(Canidia and other witches, having enticed a boy of high birth into some secret cell, proceed to bury him in the earth, up to the chin; in order that, when he has perished with hunger in that situation, his liver etc. may serve as ingredients for a draught, by administering which Canidia purposes to regain the affection of Varus, who has deserted her. The poem commences with the entreaties of the boy, and concludes with the imprecations which he utters when about to be abandoned to famine and inhumation.)
“Father of Gods, who rul’st the sky,
The earth and all the heavenly race!
What means this noise, why savagely
On me is turn’d each frightful face?—
By thy dear babes, if aid e’er lent
Lucine to thee in child-birth hour,
By this proud purple ornament,
By hands ne’er clasp’d to crave before,
I beg thee, Dame! thou wilt declare
Why she-wolf like thou me dost eye.”
Stript of his tests of lineage fair
He stood, who rais’d this piteous cry—
A boy, of form which might have made
The Thracian furies’ bosoms kind.
Canidia with her uncomb’d head
And hair with vipers short entwin’d,
Commands wild fig-trees, once that stood
By graves, and cypresses uptorn,
And toads foul eggs, imbued with blood,
And plume, by night-owl lately worn,
Herbs too, which Iolchos and Spain
Produce, renown’d for poisons dire,
And bone from hungry mastiff ta’en,
Straight to be burn’d in magic fire.
And now the witch strode through the house,
Hell-waters scattering wide around;
Her hair like hedgehog’s bristling rose,
Or like the boar’s whom hunters wound.
Veia, by pity unrestrain’d,
With pick-axe hastes the ground to tear,
And toil’d till sweat she panting rain’d,
That the poor wretch imburied there
Might slowly die, in sight of food
Renew’d each day, his head so far
Extant from earth, as from the flood
The heads of swimmers extant are;
That the parch’d marrow and the dry
Liver for a love-draught might be,
When fixt upon the feast the eye,
The craving eye should cease to see.
All Naples says in verity,
And all the neighbouring towns beside,
That Folia lewd of Rimini
Was present there, that dreadful tide—
She who with verse Thessalian sang
Down from their spheres the stars and moon.
Her uncut thumb with livid fang
The fell Canidia biting soon:
“Night and Diana,” scream’d she out,
“Of my deeds faithful witnesses!
Ye who spread silence wide about,
When wrought are sacred mysteries!
Now aid me: in my foe’s house bid
Your wrath and power divine to hie,
Whilst in their awful forests hid,
O’ercome with sleep, the wild beasts lie:
May suburb curs, that all may jeer,
Bay the old lecher, smear’d with nard [{94}],
More choice than which these fingers ne’er
Have, skilful, at my need prepar’d.
But why have charms by me employ’d,
Less luck than her’s, Medea dread,
With which her rival she destroy’d,
Great Creon’s child, then proudly fled,
When the robe bane-imbued, her gift,
Enwrapp’d the new-wed bride in flame?
But neither herb, nor root from rift
Of lone rock ta’en, are here to blame;
In every harlot’s bed lies he
Anointed with oblivion;
Ah, ah, ’tis plain he walketh free
Protected by some mightier one.
But Varus! thou shalt suffer yet!
Thou shalt re-seek these longing arms,
And ne’er from me re-alienate
Thy mind, enthrall’d by Marsan charms.
A cup more powerful I for thee
Will soon prepare, disdainful wretch!
Ere shall the sky sink ’neath the sea,
And that shall o’er the earth out-stretch,
Than with my love thou shalt not burn,
Like pitch, which in these flames I throw.”
Not with mild words their bosoms stern
To melt, as erst, the boy sought now;
But madly reckless he began
The direst curses forth to rave:
“And do not think your sorceries can
Yourselves from retribution save:
Your curse I’ll prove; my deathless hate
By sacrifice ne’er sooth’d shall be;
But when I perish, bid by fate,
A night-ghost ye shall have in me.
With crook’d nails I’ll your faces tear,
For great is injur’d spirits might,
On your breasts seated, hard I’ll bear,
And banish sleep with ceaseless fright;
Ye through the streets with stones the crowd
To death shall pelt, ye hags obscene!
Your limbs, no sepulture allow’d,
The wolves shall tear and birds unclean.
My parents who, though grey and old,
Shall me survive, their youthful boy
When they that spectacle behold
Shall clap their hands and smile for joy.”
THE FRENCH CAVALIER, etc.
From the Provençal.
The French cavalier shall have my praise,
And the dame of the Catalan;
Of the Genoese the honorable ways,
And a court on Castilian plan;
The gentle, gentle Provençal lays,
The dance of Trevisan;
The heart which the Aragonese displays,
And the pearl of Julian;
The hands and face of the English race,
And a youth of Tuscan clan.
ADDRESS TO SLEEP.
From the Italian of Vincenzio Filicaia.
Sweet death of sense, oblivion of ill,
Sleep! who from war, from time to time, dost bear
Poor, wretched mortals, and in peace dost still—
Compose the discords, which my bosom tear,
For a brief space, and kindly interpose
Thy soothing wings betwixt me and my care.
These eyes, which seem in love with weeping, close!
And make my senses for a time thy bower,
That whilst I sleep I may my sorrows lose.
I do not crave that thou the wand of power,
Three times in Lethe dipp’d, at me shouldst shake,
And all my senses sprinkle o’er and o’er;
Let souls, more fortunate, thereof partake—
Of languid rest a portion scant and slight,
My weary, wandering eyes content will make.
Now all the world is hush’d; to sleep invite
The falling stars, and lull’d appears the main,
And prone the winds have slumber’d on their flight;
I, I alone—who will believe my strain?
I, I alone, in this repose profound
And universal, no repose can gain;
Four suns, and moons as many, have come round,
Since tasted last these wretched lights of mine
Of thee, sweet cordial to the sick and sound.
There on the rough peaks of the Apennine,
Or where to Arno’s breast in dower doth throw
The Pesa limpid waves and crystalline—
With eye-balls motionless, and hearts which glow
With zeal and faith, repel thee as a sin,
Perchance some band of eremites e’en now;
O come from thence! and for one hour within
My bosom deign to tarry, then retreat,
And in some other breast admission win;
I call thee thence! but if thou’dst hither fleet
From, where now Love excludes thy gentle might—
Love with its phantasies so bitter sweet,—
Avaunt, avaunt! full wretched is my plight!
But honor, virtue I adore ’bove all,
Nor to profane night’s sacred hours delight,
Descend on me, as on some mountain tall
Descends the snow, and there, dissolving soon,
Back to its pristine element doth fall;
Or that same dew, which suckleth bland and boon
Each green grass blade when morn begins to peep,
That none neglected may its faith impugn.
Before I die thy humid pinions sweep
Above me once, but O to stain forbear
The heart which still immaculate I keep!
But thou com’st not, and now, with rosy hair
From Ganges hastening, to all things again
Their native hue restores Day’s harbinger.
Perhaps thou’st come, and ah, my cruel pain
And wakeful thoughts thee ingress have denied
Into my eyes, or hurl’d thee out amain.
Since, blundering archer, thou dost shoot aside,
Or snapp’st thy every dart my breast upon,
To me thy wand be never more applied!
Away, away! grim Death can blunt alone
My miseries’ point, and ne’er till life be spent
I shall the hour of dear repose have won.
O how the strife within is vehement!
Now reason wins, now madness holds the sway;
So much my ill can do, nor I prevent.
O may this soul of mine from out its clay
Fly to repose elsewhere! I’m sure to see
My last hour once; and though far, far away
The feign’d death keep, the true shall visit me.
THE MOORMEN’S MARCH FROM GRANADA.
An Ancient Ballad.
From the Spanish,