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No parent now remains my griefs to share,
No father's aid, no mother's tender care.
The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire,
Laid Thebè wafte, and flew my warlike fire!
His fate compaffion in the victor bred;
Stern as he was, he yet rever'd the dead,
His radiant arms preferv'd from hoftile spoil,
And laid him decent on the fun'ral pile ;
Then rais'd a mountain where his bones were burn'd:
The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorn'd,
Jove's filvan daughters bade their elms bestow
A barren fhade, and in his honour grow.

By the fame arm my fev'n brave brothers fell
In one fad day beheld the gates of hell:
While the fat herds and fnowy flocks they fed;
Amid their fields the hapless heroes bled!
My mother liv'd to bear the victor's bands,
The queen of Hippoplacia's filvan lands:
Redeem'd too late, fhe fcarce beheld again
Her pleasing empire and her native plain,
When ah! oppreft by life-confuming woe,
She fell a victim to Diana's bow.

Yet while my Hector ftill furvives; I fee
My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee:
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall.


Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share :
Oh prove a husband's and a father's care!
That quarter moft the skilful Greeks annoy,
Where yon' wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy :
Thou, from this tow'r defend th' important poft;
There Agamemnon points his dreadful hoft,

That pafs Tydides, Ajax, ftrive to gain,
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have giv'n,
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heav'n,
Let others in the field their arms employ,

But flay my Hector here, and guard his Troy.
The chief reply'd: That poft fhall be my care,
Nor that alone, but all the works of war.

How would the fons of Troy, in arms renown'd,

And Troy's proud dames, whofe garments fweep the


Attaint the luftre of my former name,

Should Hector bafely quit the field of fame?
My early youth was bred to martial pains,
My foul impels me to th' embattl'd plains:
Let me be foremost to defend the throne,
And guard my father's glories and my own.

Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates; (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates !)


The day when thou, imperial Troy! muft bend,
And fee thy warriours fall, thy glories end.
And yet no dire prefage fo wounds my mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,
Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore,
Not all my brothers gafping on the fhore;
As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread;
I fee thee trembling, weeping, captive led!
In Argive looms our battles to defign,

And woes, of which so large a part was thine!
To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring
The weight of waters from Hyperia's fpring.
There while you groan beneath the load of life,
They cry, Behold the mighty Hector's wife!
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to fee,
Embitters all thy woes, by naming me.

The thoughts of glory past, and present fhame,
A thoufand griefs, fhall waken at the name!
May I lie cold before that dreadful day,
Prefs'd with a load of monumental clay !

Thy He&tor wrapt in everlafting fleep,

Shall neither hear thee figh, nor fee thee weep.


The Death of DIDO, from Virgil's Eneid, B.IV.


Tranflated by Mr. DRYDEN.

WAS dead of night, when weary bodies close Their eyes in balmy fleep, and foft repose: The winds no longer whisper thro' the woods, Nor murmuring tides difturb the gentle floods. The ftars in filent order mov'd around,

And peace, with downy wings, was brooding on the ground.

The flocks and herds, and particolour'd fowl,
Which haunt the woods, or fwim the weedy pool;
Stretch'd on the quiet earth fecurely lay,

Forgetting the paft labours of the day.
All elfe of nature's common gift partake;
Unhappy Dido was alone awake.

Nor fleep or eafe the furious queen can find.
Sleep fled her eyes, as quiet fled her mind;

Despair, and rage, and love, divide her heart:

Despair and rage had fome, but love the greater part.

Then thus fhe faid within her fecret mind:

What shall I do, what fuccour can I find!
Become a fuppliant to Hiarba's pride,

And take my turn, to court and be deny'd!


Shall I with this ungrateful Trojan go,
Forfake an empire, and attend a foe?
Himself I refug'd, and his train reliev'd ;
'Tis true; but am I fure to be receiv'd ?
Can gratitude in Trojan fouls have place!
Laomedon ftill lives in all his race!

Then, fhall I feek alone the churlish crew,
And with my flect their flying fails pursue ?
What force have I but thofe, whom scarce before
I drew reluctant from their native shore?

Will they again embark at my defire,

Once more fuftain the feas, and quit their fecond Tyre ?

Rather with steel thy guilty breaft invade,

And take the fortune thou thyfelf haft made.
Your pity, filter, firft feduc'd my mind;

Or feconded too well, what I defign'd.
Thefe dear-bought pleasures had I never known,
Had I continu'd free, and ftill my own;

Avoiding love, I had not found despair :
But fhar'd with favage beafts the common air.
Like them a lonely life I might have led,
Not mourn'd the living, nor difturb'd the dead.
Thefe thoughts fhe brooded in her anxious breast;
On board, the Trojan found more easy reft.
Refolv'd to fail, in fleep he pafs'd the night;
And order'd all things for his early flight.


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