Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Not, India, that thy fruitful bosom glows
With all, that of the golden Sun hath birth;
Not that the Ganges to thy Ocean flows,
Whose praises have been heard through all the Earth;
No, India, not for these, though gifts they are
Of peerless beauty, and of sacred praise,
But for what else God hath assign'd thy share,
Thy happiness above the skies I raise:
That Thou, beneath Britannia's gentle sway,
In honour, and in peace art still upheld,
Whose noblest sons thy equal balance weigh,
And wield the sword, by which thy foes are quell'd;
And chief, that now the World's fair light is gone,
To rule thee, and to make thy bliss his own!

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4. A SONG, TO AMORET.

1

Let not a tear thus stain thy cheek,
Which glows a purple flame;
Nor yet thy swelling bosom speak
This mighty lust of fame:
Methinks 'tis lovely woman's due,
To triumph in our glory too.

2

Did not the soft Egyptian queen,
Whom great Antonius lov'd,
Appear at Actium's fatal scene,
In peril, unreprov'd?
If, trembling, then from fate she fled,
Love o'er her fault his veil hath shed.

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3

Did not the blooming Sappho oft
Awake the chorded shell,
Her murm'ring bliss, and passion soft,
To other maids to tell?
And bade them fly disastrous love,
Or Phaon's scorn themselves might prove?

4

These two mix'd glory with their love,
As of a soul divine,
All other women far above,
Till thou on Earth did'st shine;
In whose soft beauty we discern,
How Venus makes Olympus burn.

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5

Then let not silver tears upon
Thy panting bosom fall;
Nor grief disturb that marble throne,
My life, my world, my all!
As thou from guilty thoughts art free,
So pure be thy felicity!

6

Let rosy garlands crown thy head,
Thy cup the ruby wine;
The passion, that thy lips have fed,
Shall make my love divine:
Thou in this happy verse shalt be
The darling of futurity!

This line occurs in the “Song to Ælla,” one of the productions of the great, but unfortunate Chatterton; the only real Poet, who has appeared in England, since the days of Shakspeare and Milton.

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6. A DIALOGUE OF TWO SHEPHERDS.

THENOT.

1

The softer season now will soon be here,
To clothe the world in purple, and in green,
And Philomel, that rules the warbling year,
Her gentle descants will ensue between
The flow'ring orange, and the myrtle green;
And Phœbus, who too much his course delays,
Enthron'd in joy, will lengthen out the days.

2

Then shall we lie amid' the meads again,
And crown our locks with garlands of the Spring,
And from our slender pipes breathe out a strain
Of joyous welcome, and sweet revelling,
To which the shepherds, and their nymphs will sing;
And ever, 'gainst the warm and Summer hours,
The laughing Pan we will y-bind in flow'rs.

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3

For now the bitter cold of Winter past,
The lovely mavis singeth on the bough;
And I, who thought the cruel time surpast
All other ills, which I have felt till now,
To Pan, and Flora will renew my vow;
And eke to Phœbus, that with golden ray,
O happy light! doth over-crown the day.

4

Methinks, already on my reeds I blow,
And charm the World with glory of my Song
For Winter now is gone, and with it woe,
And sparkling Summer will be here erelong;
Then cast I here away the Winter's wrong:
This day I call the fairest of the year,
That shows the soft delights of Spring are near.

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MENALCAS.

5

I know not, Thenot, sith thy speech is so,
Or happy, or unhappy thee to call;
But youthful minds cannot endure with woe;
But of soft joy, and hope are prodigal,
Whereby into more grief oftimes they fall:
But let not the like case in thee be found,
Who shall, I think, in happiness abound.

6

But, foolish boy, is Summer then so near?
The grass-hoppers are wiser far than thee;
And Philomel can better count the year,
That finds it not of promise yet so free,
But foreign to our meads she still would be;
All prodigal delights, before their time,
Must perish in dark Winter's baleful clime.

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7

The wint'ry wind, which is but sleeping now,
Shall blow throughout the reeds, of which you boast,
Ere from the river's brink, to breathe your vow,
You gather the soft stalks, that to their cost
Must to and fro in the wild storm be tost:
But not the less their musick will be sweet,
When with the Spring, and with your voice they meet.

8

I think you see the Summer in the face
Of that divine, and merest paragon,
That violet, to whom all plants are base,
That star, that is but joy to look upon,
With whom you would be in the world alone;
And fain would die, so in her sight to die,
And count it gain, and cheap felicity!

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9

O happy shepherd, yet unhappy too!
'Twas here you saw the lovely Summer smile;
Forgetful, that the coming days renew
The wasteful Winter, while you so beguile
Yourself with love, and softly smooth your style;
Wherein in silver songs we soon shall hear
Of whate'er crowns the forehead of the year.

10

The fault of age, which age may yet amend;
But wot you well, that women's hearts are light,
And purpose frail; when fairest they intend,
They oft are seen to wander from the right;
So folly, and so fraud their leaves may blight:
But some as lovely, and as fix'd in soul,
As that fair star, that lights the Northern pole.

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11

And so may she, to whom your vows are due,
With fair requital those sweet vows repay;
But lose not soul and honour in her view,
Nor think within her arms to make delay
Of time and season, that for none can stay:
For lovers, that the Summer antedate,
Will scant endure, when those soft days abate.

12

So said the Shepherd to his younger peer,
The while to pasture for the night he drove,
In meads, where his soft charge no winds may fear:
But Thenot, whose delight was all in love,
Found little in his counsel to approve:
But, weaving a soft crown of myrtle green,
He bound in thought the forehead of his queen.

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8. A SONG.

[When Chloris, like an Angel, walks]

When Chloris, like an Angel, walks,
Amid' the golden Spring,
And, fairer than the blooming flow'rs,
Of Nature's sweets will sing,
How can I choose, but prize the hours,
That fly on Rapture's wing?

Her voice is like the Morning light,
That from the amber gate,
On sea and earth divinely plays,
Which yet no clouds abate:
All Nature on her charms may gaze,
And find in her a mate.

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And can it be so soft a form,
A voice so clear, and sweet,
Which e'en the Angels can beguile,
With love shall never meet?
Though Chloris know it not the while,
Love reigns in her complete.

With ev'ry sweetest flow'r, that blows,
For flow'rs to her are dear,
Her marble forehead we will crown,
Till she outshine the year:
Let Jove come from Olympus down,
And view our beauty here!

This Song has been beautifully set to musick by Mr. Stevens of the Charterhouse; a Gentleman, who, for his genius and science, is fit to have been the companion of Milton and Shakspeare, if they had lived in this time.

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10. A SONG.

[Within this soft, and silver bow'r]

Within this soft, and silver bow'r
Her gentle feet have stray'd;
Her voice made bright the Morning hour,
And sooth'd the Ev'ning shade:
'Twas here I felt love's fatal pow'r,
In blooming looks convey'd.

With wonder now I gaze around,
And see no signs of woe:
The Sun, in beauteous splendour crown'd,
Makes all the landscape glow;
And joys the race of men surround,
That no soft passion know.

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Yes, it is even sweet to me,
But sweet with thought of her;
In ev'ry plant, and shady tree
Her image I prefer;
And here, in love, and nature free,
With Daphne still confer.

Lend me, O dove, thy fleetest wings,
Thy fleetest wings awhile,
That I may fly, where Summer springs,
And banquet on her smile:
I would not ask the bliss of kings,
Crown'd with her love the while!

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11. [There is no weed, that on the paling grows]

There is no weed, that on the paling grows,
No herb, that in the shallow ditch is seen,
But is in beauty equal to the rose,
And like in heirship of this pendant scene:
So finds the philosophick mind, that plays
With Nature, as the searcher of her book;
Why then let Zeno, to adorn his days,
For mallows, and the wanton ivies look:
But I, that am a lover, will not fail
To search amid' the softest beds of all,
For roses of the prime, and lilies pale,
To crown the brows of Nature's prodigal:
Whose cheek, in glory and delight, appears
More beautiful, than are the vernal years!

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13. [Since all I see, (and all I see is fair,)]

Since all I see, (and all I see is fair,)
But springs from Jove, who is the source of all,
And so of kindred with Olympus' air,
But images what thence divine we call;
No fear there is, that, when my thread is spun,
My golden thread, for love appoints it so,
My heart with this soft passion should have done,
Which ending, in Olympus would be woe:
For since this beauty is but type of thee,
And Nature but the mirror of thy love,
Which oft the Angels may descend to see,
And find well pictur'd from their bliss above,
Thy memory in that immortal air,
All sights will keep, as in it's budding, fair.

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14. [Thy love is to my heart a boundless store]

Thy love is to my heart a boundless store
Of soft affection, which to love is near,
And those, that I have never priz'd before,
For thy dear sake are now to me most dear;
Thy kindred, and thy friends, whose matchless worth,
As lost in darkness, were to me unknown,
By pure example light my path on Earth,
And by their virtues my defects are shown:
Then may I so improve the boundless grace,
Which from the marble air to me is sent,
That in my soul pure honour may have place,
And virtue her neglected stores augment:
For perfect in thyself thou art I see,
But yet more perfect in thy company.

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15. [Say nothing, that, to save thy lightest pain]

Say nothing, that, to save thy lightest pain,
I willingly from out this World would pass;
Though there indeed my loss must be my gain,
That for a while must dwell from thee, alas!
No, even as thyself thy friends are dear;
Whatever thou hast lov'd from youth till now,
Is lov'd of me, and in affection near,
And for their safety I record my vow:
Never believe, that I am dull at heart,
When hazard shall be made of thee, and thine,
But with a perfect soul, and not in part,
I freely will this balmy air resign:
O, think but this, whatever love has dar'd,
For thy sweet sake shall of my love be heir'd.

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16. [Who best can paint th' enamell'd robe of Spring]

Who best can paint th' enamell'd robe of Spring,
With flow'rets, and fair blossoms well bedight,
Who best can her melodious accents sing,
With which she greets the soft return of light,
Who best can bid the quaking tempest rage,
And make th' imperial arch of Heav'n to groan,
Breed warfare with the winds, and finely wage
Great strife with Neptune on his rocky throne,
Or lose us in those sad, and mournful days,
With which pale Autumn crowns the misty year,
Shall bear the prize, and in his true essays
A Poet in our awful eyes appear;
For whom let wine his mortal woes beguile,
Gold, praise, and Woman's thrice-endearing smile.

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17. TO THE VERY NOBLE, AND ACCOMPLISHED, THE LORD HOLLAND:

WITH MY BOOK OF POEMS.

What here, imperfect, I have writ,
But with no vulgar pen,
To noble Holland I commit,
Deep read in books, and men:

His favour may protect the lines,
Which, if his judgment sway'd,
Compar'd with those more pure designs,
Must in the contrast fade.

140

Yet, though we judge the racer's speed
From his more weak essays,
We think not in the tender mead
To match his after days.

Perhaps, if time and grace be spar'd,
We may prepare a flight,
Wherein the heights of glory dar'd,
And the o'er-fabled Night,

From out those adamantine gates,
And plains of penal woe,
We may, returning to our mates,
In blameless triumph go.

I think, my Lord, to build a verse,
Which, if our language hold,
Shall through the sides of darkness pierce,
And to all time unfold,

141

In language of thrice-golden praise,
And ever-dear delight,
What lives amid' th' Olympick ways,
And in the shoreless Night:

With all, that of more ancient date,
Of fables sweet and pure,
Great bards have wisely snatch'd from fate,
And bade 'till now endure:

Not leaving, with thy wisest aid,
O sweet Philosophy,
To have that hidden wealth display'd,
Which doth in Nature lie:

So may I earn, (be Envy far!)
The long-disused crown,
The milk-white steeds, and golden car;
The while, with Musick's sown

142

We softly to the temples move,
And, where the altars flame,
Lay down the trophies of our love,
And the bright spoils of fame.

Meantime, my Lord, let your great mind,
Where all the Virtues reign,
And all the Graces, thrice-refin'd,
A perfect rule maintain,

Who are unto the Muses dear,
And crown'd their eldest Son,
Protect me with your favour clear,
Till this soft spoil be won.

Whene'er upon the golden arch
I see the Morning speed,
I long to be upon my march
To that immortal meed:

143

For many times that golden God
Must fill the World with light,
And many times must quit his road,
For the dark waves of Night,

Ere yet to that disused shore
My guided feet shall come,
And find great Nature's hidden store,
Laid in her sacred home.

Within that garden if I find
One flow'r more pure and fair,
More sweet and fragrant to the mind,
Than flow'rs in Enna are;

Some true importing words I'll breathe,
And the sweet treasure pull,
To place it in your golden wreath,
Of life and beauty full.

144

Nor You, my Lord, the gift disdain:
Great Manso not disdain'd
The service of that learned swain,
Who of Godfredo feign'd

The mighty wars, the blameless thought,
The sweet parental care,
And Salem's sacred story wrought,
Which time shall ever spare:

Nor yet did wise Hippolito
That Tuscan artist scorn,
Who drew the fair Angelica
In colours, like the Morn,

And painted, O divinest thought!
That vast heroick mind,
By love to fatal madness brought,
And sunk in ruin blind!

145

O boundless Poet, can it be,
That, in these later times,
We may attain the majesty
Of your immortal rhymes?

The favour of the great and wise
Can lift the purest mind
To turn it's coursers to the skies,
And leave the World behind!

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18. [How often have I wish'd, (a faulty vow!)]

How often have I wish'd, (a faulty vow!)
That thou amidst the burning battle shone,
And with a thousand foes, (more faulty now!)
Wert greatly match'd, and like to be undone:
Then have I thought, and gloried in the thought,
My soul should for thy dearest friendship flow,
And they, that with fell rage were overwrought
To ruin thee, should but effect my woe:
Which greatly on their heads thou wouldst revenge,
And make the stars acquainted with thine ire,
As clear Achilles did his peer avenge,
Whose love in Hector's life had full desire:
O blissful thought! first for thy sake to die,
And then thy grief in my behalf to spy!

147

19. [O Sidney, that of Angels' race wert born]

O Sidney, that of Angels' race wert born,
Whose virtues in thy ancestors not slept,
What goodness did thy fleeting life adorn!
How swiftly was the World of thee bereft!
I question, was it writ, when first the light
Of Nature on thy infant eyes was shed,
That thou, of this sweet World the dear delight,
So swiftly from our sorrow should be fled?
Or, say, did chance, the while thy Angel slept,
On thy unarmed life too soon invade?
Whatever was thy fate, this truth is kept,
Thy soul was to the crystal air convey'd,
And there amid' angelick love delights
In all pure thoughts, and all immortal sights!

148

20. [Who have been great, in this our mortal clime]

Who have been great, in this our mortal clime,
Begirt around by the loud-voiced sea?
Why sacred Chaucer, that, in homely rhyme,
First held the lamp up to Posterity:
Then Spenser, in whose rich Virgilian strain
The moral Virtues are disposed fair:
Then glorious Milton, who surpass'd his reign
In depths of Hell, and in th' Olympick air:
But, most of all, and to our wond'ring eyes,
And to the eyes of all futurity,
Great Shakspeare stands, that was by Nature wise,
And made a spoil of his posterity;
When he was born, great Nature did her most,
And when he died, the World's delight was lost!

149

21. [O spring, accept me to thy arms again]

O spring, accept me to thy arms again,
And lull me with the musick of your voice;
For am I not by heirship of your train,
And charter'd in your glory to rejoice?
Thou lovest me, and I in thee delight,
Nor can we part, till Nature give the word;
Then love with weeping thoughts, and aching sight,
Unto another Spring shall be deferr'd:
But let not thought of this supposed change
The pleasure of our soft embraces mar;
Throughout the golden meadows we will range,
And dance with Love beneath our joyous star:
Since leaves are in the bud, and daisies peep,
To Night and Winter banish woe and sleep!

150

22. TO A LADY:

WITH MY BOOK OF POEMS.

If I possess'd great Tasso's wit,
Or Ariosto's fire,
To build some glorious labour up,
Till the whole World expire;

Fair Lady, to your sweet regard
That toil I would present,
And underneath your favour shield
My happy argument.

151

But since the Muses are forbade
In this time-lessen'd age;
Since we with the too-blameful world
A hopeless war must wage:

In this, that we will not endure
T' impair divinest thought,
Or liken to the common use
What is for Angels wrought:

As some have done, who yet, perhaps,
Had no fine wings for flight,
But rather chose in grief to dwell
With the unconscious Night:

Fair Lady, as it is, accept
The boon which I present;
And think, how much your smiles may do
To lift my argument!

152

If you upon this labour smile,
Believe it, ere the year
Shall through the various signs have run,
That do adorn our sphere,

Some beauteous work may yet be penn'd,
In which the World may see
Some kindred to the crystal air,
And immortality!

If this be so, (and may it not?)
When Nature shall approve,
When Phœbus shall confess our lines,
And all the Muses love,

I ask not of supremest kings
The soft, th' unfading wreath,
But to your pure and gentle ear
This faultless pray'r I breathe:

153

May you, whose approbation fann'd
The weak, th' aspiring flame,
And bade me without fear to walk
Up the steep path of fame,

Present me, as a perfect gift,
With that unfading leaf,
That laurel, which no flame can harm
With the pale hue of grief;

My head shall then, like Virgil's, shine,
And all my thoughts shall be
Still dwelling by the sacred gates
Of immortality!

And as the bird, that haunts the Spring,
Is faithful in her train,
And with a tender voice repeats
Her praises in his strain;

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Your faultless praises I will sing,
Till the whole World shall smile;
Your praise my first delight shall be,
My latest songs beguile!

The Spring but yields an early wreath,
Which Phœbus must approve;
Nor can, like golden Summer, be
As prodigal in love;

But, what she yields, she freely yields
With an unfeigned heart;
And truth to tribute, in delight,
It's value must impart.

If, then, my strain may faulty be,
Yet is the gift sincere;
If you approve, my verse shall shine,
Like the unbounded Year,

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In which the tender Spring shall breathe,
The golden Summer burn,
The joyous Autumn yield it's fruit,
Till time to Winter turn:

To Winter, in whose noble rage
Th' unblamed year shall quake;
And Nature, to her utmost bounds,
The sacred fault partake:

My verse shall be a perfect globe,
Like that, which Jove dismiss'd
To wander in the peerless air,
As He, and Nature wist:

This shall be so, if you approve;
Then, O fair Lady, deign
To pardon, what is here in fault,
And to accept my strain!

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23. [O Hyacynth, thy fate and mine are one]

O Hyacynth, thy fate and mine are one;
I read upon thy silver leaves my woe;
We both are of that deity undone,
Who with his darts did strike the Python low:
The loss of this immortal love we share,
Yet happy is thy fate, compar'd with mine,
For thou of balmy Nature art the heir,
And drinkest with delight his beams divine:
But Phœbus from my face averts his look,
And leaves me in the desart without guide;
The argument, that must fulfill my book,
Is sorrow, and all loss, that can betide:
Unless indeed he shall restore his ray,
And turn my dark December into May.

This, and the five following Sonnets, were the beginning of several copies of Verses, which I designed to write under the title of “Aurora.”

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24. [I think you are the prophet of the Spring]

I think you are the prophet of the Spring,
Or Spring doth on your gentle feet attend,
For ever do I note the Zephyr's wing,
When towards me your precious feet you bend;
The air is then impregnate with delight,
And Nature does her brightest sweets display,
But, ah! too soon you wander from my sight,
And sorrow must usurp upon my day:
And yet the thought, that I have seen you then,
Supports me, till the morrow shall appear,
Again to seek you in the walks of men,
That are the star and Phœbus of my sphere:
So do I live in all vicissitude
Of joy and grief, of evil and of good.

158

25. [When first I saw you, O untold delight!]

When first I saw you, O untold delight!
After long absence, and reluctant woe,
A thousand Angels burst upon my sight,
And all my heart did with soft passion glow:
The Muses then, that to my thoughts were strange,
Return'd to me, with verdant laurel crown'd,
And in the front of that auspicious change,
Myself unto their suit again I bound:
Nor could the Moon her sheeny chariot guide
Up that steep path, that to Olympus leads,
Ere I your beauteous form had signified
In pastoral delights, and shepherds' weeds:
So swift is love, that, in it's true delight,
The Moon it passes, and the journal light!

159

26. [I call'd you, and too well these names you grace]

I call'd you, and too well these names you grace,
The World's divine, and merest paragon,
The violet, to whom all plants are base,
The star, that is but joy to look upon:
And are you not without compare the gem,
That kings would in their throned pride possess,
To sparkle in the blazing diadem,
And the fair eyes of their true subjects bless?
Your title, and your style must be as great,
As is th' excelling beauty of your cheek,
Nor can I without fault one word abate,
Since all is less, than can your glory speak;
For let Olympus with your face compare,
And men shall own, that you are only fair.

160

27. [An Angel since you are, an Angel's praise]

An Angel since you are, an Angel's praise
The true historian must to you return,
Or shame it were to these excelling days,
That aftertimes should not our virtue learn:
And yet to find a Poet, who may speak
The fair delight, and glory of your form,
Or carve the modest marble of your cheek,
And not the beauty of your looks deform,
May be as hard, as in this lunar World
To light upon a mind, proportion'd true,
Whereas we all are in confusion hurl'd,
And nothing is divine, save only you:
And yet I think your beauty may inspire
For this great work the glory and the fire!

161

28. [When I have thought, what virtues make a man]

When I have thought, what virtues make a man,
That may survive unto immortal time,
And then, how doubtful the brave issue ran,
Since accident unsettles still our clime,
I straight resolv'd, and the resolve had kept,
The toil of these diviner days to lose,
But then your image, like an Angel, stept,
To aid my virtue in her path to chuse;
It painted all the World, like Summer, fair,
And favour in the smiling eyes of men,
And spoke me, with a honied tongue, the heir
Of Glory, such as sanction'd Homer's pen:
Your golden forehead, and your marble cheek,
If then I err, in my behalf must speak.

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30. ON THE MANY ATTACKS MADE BY LATE WRITERS ON THE MEMORY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

O thou, the darling of the Muse,
Since senseless men thy wit abuse,
And all thy matchless fame refuse:

Though thou, indeed, art far above
The utmost fancy of our love;
And yet the shepherds sing of Jove:

I cannot tell what fate may be
To those, that thus would injure thee,
And spoil of immortality!

165

Since pity cannot touch their hearts,
Or Love with his thrice-golden darts,
Or fancy any joy imparts:

Since all heroick virtue seems
To them, but as mere empty dreams,
Or fuel for a Poet's themes:

They are by senseless nature so
Defended, that they cannot know
The poignant destiny of woe.

The spearman cannot wound a shade,
Nor marble by sharp thought be sway'd,
And yet their fortune may be weigh'd:

O Sidney, this shall be their doom,
The pale oblivion shall o'ercome
Their malice, and their faults consume!

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31. FROM ANACREON.

Θελω λεγειν ατρειδας.

I wish to tell th' Atrides' fame,
And shake the strings with Cadmus' name:
But my weak lyre, in ev'ry tone,
Will breathe of love, and love alone!

I broke the chords, and put on new,
And fram'd th' enfeebled lyre anew:
And then great Hercules I sung,
But, while his toils employ'd my tongue,
With love the murm'ring musick rung!

167

Then farewell, Heroes; it is vain!
Love must in all my numbers reign:
Since my soft lyre, in ev'ry tone,
Will speak of love, and love alone!

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33. FROM THE ITALIAN OF DIANA SAMPIERI, OF OTRICOLI. ON A LADY BATHING.

Apollo in the West had slant his beam,
And Zephyrus with murmurs kiss'd the flood,
I saw Diana by a silver stream,
That like a pillar of fair marble stood:
That instant all my firm resolves were gone,
And fine engagement with my heart I made,
For all my former follies to atone,
By perfect love of that thrice-golden maid:
Round whom the Graces unalloyed play,
The Muses with divine ambition sing,
Much like the balmy offspring of the May,
A fit companion for Olympus' king:
Jove, from this valley now avert thy look,
Or Leda here shall 'tice thee to this brook!

The subject of this Sonnet was probably taken from one of the innumerable pictures, with which Italy then abounded; or it may have been written for a lover, who had seen his mistress in this interesting situation.

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35. A SONG.

[My dove upon her silver wings]

My dove upon her silver wings
Has softly flown away,
Perhaps to taste the crystal springs,
Or 'mid the clouds to stray:
In vain the Morn her splendour flings,
Since my dear bird's away!

Tell me, ye Nymphs, that haunt the flood,
Or in the hills delight,
If this enchanter of the wood
Has wander'd in your sight;
The fairest bird of Venus' brood,
Whose wings with love are bright?

173

But, ah! I see her pinions play
Amid' the golden sky:
In haste she fondly speeds away,
To my soft arms to fly:
Come to my heart, O dove! and stay,
For fear the hawk be nigh.

With purple wine, and manchets rare,
I will your bill delight;
And, then, some wanton song prepare,
To make your slumbers light:
But leave, O bird, the crystal air,
And the empyreal light!

174

36. THE FIRST PSALM.

Blessed is he, who hath not been
In counsel with th' ungodly men,
Nor in the sinners' way is seen,
Nor sitteth in the scorner's seat:
But in the law of the Most High
His delight and joy doth lie,
And in his law unceasingly
He day and night doth meditate.

He shall be planted, like a tree,
By streams of water pleasantly,
Which in it's season fruit doth see;
His leaf also shall not decay,
And that, whichever he shall do,
Shall live: th' ungodly are not so,
But like the chaff, which to and fro
The wind hath scattered away.

175

Therefore th' ungodly shall not stand
I' th' judgment, or the Sinners' band
I' th' congregation of the just:
For the Lord knoweth well the pure,
But th' ungodly shall not endure,
Their way shall perish in the dust.

176

37. THE INDUCTION TO MY POEM, WHICH I DESIGNED TO WRITE; ENTITLED, “ENGLAND TRIUMPHANT.”

1

The gloomy Winter now has roll'd away,
The caverns of the North again are clos'd,
The murmuring waters now in joyance play,
And golden Spring is to the Earth disclos'd.

2

Hail, sleet, and tempest, a thrice-fatal host,
With which the wracked World has long been torn,
And pitchy darkness, in which Earth was lost,
Have been by the great hand of God forborn.

177

3

No more the thunder's awful voice is heard,
With which the monsters of the deep were quell'd,
That voice to wanton pleasure is transferr'd,
And leaves are by the Zephyrs gently swell'd.

4

Or, if it thunders, to the shepherd's ear
That voice is but a prophet's voice of love:
It mazes with delight th' astonied deer,
And checks not in her flight th' unruffled dove.

5

The shepherd to the sounding thunder turns,
And in his mental eye beholds the Sun,
That will relume the Earth, and well discerns,
The World will not be by this flame undone.

6

Yes, Spring is here in her translucent robe,
Of bright vermilion, and love-sorting green;
And all the flowers, that adorn the globe,
With glory in her golden crown are seen.

178

7

The Nightingale, amid' the beechen woods,
Awakes the Morn, and sings the day to rest;
In air, in earth, and in the silver floods
One passion, that is love, inflames the breast.

8

Alas! Althea, shall I wake my song
To other themes, than to thy matchless praise?
Shall I not by some fountain lie along,
And warble with delight my perfect lays,

9

In which the beauty of thine eyes is seen,
The soft perfection of thy form display'd;
That even Venus shall confess thee Queen,
And Love shall dance amid' the joyous shade?

10

Not now with the soft lute, and melting lyre,
Your tender praises I design to sing:
Your boundless beauty shall great voice inspire,
Till all the quaking shores with joy shall ring.

179

11

Yet love shall be my theme; and love of thee,
For love of thee, Althea, is my life:
Bereft of that, I take in simple fee
Heart-ending sorrow, and undoing strife.

12

Then England is my praise, that matchless fair,
Which bred thee, as the fairest meed of all:
To her alone your beauty I compare,
Which holds th' adoring World in awful thrall.

13

The loveliest Woman, and the fairest Realm,
That ever shone upon the crystal day!
O, let the World with myrtles overwhelm,
And laurels, the soft glory of your sway!

14

Your sway, which undivided shall remain,
And uncompar'd, until the end of time;
Great harm it were, if in my faulted strain
Division should impair your truth sublime.

180

15

O England, and Althea, matchless names!
Althea, and fair England is my style:
One serves for both; and to their gentle claims
The World shall yield, and all Creation smile!

16

Then think not, when I praise the beauteous land,
That gave thee, O Althea, to the World,
I fall from thy sweet praise; or understand
My mind, as to the depth of darkness hurl'd.

17

In praising England, I Althea praise:
Althea's praise to England is renown:
They both are like; and in their perfect ways
From the same tree may pluck the blameless crown.

18

Then let the banners kiss the vernal air,
Then let the peerless pipes a measure play:
The temple is in sight; and we prepare
Upon the altar our soft crown to lay!

181

38. THE PRAISE OF PINDAR, AND THEN OF AUGUSTUS:

TRANSLATED FROM HORACE.

Who thinks to soar to Pindar's height,
And play in Glory's sacred flame,
Like Icarus, but wings his flight,
To give the shining sea a name!

As streams, by mighty tempests swoln,
Deep from the mountains pour along,
So Pindar burns, and rushes down
With vast unnavigable Song:

182

Whether his Dithyrambiques roll
In tides, that he alone can reach,
Brave numbers, that disdain controul,
And untaught majesty of speech:

Whether to Gods, or Kings he wake,
The blood of Gods, his sacred shell,
Who with just death did overtake
The Centaurs, and Chimæra quell:

Whether from Elis home he lead
Those, whom the palm to Heav'n doth raise,
Or give the wrestler, or the steed
More, than a thousand statues, praise:

Or softly mourn th' ill-fated youth
To his sad bride, in songs, that save
His golden manners, spotless truth,
And valour from th' unpitying grave:

183

Exalted gales, Antonius, bear
The Theban Swan, whene'er his flight
Soars in the cloudy deep of air:
But I with feeble wing, and light,

As bees, that gather the sweet thyme,
Moist Tiber's banks, and groves among,
Unfit to those great heights to climb,
But murmur in laborious song.

The praise of Cæsar, conqu'ring chief,
Shall ask thy deep, thy sounding quill,
When comely with the well-earn'd leaf,
He rides along the sacred hill:

Than whom a gift, more great or good,
The Gods have not bestow'd on men;
Nor shall, though, in Time's upward flood,
The golden Seasons smile again!

184

The festal days thou shalt recite,
The publick games, and peaceful bar,
Since Heav'n, indulgent, to our sight,
Restores Augustus from the War.

Then will I sing, if voice of mine
May aid in that sublime acclaim,
And, O day, happy and divine!
That brings back Cæsar, I'll exclaim:

Then, as in pomp he moves along,
O triumph! triumph! we will sing,
All Rome; and, in a general throng,
Sweet incense to the temples bring.

Thy mighty herds shall largely bleed,
For me a steerling shall suffice,
That, wanton in the spacious mead,
Proves for my vows a sacrifice:

185

His beaming front, like Luna, glows,
When the third night in Heav'n she reigns;
And dazzling, as the Winter snows,
One mark, but yellow what remains.

40. ON THE QUEEN'S PASSING THROUGH OTRICOLI, ON HER WAY TO ROME.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF DIANA SAMPIERI.

As bright, and pure, as is the Polar star,
You come, Christina, from your Northern throne,
T' instruct our minds, how fair the Angels are,
With what sweet art you make their worth your own!
Within our ancient walls we hail a Queen,
Whose progress to the Papal chair displays
A crowned Saint, a sight too seldom seen!
A miracle, to bless these later days!
Dominion lost shall be immortal bliss:
A dateless Crown, amid' the starry sky!
Fair Saint, the hem of thy pure robe I kiss,
And wish thee all divine felicity:
Thy faith is pure, ah! would that all were so,
Whose steps have err'd unto eternal woe!

Otricoli is a little town, built on a mountain, somewhat above a mile distant from Tiber, which flows from these hills. The house of Diana may yet be seen there.

187

41. ON THE QUEEN CHRISTINA'S ENTRANCE INTO OTRICOLI; DECEMBER 18, 1654.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF DIANA SAMPIERI.

The musquetry, that makes our ramparts quail,
Gives welcome to thy faultless steps, O Queen!
That come with truth from out those mountains pale,
Where the grim wolf amid' the rocks is seen:
The moony wolf, that with especial love
Doth utter his observant voice by night,
Whilst the huge bear upon the ice doth move,
And roar unto the mainland with delight;
Vast monsters, that make pale the lunar beam,
And quail the air with their concurrent woe,
Still flying from Aurora's early gleam,
That only Night and shady horrour know:
From those great scenes of Winter and dismay,
We bid you welcome to our softer day!

188

42. ON BEHOLDING MR. DENT'S LIBRARY, IN HERTFORD-STREET.

Whate'er of Greece or Rome remains,
Within this beauteous room is plac'd;
And here, to crown thy learned pains,
All, that our later age has grac'd:

Here Tully might the World explore,
And Virgil think whole years away;
Here Bacon weigh the ancient lore,
And Milton frame th' Heroick lay.

The Genius of this hallow'd Room,
Unseen, to guard it's stores is found,
With softer light dispell the gloom,
And breathe a sacred stillness round!

189

O Dent, to grace thy learned care,
An image of the World, assign'd,
Is here, like Jove's bright circle fair,
And polish'd, as it's owner's mind!

190

43. [This Morn, I quit the shore of Ignorance]

This Morn, I quit the shore of Ignorance,
And hoist my sail for the enlarged World;
I mean through Night and tempest to advance,
Wherever Jove hath his bright thunder hurl'd:
Through all the yawning horrours of the deep,
To pleasant shores, and to those caves of woe,
Where the fell monsters their observance keep,
And men the ends of their sad journey know:
To pleasant shores, where lovely laws abound,
And Virtue her fair banner sets on high,
The new Utopia, if that e'er was found,
Or that divine-imagin'd Arcady:
Farewell, my Friends! with gallant winds I go,
To die in passage, or more life to know!

191

44. [To make requital of the passed time]

To make requital of the passed time,
And purge my sprite from blemish and delay,
I fortify myself with acts sublime,
Which yet in meditation have but sway:
Already I my future years have liv'd,
And phantasy hath made a mate of toil,
But when I shall the Season have surviv'd,
My soul may be ungifted of her spoil:
For, be it as it may, this life is lost
In purpose, till the purpos'd end be past;
By accident or ill we still are crost,
But waken from our golden dream at last,
To find beside our idle slumbers stand
Old Age, and Death, by which our worth is scann'd.

192

45. FROM THE LATIN OF HORACE.

“INTEGER VITÆ SCELERISQUE PURUS.”

The pure of life, and free from ill,
Wants not the Moorish dart to kill;
Nor, innocent, O Fuscus, needs
The quiver, stuff'd with poison'd reeds:

Whether o'er Syrtes' burning sands,
Or o'er th' inhospitable lands
Of Caucasus about to go,
Or where Hydaspes' stream doth flow:

For me a wolf, i' th' Sabine shade,
Whilst to my Lalage I play'd,
And, thoughtless, o'er my bounds had gone,
Fled, as unarm'd I wander'd on:

193

Not military Daunia yet
So vast a monster could beget;
Nor Juba's Mauritania feed,
The thirsty land, where lions breed.

Place me in hopeless regions, where
No tree is nurs'd i' th' Summer's air;
A portion of the World, which storm,
And angry Jupiter deform:

Place me beneath the burning car
Of Phœbus, where no houses are:
Yet shall my theme, and passion be,
Soft speaking, smiling Lalage!

194

46. [How many things look ugly to the mind]

How many things look ugly to the mind,
That are in virtue beautiful to use!
So is the stormy gust of Winter's wind,
Which the gross air doth purge of it's abuse:
So is the lightning, that the sight doth blind,
So is the comet, of malign aspect,
So is the flood, which, bursting unconfin'd,
An empire, like the Ocean's, doth affect:
These things are good, but in their seeming ill,
But we, that have too much propriety,
To large experience do deny us still,
So lack of knowledge breeds our misery:
Nothing so bad, if we could find it so,
But that delight doth overbalance woe!

195

47. ON MR. TODD'S EDITION OF SPENSER.

Two hundred years the circling World has roll'd,
I' th' endless Ocean of enlighten'd space,
Her pure allotted path, from earthly mould
Since thy great mind fled up to heav'nly grace;
Disdaining this low stage, and empire base,
Unliken'd Spenser; in her perfect flight
Achieving with brave toil her native place,
And greedy hope of Angelick delight:
Yet could not Time, with his unceasing might,
Most patient, but most fearful enemy,
Do aught 'gainst thee, but throw some little slight
Upon thy Verse, vow'd to Eternity:
Todd saw the wrong, then clear'd with golden pen
Thy faultless charter, to th' applause of men!

196

48. [How oft, O Moon, in thy most tragick face]

How oft, O Moon, in thy most tragick face,
The travell'd map of mournful history,
Some record of long-perish'd woe I trace,
Fetch'd from old Kings' moth-eaten memory;
Which Thou perhaps didst in it's acting see,
The perturbation of it's doleful birth,
Then crawling on to sad maturity,
And it's last sleep in the forgetful earth:
But if, in style proportioned to it's worth,
We raise it up, to shake the World again,
To madness we shall turn heart-easing mirth,
With horrour laying waste the minds of men:
O, marble is the flesh, unmov'd can be,
When it beholds so fearful tragedy!

197

58. THE LEGEND OF THE KNIGHT OF ILLYRIA.

THE FIRST CANTO.

1

By this the Sun had overpast his height,
And 'gan decline into the Western wave,
Wherein he means to dip his Chariot bright,
And loosen from the yoke his coursers brave;
That all the day, in glitt'ring harness dight,
With his sweet skill the Godly Shepherd drave,
With his sweet skill, till in the sparkling foam,
Fair Tethys' silver bowers, he gently guided home.

207

2

But, ere he pass'd, his glorious face he turn'd,
With sweet regard, upon the beauteous World,
That all the mountains, and the valleys burn'd
With love and adoration; so he hurl'd
Bright beams of glist'ring fire, that Nature mourn'd,
When his pure ample forehead, golden-curl'd,
He turn'd away, and to his purpose bent:
O look of wond'rous love, and sweetest ravishment!

3

His golden wain had hardly disappear'd,
The light yet glowing on the mountain tops,
When by a forest side, hight Ardenne, near'd
A lovely-looking Knight, that often stops,
And often gazes, as a man endear'd
To that fair prospect: then his reins he drops,
And, with his mighty hands to Heav'n uplift,
In pity-moving words thus speaks his drift:

208

4

“O purest Air, and thou, thrice golden Light,
That art the Soul of this enmarbled Sphere,
Why on the land and sea, by day and night,
In tempest and in calm, in hope and fear,
In Hell's tremendous gulph, at Heav'n's dread height,
Thus wear I out the day, the month, the year?
All things have rest, but only I unresting,
But rest, sweet rest, thou art not of my questing!

5

“But if in thee I could have found delight,
Well in my father's palace I had liv'd;
But present joys are hateful to his sight,
Who of all joy is by his fate bereav'd:
O hapless man, and O unhappy knight,
Who trusts in that, that still has him deceiv'd,
And in his ill-plac'd trust, how fond soever,
Though still deceiv'd, must still in it persever!

209

6

“I seek for that, which I can never find,
I look for that, which I can never see,
I live as in a dream, sans sense and blind,
Plaything of fate, and fool of memory;
My fortune at no stay, to worse inclin'd,
The evils of my race all heap'd on me:
And that, which should demand a firmer age,
In tender years no pity can engage.

7

“Is't fit the sapling with the winds should fight?
Is't fit the tender kid should roam the plain?
Is't fit the little bird should speed it's flight?
Or the small boat be plung'd into the main?
But fatal love on me doth vent it's spite,
That from new errour should young things restrain,
And, what is worse, my own sad fate I cherish,
And love the ill, that causeth me to perish.

210

8

“Else had I never parted from my mother,
That daily in Illyria sits, and weeps,
And, lulling with her song my little brother,
Beholds in him my image, as he sleeps;
Then kissing him, she cries, ‘Just such another
Euphorbus was, but cruel fortune keeps
Him from my love, and thou perhaps some day,
Sweet urchin, from my arms wilt steal away.’”

9

This tender thought hath quite unmann'd the knight,
And loving tears his noble eyes have fill'd,
He sees not, that the ebon clouds of Night
Above his head their gloomy stores have pil'd,
But, gazing wistly on the dying light,
Almost his life is in his bosom still'd,
So deep within his heart affection speaks,
That the big drops run coursing down his cheeks.

211

10

And, certes, he had gaz'd the Night away,
Like to a marble Monument of woe,
But that it chanc'd, forth issuing on his way,
A hermit from the wood came footing slow:
His aged limbs were clad in vestment grey,
And down his breast his silver beard did flow,
And on a staff his weary steps he stay'd,
Yet with much labour little progress made.

11

Then, somewhat bending, to Euphorbus said,
“Sir knight, permit an ancient man to know,
Why thus at Eve you bare your noble head
To all the winds, that under Heav'n do blow?
Perchance, from you your lady fair is fled,
Or at your feet your dearest friend laid low,
Or what is but small ill, compar'd with these,
Here in this soil your purpos'd path you leese.

212

12

“But if your lady from your sight be gone,
Feed on this thought, she constant is and pure:
Or, if for your beloved friend you moan,
Think that this World not always can endure:
But from this Stage, so thick with ills bestrown,
In perfect bliss he liveth, that is sure:
And in short space, if Virtue guide you right,
With his lov'd image you may feed your sight.

13

“Or if, indeed, your way you have mistook,
In precinct of this forest, long and wide,
Hard by, within the shelter of a nook,
My lowly home invites you to abide,
Till the first lark hath from her pinions shook
The glist'ning dew, and the sweet thrush replied
To the shrill note, that doth awake the Morn;
Then with fresh light let better hope be born.

213

14

“For endless Sorrow cannot long maintain
It's griping hold, but evil will ensue;
And timely rest is sweetest after pain:”
So saying, with his feeble hand he drew
Eupheme on, that hardly felt the rein,
Yet follow'd with light hoof, for well he knew
That aged Sire, and that he counsell'd well:
But of Eupheme something I will tell.

15

That horse was born in hills of Thessaly,
Of perfect shape, as lovely as the day,
And, at his birth, with winged speed could fly,
Like the swift South upon the Adrian bay;
A ruddy chesnut his bright limbs did dye,
And, like the Moon, his silver mane did play,
Like the full Moon, or like the frothy Sea,
Or meads of corn in laughing Sicily.

214

16

Full gentle was he, and so brave to wit,
That gentler none, or braver could be found,
But hardly could endure the golden bit,
Wherewith his lord, Euphorbus, had him bound;
Yet lightly handled, as for him unfit:
His finest feet did finely spurn the ground,
And with an eye, that shot like living fire,
He look'd abroad, and neighed with desire.

17

His neigh was like the silver clarionet,
That brayeth out the plumed Victory;
It love at once, and wonder did beget,
Whenso the sound about the rocks did fly
That whoso heard it, never could forget,
So lovely was that bravest melody;
But when he list his foemen's hearts to quell,
Then he outvoic'd the brazen gates of Hel!

215

18

He was indeed the Son of Zephyrus,
Begot upon a fresh Thessalian mare,
Which being of the God too amorous,
The jolly steed conceived of the Air:
(And let not men believe it fabulous,
The wise do know such fine conceptions are:)
Milk white she was, as is a holy heifer,
And bore this son, as I have said, to Zephyr.

19

So did he with his dam, Leucoloë, range
In pleasant sort upon the flowery mees;
Nor ever meant his happy life to change,
Or mother's side, if so the fates might please:
But they, which still are to our wishes strange,
Did force him soon his native pastures leese,
And, by the skill of Archelaüs caught,
Him to the Queen of all Illyria brought.

216

20

The Queen, whose name was fair Kalisthene,
Sole daughter of the King of Troynovant,
So lovely was, and beautiful to see,
That all the World did of her sweetness vaunt:
Her father held the British Isle in fee,
And her, pure Virgin, did in marriage grant
To King Theagenes, in blissful hour:
And so she reigned in Illyria's bower.

21

It happ'd, when first her slender womb 'gan swell
With the dear burden of her princely child,
One day, beside the margin of a well,
Within the palace gardens she beguil'd
The Summer hours, and bade her maidens tell
Sweet tales of love, and of adventure wild:
For, so it was, upon a point of state,
The King that morn had pass'd from out the gate.

217

22

Her maidens fair, and fairest would have been,
Save at the feet of sweet Kalisthene,
(But when the Sun ascends, no star is seen;)
Did pick, from out the stores of memory,
So many fables to delight the Queen,
That with pure joy an aged Nurse would die;
To hear such tales of ladies and of knights,
Of pomps, of banquets, errours and delights.

23

Till, being with the sweet recital tir'd,
As sweetest things will work their own decay,
Kalisthene from that young troop retir'd,
To lose in sleep the fervour of the day:
A flow'ring orange, that the air inspir'd
With od'rous joy, above her head did play,
And, by her side, a silver fountain crept,
That lulled her with murmurs, as she slept.

218

24

She dream'd,—but to Euphorbus I return,
(And from Euphorbus I too long have staid;)
Who being by persuasion mov'd to turn
Of that old man into the forest shade,
With many courteous thanks did seek to learn,
What him of that wide wood a tenant made;
Who told the knight that love of Contemplation
Had fix'd him there in that lone habitation.

25

“And truly, Sir,” quoth prudent Archelaüs,
For he it was, though in a fine disguise,
“So many things in wicked world do fray us,
Such heaps of falsehoods, perjuries, and lies,
Besides what dangers on all sides dismay us,
That who not flieth hardly can be wise:
A good exchange from foolish fear and riot,
To dwelling with high God in peace and quiet.”

219

26

And many other things he said by rote,
Still talking fondly, as befitted Age,
Of which perhaps I might have taken note,
But that Euphorbus must my thoughts engage;
Who now, at Wisdom's pace, full slow, God wot,
Is come at last to that small hermitage,
Wherein he means to make his travel's inn,
So knight and Archelaüs enter in.

27

A little lowly cave, and hollow'd under
A marble rock, ycover'd all with trees,
Wherein the winds, like very distant thunder,
Did softly sound, or like a swarm of bees,
That with full murmur from the hive doth sunder,
Or like the gentle roaring of the seas,
Heard inland, so the winds a lulling keep,
For ever in that cave persuading sleep.

220

28

The seemly hermit proferr'd what he had,
Such simple food, as fed him in the wild;
And with it mix'd his speech, so sagely sad,
That very much he pleas'd the princely child:
Long had the Moon been in her glory clad,
So was he of his wise discourse beguil'd,
Ere yet, and then reluctant, he withdrew,
With balmy sleep his body to renew.

29

But with the springing dawn uprose the knight,
And donn'd his armour, glorious to behold,
Which in that gloomy dwelling made a light,
That somewhat did amaze that beadsman old:
For cap-à-pèe he was completely dight,
Like Mars himself, in living case of gold;
And on his head a golden bunch he wore
Of fairest apples, shaking evermore.

221

30

His warlike spear into his hand he took,
And paced forth unto Eupheme's stall;
Then loosed him, whereas in little nook
That horse divine was tied to the wall:
His ears he prick'd, his flowing mane he shook,
And neighed thrice to hear the welcome call;
Then pawing, in his thought he spurns the floods,
The hills, the vales, the champaign, and the woods.

31

Departing forth, Euphorbus gently paid
Such courteous thanks, as to his host were due:
And, at the last, his dearest blessing pray'd,
With many wishes him again to view:
The good old man, that with his hand did shade
His aged cheek, to hide the kindly dew,
Then prayed him, that he with him might ride,
Till he was sped out of that forest wide.

222

32

So mounting on his horse, that harness'd was,
A lowly-looking beast, but well can go,
Full many hours they on their way did pass,
Without occurrence or of friend or foe:
Till now Dan Phœbus in the Westward was,
And nearer to the Earth was driving low;
When they arriv'd upon a river's brink,
But how to overpass they cannot think.

33

A lovely poplar on the bank there grew:
Euphorbus cut it down, and with it strove
To touch some shallow place, to bear them through;
But all in vain: so up and down they rove,
Still sounding with their pole; till now they view
A herdsman fast come running through the grove,
Who told them of a ford, not distant was;
Where with his cattle he was wont to pass.

223

34

They thank'd him much for that his courtesy,
(Ah gentle word, ill-named from a Court!)
And then he proffer'd them their guide to be,
To that same place of which he did report:
So on they marched with full goodly glee,
And talk'd of this and that in pleasant sort:
The while the murmuring Wind full softly sigh'd,
And the base Water at their feet replied.

35

When suddenly a hideous shriek they heard,
A hideous shriek, that pierced all the sky,
And at the sound a savage man appear'd,
Which on a horse from out the wood did fly;
A lovely lady in his arms he rear'd,
That for vain help continually did cry;
“Help, help, O God,” she cried continually:
Whereat the savage man more fast did fly.

224

36

But when he saw Euphorbus in his race,
He turn'd, as swift as doth a glancing arrow,
And plung'd into the stream, despite of grace,
And lady's cries, that any heart would harrow;
(But in his heart no pity could have place:)
So is she, as a dove or tender sparrow,
That the fierce falcon in his gripe hath caught,
And beareth oft, till he can tear to nought.

37

Inflam'd with rage, and great astonishment,
Euphorbus drove Eupheme to the bank,
And at one plunge into the middle went,
That horse and rider in an instant sank:
But rose again, and fury did augment,
To see upmounting from the river dank,
That savage man, who, giving look behind,
Set off again, as rapid as the wind.

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38

Yet had he not escap'd the thrilling spear
Of good Euphorbus, not for all his speed,
But that the lady sate to him so near,
He fear'd the point might make her body bleed;
So flying through the woods at full career,
Of nothing but his foe he taketh heed,
And often rais'd his lance, and often stay'd
The fatal lance for pity of the maid.

39

At length the night her doleful shadow cast
O'er all the world, encompassing from view
Both man and beast, and that wide wood embrac'd
With twofold horrour of her pois'nous hue;
That, nathless, so enforc'd he checks his haste,
Ne longer can his flying prey pursue;
But, maugre discontent and pining ire,
His steed he stops, his foe hath his desire.

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40

And grieving much at his so fruitless chace,
Yet wond'ring at the swiftness of the horse,
Whereon the savage rode, whose glorious pace
Had clear'd him from the peril of that course;
He mote suspect some magick in the case,
To baffle him in his so virtuous force;
Or, sure, his prey Eupheme had o'erta'en,
And his vile life upon the ground been slain.

41

But wait he must until the dawn appear,
And feed his thoughts so wisely as he may;
Patience is his best friend, and ever near
He keeps the hope, that all his life doth sway;
But grieves to think, for he to him is dear,
Of that good hermit, who is far away:
And then, for woeful thought augmenteth woe,
He thinks, perchance, it may be ever so.

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43

But pity of that lady's sad mishap
Did most torment him through the restless night:
He thinks the slave will in a dungeon clap
Her tender limbs; perhaps will kill outright:
Or, since he now hath got her in his trap,
Will quite despoil, to feed his appetite:
Such thoughts as these his fancy did torment,
Till creeping Night had half her journey spent:

44

When weary Sleep his senses did surprize,
Foredone with toil of body and of mind,
And pour'd a gentle slumber on his eyes:
Now the dull darkness, drooping, look'd behind,
And saw the harbingers of Morn arise,
Then slowly down the steep of Heav'n declin'd:
And bright Aurora shot her saffron fires
Quite thro' the realms of air, dispersing pure desires.

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44

The birds did wake their wanton melody,
And sweetly caroll'd in the dewy leaves:
But yet Euphorbus did in slumber lie,
That 'midst the light and musick him bereaves
Of joyous beams, and molten harmony:
At length his sprite the message glad receives,
And the pure Soul, awaking to the day,
'Gan much herself reproach, that in oblivion lay.

45

So doth he mount upon Eupheme' again,
That all the Night had by his master stood,
Ne gather'd from his hand the idle rein:
Forthwith he speeds right forward thro' the wood,
To see, if he that savage can regain,
Or help the dame from that infernal brood:
Long time he journey'd through those leafy bowers,
Beguiling with his thoughts the lonely hours.

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46

When suddenly he list a trumpet sound,
That marble Air doth startle with it's voice,
And, as it seem'd, a neighbour to that ground:
Much at that musick did the Knight rejoice,
Then straightway thro' th' entangled forest wound;
Where of his road he had but evil choice:
Yet, govern'd by his ear, he came at last
To a fair hill, that high in heav'n was plac'd.

47

And, right afore, a spacious castle stood,
Built on a sharp and steepy pinnacle,
And 'twixt a little gulph did pour its flood:
But, all beyond, 'twere difficult to tell
Th' extent of that fair country, that he view'd:
Hot Titan on the shining fortress fell,
That the walls blaz'd, like steel, or diamond;
At this so glorious sight Euphorbus stood astond.

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48

But time it is we loosen now our team,
Our weary team, and from the furrow send,
To slake their thirst with murmurs of the stream,
And in the flowery meadows roam an end:
Then for a little space I drop my theme,
For Wisdom bids soft rest with labour blend;
But what in that same castle there befell,
I in another canto, speedily will tell.

The Argument of the above Canto.

By Ardenne wood Euphorbus doth complain,
In terms, to melt a marble rock with woe;
Him Archelaüs sees, oppress'd with pain,
And well persuades into his cave to go;
Together with the light they take the rein,
And thrid the wood; till chancing on a foe,
The Prince pursues, and being foil'd by Night,
The Morn presents a castle to his sight.

This Legend was part of a larger Poem, which I then designed to write.

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59. THE THIRD ELEGY OF THE THIRD BOOK OF TIBULLUS.

What profit to have fill'd the heav'n with vows,
And endless pray'r, sent up in frankincense:
Not, from the threshold of a marble house,
To walk abroad, conspicuous for expense:
Not, that my bulls should many acres cleave,
And weighty harvests the kind land display:
But that with thee, Neæra, I should live,
And in thy bosom find my age decay:
Till, forc'd, the full pre-measur'd light discharg'd,
Naked in the Lethæan boat I go:
For what avails, t' have pond'rous gold enlarg'd,
Or that fat fields a thousand oxen plow?

232

What can a dome, on Phrygian columns rais'd,
Of thine, O Tænarus, or Carystos, thine?
Where orchards for the sacred groves are prais'd,
Where beams of gold, and floors of marble shine?
What can the shell, by th' Erythræan seas,
Or wool, in Sidon's softest purple dyed?
Or what the people else admire? in these
Is Envy: to false things their love is tied.
By riches not the minds of men, and cares
Are sooth'd; for Fortune ever sits the higher:
Happy with thee a poor estate who shares;
But without thee kings' gifts I not desire.
O snowy light, which makes thee ours again!
O beauteous day to me for ever dear!
But for that sweet return if vows are vain,
And the God listens with averted ear:
Not kingdoms, nor the golden Lydian flood,
Nor riches of the boundless world can charm:
Be others great; be mine the better good,
To fold a tender wife without alarm.
Saturnia, come, to my soft vows reply;
And come, O Cypria, in thy foamy shell:

233

But if the tristful Sisters this deny,
Who draw the threads, and who the future tell:
Me to vast rivers, and the gloomy lake,
Let Orcus, rich in slothful water, take.

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61. FROM HORACE.

“EXEGI MONUMENTUM AERE PERENNIUS.”

My monument is built, more hard than brass,
More than the Pyramids sublime,
Though that of mighty kings the labour was;
Which not the idle North, nor wasting rain,
Nor yet shall see in ruin lain
Th' unnumber'd race of years, and flight of Time.
All shall not die, but much of me
Shall shun th' unwilling destiny:
For I shall but enlarge in future praise,
As doth the Universe in days;
Long as the Pontiff, and the silent maid shall move
Up to the Capitol of Jove.

237

I shall be sung, upon the shore
Of Aufidus, whose deaf'ning roar
Affrights th' Apulian swain; and where
Old Daunus held his regal state,
A prince from humble fortune great,
And ruled his country realms in water poor;
The first, that to Italia brought
Th' Æolian song, and to her shepherds taught:
Take, then, for this, O Muse, thy rightful praise,
And, whilst th' admiring World doth on thy beauty gaze,
Bind on my brow the Delphic bays!

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62. FROM HORACE. THE THIRTEENTH ODE OF THE BOOK OF EPODES.

TO HIS FRIENDS. That the Winter is to be joyfully and pleasantly passed.

The threat'ning sky grows dark, and, lo!
Jove in mighty flakes of snow
Descends: the seas and forests round,
With the Thracian tempest sound,
And the whole World's in Winter drown'd.
Let us, my friends, whilst yet we may,
Snatch occasion from the day:
Let us, whilst yet our life is green,
And 'tis comely, thus be seen,
With decent joys to disengage
The embarass'd brow of age.

239

Give me the vintage of that year,
When my Torquatus held the Chair:
To speak of other thoughts forbear:
God, perhaps, with happy change
These things into their seat will range:
Now let us rest, and joy awhile,
Bath'd with Achemenian oil,
And the rising anguish quell
With the soft Cyllenian shell:
As the noble Centaur sung
To his scholar, great but young;
Unconquer'd mortal, Goddess-born,
Son of Thetis, thee the Morn
Destin'd, and th' Assaraque land
Await, through whose divided strand
The small Scamander's frigid tide,
And the winding Simois glide;
Whence to thee return again
The fates with certain thread restrain;
Nor shall thy wat'ry mother thee
Homeward to thy realm convey.

240

Thence ev'ry ill with wine and song
Lighten, for to these belong,
Soft persuaders, to bestow
Quiet on deformed woe.