[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. V. ELEG. III.
TO HIS FELLOW-POETS AT ROME,
UPON THE BIRTHDAY OF BACCHUS. This is the day—blithe god of sack—which we,
If I mistake not, consecrate to thee,
When the soft rose we marry to the bays,
And, warm'd with thy own wine, rehearse thy praise;
'Mongst whom—while to thy poet fate gave way—
I have been held no small part of the day.
But now, dull'd with the cold Bear's frozen seat,
Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike Gete.
My former life, unlike to this my last,
With Rome's best wits of thy full cup did taste,
Who since have seen the savage Pontic band,
And all the choler of the sea and land.
Whether sad chance or Heav'n hath this design'd,
And at my birth some fatal planet shin'd,
Of right thou shouldst the sisters' knots undo,
And free thy votary and poet too;
Or are you gods—like us—in such a state
As cannot alter the decrees of fate?
I know with much ado thou didst obtain
Thy jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain
Was no whit less, for, wand'ring, thou didst run
To the Getes too, and snow-weeping Strymon,
With Persia, Ganges, and whatever streams
The thirsty Moor drinks in the mid-day beams.
But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee
—To make all sure—doubled thy misery.
My sufferings too are many—if it be
Held safe for me to boast adversity—
Nor was't a common blow, but from above,
Like his that died for imitating Jove;
Which, when thou heardst, a ruin so divine
And mother-like should make thee pity mine,
And on this day, which poets unto thee
Crown with full bowls, ask what's become of me?
Help, buxom god, then! so may thy lov'd vine
Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with wine
Load the kind elm, and so thy orgies be
With priests' loud shouts and satyrs' kept to thee!
So may in death Lycurgus ne'er be blest,
Nor Pentheus' wand'ring ghost find any rest!
And so for ever bright—thy chief desires—
May thy wife's crown outshine the lesser fires!
If but now, mindful of my love to thee,
Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.
You gods have commerce with yourselves; try then
If CÆsar will restore me Rome again.
And you, my trusty friends—the jolly crew
Of careless poets! when, without me, you
Perform this day's glad myst'ries, let it be
Your first appeal unto his deity,
And let one of you—touch'd with my sad name—
Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same,
And—sighing—to the rest this thought commend,
O! where is Ovid now, our banish'd friend?
This do, if in your breasts I e'er deserv'd
So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd,
Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow
Condemning others, did myself allow.
And may your happier wits grow loud with fame
As you—my best of friends!—preserve my name.
[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. III. [EPIST. VII.].
TO HIS FRIENDS—AFTER HIS MANY SOLICITATIONS—REFUSING TO PETITION CÆSAR FOR HIS RELEASEMENT. You have consum'd my language, and my pen,
Incens'd with begging, scorns to write again.
You grant, you knew my suit: my Muse and I
Had taught it you in frequent elegy.
That I believe—yet seal'd—you have divin'd
Our repetitions, and forestall'd my mind,
So that my thronging elegies and I
Have made you—more than poets—prophesy.
But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream
Which made me cross the proverb and the stream,
And pardon, friends, that I so long have had
Such good thoughts of you; I am not so mad
As to continue them. You shall no more
Complain of troublesome verse, or write o'er
How I endanger you, and vex my wife
With the sad legends of a banish'd life.
I'll bear these plagues myself: for I have pass'd
Through greater ones, and can as well at last
These petty crosses. 'Tis for some young beast
To kick his bands, or wish his neck releas'd
From the sad yoke. Know then, that as for me
Whom Fate hath us'd to such calamity,
I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare
The highest ills your malice can prepare.
'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now
Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowy brow
Of cloudy Æmus, and if she decree
Her sportive pilgrim's last bed here must be,
I am content; nay, more, she cannot do
That act which I would not consent unto.
I can delight in vain hopes, and desire
That state more than her change and smiles; then high'r
I hug a strong despair, and think it brave
To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave.
Have you not seen cur'd wounds enlarg'd, and he
That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th' free
Waters, without th' expense of arms or breath,
Hath still the easiest and the quickest death.
Why nurse I sorrows then? why these desires
Of changing Scythia for the sun and fires
Of some calm kinder air? what did bewitch
My frantic hopes to fly so vain a pitch,
And thus outrun myself? Madman! could I
Suspect fate had for me a courtesy?
These errors grieve: and now I must forget
Those pleas'd ideas I did frame and set
Unto myself, with many fancied springs
And groves, whose only loss new sorrow brings.
And yet I would the worst of fate endure,
Ere you should be repuls'd, or less secure.
But—base, low souls!—you left me not for this,
But 'cause you durst not. CÆsar could not miss
Of such a trifle, for I know that he
Scorns the cheap triumphs of my misery.
Then since—degen'rate friends—not he, but you
Cancel my hopes, and make afflictions new,
You shall confess, and fame shall tell you, I
At Ister dare as well as Tiber die.
[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. IV. EPIST. III.
TO HIS INCONSTANT FRIEND, TRANSLATED FOR THE USE OF ALL THE JUDASES OF THIS TOUCHSTONE-AGE.
[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. III. ELEG. III.
TO HIS WIFE AT ROME, WHEN HE WAS SICK. Dearest! if you those fair eyes—wond'ring—stick
On this strange character, know I am sick;
Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I
Breathe hopeless of all comforts, but to die.
What heart—think'st thou?—have I in this sad seat,
Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete?
Nor air nor water please: their very sky
Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my eye;
I scarce dare breathe it, and, I know not how,
The earth that bears me shows unpleasant now.
Nor diet here's, nor lodging for my ease,
Nor any one that studies a disease;
No friend to comfort me, none to defray
With smooth discourse the charges of the day.
All tir'd alone I lie, and—thus—whate'er
Is absent, and at Rome, I fancy here.
But when thou com'st, I blot the airy scroll,
And give thee full possession of my soul.
Thee—absent—I embrace, thee only voice.
And night and day belie a husband's joys.
Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make
That I am thought distracted for thy sake.
When my tir'd spirits fail, and my sick heart
Draws in that fire which actuates each part,
If any say, th'art come! I force my pain,
And hope to see thee gives me life again.
Thus I for thee, whilst thou—perhaps—more blest,
Careless of me dost breathe all peace and rest,
Which yet I think not, for—dear soul!—too well
Know I thy grief, since my first woes befell.
But if strict Heav'n my stock of days hath spun,
And with my life my error will be gone,
How easy then—O CÆsar!—were't for thee
To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?
That I might yield my native air this breath,
And banish not my ashes after death.
Would thou hadst either spar'd me until dead,
Or with my blood redeem'd my absent head!
Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou
Wouldst have me live to die an exile now.
And must I then from Rome so far meet death,
And double by the place my loss of breath?
Nor in my last of hours on my own bed
—In the sad conflict—rest my dying head?
Nor my soul's whispers—the last pledge of life,—
Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?
My last words none must treasure, none will rise
And—with a tear—seal up my vanquish'd eyes;
Without these rites I die, distress'd in all
The splendid sorrows of a funeral;
Unpitied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head
In a strange land goes friendless to the dead.
When thou hear'st this, O! how thy faithful soul
Will sink, whilst grief doth ev'ry part control!
How often wilt thou look this way, and cry,
O! where is't yonder that my love doth lie?
Yet spare these tears, and mourn not thou for me,
Long since—dear heart!—have I been dead to thee.
Think then I died, when thee and Rome I lost,
That death to me more grief than this hath cost.
Now, if thou canst—but thou canst not—best wife,
Rejoice, my cares are ended with my life.
At least, yield not to sorrows, frequent use
Should make these miseries to thee no news.
And here I wish my soul died with my breath,
And that no part of me were free from death;
For, if it be immortal, and outlives
The body, as Pythagoras believes,
Betwixt these Sarmates' ghosts, a Roman I
Shall wander, vex'd to all eternity.
But thou—for after death I shall be free—
Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me;
A few flow'rs give them, with some balm, and lay
Them in some suburb grave, hard by the way;
And to inform posterity, who's there,
This sad inscription let my marble wear;
"Here lies the soft-soul'd lecturer of love,
Whose envi'd wit did his own ruin prove.
But thou,—whoe'er thou be'st, that, passing by,
Lend'st to this sudden stone a hasty eye,
If e'er thou knew'st of love the sweet disease,
Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!"
This for my tomb: but in my books they'll see
More strong and lasting monuments of me,
Which I believe—though fatal—will afford
An endless name unto their ruin'd lord.
And now thus gone, it rests, for love of me,
Thou show'st some sorrow to my memory;
Thy funeral off'rings to my ashes bear,
With wreaths of cypress bath'd in many a tear.
Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
Yet shall that dust perceive thy pious pain.
But I have done, and my tir'd, sickly head,
Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;
Take then this word—perhaps my last—to tell,
Which though I want, I wish it thee, farewell!
AUSONII. IDYLL VI.
CUPIDO [CRUCI AFFIXUS]. In those bless'd fields of everlasting air
—Where to a myrtle grove the souls repair
Of deceas'd lovers—the sad, thoughtful ghosts
Of injur'd ladies meet, where each accosts
The other with a sigh, whose very breath
Would break a heart, and—kind souls—love in death.
A thick wood clouds their walks, where day scarce peeps,
And on each hand cypress and poppy sleeps;
The drowsy rivers slumber, and springs there
Blab not, but softly melt into a tear;
A sickly dull air fans them, which can have,
When most in force, scarce breath to build a wave.
On either bank through the still shades appear
A scene of pensive flow'rs, whose bosoms wear
Drops of a lover's blood, the emblem'd truths
Of deep despair, and love-slain kings and youths.
The Hyacinth, and self-enamour'd boy
Narcissus flourish there, with Venus' joy,
The spruce Adonis, and that prince whose flow'r
Hath sorrow languag'd on him to this hour;
All sad with love they hang their heads, and grieve
As if their passions in each leaf did live;
And here—alas!—these soft-soul'd ladies stray,
And—O! too late!—treason in love betray.
Her blasted birth sad Semele repeats,
And with her tears would quench the thund'rer's heats,
Then shakes her bosom, as if fir'd again,
And fears another lightning's flaming train.
The lovely Procris here bleeds, sighs, and swoons,
Then wakes, and kisses him that gave her wounds.
Sad Hero holds a torch forth, and doth light
Her lost Leander through the waves and night,
Her boatman desp'rate Sappho still admires,
And nothing but the sea can quench her fires.
Distracted PhÆdra with a restless eye
Her disdain'd letters reads, then casts them by.
Rare, faithful Thisbe—sequest'red from these—
A silent, unseen sorrow doth best please;
For her love's sake and last good-night poor she
Walks in the shadow of a mulberry.
Near her young Canace with Dido sits,
A lovely couple, but of desp'rate wits;
Both di'd alike, both pierc'd their tender breasts,
This with her father's sword, that with her guest's.
Within the thickest textures of the grove
Diana in her silver beams doth rove;
Her crown of stars the pitchy air invades,
And with a faint light gilds the silent shades,
Whilst her sad thoughts, fix'd on her sleepy lover,
To Latmos hill and his retirements move her.
A thousand more through the wide, darksome wood
Feast on their cares, the maudlin lover's food;
For grief and absence do but edge desire,
And death is fuel to a lover's fire.
To see these trophies of his wanton bow,
Cupid comes in, and all in triumph now—
Rash unadvisÈd boy!—disperseth round
The sleepy mists; his wings and quiver wound
With noise the quiet air. This sudden stir
Betrays his godship, and as we from far
A clouded, sickly moon observe, so they
Through the false mists his eclips'd torch betray.
A hot pursuit they make, and, though with care
And a slow wing, he softly stems the air,
Yet they—as subtle now as he—surround
His silenc'd course, and with the thick night bound
Surprise the wag. As in a dream we strive
To voice our thoughts, and vainly would revive
Our entranc'd tongues, but cannot speech enlarge,
'Till the soul wakes and reassumes her charge;
So, joyous of their prize, they flock about
And vainly swell with an imagin'd shout.
Far in these shades and melancholy coasts
A myrtle grows, well known to all the ghosts,
Whose stretch'd top—like a great man rais'd by Fate—
Looks big, and scorns his neighbour's low estate;
His leafy arms into a green cloud twist,
And on each branch doth sit a lazy mist,
A fatal tree, and luckless to the gods,
Where for disdain in life—Love's worst of odds—
The queen of shades, fair Proserpine, did rack
The sad Adonis: hither now they pack
This little god, where, first disarm'd, they bind
His skittish wings, then both his hands behind
His back they tie, and thus secur'd at last,
The peevish wanton to the tree make fast.
Here at adventure, without judge or jury,
He is condemn'd, while with united fury
They all assail him. As a thief at bar
Left to the law, and mercy of his star,
Hath bills heap'd on him, and is question'd there
By all the men that have been robb'd that year;
So now whatever Fate or their own will
Scor'd up in life, Cupid must pay the bill.
Their servant's falsehood, jealousy, disdain,
And all the plagues that abus'd maids can feign,
Are laid on him, and then to heighten spleen,
Their own deaths crown the sum. Press'd thus between
His fair accusers, 'tis at last decreed
He by those weapons, that they died, should bleed.
One grasps an airy sword, a second holds
Illusive fire, and in vain wanton folds
Belies a flame; others, less kind, appear
To let him blood, and from the purple tear
Create a rose. But Sappho all this while
Harvests the air, and from a thicken'd pile
Of clouds like Leucas top spreads underneath
A sea of mists; the peaceful billows breathe
Without all noise, yet so exactly move
They seem to chide, but distant from above
Reach not the ear, and—thus prepar'd—at once
She doth o'erwhelm him with the airy sconce.
Amidst these tumults, and as fierce as they,
Venus steps in, and without thought or stay
Invades her son; her old disgrace is cast
Into the bill, when Mars and she made fast
In their embraces were expos'd to all
The scene of gods, stark naked in their fall.
Nor serves a verbal penance, but with haste
From her fair brow—O happy flow'rs so plac'd!—
She tears a rosy garland, and with this
Whips the untoward boy; they gently kiss
His snowy skin, but she with angry haste
Doubles her strength, until bedew'd at last
With a thin bloody sweat, their innate red,
—As if griev'd with the act—grew pale and dead.
This laid their spleen; and now—kind souls—no more
They'll punish him; the torture that he bore
Seems greater than his crime; with joint consent
Fate is made guilty, and he innocent.
As in a dream with dangers we contest,
And fictious pains seem to afflict our rest,
So, frighted only in these shades of night,
Cupid—got loose—stole to the upper light,
Where ever since—for malice unto these—
The spiteful ape doth either sex displease.
But O! that had these ladies been so wise
To keep his arms, and give him but his eyes!
BOET[HIUS, DE CONSOLATIONE] LIB. I. METRUM I. I whose first year flourish'd with youthful verse,
In slow, sad numbers now my grief rehearse.
A broken style my sickly lines afford,
And only tears give weight unto my words.
Yet neither fate nor force my Muse could fright,
The only faithful consort of my flight.
Thus what was once my green years' greatest glory,
Is now my comfort, grown decay'd and hoary;
For killing cares th' effects of age spurr'd on,
That grief might find a fitting mansion;
O'er my young head runs an untimely grey,
And my loose skin shrinks at my blood's decay.
Happy the man, whose death in prosp'rous years
Strikes not, nor shuns him in his age and tears!
But O! how deaf is she to hear the cry
Of th' oppress'd soul, or shut the weeping eye!
While treach'rous Fortune with slight honours fed
My first estate, she almost drown'd my head,
And now since—clouded thus—she hides those rays,
Life adds unwelcom'd length unto my days.
Why then, my friends, judg'd you my state so good?
He that may fall once, never firmly stood.
METRUM II. O in what haste, with clouds and night
Eclips'd, and having lost her light,
The dull soul whom distraction rends
Into outward darkness tends!
How often—by these mists made blind—
Have earthly cares oppress'd the mind!
This soul, sometimes wont to survey
The spangled Zodiac's fiery way,
Saw th' early sun in roses dress'd,
With the cool moon's unstable crest,
And whatsoever wanton star,
In various courses near or far,
Pierc'd through the orbs, he could full well
Track all her journey, and would tell
Her mansions, turnings, rise and fall,
By curious calculation all.
Of sudden winds the hidden cause,
And why the calm sea's quiet face
With impetuous waves is curl'd,
What spirit wheels th' harmonious world,
Or why a star dropp'd in the west
Is seen to rise again by east,
Who gives the warm Spring temp'rate hours,
Decking the Earth with spicy flow'rs,
Or how it comes—for man's recruit—
That Autumn yields both grape and fruit,
With many other secrets, he
Could show the cause and mystery.
But now that light is almost out,
And the brave soul lies chain'd about
With outward cares, whose pensive weight
Sinks down her eyes from their first height.
And clean contrary to her birth
Pores on this vile and foolish Earth.
METRUM IV. Whose calm soul in a settled state
Kicks under foot the frowns of Fate,
And in his fortunes, bad or good,
Keeps the same temper in his blood;
Not him the flaming clouds above,
Nor Ætna's fiery tempests move;
No fretting seas from shore to shore,
Boiling with indignation o'er,
Nor burning thunderbolt that can
A mountain shake, can stir this man.
Dull cowards then! why should we start
To see these tyrants act their part?
Nor hope, nor fear what may befall,
And you disarm their malice all.
But who doth faintly fear or wish,
And sets no law to what is his,
Hath lost the buckler, and—poor elf!—
Makes up a chain to bind himself.
METRUM V. O Thou great builder of this starry frame,
Who fix'd in Thy eternal throne doth tame
The rapid spheres, and lest they jar
Hast giv'n a law to ev'ry star.
Thou art the cause that now the moon
With fall orb dulls the stars, and soon
Again grows dark, her light being done,
The nearer still she's to the sun.
Thou in the early hours of night
Mak'st the cool evening-star shine bright,
And at sun-rising—'cause the least—
Look pale and sleepy in the east.
Thou, when the leaves in winter stray,
Appoint'st the sun a shorter way,
And in the pleasant summer light,
With nimble hours dost wing the night.
Thy hand the various year quite through
Discreetly tempers, that what now
The north-wind tears from ev'ry tree
In spring again restor'd we see.
Then what the winter stars between
The furrows in mere seed have seen,
The dog-star since—grown up and born—
Hath burnt in stately, full-ear'd corn.
Thus by creation's law controll'd
All things their proper stations hold,
Observing—as Thou didst intend—
Why they were made, and for what end.
Only human actions Thou
Hast no care of, but to the flow
And ebb of Fortune leav'st them all.
Hence th' innocent endures that thrall
Due to the wicked; whilst alone
They sit possessors of his throne.
The just are kill'd, and virtue lies
Buried in obscurities;
And—which of all things is most sad—
The good man suffers by the bad.
No perjuries, nor damn'd pretence
Colour'd with holy, lying sense
Can them annoy, but when they mind
To try their force, which most men find,
They from the highest sway of things
Can pull down great and pious kings.
O then at length, thus loosely hurl'd,
Look on this miserable world,
Whoe'er Thou art, that from above
Dost in such order all things move!
And let not man—of divine art
Not the least, nor vilest part—
By casual evils thus bandied, be
The sport of Fate's obliquity.
But with that faith Thou guid'st the heaven
Settle this earth, and make them even.
METRUM VI. When the Crab's fierce constellation
Burns with the beams of the bright sun,
Then he that will go out to sow,
Shall never reap, where he did plough,
But instead of corn may rather
The old world's diet, acorns, gather.
Who the violet doth love,
Must seek her in the flow'ry grove,
But never when the North's cold wind
The russet fields with frost doth bind.
If in the spring-time—to no end—
The tender vine for grapes we bend,
We shall find none, for only—still—
Autumn doth the wine-press fill.
Thus for all things—in the world's prime—
The wise God seal'd their proper time,
Nor will permit those seasons, He
Ordain'd by turns, should mingled be;
Then whose wild actions out of season
Cross to Nature, and her reason,
Would by new ways old orders rend,
Shall never find a happy end.
METRUM VII. Curtain'd with clouds in a dark night,
The stars cannot send forth their light.
And if a sudden southern blast
The sea in rolling waves doth cast,
That angry element doth boil,
And from the deep with stormy coil
Spews up the sands, which in short space
Scatter, and puddle his curl'd face.
Then those calm waters, which but now
Stood clear as heaven's unclouded brow,
And like transparent glass did lie
Open to ev'ry searcher's eye,
Look foully stirr'd and—though desir'd—
Resist the sight, because bemir'd.
So often from a high hill's brow
Some pilgrim-spring is seen to flow,
And in a straight line keep her course,
'Till from a rock with headlong force
Some broken piece blocks up the way,
And forceth all her streams astray.
Then thou that with enlighten'd rays
Wouldst see the truth, and in her ways
Keep without error; neither fear
The future, nor too much give ear
To present joys; and give no scope
To grief, nor much to flatt'ring hope.
For when these rebels reign, the mind
Is both a pris'ner, and stark blind.
LIB. II. METRUM I. Fortune—when with rash hands she quite turmoils
The state of things, and in tempestuous foils
Comes whirling like Euripus—beats quite down
With headlong force the highest monarch's crown,
And in his place, unto the throne doth fetch
The despis'd looks of some mechanic wretch:
So jests at tears and miseries, is proud,
And laughs to hear her vassals groan aloud.
These are her sports, thus she her wheel doth drive,
And plagues man with her blind prerogative;
Nor is't a favour of inferior strain,
If once kick'd down, she lets him rise again.
METRUM II. If with an open, bounteous hand
—Wholly left at man's command—
Fortune should in one rich flow
As many heaps on him bestow
Of massy gold, as there be sands
Toss'd by the waves and winds rude bands,
Or bright stars in a winter night
Decking their silent orbs with light;
Yet would his lust know no restraints,
Nor cease to weep in sad complaints.
Though Heaven should his vows regard,
And in a prodigal reward
Return him all he could implore,
Adding new honours to his store,
Yet all were nothing. Goods in sight
Are scorn'd, and lust in greedy flight
Lays out for more; what measure then
Can tame these wild desires of men?
Since all we give both last and first
Doth but inflame, and feed their thirst.
For how can he be rich, who 'midst his store
Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor.
METRUM III. When the sun from his rosy bed
The dawning light begins to shed,
The drowsy sky uncurtains round,
And the—but now bright—stars all drown'd
In one great light look dull and tame,
And homage his victorious flame.
Thus, when the warm Etesian wind
The Earth's seal'd bosom doth unbind,
Straight she her various store discloses,
And purples every grove with roses;
But if the South's tempestuous breath
Breaks forth, those blushes pine to death.
Oft in a quiet sky the deep
With unmov'd waves seems fast asleep,
And oft again the blust'ring North
In angry heaps provokes them forth.
If then this world, which holds all nations,
Suffers itself such alterations,
That not this mighty massy frame,
Nor any part of it can claim
One certain course, why should man prate,
Or censure the designs of Fate?
Why from frail honours, and goods lent
Should he expect things permanent?
Since 'tis enacted by Divine decree
That nothing mortal shall eternal be.
METRUM IV. Who wisely would for his retreat
Build a secure and lasting seat,
Where stov'd in silence he may sleep
Beneath the wind, above the deep;
Let him th' high hills leave on one hand,
And on the other the false sand.
The first to winds lies plain and even,
From all the blust'ring points of heaven;
The other, hollow and unsure,
No weight of building will endure.
Avoiding then the envied state
Of buildings bravely situate,
Remember thou thyself to lock
Within some low neglected rock.
There when fierce heaven in thunder chides,
And winds and waves rage on all sides,
Thou happy in the quiet sense
Of thy poor cell, with small expense
Shall lead a life serene and fair,
And scorn the anger of the air.
METRUM V. Happy that first white age! when we
Lived by the Earth's mere charity.
No soft luxurious diet then
Had effeminated men,
No other meat, nor wine had any
Than the coarse mast, or simple honey,
And by the parents' care laid up
Cheap berries did the children sup.
No pompous wear was in those days
Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize,
Their beds were on some flow'ry brink,
And clear spring-water was their drink.
The shady pine in the sun's heat
Was their cool and known retreat,
For then 'twas not cut down, but stood
The youth and glory of the wood.
The daring sailor with his slaves
Then had not cut the swelling waves,
Nor for desire of foreign store
Seen any but his native shore.
No stirring drum had scarr'd that age,
Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage,
No wounds by bitter hatred made
With warm blood soil'd the shining blade;
For how could hostile madness arm
An age of love, to public harm?
When common justice none withstood,
Nor sought rewards for spilling blood.
O that at length our age would raise
Into the temper of those days!
But—worse than Ætna's fires!—debate
And avarice inflame our State.
Alas! who was it that first found
Gold, hid of purpose under ground,
That sought our pearls, and div'd to find
Such precious perils for mankind!
METRUM VII. He that thirsts for glory's prize,
Thinking that the top of all,
Let him view th' expansÈd skies,
And the earth's contracted ball;
'Twill shame him then: the name he wan
Fills not the short walk of one man.
2 O why vainly strive you then
To shake off the bands of Fate,
Though Fame through the world of men
Should in all tongues your names relate,
And with proud titles swell that story:
The dark grave scorns your brightest glory.
3 There with nobles beggars sway,
And kings with commons share one dust.
What news of Brutus at this day,
Or Fabricius the just?
Some rude verse, cut in stone, or lead,
Keeps up the names, but they are dead.
4 So shall you one day—past reprieve—
Lie—perhaps—without a name.
But if dead you think to live
By this air of human fame,
Know, when Time stops that posthume breath,
You must endure a second death.
METRUM VIII. That the world in constant force
Varies her concordant course;
That seeds jarring hot and cold
Do the breed perpetual hold;
That in his golden coach the sun
Brings the rosy day still on;
That the moon sways all those lights
Which Hesper ushers to dark nights;
That alternate tides be found
The sea's ambitious waves to bound,
Lest o'er the wide earth without end
Their fluid empire should extend;
All this frame of things that be,
Love which rules heaven, land, and sea,
Chains, keeps, orders as we see.
This, if the reins he once cast by,
All things that now by turns comply
Would fall to discord, and this frame
Which now by social faith they tame,
And comely orders, in that fight
And jar of things would perish quite.
This in a holy league of peace
Keeps king and people with increase;
And in the sacred nuptial bands
Ties up chaste hearts with willing hands;
And this keeps firm without all doubt
Friends by his bright instinct found out.
O happy nation then were you,
If love, which doth all things subdue,
That rules the spacious heav'n, and brings
Plenty and peace upon his wings,
Might rule you too! and without guile
Settle once more this floating isle!
CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. IV. ODE XXVIII.
CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. II. ODE VII. It would less vex distressÈd man
If Fortune in the same pace ran
To ruin him, as he did rise.
But highest States fall in a trice;
No great success held ever long;
A restless fate afflicts the throng
Of kings and commons, and less days
Serve to destroy them than to raise.
Good luck smiles once an age, but bad
Makes kingdoms in a minute sad,
And ev'ry hour of life we drive,
Hath o'er us a prerogative.
Then leave—by wild impatience driv'n,
And rash resents—to rail at heav'n;
Leave an unmanly, weak complaint
That death and fate have no restraint.
In the same hour that gave thee breath,
Thou hadst ordain'd thy hour of death,
But he lives most who here will buy,
With a few tears, eternity.
CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. III. ODE XXII. Let not thy youth and false delights
Cheat thee of life; those heady flights
But waste thy time, which posts away
Like winds unseen, and swift as they.
Beauty is but mere paint, whose dye
With Time's breath will dissolve and fly;
'Tis wax, 'tis water, 'tis a glass,
It melts, breaks, and away doth pass.
'Tis like a rose which in the dawn
The air with gentle breath doth fawn
And whisper to, but in the hours
Of night is sullied with smart showers.
Life spent is wish'd for but in vain,
Nor can past years come back again.
Happy the man, who in this vale
Redeems his time, shutting out all
Thoughts of the world, whose longing eyes
Are ever pilgrims in the skies,
That views his bright home, and desires
To shine amongst those glorious fires!
CASIMIRUS, LYRIC[ORUM] LIB. III. ODE XXIII. 'Tis not rich furniture and gems,
With cedar roofs and ancient stems,
Nor yet a plenteous, lasting flood
Of gold, that makes man truly good.
Leave to inquire in what fair fields
A river runs which much gold yields;
Virtue alone is the rich prize
Can purchase stars, and buy the skies.
Let others build with adamant,
Or pillars of carv'd marble plant,
Which rude and rough sometimes did dwell
Far under earth, and near to hell.
But richer much—from death releas'd—
Shines in the fresh groves of the East
The phoenix, or those fish that dwell
With silver'd scales in Hiddekel.
Let others with rare, various pearls
Their garments dress, and in forc'd curls
Bind up their locks, look big and high,
And shine in robes of scarlet dye.
But in my thoughts more glorious far
Those native stars and speckles are
Which birds wear, or the spots which we
In leopards dispersÈd see.
The harmless sheep with her warm fleece
Clothes man, but who his dark heart sees
Shall find a wolf or fox within,
That kills the castor for his skin.
Virtue alone, and nought else can
A diff'rence make 'twixt beasts and man;
And on her wings above the spheres
To the true light his spirit bears.
CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. IV. ODE XV. Nothing on earth, nothing at all
Can be exempted from the thrall
Of peevish weariness! The sun,
Which our forefathers judg'd to run
Clear and unspotted, in our days
Is tax'd with sullen eclips'd rays.
Whatever in the glorious sky
Man sees, his rash audacious eye
Dares censure it, and in mere spite
At distance will condemn the light.
The wholesome mornings, whose beams clear
Those hills our fathers walk'd on here,
We fancy not; nor the moon's light
Which through their windows shin'd at night
We change the air each year, and scorn
Those seats in which we first were born.
Some nice, affected wand'rers love
Belgia's mild winters, others remove,
For want of health and honesty,
To summer it in Italy;
But to no end; the disease still
Sticks to his lord, and kindly will
To Venice in a barge repair,
Or coach it to Vienna's air;
And then—too late with home content—
They leave this wilful banishment.
But he, whose constancy makes sure
His mind and mansion, lives secure
From such vain tasks, can dine and sup
Where his old parents bred him up.
Content—no doubt!—most times doth dwell
In country shades, or to some cell
Confines itself; and can alone
Make simple straw a royal throne.
CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. IV. ODE XIII. If weeping eyes could wash away
Those evils they mourn for night and day,
Then gladly I to cure my fears
With my best jewels would buy tears.
But as dew feeds the growing corn,
So crosses that are grown forlorn
Increase with grief, tears make tears' way,
And cares kept up keep cares in pay.
That wretch whom Fortune finds to fear,
And melting still into a tear,
She strikes more boldly, but a face
Silent and dry doth her amaze.
Then leave thy tears, and tedious tale
Of what thou dost misfortunes call.
What thou by weeping think'st to ease,
Doth by that passion but increase;
Hard things to soft will never yield,
'Tis the dry eye that wins the field;
A noble patience quells the spite
Of Fortune, and disarms her quite.
THE PRAISE OF A RELIGIOUS LIFE BY MATHIAS CASIMIRUS. [EPODON ODE III.] IN ANSWER TO THAT ODE OF HORACE, BEATUS ILLE QUI PROCUL NEGOTIIS, &c. Flaccus, not so! that worldly he
Whom in the country's shade we see
Ploughing his own fields, seldom can
Be justly styl'd the blessed man.
That title only fits a saint,
Whose free thoughts, far above restraint
And weighty cares, can gladly part
With house and lands, and leave the smart,
Litigious troubles and loud strife
Of this world for a better life.
He fears no cold nor heat to blast
His corn, for his accounts are cast;
He sues no man, nor stands in awe
Of the devouring courts of law;
But all his time he spends in tears
For the sins of his youthful years;
Or having tasted those rich joys
Of a conscience without noise,
Sits in some fair shade, and doth give
To his wild thoughts rules how to live.
He in the evening, when on high
The stars shine in the silent sky,
Beholds th' eternal flames with mirth,
And globes of light more large than Earth;
Then weeps for joy, and through his tears
Looks on the fire-enamell'd spheres,
Where with his Saviour he would be
Lifted above mortality.
Meanwhile the golden stars do set,
And the slow pilgrim leave all wet
With his own tears, which flow so fast
They make his sleeps light, and soon past.
By this, the sun o'er night deceas'd
Breaks in fresh blushes from the East,
When, mindful of his former falls,
With strong cries to his God he calls,
And with such deep-drawn sighs doth move
That He turns anger into love.
In the calm Spring, when the Earth bears,
And feeds on April's breath and tears,
His eyes, accustom'd to the skies,
Find here fresh objects, and like spies
Or busy bees, search the soft flow'rs,
Contemplate the green fields and bow'rs,
Where he in veils and shades doth see
The back parts of the Deity.
Then sadly sighing says, "O! how
These flow'rs with hasty, stretch'd heads grow
And strive for heav'n, but rooted here
Lament the distance with a tear!
The honeysuckles clad in white,
The rose in red, point to the light;
And the lilies, hollow and bleak,
Look as if they would something speak;
They sigh at night to each soft gale,
And at the day-spring weep it all.
Shall I then only—wretched I!—
Oppress'd with earth, on earth still lie?"
Thus speaks he to the neighbour trees,
And many sad soliloquies
To springs and fountains doth impart,
Seeking God with a longing heart.
But if to ease his busy breast
He thinks of home, and taking rest,
A rural cot and common fare
Are all his cordials against care.
There at the door of his low cell,
Under some shade, or near some well
Where the cool poplar grows, his plate
Of common earth without more state
Expect their lord. Salt in a shell,
Green cheese, thin beer, draughts that will tell
No tales, a hospitable cup,
With some fresh berries, do make up
His healthful feast; nor doth he wish
For the fat carp, or a rare dish
Of Lucrine oysters; the swift quist
Or pigeon sometimes—if he list—
With the slow goose that loves the stream,
Fresh, various salads, and the bean
By curious palates never sought,
And, to close with, some cheap unbought
Dish for digestion, are the most
And choicest dainties he can boast.
Thus feasted, to the flow'ry groves
Or pleasant rivers he removes,
Where near some fair oak, hung with mast,
He shuns the South's infectious blast.
On shady banks sometimes he lies,
Sometimes the open current tries,
Where with his line and feather'd fly
He sports, and takes the scaly fry.
Meanwhile each hollow wood and hill
Doth ring with lowings long and shrill,
And shady lakes with rivers deep
Echo the bleating of the sheep;
The blackbird with the pleasant thrush
And nightingale in ev'ry bush
Choice music give, and shepherds play
Unto their flock some loving lay!
The thirsty reapers, in thick throngs,
Return home from the field with songs,
And the carts, laden with ripe corn,
Come groaning to the well-stor'd barn.
Nor pass we by, as the least good,
A peaceful, loving neighbourhood,
Whose honest wit, and chaste discourse
Make none—by hearing it—the worse,
But innocent and merry, may
Help—without sin—to spend the day.
Could now the tyrant usurer,
Who plots to be a purchaser
Of his poor neighbour's seat, but taste
These true delights, O! with what haste
And hatred of his ways, would he
Renounce his Jewish cruelty,
And those curs'd sums, which poor men borrow
On use to-day, remit to-morrow!
AD FLUVIUM ISCAM. Isca parens florum, placido qui spumeus ore
Lambis lapillos aureos;
Qui mÆstos hyacinthos, et picti ???ea tophi
Mulces susurris humidis;
Dumque novas pergunt menses consumere lunas
Coelumque mortales terit,
Accumulas cum sole dies, Ævumque per omne
Fidelis induras latex;
O quis inaccessos et quali murmure lucos
Mutumque solaris nemus!
Per te discerpti credo Thracis ire querelas
Plectrumque divini senis.
VENERABILI VIRO PRÆCEPTORI SUO OLIM ET SEMPER COLENDISSIMO MAGISTRO MATHÆO HERBERT. Quod vixi, MathÆe, dedit pater, hÆc tamen olim
Vita fluat, nec erit fas meminisse datam.
Ultra curasti solers, perituraque mecum
Nomina post cineres das resonare meos.
Divide discipulum: brevis hÆc et lubrica nostri
Pars vertat patri, posthuma vita tibi.
PRÆSTANTISSIMO VIRO THOMÆ POËLLO IN SUUM DE ELEMENTIS OPTICÆ LIBELLUM.[56] Vivaces oculorum ignes et lumina dia
Fixit in angusto maximus orbe Deus;
Ille explorantes radios dedit, et vaga lustra
In quibus intuitus lexque, modusque latent.
Hos tacitos jactus, lususque, volubilis orbis
Pingis in exiguo, magne[57] PoËlle, libro,
Excursusque situsque ut Lynceus opticus, edis,
Quotque modis fallunt, quotque adhibenda fides.
Æmula NaturÆ manus! et mens conscia coeli.
Ilia videre dedit, vestra videre docet.
AD ECHUM. O quÆ frondosÆ per amoena cubilia silvÆ
Nympha volas, lucoque loquax spatiaris in alto,
Annosi numen nemoris, saltusque verendi
Effatum, cui sola placent postrema relatus!
Te per Narcissi morientis verba, precesque
Per pueri lassatam animam, et conamina vitÆ
Ultima, palantisque precor suspiria linguÆ.
Da quo secretÆ hÆc incÆdua devia silvÆ,
Anfractusque loci dubios, et lustra repandam.
Sic tibi perpetua—meritoque—hÆc regna juventa
Luxurient, dabiturque tuis, sine fine, viretis
Intactas lunÆ lachrymas, et lambere rorem
Virgineum, coelique animas haurire tepentis.
Nec cedant Ævo stellis, sed lucida semper
Et satiata sacro Æterni medicamine veris
Ostendant longe vegetos, ut sidera, vultus!
Sic spiret muscata comas, et cinnama passim!
Diffundat levis umbra, in funere qualia spargit
Phoenicis rogus aut PancheÆ nubila flammÆ!
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