put her own bow, and an arrow from her own quiver, into the hands of a nymph chosen to execute the vengeance of the impending death, and that arrow flies to its mark. "Nor, after that, in towns which walls enclose, Would trust his hunted life amidst his foes; But, rough, in open air he chose to lie; Earth was his couch, his covering was the sky. On hills unshorn, or in a desert den, He shunn'd the dire society of men. A shepherd's solitary life he led; His daughter with the milk of mares he fed. The dugs of bears, and every savage beast, He drew, and through her lips the liquor press'd. The little amazon could scarcely go, He loads her with a quiver and a bow; And, that she might her staggering steps command, He with a slender javelin fills her hand. Her flowing hair no golden fillet bound; Nor swept her trailing robe the dusty ground. Instead of these, a tiger's hide o'erspread Her back and shoulders, fasten'd to her head. The flying dart she first attempts to fling, And round her tender temples toss'd the sling; Then as her strength with years increased, began } To pierce aloft in air the soaring swan, } And from the clouds to fetch the heron and the crane. } The Tuscan matrons with each other vied, To bless their rival sons with such a bride; But she disdains their love, to share with me The sylvan shades, and vow'd virginity. And oh! I wish, contented with my cares Of savage spoils, she had not sought the wars. Then had she been of my celestial train, And shunn'd the fate that dooms her to be slain. But since, opposing heaven's decree, she goes To find her death among forbidden foes, Haste with these arms, and take thy steepy flight, Where, with the gods adverse, the Latins fight. This bow to thee, this quiver, I bequeath, This chosen arrow, to avenge her death: By whate'er hand Camilla shall be slain, Or of the Trojan or Italian train, Let him not pass unpunish'd from the plain. Then, in a hollow cloud, myself will aid To bear the breathless body of my maid: Unspoil'd shall be her arms, and unprofaned Her holy limbs with any human hand, And in a marble tomb laid in her native land." What is Virgil's in this fair and romantically cast fiction? What hints did the traditionary fable give him? You are not concerned to make an enquiry which you have no means of satisfying. You must hold Camilla to be as much Virgil's as any thing is Homer's in the Iliad. The painting throughout is to the life, and perfectly graceful. The subject was one likely to attach the imagination of a modern poet, and you feel all along, that pleasure inspirits the happy translation of Dryden.