Poemata: Latin, Greek and Italian Poems

At length, my friend, the far–sent letters come,

Charged with thy kindness, to their destin'd home,

They come, at length, from Deva's^[11] Western side,

Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.^[12]

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 refluent tide

My native city laves, meantime reside,

Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impell

To reedy Cam,^[13] and my forbidden cell.^[14]

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^[15] 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 chuse.

I would that exiled to the Pontic shore,

Rome's hapless bard^[16] 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,

Wooer, or soldier, now unarm'd, be there,

Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause

Thunder the Norman gibb'rish of the laws.

The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire,

And, artful, speeds th'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^[17] 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,

Outsparkling every star that gilds the skies.

Necks whiter than the iv'ry arm bestow'd

By Jove on Pelops, or the Milky Road!

Bright locks, Love's golden snares, these falling low,

Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow!

Cheeks too, more winning sweet than after show'r,

Adonis turn'd to Flora's fav'rite flow'r!

Yield, Heroines, yield, and ye who shar'd th'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,^[18] 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,^[19] 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, prefering Paphian scenes no more,

Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore.

But lest the sightless boy inforce my stay,

I leave these happy walls, while yet I may.

Immortal Moly^[20] shall secure my heart

From all the sorc'ry of Circaean 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 longtime was wont t'obey,

Although thyself an 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^[22] in ancient time,

But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd,

Or, Aeson–like,^[23] to know a second prime,

Worthy for whom some Goddess should have won

New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son.^[24]

Commission'd to convene with hasty call

The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou stand!

So stood Cyllenius^[25] erst in Priam's hall,

Wing–footed messenger of Jove's command,

And so, Eurybates^[26] when he address'd

To Peleus' son Atrides' proud behest.

Dread Queen of sepulchres! whose rig'rous 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,

Chose meaner marks, and with more equal aim

Pierce useless drones, earth's burthen and its shame!

Flow, therefore, tears for Him from ev'ry 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 sufferings by that scourge, the pest.^[29]

How death, his fun'ral torch and scythe in hand,

Ent'ring the lordliest mansions of the land,

Has laid the gem–illumin'd palace low,

And level'd tribes of Nobles at a blow.

I, next, deplor'd the famed fraternal pair^[30]

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 pow'r to Him who rules the Dead!

Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield

To thy fell force, and ev'ry verdant field,

That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,

And ev'n 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 heav'n–directed flight the Future shows,

And all the beasts that in dark forests stray,

And all the herds of Proteus^[31] are thy prey?

Ah envious! arm'd with pow'rs so unconfined

Why stain thy hands with blood of Human kind?

Why take delight, with darts that never roam,

To chase a heav'n–born spirit from her home?

While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood,

Now newly ris'n, above the western flood,

And Phoebus from his morning–goal again

Had reach'd the gulphs 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 champain glow'd with purple light

Like that of sun–rise on the mountain height;

Flow'rs over all the field, of ev'ry hue

That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew,

Nor Chloris,^[32] with whom amtrous Zephyrs play,

E'er dress'd Alcinous' gardens^[33] 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 flow'rs,

With airs awaken'd under rosy bow'rs.

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 fixt 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 flow'ry scene around:

Attendant angels clap their starry wings,

The trumpet shakes the sky, all aether rings,

Each chaunts 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 free'd from ev'ry care."

So spake the voice, and at its tender close

With psaltry's sound th'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^[35] who binds

In his Sicanian ecchoing vault the winds,

With Doris^[36] and her Nymphs, and all the throng

Of azure Gods, to speed thee safe along.

But rather, to insure thy happier haste,

Ascend Medea's chariot,^[37] if thou may'st,

Or that whence young Triptolemus^[38] of yore

Descended welcome on the Scythian shore.

The sands that line the German coast descried,

To opulent Hamburg turn aside,

So call'd, if legendary fame be true,

From Hama,^[39] 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 favorite 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^[40] renown'd for moral truth

To the prime spirit of the Attic youth!

Dear, as the Stagyrite^[41] to Ammon's son,^[42]

His pupil, who disdain'd the world he won!

Nor so did Chiron, or so Phoenix shine^[43]

In young Achilles' eyes, as He in mine.

First led by him thro' sweet Aonian^[44] shade

Each sacred haunt of Pindus I survey'd;

And favor'd by the muse, whom I implor'd,

Thrice on my lip the hallow'd stream I pour'd.

But thrice the Sun's resplendent chariot roll'd

To Aries, has new ting'd 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, ent'ring, 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 minist'ring (which is his weightiest care)

To Christ's assembled flock their heav'nly fare.

Give him, whatever his employment be,

Such gratulation as he claims from me,

And with a down–cast 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, tho' late, sincere.

But wherefore This? why palliate I a deed,

For which the culprit's self could hardly plead?

Self–charged and self–condemn'd, 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,

Even pike–wielding Thracians learn to spare,

Won by soft influence of a suppliant's prayer;

And heav'n's dread thunderbolt arrested stands

By a cheap victim and uplifted hands.

Long had he wish'd to write, but was witheld,

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;^[45]

Thy city against fierce besiegers barr'd,

And all the Saxon Chiefs for fight prepar'd.

Enyo^[46] 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!

Leav'st Thou to foreign Care the Worthies giv'n

By providence, to guide thy steps to Heav'n?

His ministers, commission'd 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 exil'd fugitive from shade to shade,

When, flying Ahab and his Fury wife,

In lone Arabian wilds he shelter'd life;

So, from Philippi wander'd forth forlorn

Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn;

And Christ himself so left and trod no more

The thankless Gergesenes' forbidden shore.

But thou take courage, strive against despair,

Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care.

Grim war indeed on ev'ry side appears,

And thou art menac'd by a thousand spears,

Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offend

Ev'n the defenceless bosom of my friend;

For thee the Aegis of thy God shall hide,

Jehova's self shall combat on thy side,

The same, who vanquish'd under Sion's tow'rs

At silent midnight all Assyria's pow'rs,

The same who overthrew in ages past,

Damascus' sons that lay'd 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 clanging 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 wand'ring 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 pow'rs of song?

Spring gives them, and, how strange soere it seem,

Impels me now to some harmonious theme.

Castalia's fountain and the forked hill^[47]

By day, by night, my raptur'd fancy fill,

My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within

A sacred sound that prompts me to begin,

Lo! Phoebus comes, with his bright hair he blends

The radiant laurel wreath; Phoebus descends;

I mount, and, undepress'd by cumb'rous 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 gulphs 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 op'ning 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 Aethiopia'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 his aetherial plain

Bootes^[48] follows his celestial wain;

And now the radiant centinels above

Less num'rous 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 redd'ning dews,

This night, this surely, Phoebus miss'd the fair,

Who stops his chariot by her am'rous care.

Cynthia,^[49] 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—Phoebus cries—Aurora come—too late

Thou linger'st slumb'ring with thy wither'd mate,^[50]

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, Phoebus! and, t'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 ev'ry 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 flow'rs new–blown,

She interweaves, various, and all her own,

For Proserpine in such a wreath attired

Taenarian Dis^[51] 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

Th'am'rous Earth to engage thy warm desires,

But, rich in balmy drugs, assists thy claim

Divine Physician! to that glorious name.

If splendid recompense, 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 heav'nly steep

She sees thee plunging in the Western Deep

How oft she cries—Ah Phoebus! why repair

Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there?

Can Tethys^[52] win thee? wherefore should'st thou lave

A face so fair in her unpleasant wave?

Come, seek my green retreats, and rather chuse

To cool thy tresses in my chrystal 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 whisp'ring airs shall lull thee to repose.

No fears I feel like Semele^[53] to die,

Nor lest thy burning wheels^[54] approach too nigh,

For thou can'st govern them. Here therefore rest,

And lay thy evening glories on my breast.

Thus breathes the wanton Earth her am'rous flame,

And all her countless offspring feel the same;

For Cupid now through every region strays

Bright'ning 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^[55] at her altar–side;

His mother too repairs her beauty's wane,

And seems sprung newly from the Deep again.

Exulting youths the Hymenaeal^[56] sing,

With Hymen's name roofs, rocks, and valleys ring;

He, new attired and by the season dress'd

Proceeds all fragrant in his saffron vest.

Now, many a golden–cinctur'd virgin roves

To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves,

All wish, and each alike, some fav'rite youth

Hers in the bonds of Hymenaeal truth.

Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again,

Nor Phyllis 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 flow'ry meadows weave,

And neither God nor goat, but both in kind,

Sylvanus,^[57] wreath'd with cypress, skips behind.

The Dryads leave the hollow sylvan cells

To roam the banks, and solitary dells;

Pan riots now; and from his amorous chafe

Ceres^[58] and Cybele seem hardly safe,

And Faunus,^[59] all on fire to reach the prize,

In chase of some enticing Oread^[60] flies;

She bounds before, but fears too swift a bound,

And hidden lies, but wishes to be found.

Our shades entice th'Immortals from above,

And some kind Pow'r presides oter ev'ry grove,

And long ye Pow'rs o'er ev'ry grove preside,

For all is safe and blest where ye abide!

Return O Jove! the age of gold restore—

Why chose to dwell where storms and thunders roar?

At least, thou, Phoebus! 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 overcharg'd, 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 caerulean 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 Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found

With Ivy, rather than with Laurel, crown'd.

The Nine themselves oftimes 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 sang Anacreon's^[61] 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'erturn'd, 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.^[62]

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 Phoebus 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 tap'stried 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 iv'ry 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 pow'rs possest.

For num'rous pow'rs 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 heav'n explore,

Now shades, that echo the Cerberean roar,^[63]

Simply let these, like him of Samos^[64] live,

Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give;

In beechen goblets let their bev'rage shine,

Cool from the chrystal spring, their sober wine!

Their youth should pass, in innocence, secure

From stain licentious, and in manners pure,

Pure as the priest's, when robed in white he stands

The fresh lustration ready in his hands.

Thus Linus^[65] liv'd, and thus, as poets write,

Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight,^[66]

Thus exil'd Chalcas,^[67] thus the bard of Thrace,^[68]

Melodious tamer of the savage race!

Thus train'd by temp'rance, Homer led, of yore,

His chief of Ithaca^[69] from shore to shore,

Through magic Circe's monster–peopled reign,

And shoals insidious with the siren train;

And through the realms, where griesly spectres dwell,

Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell;

For these are sacred bards, and, from above,

Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove.

Would'st thou (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine ear)

Would'st thou be told my occupation here?

The promised King of peace employs my pen,

Th'eternal cov'nant 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 floor

Dash'd at his birth, to be revered no more!

This theme^[70] on reeds of Albion I rehearse;

The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse;

Verse that, reserv'd 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^[72] inspires,

Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts,

And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts.

Go, child, I said, transfix the tim'rous 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^[73] 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 arrayed;

Th'insidious god his rattling darts betray'd,

Nor less his infant features, and the sly

Sweet intimations of his threat'ning eye.

Such the Sigeian boy^[74] is seen above,

Filling the goblet for imperial Jove;

Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow'd their charms,

Hylas,^[75] 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, who feel my power, that pow'r attest!

And in thy anguish be my sway confest!

I vanquish'd Phoebus, though returning vain

From his new triumph o'er the Python slain,

And, when he thinks on Daphne,^[76] even He

Will yield the prize of archery to me.

A dart less true the Parthian horseman^[77] sped,

Behind him kill'd, and conquer'd as he fled,

Less true th'expert Cydonian, and less true

The youth, whose shaft his latent Procris slew.^[78]

Vanquish'd by me see huge Orion bend,

By me Alcides,^[79] and Alcides's friend.^[80]

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 teach thee with a trivial pain,

Thy Muse, vain youth! shall not thy peace ensure,

Nor Phoebus' serpent yield thy wound a cure.^[81]

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

Provok'd my laughter more than mov'd my fear.

I shun'd not, therefore, public haunts, but stray'd

Careless in city, or suburban shade,

And passing and repassing nymphs that mov'd

With grace divine, beheld where'er I rov'd.

Bright shone the vernal day, with double blaze,

As beauty gave new force to Phoebus' rays.

By no grave scruples check'd I freely eyed

The dang'rous 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 dar'd

His arrows, Love had even then prepar'd.

Nor was himself remote, nor unsupplied

With torch well–trimm'd and quiver at his side;

Now to her lips he clung, her eye–lids now,

Then settled on her cheeks or on her brow.

And with a thousand wounds from ev'ry part

Pierced and transpierced my undefended heart.

A fever, new to me, of fierce desire

Now seiz'd 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^[82]

So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost,

And so Oeclides, sinking into night,

From the deep gulph look'd up to distant light.^[83]

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 Pow'r!—If such thou be

Let not thy deeds, and nature disagree.

Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts:

Now own thee sov'reign of all human hearts.

Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine

With vow and sacrifice, save only thine.

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.

― ― ^[84]

Such were the trophies, that in earlier days,

By vanity seduced I toil'd to raise,

Studious yet indolent, and urg'd by youth,

That worst of teachers, from the ways of Truth;

Till learning taught me, in his shady bow'r,

To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his pow'r.

Then, on a sudden, the fierce flame supprest,

A frost continual settled on my breast,

Whence Cupid fears his flames extinct to see,

And Venus dreads a Diomede^[85] in me.

Cum simul in regem nuper satrapasque Britannos

Ausus es infandum perfide Fauxe nefas,

Fallor? an & mitis voluisti ex parte videri,

Et pensare mala cum pietate scelus;

Scilicet hos alti missurus ad atria caeli,

Sulphureo curru flammivolisque rotis.

Qualiter ille feris caput inviolabile Parcis

Liquit Jordanios turbine raptus agros.

Siccine tentasti caelo donasse Jacobum

Quae septemgemino Bellua monte lates?

Ni meliora tuum poterit dare munera numen,

Parce precor donis insidiosa tuis.

Ille quidem sine te consortia serus adivit

Astra, nec inferni pulveris usus ope.

Sic potius foedus in caelum pelle cucullos,

Et quot habet brutos Roma profana Deos,

Namque hac aut alia quemque adjuveris arte,

Crede mihi, caeli vix bene scandet iter.

Purgatorem animae derisit Jacobus ignem,

Et sine quo superum non adeunda domus.

Frenduit hoc trina monstrum Latiale corona

Movit & horrificum cornua dena minax.

Et nec inultus ait temnes mea sacra Britanne,

Supplicium spreta relligione dabis.

Et si stelligeras unquam penetraveris arces,

Non nisi per flammas triste patebit iter.

O quam funesto cecinisti proxima vero,

Verbaque ponderibus vix caritura suis!

Nam prope Tartareo sublime rotatus ab igni

Ibat ad aethereas umbra perusta plagas.

Quem modo Roma suis devoverat impia diris,

Et Styge damnarat Taenarioque sinu,

Hunc vice mutata jam tollere gestit ad astra,

Et cupit ad superos evehere usque Deos.

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.

Angelus unicuique suus (sic credite gentes)

Obtigit aethereis ales ab ordinibus.

Quid mirum? Leonora tibi si gloria major,

Nam tua praesentem vox sonat ipsa Deum.

Aut Deus, aut vacui certe mens tertia coeli

Pertua secreto guttura serpit agens;

Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda

Sensim immortali assuescere posse sono.

Quod si cuncta quidem Deus est, per cunctaque fusus,

In te una loquitur, caetera mutus habet.

Another Leonora^[89] once inspir'd

Tasso, with fatal love to frenzy fir'd,

But how much happier, liv'd 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^[90] of sound divine,

Fiercer than Pentheus'^[91] tho' 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 thro' his wounded breast,

Charm, with soul–soothing song, his thoughts to rest.

Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no more

The sweet–voiced Siren buried on thy shore,

That, when Parthenope^[92] deceas'd, she gave

Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic^[93] 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 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, withered, and would yield no more.

The squire, perceiving all his labour void,

Cursed his own pains, so foolishly employed,

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."