 | Odes |  |
ODE I. From the French of Monsieur Fenelon.
I
Mountains , whose stupendous brows,Scale high Heav'n with arduous pride;
And, cover'd with eternal snows,
Prop the domes where Gods abide:
Here, beneath your oaken gloom,
Far above each rolling cloud,
Ev'ry flow'r of vernal bloom
I collect; and hear aloud
Dreadful thunders strike the ground
Below my feet, and all around
A thousand cataracts resound.
2
II
Like to Thracian hills, of oldPil'd on other mountains high,
Whence the giant, vainly bold,
Threaten'd to assail the sky;
From your many heads sublime,
Forming each an ample plain,
Other mighty mountains climb;
Whose ambitious tops sustain
All the fury of the skies,
When impetuous winds arise.
III
Soon as rosy morn is seen,Gilding with her cheerful ray
All those shaggy mountains green,
Tender lambkins rise, and stray,
Bleating o'er the pasture-land:
Shades, the rivulets along,
Waving high with zephyrs bland,
Court the swains and fleecy throng
To soft slumbers on the ground,
While the water murmurs round.
3
IV
But, ah! those savage hills and farms,Where capricious Nature reigns,
Lavish of romantic charms,
How unlike the beauteous plains
Where my gentle river flows;
River, whose smooth surface bright
No rude tempest ever knows;
But mild sun-beams still invite,
Autumn gone, the vernal air,
Winter never howling there.
V
Sweet Solitude! whose peaceful bounds,Sacred to musings, hear alone
The broad cascade with awful sounds
Tumbling, foaming, hurrying on:
Circled by the azure streams
Two umbrageous Isles arise,
Fraught with all that Fancy's dreams
Can pourtray to charm the eyes:
O that my feeble lyre could praise
Your beauties in immortal lays!
4
VI
Zephyr with his balmy breathVisiting our groves again;
Yellow harvests wave beneath,
As he flutters o'er the plain:
Hence Ceres, Goddess of the year,
Bursts our barns with genial food:
Bacchus too, the vintage near,
Swells his clust'ring grapes with blood;
Or down the hills with jolly pride,
Laughing, pours the purple tide.
VII
Where the fields are seen no more,With their golden produce bright,
Mountains rise; and, azur'd o'er
By distance, seem to fly the sight:
Their fantastic forms and rude
Nature's sportive genius own.
By the margin of the flood,
As in a faithful mirror shown,
The resplendent skies appear,
Painted in the crystal clear.
5
VIII
Mix'd with vernal beauties, shineLavish Autumn's grateful boons;
And from the branches of the vine
Hang a thousand gay festoons.
Enamour'd of the flow'ry meads,
That in those isles his streams adorn,
Now the capricious river leads
A sleeping train; then, swiftly borne
Along, and with a brawling sound
The verdant carpets bathes around.
IX
Singing to the bagpipe sweet,And loud hautboy, swains are seen;
While to measur'd sounds their feet
Beat the flow'r-impurpled green:
Birds, with warblings void of art,
Filling the delightful groves,
Banish care from ev'ry heart:
Ye ring-doves, and ye turtle-doves,
True, tender, plaintive! ye alone
Within my woods are heard to moan.
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X
On a bank of fragrance mildWhen my careless limbs I lay,
Soft abstractions, vague and wild,
Steal me from myself away:
Rapt in transports so divine,
Eager I quaff the nectar'd bliss,
While the gazing Gods repine:
Ye court-infesting flatteries!
Ye, like my dreams, fond hopes betray;
As false, but far less sweet than they.
XI
Shelter'd from the gloomy storms,That burst in thunder on the great,
Beneath the shade my foliage forms
I ever find a sure retreat:
There, without the learned line,
In search of truth I muse alone;
Not with pedantic pride to shine,
But make her sacred rules my own:
Then History and Fable, join'd
With ancient Wit, impress my mind.
7
XII
Here I the Grecian sage behold,Of an injurious doom the sport;
Amid his shipwreck calmly bold,
And cautious in the peaceful port:
Triumphant o'er the storms, that shake
Inferior souls, his virtues rise;
And, for his cruel country's sake,
The pleasures of the great despise;
Pleasures how mean, compar'd with those
My cool refreshing shade bestows.
XIII
Sequester'd thus from dread alarms,Ingenious leisure I enjoy;
No horrid sounds of clashing arms
My silence and my bliss annoy:
My heart, enamour'd of my lyre,
No other vain ambition moves,
Than to record with rapt'rous fire
The blessing it so dearly loves:
Hence Fortune, Favour, treach'rous all!
The world to me is but a ball.
8
XIV
Beneath whatever distant sky,In search of fav'rite views, I stray,
No beauties strike my gazing eye
Like those my happy scenes display:
Ah! when the sable hand of Death
My solitary life shall close,
There may I draw my latest breath,
And there my silent dust repose;
There Thyrsis sprinkle o'er my bier
The tribute of a friendly tear!
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