Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice, 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 more labour than the translation of any other piece in the whole collection. STROPHE. My twofold book! single in show A poet gave, no lofty one in truth, ANTISTROPHE. Say, little book, what furtive hand Of my most learned friend, I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller, Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring, Durable as yonder spheres, And through the endless lapse of years STROPHE II. Now what god, or demigod, Have expiated at length the guilty sloth Shall terminate our impious feuds, And discipline with hallow'd voice recall? Driven from their ancient seats In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore, And, with keen Phœbean shafts Piercing the unseemly birds, Whose talons menace us, Shall drive the harpy race from Helicon afar? ANTISTROPHE. But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd, Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault, To some dark cell or cave forlorn, Where thou endurest, perhaps, The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand, For lo! again the splendid hope appears The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings STROPHE III. Since Rouse desires thee, and complains Thou yet appear'st not in thy place Among the literary noble stores Given to his care, But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete. Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge, That Iön kept (Iön, Erectheus son ANTISTROPHE. Haste, then, to the pleasant groves, Resume thy station in Apollo's dome, Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill! Since now a splendid lot is also thine, With authors of exalted note, The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome. EPODE. Ye, then, my works, no longer vain, Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend, And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude Perhaps some future distant age, Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught, To judge more equally. Then, malice silenced in the tomb, Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise TRANSLATIONS OF THE ITALIAN POEMS. SONNET. FAIR Lady! whose harmonious name the Rhine, Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, Base were indeed the wretch who could forbear To love a spirit elegant as thine, That manifests a sweetness all divine, Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare, And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine. When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gay Such strains as might the senseless forest move, Ah then-turn each his eyes and ears away, Who feels himself unworthy of thy love! Grace can alone preserve him ere the dart Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart. |