With no rich viands overcharged, I send

Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd friend.

But wherefore should thy muse tempt mine away

From what she loves, from darkness into day?

Art thou desirous to be told how well

I love thee, and in verse? verse cannot tell.

For verse has bounds, and must in measure move;

But neither bounds nor measure knows my love.

How pleasant, in thy lines described, appear

December's harmless sports and rural cheer!

French spirits kindling with cærulean fires,

And all such gambols as the time inspires!

Think not that wine against good verse offends,

The Muse and Bacchus have been always friends;

Nor Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found

With ivy, rather than with laurel, crown'd.

The Nine themselves ofttimes have join'd the song

And revels of the Bacchanalian throng;

Not even Ovid could in Scythian air

Sing sweetly--why?--no vine would flourish there.

What in brief numbers sung Anacreon's muse?

Wine, and the rose that sparkling wine bedews.

Pindar with Bacchus glows--his every line

Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine,

While, with loud crash o'erturned, the chariot lies,

And brown with dust the fiery courser flies.

The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays

So sweet in Glycera's and Chloe's praise.

Now too the plenteous feast and mantling bowl

Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul;

The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow,

And casks not wine alone but verse bestow.

Thus Phoebus favours, and the arts attend,

Whom Bacchus and whom Ceres both befriend.

What wonder, then, thy verses are so sweet,

In which these triple powers so kindly meet!

The lute now also sounds, with gold inwrought,

And, touch'd with flying fingers nicely taught,

In tapestried halls, high-roof'd, the sprightly lyre

Directs the dancers of the virgin choir.

If dull repletion fright the muse away,

Sights gay as these may more invite her stay;

And, trust me, while the ivory keys resound,

Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around,

Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame,

Shall animate, at once, thy glowing frame,

And all the muse shall rush into thy breast,

By love and music's blended powers possest.

For numerous powers light Elegy befriend,

Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend;

Her, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, all approve,

And, with his blushing mother, gentle Love.

Hence to such bards we grant the copious use

Of banquets and the vine's delicious juice.

But they who demigods and heroes praise,

And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days,

Who now the counsels of high heaven explore,

Now shades that echo the Cerberean roar,

Simply let these, like him of Samos, live,

Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give;

In beechen goblets let their beverage shine,

Cool from the crystal spring, their sober wine!

Their youth should pass in innocence secure

From stain licentious, and in manners pure,

Pure as the priest, when robed in white he stands,

The fresh lustration ready in his hands.

Thus Linus lived, and thus, as poets write,

Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight;

Thus exiled Chalcas, thus the Bard of Thrace,

Melodious tamer of the savage race;

Thus train'd by temperance, Homer led, of yore,

His chief of Ithaca from shore to shore,

Through magic Circe's monster-peopled reign,

And shoals insidious with the syren train;

And through the realms where grizzly spectres dwell,

Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell;

For these are sacred bands, and from above

Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove.

Wouldst thou, (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine ear,)

Wouldst thou be told my occupation here?

The promised King of Peace employs my pen,

The eternal covenant made for guilty men,

The new-born Deity, with infant cries

Filling the sordid hovel where he lies;

The hymning angels, and the herald star,

That led the wise, who sought him from afar,

And idols on their own unhallow'd shore

Dash'd, at his birth, to be revered no more.

This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse:

The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse;

Verse that, reserved in secret, shall attend

Thy candid voice, my critic and my friend!

ELEGY VII.

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires

That Amathusia's smiling queen inspires,

Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts,

And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts.

"Go, child," I said, "transfix the timorous dove!

An easy conquest suits an infant love;

Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be

Sufficient triumph to a chief like thee!

Why aim thy idle arms at human kind?

Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind."

The Cyprian heard, and, kindling into ire,

(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire.

It was the spring, and newly risen day

Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the first of May;

My eyes, too tender for the blaze of light,

Still sought the shelter of retiring night,

When Love approach'd, in painted plumes array'd,

The insidious god his rattling darts betray'd,

Nor less his infant features, and the sly,

Sweet intimations of his threatening eye.

Such the Sigeian boy is seen above,

Filling the goblet for imperial Jove;

Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow'd their charms,

Hylas, who perish'd in a naiad's arms.

Angry he seem'd, yet graceful in his ire,

And added threats not destitute of fire.

"My power," he said, "by others' pain alone,

'Twere best to learn; now learn it by thy own!

With those that feel my power, that power attest!

And in thy anguish be my sway confest!

I vanquish'd Phoebus, though returning vain

From his new triumph o'er the Python slain,

And, when he thinks on Daphne, even he

Will yield the prize of archery to me.

A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped,

Behind him kill'd, and conquer'd as he fled:

Less true the expert Cydonian, and less true

The youth whose shaft his latent Procris slew.

Vanquish'd by me see huge Orion bend,

By me Alcides, and Alcides' friend.

At me should Jove himself a bolt design,

His bosom first should bleed, transfix'd by mine.

But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain,

Nor shall it reach thee with a trivial pain.

Thy muse, vain youth! shall not thy peace ensure,

Nor Phoebus' serpent yield thy wound a cure."

He spoke, and, waving a bright shaft in air,

Sought the warm bosom of the Cyprian fair.

That thus a child should bluster in my ear.

Provoked my laughter more than moved my fear.

I shunn'd not, therefore, public haunts, but stray'd

Careless in city or suburban shade,

And, passing and repassing nymphs, that moved

With grace divine, beheld where'er I roved.

Bright shone the vernal day with double blaze

As beauty gave new force to Phoebus' rays.

By no grave scruples check'd, I freely eyed

The dangerous show, rash youth my only guide,

And many a look of many a fair unknown

Met full, unable to control my own.

But one I mark'd, (then peace forsook my breast,)

One--Oh how far superior to the rest!

What lovely features! such the Cyprian queen

Herself might wish, and Juno wish her mien.

The very nymph was she, whom, when I dared

His arrows, Love had even then prepared!

Nor was himself remote, nor unsupplied

With torch well trimm'd and quiver at his side;

Now to her lips he clung, her eyelids now,

Then settled on her cheeks, or on her brow;

And with a thousand wounds from every part

Pierced and transpierced my undefended heart.

A fever, new to me, of fierce desire

Now seized my soul, and I was all on fire;

But she, the while, whom only I adore,

Was gone, and vanish'd, to appear no more.

In silent sadness I pursue my way;

I pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay,

And, while I follow her in thought, bemoan

With tears my soul's delight so quickly flown.

When Jove had hurl'd him to the Lemnian coast,

So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost,

And so OEclides, sinking into night,

From the deep gulf look'd up to distant light.

Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain,

Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain?

Oh could I once, once more, behold the fair,

Speak to her, tell her of the pangs I bear;

Perhaps she is not adamant; would show,

Perhaps, some pity at my tale of woe.

Oh inauspicious flame--'tis mine to prove

A matchless instance of disastrous love.

Ah, spare me, gentle power!--If such thou be,

Let not thy deeds and nature disagree.

Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine

With vow and sacrifice save only thine.

Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts:

Now own thee sovereign of all human hearts.

Remove! no--grant me still this raging woe!

Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know:

But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see

One destined mine) at once both her and me.

Such were the trophies that, in earlier days,

By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise;

Studious, yet indolent, and urged by youth,

That worst of teachers, from the ways of truth;

Till Learning taught me in his shady bower

To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his power.

Then, on a sudden the fierce flame supprest,

A frost continual settled on my breast,

Whence Cupid fears his flame extinct to see,

And Venus dreads a Diomede in me.

EPIGRAMS. ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS.

Praise in old time the sage Prometheus won,

Who stole ethereal radiance from the sun;

But greater he, whose bold invention strove

To 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.]

TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME.[921]

[921] I have translated only two of the three poetical

compliments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to me far

superior to what I have omitted.

Another Leonora once inspired

Tasso 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 cheer

His senses wandering in a blind career;

And, sweetly breathing through his wounded breast,

Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.

TO THE SAME.

Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no more

The sweet-voiced syren buried on thy shore,

That, when Parthenope deceased, she gave

Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave,

For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse

Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,

Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains

Of magic song both gods and men detains.

THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD.

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 before

So 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 content

With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant!

My avarice has expensive proved to me,

Has cost me both my pippins and my tree."

TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN, WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE.

Christina, maiden of heroic mien!

Star of the North! of northern stars the queen!

Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how

The iron casque still chafes my veteran brow,

While following Fate's dark footsteps, I fulfil

The dictates of a hardy people's will.

But soften'd in thy sight my looks appear,

Not to all queens or kings alike severe.

ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR, A PHYSICIAN.

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 overcome

Death's assault, and baffle doom,

Hercules had both withstood,

Undiseased by Nessus' blood.

Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain

By a trick of Pallas slain,

Nor the chief to Jove allied

By Achilles' phantom died.

Could enchantments life prolong,

Circe, saved by magic song,

Still had lived, and equal skill

Had preserved Medea still.

Dwelt in herbs and drugs a power

To avert man's destined hour,

Learn'd Machaon should have known

Doubtless to avert his own:

Chiron had survived the smart

Of the hydra-tainted dart,

And Jove's bolt had been, with ease,

Foil'd by Asclepiades.

Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn

Helicon and Cirrha mourn,

Still hadst fill'd thy princely place,

Regent of the gowned race:

Hadst advanced to higher fame

Still thy much ennobled name,

Nor in Charon's skiff explored

The 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 be

The green turf that covers thee!

Thence, in gay profusion, grow

All 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!

ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY.

My lids with grief were tumid yet,

And still my sullied cheek was wet

With briny dews profusely shed

For venerable Winton dead:

When fame, whose tales of saddest sound,

Alas! are ever truest found,

The news through all our cities spread

Of yet another mitred head

By ruthless fate to death consign'd,

Ely, the honour of his kind!

At once a storm of passion heaved

My boiling bosom, much I grieved;

But more I raged, at every breath

Devoting Death himself to death.

With less revenge did Naso teem

When hated Ibis was his theme;

With less Archilochus denied

The 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 aside

Thy threats and anger misapplied!

Art not afraid with sounds like these

To offend, where thou canst not appease?

Death is not (wherefore dreamst thou thus?)

The son of Night and Erebus:

Nor was of fell Erynnis born

On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn;

But, sent from God, his presence leaves,

To gather home his ripen'd sheaves,

To call encumber'd souls away

From fleshly bonds to boundless day,

(As when the winged hours excite,

And summon forth the morning light,)

And each to convoy to her place

Before the Eternal Father's face.

But not the wicked--them, severe

Yet just, from all their pleasures here

He 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 given

To mount on fiery wheels to heaven.

Boötes' waggon, slow with cold,

Appall'd me not; nor to behold

The 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 descry

Night'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 appear

Heaven's crystal battlements, her door

Of massy pearl, and emerald floor.

"But here I cease. For never can

The tongue of once a mortal man

In suitable description trace

The pleasures of that happy place;

Suffice it, that those joys divine

Are all, and all for ever, mine!"

NATURE UNIMPAIRED BY TIME.

Ah, how the human mind wearies herself

With her own wanderings, and, involved in gloom

Impenetrable, speculates amiss!

Measuring in her folly things divine

By human; laws inscribed on adamant

By laws of man's device; and counsels fix'd

For ever, by the hours that pass and die.

How?--shall the face of nature then be plough'd

Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last

On 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 ingulf

The very heavens, that regulate his flight?

And was the sire of all able to fence

His works, and to uphold the circling worlds,

But, through improvident and heedless haste

Let slip the occasion?--so then--all is lost--

And in some future evil hour, yon arch

Shall crumble, and come thundering down, the poles

Jar in collision, the Olympian king,

Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forth

The terrors of the Gorgon shield in vain,

Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'd

Down into Lemnos, through the gate of heaven.

Thou also, with precipitated wheels,

Phoebus! thy own son's fall shalt imitate,

With hideous ruin shalt impress the deep

Suddenly, 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, immersed

In Erebus, shall fill himself with fear.

No. The Almighty Father surer laid

His deep foundations, and providing well

For the event of all, the scales of fate

Suspended in just equipoise, and bade

His universal works, from age to age,

One tenor hold, perpetual, undisturb'd.

Hence the prime mover wheels itself about

Continual, 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.

Phoebus, his vigour unimpair'd, still shows

The effulgence of his youth, nor needs the god

A 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 star

From odoriferous Ind, whose office is

To 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 wanes

Alternate, and with arms extended still

She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams.

Nor have the elements deserted yet

Their functions; thunder with as loud a stroke

As erst smites through the rocks and scatters them.

The east still howls; still the relentless north

Invades the shuddering Scythian, still he breathes

The winter, and still rolls the storms along.

The king of ocean, with his wonted force,

Beats on Pelorus; o'er the deep is heard

The hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell;

Nor swim the monsters of the Ægean sea

In shallows, or beneath diminished waves.

Thou too, thy ancient vegetative power

Enjoy'st, O Earth! Narcissus still is sweet;

And Phoebus! still thy favourite, and still

Thy favourite Cytherea! both retain

Their beauty; nor the mountains, ore-enrich'd

For punishment of man, with purer gold

Teem'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 absorb

The world, consumed in one enormous pyre!

ON THE PLATONIC IDEA AS IT WAS UNDERSTOOD BY ARISTOTLE.

Ye sister powers, who o'er the sacred groves

Preside, and thou, fair mother of them all,

Mnemosyne! and thou who, in thy grot

Immense, reclined at leisure, hast in charge

The archives and the ordinances of Jove,

And dost record the festivals of heaven,

Eternity!--inform us who is He,

That great original, by nature chosen

To be the archetype of human kind,

Unchangeable, immortal, with the poles

Themselves 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, though

Of common nature with ourselves, exists

Apart, and occupies a local home--

Whether, companion of the stars, he spend

Eternal ages, roaming at his will

From sphere to sphere the tenfold heavens, or dwell

On the moon's side that nearest neighbours earth,

Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sit

Among the multitude of souls ordain'd

To flesh and blood; or whether (as may chance)

That vast and giant model of our kind

In some far distant region of this globe

Sequester'd stalk with lifted head on high

O'ertowering Atlas, on whose shoulders rest

The stars, terrific even to the gods.

Never the Theban seer, whose blindness proved

His best illumination, him beheld

In secret vision; never him the son

Of Pleione, amid the noiseless night

Descending, to the prophet-choir reveal'd;

Him never knew the Assyrian priest, who yet

The ancestry of Ninus' chronicles,

And Belus, and Osiris, far renown'd;

Nor even thrice great Hermes, although skill'd

So deep in mystery, to the worshippers

Of Isis show'd a prodigy like him.

And thou, who hast immortalized the shades

Of Academus, if the schools received

This monster of the fancy first from thee,

Either recall at once thy banish'd bards

To thy republic, or thyself, evinced

A wilder fabulist, go also forth.

TO HIS FATHER.

Oh that Pieria's spring would through my breast

Pour its inspiring influence, and rush

No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood;

That, for my venerable father's sake

All meaner themes renounced, my muse, on wings

Of duty borne, might reach a loftier strain!

For thee, my father! howsoe'er it please,

She frames this slender work; nor know I aught

That may thy gifts more suitably requite:

Though to requite them suitably would ask

Returns much nobler, and surpassing far

The meagre stores of verbal gratitude:

But, such as I possess, I send thee all.

This page presents thee in their full amount

With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought;

Nought, save the riches that from airy dream

In secret grottoes and in laurel bowers,

I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired.

Verse is a work divine; despise not thou

Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more)

Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still

Some scintillations of Promethean fire,

Bespeaks him animated from above.

The gods love verse; the infernal powers themselves

Confess the influence of verse, which stirs

The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains

Of adamant both Pluto and the shades.

In verse the Delphic priestess and the pale

Tremulous sybil make the future known;

And he who sacrifices, on the shrine

Hangs verse, both when he smites the threatening bull

And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide

To scrutinize the fates enveloped there.

We too, ourselves, what time we seek again

Our native skies, and one eternal now

Shall be the only measure of our being,

Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre

Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above,

And make the starry firmament resound.

And, even now, the fiery spirit pure

That wheels yon circling orbs, directs himself

Their mazy dance with melody of verse

Unutterable, immortal, hearing which

Huge 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 yet

Luxurious dainties, destined to the gulf

Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere

Lyæus deluged yet the temperate board.

Then sat the bard a customary guest

To share the banquet, and, his length of locks

With beechen honours bound, proposed in verse

The characters of heroes and their deeds,

To imitation; sang of chaos old,

Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in search

Of acorns fallen, and of the thunderbolt

Not yet produced from Ætna's fiery cave.

And what avails, at last, tune without voice,

Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhaps

The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song

Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear,

And the oaks follow'd. Not by chords alone

Well touch'd, but by resistless accents more,

To sympathetic tears the ghosts themselves

He moved; these praises to his verse he owes.

Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight

The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain

And useless powers, by whom inspired, thyself

Art skilful to associate verse with airs

Harmonious, and to give the human voice

A thousand modulations, heir by right

Indisputable of Arion's fame.

Now say, what wonder is it, if a son

Of thine delight in verse, if, so conjoin'd

In close affinity, we sympathize

In social arts and kindred studies sweet?

Such distribution of himself to us

Was Phoebus' choice; thou hast thy gift, and I

Mine also, and between us we receive,

Father and son, the whole inspiring God.

No! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume

Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle muse,

My father! for thou never badest me tread

The beaten path, and broad, that leads right on

To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son

To the insipid clamours of the bar,

To laws voluminous, and ill observed;

But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill

My mind with treasure, ledd'st me far away

From city din to deep retreats, to banks

And streams Aonian, and, with free consent,

Didst place me happy at Apollo's side.

I speak not now, on more important themes

Intent, of common benefits, and such

As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts,

My father! who, when I had open'd once

The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd

The full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks,

Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove,

Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowers

That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the smooth

Italian 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 all

Prove intellectual gain to me, my wish

Concurring 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 minds

That covet it; what could my father more?

What more could Jove himself, unless he gave

His own abode, the heaven, in which he reigns?

More eligible gifts than these were not

Apollo's to his son, had they been safe

As they were insecure, who made the boy

The world's vice-luminary, bade him rule

The radiant chariot of the day, and bind

To his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath.

I therefore, although last and least, my place

Among the learned in the laurel grove

Will hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines,

Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throng

Profane, 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 forth

Her venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes!

Ye all are impotent against my peace,

For I am privileged, and bear my breast

Safe, and too high, for your viperean wound.

But thou! my father, since to render thanks

Equivalent, and to requite by deeds

Thy 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 dare

To hope longevity, and to survive

Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd

In the oblivious Lethæan gulf,

Shall to futurity perhaps convey

This theme, and by these praises of my sire

Improve the fathers of a distant age!

TO SALSILLUS, A ROMAN POET, MUCH INDISPOSED.

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 along

Thy 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 tread

Heaven's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed;

Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine

Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine.

Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafted o'er

From 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 came

To 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 free

From all disease, that Milton asks for thee,

Who now endurest the langour and the pains

That bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins;

Relentless malady! not moved to spare

By 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 divine

Soe'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine!

Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that melt

With 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, again

He may enchant the meadows with his strain.

Numa, reclined in everlasting ease

Amid the shade of dark embowering trees,

Viewing with eyes of unabated fire

His loved Ægeria, shall that strain admire:

So soothed, the tumid Tiber shall revere

The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year,

Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein,

And guide them harmless, till they meet the main.

TO GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO,

MARQUIS OF VILLA.

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.

These verses also to thy praise, the Nine,

O Manso! happy in that theme, design,

For, Gallus and Mæcenas gone, they see

None 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 unaware

How 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 entrust

His 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 grave

Should aught absorb of theirs which thou could'st save,

All future ages thou hast deign'd to teach

The life, lot, genius, character of each,

Eloquent as the Carian sage, who, true

To his great theme, the life of Homer drew.

I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who come

Chill'd by rude blasts that freeze my northern home,

Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim,

And thine, for Phoebus' sake, a deathless name.

Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eye

A 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 waves

The 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 yore

Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore.

Yes--dreary as we own our northern clime,

E'en we to Phoebus raise the polish'd rhyme,

We too serve Phoebus; Phoebus 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 surround

Apollo's shrine with hymns of festive sound,

They named the virgins who arrived of yore

With 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 clime

Shall 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 Phoebus and the Nine

Were inmates once, and willing guests of thine.

Yet Phoebus, when of old constrain'd to roam

The 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 scene

Of 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 reclined

At 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 OEta 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 comprehend

A poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend.

Hence on thy yet unfaded cheek appears

The lingering freshness of thy greener years;

Hence in thy front and features we admire

Nature 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 rhyme

The 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 restored

Each to his seat around the federal board;

And oh, if spirit fail me not, disperse

Our 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 breathe

To honour me, and with the graceful wreath

Or of Parnassus or the Paphian isle

Shall 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 aspire

By purity of soul and virtuous fire,

These rites, as fate permits, I shall survey

With eyes illumined by celestial day,

And, every cloud from my pure spirit driven,

Joy in the bright beatitude of heaven!

ON THE DEATH OF DAMON.

THE ARGUMENT.

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 the death 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 shed

Erewhile 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 rehearse

The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse,

What sighs he heaved, and how with groans profound

He made the woods and hollow rocks resound,

Young Damon dead; nor even ceased to pour

His 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 air

The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there;

For he, enamour'd of the muse, remain'd

In 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 seat

At 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 due

To other cares than those of feeding you.

Alas! what deities shall I suppose

In heaven, or earth, concerned for human woes,

Since, oh my Damon! their severe decree

So soon condemns me to regret of thee!

Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid

With 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 assign

A happier lot with spirits worthy thine!

"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

To other cares than those of feeding you.

Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chance

The wolf first give me a forbidding glance,

Thou shalt not moulder undeplored, but long

Thy 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 behind

A sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind.

"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

To 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 due

To other cares than those of feeding you.

In whom shall I confide? Whose counsel find

A balmy medicine for my troubled mind?

Or whose discourse with innocent delight

Shall 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 due

To 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 vein

Of Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again?

"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

To other cares than those of feeding you.

Where glens and vales are thickest overgrown

With tangled boughs, I wander now alone,

Till night descend, while blustering wind and shower

Beat on my temples through the shatter'd bower.

"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

To 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 turn

Their unavailing looks on me, and mourn.

"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

To other cares than those of feeding you.

Ægon invites me to the hazel grove,

Amyntas, on the river's bank to rove,

And young Alphesiboeus to a seat

Where 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 due

To other cares than those of feeding you.

Then Mopsus said, (the same who reads so well

The 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 appear

The brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe;

Brisk youth should laugh and love--ah, shun the fate

Of 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 neat

Known far and near, and for her self-conceit;

Chloris too came, whose cottage on the lands

That skirt the Idumanian current stands;

But all in vain they came, and but to see

Kind 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 pause

Of 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, composed

Thy 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 mourn

My 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 beside

The 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 made

My name familiar to the beechen shade,

And they are learn'd, and each in every place

Renown'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 found

Ere 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'd

New 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 beguile

The 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 teach

Thy 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 be

The 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 sustain

The deep-toned music of the solemn strain;

And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell

How 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 old

Our hardy sires the Armorican controll'd,

And of the wife of Gorloïs, who, surprised

By Uther, in her husband's form disguised,

(Such was the force of Merlin's art,) became

Pregnant with Arthur of heroic fame.

These themes I now revolve--and Oh--if Fate

Proportion to these themes my lengthen'd date,

Adieu my shepherd's reed--yon pine tree bough

Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou

Forgotten and disused, unless ere long

Thou change thy Latian for a British song:

A British?--even so--the powers of man

Are bounded; little is the most he can;

And it shall well suffice me, and shall be

Fame 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 rind

Enfolded 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 wind

The Red sea shores with groves of spices lined;

Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs

The sacred, solitary phoenix shows,

And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her head

To 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 displays

A 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, learn

The power of Cupid, and enamour'd burn.

"Thou, also, Damon, (neither need I fear

That hope delusive,) thou art also there;

For whither should simplicity like thine

Retire, 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 resides

With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides

Quaffs copious immortality and joy

With 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 sound

Shall oft with echoes fill the groves around)

Or if Deodatus, by which alone

In those ethereal mansions thou art known.

Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste

Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste,

The honours, therefore, by divine decree

The 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 lyre

Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire."

AN ODE, ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN ROUSE,

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.

STROPHE.

My twofold book! single in show

But double in contents,

Neat, but not curiously adorn'd,

Which, in his early youth,

A poet gave, no lofty one in truth,

Although an earnest wooer of the muse--

Say, while in cool Ausonian shades

Or British wilds he roam'd,

Striking by turns his native lyre,

By turns the Daunian lute,

And stepp'd almost in air--

ANTISTROPHE.

Say, little book, what furtive hand

Thee from thy fellow books convey'd,

What time, at the repeated suit

Of my most learned friend,

I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller,

From our great city to the source of Thames,

Cærulean sire!

Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring,

Of the Aonian choir,

Durable as yonder spheres,

And through the endless lapse of years

Secure to be admired?

STROPHE II.

Now what god, or demi-god,

For Britain's ancient genius moved,

(If our afflicted land

Have expiated at length the guilty sloth

Of her degenerate sons)

Shall terminate our impious feuds,

And discipline with hallow'd voice recall?

Recall the muses too,

Driven from their ancient seats

In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore,

And, with keen Phoebean shafts

Piercing the unseemly birds,

Whose talons menace us,

Shall drive the Harpy race from Helicon afar?

ANTISTROPHE.

But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd,

Whether by treachery lost,

Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault,

From all thy kindred books,

To some dark cell or cave forlorn,

Where thou endurest, perhaps,

The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand,

Be comforted--

For lo! again the splendid hope appears

That thou mayst yet escape

The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings

Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove!

STROPHE III.

Since Rouse desires thee, and complains

That, though by promise his,

Thou yet appear'st not in thy place

Among the literary noble stores

Given to his care,

But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete.

He, therefore, guardian vigilant

Of that unperishing wealth,

Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge,

Where he intends a richer treasure far

Than Iön kept (Iön, Erectheus' son

Illustrious, of the fair Creüsa born)

In the resplendent temple of his god,

Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine.

ANTISTROPHE.

Haste, then, to the pleasant groves,

The muses' favourite haunt;

Resume thy station in Apollo's dome,

Dearer to him

Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill!

Exulting go,

Since now a splendid lot is also thine,

And thou art sought by my propitious friend;

For there thou shalt be read

With authors of exalted note,

The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome.

EPODE.

Ye, then, my works, no longer vain,

And worthless deem'd by me!

Whate'er this sterile genius has produced,

Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent,

An unmolested happy home,

Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend,

Where never flippant tongue profane

Shall entrance find,

And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude

Shall babble far remote.

Perhaps some future distant age,

Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught,

Shall furnish minds of power

To judge more equally.

Then, malice silenced in the tomb,

Cooler heads and sounder hearts,

Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise

I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.

TRANSLATIONS OF THE ITALIAN POEMS.

SONNET.

Fair Lady! whose harmonious name the Rhine,

Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear,

Base were indeed the wretch who could forbear

To love a spirit elegant as thine,

That manifests a sweetness all divine,

Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare,

And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are,

Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine.

When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gay

Such strains as might the senseless forest move,

Ah then--turn each his eyes and ears away,

Who feels himself unworthy of thy love!

Grace can alone preserve him ere the dart

Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.

SONNET.

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day

Imbrowns the scene, some pastoral maiden fair

Waters a lovely foreign plant with care,

Borne from its native genial airs away,

That scarcely can its tender bud display,

So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare,

Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there.

While thus, O sweetly scornful! I essay

Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown,

And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain;

So Love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has shown,

That what he wills, he never wills in vain--

Oh that this hard and sterile breast might be

To Him, who plants from heaven, a soil as free!

CANZONE.

They mock my toil--the nymphs and amorous swains--

And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry,

Love-songs in language that thou little know'st?

How darest thou risk to sing these foreign strains?

Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd,

And that thy fairest flowers here fade and die?

Then with pretence of admiration high--

Thee other shores expect, and other tides,

Rivers, on whose grassy sides

Her deathless laurel leaf, with which to bind

Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides;

Why then this burden, better far declined?

Speak, muse! for me--the fair one said, who guides

My willing heart, and all my fancy's flights,

"This is the language in which Love delights."

SONNET, TO CHARLES DEODATI.

Charles--and I say it wondering--thou must know

That I, who once assumed a scornful air

And scoff'd at Love, am fallen in his snare,

(Full many an upright man has fallen so:)

Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow

Of golden locks, or damask cheek; more rare

The heartfelt beauties of my foreign fair:

A mien majestic, with dark brows that show

The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind;

Words exquisite, of idioms more than one,

And song, whose fascinating power might bind,

And from her sphere draw down the labouring moon;

With such fire-darting eyes that, should I fill

My ears with wax, she would enchant me still.

SONNET.

Lady! It cannot be but that thine eyes

Must be my sun, such radiance they display,

And strike me e'en as Phoebus him whose way

Through horrid Libya's sandy desert lies.

Meantime, on that side steamy vapours rise

Where most I suffer. Of what kind are they,

New as to me they are, I cannot say,

But deem them, in the lover's language--sighs.

Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals,

Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend

To soften thine, thy coldness soon congeals.

While others to my tearful eyes ascend,

Whence my sad nights in showers are ever drown'd,

Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound.

SONNET.

Enamour'd, artless, young, on foreign ground,

Uncertain whither from myself to fly;

To thee, dear Lady, with an humble sigh

Let me devote my heart, which I have found

By certain proofs, not few, intrepid, sound,

Good, and addicted to conceptions high:

When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky,

It rests in adamant self-wrapt around,

As safe from envy as from outrage rude,

From hopes and fears that vulgar minds abuse,

As fond of genius, and fix'd fortitude,

Of the resounding lyre and every muse.

Weak you will find it in one only part,

Now pierced by love's immedicable dart.

SIMILE IN PARADISE LOST.

'So when, from mountain tops, the dusky clouds

Ascending,' &c.

. . . . . . .

Quales aërii montis de vertice nubes

Cum surgunt, et jam Boreæ tumida ora quiêrunt,

Coelum hilares abdit, spissâ caligine, vultus:

Tum, si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore,

Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat,

Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agros

Balatuque ovium colles vallesque resultant.

TRANSLATION OF DRYDEN'S EPIGRAM ON MILTON.

Tres tria, sed longè distantia, sæcula vates

Ostentant tribus è gentibus eximios.

Græcia sublimem, cum majestate disertum

Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem.

Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est,

Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos.

July, 1780.

TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE.

I. THE GLOWWORM.

Beneath the hedge, or near the stream,

A worm is known to stray,

That shows by night a lucid beam,

Which disappears by day.

Disputes have been, and still prevail,

From whence his rays proceed;

Some give that honour to his tail,

And others to his head.

But this is sure--the hand of night

That kindles up the skies,

Gives him a modicum of light

Proportion'd to his size.

Perhaps indulgent Nature meant,

By such a lamp bestow'd,

To bid the traveller, as he went,

Be careful where he trod:

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light

Might serve, however small,

To show a stumbling stone by night,

And save him from a fall.

Whate'er she meant, this truth divine

Is legible and plain,

'Tis power almighty bids him shine,

Nor bids him shine in vain.

Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme

Teach humbler thoughts to you,

Since such a reptile has its gem,

And boasts its splendour too.

II. THE JACKDAW.

There is a bird who, by his coat

And by the hoarseness of his note,

Might be supposed a crow;

A great frequenter of the church,

Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch,

And dormitory too.

Above the steeple shines a plate,

That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather.

Look up--your brains begin to swim,

'Tis in the clouds--that pleases him,

He chooses it the rather.

Fond of the speculative height,

Thither he wings his airy flight,

And thence securely sees

The bustle and the rareeshow,

That occupy mankind below,

Secure and at his ease.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses

On future broken bones and bruises,

If he should chance to fall.

No; not a single thought like that

Employs his philosophic pate,

Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great roundabout,

The world, with all its motley rout,

Church, army, physic, law,

Its customs and its businesses,

Is no concern at all of his,

And says--what says he?--Caw.

Thrice happy bird! I too have seen

Much of the vanities of men;

And, sick of having seen 'em,

Would cheerfully these limbs resign

For such a pair of wings as thine

And such a head between 'em.

III. THE CRICKET

Little inmate, full of mirth,

Chirping on my kitchen hearth,

Wheresoe'er be thine abode,

Always harbinger of good,

Pay me for thy warm retreat

With a song more soft and sweet;

In return thou shalt receive

Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be express'd,

Inoffensive, welcome guest!

While the rat is on the scout,

And the mouse with curious snout,

With what vermin else infest

Every dish, and spoil the best;

Frisking thus before the fire,

Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be

Form'd as if akin to thee,

Thou surpassest, happier far,

Happiest grasshoppers that are;

Theirs is but a summer's song,

Thine endures the winter long,

Unimpair'd, and shrill, and clear,

Melody throughout the year.

Neither night nor dawn of day

Puts a period to thy play:

Sing, then--and extend thy span

Far beyond the date of man.

Wretched man, whose years are spent

In repining discontent,

Lives not, aged though he be,

Half a span, compared with thee.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

_J. Gilbert fecit._

_W. Greatbach sculp._

THE PARROT.

"IN PAINTED PLUMES SUPERBLY DRESS'D, A NATIVE OF THE GORGEOUS

EAST"]

IV. THE PARROT.

In painted plumes superbly dress'd,

A native of the gorgeous east,

By many a billow toss'd;

Poll gains at length the British shore,

Part of the captain's precious store,

A present to his toast.

Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd,

To teach him now and then a word,

As Poll can master it;

But 'tis her own important charge,

To qualify him more at large,

And make him quite a wit.

Sweet Poll! his doting mistress cries,

Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies,

And calls aloud for sack.

She next instructs him in the kiss;

'Tis now a little one, like Miss,

And now a hearty smack.

At first he aims at what he hears;

And, listening close with both his ears,

Just catches at the sound;

But soon articulates aloud,

Much to the amusement of the crowd,

And stuns the neighbours round.

A querulous old woman's voice

His humorous talent next employs,

He scolds, and gives the lie.

And now he sings, and now is sick,

Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick,

Poor Poll is like to die!

Belinda and her bird! 'tis rare

To meet with such a well match'd pair,

The language and the tone,

Each character in every part

Sustain'd with so much grace and art,

And both in unison.

When children first begin to spell,

And stammer out a syllable,

We think them tedious creatures;

But difficulties soon abate,

When birds are to be taught to prate,

And women are the teachers.

THE THRACIAN.

Thracian parents, at his birth,

Mourn their babe with many a tear,

But, with undissembled mirth,

Place him breathless on his bier.

Greece and Rome, with equal scorn,

"O the savages!" exclaim,

"Whether they rejoice or mourn,

Well entitled to the name!"

But the cause of this concern

And this pleasure would they trace,

Even they might somewhat learn

From the savages of Thrace.

RECIPROCAL KINDNESS THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE.

Androcles, from his injured lord, in dread

Of instant death, to Lybia's desert fled,

Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat,

He spied at length a cavern's cool retreat;

But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,

When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:

He roar'd approaching: but the savage din

To plaintive murmurs changed--arrived within,

And with expressive looks, his lifted paw

Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw.

The fugitive, through terror at a stand,

Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand;

But bolder grown, at length inherent found

A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.

The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood,

And firm and free from pain the lion stood.

Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day

Regales his inmate with the parted prey.

Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,

Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.

But thus to live--still lost--sequester'd still--

Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge a heavier ill.

Home! native home! O might he but repair!

He must--he will, though death attends him there.

He goes, and doom'd to perish on the sands

Of the full theatre unpitied stands:

When lo! the selfsame lion from his cage

Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage.

He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey

The man, his healer, pauses on his way,

And, soften'd by remembrance into sweet

And kind composure, crouches at his feet.

Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze:

But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?

All this is natural: nature bade him rend

An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.

A MANUAL,

MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY

CATALOGUE.

There is a book, which we may call

(Its excellence is such)

Alone a library, though small;

The ladies thumb it much.

Words none, things numerous it contains:

And things with words compared,

Who needs be told, that has his brains,

Which merits most regard?

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue

A golden edging boast;

And open'd, it displays to view

Twelve pages at the most.

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind,

Adorns its outer part;

But all within 'tis richly lined,

A magazine of art.

The whitest hands that secret hoard

Oft visit: and the fair

Preserve it in their bosoms stored,

As with a miser's care.

Thence implements of every size,

And form'd for various use,

(They need but to consult their eyes,)

They readily produce.

The largest and the longest kind

Possess the foremost page;

A sort most needed by the blind,

Or nearly such, from age.

The full charg'd leaf which next ensues,

Presents in bright array

The smaller sort, which matrons use,

Not quite so blind as they.

The third, the fourth, the fifth supply

What their occasions ask,

Who with a more discerning eye

Perform a nicer task.

But still with regular decrease,

From size to size they fall,

In every leaf grow less and less;

The last are least of all.

O! what a fund of genius, pent

In narrow space is here!

This volume's method and intent

How luminous and clear!

It leaves no reader at a loss

Or posed, whoever reads:

No commentator's tedious gloss,

Nor even index needs.

Search Bodley's many thousands o'er!

No book is treasured there,

Nor yet in Granta's numerous store,

That may with this compare.

No!--rival none in either host

Of this was ever seen,

Or, that contents could justly boast,

So brilliant and so keen.

AN ENIGMA.

A needle, small as small can be,

In bulk and use surpasses me,

Nor is my purchase dear;

For little, and almost for nought,

As many of my kind are bought

As days are in the year.

Yet though but little use we boast,

And are procured at little cost,

The labour is not light;

Nor few artificers it asks,

All skilful in their several tasks,

To fashion us aright.

One fuses metal o'er the fire,

A second draws it into wire,

The shears another plies;

Who clips in length the brazen thread

From him who, chafing every shred,

Gives all an equal size.

A fifth prepares, exact and round,

The knob with which it must be crown'd;

His follower makes it fast:

And with his mallet and his file

To shape the point, employs awhile

The seventh and the last.

Now, therefore, OEdipus! declare

What creature, wonderful, and rare,

A process that obtains

Its purpose with so much ado

At last produces!--tell me true,

And take me for your pains!

SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED IN TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

None ever shared the social feast,

Or as an inmate or a guest,

Beneath the celebrated dome

Where once Sir Isaac had his home,

Who saw not (and with some delight

Perhaps he view'd the novel sight)

How numerous, at the tables there,

The sparrows beg their daily fare.

For there, in every nook and cell

Where such a family may dwell,

Sure as the vernal season comes

Their nest they weave in hope of crumbs,

Which kindly given, may serve with food

Convenient their unfeather'd brood;

And oft as with its summons clear

The warning bell salutes their ear,

Sagacious listeners to the sound,

They flock from all the fields around,

To reach the hospitable hall,

None more attentive to the call.

Arrived, the pensionary band,

Hopping and chirping, close at hand,

Solicit what they soon receive.

The sprinkled, plenteous donative.

Thus is a multitude, though large,

Supported at a trivial charge;

A single doit would overpay

The expenditure of every day,

And who can grudge so small a grace

To suppliants, natives of the place?

FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS.

As in her ancient mistress' lap

The youthful tabby lay,

They gave each other many a tap,

Alike disposed to play.

But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,

And with protruded claws

Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm,

Mere wantonness the cause.

At once, resentful of the deed,

She shakes her to the ground

With many a threat that she shall bleed

With still a deeper wound.

But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest:

It was a venial stroke:

For she that will with kittens jest

Should bear a kitten's joke.

INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST.

Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains--

And seldom another it can--

To seek a retreat while he reigns

In the well-shelter'd dwellings of man,

Who never can seem to intrude,

Though in all places equally free,

Come oft as the season is rude,

Thou art sure to be welcome to me.

At sight of the first feeble ray

That pierces the clouds of the east,

To inveigle thee every day

My windows shall show thee a feast.

For, taught by experience, I know,

Thee mindful of benefit long;

And that, thankful for all I bestow,

Thou wilt pay me with many a song.

Then, soon as the swell of the buds

Bespeaks the renewal of spring,

Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,

Or where it shall please thee to sing:

And shouldst thou, compell'd by a frost,

Come again to my window or door,

Doubt not an affectionate host,

Only pay as thou paid'st me before.

This music must needs be confess'd

To flow from a fountain above;

Else how should it work in the breast

Unchangeable friendship and love?

And who on the globe can be found,

Save your generation and ours,

That can be delighted by sound,

Or boasts any musical powers?

STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE.

The shepherd touch'd his reed; sweet Philomel

Essay'd, and oft essay'd to catch the strain,

And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,

The numbers, echo'd note for note again.

The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before

A rival of his skill, indignant heard,

And soon (for various was his tuneful store)

In loftier tones defied the simple bird.

She dared the task, and, rising as he rose,

With all the force that passion gives inspired,

Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close

Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.

Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife,

By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun;

And, O sad victory, which cost thy life,

And he may wish that he had never won!

ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,

WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1728.

Ancient dame, how wide and vast

To a race like ours appears,

Rounded to an orb at last,

All thy multitude of years!

We, the herd of human kind,

Frailer and of feebler powers;

We, to narrow bounds confined,

Soon exhaust the sum of ours.

Death's delicious banquet--we

Perish even from the womb,

Swifter than a shadow flee,

Nourish'd but to feed the tomb.

Seeds of merciless disease

Lurk in all that we enjoy;

Some that waste us by degrees,

Some that suddenly destroy.

And, if life o'erleap the bourn

Common to the sons of men,

What remains, but that we mourn,

Dream, and dote, and drivel then?

Fast as moons can wax and wane

Sorrow comes; and, while we groan,

Pant with anguish, and complain,

Half our years are fled and gone.

If a few (to few 'tis given),

Lingering on this earthly stage,

Creep and halt with steps uneven

To the period of an age,

Wherefore live they, but to see

Cunning, arrogance, and force,

Sights lamented much by thee,

Holding their accustom'd course?

Oft was seen, in ages past,

All that we with wonder view;

Often shall be to the last;

Earth produces nothing new.

Thee we gratulate, content

Should propitious Heaven design

Life for us as calmly spent,

Though but half the length of thine.

THE CAUSE WON.

Two neighbours furiously dispute;

A field--the subject of the suit.

Trivial the spot, yet such the rage

With which the combatants engage,

'Twere hard to tell who covets most

The prize--at whatsoever cost.

The pleadings swell. Words still suffice:

No single word but has its price.

No term but yields some fair pretence

For novel and increased expense.

Defendant thus becomes a name,

Which he that bore it may disclaim,

Since both in one description blended,

Are plaintiffs--when the suit is ended.

THE SILKWORM.

The beams of April, ere it goes,

A worm, scarce visible, disclose;

All winter long content to dwell

The tenant of his native shell.

The same prolific season gives

The sustenance by which he lives,

The mulberry leaf, a simple store,

That serves him--till he needs no more!

For, his dimensions once complete,

Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;

Though till his growing time be past

Scarce ever is he seen to fast.

That hour arrived, his work begins.

He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins;

Till circle upon circle, wound

Careless around him and around,

Conceals him with a veil, though slight,

Impervious to the keenest sight.

Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask,

At length he finishes his task;

And, though a worm when he was lost,

Or caterpillar at the most,

When next we see him, wings he wears,

And in papilio pomp appears;

Becomes oviparous; supplies

With future worms and future flies

The next ensuing year--and dies!

Well were it for the world, if all

Who creep about this earthly ball,

Though shorter-lived than most he be,

Were useful in their kind as he.

THE INNOCENT THIEF.

Not a flower can be found in the fields,

Or the spot that we till for our pleasure,

From the largest to the least, but it yields

The bee never wearied a treasure.

Scarce any she quits unexplored

With a diligence truly exact;

Yet, steal what she may for her hoard

Leaves evidence none of the fact.

Her lucrative task she pursues,

And pilfers with so much address,

That none of their odour they lose,

Nor charm by their beauty the less.

Not thus inoffensively preys

The cankerworm, in-dwelling foe!

His voracity not thus allays

The sparrow, the finch, or the crow.

The worm, more expensively fed,

The pride of the garden devours;

And birds peck the seed from the bed,

Still less to be spared than the flowers.

But she with such delicate skill

Her pillage so fits for her use,

That the chemist in vain with his still

Would labour the like to produce.

Then grudge not her temperate meals,

Nor a benefit blame as a theft;

Since, stole she not all that she steals,

Neither honey nor wax would be left.

DENNER'S OLD WOMAN.

In this mimic form of a matron in years,

How plainly the pencil of Denner appears!

The matron herself, in whose old age we see

Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she!

No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low,

No wrinkle, or deep-furrow'd frown on the brow!

Her forehead indeed is here circled around

With locks like the ribbon with which they are bound;

While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin

Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin;

But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe,

Or that indicates life in its winter--is here.

Yet all is express'd with fidelity due,

Nor a pimple or freckle conceal'd from the view.

Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste

For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste.

The youths all agree, that, could old age inspire

The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire,

And the matrons with pleasure confess that they see

Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee.

The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline,

O wonderful woman! as placid as thine.

Strange magic of art! which the youth can engage

To peruse, half enamour'd, the features of age;

And force from the virgin a sigh of despair,

That she when as old shall be equally fair!

How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd,

Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd.

THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

Apelles, hearing that his boy

Had just expired--his only joy!

Although the sight with anguish tore him,

Bade place his dear remains before him.

He seized his brush, his colours spread;

And--"Oh! my child, accept,"--he said,

"('Tis all that I can now bestow,)

This tribute of a father's woe!"

Then, faithful to the twofold part,

Both of his feelings and his art,

He closed his eyes with tender care,

And form'd at once a fellow pair.

His brow with amber locks beset,

And lips he drew not livid yet;

And shaded all that he had done

To a just image of his son.

Thus far is well. But view again

The cause of thy paternal pain!

Thy melancholy task fulfil!

It needs the last, last touches still.

Again his pencil's powers he tries,

For on his lips a smile he spies:

And still his cheek unfaded shows

The deepest damask of the rose.

Then, heedful to the finish'd whole,

With fondest eagerness he stole,

Till scarce himself distinctly knew

The cherub copied from the true.

Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done.

Long lives this image of thy son;

Nor short-lived shall thy glory prove

Or of thy labour or thy love.

THE MAZE.

From right to left, and to and fro,

Caught in a labyrinth you go,

And turn, and turn, and turn again,

To solve the mystery, but in vain;

Stand still, and breathe, and take from me

A clue, that soon shall set you free!

Not Ariadne, if you met her,

Herself could serve you with a better.

You enter'd easily--find where--

And make with ease your exit there!

NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUFFERER.

The lover, in melodious verses,

His singular distress rehearses;

Still closing with a rueful cry,

"Was ever such a wretch as I!"

Yes! thousands have endured before

All thy distress; some, haply, more.

Unnumber'd Corydons complain,

And Strephons, of the like disdain;

And if thy Chloe be of steel,

Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;

Not her alone that censure fits,

Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.

THE SNAIL.

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,

The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,

As if he grew there, house and all

Together.

Within that house secure he hides,

When danger imminent betides

Of storm, or other harm besides

Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,

His self-collecting power is such,

He shrinks into his house, with much

Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,

Except himself has chattels none,

Well satisfied to be his own

Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,

Nor partner of his banquet needs,

And if he meets one, only feeds

The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind,

(He and his house are so combined,)

If, finding it, he fails to find

Its master.

THE CANTAB.

With two spurs or one, and no great matter which,

Boots bought, or boots borrow'd, a whip or a switch,

Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast,

Paid part into hand;--you must wait for the rest.

Thus equipt, Academicus climbs up his horse,

And out they both sally for better or worse;

His heart void of fear, and as light as a feather;

And in violent haste to go not knowing whither.

Through the fields and the towns; (see!) he scampers along:

And is look'd at and laugh'd at by old and by young.

Till, at length overspent, and his sides smear'd with blood,

Down tumbles his horse, man and all in the mud.

In a wagon or chaise, shall he finish his route?

Oh! scandalous fate! he must do it on foot.

Young gentlemen, hear!--I am older than you!

The advice that I give I have proved to be true,

Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it,

The faster you ride, you're the longer about it.

TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES.

FROM THE GREEK OF JULIANUS.

A Spartan, his companion slain,

Alone from battle fled;

His mother, kindling with disdain

That she had borne him, struck him dead;

For courage, and not birth alone,

In Sparta, testifies a son!

ON THE SAME BY PALLADAS.

A Spartan 'scaping from the fight,

His mother met him in his flight,

Upheld a falchion to his breast,

And thus the fugitive address'd:

"Thou canst but live to blot with shame

Indelible thy mother's name,

While every breath that thou shalt draw

Offends against thy country's law;

But, if thou perish by this hand,

Myself indeed, throughout the land,

To my dishonour, shall be known

The mother still of such a son;

But Sparta will be safe and free,

And that shall serve to comfort me."

AN EPITAPH.

My name--my country--what are they to thee!

What, whether base or proud my pedigree?

Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men--

Perhaps I fell below them all--what then?

Suffice it, stranger! that thou seest a tomb--

Thou know'st its use--it hides--no matter whom.

ANOTHER.

Take to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain

With much hard labour in thy service worn!

He set the vines that clothe yon ample plain,

And he these olives that the vale adorn.

He fill'd with grain the glebe; the rills he led

Through this green herbage, and those fruitful bowers;

Thou, therefore, earth! lie lightly on his head,

His hoary head, and deck his grave with flowers.

ANOTHER.

Painter, this likeness is too strong,

And we shall mourn the dead too long.

ANOTHER.

At threescore winters' end I died

A cheerless being sole and sad;

The nuptial knot I never tied,

And wish my father never had.

BY CALLIMACHUS.

At morn we placed on his funeral bier

Young Melanippus; and, at eventide,

Unable to sustain a loss so dear,

By her own hand his blooming sister died.

Thus Aristippus mourn'd his noble race,

Annihilated by a double blow,

Nor son could hope nor daughter more to embrace,

And all Cyrene sadden'd at his woe.

ON MILTIADES.

Miltiades! thy valour best

(Although in every region known)

The men of Persia can attest,

Taught by thyself at Marathon.

ON AN INFANT.

Bewail not much, my parents! me, the prey

Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here.

An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year,

He found all sportive, innocent, and gay,

Your young Callimachus; and if I knew

Not many joys, my griefs were also few.

BY HERACLIDES.

In Cnidus born, the consort I became

Of Euphron. Aretimias was my name.

His bed I shared, nor proved a barren bride,

But bore two children at a birth, and died.

One child I leave to solace and uphold

Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old.

And one, for his remembrance' sake, I bear

To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there.

ON THE REED.

I was of late a barren plant,

Useless, insignificant,

Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore,

A native of the marshy shore;

But, gather'd for poetic use,

And plunged into a sable juice,

Of which my modicum I sip

With narrow mouth and slender lip,

At once, although by nature dumb,

All eloquent I have become,

And speak with fluency untired,

As if by Phoebus' self inspired.

TO HEALTH.

Eldest born of powers divine!

Bless'd Hygeia! be it mine

To enjoy what thou canst give,

And henceforth with thee to live:

For in power if pleasure be,

Wealth or numerous progeny,

Or in amorous embrace,

Where no spy infests the place;

Or in aught that Heaven bestows

To alleviate human woes,

When the wearied heart despairs

Of a respite from its cares;

These and every true delight

Flourish only in thy sight;

And the sister graces three

Owe, themselves, their youth to thee,

Without whom we may possess

Much, but never happiness.

ON INVALIDS.

Far happier are the dead, methinks, than they

Who look for death, and fear it every day.

ON THE ASTROLOGERS.

The astrologers did all alike presage

My uncle's dying in extreme old age;

One only disagreed. But he was wise,

And spoke not till he heard the funeral cries.

ON AN OLD WOMAN.

Mycilla dyes her locks, 'tis said:

But 'tis a foul aspersion;

She buys them black; they therefore need

No subsequent immersion.

ON FLATTERERS.

No mischief worthier of our fear

In nature can be found

Than friendship, in ostent sincere,

But hollow and unsound.

For lull'd into a dangerous dream

We close infold a foe,

Who strikes, when most secure we seem,

The inevitable blow.

ON A TRUE FRIEND.

Hast thou a friend? thou hast indeed

A rich and large supply,

Treasure to serve your every need,

Well managed, till you die.

ON THE SWALLOW.

Attic maid! with honey fed,

Bear'st thou to thy callow brood

Yonder locust from the mead,

Destined their delicious food?

Ye have kindred voices clear,

Ye alike unfold the wing,

Migrate hither, sojourn here,

Both attendant on the spring!

Ah, for pity drop the prize;

Let it not with truth be said

That a songster gasps and dies,

That a songster may be fed.

ON LATE ACQUIRED WEALTH.

Poor in my youth, and in life's later scenes

Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour,

Who nought enjoy'd while young, denied the means;

And nought when old enjoy'd, denied the power.

ON A BATH, BY PLATO.

Did Cytherea to the skies

From this pellucid lymph arise?

Or was it Cytherea's touch,

When bathing here, that made it such?

ON A FOWLER, BY ISIDORUS.

With seeds and birdlime, from the desert air,

Eumelus gather'd free, though scanty fare.

No lordly patron's hand he deign'd to kiss,

Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bliss.

Thrice thirty years he lived, and to his heirs

His seeds bequeath'd, his birdlime, and his snares.

ON NIOBE.

Charon! receive a family on board,

Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl,

Apollo and Diana, for a word

By me too proudly spoken, slew us all.

ON A GOOD MAN.

Traveller, regret not me; for thou shalt find

Just cause of sorrow none in my decease,

Who, dying, children's children left behind,

And with one wife lived many a year in peace:

Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters three,

And oft their infants in my bosom lay,

Nor saw I one of all derived from me,

Touch'd with disease, or torn by death away.

Their duteous hands my funeral rites bestow'd,

And me, by blameless manners fitted well

To seek it, sent to the serene abode

Where shades of pious men for ever dwell.

ON A MISER.

They call thee rich--I deem thee poor,

Since, if thou darest not use thy store,

But savest it only for thine heirs,

The treasure is not thine, but theirs.

ANOTHER.

A miser, traversing his house,

Espied, unusual there, a mouse,

And thus his uninvited guest

Briskly inquisitive address'd:

"Tell me, my dear, to what cause is it

I owe this unexpected visit?"

The mouse her host obliquely eyed,

And, smiling, pleasantly replied:

"Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard!

I come to lodge, and not to board."

ANOTHER.

Art thou some individual of a kind

Long-lived by nature as the rook or hind?

Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such,

Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too much.

But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy breast

This lust of treasure--folly at the best!

For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb,

ON FEMALE INCONSTANCY.

Rich, thou hadst many lovers--poor, hast none,

So surely want extinguishes the flame,

And she who call'd thee once her pretty one,

And her Adonis, now inquires thy name.

Where wast thou born, Sosicrates, and where,

In what strange country can thy parents live,

Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet aware

That want's a crime no woman can forgive?

ON THE GRASSHOPPER.

Happy songster, perch'd above,

On the summit of the grove,

Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing

With the freedom of a king.

From thy perch survey the fields

Where prolific nature yields

Nought that, willingly as she,

Man surrenders not to thee.

For hostility or hate

None thy pleasures can create.

Thee it satisfies to sing

Sweetly the return of spring,

Herald of the genial hours,

Harming neither herbs nor flowers.

Therefore man thy voice attends

Gladly--thou and he are friends;

Nor thy never-ceasing strains,

Phoebus or the muse disdains

As too simple or too long,

For themselves inspire the song.

Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying,

Ever singing, sporting, playing,

What has nature else to show

Godlike in its kind as thou?

ON HERMOCRATIA.

Hermocratia named--save only one--

Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none;

For neither Phoebus pierced my thriving joys,

Nor Dian--she my girls, or he my boys.

But Dian rather, when my daughters lay

In parturition, chased their pangs away.

And all my sons, by Phoebus' bounty, shared

A vigorous youth, by sickness unimpair'd.

O Niobe! far less prolific! see

Thy boast against Latona shamed by me!

FROM MENANDER.

Fond youth! who dream'st that hoarded gold

Is needful, not alone to pay

For all thy various items sold,

To serve the wants of every day;

Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat,

For savoury viands season'd high;

But somewhat more important yet--

I tell thee what it cannot buy.

No treasure, hadst thou more amass'd

Than fame to Tantalus assign'd,

Would save thee from a tomb at last,

But thou must leave it all behind.

I give thee, therefore, counsel wise;

Confide not vainly in thy store,

However large--much less despise

Others comparatively poor;

But in thy more exalted state

A just and equal temper show,

That all who see thee rich and great,

May deem thee worthy to be so.

ON PALLAS BATHING, FROM A HYMN OF CALLIMACHUS.

Nor oils of balmy scent produce,

Nor mirror for Minerva's use,

Ye nymphs who lave her; she, array'd

In genuine beauty, scorns their aid.

Not even when they left the skies,

To seek on Ida's head the prize

From Paris' hand, did Juno deign,

Or Pallas in the crystal plain

Of Simois' stream her locks to trace,

Or in the mirror's polish'd face,

Though Venus oft with anxious care

Adjusted twice a single hair.

TO DEMOSTHENES.

It flatters and deceives thy view,

This mirror of ill-polish'd ore;

For, were it just, and told thee true,

Thou wouldst consult it never more.

ON A SIMILAR CHARACTER.

You give your cheeks a rosy stain,

With washes dye your hair;

But paint and washes both are vain

To give a youthful air.

Those wrinkles mock your daily toil,

No labour will efface 'em,

You wear a mask of smoothest oil,

Yet still with ease we trace 'em.

An art so fruitless then forsake,

Which though you much excel in,

You never can contrive to make

Old Hecuba young Helen.

ON AN UGLY FELLOW.

Beware, my friend! of crystal brook,

Or fountain, lest that hideous hook,

Thy nose, thou chance to see;

Narcissus' fate would then be thine,

And self-detested thou wouldst pine,

As self-enamour'd he.

ON A BATTERED BEAUTY.

Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth you buy,

A multifarious store!

A mask at once would all supply

Nor would it cost you more.

ON A THIEF.

When Aulus, the nocturnal thief, made prize

Of Hermes, swift-wing'd envoy of the skies,

Hermes, Arcadia's king, the thief divine,

Who when an infant stole Apollo's kine,

And whom, as arbiter and overseer

Of our gymnastic sports, we planted here;

"Hermes," he cried, "you meet no new disaster;

Ofttimes the pupil goes beyond his master."

ON PEDIGREE.

FROM EPICHARMUS.

MY mother! if thou love me, name no more

My noble birth! Sounding at every breath

My noble birth, thou kill'st me. Thither fly,

As to their only refuge, all from whom

Nature withholds all good besides; they boast

Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs

Of their forefathers, and, from age to age

Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race:

But whom hast thou beheld, or canst thou name,

Derived from no forefathers? Such a man

Lives not; for how could such be born at all?

And, if it chance that, native of a land

Far distant, or in infancy deprived

Of all his kindred, one, who cannot trace

His origin, exist, why deem him sprung

From baser ancestry than theirs who can?

My mother! he whom nature at his birth

Endow'd with virtuous qualities, although

An Æthiop and a slave, is nobly born.

ON ENVY.

Pity, says the Theban bard,

From my wishes I discard;

Envy, let me rather be,

Rather far, a theme for thee.

Pity to distress is shown,

Envy to the great alone--

So the Theban--But to shine

Less conspicuous be mine!

I prefer the golden mean,

Pomp and penury between;

For alarm and peril wait

Ever on the loftiest state,

And the lowest to the end

Obloquy and scorn attend.

BY MOSCHUS.

I slept when Venus enter'd: to my bed

A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led,

A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said:

"Shepherd, receive my little one! I bring

An untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing."

She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought,

Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught,

How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound,

How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound,

How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire

Of Phoebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre.

Such were my themes; my themes nought heeded he,

But ditties sang of amorous sort to me,

The pangs that mortals and immortals prove

From Venus' influence and the darts of love.

Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught;

His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot.

BY PHILEMON.

Oft we enhance our ills by discontent,

And give them bulk beyond what nature meant.

A parent, brother, friend deceased, to cry--

"He's dead indeed, but he was born to die"--

Such temperate grief is suited to the size

And burden of the loss; is just and wise.

But to exclaim, "Ah! wherefore was I born,

Thus to be left for ever thus forlorn?"

Who thus laments his loss invites distress,

And magnifies a woe that might be less,

Through dull despondence to his lot resign'd,

And leaving reason's remedy behind.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FABLES OF GAY.

LEPUS MULTIS AMICUS.

Lusus amicitia est, uni nisi dedita, ceu fit,

Simplice ni nexus foedere, lusus amor.

Incerto genitore puer, non sæpe paternæ

Tutamen novit, deliciasque domûs:

Quique sibi fidos fore multos sperat, amicus

Mirum est huic misero si ferat ullus opem.

Comis erat, mitisque, et nolle et velle paratus

Cum quovis, Gaii more modoque, Lepus.

Ille, quot in sylvis et quot spatiantur in agris

Quadrupedes, nôrat conciliare sibi;

Et quisque innocuo, invitoque lacessere quenquam

Labra tenus saltem fidus amicus erat.

Ortum sub lucis dum pressa cubilia linquit,

Rorantes herbas, pabula sueta, petens,

Venatorum audit clangores ponè sequentem,

Fulmineumque sonum territus erro fugit.

Corda pavor pulsat, sursum sedet, erigit aures,

Respicit, et sentit jam prope adesse necem.

Utque canes fallat latè circumvagus, illuc,

Unde abiit, mirâ calliditate redit;

Viribus at fractis tandem se projicit ultro

In mediâ miserum semianimemque viâ.

Vix ibi stratus, equi sonitum pedis audit, et, oh spe

Quam lætâ adventu cor agitatur equi!

Dorsum (inquit) mihi, chare, tuum concede, tuoque

Auxilio nares fallere, vimque canum.

Me meus, ut nosti, pes prodit--fidus amicus

Fert quodcunque, lubens, nec grave sentit, onus.

Belle, miselle lepuscule, (equus respondet) amara

Omnia quæ tibi sunt, sunt et amara mihi.

Verum age--sume animos--multi, me pone, bonique

Adveniunt, quorum sis citò salvus ope.

Proximus armenti dominus bos solicitatus

Auxilium his verbis se dare posse negat:

Quando quadrupedum, quot vivunt, nullus amicum

Me nescire potest usque fuisse tibi,

Libertate æquus, quam cedit amicus amico,

Utar, et absque metu ne tibi displiceam;

Hinc me mandat amor. Juxta istum messis acervum

Me mea, præ cunctis chara, juvenca manet;

Et quis non ultro quæcunque negotia linquit,

Pareat ut dominæ cum vocat ipsa suæ?

Nec me crudelem dicas--discedo--sed hircus,

Cujus ope effugias integer, hircus adest.

Febrem (ait hircus) habes. Heu, sicca ut lumina languent!

Utque caput, collo deficiente, jacet!

Hirsutum mihi tergum; et forsan læserit ægrum,

Vellere eris melius fultus, ovisque venit.

Me mihi fecit onus natura, ovis inquit, anhelans

Sustineo lanæ pondera tanta meæ;

Me nec velocem nec fortem jacto, solentque

Nos etiam sævi dilacerare canes.

Ultimus accedit vitulus, vitulumque precatur,

Ut periturum alias ocyus eripiat.

Remne ergo, respondet vitulus, suscepero tantam,

Non depulsus adhuc ubere, natus heri?

Te, quem maturi canibus validique relinquunt,

Incolumem potero reddere parvus ego?

Præterea tollens quem illi aversantur, amicis

Forte parum videar consuluisse meis.

Ignoscas oro. Fidissima dissociantur

Corda, et tale tibi sat liquet esse meum.

Ecce autem ad calces canis est! te quanta perempto

Tristitia est nobis ingruitura!--Vale!

AVARUS ET PLUTUS.

Icta fenestra Euri flatu stridebat, avarus

Ex somno trepidus surgit, opumque memor.

Lata silenter humi ponit vestigia, quemque

Respicit ad sonitum, respiciensque tremit;

Angustissima quæque foramina lampade visit,

Ad vectes, obices, fertque refertque manum.

Dein reserat crebris junctam compagibus arcam

Exultansque omnes conspicit intus opes.

Sed tandem furiis ultricibus actus ob artes

Queis sua res tenuis creverat in cumulum.

Contortis manibus nunc stat, nunc pectora pulsans

Aurum execratur, perniciemque vocat;

O mihi, ait, misero mens quam tranquilla fuisset,

Hoc celasset adhuc si modo terra malum!

Nunc autem virtus ipsa est venalis; et aurum

Quid contra vitii tormina sæva valet?

O inimicum aurum? O homini infestissima pestis;

Cui datur illecebras vincere posse tuas?

Aurum homines suasit contemnere quicquid honestum est,

Et præter nomen nil retinere boni.

Aurum cuncta mali per terras semina sparsit;

Aurum nocturnis furibus arma dedit.

Bella docet fortes, timidosque ad pessima ducit,

Foedifragas artes, multiplicesque dolos,

Nec vitii quicquam est, quod non inveneris ortum

Ex malesuadâ auri sacrilegâque fame.

Dixit, et ingemuit; Plutusque suum sibi numen

Ante oculos, irâ fervidus, ipse stetit.

Arcam clausit avarus, et ora horrentia rugis

Ostendens; tremulum sic Deus increpuit.

Questibus his raucis mihi cur, stulte, obstrepis aures?

Ista tui similis tristia quisque canit.

Commaculavi egone humanum genus, improbe? Culpa,

Dum rapis, et captas omnia, culpa tua est.

Mene execrandum censes, quia tam pretiosa

Criminibus fiunt perniciosa tuis?

Virtutis specie, pulchro ceu pallio amictus

Quisque catus nebulo sordida facta tegit.

Atque suis manibus commissa potentia, durum

Et dirum subito vergit ad imperium.

Hinc, nimium dum latro aurum detrudit in arcam.

Idem aurum latet in pectore pestis edax.

Nutrit avaritiam et fastum, suspendere adunco

Suadet naso inopes, et vitium omne docet.

Auri et larga probo si copia contigit, instar

Roris dilapsi ex æthere cuncta beat:

Tum, quasi numen inesset, alit, fovet, educat orbos,

Et viduas lacrymis ora rigare vetat.

Quo sua crimina jure auro derivet avarus,

Aurum animæ pretium qui cupit atque capit?

Lege pari gladium incuset sicarius atrox

Cæso homine, et ferrum judicet esse reum.

PAPILIO ET LIMAX.

Qui subito ex imis rerum in fastigia surgit,

Nativas sordes, quicquid agatur, olet.

EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN.

ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT.

Thou mayst of double ignorance boast,

Who know'st not that thou nothing know'st.

PRUDENT SIMPLICITY.

That thou mayst injure no man, dove-like be,

And serpent-like, that none may injure thee!

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS.

I wish thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend;

For when at worst, they say, things always mend.

RETALIATION.

The works of ancient bards divine,

Aulus, thou scorn'st to read;

And should posterity read thine,

It would be strange indeed!

When little more than boy in age,

I deem'd myself almost a sage:

But now seem worthier to be styled,

For ignorance, almost a child.

SUNSET AND SUNRISE.

Contemplate, when the sun declines,

Thy death with deep reflection!

And when again he rising shines,

The day of resurrection!

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

VIRGIL, OVID, HORACE, AND HOMER.

THE SALAD, BY VIRGIL.

The winter night now well nigh worn away,

The wakeful cock proclaim'd approaching day,

When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm

Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm,

Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to provide

Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied,

By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook,

And, poking in the dark, explored the nook

Where embers slept with ashes heap'd around,

And with burnt fingers' ends the treasure found.

It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose,

Sure proof of latent fire some smoke arose;

When, trimming with a pin the incrusted tow,

And stooping it towards the coals below,

He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite

The lingering flame, and gains at length a light.

With prudent heed he spreads his hand before

The quivering lamp, and opes his granary door.

Small was his stock, but taking for the day

A measured stint of twice eight pounds away,

With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand,

Fix'd in the wall, affords his lamp a stand:

Then baring both his arms--a sleeveless coat

He girds, the rough exuviæ of a goat:

And with a rubber, for that use design'd,

Cleansing his mill within--begins to grind;

Each hand has its employ; labouring amain,

This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain.

The stone, revolving rapidly, now glows,

And the bruised corn a mealy current flows;

While he, to make his heavy labour light,

Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right;

And chants with rudest accent, to beguile

His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while.

And now, "Dame Cybale, come forth!" he cries;

But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies.

From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid,

Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd.

With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin,

Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin,

Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet,

Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat.

Such, summon'd oft, she came; at his command

Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd,

And made in haste her simmering skillet steam,

Replenish'd newly from the neighbouring stream.

The labours of the mill perform'd, a sieve

The mingled flour and bran must next receive,

Which shaken oft shoots Ceres through refined,

And better dress'd, her husks all left behind.

This done, at once his future plain repast

Unleaven'd on a shaven board he cast,

With tepid lymph first largely soak'd it all,

Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball,

And spreading it again with both hands wide,

With sprinkled salt the stiffen'd mass supplied;

At length the stubborn substance, duly wrought,

Takes from his palms impress'd the shape it ought,

Becomes an orb--and quarter'd into shares,

The faithful mark of just division bears,

Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space,

For Cybale before had swept the place,

And there, with tiles and embers overspread,

She leaves it--reeking in its sultry bed.

Nor Simulus, while Vulcan thus alone

His part perform'd, proves heedless of his own,

But sedulous, not merely to subdue

His hunger, but to please his palate too,

Prepares more savoury food. His chimney side

Could boast no gammon, salted well and dried

And hook'd behind him; but sufficient store

Of bundled anise and a cheese it bore;

A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strung

With a tough broom twig, in the corner hung;

The prudent hero, therefore, with address

And quick despatch, now seeks another mess.

Close to his cottage lay a garden ground.

With reeds and osiers sparely girt around:

Small was the spot, but liberal to produce;

Nor wanted aught to serve a peasant's use,

And sometimes e'en the rich would borrow thence,

Although its tillage was its sole expense.

For oft as from his toils abroad he ceased,

Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast,

His debt of culture here he duly paid,

And only left the plough to wield the spade.

He knew to give each plant the soil it needs,

To drill the ground and cover close the seeds;

And could with ease compel the wanton rill

To turn and wind obedient to his will.

There flourish'd star-wort, and the branching beet,

The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet,

The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind,

The noxious poppy--quencher of the mind!

Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board,

The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd;

But these (for none his appetite controll'd

With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold;

With broom twigs neatly bound, each kind apart,

He bore them ever to the public mart:

Whence laden still, but with a lighter load,

Of cash well earn'd he took his homeward road,

Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome,

His gains in flesh-meat for a feast at home.

There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red,

Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed:

On scallions sliced, or, with a sensual gust,

On rockets--foul provocatives of lust!

Nor even shunn'd with smarting gums to press

Nasturtium--pungent face-distorting mess!

Some such regale now also in his thought,

With hasty steps his garden ground he sought;

There, delving with his hands, he first displaced

Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast;

The tender tops of parsley next he culls,

Then the old rue bush shudders as he pulls;

And coriander last to these succeeds,

That hangs on slightest threads her trembling seeds.

Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demands

The mortar at his sable servant's hands;

When, stripping all his garlick first, he tore

The exterior coats, and cast them on the floor,

Then cast away with like contempt the skin,

Flimsier concealment of the cloves within.

These, search'd, and perfect found, he one by one

Rinsed, and disposed within the hollow stone.

Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese,

With his injected herbs he cover'd these,

And, tucking with his left his tunic tight,

And seizing fast the pestle with his right,

The garlick bruising first he soon express'd,

And mix'd the various juices of the rest.

He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below,

Lost in each other, their own powers forego,

And with the cheese in compound, to the sight

Nor wholly green appear nor wholly white.

His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent,

He cursed full oft his dinner for its scent;

Or, with wry faces, wiping as he spoke

The trickling tears, cried, "Vengeance on the smoke!"

The work proceeds: not roughly turns he now

The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow;

With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills,

Some drops of olive oil he next instils,

Then vinegar with caution scarcely less,

And gathering to a ball the medley mess,

Last, with two fingers frugally applied,

Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side.

And, thus complete in figure and in kind,

Obtains at length the salad he design'd.

And now black Cybale before him stands,

The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands,

He glad receives it, chasing far away

All fears of famine for the passing day;

His legs enclosed in buskins, and his head

In its tough casque of leather, forth he led

And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair,

Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed share.

June, 1799.

TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL.

ÆNEID, BOOK VIII. LINE 18.