Obrázky na stránke

558 Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave
his gifts imperfect;-Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
but in reward of thy fidelity.


And something also did my worth obtain:
for fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold

that the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
should die; but me the threat could not withhold;
a generous cause a victim did demand;
and forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;
a self-devoted chief-by Hector slain.'

'Supreme of heroes-bravest, noblest, best!
thy matchless courage I bewail no more;
which then, when tens of thousands were deprest
by doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;
thou found'st—and I forgive thee-here thou art-
a nobler counsellor than my poor heart.'



'HE wished-for wind was given:-I then revolved our future course, upon the silent sea;

and, if no worthier led the way, resolved

that of a thousand vessels mine should be

the foremost prow in pressing to the strand:

mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang
when of thy loss I thought, beloved wife:
on thee too fondly did my memory hang,
and on the joys we shared in mortal life,-

the paths which we had trod-these fountains, flowers;
my new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.

But should suspense permit the foe to cry
'Behold, they tremble!—haughty their array,
yet of their number no one dares to die'?
in soul I swept the indignity away:
old frailties then recurred:-but lofty thought,
in act embodied, my deliverance wrought.





My mind to me a kingdome is;

such perfect joy therein I finde

as farre exceeds all earthly blisse,
that God or nature hath assignde;
though much I want, that most would have,
yet still my mind forbids to crave.

Content I live, this is my stay;

I seek no more than may suffice:
I presse to beare no haughtie sway;
look what I lack my mind supplies.
Loe! thus I triumph like a king,
content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plentie surfets oft,

and hastie clymbers soonest fall: I see that such as sit aloft

mishap doth threaten most of all: these get with toile, and keep with feare such cares my mind could never beare.

561 No princely pompe, nor welthie store, no force to winṇe the victorie,

no wylie wit to salve a sore,

no shape to winne a lover's eye; to none of these I yeeld as thrall, for why, my mind dispiseth all.

I laugh not at anothers losse,

I grudge not at anothers gainė;
no worldly wave my minde can tosse,
I brooke that is anothers bane:

I fear no foe, nor fawne on friend;
I loth not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly blisse:

I weigh not Cresus' welth a straw; for care, I care, not what it is;

I feare not fortunes fatall law: my mind is such as may not move for beautie bright or force of love.

562 I wish but what I have at will:


I wander not to seeke for more;
I like the plaine, I clime no hill;

in greatest stormes I sitte on shore,
and laugh at them that toile in vaine
to get what must be lost againe.

The court ne cart I like ne loath;

extreames are counted worst of all;
the golden meane betwixt them both,
doth surest sit, and fears no fall:
this is my choyce, for why I finde,
no wealth is like a quiet minde.

My welth is health, and perfect ease;
my conscience clere my chiefe defence:
I never seeke by brybes to please,

nor by desert to give offence:
thus do I live, thus will I die;
would all did so as well as I!



EPARTING Summer hath assumed


an aspect tenderly illumed,

the gentlest look of spring;

that calls from yonder leafy shade
unfaded, yet prepared to fade,

a timely carolling.

No faint and hesitating trill,
such tribute as to winter chill
the lonely redbreast pays!

clear, loud, and lively is the din
from social warblers gathering in
their harvest of sweet lays.

Nor doth the example fail to cheer
me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
and yellow on the bough:-
fall, rosy garlands, from my head!

ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
around a younger brow!




as we are our native dust

to wet with many a bitter shower,

it ill befits us to disdain

the altar, to deride the fane,

where simple Sufferers bend, in trust
to win a happier hour.

I love, where spreads the village lawn,
upon some knee-worn cell to gaze:
Hail to the firm unmoving cross
aloft where pines their branches toss,
and to the chapel far withdrawn,
that lurks by lonely ways!

Where'er we roam, along the brink
of Rhine, or by the sweeping Po,
through Alpine vale, or champain wide,
whate'er we look on, at our side
be Charity! to bid us think,
and feel, if we would know.




ETHEREAL minstrel, pilgrim of the sky!

dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, those quivering wings composed, that music still!

To the last point of vision and beyond

mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain, 'twixt thee and thine an everlasting bond, thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : yet thou dost seem-proud privilege!—to sing all independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;

a privacy of glorious light is thine;

whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
of harmony, with instinct more divine;
type of the wise who soar, but never roam;

true to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!





HEN o'er the blasted heath the day declined, and on the scathed oak warred the winter-wind, when not a distant taper's twinkling ray

gleamed o'er the furze to light him on his way;
when not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear,
and the big rain-drops told the tempest near;
then did his horse the homeward track descry,
the track that shunned his sad, inquiring eye;
then his charmed hand the careless rein resigned,
and doubts and terrors vanished from his mind.
Led by what chart, transports the timid dove
the wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love?
say, thro' the clouds what compass points her flight?
monarchs have gazed, and nations blessed the sight.
Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise,
eclipse her native shades, her native skies:
'tis vain! thro' Ether's pathless wilds she goes,
and lights at last where all her cares repose.




WHERE, doomed to Poverty's sequestered dell,

unpitied by the world, unknown to fame,

their woes, their wishes and their hearts the same;
O there, prophetic Hope, thy smile bestow,
and chase the pangs that worth should never know;
there, as the parent deals his scanty store
to friendless babes and weeps to give no more,
tell that his manly race shall yet assuage
their father's wrongs and shield his latter age.
What though for him no Hybla sweets distil,
nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill;
tell, that when silent years have passed away,
that when his eye grows dim, his tresses grey,
these busy hands a lovelier cot shall build,
and deck with fairer flowers his little field,
and call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe
Arcadian beauty on the barren heath.


« PredošláPokračovať »