And he who sacrifices, on the shrine
Hangs verse, both when he smites the threatening bull, And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide
To scrutinize the fates enveloped there.
We too, ourselves, what time we seek again Our native skies, and one eternal now Shall be the only measure of our being, Crowned all with gold, and chanting to the lyre Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, And make the starry firmament resound. And, even now, the fiery spirit pure
That wheels yon circling orbs, directs, himself, Their mazy dance with melody of verse Unutterable, immortal, hearing which Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppressed; Orion, softened, drops his ardent blade; And Atlas stands unconscious of his load.
Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet Luxurious dainties, destined to the gulf
Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere Lyæus deluged yet the temperate board. Then sat the bard a customary guest
To share the banquet, and, his length of locks
With beechen honours bound, proposed in verse The characters of heroes and their deeds To imitation; sang of Chaos old,
Of Nature's birth, of gods that crept in search Of acorns fallen, and of the thunder-bolt Not yet produced from Ætna's fiery cave. And what avails, at last, tune without voice, Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhaps The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear, And the oaks followed. Not by chords alone Well touched, but by resistless accents more, To sympathetic tears the ghosts themselves He moved these praises to his verse he owes. Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight
The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain
And useless, powers, by whom inspired, thyself
Art skilful to associate verse with airs
Such distribution of himself to us
Was Phoebus' choice; thou hast thy gift, and I
Mine also, and between us we receive,
Father and son, the whole inspiring god.
No! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle Muse, My father! for thou never badest me tread The beaten path, and broad, that leads right on To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son To the insipid clamours of the bar, To laws voluminous, and ill observed; But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill My mind with treasure, led'st me far away From city din to deep retreats, to banks And streams Aonian, and, with free consent, Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. I speak not now, on more important themes Intent, of common benefits, and such As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts, My father who, when I had opened once The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learned
The full-toned language of the eloquent Greeks,
Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove,
Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowers
That Gallia boasts; those too with which the smooth
And Palestine's prophetic songs divine.
To sum the whole, whate'er the heaven contains,
The earth beneath it, and the air between, The rivers and the restless deep, may all Prove intellectual gain to me, my wish Concurring with thy will; Science herself, All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head,
And offers me the lip, if, dull of heart,
I shrink not, and decline her gracious boon. Go now and gather dross, ye sordid minds That covet it; what could my father more? What more could Jove himself, unless he gave His own abode, the hea ven in which he reigns? More eligible gifts than these were not Apollo's to his son, had they been safe As they were insecure, who made the boy The world's vice-luminary, bade him rule The radiant chariot of the day, and bind
To his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath? I therefore, although last and least, my place Among the learned in the laurel grove
Will hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines, Henceforth exempt from the unlettered throng Profane, nor even to be seen by such.
Away, then, sleepless Care; Complaint, away; And, Envy, with thy "jealous leer malign! Nor let the monster Calumny shoot forth Her venomed tongue at me. Detested foes! Ye all are impotent against my peace,
For I am privileged, and bear my breast Safe, and too high for your viperean wound. But thou, my father! since to render thanks Equivalent, and to requite by deeds Thy liberality, exceeds my power, Suffice it that I thus record thy gifts,
And bear them treasured in a grateful mind!
Ye too, the favourite pastime of my youth, My voluntary numbers, if ye dare
To hope longevity, and to survive
Your master's funeral, not soon absorbed In the oblivious Lethæan gulf,
Shall to futurity perhaps convey
This theme, and by these praises of my sire Improve the fathers of a distant age!
A ROMAN POET, MUCH INDISPOSED.
The original is written in a measure called Scazon, which signifies limping, and the measure is so denominated because, though in other respects Iambic, it terminates with a Spondee, and has consequently a more tardy movement.
The reader will immediately see that this property of the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English.
My halting Muse, that dragg'st by choice along Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song, And likest that pace, expressive of thy cares, Not less than Deiopeia's sprightlier airs,
When in the dance she beats with measured tread Heaven's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed; Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine. Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafted o'er From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore, Where Eurus, fiercest of the Æolian band, Sweeps with ungoverned rage the blasted land, Of late to more serene Ausonia came
To view her cities of illustrious name,
To prove, himself a witness of the truth,
How wise her elders, and how learned her youth. Much good, Salsillus! and a body free From all disease, that Milton asks for thee, Who now endurest the languor, and the pains, That bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins, Relentless malady! not moved to spare By thy sweet Roman voice, and Lesbian air! Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies, And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies,
Pythius, or Pæan, or what name divine Soe'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine ! Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that melt With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt, If aught salubrious in your confines grow, Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe, That, rendered to the Muse he loves, again He may enchant the meadows with his strain. Numa, reclined in everlasting ease, Amid the shade of dark embowering trees, Viewing with eyes of unabated fire
His loved Ægeria, shall that strain admire : So soothed, the tumid Tiber shall revere The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year, Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein,
And guide them harmless, till they meet the main.
TO GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO,
MILTON'S ACCOUNT OF MANSO.
Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian nobleman of the highest estimation among his countrymen, for genius, literature, and military accomplishments. To him Torquato Tasso addressed his "Dialogues on Friendship," for he was much the friend of Tasso, who has also celebrated him among the other princes of his country, in his poem entitled "Gerusalemme Conquistata," book xx.
Fra cavalier magnanimi, e cortesi, Risplende il Manso.
During the Author's stay at Naples, he received at the hands of the Marquis a thousand kind offices and civilities, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, sent him this poem a short time before his departure from that city.
THESE verses also to thy praise the Nine- O Manso happy in that theme-design, For, Gallus and Maecenas gone, they see None such besides, or whom they love as thee; And if my verse may give the meed of fame, Thine too shall prove an everlasting name. Already such, it shines in Tasso's page (For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age, And, next, the Muse consigned (not unaware How high the charge) Marino to thy care, Who, singing to the nymphs Adonis' praise, Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays. To thee alone the poet would entrust His latest vows, to thee alone his dust;
And thou with punctual piety hast paid,
In laboured brass, thy tribute to his shade. Nor this contented thee,-but lest the grave
Should aught absorb of theirs which thou couldst save, All future ages thou hast deigned to teach The life, lot, genius, character of each, Eloquent as the Carian sage, who, true
To his great theme, the life of Homer drew.
I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who come Chilled by rude blasts that freeze my northern home, Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim,
And thine, for Phoebus' sake, a deathless name. Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eye A Muse scarce reared beneath our sullen sky, Who fears not, indiscreet as she is young, To seek in Latium hearers of her song.
We too, where Thames with his unsullied waves The tresses of the blue-haired Ocean laves, Hear oft by night, or slumbering seem to hear, O'er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling clear, And we could boast a Tityrus of yore,
Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore.
Yes, dreary as we own our northern clime, Even we to Phoebus raise the polished rhyme. We too serve Phoebus; Phoebus has received (If legends old may claim to be believed) No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear, The burnished apple, ruddiest of the year, The fragrant crocus, and, to grace his fane, Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train; Druids, our native bards in ancient time,
Who gods and heroes praised in hallowed rhyme. Hence, often as the maids of Greece surround Apollo's shrine with hymns of festive sound, They name the virgins, who arrived of yore, With British offerings, on the Delian shore; Loxo, from giant Corineus sprung,
Upis, on whose blest lips the future hung, And Hecaerge, with the golden hair,
All decked with Pictish hues, and all with bosoms bare.
Thou, therefore, happy sage, whatever clime
Shall ring with Tasso's praise in after time, Or with Marino's, shalt be known their friend, And with an equal flight to fame ascend. The world shall hear how Phoebus and the Nine Were inmates once, and willing guests of thine. Yet Phoebus, when of old constrained to roam The earth, an exile from his heavenly home, Entered, no willing guest, Admetus' door, Though Hercules had ventured there before. But gentle Chiron's cave was near, a scene Of rural peace, clothed with perpetual green,
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