Yet the rich Work compleatly the design'd:
A Woman's Face conceal'd a Manly Mind.
A Proof of Courage in each A&t appears;
But what is Courage in fuch tender Years?
For him, the Nymphs, that haunt the verdant Woods, Or bathe their snowy Limbs in crystal Floods;
Or on the Mountain sport, or on the Plain,
All figh'd, all languish'd, and all burn'd in vain.
And fure his Form might Nymphs inflame with Love,
Which could Diana's fettled Hate remove.
For when she saw, in the Manalian Shade,
How the fair, finiling, little Wanton play'd;
How harmless o'er th' unbending Grafs he flew,
Of the ftol'n Raptures. fhe unmindful grew =
Well feem'd the Virgin in the Mother loft,
That could this sweet, this heav'nly Burthen boast.
New Friendship foon the Goddefs did commence,
Recall'd th' Offender, and forgave th' Offence.
The marks of Honour did again beftow,
The Darts, the Quiver, and the Cretan Bow.
Th' unfledg'd Commander, vainly rash of Thought, Already burns with Battels yet unfought.
To his quick View the bloody Scene appears,
And comely Duft his yellow Locks befinears.
Transports unknown the num'rous Captives yield,
While the gay Victor prances o'er the Field.
His wonted Pleafures now delight no more; No Mufick in the Hounds that bay the Boar. Inglorious feem the Conquests of the Wood; He scorns the Dart, not dy'd with human Blood. Unarm'd the Youth, how lovely to behold! But glitters fweetly fierce in burnifh'd Gold. His Surcoat glows, rich with the Tyrian Stain, While Diamond Clafps the waving Folds reftrain. His Shield for Lightness of smooth Skins was made, Where his fam'd Mother's Triumph fhone difplay'd: Deep in th' Etolian Boar was fix'd the Reed, And in the Paint the Savage feem'd to bleed. In his Left Hand a Bow with graceful Pride He bore, his Right the Cydon Eugh supply'd. No vulgar Art adorn'd his Coat of Mail, With feather'd Gold, and many a fhining Scale; His radiant Helm the waving Creft furrounds, And on his Back his Amber Quiver founds, But the pale Amber Jafpers green enchase,
And with a livelier Verdure die the Grafs.
His fiery Courfer fnorts and neighs aloud,
With Wood-land Spoils of fpotted Lynxes proud,
In Swiftnefs, us'd to leave the Mountain-Hind,
A Rival for the fweeping, Northern Wind;
With Joy his Master, sheath'd in Arms, he bore,
But wonder'd at a Weight unfelt before :
His Mafter pleas'd, and flufh'd with youthful Grace,
Flew all around, and brighten'd ev'ry Place.
Arcadian Cohorts, firm, experienc'd Bands,
Enclose their Lord, and wait his dread Commands.
Arcadians, Time's firft Sons, who fcorn to trace
From the known Origin a mortal Race;
Who your dark Pedigree convey too high,
Ere Moon, or Stars, were lighted in the Sky.
Ere Nature's Rudeness Art, had taught to yield,
Unbuilt each City, and untill'd each Field.
From that loft Æra you derive your Birth,
And Steps first printed on the wond'ring Earth.'
The hardy Race (if Fame the Truth has fung)
From rigid Sires, and wooden Parents fprung.
The lab'ring Oak a stubborn Off-spring bred,
And kindly with fresh Show'rs of Acorns fed.
From the tall Ath a new Creation rose,
And teeming Lawrels felt a Mother's Throws.
The Beech Prolifick prov'd in like degree,
And a green Infant drop'd from ev'ry Tree.
These early, young Inhabitants begun
To watch the Motions of the rolling Sun.
New to the ftrange Viciffitude of Light,
They trembled at the fwift Approach of Night:
While Phobus haften'd to the Western Streams,
In vain they follow'd to o'ertake his Beams:
Then weary'd, heav'd their Hands, and begg'd his-
Stay,
Hung with their Eyes on the laft fainting Ray,
And mourn'd, and ficken'd in despair of Day.
The Fourth Book of STATIUS's Thebaid.
AME now th' important Secret had betray'd,
And to the Mother the fad Truth convey'd,
How her rafh Son, inflam'd with War's Alarms,
Had march'd, and all Arcadia rous'd to Arms.
Struck with the fatal News, at firft fhe found
No Strength, and drop'd her useless Arrows round.
Then fwift, as Storms, that rend the lofty Woods, O'er Rocks fhe flew, and ftem'd the foaming Floods. Her loofen'd Robes, neglected, flow'd behind,
Her Locks at Pleasure ruffled in the Wind.
The Mother Tygers thus, their Children flain,
Purfue the murd'ring Wretch, and fcour along the Plain.
Close to her Son fhe ftood; the Red forfook
His Cheeks, and show'd a pale dejected Look:
Then cry'd, What Frenzy has possest my Boy?
Hence vain, deluding Honour, airy Toy!
Can thirst of Fame impertinently raise
In fuch a tender Breaft fo fierce a Blaze?
Leave Arms, my Child, to Men; nor tempt too far
The fweating Toils, and dreadful Shocks of War.
Too foon, alas! thy feeble Strength would yield,
In the rough Tempest of an Iron Field..
Nor do I feek to damp a glorious Fire;
But wish thy Vigour anfwer thy Defire.
Trembling, I faw thee late (nor vain my Fear)
Launch at the bristling Boar thy pointed Spear,
The Savage turn'd, nor could thofe Nerves repel
His. Rage, and only not fupine you fell:
Then if a winged Death I had not fped,
Where would that reftlefs Valour now be fled?
You no more Dangers had industrious run;
But now thofe Darts will not protect my Son:
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