THE

THEBAID OF STATIUS.

BOOK THE NINTH.

HE brutal Rage of bloody Tydeus fires

TH

His Foes, and th' Ardour of Revenge infpires.

E'en his own Grecians lefs deplore his Fate,

And blame his Fury and Excess of Hate.
Mars too, feverest on th' embattel'd Mead,
Fame represents disgusted at the Deed,
What time, a vig'rous Agent in the War,
O'er Hills of flain he drove his rattling Car.
So dire a Scene the God could not furvey,

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But turn'd his Steeds, and measur'd back the Way. 10 To punish then the Injury fuftain'd

By Menalippus, on his Corfe prophan'd

The Theban Youth with Wrath rekindled rife.
From Man to Man th' infectious Vengeance flies,

v. 1. The brutal Rage] The Poet, foreseeing as it were, that he should offend the Delicacy of the Critics by this Narrative, feems in this Paffage to have endeavoured to obviate the Cenfure, and affure the Reader, that he did not propose this Action of his Hero as worthy of Imitation, but quite the Reverse with a View to this, he reprefents Mars expreffing his Abhorrence of it in the ftrongest Manner, and introduces Eteocles taking Advantage of this Act of Brutality, to rally the Thebans to the Charge.

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As

As if fome Foe their Sires fhould disintomb,
And their Remains a Prey to Monsters doom.
The Monarch fans the Fire, and thus befpeaks:
Who now will favour, and account the Greeks
As Men ?-Behold! with Arms fupply'd no more
They ply their Teeth, and lap the Theban Gore.
Say, do we not with Lybian Lions fight,
With human Art oppofing favage Might.
See Tydeus, as a Lenitive in Death,
Feeding on hoftile Flesh refigns his Breath.
With Fire and Sword contented we engage;
Their Want of Weapons is fupplied by Rage.
Refining Cruelty, full in the View

Of Jove, this impious Track may they pursue.
Yet truly they the Prophet's End bemoan,
And curfe the Land for Mischiefs not its own.
In Words like these the King harangu'd aloud,
And vainly stalk'd before th' obfequious Crowd.
In all an equal Fury burns, to gain

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The Spoils and hated Corfe of Tydeus flain.

Thus Fowls obfcene hang o'er the liquid Way,

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When from afar the wafting Gales convey

v. 35. Thus Fowls obfcene] Milton has a noble Simile conceived in the genuine Spirit of this Author:

As when a Flock

Of rav'nous Fowl, though many a League remote,
Against the Day of Battle, to a Field

Where Armies lie incamp'd, come flying, lur'd
With Scent of living Carcafes, defign'd

For Death the following Day, in bloody Fight.

Par. Loft, Book 10. v. 273.

The Scent of Bodies that unburied lie,

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And taint the thick'ning Æther.-As they fly,
With flapping Pinions all the Skies refound:
The leffer Birds retire, and quit their Ground,
Fame flies from Man to Man, from Band to Band,
And spreads vague Murmurs o'er the Theban Land
More swift than wont the plies her fable Wings,
When woeful Tidings to fome Wretch fhe brings.
To trembling Polynices now the bears
The difmal News, and thunders in his Ears.
His Tears congeal'd, all petrified with Grief,
He ftands, and for a Time witholds Belief.
For his fuperior Valour, fo well known,
Forbids him to believe the Chief o'erthrown:
But when a fresh Report pronounc'd him dead,
A Cloud of Grief his Eyes and Mind o'erfpread;
All Circulation ceafing in his Veins.
He faints, he falls: his Arms beftrew the Plains.
His Tears now gush forth at the last Effort,
And the bright Greaves his falling Shield fupport.
Lonely he walks amidst a circling Throng,
And scarcely drags his fault'ring Knees along,
And cumbrous Spear, as though he was depreft
With countless Wounds, and pain'd above the rest. 60
The breathless Hero by his Comrades fhewn,
Who the fad Prince attend with many a Groan,
He grovels o'er the Corfe, (while from his Eyes

The Tears run copious) and defponding cries,
O Tydeus, Hope of all my warlike Toils,
Prop of my Caufe, and Partner of my Spoils!

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65

V. 65. O Tydeus] Thefe Reflections of Polynices on the Death of Tydeus are very manly and pathetic: They difplay a Dignity of

Soul

Is this the Recompence I should bestow,

Are these the Thanks which to my Friend I owe,
That in my Sight I fuffer thee to lie

Unwept and bare beneath a foreign Sky?
In Exile now far worse than Death I rove,
Depriv'd in thee of more than Brother's Love.
Nor feek I now the Crown by Lot decreed,
And fullied Throne to which I should fucceed:
Little I prize the Badges of Command,
And Scepter, which I take not from thy Hand.
Stand off, ye Warriors, and to me alone
Refign the Fight :-The Fortune is my own.
No longer now your useless Arms employ
Nor in Pursuit of Vengeance ftill destroy.
What greater Proof of Malice can you give,
Or how can I atone, while I furvive,

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For my Friend's Death?-O King, O confcious Night,
Begun with Strife, but clofing with Delight!
O Argos, dearest to the Gods above,

And fhort-liv'd Wrath, the Pledge of lafting Love!

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Soul, a Difinterestedness of Friendship, and an Overflowing of Gratitude, that is rarely to be found in the Breaft of the Ambitious: And I doubt not, but Readers of the fame delicate Mould as the Speaker here seems to be, will meet with a great deal of Entertainment in the Perufal of this masterly Oration.

v. 77. Stand off, ye Warriors,] This Action, which proves the great Courage of Polynices, has been cenfured in Achilles, as a Mark of the utmost Rafhnefs and Fool-hardinefs; yet it is remarkable, that Virgil and Milton, as well as our Author, have imitated it from Homer.

At pius Æneas dextram tendebat inermem
Nudato capite, atque fuos clamore vocabat.
Quo ruitis? quæve ifta repens Difcordia furgit!
O cohibete iras: ictum jam fœdus, et omnes
Compofitæ leges, mihi jus concurrere foli;
Me finite atque auferte metus.

Eneid, L. 12.

Oh

Oh! hadft thou (while my Life was in thy Hand,
Stretch'd me unpitied on a foreign Strand!

Yet more Great Chief, thou didst adopt my Cause,

And, trufting Jove and hofpitable Laws,

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Repair to Thebes, whence none would have return'd
Lefs brave. So ftrong the Flame of Friendship burn'd.
Fame hath e'en now of Thefeus ceas'd to boast,
And Telamon's Renown in thine is loft.

How chang'd thy Form! ah! what a diff'rent Air!
But fay, what Wounds fhall firft employ my Care? 96
How fhall I know the Theban Blood from thine?
And in thy Death what Numbers did combine?
Full well I ween, this envious Jove decreed;
And Mars with all his Javelin help'd the Deed.
He fpake, and washes with his Tears away
The Clots of Blood that on the Vifage lay;
And ev'ry Limb compos'd, thus cries anew:
Could't thou thus far my juft Revenge purfue,
And I ftill breathe?—This faid, with Woe distress'd,
He points the naked Sceptre to his Breast.
His pitying Friends restrain'd his daring Hands,
While the good King his Rashness reprimands,
And fooths his Rage, revolving in his Mind.
The Turns of War, and what the Fates defign'd; 110
Then from the much-lov'd Corfe, from which arose
His Love of Death, and Bitterness of Woes,
He steals the Youth, and, whilft his Words afford

A sweet Delufion, fheaths unfeen the Sword.

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Such o'er th' unfinish'd Field (his Comrade dead) · 115 The Bull, inactive with Despair, is led:

v. 115. Such o'er th’unfinish'd] The Hint of this beautiful Similə was taken from one in the 13th Book of Homer's Iliad.