TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS

HERE rests a woman good without pretence, Blest with plain reason and with sober sense. No conquest she, but o'er herself, desired, No arts essayed but not to be admired. Passion and pride were to her soul unknown, Convinced that Virtue only is our own. So unaffected, so composed a mind, So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refined, Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried; The saint sustained it, but the woman died.

BUT here's the rub. There soon may come a time You'll count right reason treason and the prime Of mind the spring of guilt; whereas more oft In blind Religion are the seeds of crime. Think how at Aulis to the Trivian Maid The hero-kings of Greece their homage paid, The flower of men, whose impious piety Iphianassa on the altar laid. Behold the bride! upon her head the crown Of ritual, that from either cheek let down An equal streamer. But cold rapture hers As on her father's face she marked the frown: A frown of anguish: at his side the men Of doom, and in their hands, screened from her ken, Death; and her countrymen shed tears to see The lamb, poor victim, in the lions' den. Then dumb with fear, not tongue-tied with delight, She drooped to earth. What profited it her plight She was her father's first-born? Not the less They took her. Death, not Love, ordained the rite. His were the bridesmen, and the altar his To which with quaking limbs in fearfulness Uplifted then, sans song, sans ritual due, She was brought home—but not to wedded bliss, A maid, but marred not married, in the spring Of life and love's sweet prime, to yield the king A victim, and the fleet fair voyaging: Such wrongs Religion in her train doth bring.

SWEET, when the great sea's water is stirred to his depths by the storm-winds, Standing ashore to descry one afar-off mightily struggling: Not that a neighbour's sorrow to you yields dulcet enjoyment: But that the sight hath a sweetness, of ills ourselves are exempt from. Sweet too 'tis to behold, on a broad plain mustering, war hosts Arm them for some great battle, one's self unscathed by the danger:— Yet still happier this: to possess, impregnably guarded, Those calm heights of the sages, which have for an origin Wisdom: Thence to survey our fellows, observe them this way and that way Wander amidst Life's path, poor stragglers seeking a highway: Watch mind battle with mind, and escutcheon rival escutcheon: Gaze on that untold strife, which is waged 'neath the sun and the starlight, Up as they toil on the surface whereon rest Riches and Empire. O race born unto trouble! O minds all lacking of eye-sight! 'Neath what a vital darkness, amidst how terrible dangers Move ye thro' this thing Life, this fragment! Fools that ye hear not Nature clamour aloud for the one thing only: that, all pain Parted and passed from the body, the mind too bask in a blissful Dream, all fear of the future and all anxiety over! Now as regards man's body, a few things only are needful, (Few, tho' we sum up all), to remove all misery from him, Aye, and to strew in his path such a lib'ral carpet of pleasures That scarce Nature herself would at times ask happiness greater. Statues of youth and of beauty may not gleam golden around him, (Each in his right hand bearing a great lamp lustrously burning, Whence to the midnight revel a light may be furnishëd always), Silver may not shine softly, nor gold blaze bright, in his mansion, Nor to the noise of the tabret his halls gold-cornicëd echo:— Yet still he, with his fellow, reposed on the velvety greensward, Near to a rippling stream, by a tall tree canopied over, Shall, though they lack great riches, enjoy all bodily pleasure: Chiefliest then when above them a fair sky smiles, and the young year Flings with a bounteous hand over each green meadow the wild-flowers:— Not more quickly depart from his bosom fiery fevers, Who beneath crimson hangings and pictures cunningly broidered Tosses about, than from him who must lie in beggarly raiment. Therefore, since to the body avail not riches, avails not Heraldry's utmost boast, nor the pomp and pride of an empire; Next shall you own that the mind needs likewise nothing of these things; Unless—when, peradventure, your armies over the champaign Spread with a stir and a ferment and bid War's image awaken, Or when with stir and with ferment a fleet sails forth upon ocean— Cowed before these brave sights, pale Superstition abandon Straightway your mind as you gaze, Death seem no longer alarming, Trouble vacate your bosom and Peace hold holiday in you. But if (again) all this be a vain impossible fiction, If of a truth men's fears and the cares which hourly beset them Heed not the javelin's fury, regard not clashing of broad-swords, But all boldly amongst crowned heads and the rulers of empires Stalk, not shrinking abashed from the dazzling glare of the red gold, Not from the pomp of the monarch who walks forth purple-apparelled: These things shew that at times we are bankrupt, surely, of reason: Think too that all man's life through a great Dark laboureth onward. For as a young boy trembles and in that mystery, Darkness, Sees all terrible things: so do we too, ev'n in the daylight, Ofttimes shudder at that which is not more really alarming Than boys' fears when they waken and say some danger is o'er them. So this panic of mind, these clouds which gather around us, Fly not the bright sunbeam, nor the ivory shafts of the daylight: Nature, rightly revealed, and the Reason only, dispel them.

OUT of the night, out of the blinding night Thy beacon flashes;—hail, beloved light Of Greece and Grecian; hail, for in the mirk Thou dost reveal each valley and each height. Thou art my leader and the footprints thine, Wherein I plant my own. Thro' storm and shine Thy love upholds me. Ne'er was rivalry 'Twixt owl and thrush, 'twixt steeds and shambling kine. The world was thine to read, and having read, Before thy children's eyes thou didst outspread The fruitful page of knowledge, all the wealth Of wisdom, all her plenty for their bread. As honey-bees thro' flowery glades in June Rifle the blossoms, so at our high-noon Of life we gather in melodious glades The golden honey of thy deathless rune. And whoso roams benighted, on his ear, Out of the darkness strikes an echo clear Of thy triumphant challenge:—'Ye who quail, Come unto me, for I have cast out fear.' Thereat the walls o' the world fade far away And thou, great Nature's seër, dost display The miracle of her workings in the void:— The night is past and reason dawns with day. Heaven lies about us and we see the hall, Where never storm-fiend raves nor snow-flakes fall In webs of winter whiteness to ensnare The golden summer. Peace is over all; A canopy of cloudless sky, a glow Of laughing sunshine; all the flowers that blow Are there, and there from Nature's teeming breast Rivers of strength and sweetness ever flow. The veil of Acheron is rent in twain; His phantom precincts vanish. Ne'er again Can Earth conceal the secret:—it is ours; And all that once was hidden is made plain. Hail, mighty Master, hail! The world was thine, For thou hadst read her riddle line by line, Scroll upon scroll; and now ... oh, ecstasy Of awe and rapture,... thou hast made her mine.

AS for the Dog, the Furies and their Snakes, The gloomy Caverns and the burning Lakes, And all the vain infernal trumpery, They neither are, nor were, nor e'er can be. But here on earth the guilty have in view The mighty pains to mighty mischiefs due, Racks, prisons, poisons, the Tarpeian Rock, Stripes, hangmen, pitch and suffocating smoke, And, last and most, if these were cast behind, The avenging horror of a conscious mind, Whose deadly fear anticipates the blow, And sees no end of punishment and woe, But looks for more at the last gasp of breath. This makes a hell on earth, and life a death. Meantime, when thoughts of death disturb thy head, Consider: Ancus great and good is dead; Ancus, thy better far, was born to die, And thou, dost thou bewail mortality? So many monarchs, with their mighty state Who ruled the world, were over-ruled by Fate. That haughty King who lorded o'er the main, And whose stupendous bridge did the wild waves restrain— In vain they foamed, in vain they threatened wrack, While his proud legions marched upon their back,— Him Death, a greater monarch, overcame, Nor spared his guards the more for their Immortal name. The Roman chief, the Carthaginian's dread, Scipio, the Thunder Bolt of War, is dead, And like a common slave by Fate in triumph led. The founders of invented arts are lost, And wits who made eternity their boast. Where now is Homer, who possessed the throne? The immortal work remains, the mortal author's gone.

DIANA guardeth our estate, Girls and boys immaculate; Boys and maidens pure of stain, Be Diana our refrain. O Latonia, pledge of love Glorious to most glorious Jove, Near the Delian olive-tree Latona gave thy life to thee, That thou should'st be for ever queen Of mountains and of forests green; Of every deep glen's mystery; Of all streams and their melody. Women in travail ask their peace From thee, our Lady of Release: Thou art the Watcher of the Ways: Thou art the Moon with borrowed rays: And, as thy full or waning tide Marks how the monthly seasons glide, Thou, Goddess, sendest wealth of store To bless the farmer's thrifty floor. Whatever name delights thine ear, By that name be thou hallowed here; And, as of old, be good to us, The lineage of Romulus.

GEM of all isthmuses and isles that lie, Fresh or salt water's children, in clear lake Or ampler ocean: with what joy do I Approach thee, Sirmio! Oh! am I awake, Or dream that once again my eye beholds Thee, and has looked its last on Thynian wolds? Sweetest of sweets to me that pastime seems, When the mind drops her burden: when—the pain Of travel past—our own cot we regain, And nestle on the pillow of our dreams! 'Tis this one thought that cheers us as we roam. Hail, O fair Sirmio! Joy, thy lord is here! Joy too, ye waters of the Garda Mere! And ring out, all ye laughter-peals of home.

'MY little life, my all,' said she, 'So may we ever servants be To this best god, and ne'er retain Our hated liberty again: So may thy passion last for me As I a passion have for thee Greater and fiercer much than can Be conceived by thee a man. Into my marrow is it gone, Fixt and settled in the bone, It reigns not only in my heart But runs like fire through every part.' She spoke: the god of Love aloud Sneezed again, and all the crowd Of little Loves that waited by Bowed and blest the augury.

WEEP, weep, ye Loves and Cupids all, And ilka Man o' decent feelin': My lassie's lost her wee, wee bird, And that's a loss, ye'll ken, past healin'. The lassie lo'ed him like her een: The darling wee thing lo'ed the ither, And knew and nestled to her breast, As ony bairnie to her mither. Her bosom was his dear, dear haunt— So dear, he cared na lang to leave it; He'd nae but gang his ain sma' jaunt, And flutter piping back bereavit. The wee thing's gane the shadowy road That's never travelled back by ony: Out on ye, Shades! ye're greedy aye To grab at aught that's brave and bonny. Puir, foolish, fondling, bonnie bird, Ye little ken what wark ye're leavin': Ye've gar'd my lassie's een grow red, Those bonnie een grow red wi' grievin'.

WEEP each heavenly Venus, all the Cupids, Weep all men that have any grace about ye. Dead the sparrow, in whom my love delighted, The dear sparrow, in whom my love delighted. Yea, most precious, above her eyes, she held him, Sweet, all honey: a bird that ever hail'd her Lady mistress, as hails the maid a mother; Nor would move from her arms away: but only Hopping round her, about her, hence or hither, Piped his colloquy, piped to none beside her. Now he wendeth along the mirky pathway, Whence, they tell us, is hopeless all returning. Evil on ye, the shades of evil Orcus, Shades all beauteous happy things devouring, Such a beauteous happy bird ye took him. Ah! for pity; but ah! for him the sparrow, Our poor sparrow, on whom to think my lady's Eyes do angrily redden all a-weeping.

LESBIA, live to love and pleasure, Careless what the grave may say: When each moment is a treasure Why should lovers lose a day? Setting suns shall rise in glory, But when little life is o'er, There's an end of all the story— We shall sleep, and wake no more. Give me, then, a thousand kisses, Twice ten thousand more bestow, Till the sum of boundless blisses Neither we nor envy know.

THOUGH sour-loquacious Age reprove, Let us, my Lesbia, live for love. For when the short-lived suns decline They but retire more bright to shine: But we, when fleeting life is o'er And light and love can bless no more, Are ravished from each dear delight To sleep one long eternal night.

KISS me, sweet: the wary lover Can your favours keep, and cover, When the common courting jay All your bounties will betray. Kiss again! no creature comes; Kiss, and score up wealthy sums On my lips, thus hardly sundered, While you breathe. First give a hundred, Then a thousand, then another Hundred, then unto the tother Add a thousand and so more, Till you equal with the store All the grass that Rumney yields, Or the sands in Chelsea fields, Or the drops in silver Thames, Or the stars that gild his streams In the silent summer nights When Youth plies its stolen delights: That the curious may not know How to tell 'em as they flow, And the envious, when they find What their number is, be pined.

CATULLUS, let the wanton go: No longer play the fool, but deem For ever lost what thou must know Is fled for ever like a dream! O life was once a heaven to thee! To haunt her steps was rapture then— That woman loved as loved shall be No woman ever on earth again. Then didst thou freely taste the bliss, On which empassioned lovers feed: When she repaid thee kiss for kiss, O, life was then a heaven indeed! 'Tis past: forget as she forgets: Lament no more, but let her go: Tear from thy heart its mad regrets, And into very marble grow! Girl, fare thee well. Catullus ne'er Will sue where love is met with scorn: But, false one, thou with none to care For thee, shalt pine through days forlorn. Think, think, how drear thy life will be! Who'll woo thee now? who praise thy charms? Who now will be all in all to thee And live but in thy loving arms? Ay, who will give thee kiss for kiss, Whose lip wilt thou in rapture bite? But thou, Catullus, think of this And spurn her in thine own despite.

IS there a pious pleasure that proceeds From contemplation of our virtuous deeds? That all mean sordid action we despise, And scorn to gain a throne by cheats and lies? Thyrsis, thou hast sure blessings laid in store From thy just dealing in this curst amour. What honour can in words or deeds be shown Which to the fair thou hast not said and done? On her false heart they all are thrown away: She only swears more easily to betray. Ye powers that know the many vows she broke, Free my just soul from this unequal yoke. My love boils up, and like a raging flood Runs through my veins and taints my vital blood. I do not vainly beg she may grow chaste, Or with an equal passion burn at last— The one she cannot practise, though she would, And I contemn the other, though she should—: Nor ask I vengeance on the perjured jilt; 'Tis punishment enough to have her guilt. I beg but balsam for my bleeding breast, Cure for my wounds and from my labours rest.

IF any joy awaits the man Of generous hand and conscience clean, Who ne'er has leagued with powers unseen To wrong the partner of his plan; Rich store of memories thou hast won From this thy seeming-fruitless love, Who all that man may do to prove His faith by word or deed hast done, And all in vain. Her thankless heart Is hardened. Harden then thine own. Writhe not but part, as stone from stone, And willy-nilly heal the smart. 'Tis hard, ay, hard to fling aside A love long cherished. Yet you must. Be strong, prevail, and from the dust A conqueror rise, whate'er betide. Ye gods, who of your mercy give Force to the fainting, let my life Of honour win me rest from strife, And from my blood the canker drive; Ere yet from limb to limb it steal, And in black darkness plunge my soul, Oh, drive it hence and make me whole; A caitiff wounds, a god may heal. No more for answering love I sue, No more that her untruth be true: Purge but my heart, my strength renew And doom me not my faith to rue.

OVER the mighty world's highway, City by city, sea by sea, Brother, thy brother comes to pay Pitiful offerings unto thee. I only ask to grace thy bier With gifts that only give farewell, To tell to ears that cannot hear The things that it is vain to tell, And, idly communing with dust, To know thy presence still denied, And ever mourn forever lost A soul that never should have died. Yet think not wholly vain to-day This fashion that our fathers gave That hither brings me, here to lay Some gift of sorrow on thy grave. Take, brother, gifts a brother's tears Bedewed with sorrow as they fell, And 'Greeting' to the end of years, And to the end of years 'Farewell'.

FRIEND, if the mute and shrouded dead Are touched at all by tears, By love long fled and friendship sped And the unreturning years, O then, to her that early died, O doubt not, bridegroom, to thy bride Thy love is sweet and sweeteneth The very bitterness of death.

SICK, Cornificius, is thy friend, Sick to the heart: and sees no end Of wretched thoughts that gathering fast Threaten to wear him out at last. And yet you never come and bring, Though 'twere the least and easiest thing, A comfort in that talk of thine. You vex me. This to love of mine? Prithee a little talk, for ease, Full as the tears of sad Simonides!

AVAUNT, ye vain bombastic crew, Crickets that swill no Attic dew: Good-bye, grammarians crass and narrow, Selius, Tarquitius, and Varro: A pedant tribe of fat-brained fools, The tinkling cymbals of the schools! Sextus, my friend of friends, good-bye, With all our pretty company! I'm sailing for the blissful shore, Great Siro's high recondite lore, That haven where my life shall be From every tyrant passion free. You too, sweet Muses mine, farewell, Sweet muses mine, for truth to tell Sweet were ye once, but now begone; And yet, and yet, return anon, And when I write, at whiles be seen In visits shy and far between.

AWAY, haunt thou not me, Thou dull Philosophy! Little hast thou bestead, Save to perplex the head And leave the spirit dead. Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go, While from the secret treasure-depths below, Fed by the skiey shower, And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high, Wisdom at once and Power, Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly? Why labour at the dull mechanic oar, When the fresh breeze is blowing, And the strong current flowing, Right onward to the Eternal Shore?

O HAPPY, if he knew his happy state, The swain, who, free from bus'ness and debate, Receives his easy food from Nature's hand, And just returns of cultivated land! No palace, with a lofty gate, he wants, T' admit the tides of early visitants, With eager eyes devouring, as they pass, The breathing figures of Corinthian brass; No statues threaten, from high pedestals; No Persian arras hides his homely walls, With antic vests, which, through their shady fold, Betray the streaks of ill-dissembled gold: He boasts no wool, whose native white is dy'd With purple poison of Assyrian pride: No costly drugs of Araby defile, With foreign scents, the sweetness of his oil: But easy quiet, a secure retreat, A harmless life that knows not how to cheat, With home-bred plenty, the rich owner bless; And rural pleasures crown his happiness. Unvex'd with quarrels, undisturb'd with noise, The country king his peaceful realm enjoys— Cool grots, and living lakes, the flow'ry pride Of meads, and streams that through the valley glide, And shady groves that easy sleep invite, And, after toilsome days, a sweet repose at night. Wild beasts of nature in his woods abound; And youth of labour patient, plough the ground, Inur'd to hardship, and to homely fare. Nor venerable age is wanting there, In great examples to the youthful train; Nor are the gods ador'd with rites profane. From hence Astraea took her flight, and here The prints of her departing steps appear. Ye sacred muses! with whose beauty fir'd, My soul is ravish'd, and my brain inspir'd— Whose priest I am, whose holy fillets wear— Would you your poet's first petition hear; Give me the ways of wand'ring stars to know, The depths of heav'n above, and earth below: Teach me the various labours of the moon, And whence proceed th' eclipses of the sun; Why flowing tides prevail upon the main, And in what dark recess they shrink again; What shakes the solid earth; what cause delays The summer nights, and shortens winter days. But if my heavy blood restrain the flight Of my free soul, aspiring to the height Of nature, and unclouded fields of light— My next desire is, void of care and strife, To lead a soft, secure, inglorious life— A country cottage near a crystal flood, A winding valley, and a lofty wood. Some god conduct me to the sacred shades, Where Bacchanals are sung by Spartan maids, Or lift me high to Haemus' hilly crown, Or in the plains of Tempe lay me down, Or lead me to some solitary place, And cover my retreat from human race. Happy the man, who, studying Nature's laws, Through known effects can trace the secret cause— His mind possessing in a quiet state, Fearless of Fortune, and resign'd to Fate! And happy too is he, who decks the bow'rs Of sylvans, and adores the rural pow'rs— Whose mind, unmov'd, the bribes of courts can see, Their glitt'ring baits, and purple slavery— Nor hopes the people's praise, nor fears their frown, Nor, when contending kindred tear the crown, Will set up one, or pull another down. Without concern he hears, but hears from far, Of tumults, and descents, and distant war; Nor with a superstitious fear is aw'd, For what befalls at home or what abroad. Nor envies he the rich their happy store, Nor his own peace disturbs with pity for the poor. He feeds on fruits, which of their own accord, The willing ground and laden trees afford. From his lov'd home no lucre him can draw; The senate's mad decrees he never saw: Nor heard, at bawling bars, corrupted law. Some to the seas, and some to camps, resort; And some with impudence invade the court: In foreign countries, others seek renown; With wars and taxes, others waste their own, And houses burn, and household gods deface, To drink in bowls which glitt'ring gems enchase, To loll on couches, rich with citron steds, And lay their guilty limbs on Tyrian beds. This wretch in earth entombs his golden ore, Hov'ring and brooding on his buried store. Some patriot fools to pop'lar praise aspire Of public speeches, which worse fools admire, While, from both benches, with redoubled sounds, Th' applause of lords and commoners abounds. Some, through ambition, or through thirst of gold, Have slain their brothers, or their country sold, And, leaving their sweet homes, in exile run To lands that lie beneath another sun. The peasant, innocent of all these ills, With crooked ploughs the fertile fallows tills, And the round year with daily labour fills: And hence the country markets are supplied: Enough remains for household charge beside, His wife and tender children to sustain, And gratefully to feed his dumb deserving train. Nor cease his labours till the yellow field A full return of bearded harvest yield— A crop so plenteous, as the land to load, O'ercome the crowded barns, and lodge on ricks abroad. Thus ev'ry sev'ral season is employ'd, Some spent in toil, and some in ease enjoy'd. The yeaning ewes prevent the springing year: The laden boughs their fruits in autumn bear: 'Tis then the vine her liquid harvest yields, Bak'd in the sunshine of ascending fields, The winter comes; and then the falling mast For greedy swine provides a full repast: Then olives, ground in mills, their fatness boast, And winter fruits are mellow'd by the frost. His cares are eas'd with intervals of bliss; His little children, climbing for a kiss, Welcome their father's late return at night; His faithful bed is crown'd with chaste delight. His kine with swelling udders ready stand, And, lowing for the pail, invite the milker's hand. His wanton kids, with budding horns prepar'd, Fight harmless battles in his homely yard: Himself in rustic pomp, on holy-days, To rural pow'rs a just oblation pays, And on the green his careless limbs displays. The hearth is in the midst: the herdsmen, round The cheerful fire, provoke his health in goblets crown'd. He calls on Bacchus, and propounds the prize: The groom his fellow-groom at butts defies, And bends, and levels with his eyes, Or stript for wrestling, smears his limbs with oil, And watches, with a trip, his foe to foil. Such was the life the frugal Sabines led: So Remus and his brother-god were bred, From whom th' austere Etrurian virtue rose; And this rude life our homely fathers chose. Old Rome from such a race deriv'd her birth (The seat of empire, and the conquer'd earth), Which now on sev'n high hills triumphant reigns, And in that compass all the world contains. Ere Saturn's rebel son usurp'd the skies, When beasts were only slain for sacrifice, While peaceful Crete enjoy'd her ancient lord, Ere sounding hammers forg'd th' inhuman sword, Ere hollow drums were beat, before the breath Of brazen trumpets rung the peals of death, The good old god his hunger did assuage, With roots and herbs, and gave the golden age.

HAPPY the man, I grant, thrice happy he Who can through gross effects their causes see: Whose courage from the deeps of knowledge springs, Nor vainly fears inevitable things, But does his walk of virtue calmly go, Through all the allarms of death and hell below. Happy, but next such conquerors, happy they Whose humble life lies not in fortune's way. They unconcerned from their safe-distant seat Behold the rods and sceptres of the great. The quarrels of the mighty without fear And the descent of foreign troops they hear. Nor can ev'n Rome their steddy course misguide With all the lustre of her perishing pride. Them never yet did strife or avarice draw Into the noisy markets of the law, The camps of gownëd war, nor do they live By rules or forms that many mad men give. Duty for Nature's bounty they repay, And her sole laws religiously obey.

THEN from the deepest deeps of Erebus, Wrung by his minstrelsy, the hollow shades Came trooping, ghostly semblances of forms Lost to the light, as birds by myriads hie To greenwood boughs for cover, when twilight-hour Or storms of winter chase them from the hills; Matrons and men, and great heroic frames Done with life's service, boys, unwedded girls, Youths placed on pyre before their fathers' eyes. Round them, with black slime choked and hideous weed, Cocytus winds; there lies the unlovely swamp Of dull dead water, and to pen them fast, Styx with her ninefold barrier poured between. Nay, even the deep Tartarean Halls of death Stood lost in wonderment, the Eumenides, Their brows with livid locks of serpents twined, E'en Cerberus held his triple jaws agape, And, the wind hushed, Ixion's wheel stood still. And now with homeward footstep he had passed All perils scathless, and, at length restored, Eurydice, to realms of upper air Had well-nigh won behind him following— So Proserpine had ruled it—when his heart A sudden mad desire surprised and seized— Meet fault to be forgiven, might Hell forgive. For at the very threshold of the day, Heedless, alas! and vanquished of resolve, He stopped, turned, looked upon Eurydice— His own once more. But even with the look, Poured out was all his labour, broken the bond Of that fell tyrant, and a crash was heard Three times like thunder in the meres of hell. 'Orpheus! what ruin hath thy frenzy wrought On me, alas! and thee? Lo! once again The unpitying fates recall me, and dark sleep Closes my swimming eyes. And now, farewell: Girt with enormous night I am borne away, Outstretching toward thee, thine, alas! no more, These helpless hands.' She spoke, and suddenly, Like smoke dissolving into empty air, Passed and was sundered from his sight; nor him, Clutching vain shadows, yearning sore to speak, Thenceforth beheld she, nor no second time Hell's boatman lists he pass the watery bar.

ONCE a slender silvan reed Answered all my shepherd's need; Once to farmer lads I told All the lore of field and fold: Well they liked me, for the soil Beyond their dreams repaid their toil. Ah! who am I, 'mid war's alarms, To 'sing the hero and his arms'?

THINK not those strains can e'er expire, Which, cradled 'mid the echoing roar Of Aufidus, to Latium's lyre I sing with arts unknown before. Though Homer fill the foremost throne, Yet grave Stesichorus still can please, And fierce Alcaeus holds his own With Pindar and Simonides. The songs of Teos are not mute, And Sappho's love is breathing still: She told her secret to the lute, And still its chords with passion thrill. Not Sparta's queen alone was fired By broidered robe and braided tress, And all the splendours that attired Her lover's guilty loveliness: Not only Teucer to the field His arrows brought, not Ilion Beneath a single conqueror reeled: Not Crete's majestic lord alone, Or Sthenelus, earned the Muses' crown: Not Hector first for child and wife, Or brave Deiphobus, laid down The burden of a manly life. Before Atrides men were brave, But ah! oblivion dark and long Has locked them in a tearless grave, For lack of consecrating song. 'Twixt worth and baseness, lapp'd in death, What difference? You shall ne'er be dumb, While strains of mine have voice and breath: The dull neglect of days to come Those hard-won honours shall not blight: No, Lollius, no: a soul is yours Clear-sighted, keen, alike upright When Fortune smiles and when she lowers: To greed and rapine still severe, Spurning the gain men find so sweet: A consul not of one brief year, But oft as on the judgement-seat You bend the expedient to the right, Turn haughty eyes from bribes array, Or bear your banners through the fight, Scattering the foeman's firm array. The lord of countless revenues Salute not him as happy: no, Call him the happy who can use The bounty that the gods bestow, Can bear the load of poverty, And tremble not at death, but sin: No recreant he when called to die In cause of country or of kin.

LEST you should think that verse shall die, Which sounds the silver Thames along, Taught on the wings of Truth to fly Above the reach of vulgar song; Though daring Milton sits sublime, In Spenser native Muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time, Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay— Sages and chiefs long since had birth Ere Caesar was, or Newton, named; Those raised new empires o'er the earth, And these new heavens and systems framed. Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride! They had no poet, and they died. In vain they schemed, in vain they bled! They had no poet, and are dead.

ANGEL of Love, high-thronëd in Cnidos, Regent of Paphos, no more repine: Leave thy loved Cyprus; too long denied us Visit our soberly censëd shrine. Haste, and thine Imp, the fiery-hearted, Follow, and Hermes; and with thee haste The Nymphs and Graces with robe disparted, And, save thou chasten him, Youth too chaste.

WHAT slender youth bedewed with liquid odours Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, Pyrrha, for whom bindst thou In wreaths thy golden hair, Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he On faith and changed gods complain: and seas Rough with black winds and storms Unwonted shall admire: Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold, Who always vacant, always amiable Hopes thee, of flattering gales Unmindful. Hapless they To whom thou untried seem'st fair. Me in my vowed Picture the sacred wall declares to have hung My dank and dripping weeds To the stern God of Sea.

WITH whom spend'st thou thy evening hours Amid the sweets of breathing flowers? For whom retired to secret shade, Soft on thy panting bosom laid, Set'st thou thy looks with nicest care, O neatly plain? How oft shall he Bewail thy false inconstancy! Condemned perpetual frowns to prove, How often weep thy altered love, Who thee, too credulous, hopes to find, As now, still golden and still kind!

Hor. WHILE, Lydia, I was lov'd of thee, Nor any was preferr'd 'fore me To hug thy whitest neck: than I, The Persian King liv'd not more happily. Lyd. While thou no other didst affect, Nor Cloe was of more respect; Then Lydia, far-fam'd Lydia, I flourish't more than Roman Ilia. Hor. Now Thracian Cloe governs me, Skilfull i' th' Harpe, and Melodie: For whose affection, Lydia, I (So Fate spares her) am well content to die. Lyd. My heart now set on fire is By Ornithes sonne, young Calais; For whose commutuall flames here I (To save his life) twice am content to die. Hor. Say our first loves we sho'd revoke, And sever'd, joyne in brazen yoke: Admit I Cloe put away, And love again love-cast-off Lydia? Lyd. Though mine be brighter than the Star; Thou lighter than the Cork by far; Rough as th' Adratick sea, yet I Will live with thee, or else for thee will die.

Hor. WHILE no more welcome arms could twine Around thy snowy neck than mine, Thy smile, thy heart while I possessed, Not Persia's monarch lived as blessed. Lyd. While thou didst feed no rival flame, Nor Lydia after Chloe came, Oh then thy Lydia's echoing name Excelled ev'n Ilia's Roman fame. Hor. Me now Threician Chloe sways, Skilled in soft lyre and softer lays; My forfeit life I'll freely give So she, my better life, may live. Lyd. The son of Ornytus inspires My burning breast with mutual fires; I'll face two several deaths with joy So Fate but spare my Thracian boy. Hor. What if our ancient love awoke, And bound us with its golden yoke? If auburn Chloe I resign And Lydia once again be mine? Lyd. Though fairer than the stars is he, Thou rougher than the Adrian sea And fickle as light cork, yet I With thee would live, with thee would die.

'SO when I am weary of wandering all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come; No matter what beauties I saw in my way, They were but my visits, but thou art my home. Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war, And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her As he was a poet sublimer than me.'

O CRUEL, still and vain of beauty's charms, When wintry age thy insolence disarms,[10] When fall those locks that on thy shoulders play, And youth's gay roses on thy cheeks decay, When that smooth face shall manhood's roughness wear, And in your glass another form appear, Ah, why, you'll say, do I now vainly burn, Or with my wishes not my youth return?

DESCENDED of an ancient line, That long the Tuscan sceptre swayed, Make haste to meet the generous wine Whose piercing is for thee delayed. The rosie wreath is ready made And artful hands prepare The fragrant Syrian oil that shall perfume thy hair When the wine sparkles from afar And the well-natured friend cries 'Come away', Make haste and leave thy business and thy care, No mortal interest can be worth thy stay. Leave for awhile thy costly country seat, And—to be great indeed—forget The nauseous pleasures of the great: Make haste and come, Come, and forsake thy cloying store, Thy turret that surveys from high The smoke and wealth and noise of Rome, And all the busie pageantry That wise men scorn and fools adore: Come, give thy soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the poor. Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try A short vicissitude and fit of Poverty; A savoury dish, a homely treat, Where all is plain, where all is neat, Without the stately spacious room, The Persian carpet or the Tyrian loom Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great. The Sun is in the Lion mounted high, The Syrian star Barks from afar, And with his sultry breath infects the sky; The ground below is parched, the heavens above us fry; The shepherd drives his fainting flock Beneath the covert of a rock And seeks refreshing rivulets nigh. The Sylvans to their shade retire, Those very shades and streams new streams require, And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire. Thou, what befits the new Lord May'r, And what the City Faction dare, And what the Gallique arms will do, And what the quiverbearing foe, Art anxiously inquisitive to know. But God has wisely hid from human sight The dark decrees of future fate, And sown their seeds in depth of night: He laughs at all the giddy turns of state When mortals search too soon and learn too late. Enjoy the present smiling hour, And put it out of Fortune's power. The tide of business, like the running stream, Is sometimes high and sometimes low, A quiet ebb or a tempestuous flow, And always in extreme. Now with a noiseless gentle course It keeps within the middle bed, Anon it lifts aloft its head And bears down all before it with tempestuous force; And trunks of trees come rolling down, Sheep and their folds together drown, Both house and homestead into seas are borne, And rocks are from their old foundations torn, And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered honours mourn. Happy the man—and happy he alone,— He who can call to-day his own, He who, secure within, can say 'To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day: Be fair or foul or rain or shine, The joys I have possessed in spite of Fate are mine, Not Heaven itself upon the Past has power, But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.' Fortune, that with malicious joy Does Man, her slave, oppress, Proud of her office to destroy, Is seldom pleased to bless; Still various and unconstant still, But with an inclination to be ill, Promotes, degrades, delights in strife And makes a lottery of life. I can enjoy her while she's kind, But when she dances in the wind, And shakes the wings and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away. The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned: Content with poverty my soul I arm, And Vertue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm. What is't to me, Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, If storms arise and clouds grow black, If the mast split and threaten wrack? Then let the greedy merchant fear For his ill-gotten gain, And pray to gods that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main. For me, secure from Fortune's blows, Secure of what I cannot lose, In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar: And running with a merry gale With friendly stars my safety seek Within some little winding creek, And see the storm ashore.

O PRECIOUS Crock, whose summers date, Like mine, from Manlius' consulate, I wot not whether in your breast Lie maudlin wit or merry jest, Or sudden choler, or the fire Of tipsy Love's insane desire, Or fumes of soft caressing sleep, Or what more potent charms you keep; But this I know, your ripened power Befits some choicely festive hour! A cup peculiarly mellow Corvinus asks: so come, old fellow, From your time-honoured bin descend, And let me gratify my friend! No churl is he your charms to slight, Though most intensely erudite: And ev'n old Cato's worth, we know, Took from good wine a nobler glow. Your magic power of wit can spread The halo round a dullard's head, Can make the sage forget his care, His bosom's inmost thoughts unbare, And drown his solemn-faced pretence Beneath your blithesome influence. Bright hope you bring and vigour back To minds outworn upon the rack, And put such courage in the brain As makes the poor be men again, Whom neither tyrants' wrath affrights Nor all their bristling satellites. Bacchus, and Venus, so that she Bring only frank festivity, With sister Graces in her train, Twining close in lovely chain, And gladsome taper's living light, Shall spread your treasures o'er the night, Till Phoebus the red East unbars, And puts to rout the trembling stars.

NO wrath of Men, or rage of Seas, Can shake a just man's purposes: No threats of Tyrants, or the Grim Visage of them can alter him; But what he doth at first entend That he holds firmly to the end.

THE man of firm and noble soul No factious clamours can control: No threatening tyrant's darkling brow Can swerve him from his just intent; Gales the warring waves which plough, By Auster on the billows spent, To curb the Adriatic main Would awe his fixed determined mind in vain. Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, Hurtling his lightnings from above, With all his terrors there unfurled, He would unmoved, unawed behold. The flames of an expiring world, Again in crushing chaos rolled, In vast promiscuous ruin hurled, Might light his glorious funeral pile, Still dauntless 'mid the wreck of earth he'd smile.

BANDUSIA, stainless mirror of the sky! Thine is the flower-crowned bowl, for thee shall die When dawns yon sun, the kid Whose horns, half-seen, half-hid, Challenge to dalliance or to strife—in vain. Soon must the firstling of the wild herd be slain, And these cold springs of thine With blood incarnadine. Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beam Toucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool stream To labour-wearied ox, Or wanderer from the flocks: And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain: My harp shall tell how from thy cavernous mountain, Where the brown oak grows tallest, All babblingly thou fallest.

LET me tell of Lydè of wedding-law slighted, Penance of maidens and bootless task, Wasting of water down leaky cask, Crime in the prison-pit slowly requited. Miscreant brides! for their grooms they slew. One out of many is not attainted, One alone blest and for ever sainted, False to her father, to wedlock true. Praise her! she gave her young husband the warning. Praise her for ever! She cried, 'Arise! Flee from the slumber that deadens the eyes; Flee from the night that hath never a morning. Baffle your host who contrived our espousing, Baffle my sisters, the forty and nine, Raging like lions that mangle the kine, Each on the blood of a quarry carousing. I am more gentle, I strike not thee, I will not hold thee in dungeon tower. Though the king chain me, I will not cower, Though my sire banish me over the sea. Freely run, freely sail, good luck attend thee; Go with the favour of Venus and Night. On thy tomb somewhere and some day bid write Record of her who hath dared to befriend thee.'

UNSHAMED, unchecked, for one so dear We sorrow. Lead the mournful choir, Melpomene, to whom thy sire Gave harp and song-notes liquid-clear! Sleeps he the sleep that knows no morn? O Honour, O twin-born with Right, Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light, When shall again his like be born? Many a kind heart for him makes moan; Thine, Vergil, first. But ah! in vain Thy love bids heaven restore again That which it took not as a loan. Were sweeter lute than Orpheus' given To thee, did trees thy voice obey; The blood revisits not the clay Which he, with lifted wand, hath driven Into his dark assemblage, who Unlocks not fate to mortal's prayer. Hard lot. Yet light their griefs, who bear The ills which they may not undo.

THE snow, dissolv'd, no more is seen, The fields and woods, behold, are green; The changing year renews the plain, The rivers know their banks again; The sprightly Nymph and naked Grace The mazy dance together trace; The changing year's successive plan Proclaims mortality to Man. Rough winter's blasts to spring give way, Spring yields to summer's sovran ray; Then summer sinks in autumn's reign, And winter holds the world again. Her losses soon the moon supplies, But wretched Man, when once he lies Where Priam and his sons are laid, Is naught but ashes and a shade. Who knows if Jove, who counts our score, Will toss us in a morning more? What with your friend you nobly share At least you rescue from your heir. Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome, When Minos once has fixed your doom, Or eloquence or splendid birth Or virtue shall restore to earth. Hippolytus, unjustly slain, Diana calls to life in vain, Nor can the might of Theseus rend The chains of hell that hold his friend.

NOW have I made my monument: and now Nor brass shall longer live, nor loftier raise The royallest pyramid its superb brow. Nor ruin of rain or wind shall mar its praise, Nor tooth of Time, nor pitiless pageantry O' the flying years. In death I shall not die Wholly, nor Death's dark Angel all I am Make his; but ever flowerlike my fame Shall flourish in the foldings of the Mount Capitoline, where the Priests go up, and mute The maiden Priestesses. From mean account Lifted to mighty, where the resolute Waters ot Aufidus reverberant ring O'er fields where Daunus once held rustic state, Of barren acres simple-minded king,— There was I born, and first of men did mate To lyre of Latium Aeolic lay. Clothe thee in glory, Muse, and grandly wear Thy hardly-gotten greatness, and my hair Circle, Melpomene, with Delphian bay.

HE who sublime in epic numbers rolled, And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's unequal hand alike controlled, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

HAD he not hands of rare device, whoe'er First painted Love in figure of a boy? He saw what thoughtless beings lovers were, Who blessings lose, whilst lightest cares employ. Nor added he those airy wings in vain, And bade through human hearts the godhead fly; For we are tost upon a wavering main; Our gale, inconstant, veers around the sky. Nor, without cause, he grasps those barbed darts, The Cretan quiver o'er his shoulder cast; Ere we suspect a foe, he strikes our hearts; And those inflicted wounds for ever last. In me are fix'd those arrows, in my breast; But sure his wings are shorn, the boy remains; For never takes he flight, nor knows he rest; Still, still I feel him warring through my veins. In these scorch'd vitals dost thou joy to dwell? Oh shame! to others let thy arrows flee; Let veins untouch'd with all thy venom swell; Not me thou torturest, but the shade of me. Destroy me—who shall then describe the fair? This my light Muse to thee high glory brings: When the nymph's tapering fingers, flowing hair, And eyes of jet, and gliding feet she sings.

NO longer, Paullus, vex with tears my tomb: There is no prayer can open the black gate. When once the dead have passed beneath the doom, Barred is the adamant and vows too late. E'en though the lord of hell should list thy prayer, Thy tears shall idly soak the sullen shores: Vows may move heaven; when Charon holds his fee, The grass-grown pile stands closed by lurid doors. So the sad trumpets told their funeral tale While from the bier the torch dislodged my frame; What did my husband, what my sires avail, Or all these numerous pledges of my fame? Did I, Cornelia, find the fates less harsh? Five fingers now can lift my weight complete. Accursed nights, and stagnant Stygian marsh, And every sluggish wave that clogs my feet, Early yet guiltless came I to this bourne; So let the sire deal gently with my shade If Aeacus sit judge with ordered urn, By kin upon my bones be judgement made: There let his brothers sit, the Furies fill By Minos' seat the Court, an audience grave. Let Sisyphus rest, Ixion's wheel be still, And Tantalus once grasp the fleeting wave; To-day let surly Cerberus hunt no shade, By the mute bar loose let his fetters lie. I plead my cause: if guilty, be there laid On me that urn, the sisters' penalty. If any may boast trophies of old days, Still Libya tells my sires the Scipios' name; My mother's line their Libo peers displays, And each great house stands propp'd by scrolls of fame. When I doffed maiden garb 'neath torches' glow, And with the nuptial band my locks were tied, 'Twas to thy bed I came, doomed thus to go: Let my stone say I was but once a bride. Those ashes by Rome reverenced I attest, Whose titles tell how Afric's pride was shorn, Perseus that feigned his sire Achilles' breast, And him that brought Achilles' house to scorn; For me the censor's rule ne'er swerved from place, Your hearth need never blush for shame of mine: Cornelia brought such relics no disgrace, Herself a model to her mighty line. I never changed, I lived without a stain Betwixt the marriage and the funeral fire: Nature gave laws drawn from my noble strain, Fear of no judge could higher life inspire. Let any urn pass sentence stern on me: None will be shamed that I should sit beside; Not she, rare maid of tower-crowned Cybele, That hauled the lagging goddess up the tide; Not she for whom, when Vesta claimed her fire, The linen white revealed the coals aglow. What changed in me but fate would'st thou desire, Sweet mother mine? I never wrought thee woe. Her tears, the city's grief, applaud my fame: And Caesar's sobs plead for these bones of mine; His daughter's worthy sister's loss they blame, And we saw tears upon that face divine. And yet I won the matron's robe of state, 'Twas from no barren house that I was torn: Paullus and Lepidus, balm of my fate, Upon your breast my closing eyes were borne. My brother twice I saw in curule place, Consul what time his sister ceased to be. Child, of thy father's censorship the trace, Cleave to one husband only, copy me. Prop the great race in line: my bark of choice Sets sail, my loss so many to restore. Woman's last triumph is when common voice Applauds the pyre of her whose work is o'er. These common pledges to thee I commend: Still burned into my ashes breathes this care. Father, the mother's offices attend: This my whole troop thy shoulders now must bear. When thou shalt kiss their tears, kiss too for me: Henceforth thy load must be the house complete. If thou must weep with them not there to see, When present, with dry cheeks their kisses cheat. Enough those nights thou weariest out for me, Those dreams that often shall my semblance feign; And with my shade in secret colloquy, Speak as to one to answer back again. But should the gate confront another bed, And on my couch a jealous step-dame sit, Laud, boys, and praise the bride your sire has wed; She will be won charmed with your ready wit. Nor praise your mother overmuch; she may Feel contrast and free words to insult turn. But if contented with my shade he stay, And hold my ashes of such high concern; His coming age learn to anticipate, Leave to the widower's cares no path confessed. Be added to your years what mine abate, And in my children Paullus' age be blessed. 'Tis well: for child I ne'er wore mourning weed; But my whole troop came to my obsequies. My plea is done. While grateful earth life's meed Repays, in tears ye witnesses arise. Heaven opes to such deserts; may mine me speed To join my honoured fathers in the skies.

IF mighty gods can mortal sorrows know, And be the humble partners of our woe, Now loose your tresses, pensive Elegy,— Too well your office and your name agree. Tibullus, once the joy and pride of Fame, Lies now—rich fuel—on the trembling flame; Sad Cupid now despairs of conquering hearts, Throws by his empty quiver, breaks his darts, Eases his useless bows from idle strings. Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings— He wants, of which he robbed fond lovers, rest,— And wounds with furious hands his pensive breast. Those graceful curls which wantonly did flow, The whiter rivals of the falling snow, Forget their beauty and in discord lie, Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye. . . . . . . . . In vain to gods (if gods there are) we pray, And needless victims prodigally pay; Worship their sleeping deities, yet Death Scorns votaries and stops the praying breath: To hallowed shrines intending Fate will come, And drag you from the altar to the tomb. Go, frantic poet, with delusions fed, Thick laurels guard your consecrated head— Now the sweet master of your art is dead. What can we hope, since that a narrow span Can measure the remains of thee, Great Man? . . . . . . . . If any poor remains survive the flames Except thin shadows and mere empty names, Free in Elysium shall Tibullus rove, Nor fear a second death should cross his love. There shall Catullus, crowned with bays, impart To his far dearer friend his open heart; There Gallus (if Fame's hundred tongues all lie) Shall, free from censure, no more rashly die. Such shall our poet's blest companions be, And in their deaths, as in their lives, agree. But thou, rich Urn, obey my strict commands, Guard thy great charge from sacrilegious hands; Thou, Earth, Tibullus' ashes gently use, And be as soft and easy as his Muse.

AFTER death nothing is, and nothing death— The utmost limits of a gasp of breath. Let the ambitious zealot lay aside His hope of heaven, whose faith is but his pride; Let slavish souls lay by their fear, Nor be concerned which way, or where, After this life they shall be hurled. Dead, we become the lumber of the world, And to that mass of matter shall be swept Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept. Devouring Time swallows us whole, Impartial Death confounds body and soul. For Hell and the foul Fiend that rules The everlasting fiery goals, Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools, With his grim grisly dog that keeps the door, Are senseless stories, idle tales, Dreams, whimsies and no more.

AND so Death took him. Yet be comforted: Above this sea of sorrow lift thy head. Death—or his shadow—look, is over all; What but an alternating funeral The long procession of the nights and days? The starry heavens fail, the solid earth Fails and its fashion. Why, beholding this, Why with our wail o'er sad mortality Mourn we for men, mere men, that fade and fall? Battle or shipwreck, love or lunacy, Some warp o' the will, some taint o' the blood, some touch Of winter's icy breath, the Dog-star's rage Relentless, or the dank and ghostly mists Of Autumn—any or all of these suffice To die by. In the fee and fear of Fate Lives all that is. We one by one depart Into the silence—one by one. The Judge Shakes the vast urn: the lot leaps forth: we die. But he is happy, and you mourn in vain. He has outsoared the envy of gods and men, False fortune and the dark and treacherous way, —Scatheless: he never lived to pray for death, Nor sinned—to fear her, nor deserved to die. We that survive him, weak and full of woes, Live ever with a fearful eye on Death— The how and when of dying: 'Death' the thunder, 'Death' the wild lightning speaks to us. In vain,— Atedius hearkens not to words of mine. Yet shall he hearken to the dead: be done, Sweet lad he loved, be done with Death, and come, Leaving the dark Tartarean halls, come hither; Come, for thou canst: 'tis not to Charon given, Nor yet to Cerberus, to keep in thrall The innocent soul: come to thy father, soothe His sorrow, dry his eyes, and day and night A living voice be with him—look upon him, Tell him thou art not dead (thy sister mourns, Comfort her, comfort as a brother can) And win thy parents back to thee again.

WHAT sin was mine, sweet, silent boy-god, Sleep, Or what, poor sufferer, have I left undone, That I should lack thy guerdon, I alone? Quiet are the brawling streams: the shuddering deep Sinks, and the rounded mountains feign to sleep. The high seas slumber pillowed on Earth's breast; All flocks and birds and beasts are stilled in rest, But my sad eyes their nightly vigil keep. O! if beneath the night some happier swain, Entwined in loving arms, refuse thy boon In wanton happiness,—come hither soon, Come hither, Sleep. Let happier mortals gain The full embrace of thy soft angel wing: But touch me with thy wand, or hovering Above mine eyelids sweep me with thy train.

COME, Sleep, O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease! I will good tribute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light, A rosy garland and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

CARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my languish and restore the light; With dark forgetting of my care, return: And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease dreams, the images of day's desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow; Never let rising Sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

SLEEP, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince whose approach peace to all mortal brings, Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, Sole comforter of minds with grief opprest; Lo! by thy charming-rod all breathing things Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possest, And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings Thou spares, alas! who cannot be thy guest. Since I am thine, oh come, but with that face To inward light which thou art wont to show; With feignèd solace ease a true-felt woe; Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou wilt, and that thou wilt bequeath,— I long to kiss the image of my death.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds, and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;— I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessèd barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! Shutting with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its lulling charities; Then save me, or the passèd day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.

THE crackling embers on the hearth are dead; The indoor note of industry is still; The latch is fast; upon the window-sill The small birds wait not for their daily bread; The voiceless flowers—how quietly they shed Their nightly odours; and the household ill Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds that fill The vacant expectation, and the dread Of listening night. And haply now She sleeps; For all the garrulous noises of the air Are hushed in peace; the soft dew silent weeps, Like hopeless lovers for a maid so fair:— Oh! that I were the happy dream that creeps To her soft heart, to find my image there.

ON this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep, Descend in all thy downy plumage drest, Wipe with thy wings these eyes that wake to weep, And place thy crown of poppies on my breast. O steep my senses in Oblivion's balm, And soothe my throbbing pulse with lenient hand, This tempest of my boiling blood becalm— Despair grows mild, Sleep, in thy mild command. Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom, And sadly toiling through the tedious night, I seek sweet slumber while that virgin bloom For ever hovering haunts my unhappy sight. Nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm: Black midnight and the blaze of noon alike To me appear, while with uplifted arm Death stands prepared, but still delays, to strike.

AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, Friend and associate of this clay! To what unknown region borne Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life! Hark, they whisper; angels say, 'Sister spirit, come away!' What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirit, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death? The world recedes; it disappears! Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave, where is thy victory? O Death, where is thy sting?

HAPPY the man who his whole time doth bound Within the enclosure of his little ground. Happy the man whom the same humble place, The hereditary cottage of his race, From his first rising infancy has known, And by degrees sees gently bending down With natural propension to that earth Which both preserved his life and gave him birth. Him no false distant lights by Fortune set Could ever into foolish wanderings get. He never dangers either saw or feared; The dreadful storms at sea he never heard, He never heard the shrill allarms of war, Or the worse noises of the lawyers' Bar. No change of consuls marks to him the year; The change of seasons is his calender. The cold and heat Winter and Summer shows, Autumn by fruits, and Spring by flowers he knows. He measures time by landmarks, and has found For the whole day the Dial of his ground. A neighbouring wood born with himself he sees, And loves his old contemporary trees. He's only heard of near Verona's name, And knows it, like the Indies, but by fame: Does with a like concernment notice take Of the Red Sea and of Benacus Lake. Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys, And sees a long posterity of boys. About the spacious world let others roam, The Voyage Life is longest made at home.

BLEST who, content with what the country yields, Lives in his own hereditary fields; Who can with pleasure his past life behold, Whose roof paternal saw him young and old; And, as he tells his long adventures o'er, A stick supports him where he crawled before; Who ne'er was tempted from his farm to fly, And drink new streams beneath a foreign sky: No merchant, he, solicitous of gain, Dreads not the storms that lash the sounding main: Nor soldier, fears the summons to the war, Nor the hoarse clamours of the noisy bar. Unskilled in business, to the world unknown, He ne'er beheld the next contiguous town. Yet nobler objects to his view are given, Fair flowery fields and star-embellished heaven. He marks no change of consuls, but computes Alternate consuls by alternate fruits; Maturing autumns store of apples bring, And flowerets are the luxury of spring. His farm that catches first the sun's bright ray Sees the last lustre of his beams decay: The passing hours erected columns show, And are his landmarks and his dials too. Yon spreading oak a little twig he knew, And the whole grove in his remembrance grew. Verona's walls remote as India seem, Benacus is th' Arabian Gulph to him. Yet health three ages lengthens out his span, And grandsons hail the vigorous old man. Let others vainly sail from shore to shore— Their joys are fewer and their labours more.