Volume 2 — TRANSLATIONS.

Happy is he, that with fix'd eyes The fountain of all goodness spies! Happy is he that can break through Those bonds which tie him here below! The Thracian poet long ago, Kind Orpheus, full of tears and woe, Did for his lov'd Eurydice In such sad numbers mourn, that he Made the trees run in to his moan, And streams stand still to hear him groan. The does came fearless in one throng With lions to his mournful song, And charmed by the harmonious sound, The hare stay'd by the quiet hound. But when Love height'n'd by despair And deep reflections on his fair Had swell'd his heart, and made it rise And run in tears out at his eyes, And those sweet airs, which did appease Wild beasts, could give their lord no ease; Then, vex'd that so much grief and love Mov'd not at all the gods above, With desperate thoughts and bold intent, Towards the shades below he went; For thither his fair love was fled, And he must have her from the dead. There in such lines, as did well suit With sad airs and a lover's lute, And in the richest language dress'd That could be thought on or express'd, Did he complain; whatever grief Or art or love—which is the chief, And all ennobles—could lay out, In well-tun'd woes he dealt about. And humbly bowing to the prince Of ghosts begg'd some intelligence Of his Eurydice, and where His beauteous saint resided there. Then to his lute's instructed groans He sigh'd out new melodious moans; And in a melting, charming strain Begg'd his dear love to life again. The music flowing through the shade And darkness did with ease invade The silent and attentive ghosts; And Cerberus, which guards those coasts With his loud barkings, overcome By the sweet notes, was now struck dumb. The Furies, us'd to rave and howl And prosecute each guilty soul, Had lost their rage, and in a deep Transport, did most profusely weep. Ixion's wheel stopp'd, and the curs'd Tantalus, almost kill'd with thirst, Though the streams now did make no haste, But wait'd for him, none would taste. That vulture, which fed still upon Tityus his liver, now was gone To feed on air, and would not stay, Though almost famish'd, with her prey. Won with these wonders, their fierce prince At last cried out, "We yield! and since Thy merits claim no less, take hence Thy consort for thy recompense: But Orpheus, to this law we bind Our grant: you must not look behind, Nor of your fair love have one sight, Till out of our dominions quite." Alas! what laws can lovers awe? Love is itself the greatest law! Or who can such hard bondage brook To be in love, and not to look? Poor Orpheus almost in the light Lost his dear love for one short sight; And by those eyes, which Love did guide, What he most lov'd unkindly died! This tale of Orpheus and his love Was meant for you, who ever move Upwards, and tend into that light, Which is not seen by mortal sight. For if, while you strive to ascend, You droop, and towards Earth once bend Your seduc'd eyes, down you will fall Ev'n while you look, and forfeit all.

What fix'd affections, and lov'd laws —Which are the hid, magnetic cause— Wise Nature governs with, and by What fast, inviolable tie The whole creation to her ends For ever provident she bends: All this I purpose to rehearse In the sweet airs of solemn verse. Although the Libyan lions should Be bound in chains of purest gold, And duly fed were taught to know Their keeper's voice, and fear his blow: Yet, if they chance to taste of blood, Their rage which slept, stirr'd by that food In furious roaring will awake, And fiercely for their freedom make. No chains nor bars their fury brooks, But with enrag'd and bloody looks They will break through, and dull'd with fear Their keeper all to pieces tear. The bird, which on the wood's tall boughs Sings sweetly, if you cage or house, And out of kindest care should think To give her honey with her drink, And get her store of pleasant meat, Ev'n such as she delights to eat: Yet, if from her close prison she The shady groves doth chance to see, Straightway she loathes her pleasant food, And with sad looks longs for the wood. The wood, the wood alone she loves! And towards it she looks and moves: And in sweet notes—though distant from— Sings to her first and happy home! That plant, which of itself doth grow Upwards, if forc'd, will downwards bow; But give it freedom, and it will Get up, and grow erectly still. The sun, which by his prone descent Seems westward in the evening bent, Doth nightly by an unseen way Haste to the East, and bring up day. Thus all things long for their first state, And gladly to't return, though late. Nor is there here to anything A course allow'd, but in a ring: Which, where it first began, must end, And to that point directly tend.

Who would unclouded see the laws Of the supreme, eternal Cause, Let him with careful thoughts and eyes Observe the high and spacious skies. There in one league of love the stars Keep their old peace, and show our wars. The sun, though flaming still and hot, The cold, pale moon annoyeth not. Arcturus with his sons—though they See other stars go a far way, And out of sight—yet still are found Near the North Pole, their noted bound. Bright Hesper—at set times—delights To usher in the dusky nights: And in the East again attends To warn us, when the day ascends. So alternate Love supplies Eternal courses still, and vies Mutual kindness; that no jars Nor discord can disturb the stars. The same sweet concord here below Makes the fierce elements to flow And circle without quarrel still, Though temper'd diversely; thus will The hot assist the cold; the dry Is a friend to humidity: And by the law of kindness they The like relief to them repay. The fire, which active is and bright, Tends upward, and from thence gives light. The earth allows it all that space And makes choice of the lower place; For things of weight haste to the centre, A fall to them is no adventure. From these kind turns and circulation Seasons proceed, and generation. This makes the Spring to yield us flow'rs, And melts the clouds to gentle show'rs. The Summer thus matures all seeds And ripens both the corn and weeds. This brings on Autumn, which recruits Our old, spent store, with new fresh fruits. And the cold Winter's blust'ring season Hath snow and storms for the same reason. This temper and wise mixture breed And bring forth ev'ry living seed. And when their strength and substance spend —For while they live, they drive and tend Still to a change—it takes them hence And shifts their dress! and to our sense Their course is over, as their birth: And hid from us they turn to earth. But all this while the Prince of life Sits without loss, or change, or strife: Holding the reins, by which all move —And those His wisdom, power, love And justice are—and still what He The first life bids, that needs must be, And live on for a time; that done He calls it back, merely to shun The mischief, which His creature might Run into by a further flight. For if this dear and tender sense Of His preventing providence, Did not restrain and call things back, Both heav'n and earth would go to rack, And from their great Preserver part; As blood let out forsakes the heart And perisheth, but what returns With fresh and brighter spirits burns. This is the cause why ev'ry living Creature affects an endless being. A grain of this bright love each thing Had giv'n at first by their great King; And still they creep—drawn on by this— And look back towards their first bliss. For, otherwise, it is most sure, Nothing that liveth could endure: Unless its love turn'd retrograde Sought that First Life, which all things made.

If old tradition hath not fail'd, Ulysses, when from Troy he sail'd Was by a tempest forc'd to land Where beauteous Circe did command. Circe, the daughter of the sun, Which had with charms and herbs undone Many poor strangers, and could then Turn into beasts the bravest men. Such magic in her potions lay, That whosoever passed that way And drank, his shape was quickly lost. Some into swine she turn'd, but most To lions arm'd with teeth and claws; Others like wolves with open jaws Did howl; but some—more savage—took The tiger's dreadful shape and look. But wise Ulysses, by the aid Of Hermes, had to him convey'd A flow'r, whose virtue did suppress The force of charms, and their success: While his mates drank so deep, that they Were turn'd to swine, which fed all day On mast, and human food had left, Of shape and voice at once bereft; Only the mind—above all charms— Unchang'd did mourn those monstrous harms. O, worthless herbs, and weaker arts, To change their limbs, but not their hearts! Man's life and vigour keep within, Lodg'd in the centre, not the skin. Those piercing charms and poisons, which His inward parts taint and bewitch, More fatal are, than such, which can Outwardly only spoil the man. Those change his shape and make it foul, But these deform and kill his soul.

All sorts of men, that live on Earth, Have one beginning and one birth. For all things there is one Father, Who lays out all, and all doth gather. He the warm sun with rays adorns, And fills with brightness the moon's horns. The azur'd heav'ns with stars He burnish'd, And the round world with creatures furnish'd. But men—made to inherit all— His own sons He was pleas'd to call, And that they might be so indeed, He gave them souls of divine seed. A noble offspring surely then Without distinction are all men. O, why so vainly do some boast Their birth and blood and a great host Of ancestors, whose coats and crests Are some rav'nous birds or beasts! If extraction they look for, And God, the great Progenitor, No man, though of the meanest state, Is base, or can degenerate, Unless, to vice and lewdness bent, He leaves and taints his true descent.

Felix, qui propriis avum transegit in arvis, Una domus puerum, &c.

Most happy man! who in his own sweet fields Spent all his time; to whom one cottage yields In age and youth a lodging; who, grown old, Walks with his staff on the same soil and mould Where he did creep an infant, and can tell Many fair years spent in one quiet cell! No toils of fate made him from home far known, Nor foreign waters drank, driv'n from his own. No loss by sea, no wild land's wasteful war Vex'd him, not the brib'd coil of gowns at bar. Exempt from cares, in cities never seen, The fresh field-air he loves, and rural green. The year's set turns by fruits, not consuls, knows; Autumn by apples, May by blossom'd boughs. Within one hedge his sun doth set and rise, The world's wide day his short demesnes comprise; Where he observes some known, concrescent twig Now grown an oak, and old, like him, and big. Verona he doth for the Indies take, And as the Red Sea counts Benacus' Lake. Yet are his limbs and strength untir'd, and he, A lusty grandsire, three descents doth see. Travel and sail who will, search sea or shore; This man hath liv'd, and that hath wander'd more.

Jupiter in parvo cum cerneret æthera vitro Risit, et ad superos, &c.

When Jove a heav'n of small glass did behold, He smil'd, and to the gods these words he told. "Comes then the power of man's art to this? In a frail orb my work new acted is, The poles' decrees, the fate of things, God's laws, Down by his art old Archimedes draws. Spirits inclos'd the sev'ral stars attend, And orderly the living work they bend. A feignèd Zodiac measures out the year, Ev'ry new month a false moon doth appear. And now bold industry is proud, it can Wheel round its world, and rule the stars by man. Why at Salmoneus' thunder do I stand? Nature is rivall'd by a single hand."

Oceani summo circumfluus æquore lucus Trans Indos, Eurumque viret, &c.

A grove there grows, round with the sea confin'd, Beyond the Indies and the Eastern wind, Which, as the sun breaks forth in his first beam, Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team; When with his dewy coach the Eastern bay Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching Day, And blasted with his burnish'd wheels the Night In a pale dress doth vanish from the light. This the bless'd Phœnix' empire is, here he, Alone exempted from mortality, Enjoys a land, where no diseases reign, And ne'er afflicted like our world with pain. A bird most equal to the gods, which vies For length of life and durance with the skies, And with renew'd limbs tires ev'ry age His appetite he never doth assuage With common food. Nor doth he use to drink When thirsty on some river's muddy brink. A purer, vital heat shot from the sun Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come From Tethys lap he tasteth at his need; On such abstracted diet doth he feed. A secret light there streams from both his eyes, A fiery hue about his cheeks doth rise. His crest grows up into a glorious star Giv'n t' adorn his head, and shines so far, That piercing through the bosom of the night It rends the darkness with a gladsome light. His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings —More swift than winds are—have sky-colour'd rings Flow'ry and rich: and round about enroll'd Their utmost borders glister all with gold. He's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth, But is himself the parent, and the birth. None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves Old age, and by his funerals he lives. For when the tedious Summer's gone about A thousand times: so many Winters out, So many Springs: and May doth still restore Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before; Then press'd with years his vigour doth decline, Foil'd with the number; as a stately pine Tir'd out with storms bends from the top and height Of Caucasus, and falls with its own weight, Whose part is torn with daily blasts, with rain Part is consum'd, and part with age again; So now his eyes grown dusky, fail to see Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight The cloudy moon is, having spent her light. And now his wings, which usèd to contend With tempests, scarce from the low earth ascend. He knows his time is out! and doth provide New principles of life; herbs he brings dried From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames A pile, shall burn, and hatch him with its flames. On this the weakling sits; salutes the sun With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some Of his own fire, that quickly may restore The youth and vigour, which he had before. Whom, soon as Phœbus spies, stopping his reins, He makes a stand and thus allays his pains. O thou that buriest old age in thy grave, And art by seeming funerals to have A new return of life, whose custom 'tis To rise by ruin, and by death to miss Ev'n death itself, a new beginning take, And that thy wither'd body now forsake! Better thyself by this thy change! This said He shakes his locks, and from his golden head Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire The willing bird; to burn is his desire, That he may live again: he's proud in death, And goes in haste to gain a better breath. The spicy heap fir'd with celestial rays Doth burn the aged Phœnix, when straight stays The chariot of th' amazèd moon; the pole Resists the wheeling swift orbs, and the whole Fabric of Nature at a stand remains, Till the old bird a new young being gains. All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they Suffer not Nature's glory to decay. By this time, life which in the ashes lurks Hath fram'd the heart, and taught new blood new works; The whole heap stirs, and ev'ry part assumes Due vigour; th' embers too are turn'd to plumes; The parent in the issue now revives, But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives, With very little space between the same, Were parted only by the middle flame. To Nilus straight he goes to consecrate His parent's ghost; his mind is to translate His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away Into a distant land, and doth convey The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend His journey without number, and defend His pious flight, like to a guard; the sky Is clouded with the army, as they fly. Nor is there one of all those thousands dares Affront his leader: they with solemn cares Attend the progress of their youthful king; Not the rude hawk, nor th' eagle that doth bring Arms up to Jove, fight now, lest they displease; The miracle enacts a common peace. So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris' side His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride In pearls and habit; he adorns his head With royal tires: his steed with gold is led; His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought, With rare Assyrian needle-work are wrought; And proudly reigning o'er his rascal bands, He raves and triumphs in his large commands. A city of Egypt, famous in all lands For rites, adores the sun; his temple stands There on a hundred pillars by account, Digg'd from the quarries of the Theban mount. Here, as the custom did require—they say— His happy parent's dust down he doth lay; Then to the image of his lord he bends And to the flames his burden straight commends. Unto the altars thus he destinates His own remains; the light doth gild the gates; Perfumes divine the censers up do send: While th' Indian odour doth itself extend To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale, To which compar'd nectar itself is vile, Fills the sev'n channels of the misty Nile. O happy bird! sole heir to thy own dust! Death, to whose force all other creatures must Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise; 'Tis not thy nature, but thy age that dies. Thou hast seen all! and to the times that run Thou art as great a witness as the sun. Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied The land, and drown'd the mountains with the tide. What year the straggling Phæton did fire The world, thou know'st. And no plagues can conspire Against thy life; alone thou dost arise Above mortality; the destinies Spin not thy days out with their fatal clue; They have no law, to which thy life is due.