The Poems of John Philips edited by M. G. Lloyd Thomas |
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| TRANSLATIONS OF THE ODE, AD HENRICUM ST. JOHN |
| I. |
| II. |
 | The Poems of John Philips |  |
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TRANSLATIONS OF THE ODE, AD HENRICUM ST. JOHN
I. From the Works of 1714
The Foregoing ODE Imitated in English
Kind Friend, with whom I Sip, and Smoke,
The Finest Tea, and Best Virginia,
Nor part until my Dose I've took
Of Hermitage, or Mont' Alcinoe.
The Finest Tea, and Best Virginia,
Nor part until my Dose I've took
Of Hermitage, or Mont' Alcinoe.
What shall an empty Poet do,
To pay the mighty Debt he owes you?
I'll tap my Muse, and if but low
She runs, I'll tilt her too to please you.
To pay the mighty Debt he owes you?
I'll tap my Muse, and if but low
She runs, I'll tilt her too to please you.
Old Horace, with a willing Mind,
Assisting Muse, and Wind, and Weather,
All but uncommon Flights disdain'd,
And dip'd his fancy'd wings in Æther.
Assisting Muse, and Wind, and Weather,
All but uncommon Flights disdain'd,
And dip'd his fancy'd wings in Æther.
To joy his Patron's luscious Hours,
He sung of Wenching, and its fuel;
How helpful Venus in Amours,
And her ungracious Rogue, how cruel,
He sung of Wenching, and its fuel;
How helpful Venus in Amours,
And her ungracious Rogue, how cruel,
And yet the Bard with richer wine
His jolly whistle never whetted,
That from some empty'd Flasks of thine
I still am plentifully treated.
His jolly whistle never whetted,
That from some empty'd Flasks of thine
I still am plentifully treated.
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Nor did his Tuscan Knight e'er bear
To all the Arts a Friendship truer,
Nor was more bountiful or dear
To him, than to your ODIST you are.
To all the Arts a Friendship truer,
Nor was more bountiful or dear
To him, than to your ODIST you are.
O thou Top-Wit of all the Town,
The Court, and eke the House of Commons,
Whom all the Muses hang upon,
As thou'rt a constant Hanger-on 'em.
The Court, and eke the House of Commons,
Whom all the Muses hang upon,
As thou'rt a constant Hanger-on 'em.
How do's my Marrow melt away,
And every lazy Vein beat quicker,
While gratefully in Memory
I bear thy Friendship, and thy Liquor.
And every lazy Vein beat quicker,
While gratefully in Memory
I bear thy Friendship, and thy Liquor.
But, O! my Spirits are too weak
To make the great Returns intended;
I cough, as if my Heart would break,
And wheeze like one that's broken-winded.
To make the great Returns intended;
I cough, as if my Heart would break,
And wheeze like one that's broken-winded.
My fatal Hour is plainly come,
For want of like refreshing Doses,
Which only you can save me from,
And heap new Favours on the Muses.
For want of like refreshing Doses,
Which only you can save me from,
And heap new Favours on the Muses.
'Tis done, and now I live again,
And feel returning Spirits moving:
Ever may you and Spouse remain
In Health, and she be ever loving.
And feel returning Spirits moving:
Ever may you and Spouse remain
In Health, and she be ever loving.
Renew your Vigour spent in Care,
With the soft Balm of her Caresses,
In all the Home Affairs of War,
And what's of greatest weight, her Grace's.
With the soft Balm of her Caresses,
In all the Home Affairs of War,
And what's of greatest weight, her Grace's.
114
Fanny, the Pride of Marriage Sheets,
Beyond Compare whose Hair and Neck are,
Whose Lips breath everlasting Sweets,
And every Grace assist to deck her.
Beyond Compare whose Hair and Neck are,
Whose Lips breath everlasting Sweets,
And every Grace assist to deck her.
In such a Lot, how happy thou!
While, wretch, for Molly I am wasting;
Whose starry Eyes have shot me through,
And harder Heart still keeps me fasting.
While, wretch, for Molly I am wasting;
Whose starry Eyes have shot me through,
And harder Heart still keeps me fasting.
No other Girl will now go down,
The Tyrant's sent all else a packing;
My Heart is hers, and hers alone,
And yet within an Ace of breaking.
The Tyrant's sent all else a packing;
My Heart is hers, and hers alone,
And yet within an Ace of breaking.
Hopeless, and restless, Night and Day,
I mourn the Rigour of the Gipsy;
Nor can your wine, and Pipes, for me
Procure a Nap, tho' ne'er so tipsy.
I mourn the Rigour of the Gipsy;
Nor can your wine, and Pipes, for me
Procure a Nap, tho' ne'er so tipsy.
II. From the Works of 1720
AN ODE TO HENRY ST. JOHN, ESQ;
I
O thou from INDIA's fruitful Soil,That dost that soveraign Herb prepare;
In whose rich Fumes I lose the Toil
Of Life, and every anxious Care:
While from the fragrant lighted Bole,
I suck new Life into my Soul:
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II
Thou, only Thou! art kind to viewThe parching Flames that I sustain;
Which with cool Draughts Thy Casks subdue
And wash away the thirsty Pain,
With Wines, whose Strength and Taste we prize,
From Latian Suns and nearer Skies.
III
Oh! say, to bless thy pious Love,What Vows, what Offerings shall I bring?
Since I can spare, and Thou approve
No other Gift, O hear me sing!
In Numbers Phœbus does inspire,
That strings for Thee the charming Lyre.
IV
Aloft, above the liquid Sky,I stretch my Wing, and fain would go
Where Rome's sweet Swan did whilom fly;
And soaring, left the Clouds below;
The Muse invoking to indue
With Strength, his Pinions, as he flew.
V
Whether he sings great Beauty's Praise,Loves gentle Pain, or tender Woes;
Or chuse, the Subject of his Lays,
The blushing Grape, or blooming Rose;
Or near cool CYRRHA's rocky Springs
MÆCENAS listens while he sings.
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VI
Yet He, no nobler Draught could boast,His Muse, or Musick to inspire,
Tho' all FALERNUM's purple Coast,
Flow'd in each Glass, to lend Him Fire:
And on his Tables us'd to smile
The Vintage of rich CHIO's Isle.
VII
MÆCENAS deign'd to hear his Songs,His Muse extoll'd, his Voice approv'd;
To Thee a fairer Fame belongs,
At once more pleasing, more belov'd.
Oh! teach my Heart to bound its Flame,
As I record thy Love and Fame.
VIII
Teach me the Passion to restrain,As I my grateful Homage bring;
And last in PHŒBUS' humble Train
The first and brightest Genius sing.
The Muses Favourite pleas'd to live,
Paying them back the Fame they give.
IX
But oh! as greatly I aspireTo tell my Love, to speak thy Praise,
Boasting no more its sprightly Fire,
My Bosom heaves, my Voice decays;
With Pain I touch the mournful String
And pant and languish as I sing.
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X
Faint Nature now demands that BreathThat feebly strives thy Worth to sing,
And would be hush'd and lost in Death
Did not thy Care kind Succours bring;
Thy pitying Cask my Soul sustain,
And call new Life in every Vein.
XI
The Sober Glass I now behold,Thy Health, with fair FRANCISCA's joyn,
Wishing her Cheeks may long unfold
Such Beauties, and be ever Thine;
No Chance the tender Joy remove,
While She can please, and Thou canst love.
XII
Thus while by You the British armsTriumphs and distant Fame pursue;
The yielding Fair resigns her Charms,
And gives you leave to conquer too;
Her snowy Neck, Her Breast, Her Eyes,
And all the Nymph becomes your Prize.
XIII
What comely Grace, what Beauty smiles,Upon her Lips what Sweetness dwells?
Not Love himself so oft beguiles,
Nor VENUS self so much excells;
What different Fates our Passions share,
While you enjoy, and I despair?
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XIV
MARIA's Form as I survey,Her Smiles a thousand Wounds impart;
Each Feature steals my Soul away,
Each Glance deprives me of my Heart.
And chasing thence each other Fair,
Leaves her own Image only, there.
XV
Altho' my anxious Breast despair,And sighing, hopes no kind return;
Yet for the lov'd relentless Fair
By Night I wake, by Day I burn.
Nor can thy Gifts soft Sleep supply,
Or sooth my Pains, or close my Eye.
| The Poems of John Philips | |