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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,
A spacious circuit on the hill there stood,
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.
THE STORY OF SALMACIS, AND HERMA
How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams
The Naiads nurs'd an infant heretofore,
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.
When fifteen years, in Ida's cool retreat,