Poems and Poetical Fragments
Reading edition
Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus. Catullus. My Lesbia, let us love and live, And to the winds, my Lesbia, give Each cold restraint, each boding fear Of age, and all its saws severe! Yon sun now posting to the main Will set, but 'tis to rise again; But we, when once our little light Is set, must sleep in endless night. Then come, with whom alone I'll live, A thousand kisses take and give! Another thousand! to the store Add hundreds then a thousand more! And when they to a million mount, Let confusion take the account, That you, the number never knowing, May continue still bestowing That I for joys may never pine, Which never can again be mine! 1 Lugete, O Veneres, Cupidinesque. Catullus Pity, mourn in plaintive tone The lovely starling dead and gone! Weep,ye Loves! and Venus, weep The lovely starling fall'n asleep! Venus see with tearful eyes In her lap the starling lies, While the Loves all in a ring Softly stroke the stiffen'd wing. Moriens superstiti. "The hour-bell sounds, and I must go; Death waits again I hear him calling; No cowardly desires have I, Nor will I shun his face appalling. I die in faith and honour rich But ah! I leave behind my treasure In widowhood and lonely pain; To live were surely then a pleasure! "My lifeless eyes upon thy face Shall never open more to-morrow; To-morrow shall thy beauteous eyes Be closed to love, and drown'd in sorrow; To-morrow death shall freeze this hand, And on thy breast, my wedded treasure, I never, never more shall live; Alas! I quit a life of pleasure." Morienti superstes. "Yet art thou happier far than she Who feels the widow's love for thee! For while her days are days of weeping, Thou, in peace, in silence sleeping, In some still world, unknown, remote, The mighty parent's care hast found, Without whose tender guardian thought No sparrow falleth to the ground."
The Stripling's War Song
imitated from Stolberg
My noble old warrior! this heart has beat high, Since you told of the deeds that our countrymen wrought; Ah! give me the sabre which hung by thy thigh, And I too will fight as my forefathers fought! O, despise not my youth! for my spirit is steel'd, And I know there is strength in the grasp of my hand; Yea, as firm as thyself would I move to the field, And as proudly would die for my dear father-land. In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd the fight, The shrill of a trumpet suspended my breath; And my fancy still wander'd by day and by night Amid tumult and perils,'mid conquest and death. My own eager shout in the heat of my trance, How oft it awakes me from dreams full of glory, When I meant to have leap'd on the hero of France, And have dash'd him to earth pale and deathless and gory! As late through the city with bannerets streaming, And the music of trumpets the warriors flew by, With helmet and scymetar naked and gleaming On their proud trampling thunder-hoof'd steeds did they fly, I sped to yon heath which is lonely and bare For each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm, I hurl'd my mock lance through the objectless air, And in open-eyed dream prov'd the strength of my arm. Yes, noble old warrior! this heart has beat high, Since you told of thedeeds that our countrymen wrought; Ah! give me the falchion that hung by thy thigh, And I too will fight as my forefathers fought! 2 His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead, His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on his lips, The sense, and spirit, and the light divine, At the same moment in his steadfast eye Were virtue's native crest, th' immortal soul's Unconscious meek self-heraldry, to man Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel. He suffer'd, nor complain'd; tho' oft with tears He mourn'd th' oppression of his helpless brethren, Yea, with a deeper and yet holier grief Mourn'd for the oppressor. In those sabbath hours His solemn grief, like the slow cloud at sunset, Was but the veil of purest meditation Pierced thro' and saturate with the rays of mind. 'Twas sweet to know it only possible! Some wishes cross'd my mind and dimly cheer'd it, And one or two poor melancholy pleasures, Each in the pale unwarming light of hope Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by Moths in the moonbeam! Behind the thin Grey cloud that cover'd, but not hid, the sky, The round full moon look'd small. The subtle snow in every passing breeze Rose curling from the grove like shafts of smoke. On the broad mountain top The neighing wild colt races with the wind O'er fern and heath-flowers. Like a mighty giantess Seized in sore travail and prodigious birth, Sick nature struggled: long and strange her pangs, Her groans were horrible; but O, most fair The twins she bore, Equality and Peace. Terrible and loud As the strong voice that from the thunder-cloud Speaks to the startled midnight. Such fierce vivacity as fires the eye Of genius fancy-craz'd. The mild despairing of a heart resign'd.
For the Hymn on the Sun
The sun (for now his orb 'Gan slowly sink) Shot half his rays aslant the heath, whose flow'rs Purpled the mountain's broad and level top. Rich was his bed of clouds, and wide beneath
For the Hymn on the Moon
In a cave in the mountains of Cashmeer there is an image of ice, which makes its appearance thus: Two days before the new moon there appears a bubble of ice, which increases in size every day till the fifteenth, by which time it is an ell or more in height; then as the moon wanes, the image decreases till it vanishes away.
In darkness I remain'd;-the neighb'ring clock Told me that now the rising sun at dawn Shone lovely on my garden. These be staggerers that, made drunk by power, Forget thirst's eager promise, and presume, Dark dreamers! that the world forgets it too! Perish warmth, Unfaithful to its seeming! Old age, 'the shape and messenger of death,' His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door. God no distance knows All of the whole possessing. With skill that never alchemist yet told, Made drossy lead as ductile as pure gold. Guess at the wound and heal with secret hand. The broad-breasted rock Glasses his rugged forehead in the sea. I mix in life, and labour to seem free, With common persons pleas'd and common things, While every thought and action tends to thee, And every impulse from thy influence springs.
Farewell to Love
Farewell, sweet Love! yet blame you not my truth; More fondly ne'er did mother eye her child Than I your form: your's were my hopes of youth, And as you shaped my thoughts, I sigh'd or smil'd. While most were wooing wealth, or gaily swerving To pleasure's secret haunt, and some apart Stood strong in pride, self-conscious of deserving, To you I gave my whole weak wishing heart; And when I met the maid that realized Your fair creations, and had won her kindness, Say but for her if aught on earth I prized! Your dreams alone I dreamt and caught your blindness. O grief! but farewell, Love! I will go play me With thoughts that please me less, and less betray me. Within these circling hollies, woodbine-clad Beneath this small blue roof of vernal sky How warm, how still! Tho' tears should dim mine eye, Yet will my heart for days continue glad, For here, my love, thou art, and here am I! Each crime that once estranges from the virtues Doth make the memory of their features daily More dim and vague, till each coarse counterfeit Can have the passport to our confidence Sign'd by ourselves. And fitly are they punish'd, Who prize and seek the honest man but as A safer lock to guard dishonest treasures. Grant me a patron, gracious Heaven! whene'er My unwash'd follies call for penance drear: But when more hideous guilt this heart infects, Instead of fiery coals upon my pate, O let a titled patron be my fate; That fierce compendium of Egyptian pests! Right reverend dean, right honourable squire, Lord, marquis, earl, duke, prince, or if aught higher, However proudly nicknamed, he shall be Anathema Maránatha to me!
A Sober Statement of Human Life, or the True Medium
A chance may win what by mischance was lost; The net that holds not great, takes little fish: In somethings all, in all things none are crost; Few all they need, but none have all they wish: Unmingled joys to no one here befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all!
Footnote 1
: This and the following poems and fragments, with the exception of those marked with 2, were communicated by Mr. Gutch.
Ed.
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Footnote 2
: Poems not communicated by Mr. Gutch (see Footnote 1 above).
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