“ ‘Picus, who once the 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 every lovesick nymph confess’d a flame.
Oft for his love the mountain dryads sued,
And every silver sister of the flood:
Those of Numicus, Albula, and those
Where Almo creeps, and hasty Nar o’erflows;
Where sedgy Anio glides through smiling meads,
Where shady Farfar 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 sovereign would obey but one,
She whom Venilia, on Mount Palatine,
To Janus bore, the fairest of his line;
Nor did her face alone her charms confess,
Her voice was ravishing, and pleased no less.
Whene’er she sung, so melting were her strains,
The flocks, unfed, seem’d listening 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 heavenly voice, her name.
“ ‘Hymen had now, in some ill-fated hour,
Their hands united, as their hearts before.
While 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 chanced, as once the foaming boar he chased,
His jewels sparkling on his Tyrian vest,
Lascivious Circe well the youth survey’d,
As simpling on the flowery 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,” pronounced the dame,
“If plants have power, 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 cheerful noon.
The guard at distance, and the youth alone—
“By those fair eyes,” she cries, “and every grace
That finish all the wonders of your face,
Oh! I conjure thee, hear a queen complain,
Nor let the sun’s soft lineage sue in vain.”
“ ‘ “Whoe’er thou art,” replied the king, “forbear!
None can my passion with my Canens share:
She first my every tender wish possess’d,
And found the soft approaches to my breast;
In nuptials bless’d, each loose desire we shun,
Nor time can end what innocence begun.”
“ ‘ “Think not,” she cried, “to saunter out a life
Of form, with that domestic drudge—a wife;
My just revenge, dull fool, ere long shall show
What ills we women, if refused, can do.
Think me a woman and a lover too.
From dear successful spite 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 express’d.
On the lost youth her magic power 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 changed, no more o’er Latian lands he reigns;
Of Picus nothing but the name remains.
“ ‘The winds from drisling damps now purge the air,
The mist subsides, the settling skies are fair;
The court their sovereign 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 the unhallow’d sepulchre.
“ ‘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 ether 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 every 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 breasts 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 sickening swan thus hangs her silver wings,
And, as she droops, her elegy she sings.
Ere long sad Canens wastes to air; while 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 suffering fleet.
Myself unable further woes to bear,
Declined the voyage, and am refuged here.”