Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some noble hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war my harp is due ;
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;-
All, all in vain, my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu! ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu! the clang of war's alarms;
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss, and sighs of flame.
[Μεσονυκτίαις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ. λ.]
'T was now the hour, when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Bootes, only, seem'd to roil
His Arctic charge around the pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep;
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force:
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose;
“What stranger breaks my
blest repose?"
"Alas!" replies the wily child,
In faltering accents, sweetly mild,
“A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home:
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast,
The mighty storm is pouring fast;
No prowling robber lingers here.
A wandering baby who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale;
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe;
I drew the bar, and by the light,
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my
heart)
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring :
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now, reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipp'd, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies;
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd,
My bow can still impel the shaft ;
'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?”
FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS.
[Μηδαμ ̓ ὁ πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.]
GREAT Jove! to whose almighty throne
Both gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy
My voice shall raise no impious strain
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.
The blushing beauty by thy side,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled,
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled;
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around,
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.
[JUSTUM ET TENACEM PROPOSITI VIRUM.]
THE man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix'd determin'd mind in vain.
Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors then unfurl'd,
He would unmov'd, unaw'd behold:
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,
Might light his glorious funeral pile :
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of all he 'd smile.
CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease
Which racks my breast, your fickle bosom please?
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for love and you again;
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By death alone I can avoid your hate.
WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS.
THIS Votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou 'It prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.
Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid?
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade?
Then read, dear girl! with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee in vain I shall not plead
In pity for the poet's woes.
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard;
His was no faint, fictitious flame :
Like his, may love be thy reward,
But not thy hapless fate the same.
SINCE now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
Alas! that pang will be severe,
Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,
Departing for a distant shore.
Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;
Where from the Gothic casement's height,
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell.
O'er fields through which we used to run,
And spend the hours in childish play ;
O'er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay ;
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hov❜ring flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss
It dared to give your slumbering eyes.
See still the little painted bark,
In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park,
The elm I clamber'd for your sake.
These times are past-our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes I must retrace alone :
Without thee what will they avail?
Who can conceive, who has not proved,
The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly loved,
You bid a long adieu to peace?
This is the deepest of our woes,
For this these tears our cheeks bedew:
This is of love the final close,
Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu !
WHENE'ER I view those ups of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss ;
Yet I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss.
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet is the daring wish represt,
For that would banish its repose.
A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear
Yet I conceal my love, and why?
I would not force a painful tear.
I ne'er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree;
By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be.
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