TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS

The Selection that follows needs some explanation. I have made no systematic search in the literature of translation: and it is likely enough that I have omitted renderings more beautiful, or more interesting, than some which I have included. I have not tried to do more than to collect together a few old 'favourites' of my own. Moreover I have—save for one or two examples—confined myself to the four principal Latin poets.

I have interpreted the word 'Imitations' rather widely. It is quite possible, for example, that Clough never read Vergil'sLines Written in a Lecture-Room(Catalepton V): yet the poem of Clough which I have brought into connexion with this piece is, I think, a truer translation of it than could be found elsewhere. I will venture to hope, again, that I may be readily forgiven for placing beside Statius' famousInvocation to Sleepsix sonnets on a like subject from six English masters of the sonnet-form.

I have to thank the following authors and publishers for permission to reprint copyright pieces: Messrs. G. Bell & Sons (four versions by Calverley, Nos. 67, 82, 145, 149), Prof. D.A. Slater (versions of Lucretius, Nos. 66, 69, and Catullus, No. 97), Messrs. Blackwood (two pieces by the late Sir Theodore Martin, Nos. 92, 136), Prof. Ellis and Mr. John Murray (version of Catullus, No. 85), The Syndics of the Cambridge University Press and the Executors of the late Sir R.C. Jebb (version of Catullus, No. 74), Mr. L.J. Latham and Messrs. SmithElder (version of Propertius, No. 179, from Mr. Latham'sOdes of Horace and Other Verses), Messrs. George Allen (version of Horace from theIonicaof the late William Cory, No. 148), Mr. John Murray (version of Horace by Mr. Gladstone, No. 126), Dr. T.H. Warren and Mr. John Murray (version of Vergil, No. 110), Mr. James Rhoades and Messrs. Kegan Paul (version of Vergil, No. 119), Mr. W.H. Fyfe (version of Statius, No. 262).

By the side of this Epitaph may be placed Pope's Epitaph upon Mrs. Corbet, with Johnson's comment:

HERE rests a woman good without pretence,Blest with plain reason and with sober sense.No conquest she, but o'er herself, desired,No arts essayed but not to be admired.Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,Convinced that Virtue only is our own.So unaffected, so composed a mind,So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refined,Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried;The saint sustained it, but the woman died.

'The subject of it', says Johnson, 'is a character not discriminated by any shining or eminent peculiarities: yet that which really makes, though not the splendour, the felicity of life, and that which every wise man will choose for his final and lasting companion in the languor of age, in the quiet of privacy, when he departs weary and disgusted from the ostentatious, the volatile and the vain. Of such a character, which the dull overlook, and the gay despise, it was fit that the value should be made known and the dignity established.'

(Beginning at the third paragraph,Illud in his rebus...)

BUT here's the rub. There soon may come a timeYou'll count right reason treason and the primeOf mind the spring of guilt; whereas more oftIn blind Religion are the seeds of crime.Think how at Aulis to the Trivian MaidThe hero-kings of Greece their homage paid,The flower of men, whose impious pietyIphianassa on the altar laid.Behold the bride! upon her head the crownOf ritual, that from either cheek let downAn equal streamer. But cold rapture hersAs on her father's face she marked the frown:A frown of anguish: at his side the menOf doom, and in their hands, screened from her ken,Death; and her countrymen shed tears to seeThe lamb, poor victim, in the lions' den.Then dumb with fear, not tongue-tied with delight,She drooped to earth. What profited it her plightShe was her father's first-born? Not the lessThey took her. Death, not Love, ordained the rite.His were the bridesmen, and the altar hisTo which with quaking limbs in fearfulnessUplifted then, sans song, sans ritual due,She was brought home—but not to wedded bliss,A maid, but marred not married, in the springOf life and love's sweet prime, to yield the kingA victim, and the fleet fair voyaging:Such wrongs Religion in her train doth bring.

BUT here's the rub. There soon may come a timeYou'll count right reason treason and the primeOf mind the spring of guilt; whereas more oftIn blind Religion are the seeds of crime.

Think how at Aulis to the Trivian MaidThe hero-kings of Greece their homage paid,The flower of men, whose impious pietyIphianassa on the altar laid.

Behold the bride! upon her head the crownOf ritual, that from either cheek let downAn equal streamer. But cold rapture hersAs on her father's face she marked the frown:

A frown of anguish: at his side the menOf doom, and in their hands, screened from her ken,Death; and her countrymen shed tears to seeThe lamb, poor victim, in the lions' den.

Then dumb with fear, not tongue-tied with delight,She drooped to earth. What profited it her plightShe was her father's first-born? Not the lessThey took her. Death, not Love, ordained the rite.

His were the bridesmen, and the altar hisTo which with quaking limbs in fearfulnessUplifted then, sans song, sans ritual due,She was brought home—but not to wedded bliss,

A maid, but marred not married, in the springOf life and love's sweet prime, to yield the kingA victim, and the fleet fair voyaging:Such wrongs Religion in her train doth bring.

D.A. Slater.

SWEET, when the great sea's water is stirred to his depths by the storm-winds,Standing ashore to descry one afar-off mightily struggling:Not that a neighbour's sorrow to you yields dulcet enjoyment:But that the sight hath a sweetness, of ills ourselves are exempt from.Sweet too 'tis to behold, on a broad plain mustering, war hostsArm them for some great battle, one's self unscathed by the danger:—Yet still happier this: to possess, impregnably guarded,Those calm heights of the sages, which have for an origin Wisdom:Thence to survey our fellows, observe them this way and that wayWander amidst Life's path, poor stragglers seeking a highway:Watch mind battle with mind, and escutcheon rival escutcheon:Gaze on that untold strife, which is waged 'neath the sun and the starlight,Up as they toil on the surface whereon rest Riches and Empire.O race born unto trouble! O minds all lacking of eye-sight!'Neath what a vital darkness, amidst how terrible dangersMove ye thro' this thing Life, this fragment! Fools that ye hear notNature clamour aloud for the one thing only: that, all painParted and passed from the body, the mind too bask in a blissfulDream, all fear of the future and all anxiety over!Now as regards man's body, a few things only are needful,(Few, tho' we sum up all), to remove all misery from him,Aye, and to strew in his path such a lib'ral carpet of pleasuresThat scarce Nature herself would at times ask happiness greater.Statues of youth and of beauty may not gleam golden around him,(Each in his right hand bearing a great lamp lustrously burning,Whence to the midnight revel a light may be furnishëd always),Silver may not shine softly, nor gold blaze bright, in his mansion,Nor to the noise of the tabret his halls gold-cornicëd echo:—Yet still he, with his fellow, reposed on the velvety greensward,Near to a rippling stream, by a tall tree canopied over,Shall, though they lack great riches, enjoy all bodily pleasure:Chiefliest then when above them a fair sky smiles, and the young yearFlings with a bounteous hand over each green meadow the wild-flowers:—Not more quickly depart from his bosom fiery fevers,Who beneath crimson hangings and pictures cunningly broideredTosses about, than from him who must lie in beggarly raiment.Therefore, since to the body avail not riches, avails notHeraldry's utmost boast, nor the pomp and pride of an empire;Next shall you own that the mind needs likewise nothing of these things;Unless—when, peradventure, your armies over the champaignSpread with a stir and a ferment and bid War's image awaken,Or when with stir and with ferment a fleet sails forth upon ocean—Cowed before these brave sights, pale Superstition abandonStraightway your mind as you gaze, Death seem no longer alarming,Trouble vacate your bosom and Peace hold holiday in you.But if (again) all this be a vain impossible fiction,If of a truth men's fears and the cares which hourly beset themHeed not the javelin's fury, regard not clashing of broad-swords,But all boldly amongst crowned heads and the rulers of empiresStalk, not shrinking abashed from the dazzling glare of the red gold,Not from the pomp of the monarch who walks forth purple-apparelled:These things shew that at times we are bankrupt, surely, of reason:Think too that all man's life through a great Dark laboureth onward.For as a young boy trembles and in that mystery, Darkness,Sees all terrible things: so do we too, ev'n in the daylight,Ofttimes shudder at that which is not more really alarmingThan boys' fears when they waken and say some danger is o'er them.So this panic of mind, these clouds which gather around us,Fly not the bright sunbeam, nor the ivory shafts of the daylight:Nature, rightly revealed, and the Reason only, dispel them.

C.S. Calverley

OUT of the night, out of the blinding nightThy beacon flashes;—hail, beloved lightOf Greece and Grecian; hail, for in the mirkThou dost reveal each valley and each height.Thou art my leader and the footprints thine,Wherein I plant my own. Thro' storm and shineThy love upholds me. Ne'er was rivalry'Twixt owl and thrush, 'twixt steeds and shambling kine.The world was thine to read, and having read,Before thy children's eyes thou didst outspreadThe fruitful page of knowledge, all the wealthOf wisdom, all her plenty for their bread.As honey-bees thro' flowery glades in JuneRifle the blossoms, so at our high-noonOf life we gather in melodious gladesThe golden honey of thy deathless rune.And whoso roams benighted, on his ear,Out of the darkness strikes an echo clearOf thy triumphant challenge:—'Ye who quail,Come unto me, for I have cast out fear.'Thereat the walls o' the world fade far awayAnd thou, great Nature's seër, dost displayThe miracle of her workings in the void:—The night is past and reason dawns with day.Heaven lies about us and we see the hall,Where never storm-fiend raves nor snow-flakes fallIn webs of winter whiteness to ensnareThe golden summer. Peace is over all;A canopy of cloudless sky, a glowOf laughing sunshine; all the flowers that blowAre there, and there from Nature's teeming breastRivers of strength and sweetness ever flow.The veil of Acheron is rent in twain;His phantom precincts vanish. Ne'er againCan Earth conceal the secret:—it is ours;And all that once was hidden is made plain.Hail, mighty Master, hail! The world was thine,For thou hadst read her riddle line by line,Scroll upon scroll; and now ... oh, ecstasyOf awe and rapture,... thou hast made her mine.

OUT of the night, out of the blinding nightThy beacon flashes;—hail, beloved lightOf Greece and Grecian; hail, for in the mirkThou dost reveal each valley and each height.

Thou art my leader and the footprints thine,Wherein I plant my own. Thro' storm and shineThy love upholds me. Ne'er was rivalry'Twixt owl and thrush, 'twixt steeds and shambling kine.

The world was thine to read, and having read,Before thy children's eyes thou didst outspreadThe fruitful page of knowledge, all the wealthOf wisdom, all her plenty for their bread.

As honey-bees thro' flowery glades in JuneRifle the blossoms, so at our high-noonOf life we gather in melodious gladesThe golden honey of thy deathless rune.

And whoso roams benighted, on his ear,Out of the darkness strikes an echo clearOf thy triumphant challenge:—'Ye who quail,Come unto me, for I have cast out fear.'

Thereat the walls o' the world fade far awayAnd thou, great Nature's seër, dost displayThe miracle of her workings in the void:—The night is past and reason dawns with day.

Heaven lies about us and we see the hall,Where never storm-fiend raves nor snow-flakes fallIn webs of winter whiteness to ensnareThe golden summer. Peace is over all;

A canopy of cloudless sky, a glowOf laughing sunshine; all the flowers that blowAre there, and there from Nature's teeming breastRivers of strength and sweetness ever flow.

The veil of Acheron is rent in twain;His phantom precincts vanish. Ne'er againCan Earth conceal the secret:—it is ours;And all that once was hidden is made plain.

Hail, mighty Master, hail! The world was thine,For thou hadst read her riddle line by line,Scroll upon scroll; and now ... oh, ecstasyOf awe and rapture,... thou hast made her mine.

D.A. Slater.

I give a part of this piece in the version of Dryden, beginning fromCerberus et furiae. 'I am not dissatisfied', says Dryden, 'upon the review of anything I have done in this author.'

AS for the Dog, the Furies and their Snakes,The gloomy Caverns and the burning Lakes,And all the vain infernal trumpery,They neither are, nor were, nor e'er can be.But here on earth the guilty have in viewThe mighty pains to mighty mischiefs due,Racks, prisons, poisons, the Tarpeian Rock,Stripes, hangmen, pitch and suffocating smoke,And, last and most, if these were cast behind,The avenging horror of a conscious mind,Whose deadly fear anticipates the blow,And sees no end of punishment and woe,But looks for more at the last gasp of breath.This makes a hell on earth, and life a death.Meantime, when thoughts of death disturb thy head,Consider: Ancus great and good is dead;Ancus, thy better far, was born to die,And thou, dostthoubewail mortality?So many monarchs, with their mighty stateWho ruled the world, were over-ruled by Fate.That haughty King who lorded o'er the main,And whose stupendous bridge did the wild waves restrain—In vain they foamed, in vain they threatened wrack,While his proud legions marched upon their back,—Him Death, a greater monarch, overcame,Nor spared his guards the more for their Immortal name.The Roman chief, the Carthaginian's dread,Scipio, the Thunder Bolt of War, is dead,And like a common slave by Fate in triumph led.The founders of invented arts are lost,And wits who made eternity their boast.Where now is Homer, who possessed the throne?The immortal work remains, the mortal author's gone.

Dryden.

DIANA guardeth our estate,Girls and boys immaculate;Boys and maidens pure of stain,Be Diana our refrain.O Latonia, pledge of loveGlorious to most glorious Jove,Near the Delian olive-treeLatona gave thy life to thee,That thou should'st be for ever queenOf mountains and of forests green;Of every deep glen's mystery;Of all streams and their melody.Women in travail ask their peaceFrom thee, our Lady of Release:Thou art the Watcher of the Ways:Thou art the Moon with borrowed rays:And, as thy full or waning tideMarks how the monthly seasons glide,Thou, Goddess, sendest wealth of storeTo bless the farmer's thrifty floor.Whatever name delights thine ear,By that name be thou hallowed here;And, as of old, be good to us,The lineage of Romulus.

DIANA guardeth our estate,Girls and boys immaculate;Boys and maidens pure of stain,Be Diana our refrain.

O Latonia, pledge of loveGlorious to most glorious Jove,Near the Delian olive-treeLatona gave thy life to thee,

That thou should'st be for ever queenOf mountains and of forests green;Of every deep glen's mystery;Of all streams and their melody.

Women in travail ask their peaceFrom thee, our Lady of Release:Thou art the Watcher of the Ways:Thou art the Moon with borrowed rays:

And, as thy full or waning tideMarks how the monthly seasons glide,Thou, Goddess, sendest wealth of storeTo bless the farmer's thrifty floor.

Whatever name delights thine ear,By that name be thou hallowed here;And, as of old, be good to us,The lineage of Romulus.

R.C. Jebb.

GEM of all isthmuses and isles that lie,Fresh or salt water's children, in clear lakeOr ampler ocean: with what joy do IApproach thee, Sirmio! Oh! am I awake,Or dream that once again my eye beholdsThee, and has looked its last on Thynian wolds?Sweetest of sweets to me that pastime seems,When the mind drops her burden: when—the painOf travel past—our own cot we regain,And nestle on the pillow of our dreams!'Tis this one thought that cheers us as we roam.Hail, O fair Sirmio! Joy, thy lord is here!Joy too, ye waters of the Garda Mere!And ring out, all ye laughter-peals of home.

C.S. Calverley.

This beautiful and delicate piece remains the despair of the translator. I quote a few lines of Cowley's sometimes rather clumsy version (beginning fromSic, inquit, mea uita):

'MY little life, my all,' said she,'So may we ever servants beTo this best god, and ne'er retainOur hated liberty again:So may thy passion last for meAs I a passion have for theeGreater and fiercer much than canBe conceived by thee a man.Into my marrow is it gone,Fixt and settled in the bone,It reigns not only in my heartBut runs like fire through every part.'She spoke: the god of Love aloudSneezed again, and all the crowdOf little Loves that waited byBowed and blest the augury.

Cowley.

85 b

So many critics have compared Catullus to Burns that some of them may be glad to see this North-Italian rendered into the English of the North.

WEEP, weep, ye Loves and Cupids all,And ilka Man o' decent feelin':My lassie's lost her wee, wee bird,And that's a loss, ye'll ken, past healin'.The lassie lo'ed him like her een:The darling wee thing lo'ed the ither,And knew and nestled to her breast,As ony bairnie to her mither.Her bosom was his dear, dear haunt—So dear, he cared na lang to leave it;He'd nae but gang his ain sma' jaunt,And flutter piping back bereavit.The wee thing's gane the shadowy roadThat's never travelled back by ony:Out on ye, Shades! ye're greedy ayeTo grab at aught that's brave and bonny.Puir, foolish, fondling, bonnie bird,Ye little ken what wark ye're leavin':Ye've gar'd my lassie's een grow red,Those bonnie een grow red wi' grievin'.

WEEP, weep, ye Loves and Cupids all,And ilka Man o' decent feelin':My lassie's lost her wee, wee bird,And that's a loss, ye'll ken, past healin'.

The lassie lo'ed him like her een:The darling wee thing lo'ed the ither,And knew and nestled to her breast,As ony bairnie to her mither.

Her bosom was his dear, dear haunt—So dear, he cared na lang to leave it;He'd nae but gang his ain sma' jaunt,And flutter piping back bereavit.

The wee thing's gane the shadowy roadThat's never travelled back by ony:Out on ye, Shades! ye're greedy ayeTo grab at aught that's brave and bonny.

Puir, foolish, fondling, bonnie bird,Ye little ken what wark ye're leavin':Ye've gar'd my lassie's een grow red,Those bonnie een grow red wi' grievin'.

G.S. Davies.

I append the version of Prof. R. Ellis, which preserves the metre of the original:

WEEP each heavenly Venus, all the Cupids,Weep all men that have any grace about ye.Dead the sparrow, in whom my love delighted,The dear sparrow, in whom my love delighted.Yea, most precious, above her eyes, she held him,Sweet, all honey: a bird that ever hail'd herLady mistress, as hails the maid a mother;Nor would move from her arms away: but onlyHopping round her, about her, hence or hither,Piped his colloquy, piped to none beside her.Now he wendeth along the mirky pathway,Whence, they tell us, is hopeless all returning.Evil on ye, the shades of evil Orcus,Shades all beauteous happy things devouring,Such a beauteous happy bird ye took him.Ah! for pity; but ah! for him the sparrow,Our poor sparrow, on whom to think my lady'sEyes do angrily redden all a-weeping.

WEEP each heavenly Venus, all the Cupids,Weep all men that have any grace about ye.Dead the sparrow, in whom my love delighted,The dear sparrow, in whom my love delighted.

Yea, most precious, above her eyes, she held him,Sweet, all honey: a bird that ever hail'd herLady mistress, as hails the maid a mother;

Nor would move from her arms away: but onlyHopping round her, about her, hence or hither,Piped his colloquy, piped to none beside her.

Now he wendeth along the mirky pathway,Whence, they tell us, is hopeless all returning.

Evil on ye, the shades of evil Orcus,Shades all beauteous happy things devouring,Such a beauteous happy bird ye took him.

Ah! for pity; but ah! for him the sparrow,Our poor sparrow, on whom to think my lady'sEyes do angrily redden all a-weeping.

R. Ellis.

86 a

Langhorne is best known by his translation of Plutarch'sLives. But he was a copious poet; and Catullus has never perhaps been more gracefully rendered than in the following piece:

LESBIA, live to love and pleasure,Careless what the grave may say:When each moment is a treasureWhy should lovers lose a day?Setting suns shall rise in glory,But when little life is o'er,There's an end of all the story—We shall sleep, and wake no more.Give me, then, a thousand kisses,Twice ten thousand more bestow,Till the sum of boundless blissesNeither we nor envy know.

LESBIA, live to love and pleasure,Careless what the grave may say:When each moment is a treasureWhy should lovers lose a day?

Setting suns shall rise in glory,But when little life is o'er,There's an end of all the story—We shall sleep, and wake no more.

Give me, then, a thousand kisses,Twice ten thousand more bestow,Till the sum of boundless blissesNeither we nor envy know.

J. Langhorne.

I append the beginning of Blacklock's version:

THOUGH sour-loquacious Age reprove,Letus, my Lesbia, live for love.For when the short-lived suns declineThey but retire more bright to shine:But we, when fleeting life is o'erAnd light and love can bless no more,Are ravished from each dear delightTo sleep one long eternal night.

T. Blacklock.

86 b

KISS me, sweet: the wary loverCan your favours keep, and cover,When the common courting jayAll your bounties will betray.Kiss again! no creature comes;Kiss, and score up wealthy sumsOn my lips, thus hardly sundered,While you breathe. First give a hundred,Then a thousand, then anotherHundred, then unto the totherAdd a thousand and so more,Till you equal with the storeAll the grass that Rumney yields,Or the sands in Chelsea fields,Or the drops in silver Thames,Or the stars that gild his streamsIn the silent summer nightsWhen Youth plies its stolen delights:That the curious may not knowHow to tell 'em as they flow,And the envious, when they findWhat their number is, be pined.

Ben Jonson.

CATULLUS, let the wanton go:No longer play the fool, but deemFor ever lost what thou must knowIs fled for ever like a dream!O life was once a heaven to thee!To haunt her steps was rapture then—That woman loved as loved shall beNo woman ever on earth again.Then didst thou freely taste the bliss,On which empassioned lovers feed:When she repaid thee kiss for kiss,O, life was then a heaven indeed!'Tis past: forget as she forgets:Lament no more, but let her go:Tear from thy heart its mad regrets,And into very marble grow!Girl, fare thee well. Catullus ne'erWill sue where love is met with scorn:But, false one, thou with none to careFor thee, shalt pine through days forlorn.Think, think, how drear thy life will be!Who'll woo thee now? who praise thy charms?Who now will be all in all to theeAnd live but in thy loving arms?Ay, who will give thee kiss for kiss,Whose lip wilt thou in rapture bite?But thou, Catullus, think of thisAnd spurn her in thine own despite.

CATULLUS, let the wanton go:No longer play the fool, but deemFor ever lost what thou must knowIs fled for ever like a dream!

O life was once a heaven to thee!To haunt her steps was rapture then—That woman loved as loved shall beNo woman ever on earth again.

Then didst thou freely taste the bliss,On which empassioned lovers feed:When she repaid thee kiss for kiss,O, life was then a heaven indeed!

'Tis past: forget as she forgets:Lament no more, but let her go:Tear from thy heart its mad regrets,And into very marble grow!

Girl, fare thee well. Catullus ne'erWill sue where love is met with scorn:But, false one, thou with none to careFor thee, shalt pine through days forlorn.

Think, think, how drear thy life will be!Who'll woo thee now? who praise thy charms?Who now will be all in all to theeAnd live but in thy loving arms?

Ay, who will give thee kiss for kiss,Whose lip wilt thou in rapture bite?But thou, Catullus, think of thisAnd spurn her in thine own despite.

Theodore Martin.

Of this, one of the most famous and effective of Catullus's poems, I offer two versions. The first (an adaptation) is by 'knowing Walsh', the friend of Pope, pronounced by Dryden to be 'the first critic in the nation': the second is by Prof. Slater of Cardiff:

IS there a pious pleasure that proceedsFrom contemplation of our virtuous deeds?That all mean sordid action we despise,And scorn to gain a throne by cheats and lies?Thyrsis, thou hast sure blessings laid in storeFrom thy just dealing in this curst amour.What honour can in words or deeds be shownWhich to the fair thou hast not said and done?On her false heart they all are thrown away:She only swears more easily to betray.Ye powers that know the many vows she broke,Free my just soul from this unequal yoke.My love boils up, and like a raging floodRuns through my veins and taints my vital blood.I do not vainly beg she may grow chaste,Or with an equal passion burn at last—The one she cannot practise, though she would,And I contemn the other, though she should—:Nor ask I vengeance on the perjured jilt;'Tis punishment enough to have her guilt.I beg but balsam for my bleeding breast,Cure for my wounds and from my labours rest.

W. Walsh.

IF any joy awaits the manOf generous hand and conscience clean,Who ne'er has leagued with powers unseenTo wrong the partner of his plan;Rich store of memories thou hast wonFrom this thy seeming-fruitless love,Who all that man may do to proveHis faith by word or deed hast done,And all in vain. Her thankless heartIs hardened. Harden then thine own.Writhe not but part, as stone from stone,And willy-nilly heal the smart.'Tis hard, ay, hard to fling asideA love long cherished. Yet you must.Be strong, prevail, and from the dustA conqueror rise, whate'er betide.Ye gods, who of your mercy giveForce to the fainting, let my lifeOf honour win me rest from strife,And from my blood the canker drive;Ere yet from limb to limb it steal,And in black darkness plunge my soul,Oh, drive it hence and make me whole;A caitiff wounds, a god may heal.No more for answering love I sue,No more that her untruth be true:Purge but my heart, my strength renewAnd doom me not my faith to rue.

IF any joy awaits the manOf generous hand and conscience clean,Who ne'er has leagued with powers unseenTo wrong the partner of his plan;

Rich store of memories thou hast wonFrom this thy seeming-fruitless love,Who all that man may do to proveHis faith by word or deed hast done,

And all in vain. Her thankless heartIs hardened. Harden then thine own.Writhe not but part, as stone from stone,And willy-nilly heal the smart.

'Tis hard, ay, hard to fling asideA love long cherished. Yet you must.Be strong, prevail, and from the dustA conqueror rise, whate'er betide.

Ye gods, who of your mercy giveForce to the fainting, let my lifeOf honour win me rest from strife,And from my blood the canker drive;Ere yet from limb to limb it steal,And in black darkness plunge my soul,Oh, drive it hence and make me whole;A caitiff wounds, a god may heal.

No more for answering love I sue,No more that her untruth be true:Purge but my heart, my strength renewAnd doom me not my faith to rue.

D.A. Slater.

100

OVER the mighty world's highway,City by city, sea by sea,Brother, thy brother comes to payPitiful offerings unto thee.I only ask to grace thy bierWith gifts that only give farewell,To tell to ears that cannot hearThe things that it is vain to tell,And, idly communing with dust,To know thy presence still denied,And ever mourn forever lostA soul that never should have died.Yet think not wholly vain to-dayThis fashion that our fathers gaveThat hither brings me, here to laySome gift of sorrow on thy grave.Take, brother, gifts a brother's tearsBedewed with sorrow as they fell,And 'Greeting' to the end of years,And to the end of years 'Farewell'.

OVER the mighty world's highway,City by city, sea by sea,Brother, thy brother comes to payPitiful offerings unto thee.

I only ask to grace thy bierWith gifts that only give farewell,To tell to ears that cannot hearThe things that it is vain to tell,

And, idly communing with dust,To know thy presence still denied,And ever mourn forever lostA soul that never should have died.

Yet think not wholly vain to-dayThis fashion that our fathers gaveThat hither brings me, here to laySome gift of sorrow on thy grave.

Take, brother, gifts a brother's tearsBedewed with sorrow as they fell,And 'Greeting' to the end of years,And to the end of years 'Farewell'.

H.W.G.

101

FRIEND, if the mute and shrouded deadAre touched at all by tears,By love long fled and friendship spedAnd the unreturning years,O then, to her that early died,O doubt not, bridegroom, to thy brideThy love is sweet and sweetenethThe very bitterness of death.

FRIEND, if the mute and shrouded deadAre touched at all by tears,By love long fled and friendship spedAnd the unreturning years,

O then, to her that early died,O doubt not, bridegroom, to thy brideThy love is sweet and sweetenethThe very bitterness of death.

H.W.G.

103

SICK, Cornificius, is thy friend,Sick to the heart: and sees no endOf wretched thoughts that gathering fastThreaten to wear him out at last.And yet you never come and bring,Though 'twere the least and easiest thing,A comfort in that talk of thine.You vex me. This to love of mine?Prithee a little talk, for ease,Full as the tears of sad Simonides!

SICK, Cornificius, is thy friend,Sick to the heart: and sees no endOf wretched thoughts that gathering fastThreaten to wear him out at last.

And yet you never come and bring,Though 'twere the least and easiest thing,A comfort in that talk of thine.You vex me. This to love of mine?

Prithee a little talk, for ease,Full as the tears of sad Simonides!

Leigh Hunt.

110

AVAUNT, ye vain bombastic crew,Crickets that swill no Attic dew:Good-bye, grammarians crass and narrow,Selius, Tarquitius, and Varro:A pedant tribe of fat-brained fools,The tinkling cymbals of the schools!Sextus, my friend of friends, good-bye,With all our pretty company!I'm sailing for the blissful shore,Great Siro's high recondite lore,That haven where my life shall beFrom every tyrant passion free.You too, sweet Muses mine, farewell,Sweet muses mine, for truth to tellSweet were ye once, but now begone;And yet, and yet, return anon,And when I write, at whiles be seenIn visits shy and far between.

T.H. Warren.

I append Clough'sLines Written in a Lecture Room. The theme is that of Vergil inverted. But the mood in either poet is the same—that mood of passionate revolt against academicism which never comes to some people and never departs from others:

AWAY, haunt thou not me,Thou dull Philosophy!Little hast thou bestead,Save to perplex the headAnd leave the spirit dead.Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go,While from the secret treasure-depths below,Fed by the skiey shower,And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high,Wisdom at once and Power,Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly?Why labour at the dull mechanic oar,When the fresh breeze is blowing,And the strong current flowing,Right onward to the Eternal Shore?

A.H. Clough.

116

Dryden's version of this piece shows him at his best as a translator of Vergil. 'Methinks I come,' he writes, 'like a malefactor, to make a speech upon the gallows, and to warn all other poets, by my sad example, from the sacrilege of translating Vergil.' But in theGeorgics, at any rate, which he reckons 'more perfect in their kind than even the divine Aeneids,' he can challenge comparison with most of his rivals.

O HAPPY, if he knew his happy state,The swain, who, free from bus'ness and debate,Receives his easy food from Nature's hand,And just returns of cultivated land!No palace, with a lofty gate, he wants,T' admit the tides of early visitants,With eager eyes devouring, as they pass,The breathing figures of Corinthian brass;No statues threaten, from high pedestals;No Persian arras hides his homely walls,With antic vests, which, through their shady fold,Betray the streaks of ill-dissembled gold:He boasts no wool, whose native white is dy'dWith purple poison of Assyrian pride:No costly drugs of Araby defile,With foreign scents, the sweetness of his oil:But easy quiet, a secure retreat,A harmless life that knows not how to cheat,With home-bred plenty, the rich owner bless;And rural pleasures crown his happiness.Unvex'd with quarrels, undisturb'd with noise,The country king his peaceful realm enjoys—Cool grots, and living lakes, the flow'ry prideOf meads, and streams that through the valley glide,And shady groves that easy sleep invite,And, after toilsome days, a sweet repose at night.Wild beasts of nature in his woods abound;And youth of labour patient, plough the ground,Inur'd to hardship, and to homely fare.Nor venerable age is wanting there,In great examples to the youthful train;Nor are the gods ador'd with rites profane.From hence Astraea took her flight, and hereThe prints of her departing steps appear.Ye sacred muses! with whose beauty fir'd,My soul is ravish'd, and my brain inspir'd—Whose priest I am, whose holy fillets wear—Would you your poet's first petition hear;Give me the ways of wand'ring stars to know,The depths of heav'n above, and earth below:Teach me the various labours of the moon,And whence proceed th' eclipses of the sun;Why flowing tides prevail upon the main,And in what dark recess they shrink again;What shakes the solid earth; what cause delaysThe summer nights, and shortens winter days.But if my heavy blood restrain the flightOf my free soul, aspiring to the heightOf nature, and unclouded fields of light—My next desire is, void of care and strife,To lead a soft, secure, inglorious life—A country cottage near a crystal flood,A winding valley, and a lofty wood.Some god conduct me to the sacred shades,Where Bacchanals are sung by Spartan maids,Or lift me high to Haemus' hilly crown,Or in the plains of Tempe lay me down,Or lead me to some solitary place,And cover my retreat from human race.Happy the man, who, studying Nature's laws,Through known effects can trace the secret cause—His mind possessing in a quiet state,Fearless of Fortune, and resign'd to Fate!And happy too is he, who decks the bow'rsOf sylvans, and adores the rural pow'rs—Whose mind, unmov'd, the bribes of courts can see,Their glitt'ring baits, and purple slavery—Nor hopes the people's praise, nor fears their frown,Nor, when contending kindred tear the crown,Will set up one, or pull another down.Without concern he hears, but hears from far,Of tumults, and descents, and distant war;Nor with a superstitious fear is aw'd,For what befalls at home or what abroad.Nor envies he the rich their happy store,Nor his own peace disturbs with pity for the poor.He feeds on fruits, which of their own accord,The willing ground and laden trees afford.From his lov'd home no lucre him can draw;The senate's mad decrees he never saw:Nor heard, at bawling bars, corrupted law.Some to the seas, and some to camps, resort;And some with impudence invade the court:In foreign countries, others seek renown;With wars and taxes, others waste their own,And houses burn, and household gods deface,To drink in bowls which glitt'ring gems enchase,To loll on couches, rich with citron steds,And lay their guilty limbs on Tyrian beds.This wretch in earth entombs his golden ore,Hov'ring and brooding on his buried store.Some patriot fools to pop'lar praise aspireOf public speeches, which worse fools admire,While, from both benches, with redoubled sounds,Th' applause of lords and commoners abounds.Some, through ambition, or through thirst of gold,Have slain their brothers, or their country sold,And, leaving their sweet homes, in exile runTo lands that lie beneath another sun.The peasant, innocent of all these ills,With crooked ploughs the fertile fallows tills,And the round year with daily labour fills:And hence the country markets are supplied:Enough remains for household charge beside,His wife and tender children to sustain,And gratefully to feed his dumb deserving train.Nor cease his labours till the yellow fieldA full return of bearded harvest yield—A crop so plenteous, as the land to load,O'ercome the crowded barns, and lodge on ricks abroad.Thus ev'ry sev'ral season is employ'd,Some spent in toil, and some in ease enjoy'd.The yeaning ewes prevent the springing year:The laden boughs their fruits in autumn bear:'Tis then the vine her liquid harvest yields,Bak'd in the sunshine of ascending fields,The winter comes; and then the falling mastFor greedy swine provides a full repast:Then olives, ground in mills, their fatness boast,And winter fruits are mellow'd by the frost.His cares are eas'd with intervals of bliss;His little children, climbing for a kiss,Welcome their father's late return at night;His faithful bed is crown'd with chaste delight.His kine with swelling udders ready stand,And, lowing for the pail, invite the milker's hand.His wanton kids, with budding horns prepar'd,Fight harmless battles in his homely yard:Himself in rustic pomp, on holy-days,To rural pow'rs a just oblation pays,And on the green his careless limbs displays.The hearth is in the midst: the herdsmen, roundThe cheerful fire, provoke his health in goblets crown'd.He calls on Bacchus, and propounds the prize:The groom his fellow-groom at butts defies,And bends, and levels with his eyes,Or stript for wrestling, smears his limbs with oil,And watches, with a trip, his foe to foil.Such was the life the frugal Sabines led:So Remus and his brother-god were bred,From whom th' austere Etrurian virtue rose;And this rude life our homely fathers chose.Old Rome from such a race deriv'd her birth(The seat of empire, and the conquer'd earth),Which now on sev'n high hills triumphant reigns,And in that compass all the world contains.Ere Saturn's rebel son usurp'd the skies,When beasts were only slain for sacrifice,While peaceful Crete enjoy'd her ancient lord,Ere sounding hammers forg'd th' inhuman sword,Ere hollow drums were beat, before the breathOf brazen trumpets rung the peals of death,The good old god his hunger did assuage,With roots and herbs, and gave the golden age.

I append a portion of Cowley's unequal paraphrase (beginning from the wordsFelix qui potuit):

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