Praise in old time the sage Prometheus won,Who stole ethereal radiance from the sun;But greater he, whose bold invention stroveTo emulate the fiery bolts of Jove.
Praise in old time the sage Prometheus won,Who stole ethereal radiance from the sun;But greater he, whose bold invention stroveTo emulate the fiery bolts of Jove.
[The poems on the subject of the Gunpowder Treason I have not translated, both because the matter of them is unpleasant, and because they are written with an asperity, which, however it might be warranted in Milton's day, would be extremely unseasonable now.]
Another Leonora once inspiredTasso with fatal love, to frenzy fired;But how much happier, lived he now, were he,Pierced with whatever pangs for love of thee!Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,With Adriana's lute of sound divine,Fiercer than Pentheus' though his eye might roll,Or idiot apathy benumb his soul,You still, with medicinal sounds might cheerHis senses wandering in a blind career;And, sweetly breathing through his wounded breast,Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.
Another Leonora once inspiredTasso with fatal love, to frenzy fired;But how much happier, lived he now, were he,Pierced with whatever pangs for love of thee!Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,With Adriana's lute of sound divine,Fiercer than Pentheus' though his eye might roll,Or idiot apathy benumb his soul,You still, with medicinal sounds might cheerHis senses wandering in a blind career;And, sweetly breathing through his wounded breast,Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.
Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no moreThe sweet-voiced syren buried on thy shore,That, when Parthenope deceased, she gaveHer sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave,For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarsePausilipo for Tiber's placid course,Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chainsOf magic song both gods and men detains.
Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no moreThe sweet-voiced syren buried on thy shore,That, when Parthenope deceased, she gaveHer sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave,For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarsePausilipo for Tiber's placid course,Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chainsOf magic song both gods and men detains.
A FABLE.
A peasant to his lord paid yearly court,Presenting pippins of so rich a sort,That he, displeased to have a part alone,Removed the tree, that all might be his own.The tree, too old to travel, though beforeSo fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more.The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void,Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd,And, "Oh," he cried, "that I had lived contentWith tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant!My avarice has expensive proved to me,Has cost me both my pippins and my tree."
A peasant to his lord paid yearly court,Presenting pippins of so rich a sort,That he, displeased to have a part alone,Removed the tree, that all might be his own.The tree, too old to travel, though beforeSo fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more.The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void,Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd,And, "Oh," he cried, "that I had lived contentWith tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant!My avarice has expensive proved to me,Has cost me both my pippins and my tree."
Christina, maiden of heroic mien!Star of the North! of northern stars the queen!Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and howThe iron casque still chafes my veteran brow,While following Fate's dark footsteps, I fulfilThe dictates of a hardy people's will.But soften'd in thy sight my looks appear,Not to all queens or kings alike severe.
Christina, maiden of heroic mien!Star of the North! of northern stars the queen!Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and howThe iron casque still chafes my veteran brow,While following Fate's dark footsteps, I fulfilThe dictates of a hardy people's will.But soften'd in thy sight my looks appear,Not to all queens or kings alike severe.
Learn, ye nations of the earth,The condition of your birth,Now be taught your feeble state!Know, that all must yield to fate!If the mournful rover, Death,Say but once—"Resign your breath!"Vainly of escape you dream,You must pass the Stygian stream.Could the stoutest overcomeDeath's assault, and baffle doom,Hercules had both withstood,Undiseased by Nessus' blood.Ne'er had Hector press'd the plainBy a trick of Pallas slain,Nor the chief to Jove alliedBy Achilles' phantom died.Could enchantments life prolong,Circe, saved by magic song,Still had lived, and equal skillHad preserved Medea still.Dwelt in herbs and drugs a powerTo avert man's destined hour,Learn'd Machaon should have knownDoubtless to avert his own:Chiron had survived the smartOf the hydra-tainted dart,And Jove's bolt had been, with ease,Foil'd by Asclepiades.Thou too, sage! of whom forlornHelicon and Cirrha mourn,Still hadst fill'd thy princely place,Regent of the gowned race:Hadst advanced to higher fameStill thy much ennobled name,Nor in Charon's skiff exploredThe Tartarean gulf abhorr'd.But resentful Proserpine,Jealous of thy skill divine,Snapping short thy vital thread,Thee too number'd with the dead.Wise and good! untroubled beThe green turf that covers thee!Thence, in gay profusion, growAll the sweetest flowers that blow!Pluto's consort bid thee rest!Æacus pronounce thee blest!To her home thy shade consign!Make Elysium ever thine!
Learn, ye nations of the earth,The condition of your birth,Now be taught your feeble state!Know, that all must yield to fate!
If the mournful rover, Death,Say but once—"Resign your breath!"Vainly of escape you dream,You must pass the Stygian stream.
Could the stoutest overcomeDeath's assault, and baffle doom,Hercules had both withstood,Undiseased by Nessus' blood.
Ne'er had Hector press'd the plainBy a trick of Pallas slain,Nor the chief to Jove alliedBy Achilles' phantom died.
Could enchantments life prolong,Circe, saved by magic song,Still had lived, and equal skillHad preserved Medea still.
Dwelt in herbs and drugs a powerTo avert man's destined hour,Learn'd Machaon should have knownDoubtless to avert his own:
Chiron had survived the smartOf the hydra-tainted dart,And Jove's bolt had been, with ease,Foil'd by Asclepiades.
Thou too, sage! of whom forlornHelicon and Cirrha mourn,Still hadst fill'd thy princely place,Regent of the gowned race:
Hadst advanced to higher fameStill thy much ennobled name,Nor in Charon's skiff exploredThe Tartarean gulf abhorr'd.
But resentful Proserpine,Jealous of thy skill divine,Snapping short thy vital thread,Thee too number'd with the dead.
Wise and good! untroubled beThe green turf that covers thee!Thence, in gay profusion, growAll the sweetest flowers that blow!
Pluto's consort bid thee rest!Æacus pronounce thee blest!To her home thy shade consign!Make Elysium ever thine!
My lids with grief were tumid yet,And still my sullied cheek was wetWith briny dews profusely shedFor venerable Winton dead:When fame, whose tales of saddest sound,Alas! are ever truest found,The news through all our cities spreadOf yet another mitred headBy ruthless fate to death consign'd,Ely, the honour of his kind!At once a storm of passion heavedMy boiling bosom, much I grieved;But more I raged, at every breathDevoting Death himself to death.With less revenge did Naso teemWhen hated Ibis was his theme;With less Archilochus deniedThe lovely Greek his promised bride.But lo! while thus I execrate,Incensed, the minister of fate,Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear,Wafted on the gale I hear."Ah, much deluded! lay asideThy threats and anger misapplied!Art not afraid with sounds like theseTo offend, where thou canst not appease?Death is not (wherefore dreamst thou thus?)The son of Night and Erebus:Nor was of fell Erynnis bornOn gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn;But, sent from God, his presence leaves,To gather home his ripen'd sheaves,To call encumber'd souls awayFrom fleshly bonds to boundless day,(As when the winged hours excite,And summon forth the morning light,)And each to convoy to her placeBefore the Eternal Father's face.But not the wicked—them, severeYet just, from all their pleasures hereHe hurries to the realms below,Terrific realms of penal woe!Myself no sooner heard his call,Than, 'scaping through my prison wall,I bade adieu to bolts and bars,And soar'd, with angels, to the stars,Like him of old, to whom 'twas givenTo mount on fiery wheels to heaven.Boötes' waggon, slow with cold,Appall'd me not; nor to beholdThe sword that vast Orion draws,Or e'en the Scorpion's horrid claws.Beyond the sun's bright orb I fly,And far beneath my feet descryNight's dread goddess, seen with awe,Whom her winged dragons draw.Thus, ever wondering at my speed,Augmented still as I proceed,I pass the planetary sphere,The milky way—and now appearHeaven's crystal battlements, her doorOf massy pearl, and emerald floor."But here I cease. For never canThe tongue of once a mortal manIn suitable description traceThe pleasures of that happy place;Suffice it, that those joys divineAre all, and all for ever, mine!"
My lids with grief were tumid yet,And still my sullied cheek was wetWith briny dews profusely shedFor venerable Winton dead:When fame, whose tales of saddest sound,Alas! are ever truest found,The news through all our cities spreadOf yet another mitred headBy ruthless fate to death consign'd,Ely, the honour of his kind!At once a storm of passion heavedMy boiling bosom, much I grieved;But more I raged, at every breathDevoting Death himself to death.With less revenge did Naso teemWhen hated Ibis was his theme;With less Archilochus deniedThe lovely Greek his promised bride.But lo! while thus I execrate,Incensed, the minister of fate,Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear,Wafted on the gale I hear."Ah, much deluded! lay asideThy threats and anger misapplied!Art not afraid with sounds like theseTo offend, where thou canst not appease?Death is not (wherefore dreamst thou thus?)The son of Night and Erebus:Nor was of fell Erynnis bornOn gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn;But, sent from God, his presence leaves,To gather home his ripen'd sheaves,To call encumber'd souls awayFrom fleshly bonds to boundless day,(As when the winged hours excite,And summon forth the morning light,)And each to convoy to her placeBefore the Eternal Father's face.But not the wicked—them, severeYet just, from all their pleasures hereHe hurries to the realms below,Terrific realms of penal woe!Myself no sooner heard his call,Than, 'scaping through my prison wall,I bade adieu to bolts and bars,And soar'd, with angels, to the stars,Like him of old, to whom 'twas givenTo mount on fiery wheels to heaven.Boötes' waggon, slow with cold,Appall'd me not; nor to beholdThe sword that vast Orion draws,Or e'en the Scorpion's horrid claws.Beyond the sun's bright orb I fly,And far beneath my feet descryNight's dread goddess, seen with awe,Whom her winged dragons draw.Thus, ever wondering at my speed,Augmented still as I proceed,I pass the planetary sphere,The milky way—and now appearHeaven's crystal battlements, her doorOf massy pearl, and emerald floor."But here I cease. For never canThe tongue of once a mortal manIn suitable description traceThe pleasures of that happy place;Suffice it, that those joys divineAre all, and all for ever, mine!"
Ah, how the human mind wearies herselfWith her own wanderings, and, involved in gloomImpenetrable, speculates amiss!Measuring in her folly things divineBy human; laws inscribed on adamantBy laws of man's device; and counsels fix'dFor ever, by the hours that pass and die.How?—shall the face of nature then be plough'dInto deep wrinkles, and shall years at lastOn the great parent fix a sterile curse?Shall even she confess old age, and halt,And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows?Shall foul antiquity with rust, and drought,And famine, vex the radiant worlds above?Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulfThe very heavens, that regulate his flight?And was the sire of all able to fenceHis works, and to uphold the circling worlds,But, through improvident and heedless hasteLet slip the occasion?—so then—all is lost—And in some future evil hour, yon archShall crumble, and come thundering down, the polesJar in collision, the Olympian king,Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forthThe terrors of the Gorgon shield in vain,Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'dDown into Lemnos, through the gate of heaven.Thou also, with precipitated wheels,Phœbus! thy own son's fall shalt imitate,With hideous ruin shalt impress the deepSuddenly, and the flood shall reek, and hiss,At the extinction of the lamp of day.Then too shall Hæmus, cloven to his base,Be shatter'd, and the huge Ceraunian hills,Once weapons of Tartarean Dis, immersedIn Erebus, shall fill himself with fear.No. The Almighty Father surer laidHis deep foundations, and providing wellFor the event of all, the scales of fateSuspended in just equipoise, and badeHis universal works, from age to age,One tenor hold, perpetual, undisturb'd.Hence the prime mover wheels itself aboutContinual, day by day, and with it bears,In social measure swift, the heavens around.Not tardier now is Saturn than of old,Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars.Phœbus, his vigour unimpair'd, still showsThe effulgence of his youth, nor needs the godA downward course, that he may warm the vales;But, ever rich in influence, runs his road,Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone.Beautiful, as at first, ascends the starFrom odoriferous Ind, whose office isTo gather home betimes the ethereal flock,To pour them o'er the skies again at eve,And to discriminate the night and day.Still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes and wanesAlternate, and with arms extended stillShe welcomes to her breast her brother's beams.Nor have the elements deserted yetTheir functions; thunder with as loud a strokeAs erst smites through the rocks and scatters them.The east still howls; still the relentless northInvades the shuddering Scythian, still he breathesThe winter, and still rolls the storms along.The king of ocean, with his wonted force,Beats on Pelorus; o'er the deep is heardThe hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell;Nor swim the monsters of the Ægean seaIn shallows, or beneath diminished waves.Thou too, thy ancient vegetative powerEnjoy'st, O Earth! Narcissus still is sweet;And Phœbus! still thy favourite, and stillThy favourite Cytherea! both retainTheir beauty; nor the mountains, ore-enrich'dFor punishment of man, with purer goldTeem'd ever, or with brighter gems the deep.Thus in unbroken series all proceeds;And shall, till wide involving either pole,And the immensity of yonder heaven,The final flames of destiny absorbThe world, consumed in one enormous pyre!
Ah, how the human mind wearies herselfWith her own wanderings, and, involved in gloomImpenetrable, speculates amiss!Measuring in her folly things divineBy human; laws inscribed on adamantBy laws of man's device; and counsels fix'dFor ever, by the hours that pass and die.How?—shall the face of nature then be plough'dInto deep wrinkles, and shall years at lastOn the great parent fix a sterile curse?Shall even she confess old age, and halt,And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows?Shall foul antiquity with rust, and drought,And famine, vex the radiant worlds above?Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulfThe very heavens, that regulate his flight?And was the sire of all able to fenceHis works, and to uphold the circling worlds,But, through improvident and heedless hasteLet slip the occasion?—so then—all is lost—And in some future evil hour, yon archShall crumble, and come thundering down, the polesJar in collision, the Olympian king,Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forthThe terrors of the Gorgon shield in vain,Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'dDown into Lemnos, through the gate of heaven.Thou also, with precipitated wheels,Phœbus! thy own son's fall shalt imitate,With hideous ruin shalt impress the deepSuddenly, and the flood shall reek, and hiss,At the extinction of the lamp of day.Then too shall Hæmus, cloven to his base,Be shatter'd, and the huge Ceraunian hills,Once weapons of Tartarean Dis, immersedIn Erebus, shall fill himself with fear.No. The Almighty Father surer laidHis deep foundations, and providing wellFor the event of all, the scales of fateSuspended in just equipoise, and badeHis universal works, from age to age,One tenor hold, perpetual, undisturb'd.Hence the prime mover wheels itself aboutContinual, day by day, and with it bears,In social measure swift, the heavens around.Not tardier now is Saturn than of old,Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars.Phœbus, his vigour unimpair'd, still showsThe effulgence of his youth, nor needs the godA downward course, that he may warm the vales;But, ever rich in influence, runs his road,Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone.Beautiful, as at first, ascends the starFrom odoriferous Ind, whose office isTo gather home betimes the ethereal flock,To pour them o'er the skies again at eve,And to discriminate the night and day.Still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes and wanesAlternate, and with arms extended stillShe welcomes to her breast her brother's beams.Nor have the elements deserted yetTheir functions; thunder with as loud a strokeAs erst smites through the rocks and scatters them.The east still howls; still the relentless northInvades the shuddering Scythian, still he breathesThe winter, and still rolls the storms along.The king of ocean, with his wonted force,Beats on Pelorus; o'er the deep is heardThe hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell;Nor swim the monsters of the Ægean seaIn shallows, or beneath diminished waves.Thou too, thy ancient vegetative powerEnjoy'st, O Earth! Narcissus still is sweet;And Phœbus! still thy favourite, and stillThy favourite Cytherea! both retainTheir beauty; nor the mountains, ore-enrich'dFor punishment of man, with purer goldTeem'd ever, or with brighter gems the deep.Thus in unbroken series all proceeds;And shall, till wide involving either pole,And the immensity of yonder heaven,The final flames of destiny absorbThe world, consumed in one enormous pyre!
Ye sister powers, who o'er the sacred grovesPreside, and thou, fair mother of them all,Mnemosyne! and thou who, in thy grotImmense, reclined at leisure, hast in chargeThe archives and the ordinances of Jove,And dost record the festivals of heaven,Eternity!—inform us who is He,That great original, by nature chosenTo be the archetype of human kind,Unchangeable, immortal, with the polesThemselves coëval, one, yet every where,An image of the God who gave him being?Twin-brother of the goddess born from Jove,He dwells not in his father's mind, but, thoughOf common nature with ourselves, existsApart, and occupies a local home—Whether, companion of the stars, he spendEternal ages, roaming at his willFrom sphere to sphere the tenfold heavens, or dwellOn the moon's side that nearest neighbours earth,Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sitAmong the multitude of souls ordain'dTo flesh and blood; or whether (as may chance)That vast and giant model of our kindIn some far distant region of this globeSequester'd stalk with lifted head on highO'ertowering Atlas, on whose shoulders restThe stars, terrific even to the gods.Never the Theban seer, whose blindness provedHis best illumination, him beheldIn secret vision; never him the sonOf Pleione, amid the noiseless nightDescending, to the prophet-choir reveal'd;Him never knew the Assyrian priest, who yetThe ancestry of Ninus' chronicles,And Belus, and Osiris, far renown'd;Nor even thrice great Hermes, although skill'dSo deep in mystery, to the worshippersOf Isis show'd a prodigy like him.And thou, who hast immortalized the shadesOf Academus, if the schools receivedThis monster of the fancy first from thee,Either recall at once thy banish'd bardsTo thy republic, or thyself, evincedA wilder fabulist, go also forth.
Ye sister powers, who o'er the sacred grovesPreside, and thou, fair mother of them all,Mnemosyne! and thou who, in thy grotImmense, reclined at leisure, hast in chargeThe archives and the ordinances of Jove,And dost record the festivals of heaven,Eternity!—inform us who is He,That great original, by nature chosenTo be the archetype of human kind,Unchangeable, immortal, with the polesThemselves coëval, one, yet every where,An image of the God who gave him being?Twin-brother of the goddess born from Jove,He dwells not in his father's mind, but, thoughOf common nature with ourselves, existsApart, and occupies a local home—Whether, companion of the stars, he spendEternal ages, roaming at his willFrom sphere to sphere the tenfold heavens, or dwellOn the moon's side that nearest neighbours earth,Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sitAmong the multitude of souls ordain'dTo flesh and blood; or whether (as may chance)That vast and giant model of our kindIn some far distant region of this globeSequester'd stalk with lifted head on highO'ertowering Atlas, on whose shoulders restThe stars, terrific even to the gods.Never the Theban seer, whose blindness provedHis best illumination, him beheldIn secret vision; never him the sonOf Pleione, amid the noiseless nightDescending, to the prophet-choir reveal'd;Him never knew the Assyrian priest, who yetThe ancestry of Ninus' chronicles,And Belus, and Osiris, far renown'd;Nor even thrice great Hermes, although skill'dSo deep in mystery, to the worshippersOf Isis show'd a prodigy like him.And thou, who hast immortalized the shadesOf Academus, if the schools receivedThis monster of the fancy first from thee,Either recall at once thy banish'd bardsTo thy republic, or thyself, evincedA wilder fabulist, go also forth.
Oh that Pieria's spring would through my breastPour its inspiring influence, and rushNo rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood;That, for my venerable father's sakeAll meaner themes renounced, my muse, on wingsOf duty borne, might reach a loftier strain!For thee, my father! howsoe'er it please,She frames this slender work; nor know I aughtThat may thy gifts more suitably requite:Though to requite them suitably would askReturns much nobler, and surpassing farThe meagre stores of verbal gratitude:But, such as I possess, I send thee all.This page presents thee in their full amountWith thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought;Nought, save the riches that from airy dreamIn secret grottoes and in laurel bowers,I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired.Verse is a work divine; despise not thouVerse therefore, which evinces (nothing more)Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining stillSome scintillations of Promethean fire,Bespeaks him animated from above.The gods love verse; the infernal powers themselvesConfess the influence of verse, which stirsThe lowest deep, and binds in triple chainsOf adamant both Pluto and the shades.In verse the Delphic priestess and the paleTremulous sybil make the future known;And he who sacrifices, on the shrineHangs verse, both when he smites the threatening bullAnd when he spreads his reeking entrails wideTo scrutinize the fates enveloped there.We too, ourselves, what time we seek againOur native skies, and one eternal nowShall be the only measure of our being,Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyreHarmonious verse, shall range the courts above,And make the starry firmament resound.And, even now, the fiery spirit pureThat wheels yon circling orbs, directs himselfTheir mazy dance with melody of verseUnutterable, immortal, hearing whichHuge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress'd;Orion, soften'd, drops his ardent blade,And Atlas stands unconscious of his load.Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yetLuxurious dainties, destined to the gulfImmense of gluttony, were known, and ereLyæus deluged yet the temperate board.Then sat the bard a customary guestTo share the banquet, and, his length of locksWith beechen honours bound, proposed in verseThe characters of heroes and their deeds,To imitation; sang of chaos old,Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in searchOf acorns fallen, and of the thunderboltNot yet produced from Ætna's fiery cave.And what avails, at last, tune without voice,Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhapsThe rural dance, but such was ne'er the songOf Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear,And the oaks follow'd. Not by chords aloneWell touch'd, but by resistless accents more,To sympathetic tears the ghosts themselvesHe moved; these praises to his verse he owes.Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slightThe sacred Nine, and to imagine vainAnd useless powers, by whom inspired, thyselfArt skilful to associate verse with airsHarmonious, and to give the human voiceA thousand modulations, heir by rightIndisputable of Arion's fame.Now say, what wonder is it, if a sonOf thine delight in verse, if, so conjoin'dIn close affinity, we sympathizeIn social arts and kindred studies sweet?Such distribution of himself to usWas Phœbus' choice; thou hast thy gift, and IMine also, and between us we receive,Father and son, the whole inspiring God.No! howsoe'er the semblance thou assumeOf hate, thou hatest not the gentle muse,My father! for thou never badest me treadThe beaten path, and broad, that leads right onTo opulence, nor didst condemn thy sonTo the insipid clamours of the bar,To laws voluminous, and ill observed;But, wishing to enrich me more, to fillMy mind with treasure, ledd'st me far awayFrom city din to deep retreats, to banksAnd streams Aonian, and, with free consent,Didst place me happy at Apollo's side.I speak not now, on more important themesIntent, of common benefits, and suchAs nature bids, but of thy larger gifts,My father! who, when I had open'd onceThe stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'dThe full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks,Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove,Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowersThat Gallia boasts, those too, with which the smoothItalian his degenerate speech adorns,That witnesses his mixture with the Goth;And Palestine's prophetic songs divine.To sum the whole, whate'er the heaven contains,The earth beneath it, and the air between,The rivers and the restless deep, may allProve intellectual gain to me, my wishConcurring with thy will; science herself,All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head,And offers me the lip, if, dull of heart,I shrink not, and decline her gracious boon.Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid mindsThat covet it; what could my father more?What more could Jove himself, unless he gaveHis own abode, the heaven, in which he reigns?More eligible gifts than these were notApollo's to his son, had they been safeAs they were insecure, who made the boyThe world's vice-luminary, bade him ruleThe radiant chariot of the day, and bindTo his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath.I therefore, although last and least, my placeAmong the learned in the laurel groveWill hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines,Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throngProfane, nor even to be seen by such.Away then, sleepless care, complaint, away,And envy, with thy "jealous leer malign!"Nor let the monster calumny shoot forthHer venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes!Ye all are impotent against my peace,For I am privileged, and bear my breastSafe, and too high, for your viperean wound.But thou! my father, since to render thanksEquivalent, and to requite by deedsThy liberality, exceeds my power,Suffice it, that I thus record thy gifts,And bear them treasured in a grateful mind!Ye, too, the favourite pastime of my youth,My voluntary numbers, if ye dareTo hope longevity, and to surviveYour master's funeral, not soon absorb'dIn the oblivious Lethæan gulf,Shall to futurity perhaps conveyThis theme, and by these praises of my sireImprove the fathers of a distant age!
Oh that Pieria's spring would through my breastPour its inspiring influence, and rushNo rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood;That, for my venerable father's sakeAll meaner themes renounced, my muse, on wingsOf duty borne, might reach a loftier strain!For thee, my father! howsoe'er it please,She frames this slender work; nor know I aughtThat may thy gifts more suitably requite:Though to requite them suitably would askReturns much nobler, and surpassing farThe meagre stores of verbal gratitude:But, such as I possess, I send thee all.This page presents thee in their full amountWith thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought;Nought, save the riches that from airy dreamIn secret grottoes and in laurel bowers,I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired.Verse is a work divine; despise not thouVerse therefore, which evinces (nothing more)Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining stillSome scintillations of Promethean fire,Bespeaks him animated from above.The gods love verse; the infernal powers themselvesConfess the influence of verse, which stirsThe lowest deep, and binds in triple chainsOf adamant both Pluto and the shades.In verse the Delphic priestess and the paleTremulous sybil make the future known;And he who sacrifices, on the shrineHangs verse, both when he smites the threatening bullAnd when he spreads his reeking entrails wideTo scrutinize the fates enveloped there.We too, ourselves, what time we seek againOur native skies, and one eternal nowShall be the only measure of our being,Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyreHarmonious verse, shall range the courts above,And make the starry firmament resound.And, even now, the fiery spirit pureThat wheels yon circling orbs, directs himselfTheir mazy dance with melody of verseUnutterable, immortal, hearing whichHuge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress'd;Orion, soften'd, drops his ardent blade,And Atlas stands unconscious of his load.Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yetLuxurious dainties, destined to the gulfImmense of gluttony, were known, and ereLyæus deluged yet the temperate board.Then sat the bard a customary guestTo share the banquet, and, his length of locksWith beechen honours bound, proposed in verseThe characters of heroes and their deeds,To imitation; sang of chaos old,Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in searchOf acorns fallen, and of the thunderboltNot yet produced from Ætna's fiery cave.And what avails, at last, tune without voice,Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhapsThe rural dance, but such was ne'er the songOf Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear,And the oaks follow'd. Not by chords aloneWell touch'd, but by resistless accents more,To sympathetic tears the ghosts themselvesHe moved; these praises to his verse he owes.Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slightThe sacred Nine, and to imagine vainAnd useless powers, by whom inspired, thyselfArt skilful to associate verse with airsHarmonious, and to give the human voiceA thousand modulations, heir by rightIndisputable of Arion's fame.Now say, what wonder is it, if a sonOf thine delight in verse, if, so conjoin'dIn close affinity, we sympathizeIn social arts and kindred studies sweet?Such distribution of himself to usWas Phœbus' choice; thou hast thy gift, and IMine also, and between us we receive,Father and son, the whole inspiring God.No! howsoe'er the semblance thou assumeOf hate, thou hatest not the gentle muse,My father! for thou never badest me treadThe beaten path, and broad, that leads right onTo opulence, nor didst condemn thy sonTo the insipid clamours of the bar,To laws voluminous, and ill observed;But, wishing to enrich me more, to fillMy mind with treasure, ledd'st me far awayFrom city din to deep retreats, to banksAnd streams Aonian, and, with free consent,Didst place me happy at Apollo's side.I speak not now, on more important themesIntent, of common benefits, and suchAs nature bids, but of thy larger gifts,My father! who, when I had open'd onceThe stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'dThe full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks,Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove,Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowersThat Gallia boasts, those too, with which the smoothItalian his degenerate speech adorns,That witnesses his mixture with the Goth;And Palestine's prophetic songs divine.To sum the whole, whate'er the heaven contains,The earth beneath it, and the air between,The rivers and the restless deep, may allProve intellectual gain to me, my wishConcurring with thy will; science herself,All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head,And offers me the lip, if, dull of heart,I shrink not, and decline her gracious boon.Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid mindsThat covet it; what could my father more?What more could Jove himself, unless he gaveHis own abode, the heaven, in which he reigns?More eligible gifts than these were notApollo's to his son, had they been safeAs they were insecure, who made the boyThe world's vice-luminary, bade him ruleThe radiant chariot of the day, and bindTo his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath.I therefore, although last and least, my placeAmong the learned in the laurel groveWill hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines,Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throngProfane, nor even to be seen by such.Away then, sleepless care, complaint, away,And envy, with thy "jealous leer malign!"Nor let the monster calumny shoot forthHer venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes!Ye all are impotent against my peace,For I am privileged, and bear my breastSafe, and too high, for your viperean wound.But thou! my father, since to render thanksEquivalent, and to requite by deedsThy liberality, exceeds my power,Suffice it, that I thus record thy gifts,And bear them treasured in a grateful mind!Ye, too, the favourite pastime of my youth,My voluntary numbers, if ye dareTo hope longevity, and to surviveYour master's funeral, not soon absorb'dIn the oblivious Lethæan gulf,Shall to futurity perhaps conveyThis theme, and by these praises of my sireImprove the fathers of a distant age!
The original is written in a measure called Scazon, which signifies limping, and the measure is so denominated, because, though in other respects Iambic, it terminates with a Spondee, and has, consequently, a more tardy movement.The reader will immediately see that this property of the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English.
The original is written in a measure called Scazon, which signifies limping, and the measure is so denominated, because, though in other respects Iambic, it terminates with a Spondee, and has, consequently, a more tardy movement.
The reader will immediately see that this property of the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English.
My halting muse, that dragg'st by choice alongThy slow, slow step, in melancholy song,And likest that pace, expressive of thy cares,Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs,When in the dance she beats with measured treadHeaven's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed;Salute Salsillus, who to verse divinePrefers, with partial love, such lays as mine.Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafted o'erFrom his own nest on Albion's stormy shore,Where Eurus, fiercest of the Æolian band,Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land,Of late to more serene Ausonia cameTo view her cities of illustrious name,To prove, himself a witness of the truth,How wise her elders, and how learn'd her youth.Much good, Salsillus! and a body freeFrom all disease, that Milton asks for thee,Who now endurest the langour and the painsThat bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins;Relentless malady! not moved to spareBy thy sweet Roman voice and Lesbian air!Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies,And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies,Pythius, or Pæan, or what name divineSoe'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine!Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that meltWith vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt!If aught salubrious in your confines grow,Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe,That, render'd to the muse he loves, againHe may enchant the meadows with his strain.Numa, reclined in everlasting easeAmid the shade of dark embowering trees,Viewing with eyes of unabated fireHis loved Ægeria, shall that strain admire:So soothed, the tumid Tiber shall revereThe tombs of kings, nor desolate the year,Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein,And guide them harmless, till they meet the main.
My halting muse, that dragg'st by choice alongThy slow, slow step, in melancholy song,And likest that pace, expressive of thy cares,Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs,When in the dance she beats with measured treadHeaven's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed;Salute Salsillus, who to verse divinePrefers, with partial love, such lays as mine.Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafted o'erFrom his own nest on Albion's stormy shore,Where Eurus, fiercest of the Æolian band,Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land,Of late to more serene Ausonia cameTo view her cities of illustrious name,To prove, himself a witness of the truth,How wise her elders, and how learn'd her youth.Much good, Salsillus! and a body freeFrom all disease, that Milton asks for thee,Who now endurest the langour and the painsThat bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins;Relentless malady! not moved to spareBy thy sweet Roman voice and Lesbian air!Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies,And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies,Pythius, or Pæan, or what name divineSoe'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine!Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that meltWith vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt!If aught salubrious in your confines grow,Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe,That, render'd to the muse he loves, againHe may enchant the meadows with his strain.Numa, reclined in everlasting easeAmid the shade of dark embowering trees,Viewing with eyes of unabated fireHis loved Ægeria, shall that strain admire:So soothed, the tumid Tiber shall revereThe tombs of kings, nor desolate the year,Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein,And guide them harmless, till they meet the main.
MILTON'S ACCOUNT OF MANSO.
Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian nobleman of the highest estimation among his countrymen, for genius, literature, and military accomplishments. To him Torquato Tasso addressed his Dialogues on Friendship, for he was much the friend of Tasso, who has also celebrated him among the other princes of his country, in his poem entitled, Gerusalemme Conquistata, book xx.Fra cavalier magnanimi, e cortesi,Risplende il Manso.During the author's stay at Naples he received at the hands of the Marquis a thousand kind offices and civilities, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, sent him this poem a short time before his departure from that city.
Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian nobleman of the highest estimation among his countrymen, for genius, literature, and military accomplishments. To him Torquato Tasso addressed his Dialogues on Friendship, for he was much the friend of Tasso, who has also celebrated him among the other princes of his country, in his poem entitled, Gerusalemme Conquistata, book xx.
Fra cavalier magnanimi, e cortesi,Risplende il Manso.
Fra cavalier magnanimi, e cortesi,Risplende il Manso.
During the author's stay at Naples he received at the hands of the Marquis a thousand kind offices and civilities, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, sent him this poem a short time before his departure from that city.
These verses also to thy praise, the Nine,O Manso! happy in that theme, design,For, Gallus and Mæcenas gone, they seeNone such besides, or whom they love as thee;And if my verse may give the meed of fame,Thine too shall prove an everlasting name.Already such, it shines in Tasso's page(For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age,And, next, the muse consign'd (not unawareHow high the charge) Marino to thy care,Who, singing to the nymphs Adonis' praise,Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays.To thee alone the poet would entrustHis latest vows, to thee alone his dust;And thou with punctual piety hast paid,In labour'd brass, thy tribute to his shade.Nor this contented thee—but lest the graveShould aught absorb of theirs which thou could'st save,All future ages thou hast deign'd to teachThe life, lot, genius, character of each,Eloquent as the Carian sage, who, trueTo his great theme, the life of Homer drew.I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who comeChill'd by rude blasts that freeze my northern home,Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim,And thine, for Phœbus' sake, a deathless name.Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eyeA muse scarce rear'd beneath our sullen sky,Who fears not, indiscreet as she is young,To seek in Latium hearers of her song.We too, where Thames with its unsullied wavesThe tresses of the blue-hair'd Ocean laves,Hear oft by night, or, slumbering, seem to hear,O'er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling clear;And we could boast a Tityrus of yoreWho trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore.Yes—dreary as we own our northern clime,E'en we to Phœbus raise the polish'd rhyme,We too serve Phœbus; Phœbus has received(If legends old may claim to be believed)No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear,The burnish'd apple, ruddiest of the year,The fragrant crocus, and, to grace his fane,Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train;Druids, our native bards in ancient time,Who gods and heroes praised in hallow'd rhyme!Hence, often as the maids of Greece surroundApollo's shrine with hymns of festive sound,They named the virgins who arrived of yoreWith British offerings on the Delian shore,Loxo, from giant Corineus sprung,Upis, on whose blest lips the future hung,And Hacaerge, with the golden hair,All deck'd with Pictish hues, and all with bosoms bare.Thou, therefore, happy sage, whatever climeShall ring with Tasso's praise in after time,Or with Marino's, shalt be known their friend,And with an equal flight to fame ascend.The world shall hear how Phœbus and the NineWere inmates once, and willing guests of thine.Yet Phœbus, when of old constrain'd to roamThe earth, an exile from his heavenly home,Enter'd, no willing guest, Admetus' door,Though Hercules had ventured there before.But gentle Chiron's cave was near, a sceneOf rural peace, clothed with perpetual green,And thither, oft as respite he required,From rustic clamours loud, the god retired.There, many a time, on Peneus' bank reclinedAt some oak's root, with ivy thick entwined,Won by his hospitable friend's desire,He soothed his pains of exile with the lyre.Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus' shore,Nor Œta felt his load of forest more;The upland elms descended to the plain,And soften'd lynxes wonder'd at that strain.Well may we think, Oh, dear to all above!Thy birth distinguish'd by the smile of Jove,And that Apollo shed his kindliest power,And Maia's son, on that propitious hour.Since only minds so born can comprehendA poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend.Hence on thy yet unfaded cheek appearsThe lingering freshness of thy greener years;Hence in thy front and features we admireNature unwither'd and a mind entire.O might so true a friend to me belong,So skill'd to grace the votaries of song,Should I recall hereafter into rhymeThe kings and heroes of my native clime,Arthur the chief, who even now prepares,In subterraneous being, future wars,With all his martial knights, to be restoredEach to his seat around the federal board;And oh, if spirit fail me not, disperseOur Saxon plunderers in triumphant verse!Then, after all, when, with the past content,A life I finish, not in silence spent;Should he, kind mourner, o'er my deathbed bend,I shall but need to say—"Be yet my friend!"He too, perhaps, shall bid the marble breatheTo honour me, and with the graceful wreathOr of Parnassus or the Paphian isleShall bind my brows—but I shall rest the while.Then also, if the fruits of faith endure,And virtue's promised recompence be sure,Born to those seats to which the blest aspireBy purity of soul and virtuous fire,These rites, as fate permits, I shall surveyWith eyes illumined by celestial day,And, every cloud from my pure spirit driven,Joy in the bright beatitude of heaven!
These verses also to thy praise, the Nine,O Manso! happy in that theme, design,For, Gallus and Mæcenas gone, they seeNone such besides, or whom they love as thee;And if my verse may give the meed of fame,Thine too shall prove an everlasting name.Already such, it shines in Tasso's page(For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age,And, next, the muse consign'd (not unawareHow high the charge) Marino to thy care,Who, singing to the nymphs Adonis' praise,Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays.To thee alone the poet would entrustHis latest vows, to thee alone his dust;And thou with punctual piety hast paid,In labour'd brass, thy tribute to his shade.Nor this contented thee—but lest the graveShould aught absorb of theirs which thou could'st save,All future ages thou hast deign'd to teachThe life, lot, genius, character of each,Eloquent as the Carian sage, who, trueTo his great theme, the life of Homer drew.I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who comeChill'd by rude blasts that freeze my northern home,Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim,And thine, for Phœbus' sake, a deathless name.Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eyeA muse scarce rear'd beneath our sullen sky,Who fears not, indiscreet as she is young,To seek in Latium hearers of her song.We too, where Thames with its unsullied wavesThe tresses of the blue-hair'd Ocean laves,Hear oft by night, or, slumbering, seem to hear,O'er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling clear;And we could boast a Tityrus of yoreWho trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore.Yes—dreary as we own our northern clime,E'en we to Phœbus raise the polish'd rhyme,We too serve Phœbus; Phœbus has received(If legends old may claim to be believed)No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear,The burnish'd apple, ruddiest of the year,The fragrant crocus, and, to grace his fane,Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train;Druids, our native bards in ancient time,Who gods and heroes praised in hallow'd rhyme!Hence, often as the maids of Greece surroundApollo's shrine with hymns of festive sound,They named the virgins who arrived of yoreWith British offerings on the Delian shore,Loxo, from giant Corineus sprung,Upis, on whose blest lips the future hung,And Hacaerge, with the golden hair,All deck'd with Pictish hues, and all with bosoms bare.Thou, therefore, happy sage, whatever climeShall ring with Tasso's praise in after time,Or with Marino's, shalt be known their friend,And with an equal flight to fame ascend.The world shall hear how Phœbus and the NineWere inmates once, and willing guests of thine.Yet Phœbus, when of old constrain'd to roamThe earth, an exile from his heavenly home,Enter'd, no willing guest, Admetus' door,Though Hercules had ventured there before.But gentle Chiron's cave was near, a sceneOf rural peace, clothed with perpetual green,And thither, oft as respite he required,From rustic clamours loud, the god retired.There, many a time, on Peneus' bank reclinedAt some oak's root, with ivy thick entwined,Won by his hospitable friend's desire,He soothed his pains of exile with the lyre.Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus' shore,Nor Œta felt his load of forest more;The upland elms descended to the plain,And soften'd lynxes wonder'd at that strain.Well may we think, Oh, dear to all above!Thy birth distinguish'd by the smile of Jove,And that Apollo shed his kindliest power,And Maia's son, on that propitious hour.Since only minds so born can comprehendA poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend.Hence on thy yet unfaded cheek appearsThe lingering freshness of thy greener years;Hence in thy front and features we admireNature unwither'd and a mind entire.O might so true a friend to me belong,So skill'd to grace the votaries of song,Should I recall hereafter into rhymeThe kings and heroes of my native clime,Arthur the chief, who even now prepares,In subterraneous being, future wars,With all his martial knights, to be restoredEach to his seat around the federal board;And oh, if spirit fail me not, disperseOur Saxon plunderers in triumphant verse!Then, after all, when, with the past content,A life I finish, not in silence spent;Should he, kind mourner, o'er my deathbed bend,I shall but need to say—"Be yet my friend!"He too, perhaps, shall bid the marble breatheTo honour me, and with the graceful wreathOr of Parnassus or the Paphian isleShall bind my brows—but I shall rest the while.Then also, if the fruits of faith endure,And virtue's promised recompence be sure,Born to those seats to which the blest aspireBy purity of soul and virtuous fire,These rites, as fate permits, I shall surveyWith eyes illumined by celestial day,And, every cloud from my pure spirit driven,Joy in the bright beatitude of heaven!
Thyrsis and Damon, shepherds and neighbours, had always pursued the same studies, and had, from their earliest days, been united in the closest friendship. Thyrsis, while travelling for improvement, received intelligence of thedeath of Damon, and, after a time, returning and finding it true, deplores himself, and his solitary condition, in this poem.
By Damon is to be understood Charles Deodati, connected with the Italian city of Lucca by his father's side, in other respects an Englishman; a youth of uncommon genius, erudition, and virtue.
Ye Nymphs of Himera, (for ye have shedErewhile for Daphnis, and for Hylas dead,And over Bion's long-lamented bier,The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear,)Now through the villas laved by Thames rehearseThe woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse,What sighs he heaved, and how with groans profoundHe made the woods and hollow rocks resound,Young Damon dead; nor even ceased to pourHis lonely sorrows at the midnight hour.The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear,And golden harvest twice enrich'd the year,Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital airThe last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there;For he, enamour'd of the muse, remain'dIn Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd,But, stored at length with all he wish'd to learn,For his flock's sake, now hasted to return;And when the shepherd had resumed his seatAt the elm's root, within his old retreat,Then 'twas his lot then all his loss to know,And from his burden'd heart he vented thus his woe:"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Alas! what deities shall I supposeIn heaven, or earth, concerned for human woes,Since, oh my Damon! their severe decreeSo soon condemns me to regret of thee!Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaidWith fame and honour, like a vulgar shade!Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls,And separates sordid from illustrious souls,Drive far the rabble, and to thee assignA happier lot with spirits worthy thine!"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chanceThe wolf first give me a forbidding glance,Thou shalt not moulder undeplored, but longThy praise shall dwell on every shepherd's tongue.To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay,And, after him, to thee the votive lay,While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love,Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove;At least, if ancient piety and truth,With all the learned labours of thy youth,May serve thee aught, or to have left behindA sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind."Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Who now my pains and perils shall divide,As thou wast wont, for ever at my side,Both when the rugged frost annoy'd our feet,And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat;Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent,Or the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went;Whose converse now shall calm my stormy day,With charming song who now beguile my way?"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.In whom shall I confide? Whose counsel findA balmy medicine for my troubled mind?Or whose discourse with innocent delightShall fill me now, and cheat the wintry night,While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear,And blackening chestnuts start and crackle there,While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm,And the wind thunders through the neighbouring elm?"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Or who, when summer suns their summit reach,And Pan sleeps hidden by the sheltering beech,When shepherds disappear, nymphs seek the sedge,And the stretch'd rustic snores beneath the hedge,Who then shall render me thy pleasant veinOf Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again?"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Where glens and vales are thickest overgrownWith tangled boughs, I wander now alone,Till night descend, while blustering wind and showerBeat on my temples through the shatter'd bower."Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Alas! what rampant weeds now shame my fields,And what a mildew'd crop the furrow yields;My rambling vines unwedded to the trees,Bear shrivell'd grapes; my myrtles fail to please;Nor please me more my flocks: they, slighted turnTheir unavailing looks on me, and mourn."Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Ægon invites me to the hazel grove,Amyntas, on the river's bank to rove,And young Alphesibœus to a seatWhere branching elms exclude the mid-day heat.'Here fountains spring—here mossy hillocks rise;Here zephyr whispers, and the stream replies.'—Thus each persuades, but, deaf to every call,I gain the thickets, and escape them all."Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Then Mopsus said, (the same who reads so wellThe voice of birds, and what the stars foretell,For he by chance had noticed my return,)'What means thy sullen mood, this deep concern?Ah, Thyrsis, thou art either crazed with love,Or some sinister influence from above;Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherds rue;His leaden shaft oblique has pierced thee through.'"Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are,My thoughts are all now due to other care.The nymphs amazed, my melancholy see,And, 'Thyrsis!' cry—'what will become of thee?What wouldst thou, Thyrsis? such should not appearThe brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe;Brisk youth should laugh and love—ah, shun the fateOf those, twice wretched mopes! who love too late!'"Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are;My thoughts are all now due to other care.Ægle with Hyas came, to soothe my pain,And Baucis' daughter, Dryope, the vain,Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neatKnown far and near, and for her self-conceit;Chloris too came, whose cottage on the landsThat skirt the Idumanian current stands;But all in vain they came, and but to seeKind words, and comfortable, lost on me."Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are;My thoughts are all now due to other care.Ah blest indifference of the playful herd,None by his fellow chosen, or preferr'd!No bonds of amity the flocks inthral,But each associates, and is pleased with all;So graze the dappled deer in numerous droves,And all his kind alike the zebra loves;That same law governs, where the billows roar,And Proteus' shoals o'erspread the desert shore;The sparrow, meanest of the feather'd race,His fit companion finds in every place,With whom he picks the grain that suits him best,Flirts here and there, and late returns to rest,And whom, if chance the falcon makes his prey,Or hedger with his well aim'd arrow slay,For no such loss the gay survivor grieves,New love he seeks, and new delight receives.We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice,Scorning all others, in a single choice.We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind,And if the long-sought good at last we find,When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals,And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals."Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are;My thoughts are all now due to other care.Ah, what delusion lured me from my flocks,To traverse Alpine snows and rugged rocks!What need so great had I to visit Rome,Now sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb?Or, had she flourish'd still, as when, of old,For her sake Tityrus forsook his fold,What need so great had I to incur a pauseOf thy sweet intercourse for such a cause,For such a cause to place the roaring sea,Rocks, mountains, woods, between my friend and me?Else, had I grasp'd thy feeble hand, composedThy decent limbs, thy drooping eyelids closed,And, at the last, had said—'Farewell—ascend—Nor even in the skies forget thy friend!'"Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare;My thoughts are all now due to other care.Although well pleased, ye tuneful Tuscan swains!My mind the memory of your worth retains,Yet not your worth can teach me less to mournMy Damon lost.—He too was Tuscan born,Born in your Lucca, city of renown!And wit possess'd, and genius, like your own.Oh how elate was I, when, stretch'd besideThe murmuring course of Arno's breezy tide,Beneath the poplar grove I pass'd my hours,Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flowers,And hearing, as I lay at ease along,Your swains contending for the prize of song!I also dared attempt (and, as it seems,Not much displeased attempting) various themes,For even I can presents boast from you,The shepherd's pipe, and ozier basket too,And Dati and Francini both have madeMy name familiar to the beechen shade,And they are learn'd, and each in every placeRenown'd for song, and both of Lydian race."Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare;My thoughts are all now due to other care.While bright the dewy grass with moonbeams shone,And I stood hurdling in my kids alone,How often have I said (but thou hadst foundEre then thy dark cold lodgment underground)Now Damon sings, or springes sets for hares,Or wickerwork for various use prepares!How oft, indulging fancy, have I plann'dNew scenes of pleasure that I hoped at hand,Call'd thee abroad as I was wont, and cried—'What, hoa! my friend—come lay thy task aside;Haste, let us forth together, and beguileThe heat beneath yon whispering shades awhile,Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood,Or where Cassibelan's grey turrets stood!There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teachThy friend the name and healing powers of each,From the tall bluebell to the dwarfish weed,What the dry land, and what the marshes breed,For all their kinds alike to thee are known,And the whole art of Galen is thy own.'Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd beThe useless herbs that gave not health to thee!Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream,I meditating sat some statelier theme,The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though new,And unessay'd before, than wide they flew,Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustainThe deep-toned music of the solemn strain;And I am vain perhaps, but I will tellHow proud a theme I chose—ye groves, farewell."Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare;My thoughts are all now due to other care.Of Brutus, Dardan chief, my song shall be,How with his barks he plough'd the British sea,First from Rutupia's towering headland seen,And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen;Of Brennus and Belinus, brothers bold,And of Arviragus, and how of oldOur hardy sires the Armorican controll'd,And of the wife of Gorloïs, who, surprisedBy Uther, in her husband's form disguised,(Such was the force of Merlin's art,) becamePregnant with Arthur of heroic fame.These themes I now revolve—and Oh—if FateProportion to these themes my lengthen'd date,Adieu my shepherd's reed—yon pine tree boughShall be thy future home, there dangle thouForgotten and disused, unless ere longThou change thy Latian for a British song:A British?—even so—the powers of manAre bounded; little is the most he can;And it shall well suffice me, and shall beFame and proud recompence enough for me,If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn,If Alain bending o'er his crystal urn,Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd stream,Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem,Tamar's ore-tinctured flood, and, after these,The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades."Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare;My thoughts are all now due to other care.All this I kept in leaves of laurel rindEnfolded safe, and for thy view design'd,This—and a gift from Manso's hand beside,(Manso, not least his native city's pride,)Two cups that radiant as their giver shone,Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone.The spring was graven there; here slowly windThe Red sea shores with groves of spices lined;Her plumes of various hues amid the boughsThe sacred, solitary phœnix shows,And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her headTo see Aurora leave her watery bed.—In other part, the expensive vault above,And there too, even there, the god of love;With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displaysA vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze,Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls,Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls,Nor deigns one look below, but, aiming high,Sends every arrow to the lofty sky;Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learnThe power of Cupid, and enamour'd burn."Thou, also, Damon, (neither need I fearThat hope delusive,) thou art also there;For whither should simplicity like thineRetire, where else should spotless virtue shine?Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shades below,Nor tears suit thee—cease then, my tears, to flow.Away with grief: on Damon ill bestow'd!Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode,Has pass'd the showery arch, henceforth residesWith saints and heroes, and from flowing tidesQuaffs copious immortality and joyWith hallow'd lips!—Oh! blest without alloy,And now enrich'd with all that faith can claim,Look down, entreated by whatever name,If Damon please thee most (that rural soundShall oft with echoes fill the groves around)Or if Deodatus, by which aloneIn those ethereal mansions thou art known.Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the tasteOf wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste,The honours, therefore, by divine decreeThe lot of virgin worth, are given to thee:Thy brows encircled with a radiant band,And the green palm branch waving in thy hand,Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice,And join with seraphs thy according voice,Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyreGuides the blest orgies of the blazing quire."
Ye Nymphs of Himera, (for ye have shedErewhile for Daphnis, and for Hylas dead,And over Bion's long-lamented bier,The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear,)Now through the villas laved by Thames rehearseThe woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse,What sighs he heaved, and how with groans profoundHe made the woods and hollow rocks resound,Young Damon dead; nor even ceased to pourHis lonely sorrows at the midnight hour.The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear,And golden harvest twice enrich'd the year,Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital airThe last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there;For he, enamour'd of the muse, remain'dIn Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd,But, stored at length with all he wish'd to learn,For his flock's sake, now hasted to return;And when the shepherd had resumed his seatAt the elm's root, within his old retreat,Then 'twas his lot then all his loss to know,And from his burden'd heart he vented thus his woe:"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Alas! what deities shall I supposeIn heaven, or earth, concerned for human woes,Since, oh my Damon! their severe decreeSo soon condemns me to regret of thee!Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaidWith fame and honour, like a vulgar shade!Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls,And separates sordid from illustrious souls,Drive far the rabble, and to thee assignA happier lot with spirits worthy thine!"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chanceThe wolf first give me a forbidding glance,Thou shalt not moulder undeplored, but longThy praise shall dwell on every shepherd's tongue.To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay,And, after him, to thee the votive lay,While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love,Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove;At least, if ancient piety and truth,With all the learned labours of thy youth,May serve thee aught, or to have left behindA sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind."Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Who now my pains and perils shall divide,As thou wast wont, for ever at my side,Both when the rugged frost annoy'd our feet,And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat;Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent,Or the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went;Whose converse now shall calm my stormy day,With charming song who now beguile my way?"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.In whom shall I confide? Whose counsel findA balmy medicine for my troubled mind?Or whose discourse with innocent delightShall fill me now, and cheat the wintry night,While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear,And blackening chestnuts start and crackle there,While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm,And the wind thunders through the neighbouring elm?"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Or who, when summer suns their summit reach,And Pan sleeps hidden by the sheltering beech,When shepherds disappear, nymphs seek the sedge,And the stretch'd rustic snores beneath the hedge,Who then shall render me thy pleasant veinOf Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again?"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Where glens and vales are thickest overgrownWith tangled boughs, I wander now alone,Till night descend, while blustering wind and showerBeat on my temples through the shatter'd bower."Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Alas! what rampant weeds now shame my fields,And what a mildew'd crop the furrow yields;My rambling vines unwedded to the trees,Bear shrivell'd grapes; my myrtles fail to please;Nor please me more my flocks: they, slighted turnTheir unavailing looks on me, and mourn."Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Ægon invites me to the hazel grove,Amyntas, on the river's bank to rove,And young Alphesibœus to a seatWhere branching elms exclude the mid-day heat.'Here fountains spring—here mossy hillocks rise;Here zephyr whispers, and the stream replies.'—Thus each persuades, but, deaf to every call,I gain the thickets, and escape them all."Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Then Mopsus said, (the same who reads so wellThe voice of birds, and what the stars foretell,For he by chance had noticed my return,)'What means thy sullen mood, this deep concern?Ah, Thyrsis, thou art either crazed with love,Or some sinister influence from above;Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherds rue;His leaden shaft oblique has pierced thee through.'"Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are,My thoughts are all now due to other care.The nymphs amazed, my melancholy see,And, 'Thyrsis!' cry—'what will become of thee?What wouldst thou, Thyrsis? such should not appearThe brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe;Brisk youth should laugh and love—ah, shun the fateOf those, twice wretched mopes! who love too late!'"Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are;My thoughts are all now due to other care.Ægle with Hyas came, to soothe my pain,And Baucis' daughter, Dryope, the vain,Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neatKnown far and near, and for her self-conceit;Chloris too came, whose cottage on the landsThat skirt the Idumanian current stands;But all in vain they came, and but to seeKind words, and comfortable, lost on me."Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are;My thoughts are all now due to other care.Ah blest indifference of the playful herd,None by his fellow chosen, or preferr'd!No bonds of amity the flocks inthral,But each associates, and is pleased with all;So graze the dappled deer in numerous droves,And all his kind alike the zebra loves;That same law governs, where the billows roar,And Proteus' shoals o'erspread the desert shore;The sparrow, meanest of the feather'd race,His fit companion finds in every place,With whom he picks the grain that suits him best,Flirts here and there, and late returns to rest,And whom, if chance the falcon makes his prey,Or hedger with his well aim'd arrow slay,For no such loss the gay survivor grieves,New love he seeks, and new delight receives.We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice,Scorning all others, in a single choice.We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind,And if the long-sought good at last we find,When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals,And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals."Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are;My thoughts are all now due to other care.Ah, what delusion lured me from my flocks,To traverse Alpine snows and rugged rocks!What need so great had I to visit Rome,Now sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb?Or, had she flourish'd still, as when, of old,For her sake Tityrus forsook his fold,What need so great had I to incur a pauseOf thy sweet intercourse for such a cause,For such a cause to place the roaring sea,Rocks, mountains, woods, between my friend and me?Else, had I grasp'd thy feeble hand, composedThy decent limbs, thy drooping eyelids closed,And, at the last, had said—'Farewell—ascend—Nor even in the skies forget thy friend!'"Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare;My thoughts are all now due to other care.Although well pleased, ye tuneful Tuscan swains!My mind the memory of your worth retains,Yet not your worth can teach me less to mournMy Damon lost.—He too was Tuscan born,Born in your Lucca, city of renown!And wit possess'd, and genius, like your own.Oh how elate was I, when, stretch'd besideThe murmuring course of Arno's breezy tide,Beneath the poplar grove I pass'd my hours,Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flowers,And hearing, as I lay at ease along,Your swains contending for the prize of song!I also dared attempt (and, as it seems,Not much displeased attempting) various themes,For even I can presents boast from you,The shepherd's pipe, and ozier basket too,And Dati and Francini both have madeMy name familiar to the beechen shade,And they are learn'd, and each in every placeRenown'd for song, and both of Lydian race."Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare;My thoughts are all now due to other care.While bright the dewy grass with moonbeams shone,And I stood hurdling in my kids alone,How often have I said (but thou hadst foundEre then thy dark cold lodgment underground)Now Damon sings, or springes sets for hares,Or wickerwork for various use prepares!How oft, indulging fancy, have I plann'dNew scenes of pleasure that I hoped at hand,Call'd thee abroad as I was wont, and cried—'What, hoa! my friend—come lay thy task aside;Haste, let us forth together, and beguileThe heat beneath yon whispering shades awhile,Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood,Or where Cassibelan's grey turrets stood!There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teachThy friend the name and healing powers of each,From the tall bluebell to the dwarfish weed,What the dry land, and what the marshes breed,For all their kinds alike to thee are known,And the whole art of Galen is thy own.'Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd beThe useless herbs that gave not health to thee!Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream,I meditating sat some statelier theme,The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though new,And unessay'd before, than wide they flew,Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustainThe deep-toned music of the solemn strain;And I am vain perhaps, but I will tellHow proud a theme I chose—ye groves, farewell."Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare;My thoughts are all now due to other care.Of Brutus, Dardan chief, my song shall be,How with his barks he plough'd the British sea,First from Rutupia's towering headland seen,And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen;Of Brennus and Belinus, brothers bold,And of Arviragus, and how of oldOur hardy sires the Armorican controll'd,And of the wife of Gorloïs, who, surprisedBy Uther, in her husband's form disguised,(Such was the force of Merlin's art,) becamePregnant with Arthur of heroic fame.These themes I now revolve—and Oh—if FateProportion to these themes my lengthen'd date,Adieu my shepherd's reed—yon pine tree boughShall be thy future home, there dangle thouForgotten and disused, unless ere longThou change thy Latian for a British song:A British?—even so—the powers of manAre bounded; little is the most he can;And it shall well suffice me, and shall beFame and proud recompence enough for me,If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn,If Alain bending o'er his crystal urn,Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd stream,Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem,Tamar's ore-tinctured flood, and, after these,The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades."Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare;My thoughts are all now due to other care.All this I kept in leaves of laurel rindEnfolded safe, and for thy view design'd,This—and a gift from Manso's hand beside,(Manso, not least his native city's pride,)Two cups that radiant as their giver shone,Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone.The spring was graven there; here slowly windThe Red sea shores with groves of spices lined;Her plumes of various hues amid the boughsThe sacred, solitary phœnix shows,And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her headTo see Aurora leave her watery bed.—In other part, the expensive vault above,And there too, even there, the god of love;With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displaysA vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze,Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls,Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls,Nor deigns one look below, but, aiming high,Sends every arrow to the lofty sky;Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learnThe power of Cupid, and enamour'd burn."Thou, also, Damon, (neither need I fearThat hope delusive,) thou art also there;For whither should simplicity like thineRetire, where else should spotless virtue shine?Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shades below,Nor tears suit thee—cease then, my tears, to flow.Away with grief: on Damon ill bestow'd!Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode,Has pass'd the showery arch, henceforth residesWith saints and heroes, and from flowing tidesQuaffs copious immortality and joyWith hallow'd lips!—Oh! blest without alloy,And now enrich'd with all that faith can claim,Look down, entreated by whatever name,If Damon please thee most (that rural soundShall oft with echoes fill the groves around)Or if Deodatus, by which aloneIn those ethereal mansions thou art known.Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the tasteOf wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste,The honours, therefore, by divine decreeThe lot of virgin worth, are given to thee:Thy brows encircled with a radiant band,And the green palm branch waving in thy hand,Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice,And join with seraphs thy according voice,Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyreGuides the blest orgies of the blazing quire."
LIBRARIAN OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD,
On a lost Volume of my Poems, which he desired me to replace, that he might add them to my other Works deposited in the Library.
This ode is rendered without rhyme, that it might more adequately represent the original, which, as Milton himself informs us, is of no certain measure. It may possibly for this reason disappoint the reader, though it cost the writer more labour than the translation of any other piece in the whole collection.