The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus with the Elegies of Tyrtaeus, Translated from the Greek into English Verse. To which are Added, Dissertations and Notes. By the Rev. Richard Polwhele |
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| XVI. | IDYLLIUM the SIXTEENTH. The GRACES, |
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 | The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus |  |
127
IDYLLIUM the SIXTEENTH. The GRACES,
OR HIERO.
While each fair Action of celestial Birth,
Jove's Race record, and Bards the Deeds of Earth;
The deathless Muse and mortal Poet share
Touch'd with a kindred Flame, a kindred Care.
Yet who, beneath the circling Sun, repays
With grateful Presents, our applausive Lays?
Lo! from the proud unhospitable Dome
Our Panegyrics haste ungifted home;
Indignant, of the cold Regard complain,
Sigh o'er our Song, and mourn the Journey vain!
Then recommitted to their lonely Seat,
An empty Chest's chill comfortless Retreat;
Timid and pinch'd by Penury, they freeze,
And press with fainting Heads their shivering Knees.
For ah! who values now the plauding Lyre?
Who feels the Patriot's—who the Hero's Fire?
Alas! no Chieftains, as in antient Days,
Love the fair Meed, and tremble for our Praise!
All—all the sordid Ministers of Gain,
Heed not the hollow Tinkling of our Strain;
Wiser to solid Heaps of Silver trust,
Nor ev'n impart an Atom of its Rust.
‘Led by an Alien's Dreams let others roam—
‘I care not—Charity begins at home!
(With Hand upon his Breast, the Miser cries)
‘Money is all I want—Be others wise!
‘My humble Prayer is only to be rich—
‘Heaven will provide the Poet with a Nich:
‘Besides, had I a Wish for sterling Sense,
‘I've Homer; and can read, without Expence.’
Say, Wretch, what profits all thy precious Ore?
Say, what avails, to heap the shining Store?
Not thus the Wise their prosper'd Riches use,
The Friends and Benefactors of the Muse:
While Prudence for themselves reserves a Part,
Their Kindred praise the hospitable Heart;
Each Fellow-being owns their generous Cares,
And every God his due Libation shares.
'Tis theirs to welcome every coming Guest;
And blessing each departing Friend, be blest:
But chiefly theirs, to mark with high Regard
The Muse's laurel'd Priest—the holy Bard!
Lest in the Grave their unsung Glory fade,
And their cold Moan pierce Acheron's dreary Shade;
As the poor Laborer, who, with Portion scant,
Laments his long hereditary Want.
What tho' Aleua's and the Syrian's Domes
Saw crouding Menials fill their festal Rooms;
What tho' o'er Scopas' Fields rich Plenty flow'd,
And Herds innumerous thro' his Vallies low'd;
What tho' the bountiful Creondæ drove
Full many a beauteous Flock, thro' many a Grove;
Yet when expiring Life could charm no more,
And their sad Spirits sought the Stygian Shore;
Their Grandeur vanish'd with their vital Breath,
And Riches could not follow them, in Death!
Lo these, for many a rolling Age, had lain
In blank Oblivion, with the vulgar Train,
Had not their Bard, the mighty Ceian, strung
His many-chorded Harp, and sweetly sung
In various Tones, each high-resounded Name,
And giv'n to long Posterity their Fame!
Jove's Race record, and Bards the Deeds of Earth;
The deathless Muse and mortal Poet share
Touch'd with a kindred Flame, a kindred Care.
Yet who, beneath the circling Sun, repays
With grateful Presents, our applausive Lays?
Lo! from the proud unhospitable Dome
Our Panegyrics haste ungifted home;
Indignant, of the cold Regard complain,
Sigh o'er our Song, and mourn the Journey vain!
Then recommitted to their lonely Seat,
An empty Chest's chill comfortless Retreat;
Timid and pinch'd by Penury, they freeze,
And press with fainting Heads their shivering Knees.
128
Who feels the Patriot's—who the Hero's Fire?
Alas! no Chieftains, as in antient Days,
Love the fair Meed, and tremble for our Praise!
All—all the sordid Ministers of Gain,
Heed not the hollow Tinkling of our Strain;
Wiser to solid Heaps of Silver trust,
Nor ev'n impart an Atom of its Rust.
‘Led by an Alien's Dreams let others roam—
‘I care not—Charity begins at home!
(With Hand upon his Breast, the Miser cries)
‘Money is all I want—Be others wise!
‘My humble Prayer is only to be rich—
‘Heaven will provide the Poet with a Nich:
‘Besides, had I a Wish for sterling Sense,
‘I've Homer; and can read, without Expence.’
Say, Wretch, what profits all thy precious Ore?
Say, what avails, to heap the shining Store?
Not thus the Wise their prosper'd Riches use,
The Friends and Benefactors of the Muse:
129
Their Kindred praise the hospitable Heart;
Each Fellow-being owns their generous Cares,
And every God his due Libation shares.
'Tis theirs to welcome every coming Guest;
And blessing each departing Friend, be blest:
But chiefly theirs, to mark with high Regard
The Muse's laurel'd Priest—the holy Bard!
Lest in the Grave their unsung Glory fade,
And their cold Moan pierce Acheron's dreary Shade;
As the poor Laborer, who, with Portion scant,
Laments his long hereditary Want.
What tho' Aleua's and the Syrian's Domes
Saw crouding Menials fill their festal Rooms;
What tho' o'er Scopas' Fields rich Plenty flow'd,
And Herds innumerous thro' his Vallies low'd;
What tho' the bountiful Creondæ drove
Full many a beauteous Flock, thro' many a Grove;
Yet when expiring Life could charm no more,
And their sad Spirits sought the Stygian Shore;
130
And Riches could not follow them, in Death!
Lo these, for many a rolling Age, had lain
In blank Oblivion, with the vulgar Train,
Had not their Bard, the mighty Ceian, strung
His many-chorded Harp, and sweetly sung
In various Tones, each high-resounded Name,
And giv'n to long Posterity their Fame!
Verse can alone the Steed with Glory grace,
Whose Wreaths announce the Triumph of the Race!
Could Lycia's Chiefs, or Cycnus' changing Hues,
Or Ilion live, with no recording Muse?
Not ev'n Ulysses, who thro' Dangers ran
For ten long Years, in all the Haunts of Man;
Who ev'n descended to the Depths of Hell,
And fled, unmangled, from the Cyclops' Cell—
Not he had liv'd, but sunk, Oblivion's Prey,
Had no kind Poet stream'd the unfading Ray!
Thus too Philœtius had in Silence past,
And nameless old Laertes breath'd his last;
And good Eumæus fed his Herds in vain,
But for Ionia's Life-inspiring Strain.
Whose Wreaths announce the Triumph of the Race!
Could Lycia's Chiefs, or Cycnus' changing Hues,
Or Ilion live, with no recording Muse?
Not ev'n Ulysses, who thro' Dangers ran
For ten long Years, in all the Haunts of Man;
Who ev'n descended to the Depths of Hell,
And fled, unmangled, from the Cyclops' Cell—
Not he had liv'd, but sunk, Oblivion's Prey,
Had no kind Poet stream'd the unfading Ray!
Thus too Philœtius had in Silence past,
And nameless old Laertes breath'd his last;
131
But for Ionia's Life-inspiring Strain.
Lo, while the Spirit of the Spendthrift Heir
Wings the rich Stores amass'd by brooding Care—
While the dead Miser's scattering Treasures fly;
THE MUSE FORBIDS THE GENEROUS MAN TO DIE!
Yet 'tis, at least, as easy an Essay,
From the red Brick to wash its Hues away;
Or, when the stormy Billows beat the Shore,
To mark each Wave, and count their Number o'er;
As from his Wealth the Miser's Soul to part,
Or bid one liberal Thought expand his Heart.
Peace to all such! Be theirs the countless Store,
And still augmenting may they covet more!
For me, be ever my first Wish, to prove
Above the Price of Gold, Esteem and Love.
For me, who now pursue the Paths of Fame,
Tho' rough those Paths, and dim the Muse's Flame,
Unless a Patron's kind Regard inspire,
And Jove's auspicious Omens fan the Fire.
Wings the rich Stores amass'd by brooding Care—
While the dead Miser's scattering Treasures fly;
THE MUSE FORBIDS THE GENEROUS MAN TO DIE!
Yet 'tis, at least, as easy an Essay,
From the red Brick to wash its Hues away;
Or, when the stormy Billows beat the Shore,
To mark each Wave, and count their Number o'er;
As from his Wealth the Miser's Soul to part,
Or bid one liberal Thought expand his Heart.
Peace to all such! Be theirs the countless Store,
And still augmenting may they covet more!
For me, be ever my first Wish, to prove
Above the Price of Gold, Esteem and Love.
For me, who now pursue the Paths of Fame,
Tho' rough those Paths, and dim the Muse's Flame,
Unless a Patron's kind Regard inspire,
And Jove's auspicious Omens fan the Fire.
132
The unwearied Sun still rolls from Year to Year;
Still shall proud Victors in the Race appear!
Great as the stern Pelides' Self, erelong
A Man shall shine, the Subject of my Song;
Or in the Might of towering Ajax rise,
Who fought on Simois' Plain, where Ilus lies.
Ev'n now where Libya views the westering Day,
Phœnician Armies shrink, in pale Dismay!
Ev'n now the Syracusians take the Field,
Couch the strong Spear, and bend the sallow Shield;
While, as the Chiefs by hymning Poets blest,
Great Hiero comes, and nods the horse-hair Crest.
Still shall proud Victors in the Race appear!
Great as the stern Pelides' Self, erelong
A Man shall shine, the Subject of my Song;
Or in the Might of towering Ajax rise,
Who fought on Simois' Plain, where Ilus lies.
Ev'n now where Libya views the westering Day,
Phœnician Armies shrink, in pale Dismay!
Ev'n now the Syracusians take the Field,
Couch the strong Spear, and bend the sallow Shield;
While, as the Chiefs by hymning Poets blest,
Great Hiero comes, and nods the horse-hair Crest.
Hear O Minerva, and paternal Jove,
And ye, who honour with your guardian Love
The Walls of wealthy Syracuse, that throw
Their awful Shadows on the Lake below—
Hear!—and may Destiny o'erwhelming sweep
Our Foes away, far distant thro' the Deep!—
Far from this Isle, a scatter'd few, to tell
Widows and Orphan Sons, what Myriads fell!
And may the Cities they had raz'd, arise
Girt with new Strength, and tower into Skies—
Each old Inhabitant his own resume,
And all the rural Scene its former Bloom!—
There thousand Flocks thro' rich Luxuriance play,
And Droves of Oxen croud the Travellers Way!
There may the Fallow-fields be plough'd again,
And sown with each Variety of Grain;
What Time shrill-singing, from the topmost Trees
Each sunburnt Swain the perch'd Cicada sees.
Then Spider's Webs shall fill the rusted Shield,
And every Soldier shall forget the Field—
Thee, Hiero, while exulting Bards proclaim,
And spread, beyond the Scythian Sea, thy Name;
Bid ev'n Semiramis' high Towers attend,
And her bitumen'd Walls in Terror bend!
‘Weak are my Powers’—yet many a Bard shall join,
Who string their Harps belov'd by all the Nine,
To hymn Sicilia's Tribes—her Arethuse,
And Hiero, blazon'd by the warlike Muse!
And ye, who honour with your guardian Love
The Walls of wealthy Syracuse, that throw
Their awful Shadows on the Lake below—
Hear!—and may Destiny o'erwhelming sweep
Our Foes away, far distant thro' the Deep!—
Far from this Isle, a scatter'd few, to tell
Widows and Orphan Sons, what Myriads fell!
133
Girt with new Strength, and tower into Skies—
Each old Inhabitant his own resume,
And all the rural Scene its former Bloom!—
There thousand Flocks thro' rich Luxuriance play,
And Droves of Oxen croud the Travellers Way!
There may the Fallow-fields be plough'd again,
And sown with each Variety of Grain;
What Time shrill-singing, from the topmost Trees
Each sunburnt Swain the perch'd Cicada sees.
Then Spider's Webs shall fill the rusted Shield,
And every Soldier shall forget the Field—
Thee, Hiero, while exulting Bards proclaim,
And spread, beyond the Scythian Sea, thy Name;
Bid ev'n Semiramis' high Towers attend,
And her bitumen'd Walls in Terror bend!
‘Weak are my Powers’—yet many a Bard shall join,
Who string their Harps belov'd by all the Nine,
To hymn Sicilia's Tribes—her Arethuse,
And Hiero, blazon'd by the warlike Muse!
134
Ye Sister-Maids who love the Stream, that flows
Where your first Votary's breathing Incense rose;
Here tho' in still Suspense may sleep my Lyre,
Should no kind Whisper wake the trembling Wire—
Yet, if a Patron's Voice invite the Muse,
Shall my dull Ear the soothing Tone refuse?
No—in your Bowers for ever may I dwell,
And thus the heavy Gloom of Life dispel!
Unblest by you, what Charm can Being give?
With you, ye Sister-Maids, be mine to live!
Where your first Votary's breathing Incense rose;
Here tho' in still Suspense may sleep my Lyre,
Should no kind Whisper wake the trembling Wire—
Yet, if a Patron's Voice invite the Muse,
Shall my dull Ear the soothing Tone refuse?
No—in your Bowers for ever may I dwell,
And thus the heavy Gloom of Life dispel!
Unblest by you, what Charm can Being give?
With you, ye Sister-Maids, be mine to live!
| The Idyllia, Epigrams, and Fragments, of Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus | |