PA 
 
 TO 
 
 r 
 
 V;,
 
 POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED 
 BY JOHN HERMAN MERIVALE 
 
 NOW FIRST COLLECTED 
 
 C l P 
 
 VOL. I 
 
 LONDON 
 
 WILLIAM PICKERING 
 1838
 
 C. WhiUingham, Tooks Court, Chancery Lane.
 
 TO 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE, 
 
 IN HUMBLE TESTIMONY OF HER HARE AND EXALTED GENII S, 
 
 THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED, 
 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF RESPECT AND AFFECTION, 
 
 l:Y HER OBLIGED FRIEND, 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 It would imply no common degree of assurance 
 in a Sexagenarian Judge of Bankruptcy, who 
 should present himself for the first time before the 
 public in a poetical character. Such, however, is 
 not the case with the author of the following pieces. 
 The greater part of the contents of these two vo- 
 lumes have already appeared, in different shapes, 
 and at earlier periods, when the thoughts and pur- 
 suits in which they originated were more adapted 
 to his age, and exercised perhaps too powerful an 
 influence on his mind. Some of them— if he may 
 be allowed the use of a rather hackneyed form of 
 apology — he has been induced to republish by a 
 suggestion from the proper quarter, that a new 
 edition might not be unacceptable, and he has 
 taken this opportunity of adding to the collection 
 others which had not previously passed through 
 the same ordeal. If any further excuse be needed 
 for his present undertaking, he has only to add 
 that he feels conscious of having long since dis- 
 charged the debt of gratitude which Lord Bacon 
 represents to be due from every veteran to his pro- 
 fession, and of having thus secured the right of
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 resuming - , towards the close of life, those cherished 
 tastes which, it is possible, may have been too 
 freely indulged at the beginning- of it. 
 
 On the subject of the miscellaneous contents of 
 these volumes — the produce of many a gay, many 
 a thoughtful, and, he fears it must be added, many 
 an idle or desultory hour, spread over the surface 
 of some forty years, or more, from the period of 
 his entering- college to the present day — a few brief 
 explanatory notices are all that he deems requisite 
 for himself, or likely to interest his readers. First, 
 as to the arrangement, — he has not thought it 
 necessary to place his several compositions in strict 
 chronological order, because he has not the vanity 
 to believe, that, in the midst of professional cares 
 and duties which have compelled him always to 
 regard his poetical labours rather in the secondary 
 light of amusement than as the objects of diligent 
 cultivation, he could succeed in exhibiting such 
 progressive improvement in the Art of Poetry as 
 would alone render it desirable to offer the means 
 of self-comparison. Besides, the date of publica- 
 tion of such of the poems as have already been 
 printed, will furnish, in general, a tolerably accu- 
 rate index to the period of composition; and for 
 the rest, excepting those of which the natal hour 
 is indicated by the occasions that gave birth to 
 them, it may be enough to observe that, for the 
 most part, those of earliest date will be found in 
 the First, those more recent in the Second, volume ; 
 but that this has not been adopted as an invariable
 
 PREFACE. Vll 
 
 ru ]e ( — for instance, in the ease of the Translations 
 from the Sixth iEneid, which were among the au- 
 thor's first attempts in the art of " rendering into 
 verse," and are placed in the station they occupy 
 principally on account of their affinity to the Third 
 and Fifth Cantos of the " Inferno," which imme- 
 diately follow. So again as to the Rhyming Chro- 
 nicle concluding the series ; which, composed as it 
 was, solely for the purpose of affording instruction 
 to some of his young people, demands (perhaps) 
 the author's apology for its being at all inserted in 
 a Collection pretending to the title of Poetry. 
 This, except a few lines at the close, preceded, in 
 date of creation, most of the " Occasional Verses" 
 which it is made to follow. And so again as to 
 the unconnected fragments printed under the name 
 of an unfinished poem, entitled, " Retrospection;" 
 many of which will be found, on the face of them, 
 to bear a more recent impression than that con- 
 veyed by the first verses. 
 
 But enough of a matter, in itself so unimpor- 
 tant, though appearing to demand this short ex- 
 planation. Still less is it for the author to speak 
 of the quality of his several performances. He 
 might indeed offer something in the way of excuse 
 for the large proportion of his volumes devoted to 
 specimens of mere translation, were it not that he 
 f ee l s — and that very sincerely — how little he is 
 entitled to assume the merit of originality for much 
 of what remains. He is, indeed, fully sensible of 
 the extent of this deficiency, or of what may be
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 termed an innate propensity to follow in the track 
 of such preceding- authors as were from time to 
 time the objects of his admiration. It was in obe- 
 dience to this propensity that, even in his boyish 
 days, he conceived and partly executed, the plan 
 of a poem after the model of Hoole's Ariosto, next 
 to Pope's Iliad, almost his earliest poetical passion. 
 And if from this crude effort, the few remaining 
 fragments of which he finds to be utterly unworthy 
 of preservation, he was induced, in obedience to a 
 more ripened taste, aided by parental solicitations, 
 to divert the current of his poetical aspirations 
 into a somewhat worthier channel, it was still 
 nothing but the same instinct — call it imitation or 
 sympathy — which led him to attempt a sequel of 
 Beattie's poem — a work, as to which he entirely 
 coincides with another distinguished poet, in feeling 
 that " none has ever given more delight to minds 
 of a certain class, and in a certain stage of their 
 progress," — " that class," as is well added in a 
 late Review, " a high one, and that stage perhaps 
 the most delightful in their pilgrimage." 
 
 Dear, however, as Beattie's unfinished " Min- 
 strel" is, and will ever be, to all true lovers of 
 nature and natural sentiment, there is probably 
 now but one opinion on the defect of its conception, 
 considered as the basis of a lengthened poem. It 
 is quite certain that the poet himself was rendered 
 fully sensible of his error of calculation, long before 
 he had advanced to the point where it breaks off; 
 and the continuator would gladly attribute to this
 
 PREFACE. IX 
 
 inherent unfitness, rather than to any want of per- 
 severance in himself, the relinquishment of his 
 own ill-concerted design of completing" it, by the 
 time that he had advanced not more than half the 
 length of course which his precursor had accom- 
 plished. Yet he can hardly flatter himself that 
 this was either the only, or the chief cause of its 
 discontinuance, when he reflects how many other 
 designs have been abandoned by him when brought 
 to a nearly similar stage of maturity. Hardly was 
 the ink dry, with which he penned the first thirty 
 stanzas of his Third Book of the " Minstrel," — 
 and this was several years before he ventured on 
 the publication of it, — when the appearance of 
 Sotheby's admirable version of Wieland's Tale of 
 Enchantment put him on a new strain of ambi- 
 tion. His mind then reverted to the delight, 
 amounting to rapture, which attended his first in- 
 troduction, almost in infancy, to the wonders of 
 the " Seven Champions of Christendom;" and the 
 slight and imperfect legends of "St. George" 
 and " St. Denis" owed their orisnn to this new 
 fit of inspiration. The idea of pursuing this object 
 was, however, also shortly abandoned to make way 
 for the resumption of "The Minstrel;" till the 
 publication of Lewis's " Tales of Wonder" again 
 caused a diversion ; and the " Abbot of Dol," the 
 " Dead Men of Pest," and a few more similar 
 explosions of fancy were hastily struck off in the 
 heat of the moment. At other odd intervals of 
 excitement, George Colman gave occasion, among
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 various forgotten attempts at the burlesque and 
 ludicrous, to the tale of" The Marshal and Barber." 
 Even the great name of Walter Scott may be cited 
 as having 1 , by his exquisite introductions to the 
 Cantos of " Marmion," and other passages of 
 mixed local and legendary association, occasioned 
 the fragmentary sketch entitled " Devon's Poly- 
 Olbion," a subject perhaps better selected, and 
 more deserving of being followed out to a legiti- 
 mate issue, than any which had then, or has since, 
 been adopted. But it was the revival of the au- 
 thor's antient attachment to the marvels of the 
 Italian School of Romance by the accidental pe- 
 rusal of the " Morgante," which led to the crea- 
 tion of his " Orlando in Roncesvalles," the only 
 poem having any pretension to the character of a 
 whole among his larger productions. It is even 
 probable that this renewal of early taste and habit 
 may have led him still farther, had he not in the 
 mean time learned of Nicolo Fortiguerra to laugh 
 at the wonders of the Pseudo-Turpin's creation, 
 and to bethink himself of placing " Ricciardetto" 
 by the side of his only English precursor in the 
 same style, the renowned Whistlecraft. 
 
 Having said thus much respecting the origin 
 of some of the most considerable of the author's 
 own compositions, a very few words may suffice 
 to render an account of those which are introduced 
 in the character of mere translations. Of this 
 latter division, by far the largest portion, amount- 
 ing to nearly a fourth of the whole collection, is
 
 PREFACE. XI 
 
 that headed as " Translations from the Greek 
 Anthology," although many of the versions so de- 
 signated would be more properly classed under the 
 description of Paraphrase. Most of these pieces, 
 but not all, have already appeared — some in the 
 publication to which the name of the late Rev. 
 Robert Bland is affixed, as the originator of the 
 collection ; others in a separate volume, more re- 
 cently published, together with the compositions 
 of other labourers in the same field. The author 
 has only to allege, in excuse for their present 
 re-publication apart from their companions, that a 
 professed collection of his poetical works would 
 have been manifestly incomplete without them. 
 
 Of the remainder of the space occupied by pro- 
 fessed translations, the most considerable portion 
 is that assigned to the specimens of Dante ; and 
 as these are among the latest of the author's poe- 
 tical productions, he deems it necessary to preface 
 them with the disavowal of any design on his part 
 to place them on a footing- of comparison with 
 either of the very excellent versions of the entire 
 poem, which have been recently presented to the 
 English reader. The object with which they were 
 put together was that of a long contemplated 
 essay in illustration of the Life and Times of the 
 Poet; a work which, when viewed more nearly, 
 it becomes very improbable that, considering the 
 advancing age and public avocations of the author, 
 he will ever have the industry or hardihood to 
 accomplish. The reason of his having preferred
 
 Xll PREFACE. 
 
 the experiment of a new translation rather than 
 the appropriation of either of the previous ones, 
 for the foundation of his labours, was his persua- 
 sion that both are in fault as to the method that 
 ought to be pursued in rendering the sense and 
 spirit of Dante, and not his hope of doing more 
 himself than merely indicate a style worthier of 
 future adoption. He is indeed convinced that 
 the true character of the " Divine Comedy" is 
 essentially at variance with the Miltonic style, 
 according to which it was Mr. Gary's endeavour 
 to render it ; and that, although Mr. Wright has 
 improved on the preceding translator, not only in 
 the superior closeness of his version to the literal 
 sense of the original, but also by his adoption 
 of rhyme, the distinguishing vehicle of Gothic 
 and mediaeval poetry ; yet the division into mea- 
 sured stanzas is equally fatal to the design of 
 transfusing the spirit of that original into the 
 translation. The author of the specimens now 
 offered to the public is, at the same time, so fully 
 sensible of the extreme difficulty of rendering the 
 Terza Rima of Dante by a corresponding measure 
 in English, as greatly to doubt the possibility of 
 • its ever being satisfactorily accomplished by an 
 entire translation. Hayley has indeed wielded 
 this perplexing metre with some dexterity; Byron, 
 with much of his native power; Mr. Roscoe, in 
 his translation of the work of Sismondi on the 
 Literature of the South of Europe, more success- 
 fully, perhaps, than either. But their experiments
 
 PREFACE. Xlll 
 
 only show that it is possible to employ it in ren- 
 dering detached passages, not that the task is easy 
 even on a scale so limited. 
 
 In anticipation of the probable charge of pla- 
 giarism, as applicable to his translations generally, 
 the author would merely remark that he has never 
 permitted himself to be deterred, by the dread of 
 such an imputation, from converting to his own 
 use particular expressions and phrases, or even en- 
 tire lines or paragraphs, of preceding translators, 
 where it has appeared to him that no variation, 
 but for the worse, could be made or attempted. 
 And this is all that he conceives it necessary to 
 adduce in justification of a practice which he is 
 perfectly ready to acknowledge. At the same 
 time, however, he is not conscious to himself of 
 having taken any frequent or extravagant advan- 
 tage of the license which he thus claims. 
 
 To sum up the catalogue of his poetical confes- 
 sions, and at the risk of its being deemed somewhat 
 irrelevant, the author has now to advert to two 
 several instances of adventure in the dramatic de- 
 partment ; neither of them possessing the merit 
 of originality, and, as mere " Rifacciamenti," not 
 considered as entitled to admission into the present 
 collection. The first of these performances, con- 
 sisting- in the endeavour to give the effect of unity 
 to a combination of some of the most striking 
 scenes in the Three Parts of Shakspeare's Henry 
 the Sixth, was printed in the year 1817, with the 
 title of " Richard Duke of York, or the Contention
 
 XIV PREFACE. 
 
 of York and Lancaster," under which it was per- 
 formed for several nights at Drury Lane Theatre, 
 when it was sustained by the brilliant talent and 
 powerful exertions of the late Mr. Kean, to which, 
 far more than to any skill of the compiler, it was 
 indebted for the success it met with. The second 
 may be designated as a somewhat similar attempt 
 to adapt for representation the powerfully appalling 
 incidents, and striking thoughts and expressions, 
 of Massinger's " Unnatural Combat," freed from 
 the monstrous character of the plot, and from the 
 coarseness of language and sentiment which occa- 
 sionally disfigures the composition. This last men- 
 tioned effort was never printed ; nor was it ever 
 brought on the stage, although it was the avowed 
 wish and intention of the same great tragedian to 
 produce it had opportunity offered. That his son, 
 the inheritor of his father's talent, and the esti- 
 mable possessor of advantages of a higher order, 
 which the public always know how to appreciate, 
 even when combined with the dazzling attributes 
 of genius, may, at some future time, be disposed 
 to revive the pretensions of both, or either, of 
 these performances to theatrical representation, 
 is the wish of the author, only so far as, in the 
 opinion of more competent judges, they may be 
 calculated to be successful. 
 
 The author has now reduced into as small a 
 compass as he felt to be requisite his motives for 
 publication, together with the circumstances which 
 led to the composition of his several poems, and
 
 PREFACE. XV 
 
 an avowal of other deeds of the same nature with 
 which he is content to hold himself chargeable. 
 He may indeed, after all, have exposed himself 
 to the risk of censure for needless prolixity. But, 
 should there be among his readers any who, like 
 himself, find a pleasure in becoming familiar with 
 the trains of thought and habits of mind which 
 have led to the composition of even the most tri- 
 fling works of imagination and fancy, he feels 
 that these prefatory remarks will not, in such 
 quarters be esteemed unnecessary or superfluous.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 Page 
 The Minstrel ; or, The Progress of Genius 
 
 Book III 
 
 Book IV ~ 9 
 
 Legends from the " Seven Champions of Christendom :" 
 
 Legend I. St. George and the Dragon 35 
 
 Legend II. St. Denis and the Mulberry Tree 45 
 
 The Abbot of Dol. Parti 54 
 
 The Abbot of Dol. Part II 59 
 
 The Dead Men of Pest 65 
 
 The Wraith 74 
 
 The English Sailor, and the King of Achen's Daughter 80 
 
 The Marshal and the Barber 91 
 
 From " L'Imagination," by the Abbe Delille 97 
 
 From Chatterton's " /Ella" 102 
 
 From Ossian's " Berrathon" 105 
 
 Song— " Morva Rhuddlan" 106 
 
 Devon's Poly-Olbion. The First Song 108 
 
 Early Occasional Verses 129 
 
 Translations from the Greek 166 
 
 From the Greek Anthology : 
 
 Part I. 1806 167 
 
 Part 11.1813 195 
 
 Part III. 1833 219 
 
 Part IV. (not before published) '274 
 
 Fragments of the Elegiac and Gnomic Poets 293 
 
 Greek Poetical Oracles 304 
 
 VOL. I. b
 
 Will CONTENTS. 
 
 Pace 
 
 Fragments of the Greek Comic Poets 307 
 
 Extracts from the Grecian Drama 312 
 
 Miscellaneous Translations : 
 
 The Eighth Satire of Juvenal 322 
 
 The First Elegy of Tibullus 335 
 
 Horace, Book I. Ode 5 339 
 
 Book I. Ode 9 339 
 
 Book II. Ode 3 341 
 
 Book II. Ode 14 342 
 
 Book IV. Ode 7 344 
 
 The Same 345 
 
 Book IV. Ode 13 347 
 
 Various, from the Latin 348 
 
 From the French 353
 
 ADVERTISEMENT, 
 
 TO THE FIRST EDITION. 1808. 
 
 . 
 
 Most of the following verses were composed long 
 ago, while it yet remained uncertain whether Dr. 
 Beattie might not himself have pursued the original 
 design of his poem. At that period, therefore, 
 the author did not entertain the most remote idea 
 of publication ; nor would he have ventured it 
 even now, had not the result of his inquiries on the 
 subject led him to believe that no materials for a 
 continuation of " The Minstrel" have been found 
 among the papers of the deceased. 
 
 The outline of Dr. Beattie's plan is faintly 
 sketched in some one of his letters which have 
 been lately published by his biographer, sir Wil- 
 liam Forbes. The author had partly arranged his 
 own design before this original plan came to his 
 knowledge, and therefore hopes that he may be 
 excused his deviations from it. 
 
 Notwithstanding the encouragement given him 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 by his friends, he is very diffident of success with 
 the public ; he therefore offers his poem in its 
 present unfinished state, not as a pledge for its 
 completion, but that he may find, in the manner 
 of its reception, a touchstone by which to ascertain 
 its real merit, and judge whether it will be expe- 
 dient for him to pursue his design any further, or 
 to relinquish it altogether.
 
 THE MINSTREL 
 
 OR THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS 
 
 (IN CONTINUATION OF BF.ATTIE)
 
 THE 
 
 MINSTREL. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 I. 
 
 Awful the hand of Fate, whose ruthless power 
 With bitterest pangs the human heart can rend; 
 Most awful at that sadly solemn hour. 
 When, o'er the bed of a departing friend. 
 Speechless, in agonizing grief we bend. 
 Observe the quivering lip, the languid eye, 
 And throbbing breast, which the last groans 
 
 distend ; 
 Wipe the cold dew, and catch the parting sigh 
 That wafts the immortal soul into eternity. 
 
 ii. 
 But why o'er dying Virtue do we weep ? 
 Does the free spirit share our life's decay. 
 (Lost in the gloom of everlasting sleep) 
 Or wait the dawning of a better day ?
 
 ( ; THE MINSTREL. 
 
 Tho' fearful be the solitary way 
 From this perplext and feverish mortal clime, 
 Yet, cheer'd by Faith, and Hope's celestial ray, 
 Soon shall our wandering's cease in realms where 
 Time 
 And Chance and Chamre no more shall blast our 
 deathless prime. 
 
 in. 
 Tho' all day long the fast descending rain 
 Have bathed in tears the lovely landscape round, 
 While the sad woods were silent, and the plain 
 No more reechoed every rural sound, 
 The tempest knows its heaven-appointed bound, 
 Sunshine again may cheer the evening's close, 
 And Nature's form be with fresh beauty crown'd ; 
 When the swoln stream that from the mountain 
 flows, 
 Will, with its distant roar, but soothe us to repose. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So I, erewhile whose unavailing woe 
 Deplored the best of friends for ever fled, 
 Now bid those idle sorrows cease to flow, 
 While, by strong Faith to happier regions led, 
 I hold imagined converse with the dead ; 
 And if my brow be sometimes overcast, 
 Or if mine eye a tear unbidden shed, 
 It flows from memory of affections past, 
 Mixt with a sigh for those which shall for ever last.
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 For, tho' a stern philosophy reprove 
 The tender tribute on the grave bestow'd, 
 Whoe'er has felt the sacred flame of love, 
 Whose animated heart has ever glow'd 
 With sense of Nature's charms, or Nature's God, 
 Knows well the soothing power of Melancholy, 
 By whose mild guidance led, the rude abode 
 I pleased forsook of Ignorance and Folly. 
 And consolation found in solitude most holy. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thou too, whose strains my bitter cares allay 'd, 
 First-born of Heaven, celestial Music, hail ! 
 For, well I ween, thy visionary aid 
 Can sweetly soothe, when strength and reason 
 
 fail, 
 The ills that this distracted life assail ; 
 Our miseries can charm, our toils repay; 
 Can guide our progress through the dreary vale, 
 Break with a gleam of light the o'erclouded day. 
 And bid the storms of grief in zephyrs die away. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Guided by thee, thro' woods whose hollow sound 
 Responsive murmur'd to thy plaintive strain, 
 Or 'mid dark-cavern'd rocks with ivy crown'd 
 Where Echo still possess'd her ancient reign.
 
 8 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 Or where the gray stream glided through the 
 
 plain, 
 How oft his steps the young enthusiast bent. 
 To wander free o'er Fancy's airy reign, 
 Or " ruin'd man and virtue lost" lament : 
 For yet no nearer cares his simple heart had rent. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But ah ! too soon the waves of sorrow roll 
 In gloomy turbulence around, and pour 
 Their gather'd forces on his yielding soul. 
 His native vale (abode of joy before) 
 Reechoes to the song of health no more. 
 The pale destruction hovers o'er his sire ; 
 Whose gentle spirit, while it pants to soar, 
 His breast no longer glows with vital fire, 
 His boasted vigour fails, his mental powers expire. 
 
 IX. 
 
 No more, upon the mountain's craggy steep, 
 His flocks bleat, answering the well-known horn ; 
 On the wild cliff that overhangs the deep, 
 No more he hails the glad approach of morn ; 
 No more, as eve on dusky pinions borne, 
 Recalls his fleecy wanderers to their fold. 
 His tender Phce.be welcomes his return, 
 Nor on the hearth the blazing fagots roll'd 
 Drive from his hardy limbs the nipping winter's 
 cold.
 
 BOOK III. 9 
 
 X. 
 
 In vain his Edwin's pious cares relieve 
 By one last gleam of joy his closing day ; 
 In vain his friends around in silence grieve. 
 Moistening with tears of love his senseless clay : 
 But yesternight, in robes of shadowy gray, 
 Moved o'er the heath the slow funereal train 
 (Mark'd by prophetic sight) in long array ; 
 The torch of death glared horrid on the plain. 
 And streaks of bloody red illumed the swelling main. 
 
 XI. 
 
 For when, in days where memory loves to dwell, 
 Dark Superstition o'er the nations spread 
 Her fearful banner, every lonely dell, 
 And glade that human footsteps seldom tread, 
 And pathless heath, and storm-beat mountain's 
 
 head, 
 Became the imagined haunt of witch or sprite, 
 Or peopled by the spectres of the dead 
 Who walk'd the melancholy round of night, 
 Till to their graves dispersed by the fresh morning's 
 light. 
 
 XII. 
 
 E'en now, when Reason, like the lovely dawn, 
 Has chased those strange fantastic dreams away, 
 Far in the bleak ungenial North withdrawn 
 The tyrant holds her solitary sway :
 
 10 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 But ah ! unhappy thou, her destined prey, 
 Whom ardent fancy hurried to the snare ! 
 For thee shall joyless pass the summer day, 
 And, when dark winter hurtles in the air, 
 Thy life shall be a blank of comfortless despair. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 At length when, heated by the wizard fire, 
 The extravagant and erring spirit glows 
 Uncheck'd within ; and baleful fiends inspire 
 (Last curse of Heaven) the sense of future woes ; 
 When every wave that roars and wind that blows 
 Comes charged with prescience of impending fate ; 
 How will thy soul, in agonizing throes, 
 Strive to sbake off the hated gift too late, 
 And sink again, oppress'd with more than mortal 
 weight ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Edwin, whose mind the Hermit's pious lore 
 Hadclear'd from error's stain and thoughts untrue, 
 Yet strong imagination often bore 
 Beyond the limits that his reason drew. 
 How vain the dreams of ignorance he knew, 
 Yet trembled at the voice he scorn'd to fear : 
 His sense revolted from the hideous crew 
 Of phantoms imaged by the gifted seer ; 
 Yet each new portent fell like death upon his ear.
 
 BOOK III. 1! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Beneath an oak whose antique branches shade 
 A bank with moss and fragrant flowers o'ergrown. 
 Low in the earth the hoary sire is laid, 
 The place unmark'd by fence or sculptured stone ; 
 No angels there in polish'd marble moan, 
 Nor pompous epitaph bespeaks his worth ; 
 For such befit the proud and great alone 
 Who boast their hoarded wealth or noble birth, 
 Kings, statesmen, conquerors, and tyrants of the 
 earth. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Not so the shepherd : near the rising ground 
 Where low at peace his mouldering bones were 
 
 laid, 
 A rustic cross was fix'd, and, all around, 
 Fresh flowers were strown, and verdant holly made 
 About the sacred spot a grateful shade. 
 In a lone dell o'ergrown with tangled wood 
 These last sad obsequies his Edwin paid. 
 Where never foot profane had dared intrude, 
 Nor sound of mirth disturb' d the silent solitude. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Thither the melancholy youth would hie, 
 Oft as the sun's last ray illumed the plain, 
 And watch the spot the whole night long, and sigh , 
 Till sank the morning-planet in the main :
 
 12 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 At length his long-forsaken lvre again 
 Becomes the gentle solace of his care ; 
 Again he wakes the sweetly solemn strain, 
 The listening woods again his wild notes bear 
 To the lone echoing hills, and waft along the air. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 "O shades beloved !" (thus flow'd his plaintive 
 
 song) 
 " Where he I weep in vain was wont to stray, 
 When your rude rocks and wizard streams among 
 I with him plied, untired, the toilsome day, 
 Where now is he whose presence cheer'd the way, 
 Whose eyes beam'd gladness o'er the blest abode? 
 That form revered is now unfeeling clay, 
 Silent thattongue whence mild instruction flow'd, 
 And cold the generous breast where love and pity 
 glow'd. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Yet still the immortal spirit lives and moves : 
 Perhaps, beyond this dark terrestrial bourn, 
 Sometimes the memory of departed loves 
 May upward to the heaven of heavens be borne, 
 And guide him to the once beloved sojourn, 
 His favourite haunts, in life so sweet and fair, 
 Where, in the company of those who mourn, 
 Unseen he oft may hover in the air, 
 .Join in the choral hymn, or aid the fervent prayer."
 
 BOOK III. 13 
 
 XX. 
 
 And now sweet sleep his weary eyelids press'd, 
 As stretch'd he lay the flower)- grave beside ; 
 No hideous dreams disturb his balmy rest ; 
 But o'er his head strange music seems to glide, 
 Mix'd with the murmurs of the distant tide ; 
 Such strains as might to heaven itself aspire, 
 Purer than aught to earthly sounds allied, 
 Wild as the breathings of the yEolian lyre, 
 Full as the organ's swell, and loud responsive choir. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Raptured he cast around his wondering sight, 
 And saw, far stretching o'er the Atlantic main, 
 An airy cloud, with silver radiance bright, 
 Which half involved the spangled azure plain : 
 There, clad in robes of mist, a shadowy train 
 Of spirits seem'd their nightly watch to keep ; 
 There stood the honour' d chief, the humble swain, 
 And there the hoary Bard appear'd to sweep 
 His harp, whose solemn notes soft floated o'er the 
 deep. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " O'er him whose fate, O pious youth ! you 
 
 grieve, 
 No longer mourn," aerial voices cried. 
 " That he yet lives, and lives most blest, believe, 
 And that, no more to earthly dross allied.
 
 3 4 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 His pure celestial soul is still thy guide." 
 He gazed, and saw enthroned among the rest 
 His much-loved sire : and now the ocean-tide 
 Was in the morning's loveliest colours drest, 
 And all the vision died into the kindling West. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Edwin awoke. Light, cheerful, and serene, 
 He felt at once from all his woe released, 
 And saw, unclouded, the surrounding scene. 
 Tho' tasteless long Creation's noblest feast, 
 Tho' long the joyous woodland song had ceased, 
 The groves were tuned anew to harmony ; 
 Again the day-star blazing in the East, 
 With no dark vapours clouded, deck'd the sky ; 
 All nature's charms again lay open to his eye. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Oh, could I aught of that celestial flame 
 Acauire, which fired the Faerie Minstrel's breast, 
 How small would be on Fortune's gifts my claim, 
 Of Nature's stores and Nature's love possest ! 
 He whom the Muse has favour'd is most blest : 
 For him the forest spreads a broader shield ; 
 The shades of summer give securer rest ; 
 The beauteous vales a livelier verdure yield ; 
 And purer flows the stream, and fairer smiles the 
 field.
 
 BOOK III. 15 
 
 XXV. 
 
 He envies not the rich imperial board, 
 Or downy couch for pamper'd Luxury spread : 
 The simple feast that woods and fields afford. 
 The canopy of trees, the natural bed 
 Of moss by murmuring- streams perennial fed, 
 In him more genuine heart's content excite : 
 The dazzling rays by brightest diamonds shed 
 Yield to the fairer glories of the night, 
 That circle round his head in order infinite. 
 
 xxvi. 
 
 Such were thy joys, sweet Bard, when stretch'd 
 
 along 
 By Mulla's fountain-head thy limbs reclined. 
 Where Fancy, parent of enchanted song, 
 Pour'd the full tide of Poesy, refined 
 From stain of earthly dross, upon thy mind. 
 Thine was the holy dream when, pure and free, 
 Imagination left the world behind 
 " In that delightful land of Faerie" 
 Alone to wander, rapt in heavenly minstrelsy. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Oh who, so dull of sense, in heart so lost 
 To Nature's charms and every pure delight. 
 Would rather lie, on the wild billows tost 
 Of vain Ambition, with eternal night 
 Surrounded, and obscured his mental sight
 
 16 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 By mists of Avarice, Passion, and Deceit? 
 Not he whose spirit clear, whose genius bright, 
 The Muse has ever led, in converse sweet, 
 Within the hallow'd glades of her divine retreat. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Not Edwin — in whose infant breast, I ween, 
 From childish cares and little passions free, 
 Tho' long in shades retired, unmark'd, unseen, 
 Had blown the fairest flower of Poesy. 
 That lovely promise of a vigorous tree 
 Instructed Genius found : each straggling shoot. 
 He wisely pruned of its wild liberty, 
 Turn'd the rich streams of Science round the root, 
 And view'd with warm delight the fair and grateful 
 fruit. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The animating tales of former days, 
 'Wakening the patriot's warm heroic fire ; 
 The strains of old traditionary praise, 
 That bid the soul to noblest deeds aspire ; 
 All swell'd the raptures of his kindling lyre : 
 His native vales resounded with the song, 
 And rustic bosoms glow'd with new desire 
 To raise the oppress'd, to quell the proud and 
 strong, 
 And in the poet's lays their glorious names prolong.
 
 BOOK III. 17 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Nor chain'd for ever to unbending truth 
 Did Hdwin's active spirit deign to dwell, 
 But oft, transported by the fire of youth, 
 Was borne away to Fancy's aiiy cell. 
 Then would his harp more rapturously swell, 
 And all that's great, or beautiful, or wild 
 Awake his soul to joys that none can tell 
 But he on whom the power of Song has smiled, 
 Nature's inspired priest,' Imagination's child. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Oft, at the close of eve, assembled round 
 The youthful minstrel village groups were seen, 
 Regardless of the distant tabor's sound 
 And peals of noisy mirth that burst between ; 
 While, in some glen remote or shelter'd green, 
 He sang the strains his brethren loved to hear ; 
 Full to their view he brought each fabled scene 
 Of war or peace, the banquet or the bier, 
 And hardy deeds of arms, and sorceries dark and 
 drear : 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Of Fingal, victor in the bloody field 
 O'er prostrate tribes of Erin's faithless coast ; 
 Or dreadful blazing with his sun-like shield, 
 An angry meteor thro' the affrighted host ; 
 Or, half beheld and half in shadows lost, 
 Sailing in mist above the towering head 
 vol. :. c
 
 18 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 Of some gigantic hill with clouds emboss'd, 
 Encircled by the spirits of the dead, 
 Who walk the moonlight maze, or in the tempest 
 tread : 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Of Morn a, looking for her lord's return, 
 Her lovely hunter, who returns no more ; 
 Of Loda's vengeful spirit, dark and stern, 
 Haunting the wizard rocks of Inistore : 
 But Edwin's soul was never known to pour 
 So sweet, so sadly musical, a strain, 
 As when, deep pondering on the deeds of yore, 
 He seem'd with mournful Ossian to complain, 
 The last of all his race, alone on Morven's plain. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 By Fancy's sweet but strong attraction caught, 
 The swains delighted hung upon his lays ; 
 Nor ceased to listen when their Edwin taught 
 With graver minstrelsy the wondrous ways 
 Of Nature, or ascended to the praise 
 Of that Almighty Power who sits on high, 
 Who mark'd the eternal course of circling days, 
 Who made, from nothing, Man, and fix'd his eye 
 Full on the empyreal heaven, and bad him read 
 the sky. 
 
 xxxv. 
 Yet not at once could Edwin's mystic lore 
 Complete the wonders by his lays begun :
 
 HOOK III. 19 
 
 " What could the Muse herself that Orpheus 
 
 bore, 
 The Muse herself for her enchanted son ?" 
 Not till maturing- years had slowly run 
 Their destined course, coeeval with the strain, 
 Could the whole animating task be done. 
 Then universal music fill'd the plain, 
 While listening oaks and rocks obey'd the mighty 
 swain. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 
 And now the " subtle thief of youth" has borne 
 Whole years of life away on silent wing, 
 Mingling the riper grace by summer worn 
 With the fair bloom of Edwin 's vigorous sprin<>\ 
 Now o'er his tuneful harp's responsive string 
 With nervous firmness sweeps his manly hand ; 
 Years o'er his cheek their mellowing shadows 
 
 fling; 
 His modest grandeur and demeanor bland 
 Bespeak him form'd alike for love and high com- 
 mand. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Unpractised in the chase, untaught to know 
 The rustic sports his fellow-swains pursued, 
 His powerful arm ne'er bent the twanging bow, 
 Nor dipp'd the knotty spear in savage blood ; 
 His dextrous feet stemm'd not the eddying flood, 
 Nor scaled the lofty precipice whene'er 
 The echoing horn from distant glen or wood
 
 20 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 Call'd round the wandering- huntsmen to the lair 
 Where lay some noble beast unconscious of the 
 
 snare. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Yet was his frame to early toil enured, 
 His noble soul in fears and dangers tried ; 
 Hunger, and thirst, and watchings, he endured, 
 The fearful turbulence of storms defied ; 
 And, as advancing manhood's lofty pride 
 Mark'd with determined lines his sun-burnt face, 
 His sinewy limbs, firm grasp, and active stride, 
 Raised him, in deeds of strength and matchless 
 grace, 
 Above his rude compeers, the heroes of the chase. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Nor yet, tho' Edwin's noble spirit glow'd, 
 With every generous wish and feeling fraught, 
 Had Hope survey'd Ambition's wider road, 
 Or love of fame his young idea caught. 
 Still home was ever nearest to his thought, 
 His native mountains, his paternal shed : 
 Or, worlds untried if fancy ever sought, 
 His sage instructor's words again he read, 
 ' ' Ambition's slippery verge oh why should mortals 
 tread ?" 
 
 XL. 
 
 And tho' for love his warm and feeling breast 
 Full surely was by Heaven itself design'd,
 
 BOOK III. 21 
 
 That heavenly love, the noblest and the best, 
 That seeks the union of a kindred mind ; 
 The fairest virgin yet had fail'd to bind 
 His gentle soul, or amorous thoughts impart. 
 Constant in friendship, generous, just, and kind, 
 With him who sought, he shared a brother's part, 
 But still preserved untouch'd the freedom of his 
 heart. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Soothed by the magic of his earliest song, 
 The infant Malcolm had his steps pursued, 
 Oft as by haunted springs he lay along, 
 Or in the deep recesses of the wood ; 
 And, ever as the sun his course renew'd, 
 Closer and closer still the knot he drew, 
 Alike the sharer of each various mood 
 When the whole world assumed its gayest hue, 
 Or her dark veil o'er all black Melancholy threw. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Yet many a moment of the live-long day 
 (But chief what time descend the evening dews) 
 Nor village converse, nor the pleasing lay 
 Of his loved friend, could aught of joy diffuse : 
 Oft at that solemn hour would Edwin choose, 
 All lonely, to the sea-beat shore to go, 
 Holding celestial converse with the Muse, 
 Who to her genuine sons alone will show 
 The ways of Heaven above, the path of life below.
 
 22 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 'Twas on a night most suited to his soul, 
 Silent and dark, save when the moon appear'd 
 Thro' shadowy clouds at intervals to roll, 
 And half the scene with partial lustre clear'd ; 
 Save that the stillness of the air was cheer'd 
 By waters pouring- from the heights above; 
 Save that by fits the ocean's voice was heard, 
 With sudden gusts of wind thatstirr'd the grove, 
 And rose and fell again like tender sighs of love. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Soothed by the scene, he traced the straggling 
 
 course 
 Of a small stream, which, from the distant steep 
 Of hills descending, pour'd its rocky force, 
 With many an eddying whirl and foamy leap, 
 Through a dark narrow valley, to the deep. 
 Shunn'd was the dell by every earthly wight, 
 Where ghosts and wicked elves were said to keep : 
 True 'twas a haunted spot; for Edwin's sprite 
 Oft loved to linger there, and there the Muse invite. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 But wider did this gloomy vale expand, 
 As nearer roar'd the ocean's awful sound ; 
 Till, sudden opening on the sea- beat strand, 
 The unbounded main appear'd; and, wide around, 
 An amphitheatre of granite, crown'd
 
 BOOK III. 23 
 
 With mountains piled on mountains to the sky. 
 And now the moon had reach'd her western bound, 
 When the long - shades extending* from on high 
 Veil'd half the face of things in deep obscurity. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 A feeble ray, still rescued from the dark, 
 The furthest eastern billows glimmer'd o'er, 
 Illumining a distant bounding bark, 
 That drove with swelling sails the wind before : 
 The Minstrel mark'd the course that vessel bore, 
 And watch'd, until the breeze had shaped its way 
 To where, beyond a northern point, the shore 
 Narrow'd into a safe and quiet bay, 
 Hard by the woody glen in which the hamlet lay. 
 
 xlvii. 
 
 That distant point the Minstrel also gain'd 
 As night withdrew her veil of sable lawn ; 
 Just when the sky with earliest light was stain'd. 
 And ocean's distant outline faintly drawn 
 By the uncertain penoil of the dawn. 
 And now the vessel safely moor'd he view'd, 
 And, at a distance from the shore withdrawn, 
 Two men of warlike port, and aspect rude, 
 Who lay apart reclined in sad and thoughtful mood. 
 
 XLV1II. 
 
 The warlike helmet shadow'd o'er each face, 
 Frowning with sable plumes in gloomy pride ; 
 The spear, alike for battle and the chase
 
 24 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 Before them lay ; and naked at their side 
 The broad claymore with leathern thongs was tied ; 
 Thro' the thick cloak that wrapp'd their limbs 
 
 in shade, 
 The burnish'd cuirass, which it seem'd to hide 
 In its capacious folds, was half display 'd, 
 Mark'd with the deep indent of many a hostile blade. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Fired with the sudden sight, so new and strange, 
 A momentary flash of glad surprise 
 Kindled in Edwin's cheeks a glowing change : 
 Onward he press'd, and ever fix'd his eyes 
 On one, the first in noble port and size, 
 Of the mysterious strangers ; and, as near 
 His footsteps drew, he saw the warrior rise, 
 As if the approaching sound had struck his ear — 
 But Edwin's generous soul was ignorant of fear. 
 
 L. 
 
 Stern was the warrior's brow — his eye of fire 
 Temper'd by Melancholy's chastening hand ; 
 His looks at once might awe and love inspire, 
 Inexorably firm, sublimely grand, 
 Yet mingling soft persuasion with command ; 
 Furrow'd his front with sorrows, toils and cares, 
 Like some lone exile's in an unknown land ; 
 His grisly beard and thinly scatter'd hairs 
 Proclaim'd himsomewhatsunk into the vale of years.
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 25 
 
 LI. 
 
 " Peasant," he said, " if aught of human woes 
 " E'er melt the natives of this lonely place, 
 " Here let our tempest-beaten bark repose 
 " From Fate's unpitying storms a little space! 
 " Used are we to hard fare — the perilous chase 
 " Hath yielded, day and night, our doubtful food : 
 " Tho' from the South we come, our hardy race 
 " Can boast the untainted channel of their blood, 
 " Flowing from sire to son in no degenerate flood. 
 
 LII. 
 
 " Nor had we wander'd from our quiet home, 
 " The much-loved hamlet where our fathers lie ; 
 " But fell Ambition, ever wont to roam, 
 " Left her own fruitful plains and sunny sky 
 " To rob us of our cherish'd liberty. 
 " Detested king! what mighty prize is thine, 
 " That haughty England lifts her head so high ? 
 " A barren rock encircled by the brine, 
 " Stain'd with the streaming blood of thousands 
 " of thy line. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 " But while I speak, perchance my life is sold, 
 " And EDWARD'sspieshangeagero'ertheirprey; 
 " Perchance my narrow sum of days is told, 
 " And night already closes round my way. 
 " If thus, I am prepared, nor wish to stay 
 " The heavy hand of death, however near.
 
 26 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 " Are then these deserts free, O stranger, say ? 
 'Twill gild with joy my parting hour to hear 
 ' That yet a Scot survives unawed by Edward's 
 " spear," 
 
 LIV. 
 
 ' Yet free," the youth replied, "from blood and 
 
 "crimes, 
 " From the rude tyranny of foreign powers, 
 " And ' all the misery of these iron times,' 
 " Our peaceful shepherds pass their harmless 
 
 " hours ; 
 "Nor battle rages, nor the sword devours : 
 " Not e'en the distant sound of war's alarms 
 " Has ever reach 'd these calm sequester'd bowers; 
 " But the old Minstrel's song of knights and arms 
 " Seems like some fairy-tale that by its wonders 
 " charms. 
 
 LV. 
 
 " The constant practice of the chase affords 
 " A feeble mimicry of war alone ; 
 " And to our rudely taught but free-born hordes 
 " The Name of Liberty is scarcely known, 
 " Altho' her real Substance is our own. 
 " Yet, strong and zealous to defend our right, 
 " If tyrant- force in our loved vale were shown, 
 ' Soon should we, equal to the best in fight, 
 " Assert fair Freedom's cause, and prove our native 
 might.
 
 BOOK III. 27 
 
 LVI. 
 
 " But tho' from our rude mountain's rocky side 
 " The blast of distant war rolls off unheard, 
 " Yet are we not to savage beasts allied, 
 " Nor slow to pity woes we never fear'd : 
 " All human-kind is to our souls endear'd ; 
 " The wretched to our special care belong-: 
 " But, most of all, if their bold arms they rear'd 
 "In Virtue's cause against tyrannic wrong, 
 " Still unsubdued in soul, unconquerably strong." 
 
 LV1I. 
 
 The warrior-chief on Edwin while he spoke 
 Fix'd his firm eye, and long deep-musing sate ; 
 Then, rising, thus the awful silence broke : 
 " Youth, I accept thy love, thy guidance wait; 
 " Enough for me, if Edward's lawless hate 
 " Hath left this little nook of Scotland free. 
 " Enough for thee, that I'm the sport of Fate, 
 " Driven from my home, a wanderer on the sea, 
 " And all for ardent love of sacred Liberty !"
 
 THE 
 
 MINSTREL. 
 
 BOOK IV.* 
 
 I. 
 
 Farewell the oaten pipe and pastoral song - , 
 The vocal woodland, the resounding shore ! 
 In the delightful vale of peace too long 
 The muse hath linger'd, destined to explore 
 Far other scenes, and bolder heights to soar. 
 How soon, with weary pilgrimage o'erspent, 
 She may retrace her early haunts once more, 
 I stay not to discover — lowly bent 
 With my best powers to serve her sovereign intent. 
 
 ii. 
 Of arms and loves, gay youth and warlike pride, 
 Of courteous deeds, of tilts and trophies hung, 
 Those ancient bards who Fancy made their guide 
 In sage and solemn minstrelsy have sung. 
 Them now I follow, and with faltering tongue 
 Would tune anew the rude poetic lays 
 Wherewith old Scotia's mountains whilom rung, 
 
 * Not before published, having been left unfinished.
 
 30 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 When hoary chiefs sat listening to the praise 
 Of their own mighty deeds, achiev'd in earlier days. 
 
 in. 
 
 Oh would the genius of that hallow'd time 
 But deign to smile on this degenerate day, 
 And animate my all too feeble rhyme, 
 More boldly would I speed the soaring lay, 
 And cast distrust and chilling doubt away. 
 So may the love of sacred Liberty 
 Direct my rude and perilous essay, 
 And set my soul from servile fetters free, 
 Curbing the native flight of Heaven-born Poesy ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thrice had the moon decay'd, and thrice renew'd 
 Her horn, while yet those wandering strangers 
 
 stay'd, 
 Charm'd with the simple life the swains pursued. 
 And the rude virtues of that sylvan glade. 
 Oft in the chase their vigorous frames display'd 
 All knightly gests of valour, strength and speed ; 
 And oft at eve their friendly hosts they paid 
 With kindling tales of many a generous deed, 
 Of fierce invaders quell'd, and Caledonia freed. 
 
 v. 
 
 The rustic herd, whose lives in thoughtless ease 
 And toil alternate, unregarded flow,
 
 BOOK IV. 31 
 
 Listen'd the unwonted strains, which idly please, 
 Like children wondering at some passing shew ; 
 But more they neither guess, nor wish to know. 
 Not so the minstrel, in whose nobler breast 
 Swell new desires, and unknown passions glow. 
 Whose soul no pleasure knows, whose frame no 
 rest, 
 Rapt ever in himself, of his own thoughts possest. 
 
 VI. 
 
 To his enchanted senses now no more 
 The changing scenes of nature yield delight. 
 And every charm, so exquisite before. 
 Dies unobserved upon his vacant sight : 
 Lost to all joy, save when the solemn night 
 Holds o'er a peaceful world unbroken sway ; 
 Then oft in converse with that elder knight. 
 Free and regardless, would he while away 
 The swiftly passing hours, and chide returning day. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And mutual was the charm that bound each soul . 
 If from the warrior's tongue persuasion flow, 
 If, while he speaks, his eyes indignant roll 
 In virtuous transport, or dissolve in woe, 
 No less in Edwin's beaming face, where glow 
 His heart's best energies, pure, lofty, free, 
 Rekindling hopes engender'd long ago, 
 The Chief might still some fleeting vision see 
 Of happier days to come, and rescued Liberty.
 
 32 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The fate of Wallace, Scotia's pride and boast, 
 The daring champion of her injured right, 
 Who stemm'd the tide of Edward's conquering 
 
 host, 
 Proving in Freedom's cause his native might, 
 Became the sacred theme of every night : 
 The tale, tho' oft repeated, never tired ; 
 While thro' the toils of many a glorious fight, 
 Edwin, with all a patriot's zeal inspired, 
 Track'd his bright course, and burn'd to be what 
 
 he admired. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But soon the tale inclined to sadder mood, 
 Painting the Hero of his country, lost 
 Among dark glens, and rocks, and caverns rude, 
 Or on wild seas in some frail pinnace tost, 
 Or naked thrown on some deserted coast, 
 Abandon'd by his friends, alone, forlorn, 
 Each fondly cherish'd hope by Fortune crost, 
 His memory proscribed, his honours shorn, 
 And his loved native land condemn'd in blood to 
 mourn. 
 
 x. 
 
 How in his castle, like a faded rose, 
 Dissolved in tears his lovely Margaret lay, 
 In tears fast flowing for her country's woes,
 
 BOOK IV. 33 
 
 And for an exiled Father far away ; 
 While, like some vulture, hovering o'er his prey. 
 With dusky wings darkening the troubled air, 
 Black Douglas bade his ruthless bands display 
 The sanguine flag, and seize the struggling fair, 
 Unmoved by Beauty's charms, and deaf to maiden 
 prayer. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 34 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 Whoso with patient and enquiring mind 
 Would seek the stream of science to ascend, 
 Must count the cost, and never hope to find 
 Rest to his feet, or to his wanderings end. 
 The faithless road doth ever onward tend, 
 And clouds and darkness are its utmost bound : 
 The sacred fount no human eye hath kenn'd, 
 Though many a wight, beguiled by sight or sound, 
 " Evp^ra! " may exclaim ; " I — I the place have 
 found." 
 
 And, sooth to tell, it is a pleasant way 
 Through sweet variety of lawn and wood, 
 Mountain and vale, green pasture, forest gray, 
 And peopled town, and silent solitude ; 
 And many a point, at distance dimly view'd, 
 For idle loiterers an unmeasured height, 
 By persevering energy subdued, 
 Rewards the bold adventurer with a sight 
 Of undiscover'd worlds — vast regions of delight.
 
 LEGENDS 
 
 FROM THE " SEVEN CHAMPIONS OF CHRISTENDOM." 
 
 LEGEND I. 
 
 ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 
 
 Now was the season when the gorgeous sun 
 Had doff'd his dark December liverie, 
 And o'er the waving plain and dimpled sea 
 With renovated light resplendent shone. 
 All nature felt his ray, and, rich with showers, 
 Glad in her lap received the opening flowers 
 That Maia strew'd about unsparingly, 
 While thro' the green groves tripp'd it merrily, 
 All fresh with vernal dews the rosy bosom'd hours. 
 
 From the high rock and mossy forest soar 
 To thank their sovereign sun the tuneful birds, 
 And basking in his beams, the lowing herds 
 Lie on the bank beside the rivulet hoar ; 
 Thro' chequer'd woods, to meet the rising morn. 
 Springs the rejoicing lark from every thorn, 
 And sober evening hears the melody
 
 36 LEGEND I. 
 
 Of Philomel in many a lonely tree, 
 That to high Heaven by echo is for ever borne. 
 
 So nature smiled, as o'er the flowery road, 
 And down the mountain's wild romantic side, 
 And by the banks of wandering rivers wide, 
 And through deep woods, by human feet untrod, 
 An English knight his devious path pursued : 
 While the soft season, in his soul renew'd 
 Sweet fairy visions, and delicious dreams 
 Of friends and country left, bright Phoebus' beams 
 Pour'd down their noontide heat upon the sparkling 
 flood. 
 
 Like the mild evening of a summer's day 
 Is the remembrance of enjoyment past : 
 The sun is set, but o'er the vale is cast 
 A softer light from his reflected ray. 
 No dazzling radiance strikes the senses blind. 
 No fiery heat fatigues the raptured mind ; 
 But calm the spirit as the unruffled sea, 
 Concordant as seraphic harmony, 
 Pure as the soul that longs its native Heaven to find. 
 
 -&• 
 
 Enjoyment palls ; imagination fades ; 
 But memory's pleasures never melt away, 
 And hope's delusive power with stronger sway 
 Our actions rules, and eveiy sense pervades. 
 'Tis like the rising morn, whose cheerful smile 
 Exalts our souls, and animates our toil.
 
 ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 37 
 
 What though in misty shrouds the landscape lies, 
 Creative fancy every scene supplies, 
 Spreads the bright grassy slope, or shapes the sha 
 dowy isle. 
 
 'Twas smiling hope that led that errant knight 
 Thro' Egypt's perilous wilds and burning sands, 
 To seek the mead of fame in distant lands, 
 Honour's best solace, and supreme delight. 
 'Twas hope advanced him thro' the rugged road, 
 By many a trial won, to fame's abode. 
 'Twas heavenly hope exalted o'er the throng. 
 To shine on high, the blessed souls among, 
 Saint George — of Britain's weal the tutelary God. 
 
 When Phoebus now hadreach'd his western goal, 
 And lengthen'd shades obscured the dubious way. 
 Fled from the wanderer's mind those visions gay. 
 Behind, the last ray glimmer'd from the pole ; 
 Before him frown'd an unfrequented wood, 
 Whereto his steed uncurb'd its way pursued. 
 Thick was the wood, and as they journey 'd on, 
 Deeper and deeper sank the setting sun, 
 Whilst darker grew the shades, and desart longer 
 shew'd. 
 
 And to this day the knight might still have trod 
 The many mazes of that endless wood, 
 Whilst issuing from old Nilus' slimy flood, 
 Fierce Alligators scream'd along the road,
 
 38 LEGEND I. 
 
 And serpents hiss'd, in every thicket found, 
 And Lions roar'd, and Tigers growl'd around. 
 Such concert for the Champion was prepared, 
 When, thro' the blackening' shades as on he fared, 
 A taper's friendly light shot gleaming o'er the 
 ground. 
 
 Fortune, in truth, had led him to a place 
 Where stood the only mansion of the soil. 
 There, far removed from worldly care and toil, 
 A hermit stay'd, to end his mortal race. 
 Tho' ten long years the sire had ne'er survey'd 
 The face of man who thro' these desarts stray 'd, 
 Not with less courtesy he received the knight, 
 Refresh'd with food, and lodged him for the night, 
 And with the morning's dawn, to his lost road con- 
 vey 'd. 
 
 Midst other converse — " Underneath yon hill," 
 The old man said, while tears of pity roll'd, 
 " Each year some fair Egyptian maid is sold 
 A hellish serpent's ravenous maw to fill. 
 This savage monster, fifty years ago, 
 Fill'd Egypt's far-extended land with woe, 
 Her harvests blasted, and her sons destroy'd, 
 Till at the last, with spoil and slaughter cloy'd, 
 An annual tribute now will satisfy the foe. 
 
 " So to avert his all-destroying spite, 
 They choose a virgin every year by lot,
 
 ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 39 
 
 Whom bound they leave a victim on the spot, 
 Sad victim to his ravenous appetite. 
 This very day the Soldan's daughter dies, 
 Ah how unfit to be the monster's prize ! 
 And twenty youths, the lovely maid to save, 
 Have in this desart met an early grave, 
 Scorch'd by his sulphurous breath, or blasted by 
 his eyes." 
 
 " O chosen band !" the admiring champion 
 
 cried, 
 " Let me pursue your path to deathless fame ! 
 Here for myself the bold emprize I claim, 
 And swear to save, or perish by her side." 
 The hoary sage commends his generous zeal, 
 Blesses his hauberk's mail and gloves of steel, 
 Directs his course, then leaves with tear-swolu 
 
 eyes. 
 The champion, as the sun made sign to rise, 
 Came where the dragon waits, alone, his annual 
 meal. 
 
 Red rose the sun above the eastern hill, 
 Mantled in mist, and thro' the troubled air 
 Burst the wild shrieks of horror and despair, 
 That with unwonted awe his bosom fill. 
 Bound to yon stone what sculptured form ap- 
 pears ? 
 Down her pale cheek descend no dewy tears, 
 No sighs her bare and marble bosom move,
 
 40 LEGEND I. 
 
 Closed are her lips, for pleasure form'd, and love, 
 No sight her dimmed eyes receive, no sound her ears. 
 
 To the cold statue as the knight drew nigh, 
 Feebly she raised her languid lids, and cried, 
 (Till on her lips the unfinish'd accents died,) 
 " Fly, daring youth, from luckless Sabra fly !" 
 — " No, by the God whose holy badge I bear, 
 No, by the King whose knightly sword I wear; 
 None e'er shall English George a caitiff call, 
 Who vows for thee to conquer or to fall." 
 — He knelt, and on his forehead seal'd the oath he 
 sware. 
 
 " For thee, bright Virgin, to this fated place 
 I came, nor, without thee, will hence depart : 
 Here will I leave a spotless Christian's heart, 
 Or rend the monster's from its ebon case. 
 Give then thine hand, fair saint! thy Knight 
 
 In 
 . 
 
 She gave her hand ; when lo ! before her eye 
 Appear the scaly Monster's sinewy folds : 
 Again she strives to loose the hand he holds ; 
 " Fly, generous youth," she cried, " from luckless 
 Sabra fly !" 
 
 The Monster now, in many a tortuous spire, 
 Drags his green length of tail along the sand — 
 (Firm stays the knight, nor quits the Virgin's 
 hand.)
 
 ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. -41 
 
 Flash his red eye-balls, and his nostrils fire — 
 (The Briton bears unmoved his ghastly gaze.) 
 And now his burnish'd scales erected blaze ; 
 His iron wings he spreads; and o'er the ground 
 His shadow spreads ten cubits' space around ; 
 (Saint George his lance protends, and his broad 
 shield displays.) 
 
 Sabra no more resists, no more dissuades, 
 No more her eyes their speaking lustres dart 
 To tear the fateful purpose from his heart, 
 But grateful agony each look pervades. 
 Oh with what throbs her heaving bosom beats, 
 As the stout lance the scaly dragon meets ! 
 What horror stiffens every joint again, 
 Chains every nerve, and freezes every vein, 
 When shiver'd on the sand, the Knight unarm'd 
 retreats ! 
 
 Loud yell'd the monster, and his sulphurous 
 
 breath 
 Fill'd with intolerable stench the air. 
 The hot contagion can no mortal bear, 
 But parch'd and wither'd, sinks in putrid death. 
 The flowers are blasted on the smoking ground, 
 The leaves drop blacken'd from the woods 
 
 around ; 
 Stiff in the. tainted pools the fishes die ; 
 In spiral paths the birds above them fly, 
 In lessening circles whirl'd, till life and sense are 
 
 drown'd.
 
 42 LEGEND I. 
 
 What pitying power has George and Sabra spared ? 
 Ah happy pair ! to you shall yet be given 
 Long- hours of solace by indulgent Heaven. 
 Yet scarce the fainting knight to breathe was 
 
 heard, 
 As motionless on his dead horse he lay : 
 Onward the monster roll'd his destined way, 
 His griping talon on his shoulder laid, 
 All the black horrors of his throat display 'd, 
 And pour'd the burning venom on his hapless prey. 
 
 The deadly stream descended on his vest, 
 Where the red cross the pious Champion bore, 
 Dear symbol of his faith. Deadly no more, 
 The life-restoring poison fill'd his breast. 
 O miracle of Grace ! the Knight, restored, 
 Leap'd lightly from the ground, and seized his 
 
 sword ; 
 On the fell fury rush'd with ardent zeal — 
 The gaping throat received his trusty steel, 
 And the black heart's blood, mix'd with baleful ve- 
 nom, pour'd. 
 
 " Rise, Sabra ! thou art saved — the dragon dies." 
 Alas ! she answers not — her limbs are cold — 
 Dim mists have closed her eyes — her breath 
 
 enfold. 
 Again the knight exclaims, " Rise, Lady, rise ! " 
 At length like healing balm his accents flow ; 
 Again the life blood mounts, the spirits glow ;
 
 ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 43 
 
 While, on his soft supporting arm reclined, 
 Fann'd by his casque, the brisk refreshing- wind 
 Bids on her death-cold cheek returning 1 roses blow. 
 
 Now on that cheek, where late the pallid hue 
 Unmix'd appear'd of hopeless cold despair, 
 Warm blushes rise, as from his ivory fair 
 Pygmalion's passion warmth and feeling drew. 
 The statue warms — and in the virgin's breast 
 Joy, gratitude, and wonder shine confest. 
 As on the youth who saved her gleam her eyes, 
 With gratitude, and pleasure, and surprise, 
 If love too enters, comes he a forbidden guest ? 
 
 But if the maid such various passions move, 
 On the blest victor's heart what rapture steals, 
 As every moment some new charm reveals, 
 And her eyes sparkle with the flames of love ? 
 Lingering and silent they together trace 
 Their path towards the Hermit's holy place : 
 Expressive silence ! — words had less display M 
 The awaken'd fervours of that grateful maid 
 Than did her speaking eyes and love illumined face. 
 
 Now hast thou loiter'd long enough, my muse! 
 Suffice it then, they love ; nor stop to say 
 How joyful was the hermit to survey 
 His late lost guest alive, and hear the news 
 Of that foul dragon stretch'd along the shore, 
 Now terror of Egyptian dames no more ;
 
 44 LEGEND I. 
 
 Nor what his hut contain'd, to drink and eat : 
 We know he was not sparing of his meat, 
 And that his mule at length the rescued princess bore. 
 
 And so for Cairo ! — On the banks of Nile 
 I see the amorous pair pursue their way ; 
 Bright Sabra, lovely as the dawn of day, 
 Slow pacing on her mule ; and, all the while, 
 The British knight, attendant at her side, 
 Along the shore the sluggish palfrey guide, 
 In silence gazing on its beauteous load ; 
 Or, to beguile the long, though happy, road, 
 Of knightly deeds converse, and countries distant 
 wide. 
 
 Here rest, my Hippogryff, some little space — 
 And time, perchance, thy wanderings here were 
 
 ended ; 
 From dreamy realms of Faery- land descended, 
 111 may'st thou hope to find reward or grace 
 Mid sober sons of sage utility, 
 Who ne'er to fancy bent the stubborn knee, 
 Or own'd the soul-subduing power of song. 
 Then rest awhile — yet not to tarry long, 
 Ere Egypt's sands are changed forverdant Thessaly.
 
 ST. DENIS AND THE MULBERRY TREE. 45 
 
 LEGEND II. 
 
 ST. DENIS AND THE MULBERRY TREE. 
 
 From Nile's hot regions, by the viewless gale 
 Of warm imagination borne along, 
 And the resistless power of wizard song, 
 Turn, gentle muse ! to Tempe's flowery vale — 
 Delicious Tempe — where the Thracian bard 
 Of old amid the echoing caves was heard 
 By stones and trees, that, waken'd by his lyre, 
 Felt the soft breathings of poetic fire, 
 And, bounding to the strain, their new-born joys 
 declared. 
 
 Yet not of Greece or Rome's enchanting lore, 
 The Mantuan flute or Syracusan reed — 
 More barbarous times — an iron age — succeed, 
 And darken all the Muses' favour'd shore. 
 Not now of swains who, with alternate song, 
 Bad Phoebus linger, whilst his journey long 
 He sought to finish at his western gate ; 
 While Nymphs applauded, and in rustic state 
 Time-honour'd judges sat the rival bards among. 
 
 Still rugged OZta lifts his cloudy head, 
 And high Olympus with eternal snows ; 
 Still through his valleys pure Enipeus flows,
 
 46 LEGEND II. 
 
 And their old woods o'er Haemus' cliffs are 
 
 spread : 
 But Love and Music there no longer dwell ; 
 Foul monsters lurk in every savage dell ; 
 The clank of arms the sovereign wood-nymphs 
 
 frights ; 
 Wild Faunssit tremblingon their ancient heights, 
 No more secure, and Pan has left his royal cell. 
 
 Oh yet revisit thy once loved domain, i 
 
 Immortal Muse ! and tune the Gothic lyre, 
 And with the breath of wild romance inspire 
 The shores once echoing to a classic strain. 
 Not inharmonious through the pastoral shade 
 Where Thyrsis erst, and Melibceus play'd, 
 Shall sound thelayof arms, andsteed, and knight, 
 (Fancy's creation) nor without delight 
 Oh let me in the lap of Faerie be laid ! 
 
 For who, to please a cold, fastidious age, 
 Would lop each wilding shoot that nature gave, 
 Banish the clowns that dig Ophelia's grave, 
 Or chase Lear's simple follower from the stage ? 
 Shall yonder tower be of its ivy spoil'd, 
 Or brushwood from the cavern's mouth exiled ? 
 Tasteless Reformer ! — thy "sublime" and " fair" 
 May form a thesis for the pedant's chair ; 
 But thee the Muse ne'er loved, nor Fancy call'd 
 her child.
 
 ST. DENIS AND THE MULBERRY TREE. 47 
 
 To me more dear are Nature's strangest forms, 
 The rudest structures of the Poet's hand, 
 Than palaces with art Palladian plann'd, 
 Though placed secure from reach of Critic storms. 
 I hail the giant oak's fantastic boughs, 
 The huge misshapen mountain's shaggy brows ; 
 Nor less the wanton windings of the brook, 
 The streams that gush from every wayward nook, 
 And, roaring through the vale, far mountain echoes 
 rouse. 
 
 But chiefly you, great masters of the lyre ! 
 Who struck as nature moved, as fancy reign'd ; 
 Whom no cold rules of modern art restrain'd 
 But the great Muse herself exalted higher. 
 For one bright hue from Shakspeare's magic 
 
 loom, 
 For one stray feather cast from Spenser's plume, 
 Say, would I not each courtlier grace resign ? 
 — Immortal Muse ! Then never more be mine 
 Enjoyment's rapturous trance, or Awe's ecstatic 
 
 gloom ! 
 
 'Twas thus, beneath a hawthorn's snowy bower 
 
 Reclining laid, lull'd by the ceaseless noise 
 
 Of summer flies, I dream'd of former joys, 
 
 And felt again the soft poetic power, 
 
 Long absent ; for below the open sky, 
 
 She dwells, and shuns the confined paths where I
 
 48 LEGEND II. 
 
 Must the sweet season spend, until the days 
 Slow rolling bring me back where Isca strays 
 Thro' my loved native fields, land of my minstrelsy. 
 
 Nor Isca only wakes my slumbering lyre, 
 Ah no ! Love strung it on the banks of Thames : 
 Her image mingles with the noon-tide flames, 
 Whose morning smiles engender'd first the fire. 
 Hers is the spell that sped my tuneful vein ; 
 And of her beauties and my love I feign 
 Would only sing; but the great Muse denies : 
 Yet, — wilt thou take the unworthy sacrifice ? 
 To thee and Richmond will I dedicate my strain. 
 
 Again from Thames to old Enipeus borne 
 In Fancy's airy barque, I see a knight 
 Thro' the deep valley ride in armour bright : 
 The fleurs de lys his azure coat adorn ; 
 From his proud helm three waving feathers fall ; 
 The white cross glitters on his velvet pall : 
 His courteous airs a noble race bespeak ; 
 By his sweet tongue ye might have deem'd him 
 Greek ; 
 But his embroider'd arms bespeak a knight of Gaul. 
 
 And who is he, the youth so fresh and fair, 
 With sparkling crest and dancing plumage gay? 
 And on what bold adventure does he stray 
 So far from his loved Seine's maternal care ? 
 To exalt in distant regions Gallia's fame,
 
 ST. DENIS AND THE MULBERRY TREE. 49 
 
 And spread Religion's empery his aim, 
 Long had he lain enslaved to Grammarye ; 
 And now but late from Khalyb's spells set free 
 By Britain's Champion bold; and Denis is his name. 
 
 Ah why has Beauty so confined a date ? 
 Why bow the brave to Time's all-conquering 
 
 power ? 
 The violet droops beneath the thunder shower, 
 And lightning rends the Oak's majestic state. 
 So mighty man to Time and Chance must yield ; 
 A stranger doom, by history unreveal'd, 
 Untold before in song, must Denis prove, 
 And, ere he win a matchless virgin's love, 
 Roam thro' Thessalian shades a savage of the field. 
 
 And must that noble front wide antlers bear ? — 
 That form, which stands erect, and braves the 
 
 sky, 
 Descend, and prone on earth's mean bosom lie ? 
 That gentle skin be cased in horrid hair ? 
 Yes. On Enipeus' banks there stood a tree, 
 From whose rich boughs the tempting mulberry 
 In luscious clusters lured the hungry knight — 
 (Ah luckless hour that e'er they met his sight ! — ) 
 He rends the loaded branch — the life blood follows 
 free. 
 
 The warm stream gushing from the wounded plant 
 Not long the knight in silent wonder view'd, 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 LEGEND II. 
 
 Ere a faint shriek sent forth the labouring wood 
 That seem'd thro' every shoot to shrink and pant. 
 At length a female voice pursued the sound, 
 Sweet, though disturb'd and plaintive from the 
 
 wound. 
 " Tearnotmy tenderflesh ! — kind youth, forbear ! 
 Ah re-unite the branch with generous care, 
 Nor leave me thus topourmylifeoutontheground !" 
 
 As when some swain, with pleasing cares of love, 
 Tends his bright mistress thro' embowered meads, 
 Perchance a straggling rose his path impedes, 
 Or tangled wood-bine pendant from above, 
 Sportive he leaps the tempting flower to tear, 
 To deck her bonnet or entwine her hair ; 
 If from the leaves a lurking adder dart, 
 He drops the prize ; strange horrors chill his 
 heart, 
 All motionless he stands, nor flies the deadly snare. 
 
 So stood the knight as from that injured wood 
 (Unfeeling deem'd) he heard the voice of woe 
 — A virgin's voice — in plaintive accents flow. 
 At length her suit the Mulberry thus renew'd : 
 " What lust of blood, O cruel knight, detains 
 Thy ruthless hand, and wantons in thy veins ? 
 O stain to arms ! — I ask no mighty boon — 
 Repair the ills those torturing hands have done ! 
 To bind the sever'd shoot requires no wondrous pains.
 
 ST. DENIS AND THE MULBERRY TREE. 51 
 
 " Or does the dread of magic spell control ? 
 Fear not, Sir knight ! — no wizard here you see ; 
 And of what sorceries animate this tree 
 My hand is guiltless, though I reek the dole." 
 As thus she sued, the champion heard, 
 
 ashamed, 
 His courage question'd, and his knighthood 
 
 blamed ; 
 Compassion sway'd his courteous mind no less ; 
 For well he ween'd some damsel in distress 
 Spake from that Mulberry stem, and knightly suc- 
 cour claim'd. 
 
 Yet, ere his hands the reeking members close, 
 The afflicted trunk proclaim'd a sudden fear, 
 And thus exclaim'd : " Ah, yet the warning hear, 
 Which my strange fate compels me to disclose. 
 And Oh, may Heaven thy noble breast inspire 
 With dauntless valour's never-dying fire ! 
 Nor be my wishes vain, which points to thee, 
 The Saviour promised by that dark decree, 
 Whose star and mine in Heaven eternallv con- 
 spire. 
 
 " Thus then the power that fix'd me in this rind, 
 Compels me, trembling, hoping, to declare. 
 If to my earnest suit you bend an ear, 
 And the lopp'd branch again by thee be join'd, 
 From prison worse than death you free a maid, 
 Than whom a fairer graced notTempe's shade ;
 
 52 LEGEND II. 
 
 A fiendish Sorcerer's spell you overthrow, 
 Bid a great monarch's heart with joy o'erflow, 
 And with his daughter's love the deed shall be 
 repaid. 
 
 " Yet, ere the spell be broke, and damsel freed, 
 Seven tedious years the wizard uncontroll'd 
 Must o'er this vale unquestion'd empire hold. 
 Seven tedious years, ('tis so by fate decreed,) 
 If to thy knighthood true, by pity sway'd, 
 By dark Satanic engines undismay'd, 
 Thou dare achieve this feat — seven tedious 
 
 years, 
 Thyself, amid perpetual griefs and fears, 
 Must linger out a hopeless life in Tempe's shade. 
 
 " More that stern power forbids me to declare, 
 What torments wait thee, and what toils beset: 
 If, darkly told, they fright, avoid them yet ! 
 Leave me to bleed, and shun the fearful snare. 
 Still may'st thou safe from Tempe's vale retire, 
 New glories wait thee, other loves inspire ; 
 From these deep shades no tongue can e'er 
 
 repeat 
 To scandal's ear the shame of base retreat ; 
 Thine honour still may shine with undiminish'd 
 re. 
 
 " O gentle Knight !". . . .but here her accents 
 fail;
 
 ST. DENIS AND THE MULBERRY TREE. 53 
 
 For now the hardening fibres choke her breath, 
 And heavier fall the thickening- drops of death. 
 Who but may guess the sequel of my tale ? 
 Who doubts if Denis, true to knightly vow, 
 With tender care restored the sever'd bough ; 
 Seven years content his alter'd form to keep, 
 In faith assured the bright reward to reap, 
 And pay for future bliss the fine of suffering now ? 
 
 'Twas faith like this, in Nature's virgin prime, 
 Ere all of good, or great, or fair, or just, 
 Lay in the scale like grains of worthless dust, 
 Against successful fraud, and purpled crime ; 
 Ere Truth was forced the sceptre to resign, 
 And blasts of Mammon banish'd airs divine ; 
 'Twas faith like this, ensuring power to save, 
 To English George his rescued Sabra gave, 
 And noble Denis crown'd with love of Eglantine.
 
 54 
 
 THE ABBOT OF DOL. 
 
 PART i. 
 
 Tis straunge that divers minds so diverslie 
 
 Of metaphysicke subtilties doe deeme. 
 There be whoe scoffe at faytes of devilrie, 
 
 And 'count them all meer coinage of a dreame : 
 But these, I trow, have more of wit than grace- 
 Why else doth Abbott Wulpho veile his face ? 
 
 Which whilom was a Priest of faire renowne 
 As ever wonn'd in londe of Christentie, 
 
 And hath been known to calle high angells downe 
 From Heaven, to listen his divinitie, 
 
 Whereby he gain'd the Abbaye of Seinct Pol, 
 
 Near linglysshe sea, fast by the towne of Dol. 
 
 When as his friers, in solemn service dredde, 
 Their mattin chaunt and lowlie vespers sing, 
 
 What now makes Abbott Wulpho veile his hedde, 
 That none him see, nor he sees anything? 
 
 Foul tales will spred of holiest-seeming wight 
 
 When he so wilful seekes to shunne the light.
 
 PART I. 55 
 
 Whilom, when priests and reverend bishopps rode 
 Inseemlie guise to Redons' neighbouring towne, a 
 
 Whiles one a mare, and one a mule bestrode, 
 Low trailing on the ground his decent govvne, 
 
 For seemlie order, and for decent stole, 
 
 Was none colde mate the Seinctlie prior of Dole. 
 
 And when in Redon towne they all did meete, 
 Bishoppe and Abbott, cowled Monk and Priest — 
 
 Fayre brotherhood — in grave debate to treate 
 Of holiechurche, — and, nowandthanne, to feast, 
 
 Ymongst them alle was none so far renownde 
 
 For winning rhetorike or sense profounde. 
 
 Yet now he never doth his cloyster leave 
 For feast or grave debate in Redon towne, 
 
 But haply, at the solemn hour of eve, 
 
 Walks lonely forth, enwrapt in sable gowne, 
 
 With cowle that hides his face from mortal ken, 
 
 And rude inquiry of observant men. 
 
 And ever wends he, at the hour of praver, 
 
 To chappelle, and his throne accustom'd takes ; 
 
 But there he muttereth vowes that none may hear, 
 And, whiles he muttereth, his bodye shakes. 
 
 He brings, I wis, no angells down perforce, 
 
 As erst from Heaven, to harken his discourse. 
 
 Earl Conan was a lord of great domain 
 
 That skirted round the Abbaye-lands of Dol.
 
 56 THE ABBOT OF DOL. 
 
 A childe he was of arms and lineage vain, 
 
 And scorn'd the letter'd Abbott of Seinct Pol ; 
 Whose scorn the church-man met with holy pride, 
 Enow to fill the countrie farr and wide. 
 
 The Earl, a mighty hunter eke was he, 
 
 Aye following of the chace with hound and horn, 
 
 Reckless alike an 'twere the forest free, 
 
 Or vineyard fenced, or field of standing corn. 
 
 The Abbott these unhallow'd sports eschew'd, 
 
 Androusedto wrath the neighbouring rusticks rude. 
 
 And, more their lawless bosoms to inspire 
 With hate of rule and rage enkankered, 
 
 An English mastiffe full of savage fire 
 Did ever close behind his foot-steps tred ; 
 
 And oft-times with a holie oathe he swore, 
 
 But for such guard, a perill'd life he bore. 
 
 Eft soones, this mastiff, let abroade to stray, 
 A sore disturber of the chase became, 
 
 Dogs, horses, huntsmen, scared and drove away, 
 And tore with bloody fangs the noblest game. 
 
 The Earl vow'd vengeance on his head, the while 
 
 Dan Wulpho eyed him with a ghostly smile. 
 
 By threats, and oaths, and curses undismay'd, 
 Still loose Dan Wulpho let the mastiff roam, 
 
 Till, caught at last, with clubs and stones assaied, 
 The yelling savage limp'd, disabled, home.
 
 PART I. 57 
 
 The church-man, he was fill'd with rage, I ween, 
 Yet hid in saintlie shew his inward teen. 
 
 Next day, at Matins, he to chapel came : 
 Pale was his visage, his demeanour wild. 
 
 His coal-black eyes shot forth a living flame ; 
 His saintly forehead was with blood defiled. 
 
 All there, I guess, full little praied that day, 
 
 Onlesse from Satan's power their souls to stay. 
 
 At last, the Abbott, as he slowly rose, 
 
 With hollow tones of drearie import sed — 
 
 " Attend, my brethren, whiles my lips disclose 
 A wondrous vision granted from the ded ; 
 
 And lerne henceforth, from Conan's dismal rewe, 
 
 What griefs the sacrilegious wretche persewe. 
 
 " To sley a manne is deemed felonye, 
 
 To sley a Prieste is treason, worse in sort ; 
 
 But Heaven, that view'th with special clemencye 
 The lowest menial of its holie court, 
 
 Hath curst thee, Conan, for the fell cross-bow 
 
 That caused an Abbott's mastiff lame to go. 
 
 " These eyes beheld him when the prince of ill 
 Three demons summon'd from their dismall cave, 
 
 Beheld them as they hasten'd to fulfill 
 
 The direful mandate that their master gave, 
 
 Beheld them with their damned prisoner fly, 
 
 Athwart the barriers of this nether sky.
 
 58 THE ABBOT OF DOL. 
 
 " I saw them tear his precious sight away, 
 
 And cast the bleeding- eye-balls on the ground ; 
 I saw their fangs his writhing members flay, 
 And in his harte-strings print the torturing 
 wound. 
 Then on Saint Michael's stairs the corse they 
 
 threw, 
 Where limbs disjointed all the place did strew. 
 
 " This was no idle mintage of the brain, 
 
 The blood upon my brow the truth declares, 
 
 The blood that sprinkled like a show'r of rain 
 Saint Michael's steep ascent and holy staires." 
 
 The 'mazed brethren heard, with silent dred, 
 
 This tale of vengeance on the impious hed. 
 
 Earl Conan on that day to hunt had gone, 
 And never from the hunting came again ; 
 
 And through the country round the tale when 
 known 
 Was well believed by every simple swain, 
 
 They shunn'd the spot where Conan's restless sprite 
 
 Still follows up the ghostly chace all night. 
 
 But Abbott Wulpho never since that day 
 
 Hath raised the cowl that shadows o'er his brows. 
 
 When others tell their beads and loudly pra}', 
 He trembling muttereth unheard oaths and vows, 
 
 And never since hath pass'd his Abbaye's bound, 
 
 Nor joins in converse with the monkes around.
 
 PART II. 59 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Alone, on horse-back, from the towne of Dol. 
 
 Full of this tale I journey 'd forth at eve : 
 Moche it perplex'd with doubt and feer my soul. 
 
 As one scarse knowing- what he mote believe — 
 'Twas hard to think the Count so foully dyed. 
 Yet harder still to deeme an Abbott lyed. 
 
 The night was overcast with murky cloudes, 
 And rain beganne to powre, and winde to blow : 
 
 " This is the time," me-thought, " when ghosts in 
 shrowdes 
 Walk in the shrieking churche-yards to and fro." 
 
 Unwonted tremour o'er my members stole, 
 
 As thus I journey'd thro' the wood of Dole. 
 
 When lo ! I heard afar a bugle horn 
 
 That faintly stole upon the plaintive breeze : 
 
 The sound, so cheerful mark'd at break of morn. 
 Now mingled horrour with the moaning trees. 
 
 Methought no earthly huntsman ere did blow 
 
 So strange a strain, so solemne and so slow. 
 
 And therewithall I heard the howl of hounds, 
 
 The huntsman's hoarse halloo, the tramp of steeds : 
 The forest groan'd in cadence, with its sounds
 
 60 THE ABBOT OF DOL. 
 
 Of crashing boughs, torn trunks, and rustling 
 reeds. 
 My senses shrank aghast with new affright — 
 " No earthly hunters chase so late at night." 
 
 Nigher and nigher drew the distant rout, 
 
 And seemes less earthly as it comes more near : 
 
 The hounds more harshly howl ; more hoarsely 
 shout 
 The viewless huntsmen, hallooing in the rear. 
 
 In that wild crash all noises else were drown'd ; 
 
 My frighten'd horse stood still like one astound. 
 
 As the fierce hurricanoe sweeps along, 
 Uproots big oaks, tall castles overturns, 
 
 And, shaking earth's foundations deep and strong, 
 Lays bare to sight old Neptune's hidden urns, 
 
 So loud and fierce that tempest hurried by, 
 
 Like Heaven, Earth, Hell, in one commingled cry. 
 
 At once around, beneath, and over head, 
 
 It seem'd to pass — then all was hush'd and still : 
 
 But as the thunder, when its bolt is sped, 
 
 Is heard faint echoing from some distant hill, 
 
 So, when that soul-subduing peal was past, 
 
 The plaintive bugle swell'd upon the blast. 
 
 At length, as in the rear of that wild train, 
 
 A white plume swiftly pass'd my eyes before : 
 My steed, awaken'd from its stound again,
 
 PART II. 61 
 
 Following 1 that meteor-form, its rider bore 
 (All powerless to restrain) by brake and brier, 
 O'er rough rude rocks, and thorough quag and mire. 
 
 And ever was that snow-white plume our guide, 
 Like Northern Bear to wandering marinere, 
 
 Or that blest starre that led thro' deserts wide 
 The eastern wise-men to our master deare ; 
 
 Till deeper still the darkness round us lay ; 
 
 And then it melted, like thinne ay re, away. 
 
 Me seemed now together we were brought 
 Beneath some hollow arch, my horse and I. 
 
 I stopp'd and hearken'd ; but no sound I caught 
 Save, at long intervalls, the scritch-owle's cry: 
 
 At length I saw, as 'twere a taper's ray 
 
 Shoot through the gloom, and thereby shaped my 
 way. 
 
 It was a chappell, half to ruin gone, 
 
 From whose east windowflash'd that welcome ray : 
 My reeking steed I bridled to a stone, 
 
 And reach' d a portall that adjoyning lay ; 
 There entering in, before the tapers lighte 
 Beheld the figure of a kneeling Knighte, 
 
 In hunter's garb array'd from top to toe ; 
 
 A bauldricke was across its shoulders flonge ; 
 In its right hand it grasp'd a hunter's bow ; 
 
 A hunter's bugle at its back was honge ;
 
 62 THE ABBOT OF DOL. 
 
 A mailed shirt peep'd forth beneath its vest, 
 And snow-white plume waved nodding o'er its crest. 
 
 At the high altar supplicant it kneel'd, 
 Seemingly muttering some holy prayer ; 
 
 Then slowly turning round its head reveal'd 
 A face illumined by the taper's glare, 
 
 Pale — haggard — bloody ; but I saw displaied 
 
 Earl Conan's features in the specter shade. 
 
 The grisly specter raised its beaver'd crest, 
 And shew'd a throat deep gored with gaping 
 wound ; 
 
 It pointed sadly to its bleeding breast, 
 
 And with a heart-enthralling dolour groan'd ; 
 
 Then, like a guiltie soule, at breake of day, 
 
 Thrise waved its head, and vanishedde away. 
 
 Into thinne ayre it vanisht like a dreame, 
 Leaving me sore astonied and dismaied : 
 
 But where it late had knelt, a ruddie gleame 
 As from a torche, upon the pavement plaied ; 
 
 And, on what seem'd a grave-stone, where I stood, 
 
 I saw engraved in characterrs of blood — 
 
 LEGENDE. 
 
 Straunger! whoe'er thou art, praie for the soule 
 Of one whose naked corse lies festering nighe —
 
 PART II. 63 
 
 Conan, by name — once puissaunt Earle of Dole ; 
 Whose bloud for Heaven's vengeaunce loud doth 
 crye ; 
 And Abbott Wulpho's was the devilysshe hande 
 That shed Earl Conan's bloud upon the lande. 
 
 " Nor judge that, even in this worlde of sinne, 
 Foul murther unrequyted doeth remaine. 
 
 Whosoe with innocent bloud hath 'filed bin 
 
 Shall never from his forehead wype the staine ; 
 
 But, tho' he vaile his crime from human eye, 
 
 Heaven's justice view'th its foule deformitie." 
 
 These words scarse redde, away the vision stole, 
 Stone, altar, taper, from my wondering sight : 
 
 The dawn had brighten'd, and the towres of Dole 
 Gay sparkled with the fresh Auroraes light, 
 
 Seen thro' the forest leaves, where, late so drear, 
 
 Now sweet birds chaunt their carolls loud and clear. 
 
 Nought but the ruin'd arch remain'd in view, 
 Of all the wonders I had seen, to tell ; 
 
 And tho' I scarse cold hope for credence dew, 
 Nathless, as if constraint by hidden spell, 
 
 1 back return'd, and to the Provost there 
 
 Did the whole truth, on solemn oath, declare. 
 
 All day his archers scour'd the forest o'er : 
 At evening, underneath a turfy mount
 
 6 THE ABBOT OF DOL. 
 
 But loosely hid with leaves, and stiffe with gore, 
 They found the murther'd body of the Count. 
 Him nowe in holie earthe they softe enshrine, 
 But vengeaunce leave to Himwhosaith," Tismine." 
 
 For this doth Abbott Wulpho shrowde his face ; 
 
 Who, tho' above the reach of Human sway, 
 Yet knows, as one debarr'd from Heaven's grace, 
 
 That innocent bloud can ne'er be washt away, 
 And therefore feares to shew to man, what He 
 Who sits above, beholds Eternallye. 
 
 Note p. 55. a 
 
 " Redons' neighbouring towne." By this pedantic ap- 
 pellation is probably meant Rennes, the capital of Britanny, 
 and ancient city of the Redones, an Armorican tribe. It 
 seems evident that the narrator was an English schoolmaster 
 taking the benefit of a holiday excursion on horseback along 
 the coast of France.
 
 65 
 
 THE DEAD MEN OF PEST. 
 
 I left the chaulkie cliftes of Old Englonde, 
 And paced thro' manie a region faire to see, 
 
 Thorowe the reaulme of Greece, and Holie Londe, 
 Untille I journied into sadde Hongrie. 
 
 I sawe old Cecrops' towne, and famous Rome; 
 
 But Davydd's holie place I lyked best ; 
 I sawe straunge syghtes that made me pyne for home, 
 
 Bot moche the straungest in the towne of Pest. 
 
 It was a goodlie citye, fayre to see ; 
 
 By its prowde walles and statelie towres it gave 
 A delicate aspect to the countree, 
 
 With its brigg of boates across the Danow'swave. 
 
 Yet many thinges with grief I did survaie : 
 The stretys all were mantell'd o'er with grass, 
 
 And, tho' it were upon the sabbath daie, 
 
 No belles did tolle to call the folke to masse. 
 
 The churchyard gates with barrs were closyd fast, 
 Like to a sinnefull and accursedde place ; 
 
 It shew'd as tho' the judgment daie were past, 
 And the dedde exyledfrom the throne of Grace. 
 
 VOL. I. f
 
 66 THE DEAD MEN OF PEST. 
 
 At last an aged carle came halting bye — 
 
 A wofull wyghte he was, and sadde of cheere — 
 
 Of whom, if aught of cell or bowre were nighe, 
 For wearie pilgrimme's rest, I 'ganne to speire. 
 
 "Straunger!" he sedde, " in Marye's name departe !" 
 And, whan thus spoken, wolde have past me by. 
 
 His hollowe voyce sanke deepe into my harte ; 
 Yet I wolde notletthim passe, and askyd," Why?" 
 
 " Tis now mid daye," quoth hee, " the sunne 
 shines brighte, 
 
 And all thinges gladde, bot onlie heare in Peste : 
 But an 'twere winter wylde, at dedde of nighte, 
 
 Not heare, O straunger, sholdstthou seke to reste ; 
 
 Tho' rain in torrents fell, and cold winde blew, 
 And thou with travell sore, and honger pale." 
 
 " Tho' the sunne," saied I, " shine brighte, and the 
 day be newe, 
 He not departe ontill thou's tolde thy tale." 
 
 This wofull wyghte thanne toke me by the honde ; 
 
 His, like a skeletonne's, was bonie and colde. 
 Hee lean'd, as tho' hee scarse mote goe or stonde, 
 
 Like one who fourscore yeares hath, haply, tolde. 
 
 We came togither to the market-crosse, 
 
 And the wyghte, all wo begon, spake never worde; 
 
 Ne living thinge was sene our path to crosse, 
 (Tho' dolours grones from many a house 1 herde,)
 
 THE DEAD MEN OF PEST. 67 
 
 Save one poore dogge,that stalk'd athwart a courte, 
 ■ Fearfullie howling with most pyteous wayle : 
 The sad manne whistled in a dismall sorte, 
 
 And the poore thing slunk away and hidd his 
 tayle. 
 
 I felt my verye bloud crepe in my vaynes ; 
 
 My bones were icie-cold, my hayre on end : 
 I wish'd myself agen upon the playnes, 
 
 Yet cold not but that sad old manne attend. 
 
 The sadd old manne sate down upon a stone, 
 
 And I sate on another at his side. 
 He heved mournfully a pyteous grone, 
 
 And thanne to ease my dowtes his selfe applyde. 
 
 " Straunger !" quoth he, " regard my visage well, 
 And eke these bonie fingerrs feel agen — 
 
 Howe manie winterrs semyth it they tell V 
 I dowtingly replyde, " Three-score and ten." 
 
 " Straunger ! not fourty yeres agonn I laye 
 An infant, mewling in the nurse's armes ; 
 
 Not fourty dayes agonn, two daughterrs gaye 
 Did make me joyful by their opening charmes. 
 
 " Yet now I seme some fowrscore winterrs olde, 
 And everie droppe of bloud hath left my vaynes ; 
 
 Als'myfayre daughterrs twayne lye stitieand coide, 
 And bloudless, bound in Deth's eternall chaynes.
 
 68 THE BEAD MEM OF PEST. 
 
 " Straunger! thistowne sopleasaunttooursygbtes. 
 With goodly towres and palaces so fayre, 
 
 Whilom for gentle dames and valiaunt knyghtes. 
 From all Hongaria's londe the mede didbeare. 
 
 " But now the few, still rescow'd from the dedde, 
 Are sobbing out their breath in sorie guyse ; 
 
 Alle, that had strength toflee,longsince have fledde. 
 Save onlye I, who longe to close mine eyes. 
 
 " Seaven weekes are past sithence our folk begann 
 To pyne, and falle away— no reason why ; 
 
 The ruddiest visage turn'd to pale and wann, 
 And glassie stillnesse film'd the brightest eye. 
 
 " Some Doctours sedde, the lakes did agews breede, 
 Bot spring retorning wold the same disperse, 
 
 Whiles others, contrarie to nature's creede, 
 Averr'd the seasonn's chaunge wold make us 
 worse. 
 
 " And tho' we leugh at these, like doatersfonde, 
 Or faytours wont in paradoxe to deele, 
 
 Yet, as the sun wax'd warm, throughout the londe, 
 Allemennethe more did wintrie shiverings feele. 
 
 "At length it chaunc'd that one of station highe 
 Fell sicke, and dyed uponn the seaventh daie : 
 
 They op'd the corse the hidden cause to spie, 
 And founde that alle the bloud was drain'd awaie.
 
 THE DEAD MEN OF PEST. 69 
 
 " There was a tailour, Vulvius by name, 
 
 Who longe emongste us dwelt in honest pride ; 
 
 A worthie citizenne esteem'd by fame ; 
 
 That since some moneth of a soddeine dyde. 
 
 " Now thus it happ'd — as oft it chaunceth soe — 
 That, after he was iron, straunge rumours spred 
 
 Of evill haunts where 'twas his wont to iroe, 
 And midnight visitacyonns to the ded. 
 
 " Now, whanne this fearfull maladye had growne 
 To soche an hyght as men were loath to saye, 
 
 Emongst the reste in our unhappie towne, 
 My darlinge doughterrs sore tormentyd laye. 
 
 " Nathless I mark'd that ever whiles they pyned 
 Their appetyte for foode encrees'd the more ; 
 
 They fedde on richest meates whene'er they dyn'd, 
 And drancke of old Tokaye my choicest store. 
 
 " Thus, everie eve, their colour fresh arose, 
 
 And they did looke agen both briske and gaye ; 
 
 All nighte depe slomberrs did their eyelidds close ; 
 Bot worse and worse they woxe bybreakeofdaye. 
 
 " One nyght yt chauncyd, as they slepyng laied, 
 Their serving wenche at midnight sought their 
 room, 
 
 To bring some possett, brothe, or gellie, made 
 To quelle the plague that did their lives consume.
 
 70 THE DEAD MEN OF PEST. 
 
 " Whenne, ere she reach 'd the spot, a heavie sound 
 Of footsteps lumbering up the stayre she heard ; 
 
 And, soon as they had gain'd the top-most round, 
 The buried tailour to her sighte appear'd. 
 
 " She herd him ope my daughters' chamber dore — 
 (Her lighte lettfalle, she had no force to crye,) 
 
 Then, in briefe space, agen — for soe she swore. 
 It lumber'd downe ; but farre more heavilee. 
 
 " This storye herde, albe' I inly smyl'd 
 
 To think the seely mayd such fears cold shake, 
 
 Vet, the nexte nighte, to prove her fancies wyld, 
 I kept myselfe, till past midnighte, awake : 
 
 •' Whanne, at the midnighte belle, a sounde I herd 
 Of heavie lumbering stepps, a sound of dred ; 
 
 The tailour Vulvius to my sighte appeard ; 
 And all my senses at the instant fledde. 
 
 " Next daye, I founde a fryer of mickle grace, 
 A learned clerke, and praied he wold me rede, 
 
 In soche a straunge, perplext, and divellishe case, 
 His ghostly counsaile how 'twere best procede. 
 
 " Into the churchyarde wee together wente, 
 And hee at everie grave-stone saied a prayer ; 
 
 Till at the tailour Vulvius' monimente 
 
 We stopt — a spade and mattoke had we there.
 
 THE DEAD MEN OF PEST. 7] 
 
 " Wee digg'd the earth wherein the tailour laye, 
 Till at the tailour's coffyn we arrived, 
 
 Nor there, I weene, moche labour fonde that daye, 
 For everie bolt was drawen and th' hinges rived. 
 
 ' ' This sighte was straunge, bot straunger was to see ; 
 
 The corse, tho' laid som moneth's space in mold, 
 Did shew like living manne, full blythe of glee, 
 
 And luddie, freshe, and comelie to behold. 
 
 " And now the cause wee happlie mote presume. 
 
 The Vampire — so he named this demonne guest — 
 Had burst the sacred cerements of the tomb, 
 
 And of the buried corse himselfe possest. 
 
 " This newes, whanne thro' the towne wee made 
 it knowne, 
 
 Unusual horrour seised the stoutest wyghtes, 
 As deming not the tailour's grave alone 
 
 Had so bin made a haunt of dampned sprites. 
 
 " The churchyarde now was digged all aboute, 
 And everie new made grave laid bare to vie we, 
 
 Whanne everie corse that they dyd digge thereoute, 
 Seem'd,like the firste, of freshe and ruddie hewe. 
 
 " 'Twas plain, the corses that the churchyards fill'd, 
 Were they whoe nightly lumber'd upp our stayre, 
 
 Whoe suck'd ourbloud,the living banquetteswill'd. 
 And left us alle bestraughte with blanke despayre.
 
 72 THE DEAD MEN OF PEST. 
 
 " Andnowe the Priestesburne incense in the choyre, 
 And scatter Ave-maries o'er the grave, 
 
 And purifye the churche with lustrall fire, 
 
 And caste alle things profane in Danowe's wave ; 
 
 " And they've barr'd with ironne barrs the church- 
 yarde pale, 
 
 To kepe them inn ; but vayne is alle they doe : 
 For whan a ded manne hath lernt to drawe a nayle, 
 
 Hee can also burste an ironne bolte in two." 
 
 The sadde old manne here endyd. I arose, 
 With myngled greefe and wonderment possest : 
 
 I rode nine leagues or ere I sought repose, 
 
 And never agen came nigh the towne of Peste. 
 
 Note. 
 
 For the origin of the above legend, the reader is referred to 
 a superstition long prevalent in Hungary, and other Scla- 
 vonian countries, which has been lately rendered familiar to 
 us, by a spell far more potent than any inherent in these 
 rude verses. It may, however, be added, that the present 
 poem, in which some slight alterations have since been 
 made, first appeared in a periodical work of which Dr. 
 Aikin was editor, (the Athenaeum,) some years previous 
 to the date of Lord Byron's " Giaour," and that it is be- 
 lieved, with some confidence, to have furnished the noble 
 poet with the hint of the passage beginning, 
 
 " But first, on earth as vampire sent, 
 Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent ;
 
 THE DEAD MEN OF PEST. 73 
 
 Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
 And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
 There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
 At midnight drain the stream of life, 
 Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
 Must feed thy livid living corse." 
 
 Leaving, however, this question, the present tale may 
 (if the reader pleases,) be presumed, from its style and 
 language, to be the work of the same learned pedagogue 
 as was conjectured to be the author of the preceding story ; 
 who, after renouncing the arduous labours of his profes- 
 sion, must be supposed to have devoted a twelvemonth or 
 more to the various objects of foreign travel, and to have 
 given vent to " Crudities" which may be compared with 
 those of honest Tom Coryate. And, with reference to the 
 former poem, it may in this place be observed, — what was 
 omitted in the note at its conclusion, — that, although the 
 names of Earl Conan and Abbot Wulpho would seem to 
 point to a much earlier period of Armorican history, they 
 were probably adopted as a convenient veil for the real cir- 
 cumstances, which cannot, from the style of narration, be 
 referred to an earlier date than the commencement of our 
 Elizabethan sera. But this subject may be thought worthy 
 the investigation of some learned and ingenious member of 
 the recently formed " Camden Society."
 
 74 
 
 THE WRAITH. 
 
 Cold blew the breeze of early day, 
 
 And furious fell the driving sleet ; 
 Sir Lodowicke on the banks of Tay 
 
 Was riding from his castle seat. 
 
 On him the storm unheeded beat, 
 Unfelt the wintry breezes blew, 
 
 For she he hoped at eve to meet 
 Alone possess'd his fancy's view. 
 
 Long captive, and of hope forlorn, 
 
 He bow'd beneath the paynim foe, 
 Nor, all the time, were tidings borne 
 
 Of his sweet Emmeline's weal or woe ; 
 
 And now with beating heart, where glow 
 Alternate hopes, and terrors lower, 
 
 Through piercing wind, and driving snow, 
 He sought his lovely Emmeline's bower. 
 
 And first he cross'd the rivulet's fall, 
 Where oft, in childhood's joyous day, 
 
 An orphan in his father's hall, 
 
 She with him used at eve to stray ; 
 Next by the bank pursued his way, 
 
 Which Emmeline loved, at early morn,
 
 THE WRAITH 75 
 
 To deck with flowers and garlands gay — 
 Now rough with tangled brier and thorn. 
 
 And now that ancient oak he spied, 
 
 The best loved tree of all the glade, 
 Where first his amorous vows he sigh'd, 
 
 And woo'd and won the plighted maid. 
 
 Thither his steps unbidden stray'd ; 
 But lightning had the branches torn, 
 
 And the bare roots, by storms assay 'd, 
 Groan'd to the boisterous breath of morn. 
 
 A keener air upon him blew, 
 
 Mix'd with a sound so sadly shrill, 
 As pierced his shuddering members through, 
 
 And made each vein with horrour thrill. 
 
 A dark presage of future ill 
 Confusedly pass'd his senses o'er, 
 
 When, heard by fits, long, faint and still, 
 The kirk bell chimed the hour of four. 
 
 Then first, while, shivering with the breeze, 
 He closer folds his mantle round, 
 
 Dim through the murky mist he sees, 
 
 Stretch'd on the bleak unshelter'd ground, 
 A maiden form. The winds around 
 
 Unheeded roar — the driving snows 
 
 Descend unfelt ; nor sight, nor sound, 
 
 Seem to disturb her last repose.
 
 76 THE WRAITH. 
 
 He stretch'd his arms, and vainly tried 
 
 To clasp that heavenly form so fair : 
 The vision seem'd away to glide, 
 
 And all he clasp'd was empty air. 
 
 " O Emmeline sweet ! O Emmeline rare ! 
 Say, dost thou not thy true love see ? 
 
 Or are his cheeks so changed with care, 
 His eyes so sunk with slavery ? 
 
 " Ah ! wherefore, wherefore fliest thou, fair '. 
 
 And wherefore to the inclement sky 
 Dost thou that tender bosom bare, 
 
 Nor heed the tempest rushing by ?" — 
 
 In vain he calls, since none is nigh — 
 The phantom form no longer seen ; 
 
 But driving storms more fiercely fly, 
 And the chill morning bites more keen. 
 
 He looks around with eager eyes 
 
 Through every opening glade, in vain : 
 He calls aloud ; but nought replies 
 
 Save howling wind and beating rain. 
 
 And now he spurs his steed amain, 
 With desperate haste, mid wind and shower, 
 
 Through bush and brier, o'er hill and plain. 
 Until he stops at Emmeline's bower. 
 
 Who first should meet his ardent sight ? 
 
 Who grant the kiss his raptures seek ? 
 Who, speechless, breathless with delight,
 
 THE WRAITH. 77 
 
 Hide in his breast her glowing cheek ? 
 
 In vain they both attempt to speak ; 
 Love can no more than feel and see. 
 
 At length the well-known accents break, 
 " My love, my love, thrice welcome be ! 
 
 " My Lodowicke ! Oh, an hour like this 
 
 Might well reward an age of pain ; 
 Yet scarce for all this wondrous bliss 
 
 Would I last night dream o'er again. 
 
 What phantoms swarm'd about my brain ! 
 What shudderings stole my senses o'er ! 
 
 As if my soul its flight had ta'en 
 To some dark, wintry, howling shore. 
 
 " Long time in deadly trance I lay, 
 
 A mass perplext of shapeless thought ; 
 Till fancy bore my soul away, 
 
 And to the scenes of childhood brought. 
 But when that trysted oak I sought 
 By Lodowicke's early vows endear'd, 
 
 The storm its lordly boughs had caught, 
 And all its leaves were scorch'd and sear'd. 
 
 " I laid me by that blasted tree, 
 
 When, borne upon the tempest's roar, 
 
 The old kirk bell toll'd sullenly, 
 
 Through the dun air the hour of four. 
 Again a deadly trance came o'er, 
 And all my powers of sense were flown ;
 
 78 THE WRAITH. 
 
 But, O my loved one ! 'tis no more, 
 Thou, thou art here, and art mine own !" 
 
 She said — O'er Lodowicke's heart, the while, 
 
 A short, convulsive tremour stole ; 
 But soon his Emmeline's beaming smile 
 
 Chased every cloud that dimm'd his soul. 
 
 Sweet music's voice, the inspiring bowl, 
 But most his Emmeline's artless glee, 
 
 Disperse the vapours as they roll, 
 And melt in gleams of extacy. 
 
 Her Lodowicke safe — her Lodowicke near — 
 
 All care forsook the maiden's breast, 
 Light was her heart, unused to fear, 
 
 And golden slumbers crown'd her rest. 
 
 But when her form no longer bless'd 
 His sight, her voice his spirit charm'd, 
 
 Wild fancy's train again possess'd 
 His thoughts, and vital powers disarm'd. 
 
 Then ever as with rapturous love 
 
 His mind he turn'd to Emmeline fair, 
 
 The shape those torturing spectres wove 
 Was wan with woe, and pale with care, 
 And blighted by the noisome air 
 
 That shrewdly nipp'd its shivering form, 
 And through its wet, unbraided hair 
 
 Shrill whistled to the driving storm.
 
 THE WRAITH. 79 
 
 All night his fever'd couch he press 'd ; 
 
 Hour after hour pass'd joyless o'er : 
 Till, striking dullness to his breast, 
 
 He heard the well-mark'd sound of four. 
 
 From trance he started, when before 
 His eyes appear'd his spectre-bride ; 
 
 But, while he gazed, she was no more, 
 And in the cold pale moon-light died. 
 
 Deep horror seized each vital power, 
 
 His limbs were stiften'd, lix'd his eyes; 
 When from fair Emmeline's distant bower 
 
 Low murmuring sounds were heard to rise; 
 
 Then, more distinct, shrill female cries ; 
 Louder and louder — not a breath 
 
 Is breathed around — no groans — no sighs ; 
 One long, long shriek — the shriek of Death. 
 
 Fate strikes the forest's blooming pride ; 
 
 The ivied oak resists its spell : 
 " The bridegroom may forget the bride," 
 
 But in Dunfermline's lowliest cell 
 
 A lonely friar was known to dwell, 
 Who threescore years for death had pray'd- 
 
 Hovv' fervently no tongue can tell — 
 Death comes not to the wretch's aid.
 
 80 
 
 THE ENGLISH SAILOR AND THE KING 
 OF ACHEN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Come, listen, gentles all, 
 And ladies unto me, 
 And you shall hear of as stout a sailer 
 As ever sail'd on sea. 
 
 'Twas in the month of May, 
 Sixteen hundred sixty four, 
 We sallied out all fresh and stout, 
 
 In the good ship Swiftsure. 
 
 With wind and weather fair 
 
 We sail'd from Plymouth Sound, 
 And the line we cross'd, and the Cape we pass'd, 
 For we were to China bound. 
 
 And we sail'd by Sunda isles, 
 And Ternate and Tydore, 
 Till the wind it lagg'd, and our sails they flagg'd. 
 In sight of Achen's shore. 
 
 Becalm'd, days three times three, 
 We lay in the burning sun ; 
 Our water was rank and our meat it stank, 
 
 And our biscuit was well nigh done.
 
 KING OF ACHEN S DAUGHTER. 81 
 
 And we slowly paced the deck, 
 
 So long as our legs would bear us ; 
 And we thirsted all, but no rain did fall, 
 
 And no dews descend to cheer us. 
 
 And the red red sun from the sky, 
 Sent his scorching beams all day, 
 Till our tongues hung out, all black with drought. 
 And Ave had no voice to pray. 
 
 Then the hot hot air from the south 
 Oppress'd our lungs all night, 
 As if the grim devil, with his throat full of evil, 
 Had blown on each troubled sprite. 
 
 At length it so befell, 
 
 While we all in our hammocks lav, 
 Quite scant of breath, and expecting death 
 To come ere break of day ; 
 
 At once a pleasant breeze 
 
 Sprang up amidst the shrowds, 
 And the big round rain dropp'd down amain 
 From its cisterns in the clouds. 
 
 1 open'd my heavy eyes, 
 
 And my mouth, I open'd it wide ; 
 And my heart rejoiced, and my throat was moist, 
 And " A breeze ! a breeze !" I cried. 
 
 VOL. I. g
 
 82 THE ENGLISH SAILOR AND THE 
 
 But no man heard me cry, 
 
 And the breeze again sank down, 
 And a noise like thunder, with fright and wonder, 
 Nigh cast me in a swoune. 
 
 I dared not look around, 
 
 Till, by degrees made bolder, 
 When I saw a sprite, through the pale star-light, 
 Dim glimmering at my shoulder. 
 
 He was clad in a sailor's jacket, 
 Wet trowsers and dripping hose, 
 And an unfelt wind I heard behind 
 
 That whistled among his clothes, 
 
 1 kenn'il him by the stars, 
 
 And the moon, as it faintly shone, 
 And I knew, though his face was seam'd with scars, 
 John Jewkes, my sister's son. 
 
 " John Jewkes !" I e.xclaim'd, " Alack, 
 Poor boy, what brings thee here ?" 
 But nothing he said, but hung down his head, 
 And made his bare scull appear. 
 
 Then, by my grief made bold, 
 I to take his hand endeavour'd ; 
 But his head he turn'd round, which a gaping wound 
 Had clean from his shoulders sever'd.
 
 KING OF ACHEN S DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 He open'd his mouth to speak, 
 
 Like a man with his last breath stru£<i-lin<'-: 
 And with every word in his throat I heard, 
 A queerish sort of guggling. 
 
 At last he, guggling, said, 
 " Kind uncle, touch not me ! 
 For the fish have my head, and my trunk lies dead, 
 And 'tis only my ghost you see. 
 
 " You surely must remember, 
 Three years agone this day, 
 How at aunt's we tarried, when sister was married 
 To farmer Robin May. 
 
 " Oh ! then were we blythe and jolly ; 
 But none of us all had seen, 
 While wesang and laugh 'd, and the stout ale quaffd. 
 That our number was thirteen : 
 
 " And none of all the party 
 At the head of the table saw, 
 While the flask went round to the tabor's sound, 
 Old Goody Martha Daw. 
 
 " Yet Martha Daw was there, 
 Though she never spoke no word, 
 And beside her sat her old black cat, 
 
 Though it neither mew'd nor purr'd.
 
 84 THE ENGLISH SAILOR AND THE 
 
 " On her crooked staff she hobbled, 
 And a bundle of sticks she broke, 
 And her prayers all jumbled she backward mumbled, 
 Though never a word she spoke. 
 
 " 'Twas on a Friday morning, 
 That very day was a se'nnight, 
 I ran to sweet Sue, to bid her adieu, 
 
 — For I could not stay a minute. 
 
 "Then, crying with words so tender, 
 She gave me a true love's locket, 
 And bad me still love her, forgetting her never, 
 — So I put it in my pocket. 
 
 " And then we kiss'd and parted ; 
 But we knew not, all the while, 
 Martha Daw was by, with her crutch, to spy, 
 Looking on with a fiendish smile. 
 
 " So I went to sea again, 
 
 With my heart brimful of Sue ; 
 Though my mind misgave me, the salt waves would 
 have me, 
 
 And I'd taken my last adieu, 
 
 " A prosperous voyage we had, 
 'Till we came to this hellish coast, 
 When a tempest did rise, in seas and in skies, 
 That we gave ourselves for lost.
 
 KING OF ACHEN'S DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 "Our good ship it was stranded 
 All on the shoals of Achen, 
 And all but myself were put on the shelf, 
 And I only just saved my bacon. 
 
 " For it chanced that very minute 
 The black king, walking by, 
 Beheld me sprawling, and scarcely crawling, 
 
 And took home to his house hard by. 
 
 " Then, bethinking him I was 
 A likely lad for to see, 
 My bones well knit and of passing wit, 
 And not above twenty-three, 
 
 " He made me his gardener boy, 
 To sow pease and potatoes, 
 To water his flowers in lack of showers, 
 And cut his parsley and lettuce. 
 
 " Now it fell out, of a Sunday, 
 
 (Which these Pagans never keep holy,) 
 I was picking rue, and thinking on Sue, 
 With a heart right melancholy, 
 
 " When the king of Achen's daughter 
 Threw open her casement to see ; 
 And, as she look'd round on the gooseberry ground, 
 Her eyes fell full on me ;
 
 86 THE ENGLISH SAILOR AMD THE 
 
 " And seeing- me tall and slim, 
 And of shape right personable, 
 With skin so white, and so very unlike 
 
 The blacks at her father's table, 
 
 " She took it into her head, 
 
 (Or else the devil did move her,) 
 That I, in good sooth, was a likely youth, 
 And would make a gallant lover. 
 
 " So she tripp'd from her chamber high, 
 . All in silks and satins clad, 
 And her gown it rustled, as down she bustled 
 With steps like a princess sad. 
 
 " Her shoes they were deck'd with pearls, 
 And her hair with diamonds glisten'd, 
 And her jewels and toys, they made such a noise, 
 My mouth water'd whilst I listen'd. 
 
 " Then she tempted me with glances, 
 And with sugar'd words so tender — 
 And, although black, she was strait in the back, 
 And young, and tall, and slender. 
 
 " But I my love remember'd, 
 
 And the locket she once did give me, 
 And resolved to be true to my darling Sue, 
 As she did ever believe me.
 
 KING OF ACHEN's DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 " Whereat the princess wax'd 
 
 Right furious and angry, 
 
 And said, she was sure I had some paramour 
 
 In kitchen or in laundry. 
 
 " Then, with a devilish grin, 
 
 Says she, Give me that locket, — 
 But I call'd her a witch, and a conjuring bitch, 
 And kept it in my pocket. 
 
 " Howbeit both night and day, 
 
 She still did torture and teaze me ; 
 And swore, if I'd yield to her the field, 
 
 To do all she could to please me. 
 
 " Says she, only give me the locket, 
 And bide three months with me, 
 If then the will remains with you still, 
 I'll ship you off to sea. 
 
 " So I thought it the only way 
 To behold my lovely Sue ; 
 Also, thinking of England, it made me tingle, and 
 I gave up my locket so true. 
 
 "Thereupon she laugh'd outright 
 With a hellish grin — and I saw 
 The lady no more, but where she stood afore, 
 Now stood old Martha Daw.
 
 83 THE ENGLISH SAILOR AND THE 
 
 " She was sitting astride a broomstick, 
 And bade me mount behind ; 
 So, my wits being lost, the broomstick I cross'd, 
 And away we went swift as the wind. 
 
 " But my head it soon grew giddy, 
 I reel'd, and lost my balance ; 
 And I tumbled over, like a perjured lover, 
 
 And a warning to all false gallants. 
 
 " And there where I tumbled down, 
 The Indians found me lying; 
 My head they cut off, and my blood did quaff, 
 And set my flesh a frying. 
 
 " Hence, all ye English gallants, 
 A warning take from me, 
 Your true love's locket to keep in your pocket 
 Whenever you go to sea. 
 
 " And, oh dear uncle Thomas, 
 I come to give you warning, 
 As then 'twas my chance with Davy to dance, 
 'Twill be yours to-morrow morning. 
 
 " 'Twas three years agone to-night, 
 Three years gone clear and clean. 
 When, a jovial set, at aunt's we met, 
 
 And our number was thirteen.
 
 KING OF ACHEN'S DAUGHTER. 89 
 
 " Now I and sister Nan, 
 Two of that jovial party, 
 Have gone from aunt's, with Davy to dance, 
 
 Tho' then we were young 1 and hearty, 
 
 " And since we both kick'd the bucket 
 — I speak it with pain and sorrow, 
 At the end of each year, it seems quite clear 
 That you must kick it to-morrow. 
 
 " Howsoever good uncle Thomas, 
 If you'll promise, and promise truly, 
 To plough back the main for old England again, 
 And perform my orders duly, 
 
 " Old Davy will still allow you 
 Another year to live, 
 To visit your friends, and make up your ends, 
 And your enemies forgive. 
 
 " But mind when you first reach England, 
 To Launc'ston town you wag, 
 And there, (to make short,) in open court, 
 Impeach that d — d old hag. 
 
 " And then you must see her hang'd, 
 Without any doubt whatever, 
 And, when void of life, with your own clasp knife 
 The string of her apron sever.
 
 90 THE ENGLISH SAILOR, ETC. 
 
 " And, if that you determine 
 My last behests to do, 
 In her left hand pocket you'll find the locket, 
 And carry it to Sue." 
 
 These words that grisly spectre 
 In guggling accents spoke, 
 When, it now being morning, he gave no warning, 
 But vanish'd away like smoke. 
 
 And there sprang up a breeze that day, 
 And our ship began for to tack, 
 And to please the ghost, we left the coast, 
 
 And steer'd for Old England back. 
 
 »&- 
 
 Then I, as soon as landed, 
 
 Did his last commands pursue ; 
 Old Martha likewise I saw hung at 'Sise, 
 And took the locket to Sue. 
 
 And now of life being weary, 
 I've made up my mind to die, 
 But 1 thought this sad story I'd lay before ye 
 For the good of posteritie. 
 
 So take good heed that never 
 You sit thirteen at table, 
 And true love's token to keep unbroken, — 
 At least so long as you're able.
 
 91 
 
 THE MARESCHAL AND THE BARBER. 
 
 A TALE. AFTER THE MANNER OF COLMAN. 
 
 There's ne'er a skin so exquisitely fair 
 Among our beaux and belles of noble blood, 
 But those whom chance has lifted from the mud 
 In Fortune's richest gifts to hold a share, 
 Make, with their tough and sun-tann'd hides, pre- 
 tence 
 To a still more refined and tender sense. 
 
 Of such a hide as this my story goes, 
 
 Whose owner — bony, gaunt, a man of swagger, 
 
 Of popgun, harquebuse, and dagger — 
 (Twas one of Bonaparte's marechaux — ) 
 Forgetting that his father, 
 A plain painstaking man of labour, 
 Had pass'd his life, like many a neighbour, 
 Unconscious of the sin of lather, 
 Now, in support of his gentility, 
 Affected so much sensibility 
 Of beard, 
 That it appear'd 
 No barber in all Paris knew 
 To pay his ducal visage reverence due. 
 Were I to speak 
 How many tonsors in a week
 
 92 THE MARESCHAL 
 
 He kill'd with fright 
 At the big, round, and dreadful oaths he swore, 
 You'd fancy that I lied outright, 
 And hear no more. 
 Nathless, he found at last an operator, 
 
 Who work'd with so much ease and taste, 
 And used so excellent a shaving paste, 
 
 That, tho' a prater, 
 He never gave his highness cause to swear 
 More than a simple oath or two, 
 (As " Sacredi," or " Ventrebleu,") 
 From early Floreal to late Frimaire, 
 
 All summer through. 
 Of winter I say nothing ; Heaven well knew, 
 
 When, for our father Adam's sin, 
 It sent a covering for the human chin, 
 
 Earth has no torment like the adorning 
 One's face for breakfast on a frosty morning. 
 Then, be the razor dull, or razor bright, 
 A parson's self must swear — a soldier rave outright. 
 
 It chanced, as once our artist sat 
 With a young brother tonsor, close in chat, 
 (Twas at a tavern, where good cheer they made, 
 
 And of good liquor quaff'd their fill,) 
 At last they fell to talking of their trade, 
 Each loudly boasting his superior skill ; 
 Whereon our master barber, in a fume, 
 
 (Whether of anger or of wine) 
 Cried, " Odds, young whipster, and dost thou pre- 
 sume
 
 AND THE BARBER. 93 
 
 To match thy clumsy fist with mine ? 
 Go to, you silly knave, for shame ! 
 When there's the duke of — What's his name' 
 Who, were the razor ne'er so bright and keen, 
 Would never think it shaved him clean — 
 In short, all Paris knows his surly humour — 
 Yet now, I mow his chin so smooth and flat, 
 He never grumbles. Who'll do more than that ?" 
 " Zounds '." said the Gascon artisan," I'll do more." 
 " What canst thou do, O peasant slave and vile ? 
 " Wo't drink up Eysel ? — eat a crocodile?" 
 " Let me, to-morrow, go instead of you, 
 
 And, Sacredieu ! 
 I'll shave but half his face, leaving the other 
 As guiltless of the razor as my mother ; 
 Yet, when I've finish'd, make the duke declare, 
 
 I suit him to a hair ; 
 And pay me too." — " Done, for aducat !" — " Done ! 
 And, as I live, the wager's fairly won." 
 
 Next day, our Senior feign'd indisposition, 
 
 And sent his Gascon friend, who craved permission 
 
 To pass a whetted razor o'er the face, 
 So tender, of his grace. 
 Leave given, with all a Gascon's modesty, 
 
 He plants himself, easy and free, 
 In the Duke's anti-chamber, — takes his station, 
 And waits till, rising out of feather-bed, 
 
 In stalks, with awe-inspiring tread, 
 The barber-killing conqueror of Bagration ;
 
 94 THE MAKESCHAL 
 
 Who, eying first the Gascon round and round, 
 And seeing him so tall, well-limb'd, and stout, 
 
 Perhaps might entertain a doubt 
 Whether, if he had chanced to meet the peasant 
 Alone, in a dark lane, he might have found 
 It quite so pleasant : 
 Since, howsoe'er it be, 
 The bravest man amongst us must confess 
 He cannot treat a rogue of six foot three, 
 Like one whose stature is six inches less. 
 So to this youth, so stout and large of bone, 
 The Marshal growl'd forth in a lower tone 
 Than was his custom with the shaving crew. 
 He sate, and bad the knave commence his work ; 
 
 Who, setting to like any Turk, 
 Mow'd half the face before his patient knew 
 
 The business was begun. 
 But, tho' in skill our Gascon had it hollow, 
 
 The worst was yet to follow 
 Before the wager could be fairly won. 
 With half a beard the Duke to satisfy ? 
 — Sir Huon had not ne'er so hard a job 
 To pull the teeth out of his old Nabob. 
 What can he do ? — He lays his razor by, 
 And, keeping still his former station, 
 Turns up his eyes, and clasps his hands, 
 And like a living statue stands, 
 Muttering some strange ejaculation. 
 At first the Marshal stares both east and west, 
 Astonish'd at the tonsor's mien devout,
 
 AND THE BARBER. 95 
 
 Till, in the end, his patience quite worn out, 
 In gentle phrase he thus the youth address'd. 
 — " Morbleu !".... His Grace, you've heard, was 
 not select 
 In choice of fashionable oaths ; 
 For men change not their fashions with their clothes. 
 And from a Marshal what can you expect ? 
 " Sir," said the Gascon, with a bow profound 
 
 Down to the ground, 
 " So please your highness of your wrath to spare 
 
 I was at prayer." 
 " At prayer, you lousy scoundrel ? — Sacredi ! 
 Is it a time to pray while shaving- me ?" 
 — " Prayer never comes amiss, an'tlike your grace, 
 In any place." 
 " Odslife ! was ever such a shaver ? 
 The reason, sirrah, of this mad behaviour !" 
 " Since" — calmly thus rejoin'd the youth — 
 " Your highness bids me tell the truth, 
 While shaving of your chin, I felt so curs'd 
 
 And devilish an inclination 
 To cut your noble throat, that I was forc'd 
 To pray to God against the strong temptation." 
 " Zounds !" scream'd the Marshal, rising in a fright, 
 
 " Out of my sight !" 
 " What, sir! when I have shaved but half your chin ? 
 That were a sin. 
 No, please your highness, keep your seat ; 
 I'm ready for the other side : 
 The trials of the devil are great ;
 
 96 THE MARESCHAL AND THE BARBER. 
 
 But I've sufficiently been tried : 
 And — I believe — I now may safely swear, 
 To spare your weasand while I mow your hair." 
 
 — " Believe? you scurvy thief! 
 Oons ! shall / trust my throat to your belief ? 
 Here, Jean, Jacques, George !"— " Dread Sir, be 
 quiet ! 
 
 I would not be the cause of riot ; 
 And thus to part would blast my reputation 
 Before the nation. 
 
 I cannot leave you thus." — " Avaunt, 
 
 Imp of the devil !"— " I must—" " Away !" 
 
 — " Only one minute let me stay !" 
 — " You shan't !" 
 " I'll shave you smooth as when youfirstwere born." 
 
 — " Zounds, sir ! I like to be half-shorn." 
 
 — " O, sir, if you are satisfied — " 
 
 " Rascal ! I'm perfectly content." 
 
 — " I only hope, if you repent, 
 You'll send for me to shave the other side. 
 
 But, please your Grace, before I go— 
 
 (Or otherwise, I shall be much afraid 
 
 You're not well pleased — ) your Grace must 
 know — " 
 
 — " Oh, certainly.— What ho ! my page here ! 
 See that the gentleman is duly paid." 
 
 — " Good morning, sir ! I've won my wager."
 
 97 
 
 FROM THE ABBE DELILLE'S 
 " L'IMAGINATION." 
 
 A beauteous flower Spain's glowing sun matured. 
 Her virgin breast the power of love abjured 
 Too long- ; for when at length the conqueror came, 
 He fired her bosom with a fiercer flame: 
 That flame, too precious for a sire's control, 
 To young Alvarez yielded all her soul. 
 
 My tale is short. The haughty father knew 
 Their loves, and at her feet the lover slew. 
 She seized the reeking blade with frantic fire, 
 And to the lover sacrificed the sire. 
 Thus were dissolved, in one short moment's time, 
 By deeds of darkest and most hideous crime, 
 The holiest and the softest ties below : 
 — So mad is love when vengeance prompts the blow. 
 
 But who, poor wretched maid, can picture thee '. 
 Victim of guilt, remorse, and misery ? 
 The horrid secret, to no creature known, 
 Pent up, and raging in her breast alone, 
 A solitary hut conceal'd her shame, 
 And dark oblivion e;ather'd round her name. 
 One peasant girl alone found entrance there, 
 To be the witness of her black despair, 
 But not the soul's deep mystery to share. 
 
 No mortal ever, in the world's wide range, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 93 FROM THE ABBE DE LILLE 9 
 
 Gave such example of discordant change. 
 Now plunged in gloomiest silence, dark and deep. 
 The gnawing fiends of conscience seem'd to sleep ; 
 Then : — as if all unable to control, 
 And trample down the horror of the soul, 
 The fearful struggle in her mind was seen 
 Thro' her strain'd eye-balls and distorted mien ; 
 While, suddenly, as o'er a stormy sky, 
 Some trembling sun-beam oft is seen to fly, 
 Painting - the sullen cloud with transient glow ; 
 So o'er her alter'd front, her sunken brow, 
 Her features strain'd with agony, awhile 
 Shoots a sweet, mournful, melancholy smile. 
 
 But, durst she weep, her tears bring no relief — 
 Those burning tears of unrelenting grief. 
 Sudden — O horror ! O refined distress ! 
 What beauteous scenes of childhood happiness 
 Start to her troubled view ! — she sees again 
 That blissful age, exempt from guilt and pain, 
 When a fond mother's tender kiss gave place, 
 In playful contest, to a sire's embrace. 
 O then, how heaved her breast, how roll'd her eye, 
 How burst the thrilling shrieks of agony ! 
 O'er field and mountain, and the forest glade, 
 Wander'd with hurrying steps the frantic maid, 
 Rush'd o'er the plains, and darted thro' the shade ; 
 Till nature, tired, exhausted, quite gave way, 
 And bloodless, breathless, on the earth she lay. 
 
 E'en pangs like these bring solace to her care ; 
 For madness gives a vent to blank despair.
 
 «« 
 
 L IMAGINATION. 99 
 
 But when, imprison'd in her hut alone, 
 Her scatter'd senses reassume their tone, 
 And all the wanderings of her fancy cease, 
 Reason returns — but not with reason, peace. 
 'Twas then her heart appear'd to sink within, 
 Weigh'd down by all the mightiness of sin : 
 There, drop by drop, a father's blood distill'd, 
 Mix'd with a lover's — blood her hands had spill'd ; 
 Now, with those parricidal hands, she tried 
 To turn away the still returning tide ; 
 Now, close pursued by some avenging ghost, 
 " Help, help," she cried, " Alvarez ! or I'm lost. 
 See, see, O see, my angry father glare ! 
 Lo ! the sharp steel ! — O God, what sight is there ? 
 The same with which I shed his precious life — " 
 Then would she bend, as if to shun the knife 
 In fancy pointed — but, O agony ! 
 She cannot shun her soul ; she cannot fly 
 From those fell demons that her heart corrode : 
 All paints her crime — all marks avenging God. 
 Hell yawns — heaven thunders — the hot bolt is sent; 
 Might God forgive — her soul can ne'er relent. 
 
 At times she hopes— she bends her knees to pray— 
 She clasps her hands — despairs — and dies away ; 
 Avenging God o'erwhelms her with dismay. 
 Yet, not unoften, in her maddest mood, 
 She stopp'd, observant, where the gloomy wood 
 Of cypress join'd the elm's majestic shade, 
 And round the village church a shelter made. 
 It seem'd as if some hidden, viewless force,
 
 100 FROM THE ABBE DELILLe's 
 
 Awful, yet soothing to her soul's remorse, 
 Here urged her on — but then a sudden fear, 
 And horror seized her if she ventured near. 
 
 Yet once, as round the pale she dared to stray, 
 A simple peasant met her on her way, 
 Whose saintly aspect fix'd her roving sight : 
 Mild were his features, and his countenance bright 
 Beam'd inward peace and fellowship with heaven, 
 Which God's appointed minister had given. 
 Surprised, encouraged, hoping, she draws nigh — 
 She enters — she advances silently — 
 Her trembling eyes can now at length endure 
 The sight of that tribunal, just and pure, 
 To true repentance ever open found. 
 — She gazed, 'mid tears of anguish, wildly round — 
 " That Judge severe, whose hallow'd throne I see, 
 May mercy grant to all, but none to me !" 
 
 A venerable man with age grown white, 
 The pastor of the church, now met her sight; 
 Whose useful days, some forty summers, ran 
 In piety to God, and love to man. 
 All shared his bounty — none his censure fear'd — 
 Loved in his hamlet, in his church revered. 
 His manners preach'd — his fair example taught, 
 And warm'd the heart, and sanctified the thought. 
 Both child and parent bless their strengthen'd tie, 
 And e'en the infant, as he passes by, 
 Extends his little hands in playful guile, 
 And hangs delighted on the good man's smile. 
 Of deep remorse assuager firm and sure —
 
 101 
 
 Refuge of sinners — yet himself most pure — 
 Like some proud mountain, whose exalted head 
 Sees storms and tempests far beneath it spread, 
 While thunders roll around its breast, and die, 
 Itself the tenant of a cloudless sky. 
 
 Meeting, they paused— theopening- sentence hung 
 Ready to break — yet silence chain'd each tongue. 
 With looks most eloquently mute, the maid 
 At once conceal'd her secret, and betray 'd. 
 He ask'd her not a word — for souls refined 
 Respect the secrets of a tortured mind; 
 Yet his eye spoke such pity as perforce 
 To win the confidence of true remorse. 
 Together to the altar they drew near : 
 She knelt, opprest by holy awe and fear. 
 Three times her guilt hangs trembling, half reveal'd, 
 And thrice her timid heart denies to yield ; 
 At length, impatient of the struggling load, 
 Her full, o'erflowing soul gave way to God ; 
 And 'mid confession's sacred source she tries 
 To read with hurried glance the good man's eyes. 
 Moved by such sufferings, touch'd by such re- 
 morse, 
 His lips dare open comfort's sacred source. 
 She breathes once more — tears, long by misery dried , 
 Pour from her soften'd eyes a copious tide — 
 Not such as used from maddening rage to break, 
 When burning torrents drench'd her furrow'd cheek , 
 But pure delicious tears — those tears from heaven. 
 By God himself to souls repentant given,
 
 102 
 
 Resembling, in their course, the dews of even ; 
 Refreshing, balmy, sent to give new birth 
 To the parch'd fruits and drooping flowers of earth. 
 Mean-time the priest, commission'd from the sky, 
 Grants pardon in the name of the Most High. 
 
 Oh who can paint the calm that hour bestow'd? 
 She vows her heart, her prayers, her tears, to God. 
 She feels her passion rest, her torments cease, 
 And conscience seals heaven's promises of peace. 
 
 FROM CHATTERTON'S " JELLA." 
 
 FIRST MINSTREL. 
 
 The budding floweret blushes at the light, 
 
 The meads are sprinkled with a saffron hue ; 
 In daisied mantle is the hill-top dight ; 
 
 The graceful cowslip bendeth with the dew : 
 Thro' leafy trees, whose green heads kiss the skies, 
 Waked by the gentle breeze, soft whisper'd mur- 
 murs rise. 
 
 Gray evening comes, and brings the dews along; 
 
 The western sky with golden radiance shines; 
 Sweet minstrels tune their jocund village song, 
 
 Young ivy round the cottage door-post twines ; 
 I lay me on the grass ; yet, to my will, 
 Tho'all is fair around, there wanteth something still.
 
 Hi,; 
 
 SECOND AHNSTREL. 
 
 So our first father thought in Paradise, 
 
 Where heaven and earth did homage to his 
 mind. 
 In woman man's supremest pleasure lies, 
 
 Man's first and best delight is woman-kind. 
 Go — take a wife unto thine arms, and see ! 
 Winter, and russet hills, will then have charms for 
 thee. 
 
 THIRD MINSTKEL. 
 
 When autumn sere and sun-burnt doth appear, 
 With cunning hand gilding the changeful leaf, 
 Bringing up winter to fulfill the year, 
 
 And bearing on his back the welcome sheaf ; 
 With forest seed when all the hills are white, 
 And thro' the kindled sky swift streams the northern 
 light ; 
 
 When the fair apple, red as evening sky, 
 
 Doth bend the tree unto the fruitful ground ; 
 When juicy pears, and berries of black dye, 
 Dance in the air, and all is glad around ; 
 Then, be the evening foul, or evening fair, 
 Methinks the heart's delight is strangely check'd 
 by care.
 
 104 FROM CHATTERTON's " JELLA.' 
 
 SECOND MINSTREL. 
 
 Angels are painted as of neither kind, 
 
 And angels only from desire have rest. 
 There is a something in the manly mind 
 
 That, without woman, can be never blest. 
 There is no sainted hermit, but the sight 
 Of lovely woman warms, and cheers his dulled 
 sprite. 
 
 Woman for man — not for herself — was made ; 
 
 Bone of his bone, and child of his desire. 
 To him from whom she sprang, she flies for aid, 
 
 Her gentle frame less mix'd with native fire; 
 Therefore the fire of love was given, to heat 
 Her milkiness of kind, and make her all complete. 
 
 So, without woman, man yet kindred were 
 To savage beasts, and war his sole employ : 
 
 But woman bade the spirit of peace appear, 
 And won the brutal mind to love and joy. 
 
 Then let a wife be to thy bosom press'd. 
 In wedded life alone is man supremely blest.
 
 105 
 
 FROM OSSIAN'S " BERRATHON." 
 
 " Bend thy blue course, oh stream ! round the narrow 
 plain of Lutha !" 
 
 Oh flow round Lutha's narrow plain, sweet stream. 
 And let the wild woods hanging o'er thee wave, 
 
 And let the sun there shed his warmest gleam, 
 And light winds gently breathe o'er Ossian's 
 grave ! 
 
 At early morn the hunter passing by 
 
 No more shall hear my harp's harmonious fall ; 
 Then shall he drop the tender tear, and cry 
 
 " Where is the tuneful son of great Fingal ?" 
 
 O come, Malvina ! all thy music yield ! 
 
 Let thy soft song once more delight my breast ! 
 Then raise my tomb in Lutha's narrow field, 
 
 And lull my dying spirits into rest. 
 
 Where art thou, lovely maid ? Where is thy song? 
 
 Where are the soft sounds of thy passing feet ? 
 Thou canst not come, nor shall I call thee long, 
 
 Till in my father's airy halls we meet. 
 
 Oh pleasant be thy rest, thou lovely beam ! 
 Silent and slow thy peaceful light declined :
 
 106 FROM OSSIAK's " BERRATHON." 
 
 Like the pale moon upon the trembling stream, 
 Soon hast thou set, and left us dark behind. 
 
 We sit around the rock — but there no more 
 Thy voice remains to soothe, thy light to cheer: 
 
 Soon hast thou set on this deserted shore, 
 And left us all in gloomy darkness here ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 MORVA RHUDDLAN. 
 
 'Twas at the time when the whitethorn was blowing, 
 When pleasant and fruitful the early dews fell, 
 
 That to the wars as my Owen was going, 
 
 He stay'd one sad moment to bid me farewell. 
 
 But, O the marshes, the marshes of Rhuddlan ! 
 
 — He knew not, for ever he bade me farewell. 
 
 Sad was our parting, and bitter tears falling 
 Shew'd hearts full of sorrow and bursting with 
 love ; 
 
 But a brave soldier, whom honour is calling, 
 No sorrow can soften, no passion can move. 
 
 Yet, before eve, on the salt marsh of Rhuddlan, 
 
 In anguish he thought on the tears of his love.
 
 SONG. 107 
 
 Fair smiled the morn ; but no joy to my bosom 
 Could all the g - ay livery of nature afford : 
 
 Fresh was the breeze that blew over the blossom ; 
 My heart, it was heavy because of my lord. 
 
 And, when night fell o'er the marshes of Rhuddlan, 
 
 In dreams I beheld it — the form of my lord. 
 
 Dark rose the morning-, and winds loudly blowing 
 Had chased from my pillow the visions of sleep ; 
 
 I sat at my window, and thought of my Owen ; 
 I strove to be cheerful, but only could weep. 
 
 For something had said, On the marshes of Rhuddlan 
 
 Thy Owen is stretch'd in the hero's last sleep. 
 
 Never shall time put an end to my mourning ; 
 
 E'en winter retiring no joy brings to me : 
 Lovers may hope in the gay spring returning — 
 
 Twas then that I parted, my Owen, from thee! 
 
 the green marshes, the marshes of Rhuddlan ! 
 
 1 parted for ever, my Owen, from thee !
 
 108 
 
 DEVON'S POLY-OLBION. 
 
 THE FIRST SONG. (A FRAGMENT.) 
 
 (A portion of the following verses was honoured with a 
 place in a Collection of Poems edited by Joanna Baillie, 
 1823.) 
 
 First of Devon's thousand streams, 
 
 (Beside whose banks no poet dreams, 
 
 Since to her praise Old Drayton framed 
 
 His pastoral reed — yet scarcely named,)* 
 
 Silver Axe ; who, though her course 
 
 She fetches from a distant source, 
 
 And Dorset's downs, as on she glides, 
 
 From fruitful Somerset divides, 
 
 Yet justly I Devonian name her, 
 
 And for that nobler province claim her, 
 
 (No less than Exe, or Western Tamar;) 
 
 Amongst whose nymphs she's always numb'red, 
 
 And christens sea-port, burgh, and hundred. f 
 
 " Where 
 
 Great Brute first disembarqu'd hiswand'ring Trojans, there 
 His offspring (after long expulst the Inner land, 
 When they the Saxon pow'r no longer could withstand) 
 Found refuge in their flight ; when Ax and Otrey first 
 Gave these poore soules to drink, opprest with grievous 
 
 thirst." (Drayton's Poly-Olbion.) 
 
 t The village of Axmouth ; the town (which by a grant 
 of King John was constituted a free borough) and hundred 
 of Axminster.
 
 DEVON S POLY-OLBION. 109 
 
 From London smoke, and London follies, 
 To Devon's verdant oaks and hollies, 
 As year by year the dog-star leads me, 
 And with sweet thoughts of childhood feeds me, 
 (Those best and purest thoughts that ever 
 Through life's long intermittent fever, 
 Like health-restoring cordials enter, 
 And in our inmost bosom center : 
 Thoughts which for all that wealth, ambition, 
 Wide spreading fame, or proud condition, 
 Can yield to man, I would not barter ; 
 — Not even for the George and Garter) — 
 Thee first (sweet nymph,) my eyes salute, 
 Thee last, when autumn's faded fruit 
 Falling in lap of sad November, 
 Bids me the waning months remember, 
 And leave the country's trancmil joys 
 For eager crowds, and wrangling noise. 
 
 Hail, modest streamlet ! on whose bank 
 No willows grow, nor osiers dank ; 
 Whose waters form no stagnant pool, 
 But ever sparkling, pure, and cool, 
 Their snaky channel keep, between 
 Soft swelling hills of tender green, 
 That freshens still, as they descend 
 In gradual slope of graceful bend, 
 And in the living emerald end — 
 On whose soft turf supinely laid 
 Beneath the spreading beechen shade, 
 I trace, in Fancy's waking dream. 
 The current of thine infant stream,
 
 110 Devon's poly-olbion. 
 
 Where straggling on with gentle force, 
 Thy waves pursue their destined course. 
 Then crowd upon my mental gaze 
 Dim visions of the elder days. 
 Shrouded in black Cistercian cowl,* 
 They pass like spectres o'er my soul, 
 On each pale cheek, and furrow'd brow 
 Impress'd the wretched exile's woe, 
 While many a sigh recalls with pain, 
 The distant home they hope to gain 
 Once more, and rest in peace — in vain ! 
 Poor wanderers, ye shall never see 
 The wept-for towers of Waverley, 
 Nor with enamour'd sense inhale 
 The sweets of Surry's cultured vale ; 
 Whence, at Fitz-Baldwin's high command, 
 
 * " Thorncombe was given by William the Conqueror 
 to Baldwin de Sap (or de Brioniis) who had married his 
 niece, Albreda. Richard, Baron of Oakhampton, (son of 
 Baldwin,) founded a monastery of the Cistercian order at 
 Brightley, in the parish of Oakhampton, in the year 1133, 
 which, a few years afterwards, was removed by his sister, 
 and heiress, Adela, (called also Adeliza,) to a place called 
 Ford in this parish (of Thorncombe). The history of the 
 foundation states, that this noble lady, in the year 1138, 
 met the abbot and monks passing through her manor of 
 Thorncombe on their return to the abbey of Waverley, in 
 Surrey, (to which they had originally belonged,) from the 
 barren spot at Brightley, which they had been obliged to 
 quit from poverty and scarcity of provision ; and that, moved 
 with compassion, she gave them her manor-house of Ford 
 for their residence, and the manor of Thorncombe for their 
 support." — Lysons's Devonshire, p. 501.
 
 Devon's poly-olbion. ill 
 
 Ye sallied, (a devoted band,) 
 
 To plant the Cross in savage land ; 
 
 Where, free from all restraints of law, 
 
 The darkling tribes of infant Taw, 
 
 And rocky Ockment, roam'd secure 
 
 In the wild franchise of the moor. 
 
 — A feverish space, 'twixt life and death, 
 
 The pious planters gasp'd for breath : 
 
 At length resign'd in mute despair 
 
 The thankless objects of their care, 
 
 To moulder left their lowly cell 
 
 For ever — and without farewell — 
 
 And, sick at heart, with watchings worn, 
 
 With failing limbs, and minds forlorn, 
 
 Hopeless they sought the distant bourn 
 
 They scarce could dream to reach again — 
 
 Then laid them down in reckless pain, 
 
 And watch'd, sweet Axe, thy murm'ring tide 
 
 Of waters, as they gently glide 
 
 In rapid silence to the sea, 
 
 Fit emblem of eternity. 
 
 But pious Adeliza there, 
 
 (The conqueror's kin, and Baldwin's heir, 
 
 Fair Devon's countess, rich as fair, 
 
 And more than fair or rich, devout,) 
 
 Beheld them on their homeward rout, 
 
 With liberal hand relieved their woes — 
 
 And Ford's majestic abbey rose. 
 
 Age after age since then has roll'd 
 
 O'er generations dead and cold, 
 
 From sire to son twice ten-times told —
 
 112 DEVON S POLY-OLBION. 
 
 Nor of that grey time-honoured pile 
 Can one poor stone, in tower or aisle, 
 Of cloister'd walk, or 'battled wall, 
 Or oriel bower, or lowly hall, 
 (Though the thick clustering ivy dwells 
 Imbedded midst the low-roof'd cells, 
 As if its aged trunk had grown 
 Coeval with the native stone, 
 Ere yet the builder's art was known,) 
 Say to the fond exploring eye 
 That fain* would read its history, 
 " Avert your touch profane — forbear ! 
 The Royal Foundress placed me here." 
 Yet flows — and will flow on for ever — 
 The current of that peaceful river ; 
 While priest and monk have past away, 
 And sable cowl, and amice grey, 
 And 'broider'd cope, with jewels' shine, 
 High rood, and consecrated shrine. 
 In dust the holy relics lie — 
 The hands that rifled them, hard by — 
 The mitred abbot dispossess'd ; 
 The leveller with his ribald jest ; 
 The courtier,* whose inglorious toil 
 
 * At the suppression, the manor was granted to the Earl 
 of Oxford — the site of the abbey to Richard Pollard, esq. 
 From him the latter passed through various hands till it was 
 purchased by Sir Edmund Prideaux, solicitor-general to the 
 Commonwealth.
 
 Devon's poly-olbion. 113 
 
 Achieved the glittering Romish spoil ; 
 
 The wily lawyer's subtle craft, 
 
 That temper'd the destructive shaft, 
 
 Which kept its destined aim, conceal'd 
 
 Behind Religion's frowning shield, 
 
 The work of reformation ended, 
 
 And in one common ruin blended 
 
 All holy and all hallow'd things, 
 
 Altars and thrones, and priests and kings. 
 
 — The solemn pageant pass'd away, 
 
 Where next (sweet river,) shall we stray? 
 
 To Wycroft's bridge, and mouldering wall, 
 
 That faintly marks the embattled hall 
 
 By lordly Cobham once possest, 
 
 And trod by high and princely guest.* 
 
 In Thorncombe's aisle you still may trace 
 
 The features of a gentle face 
 
 (Of knight's degree, and Cobham's race,) 
 
 Glorious in brass, and by his side 
 
 The image of his lady bride, 
 
 And character'd in letters fair, 
 
 " {Stomas 33roo&e, IRnpeine," engraven there : 
 
 No more remains — the when, — the where, — 
 
 The how he lived, and fought, and died, 
 
 f The manor of Wycroft passed by sale to Sir Thomas 
 Brooke, ancestor of the Lords Cobham. In 1426, a licence 
 was granted to Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and others, 
 (trustees, probably, for the Brooke family,) to castellate the 
 mansion at Wycroft, and enclose a park of 800 acres. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 Devon's poly-olbion. 
 
 Or who the lady at his side, 
 
 The brass has long forgot to tell, 
 
 Nor can the keen explorer spell 
 
 With all his pains, the smallest trace 
 
 Of the short pious prayer for grace, 
 
 That ends the monumental scroll,— 
 
 " Zfyt HorD ijatje mercg on ine eouL" 
 
 Yet to the heart it teaches more 
 
 Than tomes of theologic lore ; 
 
 — A proverb, or grave homily, 
 
 Of most sententious brevity 
 
 On mortal durability — 
 
 Such wisdom is in crumbled bones ! 
 
 Such are the sermons preach'd by stones ! 
 
 Let but a few short lustres pass — 
 
 The tablet of recording brass 
 
 (Raised for eternity,) may show, 
 
 No more than he who sleeps below, — 
 
 Nay — e'en his feeble fleshly form, 
 
 Spite of corruption and the worm, 
 
 Outlast, within its bed of earth, 
 
 The pompous verse that boasts its worth : 
 
 So hard the pious taste to save 
 
 One plank from time's o'erwhelming wave ; 
 
 But would we trace his earlier stream, 
 
 " Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream !" 
 
 The Druid walked yon stone-girt round, 
 
 The Roman rear'd yon grassy mound ; 
 
 This for defence — a chosen site — 
 
 That for observance, day or night,
 
 DEVON S POLY-OLBION. 115 
 
 Of hallow'd or unhallow'd rite. 
 Clear as the sun — Nay, all agree — 
 — Even so, sage dreamer, let it be ! 
 Why then wear life's brief candle out 
 In proving that which none can doubt ? 
 Why with such dread suspicion eye 
 The grey-beard swain who passes by, 
 As if a word his tongue might say, 
 Would puff your theory away ? 
 Well may you dread that rustic smile, 
 " He minds the bigging"* of the pile. 
 Yet may we trust without a crime 
 The legends of the olden time, 
 And still pursue, by croft and mill, 
 Deep vale, and gently sloping hill, 
 (Sweet Axe !) the mazes of thy rill, 
 To plains which, long ere Ford was known, 
 And Newenham's sister abbey shone 
 Transcendent with the blessed rood, 
 Blush'd crimson deep, with Danish blood. f 
 
 * See Walter Scott's " Antiquary." 
 
 t In 937 is said to have happened, near Axminster, the 
 most bloody conflict which had ever been known in England, 
 between King Athelstan (accompanied by his brother Ed- 
 mund,) and the Kings of Ireland and Scotland confederated 
 with the Danes ; . in which Athelstan was victorious. In 
 the old chronicle which relates it, the slaughter is described 
 as immense ; five of the leaders slain are there called kino-s ; 
 these, with eight earls, and others, are said to have been 
 buried in the cemetery at Axminster.
 
 116 DEVON S POLY-OLBION. 
 
 Lo ! from the bosom of the deep, 
 The sea kings swift ascending sweep ! 
 From Seaton's cliffs they wind their way, 
 (Old Moridunum's doubted bay,)* 
 The boding raven in their van, 
 To meet undaunted Athelstan. 
 Nor Erin's lonely harp, that day, 
 Nor Scotia's Royal Lion may 
 Be absent from the bloody fray. 
 Dream they of conquest, or of spoil — 
 Fit guerdon of the warrior's toil ? 
 Do they for fame or plunder burn? 
 Ah, destined never to return ! 
 For Royal Athelstan is there, 
 And Edmund, with the yellow hair, 
 The dangers of the field to share ; 
 
 * " The site of Moridunum is so difficult to determine," 
 (observes the Bishop of Cloyne in his observations on 
 Roman Stations in Devonshire, incorporated by Lysons in 
 liia History,) " that our best antiquaries have doubts on the 
 subject." Some fix it at Eggardon in Dorsetshire, others at 
 Hembury, but the common opinion is in favour of Seaton. 
 Why not Miisbury — two miles above Seaton, on the oppo- 
 site side of the river — where are evident traces of a Roman 
 camp, and the modern name may be considered as a cor- 
 ruption of the ancient 1 The point of distance, which is in- 
 sisted on by the advocates of Hembury fort, does not appear 
 to me very conclusive. The fifteen miles may have been 
 computed from the mouth of the river — the port of Isca. 
 Moridunum — Morisbury — Morsbury — Musbury.
 
 DEVON S POLY-OLBION. 117 
 
 And with their standard follow free 
 The flower of England's chivalry. 
 With such a foe 'tis vain to cope ; 
 From such a foe 'tis vain to hope 
 Whether to win the field or flee- 
 Alike escape and victory. 
 — 'Tis done — and on the battle plain 
 Five kings and eight stout earls lie slain ; 
 Nor stone is raised, nor mound, to tell 
 They bravely fought, or nobly fell. 
 But they who for their country bled,* 
 For them their country's tears are shed. 
 Shrined in their parent soil they sleep ; 
 There holy priests their vigils keep, 
 And altars burn, and prayers arise 
 In swelling- anthems to the skies, 
 From full-toned choirs, for their repose. 
 — Such honours grateful England owes, 
 And such be ever duly paid 
 To her loved patriot's peaceful shade. 
 — Are yonder straggling orchard wall, 
 And yon dark ivied window all — 
 All that unpitying Time has spared 
 Of that illustrious fabrick, rear'd 
 And consecrate to Heaven above, 
 
 * " King; Athelstan gave the church of Axminster to 
 seven priests, who were to pray for the souls of seven knights 
 or earls, and many others, slain in the battle with the Danes 
 near this town." — Lysons, p. 24.
 
 118 DEVON S POLY -OLBION. 
 
 In union of fraternal love ? 
 
 And has destruction seized so soon 
 
 The saintly labours of Mohun ?* 
 
 — Leave we the clouds of antient story, 
 
 For scenes of later parted glory. 
 
 — When scarce a river flows unsung, 
 
 Or murmuring brook but hath its tongue 
 
 To praise whate'er of great or good 
 
 Beside its sacred banks hath stood, 
 
 Shall Marlborough's native current f keep 
 
 Its channel to the ocean deep, 
 
 Unhonour'd by one tuneful voice, 
 
 That may his mighty ghost rejoice ? 
 
 No — through the dazzling radiance shed 
 
 By conquest round his laurel'd head, 
 
 Let him in dim perspective see 
 
 * " The abbey of Newenham in this parish (Axminster) 
 was founded for monks of the Cistercian order, in the reign 
 of Henry III., by Reginald de Mohun, and his younger 
 brother William." — " There are scarcely any remains of the 
 monastic building, some of which were pulled down a few 
 years ago." — Lysons, p. 22. 
 
 t Ash, in the parish of Musbury, was the chief seat of the 
 family of Drake for many generations. This house is cele- 
 brated as having been the birth-place of John Churchill, the 
 great Duke of Marlborough. He was born on Midsummer 
 day, 1 650, his mother being then on a visit to her father Sir 
 John D rake. It is now occupied as a farm-house, one wing 
 only of the original edifice, and the chapel (now used as a 
 barn, and detached from the residence) being left.
 
 DEVON S POLY-OI.BION. 119 
 
 The tender scenes of infancy 
 
 Reflected by the muse's art, — 
 
 Then feel the welcome tear-drop start, 
 
 Richer than all the jewels set 
 
 In his bright princely coronet. 
 
 — Dismantled now the courts and void, 
 
 The goodly fabric half-destroy'd, 
 
 And at the hospitable hearth, 
 
 Once echoing to the festive mirth 
 
 Of knight and squire, carousing round 
 
 The board their morning sport had crown 'd ; 
 
 Or to the tabor's merrier sound, 
 
 When Father Christmas to the door, 
 
 Call'd young and old, and rich and poor, 
 
 And stately dame, and blushing maid, 
 
 (Despite of velvet and brocade, 
 
 Though guarded by the encircling pale 
 
 Of stomacher and farthingale,) 
 
 Would, for the season, lay aside 
 
 Their full-blown dignity and pride, 
 
 And join the dance, with honest glee 
 
 " In unreproved pleasures free ;" 
 
 Unmindful of the waste of years, 
 
 The good wife plies her household cares, 
 
 Or marks the embers, as they burn, 
 
 To greet the farmer's late return. 
 
 Yet still you may distinguish, o'er 
 
 Yon desecrated chapel's door, 
 
 Display 'd the coil'd and winged snake,
 
 120 Devon's poly-olbion. 
 
 That figures forth the name of Drake ;* 
 With daring' crest, and scaly hide, 
 Such as Sir Bernard's ill-starr'd pride, 
 In pomp of heraldry, denied 
 To a far greater Drake, whose fame 
 Outshone the herald's loftiest claim. 
 
 * The arms of Drake (still visible over the door of the 
 chapel,) are thus emblazoned : " Argent, awivern (or winged 
 dragon, probably allusive to the name of Drake,} with wings 
 displayed, gules." 
 
 " About this time it was (says Prince in his Worthies, 
 Art. Sir Bernard Drake, knt.) that there fell out a contest 
 between Sir Bernard and the immortal Sir Francis Drake ; 
 chiefly occasioned by Sir Francis his assuming Sir Bernard's 
 coat of arms, not being able to make out his descent from 
 his family ; (a matter, in those days, when the court of honor 
 was in more honor, not so easily digested.) The feud here- 
 upon increased to that degree, that Sir Bernard, being a 
 person of a high spirit, gave Sir Francis a box on the ear ; 
 and that within the verge of the court. For which offence 
 he incurred her majesty's displeasure ; and, most probably, 
 it proved the occasion of the queen's bestowing upon Sir 
 Francis Drake anew coat, of everlasting honour to himself 
 and his posterity for ever ; which hath relation to that glo- 
 rious action of his, the circumnavigating the world ; which 
 is thus emblazoned by Guillim, ( Diamond , a f ess wavy between 
 the two pole-stars, Arctic and Antarctic, Pearl,) — and, what 
 is more, his crest is, A ship on a globe under ruff, held by a 
 cable rope, with a hand out of the clouds ; in the rigging whereof 
 is hung up by the heels a loivern gules, Sir Bernard's arms ; 
 but in no great honour (we may think,) to that knight, though 
 so designed to Sir Francis. Unto all which Sir Bernard 
 boldly replied, " That though her majesty could give him 
 a nobler, she could not give him an antienter coat than his."
 
 DEVON S POLY-OLBION. 121 
 
 — Not as the maiden queen, in scorn 
 Of ancestry, would have it borne 
 By her great captain, wise as brave, 
 k (When for his proud device, she gave 
 The ship that bore him o'er the wave,) 
 On 'scutcheon downward hung, and fast 
 Suspended to the boastful mast. — 
 — Now to old Ocean's hollow cave 
 Axe pours a wider, deeper wave, 
 Swoln by a thousand nameless rills, 
 Fast trickling from the western hills, 
 That with their woody summits crown 
 Old Colyton's baronial town, 
 And Colcombe's walls with ivy dark, 
 And Shute's grey towers, and mossy park — 
 — No longer now defiance breathing,* 
 
 * Colcombe Castle, and Shute House and Park, both of 
 which were (in the time of Elizabeth,) purchased by Sir 
 William Pole, the antiquary, and have ever since descended 
 in his family, belonged (at the commencement of the wars 
 of the two Roses,) the one to Thomas Courtenav, Earl of 
 Devonshire, (a zealous Lancastrian,) the other to William 
 Lord Bonville, (an equally strenuous adherent of Richard 
 Plantagenet, Duke of York). " In 33 Hen. 6 (says Prince,) 
 there fell out a shrewd dispute between Thomas Courtenay, 
 Earl of Devonshire, and this Lord Bonvil, about a couple 
 of hounds ; which could by no mediation of friends be qua- 
 lified or appeased, untill it was valiantly tryed by a single 
 combat on Clyst Heath, near Exeter, wherein (as Dugdale 
 tells us,) this lord prevailed. But another writer saith, 
 that after they had well tryed one the other's strength and
 
 122 DEVON'S POLY-OLBION\ 
 
 As when stout Devon's earl, unsheathing 
 His sword in sainted Henry's right, 
 Challenged fierce Bonville to the fight 
 (Plantagenet's redoubted knight). 
 — This is no dream. I see them yet, 
 As when on Clyst's brown heath they met 
 Radiant in arms, and, with them set 
 In meet array, on either side 
 (As sway'd by favor, or allied 
 In kindred ties of blood and name.) 
 All Devon's worthies crowding came, 
 
 valour with their naked swords, they at last lovingly agreed, 
 and embraced each other, and ever after continued in great 
 love and amity." 
 
 It seems, however, that a very different account of this 
 transaction is nearer the truth. 
 
 " During the civil wars between the houses of York and 
 Lancaster, this county was much divided ; and, although 
 we have no record of any battle fought in it, yet it appears 
 that bloodshed sometimes ensued between the partisans of 
 the two houses. The roll of parliament, 1455, speaks of 
 several riots and murders committed in the west by these 
 noblemen. Some writers mention a duel between them on 
 Clvst Heath. It was rather a combat, for they fought attended 
 by numerous retainers, who engaged in the conflict ; and 
 several persons were killed on either side. Lord Bonville was 
 victorious, and the gates of Exeter were opened to him and 
 his party." — Lysons, p. viii. 
 
 I have adopted this historical statement, in its largest 
 signification, as affording an opportunity for introducing a 
 list of the Devonshire worthies of the period, distinguished, 
 (for the most part,) by their various armorial bearings.
 
 DEVON S POLY-OLBION. 123 
 
 Eager to try the desperate game. 
 Alike regardless of the cause, 
 Each for his feudal chieftain draws 
 The ready glaive, content to share 
 With him the toils, and meed of war, 
 And leave the schoolmen to debate 
 Those knottier subtleties of state, 
 Whether the red rose, or the white, 
 The king in fact, or king by right,* 
 Holds heaven's commission in the fight. 
 — Fry speeds from Yarty to the field, 
 Three snow-white coursers plain reveal'd 
 Are charging on his crimson shield. 
 Brooke from his castellated roof 
 Brings the crown'd Lion to the proof. 
 Ash, with the double chevron draws 
 His trusty sword in Courtenay's cause, 
 And Pine (whose name is spelt aright 
 By the three pine-cones, golden hight,) 
 For Bonville proves a kinsman's might. 
 From Branscombe's wild and lonely beach, 
 Resounding to the sea-bird's screech, 
 Two warriors mark, ascending slow. 
 On ruby shield the rose of snow 
 
 * " The king in fact, or king by right." The distinction 
 between a king de facto and a king de jure, which was first 
 known in law at this period, and the scholastic as well as 
 political disputes to which that distinction gave birth, are 
 familiar to historical readers.
 
 124 Devon's poly-olbion. 
 
 Speaks gentle Wadham : while from far, 
 
 Three sever'd heads, (stern spoils of war,) 
 
 The fame of Holcombe's line declare. 
 
 — From where swift Otter's streams divide, 
 
 And in their parted channel glide, 
 
 Rejoicing- as they wander on 
 
 Through the rich vale of Honiton, 
 
 Yon sun-bright banner, broad display 'd, 
 
 Advancing from the distant glade, 
 
 In stately march, unfurls to view 
 
 The sable lions of Carew.* 
 
 Who follows in the Baron's train ? 
 
 Malherbe, whose courage free from stain 
 
 (As by his bearing he would shew,) 
 
 Yields " stinging nettles" to the foe.f 
 
 * The principal seat of the noble family of Carew was 
 (at this period,) at Mohun's Ottery, near Honiton. Their 
 arms are, " Or, three lions passant, sable." Nicholas Baron 
 Carew was the son of Sir Thomas Carew, captain of Har- 
 fleur (a distinguished actor in Harry the Fifth's wars,) by 
 a daughter of Sir William Bonville ; from whence it might 
 be inferred that he was of the York faction, unless his own 
 marriage with the daughter and heir of Sir Hugh Courtenay , 
 of Haccombe, should lead to an opposite conclusion. His 
 being found, in 1469, in company with the Lords Fitzwarren 
 and Dinham, at Exeter, when that city was besieged by 
 Hugh, Earl of Devonshire, (son and successor of Earl Tho- 
 mas,) seems, however, to confirm the former supposition. 
 
 f " Yield stinging nettles to mine enemy." 
 
 Shaksp. K. Rich. II. 
 The singular device of Malherbe of Feniton — in evident 
 allusion to his name.
 
 DEVON S ri)LY-OLBION. 125 
 
 In order next you may behold 
 
 Rich Beaumont, with his bars of gold ; 
 
 Then, by his silver chaplets known, 
 
 Time-honour'd Duke of Otterton ; 
 
 And last, not least in the career, 
 
 The blazing sun of bold St. Cleer. 
 
 Nor backward in the martial list 
 
 Were found that day, the men of Clyst — 
 
 Unlike their parent streams, that sleep, 
 
 As through the fattening meads they creep 
 
 In lazy silence to the deep. 
 
 Fraunceis was there, from Fraunceis-Court, 
 
 Frankcheyney, Bampfylde, Valletort, 
 
 There Beavis shakes the quivering lance, 
 
 Like his old name-sake of romance, 
 
 And by his knightly bearing shows 
 
 The fabled stock whereon he grows — 
 
 (Three helmets with the beavers down,) — 
 
 There Faringdon, whose name makes known 
 
 The pleasant place that sent him forth 
 
 To signalize his gentle birth. 
 
 And oh ! may this degenerate tongue 
 
 Cleave to my throat, if e'er unsung 
 
 (Loved Faringdon !) I pass thee by, 
 
 Nor pay the tribute of a sigh, 
 
 To scenes of early joys and cares, 
 
 (View'd thro' the softening mist of years, 
 
 When life was young, and pleasures new,) 
 
 From grateful memory ever due.
 
 126 Devon's poly-olbion. 
 
 — But see ! from Hemyock's stately towers 
 Lord Dinham leads his border-powers.* 
 High-raised above the circling 1 press, 
 Four lozenges conjoin'd in fess, 
 (Ermine, on bright vermillion coat,) 
 His old Armoric race denote — 
 Welcome to York's ascending star, 
 No less than when from adverse war 
 To Nutwell's brown o'er-archinff shade 
 The royal exile he convey'd, 
 And thence in secret safety bore 
 To Gallia's hospitable shore. 
 
 * John, Lord Dinbam, (Lord High Treasurer of England, 
 anno 1 Hen. VII.) was a zealous Yorkist, and personally 
 attached to the Earl of March, afterwards Edward the Fourth , 
 whom (together with his famous adherents Salisbury and 
 Warwick,) he concealed in his house, at Nutwell near 
 Lympstone, (now Sir Thomas Drake's,) when, after the 
 battle of Bloreheath, (ann. 1459,) the Yorkists were dis- 
 persed, and that prince took refuge at Calais. 
 
 The Dinhams had, if not the most extensive, probably 
 the most widely scattered possessions, of any family be- 
 longing to Devonshire at this period. Nutwell appears to 
 have been, at this time, their ordinary residence ; but Hem- 
 yock Castle (on the borders of Somersetshire,) also belonged 
 to them ; and I have placed him here accordingly, as at the 
 head of" the men of Calm." 
 
 The origin of the family is derived from the Castle of 
 Dinant in Britanny. Oliver de Dinant was Lord of Hart- 
 land in the time of the Conqueror ; and to his descendant 
 Geoffrey de Dinant (temp. Hen. II.) is ascribed the second 
 foundation of Hartland Abbey.
 
 Devon's poly-olbion. 127 
 
 Ere half the promised song is sung, 
 My voice is check'd, my harp unstrung. 
 The knightly vision melts away, 
 Of glittering arms and banners gay ; 
 Imagination quits her throne ; 
 The winged fancies all have flown, 
 And left the field to noise and strife, 
 The dull realities of life. 
 
 Farewell, my muse ! another day 
 We may resume our pleasant play ; 
 But now (although it grieve my heart,) 
 'Tis time that thou and I should part. 
 Farewell, my muse ! another year 
 Will soon speed on in swift career : 
 Dark winter's fogs will soon take wing, 
 And fly before the laughing spring ; 
 Soon bright-eyed summer pass — and soon 
 Brown autumn with his harvest-moon 
 Return — and we will loiter then 
 'Mongst Devon's river-nymphs again. 
 
 And is it thus our idle rhyme 
 
 Would urge the flying wheels of time ? 
 
 And dare we thus, (infirm of will,) 
 
 In blind anticipation still 
 
 Of some imagined hour, unknown, 
 
 Lose that which only is our own ?
 
 128 Devon's poly-olbion. 
 
 Farewell, my muse ! another day 
 
 Will bring such leisure as it may — 
 
 That's not for you or me to say. 
 
 All is, though we're no longer young 
 
 As when we first together sung ; 
 
 Though Time has check'd your wanton flow, 
 
 And plac'd some wrinkles on my brow ; 
 
 We are not yet too old to sport 
 
 Where Mirth and Fancy keep their court. 
 
 And so, my farewell I repeat, 
 
 Not as if doom'd no more to meet, 
 
 Yet dwelling on the unwelcome word 
 
 Like some fond lover, who has heard 
 
 The well-known signal to be gone, 
 
 And still looks back, and lingers on, 
 
 Afraid to strike the note of sorrow, 
 
 Though hoping to return to-morrow.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER, ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 (written from college, march 16, 1797.) 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 " The return of this day inspired me with ideas 
 which I have attempted to clothe in verse ; and I 
 send you accordingly the following" lines, for the 
 badness of which the only excuse 1 can offer is 
 this — that, if they had been excited by anything 
 but the particular occasion, I would have taken 
 time to correct and amend them ; but, as their only 
 object is to celebrate your birth-day, I trust you 
 will like better to receive them with all their im- 
 perfections on their head, than more polished ones 
 after the season that prompted them is passed. 
 I shall conclude this preface by desiring you to 
 accept the will for the deed, and consider this 
 tribute, not as the production of the head, but of 
 the heart." 
 
 [N.B. The only corrections since attempted are 
 of a few faulty rhymes : and, though it may not 
 be easy to find an adequate excuse for presenting to 
 
 VOE. I. K
 
 130 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 the public eye, thus slightly emendated, so crude 
 and imperfect an attempt at poetical composition, 
 the nature of the subject may afford some apology 
 for its introduction at the head of a series of early 
 verses, in place of a dedication.] 
 
 The snows dissolve — the frost retires, 
 And loosens each rejoicing- stream ; 
 
 Fresh youth the new-born year inspires, 
 Nursed by the sun's enlivening beam. 
 
 All nature feels return of spring ; 
 
 With the sweet lark's seraphic lay 
 Again the vocal woodlands ring — 
 
 Again their tuneful homage pay. 
 
 In verdant robe the meads are drest — 
 E'en Camus feels the general joy, 
 
 Reflecting from his silver breast 
 
 Each varied hue that decks the sky. 
 
 All — all to fill my glowing breast 
 With love and gratitude conspire ; 
 
 But this thy day — of days most blest — 
 Awakes my soul to holier fire ; 
 
 Adds livelier charms to all I view, 
 New blossoms to the bursting wood, 
 
 To every mead a brighter hue, 
 And purer crystal to the flood.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 131 
 
 Not truer bliss the hour bestows 
 
 Amid those scenes which fancy loves, 
 
 Where native Isca murmuring- flows 
 Beside our Cowley's infant groves, 
 
 Than in these walls to science dear, 
 
 These bowers renown'd in classic song, 
 
 Where willowy Camus lingering near, 
 In placid stillness creeps along. 
 
 O thou, who at this genial hour 
 
 Life's strange eventful course began, 
 
 Who train'd my soul by Virtue's power, 
 And guided all my steps to man ! 
 
 If I should e'er unworthy prove 
 
 Of all thy fond maternal care, 
 Yet could I never cease to love, 
 
 E'en in the depths of dark despair. 
 
 But brighter hopes my fancy rouse ; 
 
 Far different dreams of bliss refined, 
 Make answer to my ardent vows, 
 
 And gladden my prophetic mind. 
 
 In times far hence, when circling years 
 
 Shall with fresh wreaths thy temples shade , 
 
 May'st thou behold in me thy fears 
 Averted, and thy cares repaid !
 
 132 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 Revered, till virtue low is laid, 
 
 Beloved, till love delights no more, 
 
 Till all life's kindling- raptures fade, 
 And all its earthly joys are o'er. 
 
 ON BEAUTY. 
 
 And can a look, a smile, control 
 
 The warm emotions of the soul ? 
 
 A sigh, a glance, a tear, convey 
 
 The unresisting heart away ? 
 
 And can a power which knows to bend 
 
 The laws of nature to its end, 
 
 To ride secure in air, to breathe 
 
 Old ocean's liquid vaults beneath, 
 
 The eternal arch of heaven to scan, 
 
 And all the mighty maze of man, 
 
 Yield to a cheek in roses drest, 
 
 A coral lip, or ivory breast ? 
 
 No — 'tis the mind I love — the mind, 
 
 Where virtue's purest thoughts are 'shrined- 
 
 Firm faith — untainted modesty — 
 
 Meek hope — and sainted charity. 
 
 But when we see each mental grace 
 
 Glow in the radiance of the face ; 
 
 An angel's purity confess'd 
 
 In the bright cheek and snowy breast ;
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VEKSES. 133 
 
 The speaking lustre of the eye 
 
 Beam hope and sainted charity ; 
 
 Each sigh, each tear, each glance, impart 
 
 The faithful records of the heart ; 
 
 'Tis then, while Beauty's force we prove, 
 
 A crime to gaze, and not to love. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON HEARING THE VESPER SONG IN THE 
 CHAPEL AT HENGRAVE. 
 
 There is a wild and solitary heath 
 
 On whose brown bosom spring no flowers has 
 
 shed. 
 There no green hill uplifts his smiling head, 
 Sheltering the calm, well water'd vale beneath ; 
 But all is one flat, dark, uncultured waste. 
 Near to that savage spot I heard a strain 
 More ravishing than that which did detain 
 Gay Comus and his wassailers, when they traced 
 Their nightly revels in the wild wood's shade ; 
 More mournful than the notes that Zephyr bore, 
 Faint murmuring, along the Danish shore, 
 Pour'd forth unconscious by the sinking maid. 
 
 That heavenly strain devotion taught to pour, 
 And fancy gave it inspiration's aid.
 
 134 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 THE WILLING DETENTION. 
 
 " The night is dark; and thick arise 
 
 The mist and fog- on every side ; 
 The roads are heavy, and your eyes 
 
 Will find no land-mark, near or wide." 
 " Oh ! when the first half mile is over, 
 
 The road is strait, and plain to see : 
 Our steeds will soon the way discover, 
 
 And we shall jog home merrily." 
 
 " Our common's wild — our common's wide ; 
 
 And some part brake, and some part fen, 
 By ditches cross'd on every side : 
 
 You'll never find your way agen. 
 Then there's no polar star to guide you — 
 
 You cannot see St. Ives's liarht : 
 I fear some mischief will betide you : 
 
 Cross not our common, then, to-night!" 
 
 I yield me to the sweet command, 
 
 And, under thy protecting wing, 
 Defy all harm, all fear withstand — 
 
 But ruin drink at pleasure's spring. 
 Far safer in the brake and fen, 
 
 To wander on till break of morning — 
 1 then had found my way again 
 
 In spite of thy piophetic warning.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 135 
 
 Now from that tongue more pain I've found 
 
 Than wind or water could impart : 
 Those eyes have made a deeper wound 
 
 Than could the fen-fiend's icy dart : 
 Yet would I not the bliss resign 
 
 In memory's glass again to view thee, 
 For all the peace I once call'd mine, 
 
 Ere, lovely Imogen, I knew thee. 
 
 TO MEMORY. 
 
 Farewell, deceitful Memory! 
 Thy faded form, thy hollow eye 
 No more shall blast my sickening view. 
 To thy half joys and chequer'd fears, 
 Thy bitter frown, and smile of tears, 
 Alike I bid adieu. 
 
 My soul on Lethe's bank hath stoc 1 , 
 And drunk of that reviving flood. 
 To a new life awake, I scorn 
 The crowd that shuns the untasted streams, 
 And, tossing still mid feverish dreams, 
 Fail to salute the morn. 
 
 The hours in pleasure that have pass'd, 
 Remember'd, pall upon the taste, 
 And raise disgust, or discontent.
 
 136 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 Idly we note, with proud remorse, 
 The imputed errors of our course, 
 And mourn our time mispent. 
 
 Memory, farewell ! before me shine 
 Forms fairer and more fresh than thine, 
 Bright hope, and glittering novelty : 
 The trodden vales I leave behind, 
 And borne on fancy's viewless wind, 
 To unsought mountains fly. 
 
 There shall no stain of ancient dross 
 My renovated soul engross, 
 Or taint the free unsullied air : 
 There all is lovely, all is new ; 
 No former sight there meets my view, 
 No former sound my ear. 
 
 — Vain is the lay, and false the theme — 
 Of Lethe's dull oblivious stream 
 Man may not taste ; nor hard his doom : 
 For sober memory yet can pour 
 On the pure mind a boundless store 
 Of ever sweet perfume. 
 
 In each new realm she bids me see 
 Some spot to waken thoughts of thee, 
 Dear land ! where first I wept and smiled 
 In eveiy warbled wood-note there, 
 And murmuring stream, I still shall hear 
 A sister's descant wild.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 137 
 
 Then shall I think how many a day 
 On Isca's banks I loved to stray 
 With dear companions, absent long ; 
 How oft at fancy's twilight hour, 
 Full of the muse, I've woo'd the power, 
 The melting power of song. 
 
 How blest, if in the various bowl 
 No bitter drop shall sting my soul, 
 Drain'd through the dregs of fell remorse — 
 How blest, if memory shall supply 
 New lights to fix my wandering eye, 
 And regulate my course ! 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 WITH THE " CONTINUATION OF BEATTIfi's 
 MINSTREL." 
 
 Hoping thro' fields of fierce forensic war 
 
 The steep whence fame's proud temple shines afar 
 
 To gain, no more the humble Minstrel's lay, 
 
 Though often summon'd, will my call obey. 
 
 In gayer hours, by fairy visions drest, 
 
 The muse with rapture fill'd my youthful breast, 
 
 When health, and peace, and competence my aim, 
 
 I shrank to hear the obstreperous trump of fame ; 
 
 With Edwin loved to trace the haunted stream,
 
 133 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 O'er the white torrent gazed in bliss supreme, 
 Hung, mutely joyful, on the mountain's side, 
 Nor knew more transport than those scenes supplied. 
 
 E'en now, when you my youthful efforts praise, 
 And ask the tribute of my minstrel lays, 
 My random pearls I would again unite, 
 And string a jewel worthy of thy sight. 
 — In vain — the muse, disdainful of my prayer, 
 From her high throne thus thunders in my ear : 
 " Stay thy rash hand ! These gems, my special care, 
 None but a true devoted bard may wear; 
 These fields, by Beattie till'd, by Edwin trod, 
 Yield not to rebel feet their sacred sod ; 
 This Eden yet some favour'd bard may share — 
 — No flaming sword shall fright Eliza here ; 
 But thou ! — rebellious to my sovereign sway, 
 Bear thy rude steps and daring hands away ! 
 Go, vow submission to the power I hate ! 
 Go, swell the suppliants at ambition's gate ! 
 Seek the throng'd bar, full wig, and flowing gown, 
 The miry streets and dingy walls of town ! 
 And, when thy goddess hides her spurious fires, 
 When law provokes to sleep, and business tires, 
 Put on, to soothe thy spleen, my German bonnet, 
 Write tales of wonder, or some limping sonnet, 
 And think, with earth-born insolence o'er-run, 
 The muse still favours an apostate son !" 
 
 While such the answer to my humble suit, 
 In vain I gape to catch poetic fruit ; 
 Yet when my early love, not yet subdued,
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 139 
 
 Returns to frown upon my solitude, 
 
 I seek to make a compromise with fate, 
 
 And think repentance never comes too late. 
 
 Perhaps ambition may my suit repel, 
 
 And lofty honour scorn my humble cell ; 
 
 The golden fruit elude my venturous hand, 
 
 And melt, my vision of the promised land : 
 
 No sapient coif may light upon my head, 
 
 No honour'd silk be o'er my shoulders spread. 
 
 Then, disappointed, jostled, press'd, subdued, 
 
 While dolts and knaves before my face intrude, 
 
 Wearied with watchings, and with labour spent, 
 
 A prey to care and fruitless discontent, 
 
 May I, to pass my disregarded age, 
 
 Find out at eve some peaceful hermitage ! 
 
 When true repentance aids my suit, the muse 
 
 Her humble suppliant may no more refuse, 
 
 But. heal the wounds by foil'd ambition made 
 
 With balm fresh gather'd in her laurel shade, 
 
 Teach me to pour again my soul in song 
 
 With powers more ripen'd, and a voice more strong. 
 
 Again draw gentle Edwin forth to view, 
 
 And make the minstrel strain more worthy you.
 
 140 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 HORACE, BOOK II. ODE 7. 
 TO A FRIEND ON LEAVING COLLEGE. 
 
 First of my friends, who long with me 
 Hast drain'd the bowl of slavery, 
 Driven to the extreme of toil and gloom 
 In old Mathemon's lecture room; 
 First of my friends, what favouring god 
 Now brings thee safe to Hope's abode ? 
 — With whom, our hated cares to drown, 
 I've talk'd the evening shadows down, 
 Or, bursting from our fetters free, 
 Have rush'd to wine and poesy ? 
 
 When fortune fail'd, and courage died, 
 With thee I fled the battle's tide, 
 And, on our rear while Tavel* hung, 
 Away my blotted buckler flung. 
 The muse received me, spent with care, 
 And wafted to a healthier air, 
 But thee the billows closed around, 
 And bore amidst the vast profound. 
 
 Now, every toil and trouble o'er, 
 With me the glad libation pour; 
 And let thy weary limbs be laid 
 Beneath the muse's laurell'd shade : 
 
 * Moderator in 1799. See Cambridge Tripos.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 141 
 
 Leave musty algebraic rules, 
 
 And Vince and Waring to the schools ; 
 
 And let the muse returning charm thee, 
 
 And fancy guide, and pleasure warn thee : 
 
 So I a new escape shall prove 
 
 In thy return to joy and love, 
 
 And feel each gift the muse can send 
 
 More rich with my recover' d friend. 
 
 HORACE, BOOK I. ODE 7. 
 
 PARAPHRASED. 
 
 Let others praise the meads of Kent, 
 
 Or steal through " Surrey's quiet lanes ;" 
 
 The charms of Humber or of Trent 
 
 May swell the rapture of their strains ; 
 
 Or Usk, that gave our Henry birth, 
 Or Avon, nurse of Shakspeare's song, 
 
 Or the wild consecrated earth 
 
 Where wanders wizard Dee along. 
 
 Some love to tune fair Granta's reeds, 
 On which the Athenian goddess breathes, 
 
 Or press the turf where Isis speeds 
 
 To crown her sons with classic wreaths.
 
 142 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 But neither thought of toil-won race, 
 Nor soothing dream of tuneful ease, 
 
 Can so my bounding spirits brace, 
 Or so my softer moments please, 
 
 As Isca's swift descending flood, 
 
 And Creedy's waves that gentler run, 
 
 And much-loved Cowley's infant wood, 
 And orchards ripening to the sun. 
 
 Yet, if the viewless storm of fate 
 
 Should drive me from its sheltering shade, 
 To leave — perhaps no distant date ! 
 
 Each rural walk, and quiet glade — 
 
 (O might the lot be never mine !) 
 Yet would I bear a tranquil soul, 
 
 Nor faint, nor murmur, nor repine 
 Whilst there is rest beneath the pole. 
 
 THE PRAISE OF ISCA. 
 
 Erewhile, in Richmond's hawthorn bower 
 I rested from the noon-tide lire, 
 
 There woo'd the long neglected power 
 Of song to wake my idle lyre, 
 And, more my visions to inspire,
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 143 
 
 Though deep yet clear, though gentle, strong, 
 
 By mead and wood, by cot and spire, 
 Slow roll'd majestic Thames along ; 
 
 But, whilst I traced his winding course 
 
 From Twit'nam's meads to Fulham's grove, 
 Where late, from dawning beauty's source, 
 
 1 drank delicious draughts of love ; 
 
 Though soul-subduing phantoms strove 
 Imagination to detain, 
 
 Still would the goddess further rove, 
 And I sea mingle with the strain. 
 
 When gliding late up Medway's stream, 
 Our bark explored her fountain cells, 
 
 I thought, while freedom was my dream, 
 (Bright genius of her oak-clad dells,) 
 Proud Kent ! though manly vigour swells 
 
 Thy sons, thy nymphs each maiden grace, 
 Yet freedom too in Devon dwells, 
 
 And Isca bathes as fair a race. 
 
 Though Pales sheds her choicest store 
 
 On gentle Coin and sedgy Lea, 
 Yet Pan himself on Isca's shore 
 
 Has fix'd his rural sovereignty. 
 
 While chain'd by Bath's dull pool, yet free 
 My soul, to wander where it chose, 
 
 Oft stray'd, majestic Thames, to thee, 
 But oftener still where Isca flows.
 
 144 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 I saw Sabrina's yellow hair, 
 
 — Sabrina, famed in British song, — 
 
 Through peopled vales and cities fair 
 Curling its silken tresses long, 
 Wild float, luxuriant meads among ; 
 
 Methought I saw her reed-crown'd head 
 Mid deafening din, with heavings strong, 
 
 High-raised above its oozy bed. 
 
 1 wander'd on poetic ground, 
 
 Where Shakspeare's Avon sweetly flows, 
 And woo'd each softly whispering sound 
 
 That trembled midst his osier rows ; 
 
 I sought the vale of deep repose 
 Where Vaga hoarsely pours her wave, 
 
 And trod at evening's solemn close 
 Old Tintern's dim religious cave. 
 
 Yet poets too by I sea dream ; 
 
 Rich meadows kiss her sparkling face, 
 And ancient walls o'erhang her stream, 
 
 And peopled towns her borders grace : 
 
 Let all old ocean's vassal race 
 Conspire to check the vaunting strain, 
 
 So thou thy loyal bard embrace, 
 Maternal stream ! their toils are vain.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 145 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND IN THE 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 In this dull clime, where smoke and fog conspire 
 To quench each spark of fancy's sacred fire, 
 Where Themis loves sole arbitress to reign, 
 And binds the passions in her leaden chain, 
 How shall the muse, who loves the breezy hill. 
 The tangled forest, and the haunted rill, 
 And there to wander unconstraiu'd and free, 
 Alone, unless with peace and liberty, 
 Through the thick mists and dusky air appear, 
 Nor shun, appall'd, a city atmosphere? 
 
 The gayer hopes that fire the untainted mind, 
 Fly far away upon a healthier wind, 
 And leave a sickly substitute, that feeds 
 On hackney'd precedents of wire-drawn deeds ; 
 Imagination, clogg'd and damp'd, can soar 
 Into the blue expanse of heaven no more, 
 Content to calculate expected fees, 
 And swell the crowd of mammon's votaries. 
 
 Here, as I watch my fire's expiring light, 
 Companion of a lonely, studious night, 
 My discontented thoughts unbidden stray 
 To scenes of social comfort far away ; 
 Dreams of the paradise of home intrude 
 Upon the sickening eye of solitude ; 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 Forgetful that true Paradise is found 
 On no peculiar spot of hallow'd ground, 
 That, to the mind from lawless passion free, 
 It still is here — at Rome, or Ulubrse. 
 
 O may my soul keep ever in its view 
 This certain truth — this golden rule pursue ! 
 If generous passions ever sway'd my breast, 
 If virtue e'er my youthful mind possess'd, 
 If e'er my heart at noble deeds beat high, 
 Or emulation fired my eager eye ; 
 And oh ! if e'er the muse had power to raise 
 These lofty musings in my boyish days ; 
 Perish the thought that she restrains her aid 
 To the close covert of the sylvan shade ! 
 Not to wild woods, or pathless glades confined, 
 Her favourite mansion is the noble mind. 
 
 Still, still, celestial power, my spirit fire ! 
 Cherish each heaven-born thought, each pure desire 
 Teach me to curb my passions — to unite 
 The truest wisdom with the best delight ! 
 Inspire my diligence ! my longings guide ! 
 Restrain my petulance ! abase my pride ! 
 And when with business tired, my day of toil 
 Uncheer'd at evening by a social smile, 
 The sickening spirit longs for liberty, 
 O may it still find happiness in thee !
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 147 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, 
 
 WHOM THE AUTHOR WAS FORBIDDEN TO VISIT 
 WHILE ON DUTY. 
 
 In ancient times — so says the muse — 
 At Gela, or at Syracuse, 
 Or somewhere else — no matter where — 
 Where youths are brave, and maidens fair. 
 Where vineyards glow on every plain, 
 And every mountain waves with grain, 
 Where rivers gently flow, and clear, 
 And sunshine gladdens all the year, 
 Where snakes are harmless, wolves polite. 
 And man alone knows how to bite ; 
 There lived— the terror of the swains, 
 And spoiler of those lovely plains — 
 A direful beast, which men of old, 
 In their rude phrase, a tyrant call'd, 
 But now, accustom'd to the thing, 
 And grown more courteous, style a king. 
 
 One evening, as he went his round, 
 This king two faithful lovers found ; 
 And, taken with a sudden whim 
 Of love to her, or hate to him — 
 Whether his hat was cock'd awry, 
 Or too much lustre gemm'd her eye, 
 He gave a nod — his guards straitway
 
 148 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 Poor Damon to a gaol convey. 
 (Sicilian gaols, on recollection, 
 Are like our houses of correction — * 
 When once you're in, 'tis ten to one 
 You never more behold the sun.) 
 
 The luckless youth, now held in quod, 
 Must call to his relief some god : 
 No man to his complaints attended, 
 The habeas corpus was suspended. 
 In vain the mistress of his love 
 Tried the rude gaoler's heart to move ; 
 At length, as at the prison gate 
 The nymph bewail'd her cruel fate, 
 A sudden stiffness seized her limbs ; 
 Her head with dizzy vapours swims ; 
 And her white garments sweep the floor 
 With rustlings never heard before. 
 Still she renews her amorous woes, 
 But all the plaints her lips disclose, 
 No longer echoed through the town, 
 Stand printed on her paper gown, 
 And there, as fast as she can think, 
 Her thoughts are fetter'd down in ink. 
 Yet, not at once of power bereft, 
 One motion to her lips still left, 
 What should her last faint breath proclaim 
 But her imprison'd Damon's name ; 
 Which on her beauteous back engross'd, 
 
 * In the year 1801.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 149 
 
 Forms the direction for the post : 
 
 Last came the Cyprian dove, and bore her, 
 
 A billet-doux, to her adorer. 
 
 In vain the tyrant's bolts are hurl'd, 
 While pens and doves are in the world ; 
 And, e'en though doves were wanting, still 
 The post supplies the pigeon's bill. 
 
 Your master's empty threat may be, 
 " You ne'er a friendly face shall see" — 
 His power is to a threat confined, 
 While you can read a friendly mind. 
 
 Now let me, if I yet am able, 
 Leave for a while the realms of fable, 
 And lofty regions of romance ; 
 (Like our ingenious friends in France, 
 
 Who, after all their strange vagaries 
 
 Of freedom in a land of fairies, 
 
 Have now descended to plain fact, 
 
 And bear a consul on their back,) 
 
 To tell you wherefore I lay by 
 
 My tomes of law and history, 
 
 A few brief hours to kill, or spend 
 
 In scribbling nonsense to a friend. 
 The other evening, sick of smoke, 
 
 And less disposed to read than joke, 
 
 — The sun that glitter'd on the trees, 
 
 The birds that caroll'd on the breeze, 
 
 (Though stunted these, imprison'd those) 
 
 The powers of fancy bore along, 
 
 And lured to thoughts of soft repose,
 
 J50 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 And all the dreams of rural song. 
 The king of rivers too was near : 
 — I took a barge from Westminster. 
 
 With gentle breeze and favouring tide, 
 Up the sweet stream we smoothly glide ; 
 The swelling bosom of our sail 
 Freely receives the wooing gale, 
 And, as the spires behind recede, 
 The pendant wood, the verdant mead, 
 The palace soaring o'er the grove, 
 The low retreat of peace and love, 
 The prospect, soothing past expression, 
 Of towers and trees in swift succession, 
 The purple hills that gently rise 
 Athwart the glowing western skies, 
 And (chief) the monarch of the scene, 
 Thames, majestic and serene, 
 While the winds with wonder whist 
 Scarce his glassy bosom kiss'd, 
 And evening pour'd his crimson light 
 Upon that mirror calm and bright, 
 Dissolved my every captive sense 
 In soft voluptuous indolence : 
 Unguarded, I no longer strove 
 Against the subtle traitor, love. 
 The god observed my open heart, 
 And seized the vulnerable part. 
 He turn'd my eyes on Fulham's wood 
 That darkly overhangs the flood ; 
 Bad me on days long past reflect,
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 151 
 
 When love was new, and hope uncheck'd, 
 
 And she, of Fulham's grove the queen, 
 
 Gave life to all the lovely scene. 
 
 Again I gazed — the view no more 
 
 Was bright with rapture as before ; 
 
 The woods were black ; the wind was cold ; 
 
 Dim vapours o'er the landscape roll'd ; 
 
 The banks were swamps — on every side 
 
 The pamper'd city rear'd its pride ; 
 
 E'en Thames no longer shew'd so fair, 
 
 His waters dull, his marg-ent bare. 
 
 Sadly my bark I homeward turn'd, 
 But Thames, ill brooking that I spurn'd 
 The glories of his burnish'd throne, 
 Or prized not for themselves alone, 
 Call'd up, to seal my wretched doom, 
 The ministers of cold and rheum. 
 Raw blew the blast against the tide, 
 My labouring oars incessant plied ; 
 -Thick vapours loaded every gale, 
 And useless lay the nagging sail. 
 Hence, at the river god's behest, 
 A noxious sprite my frame possess'd, 
 Who holds with men eternal war 
 Through this fair isle — by name, catarrh ; 
 And hence, debarr'd from outer day, 
 Like you, I own tyrannic sway ; 
 Like you immured, * 
 
 (Caetera desunt.)
 
 152 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, 
 
 WHO HAD COMPLAINED OF THE AUTHOR TOR 
 
 WITHDRAWING HIMSELF FROM SOCIAL 
 
 ENJOYMENTS. 
 
 Well — be it so — my friend, I've done 
 
 With noise, extravagance, and fun. 
 
 I fear I've pass'd the fatal line — 
 
 That unchecked mirth, and unstopp'd wine, 
 
 The flow of wit that knows no bound, 
 
 The merry laugh's perpetual round, 
 
 Nay — e'en the social generous glow 
 
 That all-enlivening grapes bestow, 
 
 — Joys that, a few brief se'nnights past, 
 
 I thought eternally would last, 
 
 Or fondly wish'd, before they fled, 
 
 I might be number'd with the dead — 
 
 No more are trick'd with charms for me, 
 
 Nor wake my soul to jollity ; 
 
 That, if to pleasure I incline, 
 
 No more I view her form in wine, 
 
 Nor, if bleak care besets my soul, 
 
 Can drown him in the sparkling bowl. 
 
 Farewell ! farewell, delusive dream ! 
 
 — The joy of youth — the poet's theme — 
 
 Enchanting scenes of mirth and glee, 
 
 Where all was gay, and all was free, 
 
 Where infant love's first sparks were fann'd, 
 
 *
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 153 
 
 Cemented friendship's strictest band, 
 And both together bore along, 
 In union sweet, the power of song ! 
 Enchanting scenes, that fancy loves, 
 That friendship's sacred voice approves, 
 On which remembrance oft shall dwell 
 With sad delight — dear scenes, farewell ! 
 Even so — I've pass'd the fatal line, 
 And other suns upon me shine ; 
 But, as the home-sick sailor sees 
 'Mid the waste waves his native trees, 
 And thinks the wide-stretch'd watery scene 
 Fair meadows clad in vernal green, 
 So oft my fancy turns to view 
 Those forms my livelier moments knew, 
 And, kindling at delusions vain, 
 Believes and hopes them back again : 
 Then, if I court their imaged charms, 
 My fever'd soul is up in arms, 
 And sickening nature proves at last 
 The passion weak, the moment past. 
 Yet, oh the vile reproach disclaim 
 That stamp'd " Unfriendly" on my name, 
 And cease to think a friend untrue 
 Because he shuns to drink with you. 
 Though now imperious o'er my soul 
 Love reigns, and wars without control, 
 If e'er a friend I've valued less, 
 Shared not his joys, or his distress, 
 Or felt unkindness easier smart,
 
 154 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 Than when I still possess'd my heart, 
 May all my hopes of bliss decay, 
 And dark despair o'ercloud my day ! 
 
 And you, if e'er, for mirth unfit, 
 Or tired with wine, or cloy'd with wit, 
 You wish a sober hour to pass, 
 Enliven'd by a temperate glass, 
 And sacred to the powers of rhyme, 
 Or mightier muse of ancient time, 
 Remember there is one whose heart 
 In friendship ever bears a part, 
 And think you may that friendship share, 
 Unmingled with the name of " Hair !"* 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 Life was not made to flow in smooth delight, 
 Nor to be lost in unavailing sorrow. 
 
 It is a chequer'd scene of black and white ; 
 
 The cloud scarce form'd to-day may burst to- 
 morrow. 
 
 * For an explanation of this cant phrase — (pwvavra 
 ovviTOMTiv — see Hodgson's Juvenal, satire 16 : 
 
 " Worthy of all the Hair of ancient days," 
 
 together with the note on the passage.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 155 
 
 It is for action given, for mental force, 
 
 For deeds of energetic hardihood. 
 There is no time for sighing and remorse ; 
 
 There is no room for selfish solitude. 
 
 There's not a day doth pass but teems with fate ; 
 
 No fleeting hour, but alteration brings : 
 O'er this, our perishable mortal state 
 
 Variety for ever waves her wings. 
 
 Then let not mortal man of change complain — 
 Of change, that governs our sublunar sphere ; 
 
 Nor waste in fond regret, and listless pain, 
 The hours assign'd to generous action here. 
 
 The joys of lawless youth perhaps are fled. 
 
 The glass brisk circling, and the jovial song, 
 The careless heart, the wild fantastic head, 
 
 That to the early burst of life belong, 
 
 No more are ours. With these have haply flown 
 Some cherish'd visions, yet more closely twined, 
 
 Which hope delusive fondly call'd her own, 
 And fate unpitying claims to be resign'd. 
 
 What though their day be o'er, ambition glows 
 With fiercer heat in our meridian age ; 
 
 Honour remains, the foe to dull repose, 
 
 And points a hard, but glorious pilgrimage.
 
 156 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 ANSWER TO A CHARGE OF INCONSTANCY. 
 
 O not that I am faithless say, 
 
 Or that my love's no more the same, 
 If Cynthia once inspired my lay, 
 
 And then Licymnia lit the flame. 
 
 One goddess only I adore, 
 Although in different forms I woo her ; 
 
 Nor, though she bid me love no more, 
 Could 1 be e'er inconstant to her. 
 
 The sailor, midst the dangerous main, 
 
 Full many a lovely region sees, 
 Fair islands, bright with golden g - rain, 
 
 And rich with ever blooming- trees ; 
 
 But, till the destined port he gains, 
 Those transient charms he little prizes, 
 
 And quits with joy the happiest plains 
 Soon as a favouring gale arises. 
 
 My fancy had a mistress drawn, 
 
 And stamp'd her image on my heart ; 
 
 I roved o'er hill and vale and lawn, 
 But ne'er could find the counterpart : 
 This had the form, the air, the face, 
 
 That, the sweet smile's bewitching beauty, 
 And every singly winning grace 
 
 Fix'd for the time my wandering duty.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 157 
 
 But now 'tis sped — my fancy's flight : 
 
 All former trivial, vain desires, 
 Like spectres fade before the light, 
 
 Or perish in sublimer fires. 
 
 He needs not fear again to fall 
 Before the shadow of perfection, 
 
 Who for the bright original 
 Has dared avow his soul's election. 
 
 LYRIC STANZAS. 
 
 Ah ! what is life, with all its joys 
 And sorrows that disturb us so ? 
 The thunder's peal, with startling noise, 
 That for a moment shakes the skies, 
 And then — no more its path we know. 
 
 Ah ! what is pleasure ? what is power, 
 
 Fame, learning, honour, riches, praise ? 
 The glittering vision of an hour, 
 The rainbow of a summer's shower, 
 That passes from us while we gaze. 
 
 And what is love — our hope and stay — 
 
 The soft enchanter of our dreams ? 
 'Tis but the sunshine's transient ray, 
 That o'er the clouds of life's short day 
 A moment sheds its doubtful gleams.
 
 158 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 Let me the transient bliss enjoy, 
 
 Unmindful of hereafter's gloom ! 
 I'll view the sunshine of her eye, 
 While yet the fates that light supply, 
 And welcome then the friendly tomb. 
 
 For if my offering- she despise, 
 Tis only that the inconstant ray 
 
 One little instant sooner flies 
 
 From life's dark cloud that loads our skies ; 
 And soon that cloud will pass away. 
 
 But if my vows she should requite, 
 Will life that fleeting vapour be ? 
 Ah no ! To my enraptured sight 
 'Twill beam like heaven's eternal lis-ht — 
 And then, farewell, philosophy ! 
 
 LYRIC STANZAS. 
 
 Why will you fly me when I sue ? 
 
 No fond romantic tale is mine, 
 
 Such as a maid should scorn to hear 
 The homage of a bosom true, 
 
 A flame from love's most holv shrine, 
 
 ml 
 
 Why need it move distrust or fear ? 
 
 No sign of love return'd I seek : 
 A kind approving smile alone,
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 159 
 
 Or only not a frown from thee ; 
 Till time my vows sincere shall speak, 
 And thou no longer blush to own 
 A more than sister's care for me. 
 
 But if (forbid it, heaven !) thy breast 
 Disdain the thought I would impart. 
 Oh, end at once the hopes of mine ! 
 My grief shall ne'er disturb your rest, 
 And not a sigh that rends my heart 
 Shall ever damp the joys of thine. 
 
 FROM PETRARCH. 
 
 NOV. 1804. 
 
 " Mie venture al venir son pigre e tarde, 
 La speme incerta, e '1 desio monta e cresce ; 
 Onde '1 lassar e 1' aspettar m' incresce." 
 
 My joys on sluggish pinions move — 
 
 Hope is uncertain — and desire 
 Mounts on the eager wings of love ; 
 
 Thus, lingering, sickening, I expire.
 
 160 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 THE WONFORD GHOST. 
 
 A DEVONSHIRE LEGEND. PARODIED FROM WORDSWORTh's 
 LYRICAL BALLADS. 
 
 " At the corner of Wood Street, ere daylight appears." 
 
 At an old house in Wonford, ere daylight appears, 
 There's a ghost that has haunted the stair-case nine 
 
 years. 
 Poor Susan, who lived at the place, loves to tell 
 How the spectre she knew, and remembers it well. 
 Tis the ghost of a waggon — she hears it, and sees 
 Twelve horses ascending the stairs on their knees: 
 To the gallows the jingle of bells echoes plain, 
 And the neighings resound throughout Heavitree 
 
 Lane. 
 It recalls to her mind days of rapture, when John 
 Would send by the waggon, from fair Honiton, 
 Some Michaelmas fairing — a ribbon or glove, 
 Or a garter — the last, sweetest token of love. 
 From the window she looks ; something seems to 
 
 approach : 
 'Tis the waggon — Ah no ! 'tis the Exeter coach ! 
 Again she looks out — 'tis the waggon she spies; 
 How swift run the horses '.—the dust, how it flies ! 
 She looks — andher soul is in heaven — butthey fade,
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 161 
 
 These visions of bliss from the poor forlorn maid ; 
 No ribbons so flaunting, no garters so gay, 
 For John, he was hang'd at the 'sizes last May. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Ye damsels, from Susan's sad story beware, 
 How to thieves and housebreakers you offer an ear. 
 When they're hang'd, no more waggons bring 
 
 fairings from town, 
 But the ghosts of four wheels roll your stairs up 
 
 and down. 
 
 ON AN INCIDENT 
 RELATED IN SOME OF THE PUBLIC PAPERS. 1811. 
 
 PARODY OF SOUTHEY'S " CURSE OF KEHAMA." 
 
 " Arvalan ! Arvalan ! 
 Arvalan ! Arvalan !" 
 
 There is a spot at Drinsey nook 
 Where builds her nest the feather-poke.* 
 In what cave, or in what cell, 
 Lovest thou, feather-poke, to dwell ? 
 Under Temporell's dead jaw-bone 
 Thou sitt'st and incubatest alone ; 
 
 * A mistake of the parodist, proving his culpable igno- 
 rance of one branch, at least, of natural history — ornithology. 
 The feather-poke is not the name of the animal, but the 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 Where the clanking gibbet chain 
 Swings o'er Gainsborough's houseless plain. 
 The midnight pilgrim, wandering near, 
 Turns aside his head for fear ; 
 Yet he hears not human scream nor groan, 
 For speech the senseless corse has none. 
 But the wind hath a voice that sadly moans, 
 And whistles amid the rattling bones ; 
 And the feather-poke screams asbyfitsshe looksout, 
 Through the sightless sockets, and fleshless snout. 
 Five years — five little years ago — 
 The murderer was as we are now ; 
 And now the small bird sits alone, 
 And incubates under his jaw-bone. — 
 Temporell ! Temporell ! 
 Temporell ! Temporell ! 
 The dead jaw-bone of Temporell. 
 
 nest of the bird called the tom-tit, or tit-mouse. It may 
 be corrected, however, after the following manner : 
 
 " There is a spot at Drinsey nook 
 Where the tit-mouse builds its feather-poke. 
 In what cave, or in what cell, 
 Lovest thou, little Tit, to dwell?" 
 
 And again : 
 
 " And Tom-tit screams, as by fits he looks out," &c. 
 
 1 am indebted for this correction to the patient and per- 
 severing researches of an excellent friend at the Britisli 
 Museum.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 163 
 
 FROM LAMENTATIONS. CHAP. I. 
 
 How desolate and sad 
 She sits, that once with multitudes o'erflow'd ! 
 
 How hangs her widovv'd head, 
 Deserted by her sovereign and her God ! 
 
 How want and misery 
 Usurp the place of her fallen majesty ! 
 
 She weeps the whole night long ; 
 Upon her pale cheek stands the briny tear : 
 
 Her lovers' numerous throng 
 No help afford, nor consolation bear; 
 
 Her treacherous friends are fled, 
 Or turn their arms against her sinking head. 
 
 Judah is captive borne, 
 And in affliction drags the heavy chain ; 
 
 From all she honour'd torn, 
 Forspent, and lost, she prays for rest in vain. 
 
 All unforeseen they came 
 Who sought her ruin, and abhorr'd her name. 
 
 The ways of Zion mourn 
 Her rites neglected, and abandon 'd fane ; 
 
 Her reverend priests forlorn, 
 Her maids afflicted, and her children slain ;
 
 164 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 Her enemies are chief, 
 Nor from offended heaven hopes she relief. 
 
 Her charms are all declined ; 
 Her princes perish like the famish'd hart, 
 
 That can no shelter find, 
 And faint and trembling flies the hunter's dart ; 
 
 And, thinking- in her woe 
 Of her past joys, her sorrows heavier grow. 
 
 THE FORTY-SIXTH PSALM. 
 
 Our steadfast hope is God; 
 The strength of our abode ; 
 Our help in troubles, ever ready found: 
 Therefore we will not fear, 
 Though earth herself uprear 
 From her foundations deep, with direful sound; 
 Though rude rocks thundering from the steep 
 Fall, and increase the horrors of the raging deep; 
 
 Though ocean's billows break, 
 Till loftiest mountains shake 
 At the rough surge that beat their savage sides ; 
 While by the Holy Hill 
 Yet flows a living rill, 
 Gladdening bright Zion with its gentle tides, 
 And in the midst our God doth stand : 
 Therefore itshall endure unmoved, by his command.
 
 EARLY OCCASIONAL VERSES. 165 
 
 When as the nations raged, 
 And wars the mighty waged, 
 And all the kingdoms of the wide world shook, 
 Then thunder'd from on high 
 The dreadful Deity, 
 And the globe melted, by his lightnings strook. 
 The Lord of armies is our shield ; 
 To us shall Jacob's God his heavenly refuge yield. 
 
 tremble at the Lord, 
 Whose all-commanding word 
 
 Earth's loveliest realms can render desolate ; 
 Who biddeth wars to cease, 
 And every land be peace ; 
 Who breaks the bow, and makes the sword abate ; 
 Who, with his lightning's fearful force, 
 Fires the proud scythed chariot in its swiftest course. 
 
 " Be humble, and adore ! 
 
 1 am the God, before 
 
 All other gods whose name is lifted high ; 
 Whose everlasting throne 
 Shall through the world be known, 
 The one unseen, unrivall'd Deity !" — 
 The Lord of armies is our shield ; 
 To us shall Jacob's God a heavenly refuge yield.
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GREEK. 
 
 The following portion of the present volume will 
 be found to contain most that belong- to myself 
 only, of those translations which have from time to 
 time been accepted as the joint productions of Bland 
 and Merivale : together with such others as 1 had 
 prepared, and designed for publication in a second 
 volume to the edition of 1833. In arranging them 
 with a view to my present purpose, I have dis- 
 tinguished them under five heads, — the first com- 
 prising such of the Translations, from the An- 
 thology properly speaking, as were printed in the 
 earliest edition, that of 1806, with subsequent cor- 
 rections ; the second containing those (from the 
 same source,) which were added to the former, and 
 first printed in the edition of 1813 ; the third com- 
 prising the still later additions of 1833 ; the fourth 
 consisting of such as were intended for a second 
 volume, but are still remaining unpublished; and 
 the fifth containing translations from the elegiac, 
 gnomic, and dramatic poets, some of which were 
 incorporated in the editions of 1806 and 1813, and 
 others (yet unpublished,) were reserved to be in- 
 serted by way of appendix.
 
 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 1806. 
 
 FROM MELEAGER. 
 
 When Cle'arista loosed her virgin zone, 
 She in the bridal chamber found a grave : 
 
 Death claim'd the bridegroom's right : to Death alone 
 The treasure cherish'd for her spouse she gave. 
 
 To sweetest sounds the joyous evening fled, 
 The flute's soft strain and hymenaeal choir : 
 
 At morn sad howlings echo round the bed, 
 
 And the glad hymns on quivering lips expire. 
 
 The very torches that, at fall of night, 
 
 Shed their full radiance o'er the nuptial room, 
 
 Those very torches, with the morning's light, 
 Conduct the virgin to her silent tomb. 
 
 FROM ERINNA. 
 
 I am the tomb of Baucis, hapless bride. 
 Unto this pillar, traveller, turn aside !
 
 168 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Turn to this tearworn monument, and say, 
 " O envious Death, to charm this life away !" 
 These mystic emblems all too plainly show 
 The bitter fate of her who sleeps below. 
 The very torch that laughing Hymen bore 
 To light the virgin to the bridegroom's door, 
 With that same torch the bridegroom lights the fire. 
 That dimly glimmers on her funeral pyre. 
 
 ON ERINNA. 
 
 BY AN ANONYMOUS POET. 
 
 Scarce nineteen summer suns had shed 
 Youth's roses o'er the virgin's head ; 
 While by a guardian mother's side 
 Her customary task she plied ; 
 Bad the rich silks her loom prepare, 
 Or plied the distaff's humbler care. 
 Her modest worth the muses knew, 
 Brought her bright genius forth to view. 
 And — ah ! too soon from mortal eyes — 
 Bore her, their handmaid, to the skies. 
 
 FROM IBYCUS. 
 
 What time soft zephyrs fan the trees 
 In the blest gardens of the Hesperides ; 
 Where those bright golden apples glow,
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 169 
 
 Fed by the fruitful streams that round them flow, 
 
 And new-born clusters teem with wine 
 Beneath the shadowy foliage of the vine ; 
 
 To me the joyous season brings 
 But added torture on his sunny wings. 
 
 Then Love, stern tyrant of my breast, 
 Impetuous ravisher of joy and rest, 
 
 Bursts, furious, from his mother's arms, 
 And tills my trembling soul with new alarms. 
 
 Like Boreas, from his Thracian plains, 
 Clothed in fierce lightnings, in my bosom reigns, 
 
 And rages still, the maddening power : 
 His parching flames my wither'd heart devour; 
 
 Wild frenzy comes my senses o'er ; 
 Sweet Peace is fled, and Reason rules no more. 
 
 FROM ANACREON. ODE XXXIV. 
 
 Fey not because revolving Time 
 
 Has silver'd o'er Anacreon's head ; 
 Nor, glorying in thy flowery prime, 
 
 Be by a younger lover led. 
 Think'st thou my winter ill agrees 
 
 With the young charms thy spring discloses ? 
 Remember how those garlands please 
 
 Where lilies mingle with the roses.
 
 170 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 THE SAME. 1833. 
 
 Fly not because the touch of Time 
 
 My silver'd locks discover ; 
 Nor, glorying in thy golden prime, 
 
 Disdain a grey-beard lover. 
 Think'st thou my winter ill agrees 
 
 With charms thy spring discloses ? 
 Remember how those garlands please 
 
 Where lilies mix with roses. 
 
 FROM ANACREON. ODE XIX. 
 
 The black earth drinks the falling rain, 
 Trees drink the moisten'd earth again, 
 Ocean drinks the streams that run, 
 Only to yield them to the sun ; 
 And the sun himself, as soon, 
 Is swallow'd by the thirsty moon. 
 All nature drinks — if I would sip, 
 Why dash the goblet from my lip ? 
 
 FROM SIMONIDES. 
 
 This tomb records Meg'istias' honour' d name ; 
 Who, bravely fighting in the ranks of fame,
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 171 
 
 Fell by the Persians, near Sperchius' tide: 
 Both past and future well the prophet knew ; 
 And yet, though death lay open to his view, 
 
 He chose to perish at his monarch's side. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Daughter of him who ruled the Athenian plains. 
 This honour'd dust Archedice contains. 
 Of tyrants mother, daughter, sister, wife — 
 Her mind was modest, and unstain'd her life. 
 
 BY HYBRIAS. A SCOLIUM. 
 
 My riches are the arms I wield ; 
 The spear, the sword, the shaggy shield, 
 My bulwark in the battle field. 
 With this I plough the furrow'd soil, 
 With this I share the reaper's toil, 
 W T ith this I press the generous juice 
 That rich and sunny vines produce ; 
 With these, of rule and high command 
 I bear the mandate in my hand, 
 For, while the slave and coward fear 
 To wield the buckler, sword, and spear, 
 They bend the supplicating knee, 
 And own my just supremacy.
 
 172 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM ASCLEPIADES. 
 
 Still glorying in thy virgin flower ? 
 
 Yet, in those gloomy shades below, 
 No lovers will adorn thy bower — 
 
 Love's pleasures with the living glow. 
 Virarin ! we shall be dust alone 
 On the sad shore of Acheron. 
 
 FROM LEONIDAS. HIS OWN EPITAPH. 
 
 Far from Tarentum's native soil I lie, 
 
 Far from the dear land of my infancy : 
 
 Tis dreadful to resign this mortal breath, 
 
 But in a stranger clime 'tis worse than death. 
 
 Call it not life, to pass thy fever'd age 
 
 In ceaseless wanderings o'er the world's wide stage : 
 
 But me the muse has ever loved, and given 
 
 Sweet joys to counterpoise the curse of heaven ; 
 
 Nor lets my memory decay, but long 
 
 To distant times preserves my deathless song. 
 
 FROM BION. 
 
 If any virtue my rude songs can claim, 
 Enough the muse has given to build my fame
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 173 
 
 And, if condemn'd ingloriously to die, 
 Why longer tune my mortal minstrelsy ? 
 Had Jove, or Fate, to life two seasons lent, 
 In toil and ease alternate to be spent, 
 Then well one portion labour might employ 
 In expectation of the following joy. 
 But if one only age of life is due 
 To man, and that so short and transient too, 
 How long, most miserable race, in care, 
 And fruitless labour, waste the vital air ? 
 How long, with idle toil, to wealth aspire, 
 And feed a never satisfied desire ? 
 How long forget, that, mortal from our birth, 
 Short is our troubled sojourn on the earth ? 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Mild star of eve, whose tranquil beams 
 Are grateful to the queen of love ! 
 
 Fair planet, whose effulgence gleams 
 More bright than all the host above, 
 
 And only to the moon's clear light 
 
 Yields the first honours of the night ; 
 
 All hail, thou soft, thou holy star, 
 Thou glory of the midnight sky ! 
 
 And, when my steps are absent far, 
 Leading the shepherd minstrelsy,
 
 174 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Then, though the moon deny her ray, 
 O light me, Hesper, on my way ! 
 
 No savage robber of the dark, 
 No foul assassin claims thy aid, 
 
 To guide his dagger to its mark, 
 
 Or prompt him in his plundering trade. 
 
 My gentler errand is to prove 
 
 The transports of requited love. 
 
 FROM MOSCHUS. 
 
 O'er the smooth main when scarce a zephyr blows, 
 To break the dark blue ocean's deep repose, 
 I seek the calmness of the breathing shore, 
 Delighted with the fields and woods no more. 
 But when, white-foaming, heave the deeps on high, 
 Swells the black storm, and mingles sea with sky, 
 Trembling I shun the wild tempestuous strand, 
 And seek the close recesses of the land. 
 
 Sweet are the sounds that murmur thro' the wood, 
 When roaring storms upheave the dangerous flood. 
 Then, if the winds more fiercely howl, they rouse 
 But sweeter music in the pine's tall boughs. 
 But hard the life the weary fisher finds, 
 Who trusts his floating mansion to the winds ; 
 Whose daily food the fickle sea maintains, 
 Unchanging labour, and uncertain gains.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 175 
 
 Be mine soft sleep, beneath the spreading shade 
 Of some broad leafy plane inglorious laid, 
 Lull'd by a fountain's fall, that, murmuring near, 
 Soothes, not alarms, the toil-worn wanderer's ear. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 From where his silver waters glide, 
 Majestic, to the ocean tide, 
 
 Through fair Olympia's plain, 
 Still his dark course Alpheus keeps 
 Beneath the mantle of the deeps, 
 
 Nor mingles with the main. 
 
 To grace his distant bride, he pours 
 The sands of Pisa's sacred shores, 
 
 And flowers that deck her grove ; 
 Then rising from the unconscious brine, 
 On Arethusa's breast divine 
 
 Receives the meed of love. 
 
 Tis thus with soft bewitching skill 
 The childish god deludes our will, 
 
 And triumphs o'er our pride ; 
 The mighty river owns his force, 
 Bends to the sway his yielding course, 
 
 And dives beneath the tide.
 
 176 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM CALLIMACHUS. 
 
 " O Sun, farewell !" — from the tall rampart's height, 
 Cleombrotus, exclaiming, plunged to night. 
 Nor wasting care, nor fortune's adverse strife, 
 Chill'd his young hopes with weariness of life ; 
 But Plato's god-like page had fix'd his eye, 
 And made him long for immortality. 
 
 FROM DIOSCORIDES. 
 
 When Thrasybulus from the battle field 
 Was breathless borne to Sparta on his shield, 
 His honour'd corse disfigured still with gore 
 From seven wide wounds — and all received before- 
 Upon the pyre his hoary father laid, 
 And to the admiring crowd exulting said — 
 " Let slaves lament. But I, without a tear, 
 Lay mine and Sparta's son upon his bier." 
 
 FROM TYMNEUS. 
 
 Demetrius, as he basely fled the field, 
 A Spartan born, his Spartan mother kill'd ; 
 Then stretehing forth the reeking blade, she cried 
 — Her teeth fierce gnashing with disdainful pride —
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 177 
 
 " Fly, cursed offspring, to the shades below, 
 Where proud Eurotas shall no longer flow 
 For timid hinds like thee ! — Fly, trembling slave ! 
 Detested wretch, to Pluto's darkest cave ! 
 This womb so vile a monster never bore. 
 Disown'd by Sparta, thou 'rt my son no more." 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Grieve not, Philsenis, though condemn'd to die 
 Far from thy parent soil and native sky ; 
 Though stranger hands must raise thy funeral pile, 
 And lay thine ashes in a barbarous isle. 
 To all on death's last dreary voyage bound, 
 Tbe road is equal, and alike the ground. 
 
 FROM ANTIPATER OF SIDON. 
 
 Few were thy notes, Erinna — short thy lay — 
 But its sweet breath the muse herself had given ; 
 
 Thus never shall thy memory decay, 
 
 Nor night obscure thy fame, which lives in heaven : 
 
 While we, the unnumber'd bards of after time. 
 Sink in the melancholy grave unseen, 
 
 Unhonour'd reach Avernus' fabled clime, 
 
 And leave no memory that we once have been. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Sweet are the graceful swan's melodious lays, 
 Though but an instant heard, or ere they die ; 
 
 But the long chattering of discordant jays 
 The breeze of April scatters through the sky. 
 
 FROM ANTIPATER OF THESSALONICA. 
 
 The first faint blush of morn — the twilight gray, 
 
 Sacred to lovers, (sweet!) hath pass'd away. 
 
 Already has the herald bird, in scorn 
 
 Of our delights, proclaim'd approaching morn. 
 
 — Most hateful bird ! — that bidst me now repair 
 
 To the throng'd haunts of commerce and of care ! 
 
 Sure, age has sprinkled Tithon's brows with snow, 
 
 No more his veins in genial current flow ; 
 
 His sense how cold ! — his wither'd heart how dead ! 
 
 Who drives so soon a goddess from his bed. 
 
 FROM CRINAGORAS. 
 
 Let Cynegirus' name, renown'd of yore, 
 And brave Othryades be heard no more ! 
 By Rhine's swoln wave Italian Arrius lay, 
 Transfix'd with wounds, and sobb'd his soul away; 
 But, seeing Rome's proud eagle captive led, 
 He started from the ghastly heaps of dead, 
 The captor slew, the noble prize brought home, 
 And found Death only not to be o'ercome.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 179 
 
 FROM BIANOR. 
 
 In Thebes the sons of (Edipus are laid ; 
 But not the tomb's all desolating- shade, 
 The deep forgetfulness of Pluto's gate, 
 Nor Acheron, can quench their deathless hate. 
 Even hostile madness shakes the funeral pyres ; 
 Against each other blaze their pointed fires. 
 Unhappy boys ! for whom High Jove ordains 
 Eternal Hatred's never sleeping pains. 
 
 FROM ANTIPHILUS. 
 
 Hail, venerable boughs, that, in mid sky, 
 Spread broad and deep your leafy canopy ! 
 Hail, cool refreshing shade, abode most dear. 
 To the sun-wearied traveller wandering -near ! 
 Hail, close inwoven bowers, fit dwelling place 
 For insect tribes, and man's imperial race ! 
 Me too, reclining in your green retreat, 
 Shield from the blazing day's meridian heat. 
 
 FROM LEONIDAS OF ALEXANDRIA. 
 
 In the dark winter's night, while wide around 
 The furious hail-storm clatters on the ground, 
 While every field is deep in drifted snow,
 
 180 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 And Boreas bids his bitterest tempests blow, 
 
 A solitary Lion, gaunt and grim, 
 
 Ravenous with cold, and numb'd in every limb, 
 
 Stalks to the Goat-herds' miserable shed, 
 
 From the rude wind to shield his storm-beat head. 
 
 The affrighted natives of the lonely spot 
 
 With cries of stifled horror fill the cot ; 
 
 No more their numerous herds demand their care, 
 
 While for themselves they offer up the prayer, 
 
 And call the Saviour Jove, as fix'd they stand, 
 
 Together press'd — a trembling, shuddering band. 
 
 Meanwhile, the lordly savage, safe and warm, 
 
 Bides the rude pelting of the wintry storm, 
 
 Then calmly quits the mute astonish'd horde, 
 
 Leaving their meal untasted on the board. 
 
 In grateful memory of so rare a fate, 
 The swains to Jove this offering consecrate, 
 And, still suspended from the Oak-branch, shew 
 This faithful image of their gentle foe. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Her infant playing on the verge of fate, 
 When but an instant's space had been too late, 
 For pointed crags had claim'd his forfeit breath, 
 The Mother saw ; she laid her bosom bare ; 
 The child sprang forward, the known bliss to share ; 
 And that which nourish'd life, averted death.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 181 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 That soul which vanquish'd war could never win, 
 Now yields, reluctant to a foe within. 
 Come then, my sword ! grant me a soldier's due — 
 And so disease shall own me Conqueror too. 
 
 FROM PARMENIO. 
 
 AT THEKMOPYLjE. 
 
 Him who reversed the laws that Nature gave, 
 Sail'd o'er the continent, and walk'd the wave ; 
 Three hundred spears from Sparta's iron plain 
 Havestopp'd: O blush ye mountains, and thou main! 
 
 THE SAME ENLARGED. 
 
 When from his throne arose the Persian lord, 
 And on devoted Greece his myriads pour'd, 
 O'er the broad seas his chariots roll'd to shore, 
 And his proud navy humbled Athos bore. 
 But when the God of Sparta's iron coast 
 Sent his brave sons to meet their swarming- host. 
 Three hundred lances stemm'd the battle's tide. 
 — Mountains and seas, your guilty blushes hide !
 
 182 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM LUCIAN. 
 
 In Pleasure's bowers whole lives unheeded fly; 
 But to the wretch one night's eternity. 
 
 FROM LUCILIUS. 
 
 When for long- life the old man pours his prayers, 
 Grant, Heaven, a lengthen'd life of growing years ! 
 
 FROM ARGENTARIUS. 
 
 Call it not a test of love 
 If sun-like beauty lights the flame. 
 Beauty every heart can move ; 
 It delights the Gods above, 
 And is to all the same. 
 
 But, if thy fond doting eye 
 Have taught thy heart a different creed; 
 If for wrinkled age you'll sigh, 
 Or adore deformity, 
 Then vou must love indeed.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 183 
 
 FROM TULLIUS GEMINUS. 
 
 Greece be the monument ! around her throw 
 The broken trophies of the Persian fleet : 
 
 Inscribe the Gods who led the insulting foe, 
 With mighty Xerxes, at the tablet's feet. 
 
 There lay Themistocles : to spread his fame 
 A lasting column Salamis shall be. 
 
 Raise not, weak man, to that immortal name 
 
 The little records of mortality ! 
 
 FROM RUFINUS. 
 
 This garland intertwined with fragrant flowers, 
 Pluck'd by my hand, to thee, my Love, I send, 
 Pale lilies here with blushing roses blend ; 
 
 Anemone, besprent with April showers; 
 
 Lovelorn Narcissus ; violet that pours 
 
 From every purple cup the glad perfume ; 
 And, while upon thy sweeter breast they bloom, 
 
 Yield to the voice of Love thy passing hours ! 
 
 For thou, like these, wilt fade at Nature's doom. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Why will Melissa, young and fair, 
 Still her virgin love deny,
 
 184 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 When every motion, every air, 
 The passion of her soul declare, 
 And give her words the lie ? 
 
 That panting breath, that broken sigh, 
 And those limbs, that trembling fail, 
 With that dark hollow round her eye, 
 The mark of Cupid's archery, 
 Too plainly tell the tale. 
 
 But, O thou God of soft desire ! 
 
 By thy mother, throned above, 
 Oh let not pity quench thine ire, 
 Till, yielding to thy fiercest fire, 
 
 She cries at length, " I love." 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 The queen of Heaven's bright eyes illume thy face ; 
 Great Pallas lends thine arms their polish'd grace; 
 Thetis thine ankle's slender strength bestows ; 
 And Venus in thy swelling bosom glows. 
 Happy the Lover, of thy sight possest ; 
 Who listens to thy melting voice thrice blest ; 
 Almost a God, whose love is met by thine; 
 "Vv ho folds thee in his arms, indeed divine.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 185 
 
 FROM PALL AD AS. 
 
 The laughing women call me old, 
 And bid me in a glass behold 
 
 The ruins of my former state ; 
 But, let the locks my temples bear 
 Be grey or black, 1 nothing care, 
 
 And leave it to the will of Fate. 
 
 But this I know; though Nature's call 
 Subject me to the lot of all, 
 
 Still, as my ebbing days decline, 
 I'll make the most of my short hours, 
 Be bathed in odours, crown'd with flowers, 
 
 And drown Old Care in floods of wine. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 From the dire conflict as a Spartan fled. 
 
 His Mother cross'd his path, and (awful !) said, 
 
 Pointing the sword against his recreant breast; 
 "If thou canst live, the mark of scorn and shame. 
 Thou liv'st, the murderer of thy Mother's fame, 
 
 The base deserter of a soldier's part. 
 If by this hand thou die, my name may be 
 Of Mothers most accurst— but Sparta's free."
 
 186 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM AGATHIAS. 
 
 ANCHISES TO VENUS. 
 
 Oft hast thou left the realms of air 
 To dwell with me on Ida's shore ; 
 But, now gay youth is mine no more, 
 
 And Age has stamp'd my brow with care, 
 O Queen of love, my youth restore, 
 
 Or take my offering of gray hair ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 So shadow-like a form you bear, 
 
 So near allied to shapeless air, 
 
 That with some reason you may fear, 
 
 When you salute, to draw too near, 
 
 Lest, if your friend be scant of breath, 
 
 The close approach may prove your death, 
 
 And that poor frame, so light and thin, 
 
 Be at his nostrils taken in. 
 
 Yet, if with philosophic eye 
 
 You look, you need not fear to die ; 
 
 For, grant poetic tales be true, 
 
 No transformation waits for you. 
 
 You cannot, e'en at Pluto's bar, 
 
 Be more a spectre than you are.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 187 
 
 FROM PAUL THE SILENTIARY. 
 
 We ask no flowers to crown the blushing- rose, 
 Nor glittering gems, thy beauteous form to deck ; 
 
 The pearl, in Persia's precious gulf that grows, 
 Yields to the dazzling whiteness of thy neck : 
 
 Gold adds not to the lustre of thy hair, 
 
 But, vanquish'd, sheds a fainter lustre there. 
 
 The Indian hyacinth's celestial hue 
 
 Shrinks from the bright effulgence of thine eye ; 
 The Paphian Goddess bathed thy lips in dew, 
 
 And lent thy form ambrosial harmony. 
 My soul would perish in the melting gaze, 
 But for thine eyes, where Hope for ever plays. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 When I left thee, Love, I swore 
 Not to see thy face again 
 
 For a fortnight's space, or more ; 
 But the cruel oath was vain, 
 
 Since the first day I spent from thee 
 
 Was a whole year of misery. 
 
 O then, for thy lover move 
 Every gentler deity,
 
 188 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Not to register above 
 
 His constrained perjury ! 
 And thou, too, pity his despair ! 
 Heaven's rage, with thine, he cannot bear. 
 
 FROM MACEDONIUS. 
 
 I ask not gold, I ask not power ; 
 
 I never pray'd Great Jove to shower 
 
 On me the wealth that Homer sings, 
 
 The grandeur of the Theban kings. 
 
 I will be well contented, so 
 
 My cup with ceaseless bumpers flow, 
 
 And my moist lips for ever shine 
 
 In honour of the God of wine ; 
 
 And friends, who share my inmost soul, 
 
 Share also in the fragrant bowl. 
 
 Then let the grave and dull possess 
 
 Their toil-won wealth — short happiness ! 
 
 These are my riches, which I'll love 
 
 So long as I'm allow'd by Jove ; 
 
 For, while the sparkling bowl we drain, 
 
 The boasts of pride and pomp are vain. 
 
 FROM STRA.TO. 
 
 Drink and be glad, my friend, for mirth and wine 
 Cannot be always yours, nor always mine.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 189 
 
 With rosy garlands let us wreathe our head, 
 Nor leave them to be scatter'd o'er the dead : 
 Now let my bones the copious vintage have- 
 Deucalion's self may float them in the grave. 
 
 FROM AN UNCERTAIN AUTHOR. 
 
 Seek not to glad these senseless stones 
 With fragrant oyntments, rosy wreaths ; 
 
 No warmth can reach my mouldering bones 
 From lustral fire that vainly breathes. 
 
 Now let me revel whilst I may ; 
 
 The wine that o'er my grave is shed 
 Mixes with dust, and turns to clay — 
 
 No honours can delight the dead. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 O that I were some gentle air ; 
 
 That, when the heats of summer glow, 
 And lay thy panting bosom bare, 
 
 I might upon that bosom blow ! 
 O that I were yon blushing flower, 
 
 Which even now thy hands have press'd ; 
 To live, though but for one short hour, 
 
 Upon the Elysium of thy breast !
 
 190 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Come, Lesbian maids, to Juno's royal dome, 
 With steps that hardly press the pavement, come ! 
 Let your own Sappho lead the tuneful quire, 
 And to the altar bear her golden lyre. 
 Then, first, in graceful order slow advance, 
 Weaving- light mazes of the joyous dance. 
 Herself, the while, from honey'd lips shall pour 
 Such strains that men may wonder and adore. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 O sacred voice of the Pierian choir, 
 
 Immortal Pindar ! O enchanting air 
 Of sweet Bacchylides ! O rapturous lyre, 
 
 Majestic graces of the Lesbian fair ! 
 Muse of Anacreon, the gay and young ! 
 
 Stesichorus ! thy full Homeric stream ; 
 Soft elegies by Csea's poet sung ; 
 
 Persuasive Ibycus ! thy glowing theme : 
 Sword of Alcseus, that, with tyrants' gore 
 
 Gloriously painted, lift'st thy point so high ! 
 Ye tuneful nightingales, that still deplore 
 
 Your Alcman, prince of amorous poesy ! 
 O yet impart some breath of heavenly fire 
 To him who venerates the Grecian lyre.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 191 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 How oft, my Lycid, will I bathe with tears 
 This little stone, which our great love endears ! 
 Thou too, in memory of the vows we made, 
 Drink not of Lethe in the realms of shade ! 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Thou art not dead, my daughter, tho' no more 
 A sojourner on earth's tempestuous shore ; 
 Fled to the peaceful islands of the blest, 
 Where youth and love for ever blooming rest, 
 Or joyful wandering on Elysian ground, 
 Among sweet flowers, where never thorn is found. 
 No winter freezes there, no summer fires, 
 No sickness weakens, and no labour tires ; 
 No longer poverty nor thirst oppress, 
 Nor envy of man's boasted happiness ; 
 But spring for ever glows, divinely bright, 
 And bliss immortal hails the heavenly light. 
 
 FROM AGATHIAS. 
 
 A plaintiff once explain'd his cause 
 To counsel learned in the laws. 
 " My bondmaid lately ran away,
 
 192 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 And in her flight was met by A ; 
 
 Who, knowing she belong'd to me, 
 
 Espoused her to his servant B. 
 
 The issue of this marriage — say, 
 
 Do they belong to me, or A ?" 
 
 The lawyer, true to his vocation, 
 
 Gave signs of deepest cogitation, 
 
 Look'd at a score of books, or near, 
 
 Then hemm'd, and said, " Your case is clear. 
 
 Those children, as begot by B 
 
 Upon your bondmaid must, you see, 
 
 Be your's or A's. Now this I say, 
 
 They can't be yours if they to A 
 
 Belong. It follows then, of course, 
 
 That, if they are not his, they're yours : 
 
 Therefore, by my advice, in short, 
 
 You'll take the judgment of the court. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Nicostratus, that second Stagyrite, 
 Who sits like Plato, perch'd on wisdom's height, 
 A simple scholar thus address'd one day. 
 " What is the soul, O sage illumined, say ! 
 Mortal or deathless ? — substance, or mere shade ? 
 Of reasoning sense, or blind perception made ? 
 Or both at once ? Resolve my doubts," he said. 
 The sage his books of meteors 'gan unroll, 
 And Aristotle's treatise on the soul,
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 193 
 
 And Plato's Phsedon to its source explored, 
 
 Where truth from Jove's eternal fount is pour'd : 
 
 — Then waved his hand, applied it to his chin, 
 
 And utter'd thus the oracle within : 
 
 " If all the world be soul — (and if 'tis so 
 
 Or not I must confess I do not know — ) 
 
 But if, I say, all nature spirit be, 
 
 It must be mortal, or from death be free, 
 
 Must be substantial, or (if not) mere shade, 
 
 Of reasoning 1 sense, or blind perception made, 
 
 Or both, or neither — but, my friend, (he said,) 
 
 If more you wish to learn, to Hades go ; 
 
 And there, as much as Plato, soon you'll know : 
 
 Or, if you choose, ascend the rampart's height, 
 
 Mimick Cleombrotus, and plunge to night — 
 
 Quit this encumbering vest of moisten'd clay ; 
 
 And then — return and teach me, if you may." 
 
 A PARODY. 
 
 Dick cannot wipe his nostrils when he pleases, 
 His nose so long is, and his arm so short ; 
 
 Nor ever cries " God bless me!" when he sneezes — 
 He cannot hear so distant a report. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 When Timothy's house was on fire t'other night, 
 The wretched old man almost died with the fright ; 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 For ropes and for water he bawl'd till half mad, 
 But no water was near, and no ropes to be had. 
 The fire still grew hotter, and Tim still grew madder. 
 Till he thought of Dick's nose, and it served for a 
 ladder. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Let Dick some summer's day expose 
 Before the sun his monstrous nose, 
 And stretch his giant mouth, to cause 
 Its shade to fall upon his jaws : 
 With nose so long, and mouth so wide, 
 And those twelve grinders side by side, 
 Dick with a very little trial, 
 Would make an excellent sun-dial. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Tom prudently thinking his labour ill-spared. 
 If e'er, unadvised, for his plans he prepared, 
 Consulted a wizard, when starting for Dover, 
 If the wind would be fair, and the voyage well over. 
 The seer gravely answer'd, first stroking his beard, 
 If your boat be stout timber'd and carefully steer'd, 
 If you stay all the winter, and still wait on shore, 
 Till spring is advanced, and the equinox o'er, 
 You may sail there and back, without danger or fear, 
 — Unless you are caught by a French privateer.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 195 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 When Narva asks a friend to dine, 
 
 He gives a pint of tavern wine, 
 
 A musty loaf and stinking ham, 
 
 Then overwhelms with epigram. 
 
 A kinder fate Apollo gave, 
 
 Who whelm'd beneath the Tyrrhene wave 
 
 The impious rogues that stole his kine. 
 
 Oh Narva, let their lot be mine ! 
 
 Or if no river's near your cell, 
 
 Shew me at least your deepest well. 
 
 II. ADDITIONAL EPIGRAMS. 1813. 
 
 FROM SAPPHO. A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Blest as the immortal Gods is he, 
 The youth whose eye may look on thee, 
 Whose ear thy tongue's sweet melody 
 May still devour ! 
 
 Thou smilest too ? — sweet smile, whose charm 
 Has struck my soul with wild alarm, 
 And, when I see thee, bids disarm 
 Each vital power.
 
 196 TRANSLATIONS PROM 
 
 Speechless I gaze : the flame within 
 Runs swift o'er all my quivering skin ; 
 My eye-balls swim ; with dizzy din 
 My brain reels round ; 
 
 And cold drops fall ; and tremblings frail 
 Seize every limb ; and grassy pale 
 I grow ; and then — together fail 
 Both sight and sound ! 
 
 FROM ANACREON. ODE XVII. 
 
 I do not want the rolling car, 
 
 Helm or shield with silver bound — 
 
 What have I to do with war ? 
 But a goblet deep and round. 
 
 Trace not on its polish 'd side 
 Star, nor planet's varied form, 
 
 Such as rule the angry tide, 
 Or direct the rising storm. 
 
 Let a vine the cup surround, 
 Clasping with its tendrils fine ; 
 
 And amid the golden ground 
 Raise a vat of new-made wine. 
 
 Then the festal chorus leading, 
 Carve the Theban god above ; 
 
 And the mellow vintage treading, 
 Cupid, with the maid I love.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 197 
 
 FROM THE SAME. ODE XX. 
 
 Sad Niobe, on Phrygian shore, 
 Was turn'd to marble by despair ; 
 
 And hapless Progne learn'd to soar 
 On swallow's wing through liquid air. 
 
 But I would be a mirror, 
 
 So thou may'st pleased behold me, 
 Or robe, with close embraces 
 
 About thy limbs to fold me ; 
 
 A crystal fount, to lave thee, 
 Sweet oyls, thy hair to deck, 
 
 A zone, to press thy bosom, 
 Or pearl, to gem thy neck. 
 
 Or, might I worship at thy feet, 
 A sandal for those feet I'd be : 
 
 E'en to be trodden on were sweet, 
 If to be trodden on by thee. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Timocritus adorns this humble grave — 
 
 Mars spares the coward, and destroys the brave.
 
 198 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Thee too, Cleanor, strong- desire laid low — 
 Desire, that wretched exiles only know, 
 Of thy loved native land. The tyrant sway 
 Of winter had no force to make thee stay : 
 Thy fatal hour was come : and, tempest-sped, 
 The wild waves closed around thy cherish'd head. 
 
 FROM PLATO. 
 
 Sleep, ye rude winds ! Be every murmur dead 
 On yonder oak-crown'd promontory's head ! 
 Be still, ye bleating- flocks — your shepherd calls : 
 Hang silent on your rocks, ye waterfalls ! 
 Pan on his oaten pipe awakes the strain, 
 And fills with dulcet sounds the pastoral plain. 
 Lured by his notes, the nymphs their bowers forsake, 
 From every fountain, running stream, and lake, 
 From every hill and ancient grove around, 
 And to symphonious measures strike the ground. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 When Venus bade the Aonian maids obey, 
 Or her own son should vindicate her sway, 
 The virgins auswer'd, " Threat your subjects thus! 
 That puny warrior has no arms for us."
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 199 
 
 FROM ASCLEPIADES. 
 
 Sweet is the goblet cool'd with winter-snows, 
 To him who pants in summer's scorching- heat, 
 And sweet to weary mariners, repose 
 From ocean's tempests, in some green retreat ; 
 But far more sweet than these, the conscious bower, 
 Where lovers meet, at love's delighted hour. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Snow on ! hail on ! cast darkness all around me ! 
 Let loose thy thunder ! with thy lightning wound me ! 
 I care not, Jove, but thy worst rage defy ; 
 Nor will I cease to revel, till I die. 
 Spare me my life — and let thy thunders roar, 
 And lightnings flash — I'll only revel more. 
 Thunderer ! a god more potent far than thou, 
 To whom thou too hast yielded, mads me now. 
 
 FROM LEON IDAS OF TARENTUM. 
 
 Three brothers dedicate, great Pan .' to thee, 
 Their nets, the various emblems of their toil ; 
 Pigres, who brings from realms of air his spoil. 
 Damis from woods, and Clitor from the sea : 
 So may the treasures of the deep be given 
 To this, to those the fruits of earth and heaven.
 
 200 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 To Pan, the master of the woodland plain, 
 
 To young; Lyeeus, and the azure train 
 
 Of nymphs who make the pastoral life their care, 
 
 With offerings due old Areas pours his prayer. 
 
 To Pan a playful kid, in wars untried, 
 
 He vows, yet sporting by the mother's side ; 
 
 And spreads the creeping ivy on the vine, 
 
 A grateful present to the god of wine ; 
 
 And to the gentler deities, who guide 
 
 Their winding streamlets o'er the mountain's side, 
 
 Each varied bud from autumn's shady bowers, 
 
 Mix'd with the full-blown rose's purple flowers. 
 
 Therefore, ye nymphs, enrich my narrow field 
 
 With the full stores your bounteous fountains yield ; 
 
 Pan, bid my luscious pails with milk o'erflow, 
 
 And, Bacchus, teach my mellow vines to glow ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 With rapid prow the buoyant vessels glide, 
 And cut the glassy surface of the tide, 
 The glassy surface, white with foam no more, 
 But smoothly flowing to the level shore ;
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 201 
 
 Or, settled in a deep and calm repose, 
 Unruffled by the breeze that scarcely blows. 
 For now the swallow's voice, heard faintly clear. 
 Spring's gracious zephyr wafts along the air ; 
 Beneath the pent-house roof's embowering shade 
 The amorous bird her clay-built nest hath laid, 
 Securely guarded for her callow brood ; 
 The cricket has his merry song rene w'd, 
 And early foliage burst through every grove, 
 And roses open to the touch of love. 
 Now set your anchors free ; spread every sail, 
 And loose your cordage to the friendly gale ; 
 Quit, quit the port, where the long winter's day 
 Has pass'd inglorious, unimproved, away ! 
 Now tempt afresh the fortune of the wave, 
 Seek other shores, and new adventures brave ! 
 So may the god of trade reward your toil 
 With every bounty, shower'd from every soil ; 
 And guide your barks triumphant o'er the main, 
 Laden with plenty, to their homes again. 
 
 FROM THEOCRITUS. ELEVENTH IDYLL. 
 
 For love no potent medicine is known, 
 No true physician but the muse alone ; 
 Lenient her balmy hand, and sweetly sure — 
 But few are they for whom she works the cure.
 
 202 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 This truth my gentle Nicias holds divine, 
 Favour'd alike by Psean and the Nine ; 
 This truth, long since, within his rugged breast. 
 Torn with fierce passion, Polypheme confest. 
 
 'Twas when advancing manhood first had shed 
 The early pride of summer o'er his head, 
 His Galatea on these plains he wooed ; 
 Yet not, like other swains, the nymph pursued 
 With fragrant flowers, or fruits, or garlands fair. 
 But with hot madness and abrupt despair : 
 And while his bleating flocks neglected sought, 
 Without a shepherd's care, their fold self-taught, 
 He, wandering on the sea-beat shore all day, 
 Sang of his hopeless love, and pined away. 
 From morning's dawn he sang, till evening's close; 
 Fierce were the pangs that robb'd him of repose ; 
 The mighty Queen of Love had barb'd the dart, 
 And deeply fix'd it rankling in his heart. 
 Then song assuaged the tortures of his mind, 
 While, on a rock's commanding height reclined, 
 His eye wide stretching o'er the level main, 
 Thus would he cheat the lingering hours of pain. 
 
 " Fair Galatea, why a lover scorn ? 
 
 whiter than the fleece on ./Etna born ! 
 Coy, wild, and playful as the mountain-roe, 
 Bright as the cluster'd vine's meridian glow ! 
 You come when sleep has seal'd my eye in night, 
 Smile on my dreams, and rouse me to delight : 
 
 1 wake — your image flies unkind away, 
 Or melts and fades before the coming day.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 203 
 
 I loved thee, maid, from that delicious hour, 
 When with your mother first you sought my bower ; 
 1 was the guide that led you on your way, 
 And show'd you where the fairest hyacinths lay. 
 1 loved thee then, and, since those days are o'er, 
 Have never ceased to love thee and adore ! 
 But you, fair virgin, care not for my pain — 
 I know you care not, and my prayers are vain. 
 Tis not this rugged front, this lowering brow, 
 (For ever haggard, but more haggard now,) — 
 'Tis not this single eye of scorching fire 
 (More scorching with the pangs of hot desire,) 
 Can win a female heart, or hope to move 
 A virgin's young and tender breast to love. 
 Yet, though so rude, a thousand sheep I feed, 
 Bounteous in milk, and plenteous in their breed ; 
 A still succeeding store my churns supply, 
 For ever yielding, and yet never dry. 
 Yet, rugged as I am, my breath can make 
 The simple reed to softest music wake. 
 None of my fellow swains can sing like me, 
 Tuning my vocal pipe, sweet maid, to thee. 
 How oft the listening hills have heard my song 
 Ascending from the vale the whole night long ! 
 O come, dear maid, to me ! and thou shalt hear 
 The surgy billow roar, and feel no fear ; 
 While safely guarded in my arms you lie, 
 Safe in this cavern from the inclement sky ! 
 O come to me ! the verdant laurels wave 
 With lofty cedars o'er this quiet cave.
 
 204 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 There amorous ivy creeps, and intertwines 
 With swelling clusters of the richest vines ; 
 There crystal springs more cool than vEtna's snow 
 Gush from the hills and round my arbours flow : 
 The limpid beverage from the fountain's brink 
 (Worthy of gods) shall Galatea drink. 
 What if 1 seem uncouth ? this spreading wood. 
 When winter strews the plain and binds the flood, 
 Is all my own — and through the evil days 
 Our cheerful hearth with constant fires shall blaze. 
 Oh, had my mother given me but to glide 
 With cutting fins beneath the billowy tide, 
 I then had sought thy coral cave, my fair, 
 And brought the sweetest presents of the year; 
 The virgin lily from our summer's bowers, 
 And poppy, nursed by autumn's dying hours ; 
 Then might I kiss thy lovely hand, and sip 
 (O daring thought !) the honey of thy lip. 
 Leave then, fair nymph, yon caverns where you play ; 
 And, having left, forget your homeward way ! 
 Come, tend my sheep with me, or for me squeeze 
 The harden'd curd, and form the luscious cheese. 
 — Where are thy senses, Polypheme, ah where ? 
 She heeds not thy complaint, she mocks thy prayer. 
 Go to thy sheep again ! 'twere better bind 
 These ruin'd wattles, and keep out the wind, 
 Than thus pursue with unavailing pain 
 A scornful daughter of the unpitying main. 
 Go to thy home, poor wretch ! In yonder grove 
 Are many nymphs, and some may heed thy love.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 205 
 
 There are, (and those among the brightest fair,) 
 Who bid me tend their flocks, their revels share : 
 I shunn'd their haunts and fled from them before ; 
 But now grown wiser, I'll refuse no more. 
 Oft have they laugh 'd to see my passion burn ; 
 They'll laugh no longer when I home return : 
 Then, haughty Galatea, shalt thou prove 
 That thou hast scorn'd what gentler virgins love!" 
 
 — Thus sang the uncouth swain where /Etna's brow 
 Hangs awful, frowning o'er the deep below : 
 Thus would he feed his love, and with the strain 
 He calm'd his troubled heart and eased his pain. 
 
 FROM CALLIMACHUS. 
 
 Queen of the zephyr's breezy cape ! to thee 
 This polish'd shell, the treasure of the sea, 
 Her earliest offering, young Selena bears, 
 Join'd Avith the imcense of her maiden prayers. 
 Erewhile with motion, power, and sense endued, 
 Alive it floated on the parent flood ; 
 When, if the gale more rudely breathed, it gave 
 Its natural sail expanded to the wave. 
 But while the billows slept upon the shore, 
 And the tempestuous winds forgot to roar, 
 Like some proud galley, floated on the tide, 
 And busy feet the want of oars supplied.
 
 206 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Shipwreck 'd at last upon the Iiilian strand, 
 It now, Arsino'e, asks thy favouring hand ; 
 No more its vows the plaintive halcyon hail 
 For the soft breathings of a western gale, 
 But that, oh mighty queen ! thy genial power 
 On young Selena every gift may shower 
 That love with beauteous innocence can share : 
 For these, and only these, accept the prayer ! 
 
 FROM HEDYLUS. 
 
 While on soft beds your pillow'd limbs recline, 
 Dissolved by Bacchus and the Queen of Love, 
 
 Remember, Gout's a daughter of that line, 
 
 And she'll dissolve them soon, my friend, by Jove. 
 
 FROM POSID1PPUS. 
 
 What path of life would man desire to keep ? 
 
 Wrangling and strife the forum yields : at home 
 Are cares ; abroad, incessant toils ; the deep 
 
 Is vex'd with storms : an exile wouldst thou roam ? 
 If wealthy, fears ; if needy, slights await. 
 
 Wouldst seek to wed ? Expect not so to shun 
 The general doom. Wouldst choose a single state ? 
 
 In joyless gloom thy heavy hours will run.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 207 
 
 Children are plagues ; a childless life's accurst : 
 Folly's in youth ; in age fresh infancy. 
 
 Never to have been born, the wise man first 
 Would wish ; and next, as soon as born, to die. 
 
 FROM METRODORUS. 
 
 Whatever path of life you choose to tread, 
 
 Praise and wise deeds the active forum yields ; 
 At home is rest to crown your grateful bed, 
 
 And all the charms of nature deck the fields. 
 Bright hopes of fortune waft us o'er the deep : 
 
 And, should we chance in foreign climes to stray. 
 If rich, we're honour'd ; and, if poor, may keep 
 
 Unmark'd the modest tenor of our way. 
 If married, blest and honour'd is your state; 
 
 If single, still you're blest, because you're free; 
 The father joys ; no cares the childless wait ; 
 
 In youth is strength, in grey hairs dignity. 
 Then false the lay that bids men hate to live, 
 
 Since every form of life can pleasure give. 
 
 FROM MELEAGER. 
 
 Blest is the goblet — oh how blest ! 
 Which Heliodora's lips have prest. 
 Ah ! might those lips but meet with mine, 
 My soul would melt away in thine.
 
 208 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Hail, universal mother ! lightly rest 
 
 On that dead form, 
 Which, when with life invested, ne'er oppress'd 
 
 Its fellow worm. 
 
 FROM AN UNCERTAIN AUTHOR. 
 
 Whether thy locks with jetty radiance shine, 
 Or golden ringlets o'er thy shoulder stray, 
 
 Still in those locks the loves and graces twine, 
 And still shall twine, albe they turn to gray. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 ON THE VENUS OF PRAXITELES. 
 
 My naked charms ! The prince of Troy — 
 The Dardan swain — the hunter boy — 
 To those, and only those, I've shown them. 
 —How should Praxiteles have known them ? 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 ON THE STATUE OF VENUS ARMED. 
 
 Pallas met beauty's queen array'd in arms, — 
 And ask'd — " Dost thou too venture to the field ?" 
 
 Smiling she answer'd — " If my naked charms 
 Such prizes win, what may my spear and shield ?"
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 209 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 THE OLIVE TO THE VINE. 
 
 I am Minerva's sacred plant, 
 
 Press me no more, intruding vine ! 
 
 Unwreathe your wanton arms ! Avaunt ! 
 A modest maiden loves not wine. 
 
 FROM PHILODEMUS. 
 
 The strains that flow from young Timarion's lyre, 
 Her tongue's soft voice, and melting eloquence, 
 
 Her sparkling eyes, that glow with fond desire, 
 Her warbling notes that chain the admiring sense, 
 Subdue my soul — I know not how, or whence. 
 
 Too soon it will be known when all my soul's on fire. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Not yet the blossoms of the spring decay'd, 
 Nor full the purpling treasures of the vine ; 
 
 Yet have the loves prepared their shafts, fair maid, 
 And lit their torches at thy vestal shrine. 
 
 O let me fly, while yet unstrung their bows, 
 
 While smouldering; still the conflagration glows ! 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 210 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 To-morrow, Piso, at the evening hour, 
 
 My friend shall lead thee to his simple bower, 
 
 To keep with feast our annual twentieth night : 
 If there you miss the flask of Chian wine, 
 Yet hearty friends you'll meet, and, while you dine, 
 
 Hear strains like those in which the gods delight ; 
 And, if you kindly look on me the while, 
 We'll reap a richer banquet in your smile. 
 
 FROM LEONIDAS OF ALEXANDRIA. 
 
 ON A STATUE OF VENUS ARMED. 
 
 Fair queen of love ! those arms you bear 
 
 The god of war is wont to wield : 
 O shake not thou the sounding spear ! 
 
 O hold not thou the blazing shield ! 
 
 Thy naked power taught Mars to yield ; 
 The mighty Tamer bow'd before thee : 
 
 When at thy shrine the gods have kneel'd, 
 Must thou be arm'd ere men adore thee ? 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 ON TIMON OF ATHENS. 
 
 If, this inscriptive pillar passing by, 
 Stranger ! thou greet mine ashes with a sigh,
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 211 
 
 Invoke my name, or seek my funeral urn, 
 May all the gods prohibit thy return ! 
 But if in silence to my tomb you go, 
 — Silence, unworthy him who rests below — 
 Still shall my angry ghost thy steps attend, 
 And furies haunt thee to thy journey's end. 
 
 FROM ANTIPHANES. 
 
 Erewhile my gentle streams were wont to pour 
 
 Along the vale a pure translucent tide ; 
 
 But nowmy waves are shrunk, the channel dried, 
 And every nymph knows her loved haunt no more ; 
 Since that sad moment when my verdant shore 
 
 Was with the crimson hue of murder dyed. 
 
 To cool the sparkling heat of wine we glide, 
 But shrink abhorrent from the stain of gore. 
 
 FROM PHILIP OF THESSALONICA. 
 
 ON A STATUE OE THE RIVER EU ROTAS. 
 
 Plunged by the sculptor in a bath of flame, 
 Yet in his native bed the God appears ; 
 
 The watery veil yet hangs o'er all his frame, 
 And every pore distils the crystal tears. 
 
 How great the victory of Art, which gave 
 
 To brass the trembling moisture of the wave !
 
 212 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM NICARCHUS. 
 
 Tis said that certain death awaits 
 The raven's nightly cry : 
 
 But at the sound of Cymon's voice, 
 The very ravens die. 
 
 FROM STRATO. 
 
 O now 1 burn'd, when, like the gorgeous sun, 
 Firing the orient with a blaze of light, 
 
 Thy beauty every lesser star outshone ! 
 
 Nowo'er that beauty steals the approach of night, 
 
 E'en now — half sunk beneath the western hill — 
 
 Tt warms me yet ; for 'tis the day-star still. 
 
 FROM PALL AD AS. 
 
 All wives are curst — yet two blest hours they give, 
 When first they wed — and when they cease to live. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Tins life a Theatre we well may call, 
 
 Where every actor must perform with art — 
 
 Or laugh it through, and make a jest of all, 
 Or learn to bear with grace his tragic part.
 
 TKfE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 213 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Fortune and Hope, farewell ! I care no more 
 For Life's vain wanderings,havingreach'd the shore. 
 Poor though I am, with Liberty I dwell, 
 And vain Ambition wots not of my cell. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 In tears I drew life's earliest breath ; 
 In tears must give it back to Death ; 
 And all my past, swift-fleeting years 
 Have been one mournful scene of tears. 
 Ah race ! for ever doom'd to mourn — 
 For weakness, pain, and misery born — 
 Then driven to unknown shades away, 
 To ashes burnt — resolved to day ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 An, transitory joys of life ! ye mourn 
 Rightly those winged hours that ne'er return. 
 We — let us sit, or lie, or toil, or feast — 
 Time ever runs, a persecuting guest, 
 His hateful race against our wretched state, 
 And bears the unconquerable doom of Fate.
 
 214 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM JULIAN THE PREFECT. 
 
 While for my fair a wreath I twined 
 Of all the flowers that Spring- discloses, 
 
 It was my evil fate to find 
 Cupid lurking- in the roses. 
 
 I seized the little struggling boy, 
 I plunged him in the mantling cup, 
 
 Then pledged it with a rapturous joy, 
 And, mad with triumph, drank him up. 
 
 But ever since, within my breast 
 All uncontroll'd the urchin rages ; 
 
 Disturbs my labour, breaks my rest, 
 And an eternal warfare wages. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 ON DEMOCRITUS. 
 
 Pluto, receive the sage, whose ghost 
 Is wafted to thy gloomy shore. 
 
 One laughing spirit seeks thy coast, 
 Where never smile was seen before.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 215 
 
 FROM AGATHIAS. 
 
 All night I wept — and when the morning rose, 
 And short oblivion o'er my senses crept, 
 The swallows, twittering round me whilst I slept. 
 
 Drove from my couch the phantom of repose. 
 
 Be silent, envious birds, it was not 1 
 
 Who stopp'd the voice of tuneful Philomel : 
 Go, and again your plaintive descant swell 
 
 For Itylus, among the mountains high ! 
 
 Leave me, ah leave me for a while, to steep 
 My senses in a sweet forgetfulness ! 
 So may my dreams Rhodanthe's image bless, 
 
 Her dear idea fill my arms in sleep. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Go, idle amorous boys ! 
 
 What are your cares and joys 
 To Love, that swells the longing Virgin's breast ? 
 
 A flame half hid in doubt, 
 
 Soon kindled, soon put out, 
 A blaze of momentary heat at best. 
 
 Haply you well may find 
 (Proud privilege of your kind)
 
 216 TRANSLATION'S FROM 
 
 Some friend to share the secret of your heart ; 
 
 Or, if your inbred grief 
 
 Admit of such relief, 
 The dance, the chase, the play, assuage your smart. 
 
 While we, poor hapless maids, 
 
 Condemn'd to pine in shades, 
 And to our dearest friends our thoughts deny, 
 
 Can only sit and weep, 
 
 While all around us sleep, 
 Unpitied languish, and unheeded die ! 
 
 FROM PAUL THE SILENTIARY. 
 
 In wanton sport my Doris from her fair 
 
 And glossy tresses tore a straggling hair, 
 
 And bound my hands, as if of conquest vain, 
 
 And I some royal captive in her chain. 
 
 At first I laugh'd — " this fetter, charming maid, 
 
 Is lightly worn, and soon dissolved," I said. 
 
 I said— but ah ! I had not learnt to prove 
 
 How strong the fetters that are forged by Love. 
 
 That little thread of gold I strove to sever, 
 
 Was bound, like steel, around my heart for ever ; 
 
 And, from that hapless hour, my tyrant fair 
 
 Has led and turn'd me by a single hair.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 217 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 The voice of the song and the banquet was o'er, 
 And I hung up my garland at Glycera's door, 
 When the mischievous girl, from a window above 
 Who look'd down, and laugh'd at the tribute of love, 
 Fill'd with water a goblet whence Bacchus had fled, 
 And pour'd all the crystal contents on my head. 
 So soak'd was my hair, for three days it resisted 
 All attempts of the barber to torture and twist it ; 
 Yet the water, — so whimsical, Love, are thy ways, — 
 While it put out my curls, set my heart in a blaze. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 In my green and tender age 
 I the queen of love defied ; 
 Steel'd my heart against her rage, 
 And her arts repell'd with pride. 
 Inaccessible before, 
 Now, almost gray, I burn the more. 
 
 Venus, laughing, hear the vow 
 By your slave repentant made ! 
 Greater far your triumph now, 
 Than of old in Ida's shade. 
 
 There a boy adjudged the prize ; 
 Here, Pallas from the contest flies.
 
 218 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 When I meant, my Rhodanthe, to bid thee farewell. 
 
 My faltering voice the sad office denied ; 
 From my lips broken accents of tenderness fell, 
 
 And I remain'd motionless, close at your side. 
 Nor wonder, fair maid, at the baffled endeavour ! 
 
 The pang of the moment that tears me away, 
 Can only be equall'd by that which will ever 
 
 Shut out from my soul the blest prospect of day. 
 Rhodanthe ! 'tis thou art my day — 'tis to thee 
 
 I look for the light that should make me rejoice : 
 Thy presence the day-spring of pleasure to me ; 
 
 But raptures of paradise dwell on thy voice. 
 That voice— how far sweeter than aught that is feign'd 
 
 Of sirens, or mermaids that float on the wave — 
 It holds all my hopes, all my passions enchain'd, 
 
 And is potent alike to destroy me, or save. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 To thee the reliques of a thousand flowers 
 Torn from the chaplet twined in gayer hours, 
 To thee the goblet carved with skill divine 
 Erewhile that foam'd with soul-subduing wine, 
 The locks now scatter'd on the dusty ground, 
 Once dropping odours, and with garlands crown'd, 
 Outcast of pleasure, and of hope bereft, 
 Lais ! to thee thy Corydon has left !
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 219 
 
 Before thy threshold, 'mid the young and gay, 
 
 He revel'd oft the jocund night away, 
 
 Nor could that proud disdainful bosom move 
 
 To grant one token of relenting love ; 
 
 One gracious smile, one Avord, one flattering gleam 
 
 Of seeming hope, although it did but seem. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! now vanquish'd and alone, 
 
 These scatter'd emblems make his sorrows known, 
 
 And in their silent eloquence complain 
 
 Of woman's tyrant charms and cold disdain. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Ah ! how unequal is the painter's art 
 
 To reach the glowing picture of the heart, 
 
 To catch the roseate graces of my fair, 
 
 Her eyes' blue languish, and her sun-bright hair! 
 
 First paint the gorgeous day-star's beam divine — 
 
 Then may my fancy's image yield to thine ! 
 
 III. FURTHER ADDITIONS. 1833. 
 
 FROM THE FRAGMENTS OF ARCHILOCHUS. 
 
 Loud are our griefs, my friend ; and vain is he 
 Would steep the sense in mirth and revelry. 
 O'er those we mourn the hoarse resounding wave 
 Hath closed, and whelm'd them in their ocean grave.
 
 220 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Deep sorrow swells each breast. But Heaven bestows 
 One healing 1 medicine for severest woes, 
 — Resolved endurance — for affliction pours 
 To all by turns, — to-day the cup is ours. 
 Bear bravely, then, the common trial sent, 
 And cast away your womanish lament ! 
 Yet had it been the will of Heaven to save 
 His honour'd reliques from a nameless grave ! 
 Had we but seen the accustom'd flames aspire, 
 And wrap his corse in purifying fire ! 
 But what avails it to lament the dead ? 
 Say, will it profit aught to shroud our head, 
 And wear away in grief the fleeting hours, 
 Rather than 'mid bright nymphs in rosy bovvers ? 
 Jove sits in highest heaven, and opes the springs, 
 To man, of monstrous and forbidden things. 
 Death seals the fountains of reward and fame : 
 Man dies, and leaves no guardian of his name. 
 Applause awaits us only while we live, 
 While we can honour take, and honour give : 
 Yet were it base for man, of woman born, 
 To mock the naked ghost with jests or scorn. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 ON THE LOSS OF HIS SHIELD. 
 
 The foe-man glories in my shield — 
 I left it on the battle field ; 
 I threw it down beside the wood, 
 Unscathed by scars, unstain'd with blood.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 221 
 
 And let him glory ! Since, from death 
 Escaped, I keep my forfeit breath ; 
 I soon may find, at little cost, 
 As good a shield as that I've lost. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Bows will not avail thee, 
 Darts and slings will fail thee, 
 When Mars tumultuous rages 
 On wide embattled land. 
 Then with faulchions clashing, 
 Eyes with fury flashing, 
 Man against man engages 
 
 In combat, hand to hand. 
 But most Euboea's chiefs are known, 
 Marshall'd hosts of spearmen leading 
 To conflict whence is no receding, 
 To make this — war's best art — their own. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 For Gyges' wealth let others care, 
 
 Gold is nothing to me ; 
 Envy of another's share 
 
 Never shall undo me. 
 
 Nothing that the gods decree 
 Moves my special wonder ; 
 
 And as for boastful tyranny — 
 We're too far asunder.
 
 2fe2 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. IAMBICS. 
 
 Soul ! Soul ! when round thee whelming cares 
 like mountain surges close, 
 
 Patient beartheir mighty rage, and with thy strength 
 their strength oppose. 
 
 Be a manly breast your bulwark, your defence firm- 
 planted feet ; 
 
 So the serried line of hostile spears with calm com- 
 posure meet. 
 
 Yet in victory's golden hour, O ! raise not your 
 proud vaunts too high ; 
 
 Nor, if vanquish'd, meanly stooping pierce with 
 loud lament the sky : 
 
 But in prosperous fortune so rejoice, and in reverses 
 mourn, 
 
 As well knowing what is fated for the race of woman 
 born . 
 
 FROM THE SAME. THE ECLIPSE. 
 
 Never man again may swear, things shall be as 
 
 erst they were ; 
 Never more in wonder stare, since the Olympian 
 
 thunderer 
 Bad the sun's meridian splendour hide in shade of 
 
 murky night ; 
 While affrighted nations started, trembling at the 
 
 sudden sight.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 223 
 
 Who shall dare to doubt hereafter whatsoever man 
 may say ? 
 
 Who refuse with stupid laughter credence to the 
 wildest lay ? 
 
 Though for pasture dolphins ranging, leap the hills, 
 and scour the wood, 
 
 And fierce wolves, their nature changing, dive be- 
 neath the astonish'd flood. 
 
 FROM SAPPHO. HYMN TO VENUS. 
 
 Immortal Venus, throned above 
 In radiant beauty ! Child of Jove ! 
 O skill'd in every art of love, 
 And artful snare ! 
 
 Dread power, to whom I bend the knee ! 
 Release my soul, and set it free 
 From bonds of piercing agony, 
 And gloomy care ! 
 
 Yet come thyself! if e'er, benign, 
 Thy listening ear thou didst incline 
 To my rude lay, the starry shine 
 Of Jove's court leaving, 
 
 In chariot yoked with coursers fair, 
 Thine own immortal birds, that bear 
 Thee swift to earth, the middle air 
 With bright wings cleaving.
 
 224 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Soon they were sped — and thou, most blest, 
 In thine own smiles ambrosial drest, 
 Didst ask what griefs my mind oppress'd — 
 What meant my song- — 
 
 What end my phrensied thoughts pursue — 
 For what loved youth I spread anew 
 My amorous nets — " Who, Sappho, who 
 Hath done thee wrong ? 
 
 " What though he fly, he'll soon return — 
 Still press thy gifts, though now he spurn ; 
 Heed not his coldness — soon he'll burn, 
 E'en though thou chide." 
 
 — And saidst thou thus, dread goddess ?— 
 Come then once more to ease my woe ! 
 Grant all ! — and thy great self bestow, 
 My shield and guide ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Planets, that round the beauteous moon 
 
 Attendant wait, cast into shade 
 Their ineffectual lustres, soon 
 As she, in full-orb'd majesty array 'd, 
 Her silver radiance pours 
 Upon this world of ours.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 22d 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Through orchard plots, with fragrance crown'd, 
 
 The clear cold fountain murmuring flows ; 
 And forest leaves with rustling sound 
 Invite to soft repose. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Here, fairest Rhodope, recline ! 
 And 'mid thy bright locks intertwine, 
 With fingers soft as softest down, 
 The ever verdant parsley crown. 
 
 The Gods are pleased with flowers that bloom. 
 And leaves that shed divine perfume ; 
 But, if ungarlanded, despise 
 The richest offer'd sacrifice. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 " Sweet Rose of May ! sweet Rose of May ! 
 
 Whither, ah whither fled away ?" 
 " What's gone no time can e'er restore — 
 
 I come no more — I come no more !" 
 
 ANOTHER . 
 
 Wealth, without virtue, is a dangerous guest : — 
 Who holds them mingled is supremely blest. 
 vol. I. Q
 
 226 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 The silver moon is set ; 
 The Pleiades are gone ; 
 Half the long night is spent, — and yet, — 
 I lie alone. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 I have a child — a lovely one — 
 In beauty like the golden sun, 
 Or like sweet flowers of earliest bloom ; 
 And Cleis is her name — for whom 
 I Lydia's treasures, were they mine, 
 Would glad resign. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Yes — Pleasure is the good that I pursue. 
 How blest is then my destiny, 
 That I may love and honour too — 
 
 So bright, so brave a love is that allotted me ! 
 
 FROM ERINNA. 
 
 ODE. Et£ TrjV Pwfiijy. 
 
 Daughter of Mars ! Hail, mighty Power ! 
 
 Stern Queen, with golden crown array 'd ! 
 Who build'st on earth thy regal tower, 
 
 A high Olympus, ne'er assay 'd !
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 227 
 
 To thee alone hath awful Fate 
 The pride of vast dominion lent ; 
 
 The strength to bind a rising state 
 In bonds of order'd government. 
 
 Beneath thy yoke's compelling beam 
 Unmeasured Earth, and Ocean hoar 
 
 Together bend ; whilst thou, supreme, 
 The nations rul'st from shore to shore. 
 
 E'en mightiest Time, whose laws prevail 
 To change the world at his decree, 
 
 Can never turn the prosperous gale 
 That swells thy potent sovereignty. 
 
 Of thee alone a race is born, 
 
 The first to blaze in glorious fight, 
 
 Like spiky ranks of waving corn, 
 That Ceres marshals, golden-bright. 
 
 FROM AL(LEUS> 
 
 Jove descends in sleet and snow ; 
 
 Howls the vex'd and angry deep ; 
 Every stream forgets to flow, 
 
 Bound in winter's icy sleep. 
 Ocean wave and forest hoar 
 
 To the blast responsive roar.
 
 228 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Drive the tempest from your door, 
 
 Blaze on blaze your hearthstone piling, 
 
 And unmeasured goblets pour 
 
 Brimful high with nectar smiling. 
 
 Then beneath your Poet's head 
 Be a downy pillow spread. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 To be bow'd by grief is folly : 
 Nought is gain'd by melancholy ; 
 Better than the pain of thinking 
 Is to steep the sense in drinking. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Glad your hearts with rosy wine, 
 Now the dog-star takes his round ; 
 
 Sultry hours to sleep incline ; 
 
 Gapes with heat the thirsty ground. 
 
 Crickets sing on leafy boughs, 
 And the thistle is in flower ; 
 
 Melting maids forget the vows 
 Made to the moon in colder hour. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Why wait we for the torches' lights ? 
 Now let us drink — the day invites.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 229 
 
 In mighty flagons hither bring 
 
 The deep red blood of many a vine, 
 
 That we may largely quaff, and sing 
 The praises of the god of wine — 
 
 The son of Jove and Semele, 
 Who gave the jocund grape to be 
 A sweet oblivion of our woes. 
 
 Fill, fill the goblets — one and two : 
 Let every brimmer, as it flows, 
 
 In sportive chase the last pursue ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Glitters with brass my mansion wide ; 
 The roof is deck'd on every side 
 
 In martial pride, 
 With helmets ranged in order bright 
 And plumes of horse-hair nodding white, 
 
 A gallant sight— 
 
 — Fit ornament for warrior's brow — 
 And round the walls, in goodly row, 
 
 Refulgent glow 
 Stout greaves of brass like burnish'd gold, 
 And corslets there, in many a fold 
 
 Of linen roll'd ; 
 
 And shields that in the battle fray 
 The routed losers of the day 
 Have cast away;
 
 230 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Euboean falchions too are seen, 
 With rich embroider'd belts between 
 Of dazzling 1 sheen j 
 
 And gaudy surcoats piled around, 
 The spoils of chiefs in war renown'd. 
 
 May there be found. 
 These, and all else that here you see. 
 Are fruits of glorious victory 
 
 Achieved by me. 
 
 FROM THE SAME, 
 
 The worst of ills and hardest to endure, 
 
 Past hope, past cure, 
 Is Penury, who, with her sister mate 
 Disorder, soon brings down the loftiest state, 
 
 And makes it desolate. 
 This truth the sage of Sparta told, 
 
 Aristodemus old, — 
 " Wealth makes the man." On him that's poor 
 Proud worth looks down, and honour shuts the door. 
 
 FROM STESICHORUS. 
 
 Vain it is for those to weep 
 Who repose in death's last sleep. 
 With man's life ends all the story 
 Of his wisdom, wit, and glory.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 231 
 
 FROM CLEOBULUS. 
 
 ON THE TOMB OF MIDAS. 
 
 Sculptured in brass, a virgin bright, on Midas' 
 
 tomb I stand. 
 While water cools — while flowers delight — while 
 
 rivers part the land — 
 While Ocean girds the earth around — while, with 
 
 returning day, 
 Phoebus returns, and Night is crown d by Luna's 
 
 glimmering ray — 
 So long as these shall last, will I,amonumentof woe, 
 Declare to every passer by, that Midas sleeps below. 
 
 FROM SIMONIDES. 
 REPLY TO THE PRECEDING. 
 
 Who so bold to uphold what the Lindian sage hath 
 
 told? 
 Who would dare to compare works of men, that 
 fleeting are, 
 
 With the sweet perennial flow 
 Of swift rivers, or the glow 
 Of the eternal sun, or light 
 Of the golden orb of night ? 
 Spring renews the floweret's hues, with her sweet 
 
 refreshing dews : 
 Ocean wide bids his tide with returning current 
 glide.
 
 232 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 The sculptured tomb is but a toy 
 Man may create, and man destroy. 
 Eternity in stone or brass ? 
 Go, go ! who said it, was — an ass ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Human strength is unavailing; 
 Boastful tyranny unfailing ; 
 All in life is care and labour ; 
 And our unrelenting neighbour, 
 Death, for ever hovering round ; 
 Whose inevitable wound, 
 When he comes prepared to strike, 
 Good and bad will feel alike. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Mortal, canst thou dare to say 
 What may chance another day ? 
 Or, thy fellow mortal seeing, 
 Circumscribe his term of being ? 
 Swifter than the insect's wings 
 Is the change of human things. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Sages and honour'd bards of old 
 Have said that Virtue loves to keep 
 Upon a mountain's rocky steep ; 
 
 Where those permitted to behold
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 233 
 
 May still her awful figure trace 
 Circling about that holy place. 
 
 But 'tis not given to mortal sight 
 
 Ere wholesome sweat have purged away 
 Thick mists that dim the visual ray, 
 
 To soar to such a glorious height. 
 None that are loiterers in the race 
 May hope to see that holy place. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 'Twas by their valour that to heaven ascended 
 No curling smoke from Tegea's ravaged field ; 
 
 Who chose — so as the town their arms defended 
 They to their sons a heritage might yield 
 
 Inscribed with freedom's ever-blooming name — 
 
 Themselves to perish in the ranks of fame. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 O native Sparta ! when we met the host 
 In equal combat from the Inachian coast, 
 Thy brave three hundred never turn'd aside, 
 But where our feet first rested, there we died. 
 The words, in blood, that stout Othryades 
 Wrought on his herald shield, were only these —
 
 234 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 : Thyrea is Lacedsemon's !"— If there fled 
 One Argive from the slaughter, be it said, 
 Of old Adrastus he hath learn'd to fly. 
 We count it death to falter, not to die. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 on cimon's naval victory. 
 
 Ne'er since that olden time when Asia stood 
 First torn from Europe by the ocean flood, 
 Since horrid Mars first pour'd on either shore 
 The storm of battle, and its wild uproar, 
 Hath man by land and sea such glory won 
 As for the mighty deed this day was done. 
 By land, the Medes in myriads press the ground ; 
 By sea, a hundred Tyrian ships are drown'd, 
 With all their martial host ; while Asia stands 
 Deep groaning by, and wrings her helpless hands. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 These by the streams of famed Eurymedon 
 Their envied youth's short brilliant race have run : 
 In swift-wing'd ships, and on the embattled field, 
 Alike they forced th e Median bows to yield, 
 Breaking their foremost ranks. Now here they lie, 
 Their names inscribed on rolls of victory.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 235 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 From winter snows descending- fiercely round, 
 The priest of Cybele a shelter found 
 Beneath a desert cliff, that beetling stood 
 O'er the wild margin of the ocean flood. 
 Here, as he wrung the moisture from his hair, 
 He saw, advancing to his secret lair, 
 With hunger fierce, and horrid to behold, 
 The grim destroyer of the nightly fold. 
 Then, all dismay 'd, the sacred drum he shook 
 With wide-extended hand, and wildly strook. 
 — He strook : the hollow cave, within, around, 
 On every side, rebellow'd to the sound. 
 The forest's lord, o'ercome with holy dread, 
 Back to his native woods, loud howling, fled — 
 Fled from that trembling votary. — He, in praise 
 Of her, whose power redeem'd his forfeit days, 
 Nowhangstheselocks, and garments wet with brine, 
 (For his deliverance due.) at Rhaea's shrine. 
 
 FROM BACCHYLIDES. 
 
 Peaceful wealth, or painful toil, 
 Chance of war, or civil broil, 
 Tis not for man's feeble race 
 These to shun, or those embrace.
 
 236 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 But that all-disposing Fate 
 Which presides o'er mortal state, 
 Where it listeth, casts its shroud 
 Of impenetrable cloud. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Of happiness to mortal man 
 
 One is the road, and one the goal, — 
 To keep unburthen'd, all he can, 
 
 From loads of care the tranquil soul. 
 But whoso toileth night and day, 
 
 Nor day nor night permits sweet rest 
 To steal him from himself away, 
 
 Or still the fever of his breast, 
 Nought will it profit, though he bear 
 On gloomy brow the stamp of care. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 As gold the Lydian touch-stone tries, 
 So man — the virtuous, valiant, wise — 
 Must to all-powerful Truth submit 
 His virtue, valour, and his wit. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Not to be born 'twere best, 
 Nor view the light of the sun ;
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 237 
 
 Since to be ever blest 
 
 Is given to none : 
 And Fate deals out his share, 
 To each alike, of pain and care. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Alas ! poor child ! for thee our bosoms swell 
 With grief, tears cannot cure, words may not tell. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Here no fatted oxen be, 
 Gold, nor purple tapestry: 
 But a well-disposed mind ; 
 But a gentle muse, and kind ; 
 But bright wine to glad our souls, 
 Mantling in Boeotian bowls. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Folded arms and sauntering pace 
 Come not nigh this holy place. 
 She whose image here is seen, 
 Golden-iEgis-bearing queen,
 
 238 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Dread Itonia, doth ordain 
 For the suppliants at her fane 
 Other services than these, — 
 Tributes rare from bended knees. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 The high immortal gods are free 
 From taint of man's infirmity ; 
 Nor pale diseases round them wait, 
 Nor pain distracts their tranquil state. 
 
 A P^AN. 
 
 Io Pan ! we sing to thee, 
 
 King of famous Arcady ! 
 
 Mighty dancer ! follower free 
 
 Of the nymphs, mid sport and glee ! 
 
 lb Pan ! sing merrily 
 
 To our merry minstrelsy ! 
 
 We have gain'd the victory, 
 
 We are all we wish'd to be, 
 
 And keep with pomp and pageantry 
 
 Pandrosos' great mystery. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Pallas Tritonia ! sovereign power ! 
 Defend thy loved Athenian tower !
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 239 
 
 Raise and protect thy cherish'd state 
 From civil war and stern debate ! 
 Thou, and thy sire, her children save 
 From doom of an untimely grave ! 
 
 A SCOLIUM BY PITTACUS. 
 
 The wise with prudent thought provide 
 Against misfortune's coming tide. 
 The valiant, when the storm beats high, 
 Undaunted brave its tyranny. 
 
 ANOTHER SCOLIUM. 
 
 I wish I were an ivory lyre — 
 
 A lyre of burnish M ivory — 
 That to the Dionysian quire 
 
 Blooming boys might carry me ! 
 Or would I were a chalice bright, 
 
 Of virgin gold by fire untried — 
 For virgin chaste as morning light 
 
 To bear me to the altar side. 
 
 FROM EUENUS. 
 
 Though thou shouldst gnaw me to the root ; 
 Destructive goat ! — enough of fruit 
 I bear, betwixt thy horns to shed, 
 When to the altar thou art led.
 
 240 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 In contradiction — wrong- or right 
 
 Do many place their sole delight. 
 
 If right, 'tis well — if wrong, why so — 
 
 But contradict whate'er you do. 
 
 Such reasoners deserve, I hold, 
 
 No argument save that of old — 
 
 " You say 'tis black — I say, 'tis white — 
 
 And so, good sir, you're answer'd quite." 
 
 Far different is the aspect seen 
 
 Of modest Wisdom's quiet mien — 
 
 Patient, and soon to be persuaded, 
 
 When argument by truth is aided. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 THE SWALLOW AND THE GRASSHOPPER. 
 
 Attic maiden, breathing still 
 
 Of the fragrant flowers that blow 
 
 On Hymettus' purpled hill, 
 
 Whence the streams of honey flow ; 
 
 Wherefore thus a captive bear 
 
 To your nest the grasshopper ? 
 
 Noisy prattler, cease to do 
 
 To your fellow prattler wrong: 
 
 Kind should not its kind pursue, 
 Least of all the heirs of song.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 241 
 
 Prattler ! seek some other food 
 For your noisy prattling- brood. 
 
 Both are ever on the wing-, 
 
 Wanderers both in foreign bowers, 
 
 Both succeed the parting spring, 
 Both depart with summer hours. 
 
 — Those who love the minstrel lay 
 
 Should not on each other prey. 
 
 FROM PLATO. 
 
 Oh ! on that kiss my soul, 
 As if in doubt to stay, 
 Linger'd awhile, on fluttering wing prepared 
 To soar away. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 ON A BRONZE IMAGE OF A FROG. 
 
 Servant of the nymphs who dwell 
 
 In the fountain's deepest cell, 
 Lover of shades — hoarse frog, that carol free, 
 Where streamlets run, my rustic minstrelsy. 
 
 Me the thirsty traveller 
 Hath in brass ensculptured here, 
 A grateful offering to the powers who gave, 
 To slake his burning thirst, the welcome wave. 
 vol. i. R
 
 242 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Croaking minstrel — faithful guide — 
 
 I reveal'd the hidden tide 
 Of waters, bubbling from the reedy lake, 
 That agony of burning thirst to slake. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 ON THE STATUE OF VENUS AT CNIDOS. 
 
 Bright Cytherea thought one day 
 
 To Cnidos she'd repair, 
 Gliding across the watery way, 
 
 To view her image there. 
 
 But when, arrived, she cast around 
 
 Her eyes divinely bright, 
 And saw upon that holy ground 
 
 The gazing world's delight; 
 
 Amazed, she cried, while blushes told 
 The thoughts that swell'd her breast, 
 
 " Where did Praxiteles behold . . . . ? 
 He could not, sure, have guess'd !" 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 ON A WALNUT-TREE BY THE ROAD-SIDE. 
 
 By the road-side a mark I stand 
 For every passing school-boy's hand ;
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 243 
 
 A helpless butt, whereon to try 
 The skill of their rude archery. 
 My branches, erst so widely spread, 
 The leafy honours of my head, 
 Scatter'd around me, shent and broke 
 By many a pointed marble's stroke. 
 — Plants of the forest ! pray, that ne'er 
 Your boughs may fruit or blossom bear : 
 If to be barren be a curse, 
 Your fatal fruitfulness is worse. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 ON A STRANDED CORPSE. 
 
 A shipwreck'd mariner you here behold, 
 From whose dead limbs e'en Ocean rude relented 
 
 To strip the cloak that did those limbs enfold. 
 
 Unpitying man, more rude, that covering tore — 
 How little worth, to be so long repented ! 
 
 So let him bear away his plunder'd store ; 
 And go to hell — he'll wish the deed undone 
 When Minos sees him with my tatters on. 
 
 FROM MNASALCUS. 
 ON A VINE. 
 
 Sweet vine ! when howls the wintry hour, 
 Not now thy leafy honours shower ; 
 Nor strew them on the thankless plain — 
 Soon autumn will come round again.
 
 244 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Then, when with heat and wine opprest, 
 Beneath thy grateful bower, to rest, 
 Antileon lays his drooping head, 
 O then thy shadowy foliage shed 
 In heaps around the sleeping boy ! 
 Thus Beauty should be crown'd by Joy. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 ON THE SHIELD OF ALEXANDER. 
 
 A holy offering at Diana's shrine, 
 See Alexander's glorious shield recline, 
 Whose golden orb, through many a bloody day 
 Triumphant, ne'er in dust dishonour'd lay. 
 
 FROM ASCLEPIADES. 
 
 All that is left me of my soul, 
 
 That little all, O Love ! release ; 
 Release, kind Love, from thy control. 
 And let me be at peace ! 
 
 Or, if in vain for ease I pray, 
 
 Bid not thy shafts, but lightnings, fly ; 
 That so I may consume away 
 To ashes where I lie. 
 
 Strike then, kind Love ! — nay, do not spare ! 
 
 And if aught worse thou hast in store, 
 I do not ask thee to forbear, 
 
 But rather strike the more !
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 245 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Witness, Night! — I ask no more — 
 What a fool Melissa made me, 
 
 When to be her paramour 
 
 First she lured and then betray'd me ! 
 
 Not uncall'd I sought her door, 
 
 I, her chosen paramour. 
 
 Witness, Night ! who saw me wait 
 All your long and dreary hours, 
 
 Sighing, shivering at her gate. 
 
 Grant me this, ye amorous powers ! 
 
 May she live herself to be 
 
 Cheated as she cheated me ! 
 
 FROM LEONIDAS OF TARENTUM. 
 
 Melo and Satyra to the muses these — 
 The tuneful race of Antigenides — 
 To the Pimpleian muses, whom of late 
 Duteous they served, — these offerings dedicate. 
 Melo, this flute, whose notes in silver chase 
 Her swift lips follow'd — and this boxen case. 
 And amorous Satyra, this vocal reed, 
 Oft by her tuneful breath, with wanton heed, 
 Waken'd to song, while Comus' revellers round 
 Clapp'd loud their hands, responsive to the sound, 
 From festive eve, until the first faint ray 
 Broke through the portals of rejoicing day.
 
 246 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 O holy mother ! — on the peak 
 Of Dindyma, and on those summits bleak 
 
 That frown o'er Phrygia's scorched plain, 
 Holding thy throne, — with favouring aspect deign 
 
 To smile on Aristodice, 
 
 Silene's virgin child, that she 
 May grow in beauty, and her charms improve 
 To fulness, and invite connubial love. 
 For this thy porch she seeks with tributes rare, 
 And o'er thine altars strews her votive hair. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 PAN TO HIS WORSHIPPERS. 
 
 " Go, rouse the deer with horn and hound, 
 And chase him o'er the mountains free ; 
 
 Or bid the hollow woods resound 
 The triumphs of your archery. 
 
 " Pan leads — and if you hail me right, 
 As guardian of the sylvan reign, 
 
 I'll wing your arrows on their flight, 
 
 And speed your coursers o'er the plain."
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 247 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 ON THE STATUES OF MERCURY AND HERCULES 
 
 PLACED AS BOUNDARY-STONES BY 
 
 THE ROAD-SIDE. 
 
 (mercuhy speaks.) 
 Wayfarers, by this road whose hap it is to stray, 
 Whether amidst the fields to make a holiday, 
 Or town-ward bending, to the famed Acropolis ; 
 We, rival gods, who guard the city's boundaries, 
 (I who am Hermes hight, and the other Hercules,) 
 Bid weary mortals peace, good-will, and lasting bliss. 
 But for ourselves, alas ! nor peace nor joy have we — 
 At least, I say so — I — unlucky Mercury. 
 If any swain bring pears or apples to our shrine, 
 E'en though unripe they be, not one of them is mine : 
 That glutton bolts them all. So is it with our grapes ; 
 Not one, or sweet or sour, his greedy maw escapes. 
 — Community of goods I therefore can't abide : 
 Let him who means me well, my portion set aside, 
 And say , This, Hermes , is for thee, that for thy friend 
 Alcides; thus, at least, our strife may have an end. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Ye lowly huts ! thou sacred hill, 
 
 Haunt of the nymphs ! pure gushing rill,
 
 248 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 That underneath the cold stone flowest ! 
 
 Pine, that those clear streams overgrowest ! 
 
 Thou, son of Maia, Mercury, 
 
 Squared in cunning statuary ! 
 
 And thou, O Pan, whose wandering flocks 
 
 Frolic o'er the craggy rocks ! 
 
 — Pleased, the rustic goblet take, 
 
 Fill'd with wine, and the oaten cake, 
 
 Offer'd to your deities 
 
 By a true iEacides. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 ON THE PICTURE OF VENUS ANADYOMENE. 
 
 From her mother's bosom flying, 
 Glistening with the salt sea foam, 
 
 Our Apelles, Venus spying, 
 Bade his daring pencil roam 
 
 O'er her beauties rapture-giving, 
 
 Not to paint — but catch them living. 
 
 'Tis thus her fingers small she weaves 
 In her long and dripping tresses ; 
 
 'Tis thus her full round bosom heaves, 
 Like rich fruit that Autumn blesses ; 
 
 While her goddess -rivals say — 
 
 " Mighty Jove ! we yield the day."
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 249 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 THE STATUE OF VENUS AT SPARTA. 
 
 Eu rotas erst to Cypris said, 
 
 " Or clad in arms appear ; 
 Or hence depart ! The city raves 
 
 For buckler, sword, and spear." 
 
 " Nay," faintly laughing, she replied, 
 
 " Though I unarm'd remain, 
 Yet Lacedsemon shall no less 
 
 Be held my favour'd reign. 
 
 " Ne'er yet was Cytherea seen 
 
 Array 'd in horrid mail ; 
 And shameless they who Sparta's name 
 
 Brand with so false a tale." 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 DIOGENES TO CHARON. 
 
 Sad minister of Hades, who alone 
 
 With thy black boat canst pass o'er Acheron ! 
 
 What, though that fearful boat nigh sunken be 
 
 With its full freight of souls, yet take in me, 
 
 The Dog Diogenes — 'tis all I ask, 
 
 Besides my comrade scrip and leathern flask,
 
 250 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 This tatter'd cloak, and mite to pay the ferry- 
 All I possess'd on earth to make me merrv ; 
 And all I wish again in hell to find. 
 I have left nothing in the world behind. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 ON A GRASSHOPPER, SEATED ON A SPEAR IN THE 
 TEMPLE OF MINERVA. 
 
 Not only on the tree-top do I sing, 
 When summer heat expands my vocal wing, 
 Sipping the dewy morning's virgin tear, 
 Sweet, unbought bard, to weary travellers dear : 
 But now you may behold me resting here, 
 Even on the point of arm'd Minerva's spear ! 
 Who love the Muses thus each other suit — 
 Theirs is our voice — and theirs her maiden flute. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Antheus, escaped the terrors of the flood, 
 A wolf devour'd in Phthia's lonely wood : 
 Ill-fated mariner ! condemn'd to find 
 Dryads more curst than are the Nereids kind ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 ON HIPPONAX. 
 
 Pass gently by this tomb — lest, while he dozes, 
 Ye wake the hornet that beneath reposes ;
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 251 
 
 Whose sting, that would not his own parents spare, 
 Who will may risk — and touch it those who dare ! 
 Take heed then — for his words, like fiery darts, 
 Have e'en in Hell the power to pierce our hearts. 
 
 FROM DIOTIMUS. 
 
 Guardian of yon blushing- fair ! 
 
 Reverend maiden ! tell me why 
 You affect that churlish air, 
 
 Snarling as I pass you by. 
 1 deserve not such rebuke : 
 All I ask is, but to look. 
 
 True, I on her steps attend — 
 True, I cannot choose but gaze ; 
 
 But I meant not to offend — 
 Common are the public ways ; 
 
 And I need not your rebuke, 
 
 When I follow but to look. 
 
 Are my eyes so much in fault 
 That they cannot choose but see ? 
 
 By the gods we're homage taught — 
 Homage is idolatry. 
 
 Spare that undeserved rebuke ! 
 
 E'en the gods permit to look.
 
 252 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM HEGESIPPUS. 
 
 Tis by yon road, which from the funeral pyre 
 Slopes to the right, that Hermes, it is said, 
 
 Leads to the seat of Rhadamanthus dire 
 The willing spirits of the virtuous dead. 
 
 That right-hand path thy pensive ghost pursued, 
 Loved Aristonous ! when it left behind 
 
 Those not unmindful of the great and good, 
 Eternal joys among the blest to find. 
 
 FROM EUPHORION. 
 
 ON A CORPSE WASHED ASHORE. 
 
 Not rugged Trachis hides these whitening bones, 
 Nor that black isle, whose name its colour shows ; 
 
 But the wild beach, o'er which with ceaseless moans 
 The vex'd Icarian wave eternal flows, 
 
 Of Drepanus — ill-famed promontory — 
 And there, instead of hospitable rites, 
 
 The long grass sweeping tells his fate's sad story 
 To rude tribes gather'd from the neighbouring 
 heights.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 253 
 
 FROM PHjEDIMUS. 
 HEROIC LOVE. 
 
 Thy bow which erst that earth-born Dragon slew, 
 
 O mighty God of Day, restrain ! 
 
 Not now those deadly shafts are due 
 That stretch'd the woodland tyrants on the plain 
 Rather, O Phoebus ! bring thy nobler darts, 
 
 With which thou piercest gentle hearts : 
 
 Bid them Themistio's breast inspire 
 With Love's bright flame, and Valour's holy fire : 
 
 Pure Valour, firm Heroic Love ; 
 Twin Deity, supreme o'er gods above ; 
 
 United in the sacred cause 
 Of his dear native land and freedom's laws. 
 
 So let him win the glorious crown 
 His fathers wore, bright meed of fair renown. 
 
 FROM THEOCRITUS. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Thou art dead, Eurymedon, 
 And hast left thine infant son. 
 Thou, cut off in manhood's bloom, 
 Hast achieved a speaking tomb, 
 And a glorious seat on high 
 With the souls that never die.
 
 254 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 He shall live, a citizen, 
 Worshipp'd by his fellow men, 
 Who in him will glory take 
 For his honour'd father's sake. 
 
 FROM CALLIMACHUS. 
 
 Half of my soul yet breathes : the rest, 
 
 I know not whether 
 Cupid or Hades have possest ; 
 
 Tis altogether 
 Vanish'd. Among the Virgin train 
 
 Perhaps 'tis straying — 
 O ! send the wanderer home again, 
 
 Or chide its staying ! 
 Perhaps on fair Cephisa's breast 
 
 'Tis captive lying. 
 Of old it sought that haven of rest, 
 
 When almost dying. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Mark, Epicydes, how the hunter bears 
 His honours in the chase — when timid hares 
 And nobler stags he tracks through frost and snow, 
 O'er mountains echoing to the vales below. 
 Then, if some clown halloos — " Here, master, here 
 Lies panting at your feet the stricken deer," —
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 255 
 
 He takes no heed, but starts for newer game : 
 Such is my love, and such his arrow's aim, 
 That follows still with speed the flying fair, 
 But deems the yielding slave below his care. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Such sleep, Conopion, on thine eyelids wait, 
 As sits on his now shivering at thy gate ! 
 Such sleep, thoufalseone, as thou bidd'st him prove, 
 Who vainly sues thy stony breast to move ! 
 Not e'en a shade of pity thou'lt bestow : 
 Others may weep to see me suffer so ; 
 But thou — not e'en a shade — O cruel fair ! 
 Be this remember'd with thy first gray hair ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 We buried him at dawn of day : 
 Ere set of sun his sister lay, 
 
 Self-slaughter'd, by his side. 
 Poor Basile ! she could not bear 
 Longer to breathe the vital air, 
 
 When Melanippus died. 
 
 Thus in one fatal hour was left, 
 Of both a parent's hopes bereft,
 
 256 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Their desolated sire ; 
 While all Cyrene mourn'd to see 
 The blossoms of her stateliest tree 
 
 By one fell blight expire. 
 
 FROM HEDYLUS. 
 
 Drink we ! — 'midst our flowing wine 
 Something new, or something fine, 
 Something witty, something gay, 
 We shall ever find to say. 
 
 Fl asks of Chian hither bring, 
 Sprinkling o'er me, whilst you sing, 
 " Jovial poet, sport and play! 
 Sober souls throw life away." 
 
 FROM PERSES. 
 
 Unblest Mnasylla ! — on this speaking tomb 
 What means the type of emblematic gloom ? 
 Thy lost Callirhoe we here survey 
 Just as she moan'd her ebbing soul away, 
 Just as the death-mists o'er her eyelids fell, 
 In those maternal arms she loved so well. 
 There, too, the speechless father sculptured stands. 
 That cherish'd head supporting with his hands. 
 Alas ! alas ! — thus grief is made to flow 
 A ceaseless stream — eternity of woe.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. '257 
 
 FROM DAMAGETES. 
 
 By Jove, the God of strangers, we implore 
 Thee, gentle pilgrim, to the iEolian shore 
 (Our Theban home,) the tidings to convey, 
 That here we lie, to Thracian wolves a prey. 
 This to our father, old Charinus, tell ; 
 And, with it, this, — We mourn not that we fell 
 In early youth, of all our hopes bereft ; 
 But that his darkening age is lonely left. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 These the last words Theano, swift descending 
 To the deep shades of night, was heard to say- 
 
 " Alas ! and is it thus my life is ending, 
 And thou, my husband, far o'er seas away ( 
 
 Ah ! could I but that dear hand press with mine 
 
 Once — once again ! — all else I'd, pleased, resign. 
 
 FROM ANTIPATER OF SIDON. 
 
 Bacchus found me yesterday, 
 As at my full length I lay, 
 Sated with the crystal tide. 
 The God stood frowning at my side, 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 And said — " Such sleep upon thee waits 
 As those attends whom Venus hates. 
 Say, idiot ! didst thou never hear 
 Of one Hippolytus ?— Beware ! 
 His destiny may else be thine." 
 He left me then— the God of Wine ; 
 But ever since this thing- befell, 
 I've loathed the notion of a well. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 on homer's birth-place. 
 
 From Colophon some deem thee sprung- ; 
 From Smyrna some, and some from Chios 
 These noble Salamis have sung-, 
 While those proclaim thee born in Ios ; 
 And others cry up Thessaly, 
 The mother of the Lapithae. 
 
 Thus each to Homer has assign'd 
 
 The birth-place just which suits his mind. 
 
 But, if I read the volume right 
 By Phoebus to his followers given, 
 I'd say, They're all mistaken quite, 
 And that his real country's Heaven ; 
 While for his mother — she can be 
 No other than Calliope.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 259 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 ON PINDAR. 
 
 As the loud trumpet to the goatherd's pipe, 
 
 So sounds thy lyre, all other sounds surpassing 1 ; 
 
 Since round thy lips, in infant fulness ripe, 
 
 Swarm'd honied bees, their golden stores amas- 
 sing. 
 
 Thine, Pindar ! be the palm— by him decreed 
 Who holds on Maenalus his royal sitting; 
 
 Who for thy love forsook his simple reed, 
 
 And hymns thy lays in strains a God befitting. 
 
 FROM MELEAGER. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S RETURN. 
 
 Help, my friends ! just landed from the main, 
 New to its toils, and glad to feel again 
 The firm rebounding soil beneath my feet, 
 Love marks his prey, and with enforcement sweet, 
 Waving his torch before my dazzled eyes, 
 Drags me to where my queen of beauty lies. 
 Now on her steps I tread — and if in air 
 My fancy roves, 1 view her pictured there.
 
 260 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Stretch mv fond arms to fold her, and delight 
 With unsubstantial joys my ravish'd sprite. 
 Ah ! vainly 'scaped the fearful ocean's roar, 
 To prove a fiercer hurricane on shore ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 pan's lament for daphnis. 
 
 Farewell, ye straying- herds, ye crystal fountains, 
 
 Ye solitary woods, and breezy mountains ! 
 
 Goat-footed Pan will now no longer dwell 
 
 In the rude fastness of his sylvan cell. 
 
 What joy has he amidst the forests hoar, 
 
 And mountain summits ? — Daphnis is no more. 
 
 — No more ! no more ! — Thev all are lost to me ! 
 
 The busy town must now my refuge be. 
 
 The chase let others follow ! — I resign 
 
 Whate'er of hope or rapture once was mine. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 cupid's pedigree. 
 
 No wonder Love, the ravisher of hearts, 
 For slaughter raging, hurls fire-breathing darts ; 
 With bitter scorn envenoms every wound, 
 And laughs at every death he scatters round :
 
 THE GREEK ANTIIOLOGV 261 
 
 For Mars the homicide his mother vows 
 A lawless flame, while Vulcan is her spouse. 
 — Common to fire and sword — the daughter she 
 Of the wild, boisterous, tempest-scourged sea : 
 But who, or whence, his sire, can no man trace. 
 No wonder then, since such is Cupid's race, 
 His arrows Mars, hot Vulcan's forge supplied 
 His fire; — his fury, the remorseless tide. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Fearful is Love — most fearful ; once again, 
 I say, most fearful — writhing with my pain, 
 And deeply groaning, — who, for mischief born, 
 Mocks at our woes, and laughs our wrongs to scorn. 
 — The cold blue wave from which thy mother came, 
 Proud boy ! should quench, not feed, that cruel 
 flame. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Love ! by the Author of your race, 
 Of all your sweetest joys the giver, 
 
 I vow to burn before your face 
 
 Your arrows, bow, and Scythian quiver ! 
 
 Yes — though you point your saucy chin, 
 And screw your nostrils like a satyr, 
 
 And show your teeth, and pout, and grin, 
 I'll burn them, boy, for all your clatter.
 
 262 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 I'll clip your wings, boy, though they be 
 Heralds of joy ; your legs I'll bind, 
 
 Though vainly struggling to be free — 
 Alas ! I have but caught the wind ! 
 
 Oh ! what had I with Love to do, 
 
 A wolf among the sheep-folds roaming ! 
 
 There — take your wings — put on your shoe, 
 And tell your playmates you are coming. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 For ever in mine ear resound 
 Love's wanton pinions, fluttering round ; 
 While amorous wishes from mine eye 
 Melt in sweet tear-drops silently. 
 
 It is not night ; the level ray 
 Not yet proclaims the close of day : 
 Yet is one well-known form imprest, 
 As by enchantment, on my breast. 
 
 Ye winged boys, who know the art 
 Too well to reach the unguarded heart, 
 Have ye no strength, ye flutterers, say, 
 To spread your plumes, and fly away ?
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 263 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Unquiet soul, for ever doom'd to weep ! 
 What need the wound which Time had 'gan 
 
 assuage 
 
 Burst forth afresh from where it lay asleep, 
 And with new fury in my bosom rage ? 
 
 Daringly thoughtless ! cease, O, cease to move 
 The fire that slumbering in its ashes lay, 
 
 Warm, but innocuous — cease ! that fire is Love. 
 Ah ! too forgetful of thine evil day ! 
 
 Let him but wake, he'll claim thee for his right, 
 
 And blows and tortures shall reward thy flight. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 The die is cast ! — Boy, light the torch — 1 go : 
 
 Away, away, 
 Untimely fears ! Thou drunken fool, what art thou 
 
 thinking ? stay ! 
 1 go to mix with Comus' band. With Comus' band I 
 
 — Beware ! 
 Intruding Reason, hence ! your counsels Love 
 
 would gladly spare. 
 Boy, light the torch— be quick ! Ah, where has 
 
 godlike Reason fled ? 
 And Wisdom, where ? — They prostrate lie among 
 
 the mighty dead.
 
 '264 TRANSLATIONS FKOM 
 
 But this I know — The same decree binds e'en the 
 gods above ; 
 
 The strength of Jove himself has bent before all- 
 conquering Love. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Bacchus ! I yield me to thy sway ; 
 Master of revels, lead the way ! 
 Conqueror of India's burning plain. 
 My heart obeys thy chariot rein. 
 
 In flames conceived, thou sure wilt prove 
 Indulgent to the fire of Love ; 
 Nor count me rebel, if I own 
 Allegiance to a double throne. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! that power so high 
 Should stoop to treacherous perfidy ! 
 The mysteries of thy hallow'd shrine 
 I ne'er profaned — Why publish mine ? 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Haste thee, Dorcas ! haste, and bear 
 This message to thy lady fair ; 
 And say besides — nay, pray begone — 
 Tell, tell her all — run, Dorcas, run !
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 265 
 
 Whither so fast? a moment stay ; 
 Don't run with half your tale away; 
 I've more to tell — Ah me ! I rave — 
 I know not what I'd do, or have. 
 
 Go ! tell her all — whate'er you know, 
 Whate'er you think — go, Dorcas, go ! 
 But why a message send hefore, 
 When we're together at the door? 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Ringlets, that with clustering shade 
 
 The snow-white hrows of Demo braid ! 
 
 Sandals, that with strict embrace 
 
 Heliodora's ankles grace ! 
 
 Portal of Timarion's bower, 
 
 Besprent with many a fragrant shower ! 
 
 Lovely smiles, that lurking lie 
 
 In Anticlea's sun-bright eye ! 
 
 Roses, fresh in earliest bloom, 
 
 That Dorothea's breast perfume ! 
 
 — No more Love's golden quivers hold 
 
 Their plumed artillery, as of old ; 
 
 But every sharp and winged dart 
 
 Hath found a quiver in my heart.
 
 266 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 As Infant Love one morning lay 
 Upon his mother's breast at play, 
 He found my soul, that stood hard by, 
 And, laughing, staked it on the die. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 By Pan, Arcadia's God, I swear, 
 
 Sweet are the notes thy fingers move ; 
 Most sweet, Zenophila, the air 
 
 Thou hymn'st — it speaks of love. 
 
 How shall 1 fly ! On every side 
 
 The wanton Cupids round me throng, 
 Nor give me space to breathe, while tied 
 A listener to thy song. 
 
 Whether her beauty wakes desire, 
 
 Her tuneful voice, her winning art — 
 —What shall I say ? All— all. The fire 
 Is kindled in my heart. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Thou sleep'st, soft silken flower ! Would I were 
 
 Sleep, 
 For ever on those lids my watch to keep ! 
 So should I have thee all mine own — nor he 
 Who seals Jove's wakeful eyes my rival be.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 267 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 The Sister-Graces for my fair 
 
 A triple garland wove, 
 When with each other they to make 
 
 A perfect mistress strove. 
 
 A tint, to mock the rose's bloom ; 
 
 A form, like young Desire ; 
 A voice, whose melody out-breathes 
 
 The sweetness of the lyre. 
 
 Thrice happy fair ! whom Venus arm'd 
 
 With Joy's extatic power, 
 Persuasion with soft Eloquence, 
 
 And Love with Beauty's flower ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Love I proclaim — the vagrant child, 
 Who, even now, at dawn of day, 
 Stole from his bed, and flew away. 
 He's wont to weep, as though he smiled ; 
 For ever prattling, swift and daring ; 
 Laughs with wide mouth and wrinkled nose ; 
 Wing'd on the back, and always bearing 
 A quiver rattling as he goes :
 
 268 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Unknown the author of his birth — 
 For Air, 'tis certain, ne'er begot 
 The saucy boy : and as for Earth 
 And Sea, both swear they own him not : 
 To all, and everywhere, a foe. 
 But you must look, and keep good watch, 
 Lest he should still around him throw 
 Fresh nets, unwary souls to catch. 
 Stay ! — while I yet am speaking, lo ! 
 There, there he sits, like one forbidden. 
 And did you hope to 'scape me so, — 
 In Lesbia's eyes, you truant, hidden ? 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Now are the vernal hours ; 
 
 The white-robed violet blooms, 
 And hyacinth, glad with showers, 
 The breathing- air perfumes ; 
 And, scatter'd o'er the mountain's side, 
 The fragrant lily gleams in virgin pride. 
 
 Now are the vernal hours — 
 
 Zenophila the fair, 
 The loveliest flower of flowers, 
 The sweet beyond compare. 
 Doth on her opening lips disclose 
 Divine Persuasion's never-fading rose.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 269 
 
 Meadows ! why do ye wreathe 
 
 In smiles your sunny tresses ? 
 Ye no such odours breathe, 
 
 Though spring - your wardrobe dresses ; 
 Ye no such glorious charms display, 
 As she, the maiden that inspires my lay. 
 
 FROM THE £AME. 
 
 A prize to sell ! — a prize ! a prize ! 
 
 You may take it as it lies 
 
 In its mother's arms asleep. 
 
 Tis too fierce for me to keep. 
 
 You may mark it by its grin, 
 
 Wrinkled nose, and saucy chin — 
 
 By the wings its shoulders shade — 
 
 By its nails, for scratching; made — 
 
 By its laughing through its tears — 
 
 And, for aught that else appears, 
 
 Rude in manners, chattering ever, 
 
 Keen-sighted, restless, yielding never, 
 
 Or through love or piety — 
 
 In short, an infant prodigy ! 
 
 Let him be sold, then — Buy! who'll buy '. 
 
 If any merchant should be nigh, 
 
 Just come on shore, who wants a slave 
 
 Of all-work, here a prize he'll have. 
 
 — But see, he weeps ! he trembling sues — 
 
 Poor boy ! be bold ; I cannot choose 
 
 But relent— So let it be ! 
 
 Stay, and live with Rhodope.
 
 270 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Fill high the goblet ! fill it up ! 
 
 With Lesbia's name divine, 
 Thrice utter'd, crown the sparkling cup, 
 
 And sweeten all the wine ! 
 
 Tie round my brows the rosy wreath 
 
 That yesterday ye wove, 
 With flowers that yet of odours breathe, 
 
 In memory of my love ! 
 
 See how yon rose in tears is drest, 
 
 Her lovely form to see, 
 No longer folded on my breast, 
 
 As it was wont to be. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 I'll wreathe white violets — with the myrtle shade 
 
 Bind soft narcissus — and amidst them braid 
 
 The laughing lily ; with whose virgin hue 
 
 Shall blend bright crocus, and the hyacinth blue. 
 
 There many a rose shall, interwoven, shed 
 
 Its blushing grace on Heliodora's head, 
 
 And add fresh fragrance, amorously entwining 
 
 Her cluster'd locks, with spicy ointments shining.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 271 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Wandering bee, who lov'st to dwell 
 In the vernal rose-bud's cell, 
 Wherefore leave thy place of rest, 
 To light on Heliodora's breast ? 
 
 Is it thus you mean to show, 
 
 When flies tbe shaft from Cupid's bow, 
 
 What a sweet and bitter smart 
 
 It leaves within the wounded heart? 
 
 Yes, thou friend to lovers, yes — 
 I thy meaning well can guess — 
 Tis a truth too soon we learn, 
 — Go ! with thy lesson home return ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Tears, Heliodora ! on thy tomb I shed, 
 Love's last libation to the shades below. 
 
 Tears, bitter tears, by fond remembrance fed. 
 Are all that fate now leaves me to bestow. 
 
 Vain sorrows ! vain regrets ! — yet, loveliest! thee, 
 Thee still they follow in the silent urn, 
 
 Retracing hours of social converse free, 
 And soft endearments never to return.
 
 272 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Now thou art torn, sweet flower, that smiled so fair ! 
 
 Torn — and thy honour'd bloom with dust denied : 
 Yet, holy earth, accept my suppliant prayer, 
 
 And in a mother's arms enfold thy child ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 TO THE CICADA. 
 
 Noisy insect ! drunken still 
 With dew-drops like the stars in number, — 
 
 Voice of the desert, loud and shrill, 
 That wakest Echo from her slumber, 
 
 And, sitting on the bloomy spray, 
 
 Caroll'st at ease thy merry lay ; 
 
 Dusky bard ! whose jagged feet 
 Still on your hollow sides rebounding 
 
 With frequent pause, and measured beat, 
 Like minstrel notes are ever sounding ; 
 
 Loved of the muses, come ! essay 
 
 The wood-nymphs with some newer lay ! 
 
 — Such as Pan might please to hear, 
 And, answering - , tune his vocal reed ; 
 
 And Love himself a while forbear 
 His cruel sport, to see me bleed ; 
 
 Whilst I in noontide sleep am laid 
 
 Secure beneath the plane-tree's shade.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 273 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 " MIX WATER WITH YOUR WINE." 
 
 When infant Bacchus from encircling flame 
 Leap'd into life, the nymphs in pity came,' 
 Caught him amidst the ashes as he fell, 
 And bathed with water from their sacred well. 
 Their union hence, — and whoso would decline 
 To mix his bowl, may swallow fire for wine. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 The suppliant bull, to Jove's high altar led, 
 Bellows a prayer for his devoted head. 
 Spare him, Saturnius ! — His the form you wore 
 When fair Europa through the waves you bore. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Thee, poor Charixenus ! in youth's first bloom, 
 Thy mother's hands — an offering to the tomb — 
 Deck'd with the martial stole. The very stone 
 Made to thy moaning friends responsive moan, 
 As with the houseless corpse they sorrowing went ; 
 — No hymeneal strain, but loud lament. 
 " Ah me ! that gentle bosom's bounteous store, 
 How ill repaid ! — how vain the pangs she bore !" 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 O Fate unfruitful ! Maid of ruthless mind ! 
 That giv'st a mother's yearnings to the wind ! 
 Here, friends can only wish, and parents weep, 
 And pitying strangers sanctify thy sleep. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Tyre was my island-nurse — an Attic race 
 
 I boast, though Gadara my native place, — 
 
 Herself an Athens. Eucrates I claim 
 
 For sire, and Meleager is my name. 
 
 From childhood, in the muse was all my pride : 
 
 I sang ; and with Menippus, side by side, 
 
 Urged my poetic chariot to the goal. 
 
 And why not Syrian ? — to the free-born soul 
 
 Our country is, the World ; and all on earth 
 
 One universal chaos brought to birth. 
 
 Now old, and heedful of the approaching doom-, 
 
 These lines in memory of my parted bloom, 
 
 I on my picture trace, as on my tomb. 
 
 IV. UNPUBLISHED TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF SIMON IDES. 
 
 But when around that fatal ark 
 Contrived with Da^dalean skill 
 The tyrant's mandate to fulfil, 
 The wind blew roaring, and the upheaved deep
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 275 
 
 O'erwhelm'd her soul with new alarms, 
 Her cheeks bedew'd with mournful brine, 
 She clasp'd her Perseus in a Mother's arms, 
 
 And said " what woes, sweet child, are mine ! 
 
 But thou dost sleep a balmy sleep, 
 Like thine own peaceful breast profound, 
 
 Within this joyless home and dark, 
 With brazen bolts encircled round. 
 — All undisturb'd — though moonbeams play 
 
 Upon the wave, no glimmering ray 
 Finds entrance here, nor billows wild, 
 That harmless burst above thy long deep hair, 
 Nor the loud tempest's voice, my child, 
 Awakes in thee one thought of care. 
 Thou sleep'st as on a couch — thy beauteous head 
 
 Still on the purple mantle spread. 
 Yet — could these terrors terror wake in thee, 
 Or could thine infant ear 
 Catch but the note of fear, 
 These lips pronounce, my words should rather be. 
 Sleep, sleep, my child ! — and sleep the sea — 
 And sleep, O sleep, my misery ! 
 
 But hear, great father Jove, my prayer ! 
 Reverse this babe's untimely doom ! 
 
 Spare him, great Jove ! I bid thee spare — 
 (Ah ! what a mother's soul can dare !) 
 Avenger of my woes in years to come.
 
 276 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FRAGMENT OF MIMNERMUS. 
 
 But of duration short as any dream, 
 Is our high vaunted youth ; 
 Whilst, rugged and uncouth, 
 Old Age for ever o'er our heads impendeth, 
 Hateful at once, and valueless ; and sendeth 
 Man to some unknown tomb, 
 Wherein his faded bloom, 
 His eye-balls dark, his mental sight by cloud 
 Of deeper night encircled, he may shrowd. 
 Ah ! fatal was the boon 
 Of never-dying Eld to Tithon granted. 
 
 Far better, soon 
 To perish — be cut down as soon as planted. 
 The fairestonce, when Youth's green leaf is sere, 
 Nor children longer love, nor friends revere. 
 
 FROM CALLISTRATUS. 
 
 A SCOLIUM. 
 
 I'll bear the sword with myrtle wreathed, 
 Like that Harmodius erst unsheathed — 
 Like that Aristogeiton drew, 
 When they the tyrant victim slew, 
 And set their native Athens free, 
 And gave her laws Equality.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 277 
 
 Harmodius, no — thou art not dead, 
 O best beloved ! but there 'tis said, 
 In yon bright islets of the blest, 
 Thy shade enjoys perennial rest, 
 Where dwell Achilles swift of tread, 
 And great Tydides Diomed. 
 
 I'll bear the sword with myrtle wreathed, 
 
 Like that Harmodius erst unsheathed — 
 
 Like that Aristogeiton bore, 
 
 What time the tyrant bow'd before 
 
 Minerva's consecrated fane. 
 
 He bow'd — and never rose again. 
 
 Through endless years, the world around, 
 To distant Ocean's furthest bound ; 
 Thy glory, loved Harmodius, shine, 
 And brave Aristogeiton, thine ! 
 For that ye set your country free, 
 And gave her laws Equality. 
 
 FROM DIODORUS ZONAS. 
 
 Give me a nectar'd bowl — a bowl composed 
 Of that same homely earth 
 That gave me birth — 
 And which will o'er my bones at last be closed.
 
 278 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Spare the parent of acorns, good woodcutter, spare ! 
 
 Let the time-honour'd Fir feel the weight of 
 your stroke — 
 The many-stalk'd thorn, or Acanthus worn bare, 
 
 Pine, Arbutus, Ilex — but touch not the Oak ! 
 Far hence be your axe — for our grandams have sung 
 How Oaks are the mothers from whom we all sprung. 
 
 FROM PHILODEMUS. 
 
 Moon ! O horned Moon ! O Moon that lovest 
 
 night ! 
 Break through my casement, Moon, and pour thy 
 
 silver streaming light 
 On myCalisto's charms ! the immortal powers above 
 Donotdisdain to look upon the dear delights of love. 
 The rapture so beheld will rapture wake in thee. 
 
 1 know it, Moon. Endymion lives in thy memory. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Seven and thirty years have I sustain'd the seasons' 
 
 strife ; 
 So many pages written off against my book of life. 
 Gray hairs already o'er my brow are scatter'd here 
 
 and there,
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 279 
 
 Heralds of wiser thoughts, my love, than 'tis our 
 
 wont to share. 
 Yet still in music, song, and wine, my chiefest 
 
 solace lies, 
 Still burns in my unsated heart a flame that never 
 
 dies. 
 Vet, yet I rave — but ye who hold the empire o'er 
 
 my brain, 
 Celestial muses ! crown your work, and calm this 
 
 throbbing vein ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 I loved. Who doth not love ? I revell'd. Who 
 
 But fain would revel too ? 
 But. then I raved — what did my madness move ? 
 
 Came it not from above ? 
 Now let it pass — for hoary hairs are now 
 
 Thick sprinkled o'er my brow, 
 Which erst were black ; and heralds should they be 
 
 Of stern sobriety. 
 We play'd, while 'twas the season yet to play; 
 
 But, now 'tis past away, 
 Let us to graver thoughts at length submit 
 
 Our wisdom and our wit. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Melicerta ! thou whom Ino bore ! 
 
 And thou, blue-eyed Leucotho'e ! 
 
 Beneath whose sway the subject sea 
 Is hush'd, and warring winds forget to roar !
 
 280 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Ye Nereid choir ! ye waves ! 
 And thou, Poseidon, sovereign of the deep! 
 Thou, Zephyr, gentlest of the winds that sleep 
 
 In Thracian caves ! 
 Waft me, propitious — and in safety land 
 On loved Piraeus' hospitable strand ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Cypris, soother of the mind ! 
 Propitious to the bridal union ! 
 
 Whom Peace and Justice ever find 
 
 In sweet communion ! 
 Mother of swift wing'd desires, 
 Swifter than the lightning's fires ! 
 
 Cypris ! let thy planet beam 
 Its serenest influence round me, 
 
 Waken'd from the golden dream 
 That lately bound me, 
 Willing captive, in those bowers 
 Deck'd with Hymen's crocus flowers ! 
 
 But now a wanderer o'er the deep, 
 Though reluctant, uncomplaining, 
 Cypris, bid thy billows sleep, 
 
 Their rage restraining. 
 Gently waft thy votary o'er 
 To the distant Latian shore !
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 281 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Three deities are on this stone imprest. 
 The horned head is Pan's — the brawny chest, 
 And loins the strength of Hercules attest ; 
 And winged Mercury asserts the rest. 
 Here, Stranger, let thy willing rites be done ! 
 The power is threefold, but the incense one. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Here lies what once was Tryphera — soft and warm 
 
 As Cytherea's doves her yielding form ; 
 
 Of sportive bacchanals the loveliest flower, 
 
 Born for the revels of the genial hour. 
 
 First in the lists of Cypris — joy and love 
 
 Of the great mother of the Gods above ! 
 
 O guardian earth, that dost her bones enfold! 
 
 May no rude thorns deform thy hallow'd mould — 
 
 But round her tomb their sweetest fragrance fling 
 
 White-bosom'd violets, daughters of the spring. 
 
 FROM TULLIUS LAUREA. 
 
 Old Gryneus, who with hook and line pursued 
 From toilsome day to day the finny brood, 
 Now lies a piteous corse in yonder cave, 
 Spoil'd of both hands, an outcast of the wave. 
 Who would not say " Those greedy fishes know, 
 Thelimbs they eat are those that work'd their woe ?"
 
 282 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 When this iEolian tomb thou passest by, 
 
 Say not, O Stranger, I 
 The bard of Mitylene, am no more. 
 
 For, though this marble hoar 
 Time have defaced, as all of Man's construction 
 
 Is doom'd to swift destruction, 
 The glory of the Muses fadeth never. 
 
 Their flowers shall live for ever, 
 Fresh interwoven with the song divine 
 
 In honour of the nine, 
 By me pour'd forth ; so wilt thou know I have 
 
 Escaped the darksome grave, 
 And that no sun shall ever rise, whose flame 
 
 Reflects not Sappho's name. 
 
 FROM MARCUS POMPEIUS. 
 
 Lais — she who bloom'd so fair, 
 The desired of all mankind — 
 
 Whom alone 'twas given to Avear 
 Lilies by the Graces twined ; 
 
 Now no more may gaze upon 
 
 The golden chariot of the Sun. 
 
 Now her eyes are closed in night — 
 Night, that all eyes else must close. 
 
 They no more can wake delight, 
 Rapture yield, or break repose.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 283 
 
 Never more may glad those eyes, 
 Love, or Lovers' mysteries. 
 
 FROM MYRINUS. 
 
 Pans, who on the mountain's steep 
 
 Your lonely watch towers keep ! 
 Horned dancers, who, in sport, 
 
 To the woods resort ! 
 For Diotimus grant increase 
 To his fat lands and richer fleece ; 
 And O behold with favoring eyes 
 The smoke of this great sacrifice ! 
 
 FROM ANTIPATER OF THESSALONICA. 
 
 The wizards gave me thrice ten years, with thrice 
 
 three more appended: 
 With the third decade I would fain my sum of life 
 
 were ended. 
 This is the term by nature graved on Pluto's gloomy 
 
 portal ; 
 The years beyond are Nestor's due — yet Nestor's 
 
 self was mortal. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Ye desart isles, rude fragments of the world, 
 Round whom the vex'd JEgean ever roars, 
 And with his monstrous waves to heaven up-curl'd, 
 As with a belt, girds in your thousand shores ;
 
 284 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 How like to stony Siphnos are ye grown, 
 Or Pholegandros, never moist with showers, 
 
 Or Delos, where around his burning throne 
 The god of day still leads the zoneless hours. 
 
 Mourn, hapless progeny of ocean, mourn 
 
 Your beauties all defaced, your honours torn ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Let your wheel-turning hands, lucky maidens, be 
 still — 
 Sleep on, though Alectryo wakens the morn : 
 The water-nymphs now take your post at the mill, 
 And weigh down the mill-stones that crumble the 
 corn . 
 How they flash from the wheels ! how they thunder 
 and roar ! 
 How the axle spins round at the sound of their 
 
 voices 
 
 This age is become like the golden of yore, 
 
 When Ceres our hearts without labour rejoices. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 When summon'd to attend the realms of shade, 
 Thus spake the father to his blooming maid : 
 " My dearest joy ! my child ! — when I'm asleep, 
 These my last counsels in thy memory keep. 
 Look to thy distaff, sweet one, and thy loom — 
 Thy best support against the ills to come.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 285 
 
 And, if to Hymen's altar you repair, 
 Your mother's hallow'd form attend you there — 
 Whose modest grace — the Achaian matron's pride- 
 Is the best dower that e'er adorn'd a bride." 
 
 FROM ALPHEUS. 
 
 The tender bird, with wintry snows bedew'd, 
 Spread her warm plumage o'er her callow brood, 
 Till by the pitying winds of heaven released ; 
 Nor e'en in death her pious gnardship ceased. 
 Medea ! Procne ! blush to hear, in hell, 
 A mother's sacred task perform'd so well. 
 
 FROM APOLLONIDES. 
 
 I am the god of rustics. Why to me 
 Scatter from golden cups libations free 
 Of wines far fetch'd from foreign Italy? 
 
 Or wherefore bind ye to my image stone 
 
 The proud-neck'd bull ? Such victims let alone ! 
 
 They cannot my offended power atone. 
 
 For me, the mountain wanderer carved in wood, 
 Let the young lamb pour forth his innocent blood, 
 And native vineyard yield a homelier flood !
 
 286 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM CRINAGORAS. 
 
 Alas, my soul ! how long wilt thou remain, 
 Amidst cold clouds, on empty hopes suspended, 
 
 Minting the dreamy coinage of the brain ? 
 
 Dreams of the brain, that ne'er from heaven de- 
 scended ! 
 
 Fortune the earnest suitor only crowns ; 
 
 She spurns the slothful, timorous, lowly spirit. 
 Leave then those idols vain to idiot clowns ! 
 
 Court thou the muse, and her free gifts inherit ! 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Thou head, with flowing hair, 
 Lately adorn'd — all shapeless now and bare 
 
 Ye caves untenanted, 
 Where erst brighteyes their speaking lustres shed! 
 
 Thou dark and voiceless cell, 
 Wherein the soul of music used to dwell ! 
 Emblem of human glory ! 
 How eloquent the story 
 Ye to the passing pilgrim tell, 
 In strains, though mute, how audible ! 
 What is the life that thou regardest so ? 
 Alas, vain man ! behold ! — thus perish all below.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 287 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Our vessel nigh'd the well known shore — 
 
 " To-morrow," I exulting- said, 
 Will all my doubts and fears be o'er, 
 And all my toils repaid !" 
 
 E'en at the word, with driving- foam 
 
 The sky was dimm'd, the billows swell'd, 
 And that loved shore, that cherish'd home, 
 I never more beheld. 
 
 To-morrow ! 'tis a word of fear, 
 
 Of promise made but to be broken. 
 The avenging fury laughs to hear 
 " To-morrow" spoken. 
 
 FROM ANTIPHANES. 
 
 O wretch accurst! that reckonest up thy treasure. 
 Forgetting Time, that, with the self-same measure. 
 Heaps interest upon interest day by day, 
 And daily turns the sable locks to gray ! 
 What though thou revel not in joyous wine, 
 Nor yet with rosy wreaths thy temples twine, 
 Nor shed rich odours o'er thy flowing hair, 
 Nor yield thy soul to love's delicious snare ; 
 Still must thou die ; and, though at cent per cent 
 Thy gains are blazon'd in thy testament, 
 One penny fee is all that thou wilt have 
 To pay thy passage o'er the Stygian wave.
 
 288 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM PHILIP OF THESSALONICA. 
 
 This beechen image, mighty Pan, to thee, 
 
 — All rudely fashion'd from its parent tree — 
 
 This image of thyself, on bended knees, 
 
 Suspends thy herdsman Philoxenides ; 
 
 Thy rural altar having hallow'd first 
 
 With blood of goats, and milk to quench thy thirst. 
 
 So may his firstlings fatten in the fold, 
 
 Safe from the wolf's sharp fangs, and winter's cold. 
 
 FROM GLYCON. 
 
 'Tis all a jest — all ashes — all a dream ; 
 
 From nothing sprung, to nothing back returning, 
 Our greatest ills are those we blessings deem ; 
 
 Our chiefest pleasures near akin to mourning. 
 
 We mourn our living children as our dead ; 
 
 In life our care, in death our hopeless sorrow ; 
 And, if some joy attend the hour we wed, 
 
 That joy will change to sad regrets to-morrow. 
 
 FROM PTOLEMjEUS. 
 
 I know that I'm the creature of a day, 
 
 And born to die ; but, when enrapt I trace 
 The thick-starr'd heavens in their diurnal race, 
 I seem no longer on dull earth to stay 
 My feet ; but, in high Jove's supreme abodes, 
 Feed on ambrosia with the immortal gods.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 289 
 
 FROM LUCIAN. 
 
 Only the riches of the mind I prize 
 
 As real riches. All the rest are nought ; 
 Cares to the worldly ; follies to the wise. 
 
 Him only rich — him only lord of aught — 
 We justly term, who knows to use his store 
 As one who, having much, is worthy more ; 
 Whilst he who wears his aged eyes away 
 'Mid dusty ledgers, heaping night and day 
 
 Thousands on thousands in his reckonings vain, 
 Is like the bee, who gathers to the hive 
 The honied store, — the busiest fool alive — 
 
 That wiser drones the luscious hoard may drain. 
 
 FROM PALLADAS. 
 
 Tis an old rede ; and worthy to be redde ; 
 " Ne'er let your slave ascend the marriage bed." 
 I'll read you now another, which, though new, 
 You may esteem, nathless is quite as true. 
 " Ne'er let the pleader, though his fame be great 
 As once was Tully's, mount the judgment seat; 
 Though, like Isocrates, his lips, at will, 
 The honey-dew of rhetoric distill. 
 The palm still itching for a sordid fee 
 Cannot be clean as judge's hands should be ; 
 And eyes, that ne'er saw Truth's diviner face 
 Save through the optics of a client's case, 
 vol. i. u
 
 290 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Though skilful to divide, with nicest care, 
 E'en to the thousandth fraction of a hair, 
 To the broad light of day are blinder far 
 Than eyes of moles, or bats, or owlets, are. 
 
 FROM AGATHIAS. 
 
 In vain thou seekest, trembling slave — in vain — 
 By abject sighs that haughty breast to gain ; 
 Nay— smooth thy wrinkled brow — thy gaze forbear, 
 Nor longer court, if thou wouldst win, the fair. 
 'Tis woman's will, in wantonness of pride, 
 To spurn the suppliant, and the wretch deride ; 
 And he who wisely loves, must temper still 
 An amorous suit with manhood's sturdy will. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Erst at the board with wit and beauty graced, 
 Between two lovely nymphs my lot was placed — 
 One the dear object of my warm desire ; 
 And one who burn'd for me with equal fire. 
 This drew me to her side, and sought to move 
 By fond allurements my regardless love ; 
 While, from her lips to whom that love was due, 
 I stole brief kisses — brief, and fearful too ; 
 Lest she, the rival, 'midst her jealous throes, 
 Might the dear secret of our loves disclose, 
 And rip my budding joys, untimely shed. 
 Then to myself, in cool despite, 1 said — 
 " How hard the lot my tortured soul has proved — 
 Both ways distracted — loving or beloved !"
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 291 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Thou too, Philinna, dost thou feel 
 The accustom'd tumults of desire 
 Into thy haughty bosom steal, 
 And set thy soul on fire? 
 
 And do those eyes, erewhile so bright, 
 
 Now dimm'd with tears, obscurely shine ? 
 And do they own, the livelong - night, 
 No sounder sleep than mine ? 
 
 Thy vows, like mine, will be repaid 
 
 With cold neglect and bitter scorn ; 
 And thou shalt wither in the shade, 
 Unenvied and forlorn. 
 
 Thus Venus vindicates her sway ; 
 
 Her humblest slave may vainly sue ; 
 But whoso dares to disobey 
 
 Must fall, at length, like you. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 " Venus, this chaplet take !" Callirrhoe pray'd — 
 " The youth I loved — thy power hath made him 
 mine. 
 
 These locks to thee I vow, Athenian maid ! 
 By thee I holy kept my virgin shrine. 
 
 To Artemis my zone — a mother's joy 
 
 She gave me to possess ; my beauteous boy."
 
 292 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Together link'd, in measured round we trod 
 The bounteous treasures of the purple god. 
 The swelling vat o'erflows ; and round the brim 
 Our ivy cups — a mimic navy — swim, 
 Inviting thirst. We seized, and joyous quaff'd, 
 Nor call'd the nymphs to medicate the draught ; 
 While bright Rhodanthe, bending o'er the side 
 Her laughing face, gave radiance to the tide. 
 O think not then our veins so sluggish flow'd 
 As not to glow enraptured with the god ! 
 All — all confess'd his soul-subduing power — 
 Thus wine and beauty shared the melting hour ; 
 Till e'en the queen of love was forced to yield, 
 And, vanquish'd, left the well-contested field. 
 
 FROM PAUL THE SILENTIARY. 
 
 Let's live on pilfer'd kisses, love ! 
 
 The best delights of Venus 
 Are those she yields, when none can guess 
 
 The secret that's between us : 
 When dogs and guardians watch without, 
 
 And we within lie toying — 
 The joy that hath no danger in't 
 
 Is hardly worth the enjoying.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 293 
 
 FROM AN UNCERTAIN AUTHOR. 
 
 I who in song the siren's strains excell'd, 
 
 More golden bright than is Cythera's queen, 
 At the high board where jocund Comus held 
 
 His revels, laughing sport and wit between, 
 Here Homonaea lie : and, dying, leave 
 
 My Atimetus but a world of sorrow, 
 A space to look around him, and to grieve 
 
 For that sad fate that must be his to-morrow. 
 He loved me e'en in childhood — oh how soon 
 Has death stepp'd in, and quench 'd our light ere 
 noon ! 
 
 FRAGMENTS OF THE GREEK ELEGIAC 
 AND GNOMIC POETS. 
 
 FROM CALLINUS. 
 
 How long supinely will ye lie reclined ? 
 When did ye cast away your valiant mind ? 
 Have ye no fear, in this regardless hour, 
 Of those who wait around you, to devour ? 
 Or do ye think of peace and tranquil mirth, 
 When wild war lords it o'er the subject earth ? 
 Young men, be roused ! — each for his freedom stand 
 In arms resolved, and for his native land ! 
 Tis great and glorious thus to stake your lives 
 On country, children, and defenceless wives ;
 
 294 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE 
 
 And death will fall on each devoted head 
 Not till the silent fates have spun their thread. 
 Let every youth, then, shake the threatening lance, 
 And, midst the foremost in the fight, advance, 
 Guarding his bold breast with his martial shield '. 
 For never yet hath Heaven to man reveal'd 
 How he from death can 'scape — not though he be 
 Of race divine, or Jove's own progeny. 
 
 Man flies the battle field — the whizzing sound 
 Of javelins hurtling in the welkin round — 
 Flies, — but that, home returning, he may meet 
 Death ambush'd in his bed, or on his seat. 
 He dies — and leaves no grateful land, to raise 
 The trophied tomb — no bard to swell his praise. 
 
 Be yours the better part, to live or die, 
 As Heaven ordains it, in your country's eye : 
 So, if ye fall, your country's eye shall weep 
 Your loss, and light you to your long, last sleep ; 
 And, while allow'd to breathe this upper air, 
 The meed of gods and heroes ye shall share ; 
 A nation's bulwark shall ye stand — alone ; 
 Hers the defence — the glory all your own. 
 
 FROM SOLON. 
 
 may not Death, unwept, unhonour'd, be 
 The melancholy fate allotted me ; 
 But those who loved me, living, when I die, 
 Still fondly keep some cherish'd memory !
 
 GREEK ELEGIAC AND GNOMIC POETS. 295 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Short are the triumphs to injustice given. 
 
 Jove sees the end of all. Like vapours driven 
 
 By early spring's impetuous blast, that sweeps 
 
 Along the billowy surface of the deeps, 
 
 Or passing- o'er the fields of tender green, 
 
 Lays in sad ruin all the lovely scene, 
 
 Till it reveals the clear celestial blue, 
 
 And gives the palace of the gods to view ; 
 
 Then bursts the sun's full radiance from the skies, 
 
 Where not a cloud can form, or vapour rise : 
 
 — Such is Jove's vengeance: not like human ire, 
 
 Blown in an instant to a scorching fire, 
 
 But slow and certain. Though it long may lie 
 
 Wrapt in the deep concealment of the sky, 
 
 Yet never does the dread avenger sleep, 
 
 And, though the sire escape, the son shall weep. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 The force of snow and furious hail is sent 
 From swelling clouds that load the firmament, 
 Thence the loud thunders roar, and lightnings glare 
 Along the darkness of the troubled air. 
 Unmoved by storms, old ocean peaceful sleeps 
 Till the loud tempest heaves the angry deeps ; 
 Even thus the state, in fell distractions tost, 
 Oft by its noblest citizens is lost,
 
 296 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE 
 
 And oft a people, once secure and free, 
 Their own imprudence bends to tyranny. 
 
 My laws have arm'd the crowd with useful might, 
 Have banish'd honours and unequal right, 
 Have taught the proud in wealth, and high in place, 
 To reverence justice, and abhor disgrace ; 
 And given to both a shield, their guardian tower 
 Against ambitious aims and lawless power. 
 
 FROM SIMONIDES. 
 
 All human things are subject to decay ; 
 
 And well the man of Chios tuned his lay, 
 
 " Like leaves on trees the race of man is found." 
 
 Yet few receive the melancholy sound, 
 
 Or on their breasts imprint this solemn truth ; 
 
 For hope is near to all, but most to youth. 
 
 Hope's vernal season leads the laughing hours, 
 
 And strews o'er every path the fairest flowers. 
 
 To cloud the scene no distant mists appear — 
 
 Age moves no thought, and death awakes no fear. 
 
 Ah ! how unmindful is the giddy crowd 
 
 Of the small span to youth and life allow'd ! 
 
 Ye who reflect, the short-lived good employ, 
 
 And, while the power remains, indulge your joy. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF THE ELDER SIMONIDES. 
 
 But Jove a separate portion of mankind, 
 From the beginning, made the female mind ;
 
 GREEK ELEGIAC AND GNOMIC POETS. 297 
 
 This moulding from the bristled swine — a brood 
 In person negligent, unclean in food ; 
 Whose house bears witness to her mind — a sty 
 Where all her stores in dirt promiscuous lie. 
 That from the cunning fox the godhead made ; 
 Omniscient woman ! to whose sight display 'd 
 Are all things, good and evil — she alone, 
 Now good, now bad, e'en to herself unknown. 
 Another, of the snarling, yelping race, 
 True to her mother, both in voice and face, 
 All things to know and see for ever tries, 
 And ever barking, though she nothing spies. 
 Threaten — or beat — or coax her — 'tis all one : 
 Still unsubdued, and never to be won, 
 Rings in your ear, by no remorse kept back, 
 And still shall ring, the ungovernable clack. 
 This, sprung from parent earth, the powers ordain, 
 For man's reward, his everlasting bane : 
 No touch of goodness can this creature feel, 
 But shews unrivall'd judgment at her meal ; 
 And, when the sky descends in wintry snows, 
 Sits ever ai the fire to warm her toes. 
 Next bring the sea-born beauty to your mind — 
 To-day she smiles on all, to all is kind, 
 And the pleased guest, delighted with her care, 
 Thinks none more kind, more affable, or fair. 
 To-morrow clouds that heavenly form disgrace, 
 Frowns clothe her forehead, passions dim her face, 
 Loud and more loud her reckless fury glows, 
 Alike destructive to her friends and foes.
 
 298 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE 
 
 — As when the summer's sun shines fair and free, 
 To joyful sailors smiles the tranquil sea, 
 But, soon, when wintry clouds the sky deform. 
 Raves to the thunders of the howling storm. 
 
 Another from the mule her lineage shews, 
 Who, not till urged by hunger and by blows, 
 At length performs the various task assign'd, 
 And ends each labour to the master's mind. 
 But watch her well — she shuns not to be fed 
 By stealth ; unfaithful both at board and bed. 
 
 The weazel forms a sad and wretched race, 
 With joyless eye, and beauty-lacking face, 
 Who feel no passion, nor excite desire, 
 Guiltless alike of love and fancy's fire, 
 And every art, but how to cheat a friend, 
 Defraud the poor, and save a candle's end. 
 
 The pamper'd steed, who, proud with flowing 
 mane, 
 Scorns the low labours of the dray and wain, 
 Marks one class more, that neither spin nor sew, 
 Nor deign to cast one careful glance below, 
 Nor wedded joys but by compulsion prove, 
 Chain'd to the toilet by a stronger love — 
 More pleasing care, the fragrant oyls to pour, 
 And for the garland cull the brighest flower, 
 Till she, at last, in all her beauty burst — 
 The world's great idol — but a wife accurst ! 
 
 Deform'd alike in manners and in shape, 
 Next comes the odious children of the ape — [out, 
 Worst plague of Heaven ! — whene'er they venture 
 Who raise the titterings of the gazing rout ;
 
 GREEK ELEGIAC AND GNOMIC POETS. 299 
 
 With narrow hips, flat chest, and dropsied waist- 
 Unhappy man, by such a wife embraced ! 
 
 Yet still one race remains— and ah ! most blest 
 Among mankind, reposed on such a breast ! 
 One only race, — from every censure free, 
 And every fault, — the daughter of the bee. 
 Superior to her sex, a winning charm, 
 A grace almost divine, surrounds her form ; 
 Her industry sustains her husband's name ; 
 Her care exalts his honour and his fame ; 
 Her love instructs a fair and numerous race 
 To share his glories, and supply his place. 
 Blest she descends into the vale of years 
 With him, loved partner of her youthful cares, 
 And peaceful age, that no vain troubles move, 
 Their union strengthens, and refines their love. 
 
 FROM PHOCYLIDES. 
 
 Thus quoth Phocylides — " Youngmen, whose mind 
 It is to wed, mark this — All woman kind 
 May to four several natures be assign'd — 
 The dog, the bee, the sow's ungentle breed, 
 And horse, with flowingmane, thatscoursthe mead. 
 Those from the last their origin betray 
 By lightness, grace, and love for fine array. 
 Nor good, nor bad, the daughters of the sow 
 Grunt out their slavish lives — the gods know how. 
 The race canine are curst, and hard to tame, 
 And prone to hunting out forbidden game.
 
 300 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE 
 
 The bee alone bestows on human life 
 
 That best of earthly goods — a perfect wife ; 
 
 Domestic, mildly prudent, wisely free. 
 
 Pray, then, to Jove, of such your mate may be !" 
 
 FROM CRITIAS (IN ATHEN^US). 
 
 To thee, Anacreon, founder of the lay 
 
 That charms the young, the lovely, and the gay, 
 
 Prince of the amorous song ! thy Teos gave 
 
 To win the maiden, and to soothe the brave. 
 
 The comic pipe and tragic flute unknown, 
 
 Thy softer study was the muse alone. 
 
 That voice so tuneable, so sweetly clear, 
 
 Shall never die upon the listening ear, 
 
 Nor ever yield to time's all-wasting power 
 
 While wine and music glad the festal hour ; 
 
 While rosy boys at banquets duly bear 
 
 Their mantling goblets to the young and fair ; 
 
 While choirs of matrons chaste and virgins bright 
 
 Lead the gay dance on Ceres' sacred night, 
 
 Or joyous souls their merrier orgies keep, 
 
 And deep and long potations banish sleep, 
 
 Till their drain'd goblets, dash'd upon the ground, 
 
 Through vaulted roofs, and echoing domes resound. 
 
 FROM PANYASIS (IN ATHEN^US). 
 
 Drink deep, my friend! some virtue and some praise 
 Is due to him, in these degenerate days,
 
 GREEK ELEGIAC AND GNOMIC POETS. 301 
 
 At the convivial board whose potent brain 
 
 The longest, deepest draught can best sustain ; 
 
 Who in the laws of drinking most is skill'd, 
 
 And knows, both when to keep, and quit, the field. 
 
 For not in war alone are tactics taught, 
 
 Or martial science to perfection brought, 
 
 Nor him who rules the feast I less esteem 
 
 Than him who wields the state with power supreme. 
 
 That man 1 hold as one denied by Heaven 
 
 To live e'en the short term by Nature given, 
 
 Who, to the power of soul-subduing wine, 
 
 Prefers, rebellious, some less honour'd shrine. 
 
 Wine is, like fire, a boon of greatest worth 
 
 To all the miserable sons of earth — 
 
 Giver of good, and banisher of care ; 
 
 Author of all the blessings man may share : 
 
 In whom whate'er of joy the feast bestows, 
 
 Whate'er of bliss from radiant beauty flows, 
 
 Whate'er of rapture love's delights inspire, 
 
 Whate'er of transport wakes the golden lyre. 
 
 All, all reside ; but there are also found 
 
 Dire mortal strife, and malice prompt to wound. 
 
 Wherefore 'tis fit, who in the feast delight 
 
 Bear firm resolve, and govern'd appetite ; 
 
 So that they shame not, in their drunken glee, 
 
 Or glutton gorging, sage Euphrosyne. 
 
 For wine, of all Heaven's gifts the best and first, 
 
 Wisely enjoy 'd, is, when abused, the worst.
 
 302 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE 
 
 FROM XENOPHANES (IN ATHENJEUS). 
 
 Now, if any man win victory by swiftness of the feet; 
 Or by struggling in the five-fold game, where Pisa's 
 
 waters meet 
 At famed Olympia; — there, where stands Jove's 
 
 consecrated fane ; 
 — Or if the wrestler's crown, or the bloody boxer's 
 
 prize he gain ; 
 Or if (most of all,) in the terrible Pancration he 
 
 excell ; 
 Oh ! let him stand in the highest place of the lofty 
 
 citadel ! 
 And lethim, at the public games, in the chair of ho- 
 nour sit, 
 And let him feast at the public charge, and receive 
 
 a guerdon fit 
 For him, and for his horses too, from the whole as- 
 sembled state ! 
 — Such honours meet it is — most meet — should on 
 
 such actions wait. 
 Yet, be his merits e'er so great — his honours ere so 
 
 high, 
 I'll not admit that he deserves one half as much as I. 
 Philosophy's far better worth than strength of man 
 
 or steed ; 
 And ill has ancient custom fix'd, and ill awards the 
 
 meed, 
 Exalting bone, and nerve, and joint, high wisdom's 
 
 throne above :
 
 GKEEK ELEGIAC AND GNOMIC POETS. 303 
 
 For, though a man be first of all who ever fought 
 with glove, 
 
 Or in the glorious five-fold game, or in the wrest- 
 ler's ring 1 , 
 
 Or in the foot-race, — honour'd most of all that poets 
 sing — 
 
 Yet little is the praise that to the city thence re- 
 dounds — 
 
 Her strength no greater than before, and her wealth 
 no more abounds. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Now cleansed was the pavement — well-wash'd were 
 all hands — 
 Bright the cups — and a garland prepared for each 
 guest, 
 With clouds of frankincense — and there brimming 
 stands 
 The bowl, by the charms of Euphrosyne blest. 
 There too from the wine-cask rich odours were 
 steaming, 
 Hybla's sweets with the treasures of Bacchus 
 united — 
 And, pure as the fountain from which they were 
 streaming, 
 Ran cold crystal waters, by Prudence invited. 
 Beside, pile on pile, stood the loaves well-bestow'd, 
 Yellow cheeses, and jars of sweethoney between — 
 (The old oaken tables groan'd under the load — ) 
 And an altar i'th' midst, overshadow'd with green.
 
 304 TRANSLATIONS, ETC. 
 
 With dance and with song the glad mansion re- 
 bounded ; 
 But first, as we're bidden by sages decorous, 
 The gods were invoked, and their praises high 
 sounded, 
 And libations pour'd forth, for their grace to be 
 o'er us. 
 Then — deep was our drink — not so deep, but our eyes 
 Could see their way home, and our feet need no 
 guide — 
 And his be the honour, who bade us be wise 
 
 By examples of virtue, from story supplied ; 
 Not by nursery fables of Centaurs and Titans — 
 A pack of d — d lies of our ancestors' mintage ; 
 But sound useful knowledge, that feeds and en- 
 lightens. 
 — Such, such are the fruits that consort with the 
 vintage. 
 
 POETICAL ORACLES. 
 
 Where in the midst of wide Arcadia's land, 
 The far-famed towers of Tegesea stand, 
 Two adverse winds with furious force contend, 
 Form batters form, and ills on ills descend. 
 There lies Orestes — bear his bones away ; 
 And famed Tegea shall become your prey.
 
 GRECIAX ORACLES. 305 
 
 II. 
 
 Delve not the soil — your impious labours close ! 
 Jove might have made an island if he chose. 
 
 in. 
 
 If, son of Epicydes, to be blest, 
 With short-lived treasures of thine ancient guest, 
 Provoke thy soul to swear, swear then ! for death 
 Spares nor the righteous, nor the perjured breath. 
 But by the throne of ancient Horcus stands 
 A nameless offspring without feet or hands ; 
 Swift on destruction's rapid wings she goes, 
 Tears down whole houses, and a race o'erthrows; 
 Her harpy talons for the perjured wait — 
 The righteous house survives, and fears no foe but 
 Fate. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But when their ships shall bridge the stormy main 
 From great Diana's venerable fane 
 To rocky Cynosura's storm-beat coast, 
 And, mad in hope, they see fair Athens lost, 
 Great justice shall chastise the dire offence 
 Of yon proud youth, the child of Insolence, 
 Though fierce in threats, he meditate the blow, 
 And vainly boast your nation's overthrow. 
 For arms shall clash with arms, and Mars shall reig'n 
 In bloody triumph o'er the empurpled main ; 
 And then all-seeing Jove and Victory 
 Shall bring to Greece the day of Liberty. 
 vol. i. x
 
 306 GRECIAN ORACLES. 
 
 Unhappy wretches ! why do ye delay ? 
 Hence, to the limits of the earth away ! 
 Leave your dear native land's domestic bowers. 
 And the blest circle of her lofty towers ! 
 Her sinking head no longer firm remains, 
 And her weak hands desert the useless reins. 
 Nothing is safe — destruction rules the day, 
 And Fire, and furious Mars, assert their prey. 
 O'er wasted champains, in his Syrian car, 
 Drives the wild god, and pours the tide of war ; 
 Lays your proud towers in ruin o'er the plains, 
 And wraps in fire your consecrated fanes. 
 E'en now dread signs the holy temple fill, 
 And gloomy portents mark the gathering* ill: 
 The inmost caverns sweat and tremble round, 
 And floating gore distains the sacred ground. 
 Quit, quit the fane ! Revolve high heaven's decree, 
 And yet avert the impending misery ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 In vain the guardian of your city tries 
 
 To bend the immortal ruler of the skies. 
 
 Vain are her prayers — her counsels all are vain — 
 
 Yet hear the high behest of heaven again ! 
 
 When all is lost that Cecrops' towers surround, 
 
 And all Cithaeron's holy limits bound, 
 
 To Pallas yet, an emblem of his love, 
 
 Her wooden ramparts shall be given by Jove.
 
 GRECIAN ORACLES. 307 
 
 There still shall stand — unconquer'd,firm, and free, 
 
 The bulwarks of your latest progeny. 
 
 When barbarous myriads on your plains descend, 
 
 Before the furious tempest timely bend ! 
 
 O heavenly Salamis ! 'tis thine to tear 
 
 From many a mother's breast her cherish'd heir ; 
 
 When earliest verdure decks the fruitful plain, 
 
 Or Ceres paints with gold her ripen'd grain. 
 
 FRAGMENTS 
 OF THE GREEK COMIC POETS. [Ed. 1813.] 
 
 FROM MENANDER. 
 
 Most blest, my friend, is he 
 
 Who having once beheld this glorious frame 
 
 Of nature, treads again the path he came. 
 The common sun, the clouds, the starry train, 
 The elemental fire, and watery main, 
 If for a hundred years they glad our sight, 
 Or but a moment ere they fade in night, 
 Tis all the same — we never shall survey 
 Scenes half so wond'rous fair and blest as they. 
 Beyond 'tis all an empty, giddy show, 
 Noise, tumult, strife, extravagance, and woe ; 
 He who can first retire departs the best, 
 His reckoning paid, he sinks unharm'd to rest: 
 But him who stays, fatigue and sorrows wait, 
 Old age, and penury's unhappy state ;
 
 308 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 By the world's tempests toss'd, a prey he lies 
 To open force and ambush'd enemies, 
 Till his long-suffering frame and lingering breath 
 He yields at last to agonizing death. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 The meanest animals that creep the earth 
 Are far more blest than those of mortal birth. 
 Vain man the boast of reason must resign : 
 That valued boast, laborious ass ! be thine. 
 Wretched by fate, thy lot doth heaven bestow, 
 And never wert thou to thyself a foe. 
 But we, whenever Jove in pity spares, 
 Forge for ourselves unnecessary cares. 
 Our coward souls start at an empty dream ; 
 We shrink and tremble at the night bird's scream : 
 The soul's contentions, mad ambition's strains, 
 Opinion's dogmas, law's inglorious chains, 
 Are but the modes our fertile minds create, 
 To add new pangs to every sting of fate. 
 
 FROM ANTIPHANES. 
 
 When those whom love and blood endear 
 Lie cold upon the funeral bier, 
 How fruitless are our tears of woe, 
 How vain the grief that bids them flow ! 
 Those friends lamented are not dead, 
 Though dark to us the road they tread ;
 
 THE GREEK COMIC POETS. 309 
 
 All soon must follow to the shore, 
 Where they have only gone before. 
 Shine but to-morrow's sun, and we, 
 Compell'd by equal destiny, 
 Shall in one common home embrace, 
 Where they have first prepared our place. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Man never willingly embraced his fate; 
 
 But oft reluctant in life's golden hours 
 Is downward dragg'd by Charon's gloomy hate 
 
 From his glad banquets and his roseate bovvers. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Yes, — 'tis the greatest evil man can know, 
 The bitterest sorrow in this world of woe, 
 The heaviest impost laid on human breath, 
 Which all must pay, or yield the forfeit, death. 
 For death all wretches pray ; but when the prayer 
 Is heard, and he steps forth to ease their care, 
 Gods ! how they tremble at his aspect rude, 
 And, loathing, turn. Such man's ingratitude. 
 And none so fondly cling to life, as he 
 Who hath outlived all life's felicity. 
 
 FROM ANAXANDRIDES. 
 
 Ye gods, how gracefully the good man bears 
 His cumbrous honours of increasing years !
 
 310 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Age, oh my father, is not, as they say, 
 
 A load of evils heap'd on mortal clay, 
 
 Unless impatient folly aids the curse, 
 
 And weak lamenting makes our sorrows worse. 
 
 He, whose soft soul, whose temper ever even, 
 
 Whose habits, placid as a cloudless heaven, 
 
 Approve the partial blessings of the sky, 
 
 Smooths the rough road, and walks untroubled by ; 
 
 Untimely wrinkles furrow not his brow, 
 
 And arraceful wave his locks of reverend snow. 
 
 FROM MOSCHION. 
 
 The proudest once, in glory, mind, and race, 
 The first of monarchs, of mankind the grace, 
 Now wandering, outcast, desolate, and poor, 
 A wretched exile on a foreign shore, 
 With miserable aspect bending low, 
 Holds in his trembling hand the suppliant bough : 
 Now, not the meanest stranger passing by, 
 But greets the grovelling despot with a sigh, 
 Perhaps with gentle accents soothes his woe, 
 And lets the kindly tear of pity flow ; 
 For where's the heart so harden'd and so rude, 
 As not to melt at life's vicissitude ! 
 
 FROM ASTYDAMAS. 
 
 Joy follow thee ; if joy can reach the dead, 
 And, or my mind misgives, it surely will; 
 
 For when the miseries of life are fled, 
 How sweet the deep forgetfulness of ill !
 
 THE GREEK COMIC POETS. 311 
 
 FROM EUPHORION. 
 
 Be temperate in grief ! I would not hide 
 The starting- tear-drop with a stoic's pride ; 
 I would not bid the o'erburthen'd heart be still, 
 And outrage nature with contempt of ill. 
 Weep, but not loudly ! he, whose stony eyes 
 Ne'er melt in tears, is hated by the skies. 
 
 UNCERTAIN. 
 
 How sweet is life, when pass'd with those 
 
 Whom our own hearts approving chose ; 
 
 When on some few surrounding friends 
 
 Our all of happiness depends ! 
 
 It is not life, to drag, alone, 
 
 A miserable being on, 
 
 Without one kindred soul to share 
 
 Our pleasure, or relieve our care : 
 
 But welcome falls the stroke of fate, 
 
 That frees us from so sad a state. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Hence, Melancholy, soul-subduing source 
 Of woes unnumber'd in our mortal course ! 
 Oft gloomy madness seizes on thy slave, 
 And pale diseases crowd him to the grave ; 
 Diseases, that admit no cure nor stay, 
 But eat with silent tooth our souls away.
 
 312 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Thy wretched victim oft, in manhood's pride, 
 Cuts short the bloom of life by suicide, 
 When Hope has fled affrighted from thy face, 
 And giant Sorrow fills the empty space. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE GRECIAN DRAMA. 
 
 1813. 
 
 FROM THE IPHIGENIA IN AULIS. 
 
 Had I the voice of Orpheus, that my song 
 The unbending strength of rocks might lead along, 
 Melt the rude soul, and make the stubborn bow, 
 That voice might heaven inspire to aid me now. 
 But now — ungifted as I am — untaught 
 To pour the plaint of sorrow as I ought, 
 Tears, the last refuge of the suppliant's prayer, 
 Tears yet are mine, and those I need not spare. 
 Father, to thee I bow, and low on earth 
 Clasp the dear knees of him who gave me birth — 
 Have mercy on my youth ! Oh, think how sweet 
 To view the light, and glow with vital heat ! 
 Let me not quit this cheerful scene, to brave 
 The dark uncertain horrors of the grave ! 
 
 I was the first on whom you fondly smiled, 
 And, straining to your bosom, call'd, " My child !" 
 Canst thou forget how on thy neck I hung, 
 And lisp'd " My father !" with an infant tongue ? 
 How, 'midst the interchange of holy bliss, 
 The child's caresses and the parent's kiss, 
 " And shall I see my daughter," wouldst thou say, 
 " Blooming in charms among the fair and gay ?
 
 THE GRECIAN DRAMA. 313 
 
 Of some illustrious youth the worthy bride, 
 
 The beauty of his palace and the pride ?" 
 
 I haply answer'd with a playful air, 
 
 "And dares my father hope admittance there, 
 
 Or think his prosperous child will e'er repay 
 
 His cares, and wipe the tears of age away f" 
 
 Then, round that dearest neck I clung, which yet 
 
 I bathe in tears. I never can forget : 
 
 But thou remember'st not how then I smiled ; 
 
 'Tis vanish'd all — and thou wilt slay thv child. 
 
 Oh, slay me not ! respect a mother's throes, 
 And spare her age unutterable woes ! 
 Oh, slay me not ! — or, if it be decreed, 
 (Great God avert it!) — if thy child must bleed, 
 At least, look on her, kiss her, let her have 
 Some record of her father in the grave ! 
 Oh come, my brother ! join with me in prayer ! 
 Lift up thy little hands, and bid him spare ! 
 Thou wouldst not lose thy sister ! e'en in thee, 
 Poor child, exists some sense of misery — 
 — Look, father, look ! his silence pleads for me. 
 We both entreat thee — I, with virgin fears, 
 He, with the eloquence of infant tears. 
 
 Oh, what a dreadful thought it is, to die ! 
 To leave the freshness of this upper sky, 
 For the cold horrors of the funeral rite, 
 The land of ghosts, and everlasting night ! 
 Oh, slay me not ! the weariest life that pain, 
 The fever of disgrace, the lengthen'd chain 
 Of slavery, can impose on mortal breath, 
 Is real bliss " to what we fear of death."
 
 314 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 FROM THE TROADES. 
 
 To have been never born, oh mother ! ne'er 
 
 Tasted the freshness of this upper air, 
 
 Is but the same with death — to die ! to be 
 
 A cypher blotted from mortality. 
 
 Death is far better than a life of pain, 
 
 Who feel not, grieve not, and our tears are vain. 
 
 Oh, rather for the living let them flow, 
 
 Those wretched victims of perpetual woe, 
 
 Who still, in bitterness of soul, possess 
 
 The memory of departed happiness. 
 
 — My sister is at peace — the cheerful light 
 
 No longer breaks upon her beamless night : 
 
 The sense of present wants and woes to come 
 
 Alike lie buried in the silent tomb. 
 
 But I — (in mockery of my alter'd life, 
 
 Who yet remember I was Hector's wife) 
 
 I, the blest partner of connubial joy, 
 
 The pride and envy of the dames of Troy, 
 
 How can I stoop to slavery's abject lot ? 
 
 And how, my former glorious state forgot, 
 
 Submit to please a victor's wild desires, 
 
 And light on Hector's tomb unhallow'd fires ? 
 
 Her I abhor, whose lawless lust can seek 
 
 (Without a blush on her dishonest cheek) 
 
 A second partner to her widow'd bed, 
 
 When the fond husband of her youth lies dead. 
 
 Oh Hector ! I am only thine — to thee 
 
 I paid the vow of maiden constancy ;
 
 THE GRECIAN DRAMA. 315 
 
 To thee my pure, unspotted soul resign'd, 
 The wisest, noblest, bravest, of mankind. 
 Now thou hast left me ; and I must not have 
 The last poor comfort that the wretched crave : 
 I cannot sorrow o'er thy urn, but go 
 A friendless captive to a tyrant foe, 
 Where no glad home my weeping eyes shall see. 
 And hope, that comes to all, shall fly from me. 
 
 FROM THE PHCENISSJE. 
 
 ANTIGONE. 
 
 Oh, guardian of my early day ! 
 
 Stretch forth thine aged arm to be 
 The kind supporter of my way, 
 
 And guide my trembling feet to thee ! 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Take, virgin, take this faithful arm ! 'tis thine. 
 
 Behold, fair maid, a scene that claims thy care; 
 In martial pomp array'd (a threatening line) 
 
 Pelasgia's warriors stand embattled there. 
 
 ANTIGONE. 
 
 Gods ! what a sight ; the moving field 
 Beams like a polish'd brazen shield ! 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Oh, not in vain has Polynices dared 
 Invade his native land. He comes prepared. 
 Ten thousand horsemen on his march attend, 
 Ten thousand glittering spears surround their friend.
 
 316 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 ANTIGONE. 
 
 What beams of brass, what iron crate, 
 Can save Amphion's sacred state ? 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Be calm, my child, the city fears no wound. 
 Be calm, and safely view the embattled ground. 
 
 ANTIGONE. 
 
 Whose snow-white plume is waving there, 
 Far, far the foremost on the field ? 
 
 Who brandishes so high in air 
 The blazing terrors of his shield ? 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 The chief from fair Mycenae claims his race, 
 Of Lerna's woods the terror and the grace, 
 Far-famed Hippomedon. 
 
 ANTIGONE. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 W T hat darkness in his face I see ! 
 
 How fierce his air ! His form how vast ! 
 Some earth-born giant was his sire ; 
 
 He owes his birth to deepest night, 
 
 Unlike the children of the light ; 
 Whom Heaven bestows and men desire — 
 And that intolerable fire 
 
 Flames from his eyes, mankind to blast. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 On Dirce's springs, my daughter, cast thy sight, 
 Where stands another chief (and burns for 'fight,) 
 Tydeus the Strong, in whose undaunted breast 
 The iEtolian god of battles rules confest.
 
 THE GRECIAN DRAMA. 317 
 
 ANTIGONE. 
 
 Is that the chief so near allied 
 To my own brother's gentle bride ; 
 How strange his arms and nodding crest ! 
 How nide his half-barbaric vest ! 
 
 But who is that, of front severe, 
 Who takes near Zethus' tomb his stand ? 
 
 Loose o'er his shoulders flows his hair, 
 And numerous is his well-arm'd band. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Thine eyes, fair maid, Parthenopoeus see, 
 The huntress Atalanta's progeny. 
 
 ANTIGONE. 
 
 But where, oh where, my friend, is he. 
 
 By Zethus' tomb, or Dirce's shore, 
 Whom, at the self-same hour with me 
 
 (Unhappy hour) my mother bore ? 
 Say, may I trust my wandering eyes ? 
 
 Far off, on Dirce's willow'd coast 
 I see him, 'faintly shadow'd rise, 
 
 The dim resemblance of a ghost. 
 I know him by his royal mien, 
 
 His manly form, his eagle sight. 
 Ah ! alter'd have the moments been 
 Since last that manly form was seen 
 On Dirce's smooth and level green ! 
 
 Since last that keen eye's wakeful light 
 Repaid a sister's fond caress 
 With all a brother's tenderness.
 
 318 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 CHORUS FROM THE ALCESTIS. 1806. 
 
 Daughter of Pelias ! peaceful sleep 
 In Pluto's mansions cold and deep, 
 
 Where the bright sun can enter never ! 
 And may the gloomy monarch know, 
 And he, the steersman old and slow, 
 By whom the ghosts are wafted o'er ; 
 To that uncomfortable shore, 
 
 No spirit half so lovely ever, 
 Nor half so pure, his boat did take 
 On the dark bosom of the Stygian lake. 
 
 Thy name preserved in sweetest lays, 
 
 The sacred bards of future days 
 
 The seven-string'd lyre shall tune to thee, 
 
 Waking its mountain-melody ; 
 
 Or in harmonious notes shall sing, 
 
 What time the rosy-bosom'd spring 
 
 Bedews with April- showers 
 Fair Sparta's walls, and, all the night, 
 The full moon pours her silver light 
 
 On Athens' heaven-loved towers. 
 
 Oh ! could the power of verse recall 
 Thy ghost from Pluto's dreary hall, 
 
 And dark Cocytus' spectred wave ! 
 Oh ! could it bid thy spirit stray 
 Back to the cheerful light of day, 
 
 And break the darkness of the grave !
 
 THE GRECIAN DRAMA. 319 
 
 Moat loved, most honour'd shade, farewell ! 
 We know not what the gods below 
 Will measure out of bliss or woe ; 
 Yet may thy gentle spirit dwell, 
 In those dark realms to which it fled, 
 Most blest among the peaceful dead ! 
 
 Nor thou, afflicted husband, mourn 
 That voyage whence is no return, 
 
 And which we all are doom'd to try : 
 The gods' great offspring, battle slain, 
 'Mid common heroes press the plain, 
 
 And undisting-uish'd die. 
 
 But she who nobly died, to save 
 
 A husband from the cheerless grave, 
 
 Though seen no more by mortal eye, 
 
 Shines, a bright power, above the sky. 
 
 Hail, lovely light of Pherae's vale ! 
 
 Blest guardian of the wandering stranger, hail ! 
 
 CHORUS FROM THE OZDIPUS TYRANNUS. 
 
 1798. 
 
 SwEET-sounding oracle of Jove ! 
 Propitious from the Python dost thou come, 
 To glad my native home ? 
 Struck with terror from above, 
 I feel, I feel my bosom beat, 
 And trembling lose its vital heat.
 
 320 TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 
 Voice of the Delian king ! 
 Immortal child of roseate Hope, declare, 
 
 What comfort dost thou bring ? 
 What help to this afflicted city bear ? 
 
 First of the immortal powers, I thee 
 Invoke, Athenian deity, 
 
 Great progeny of Jove ! 
 And thee, whose consecrated shrine 
 Sublime above our towers ascends, 
 Whose empire o'er the woods extends ; 
 Sister of Him, whose light divine 
 Beams influence from above. 
 If e'er your strength averted impious fate, 
 Save now, oh save our desolated state ! 
 
 Unnumber'd sorrows rend my soul. 
 Pale Sickness, with her ghastly train, 
 Rules all uncheck'd — for ah ! in vain 
 
 Would human art her power control. 
 
 No verdure decks the blasted mead ; 
 No fruits our barren plains disclose ; 
 
 No tender progeny succeed 
 
 To recompense the mother's throes. 
 
 The dark ghosts flit unheeded by, 
 To Pluto's caves they sweep along, 
 In myriads like the feathery throng 
 
 Whose light wings cleave the evening sky ; 
 And swift as lightning flashes through the air, 
 Untired amidst the elemental roar.
 
 THE GRECIAN DRAMA. 321 
 
 On the pestilential shore, 
 
 Those once most dear 
 Unburied, unlamented lie, 
 No friend to catch their parting sigh. 
 Our wives, sad bending o'er the main, 
 Pour forth their ardent vows in vain, 
 And deprecate the wrath of Heaven below. 
 In vain, throughout the Theban bound, 
 Our hallow'd paeans loud resound, 
 Mix'd with the mournful shrieks of agonizing woe. 
 
 Daughter of Jove, assistance send ! 
 See on our famed Cadmaean tower 
 The gloomy god of havock lower. 
 
 Unarm 'd, he blasts the fated ground, 
 
 And throws his murderous shafts around. 
 
 Arise ! arise ! our walls defend ! 
 
 Bid from this once heaven-favour'd seat 
 The fiend of pestilence retreat ! 
 
 Whelm him beneath the Euxine main 
 
 That bounds his own ung-enial reign 
 O'er deserts bleak and bare. 
 
 Since each succeeding day destroys 
 
 Whate'er of sublunary joys 
 The shades of darkness spare. 
 
 Dispenser of the lightning's fire, 
 Dread king of heaven ! immortal sire ! 
 
 Thy bolts destructive throw — 
 And thou whom Lycian plains obey, 
 VOL. i. y
 
 322 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Adjust thy shafts, great lord of day, 
 And bend thy golden bow ! 
 
 Thy milder radiance, Dian, shed ! 
 Such beams as on the hoary head 
 
 Of old Lycaeum rest. 
 And, whom the Moenades revere, 
 Thy blazing torch, oh Bacchus, rear, 
 And shake it o'er his humbled crest ! 
 Avenge us on this god, by gods abhorr'd, 
 Hold his red arm, and break his desolating sword. 
 
 xMISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 THE EIGHTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL. 
 
 [First printed in Hodgson's Juvenal. 1807.] 
 
 What, boots it on the lineal stock to trace 
 The long drawn honours of a noble race ? 
 Or what avails it, Ponticus, to shew 
 Of imaged forefathers a goodly row ; 
 iEmihus in his conquering car sublime ; 
 The Curii broken by neglect and time ; 
 The headless trunk of Manlius to expose, 
 And Galba, shorten'd of his ears and nose ? 
 What boots it on capacious rolls to see 
 The fairest boast of ancient pedigree ; 
 The name of great Corvinus at the root, 
 And consuls and dictators for the fruit ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 323 
 
 If, with such bright examples in thine eye, 
 Thou liv'st in vice before the Lepidi ? 
 Why boast the pictures of a warlike race, 
 If, with the Scipios frowning in your face, 
 You pass the thriftless night in desperate play, 
 And stagger to your bed at break of day, 
 Just at the hour when they whose name you boast 
 Broke up the camp, and march'd the embattled host ? 
 
 Why glories Fabius in his race divine, 
 His Gallic honours, and Herculean shrine, 
 (Hereditary glories of his line,) 
 If, covetous, effeminate, and vain, 
 Soft as the fleecy droves on Padua's plain, 
 He smooths with pumice stone his essenced skin, 
 And puts to shame his rough ancestral kin ? 
 — If, a base poisoner, Rome's abhorr'd disgrace, 
 He adds a statue to his reverend race, 
 Which future indignation will deface ? 
 
 Though storied pictures round your walls we see, 
 " Virtue alone is true nobility." 
 Paulus, or Drusus, in your actions be ; 
 Place them above your vaunted ancestry ; 
 Let them precede the consul's rods, and shew 
 A nobler boast than honours can bestow. 
 
 First, make the virtues of the soul thy claim. 
 Dost thou deserve by deeds the glorious name 
 Of just and holy? — I confess thy worth, 
 And own the true nobility of birth. 
 All hail, great patriot, wheresoever born, 
 Whose acts thy grateful countrymen adorn !
 
 324 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Whether Silanus' ancient name thou bear, 
 
 Or the proud trophies of Getulia wear, 
 
 Or, humbly bred in life's inglorious vale, 
 
 Raised by thy deeds, illustrious patriot, hail! 
 
 With louder triumphs should thy name be crown'd, 
 
 Than Egypt offers for Osiris found. 
 
 For who the name of Noble would disgrace 
 
 On the vile wretch whose acts bely his race, 
 
 In title lofty, but in action base ? 
 
 As when some strutting dwarf provokes the jeer, 
 
 We call him Atlas, porter of the sphere, 
 
 An iEthiop bid the swan's complexion claim, 
 
 Or give some crooked wench Europa's name, 
 
 Beware lest so the world bestow on thee 
 
 The style of " Creticus" in mockery ! 
 
 To whom address this monitory line ? 
 Rubellius Plancus, be the warning- thine ! 
 Swoln with thy high descent from Caesar's name, 
 As if thy deeds had earn'd immortal fame, 
 Or made thee worthy of a Julian womb, 
 Rather than of the meanest trull's in Rome. 
 
 The young patrician, insolent and proud, 
 Looks down disdainful on the passing crowd : 
 " Dregs of the people ! lowest of the low ! 
 Reptiles, who scarce your father's birthplace know ! 
 From ancient Cecrops I my lineage trace." 
 — Long live, Rubellius, and enjoy thy race ! 
 Yet mid this crowd of outcasts you may find 
 Some active spirit, some capacious mind, 
 On which, even you, a novice in the laws,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 325 
 
 Would gladly rest the pleadings of your cause. 
 Yes — from the people's dregs shall worthies rise, 
 Skill'd in the Forum's learned mysteries — 
 Or, great in arms, their country's pride and boast, 
 Lead to Euphrates' shore her conquering host ; 
 Or plant her eagles on Batavia's coast : 
 Whilst thou remain'st Cecropides alone, 
 Like an old Hermes on a shapeless stone. 
 One only difference an ascendant gives — 
 His head is marble, while your statue lives. 
 
 Say, progeny of Teucer, is it birth 
 That gives the useful brute its genuine worth ? 
 The valiant steed, to whom the judge decrees 
 The palm of oft repeated victories, 
 O'er whom the thunders of the circus roll, 
 First in the race, and earliest at the goal, 
 For his own worth we prize, nor e'er inquire 
 The pastures where he fed, nor what his sire : 
 While the degenerate and dishonour'd steed, 
 Tho' sprang from famed Hirpinum's ancient breed, 
 Or from the fleetest of Corithian mares, 
 Sells undistinguish'd in the public fairs. 
 There no respect to ancestry is paid, 
 No honour to the parent courser's shade : 
 The tame and sluggish offspring must belong 
 To any clod that buys him for a song, 
 Bend his gall'd neck, obedient to the wain, 
 Or turn a wheel, worn blind with age and pain. 
 
 If then to honour's meed thy soul aspires, 
 Like thine own actions claim it — not thy sire's.
 
 326 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 If thou wouldst rise to glory, show some cause 
 For praise, nor rest on undeserved applause. 
 
 Enough for him, whose pride can stoop to claim 
 His grand alliance with a tyrant's name ; 
 For plain good sense — first blessing of the sky — 
 Is rarely met with in a state so high. 
 Now, Ponticus, my mind reverts to thee. 
 Thy praise by birth bestow'd I will not see, 
 Thyself unworthy of futurity. 
 — 'Tis weak to build on others your renown : 
 Shake but the pillar, the whole pile falls down. 
 The vine that creeps abandon'd on the plain, 
 Looks for its widow elm's support in vain. 
 Be thou, thyself, in war thy country's sword, 
 In peace, the upright judge, and generous lord. 
 If ever summon'd by the sacred laws, 
 A witness in some dark uncertain cause ; 
 Though Phalaris himself command the lie, 
 And present torments prompt the perjury, 
 Count it an evil, worse than flames or death, 
 To barter honour for this short-lived breath, 
 Or, for the sake of brittle life, to give 
 That which alone should make thee wish to live. 
 Worthy his fate the wretch forsworn will die, 
 How great soe'er his wealth and luxury; 
 Though he lie plunged in perfumed baths, and eat 
 A hundred Lucrine oysters for a treat. 
 
 The expected prefecture at length obtain'd, 
 Be rage, be rapine, in just bounds restrain'd ; 
 And when among the poor allies you see 
 The dire effects of war and slavery,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 327 
 
 Their princes wasted by extorted loans, 
 
 And drain'd e'en to the marrow of their bones ; 
 
 Respect the law's commands, the state's reward, 
 
 What honours wait the mild and upright lord, 
 
 How just a hand the bolt of vengeance sped 
 
 At the proud robber of Cilicia's head : 
 
 But vain is law when all at Rome are thieves, 
 
 And Pansa pillages what Natta leaves. 
 
 Unhappy Greeks, who own a despot's sway, 
 Sell your last rags, and silently obey ! 
 Tis madness, in the shipwreck of the state, 
 When all is lost, to throw away the freight. 
 Not thus, of old, when arms had won the prize, 
 Did groans and tears succeed our victories : 
 The people thrived beneath our fostering sway ; 
 Unsack'd their homes, untouched their coffers lay ; 
 Their robes of Sparta, and their Tyrian die ; 
 While Phidias breathed in sculptured ivory, 
 And, spared in ancient palaces to shine 
 With fairest forms of Myron's bold design, 
 While yet Parrhasius on the canvas glow'd, 
 And Mentor's bowls round every table flow'd ; 
 Spared — but till Dolabella's sword command, 
 Or Verres wave his sacrilegious hand, 
 Or Antony, who spoil'd the wealth of Greece, 
 To swell the triumphs of insulted peace. 
 
 The fields are forfeited ; but o'er the plain 
 Some scatter'd herds may haply yet remain : 
 They go the next; and, last, the household gods 
 Are forced to follow, when the praefect nods.
 
 328 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The unwarlike sons of Rhodes you may despise, 
 And Corinth, steep'd in sensual luxuries : 
 Her smooth, anointed youth may strive in vain, 
 With nerveless arm, to break oppression's chain. 
 But O beware Hispania's martial host, 
 The Gallic axle, and Illyrian coast, 
 And from those reapers let thy hands abstain 
 Who fill our pamper'd citizens with grain. 
 Besides, what spoil can rapine now await 
 From Africk's sons whom Marius stripp'd of late ? 
 Beware, or e'er the heavy hand of wrong" 
 You lay upon the desperate and strong ! 
 Take all the wealth their ravaged fields afford ; 
 Leave but the helm, the buckler, and the sword, 
 Arms still are theirs to use. This warning strain 
 Is not an idle fancy of the brain — 
 O think the sybil's solemn voice you hear ! 
 Her scatter'd leaves I read, heaven's will declare. 
 
 If all thy train be patient and discreet, 
 If no smooth minion sell thy justice seat, 
 If, free from vice, thy consort can abstain 
 From rank corruption and extorted gain, 
 Nor grasp with harpy claws the prostrate earth, 
 Then mayst thou safely boast thy noble birth ; 
 Let Picus in thy line of fathers be, 
 Count all the Titans in thy pedigree, 
 E'en from Prometheus' self thy lineage trace, 
 And ransack fable to adorn thy race : 
 — But if, a traitor to thy plighted trust, 
 And headlong urged by avarice and lust,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 32! 
 
 Thy praetor's rods are drench'd in subject gore, 
 
 And thy blunt axe can feed the block no more;— 
 
 The lofty pride of every honour'd name 
 
 Shall rise to vindicate insulted fame, 
 
 And hold the torch, to blazon forth thy shame. 
 
 How darest thou boast, if, shameless in thy guilt, 
 
 Thou sign false deeds in fanes thy fathers built, 
 
 And forge and perjure for "some petty hire 
 
 Before the frowning image of thy sire, — 
 
 If, in a Gallic cowl's obscure disguise, 
 
 All night thou ply thy foul debaucheries ? 
 
 Where his forefathers' mouldering ashes lie, 
 In rapid car see Damasippus fly ! 
 See the gross consul lay aside the rein, 
 And drag his axle with the cumbrous chain — 
 By night indeed — but in the moon's full light, 
 While stars shed down their all-attesting sight — 
 And, when the short-lived task of state is o'er, 
 He shrouds his foul disgrace in night no more ; 
 Mounts in broad day, and, if he chance to meet 
 Some old and grave acquaintance in the street, 
 Bare-faced salutes him with a shameless stare, 
 And cracks his whip, high-flourish'd, with an air ; 
 Then acts the groom, unbinds the truss of hay, 
 And measures out the barley for the day. 
 E'en when, as Numa's sacred laws ordain, 
 He stands a priest at Jove's imperial fane, 
 And the fat victim by his hand is slain, 
 He dares attest, before the praetor's rods, 
 Hippona, and the stinking stable-gods.
 
 330 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 When to the Forum, hot with nightly sport, 
 And daily feasts, he pleases to resort, 
 The Syro-Tyrian, ever used to wait, 
 (The Tyrian of the Idumaean gate,) 
 With perfumes reeking-, waves him to the board, 
 Fawns as his host, and calls him king* and lord ; 
 While some neat hand-maid, as he sits to dine, 
 Brings forth a sample of her tavern wine. 
 
 Still for these faults some candid friend may plead, 
 " Wedid the same ourselves, when young." Agreed ; 
 But, when the hey-day of your youth was past ; 
 You saw your errors, and grew wise at last. 
 Short be the shameless period of disgrace ! 
 With the first beard that shades the manly face, 
 Some cherish'd vices claim the razor too : 
 " Yet we should pardon youth," you say. I do. 
 Ripe for Armenian wars, for Syrian tents, 
 For Rhine's or Ister's vigilant defence, 
 Still Damasippus drains his club-room wine, 
 And still frequents the bagnio's well known sign. 
 His age proclaims him fit for Nero's guard : 
 — The ports are full, the navy is prepared — 
 Send, Csesar, to the port — the legions call — 
 But in his tavern seek your general ! 
 There may you find him, at his ease reclined, 
 Quaffing full bumpers with some cut-throat hind, 
 'Mid crowds of sailors, thieves, deserted slaves, 
 Hangmen and undertakers, sots and knaves, 
 Stretch'd, with Cybebe's silent drums around, 
 Whose drunken priest lies snoring on the ground
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 331 
 
 Here all are equal — of one goblet taste — 
 On one couch lying — at one table placed. 
 A slave, thus vicious, would be sent to till 
 Your farms, or labour at the Tuscan mill ; 
 But you, ye sons of Troy, your vices grace; 
 And crimes that tinge with shame the cobbler's face 
 Beseem the lords of Brutus' honour'd race. 
 
 Yet, in these vile degenerate times, we find 
 No stain so foul, but worse remains behind. 
 Made poor by all the vices of the age, 
 Lo ! Damas'ippus next attempts the stage ; 
 Lets out his voice — his sole remaining boast — 
 And rants the nonsense of a clamorous ghost : 
 While Lentulus, who acts the slave indeed, 
 Deserves the cross on which he seems to bleed. 
 1 cannot bear the people's careless face 
 Who sit to see their senators' disgrace, 
 To hear the bare-foot sounds that Fabius makes, 
 And laugh at every slap Mamercus takes. 
 Who cares at what a price they sell their breath ? 
 No Nero lives, to threaten instant death ; 
 Yet still they sell it — to their endless shame — 
 Nor blush to sell it at the praetor's game. 
 On this side place the sword, on that the stage — 
 And can you scruple where you would engage ? 
 Can any wretch so basely fear to die, 
 As rather act Latinus' jealousy, 
 And beat his wife ? — so lost to honest pride, 
 As sing, with vile Corinthus at his side ? 
 
 Yet here is nothing that should make men stare ;
 
 332 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The prince a fiddler, every lord's a player : 
 The court's buffoonery leads the general rage, 
 The crowd adopts, and all the world's a stage. 
 Rome in the lists a new dishonour bears. 
 Not in the arms the fierce Mirmillo wears — 
 Not with the crooked scymetar and shield 
 — For those he hates — he hates, and fears, to wield — 
 Not e'en the helm, his shameless front to hide, 
 But, brandishing the trident at his side, 
 With fruitless aim the net great Gracchus plies, 
 Shews his bare face before a million eyes, 
 And, mark'd by all the arena, bravely— flies. 
 — Tis he — you well may note him by his vest, 
 The broad gold lace that flames upon his breast, 
 His helmet cap with glittering chin-stays bound, 
 And the long ends that half way reach the ground. 
 
 The worst disgrace the gladiator knows 
 Is to be pitted 'gainst such noble foes. 
 
 If votes were free, what slave, so lost to shame, 
 Prefers not Seneca's to Nero's name, 
 Whose parricides not one close sack alone, 
 One serpent, nor one monkey could atone ? 
 Like the mad Greek, his master's blood he spilt — 
 The act the same — but ah how wide the guilt ? 
 One rose, the avenger of his father's dust, 
 Slain at the feast — a sacrifice to lust — 
 The gods inspired him, and the deed was just. 
 He never touch'd Electra's sacred head ; 
 He never stain'd with blood his Spartan bed, 
 Nor drugg'd the bowl with fratricidal rage —
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 333 
 
 He never sang upon an Argive stage, 
 
 Nor wrote dull Troi'cs. What could more inspire 
 
 Virginias', Vindex', Galba's honest ire ? 
 
 What, but such acts, did Rome indignant see 
 
 Perform'd, in Nero's savage tyranny ? 
 
 These are the arts which dignify a throne — 
 
 In these the mighty prince unrivall'd shone; 
 
 To seek from actors and buffoons renown, 
 
 And carry from the Greeks their parsley crown. 
 
 Go ! with the chaplet on your voice bestow'd, 
 
 The marble statue of Domitia's load ! 
 
 Before his feet Thyestes' syrma place, 
 
 Antigone's, or Melanippe's face, 
 
 And on the proud Colossus of your sire 
 
 Suspend the splendid trophy of — a lyre ! 
 
 Thy lofty birth, Cethegus, who could blame ? 
 Who knew not Catiline's illustrious name ? 
 Yet these by night suborn'd their murderous band, 
 And threaten'd ruin to their native land ; 
 With worse than Gallic rage the state invade, 
 And merit well the shirt for traitors made. 
 But in the midst the active consul wakes, 
 And the proud banner of rebellion shakes : 
 This new Arpinian — of a humble home, 
 And just become a country-knight at Rome — 
 Sees all the plot, and o'er the unprepared, 
 Affrighted ruffians posts his ready guard : 
 And hence, within the walls, the peaceful gown 
 Conferral a title of more just renown 
 Than young Octavius gather'd on the main,
 
 334 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Or reap'd from Thessaly's ensanguined plain. 
 Free Rome confess'd the work of Tully's band, 
 And hail'd him father of his parent land. 
 
 From the same borough, on the Volscian hill, 
 A master's grounds great Marius used to till, 
 And drive the plough-share for a labourer's pay ; 
 Next, in the camp he toil'd from day to day, 
 Where, if with slacken'd bill his work he sped, 
 A tribune's staff was broken on his head. 
 Yet he, alone, the state's worst dangers braved, 
 Destroyed the Cimbrian, and the city saved. 
 Thus, when the terrors of the fight were o'er, 
 And crows devour'd the bodies, fierce no more, 
 More huge than e'er had flesh'd their beaks before, 
 Content, his noble colleague bore away 
 The second honours of that glorious day. 
 
 The Decii own'd a low plebeian name, 
 Their race plebeian, and unknown to fame ; 
 Yet for our legions, our auxiliar band, 
 And for the safety of our native land, 
 To mother earth, and the dread gods below, 
 Themselves a glorious offspring, they bestow, 
 Those heaven-born souls devoting to the grave, 
 More precious far than all the lives they save. 
 
 Born of a female slave, the royal crown 
 Of great Quirinus, and the purple gown, 
 That last of virtuous kings deserved to wear ; 
 While the degenerate sons of Brutus dare 
 With impious hands the city gates unclose 
 For banish'd tyrants, and their country's foes,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 335 
 
 E'en then, when doubtful liberty required 
 The noblest acts by patriot zeal inspired — 
 Such acts as Mutius might admire, or she 
 Who swam across the empire's boundary. 
 The horrid tale a slave was doom'd to bear — 
 — Oh tale too hideous for a mother's ear ! 
 The rods of justice for their guilt atone, 
 And the sharp axe, to Rome before unknown. 
 
 'Twere better far Thersites were thy sire, 
 So thou, like great JEacides, aspire 
 To arms attemper'd with celestial fire, 
 Than boast of Pelens' blood, content to be 
 Thersites, and disgrace thine ancestry. 
 
 Yet to its earliest date thy lineage trace, 
 Draw from their source the glories of thy race, 
 The proud foundation of your house you'll find 
 Some den for all the refuse of mankind. 
 A shepherd was the founder of your fame, 
 Or something worse — and what I will not name. 
 
 TIBULLUS. ELEGY THE FIRST. 1803. 
 
 Let others heap of wealth the golden store, 
 
 And hold o'er cultured fields their ample sway ; 
 
 They trembling hear the distant tempest's roar, 
 And war's hoarse clarion drives their sleep away. 
 
 Me may my poverty's secure retreat 
 
 In humble care a life unenvied yield, 
 While my hearth glows with hospitable heat, 
 And plenteous harvests bless my narrow field.
 
 336 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Nor hope be wanting- — but the swelling- ear 
 Assiduous watch'd, and cluster-teeming vine, 
 
 Vary the peaceful day with guiltless care 
 Of simple food, and unpolluting wine, 
 
 I would not scorn the cleaving plough to guide, 
 Or spur the sluggish team, (a humbler care,) 
 
 Or lost lamb, straying from its parent-side, 
 To safer shelter in my bosom bear. 
 
 Nor let me fail with grateful offerings due 
 To seek each rustic deity — to bring 
 
 For Pales milk and flowers of every hue, 
 And the first apple for Arcadia's king. 
 
 For thee, all bounteous Ceres, I'll suspend 
 The wheaten crown before thy temple door, 
 
 And seek with hymns Priapus, to defend 
 
 From pilfering birds my garden's luscious store. 
 
 Ye too, erst guardians of my large domain, 
 To whom the chosen kid unnoticed bled, 
 
 Ye household gods, my alter'd state sustain, 
 Nor scorn the offering of a humble shed. 
 
 — I ask not riches — nor the hoarded wealth 
 Of antient harvests piled upon my floor — 
 
 Enough for me are competence and health, 
 And gentle sleep, unbroken and secure. 
 
 How sweet, upon my sbelter'd bed reclined, 
 To hear the howling tempest's wild alarms, 
 
 And, safe from beating rain and furious wind, 
 To press my lovely mistress in my arms !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 337 
 
 How sweet, when Auster o'er the flooded ground 
 Pours the wet torrents of his wintry hour, 
 
 Secure to sleep, while all is sadness round, 
 
 Lull'd in deep slumbers by the incessant shower ! 
 
 Be this my lot — let others wealth obtain, 
 The mighty sacrifice to wealth who yield, 
 
 Who tempt the dangers of the roaring main, 
 Or court destruction on the embattled field ; 
 
 Whilst I, content with poverty, would stray, 
 Not always chain'd to one unvarying road ; 
 
 But when the dog-star leads the sultry day, 
 Turn to the murmuring stream and shady wood. 
 
 Perish each gaudy gem, and glittering ore, 
 Ere by our fault one slighted maiden mourn, 
 
 One bitter tear our parted faith deplore, 
 Or one soft bosom chide our cold return. 
 
 I ask not praise, my Delia — but with thee 
 Give me to waste my unregretted days! 
 
 Only with thee, my Delia, let me be — 
 And happy indolence shall be my praise. 
 
 Then will I guide my team, or tend my sheep 
 On the lone hill, whilst only thou art by ; 
 
 And, when the sultry hours invite to sleep, 
 Clasp'd in thy arms on the rude turf I'll lie — 
 
 A bed more soft than couch of softest down, 
 A sleep more sweet than sweetest sounds invite, 
 
 When love the silken pillow fails to crown, 
 And sad repentance loads the wings of night. 
 VOL. i. z
 
 338 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 And when the last, the dreaded hour draws nigh, 
 Do thou, e'en then, before me, Delia, stand; 
 
 May I yet view thee with my closing eye, 
 May I yet grasp thee with my dying hand ! 
 
 So, when I'm laid upon my funeral bier, 
 Thou, Delia, shalt the last sad office pay, 
 
 There shalt thou drop the mournful, silent tear, 
 And print warm kisses on my lifeless clay. 
 
 And many a youth, and many a tender maid, 
 Shall to the pile, a pitying train, repair — 
 
 But thou, my Delia, spare thy lover's shade, 
 Nor wound thy cheeks, nor rend thy loosen'd hair ! 
 
 — Meanwhile, O let us seize the fleeting hour, 
 And while the fates permit indulge our joy ! 
 
 Death broods in darkness o'er the genial bower, 
 And waits Heaven's awful signal to destroy. 
 
 Soon wither'd age with creeping steps will come, 
 When love no more our frozen souls must know ; 
 
 For pleasures fly the approaches of the tomb, 
 And sport and dalliance shun the head of snow. 
 
 Now, now, my Delia, let us live and love, 
 
 While life is young, and gentle love no crime ! 
 
 Now, now let pleasure every hour improve 
 Ere pleasure flies the swift advance of time. 
 
 Here be my standard ! Let the pomp of war 
 Deck the mad conqueror in his proud array ; 
 
 While I, secure from want, from greatness far, 
 Here, in soft leisure, wear my life away.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 339 
 
 HORACE. BOOK I. ODE 5. 
 
 Pyrrha ! the slender youth who courts thy love, 
 Bathed in rich odours, on fresh roses laid, 
 Beneath the grateful shade 
 Of mossy cavern or embowering grove ; 
 
 For whom those sun-bright tresses thou dost bind, 
 — Simple in elegance — though now most blest, 
 Of thy whole heart possest, 
 He hopes thee ever free, and ever kind ; 
 
 Alas, poor wretch ! how oft shall he deplore 
 
 Thy false love, changing with the changing skies, 
 And stormy seas, that rise 
 Black with rude winds, and bear him from the shore, 
 
 Too weakly trusting to the treacherous gale ! 
 Ah, hapless they on whom thy untried smile 
 Beams only to beguile — 
 Who see thee fair, but know not yet how frail ! 
 
 My votive tablet still records the hour, 
 
 When, rescued from the vex'd and stormy wave, 
 My dripping weeds I gave, 
 A grateful offering to the watery power. 
 
 HORACE. BOOK I. ODE 9. 
 
 See tall Soracte white with snow ! 
 The forests groan beneath their load ;
 
 340 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The imprison'd streams no longer flow, 
 Through crystal caverns working slow 
 Their hollow winding road. 
 
 Stern winter's call, my friend, obey ! 
 
 Pile high thy blazing hearth with wood ; 
 And, more to drive the cold away, 
 Let thine old Sabine cask to-day 
 Pour forth a nobler flood. 
 
 Be this thy care ! the rest resign 
 
 To heaven, that stills the tempest's roar, 
 That bids the winds their rage confine, 
 And the tall ash and mountain pine 
 Toss their proud heads no more. 
 
 Repress the fondly curious glance 
 
 That fain would scan the future hour ! 
 Improve each day's revolving chance, 
 Nor shun the soul-enlivening dance, 
 Nor love's enchanting power. 
 
 Be thine — while age yet spares to blight 
 The verdure of thy youthful bloom — 
 The chase by day, the ball by night, 
 And amorous whispers, warm and light, 
 Soft stealing through the gloom. 
 
 The laugh, too ready to betray 
 
 The lurking girl who fain would hide ; 
 The bracelet gaily snatch'd away, 
 Which, half in earnest, half in play, 
 Her struggling arm denied.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 341 
 
 HORACE. BOOK II. ODE 3. 
 
 When dangers press, a mind sustain 
 Unshaken by the storms of fate, 
 
 And when delight succeeds to pain, 
 With no glad insolence elate ; 
 
 For Death will end the various toys 
 
 Of hopes and fears, and cares and joys : 
 
 Mortal alike, if sadly grave 
 
 You pass life's melancholy day, 
 
 Or, in some green retired cave 
 Wearing the idle hours away, 
 
 Give to the Muses all your soul, 
 
 And pledge them in the flowing bowl ; 
 
 Where the broad pine, and poplar white 
 To join their hospitable shade 
 
 With intertwisted boughs delight ; 
 And, o'er its pebbly bed convey'd, 
 
 Labours the winding stream to run, 
 
 Trembling, and glittering to the sun. 
 
 Thy generous wine, and rich perfume, 
 And fragrant roses hither bring, 
 
 That with the early zephyrs bloom, 
 And wither with declining spring, 
 
 While joy and youth not yet have fled, 
 
 And Fate yet holds the uncertain thread.
 
 342 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 You soon must leave your verdant bowers. 
 And groves yourself had taught to grow ; 
 
 Your soft retreats from sultry hours 
 Where Tiber's dark brown waters flow, 
 
 Soon leave ; and all you call your own 
 
 Be squander'd by an heir unknown. 
 
 Whether of wealth and lineage proud, 
 A high patrician name you bear, 
 
 Or pass ignoble in the crowd, 
 
 Unshelter'd from the midnight air, 
 
 Tis all alike ; no age or state 
 
 Is spared by unrelenting Fate. 
 
 To the same port our barks are bound ; 
 
 One common doom awaits us all : 
 The universal wheel goes round. 
 
 And, soon or late, each lot must fall, 
 When all together shall be sent 
 To one eternal banishment. 
 
 HORACE. BOOK II. ODE 14. 
 
 How soon, alas ! how soon, my friend, 
 
 The winged seasons glide away ! 
 Our life posts onward to its end ; 
 No virtue can our wrinkles stay, 
 Nor restless time one little hour delay.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 343 
 
 Pile the rich incense ! Let the fires 
 
 Ascend, and altars stream with blood ! 
 Alas ! no sacrifice aspires 
 
 To soothe dark Pluto's tearless mood, 
 Who binds the Titans to the Stygian flood. 
 
 That dismal lake, at Fate's command, 
 
 All who have fed from Nature's store, 
 And taste the fulness of the land, 
 
 In common crowds must venture o'er 
 — The king's proud spirit, mix'd with baser poor. 
 
 Vainly with coward care we shun 
 
 The murderous field and whelming wave ; 
 Vainly, when autumn's sickly sun 
 Puts us in memory of a grave, 
 Fly to the healthful bower and sheltering cave. 
 
 Soon shalt thou be where, black and slow, 
 Cocytus laves the languid coast, 
 
 Where sadly wanders, far below, 
 Of Danaus' line each guilty ghost, 
 And Sisyphus still plies his labour lost. 
 
 Soon shalt thou leave thy fair domain, 
 
 Thy tender spouse alone to sigh ; 
 Nor, of those forests rear'd in vain, 
 Aught, save the cypress, shall supply 
 Sad fuel for thy last solemnity !
 
 344 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Thy wines, preserved with jealous care, 
 Costlier than monarch's valued store, 
 
 Soon, squander'd by thy happier heir, 
 Fenced by their hundred locks no more, 
 lnmidnightrevelpour'd,shallstainthebanquetfloor. 
 
 HORACE. BOOK IV. ODE 7. 
 
 The snows are past away ; the field renews 
 
 Its grassy robe ; the trees with leaves are crown'd ; 
 
 All nature feels the change ; the streams unloose 
 Their bands of ice, and bathe the meads around: 
 
 The sister graces with the nymphs advance 
 
 In light attire, weaving the joyous dance. 
 
 Warn'd by the varying year and hastening day, 
 Expect not thou, my friend, immortal joys ! 
 
 Spring's zephyr melts the winter's frost away, 
 And spring the summer's hotter breath destroys ; 
 
 Soon forced to wait on autumn's mellow train 
 
 Till cold and sluggish winter rules again. 
 
 The seasons' difference circling moons repair; 
 
 But we, if once to that sad shore convey'd 
 Where the great Manes of our fathers are, 
 
 Shall be but empty ashes and a shade. 
 Who knows if they who rule this mortal clime 
 Will add to-morrow to our sum of time ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 345 
 
 Thy generous soul can best improve the hours 
 Of the short life allow'd by partial Heaven ; 
 
 Yet thee, Torquatus, in those gloomy bowers 
 Where Minos' last tremendous doom is given. 
 
 Not all thy pride of honorable birth, 
 
 Nor wit, nor virtue, can restore to earth. 
 
 Not even the huntress of the silver bow, 
 Who made the chaste Hippolytus her care, 
 
 Could fetch his spirit from the realms below ; 
 Nor Theseus, arm'd with force celestial, tear 
 
 His loved Pirithbus from the triple chain 
 
 That bound his soul to that infernal plain. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 The snows have pass'd away ; the fields renew 
 
 Their robe of vernal hue ; 
 The trees their leafy coronals. Earth teems 
 
 With change ; the lessen'd streams 
 Kissing the banks, their silent course pursue. 
 
 The sister graces with the nymphs advance 
 
 Naked in measured dance. 
 Yet, mortal joys how fleeting, time declares, 
 
 — Time, and the hour that bears 
 The genial day along in thoughtless trance.
 
 346 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Zephyrs, who led the balmy Spring-, retreat 
 
 From Summer's fiercer heat ; 
 And Summer too withdraws, when Autumn pours 
 
 Anew his bounteous stores ; 
 Then sullen Winter reassumes his seat. 
 
 Swift circling- moons the waning heavens repair. 
 
 We, soon as pass'd to where 
 Our sire iEneas, and those monarchs old, 
 
 Ancus and Tullus hold, 
 Are but thin ashes and impassive air. 
 
 Who knows if heaven, that counts his days, will give 
 
 Another hour to live ? 
 The wealth you've freely spent, your gaping heir 
 
 Shall look in vain to share : 
 That wealth is yours — your sole prerogative. 
 
 When Death hath seized hisprey , and the great doom 
 
 Is written on your tomb, 
 Then, nor your high descent, nor boasted skill, 
 
 No — nor your virtues — will 
 The once extinguish'd lamp of life relume. 
 
 Nor can the guardian power of chastity 
 
 Hippolytus set free 
 From shades eternal ; nor the friendly hand 
 
 Of Theseus break the band 
 That holds Pirithbus in captivity.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 347 
 
 HORACE. BOOK IV. ODE 13. 
 
 Lvce ! the gods have heard my prayer ; 
 
 The gods have heard me, Lyce ! 
 Time's snows are sprinkled o'er your hair, 
 And yet you would be counted fair, 
 And frolic it, with girlish air, 
 
 In winter hoar and icy ; 
 
 And try with shrill and tremulous shake 
 The wanton Cupid to awake 
 
 Once more, who, nought replying, 
 On the warm cheek and rosy smile 
 Of Chloe, skilful to beguile 
 With music's sweetest power, the while, 
 
 Is all enraptured lying. 
 
 Love in his flight is bold and free ; 
 Scornful, he quits the sapless tree 
 
 For the fresh budding spray : 
 But, most of all, he flies from thee, 
 Thy teeth of straggling ebony, 
 Thy wrinkled brow's deformity, 
 
 And head's unhonour'd grey. 
 
 Our robes of purple silk, with all 
 
 Our sparkling gems, are unavailing, 
 One little moment to recall, 
 Traced by Time's finger on the wall, 
 That marks the shadows as they fall 
 In progress never failing.
 
 348 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Whither hath Venus fled ? — ah where 
 The radiant tint, the graceful air ? 
 
 What can ye now display 
 Of her — of her, who breathed the soul 
 Of very love, and subtly stole 
 
 Me from myself away ? 
 
 — Next Lesbia blest — in face and mind 
 Favour'd alike — but ah ! more kind, 
 
 The fates to Lesbia gave 
 (Her summer reign of beauty o'er) 
 A passage to the silent shore 
 
 Of a forgotten grave. 
 
 On thee the raven's length of years 
 
 (Heaven's bitterest curse !) hath lighted ; 
 A mark for wisdom's smiles and tears, 
 For beauty's jests, and folly's sneers, 
 The mirror, in whose face appears 
 How soon youth's flower is blighted. 
 
 FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 " O quid solutis est beatius curis." 
 
 What blessedness hath heaven on man bestow'd, 
 Pure as the hour when care and sorrow cease ; 
 When the freed soul shakes off her weary load, 
 And, sick and tired, strangers to home and peace, 
 With lingering toil in foreign land opprest, 
 At length we sink again, in sweetest rest,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 349 
 
 On our accustom'd bed, so long in vain 
 Remember'd, and so long in vain desired ; 
 When, by our native air again inspired, 
 A soft oblivion steals o'er all our pain ! 
 
 FROM OVID. 
 
 " Non haec in nostris, ut quondam, scribimus hortis." 
 
 1 write not now as in those happier hours, 
 When pleasure woo'd me in her Latian bowers, 
 When night descending shrouded o'er my head, 
 Laid in sweet slumber on the accustom'd bed. 
 Forgotten and alone your bard shall die, 
 On distant shores, beneath a foreign sky ; 
 And his last wretched hour of parting breath 
 Be made more fearful by his place of death. 
 On that accustom'd bed he shall not lay 
 His languid limbs, and gently die away, 
 While weeping friends attend his life's sad close, 
 And smooth the pillow for his long repose. 
 
 FROM MARTIAL. 
 
 What makes the happiest life below, 
 A few plain rules, my friend, will show. 
 — A good estate, not earn'd with toil, 
 
 But left by will, or given by fate ; 
 A land of no ungrateful soil ; 
 
 A constant fire within your grate ;
 
 350 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 No law ; few cares ; a quiet mind ; 
 
 Strength unimpair'd ; a healthful frame ; 
 Wisdom with innocence combined ; 
 
 Friends equal both in years and fame ; 
 Your living 1 easy, and your board 
 With food, but not with luxury stored ; 
 A bed, though chaste, not solitary ; 
 
 Sound sleep, to shorten night's dull reign ; 
 Wish nothing that is yours to vary ; 
 
 Think all enjoyments that remain ; 
 And, for the inevitable hour — 
 Nor hope it nigh, nor dread its power. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with sparkling wine ! 
 
 Cool the bright draught with summer snow ! 
 Amid my locks let odours flow ! 
 
 Around my temples roses twine ! 
 
 See yon proud emblem of decay, 
 
 Yon lordly pile that braves the sky ! 
 
 It bids us live our little day, 
 
 Teaching that gods themselves may die. 
 
 FROM AUSONIUS. 
 
 If, mouldering far o'er distant seas, 
 The unburied corse is doom'd to lie, 
 
 Yet may some pious rites appease 
 The spirit sadly wandering by.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 351 
 
 Call'd by a friend's or brother's voice, 
 And honour'd with an empty pile, 
 
 Yet may the weary ghost rejoice, 
 And grace our orgies with a smile. 
 
 Though to the funeral urn denied, 
 Thus shall his ashes rest in peace, 
 
 And every sad complaint subside, 
 And every mournful murmur cease. 
 
 FROM SYNESIUS. 
 
 When, triumphant from the abyss, 
 Rose the king of heaven to bliss, 
 Countless nations of the air 
 Heard the sound and trembled there ; 
 And with sacred awe the choirs 
 Immortal veil'd their purer fires. 
 Then the sire of Harmony, 
 Ancient iEther, smiled around, 
 Bidding his seven-toned lyre resound 
 The glad peal of victory. 
 
 FROM FLAMINIUS. 
 
 " Venuste agelle, tuque pulcra villula." 
 
 Dear fields, and thou delightful seat, 
 My honour'd parent's loved retreat ! 
 Again your hearts I shall explore, 
 Again my feet shall wander o'er
 
 352 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The winding paths his taste has plann'd, 
 And forests planted by his hand. 
 Again upon the accustom'd bed 
 My native air shall fan my head, 
 And sleep bring dreams of paradise 
 That will not vanish when I rise. 
 Bright streams of Albula, rejoice, 
 And murmur with a clearer voice ! 
 His much-loved son in joy returns 
 To bless the tribute of your urns, 
 And from his oaten pipe to pour 
 Soft strains along your mazy shore. 
 Pan and the nymphs shall fan the flame, 
 And echo back Necera's name. 
 
 FROM THE ANTHOLOGY LATINA. 
 
 That you in wealth and noble birth excell, 
 Well may you boast, yet others boast as well ; 
 A form, that few can match, surpass'd by none ; 
 Yet, though it shines unrivall'd, not alone : 
 A spotless virtue, which, though none can dare 
 To question, others yet as spotless are ; 
 Beloved of science, and alone beloved ; 
 Yet once her love the Lesbian Sappho proved : 
 But, to be noble, rich, fair, chaste, and wise ; 
 This, honour'd lady, is your single prize.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 353 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Perpetual motion is the law of Heaven ; 
 Fix'd constancy to earth alone is given ; 
 How truly then a heavenly fair is she 
 Who owns no portion of earth's constancy. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Here, Cytherea, Mars thy heavenly charms 
 May safely shield in his encircling arms. 
 Here are cool grots, that Vulcan's power defy, 
 Here shades too deep for Phoebus' searching eye. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Weeping, my Thyrza yields the kiss, 
 
 Which, laughing, she denies. 
 Thus tears give rapture to the bliss 
 
 That in enjoyment dies. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF MONTESQUIEU. 
 
 " Alas," said Chloe, " this inconstant wave 
 Glides from our feet to seek some happier cave." 
 
 Sighing she spoke ; but Corylas replied ; 
 " Nay, Chloe, — let me kiss that glistening eye — 
 'Tis renovation, not inconstancy — 
 
 Pure emblem of our love's unfailing tide." 
 
 VOL. I. A A
 
 354 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Love on ; but let your joy be hidden — 
 To none but Love and Myra shew it: 
 
 Tis not the loving that's forbidden ; 
 But 'tis the letting others know it. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Where'er I go, the fond regret 
 
 I ever find ; 
 And thinking that I should forget 
 
 Does but remind. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Full well I know, no flowers that blow 
 Are equal to your blooming beauty ; 
 
 Yet, haughty fair, your pride forbear ! 
 Old Time to all will do his duty. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 " Parcite dum propero — mergite dum redeo." 
 
 As bold Leander stemm'd the tide 
 With fainter arm, and sinking force, 
 
 " Grant me to reach the shore !" he cried, 
 " I care not for my backward course."
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 355 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Of all the deities that shed 
 
 On earth their influence from above, 
 So much has never yet been said, 
 
 Both good and evil, as of Love. 
 
 Yet, for whatever joy we bless, 
 
 Or for whatever pain we flout him, 
 
 His is the worst unhappiness 
 
 Who has not aught to say about him. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 ON NINON DE l'eNCLOS. 
 
 With a wise parental care, 
 Nature bids Old Time to spare 
 Every charm of that sweet face, 
 Which, lost, she never could replace. 
 
 AN ENIGMA. BY J. J. ROUSSEAU. 
 
 Fair child, of art and nature's union sprung, 
 I give no length of days, yet save from dying, 
 And, by my very truth the truth belying, 
 With every added hour become too young.
 
 356 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF MALHERBE. 
 
 While youth was boiling- in my veins, 
 And warm desire inspired your measures, 
 Sometimes you sigh'd my amorous pains, 
 And sometimes sang my wanton pleasures. 
 But now that slow and silent Time 
 Has stolen the honours of my prime, 
 Say, would it profit my fair fame 
 In drivelling verses to discover 
 The dull amours, and languid flame, 
 Of an old, doting, grey-beard lover ? 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 At ****** College, once of late, 
 
 Was seen the modest face of Truth ; 
 
 The provost met the blushing youth, 
 
 And ask'd, what brought him to their gate. 
 
 " Twas for admission, sir, I came." 
 
 " Your name, young man V — he gave his name. 
 
 " Fly !" cried the doctor in a fury, 
 
 " Fly, or this instant, I assure ye, 
 
 I'll bawl aloud, The church in danger." 
 
 — " You may refuse me," said the stranger, 
 
 " But to your cost you soon may learn, 
 
 That Truth is sure to have his turn. 
 
 Old Father Chronos is my sire, 
 
 And grants whatever I require."
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 3-07 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF BREBEUF. 
 
 Happy Florimel ! who may 
 With a lover toy all day, 
 
 Nor do your husband wrong — 
 Your real face he took to bed ; 
 Those borrow'd charms of white and red 
 
 To you, not him, belong. 
 
 The roses of the bridal morn, 
 
 Though wither'd, wrinkled, pale, and torn, 
 
 True to their lord remain : 
 If for another you display 
 The brighter rose of yesterday, 
 
 What needs the fool complain ? 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 The poets sing — but, 'faith, they're wrong — 
 That Modesty, who shuns the throng, 
 
 Is but a rural grace : 
 Sometimes in town she holds resort ; 
 Whenever Iris goes to court, 
 
 She hides behind her face. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Tell me, fond lover, tell me why 
 For bright Aminta's charms you sigh,
 
 358 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Charms that elude your fond embrace. 
 That dazzling- form for which you bleed, 
 Is but a tombstone, where we read, 
 " Here lies, what was Aminta's face." 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Think not that, when I turn to thee, 
 
 1 fancy Zephyr's balmy breath, 
 Or flowery shades of Arcady — 
 
 No, Chloris, no — I dream of death. 
 For when I see how thin a paste 
 
 Can bury features once so fair, 
 It shews how fast the moments haste, 
 
 When I shall be what now you are. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 " Gods ! what an opening- paradise ! 
 Your beauties are above all price." 
 " Nay, you exceed the bounds of sense : 
 My rouge-box cost but eighteen-pence." 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 As Damon sang, one day, his usual song — 
 " What charms has Myra ! gods, how I adore 'em. 
 A chemist passing by said, " Sir, you're wrong- 
 Thev'll not be Myra's till she 'as paid me for 'em.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 359 
 
 FROM THE "FRERES ENNEMIS" OF RACINE. 
 
 ETEOCLES. 
 
 Yes, Creon, yes ; the destined hour draws near ; 
 My brother in our presence must appear, 
 Urge his demands, his bold advance explain ; 
 — But, mark me well, our meeting 1 will be vain. 
 I know that soul in arrogance elate ; 
 Full well I know its undiminish'd hate, 
 And think no time can ever check its power ; 
 While mine — shall last till life's extremest hour. 
 
 CREON. 
 
 Yet, should he yield an undivided throne, 
 That might abate thy wrath, his pride atone. 
 
 ETEOCLES. 
 
 I know not that my wrath can e'er abate — 
 
 Tis not his pride ; himself — himself I hate. 
 
 The rooted hate we to each other bear 
 
 Is not the hot displeasure of a year ; 
 
 It was born with us — its unnatural rage 
 
 Grew with our growth, and ripen'd with our age. 
 
 From childhood's tenderest years the discord ran — 
 
 Nay, more — we hated ere ourselves began. 
 
 — Ah, fruit accurst of an incestuous bed ! — 
 
 E'en in the common womb where we were bred, 
 
 Instinctive wars anticipated life. 
 
 Our wretched mother felt, and shudder'd at the strife. 
 
 Thou canst relate what feuds our cradle bore ; 
 
 Feuds that will last when life itself is o'er.
 
 360 MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 What can we say, but righteous Heaven decreed 
 
 Such vengeance for our parent's impious deed — 
 
 That black unnatural love is curst by fate 
 
 With its sure offspring-, black unnatural hate ? 
 
 Now, though I dare attend his coining, O 
 
 Believe not that my hatred burns more slow ! 
 
 I loathe, I sicken, as the foe draws nigh ; 
 
 It will, it must, be glaring to his eye. 
 
 I would not he should yield the empire mine ; 
 
 No — I must have him fly, and not resign. 
 
 I cannot hate the man by halves ; much less 
 
 His rage offends me than' his gentleness. 
 
 I wish (that my abhorrence may be free) 
 
 An equal fury in mine enemy. 
 
 My heart cannot betray itself: I sue 
 
 For hate from him, that I may hate him too. 
 
 — But you will see ; his rage is still the same, 
 
 His heart unalter'd, unabased his aim ; 
 
 That he detests me still ; still hopes to reign ; 
 
 That we may force him, but can never gain. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 C. Whittingham, Tooks Court, Chancery Lane.
 
 CORRECTIONS ANO EMENDATIONS. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Page J 12, line 4, read 
 
 " Or oriel bower, or lordly hall." 
 
 P. 141, 1. 4, 
 
 " And fancy guide, and pleasure warm thee." 
 
 P. 251, 1.6, 
 
 " Reverend matron, tell me why." 
 
 P. 259, 1. 9, 
 
 " Help, help, my friends!" 
 
 P. 298,1.28, 
 
 " .Next come the odious children of the ape." 
 
 P. 302, 1. 11, 
 
 " Vet be his merits e'er so great, his honours e'er so high,' 
 
 P. 325, 1. 20, 
 
 " Tho' sprung from famed Hirpinum's ancient breed," 
 P. 333, 1. 11, 
 
 " The marble statue of Domitius load !" 
 P. 334, 1. 2, 
 
 •' Free Rome confess'd the work of Tully's hand," 
 
 P. 335. 1. 12, 
 
 " Than boast of Peleus' blood," &c. 
 
 P. 351,1.21, 
 
 " Again your haunts I shall explore," 
 
 VOL. I. E B
 
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