Epistulae

Then, after a short delay, I say, "It is certain now that he swims, and tosses his pliant arms amidst the yielding waves." Then, after finishing a few treads, in letting the winding spindle touch the ground, I ask whether you may have yet reached the middle of the streight. Sometimes I look wishfully forward; sometimes I pray with a faltering voice, that propitious gales may give you an easy run. I greedily catch at every sound, and fondly imagine I hear the noise of your approach. When thus the greater part of the eluded night is past, sleep insensibly steals upon my wearied eyes.

Then in dreams I find you by my side, and perhaps much against your will, you are induced to come. For sometimes I seem to behold you swimming near the shore, sometimes you recline your humid arms upon my shoulders: now I reach you the robe to

throw round your yet moist limbs; anon I clasp you shivering to my panting breast; with much more besides, not fit to be mentioned by a modest pen; what in doing may give great pleasure, but which when done delicacy forbids me to name. Unhappy wretch! it is but a short and fleeting pleasure; for you always vanish with my dream. Grant, Heaven, that such ardent lovers may at length be joined together by surer bonds, nor let our enjoyments be destitute of a firm basis. Why have I passed cold and comfortless so many solitary nights? Why, my dear swimmer, are you so slow; why so often absent from me? The sea, I own, is rough and intractable; but last night it blew a gentler gale. Why was that opportunity lost? why did you not dread that following storms might hinder you? why was so fair an offer suffered to escape, and no attempt made? Should a like opportunity of crossing with case invite you, yet the other, as first in time, was far the best. Soon, it is true, was the face of the

troubled deep changed: but, when eager, you have hastened across it in a shorter time. If you are detained here by storms, ought this to make you complain? No tempestuous sea can hurt you when locked in my embraces. I could then calmly listen to the loud threatening winds, nor fatigue Heaven with prayers to smooth the swelling deep. But what has lately happended to cause this unusual dread of the sea? why do you tremble at those waves you formerly despised? For I remember your coming when the sea was no less obstinate and threatening, or at least not much less so. Then I conjured you to be wisely daring, that I might not have cause to lament the fatal effects of your boldness. Whence arises this new fear? Whither has your former courage fled? where is that illustrious swimmer, who nobly despised the threatening waves? Yet rather continue thus, than again expose yourself to former hazards, and

plunge secure into a calm inviting sea; provided only you are unalterably the same, provided you love with the same ardor with which you write, and this noble flame never changes into cold lifeless ashes. I am not so much afraid of the winds that disappoint my earnest wishes, as of your love, that it may prove, like the wind, changeable and inconstant. I fear the not being held in the same esteem; that the dangers may be thought greater than the reward, or that I am accounted too mean a recompence of your toil. Sometimes I am uneasy, from an idea that my country may detract from me, and that a Thracian girl may seem an unequal match for a citizen of Abydos. Yet I can patiently bear any affliction whatever, sooner than the apprehension of your being detained by another flame. Ah! let me rather perish, than suffer under so cruel a distress; may fate end my days before I hear of the dreadful crime!

Nor do I mention this from any reason you give me to suspect approaching grief, or because I am alarmed by some new spreading rumor. But I am subject to every fear; (for when did love yet settle in a quiet mind?) distance and absence feed my anxious thoughts. Happy they, who, always together, know at once what they have to fear, nor feel the piercing grief of false alarms. We are as much disturbed by unjust fears, as ignorant of real injuries; and each error begets equal anxiety.

Oh how I wish that you were here, that either the winds or your parents, and no rival fair, may be the cause of your long stay! For, believe me, to hear of a rival would kill me with grief; and it is now long that you have been in fault, if you thus aim at my destruction. But you are not in fault: these my terrors I know are groundless; the envious winds alone oppose your desired approach. Dreadful! how the shores are lashed by the vast billows! How the day is hidden by gathering clouds! Perhaps

the disconsolate mother of Helle hovers over the deep, and her unhappy daughter is lamented in distilling drops. Or does her step-mother, changed into a sea-goddess, deform the channel that bears the hated name of her daughter-in-law? This sea, such as it is now, is far from being propitious to tender maids. Here Helle perished: I also am crossed by these obstinate waves. But you surely, Neptune, if you call to mind your many flames, can never be an enemy to gentle love; if neither Amymone, nor Tyro of exquisite form, are vain rumours of your guilt; if fair Alcyone, Circe, and the daughter of Alymone;

Medusa (her hair not yet wreathed with serpents), blooming Laodice, and Celæno ranked among the stars, with many other names I remember to have read, were ever dear to you. These, Neptune, with many more, are sung by the poets to have lain in your embraces. Why then, having yourself so often felt the power of love, do you shut up the accustomed way by rough whirlwinds? Be mild, stern father, and reserve your tumults for the wide ocean. This is merely an arm of the sea, that disjoins two neighbouring tracts. It is yours, triumphant, to toss the vast bulk of ships, or sternly boisterous disperse whole fleets. It is below the God of the ocean to terrify an adventurous youth; a praise unworthy the boast of the meanest lake. He indeed is the noble offspring of an illustrious line, but derives not his pedigree from Ulysses of hated memory. Permit him then to come, and save the life of two. He only, it is true, swims;