BOOK II. ODE IX.

1 Clouds do not always veil the skies, Nor showers immerse the verdant plain; Nor do the billows always rise, Or storms afflict the ruffled main.

2 Nor, Valgius, on the Armenian shores Do the chain'd waters always freeze; Not always furious Boreas roars, Or bends with violent force the trees.

3 But you are ever drown'd in tears, For Mystes dead you ever mourn; No setting Sol can ease your cares, But finds you sad at his return.

4 The wise, experienced Grecian sage Mourn'd not Antilochus so long; Nor did King Priam's hoary age So much lament his slaughter'd son. 5 Leave off, at length, these woman's sighs, Augustus' numerous trophies sing; Repeat that prince's victories, To whom all nations tribute bring.

6 Niphates rolls an humbler wave, At length the undaunted Scythian yields, Content to live the Romans' slave, And scarce forsakes his native fields.

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TRANSLATION

OF PART OF THE DIALOGUE BETWEEN HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.—FROM THE SIXTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ILIAD.

She ceased: then godlike Hector answer'd kind, (His various plumage sporting in the wind): That post, and all the rest, shall be my care; But shall I then forsake the unfinish'd war? How would the Trojans brand great Hector's name, And one base action sully all my fame, Acquired by wounds and battles bravely fought! Oh! how my soul abhors so mean a thought! Long have I learn'd to slight this fleeting breath, And view with cheerful eyes approaching death. 10 The inexorable Sisters have decreed That Priam's house and Priam's self shall bleed: The day shall come, in which proud Troy shall yield, And spread its smoking ruins o'er the field; Yet Hecuba's, nor Priam's hoary age, Whose blood shall quench some Grecian's thirsty rage, Nor my brave brothers that have bit the ground, Their souls dismiss'd through many a ghastly wound, Can in my bosom half that grief create, As the sad thought of your impending fate; 20 When some proud Grecian dame shall tasks impose, Mimic your tears, and ridicule your woes: Beneath Hyperia's waters shall you sweat, And, fainting, scarce support the liquid weight: Then shall some Argive loud insulting cry, Behold the wife of Hector, guard of Troy! Tears, at my name, shall drown those beauteous eyes, And that fair bosom heave with rising sighs: Before that day, by some brave hero's hand, May I lie slain, and spurn the bloody sand! 30

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TO MISS * * * *

ON HER PLAYING UPON A HARPSICHORD IN A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES OF HER OWN PAINTING.

When Stella strikes the tuneful string, In scenes of imitated Spring, Where beauty lavishes her powers On beds of never-fading flowers, And pleasure propagates around Each charm of modulated sound; Ah! think not, in the dangerous hour, The nymph fictitious as the flower, But shun, rash youth! the gay alcove, Nor tempt the snares of wily love. 10

When charms thus press on every sense, What thought of flight or of defence? Deceitful hope or vain desire, For ever flutter o'er her lyre, Delighting, as the youth draws nigh, To point the glances of her eye, And forming, with unerring art, New chains to hold the captive heart.

But on those regions of delight Might truth intrude with daring flight, 20 Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young, One moment hear the moral song, Instruction with her flowers might spring, And wisdom warble from her string.

Mark, when, from thousand mingled dyes, Thou seest one pleasing form arise, How active light and thoughtful shade In greater scenes each other aid; Mark, when the different notes agree In friendly contrariety, 30 How passion's well accorded strife, Gives all the harmony of life: Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame, Consistent still, though not the same; Thy music teach the nobler art, To tune the regulated heart.

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EVENING: AN ODE.

TO STELLA.

Evening now, from purple wings, Sheds the grateful gifts she brings; Brilliant drops bedeck the mead, Cooling breezes shake the reed— Shake the reed, and curl the stream, Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam; Near, the chequer'd, lonely grove, Hears, and keeps thy secrets, Love. Stella, thither let us stray Lightly o'er the dewy way! 10 Phoebus drives his burning car, Hence, my lovely Stella, far; In his stead, the Queen of Night Round us pours a lambent light; Light that seems but just to show Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow; Let us now, in whisper'd joy, Evening's silent hours employ, Silence best, and conscious shades, Please the hearts that love invades; 20 Other pleasures give them pain, Lovers all but love disdain.

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TO THE SAME.

Whether Stella's eyes are found Fix'd on earth, or glancing round, If her face with pleasure glow, If she sigh at others' woe, If her easy air express Conscious worth or soft distress, Stella's eyes, and air, and face, Charm with undiminish'd grace.

If on her we see display'd Pendent gems, and rich brocade, 10 If her chintz with less expense Flows in easy negligence; Still she lights the conscious flame, Still her charms appear the same; If she strikes the vocal strings, If she's silent, speaks, or sings, If she sit, or if she move, Still we love, and still approve.

Vain the casual transient glance, Which alone can please by chance— 20 Beauty, which depends on art, Changing with the changing heart, Which demands the toilet's aid, Pendent gems, and rich brocade. I those charms alone can prize Which from constant Nature rise, Which nor circumstance, nor dress, E'er can make, or more, or less.

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TO A FRIEND.

No more thus brooding o'er yon heap, With Avarice painful vigils keep; Still unenjoy'd the present store, Still endless sighs are breathed for more. Oh! quit the shadow, catch the prize, Which not all India's treasure buys! To purchase Heaven, has gold the power? Can gold remove the mortal hour? In life, can love be bought with gold? Are friendship's pleasures to be sold? 10 No; all that's worth a wish—a thought, Fair Virtue gives unbribed, unbought. Cease, then, on trash thy hopes to bind, Let nobler views engage thy mind.

With Science tread the wondrous way, Or learn the Muse's moral lay; In social hours indulge thy soul, Where Mirth and Temperance mix the bowl; To virtuous love resign thy breast, And be, by blessing beauty, blest. 20

Thus taste the feast by Nature spread, Ere youth and all its joys are fled; Come, taste with me the balm of life, Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife! I boast whate'er for man was meant, In health, in Stella, and content; And scorn, oh! let that scorn be thine, Mere things of clay, that dig the mine!

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TO A YOUNG LADY,

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

This tributary verse receive, my fair, Warm with an ardent lover's fondest prayer. May this returning day for ever find Thy form more lovely, more adorn'd thy mind; All pains, all cares, may favouring Heaven remove, All but the sweet solicitudes of love! May powerful Nature join with grateful Art, To point each glance, and force it to the heart! Oh then, when conquer'd crowds confess thy sway, When even proud Wealth and prouder Wit obey, 10 My fair, be mindful of the mighty trust, Alas! 'tis hard for beauty to be just! Those sovereign charms with strictest care employ; Nor give the generous pain, the worthless joy: With his own form acquaint the forward fool, Shown in the faithful glass of Ridicule; Teach mimic Censure her own faults to find, No more let coquettes to themselves be blind, So shall Belinda's charms improve mankind.

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EPILOGUE

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY A LADY WHO WAS TO PERSONATE 'THE GHOST OF HERMIONE.'

Ye blooming train, who give despair or joy, Bless with a smile, or with a frown destroy; In whose fair cheeks destructive Cupids wait, And with unerring shafts distribute fate; Whose snowy breasts, whose animated eyes, Each youth admires, though each admirer dies; Whilst you deride their pangs in barbarous play, Unpitying see them weep, and hear them pray, And unrelenting sport ten thousand lives away: For you, ye fair! I quit the gloomy plains, 10 Where sable Night in all her horror reigns; No fragrant bowers, no delightful glades, Receive the unhappy ghosts of scornful maids. For kind, for tender nymphs, the myrtle blooms, And weaves her bending boughs in pleasing glooms; Perennial roses deck each purple vale, And scents ambrosial breathe in every gale; Far hence are banish'd vapours, spleen, and tears, Tea, scandal, ivory teeth, and languid airs; No pug, nor favourite Cupid there enjoys 20 The balmy kiss for which poor Thyrsis dies; Form'd to delight, they use no foreign arms, No torturing whalebones pinch them into charms; No conscious blushes there their cheeks inflame, For those who feel no guilt can know no shame; Unfaded still their former charms they show, Around them pleasures wait, and joys for ever new. But cruel virgins meet severer fates; Expell'd and exiled from the blissful seats, To dismal realms, and regions void of peace, 30 Where furies ever howl, and serpents hiss, O'er the sad plains perpetual tempests sigh, And poisonous vapours, blackening all the sky, With livid hue the fairest face o'ercast, And every beauty withers at the blast: Where'er they fly, their lovers' ghosts pursue, Inflicting all those ills which once they knew; Vexation, fury, jealousy, despair, Vex every eye, and every bosom tear; Their foul deformities by all descried, 40 No maid to flatter, and no paint to hide. Then melt, ye fair, while crowds around you sigh, Nor let disdain sit lowering in your eye; With pity soften every awful grace, And beauty smile auspicious in each face To ease their pain exert your milder power; So shall you guiltless reign, and all mankind adore.

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THE YOUNG AUTHOR.

When first the peasant, long inclined to roam, Forsakes his rural sports and peaceful home, Pleased with the scene the smiling ocean yields, He scorns the verdant meads and flowery fields: Then dances jocund o'er the watery way, While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play: Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll, And future millions lift his rising soul; In blissful dreams he digs the golden mine, And raptured sees the new-found ruby shine. 10 Joys insincere! thick clouds invade the skies, Loud roar the billows, high the waves arise; Sickening with fear, he longs to view the shore, And vows to trust the faithless deep no more. So the young author, panting after fame, And the long honours of a lasting name, Intrusts his happiness to human kind, More false, more cruel than the seas or wind!

Toil on, dull crowd! in ecstasies he cries, For wealth or title, perishable prize; 20 While I those transitory blessings scorn, Secure of praise from ages yet unborn. This thought once form'd, all counsel comes too late, He flies to press, and hurries on his fate; Swiftly he sees the imagined laurels spread, And feels the unfading wreath surround his head. Warn'd by another's fate, vain youth be wise, Those dreams were Settle's[1] once, and Ogilby's![2] The pamphlet spreads, incessant hisses rise, To some retreat the baffled writer flies, 30 Where no sour critics snarl, no sneers molest, Safe from the tart lampoon, and stinging jest; There begs of Heaven a less distinguish'd lot— Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot.

[Footnote 1: 'Settle;' see Life of Dryden.]

[Footnote 2: 'Ogilby:' a poor translator.]

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FRIENDSHIP: AN ODE.

PRINTED IN THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, 1743.

1 Friendship, peculiar boon of Heaven, The noble mind's delight and pride— To men and angels only given, To all the lower world denied!

2 While love, unknown among the blest, Parent of thousand wild desires, The savage and the human breast Torments alike with raging fires;

3 With bright, but oft destructive gleam, Alike o'er all his lightnings fly; Thy lambent glories only beam Around the favourites of the sky.

4 Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys, On fools and villains ne'er descend; In vain for thee the tyrant sighs, And hugs a flatterer for a friend.

5 Directress of the brave and just, Oh, guide us through life's darksome way! And let the tortures of mistrust On selfish bosoms only prey.

6 Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow, When souls to peaceful climes remove: What raised our virtue here below, Shall aid our happiness above.

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IMITATION OF THE STYLE OF[1] * * *

1 Hermit hoar, in solemn cell Wearing out life's evening gray, Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell What is bliss, and which the way.

2 Thus I spoke, and speaking sigh'd, Scarce repress'd the starting tear, When the hoary sage replied, 'Come, my lad, and drink some beer.'

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ONE AND TWENTY.

1 Long-expected one-and-twenty, Lingering year, at length is flown: Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, Great * * *, are now your own.

2 Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind, and light as feather, Bid the sons of thrift farewell.

3 Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies, All the names that banish care; Lavish of your grandsire's guineas, Show the spirit of an heir.

4 All that prey on vice and folly Joy to see their quarry fly: There the gamester, light and jolly; There the lender, grave and sly.

5 Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will; Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come and take their fill.

6 When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high— What are acres? what are houses? Only dirt, or wet, or dry.

7 Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste: Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother, You can hang or drown at last.

[Footnote 1: Supposed to be Percy.]

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END OF JOHNSON'S POEMS.

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