Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn,
Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn.
To this lov'd infant Hector gave the name
Scamandrius, from Scamander's honour'd stream;
Aftyanax the Trojans call'd the boy,
From his great father, the defence of Troy.
Silent the warrior smil'd, and pleas'd resign'd
To tender passions all his mighty mind :
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke;
Her bofom labour'd with a boding figh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

Too daring prince ! ah whither doft thou run?
Ah too forgetful of thy wife and fon!
And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be,
A widow I, an helpless orphan he !
For sure such courage length of life denies,
And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice.
Greece in her fingle heroes strove in vain;
Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be flain !
Oh grant me, Gods ! ere Hector meets his doom,
All I can ask of heav'n, an early tomb!

So shall my days in one fad tenour run,
And end with sorrows as they first begun.
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 Thebe waste, and new my warlike fire!

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His

a

His fate compassion in the victor bred;
Stern as he was, he yet rever'd the dead,
His radiant arms preserv'd from hoitile 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 shade, and in his honour grow.

By the same arm my fev’n brave brothers fell;
In one sad day beield the gates of hell:
While the fat herds and snoivy flocks they fed ;
Amid their fields the haple's heroes bled!
My mother liv'd to bear the victor's bands,
The queen of Hippoplacin's filvan lands :
Redeem'd too late, the scarce beheld again
Her pleafing empire and her native plain,
When ah! opprest by life-consuming woe,
She fell a victim to Diana's bow.

Yet while my Hector still survives; I see
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 most 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 hot,

That

That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive 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 arins employ,
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy.

The chief reply'd: That poft shall be my care,
Nor that alone, but all the works of war.
How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd,
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the

ground,
Attaint the lustre of my former name,
Should Hector bafely quit the field of fame?
My early youth was bred to martial pains,
My soul 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! must bend,
And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end.
And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind;
Not Priam's hoary hairs defild with gore,
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore ;
As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread;
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led!
In Argive looms our battles to design,
And woes, of which lo large a part was thine !

To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring
The weight of waters from Hyperia’s spring.
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 shame,
A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name!
May I lie cold before that dreadful day,
Press’d with a load of monumental clay!
Thy Hector wrapt in everlasting sleep,
Shall neither hear thee figh, nor see thee weep.

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

Translated by Mr. Dryden.

'TW

WAS dead of night, when weary bodies close
Their

eyes in balmy sleep, and soft repose :
The winds no longer whisper thro' the woods,
Nor murmuring tides disturb the gentle floods.
The stars 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 swim the weedy pool ;
Stretch'd on the quiet earth securely lay,
Forgetting the past labours of the day.
All else of nature's common gift partake ;
Unhappy Dido was alone awake.
Nor sleep or ease 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 some, but love the greater part.

Then thus she said within her secret mind :
What shall I do, what fuccour can I find!
Become a suppliant toʻHiarba's pride,
And take

my turn, to court and be deny'd! Shall I with this ungrateful Trojan go, Forsake an empire, and attend a foe?.

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Himself

: