the brine, To Peleus wedded, by Jove's high decree; I sing her, the Venus so fair of the sea.

Of the spearman tremendous, the Mars of the fight, Thunderbolt of old Greece, she was quickly made light, Of Achilles divine, to whom Pyrrha an heir, The boy Neoptolemus, gladly did bear, The destroyer of Trojans, of Grecians the shield-- Thy protection to us, Neoptolemus yield!

Who blessed doth slumber in Pythia's green plain; To accept this oblation of hymns from us deign, And each peril drive far from our city benign.-- Of Thetis I sing with her locks of gold-shine.

THE GRAVE OF DEMOS.

From the Modern Greek.

Thus old Demos spoke, as sinking sought the sun the western wave: Now, my brave lads, fetch us water, after supping let us lave; O Lamprakes, O my nephew, down beside thy uncle sit-- When I'm gone, wear thou my trappings, and be captain, as is fit; And do ye, my merry fellows, now my vacant sabre take, And therewith green branches cutting, straight for me a pallet make; Some one for the holy father, that I may confess me, run, And that I to him may whisper all the crimes, in life I've done; I've full thirty years as warrior, twenty five as robber pa.s.s'd; Now I feel my end approaching, and I fain would breathe my last; Me a tomb that's broad and lofty, O forget not to prepare, For erect I'll stand within it, as in war, and weapons bear: On the right side leave an opening, that the merry larks in spring, Of its coming, welcome coming, may to me the tiding bring, And for me in May's sweet season nightingales may sweetly sing.

THE SORCERIES OF CANIDIA.

From Horace.

(Canidia and other witches, having enticed a boy of high birth into some secret cell, proceed to bury him in the earth, up to the chin; in order that, when he has perished with hunger in that situation, his liver etc.

may serve as ingredients for a draught, by administering which Canidia purposes to regain the affection of Varus, who has deserted her. The poem commences with the entreaties of the boy, and concludes with the imprecations which he utters when about to be abandoned to famine and inhumation.)

"Father of G.o.ds, who rul'st the sky, The earth and all the heavenly race!

What means this noise, why savagely On me is turn'd each frightful face?-- By thy dear babes, if aid e'er lent Lucine to thee in child-birth hour, By this proud purple ornament, By hands ne'er clasp'd to crave before, I beg thee, Dame! thou wilt declare Why she-wolf like thou me dost eye."

Stript of his tests of lineage fair He stood, who rais'd this piteous cry-- A boy, of form which might have made The Thracian furies' bosoms kind.

Canidia with her uncomb'd head And hair with vipers short entwin'd, Commands wild fig-trees, once that stood By graves, and cypresses uptorn, And toads foul eggs, imbued with blood, And plume, by night-owl lately worn, Herbs too, which Iolchos and Spain Produce, renown'd for poisons dire, And bone from hungry mastiff ta'en, Straight to be burn'd in magic fire.

And now the witch strode through the house, h.e.l.l-waters scattering wide around; Her hair like hedgehog's bristling rose, Or like the boar's whom hunters wound.

Veia, by pity unrestrain'd, With pick-axe hastes the ground to tear, And toil'd till sweat she panting rain'd, That the poor wretch imburied there Might slowly die, in sight of food Renew'd each day, his head so far Extant from earth, as from the flood The heads of swimmers extant are; That the parch'd marrow and the dry Liver for a love-draught might be, When fixt upon the feast the eye, The craving eye should cease to see.

All Naples says in verity, And all the neighbouring towns beside, That Folia lewd of Rimini Was present there, that dreadful tide-- She who with verse Thessalian sang Down from their spheres the stars and moon.

Her uncut thumb with livid fang The fell Canidia biting soon: "Night and Diana," scream'd she out, "Of my deeds faithful witnesses!

Ye who spread silence wide about, When wrought are sacred mysteries!

Now aid me: in my foe's house bid Your wrath and power divine to hie, Whilst in their awful forests hid, O'ercome with sleep, the wild beasts lie: May suburb curs, that all may jeer, Bay the old lecher, smear'd with nard {94}, More choice than which these fingers ne'er Have, skilful, at my need prepar'd.

But why have charms by me employ'd, Less luck than her's, Medea dread, With which her rival she destroy'd, Great Creon's child, then proudly fled, When the robe bane-imbued, her gift, Enwrapp'd the new-wed bride in flame?

But neither herb, nor root from rift Of lone rock ta'en, are here to blame; In every harlot's bed lies he Anointed with oblivion; Ah, ah, 'tis plain he walketh free Protected by some mightier one.

But Varus! thou shalt suffer yet!

Thou shalt re-seek these longing arms, And ne'er from me re-alienate Thy mind, enthrall'd by Marsan charms.

A cup more powerful I for thee Will soon prepare, disdainful wretch!

Ere shall the sky sink 'neath the sea, And that shall o'er the earth out-stretch, Than with my love thou shalt not burn, Like pitch, which in these flames I throw."

Not with mild words their bosoms stern To melt, as erst, the boy sought now; But madly reckless he began The direst curses forth to rave: "And do not think your sorceries can Yourselves from retribution save: Your curse I'll prove; my deathless hate By sacrifice ne'er sooth'd shall be; But when I perish, bid by fate, A night-ghost ye shall have in me.

With crook'd nails I'll your faces tear, For great is injur'd spirits might, On your b.r.e.a.s.t.s seated, hard I'll bear, And banish sleep with ceaseless fright; Ye through the streets with stones the crowd To death shall pelt, ye hags obscene!

Your limbs, no sepulture allow'd, The wolves shall tear and birds unclean.

My parents who, though grey and old, Shall me survive, their youthful boy When they that spectacle behold Shall clap their hands and smile for joy."

THE FRENCH CAVALIER, etc.

From the Provencal.

The French cavalier shall have my praise, And the dame of the Catalan; Of the Genoese the honorable ways, And a court on Castilian plan; The gentle, gentle Provencal lays, The dance of Trevisan; The heart which the Aragonese displays, And the pearl of Julian; The hands and face of the English race, And a youth of Tuscan clan.

ADDRESS TO SLEEP.

From the Italian of Vincenzio Filicaia.

Sweet death of sense, oblivion of ill, Sleep! who from war, from time to time, dost bear Poor, wretched mortals, and in peace dost still-- Compose the discords, which my bosom tear, For a brief s.p.a.ce, and kindly interpose Thy soothing wings betwixt me and my care.

These eyes, which seem in love with weeping, close!

And make my senses for a time thy bower, That whilst I sleep I may my sorrows lose.

I do not crave that thou the wand of power, Three times in Lethe dipp'd, at me shouldst shake, And all my senses sprinkle o'er and o'er; Let souls, more fortunate, thereof partake-- Of languid rest a portion scant and slight, My weary, wandering eyes content will make.

Now all the world is hush'd; to sleep invite The falling stars, and lull'd appears the main, And p.r.o.ne the winds have slumber'd on their flight; I, I alone--who will believe my strain?

I, I alone, in this repose profound And universal, no repose can gain; Four suns, and moons as many, have come round, Since tasted last these wretched lights of mine Of thee, sweet cordial to the sick and sound.

There on the rough peaks of the Apennine, Or where to Arno's breast in dower doth throw The Pesa limpid waves and crystalline-- With eye-b.a.l.l.s motionless, and hearts which glow With zeal and faith, repel thee as a sin, Perchance some band of eremites e'en now; O come from thence! and for one hour within My bosom deign to tarry, then retreat, And in some other breast admission win; I call thee thence! but if thou'dst hither fleet From, where now Love excludes thy gentle might-- Love with its phantasies so bitter sweet,-- Avaunt, avaunt! full wretched is my plight!

But honor, virtue I adore 'bove all, Nor to profane night's sacred hours delight, Descend on me, as on some mountain tall Descends the snow, and there, dissolving soon, Back to its pristine element doth fall; Or that same dew, which suckleth bland and boon Each green gra.s.s blade when morn begins to peep, That none neglected may its faith impugn.

Before I die thy humid pinions sweep Above me once, but O to stain forbear The heart which still immaculate I keep!

But thou com'st not, and now, with rosy hair From Ganges hastening, to all things again Their native hue restores Day's harbinger.

Perhaps thou'st come, and ah, my cruel pain And wakeful thoughts thee ingress have denied Into my eyes, or hurl'd thee out amain.

Since, blundering archer, thou dost shoot aside, Or snapp'st thy every dart my breast upon, To me thy wand be never more applied!

Away, away! grim Death can blunt alone My miseries' point, and ne'er till life be spent I shall the hour of dear repose have won.

O how the strife within is vehement!

Now reason wins, now madness holds the sway; So much my ill can do, nor I prevent.

O may this soul of mine from out its clay Fly to repose elsewhere! I'm sure to see My last hour once; and though far, far away The feign'd death keep, the true shall visit me.

THE MOORMEN'S MARCH FROM GRANADA.