The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) excluding Seneca and Manilius Introduced and Annotated by F. J. Van Beeck |
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The Graces, or Hieron |
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 | The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) |  |
The Graces, or Hieron
The Muses, and the Muse-inspired Crew,
This always, as their best-lov'd Theam, pursue
The Honour of immortal Gods to raise,
And crown the Actions of Good Men with Praise.
For Deities the Muses are, and use
(As such) to give to Deities their Dues.
We Poets are but Mortals, sing we then
The Deeds of god-like, tho but mortal men.
This always, as their best-lov'd Theam, pursue
The Honour of immortal Gods to raise,
And crown the Actions of Good Men with Praise.
For Deities the Muses are, and use
(As such) to give to Deities their Dues.
We Poets are but Mortals, sing we then
The Deeds of god-like, tho but mortal men.
None kindly yet our Graces entertain,
But send them unrewarded back again.
This made the Girls, when bare-foot they came home,
Chide me, for idly sending them to roam
On sleeveless Errands: wearied here to stay,
They sigh their melancholy Souls away.
They loath their sordid Lodging, fume and fret
'Cause for their Labours they can nothing get.
For where's the generous Mortal now a-days
That loves to hear a Poet's well-tun'd Lays?
To find one such I know not; some, 'tis true,
Love to be prais'd; none a good Deed will do.
They value not their Honours, as of old
But are meer Slaves to Avarice and Gold.
Just or unjust, all Practices they try
For heaps of Treasure, but will rather dye
Than part with the bare Scrapings of its Rust,
To satisfie a needy Poet's Gust.
If any chance a Boon of them to beg,
They cry, My Knee is nearer than my Leg.
Of what is mine, my self alone shall share,
For their own Poets let the Gods take care.
Who to another's Pray'r now lends an Ear?
Not one. This truth Homer to all makes clear;
The best of Poets! tho the best he be,
He gets not yet one single Cross from me.
But send them unrewarded back again.
This made the Girls, when bare-foot they came home,
Chide me, for idly sending them to roam
On sleeveless Errands: wearied here to stay,
They sigh their melancholy Souls away.
They loath their sordid Lodging, fume and fret
'Cause for their Labours they can nothing get.
For where's the generous Mortal now a-days
That loves to hear a Poet's well-tun'd Lays?
To find one such I know not; some, 'tis true,
Love to be prais'd; none a good Deed will do.
They value not their Honours, as of old
But are meer Slaves to Avarice and Gold.
Just or unjust, all Practices they try
For heaps of Treasure, but will rather dye
Than part with the bare Scrapings of its Rust,
To satisfie a needy Poet's Gust.
If any chance a Boon of them to beg,
They cry, My Knee is nearer than my Leg.
Of what is mine, my self alone shall share,
For their own Poets let the Gods take care.
Who to another's Pray'r now lends an Ear?
Not one. This truth Homer to all makes clear;
108
He gets not yet one single Cross from me.
Mad men! what's Wealth, if still the hoarded Gold
From others under Lock and Key you hold?
None wise thinks this is the true use of it,
Some part for proper Interest we should fit,
And some apply to the Support of Wit:
Some to our near Allies we should allow,
To Strangers some, some to the Gods should vow,
Set some for Hospitality a-part,
To treat our Friends with open hand and heart:
But chiefly to maintain the Muses Quire;
That when to the old Grave thou shalt retire,
Thou may'st among the living gain Renown;
Nor mourn inglorious near sad Acheron,
As some poor Ditcher with hard brawny hand,
That cannot heavy Poverty withstand.
From others under Lock and Key you hold?
None wise thinks this is the true use of it,
Some part for proper Interest we should fit,
And some apply to the Support of Wit:
Some to our near Allies we should allow,
To Strangers some, some to the Gods should vow,
Set some for Hospitality a-part,
To treat our Friends with open hand and heart:
But chiefly to maintain the Muses Quire;
That when to the old Grave thou shalt retire,
Thou may'st among the living gain Renown;
Nor mourn inglorious near sad Acheron,
As some poor Ditcher with hard brawny hand,
That cannot heavy Poverty withstand.
The great Antiochus in plenteous measure
Supply'd his Subjects Wants from his own Treasure,
So King Alevas; many fat Droves went
Into his Stalls, and from his Stalls were sent.
Infinite Flocks large Pastures did afford
To furnish Crion's hospitable Board.
No Pleasure yet from all this Princely store
Could they receive, were their Souls wafted o're
In Charon's Boat to the dark Stygian Shore.
But in obscure Oblivion they would lye,
Depriv'd of all their Superfluity,
'Mongst wretched Souls whom no Time can, nor Age
From their sad Miseries e'er disengage,
If the great Ceian Poet had not been,
And with his Praises made them live again.
Ev'n the swift Coursers at th'Olympick Game
Are registred in the Records of Fame.
Who of the Lycian Princes e're had heard?
Of Cyrnus with his flaxen Hair and Beard,
Or Priam's Sons? forgot they had been long,
Their Wars their Battels, had not Poets sung.
Ulisses, who full six score Months was tost,
And Time and Wealth 'mongst several Nations lost;
Who went to Hell alive, and by a slight
From the fierce Cyclops Cave, made his safe flight,
Had never been remembred but for us,
Nor poor Eumæus or Philætius
His Shepheard, and his Herdsman. Who had known
That to great-Sould Laertes he was Son?
Had not the Ionian Bard his Acts and Name
Inroll'd in the eternal Book of Fame.
Supply'd his Subjects Wants from his own Treasure,
So King Alevas; many fat Droves went
Into his Stalls, and from his Stalls were sent.
Infinite Flocks large Pastures did afford
To furnish Crion's hospitable Board.
No Pleasure yet from all this Princely store
Could they receive, were their Souls wafted o're
In Charon's Boat to the dark Stygian Shore.
But in obscure Oblivion they would lye,
Depriv'd of all their Superfluity,
'Mongst wretched Souls whom no Time can, nor Age
From their sad Miseries e'er disengage,
If the great Ceian Poet had not been,
And with his Praises made them live again.
Ev'n the swift Coursers at th'Olympick Game
Are registred in the Records of Fame.
Who of the Lycian Princes e're had heard?
Of Cyrnus with his flaxen Hair and Beard,
Or Priam's Sons? forgot they had been long,
Their Wars their Battels, had not Poets sung.
Ulisses, who full six score Months was tost,
And Time and Wealth 'mongst several Nations lost;
Who went to Hell alive, and by a slight
From the fierce Cyclops Cave, made his safe flight,
Had never been remembred but for us,
109
His Shepheard, and his Herdsman. Who had known
That to great-Sould Laertes he was Son?
Had not the Ionian Bard his Acts and Name
Inroll'd in the eternal Book of Fame.
Glory on men is by the Muses spread,
The living waste the Treasure of the dead:
But easier 'tis for me to reckon o're
The Waves which the Wind drives against the Shore,
Or wash a Blackmoor white, then e're perswade
To good, a Slave to Avarice once made.
The living waste the Treasure of the dead:
But easier 'tis for me to reckon o're
The Waves which the Wind drives against the Shore,
Or wash a Blackmoor white, then e're perswade
To good, a Slave to Avarice once made.
Then farewel such vile Scoundrels! let them lye
Obscur'd in base Illiberality:
Doating upon their vast, and ill-got store,
Still vex'd with restless care of getting more.
A good man's Love to me's a greater Grace
Than many Mules or Horses for the Race.
Yet willingly a man I'd seek, would make
Me, and the Muses welcome for my sake:
But those sweet Singers, without Jove's Advice,
Will find the way too difficult and nice.
Yet has not Heaven left off to turn its Sphears,
Or ceas'd to measure time by Months and Years;
And happily there will a Man arise
May need our Verse, nor will our Songs despise;
One, that in Actions greater may engage
Than Ajax did, or stout Achilles wage
In Simois Fields; within whose Plains extent
Of Phrygian Ilus stands the Monument.
And now a Punick Race, near the Sun's set
From Libia's Confines Wars dire horrors threat.
Now Syracusians their short Javelins try,
And Wicker Targets to their Arms apply.
And 'mongst them, Hieron, equal to the best
Of ancient Hero's, stands in Armour drest,
A Horsemane shadowing o're his glittering Crest.
Oh mighty Jove! Father of Gods! Heav'ns King!
And thou who from his midwiv'd Brain did'st spring
Honour'd Minerva! and thou Proserpine!
With Mother Ceres! under whose divine
Protection still the mighty City stands,
First rais'd by wealthy Ephyrean hands,
Near Lysimelia's Lake, dread Pow'rs! expell
Sicilia's Foes: That they return'd may tell
Their Wives and Children how their slain friends fell;
And let the Towns by hostile Arms destroy'd,
By former Dwellers now be re-enjoy'd;
That they may dress their fertile Fields and breed
Numberless bleating Flocks therein to feed.
Let their horn'd Heards, call'd home at night from grass,
Urge lazy Travellers to mend their pace.
Let now the fallowed Fields be sown again,
And freshly flourish with fair Crops of Grain,
Whilst labouring Mowers the rich Meadows share,
Shrubs ecchoing with the shrill-voic'd Gras-hopper.
Let ev'n the Name of War in all Mouths cease,
Be no Arts cherish'd but the Arts of Peace:
Let Spiders rusty Arms in Cobwebs dress,
Let Poets Hieron's glorious Acts rehearse,
And spread his Fame throughout the Universe;
'Mongst whom I'll sing for one; tho I not reach
So high as some whom Jove's fair Daughters teach;
Who love Sicilian Arethusa's Name
To chant, and Hieron's valiant Acts proclaim.
Obscur'd in base Illiberality:
Doating upon their vast, and ill-got store,
Still vex'd with restless care of getting more.
A good man's Love to me's a greater Grace
Than many Mules or Horses for the Race.
Yet willingly a man I'd seek, would make
Me, and the Muses welcome for my sake:
But those sweet Singers, without Jove's Advice,
Will find the way too difficult and nice.
Yet has not Heaven left off to turn its Sphears,
Or ceas'd to measure time by Months and Years;
And happily there will a Man arise
May need our Verse, nor will our Songs despise;
One, that in Actions greater may engage
Than Ajax did, or stout Achilles wage
In Simois Fields; within whose Plains extent
Of Phrygian Ilus stands the Monument.
And now a Punick Race, near the Sun's set
From Libia's Confines Wars dire horrors threat.
Now Syracusians their short Javelins try,
And Wicker Targets to their Arms apply.
And 'mongst them, Hieron, equal to the best
Of ancient Hero's, stands in Armour drest,
A Horsemane shadowing o're his glittering Crest.
Oh mighty Jove! Father of Gods! Heav'ns King!
And thou who from his midwiv'd Brain did'st spring
Honour'd Minerva! and thou Proserpine!
With Mother Ceres! under whose divine
Protection still the mighty City stands,
First rais'd by wealthy Ephyrean hands,
Near Lysimelia's Lake, dread Pow'rs! expell
110
Their Wives and Children how their slain friends fell;
And let the Towns by hostile Arms destroy'd,
By former Dwellers now be re-enjoy'd;
That they may dress their fertile Fields and breed
Numberless bleating Flocks therein to feed.
Let their horn'd Heards, call'd home at night from grass,
Urge lazy Travellers to mend their pace.
Let now the fallowed Fields be sown again,
And freshly flourish with fair Crops of Grain,
Whilst labouring Mowers the rich Meadows share,
Shrubs ecchoing with the shrill-voic'd Gras-hopper.
Let ev'n the Name of War in all Mouths cease,
Be no Arts cherish'd but the Arts of Peace:
Let Spiders rusty Arms in Cobwebs dress,
Let Poets Hieron's glorious Acts rehearse,
And spread his Fame throughout the Universe;
'Mongst whom I'll sing for one; tho I not reach
So high as some whom Jove's fair Daughters teach;
Who love Sicilian Arethusa's Name
To chant, and Hieron's valiant Acts proclaim.
| The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) | |