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The Poetical Works of John Langhorne

... To which are prefixed, Memoirs of the Author by his Son the Rev. J. T. Langhorne ... In Two Volumes
  

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TRANSLATIONS.
  
  
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TRANSLATIONS.


175

THE DEATH OF ADONIS.

FROM THE GREEK OF BION.

1759.
Adonis dead, the muse of woe shall mourn;
Adonis dead, the weeping Loves return.
The Queen of Beauty o'er his tomb shall shed
Her flowing sorrows for Adonis dead;

176

For earth's cold lap her velvet couch forego,
And robes of purple for the weeds of woe.
Adonis dead, the muse of woe shall mourn;
Adonis dead, the weeping Loves return.
Stretch'd on this mountain thy torn lover lies.
Weep, Queen of Beauty! for he bleeds—he dies.

177

Ah! yet behold life's last drops faintly flow,
In streams of purple, o'er those limbs of snow!
From the pale cheek the perish'd roses fly;
And death dims slow the ghastly-gazing eye.
Kiss, kiss those fading lips, ere chill'd in death;
With soothing fondness stay the fleeting breath.
'Tis vain—ah! give the soothing fondness o'er!
Adonis feels the warm salute no more.
Adonis dead, the muse of woe shall mourn;
Adonis dead, the weeping Loves return.
His faithful dogs bewail their master slain,
And mourning dryads pour the plaintive strain.

178

Not the fair youth alone the wound opprest,
The Queen of Beauty bears it in her breast.
Her feet unsandal'd, floating wild her hair,
Her aspect woeful, and her bosom bare,
Distrest, she wanders the wild wastes forlorn,
Her sacred limbs by ruthless brambles torn.
Loud as she grieves, surrounding rocks complain,
And echo thro' the long vales calls her absent swain.
Adonis hears not: life's last drops fall slow,
In streams of purple, down his limbs of snow.
The weeping Cupids round their queen deplore,
And mourn her beauty, and her love no more.
Each rival grace, that glow'd with conscious pride,
Each charm of Venus with Adonis dy'd.
Adonis dead, the vocal hills bemoan,
And hollow groves return the sadd'ning groan.
The swelling floods with sea-born Venus weep,
And roll in mournful murmurs to the deep:

179

In melting tears the mountain-springs comply;
The flowers, low-drooping, blush with grief, and die.
Cythera's groves with strains of sorrow ring;
The dirge funereal her sad cities sing.
Hark! pitying echoes Venus' sighs return;
When Venus sighs, can aught forbear to mourn?
But when she saw her fainting lover lie,
The wide wound gaping on the with'ring thigh;
But streaming when she saw life's purple tide,
Stretch'd her fair arms, with trembling voice she cry'd:

180

Yet stay, lov'd youth! a moment ere we part,
O let me kiss thee!—hold thee to my heart!
A little moment, dear Adonis! stay!
And kiss thy Venus, ere those lips are clay.
Let those dear lips by mine once more be prest,
'Till thy last breath expire into my breast;
Then, when life's ebbing pulse scarce, scarce can move,
I'll catch thy soul, and drink thy dying love.
That last-left pledge shall sooth my tortur'd breast,
When thou art gone—
When, far from me, thy gentle ghost explores
Infernal Pluto's grimly-glooming shores.
Wretch that I am! immortal and divine,
In life imprison'd whom the fates confine.
He comes! receive him to thine iron-arms;
Blest Queen of Death! receive the Prince of Charms.
Far happier thou, to whose wide realms repair
Whatever lovely, and whatever fair.
The smiles of joy, the golden hours are fled:
Grief, only grief, survives Adonis dead.
The loves around in idle sorrows stand,
And the dim torch falls from the vacant hand.
Hence the vain zone! the myrtle's flow'ry pride!
Delight and beauty with Adonis died.
Why didst thou, vent'rous, the wild chace explore,
From his dark lair to rouze the tusky boar?

181

Far other sport might those fair limbs essay,
Than the rude combat, or the savage fray.
Thus Venus griev'd—the Cupids round deplore;
And mourn her beauty, and her love no more.
Now flowing tears in silent grief complain,
Mix with the purple streams, and flood the plain.
Yet not in vain those sacred drops shall flow,
The purple streams in blushing roses glow:
And catching life from ev'ry falling tear,
Their azure heads anemonies shall rear.
But cease in vain to cherish dire despair,
Nor mourn unpitied to the mountain-air;
The last sad office let thy hand supply,
Stretch the stiff limbs, and close the glaring eye.
That form repos'd beneath the bridal vest,
May cheat thy sorrows with the feint of rest.
For lovely smile those lips, tho' void of breath,
And fair those features in the shade of death.
Haste, fill with flowers, with rosy wreathes his bed.
Perish the flowers! the Prince of Beauty's dead.
Round the pale corse each breathing essence strew,
Let weeping myrtles pour their balmy dew.
Perish the balms, unable to restore
Those vital sweets of love that charm no more!
'Tis done.—Behold, with purple robes array'd,
In mournful state the clay-cold limbs are laid.

182

The Loves lament with all the rage of woe,
Stamp on the dart, and break the useless bow.
Officious these the wat'ry urn supply,
Unbind the buskin'd leg, and wash the bleeding thigh.
O'er the pale body those their light wings wave,
As yet, tho' vain, solicitous to save.
All, wild with grief, their hapless queen deplore,
And mourn her beauty, and her love no more.
Dejected Hymen droops his head forlorn,
His torch extinct, and flow'ry tresses torn:
For nuptial airs, and songs of joy, remain
The sad, slow dirge, the sorrow-breathing strain.
Who wou'd not, when Adonis dies, deplore?
Who wou'd not weep when Hymen smiles no more?
The graces mourn the Prince of Beauty slain,
Loud as Dione on her native main:
The fates relenting join the general woe,
And call the lover from the realms below.
Vain, hopeless grief! can living sounds pervade
The dark, dead regions of eternal shade?
Spare, Venus, spare that too luxuriant tear
For the long sorrows of the mournful year.
 

Bion, the pastoral poet, lived in the time of Ptolemy Philadelphus. By the epithet Σμυρναιος, every where applied to him, it is probable that he was born at Smyrna. Moschus confirms this, when he says to the river Meles, which had before wept for Homer,

------Νυν παλιν αλλον
Υιεα δακρυεις------

It is evident, however, that he spent much of his time in Sicily. Moschus, as he tells us, was his scholar; and by him we are informed, that his master was not a poor poet. “Thou hast left to others thy riches,” says he, “but to me thy poetry.” It appears from the same author, that he died by poison. The best edition of his works, is that of Paris, by M.de Longe-Pierre, with a French translation.

Adonis, the favourite of Venus, was the son of Cynaras, king of Cyprus. His chief employment was hunting, though he is represented by Virgil as a shepherd,

“Oves ad flumina pavit Adonis.”

He was killed by a wild boar, if we may believe Propertius, in Cyprus.

------“Percussit Adonim
“Venantem idalio vertice durus Aper.”

The anniversary of his death was celebrated through the whole Pagan world. Aristophanes, in his Comedy of Peace, reckons the feast of Adonis among the chief festivals of the Athenians. The Syrians observed it with all the violence of grief, and the greatest cruelty of self-castigation. It was celebrated at Alexandria in St. Cyril's time; and when Julian the apostate made his entry at Antioch, in the year 362, they were celebrating the feast of Adonis.

The ancients differ greatly in their accounts of this divinity. Athenæus says, that he was the favourite of Bacchus. Plutarch maintains, that he and Bacchus are the same, and that the Jews abstained from swine's flesh because Adonis was killed by a boar. Ausonius, Epig.30, affirms that Bacchus, Osiris, and Adonis, are one and the same.

The lines in the original run thus:

Αγριον αγριον ελκος εχει κατα μηρον Αδονις.
Μειζον δ' α Κυθερεια φερει ποτι καρδιον ελκος.
Κεινον μεν περι παιδα φιλοι κυνες ωρυσαντο,
Και Νυμφαι κλαιουσιν ορειαδες.

The two first of these lines contain a kind of witticism, which it was better to avoid—This author had, however, too much true genius to be fond of these little affected turns of expression, which Musæus and others have been industrious to strike out.

These four verses are transposed in the translation for the sake of the connection.

This image of the sorrow of Venus is very affecting, and is introduced in this place with great beauty and propriety. Indeed, most modern poets seem to have observed it, and have profited by it in their scenes of elegiac woe.

When the poet makes the rivers mourn for Venus, he very properly calls her Αφροδιτα; but this propriety perhaps was merely accidental, as he has given her the same appellation when she wanders the desart.

Ανθεα δ' εξ οδυνας ερυθραινεται.------

Paleness being the known effect of grief, we do not at first sight accept this expression; but when we consider that the first emotions of it are attended with blushes, we are pleased with the observation.

α δε Κυθηρη
Παντας ανα κναμως και ανα πτολιν οικτρον αειδει.

This passage the scholiasts have entirely misunderstood. They make Κυθηρη Venus, for which they have neither any authority, the Doric name she borrows from that island being always Κυθερεια, nor the least probability from the connection.

This proves that the island Cythera was the place where Adonis perished, notwithstanding the opinion of Propertius and others to the contrary.

Numa seems to have borrowed the custom he instituted of mourning a year for the deceased from the Greeks. For though it is said only ten months were set apart, yet ten months were the year of Romulus till regulated by his successor.


185

THE HAPPINESS OF A MODERATE FORTUNE AND MODERATE DESIRES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MR. GRESSET.

WRITTEN IN 1760.
O goddess of the golden mean,
Whom still misjudging folly flies,
Seduc'd by each delusive scene;
Thy only subjects are the wise.
These seek thy paths with nobler aim,
And trace them to the gates of fame.
See foster'd in thy fav'ring shade,
Each tender bard of verse divine!
Who, lur'd by fortune's vain parade,
Had never form'd the tuneful line;
By fortune lur'd or want confin'd,
Whose cold hand chills the genial mind.
In vain you slight the flow'ry crown,
That fame wreathes round the favour'd head!
Whilst laurell'd victory and renown
Their heroes from thy shades have led;
There form'd, from courtly softness free,
By rigid virtue and by thee.

187

By thee were form'd, from cities far,
Fabricius just, Camillus wise,
Those philosophic sons of war,
That from imperial dignities
Returning, plough'd their native plain,
And plac'd their laurels in thy fane.
Thrice happy he, on whose calm breast
The smiles of peaceful wisdom play,
With all thy sober charms possest,
Whose wishes never learnt to stray.
Whom truth, of pleasures pure but grave,
And pensive thoughts from folly save.
Far from the crowd's low-thoughted strife,
From all that bounds fair freedom's aim,
He envies not the pomp of life,
A length of rent-roll, or of name:
For safe he views the vale-grown elm,
While thunder-sounding storms the mountain pine o'erwhelm.
Of censure's frown he feels no dread,
No fear he knows of vulgar eyes,
Whose thought, to nobler objects led,
Far, far o'er their horizon flies:
With Reason's suffrage at his side,
Whose firm heart rests self-satisfied.

189

And while alternate conquest sways
The northern, or the southern shore,
He smiles at Fortune's giddy maze,
And calmly hears the wild storm roar.
Ev'n Nature's groans, unmov'd with fear,
And bursting worlds he'd calmly hear.
Such are the faithful hearts you love,
O Friendship fair, immortal maid;
The few caprice could never move,
The few whom int'rest never sway'd;
Nor shed unseen, with hate refin'd,
The pale cares o'er the gloomy mind.
Soft sleep, that lov'st the peaceful cell,
On these descends thy balmy power;
While no terrific dreams dispel
The slumbers of the sober hour;
Which oft, array'd in darkness drear,
Wake the wild eye of pride to fear.
Content with all a farm would yield,
Thus Sidon's monarch liv'd unknown,
And sigh'd to leave his little field,
For the long glories of a throne—
There once more happy and more free,
Than rank'd with Dido's ancestry.

191

With these pacific virtues blest,
These charms of philosophic ease,
Wrapt in your Richmond's tranquil rest,
You pass, dear C---, your useful days.
Where Thames your silent vallies laves,
Proud of his yet untainted waves.
Should life's more public scenes engage
Your time that thus consistent flows,
And following still these maxims sage
For ever brings the same repose;
Your worth may greater fame procure,
But hope not happiness so pure.

193

TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH.

1765.


195

SONNET CLXXIX.

Tho' nobly born, to humble life resign'd;
The purest heart, the most enlighten'd mind;
A vernal flower that bears the fruits of age!
A chearful spirit, with an aspect sage,—
The power that rules the planetary train
To her has given, nor shall his gifts be vain.
But on her worth, her various praise to dwell,
The truth, the merits of her life to tell,
The Muse herself would own the task too hard,
Too great the labour for the happiest bard.
Dress that derives from native beauty grace,
And love that holds with honesty his place;
Action that speaks—and eyes whose piercing ray
Might kindle darkness, or obscure the day!
[OMITTED]

197

SONNET CCLXXIX.

Fall'n the fair column, blasted is the bay,
That shaded once my solitary shore!
I've lost what hope can never give me more,
Tho' sought from Indus to the closing day.
My twofold treasure death has snatch'd away,
My pride, my pleasure left me to deplore;
What fields far-cultur'd, nor imperial sway,
Nor orient gold, nor jewels can restore.
O destiny severe of human kind!
What portion have we unbedew'd with tears?
The downcast visage, and the pensive mind
Thro' the thin veil of smiling life appears;
And in one moment vanish into wind
The hard-earn'd fruits of long, laborious years.

199

SONNET CCLVII.

Where is that face, whose slightest air could move
My trembling heart, and strike the springs of love?
That Heaven, where two fair stars, with genial ray,
Shed their kind influence on my life's dim way?
Where are that science, sense and worth confest,
That speech by virtue, by the graces drest?
Where are those beauties, where those charms combin'd,
That caus'd this long captivity of mind?
Where the dear shade of all that once was fair,
The source, the solace of each amorous care;
My heart's sole sovereign, Nature's only boast?
—Lost to the world, to me for ever lost!

201

SONNET CCXXXVIII.

Wail'd the sweet warbler to the lonely shade;
Trembled the green leaf to the summer gale;
Fell the fair stream in murmurs down the dale,
Its banks, its flow'ry banks with verdure spread,
Where, by the charm of pensive Fancy led,
All as I fram'd the love-lamenting tale,
Came the dear object whom I still bewail,
Came from the regions of the chearless dead:
And why, she cried, untimely wilt thou die?
Ah why, for pity, shall those mournful tears,
Start in wild sorrow from that languid eye?
Cherish no more those visionary fears,
For me, who range yon light-invested sky!
For me, who triumph in eternal years!

203

MILTON'S ITALIAN POEMS TRANSLATED,

AND ADDRESSED TO A GENTLEMAN OF ITALY.


205

ADDRESS. TO SIGNOR MOZZI, OF MACERATA.

To thee, the child of classic plains,
The happier hand of Nature gave
Each grace of Fancy's finer strains,
Each Muse that mourn'd o'er Maro's grave.
Nor yet the harp that Horace strung
With many a charm of easy art;
Nor yet what sweet Tibullus sung,
When beauty bound him to her heart;
Nor all that gentle Provence knew,
Where each breeze bore a lover's sigh,
When Petrarch's sweet persuasion drew
The tender woe from Laura's eye.
Nor aught that nobler Science seeks,
What truth, what virtue must avoid,
Nor aught the voice of Nature speaks,
To thee unknown, or unenjoy'd?

206

O wise beyond each weaker aim,
That weds the soul to this low sphere,
Fond to indulge the feeble frame,
That holds awhile her prisoner here!
Trust me, my friend, that soul survives,
(If e'er had Muse prophetic skill)
And when the fated hour arrives,
That all her faculties shall fill,
Fit for some nobler frame she flies,
Afar to find a second birth,
And, flourishing in fairer skies,
Forsakes her nursery of earth.
Oh! there, my Mozzi, to behold
The man that mourn'd his country's wrong,
When the poor exile left his fold,
And feebly dragg'd his goat along!
On Plato's hallow'd breast to lean,
And catch that ray of heavenly fire,
Which smooth'd a tyrant's sullen mien,
And bade the cruel thought retire!
Amid those fairy-fields to dwell
Where Tasso's favour'd spirit saw
What numbers none, but his could tell,
What pencils none, but his could draw!

207

And oft at eve, if eve can be
Beneath the source of glory's smile,
To range Elysian groves, and see
That Nightly Visitant—'ere while,
Who, when he left immortal choirs,
To mix with Milton's kindred soul,
The labours of their golden lyres
Would steal, and ‘whisper whence he stole.’
Ausonian bard, from my fond ear
By seas and mountains sever'd long,
If, chance, these humble strains to hear,
You leave your more melodious song,
Whether, adventurous, you explore
The wilds of Apenninus' brow,
Or, musing near Loretto's shore,
Smile piteous on the pilgrim's vow,
The Muse's gentle offering still
Your ear shall win, your love shall woo,
And these spring-flowers of Milton fill
The favour'd vales where first they grew.
For me, depriv'd of all that's dear,
Each fair, fond partner of my life,
Left with a lonely oar to steer,
Thro' the rude storms of mortal strife;—

208

When Care, the felon of my days,
Expands his cold and gloomy wing,
His load when strong affliction lays
On hope, the heart's elastic spring.
For me what solace yet remains,
Save the sweet Muse's tender lyre;
Sooth'd by the magic of her strains,
If, chance, the felon, Care, retire?
Save the sweet Muse's tender lyre,
For me no solace now remains!
Yet shall the felon, Care, retire;
Sooth'd by the magic of her strains.
Blagdon-House, June 26, 1776.
 

Hanc etiam vix Tityre duco. Virg.

Within a few miles of Macerata.


209

SON. I.

[O lady fair, whose honour'd name is borne]

O lady fair, whose honour'd name is borne
By that soft vale where Rhyne so loves to stray,
And sees the tall arch crown his wat'ry way!
Sure, happy he, tho' much the Muse's scorn,
Too dull to die beneath thy beauty's ray,
Who never felt that spirit's charmed sway,
Which gentle smiles, and gentle deeds adorn,
Tho' in those smiles are all love's arrows worn,
Each radiant virtue tho' those deeds display!
Sure, happy he who that sweet voice should hear
Mould the soft speech, or swell the tuneful strain,
And, conscious that his humble vows were vain,
Shut fond Attention from his closed ear;
Who, piteous of himself, should timely part,
Ere love had held long empire in his heart!

210

SON. II.

[As o'er yon wild hill, when the browner light]

As o'er yon wild hill, when the browner light
Of evening falls, the village-maiden hies
To foster some fair plant with kind supplies,
Some stranger plant, that, yet in tender plight,
But feebly buds, ere Spring has open'd quite
The soft affections of serener skies.
So I, with such like gentle thought devise
This stranger tongue to cultivate with care,
All for the sake of lovely lady fair,
And tune my lays in language little try'd
By such as wont to Tamis' banks repair,
Tamis' forsook for Arno's flow'ry side,
So wrought love's will that ever ruleth wide

211

SON. III.

[Charles, must I say, what strange it seems to say]

Charles, must I say, what strange it seems to say,
This rebel heart that Love hath held as naught,
Or, haply, in his cunning mazes caught,
Would laugh, and let his captive steal away;
This simple heart hath now become his prey.
Yet hath no golden tress this lesson taught,
Nor vermeil cheek that shames the rising day:
Oh! no—'twas Beauty's most celestial ray,
With charms divine of sov'reign sweetness fraught!
The noble mien, the soul-dissolving air,
The bright arch bending o'er the lucid eye,
The voice that, breathing melody so rare,
Might lead the toil'd moon from the middle sky!
Charles, when such mischief arm'd this foreign fair,
Small chance had I to hope this simple heart should fly.

212

SON. IV.

[In truth I feel my sun in those fair eyes]

In truth I feel my sun in those fair eyes,
So strongly strike they, like that powerful ray,
Which falls with all the violence of day
On Lybia's sands—and oft, as there, arise
Hot wasting vapours from the source where lies
My secret pain; yet, haply, those may say,
Who talk love's language, these are only sighs,
That the soft ardors of the soul betray.
 

The concetti of the Italian in the conclusion of this Sonnet were so obstinate, that it seemed scarce possible to reduce them into any reputable form of translation. Such trifling liberties as the translator shall appear to have taken with these Poems, must be imputed to a desire of getting over blemishes of the same kind.


213

SON. V.

[An artless youth, who, simple in his love]

An artless youth, who, simple in his love,
Seem'd little hopeful from his heart to fly,
To thee that heart, O lady, nor deny
The votive gift, he brings; since that shall prove
All change and fear and falsity above,
Of manners that to gentle deeds comply,
And courteous will, that never asketh why;
Yet, mild as is the never wrathful dove,
Firmness it hath, and fortitude to bear
The wrecks of nature, or the wrongs of fate,
From envy far, and low-designing care,
And hopes and fears that vulgar minds await,
With the sweet Muse, and sounding lyre elate,
And only weak, when love had entrance there.

214

CANZON.

Gay youths and frolic damsels round me throng,
And smiling say, Why, shepherd, wilt thou write
Thy lays of love adventurous to recite
In unknown numbers and a foreign tongue?
Shepherd, if Hope hath ever wrought thee wrong,
Afar from her and Fancy's fairy light
Retire—So they to sport with me delight;
And other shores, they say, and other streams
Thy presence wait; and sweetest flowers that blow,
Their ripening blooms reserve for thy fair brow,
Where glory soon shall bear her brightest beams;
Thus they, and yet their soothing little seems;
If she, for whom I breathe the tender vow,
Sing these soft lays, and ask the mutual song,
This is thy language, Love, and I to thee belong!
THE END.