Part 26
Fortune, that with malicious joy Does Man, her slave, oppress, Proud of her office to destroy, Is seldom pleased to bless; Still various and unconstant still, But with an inclination to be ill, Promotes, degrades, delights in strife And makes a lottery of life.
I can enjoy her while she's kind, But when she dances in the wind, And shakes the wings and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away. The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned: Content with poverty my soul I arm, And Vertue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm.
What is't to me, Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, If storms arise and clouds grow black, If the mast split and threaten wrack? Then let the greedy merchant fear For his ill-gotten gain, And pray to gods that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main. For me, secure from Fortune's blows, Secure of what I cannot lose, In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar: And running with a merry gale With friendly stars my safety seek Within some little winding creek, And see the storm ashore.
DRYDEN.
_136_
O PRECIOUS Crock, whose summers date, Like mine, from Manlius' consulate, I wot not whether in your breast Lie maudlin wit or merry jest, Or sudden choler, or the fire Of tipsy Love's insane desire, Or fumes of soft caressing sleep, Or what more potent charms you keep; But this I know, your ripened power Befits some choicely festive hour! A cup peculiarly mellow Corvinus asks: so come, old fellow, From your time-honoured bin descend, And let me gratify my friend! No churl is he your charms to slight, Though most intensely erudite: And ev'n old Cato's worth, we know, Took from good wine a nobler glow.
Your magic power of wit can spread The halo round a dullard's head, Can make the sage forget his care, His bosom's inmost thoughts unbare, And drown his solemn-faced pretence Beneath your blithesome influence. Bright hope you bring and vigour back To minds outworn upon the rack, And put such courage in the brain As makes the poor be men again, Whom neither tyrants' wrath affrights Nor all their bristling satellites.
Bacchus, and Venus, so that she Bring only frank festivity, With sister Graces in her train, Twining close in lovely chain, And gladsome taper's living light, Shall spread your treasures o'er the night, Till Phoebus the red East unbars, And puts to rout the trembling stars.
THEODORE MARTIN.
_139_
I give the first stanza of this poem in the effective paraphrase of Herrick, and the first two stanzas in the rather diffuse rendering of Byron. Byron's version is one of his earliest pieces but not altogether wanting in force.
NO wrath of Men, or rage of Seas, Can shake a just man's purposes: No threats of Tyrants, or the Grim Visage of them can alter him; But what he doth at first entend That he holds firmly to the end.
HERRICK.
THE man of firm and noble soul No factious clamours can control: No threatening tyrant's darkling brow Can swerve him from his just intent; Gales the warring waves which plough, By Auster on the billows spent, To curb the Adriatic main Would awe his fixed determined mind in vain.
Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, Hurtling his lightnings from above, With all his terrors there unfurled, He would unmoved, unawed behold. The flames of an expiring world, Again in crushing chaos rolled, In vast promiscuous ruin hurled, Might light his glorious funeral pile, Still dauntless 'mid the wreck of earth he'd smile.
BYRON.
_145_
BANDUSIA, stainless mirror of the sky! Thine is the flower-crowned bowl, for thee shall die When dawns yon sun, the kid Whose horns, half-seen, half-hid,
Challenge to dalliance or to strife--in vain. Soon must the firstling of the wild herd be slain, And these cold springs of thine With blood incarnadine.
Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beam Toucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool stream To labour-wearied ox, Or wanderer from the flocks:
And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain: My harp shall tell how from thy cavernous mountain, Where the brown oak grows tallest, All babblingly thou fallest.
C.S. CALVERLEY.
_148_
The rendering that follows is printed in the author's _Ionica_ not as a translation, but as a poem, under the title _Hypermnestra_. It represents our poem of Horace from the 25th line onwards.
LET me tell of Lydè of wedding-law slighted, Penance of maidens and bootless task, Wasting of water down leaky cask, Crime in the prison-pit slowly requited.
Miscreant brides! for their grooms they slew. One out of many is not attainted, One alone blest and for ever sainted, False to her father, to wedlock true.
Praise her! she gave her young husband the warning. Praise her for ever! She cried, 'Arise! Flee from the slumber that deadens the eyes; Flee from the night that hath never a morning.
Baffle your host who contrived our espousing, Baffle my sisters, the forty and nine, Raging like lions that mangle the kine, Each on the blood of a quarry carousing.
I am more gentle, I strike not thee, I will not hold thee in dungeon tower. Though the king chain me, I will not cower, Though my sire banish me over the sea.
Freely run, freely sail, good luck attend thee; Go with the favour of Venus and Night. On thy tomb somewhere and some day bid write Record of her who hath dared to befriend thee.'
W. JOHNSON CORY.
_149_
UNSHAMED, unchecked, for one so dear We sorrow. Lead the mournful choir, Melpomene, to whom thy sire Gave harp and song-notes liquid-clear!
Sleeps he the sleep that knows no morn? O Honour, O twin-born with Right, Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light, When shall again his like be born?
Many a kind heart for him makes moan; Thine, Vergil, first. But ah! in vain Thy love bids heaven restore again That which it took not as a loan.
Were sweeter lute than Orpheus' given To thee, did trees thy voice obey; The blood revisits not the clay Which he, with lifted wand, hath driven
Into his dark assemblage, who Unlocks not fate to mortal's prayer. Hard lot. Yet light their griefs, who _bear_ The ills which they may not undo.
C.S. CALVERLEY.
_152, ii_
THE snow, dissolv'd, no more is seen, The fields and woods, behold, are green; The changing year renews the plain, The rivers know their banks again; The sprightly Nymph and naked Grace The mazy dance together trace; The changing year's successive plan Proclaims mortality to Man. Rough winter's blasts to spring give way, Spring yields to summer's sovran ray; Then summer sinks in autumn's reign, And winter holds the world again. Her losses soon the moon supplies, But wretched Man, when once he lies Where Priam and his sons are laid, Is naught but ashes and a shade. Who knows if Jove, who counts our score, Will toss us in a morning more? What with your friend you nobly share At least you rescue from your heir. Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome, When Minos once has fixed your doom, Or eloquence or splendid birth Or virtue shall restore to earth. Hippolytus, unjustly slain, Diana calls to life in vain, Nor can the might of Theseus rend The chains of hell that hold his friend.
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
_153_
NOW have I made my monument: and now Nor brass shall longer live, nor loftier raise The royallest pyramid its superb brow. Nor ruin of rain or wind shall mar its praise, Nor tooth of Time, nor pitiless pageantry O' the flying years. In death I shall not die Wholly, nor Death's dark Angel all I am Make his; but ever flowerlike my fame Shall flourish in the foldings of the Mount Capitoline, where the Priests go up, and mute The maiden Priestesses. From mean account Lifted to mighty, where the resolute Waters ot Aufidus reverberant ring O'er fields where Daunus once held rustic state, Of barren acres simple-minded king,-- There was I born, and first of men did mate To lyre of Latium Aeolic lay. Clothe thee in glory, Muse, and grandly wear Thy hardly-gotten greatness, and my hair Circle, Melpomene, with Delphian bay.
H.W.G.
_161_
HE who sublime in epic numbers rolled, And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's unequal hand alike controlled, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
BYRON.
_166_
HAD he not hands of rare device, whoe'er First painted Love in figure of a boy? He saw what thoughtless beings lovers were, Who blessings lose, whilst lightest cares employ.
Nor added he those airy wings in vain, And bade through human hearts the godhead fly; For we are tost upon a wavering main; Our gale, inconstant, veers around the sky.
Nor, without cause, he grasps those barbed darts, The Cretan quiver o'er his shoulder cast; Ere we suspect a foe, he strikes our hearts; And those inflicted wounds for ever last.
In me are fix'd those arrows, in my breast; But sure his wings are shorn, the boy remains; For never takes he flight, nor knows he rest; Still, still I feel him warring through my veins.
In these scorch'd vitals dost thou joy to dwell? Oh shame! to others let thy arrows flee; Let veins untouch'd with all thy venom swell; Not me thou torturest, but the shade of me.
Destroy me--who shall then describe the fair? This my light Muse to thee high glory brings: When the nymph's tapering fingers, flowing hair, And eyes of jet, and gliding feet she sings.
ELTON.
_179_
NO longer, Paullus, vex with tears my tomb: There is no prayer can open the black gate. When once the dead have passed beneath the doom, Barred is the adamant and vows too late.
E'en though the lord of hell should list thy prayer, Thy tears shall idly soak the sullen shores: Vows may move heaven; when Charon holds his fee, The grass-grown pile stands closed by lurid doors.
So the sad trumpets told their funeral tale While from the bier the torch dislodged my frame; What did my husband, what my sires avail, Or all these numerous pledges of my fame?
Did I, Cornelia, find the fates less harsh? Five fingers now can lift my weight complete. Accursed nights, and stagnant Stygian marsh, And every sluggish wave that clogs my feet,
Early yet guiltless came I to this bourne; So let the sire deal gently with my shade If Aeacus sit judge with ordered urn, By kin upon my bones be judgement made:
There let his brothers sit, the Furies fill By Minos' seat the Court, an audience grave. Let Sisyphus rest, Ixion's wheel be still, And Tantalus once grasp the fleeting wave;
To-day let surly Cerberus hunt no shade, By the mute bar loose let his fetters lie. I plead my cause: if guilty, be there laid On me that urn, the sisters' penalty.
If any may boast trophies of old days, Still Libya tells my sires the Scipios' name; My mother's line their Libo peers displays, And each great house stands propp'd by scrolls of fame.
When I doffed maiden garb 'neath torches' glow, And with the nuptial band my locks were tied, 'Twas to thy bed I came, doomed thus to go: Let my stone say I was but once a bride.
Those ashes by Rome reverenced I attest, Whose titles tell how Afric's pride was shorn, Perseus that feigned his sire Achilles' breast, And him that brought Achilles' house to scorn;
For me the censor's rule ne'er swerved from place, Your hearth need never blush for shame of mine: Cornelia brought such relics no disgrace, Herself a model to her mighty line.
I never changed, I lived without a stain Betwixt the marriage and the funeral fire: Nature gave laws drawn from my noble strain, Fear of no judge could higher life inspire.
Let any urn pass sentence stern on me: None will be shamed that I should sit beside; Not she, rare maid of tower-crowned Cybele, That hauled the lagging goddess up the tide;
Not she for whom, when Vesta claimed her fire, The linen white revealed the coals aglow. What changed in me but fate would'st thou desire, Sweet mother mine? I never wrought thee woe.
Her tears, the city's grief, applaud my fame: And Caesar's sobs plead for these bones of mine; His daughter's worthy sister's loss they blame, And we saw tears upon that face divine.
And yet I won the matron's robe of state, 'Twas from no barren house that I was torn: Paullus and Lepidus, balm of my fate, Upon your breast my closing eyes were borne.
My brother twice I saw in curule place, Consul what time his sister ceased to be. Child, of thy father's censorship the trace, Cleave to one husband only, copy me.
Prop the great race in line: my bark of choice Sets sail, my loss so many to restore. Woman's last triumph is when common voice Applauds the pyre of her whose work is o'er.
These common pledges to thee I commend: Still burned into my ashes breathes this care. Father, the mother's offices attend: This my whole troop thy shoulders now must bear.
When thou shalt kiss their tears, kiss too for me: Henceforth thy load must be the house complete. If thou must weep with them not there to see, When present, with dry cheeks their kisses cheat.
Enough those nights thou weariest out for me, Those dreams that often shall my semblance feign; And with my shade in secret colloquy, Speak as to one to answer back again.
But should the gate confront another bed, And on my couch a jealous step-dame sit, Laud, boys, and praise the bride your sire has wed; She will be won charmed with your ready wit.
Nor praise your mother overmuch; she may Feel contrast and free words to insult turn. But if contented with my shade he stay, And hold my ashes of such high concern;
His coming age learn to anticipate, Leave to the widower's cares no path confessed. Be added to your years what mine abate, And in my children Paullus' age be blessed.
'Tis well: for child I ne'er wore mourning weed; But my whole troop came to my obsequies. My plea is done. While grateful earth life's meed Repays, in tears ye witnesses arise. Heaven opes to such deserts; may mine me speed To join my honoured fathers in the skies.
L.J. LATHAM.
_217_
I give a part of the version of Stepney, whom Dr. Johnson describes as 'a very licentious translator'.
IF mighty gods can mortal sorrows know, And be the humble partners of our woe, Now loose your tresses, pensive Elegy,-- Too well your office and your name agree. Tibullus, once the joy and pride of Fame, Lies now--rich fuel--on the trembling flame; Sad Cupid now despairs of conquering hearts, Throws by his empty quiver, breaks his darts, Eases his useless bows from idle strings. Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings-- He wants, of which he robbed fond lovers, rest,-- And wounds with furious hands his pensive breast. Those graceful curls which wantonly did flow, The whiter rivals of the falling snow, Forget their beauty and in discord lie, Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye. . . . . . . . . In vain to gods (if gods there are) we pray, And needless victims prodigally pay; Worship their sleeping deities, yet Death Scorns votaries and stops the praying breath: To hallowed shrines intending Fate will come, And drag you from the altar to the tomb. Go, frantic poet, with delusions fed, Thick laurels guard your consecrated head-- Now the sweet master of your art is dead. What can _we_ hope, since that a narrow span Can measure the remains of thee, Great Man? . . . . . . . . If any poor remains survive the flames Except thin shadows and mere empty names, Free in Elysium shall Tibullus rove, Nor fear a second death should cross his love. There shall Catullus, crowned with bays, impart To his far dearer friend his open heart; There Gallus (if Fame's hundred tongues all lie) Shall, free from censure, no more rashly die. Such shall our poet's blest companions be, And in their deaths, as in their lives, agree. But thou, rich Urn, obey my strict commands, Guard thy great charge from sacrilegious hands; Thou, Earth, Tibullus' ashes gently use, And be as soft and easy as his Muse.
G. STEPNEY.
_240_
AFTER death nothing is, and nothing death-- The utmost limits of a gasp of breath. Let the ambitious zealot lay aside His hope of heaven, whose faith is but his pride; Let slavish souls lay by their fear, Nor be concerned which way, or where, After this life they shall be hurled. Dead, we become the lumber of the world, And to that mass of matter shall be swept Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept. Devouring Time swallows us whole, Impartial Death confounds body and soul. For Hell and the foul Fiend that rules The everlasting fiery goals, Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools, With his grim grisly dog that keeps the door, Are senseless stories, idle tales, Dreams, whimsies and no more.
JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.
_261_
AND so Death took him. Yet be comforted: Above this sea of sorrow lift thy head. Death--or his shadow--look, is over all; What but an alternating funeral The long procession of the nights and days? The starry heavens fail, the solid earth Fails and its fashion. Why, beholding this, Why with our wail o'er sad mortality Mourn we for men, mere men, that fade and fall? Battle or shipwreck, love or lunacy, Some warp o' the will, some taint o' the blood, some touch Of winter's icy breath, the Dog-star's rage Relentless, or the dank and ghostly mists Of Autumn--any or all of these suffice To die by. In the fee and fear of Fate Lives all that is. We one by one depart Into the silence--one by one. The Judge Shakes the vast urn: the lot leaps forth: we die. But _he_ is happy, and you mourn in vain. He has outsoared the envy of gods and men, False fortune and the dark and treacherous way, --Scatheless: he never lived to pray for death, Nor sinned--to fear her, nor deserved to die. We that survive him, weak and full of woes, Live ever with a fearful eye on Death-- The how and when of dying: 'Death' the thunder, 'Death' the wild lightning speaks to us. In vain,-- Atedius hearkens not to words of mine. Yet shall he hearken to the dead: be done, Sweet lad he loved, be done with Death, and come, Leaving the dark Tartarean halls, come hither; Come, for thou canst: 'tis not to Charon given, Nor yet to Cerberus, to keep in thrall The innocent soul: come to thy father, soothe His sorrow, dry his eyes, and day and night A living voice be with him--look upon him, Tell him thou art not dead (thy sister mourns, Comfort her, comfort as a brother can) And win thy parents back to thee again.
H.W.G.
_262_
WHAT sin was mine, sweet, silent boy-god, Sleep, Or what, poor sufferer, have I left undone, That I should lack thy guerdon, I alone? Quiet are the brawling streams: the shuddering deep Sinks, and the rounded mountains feign to sleep. The high seas slumber pillowed on Earth's breast; All flocks and birds and beasts are stilled in rest, But my sad eyes their nightly vigil keep. O! if beneath the night some happier swain, Entwined in loving arms, refuse thy boon In wanton happiness,--come hither soon, Come hither, Sleep. Let happier mortals gain The full embrace of thy soft angel wing: But touch me with thy wand, or hovering Above mine eyelids sweep me with thy train.
W.H. FYFE.
I append six _Sonnets to Sleep_ by six English poets of very different genius, none of whom, save perhaps Drummond, seems to have been influenced by Statius. Cowley's poem _To Sleep_ in the _Mistress_ may perhaps also be read--the last line shows that Cowley recalled Statius.
COME, Sleep, O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease! I will good tribute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light, A rosy garland and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.
SIDNEY.
CARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my languish and restore the light; With dark forgetting of my care, return: And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease dreams, the images of day's desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow; Never let rising Sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
DANIEL.
SLEEP, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince whose approach peace to all mortal brings, Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, Sole comforter of minds with grief opprest; Lo! by thy charming-rod all breathing things Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possest, And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings Thou spares, alas! who cannot be thy guest. Since I am thine, oh come, but with that face To inward light which thou art wont to show; With feignèd solace ease a true-felt woe; Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou wilt, and that thou wilt bequeath,-- I long to kiss the image of my death.
DRUMMOND.
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds, and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;-- I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessèd barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
WORDSWORTH.
O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! Shutting with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its lulling charities; Then save me, or the passèd day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.
KEATS.