And I must die. Desire that still doth burn me, To life again will turn me, O kill me then, Disdain, That I may live again. Thy looks are life unto me, And yet these looks undo me: O death and life! Thy smile some rest doth shew me, Thy frown with war o'erthrow me; Nor life nor death is either, Life only cannot please me, Death only cannot ease me; Change is Delight. I live, that Death may kill me, Both day and night. If once Despair decay, a Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 154. CUPID BENIGHTED.a From Anacreon. Or late what time the Bear turn'd round O'ercome with labours of the day: The following Translation of this Ode, in the subsequent century, from the scarce "Poems of Thomas Stanley, Esq. 1651." 8vo. the learned Editor of "Eschylus," and Author of "The Lives of the Philosophers," deserves to be subjoined, that the Reader may compare it, for the purpose of remarking the progress of our language. DOWNWARD was the wheeling Bear Driven by the waggoner: Men by powerful sleep opprest Gave their busy troubles rest: Love in this still depth of night Lately at my house did light; Wet and weary from his way With compassion this I heard; Light I struck; the door unbarr'd; Who wings, bow, and quiver bears. The God of Love came to my door, And took the ring, and knock'd it hard: "Who's there," quoth I, " that knocks so sore? You break my sleep; my dreams are marr'd!" "A little Boy, forsooth," quoth he; "Dring wet with rain this moonless night." With that methought it pitied me; I op'd the door, and candle light; And straight a little boy I spied; A winged lad with shaft and bow; I took him to the fire-side, And set him down to dry him so: His little hand in mine I strain, To rub and warm them there-withall; Out of his locks I crush'd the rain, From which the drops apace down fall; Near the fire I made him stand; If my bow no hurt did get; With that, drawing it, a dart At last, when he was waxen warm; "Now let me try my bow," quoth he; "I fear my string hath caught some harm; And wet, will prove too slack for me.” He said; and bent his bow and shot; And rightly hit me in the heart. The wound was sore, and raging hot; The heat-like fury ekes my smart. "Mine host," quoth he, "my string is well:" And laugh'd so, that he leap'd again; "Look to your wound, for fear it swell; Your heart may chance to feel the pain.' ON FORTITUDE OF MIND. VIRTUE can bear, what can on Virtue fall; Who cheapeneth Honour, must not stand on price; Who beareth Heaven, they say, can well bear all; A yielding mind doth argue cowardice; b Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 145. b Stanley's Translation of this Ode is very well; but I very much doubt whether this old Version is not more spirited; and on the whole still better. Such specimens of the gradual progress of language are curious and useful. Let dull-brain'd slaves contend for mud and earth; Let blocks and stones sweat but for blocks and stones; Let peasants speak of plenty and of dearth; Fame never looks so low as on those drones! Let Courage manage empires, sit on thrones! Who wins her grace, must with achievement woo her; Nor must with puling eloquence go to her; She understands not sighs; she hears not prayers; And though awhile she nicely do forsake it, She is a woman, and at last will take it. Nor never let him dream once of a crown, his game; For one bad cast that will give up And though by idle hap he be o'erthrown, Yet let him manage her, till she be tame: The path is set with danger leads to Fame. When Minos did the Grecians' fate deny, He made him wings, and mounted through the sky." a Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 125. |