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FROM ROMEO AND JULIET.
Rom. He jests at scars, that never felt a woundBut soft! what light from yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she : Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it: cast it off.It is my lady; Oh, it is my love ! ! Oh that she knew she were ! She speaks, yet she says nothing; What of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks : Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do intreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres, till they return.
THE SAME TRANSLATED.
This Translation obtained the Porson Prize. Some alterations
have since been made.
ΡΩΜ. Ούλαϊς γελά τις τραυμάτων άπειρος ών.
τί δήτ' εκείνης θυρίδος εξέλαμψε φώς;
What if her eyes were there, they in her head ?
She speaks ; — Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air.
Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo ? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name: Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
ει δ' ήν εκεί μέν όμματ’, έν δ' αυτής κάρα
ΙΟΥΛ. ώ μοι
ΡΩΜ. έφθέγξατ'· ώ φθέγξαιο, φαιδιμη, πάλιν
υπερθε γάρ μου τήσδ' άγαλμα νυκτός εί,
πτεροΐσι ναυστολούντα κόλπον αιθέρος. ΙΟΥΛ. ώ Ρωμεων, τί δήτα Ρωμεών έφυς ;
πατέρα τ' αναίνου κώνομ'· ει δε μη θέλεις,
SONG, BY MOORE.
Fond soother of my infant tear,
Fond sharer of my infant joy, Doth not thy shade still linger here?
Am I not still thy soul's employ? And oh, as when at close of day
Our virgins climb'd the sacred mount, And harping sang their choral lay
And danced around Cassotis' fount; As then 'twas all thy wish and care
That mine should be the simplest mien, My voice and lyre the sweetest there,
My step the lightest on the green ; So now,
each line of grace to mould, Around my form thine eyes are shed, Arranging every snowy fold,
And guiding every mazy tread. And when I lead the hymning choir,
Thy spirit still unseen and free Hovers between my lip and lyre,
And weds them into harmony.