And I must die. Desire that still doth burn me, To life again will turn me, And live must I; 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; 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; "Who's that," said I, "that does keep "Ope," saith Love, "for pity hear; Wet and weary from his way With compassion this I heard; 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; For methinks the string is wet." With that, drawing it, a dart He let fly that pierc'd my heart. At last, when he was waxen warm; The heat-like fury ekes my smart. 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; Our haps do turn, as chances, on the dice. Nor never let him from this hope remove, That under him hath mould, the stars above! 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; As she is blind, so never had she ears; Nor must with puling eloquence go to her; She understands not sighs; she hears not prayers; And though awhile she nicely do forsake it, Nor never let him dream once of a crown, And though by idle hap he be o'erthrown, a Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 125. |