Breathless we run some neighb'ring roof to gain,
Nor scorn to fly, where all defence were vain.
Not so Hippolytus: alone unmov'd,
He dares the fight, a hero's son approv❜d,
Checks his proud steeds, and grasps in haste to slay His thirsty lance, impatient for the
Pois'd by no erring hand, the faithful dart
Sinks deep, and quivers in the monster's heart.
ithes
Frantic with rage and pain, the savage wreaths,
As gasping at the victor's feet he breathes
From his envenom'd jaws a mingled flood
Of rolling smoke, and fire, and streaming blood.
Swift scour the madd'ning steeds, and wing'd with fear,
Nor heed the rein, nor threat'ning charioteer :
All force and skill alike avail no more;
The galling bit runs crimson with their gore:
Some God, 'tis said, as of the Fury train,
With snaky lash provok'd their speed amain :
O'er trackless wastes and rugged steeps they dash
The rifted axle yields a deadly crash;
And hurl'd abroad in wild disorder far
Fly the loose fragments of the shatter'd car.
Bound in the tangled reins, the youth is thrown,
And in his chariot's ruin views his own:
I saw, alas! I saw him lifeless spread,
Torn by the steeds his fatal bounty fed;
His well-known voice that should abate their fear,
But adds new fury to their mad career;
The mangled carcase trail'd along the ground,
One shapeless. clot appears, one universal wound.
Till, spent at last, they slacken in their pace,
Drawn by strong impulse to that fated place,
Where ancient tombs and sacred urns inshrine
The mould'ring relics of his princely line.
Thither we speed, and o'er the craggy shor
Pursue the purple traces of his
Nor vain the search; the rocks discolour'd bear
His flesh still quiv'ring, and his clotted hair:
Approaching near," Hippolytus!" in vain,
"Hippolytus!" I cry. The Prince with pain..
Scarce rais'd his dying eyes, and clos'd again :
Then feebly spoke; "A guiltless death I die :
On thee alone my parting cares rely.
This last fond wish, Theramenes, attend:
Thou hast been mine, be thou Aricia's friend:
And should my sire by late conviction won,
E'er weep the fortune of an injur'd son,
Bid him requite my melancholy shade
With proffer'd bounty to the captive maid;
Bid him restore." At this his fleeting breath
No more could struggle with prevailing death;
But in my arms the shapeless body left,
Of speech, of motion, and of life bereft ;
So chang'd, alas! that in that sad disguise
The Son might e'en elude a Father's eyes:
A wretched victim doom'd on earth to shew,
. What fatal ills from heav'nly vengeance flow.
J. M'CREERY, Printer,
Black-Horse-court, Fleet-street, London.
By Pamphlet, Pasquinade, Review.
PARVE, NEC INVIDEO, SINE ME, LIBER, IBIS IN URBEM:
HEI MIHI! QUOD DOMINO NON LICET IRE TUO.
PRINTED BY MEYLER AND SON, ABBEY CHURCH-YARD.
AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
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