Act 4 — No. XXXII.
Reading edition
June 18, 1798.
We are indebted for the following imitation of Catullus to a literary correspondent. Whether it will remove the doubts we formerly expressed, of Citizen Muskein’s acquaintance with the classics, from the minds of our readers, we cannot pretend to say. It is given to us as a faithful translation from the French—as such, we present it to our readers; premising only, that though the Citizen Imitator seems to have Sans-culottized the original in two or three places, yet he everywhere expresses himself with a naïveté and truth in his verse that we seek for in vain in many of his countrymen who have recorded their victories and defeats in very vulgar prose.
AN AFFECTIONATE EFFUSION OF CITIZEN MUSKEIN TO HAVRE-DE-GRACE.
Fairest of cities,[284] which the Seine
Surveys ’twixt Paris and the main,
Sweet Havre! sweetest Havre, hail!
How gladly with my tatter’d sail,[285]
Yet trembling from this wild adventure,
Do I thy friendly harbour enter!
237Well—now I’ve leisure, let me see
What boats are left me; one, two, three—
Bravo! the better half remain;
And all my heroes are not slain.
And if my senses don’t deceive,
I too am safe,[286]—yes, I believe,
Without a wound I reach thy shore
(For I have felt myself all o’er);
I’ve all my limbs, and, be it spoken
With honest triumph, no bone broken.
How pleasing is the sweet transition[287]
From this vile Gun-boat Expedition;
From winds and waves, and wounds and scars,
From British soldiers, British tars,
To his own house, where, free from danger,
Muskein may live at rack and manger;
May stretch his limbs in his own cot,[288]
Thankful he has not gone to pot;
Nor for the bubble Glory strive,
But bless himself that he’s alive!
Havre,[289] sweet Havre! hail again,
O! bid thy sons (a frolic train,[290]
Who under Chénier welcomed in,
With dance and song, the Guillotine).
238In long procession seek the strand;
For Muskein now prepares to land,
’Scaped, Heav’n knows how, from that cursed crew
That haunt the rocks of Saint Marcou.
[TO THE PENINSULA OF SIRMIO. UPON THE RETURN OF THE POET TO HIS COUNTRY HOUSE THERE.
Translated from Catullus.
Sirmio, of all the shores the gem,
The isles where circling Neptune strays;
Whether the vast and boisterous main
Or lake’s more limpid waves they stem,
How gladly on thy waves I gaze!
How blest to visit thee again!
I scarce believe, while rapt I stand,
That I have left the Thynian fields
And all Bithynia far behind,
And safely view my favourite land.
Oh bliss, when care dispersing yields
To full repose the placid mind!
Then when the mind its load lays down;
When we regain, all hazards past,
And with long ceaseless travel tired,
Our household god again our own;
And press in tranquil sleep at last
The well-known bed so oft desired—
This can alone atonement make
For every toil. Hail, Sirmio sweet!
Be gay, thy lord hath ceased to roam!
Ye laughing waves of Lydia’s lake,
Smile all around! thy master greet
With all thy smiles, my pleasant home!—Ed.]
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