endeavour by the club at St. James's coffee-house, in 1774, to make jocular epitaphs upon Goldsmith, he did not take up his pen.
The following therefore may be esteemed a curiosity it is a translation by Mr. Burke, while at College in 1746, of the conclusion of the second Georgic of Virgil, the panegyric on a country life; and as the production of a youth just turned of sixteen, is not merely no ordinary effort, but in many passages may contest the palm with Dryden; in fact, a comparison of the whole will tell little, if any thing, to his disadvantage.
Oh! happy swains! did they know how to prize
The many blessings rural life supplies;
Where in safe huts from clattering arms afar,
The pomp of cities and the din of war,
Indulgent earth, to pay his labouring hand,
Pours in his arms the blessings of the land;
Calm through the valleys flows along his life,
He knows no danger, as he knows no strife.
What! though no marble portals, rooms of state,
Vomit the cringing torrent from his gate,
Though no proud purple hang his stately halls,
Nor lives the breathing brass along his walls,
Though the sheep clothe him without colours' aid,
Nor seeks he foreign luxury from trade,
Yet peace and honesty adorn his days
With rural riches and a life of ease.
Joyous the yell'wing fields here Ceres sees,
Here blushing clusters bend the groaning trees,
Here spreads the silver lake, and all around
Perpetual green, and flow'rs adorn the ground.
How happy too, the peaceful rustic lies,
The grass his bed, his canopy the skies;
From heat retiring to the noon-tide glade,
His trees protect him with an ample shade;
No jarring sounds invade his settling breast,
His lowing cows shall lull him into rest.
Here 'mong the caves, the woods, and rocks around,
Here, only here, the hardy youth abound;
Religion here has fixed her pure abodes,
Parents are honoured, and adored the gods;
Departing justice, when she fled mankind,
In these blest plains her footsteps left behind.
Celestial Nine! my only joy and care,
Whose love inflames me, and whose rites I bear,
Lead me, oh lead me! from the vulgar throng,
Clothe nature's myst'ries in thy rapturous song;
What various forms in heav'ns broad belt appear,
Whose limits bound the circle of the year,
Or spread around in glitt'ring order lie,
Or roll in mystic numbers through the sky?
What dims the midnight lustre of the moon?
What cause obstructs the sun's bright rays at noon?
Why haste his fiery steeds so long to lave
Their splendid chariot in the wintry_wave?
Or why bring on the lazy moon so slow?
What love detains them in the realms below?
But if this dull, this feeble breast of mine,
Can't reach such heights, or hold such truths divine,
Oh! may I seek the rural shades alone,
Of half mankind unknowing and unknown,
Range by the borders of the silver flood,
And waste a life ingloriously good.
Hail! blooming fields, where joy unclouded reigns,
Where silver Sperchius laves the yell'wing plains.
Oh! where, Taygeta, shall I hear around
Lyæus praise the Spartan virgins sound?
What god will bear me from this burning heat,
In Hamus' valley, to some cool retreat,
Where oaks and laurels guard the sacred ground,
And with their ample foliage shade me round?
Happy the man, who versed in Nature's laws,
From known effects can trace the hidden cause!
Him not the terrors of the vulgar fright
The vagrant forms and terrors of the night;
Black and relentless fate he tramples on,
And all the rout of greedy Acheron.
Happy whose life the rural god approves,
The guardian of his growing flocks and groves;
Harmonious Pan and old Sylvanus join
The sister nymphs, to make his joys divine:
Him not the splendours of a crown can please,
Or consul's honours bribe to quit his ease.
Though on his will should crowding armies wait,
And suppliant kings come suing to his gate;
No piteous objects here his peace molest,
Nor can he sorrow while another's blest;
His food alone what bounteous nature yields,
From bending orchards and luxuriant fields,
Pleased he accepts, nor seeks the mad resort
Of thronging clients and litigious court.
Let one delight all danger's forms to brave,
Rush on the sword, or plunge amid the wave,
Destroy all nations with an easy mind,
And make a general havoc of his kind,
That on a Tyrian couch he may recline,
And from a costlier goblet quaff his wine;
Another soul is buried with his store,
Hourly he heaps, and hourly longs for more;
Some in the rostrum fix their sole delight,
Some in the applauses of a rich third night;
While gain smiles lovely in another's eyes,
Though brother's blood should buy the horrid prize;
Though from his country guilt should make him run,
Where other nations feel another sun.
The happy rustic turns the fruitful soil,
And hence proceeds the year's revolving toil;
On this his country for support depends,
On this his cattle, family, and friends :
For this the bounteous gods reward his care,
With all the product of the various year;
His youngling flocks now whiten all the plain,
Now sink the furrows with the teeming grain;
Beauteous to these Pomona adds her charms,
And pours her fragrant treasures in his arms,
From loaden boughs, the orchard's rich produce,
The mellow apple, and the generous juice.
Now winter's frozen hand benumbs the plain,
The winter too has blessings for the swain:
His grunting herd is fed without his toil,
His groaning presses overflow with oil;
The languid autumn crown'd with yellow leaves,
With bleeding fruit and golden-bearded sheaves,
Her various products scatters o'er the land,
And rears the horn of Plenty in her hand.
Nor less than these, wait his domestic life,
His darling children, and his virtuous wife,
The day's long absence they together mourn,
Hang on his neck, and welcome his return;
The cows, departing from the joyful field,
Before his door their milky tribute yield,
While on the green, the frisky kids engage,
With adverse horns and counterfeited rage.
He too, when mark'd with white the festal day,
Devotes his hours to rural sport and play;
Stretch'd on the green amid the jovial quire
Of boon companions that surround the fire,
With front enlarged he crowns the flowing bowl,
And calls thee, Bacchus, to inspire his soul;
Now warm'd with wine, to vigorous sports they rise;
High on an elm is hung the victor's prize;
To him 'tis given, whose force with greatest speed
Can wing the dart, or urge the fiery steed.
Such manners made the ancient Sabines bold,
Such the life led by Romulus of old;
By arts like these divine Etruria grows,
From such foundations mighty Rome arose,
Whose godlike fame the world's vast circuit fills,
Who with one wall hath circled seven vast hills;
Such was, ere Jove began his iron reign,
Ere mankind feasted upon oxen slain,
The life that Saturn and his subjects led,
Ere from the land offended justice fled;
As yet the brazen use of arms unknown,
And anvils rung with scythes and shares alone.
In addition to this and the version of the Idyllium of Theocritus already mentioned, Mr. Burke made not only other translations, but wrote original pieces, some of them of length. A few of the shorter ones were submitted to the inspection of Mr. Shackleton, or directly addressed to him on temporary circumstances; several of them reported to be juvenile enough; others to display talent, and an ardent love of virtue; but the major part believed to be now irrecoverably lost. Conjointly, they wrote a poem, taking Ballitore for the subject. The address before noticed to the river Blackwater, which was considered to possess superior merit, was, with several letters written by Mr. Burke during the early part of his career in London, borrowed by his father from Mr. Shackleton, and never returned.
One other memorial of him, however, is preserved in the following lines, owing probably to the kind care of the gentleman to whom they were addressed; and they will be read with interest as the production of a pen so universally celebrated for its powers
To Richard Shackleton, on his Marriage.
[Written by Mr. Burke, 1748.]
When hearts are barter'd for less precious gold,
And like the heart, the venal song is sold:
Each flame is dull, and but one base desire
Kindles the bridal torch and poet's fire;
The gods their violated rites forbear,
The Muse flies far, and Hymen is not there.
But when true love binds in his roseate bands
That rare but happy union, hearts and hands-
When nought but friendship guides the poet's song,
How sweet the verse! the happy love how strong!
Oh! if the Muse, indulging my design,
Should favour me, as love has favour'd thine,
I'd challenge Pan at peril of my life,
Though his Arcadia were to judge the strife.
Why don't the vocal groves ring forth their joy,
And lab'ring echoes all their mouths employ?
To tell his bride what sighs, what plaints they heard,
While yet his growing flame's success he fear'd,
And all his pains o'erpaid with transport now,
When love exults and he enjoys his vow?
Silent ye stand-nor will bestow one lay
Of all he taught to grace this happy day;
Can joy ne'er harbour in your sullen shade,
Or are ye but for lovers' sorrows made?
I'll leave you then, and from the Bride's bright eye,
A happier omen take which cannot lie,
Of growing time, still growing in delight,
Of rounds of future years all mark'd with white,
Through whose bright circles, free from envious chance,
Concord and love shall lead an endless dance.
What is the monarch's crown, the shepherd's ease,
The hero's laurel, and the poet's bays?
A load of toilsome life too dull to bear,
If heav'n's indulgence did not add the fair,
E'en Eden's sweets our Adam did despise,
All its gay scenes could not delight his eyes,
Woman God gave, and then 'twas Paradise.
Another Eve and Paradise are thine,
May'st thou be father of as long a line!
Your heart so fix'd on her, and hers on you,
As if the world afforded but the two,
That to this age your constancy may prove,
There yet remains on earth a power call'd love.
These to my friend, in lays not vainly loud,
The palm, unknowing to the giddy crowd
I sung, for these demand his steady truth,
And friendship growing from our earliest youth;
A nobler lay unto his sire should grow,
To whose kind care my better birth I owe,
Who to fair science did my youth entice,
Won from the paths of ignorance and vice.
Things of this description are not constructed to withstand the wintry winds of rigid criticism, yet it is one of the best of the kind; the thoughts chiefly original, the versification harmonious, the expression only in a few places faulty, and the allusions, as has been remarked of his speeches, and even colloquial pleasantries, classical.
He was not only a writer of poetry, but a diligent student of the best English poets, particularly Spenser, Shakspeare, Milton, and | Young; showing the most decided attachment to those passages in them distinguished for grandeur, sublimity, and vigour of imagination. The descriptive truth and solemn seriousness of
Young impressed him so forcibly that at one time, it is said, he could repeat much of the Night Thoughts by rote; and in a copy of the work which often formed a travelling companion in his youthful days, the following lines, stated to be in his handwriting, have been mentioned as written on one of the flyleaves :
Jove claim'd the verse old Homer sung,
But God himself inspired Young.
Milton, however, was a still greater favourite, chiefly in consequence of his daring flights and sublime conceptions on the most awful of all subjects, so much above the track, and perhaps the powers, of any other poet. He always recommended the study of him to his son, and to all his younger friends, as exhibiting the highest possible range of mind in the English language; and to the last, quoted him frequently both in conversation and in writing. It is therefore with some truth that the Rev. Mr. Todd, in his life of Milton (p. clv.), makes the following suggestion; while the anecdote by which it is accompanied exhibits Mr. Burke's early attachment to those social literary meetings, of which in after life he, as well as Dr. Johnson, were so fond.
"Burke, I may observe," says Mr. Todd, "was an ardent admirer of Milton. I learn from Mr. Walker (of Dublin) that this great orator was a distinguished member of a literary club instituted in Dublin in 1747, in which he sometimes held the Secretary's pen, and sometimes filled the President's chair; and that in the original minutes of this society, his early Miltonic taste is thus recorded
(Friday, June 5, 1747, Mr. Burke being ordered to speak the speech of Moloch, receives applause for the delivery, it being in character. Then the speech was read and criticised upon; its many beauties illustrated; the chief judged to be its conformity with the character of Moloch
Arm'd with hell-flames and fury, all at once,
O'er Heav'n's high towers to force resistless way.
The words all at once' (the metre not considered) seemed to the whole assembly to hurt the sentence by stopping the rapidity and checking the fierceness of it, making it too long and tedious. Then was Belial's speech read to the great delight of the hearers; whose opinion was, that Homer only can be compared to Milton, not only for the beauties that shine in every verse, but likewise for the just and lively colours in which each character was drawn ; for that none but Homer, like him, ever supported such spirit and exactness in the speeches of such a contrast and variety of persons. These notices, adds the learned writer, will not seem tedious; for they suggest an opinion that the finest oratory of
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