2: Epidemic Diseases were, by the Pagans, believed to be the effect of having offended Apollo. The arrows he shoots among the Greeks in the first Book of the Iliad, produce the Pestilence, which follows the rape of his Priest's Daughter, Chryseis. When we consider the dependence of the human constitution upon the temperate, or intemperate influence of the Sun, the avenging bow of Phœbus appears an obvious allegory;--and since it is in the hours of health that the fine Arts are sought and cultivated, the Sun, under the name of Phœbus, Apollo, &c. is with equal propriety of fable, supposed their Patron, as well as the Avenger of crimes by the infliction of diseases.
Mæcenas, I conjure thee cease To wake my harp's enamour'd strings To tones, that fright recumbent Peace, That Pleasure flies on rapid wings!
Slow conquest on Numantia's plain, Or Hannibal, that dauntless stood, Tho' thrice he saw Ausonia's main Redden with Carthaginian blood;
The Lapithæ's remorseless pride, Hylæus' wild inebriate hours; The Giants, who the Gods defied, And shook old Saturn's splendid towers;
These, dear Mæcenas, _thou_ should'st paint, Each glory of thy Cæsar's reign, In eloquence, that scorns restraint, And sweeter than the Poet's strain;
Show captive Kings, who from the fight Drag at his wheels their galling chain, And the pale lip indignant bite With mutter'd vengeance, wild and vain.
Enraptur'd by Licinia's grace, My Muse would these high themes decline, Charm'd that the heart, the form, the face Of matchless Excellence is thine.
Ah, happy Friend! for whom an eye, Of splendid, and resistless fire, Lays all its pointed arrows by, For the mild gleams of soft desire!
With what gay spirit does she foil The Pedant's meditated hit! What happy archness in her smile! What pointed meaning in her wit!
Her cheek how pure a crimson warms, When with the Nymphs, in circling line, Bending she twines her snowy arms, And dances round Diana's shrine[2]!
Mæcenas, would'st not thou exchange The treasures gorgeous Persia pours, The wealth of Phrygia's fertile range, Or warm Arabia's spicy shores,
For one light ringlet of the hair, Which shades thy sweet Licinia's face, In that dear moment when the Fair, In flying from thy fond embrace,
