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But she, the while, whom only I adore,
Was gone, and vanish'd, to appear no more.
In silent sadness I pursue my way;
I pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay,
And, while I follow her in thought, bemoan
With tears my soul's delight so quickly flown.
When Jove had hurl'd him to the Lemnian coast,
So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost,
And so Oeclides, sinking into night,
From the deep gulf look'd up to distant light.
Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain, Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain? Oh could I once, once more behold the fair, Speak to her, tell her of the pangs I bear; Perhaps she is not adamant; would show, Perhaps, some pity at my tale of woe. Oh inauspicious flame—'tis mine to prove A matchless instance of disastrous love. Ah, spare me, gentle power!—If such thou be, Let not thy deeds and nature disagree. Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine With vow and sacrifice save only thine. Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts: Now own thee sovereign of all human hearts. Remove! no—grant me still this raging woe I Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know: But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see One destined mine) at once both her and me.
Such were the trophies that, in earlier days, By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise;
Studious, yet indolent, and urged by youth,
EPIGRAMS. ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS.
Praise in old time the sage Prometheus won,
[The Poemson the subject ofthe GunpowderTreason I have not translated, both because the matter of them is unpleasant, and because they are written with an asperity, which, however it might be warranted in Milton's day, would be extremely unseasonable now.]
TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME.*
Another Leonora once inspired
11 have translated only two of the three poetical compliments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to me far superior to what I have omitted.
But how much happier, lived he now, were he, Pierced with whatever pangs for love of thee!Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine, With Adriana's lute of sound divine, Fiercer than Pentheus' though his eye might roll, Or idiot apathy benumb his soul, You still, with medicinal sounds might cheer His senses wandering in a blind career;And, sweetly breathing through his wounded breast, [rest. Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to
TO THE SAME.
Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no more
THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD. A FABLE.
A Peasant to his lord paid yearly court,
The tree, too old to travel, though before
TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN, WITH
Christina, maiden of heroic mien!
ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR,
Learn, ye nations of the earth,
If the mournful rover, Death,
Say but once—" Resign your breath!"
Vainly of escape you dream,
You must pass the Stygian stream.
Could the stoutest overcome
Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain
Could enchantments life prolong,
Dwelt in herbs and drugs a power
Chiron had survived the smart
Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn