Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream
I meditating sat some statelier theme,
The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though new,
And unassay'd before, than wide they flew,
Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustain
The deep-ton'd music of the solemn strain;
And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell
How proud a theme I choose-ye groves farewell!
"Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare;
My thoughts are all now due to other care.
Of Brutus, Dardan chief, my song shall be,
How with his barks he plough'd the British sea,
First from Rutupia's tow'ring headland seen,
And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen;
Of Brennus, and Belinus, brothers bold,
And of Arviragus, and how of old
Our hardy sires th' Armorican controll'd,
And of the wife of Gorloïs, who, surpris'd
By Uther, in her husband's form disguis'd,
(Such was the force of Merlin's art) became
Pregnant with Arthur of heroic fame.
These themes I now revolve--and Oh-if Fate
Proportion to these themes my lengthen'd date,
Adieu my shepherd's reed-yon pine-tree bough
Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou
Forgotten and disus'd, unless ere long
Thou change thy Latian for a British song;
A British ?-even so the pow'rs of man
Are bounded; little is the most he can
And it shall well suffice me, and shall be
Fame, and proud recompense enough for me,
If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn,
If Alain, bending o'er his chrystal urn,
Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd stream,
Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem,
Tamar's ore-tinctur'd flood, and, after these,
The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades.
"Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. All this I kept in leaves of laurel-rind Enfolded safe, and for thy view designed, This-and a gift from Manso's hand beside, (Manso, not least his native city's pride,) Two cups, that radiant as their giver shone, Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone. The spring was graven there; here slowly wind The Red-sea shores with groves of spices lin'd; Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs The sacred, solitary Phoenix shows; And watchful of the dawn, reverts her head, To see Aurora leave her wat'ry bed. -In other part, th' expansive vault above, And there too, even there, the God of Love; With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds, or little souls,
Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high,
Sends every arrow to the lofty sky;
Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn
The pow'r of Cupid, and enamour'd burn.
Thou also, Damon, (neither need I fear
That hope delusive,) thou art also there;
For whither should simplicity like thine
Retire, where else such spotless virtue shine?
Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shades below,
Nor tears suit thee-cease then my tears to flow,
Away with grief: on Damon ill-bestow'd!
Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode,
Has pass'd the show'ry arch, henceforth resides
With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides
Quaffs copious immortality, and joy,
With hallow'd lips!-Oh! blest without alloy,
And now enrich'd, with all that faith can claim,
Look down, entreated by whatever name,
If Damon please thee most, (that rural sound
Shall oft with echoes fill the groves around,)
Or if Diodatus, by which alone
In those ethereal mansions thou art known.
Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste
Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste,
The honours, therefore, by divine decree
The lot of virgin worth are given to thee;
Thy brows encircled with a radiant band,
And the green palm-branch waving in thy hand,
Thou in immortal nuptials shall rejoice,
And join with seraphs thy according voice,
Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyre
Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire.”
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 trans lation of any other piece in the whole collection
My two-fold book! single in show,
But double in contents,
Neat, but not curiously adorn'd,
Which, in his early youth,
A poet gave, no lofty one in truth,
Although an earnest wooer of the Muse--
Say while in cool Ausonian shades,
Or British wilds he roam'd,
Striking by turns his native lyre,
By turns the Daunian lute,
And stepp'd almost in air.-
Say, little book, what furtive hand
Thee from thy fellow-books convey'd,
What time, at the repeated suit
Of my most learned friend,
I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller,
From our great city to the source of Thames,
Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring, Of the Aonion choir,
Durable as yonder spheres,
And through the endless lapse of years
Secure to be admir'd?
Now what God, or Demigod,
For Britain's ancient Genius mov'd
(If our afflicted land
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