The Story of Swift thro' the Phrygian towns the rumour flies, Niobe And the strange news each female tongue employs: Niobe, who before she married knew The famous nymph, now found the story true; Yet, unreclaim'd by poor Arachne's fate, Vainly above the Gods assum'd a state. Her husband's fame, their family's descent, Their pow'r, and rich dominion's wide extent, Might well have justify'd a decent pride; But not on these alone the dame rely'd. Her lovely progeny, that far excell'd, The mother's heart with vain ambition swell'd: The happiest mother not unjustly styl'd, Had no conceited thoughts her tow'ring fancy fill'd. For once a prophetess with zeal inspir'd, Their slow neglect to warm devotion fir'd; Thro' ev'ry street of Thebes who ran possess'd, And thus in accents wild her charge express'd: Haste, haste, ye Theban matrons, and adore, With hallow'd rites, Latona's mighty pow'r; And, to the heav'nly twins that from her spring, With laurel crown'd, your smoaking incense bring. Strait the great summons ev'ry dame obey'd, And due submission to the Goddess paid: Graceful, with laurel chaplets dress'd, they came, And offer'd incense in the sacred flame. Mean-while, surrounded with a courtly guard, The royal Niobe in state appear'd; Attir'd in robes embroider'd o'er with gold, And mad with rage, yet lovely to behold: Her comely tresses, trembling as she stood, Down her fine neck with easy motion flow'd; Then, darting round a proud disdainful look, In haughty tone her hasty passion broke, And thus began: What madness this, to court A Goddess, founded meerly on report? Dare ye a poor pretended Pow'r invoke, While yet no altars to my godhead smoke? Mine, whose immediate lineage stands confess'd From Tantalus, the only mortal guest That e'er the Gods admitted to their feast. A sister of the Pleiads gave me birth; And Atlas, mightiest mountain upon Earth, Who bears the globe of all the stars above, My grandsire was, and Atlas sprung from Jove. The Theban towns my majesty adore, And neighb'ring Phrygia trembles at my pow'r: Rais'd by my husband's lute, with turrets crown'd, Our lofty city stands secur'd around. Within my court, where-e'er I turn my eyes, Unbounded treasures to my prospect rise: With these my face I modestly may name, As not unworthy of so high a claim; Seven are my daughters, of a form divine, With seven fair sons, an indefective line. Go, fools! consider this; and ask the cause From which my pride its strong presumption draws; Consider this; and then prefer to me Caeus the Titan's vagrant progeny; To whom, in travel, the whole spacious Earth No room afforded for her spurious birth. Not the least part in Earth, in Heav'n, or seas, Would grant your out-law'd Goddess any ease: 'Till pitying hers, from his own wand'ring case, Delos, the floating island, gave a place. There she a mother was, of two at most; Only the seventh part of what I boast. My joys all are beyond suspicion fix'd; With no pollutions of misfortune mix'd; Safe on the Basis of my pow'r I stand, Above the reach of Fortune's fickle hand. Lessen she may my inexhausted store, And much destroy, yet still must leave me more. Suppose it possible that some may dye Of this my num'rous lovely progeny; Still with Latona I might safely vye. Who, by her scanty breed, scarce fit to name, But just escapes the childless woman's shame. Go then, with speed your laurel'd heads uncrown, And leave the silly farce you have begun. The tim'rous throng their sacred rites forbore, And from their heads the verdant laurel tore; Their haughty queen they with regret obey'd, And still in gentle murmurs softly pray'd. High, on the top of Cynthus' shady mount, With grief the Goddess saw the base affront; And, the abuse revolving in her breast, The mother her twin-offspring thus addrest. Lo I, my children, who with comfort knew Your God-like birth, and thence my glory drew; And thence have claim'd precedency of place From all but Juno of the heav'nly race, Must now despair, and languish in disgrace. My godhead question'd, and all rites divine, Unless you succour, banish'd from my shrine. Nay more, the imp of Tantalus has flung Reflections with her vile paternal tongue; Has dar'd prefer her mortal breed to mine, And call'd me childless; which, just fate, may she repine! When to urge more the Goddess was prepar'd, Phoebus in haste replies, Too much we've heard, And ev'ry moment's lost, while vengeance is defer'd. Diana spoke the same. Then both enshroud Their heav'nly bodies in a sable cloud; And to the Theban tow'rs descending light, Thro' the soft yielding air direct their flight. Without the wall there lies a champian ground With even surface, far extending round, Beaten and level'd, while it daily feels The trampling horse, and chariot's grinding wheels. Part of proud Niobe's young rival breed, Practising there to ride the manag'd steed, Their bridles boss'd with gold, were mounted high On stately furniture of Tyrian dye. Of these, Ismenos, who by birth had been The first fair issue of the fruitful queen, Just as he drew the rein to guide his horse, Around the compass of the circling course, Sigh'd deeply, and the pangs of smart express'd, While the shaft stuck, engor'd within his breast: And, the reins dropping from his dying hand, He sunk quite down, and tumbled on the sand. Sipylus next the rattling quiver heard, And with full speed for his escape prepar'd; As when the pilot from the black'ning skies A gath'ring storm of wintry rain descries, His sails unfurl'd, and crowded all with wind, He strives to leave the threat'ning cloud behind: So fled the youth; but an unerring dart O'ertook him, quick discharg'd, and sped with art; Fix'd in his neck behind, it trembling stood, And at his throat display'd the point besmear'd with blood Prone, as his posture was, he tumbled o'er, And bath'd his courser's mane with steaming gore. Next at young Phaedimus they took their aim, And Tantalus who bore his grandsire's name: These, when their other exercise was done, To try the wrestler's oily sport begun; And, straining ev'ry nerve, their skill express'd In closest grapple, joining breast to breast: When from the bending bow an arrow sent, Joyn'd as they were, thro' both their bodies went: Both groan'd, and writhing both their limbs with pain, They fell together bleeding on the plain; Then both their languid eye-balls faintly roul, And thus together breathe away their soul. With grief Alphenor saw their doleful plight, And smote his breast, and sicken'd at the sight; Then to their succour ran with eager haste, And, fondly griev'd, their stiff'ning limbs embrac'd; But in the action falls: a thrilling dart, By Phoebus guided, pierc'd him to the heart. This, as they drew it forth, his midriff tore, Its barbed point the fleshy fragments bore, And let the soul gush out in streams of purple gore. But Damasichthon, by a double wound, Beardless, and young, lay gasping on the ground. Fix'd in his sinewy ham, the steely point Stuck thro' his knee, and pierc'd the nervous joint: And, as he stoop'd to tug the painful dart, Another struck him in a vital part; Shot thro' his wezon, by the wing it hung. The life-blood forc'd it out, and darting upward sprung, Ilioneus, the last, with terror stands, Lifting in pray'r his unavailing hands; And, ignorant from whom his griefs arise, Spare me, o all ye heav'nly Pow'rs, he cries: Phoebus was touch'd too late, the sounding bow Had sent the shaft, and struck the fatal blow; Which yet but gently gor'd his tender side, So by a slight and easy wound he dy'd. Swift to the mother's ears the rumour came, And doleful sighs the heavy news proclaim; With anger and surprize inflam'd by turns, In furious rage her haughty stomach burns: First she disputes th' effects of heav'nly pow'r, Then at their daring boldness wonders more; For poor Amphion with sore grief distrest, Hoping to sooth his cares by endless rest, Had sheath'd a dagger in his wretched breast. And she, who toss'd her high disdainful head, When thro' the streets in solemn pomp she led The throng that from Latona's altar fled, Assuming state beyond the proudest queen; Was now the miserablest object seen. Prostrate among the clay-cold dead she fell, And kiss'd an undistinguish'd last farewel. Then her pale arms advancing to the skies, Cruel Latona! triumph now, she cries. My grieving soul in bitter anguish drench, And with my woes your thirsty passion quench; Feast your black malice at a price thus dear, While the sore pangs of sev'n such deaths I bear. Triumph, too cruel rival, and display Your conqu'ring standard; for you've won the day. Yet I'll excel; for yet, tho' sev'n are slain, Superior still in number I remain. Scarce had she spoke; the bow-string's twanging sound Was heard, and dealt fresh terrors all around; Which all, but Niobe alone, confound. Stunn'd, and obdurate by her load of grief, Insensible she sits, nor hopes relief. Before the fun'ral biers, all weeping sad, Her daughters stood, in vests of sable clad, When one, surpriz'd, and stung with sudden smart, In vain attempts to draw the sticking dart: But to grim death her blooming youth resigns, And o'er her brother's corpse her dying head reclines. This, to asswage her mother's anguish tries, And, silenc'd in the pious action, dies; Shot by a secret arrow, wing'd with death, Her fault'ring lips but only gasp'd for breath. One, on her dying sister, breathes her last; Vainly in flight another's hopes are plac'd: This hiding, from her fate a shelter seeks; That trembling stands, and fills the air with shrieks. And all in vain; for now all six had found Their way to death, each by a diff'rent wound. The last, with eager care the mother veil'd, Behind her spreading mantle close conceal'd, And with her body guarded, as a shield. Only for this, this youngest, I implore, Grant me this one request, I ask no more; O grant me this! she passionately cries: But while she speaks, the destin'd virgin dies.
Translated under the direction of Sir Samuaul Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison, William Congreve and others.