The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden With "A Cypresse Grove": Edited by L. E. Kastner |
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Translation of the death of a sparrow, out of
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The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden | ||
212
xvi. Translation of the death of a sparrow, out of Passerat.
Ah! if yee aske (my friendes) why this salt showerMy blubbered eyes vpon this paper power,
Dead is my sparrow; he whom I did traine,
And turnd so toward, by a cat is slaine.
Skipping no more now shall hee on me attend.
Light displeaseth: would my dayes could end!
Ill heare no more him chirpe forth prettye layes;
Haue I not cause to curse my wretched dayes?
A Dedalus hee was to snatch a flye,
Nor wrath nor wildnesse men in him could spye;
If to assault his taile that any dard,
He pinchd their fingers, and against them warrd:
Then might bee seene the crest shake vp & down,
Which fixed was vpon his litle crown;
Like Hectores, Troyes strong bulwarke, when in ire
Hee ragd to set the Grecian fleet on fire.
But ah, alas! a cat this pray espyes,
Then with a traitrous leap did it surprise.
Vndoubtedlie this bird was killd by treason,
Or otherwise should of that feind had reason.
So Achilles thus by Phrigian heard was slaine,
And stout Camilla fell by Aruns vaine:
So that false horse which Pallas raisd gainst Troy,
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Thou now, whose heart is swelled with this vaine glorye,
Shalt not liue long to count thy honours storye.
If any knowledge bideth after death
In sprites of Birdes whose bodyes haue no breath,
My dearlings sprit sal know in lower place,
The vangeance falling on the cattish race.
For neuer chat nor catling I sal find,
But mawe they shall in Plutos palace blind.
Ye who with panted pens & bodies light
Doe dint the aire, turne hadervart your flight,
To my sad teares apply these notes of yours,
Vnto this Idol bring a Harvest of flours;
Let him accepte from vs, as most deuine,
Sabean incense, milke, food, suetest vine;
And on a stone these vords let some engraue:
The litle Body of a sparrow braue
In a foul gloutonous chats vombe closd remaines,
Vhose ghost now graceth the Elysian plaines.
The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden | ||