Olor Iscanus A Collection of some Select Poems, and Translations, Formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan Silurist. Published by a Friend |
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Tristium Lib. 5o. Eleg. 3a.
To his fellow-Poets at Rome, upon the
birth-day of Bacchus. |
 | Olor Iscanus |  |
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Tristium Lib. 5o. Eleg. 3a. To his fellow-Poets at Rome, upon the birth-day of Bacchus.
This is the day (blith god of Sack) which wee
If I mistake not, Consecrate to thee,
When the soft Rose wee marry to the Bayes,
And warm'd with thy own wine reherse thy praise,
'Mongst whom (while to thy Poet fate gave way)
I have been held no small part of the day,
But now, dull'd with the Cold Bears frozen seat,
Sarmatia holds me; and the warlike Gete.
My former life, unlike to this my last,
With Romes best wits of thy full Cup did tast,
Who since have seen the savage Pontick band,
And all the Choler of the Sea and Land:
Whether sad Chance, or heav'n hath this design'd,
And at my birth some fatall Planet shin'd,
Of right thou shouldst the Sisters knots undoe,
And free thy Votarie and Pact too.
Or are you God, (like us) in such a state
As cannot alter the decrees of fate?
I know with much adoe thou didst obtain
Thy Jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain
Was no whit lesse, so wandring thou didst run
To the Getes too, and Snow-weeping Strymon,
With Persia, Ganges, and what ever streams
The thirsty Moore drinks in the mid-day beames.
But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee
(To make all sure) doubled thy miserie,
My suffrings too are many: if it be
Held safe for me to boast adversitie,
Nor was't a Common blow, but from above
Like his, that died for Imitating Jove,
Which when thou heardst, a ruine so divine
And Mother-like, should make thee pitty mine.
And on this day, which Poets unto thee
Crown with full bowles, ask, What's become of me?
If I mistake not, Consecrate to thee,
When the soft Rose wee marry to the Bayes,
And warm'd with thy own wine reherse thy praise,
'Mongst whom (while to thy Poet fate gave way)
I have been held no small part of the day,
But now, dull'd with the Cold Bears frozen seat,
Sarmatia holds me; and the warlike Gete.
My former life, unlike to this my last,
With Romes best wits of thy full Cup did tast,
Who since have seen the savage Pontick band,
And all the Choler of the Sea and Land:
Whether sad Chance, or heav'n hath this design'd,
And at my birth some fatall Planet shin'd,
Of right thou shouldst the Sisters knots undoe,
And free thy Votarie and Pact too.
Or are you God, (like us) in such a state
As cannot alter the decrees of fate?
I know with much adoe thou didst obtain
Thy Jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain
Was no whit lesse, so wandring thou didst run
To the Getes too, and Snow-weeping Strymon,
With Persia, Ganges, and what ever streams
The thirsty Moore drinks in the mid-day beames.
But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee
(To make all sure) doubled thy miserie,
My suffrings too are many: if it be
Held safe for me to boast adversitie,
Nor was't a Common blow, but from above
Like his, that died for Imitating Jove,
Which when thou heardst, a ruine so divine
And Mother-like, should make thee pitty mine.
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Crown with full bowles, ask, What's become of me?
Help bucksome God then! so may thy lov'd Vine
Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with Wine
Load the kind Elm, and so thy Orgyes be
With priests lowd showtes, and Satyrs kept to thee
So may in death Lycurgus ne'r be blest,
Nor Pentheus wandring ghost find any rest!
And so for ever bright (thy Chiefe desires,)
May thy Wifes Crown outshine the lesser fires!
If but now, mindfull of my love to thee,
Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.
You Gods have Commerce with your selves, try then
If Cæsar will restore me Rome agen.
Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with Wine
Load the kind Elm, and so thy Orgyes be
With priests lowd showtes, and Satyrs kept to thee
So may in death Lycurgus ne'r be blest,
Nor Pentheus wandring ghost find any rest!
And so for ever bright (thy Chiefe desires,)
May thy Wifes Crown outshine the lesser fires!
If but now, mindfull of my love to thee,
Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.
You Gods have Commerce with your selves, try then
If Cæsar will restore me Rome agen.
And you my trusty friends (the Jollie Crew
Of careless Poets!) when, without me, you
Perform this dayes glad Myst'ries, let it be
Your first Appeal unto his Deitie,
And let one of you (touch'd with my sad name)
Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same,
And (sighing) to the rest this thought Commend,
O! Where is Ovid now our banish'd friend?
This doe, if in your brests I e'r deserv'd
So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd,
Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow
Condemning others, did my selfe allow.
And may your happier wits grow lowd with fame
As you (my best of friends!) preserve my name.
Of careless Poets!) when, without me, you
Perform this dayes glad Myst'ries, let it be
Your first Appeal unto his Deitie,
And let one of you (touch'd with my sad name)
Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same,
And (sighing) to the rest this thought Commend,
O! Where is Ovid now our banish'd friend?
This doe, if in your brests I e'r deserv'd
So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd,
Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow
Condemning others, did my selfe allow.
And may your happier wits grow lowd with fame
As you (my best of friends!) preserve my name.
| Olor Iscanus | |