Thence to her Herd fhe fped her self in haste :
The Bridegroom ftarted from his Trance at last,
And piping homeward jocundly he past.
The Beginning of the First Book of
Delight of human Kind, and Gods above,
Parent of Rome, Propitious Queen of Love, Whofe vital Pow'r, Air, Earth, and Sea fupplies; And breeds whate'er is born beneath the rowling Skies: For every kind, by thy prolifick might,
Springs, and beholds the Regions of the Light.
Thee, Goddefs, thee the Clouds and Tempefts fear,
And at thy pleafing Prefence disappear :
For thee the Land in fragrant Flow'rs is dreft;
For thee the Ocean fmiles, and fmooths her wavy
[light is bleft.
And Heav'n it felf with more ferene and purer
For when the rifing Spring adorns the Mead,
And a new Scene of Nature ftands display'd,
When teeming Buds, and chearful Greens appear,
And Western Gales unlock the lazy Year;
The joyous Birds thy welcome first exprefs,
Whose native Songs thy genial Fire confess:
Then favage Beafts bound o'er their flighted Food,
Struck with thy Darts, and tempt the raging Flood.
All Nature is thy Gift; Earth, Air, and Sea:
Of all that breathes, the various progeny,
Stung with delight, is goaded on by thee.
O'er barren Mountains, o'er the flow'ry Plain,
The leafy Foreft, and the liquid Main,
Extends thy uncontroul'd and boundless Reign.
Through all the living Regions doft thou move,
And scatter'ft, where thou goeft, the kindly Seeds of Since then the race of every living thing
Obeys thy Pow'r; fince nothing new can spring
Without thy Warmth, without thy Influence bear,
Or beautiful, or lovefome can appear;
Be thou my Aid, my tuneful Song infpire,
And kindle with thy own productive fire;
While all thy Province, Nature, I furvey,
And fing to Memmius an immorcal lay
Of Heav'n and Earth, and every where thy won-
drous Pow'r difplay :
To Memmius, under thy fweet Influence born,
Whom thou with all thy Gifts and Graces doft adorn.
The rather then affift my Mufe and me,
Infufing Verses worthy him and thee.
Mean-time on Land and Sea let barb'rous Discord cease,
And lull the liftning World in universal Peace.
To thee Mankind their foft repofe must owe;
For thou alone that Bleffing canft bestow;
Because the brutal bufinefs of the War
Is manag'd by thy dreadful Servant's Care ;
Who oft retires from fighting Fields, to prove
The pleafing Pains of thy eternal Love ;
And, panting on thy Breaft, fupinely lies, [Eyes;
While with thy heavenly Form he feeds his famish'd
Sucks in with open Lips thy balmy Breath,
By turns reftor'd to Life, and plung'd in pleasing Death,
There while thy curling Limbs about him move,
Involv'd and fetter'd in the Links of Love,
When, wishing all, he nothing can deny,
Thy Charms in that aufpicious moment try;
With winning Eloquence our Peace implore,
And Quiet to the weary World reftore.
The Beginning of the Second Book of
IS pleafant, fafely to behold from shore The rowling Ship, and hear the Tempeft roar: Not that another's Pain is our delight;
But Pains unfelt produce the pleafing Sight.
'Tis pleasant alfo to behold from far
The moving Legions mingled in the War.
But much more fweet thy lab'ring Steps to guide
To Virtue's heights, with Wifdom well fupply'd,
And all the Magazines of Learning fortify'd:
From thence to look below on human kind,
Bewilder'd in the Maze of Life, and blind :
To fee vain Fools ambitiously contend
For Wit and Pow'r; their laft endeavours bend
T'outfhine each other, wafte their time and health
In fearch of honour, and pursuit of wealth.
O wretched Man! in what a mist of Life,
Inclos'd with dangers and with noify ftrife,
He spends his little Span; and overfeeds
His cramm'd defires, with more than Nature needs!
For Nature wifely ftints our appetite,
And craves no more than undisturb'd Delight ;
Which Minds, unmix'd with cares and fears, obtain ;
A Soul ferene, a Body void of Pain.
So little this corporeal Frame requires ;
So bounded are our natural Defires,
That wanting all, and fetting Pain afide,
With bare Privation Senfe is fatisfy'd.
If Golden Sconces hang not on the Walls,
To light the coftly Suppers and the Balls;
If the proud Palace shines not with the State
Of burnish'd Bowls, and of reflected Plate;
If well-tun'd Harps, nor the more pleasing Sound
Of Voices, from the vaulted Roofs rebound;
Yet on the Grafs, beneath a Poplar shade,
By the cool Stream, our careless Limbs are lay'd;
With cheaper Pleasures innocently bleft,
When the warm Spring with gawdy flow'rs is dreft.
Nor will the raging Fever's fire abate,
With Golden Canopies and Beds of State :
But the poor Patient will as foon be found
On the hard mattress, or the Mother ground.
Then fince our Bodies are not eas'd the more
By Birth, or Pow'r, or Fortune's wealthy store,
'Tis plain, these useless Toys of every kind
As little can relieve the lab'ring Mind :
Unless we cou'd fuppofe the dreadful fight
Of marshal'd Legions, moving to the fight,
Cou'd, with their Sound and terrible Array,
Expel our fears, and drive the thoughts of Death away.
But, fince the fuppofition vain appears,
Since clinging Cares, and trains of inbred Fears,
Are not with Sounds to be affrighted thence,
But in the midst of Pomp purfue the Prince,
Not aw'd by Arms, but in the Prefence bold,
Without refpect to Purple, or to Gold;
Why should not we these pageantries despise;
Whofe worth but in our want of Reafon lies?
For Life is all in wandring Errors led ;.
And just as Children are furpriz'd with dread,
And tremble in the dark, fo riper Years
E'en in broad day-light are poffefs'd with fears;
And shake at fhadows fanciful and vain,
As thofe which in the Breafts of Children reign.
VOL. II.
Thefe bugbears of the Mind, this inward Hell,
No rays of outward funshine can dispel;
But Nature and right Reason must display
Their Beams abroad, and bring the darkfome Soul to day.
The latter Part of the Third Book of LUCRETIUS; against the Fear of Death.
WHAT has this Bugbear Death to frighten Men,
If Souls can die, as well as Bodies can ?
For, as before our Birth we felt no pain,
When Punick Arms infested Land and Main,
When Heav'n and Earth were in confufion hurl'd
For the debated Empire of the World,
Which aw'd with dreadful Expectation lay,
Sure to be Slaves, uncertain who should fway:
So, when our mortal frame fhall be disjoin'd,
'The lifeless Lump uncoupled from the Mind,
From fenfe of Grief and Pain we fhall be free;
We shall not feel, because we fhall not Be.
Though Earth in Seas, and Seas in Heav'n were loft,
We fhould not move, we only should be toft.
Nay, even fuppofe when we have fuffer'd Fate,
The Soul could feel in her divided State,
What's that to us? for we are only We
While Souls and Bodies in one frame agree.
Nay, tho' our Atoms should revolve by chance,
And Matter leap into the former dance;
Tho' time our Life and Motion could restore,
And make our Bodies what they were before,
What gain to us would all this buftle bring?
The new-made Man would be another thing.
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