Call'd thee abroad as I was wont, and cried'What, hoa! my friend-come lay thy task aside;
Haste, let us forth together, and beguile
The heat beneath yon whispering shades awhile, Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood, Or where Cassibelan's grey turrets stood ! There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teach Thy friend the name and healing powers of each, From the tall bluebell to the dwarfish weed, What the dry land, and what the marshes breed, For all their kinds alike to thee are known, And the whole art of Galen is thy own.' Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd be The useless herbs that gave not health to thee! Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream, I meditating sat some statelier theme, The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though new, And unessay'd before, than wide they flew, Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustain The deep-toned music of the solemn strain; And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell How proud a theme I chose-ye groves, farewell. "Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Of Brutus, Dardan chief, my song shall be, How with his barks he plough'd the British sea, First from Rutupia's towering headland seen, And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen; Of Brennus and Belinus, brothers bold, And of Arviragus, and how of old Our hardy sires the Armorican controll❜d, And of the wife of Gorloïs, who, surprised By Uther, in her husband's form disguised, (Such was the force of Merlin's art,) became Pregnant with Arthur of heroic fame.
These themes I now revolve-and Oh-if Fate Proportion to these themes my lengthen'd date, Adieu my shepherd's reed-yon pine tree bough Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou Forgotten and disused, unless ere long Thou change thy Latin for a British song: A British ?-even so-the powers of man Are bounded; little is the most he can; And it shall well suffice me, and shall be Fame and proud recompense enough for me, If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn, If Alain bending o'er his crystal urn, [stream, Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem, Tamar's ore-tinctured flood, and, after these, The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades. "Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. All this I kept in leaves of laurel rind Enfolded safe, and for thy view design'd, This-and a gift from Manso's hand beside, (Manso, not least his native city's pride,) Two cups that radiant as their giver shown, Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone. The spring was graven there; here slowly wind The Red sea shores with groves of spices lined; Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs The sacred, solitary phoenix shows, And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her head To see Aurora leave her watery bed. -In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there, the god of love; With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eycs he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls,
Nor deigns one look below, but, aiming high, Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamour'd burn. Thou, also, Damon, (neither need I fear That hope delusive,) thou art also there; For whither should simplicity like thine Retire, where else should spotless virtue shine? Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shades
Nor tears suit thee-cease then, my tears, to
Away with grief; on Damon ill bestow'd! Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode, Has pass'd the showery arch, henceforth resides With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides Quaffs copious immortality and joy
With hallow'd lips!-Oh! blest without alloy, And now enrich'd with all that faith can claim, Look down, entreated by whatever name, If Damon please thee most (that rural sound Shall oft with echoes fill the groves around) Or if Deodatus, by which alone
In those ethereal mansions thou art known. Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste, The honors, therefore, by divine decree The lot of virgin worth, are given to thee: Thy brows encircled with a radiant band, And the green palm branch waving in thy hand, Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice, And join with seraphs thy according voice, Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyre Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire."
AN ODE ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN ROUSE,
LIBRARIAN OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD,
On a lost Volume of my Poems, which he desired me to replace, that he might add them to my other Works deposited in the Library.
This ode is rendered without rhyme, that it might more adequately represent the original, which, as Milton himself informs us, is of no certain Measure. It may possibly for this reason disappoint the reader, though it cost the writer inore labor than the translation of any other piece in the whole collection.
My twofold book! single in show But double in contents, Neat but not curiously adorn'd, Which, in his early youth,
A poet gave, no lofty one in truth, Although an earnest wooer of the muse-
Say, while in cool Ausonian shades
Or British wilds he roam'd, Striking by turns his native lyre,
Say, little book, what furtive hand Thee from thy fellow books convey'd, What time, at the repeated suit
Of my most learned friend,
I sent thee forth an honor'd traveller,
From our great city to the source of Thames, Cærulean sire!
Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring,
Of the Aonian choir,
Durable as yonder spheres,
And through the endless lapse of years Secure to be admired?
Now what god, or demi-god, For Britain's ancient genius moved, (If our afflicted land
Have expiated at length the guilty sloth Of her degenerate sons) Shall terminate oùr impious feuds,
And discipline with hallow'd voice recall? Recall the muses too,
Driven from their ancient seats In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore, And, with keen Phoebean shafts
Piercing the unseemly birds, Whose talons menace us,
Shall drive the Harpy race from Helicon afar?
But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd, Whether by treachery lost,
Or indolent neglect thy bearer's fault,
From all thy kindred books,
To some dark cell or cave forlorn,
Where thou endurest, perhaps,
The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand, Be comforted-
For lo! again the splendid hope appears That thou mayst yet escape
The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings
Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove!
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