Book 6 — TRANSLATIONS OF THE LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS OF MILTON.

At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come, Charged with thy kindness, to their destined home; They come, at length, from Deva's Western side, Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide. Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be, Though born of foreign race, yet born for me, And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam, Must seek again so soon his wonted home, I well content, where Thames with influent tide My native city laves, meantime reside, Nor zeal nor duty now my steps impel To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell. Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I, That to the musing bard all shade deny. 'Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain, And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain. If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent Beneath my father's roof, be banishment, Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse A name expressive of the lot I choose. I would that, exiled to the Pontic shore, Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing more. He then had equall'd even Homer's lays, And, Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise: For here I woo the muse, with no control, And here my books—my life—absorb me whole. Here too I visit, or to smile or weep, The winding theatre's majestic sweep; The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits; Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir, Suitor, or soldier, now unarm'd, be there, Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause, Thunder the Norman gibberish of the laws. The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire, And, artful, speeds the enamour'd son's desire. There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove, What love is know not, yet, unknowing, love. Or, if impassion'd tragedy wield high The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly, Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye, I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief. At times, e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief, As, when from bliss untasted torn away, Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day; Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below, Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe; When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords, Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords. Nor always city-pent, or pent at home, I dwell; but, when spring calls me forth to roam, Expatiate in our proud suburban shades Of branching elm that never sun pervades. Here many a virgin troop I may descry, Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by. Oh forms divine! oh looks that might inspire E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire, Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes, Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies; Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestow'd By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road! Bright locks, love's golden snare! these falling low, Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow! Cheeks, too, more winning sweet than after shower Adonis turn'd to Flora's favourite flower! Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shared the embrace Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place! Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast! And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast! Submit, ye nymphs of Greece! ye, once the bloom Of Ilion! and all ye, of haughty Rome, Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains Redundant, and still live in classic strains! To British damsels beauty's palm is due; Aliens! to follow them is fame for you. Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands, Whose towering front the circling realm commands, Too blest abode! no loveliness we see In all the earth, but it abounds in thee. The virgin multitude that daily meets, Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets, Outnumbers all her train of starry fires With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires. Fame says that, wafted hither by her doves, With all her host of quiver-bearing loves, Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more, Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore. But, lest the sightless boy enforce my stay, I leave these happy walls while yet I may. Immortal Moly shall secure my heart From all the sorcery of Circæan art, And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools, To face once more the warfare of the schools. Meantime accept this trifle! rhymes though few, Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true!

Thee, whose refulgent staff and summons clear Minerva's flock long time was wont to obey, Although thyself a herald, famous here, The last of heralds, death, has snatch'd away. He calls on all alike, nor even deigns To spare the office that himself sustains. Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd By Leda's paramour in ancient time; But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd, Or, Æson-like, to know a second prime, Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son. Commission'd to convene with hasty call The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou stand! So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall, Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command! And so Eurybates, when he address'd To Peleus' son Atrides' proud behest. Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rigorous laws And watchful eyes run through the realms below, Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause! Too often to the muse not less a foe! Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim Pierce useless drones, earth's burden and its shame! Flow, therefore, tears for him from every eye, All ye disciples of the muses, weep! Assembling all in robes of sable dye, Around his bier lament his endless sleep! And let complaining Elegy rehearse In every school her sweetest, saddest verse.

Silent I sat, dejected and alone, Making, in thought, the public woes my own, When first arose the image in my breast Of England's suffering by that scourge, the pest! How Death, his funeral torch and scythe in hand, Entering the lordliest mansions of the land, Has laid the gem-illumined palace low, And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow. I next deplored the famed paternal pair, Too soon to ashes turn'd and empty air! The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies, All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs; But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most, Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast! Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said: "Death, next in power to Him who rules the dead! Is it not enough that all the woodlands yield To thy fell force, and every verdant field; That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine, And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses pine; That oaks themselves, although the running rill Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will; That all the winged nations, even those Whose heaven-directed flight the future shows, And all the beasts that in dark forests stray, And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey. Ah envious! arm'd with powers so unconfined! Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind? Why take delight, with darts that never roam, To chase a heaven-born spirit from her home?" While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood, Now newly risen above the western flood, And Phœbus from his morning goal again Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main. I wish'd repose, and, on my couch reclined, Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd: When—oh for words to paint what I beheld! I seem'd to wander in a spacious field, Where all the champaign glow'd with purple light, Like that of sunrise on the mountain height; Flowers over all the field, of every hue That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew. Nor Chloris, with whom amorous Zephyrs play, E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay. A silver current, like the Tagus, roll'd O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold; With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flowers, With airs awaken'd under rosy bowers. Such, poets feign, irradiated all o'er The sun's abode on India's utmost shore. While I that splendour, and the mingled shade Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd, survey'd, At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace, The seer of Winton stood before my face. His snowy vesture's hem descending low, His golden sandals swept, and, pure as snow New fallen, shone the mitre on his brow. Where'er he trod, a tremulous sweet sound Of gladness shook the flowery scene around: Attendant angels clap their starry wings, The trumpet shakes the sky, all ether rings; Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast, And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest: "Ascend, my son! thy Father's kingdom share! My son! henceforth be freed from every care!" So spake the voice, and at its tender close With psaltery's sound the angelic band arose; Then night retired, and, chased by dawning day, The visionary bliss pass'd all away. I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern; Frequent to me may dreams like this return!

Hence, my epistle—skim the deep—fly o'er Yon smooth expanse to the Teutonic shore! Haste—lest a friend should grieve for thy delay— And the gods grant that nothing thwart thy way! I will myself invoke the king who binds In his Sicanian echoing vault the winds, With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along. But rather, to ensure thy happier haste, Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou mayst; Or that whence young Triptolemus of yore Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore. The sands that line the German coast descried, To opulent Hamburga turn aside! So call'd, if legendary fame be true, From Hama, whom a club-arm'd Cimbrian slew! There lives, deep learn'd and primitively just, A faithful steward of his Christian trust, My friend, and favourite inmate of my heart, That now is forced to want its better part! What mountains now, and seas, alas! how wide! From me this other, dearer self divide, Dear as the sage renown'd for moral truth To the prime spirit of the Attic youth! Dear as the Stagyrite to Ammon's son, His pupil, who disdain'd the world he won! Nor so did Chiron, or so Phœnix shine In young Achilles' eyes, as he in mine. First led by him through sweet Aonian shade, Each sacred haunt of Pindus I survey'd; And, favoured by the muse, whom I implored, Thrice on my lip the hallow'd stream I pour'd. But thrice the sun's resplendent chariot roll'd To Aries, has new tinged his fleece with gold, And Chloris twice has dress'd the meadows gay, And twice has summer parch'd their bloom away, Since last delighted on his looks I hung Or my ear drank the music of his tongue: Fly, therefore, and surpass the tempest's speed; Aware thyself that there is urgent need! Him, entering, thou shalt haply seated see Beside his spouse, his infants on his knee; Or turning, page by page, with studious look, Some bulky father, or God's holy book; Or ministering (which is his weightiest care) To Christ's assembled flock their heavenly fare. Give him, whatever his employment be, Such gratulation as he claims from me! And, with a downcast eye, and carriage meek, Addressing him, forget not thus to speak: "If compass'd round with arms thou canst attend To verse, verse greets thee from a distant friend. Long due, and late, I left the English shore; But make me welcome for that cause the more! Such from Ulysses, his chaste wife to cheer, The slow epistle came, though late, sincere. But wherefore this? why palliate I the deed For which the culprit's self could hardly plead? Self-charged, and self-condemned, his proper part He feels neglected, with an aching heart; But thou forgive—delinquents, who confess, And pray forgiveness, merit anger less; From timid foes the lion turns away, Nor yawns upon or rends a crouching prey. E'en pike-wielding Thracians learn to spare, Won by soft influence of a suppliant prayer; And heaven's dread thunderbolt arrested stands By a cheap victim and uplifted hands. Long had he wish'd to write, but was withheld, And writes at last, by love alone compell'd, For fame, too often true, when she alarms, Reports thy neighbouring fields a scene of arms; Thy city against fierce besiegers barr'd, And all the Saxon chiefs for fight prepared. Enyo wastes thy country wide around, And saturates with blood the tainted ground; Mars rests contented in his Thrace no more, But goads his steeds to fields of German gore, The ever verdant olive fades and dies, And Peace, the trumpet-hating goddess, flies, Flies from that earth which justice long had left, And leaves the world of its last guard bereft." Thus horror girds thee round. Meantime alone Thou dwell'st, and helpless, in a soil unknown; Poor, and receiving from a foreign hand The aid denied thee in thy native land. Oh, ruthless country, and unfeeling more Than thy own billow-beaten chalky shore! Leavest thou to foreign care the worthies given By Providence to guide thy steps to heaven? His ministers, commissioned to proclaim Eternal blessings in a Saviour's name! Ah then most worthy, with a soul unfed, In Stygian night to lie for ever dead! So once the venerable Tishbite stray'd An exiled fugitive from shade to shade, When, flying Ahab and his fury wife, In lone Arabian wilds he shelter'd life; So from Philippa wander'd forth forlorn, Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn; And Christ himself, so left, and trod no more The thankless Gergesene's forbidden shore. But thou take courage! strive against despair! Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care! Grim war indeed on every side appears, And thou art menaced by a thousand spears; Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offend E'en the defenceless bosom of my friend. For thee the Ægis of thy God shall hide, Jehovah's self shall combat on thy side. The same who vanquish'd under Sion's towers At silent midnight all Assyria's powers, The same who overthrew in ages past Damascus' sons that laid Samaria waste! Their king he fill'd and them with fatal fears, By mimic sounds of clarions in their ears, Of hoofs, and wheels, and neighings from afar, Of clashing armour, and the din of war. Thou, therefore, (as the most afflicted may,) Still hope, and triumph o'er thy evil day! Look forth, expecting happier times to come, And to enjoy, once more, thy native home!

Time, never wandering from his annual round, Bids zephyr breathe the spring, and thaw the ground; Bleak winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain, And earth assumes her transient youth again. Dream I, or also to the spring belong Increase of genius, and new powers of song? Spring gives them, and, how strange soe'er it seems, Impels me now to some harmonious themes. Castalia's fountain, and the forked hill By day, by night, my raptured fancy fill; My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within A sacred sound that prompts me to begin. Lo! Phœbus comes, with his bright hair he blends The radiant laurel wreath; Phœbus descends! I mount, and undepress'd by cumbrous clay, Through cloudy regions win my easy way; Rapt through poetic shadowy haunts I fly: The shrines all open to my dauntless eye, My spirit searches all the realms of light, And no Tartarean gulfs elude my sight. But this ecstatic trance—this glorious storm Of inspiration—what will it perform? Spring claims the verse that with his influence glows, And shall be paid with what himself bestows. Thou, veil'd with opening foliage, lead'st the throng Of feather'd minstrels, Philomel! in song; Let us, in concert, to the season sing, Civic and sylvan heralds of the spring! With notes triumphant spring's approach declare! To spring, ye muses, annual tribute bear! The Orient left, and Ethiopia's plains, The sun now northward turns his golden reins; Night creeps not now; yet rules with gentle sway, And drives her dusky horrors swift away; Now less fatigued, on this ethereal plain Boötes follows his celestial wain; And now the radiant sentinels above, Less numerous, watch around the courts of Jove, For, with the night, force, ambush, slaughter fly, And no gigantic guilt alarms the sky. Now, haply says some shepherd, while he views, Recumbent on a rock, the reddening dews, This night, this, surely, Phœbus miss'd the fair, Who stops his chariot by her amorous care. Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow, Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow; Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear, Blesses his aid, who shortens her career. Come—Phœbus cries—Aurora, come—too late Thou lingerest, slumbering, with thy wither'd mate; Leave him, and to Hymettus' top repair! Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there. The goddess with a blush her love betrays, But mounts, and, driving rapidly, obeys. Earth now desires thee, Phœbus! and, to engage Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age; Desires thee, and deserves; for who so sweet When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat? Her breath imparts to every breeze that blows Arabia's harvest and the Paphian rose. Her lofty front she diadems around With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd; Her dewy locks with various flowers new blown She interweaves, various, and all her own; For Proserpine, in such a wreath attired, Tænarian Dis himself with love inspired. Fear not, lest, cold and coy, the nymph refuse! Herself, with all her sighing zephyrs, sues; Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wing, And all her groves with warbled wishes ring. Nor, unendow'd and indigent, aspires The amorous Earth to engage thy warm desires, But, rich in balmy drugs, assists thy claim, Divine Physician! to that glorious name. If splendid recompence, if gifts, can move Desire in thee, (gifts often purchase love,) She offers all the wealth her mountains hide, And all that rests beneath the boundless tide. How oft, when headlong from the heavenly steep She sees thee playing in the western deep, How oft she cries—"Ah Phœbus, why repair Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there? Can Tethys win thee? wherefore shouldst thou lave A face so fair in her unpleasant wave? Come, seek my green retreats, and rather choose To cool thy tresses in my crystal dews. The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest; Come, lay thy evening glories on my breast, And breathing fresh, through many a humid rose, Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose! No fears I feel like Semele to die, Nor lest thy burning wheels approach too nigh, For thou canst govern them, here therefore rest, And lay thy evening glories on my breast!" Thus breathes the wanton Earth her amorous flame, And all her countless offspring feel the same; For Cupid now through every region strays, Brightening his faded fires with solar rays; His new-strung bow sends forth a deadlier sound, And his new-pointed shafts more deeply wound; Nor Dian's self escapes him now untried, Nor even Vesta at her altar-side; His mother too repairs her beauty's wane, And seems sprung newly from the deep again. Exulting youths the hymeneal sing, With Hymen's name roofs, rocks, and valleys ring; He, new-attired, and by the season drest, Proceeds, all fragrant, in his saffron vest. Now many a golden-cinctured virgin roves To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves, All wish, and each alike, some favourite youth Hers, in the bonds of hymeneal truth. Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again, Nor Phillis wants a song that suits the strain; With songs the seaman hails the starry sphere, And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear: Jove feels himself the season, sports again With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train. Now too the satyrs, in the dusk of eve, Their mazy dance through flowery meadows weave, And, neither god nor goat, but both in kind, Silvanus, wreathed with cypress, skips behind. The dryads leave their hollow sylvan cells To roam the banks and solitary dells; Pan riots now; and from his amorous chafe Ceres and Cybele seem hardly safe, And Faunus, all on fire to reach the prize, In chase of some enticing oread flies; She bounds before, but fears too swift a bound, And hidden lies, but wishes to be found. Our shades entice the immortals from above, And some kind power presides o'er every grove; And long, ye powers, o'er every grove preside, For all is safe, and blest, where ye abide! Return, O Jove! the age of gold restore— Why choose to dwell where storms and thunder roar? At least thou, Phœbus! moderate thy speed! Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed, Command rough winter back, nor yield the pole Too soon to night's encroaching, long control!

With no rich viands overcharged, I send Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd friend. But wherefore should thy muse tempt mine away From what she loves, from darkness into day? Art thou desirous to be told how well I love thee, and in verse? verse cannot tell. For verse has bounds, and must in measure move; But neither bounds nor measure knows my love. How pleasant, in thy lines described, appear December's harmless sports and rural cheer! French spirits kindling with cærulean fires, And all such gambols as the time inspires! Think not that wine against good verse offends, The Muse and Bacchus have been always friends; Nor Phœbus blushes sometimes to be found With ivy, rather than with laurel, crown'd. The Nine themselves ofttimes have join'd the song And revels of the Bacchanalian throng; Not even Ovid could in Scythian air Sing sweetly—why?—no vine would flourish there. What in brief numbers sung Anacreon's muse? Wine, and the rose that sparkling wine bedews. Pindar with Bacchus glows—his every line Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine, While, with loud crash o'erturned, the chariot lies, And brown with dust the fiery courser flies. The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays So sweet in Glycera's and Chloe's praise. Now too the plenteous feast and mantling bowl Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul; The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow, And casks not wine alone but verse bestow. Thus Phœbus favours, and the arts attend, Whom Bacchus and whom Ceres both befriend. What wonder, then, thy verses are so sweet, In which these triple powers so kindly meet! The lute now also sounds, with gold inwrought, And, touch'd with flying fingers nicely taught, In tapestried halls, high-roof'd, the sprightly lyre Directs the dancers of the virgin choir. If dull repletion fright the muse away, Sights gay as these may more invite her stay; And, trust me, while the ivory keys resound, Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around, Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame, Shall animate, at once, thy glowing frame, And all the muse shall rush into thy breast, By love and music's blended powers possest. For numerous powers light Elegy befriend, Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend; Her, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, all approve, And, with his blushing mother, gentle Love. Hence to such bards we grant the copious use Of banquets and the vine's delicious juice. But they who demigods and heroes praise, And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days, Who now the counsels of high heaven explore, Now shades that echo the Cerberean roar, Simply let these, like him of Samos, live, Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give; In beechen goblets let their beverage shine, Cool from the crystal spring, their sober wine! Their youth should pass in innocence secure From stain licentious, and in manners pure, Pure as the priest, when robed in white he stands, The fresh lustration ready in his hands. Thus Linus lived, and thus, as poets write, Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight; Thus exiled Chalcas, thus the Bard of Thrace, Melodious tamer of the savage race; Thus train'd by temperance, Homer led, of yore, His chief of Ithaca from shore to shore, Through magic Circe's monster-peopled reign, And shoals insidious with the syren train; And through the realms where grizzly spectres dwell, Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell; For these are sacred bands, and from above Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove. Wouldst thou, (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine ear,) Wouldst thou be told my occupation here? The promised King of Peace employs my pen, The eternal covenant made for guilty men, The new-born Deity, with infant cries Filling the sordid hovel where he lies; The hymning angels, and the herald star, That led the wise, who sought him from afar, And idols on their own unhallow'd shore Dash'd, at his birth, to be revered no more. This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse: The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse; Verse that, reserved in secret, shall attend Thy candid voice, my critic and my friend!

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires That Amathusia's smiling queen inspires, Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts, And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts. "Go, child," I said, "transfix the timorous dove! An easy conquest suits an infant love; Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be Sufficient triumph to a chief like thee! Why aim thy idle arms at human kind? Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind." The Cyprian heard, and, kindling into ire, (None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire. It was the spring, and newly risen day Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the first of May; My eyes, too tender for the blaze of light, Still sought the shelter of retiring night, When Love approach'd, in painted plumes array'd, The insidious god his rattling darts betray'd, Nor less his infant features, and the sly, Sweet intimations of his threatening eye. Such the Sigeian boy is seen above, Filling the goblet for imperial Jove; Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow'd their charms, Hylas, who perish'd in a naiad's arms. Angry he seem'd, yet graceful in his ire, And added threats not destitute of fire. "My power," he said, "by others' pain alone, 'Twere best to learn; now learn it by thy own! With those that feel my power, that power attest! And in thy anguish be my sway confest! I vanquish'd Phœbus, though returning vain From his new triumph o'er the Python slain, And, when he thinks on Daphne, even he Will yield the prize of archery to me. A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped, Behind him kill'd, and conquer'd as he fled: Less true the expert Cydonian, and less true The youth whose shaft his latent Procris slew. Vanquish'd by me see huge Orion bend, By me Alcides, and Alcides' friend. At me should Jove himself a bolt design, His bosom first should bleed, transfix'd by mine. But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain, Nor shall it reach thee with a trivial pain. Thy muse, vain youth! shall not thy peace ensure, Nor Phœbus' serpent yield thy wound a cure." He spoke, and, waving a bright shaft in air, Sought the warm bosom of the Cyprian fair. That thus a child should bluster in my ear. Provoked my laughter more than moved my fear. I shunn'd not, therefore, public haunts, but stray'd Careless in city or suburban shade, And, passing and repassing nymphs, that moved With grace divine, beheld where'er I roved. Bright shone the vernal day with double blaze As beauty gave new force to Phœbus' rays. By no grave scruples check'd, I freely eyed The dangerous show, rash youth my only guide, And many a look of many a fair unknown Met full, unable to control my own. But one I mark'd, (then peace forsook my breast,) One—Oh how far superior to the rest! What lovely features! such the Cyprian queen Herself might wish, and Juno wish her mien. The very nymph was she, whom, when I dared His arrows, Love had even then prepared! Nor was himself remote, nor unsupplied With torch well trimm'd and quiver at his side; Now to her lips he clung, her eyelids now, Then settled on her cheeks, or on her brow; And with a thousand wounds from every part Pierced and transpierced my undefended heart. A fever, new to me, of fierce desire Now seized my soul, and I was all on fire; But she, the while, whom only I adore, Was gone, and vanish'd, to appear no more. In silent sadness I pursue my way; I pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay, And, while I follow her in thought, bemoan With tears my soul's delight so quickly flown. When Jove had hurl'd him to the Lemnian coast, So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost, And so Œclides, sinking into night, From the deep gulf look'd up to distant light. Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain, Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain? Oh could I once, once more, behold the fair, Speak to her, tell her of the pangs I bear; Perhaps she is not adamant; would show, Perhaps, some pity at my tale of woe. Oh inauspicious flame—'tis mine to prove A matchless instance of disastrous love. Ah, spare me, gentle power!—If such thou be, Let not thy deeds and nature disagree. Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine With vow and sacrifice save only thine. Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts: Now own thee sovereign of all human hearts. Remove! no—grant me still this raging woe! Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know: But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see One destined mine) at once both her and me. Such were the trophies that, in earlier days, By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise; Studious, yet indolent, and urged by youth, That worst of teachers, from the ways of truth; Till Learning taught me in his shady bower To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his power. Then, on a sudden the fierce flame supprest, A frost continual settled on my breast, Whence Cupid fears his flame extinct to see, And Venus dreads a Diomede in me.

Praise in old time the sage Prometheus won, Who stole ethereal radiance from the sun; But greater he, whose bold invention strove To emulate the fiery bolts of Jove.

Another Leonora once inspired Tasso with fatal love, to frenzy fired; But how much happier, lived he now, were he, Pierced with whatever pangs for love of thee! Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine, With Adriana's lute of sound divine, Fiercer than Pentheus' though his eye might roll, Or idiot apathy benumb his soul, You still, with medicinal sounds might cheer His senses wandering in a blind career; And, sweetly breathing through his wounded breast, Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.

Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no more The sweet-voiced syren buried on thy shore, That, when Parthenope deceased, she gave Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave, For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course, Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains Of magic song both gods and men detains.

A peasant to his lord paid yearly court, Presenting pippins of so rich a sort, That he, displeased to have a part alone, Removed the tree, that all might be his own. The tree, too old to travel, though before So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more. The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void, Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd, And, "Oh," he cried, "that I had lived content With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant! My avarice has expensive proved to me, Has cost me both my pippins and my tree."

Christina, maiden of heroic mien! Star of the North! of northern stars the queen! Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how The iron casque still chafes my veteran brow, While following Fate's dark footsteps, I fulfil The dictates of a hardy people's will. But soften'd in thy sight my looks appear, Not to all queens or kings alike severe.

Learn, ye nations of the earth, The condition of your birth, Now be taught your feeble state! Know, that all must yield to fate! If the mournful rover, Death, Say but once—"Resign your breath!" Vainly of escape you dream, You must pass the Stygian stream. Could the stoutest overcome Death's assault, and baffle doom, Hercules had both withstood, Undiseased by Nessus' blood. Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain By a trick of Pallas slain, Nor the chief to Jove allied By Achilles' phantom died. Could enchantments life prolong, Circe, saved by magic song, Still had lived, and equal skill Had preserved Medea still. Dwelt in herbs and drugs a power To avert man's destined hour, Learn'd Machaon should have known Doubtless to avert his own: Chiron had survived the smart Of the hydra-tainted dart, And Jove's bolt had been, with ease, Foil'd by Asclepiades. Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn Helicon and Cirrha mourn, Still hadst fill'd thy princely place, Regent of the gowned race: Hadst advanced to higher fame Still thy much ennobled name, Nor in Charon's skiff explored The Tartarean gulf abhorr'd. But resentful Proserpine, Jealous of thy skill divine, Snapping short thy vital thread, Thee too number'd with the dead. Wise and good! untroubled be The green turf that covers thee! Thence, in gay profusion, grow All the sweetest flowers that blow! Pluto's consort bid thee rest! Æacus pronounce thee blest! To her home thy shade consign! Make Elysium ever thine!

My lids with grief were tumid yet, And still my sullied cheek was wet With briny dews profusely shed For venerable Winton dead: When fame, whose tales of saddest sound, Alas! are ever truest found, The news through all our cities spread Of yet another mitred head By ruthless fate to death consign'd, Ely, the honour of his kind! At once a storm of passion heaved My boiling bosom, much I grieved; But more I raged, at every breath Devoting Death himself to death. With less revenge did Naso teem When hated Ibis was his theme; With less Archilochus denied The lovely Greek his promised bride. But lo! while thus I execrate, Incensed, the minister of fate, Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear, Wafted on the gale I hear. "Ah, much deluded! lay aside Thy threats and anger misapplied! Art not afraid with sounds like these To offend, where thou canst not appease? Death is not (wherefore dreamst thou thus?) The son of Night and Erebus: Nor was of fell Erynnis born On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn; But, sent from God, his presence leaves, To gather home his ripen'd sheaves, To call encumber'd souls away From fleshly bonds to boundless day, (As when the winged hours excite, And summon forth the morning light,) And each to convoy to her place Before the Eternal Father's face. But not the wicked—them, severe Yet just, from all their pleasures here He hurries to the realms below, Terrific realms of penal woe! Myself no sooner heard his call, Than, 'scaping through my prison wall, I bade adieu to bolts and bars, And soar'd, with angels, to the stars, Like him of old, to whom 'twas given To mount on fiery wheels to heaven. Boötes' waggon, slow with cold, Appall'd me not; nor to behold The sword that vast Orion draws, Or e'en the Scorpion's horrid claws. Beyond the sun's bright orb I fly, And far beneath my feet descry Night's dread goddess, seen with awe, Whom her winged dragons draw. Thus, ever wondering at my speed, Augmented still as I proceed, I pass the planetary sphere, The milky way—and now appear Heaven's crystal battlements, her door Of massy pearl, and emerald floor. "But here I cease. For never can The tongue of once a mortal man In suitable description trace The pleasures of that happy place; Suffice it, that those joys divine Are all, and all for ever, mine!"

Ah, how the human mind wearies herself With her own wanderings, and, involved in gloom Impenetrable, speculates amiss! Measuring in her folly things divine By human; laws inscribed on adamant By laws of man's device; and counsels fix'd For ever, by the hours that pass and die. How?—shall the face of nature then be plough'd Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last On the great parent fix a sterile curse? Shall even she confess old age, and halt, And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows? Shall foul antiquity with rust, and drought, And famine, vex the radiant worlds above? Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulf The very heavens, that regulate his flight? And was the sire of all able to fence His works, and to uphold the circling worlds, But, through improvident and heedless haste Let slip the occasion?—so then—all is lost— And in some future evil hour, yon arch Shall crumble, and come thundering down, the poles Jar in collision, the Olympian king, Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forth The terrors of the Gorgon shield in vain, Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'd Down into Lemnos, through the gate of heaven. Thou also, with precipitated wheels, Phœbus! thy own son's fall shalt imitate, With hideous ruin shalt impress the deep Suddenly, and the flood shall reek, and hiss, At the extinction of the lamp of day. Then too shall Hæmus, cloven to his base, Be shatter'd, and the huge Ceraunian hills, Once weapons of Tartarean Dis, immersed In Erebus, shall fill himself with fear. No. The Almighty Father surer laid His deep foundations, and providing well For the event of all, the scales of fate Suspended in just equipoise, and bade His universal works, from age to age, One tenor hold, perpetual, undisturb'd. Hence the prime mover wheels itself about Continual, day by day, and with it bears, In social measure swift, the heavens around. Not tardier now is Saturn than of old, Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars. Phœbus, his vigour unimpair'd, still shows The effulgence of his youth, nor needs the god A downward course, that he may warm the vales; But, ever rich in influence, runs his road, Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone. Beautiful, as at first, ascends the star From odoriferous Ind, whose office is To gather home betimes the ethereal flock, To pour them o'er the skies again at eve, And to discriminate the night and day. Still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes and wanes Alternate, and with arms extended still She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams. Nor have the elements deserted yet Their functions; thunder with as loud a stroke As erst smites through the rocks and scatters them. The east still howls; still the relentless north Invades the shuddering Scythian, still he breathes The winter, and still rolls the storms along. The king of ocean, with his wonted force, Beats on Pelorus; o'er the deep is heard The hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell; Nor swim the monsters of the Ægean sea In shallows, or beneath diminished waves. Thou too, thy ancient vegetative power Enjoy'st, O Earth! Narcissus still is sweet; And Phœbus! still thy favourite, and still Thy favourite Cytherea! both retain Their beauty; nor the mountains, ore-enrich'd For punishment of man, with purer gold Teem'd ever, or with brighter gems the deep. Thus in unbroken series all proceeds; And shall, till wide involving either pole, And the immensity of yonder heaven, The final flames of destiny absorb The world, consumed in one enormous pyre!

Ye sister powers, who o'er the sacred groves Preside, and thou, fair mother of them all, Mnemosyne! and thou who, in thy grot Immense, reclined at leisure, hast in charge The archives and the ordinances of Jove, And dost record the festivals of heaven, Eternity!—inform us who is He, That great original, by nature chosen To be the archetype of human kind, Unchangeable, immortal, with the poles Themselves coëval, one, yet every where, An image of the God who gave him being? Twin-brother of the goddess born from Jove, He dwells not in his father's mind, but, though Of common nature with ourselves, exists Apart, and occupies a local home— Whether, companion of the stars, he spend Eternal ages, roaming at his will From sphere to sphere the tenfold heavens, or dwell On the moon's side that nearest neighbours earth, Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sit Among the multitude of souls ordain'd To flesh and blood; or whether (as may chance) That vast and giant model of our kind In some far distant region of this globe Sequester'd stalk with lifted head on high O'ertowering Atlas, on whose shoulders rest The stars, terrific even to the gods. Never the Theban seer, whose blindness proved His best illumination, him beheld In secret vision; never him the son Of Pleione, amid the noiseless night Descending, to the prophet-choir reveal'd; Him never knew the Assyrian priest, who yet The ancestry of Ninus' chronicles, And Belus, and Osiris, far renown'd; Nor even thrice great Hermes, although skill'd So deep in mystery, to the worshippers Of Isis show'd a prodigy like him. And thou, who hast immortalized the shades Of Academus, if the schools received This monster of the fancy first from thee, Either recall at once thy banish'd bards To thy republic, or thyself, evinced A wilder fabulist, go also forth.

Oh that Pieria's spring would through my breast Pour its inspiring influence, and rush No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood; That, for my venerable father's sake All meaner themes renounced, my muse, on wings Of duty borne, might reach a loftier strain! For thee, my father! howsoe'er it please, She frames this slender work; nor know I aught That may thy gifts more suitably requite: Though to requite them suitably would ask Returns much nobler, and surpassing far The meagre stores of verbal gratitude: But, such as I possess, I send thee all. This page presents thee in their full amount With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought; Nought, save the riches that from airy dream In secret grottoes and in laurel bowers, I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired. Verse is a work divine; despise not thou Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more) Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still Some scintillations of Promethean fire, Bespeaks him animated from above. The gods love verse; the infernal powers themselves Confess the influence of verse, which stirs The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains Of adamant both Pluto and the shades. In verse the Delphic priestess and the pale Tremulous sybil make the future known; And he who sacrifices, on the shrine Hangs verse, both when he smites the threatening bull And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide To scrutinize the fates enveloped there. We too, ourselves, what time we seek again Our native skies, and one eternal now Shall be the only measure of our being, Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, And make the starry firmament resound. And, even now, the fiery spirit pure That wheels yon circling orbs, directs himself Their mazy dance with melody of verse Unutterable, immortal, hearing which Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress'd; Orion, soften'd, drops his ardent blade, And Atlas stands unconscious of his load. Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet Luxurious dainties, destined to the gulf Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere Lyæus deluged yet the temperate board. Then sat the bard a customary guest To share the banquet, and, his length of locks With beechen honours bound, proposed in verse The characters of heroes and their deeds, To imitation; sang of chaos old, Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in search Of acorns fallen, and of the thunderbolt Not yet produced from Ætna's fiery cave. And what avails, at last, tune without voice, Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhaps The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear, And the oaks follow'd. Not by chords alone Well touch'd, but by resistless accents more, To sympathetic tears the ghosts themselves He moved; these praises to his verse he owes. Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain And useless powers, by whom inspired, thyself Art skilful to associate verse with airs Harmonious, and to give the human voice A thousand modulations, heir by right Indisputable of Arion's fame. Now say, what wonder is it, if a son Of thine delight in verse, if, so conjoin'd In close affinity, we sympathize In social arts and kindred studies sweet? Such distribution of himself to us Was Phœbus' choice; thou hast thy gift, and I Mine also, and between us we receive, Father and son, the whole inspiring God. No! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle muse, My father! for thou never badest me tread The beaten path, and broad, that leads right on To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son To the insipid clamours of the bar, To laws voluminous, and ill observed; But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill My mind with treasure, ledd'st me far away From city din to deep retreats, to banks And streams Aonian, and, with free consent, Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. I speak not now, on more important themes Intent, of common benefits, and such As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts, My father! who, when I had open'd once The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd The full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks, Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove, Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowers That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the smooth Italian his degenerate speech adorns, That witnesses his mixture with the Goth; And Palestine's prophetic songs divine. To sum the whole, whate'er the heaven contains, The earth beneath it, and the air between, The rivers and the restless deep, may all Prove intellectual gain to me, my wish Concurring with thy will; science herself, All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head, And offers me the lip, if, dull of heart, I shrink not, and decline her gracious boon. Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds That covet it; what could my father more? What more could Jove himself, unless he gave His own abode, the heaven, in which he reigns? More eligible gifts than these were not Apollo's to his son, had they been safe As they were insecure, who made the boy The world's vice-luminary, bade him rule The radiant chariot of the day, and bind To his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath. I therefore, although last and least, my place Among the learned in the laurel grove Will hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines, Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throng Profane, nor even to be seen by such. Away then, sleepless care, complaint, away, And envy, with thy "jealous leer malign!" Nor let the monster calumny shoot forth Her venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes! Ye all are impotent against my peace, For I am privileged, and bear my breast Safe, and too high, for your viperean wound. But thou! my father, since to render thanks Equivalent, and to requite by deeds Thy liberality, exceeds my power, Suffice it, that I thus record thy gifts, And bear them treasured in a grateful mind! Ye, too, the favourite pastime of my youth, My voluntary numbers, if ye dare To hope longevity, and to survive Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd In the oblivious Lethæan gulf, Shall to futurity perhaps convey This theme, and by these praises of my sire Improve the fathers of a distant age!

My halting muse, that dragg'st by choice along Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song, And likest that pace, expressive of thy cares, Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs, When in the dance she beats with measured tread Heaven's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed; Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine. Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafted o'er From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore, Where Eurus, fiercest of the Æolian band, Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land, Of late to more serene Ausonia came To view her cities of illustrious name, To prove, himself a witness of the truth, How wise her elders, and how learn'd her youth. Much good, Salsillus! and a body free From all disease, that Milton asks for thee, Who now endurest the langour and the pains That bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins; Relentless malady! not moved to spare By thy sweet Roman voice and Lesbian air! Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies, And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies, Pythius, or Pæan, or what name divine Soe'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine! Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that melt With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt! If aught salubrious in your confines grow, Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe, That, render'd to the muse he loves, again He may enchant the meadows with his strain. Numa, reclined in everlasting ease Amid the shade of dark embowering trees, Viewing with eyes of unabated fire His loved Ægeria, shall that strain admire: So soothed, the tumid Tiber shall revere The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year, Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein, And guide them harmless, till they meet the main.

Fra cavalier magnanimi, e cortesi, Risplende il Manso.

These verses also to thy praise, the Nine, O Manso! happy in that theme, design, For, Gallus and Mæcenas gone, they see None such besides, or whom they love as thee; And if my verse may give the meed of fame, Thine too shall prove an everlasting name. Already such, it shines in Tasso's page (For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age, And, next, the muse consign'd (not unaware How high the charge) Marino to thy care, Who, singing to the nymphs Adonis' praise, Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays. To thee alone the poet would entrust His latest vows, to thee alone his dust; And thou with punctual piety hast paid, In labour'd brass, thy tribute to his shade. Nor this contented thee—but lest the grave Should aught absorb of theirs which thou could'st save, All future ages thou hast deign'd to teach The life, lot, genius, character of each, Eloquent as the Carian sage, who, true To his great theme, the life of Homer drew. I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who come Chill'd by rude blasts that freeze my northern home, Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim, And thine, for Phœbus' sake, a deathless name. Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eye A muse scarce rear'd beneath our sullen sky, Who fears not, indiscreet as she is young, To seek in Latium hearers of her song. We too, where Thames with its unsullied waves The tresses of the blue-hair'd Ocean laves, Hear oft by night, or, slumbering, seem to hear, O'er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling clear; And we could boast a Tityrus of yore Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore. Yes—dreary as we own our northern clime, E'en we to Phœbus raise the polish'd rhyme, We too serve Phœbus; Phœbus has received (If legends old may claim to be believed) No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear, The burnish'd apple, ruddiest of the year, The fragrant crocus, and, to grace his fane, Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train; Druids, our native bards in ancient time, Who gods and heroes praised in hallow'd rhyme! Hence, often as the maids of Greece surround Apollo's shrine with hymns of festive sound, They named the virgins who arrived of yore With British offerings on the Delian shore, Loxo, from giant Corineus sprung, Upis, on whose blest lips the future hung, And Hacaerge, with the golden hair, All deck'd with Pictish hues, and all with bosoms bare. Thou, therefore, happy sage, whatever clime Shall ring with Tasso's praise in after time, Or with Marino's, shalt be known their friend, And with an equal flight to fame ascend. The world shall hear how Phœbus and the Nine Were inmates once, and willing guests of thine. Yet Phœbus, when of old constrain'd to roam The earth, an exile from his heavenly home, Enter'd, no willing guest, Admetus' door, Though Hercules had ventured there before. But gentle Chiron's cave was near, a scene Of rural peace, clothed with perpetual green, And thither, oft as respite he required, From rustic clamours loud, the god retired. There, many a time, on Peneus' bank reclined At some oak's root, with ivy thick entwined, Won by his hospitable friend's desire, He soothed his pains of exile with the lyre. Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus' shore, Nor Œta felt his load of forest more; The upland elms descended to the plain, And soften'd lynxes wonder'd at that strain. Well may we think, Oh, dear to all above! Thy birth distinguish'd by the smile of Jove, And that Apollo shed his kindliest power, And Maia's son, on that propitious hour. Since only minds so born can comprehend A poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend. Hence on thy yet unfaded cheek appears The lingering freshness of thy greener years; Hence in thy front and features we admire Nature unwither'd and a mind entire. O might so true a friend to me belong, So skill'd to grace the votaries of song, Should I recall hereafter into rhyme The kings and heroes of my native clime, Arthur the chief, who even now prepares, In subterraneous being, future wars, With all his martial knights, to be restored Each to his seat around the federal board; And oh, if spirit fail me not, disperse Our Saxon plunderers in triumphant verse! Then, after all, when, with the past content, A life I finish, not in silence spent; Should he, kind mourner, o'er my deathbed bend, I shall but need to say—"Be yet my friend!" He too, perhaps, shall bid the marble breathe To honour me, and with the graceful wreath Or of Parnassus or the Paphian isle Shall bind my brows—but I shall rest the while. Then also, if the fruits of faith endure, And virtue's promised recompence be sure, Born to those seats to which the blest aspire By purity of soul and virtuous fire, These rites, as fate permits, I shall survey With eyes illumined by celestial day, And, every cloud from my pure spirit driven, Joy in the bright beatitude of heaven!

Ye Nymphs of Himera, (for ye have shed Erewhile for Daphnis, and for Hylas dead, And over Bion's long-lamented bier, The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear,) Now through the villas laved by Thames rehearse The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse, What sighs he heaved, and how with groans profound He made the woods and hollow rocks resound, Young Damon dead; nor even ceased to pour His lonely sorrows at the midnight hour. The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear, And golden harvest twice enrich'd the year, Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital air The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there; For he, enamour'd of the muse, remain'd In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd, But, stored at length with all he wish'd to learn, For his flock's sake, now hasted to return; And when the shepherd had resumed his seat At the elm's root, within his old retreat, Then 'twas his lot then all his loss to know, And from his burden'd heart he vented thus his woe: "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Alas! what deities shall I suppose In heaven, or earth, concerned for human woes, Since, oh my Damon! their severe decree So soon condemns me to regret of thee! Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid With fame and honour, like a vulgar shade! Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls, And separates sordid from illustrious souls, Drive far the rabble, and to thee assign A happier lot with spirits worthy thine! "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chance The wolf first give me a forbidding glance, Thou shalt not moulder undeplored, but long Thy praise shall dwell on every shepherd's tongue. To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay, And, after him, to thee the votive lay, While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love, Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove; At least, if ancient piety and truth, With all the learned labours of thy youth, May serve thee aught, or to have left behind A sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind. "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Who now my pains and perils shall divide, As thou wast wont, for ever at my side, Both when the rugged frost annoy'd our feet, And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat; Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent, Or the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went; Whose converse now shall calm my stormy day, With charming song who now beguile my way? "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. In whom shall I confide? Whose counsel find A balmy medicine for my troubled mind? Or whose discourse with innocent delight Shall fill me now, and cheat the wintry night, While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear, And blackening chestnuts start and crackle there, While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm, And the wind thunders through the neighbouring elm? "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Or who, when summer suns their summit reach, And Pan sleeps hidden by the sheltering beech, When shepherds disappear, nymphs seek the sedge, And the stretch'd rustic snores beneath the hedge, Who then shall render me thy pleasant vein Of Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again? "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Where glens and vales are thickest overgrown With tangled boughs, I wander now alone, Till night descend, while blustering wind and shower Beat on my temples through the shatter'd bower. "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Alas! what rampant weeds now shame my fields, And what a mildew'd crop the furrow yields; My rambling vines unwedded to the trees, Bear shrivell'd grapes; my myrtles fail to please; Nor please me more my flocks: they, slighted turn Their unavailing looks on me, and mourn. "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Ægon invites me to the hazel grove, Amyntas, on the river's bank to rove, And young Alphesibœus to a seat Where branching elms exclude the mid-day heat. 'Here fountains spring—here mossy hillocks rise; Here zephyr whispers, and the stream replies.'— Thus each persuades, but, deaf to every call, I gain the thickets, and escape them all. "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Then Mopsus said, (the same who reads so well The voice of birds, and what the stars foretell, For he by chance had noticed my return,) 'What means thy sullen mood, this deep concern? Ah, Thyrsis, thou art either crazed with love, Or some sinister influence from above; Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherds rue; His leaden shaft oblique has pierced thee through.' "Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are, My thoughts are all now due to other care. The nymphs amazed, my melancholy see, And, 'Thyrsis!' cry—'what will become of thee? What wouldst thou, Thyrsis? such should not appear The brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe; Brisk youth should laugh and love—ah, shun the fate Of those, twice wretched mopes! who love too late!' "Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Ægle with Hyas came, to soothe my pain, And Baucis' daughter, Dryope, the vain, Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neat Known far and near, and for her self-conceit; Chloris too came, whose cottage on the lands That skirt the Idumanian current stands; But all in vain they came, and but to see Kind words, and comfortable, lost on me. "Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Ah blest indifference of the playful herd, None by his fellow chosen, or preferr'd! No bonds of amity the flocks inthral, But each associates, and is pleased with all; So graze the dappled deer in numerous droves, And all his kind alike the zebra loves; That same law governs, where the billows roar, And Proteus' shoals o'erspread the desert shore; The sparrow, meanest of the feather'd race, His fit companion finds in every place, With whom he picks the grain that suits him best, Flirts here and there, and late returns to rest, And whom, if chance the falcon makes his prey, Or hedger with his well aim'd arrow slay, For no such loss the gay survivor grieves, New love he seeks, and new delight receives. We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice, Scorning all others, in a single choice. We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind, And if the long-sought good at last we find, When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals, And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals. "Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Ah, what delusion lured me from my flocks, To traverse Alpine snows and rugged rocks! What need so great had I to visit Rome, Now sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb? Or, had she flourish'd still, as when, of old, For her sake Tityrus forsook his fold, What need so great had I to incur a pause Of thy sweet intercourse for such a cause, For such a cause to place the roaring sea, Rocks, mountains, woods, between my friend and me? Else, had I grasp'd thy feeble hand, composed Thy decent limbs, thy drooping eyelids closed, And, at the last, had said—'Farewell—ascend— Nor even in the skies forget thy friend!' "Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Although well pleased, ye tuneful Tuscan swains! My mind the memory of your worth retains, Yet not your worth can teach me less to mourn My Damon lost.—He too was Tuscan born, Born in your Lucca, city of renown! And wit possess'd, and genius, like your own. Oh how elate was I, when, stretch'd beside The murmuring course of Arno's breezy tide, Beneath the poplar grove I pass'd my hours, Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flowers, And hearing, as I lay at ease along, Your swains contending for the prize of song! I also dared attempt (and, as it seems, Not much displeased attempting) various themes, For even I can presents boast from you, The shepherd's pipe, and ozier basket too, And Dati and Francini both have made My name familiar to the beechen shade, And they are learn'd, and each in every place Renown'd for song, and both of Lydian race. "Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. While bright the dewy grass with moonbeams shone, And I stood hurdling in my kids alone, How often have I said (but thou hadst found Ere then thy dark cold lodgment underground) Now Damon sings, or springes sets for hares, Or wickerwork for various use prepares! How oft, indulging fancy, have I plann'd New scenes of pleasure that I hoped at hand, Call'd thee abroad as I was wont, and cried— 'What, hoa! my friend—come lay thy task aside; Haste, let us forth together, and beguile The heat beneath yon whispering shades awhile, Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood, Or where Cassibelan's grey turrets stood! There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teach Thy friend the name and healing powers of each, From the tall bluebell to the dwarfish weed, What the dry land, and what the marshes breed, For all their kinds alike to thee are known, And the whole art of Galen is thy own.' Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd be The useless herbs that gave not health to thee! Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream, I meditating sat some statelier theme, The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though new, And unessay'd before, than wide they flew, Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustain The deep-toned music of the solemn strain; And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell How proud a theme I chose—ye groves, farewell. "Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Of Brutus, Dardan chief, my song shall be, How with his barks he plough'd the British sea, First from Rutupia's towering headland seen, And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen; Of Brennus and Belinus, brothers bold, And of Arviragus, and how of old Our hardy sires the Armorican controll'd, And of the wife of Gorloïs, who, surprised By Uther, in her husband's form disguised, (Such was the force of Merlin's art,) became Pregnant with Arthur of heroic fame. These themes I now revolve—and Oh—if Fate Proportion to these themes my lengthen'd date, Adieu my shepherd's reed—yon pine tree bough Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou Forgotten and disused, unless ere long Thou change thy Latian for a British song: A British?—even so—the powers of man Are bounded; little is the most he can; And it shall well suffice me, and shall be Fame and proud recompence enough for me, If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn, If Alain bending o'er his crystal urn, Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd stream, Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem, Tamar's ore-tinctured flood, and, after these, The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades. "Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. All this I kept in leaves of laurel rind Enfolded safe, and for thy view design'd, This—and a gift from Manso's hand beside, (Manso, not least his native city's pride,) Two cups that radiant as their giver shone, Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone. The spring was graven there; here slowly wind The Red sea shores with groves of spices lined; Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs The sacred, solitary phœnix shows, And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her head To see Aurora leave her watery bed. —In other part, the expensive vault above, And there too, even there, the god of love; With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but, aiming high, Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamour'd burn. "Thou, also, Damon, (neither need I fear That hope delusive,) thou art also there; For whither should simplicity like thine Retire, where else should spotless virtue shine? Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shades below, Nor tears suit thee—cease then, my tears, to flow. Away with grief: on Damon ill bestow'd! Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode, Has pass'd the showery arch, henceforth resides With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides Quaffs copious immortality and joy With hallow'd lips!—Oh! blest without alloy, And now enrich'd with all that faith can claim, Look down, entreated by whatever name, If Damon please thee most (that rural sound Shall oft with echoes fill the groves around) Or if Deodatus, by which alone In those ethereal mansions thou art known. Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste, The honours, therefore, by divine decree The lot of virgin worth, are given to thee: Thy brows encircled with a radiant band, And the green palm branch waving in thy hand, Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice, And join with seraphs thy according voice, Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyre Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire."

STROPHE. My twofold book! single in show But double in contents, Neat, but not curiously adorn'd, Which, in his early youth, A poet gave, no lofty one in truth, Although an earnest wooer of the muse— Say, while in cool Ausonian shades Or British wilds he roam'd, Striking by turns his native lyre, By turns the Daunian lute, And stepp'd almost in air—

Say, little book, what furtive hand Thee from thy fellow books convey'd, What time, at the repeated suit Of my most learned friend, I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller, From our great city to the source of Thames, Cærulean sire! Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring, Of the Aonian choir, Durable as yonder spheres, And through the endless lapse of years Secure to be admired?

Now what god, or demi-god, For Britain's ancient genius moved, (If our afflicted land Have expiated at length the guilty sloth Of her degenerate sons) Shall terminate our impious feuds, And discipline with hallow'd voice recall? Recall the muses too, Driven from their ancient seats In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore, And, with keen Phœbean shafts Piercing the unseemly birds, Whose talons menace us, Shall drive the Harpy race from Helicon afar?

But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd, Whether by treachery lost, Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault, From all thy kindred books, To some dark cell or cave forlorn, Where thou endurest, perhaps, The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand, Be comforted— For lo! again the splendid hope appears That thou mayst yet escape The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove!

Since Rouse desires thee, and complains That, though by promise his, Thou yet appear'st not in thy place Among the literary noble stores Given to his care, But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete. He, therefore, guardian vigilant Of that unperishing wealth, Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge, Where he intends a richer treasure far Than Iön kept (Iön, Erectheus' son Illustrious, of the fair Creüsa born) In the resplendent temple of his god, Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine.

Haste, then, to the pleasant groves, The muses' favourite haunt; Resume thy station in Apollo's dome, Dearer to him Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill! Exulting go, Since now a splendid lot is also thine, And thou art sought by my propitious friend; For there thou shalt be read With authors of exalted note, The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome.

Ye, then, my works, no longer vain, And worthless deem'd by me! Whate'er this sterile genius has produced, Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent, An unmolested happy home, Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend, Where never flippant tongue profane Shall entrance find, And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude Shall babble far remote. Perhaps some future distant age, Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught, Shall furnish minds of power To judge more equally. Then, malice silenced in the tomb, Cooler heads and sounder hearts, Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.

Fair Lady! whose harmonious name the Rhine, Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, Base were indeed the wretch who could forbear To love a spirit elegant as thine, That manifests a sweetness all divine, Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare, And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine. When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gay Such strains as might the senseless forest move, Ah then—turn each his eyes and ears away, Who feels himself unworthy of thy love! Grace can alone preserve him ere the dart Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day Imbrowns the scene, some pastoral maiden fair Waters a lovely foreign plant with care, Borne from its native genial airs away, That scarcely can its tender bud display, So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare, Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there. While thus, O sweetly scornful! I essay Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown, And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain; So Love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has shown, That what he wills, he never wills in vain— Oh that this hard and sterile breast might be To Him, who plants from heaven, a soil as free!

They mock my toil—the nymphs and amorous swains— And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry, Love-songs in language that thou little know'st? How darest thou risk to sing these foreign strains? Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd, And that thy fairest flowers here fade and die? Then with pretence of admiration high— Thee other shores expect, and other tides, Rivers, on whose grassy sides Her deathless laurel leaf, with which to bind Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides; Why then this burden, better far declined? Speak, muse! for me—the fair one said, who guides My willing heart, and all my fancy's flights, "This is the language in which Love delights."

Charles—and I say it wondering—thou must know That I, who once assumed a scornful air And scoff'd at Love, am fallen in his snare, (Full many an upright man has fallen so:) Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow Of golden locks, or damask cheek; more rare The heartfelt beauties of my foreign fair: A mien majestic, with dark brows that show The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind; Words exquisite, of idioms more than one, And song, whose fascinating power might bind, And from her sphere draw down the labouring moon; With such fire-darting eyes that, should I fill My ears with wax, she would enchant me still.

Lady! It cannot be but that thine eyes Must be my sun, such radiance they display, And strike me e'en as Phœbus him whose way Through horrid Libya's sandy desert lies. Meantime, on that side steamy vapours rise Where most I suffer. Of what kind are they, New as to me they are, I cannot say, But deem them, in the lover's language—sighs. Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals, Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend To soften thine, thy coldness soon congeals. While others to my tearful eyes ascend, Whence my sad nights in showers are ever drown'd, Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound.

Enamour'd, artless, young, on foreign ground, Uncertain whither from myself to fly; To thee, dear Lady, with an humble sigh Let me devote my heart, which I have found By certain proofs, not few, intrepid, sound, Good, and addicted to conceptions high: When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky, It rests in adamant self-wrapt around, As safe from envy as from outrage rude, From hopes and fears that vulgar minds abuse, As fond of genius, and fix'd fortitude, Of the resounding lyre and every muse. Weak you will find it in one only part, Now pierced by love's immedicable dart.

'So when, from mountain tops, the dusky clouds Ascending,' &c. . . . . . . . Quales aërii montis de vertice nubes Cum surgunt, et jam Boreæ tumida ora quiêrunt, Cœlum hilares abdit, spissâ caligine, vultus: Tum, si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore, Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat, Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agros Balatuque ovium colles vallesque resultant.

Tres tria, sed longè distantia, sæcula vates Ostentant tribus è gentibus eximios. Græcia sublimem, cum majestate disertum Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem. Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est, Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos.