Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine
With vow and sacrifice, save only thine.
Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts:
Now own thee sov'reign of all human hearts.
Remove! no-grant me still this raging wo!
Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know
But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see
One destin'd mine) at once both her and me.
Such were the trophies, that, in earlier days,
By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise,
Studious, yet indolent, and urg'd by youth,
That worst of teachers! from the ways of truth÷
Till learning taught me, in his shady bow'r,
To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his pow'r.
Then, on a sudden, the fierce flame suppress'd,
A frost continual settled on my breast,
Whence Cupid fears his flames extinct to see.
And Venus dreads a Diomede in me.
PRAISE in old time the rage Prometheus won,
Who stole ethereal radiance from the sun;
But greater he, whose bold invention strove
To eniulate the fiery bolts of Jove.
[The poems on the subject of the Gunpowder Treason I have not translated, both because the matter of them is unpleasant, and because they are written with an asperity, which, however it might be warranted in Milton's days, would be extremely unseasonable now.]
TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME.*
ANOTHER Leonora once inspir'd
Tasso, with fatal love to phrensy fir'd;
But how much happier liv'd he now, were he,
Pierc'd with whatever pangs for love of thee!
Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,
With Adriana's lute of sound divine,
Fiercer than Pentheus, though his eye might roll,
Or idiot apathy benumb his soul,
You still, with medicinal sounds, might cheer
His senses wandering in a blind career;
And sweetly breathing through his wounded breast,
Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.
NAPLES, too credulous, ah! boast no more
The sweet-voic'd Siren buried on thy shore,
That, when Parthenope deceas'd, she gave
Her sacred dust to a Chalcidick grave,
For still she lives, but has exchang'd the hoarse
Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,
Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains
Of magick song, both gods and men detains.
* I have translated only two of the three poetical compli ments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to me far supe riour to what I have omitted.
THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD
A PEASANT to his lord paid yearly court,
Presenting pippins, of so rich a sort,
That he, displeas'd to have a part alone,
Remov'd the tree, that all might be his own
The tree, too old to travel, though before
So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more.
The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void,
Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd,
And "Oh," he cried, "that I had liv'd content
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant !
My av'rice has expensive prov'd to me,
Has cost me both my pippins and my tree
CHRISTIANA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN,
CROMWELL'S PICTURE.
CHRISTIANA, maiden of heroick mien!
Star of the north! of northern stars the queen!
Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how
The iron casque still chafes my vet'ran brow,
While following fate's dark footsteps, I fulfil
The dictates of a hardy people's will.
But soften'd, in thy sight, my looks appear,
Not to all Queens or Kings alike severe
DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR,
LEARN, ye nations of the earth,
The condition of your birth,
Now be taught your feeble state!
Know that all must yield to fate!
If the mournful rover, Death,
Say but once-“ resign your breath !"
Vainly of escape you dream,
You must pass the Stygian stream.
Could the stoutest overcome
Death's assault, and baffle doom,
Hercules had both withstood
Undiseas'd by Nessus' blood.
Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain
By a trick of Pallas slain,
Nor the chief to Jove allied
By Achilles' phantom died.
Could enchantments life prolong
Circe sav'd by magick song,
Still had liv'd; an equal skill
Had preserv'd Medea still.
Dwelt in herbs, and drugs, a pow'r
To avert man's destin'd hour,
Learn'd Machoan should have known
Doubtless to avert his own.
Chiron had surviv'd the smart
Of the Hydra-tainted dart,
And Jove's bolt had been, with ease,
Foil'd by Asclepiades.
Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn
Helicon and Cirrha mourn,
Still hadst fill'd thy princely place
Regent of the gowned race.
Hadst advanc'd to higher fame
Still, thy much-ennobled name,
Nor in Charon's skiff explor'd
The Tartarean gulf abhorr'd.
But resentful Proserpine,
Jealous of thy skill divine,
Snapping short thy vital thread,
Thee too number'd with the dead
Wise and good! untroubled be
The green turf that covers thee!
Thence, in gay profusion, grow
All the sweetest flow'rs that blow
Plato's consort bid thee rest!
Eacus pronounce thee blest:
To her home thy shade consign:
Make Elysium ever thine!
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