WHEN, to their airy hall, my
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur❜d urns
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone :
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.
ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.*
"Why dost thou build the hall? Son of the winged days! Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty court."
THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle ;
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have chok'd up the rose which late bloom'd in the way.
Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,
The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd wreath;
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan † slumbers,
Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel by death.
* The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in Sherwood, was founded about the year 1170, by Henry II., and delicated to God and the Virgin. It was in the reign of Henry VIII., on the dissolution of the monasteries, that, by a royal grant, it was added, with the lands adjoining, to the other possessions of the Byron family. "In the park of Horseley (Derbyshire)," says Thoroton, "there was a castle, some of the ruins of which are yet visible, called Horistan Castle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de Burun's successors."
Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ;
For the safety of Edward and England they fell:
My fathers! the tears of
your country redress ye;
How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell.
On Marston,* with Rupert,† 'gainst traitors contending,
Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field;
For the rights of a monarch their country defending,
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd.
Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ;
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown :
you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own!
WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN,
BY J. J. ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON FACTS.
"AWAY, away, your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts;
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving."
ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS
Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts,
From which thou 'dst guard frail female hearts,
Exist but in imagination,—
Mere phantoms of thine own creation;
* The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I were defeated. Son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I. He afterwards com→ manded the fleet in the reign of Charles II.
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance,
Thou 'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises :
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,—'tis truth.
ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL,
ANIMULA! vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque, corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca?
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos.
AH! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.
[AD LESBIAM.]
EQUAL to Jove that youth must be,
Greater than Jove he seems to me,
Who, free from Jealousy's alarmns,
Securely views thy matchless charms :
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 't is death to me,
I cannot chuse but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly;
I needs must gaze, but gazing die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,.
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veiled in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.
[ LUCTUS DE MORTE Passeris.]
YE Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread;
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd ;
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom moved ;
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air;
But chirupp'd oft, and, free from care,
Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia's grief, I mourn,
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta'en the bird away :
From thee, my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life's decay!
On! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire;
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss ;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever:
E'en though the number did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour—
Could I desist?-ah! never-never.
OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS,
He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of love,
By Death's unequal hand* alike controll'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move.
TRANSLATIONS FROM ANACREON
[Θελω λεγειν Ατρείδας, κ. τ. λ.]
I wish to tune my quivering lyre
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire;
To echo from its rising swell,
How heroes fought, and nations fell;
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But, still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
* The hand of Death is said to be unjust, or unequal, as Virgil was considerably
older than Tibullus, at his decease.
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