When no man knoweth hys lyfe nor his death
And this note onely as the sage man sayeth
Doth not touche me but all that be alyue
The fast course of the Sonne doth away dryue
That plainly and manifestly the truth note I shal
The ruyne of the worlde is knowen to vs all
Then ye yonge men that be in your fresh lust
100 Measure [the] tyme longe and put therto your trust
Folyshly I say playnly why cal ye not to mynd
Afore consydered hurte lesse hurteth by kynde
Onles I blowe these wordes to you in vayne
But I do tel you note it for truth and certayne
ye that do not mynde, nor well remember this
With a slepy lytargy your braynes combred is
For the howres flyes a pace, so doth the dayes
The monethes and the yeares, folowe alwayes
Together in a breif shorte distaunce and tyme
110 So that yf ye well and wysely note this ryme
We must all mortall men to another countre pas
And all our great glory shalbe turned to was
Goo ye not then agayne the truth I do saye
But amende your euyl lyues whyles that ye may
Do not abyde tyll dreadfull death you take
As the most part of [the] vnwytty doth I vndertake
O that ye wyll not this well vnderstande
Of fooles there is doubtles an infinite bande
Sythens then I do knowe and playnly se
120 This great planet howe fast it doth fle
Which tyme when I myght, by folye I haue not taken
But with muche great losse this tyme forsaken
I sawe amonge these vnwyse foles all
A nation that by theyr science lytle cared at all
Nor feared not oft tyme the course rabidouse
These I saye remoued and people most gloriouse
Whiche hystorians hath taken in theyr garde
And poetes also that wrote howe that they farde
Of this it semed then the Sonne had enuye
130 Whiche by them selfe so mounted [t]o hyghe glorye
Passyng awaye from the madde vulgar quyte
By the honorable vertuous wayes noble & right
He hasted then this sonne a wonders spedy pas
With moche more forse then euer there was
And to his swyft horses he doubled the meate
Passynge by the great beare this planet great
So that the quene of whom I haue sayde
Would haue departed from the sonne at [the] brayde
I haue hard say, I wote not well of whome
140 That euen as a wede wasteth our glory is goone
And that all our fame is but blynde and derke
And a perpetual forgetfulnes al our labor & werk
And he sayd further that all the longe yeares
And the processe also of the lusters and speares
And of worldes infinite hereafter for to come
Shall vanysh awaye our fame al and some
Doubtles of as many it is playne euen so
As are betwyxt these places Peneo and Hebro
Or as far a sunder as that ryuer of [Z]anto
150 Is distaunt by measure from the valey of Thebro
And that oure glory is to be sayde by ryght
Euen as we se the ayer fayre and bryght
Made darke and hydde with a mysty cloude
And breifly this alwayes note wel we should
A hasty longe rynnyng awaye of the tyme
Is a poyson to fame to cause it to declyne
Our Tryumphs shal passe our pompes shal decay
Our lordshyppes our kyngdomes shall all awaye
And al thynge also that we accompt mortall
160 Tyme at the length shal clene deface it al
And to this those that are but meanly good
They affirme and say playne [that] who so vnderstode
Not onely our bodyes sone away doth passe
But all our wyttes and eloquence in lyke case
Thus not goyng but flying the world doth go
Nor resysteth nor tarieth nor is it playne so
Tyl he haue brought al false worldly luste
To no better thynge but to bare ashes and duste
Why than hath humayne glory so much hy pryde
170 When that it is very playne sene on euery syde
Although the vulgar doth not this thinge marke
We shuld wel by ryght experie[n]ce know this wark
That these foles do bable they wote not what
If that the case were our short lyfe declyned not
So sone nor so swyftly vnto the last ende
Al the hye fame whereto that men pretende
Euen as the smoke doth vanyshe awaye
So at the last al thynges do playne decay
This hearing me think it standes [with] good reason
180 Not for to deny the truth at no season
But to agre to that thynge we do wel know
Euen by comparison as the sonne melteth [the] snow
So doth the tyme put awaye and shall
Not a thousande famouse but at the last them all
Though that the moost part thynke it be not so
O therfore I saye, howe blynde are they therto
That thynke it muche better for to die in age
Then lyinge in the cradle to go that passage
To how many men had it ben far passing better?
190 Yea: and I affyrme it a [thousand] tymes more sweter
To haue dyed beyng yonge then to haue died old
Many excellent clarckes doth it by reason holde
That muche more fortunate the vnborne chylder be
Then chyldren that be borne such payne to se
But the great number hath alway greatest error
If it were so certayne and thervnto so sure
That after a longe lyfe shuld come a longe fame
Who be they I pray you that wyll folow the same
The couetous time turneth al thinge vp so doune
200 And our great fame that doth so hyghly soune
It is no nother to be named but a second death
Nor stay is there none as the true truth sayth
Thus tryumpheth tyme and hasteth so a pace
That all our glory and fame it doth deface.
The Triumph of Eternity
ELIZABETH I (1533–1603)
Queen Elizabeth is not so well known as a translator, but she turned her hand to Psalm 13, the second chorus from Seneca’s Hercules Oetaeus, some metres from Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy, a long section of Horace’s Art of Poetry, Plutarch’s On Curiosity, as well as some original poems. In this translation, she attempts to keep the metre and rhyme of the original terza rima, and the lines have been arranged in triplets to indicate this fact. Text from Ruth Hughey (ed.), The Arundel Harington Manuscript of Tudor Poetry (1960), vol. 1.
Triumphe Petrarcke (lines 1–88)
Amazed to see, nought vnder heavens cope
steddie and fast, thus to my self I spake
Advise the well: on whome doth hang thie hope,
On god (said I) that promyse never brake
With those that trust in hym. But now I know
how earst the fickle world abvsed me
eke what I am and was, and now to goe
or rather flye the nimble tyme I see
Blame wold I, wist I whome: for all the cryme
10 is myne that sholde (not slacking till the last)
haue earst vnclosed myne eyes before this tyme
for trouthe to say, olde waxe I all to fast
But overlate godes grace came never yet
in me also I trust there shall be wrought
works wonderfull and strange by meanes of it.
Theise sayed and answere made thus more I thought
If none of all theise thinges
do stand in staye
that heaven turnes and guydes, what end at last
shall follow of their everturning swaye?
Whyle deeper yet my searching mynd I cast
20 a world all new even then it seemed me
in never chaunging and ever lyving age
the sonne, the skye with all her sterres to see
dissolved quite with earth and Seas that rage
one made more faire and pleasant in his place
when hym that never stayed but earst to chaunge
eache thing was wont wandring in divers race
stand on one foote I saw: how seemed it straunge
all his three partes, brought into onlye one
and that one fast so that as wont it was
30 no more so swifte it hasted to be gone
but had one shew as earth disponed of grasse
there were not shall be, hath bene, after earst
to irkesome weake and divers state that brought
our life. As Sonne dothe pearce the glasse so pearste
my thought, yea more, for nothing stoppith thought
What grace fynd I, to see if I attaine
even face to face the greattest god of all
(no ill whiche onlye tyme gieves and againe
as first it came with tyme eke parte it shall
40 the Bull or fishe lodge shall no more the Sonne
whose chaunge dothe make a toyle now dye now springe
now waste now growe. Oh happie spirites that wonne
or shall hereafter stand in the chief ring
wose names aye memorie writes in her booke
Oh happie hee to fynde, whose happ shalbe
the deepe Chanell of this swift ronning brooke
whose name is life that manie wishe to see,
wretched and blynd the common sort that stay
50 their hope on things [which] tyme reaves in a trice
all deaff, naked and subiect to decaye
quite void of reason and of good advice
and wretchid mortall men throughout diseas’d)
whose beck doth guide the world by whome at iarre
are sett the elements and eake appeased
whose skill doth stretche beyond my reache so farr
that even the Angells are content and ioye
of thowsand partes but one to see, and bend
their witts to this; and this wishe to enioye
Oh happie wandring mynde; ay hungring to the end
60 What meane so manie thoughts? one howre dothe reave
that manye yeares gathered with moche a doe
To morrow, yesterdaye, morning and eve,
that presse our sowle and it encombre soe
before hym passe shade like at ones awaye
for was or shalbe no place shall be fownde
but for the tyme of is, now, and todaye
onlye eternitie knitt fast and sownde
Huge hills shalbe made plaine, that stopped cleane
70 our sight, ne shall there any thing remayne
where on may hope or our remembrance leane
whose chaunge make other doe that is but vaine
and lif to seeme a sporte. Even with this thought
what shall I be, what was I hearetofore
all shall be one, ne peese meale parted ought
Sommer shalbe, ne winter any more
but tyme shall dye, and place be chang’d with all
and yeares shall beare no rule on mortall fame
but his renome for ever florishe shall
80 that once atchiev’d to be of flowring name
Oh happie soules that now the path dothe treade
or henceforth shall when so it happs to be
whiche, to the end whearof I speake doth leade
of faire and wandring sprights yet happiest shee
Whome deathe hath slayne farr shortt of natures bounde
the heavenlye talke good words and thoughts so chaste
Open shall lye vnfolded in that stounde
Whiche kinde within a youthfull hart hath plaste:
REVEREND HENRY BOYD (1748/9–1832)
Boyd was a clergyman of the Church of Ireland and the first to translate Dante’s Divine Comedy into English (1802). His Trionfi appeared in 1807. Text from Bohn’s Illustrated Library (1859).
The Triumph of Eternity
When all beneath the ample cope of heaven
I saw, like clouds before the tempest driven,
In sad vicissitude’s eternal round,
Awhile I stood in holy horror bound;
And thus at last with self-exploring mind,
Musing, I asked, ’What basis I could find
To fix my trust?’ – An inward voice replied,
‘Trust to th’ Almighty: He thy steps shall guide;
He never fails to hear the faithful prayer,
10 But worldly hope must end in dark despair.’
Now, what I am, and what I was, I know;
I see the seasons in procession go
With still increasing speed; while things to come,
Unknown, unthought, amid the growing gloom
Of long futurity, perplex my soul,
While life is posting to its final goal.
Mine is the crime, who ought with clearer light
To watch the winged years’ incessant flight;
And not to slumber on in dull delay
20 Till circling seasons bring the doomful day.
But grace is never slow in that, I trust,
To wake the mind, before I sink to dust,
With those strong energies that left the soul
To scenes unhop’d, unthought, above the pole.
While thus I ponder’d, soon my working thought
Once more that ever-changing picture brought
Of sublunary things before my view,
And thus I question’d with myself anew: –
‘What is the end of this incessant flight
30 Of life and death, alternate day and night?
When will the motion on these orbs imprest
Sink on the bosom of eternal rest?’
At once, as if obsequious to my will,
Another prospect shone, unmov’d and still;
Eternal as the Heavens that glow’d above,
A wide resplendent scene of light and love.
The wheels of Phoebus from the Zodiac turn’d;
No more the nightly constellations burn’d;
Green earth and undulating Ocean roll’d
40 Away, by some resistless power controll’d;
Immensity conceiv’d, and brought to birth
A grander firmament, and more luxuriant earth.
What wonder seiz’d my soul when first I view’d
How motionless the restless racer stood,
Whose flying feet, with winged speed before,
Still mark’d with sad mutation sea and shore.
No more he sway’d the future and the past,
But on the moveless present fixt at last;
As at a goal reposing from his toils,
50 Like earth uncloth’d of all its vernal foils.
Unvaried scene! where neither change nor fate,
Nor care nor sorrow, can our joys abate;
Nor finds the light of thought resistance here,
More than the sunbeams in a crystal sphere.
But no material things can match their flight,
In speed excelling far the race of light.
Oh! what a glorious lot shall then be mine
If Heaven to me these nameless joys assign!
For there the sovereign good for ever reigns,
60 Nor evil yet to come, nor present pains;
No baleful birth of time its inmates fear,
That comes, the burthen of the passing year;
No solar chariot circles through the Signs,
And now too near, and now too distant, shines;
To wretched man and ea
rth’s devoted soil
Dispensing sad variety of toil.
Oh! happy are the blessed souls, that sing,
Loud hallelujahs in eternal ring!
Thrice happy he, who late, at last shall find
70 A lot in the celestial climes assign’d!
He, led by grace, th’ auspicious ford explores,
Where, cross the plains, the wintry torrent roars;
That troublous tide, where, with incessant strife,
Weak mortals struggle through, and call it life.
In love with Vanity, o doubly blind
Are they that final consolation find
In things that fleet on dissolution’s wing,
Or dance away upon the transient ring
Of seasons, as they roll. No sound they hear
80 From that still voice that Wisdom’s sons revere;
No vestment they procure to keep them warm
Against the menace of the wintry storm;
But all expos’d, in naked nature lie,
A shivering crowd beneath the inclement sky,
Of reason void, by every foe subdued,
Self-ruin’d, self-depriv’d of sovereign good;
Reckless of Him, whose universal sway,
Matter, and all its various forms, obey;
Whether they mix in elemental strife,
90 Or meet in married calm, and foster life.
His nature baffles all created mind,
In earth or heaven, to fathom, or to find.
One glimpse of glory on the saints bestow’d,
With eager longings fills the courts of God
For deeper views, in that abyss of light,
While mortals slumber here, content with night:
Though nought, we find, below the moon, can fill
The boundless cravings of the human will.
And yet, what fierce desire the fancy wings
100 To gain a grasp of perishable things;
Although one fleeting hour may scatter far
The fruit of many a year’s corroding care;
Those spacious regions where our fancies roam,
Pain’d by the past, expecting ills to come,
In some dread moment, by the Fates assign’d,
Shall pass away, nor leave a rack behind;
And Time’s revolving wheels shall lose at last
The speed that spins the future and the past;
And, sovereign of an undisputed throne,
110 Awful eternity shall reign alone.
Then every darksome veil shall fleet away
That hides the prospects of eternal day:
Those cloud-born objects of our hopes and fears,
Whose air-drawn forms deluded memory bears
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