Wooerof young Nymphs who fly thee,Lightly o’er my sunlit lawnTrip, and go, nor injured by theeBe my weanling herds, O Faun:
If the kid his doomed head bows, andBrims with wine the loving cup,When the year is full; and thousandScents from altars hoar go up.
Each flock in the rich grass gambolsWhen the month comes which is thine;And the happy village ramblesFieldward with the idle kine:
Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour:Wild woods deck thee with their spoil;And with glee the sons of labourStamp thrice on their foe, the soil.
Lyce, the gods have listened to my prayer;The gods have listened, Lyce. Thou art grey,And still would’st thou seem fair;Still unshamed drink, and play,
And, wine-flushed, woo slow-answering Love with weakShrill pipings. With young Chia He doth dwell,Queen of the harp; her cheekIs his sweet citadel:—
He marked the withered oak, and on he flewIntolerant; shrank from Lyce grim and wrinkled,Whose teeth are ghastly-blue,Whose temples snow-besprinkled:—
Not purple, not the brightest gem that glows,Brings back to her the years which, fleeting fast,Time hath once shut in thoseDark annals of the Past.
Oh, where is all thy loveliness? soft hueAnd motions soft? Oh, what of Her doth rest,Her, who breathed love, who drewMy heart out of my breast?
Fair, and far-famed, and subtly sweet, thy faceRanked next to Cinara’s. But to Cinara fateGave but a few years’ grace;And lets live, all too late,
Lyce, the rival of the beldam crow:That fiery youth may see with scornful browThe torch that long agoBeamed bright, a cinder now.
Persiangrandeur I abhor;Linden-wreathèd crowns, avaunt:Boy, I bid thee not exploreWoods which latest roses haunt:
Try on nought thy busy craftSave plain myrtle; so arrayedThou shalt fetch, I drain, the draughtFitliest ’neath the scant vine-shade.
Lo! smoking in the stubborn plough, the oxFalls, from his lip foam gushing crimson-stained,And sobs his life out. Sad of face the ploughmanMoves, disentangling from his comrade’s corpseThe lone survivor: and its work half-done,Abandoned in the furrow stands the plough.Not shadiest forest-depths, not softest lawns,May move him now: not river amber-pure,That volumes o’er the cragstones to the plain.Powerless the broad sides, glazed the rayless eye,And low and lower sinks the ponderous neck.What thank hath he for all the toil he toiled,The heavy-clodded land in man’s behoofUpturning? Yet the grape of Italy,The stored-up feast hath wrought no harm to him:Green leaf and taintless grass are all their fare;The clear rill or the travel-freshen’d streamTheir cup: nor one care mars their honest sleep.
Scarcemidway were we yet, nor yet descriedThe stone that hides what once was Brasidas:When there drew near a wayfarer from Crete,Young Lycidas, the Muses’ votary.The horned herd was his care: a glance might tellSo much: for every inch a herdsman he.Slung o’er his shoulder was a ruddy hideTorn from a he-goat, shaggy, tangle-haired,That reeked of rennet yet: a broad belt claspedA patched cloak round his breast, and for a staffA gnarled wild-olive bough his right hand bore.Soon with a quiet smile he spoke—his eyeTwinkled, and laughter sat upon his lip:“And whither ploddest thou thy weary wayBeneath the noontide sun, Simichides?For now the lizard sleeps upon the wall,The crested lark hath closed his wandering wing.Speed’st thou, a bidd’n guest, to some reveller’s board?Or townwards, to the treading of the grape?For lo! recoiling from thy hurrying feetThe pavement-stones ring out right merrily.”
Allstrangest things the multitudinous yearsBring forth, and shadow from us all we know.Falter alike great oath and steeled resolve;And none shall say of aught, ‘This may not be.’Lo! I myself, but yesterday so strong,As new-dipt steel am weak and all unsexedBy yonder woman: yea I mourn for them,Widow and orphan, left amid their foes.But I will journey seaward—where the shoreLies meadow-fringed—so haply wash awayMy sin, and flee that wrath that weighs me down.And, lighting somewhere on an untrodden way,I will bury this my lance, this hateful thing,Deep in some earth-hole where no eye shall see—Night and Hell keep it in the underworld!For never to this day, since first I graspedThe gift that Hector gave, my bitterest foe,Have I reaped aught of honour from the Greeks.So true that byword in the mouths of men,“A foeman’s gifts are no gifts, but a curse.”Wherefore henceforward shall I know that GodIs great; and strive to honour Atreus’ sons.Princes they are, and should be obeyed. How else?Do not all terrible and most puissant thingsYet bow to loftier majesties? The Winter,Who walks forth scattering snows, gives place anonTo fruitage-laden Summer; and the orbOf weary Night doth in her turn stand by,And let shine out, with her white steeds, the Day:Stern tempest-blasts at last sing lullabyTo groaning seas: even the arch-tyrant, Sleep,Doth loose his slaves, not hold them chained for ever.And shall not mankind too learn discipline?Iknow, of late experience taught, that himWho is my foe I must but hate as oneWhom I may yet call Friend: and him who loves meWill I but serve and cherish as a manWhose love is not abiding. Few be theyWho, reaching Friendship’s port, have there found rest.But, for these things they shall be well. Go thou,Lady, within, and there pray that the GodsMay fill unto the full my heart’s desire.And ye, my mates, do unto me with herLike honour: bid young Teucer, if he come,To care for me, but to beyourfriend still.For where my way leads, thither I shall go:Do ye my bidding; haply ye may hear,Though now is my dark hour, that I have peace.
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 blissful enjoyment;But that the sight hath a sweetness, of ills ourselves are exempt from.Sweet ’tis too 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 paths, 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 to the surface whereon rest Riches and Empire.O race born unto trouble! O minds all lacking of eyesight!’Neath what a vital darkness, amidst how terrible dangers,Move ye thro’ this thing, Life, this fragment! Fools, that ye hear notNature clamour aloud for the one thing only; that, all painParted and past from the Body, the Mind too bask in a blissfulDream, all fear of the future and all anxiety over!So, 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 pleasures,That scarce Nature herself would at times ask happiness ampler.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 furnished always);Silver may not shine softly, nor gold blaze bright, in his mansion,Nor to the noise of the tabret his halls gold-cornicèd 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 the 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 them,Heed not the jav’lin’s fury, regard not clashing of broadswords;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;When too 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 Day-star:Nature, rightly revealed, and the Reason only, dispel them.Now, how moving about do the prime material atomsShape forth this thing and that thing; and, once shaped, how they resolve them;What power says unto each, This must be; how an inherentElasticity drives them about Space vagrantly onward;—I shall unfold: thou simply give all thyself to my teaching.Matter mingled and massed into indissoluble unionDoes not exist. For we see how wastes each separate substance;So flow piecemeal away, with the length’ning centuries, all things,Till from our eye by degrees that old self passes, and is not.Still Universal Nature abides unchanged as aforetime.Whereof this is the cause. When the atoms part from a substance,That suffers loss; but another is elsewhere gaining an increase:So that, as one thing wanes, still a second bursts into blossom,Soon, in its turn, to be left. Thus draws this Universe alwaysGain out of loss; thus live we mortals one on another.Bourgeons one generation, and one fades. Let but a few yearsPass, and a race has arisen which was not: as in a racecourse,One hands on to another the burning torch of Existence.
Sing, O daughter of heaven, of Peleus’ son, of Achilles,Him whose terrible wrath brought thousand woes on Achaia.Many a stalwart soul did it hurl untimely to Hades,Souls of the heroes of old: and their bones lay strown on the sea-sands,Prey to the vulture and dog. Yet was Zeus fulfilling a purpose;Since that far-off day, when in hot strife parted asunderAtreus’ sceptred son, and the chos’n of heaven, Achilles.Say then, which of the Gods bid arise up battle between them?Zeus’s and Leto’s son. With the king was kindled his anger:Then went sickness abroad, and the people died of the sickness:For that of Atreus’ son had his priest been lightly entreated,Chryses, Apollo’s priest. For he came to the ships of Achaia,Bearing a daughter’s ransom, a sum not easy to number:And in his hand was the emblem of Him, far-darting Apollo,High on a sceptre of gold: and he made his prayer to the Grecians;Chiefly to Atreus’ sons, twin chieftains, ordering armies“Chiefs sprung of Atreus’ loins; and ye, brazen-greavèd Achaians!So may the Gods this day, the Olympus-palacèd, grant youPriam’s city to raze, and return unscathed to your homesteads:Only my own dear daughter I ask; take ransom and yield her,Rev’rencing His great name, son of Zeus, far-darting Apollo.”Then from the host of Achaians arose tumultuous answer:“Due to the priest is his honour; accept rich ransom and yield her.”But there was war in the spirit of Atreus’ son, Agamemnon;Disdainful he dismissed him, a right stern fiat appending:—“Woe be to thee, old man, if I find thee lingering longer,Yea or returning again, by the hollow ships of Achaians!Scarce much then will avail thee the great god’s sceptre and emblem.Her will I never release. Old age must first come upon her,In my own home, yea in Argos, afar from the land of her fathers,Following the loom and attending upon my bed. But avaunt thee!Go, and provoke not me, that thy way may be haply securer.”These were the words of the king, and the old man feared and obeyed him:Voiceless he went by the shore of the great dull-echoing ocean,Thither he got him apart, that ancient man; and a long prayerPrayed to Apollo his Lord, son of golden-ringleted Leto.“Lord of the silver bow, whose arm girds Chryse and Cilla,—Cilla, loved of the Gods,—and in might sways Tenedos, hearken!Oh! if, in days gone by, I have built from floor unto cornice,Smintheus, a fair shrine for thee; or burned in the flames of the altarFat flesh of bulls and of goats; then do this thing that I ask thee:Hurl on the Greeks thy shafts, that thy servant’s tears be avengèd!”So did he pray, and his prayer reached the ears of Phoebus Apollo.Dark was the soul of the god as he moved from the heights of Olympus,Shouldering a bow, and a quiver on this side fast and on that side.Onward in anger he moved. And the arrows, stirred by the motion,Rattled and rang on his shoulder: he came, as cometh the midnight.Hard by the ships he stayed him, and loosed one shaft from the bow-string;Harshly the stretched string twanged of the bow all silvery-shining;First fell his wrath on the mules, and the swift-footed hound of the herdsman;Afterward smote he the host. With a rankling arrow he smote themAye; and the morn and the even were red with the glare of the corpse-fires.Nine days over the host sped the shafts of the god: and the tenth dayDawned; and Achilles said, “Be a council called of the people.”(Such thought came to his mind from the goddess, Hera the white-armed,Hera who loved those Greeks, and who saw them dying around her.)So when all were collected and ranged in a solemn assembly,Straightway rose up amidst them and spake swift-footed Achilles:—“Atreus’ son! it were better, I think this day, that we wanderedBack, re-seeking our homes, (if a warfaremaybe avoided);Now when the sword and the plague, these two things, fight with Achaians.Come, let us seek out now some priest, some seer amongst us,Yea or a dreamer of dreams—for a dream too cometh of God’s hand—Whence we may learn what hath angered in this wise Phoebus Apollo.Whether mayhap he reprove us of prayer or of oxen unoffered;Whether, accepting the incense of lambs and of blemishless he-goats,Yet it be his high will to remove this misery from us.”Down sat the prince: he had spoken. And uprose to them in answerKalchas Thestor’s son, high chief of the host of the augurs.Well he knew what is present, what will be, and what was aforetime;He into Ilion’s harbour had led those ships of Achaia,All by the Power of the Art, which he gained from Phoebus Apollo.Thus then, kindliest-hearted, arising spake he before them:“Peleus’ son! Thou demandest, a man heavenfavor’d, an answerTouching the Great King’s wrath, the afar-off-aiming Apollo:Therefore I lift up my voice. Swear thou to me, duly digestingAll,—that with right good will, by word and by deed, thou wilt aid me.Surely the ire will awaken of one who mightily rulethOver the Argives all: and upon him wait the Achaians.Aye is the battle the king’s, when a poor man kindleth his anger:For, if but this one day he devour his indignation,Still on the morrow abideth a rage, that its end be accomplished,Deep in the soul of the king. So bethink thee, wilt thou deliver.”Then unto him making answer arose swift-footed Achilles:“Fearing nought, up and open the god’s will, all that is told thee:For by Apollo’s self, heaven’s favourite, whom thou, Kalchas,Serving aright, to the armies aloud God-oracles op’nest:None—while as yet I breathe upon earth, yet walk in the daylight—Shall, at the hollow ships, lift hand of oppression against thee,None out of all yon host—not and if thou said’st Agamemnon,Who now sits in his glory, the topmost flower of the armies.”Then did the blameless prophet at last wax valiant and answer:“Lo! He doth not reprove us of prayer or of oxen unoffered;But for his servant’s sake, the disdained of king Agamemnon,(In that he loosed not his daughter, inclined not his ear to a ransom,)—Therefore the Far-darter sendeth, and yet shall send on us, evil.Nor shall he stay from the slaughter the hand that is heavy upon you,Till to her own dear father the bright-eyed maiden is yielded,No price asked, no ransom; and ships bear hallowèd oxenChryse-wards:—then, it may be, will he shew mercy and hear us.”These words said, sat he down. Then rose in his place and addressed themAtreus’ warrior son, Agamemnon king of the nations,Sore grieved. Fury was working in each dark cell of his bosom,And in his eye was a glare as a burning fiery furnace:First to the priest he addressed him, his whole mien boding a mischief.“Priest of ill luck! Never heard I of aught good from thee, but evil.Still doth the evil thing unto thee seem sweeter of utt’rance;Leaving the thing which is good all unspoke, all unaccomplished.Lo! this day to the people thou say’st, God-oracles opening,What, but thatIam the cause why the god’s hand worketh against them,For that in sooth I rejected a ransom, aye and a rich one,Brought for the girl Briseis. I did. For I chose to possess her,Rather, at home: less favour hath Clytemnestra before me,Clytemnestra my wife: unto her Briseis is equal,Equal in form and in stature, in mind and in womanly wisdom.Still, even thus, am I ready to yield her, so it be better:Better is saving alive, I hold, than slaying a nation.Meanwhile deck me a guerdon in her stead, lest of AchaiansI should alone lack honour; an unmeet thing and a shameful.See all men, that my guerdon, I wot not whither it goeth.”Then unto him made answer the swift-foot chieftain Achilles:“O most vaunting of men, most gain-loving, off-spring of Atreus!How shall the lords of Achaia bestow fresh guerdon upon thee?Surely we know not yet of a treasure piled in abundance:That which the sacking of cities hath brought to us, all hath an owner,Yea it were all unfit that the host make redistribution.Yield thou the maid to the god. So threefold surely and fourfoldAll we Greeks will requite thee, should that day dawn, when the great GodsGrant that of yon proud walls not one stone rest on another.”
* * * * * *
THE END.
[15a]“The kites know well the long stern swellThat bids the Romans close.”
Macaulay.
[51a]“Poor moralist, and what art thou?A solitary fly.”
Gray.
[105]In the printed book the translation appears on one page and the Latin on the facing page. In this transcription the Latin has been moved to end of the English, hence the strange page numbering on both.
[145a]tunicâ pendente: h. e. ‘suspensâ e brachio.’ Quod procuratoribus illis valde, ut ferunt, displicebat. Dicunt vero morem a barbaris tractum, urbem Bosporiam in fl. Iside habitantibus.Bacciferas tabernas: id q. nostri vocant “tobacco-shops.”
[145b]herbæ—avenâ. Duo quasi genera artis poeta videtur distinguere. ‘Weed,’ ‘pipe,’ recte Scaliger.
[146a]nil acquirit eundo. Aqua enim aspera, et radentibus parum habilis. Immersum hic aliquem et vix aut ne vix quidem extractum refert schol.
[146b]tormenta p. q. mortalia. Eleganter, ut solet, Peile, ‘unearthly cannons.’ (Cf. Ainaw. D. s. v.) Perrecondita autem est quæstio de lusibus illorum temporum, neque in Smithii Dict. Class. satis elucidata. Consule omnino Kentf. de Bill.Loculis, bene vertas, ‘pockets.’
[147a]amantem devio. Quorsum hoc, quærunt Interpretes. Suspicor equidem respiciendos, vv. 19–23, de precuratoribus.
[148a]quadr. rotm.—Cami ard. imo. Quadrando enim rotundum (Ang. ‘squaring the circle’) Camum accendere, juvenes ingenui semper nitebantur. Fecisse vero quemquam non liquet.
[148b]aure caninâ. Iterum audi Peile, ‘dog’s-eared.’
[148c]rixatore. non male Heins. cum Aldinâ, ‘wrangler.’
[149a]Mortis. Verbum generali fere sensu dictum inveni. Suspicor autem poetam virum quendam innuisse, qui currus, caballos, id genus omne, mercede non minimâ locaret.
[149b]aliessâ quadrâ. Sunt qui de pileis Academicis accipiunt. Rapidiores enim suas fere amittebant. Sed judicet sibi lector.
[149c]opus tunicæ, ‘shirt-work.’ Aliiopes. Perperam.
[149d]vestem. Nota proprietatem verbi. ‘Vest,’ enim apud politos id. q. vulgo ‘waistcoat’ appellatur. Quod et feminæ usurpahant, ut hodiernæ, fibula revinctum, teste Virgillo:
‘crines nodantur in aurum,Aurea purpuream subnectit fibula vestem.’
‘crines nodantur in aurum,Aurea purpuream subnectit fibula vestem.’
[150a]Basse. cft. Interpretes illud Horatianum, “Bassum Threicâ vincat amystide.” Non perspexere viri docti alterum hic alludi, Anglicanæ originis, neque illum, ut perhibent, a potu aversum.
[150b]Ini. Sic nostri, ‘Go in and win.’rebus, ‘subjects.’
[151a]crebra r. a. stabulum. “Turn up year after year at the old diggings, (i. e. the Senate House,) and be plucked,” &c. Peile. Quo quid jejunius?
[151b]Classe—Hirudo. Obscurior allusio ad picturam quandam (in collectione viri, vel plusquam viri, Punchii repositam,) in qua juvenis custodem stationis moerens alloquitur.