Mr. Eusden

All Saints' Church, Spofforth (near Harrogate, North Yorkshire)

[Image source: Wikimedia Commons . This is where Laurence Eusden was baptised in 1688. His father was the rector.]

The Transformation of the THEBAN Matrons.

⁠The Theban Matrons their lov'd Queen pursu'd,
And tracing to the Rock, her Footsteps view'd.
Too certain of her Fate, they rend the Skies
With piteous Shrieks, and lamentable Cries.
All beat their Breast, and Juno all upbraid,
Who still remember'd a deluded Maid:
Who, still revengeful for one stol'n Embrace,
Thus wreak'd her Hate on the Cadmëan Race.
This Juno heard; and shall such Elfs, she cry'd,
Dispute my Justice, or my Pow'r deride?
You too shall feel my Wrath not idly spent;
A Goddess never for Insults was meant.
⁠She, who lov'd most, and who most lov'd had been,
Said, Not the Waves shall part me from my Queen.
She strove to plunge into the roaring Flood;
Fix'd to the Stone, a Stone her self she stood.
This, on her Breast would fain her Blows repeat,
Her stiffen'd Hands refus'd her Breast to beat.
That, stretch'd her Arms unto the Seas; in vain
Her Arms she laboured to unstretch again.
To tear her comely Locks another try'd,
Both comely Locks, and Fingers petrify'd.
Part thus; but Juno with a softer Mind
Part doom'd to mix among the feather'd Kind.
Transformed, the Name of Theban Birds they keep,
And skim the Surface of that fatal Deep.

(From Ovid's Metamorphoses Book IV, translation by Laurence Eusden.)

In the long darks I've sometimes been unable to read my paperback of A. D. Melville's wonderful 1986 translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, instead resorting to the phone and the 1727 translation compiled by Samuel Garth.

https://en.m.wikisource.org/wiki/Metamorphoses_(tr._Garth,_Dryden,_et_al.)

It's a good fallback. It's the work of various authors including Dryden, Addison, Pope and others whose names are less remembered today. Book IV is mostly the work of Laurence Eusden (1688 - 1730).

Eusden had been appointed Poet Laureate in 1718, on more than usually flimsy grounds (his rivals said). His career and life were both, I imagine, shortened by the hard drinking mentioned by Pope in the Dunciad (this passage wasn't in the 1728 version, but was added after Eusden's death).

Whatever, Eusden's Metamorphoses translations must account for nearly all of his readers today. He's no Dryden, but he admired Dryden and learnt from him, and he must have given a lot of enjoyment to a lot of people. His work on Book IV includes such famous stories as Pyramus and Thisbe, the Sun in love, Perseus and Andromeda...; also some particularly unedifying examples of divine vengeance by Bacchus and Juno. (Eusden also translated Venus and Adonis in Book X.)

My quotation comes from the end of Juno's destruction of Ino and her family (apparently for no other reason than Ino being too happy; as you might say, "to wipe that smug grin off her face"). In lines 6-8 it's Eusden, not Ovid, who reasonably speculates that what really fuels Juno's cruelty is lingering hatred for Semele (Ino's sister). Eusden makes other additions too, e.g. the comment about Juno's "softer Mind" being revealed in the transformation of some of Ino's attendants to birds. (Despite these additions, his version of the passage is only three lines longer than Melville's.)

*

Here's a five-minute Eusden anthology, extracts from other poems that I've tracked down by following the links here:

https://en.m.wikisource.org/wiki/Author:Laurence_Eusden

Cease, cease, fair Nymph, to lavish precious Tears,

And discompose your Soul with airy Fears.

Look on Sicilia's glitt'ring Courts with Scorn;

A nobler Sceptre shall that Hand adorn.

Imperial Pomp shall sooth a gen'rous Pride;

The Bridegroom never will disgrace the Bride.

If you above Terrestrial Thrones aspire,

From Heav'n I spring, and Saturn was my Sire.

The Pow'r of Pluto stretches all around,

Uncircumscrib'd by Nature's utmost Bound:

Where Matter, mould'ring, dies, where Forms decay,

Thro' the vast trackless Void extends my Sway.

Mark not with mournful Eyes the fainting Light,

Nor tremble at this Interval of Night.

A fairer Scene shall open to your View,

An Earth more verdant, and a Heav'n more blue...

(Pluto to Proserpine, translated from Claudian's Rape. From Steele's Poetical Miscellanies.)

I find Pluto's speech terrifying, not just because he's gaslighting a rape victim but because his words are nevertheless so powerfully seductive. When someone starts to lull you into believing that his dead world is far superior to your living one, it's time to seriously wake up.

*

Some, by kind Fates, to Greatness force their way,

And without Dawnings show a glorious Day;

Others, by Fortune, and industrious Strife,

Arrive at Honours, in the Noon of Life.

Many by painful, slow degrees ascend,

And anxious, till the verge of Death, attend.

Great Dryden did not early Great appear,

Faintly distinguish'd in his thirti'th Year:

But Nature, when she would a Poet doom

To show ripe Wonders in his op'ning Bloom,

Lavishly gives from all her choicest Mines,

And the rich Oar with nicer Care refines.

Britannia grieves, such Blessings are but few,

A Cowley, C----------ve, and a M-----------gue.

(From "To the Right Honourable Charles, Lord Hallifax: Occasion'd by translating into Latin His Lordship's Poem on the Boyn; and Mr. Stepney's on the late King's Voyage into Holland". From Steele's Poetical Miscellanies. )

A persuasively humble reflection on early poetical success. Written when he was 21, nine years before he was appointed Poet Laureate.

*

Here Spices in Parterres promiscuous blow,

Not from Arabia's Fields more Odours flow.

The wanton Winds thro' Groves of Cassia play,

And steal the ripen'd Fragrancies away.

Here, with its Load the mild Amomum bends,

There, Cinnamon in rival Sweets contends.

A rich Perfume the ravish'd Senses fills,

While from the weeping Tree the Balm distills. 

(From a description of the court of Love, out of Claudian's Epithalamium of Honorius and Maria. From Steele's Poetical Miscellanies. )

I included this mainly to add a note on Amomum. Classical authors write of it as a spicy plant, but no-one knows which one they were referring to. Today it's the name of a genus of plants (notably including Black Cardamom). Oddly, it also turns up in the specific name Sison amomum (Stone Parsley); a plant with an odour that most people consider distinctly unpleasant.

*

On a Lady, Who is the most Beautiful and Witty when she is Angry.

LONG had I known the soft, enchanting Wiles,

Which Cupid practis'd in Aurelia's Smiles.

Till by degrees, like the fam'd Asian, taught,

Safely I drank the sweet, tho' poys'nous Draught.

Love vex'd to see his Favours vainly shown,

The peevish Urchin murder'd with a Frown.

What cautious Youth would thence have fear'd Surprize?

Can Beauty from Deformity arise?

In cloudless Nights do Light'nings harmless fly,

And only blast from a tempestuous Sky?

Mild Venus haunts the Shades and peaceful Groves,

Her Thoughts, her Looks, are tender as her Doves.

Smooth'd were the Waves, and ev'ry Triton sung,

When from old Ocean first the Goddess sprung.

Aurelia shuns the Calm, and loves the Storm,

Ruffles her Passions to improve her Form.

She by some Art, to th' artful Sex unknown,

Has all the Graces, when the rest have none.

Th' unsated Victor seeks new Triumphs still,

And whom her Eyes but wound, her Tongue must kill.

No hope of Safety, if inflam'd her Breast;

At once the Cha[r]mer Looks, and Talks, the best.

So Dryden sweetest sung, by Envy fir'd, 

Thirst of Revenge, if Phoebus fail'd, inspir'd. 

His Antony did Sydley's Muse o'ertake,

And Absalon was writ for Zimri's sake.

New Injuries new Laurels did presage,

And a Mac Fleckno was the Child of Rage.

One of three fine poems on the psychology of attraction, all in Steele's Poetical Miscellanies. In the second, Eusden is easily persuaded that Dryden is a bad poet, when he hears it from the lips of a good-looking woman. In the third, his preference for the older but wittier Delia leads on to a comparison with the deep feelings invoked by ancient monuments; it sounds tasteless, but it isn't. 

*

'Tis nobly done, thus to enrich the stage

And raise the thoughts of a degen'rate age;

To show how endless joys from freedom spring,

How life in bondage is a worthless thing.

The unborn greatness of your soul we view,

You tread the paths frequented by the few;

With so much strength you write, and so much ease,

Virtue and sense! how durst you hope to please?

Yet crowds, the sentiments of ev'ry line,

Impartial clap'd, and own'd the work divine.

Ev'n the sour critics, who malicious came,

Eager to censure, and resolv'd to blame,

Finding the hero regularly rise,

Great while he lives, but greater when he dies;

Sullen approv'd, too obstinate to melt,

And sicken'd with the pleasures which they felt.

Not so the fair, their passions secret kept,

Silent they heard, but as they heard, they wept ...

From a poem addressed to the author of Cato (Joseph Addison, 1713). Though Cato is rarely read or performed today, its political legacy, e.g. in the USA, is as vigorous as ever.

(Quoted in Robert Bisset's Life of Lawrence Eusden, prefixing a 1793 edition of The Spectator; Eusden wrote some of the letters that appear within its pages.)