The trembling boy by flight his safety sought,
And now recall’d the lore which Venus taught:
But now, too late, to fly the boar he strove,
Who in the groin his tusks impetuous drove:
On the discolour’d grass Adonis lay—
The monster trampling o’er his beauteous prey.
Fair Cytherea, Cyprus scarce in view,
Heard from afar his groans, and own’d them true,
And turn’d her snowy swans, and backward flew.
But as she saw him gasp his latest breath,
And quivering agonize in pangs of death,
Down with swift flight she plunged, nor rage forbore,
At once her garments and her hair she tore:
With cruel blows she beat her guiltless breast,
The fates upbraided, and her love confess’d.
“Nor shall they yet,” she cried, “the whole devour,
With uncontroll’d inexorable power.
For thee, lost youth, my tears and restless pain
Shall in immortal monuments remain:
With solemn pomp, in annual rites return’d,
Be thou for ever, my Adonis, mourn’d.
Could Pluto’s queen with jealous fury storm,
And Menthe to a fragrant herb transform?
Yet dares not Venus with a change surprise,
And in a flower bid her fallen hero rise?”
Then on the blood sweet nectar she bestows—
The scented blood in little bubbles rose;
Little as rainy drops, which fluttering fly,
Borne by the winds, along a lowering sky.
Short time ensued, till where the blood was shed,
A flower began to rear its purple head;
Such as on Punic apples is reveal’d,
Or in the filmy rind but half conceal’d.
Still here the fate of lovely forms we see,
So sudden fades the sweet anemone:
The feeble stems, to stormy blasts a prey,
Their sickly beauties droop, and pine away:
The winds forbid the flowers to flourish long,
Which, owe to winds their names in Grecian song.
Book XI
Death of Orpheus
The Thracian women, offended at the coldness of Orpheus, tear him to pieces, and throw his head into the Hebras, whose streams convey it to the coast of the Aegean sea, where a serpent, while sucking his blood, is changed into a stone.
Here, while the Thracian bard’s enchanting strain
Soothes beasts, and woods, and all the listening plain,
The female Bacchanals, devoutly mad,
In shaggy skins, like savage creatures, clad,
Warbling in air, perceived his lovely lay,
And from a rising ground beheld him play;
When one, the wildest, with dishevell’d hair,
That loosely stream’d and ruffled in the air,
Soon as her frantic eye the lyrist spied,
“See, see, the hater of our sex,” she cried;
Then at his face her missive javelin sent,
Which wizz’d along, and brush’d him as it went;
But the soft wreaths of ivy twisted round
Prevent a deep impression of the wound.
Another, for a weapon, hurls a stone,
Which, by the sound subdued as soon as thrown,
Falls at his feet, and, with a seeming sense,
Implores his pardon for its late offence.
But now their frantic rage unbounded grows,
Turns all to madness, and no measure knows:
Yet this the charms of music might subdue;
But that, with all its charms, is conquer’d too:
In louder strains their hideous yellings rise,
And squeaking hornpipes echo through the skies,
Which, in hoarse concert with the drum, confound
The moving lyre, and every gentle sound:
Then ’twas the deafen’d stones flew on with speed,
And saw, unsoothed, their tuneful poet bleed.
The birds, the beasts, and all the savage crew
Which the sweet lyrist to attention drew,
Now by the female mob’s more furious rage
Are driven, and forced to quit the shady stage.
Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail,
Nor can his song against their wrath prevail:
They flock like birds, when, in a clustering flight,
By day they chase the boding fowl of night:
So crowded amphitheatres survey
The stag, to greedy dogs a future prey.
Their steely javelins, which soft curls entwine
Of budding tendrils from the leafy vine,
For sacred rites of mild religion made,
Are flung promiscuous at the poet’s head.
Those, clods of earth or flints discharge; and these
Hurl prickly branches, sliver’d from the trees
And lest their passion should be unsupplied,
The rabble crew, by chance, at distance spied
Where oxen, straining at the heavy yoke,
The fallow’d field with slow advances broke;
Nigh which the brawny peasants dug the soil,
Procuring food with long laborious toil:
These, when they saw the ranting throng draw near
Quitted their tools, and fled, possess’d with fear.
Long spades, and rakes of mighty size, were found,
Carelessly left upon the broken ground:
With these the furious lunatics engage—
And first the labouring oxen feel their rage;
Then to the poet they return with speed,
Whose fate was, past prevention, now decreed:
In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain
He tries, before, his never-failing strain:
And from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound
Fierce tigers and insensate rocks could wound.
Ah, gods! how moving was the mournful sight!
To see the fleeting soul now take its flight.
Thee the soft warblers of the feather’d kind
Bewail’d; for thee thy savage audience pined;
Those rocks and woods that oft thy strain had led,
Mourn for their charmer, and lament him dead;
And drooping trees their leafy glories shed:
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.
His mangled limbs lay scatter’d all around;
His head and harp a better fortune found—
In Hebrus’ streams they gently roll’d along,
And soothed the waters with a mournful song:
Soft deadly notes the lifeless tongue inspire;
A doleful tune sounds from the floating lyre:
The hollow banks in solemn concert mourn,
And the sad strain in echoing groans return:
Now with the current to the sea they glide,
Borne by the billows of the briny tide,
And driven where waves round rocky Lesbos roar,
They strand, and lodge upon Methymna’s shore.
But here, when landed on the foreign soil,
A venom’d snake, the product of the isle,
Attempts the head, and sacred locks, imbrued
With clotted gore and still fresh-dropping blood.
Phoebus at last his kind protection gives,
And from the fact the greedy monster drives;
Whose marbled jaws his impious crime atone—
Still grinning ghastly, though transform’d to stone.
His ghost flies downward to the Stygian shore,
And knows the places it had seen before:
Among the shadows of the pious train
He finds Eurydice, and loves again;
With pleasure views the beauteous phantom’s charms,
And clasps her in his unsubstantial arms:
There side by side they unmolested walk,
Or pass their blissful hours in pleasing talk;
Aft or before the bard securely goes,
And without danger can review his spouse.
