Picus , who once th' Ausonian Sceptre held,
Could rein the Steed, and fit him for the Field.
So like he was to what you see, that still
We doubt if real, or the Sculptor's Skill
The Graces in the finish'd Piece, you find,
Are but the Copy of his fairer Mind.
Four Lustres scarce the Royal Youth could name,
Till ev'ry Love-sick Nymph confess'd a Flame
Oft for his Love the Mountain Dryads su'd,
And ev'ry Silver Sister of the Flood:
Those of Numicus, Albula , and those
Where Almo creeps, and hasty Nar o'erflows:
Where sedgy Anio glides thro' smiling Meads,
Where shady Farsar rustles in the Reeds:
And those that love the Lakes, and Homage owe
To the chaste Goddess of the Silver Bow.
In vain each Nymph her brightest Charms put on,
His Heart no Sov'reign would obey but one
She whom Venilia , on Mount Palatine ,
To Fanus bore, the fairest of her Line.
Nor did her Face alone her Charms confess,
Her Voice was ravishing, and pleas'd no less.
When-e'er she sung, so melting were her Strains,
The Flocks unfed seem'd list'ning on the Plains;
The Rivers would stand still, the Cedars bend;
And Birds neglect their Pinions, to attend;
The Savage Kind in Forest-Wilds grow tame;
And Canens , from her heav'nly Voice, her Name.
Hymen had now in some ill-fated Hour
Their Hands united, as their Hearts before
" Whilst their soft Moments in Delights they waste,
" And each new Day was dearer than the past;
Picus would sometimes o'er the Forests rove,
And mingle Sports with Intervals of Love.
It chanc'd, as once the foaming Boar he chac'd,
His Jewels sparkling on his Tyrian Vest,
Lascivious Circe well the Youth survey'd,
As simpling on the flow'ry Hills she stray'd.
Her wishing Eyes their silent Message tell,
And from her Lap the verdant Mischief fell.
As she attempts at Words, his Courser springs
O'er Hills, and Lawns, and ev'n a Wish outwings.
Thou shalt not scape me so, pronounc'd the Dame,
If Plants have Pow'r, and Spells be not a Name.
She said — and forthwith form'd a Boar of Air,
That sought the Covert with dissembled Fear.
Swift to the Thicket Picus wings his Way
On Foot, to chase the visionary Prey.
Now she invokes the Daughters of the Night,
Does noxious Juices smear, and Charms recite;
Such as can veil the Moon's more feeble Fire,
Or shade the Golden Lustre of her Sire
In filthy Fogs she hides the chearful Noon;
The Guard at Distance, and the Youth alone,
By those fair Eyes, she cries, and ev'ry Grace
That finish all the Wonders of your Face,
O! I conjure thee, hear a Queen complain,
Nor let the Sun's soft Lineage sue in vain.
Who-e'er thou art, reply'd the King, forbear,
None can my Passion with my Canens share.
" She first my ev'ry tender Wish possest,
" And found the soft Approaches to my Breast.
" In Nuptials blest, each loose Desire we shun,
" Nor Time can end, what Innocence begun.
" Think not, she cry'd, to saunter out a Life
" Of Form, with that domestick Drudge, a Wife;
My just Revenge, dull Fool, e're long shall show
What Ills we Women, if refus'd, can do:
Think me a Woman, and a Lover too.
" From dear successful Spight we hope for Ease,
" Nor fail to Punish, where we fail to Please.
Now twice to East she turns, as oft to West;
Thrice waves her Wand, as oft a Charm exprest.
On the lost Youth her magick Pow'r she tries;
Aloft he springs, and wonders how he flies
On painted Plumes the Woods he seeks, and still
The Monarch Oak he pierces with his Bill.
Thus chang'd, no more o'er Latian Lands he reigns;
Of Picus nothing but the Name remains.
The Winds from drifting Damps now purge the Air,
The Mist subsides, the settling Skies are fair:
The Court their Sov'reign seek with Arms in Hand,
They threaten Circe , and their Lord demand
Quick she invokes the Spirits of the Air,
" And Twilight Elves that on dun Wings repair
" To Charnels, and th'unhallow'd Sepulcher
Now, strange to tell, the Plants sweat Drops of Blood,
The Trees are toss'd from Forests where they stood;
Blue Serpents o'er the tainted Herbage slide,
Pale glaring Spectres on the Æther ride;
Dogs howl, Earth yawns, rent Rocks forsake their Beds,
And from their Quarries heave their stubborn Heads
The sad Spectators, stiffen'd with their Fears
She sees, and sudden ev'ry Limb she smears;
Then each of savage Beasts the Figure bears
The Sun did now to Western Waves retire,
In Tides to temper his bright World of Fire
Canens laments her Royal Husband's Stay;
" Ill suits fond Love with Absence, or Delay
" Where she commands, her ready People run;
" She wills, retracts; bids, and forbids anon.
Restless in Mind, and dying with Despair,
Her Breast she beats, and tears her flowing Hair.
Six Days, and Nights she wanders on, as Chance
Directs, without or Sleep, or Sustenance.
Tiber at last beholds the weeping Fair;
Her feeble Limbs no more the Mourner bear;
Stretch'd on his Banks, she to the Flood complains,
And faintly tunes her Voice to dying Strains.
The sick'ning Swan thus hangs her Silver Wings,
And, as she droops, her Elegy she sings.
E'er long sad Canens wastes to Air; whilst Fame
The Place still honours with her hapless Name
Here did the tender Tale of Picus cease,
Above Belief, the Wonder, I confess.
Again we sail, but more Disasters meet,
Foretold by Circe , to our suff'ring Fleet.
My self, unable further Woes to bear,
Declin'd the Voyage, and am refug'd Here.
Could rein the Steed, and fit him for the Field.
So like he was to what you see, that still
We doubt if real, or the Sculptor's Skill
The Graces in the finish'd Piece, you find,
Are but the Copy of his fairer Mind.
Four Lustres scarce the Royal Youth could name,
Till ev'ry Love-sick Nymph confess'd a Flame
Oft for his Love the Mountain Dryads su'd,
And ev'ry Silver Sister of the Flood:
Those of Numicus, Albula , and those
Where Almo creeps, and hasty Nar o'erflows:
Where sedgy Anio glides thro' smiling Meads,
Where shady Farsar rustles in the Reeds:
And those that love the Lakes, and Homage owe
To the chaste Goddess of the Silver Bow.
In vain each Nymph her brightest Charms put on,
His Heart no Sov'reign would obey but one
She whom Venilia , on Mount Palatine ,
To Fanus bore, the fairest of her Line.
Nor did her Face alone her Charms confess,
Her Voice was ravishing, and pleas'd no less.
When-e'er she sung, so melting were her Strains,
The Flocks unfed seem'd list'ning on the Plains;
The Rivers would stand still, the Cedars bend;
And Birds neglect their Pinions, to attend;
The Savage Kind in Forest-Wilds grow tame;
And Canens , from her heav'nly Voice, her Name.
Hymen had now in some ill-fated Hour
Their Hands united, as their Hearts before
" Whilst their soft Moments in Delights they waste,
" And each new Day was dearer than the past;
Picus would sometimes o'er the Forests rove,
And mingle Sports with Intervals of Love.
It chanc'd, as once the foaming Boar he chac'd,
His Jewels sparkling on his Tyrian Vest,
Lascivious Circe well the Youth survey'd,
As simpling on the flow'ry Hills she stray'd.
Her wishing Eyes their silent Message tell,
And from her Lap the verdant Mischief fell.
As she attempts at Words, his Courser springs
O'er Hills, and Lawns, and ev'n a Wish outwings.
Thou shalt not scape me so, pronounc'd the Dame,
If Plants have Pow'r, and Spells be not a Name.
She said — and forthwith form'd a Boar of Air,
That sought the Covert with dissembled Fear.
Swift to the Thicket Picus wings his Way
On Foot, to chase the visionary Prey.
Now she invokes the Daughters of the Night,
Does noxious Juices smear, and Charms recite;
Such as can veil the Moon's more feeble Fire,
Or shade the Golden Lustre of her Sire
In filthy Fogs she hides the chearful Noon;
The Guard at Distance, and the Youth alone,
By those fair Eyes, she cries, and ev'ry Grace
That finish all the Wonders of your Face,
O! I conjure thee, hear a Queen complain,
Nor let the Sun's soft Lineage sue in vain.
Who-e'er thou art, reply'd the King, forbear,
None can my Passion with my Canens share.
" She first my ev'ry tender Wish possest,
" And found the soft Approaches to my Breast.
" In Nuptials blest, each loose Desire we shun,
" Nor Time can end, what Innocence begun.
" Think not, she cry'd, to saunter out a Life
" Of Form, with that domestick Drudge, a Wife;
My just Revenge, dull Fool, e're long shall show
What Ills we Women, if refus'd, can do:
Think me a Woman, and a Lover too.
" From dear successful Spight we hope for Ease,
" Nor fail to Punish, where we fail to Please.
Now twice to East she turns, as oft to West;
Thrice waves her Wand, as oft a Charm exprest.
On the lost Youth her magick Pow'r she tries;
Aloft he springs, and wonders how he flies
On painted Plumes the Woods he seeks, and still
The Monarch Oak he pierces with his Bill.
Thus chang'd, no more o'er Latian Lands he reigns;
Of Picus nothing but the Name remains.
The Winds from drifting Damps now purge the Air,
The Mist subsides, the settling Skies are fair:
The Court their Sov'reign seek with Arms in Hand,
They threaten Circe , and their Lord demand
Quick she invokes the Spirits of the Air,
" And Twilight Elves that on dun Wings repair
" To Charnels, and th'unhallow'd Sepulcher
Now, strange to tell, the Plants sweat Drops of Blood,
The Trees are toss'd from Forests where they stood;
Blue Serpents o'er the tainted Herbage slide,
Pale glaring Spectres on the Æther ride;
Dogs howl, Earth yawns, rent Rocks forsake their Beds,
And from their Quarries heave their stubborn Heads
The sad Spectators, stiffen'd with their Fears
She sees, and sudden ev'ry Limb she smears;
Then each of savage Beasts the Figure bears
The Sun did now to Western Waves retire,
In Tides to temper his bright World of Fire
Canens laments her Royal Husband's Stay;
" Ill suits fond Love with Absence, or Delay
" Where she commands, her ready People run;
" She wills, retracts; bids, and forbids anon.
Restless in Mind, and dying with Despair,
Her Breast she beats, and tears her flowing Hair.
Six Days, and Nights she wanders on, as Chance
Directs, without or Sleep, or Sustenance.
Tiber at last beholds the weeping Fair;
Her feeble Limbs no more the Mourner bear;
Stretch'd on his Banks, she to the Flood complains,
And faintly tunes her Voice to dying Strains.
The sick'ning Swan thus hangs her Silver Wings,
And, as she droops, her Elegy she sings.
E'er long sad Canens wastes to Air; whilst Fame
The Place still honours with her hapless Name
Here did the tender Tale of Picus cease,
Above Belief, the Wonder, I confess.
Again we sail, but more Disasters meet,
Foretold by Circe , to our suff'ring Fleet.
My self, unable further Woes to bear,
Declin'd the Voyage, and am refug'd Here.