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" The mighty miracle that did ensue, “ Although it seems beyond belief, is true. “ The vessel, fix'd and rooted in the food, “ Unmov'd by all the beating billows stood. " In vain the mariners would plough the main “ With sails unfurl'd, and strike their oars in vain; Around their oars a twining ivy cleaves, And climbs the mast, and hides the cords in leaves : “ The sails are cover'd with a cheerful green, “ And berries in the fruitful canvas seen. “ Amidst the waves a sudden forest rears “ Its verdant head, and a new spring appears. “ The god we now behold with open eyes; A herd of spotted panthers round him lies “ In glaring forms; the grapy clusters spread “ On his fair brows, and dangle on his head. “ And whilst he frowns, and brandishes his spear, “ My mates, surpris’d with madness or with fear, “ Leap'd overboard; first perjurd Madon found “ Rough scales and fins his stiffning sides surround; 66 Ah what,' cries one,'has thus tranform'd thy look ? “ Straight his own mouth grew wider as he spoke ; “ And now himself he views with like surprise. “ Still at his oar th' industrious Libys plies ; “ But, as he plies, each busy arm shrinks in, And by degrees is fashion'd to a fin. " Another, as he catches at a cord, “ Misses his arms, and, tumbling overboard, “ With his broad fins and forky tail he laves The rising surge, and flounces in the waves. “ Thus all my crew transform'd around the ship, “ Or dive below, or on the surface leap, “ And spout the waves, and wanton in the deep.

« Full nineteen sailors did the ship convey, “ A shoal of nineteen dolphins round her play. I only in my proper shape appear, “ Speechless with wonder, and half dead with fear, “ Till Bacchus kindly bid me fear no more. « With him I landed on the Chian shore, “ And him shall ever gratefully adore.” « This forging slave," says Pentheus,“ would prevail, “ O'er our just fury by a far-fetch'd tale: “ Go, let him feel the whips, the swords, the fire, “ And in the tortures of the rack expire." Th' officious servants hurry him away, And the poor captive in a dungeon lay. But, whilst the whips and tortures are prepar'd, The gates fly open, of themselves unbarr'd; At liberty th' unfetter'd captive stands, And Alings the loosen'd shackles from his hands.

THE DEATH OF PENTHEUS.

But Pentheus, grown more furious than before,
Resolv'd to send his messengers no more,
But went himself to the distracted throng,
Where high Cithæron echoed with their song.
And as the fiery warhorse paws the ground,
And snorts and trembles at the trumpet's sound;
Transported thus he heard the frantic rout,
And rav'd and madden'd at the distant shout.

A spacious circuit on the hill there stood,
Level and wide, and skirted round with wood;
Here the rash Pentheus, with unhallow'd eyes,
The howling dames and mystic orgies spies.

His mother sternly view'd him where he stood, And kindled into madness as she view'd : Her leafy jav'lin at her son she cast, And cries, “ the boar that lays our country waste ! « The boar, my sisters! aim the fatal dart, “ And strike the brindled monster to the heart.”

Pentheus astonish'd heard the dismal sound, And sees the yelling matrons gath’ring round; He sees, and weeps at his approaching fate, And begs for mercy, and repents too late. “ Help, help! my aunt Autonie,” he cried; “ Remember how your own Actæon died,” Deaf to his cries, the frantic matron crops One stretch'd-out arm, the other Ino lops. In vain does Pentheus to his mother sue, And the raw bleeding stumps presents to view: His mother howld; and heedless of his pray'r, Her trembling hand she twisted in his hair, “ And this,” she cried, “ shall be Agavè's share.” When from the neck his struggling head she tore, And in her hands the ghastly visage bore, With pleasure all the hideous trunk survey; Then pulld and tore the mangled limbs away, As starting in the pangs of death it lay. Soon as the wood its leafy honours casts, Blown off and scatter'd by autumnal blasts, With such a sudden death lay Pentheus slain, And in a thousand pieces strow'd the plain.

By so distinguishing a judgment aw'd, The Thebans tremble, and confess the god.

OVID'S

METAMORPHOSES.

BOOK IV.

THE STORY OF SALMACIS, AND HERMA

PHRODITUS.

How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams
Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs,
And what the secret cause, shall here be shown;
The cause is secret, but th' effect is known.

The Naiads nurs'd an infant heretofore,
That Cytherea once to Hermes bore;
From both th' illustrious authors of his race
The child was nam'd; nor was it hard to trace
Both the bright parents through the infant's face.

a Mr. Addison was very young when he made these translations.—Still, one a little wonders how his virgin muse, “ nescia quid sit amor(as Ovid says of Hermaphroditus), could be drawn in to attempt this subject :- but the charms of the poetry prevailed. He very properly omits, or softens, the most obnoxious passages of his original; and, after all, seems half ashamed of what he had done, as we may conclude from his writing no notes on this story, which, being told in Ovid's best manner, must have suggested to him many fine ones.

VOL. I.

When fifteen years, in Ida's cool retreat,
The boy had told, he left his native seat,
And sought fresh founiains in a foreign soil :
The pleasure lessen'd the attending toil.
With eager steps the Lycian fields he crost,
And fields that border on the Lycian coast;
A river here he view'd so lovely bright,
It show'd the bottom in a fairer light,
Nor kept a sand conceald from human sight.
The stream produc'd nor slimy ooze, nor weeds,
Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds;
But dealt enriching moisture all around,
The fruitful banks with cheerful verdure crown'd,
And kept the spring eternal on the ground.
A nymph presides, nor practis’d in the chace,
Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race;
Of all the blue-ey'd daughters of the main,
The only stranger to Diana's train :
Her sisters often, as 'tis said, would cry,
“ Fie, Salmacis, what always idle! fie,
“ Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize,
And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease.”
Nor quiver she nor arrows e'er would seize,
Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease.
But oft would bathe her in the crystal tide,
Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide;
Now in the limpid streams she view'd her face,
And dress'd her image in the floating glass :
On beds of leaves she now repos'd her limbs,
Now gather'd flowers that grew about her streams;
And then by chance was gathering, as she stood
To view the boy, and long'd for what she view'd.

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