 | A collection of original poems and translations |  |
163
Translation from Theocritus.
Idyllium XXI.
By a Friend.
Want can edge Wit, and Sciences inspire,
The Tutor of all Arts, if not the Sire:
Known such a Pother in the Brain to keep.
As robs poor Mortals of their balmy Sleep;
Or with short Slumbers if a Moment blest,
Care steps unkindly in, and breaks their Rest.
The Tutor of all Arts, if not the Sire:
Known such a Pother in the Brain to keep.
As robs poor Mortals of their balmy Sleep;
Or with short Slumbers if a Moment blest,
Care steps unkindly in, and breaks their Rest.
Two Fishermen, a Life of Thrift and Pain,
May some how serve the Moral to explain.
In their pleach'd Cabin, on a leafy Bed
Of dry Sea Weeds, and Osiers at their Head,
Supinely stretch'd their aged Limbs, and near
Their Baskets, Tools, and all their Fishing Geer,
Rods, Hooks and Lines, and Instruments, and Hairs,
And Baits of various Sorts, and various Snares,
The Mazy wicker Wheel, the codded Net,
From Yesterday's Employment Green and Wet;
Hard by a crazy Boat; a Mat o'er-spread,
Their Caps and Jackets bolster'd up their Head:
Fishing their Wealth, their Toil, and their Reward,
With neither Spit, nor Pot, nor Dog to guard.
Gallant their Trade, Ambition's utmost end!
Blest, who cou'd find in Poverty a Friend!
No Neighbour to disturb, and Noise was not,
Save the dash'd Tide that play'd against their Cot.
The Moon had scarcely finish'd half her Course,
When our Tars waken'd; such the pleasing Force
And Memory of sweet Fatigue;—and now
They yawn'd and rubb'd the Slumber from their Brow.
When one to t'other Mate began a Song.
Jacob.
May some how serve the Moral to explain.
In their pleach'd Cabin, on a leafy Bed
Of dry Sea Weeds, and Osiers at their Head,
Supinely stretch'd their aged Limbs, and near
Their Baskets, Tools, and all their Fishing Geer,
Rods, Hooks and Lines, and Instruments, and Hairs,
And Baits of various Sorts, and various Snares,
165
From Yesterday's Employment Green and Wet;
Hard by a crazy Boat; a Mat o'er-spread,
Their Caps and Jackets bolster'd up their Head:
Fishing their Wealth, their Toil, and their Reward,
With neither Spit, nor Pot, nor Dog to guard.
Gallant their Trade, Ambition's utmost end!
Blest, who cou'd find in Poverty a Friend!
No Neighbour to disturb, and Noise was not,
Save the dash'd Tide that play'd against their Cot.
The Moon had scarcely finish'd half her Course,
When our Tars waken'd; such the pleasing Force
And Memory of sweet Fatigue;—and now
They yawn'd and rubb'd the Slumber from their Brow.
When one to t'other Mate began a Song.
I'm thinking Peter, what they say is wrong.
That Summer Nights are short because the Day is long.
I dreamt, and dreamt again, since I was born.
I ne'er dreamt thus, and look it is not Morn.
167
'Tis strange, what may this mean? long Nights in June?
Peter.
Jacob, you speak of Summer as in Tau't,
Alas! 'tis not in Summer, but in Thought.
Time goes, as he is bid; nor flies nor reels,
Tho' Trouble oft hang Lead upon his Heels!
Jacob.
An' have you skill a Dream t'interpret right,
I'faith a brave and bonny one to night.
Thou shalt go halves, whatever Fortune brings,
And share my Dreams as well as other Things.
Peter, thour't shrewd and full of wise Remark,
And such can best unriddle what is dark.
Come speak, old Boy, Time hanging on our Hand,
Lets not lie mute like Cockles on the Sand,
Our sedgy Lodging and the tumbling Deep,
Afford but little Appetite to sleep.
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From Edystone's high Tow'r looks clear and bright.
Peter.
Come then, lets have it now, thy Dream reveal
And nothing from thy Brother Tar conceal.
Jacob.
At fade of Sun when to our Rest we crept,
With weary Bones, and soon and soundly slept,
Too well thou know'st how slenderly we eat,
No Danger of a Surfeit from our Meat:
Methought I sat me down with eager Wish,
(Dogs dream of Carrion, and we dream of Fish)
Upon a Rock and kept a sharp look out,
And trail'd my Line, and mov'd my Bait about
When lo! a great, a huge one, over-grown,
Made to the Bait, and greedy gorg'd it down,
By Blood about the Gills I knew him struck,
And straitway found him tugging at my Hook:
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My Heart went pit a pat and with him bounc'd.
My Arm I put forth at its utmost reach,
Fearing the Line might crack upon the stretch,
And now let out, now drew it to the Beach,
'Till Master of his Strength; when to be gone
He struggled; I'll be with you, Friend, anon!
In short I drew a Golden Fish on Shore,
Scales, Fins, and Inside Gold—now frighten'd more;
Lest Some great Admiral his Claim should bring,
Or Officers might sieze it for the King.
My Chap in Hand full gingerly I took,
For fear some Gold might stick about the Hook.
Then thanking Heav'n a lusty Oath I swore,
Never upon the Seas to venture more.
But with my Treasure drink, and roar, and sing,
And live on land as happy as a King.
This wak'd me—but what think you of my Oath?
To be forsworn I am exceeding loath.
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With these strange Fancies prithee, Man, have done,
Art mad? No Oath you swore, and Fish caught none.
Go to that Rock, not sleeping, but awake,
Thy Eyes and Guts will show thee thy Mistake.
Need my Friend Jacob at this Age be told,
That they must starve who only dream of Gold?
| A collection of original poems and translations | |