Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

  It were absurd to pretend that this translation is perfectly literal; the very genius of prose and verse forbid it; and the learned reader who shall consult the original, will find many reasons for the impropriety as well as difficulty of following the author’s expressions too closely. Some things there were which it were scarce possible to handle in verse, and they are entirely omitted, or paraphradically imitated; many passages have been softened as indelicate, some suppressed as indecent. But beside these allowable deviations, a still further licence has been taken; for where the subject would admit of it, many new ideas are associated with the original subdance, yet so far affecting the author’s proper style, that its native simplicity might not be obscured by their introduction. And two or three Epistles there are in this collection which mud shelter themselves under the name of Aridænetus, without any other title to his protection than that of adhering to the subject of the several Epistles which they have supplanted. The only apology which can be offered for this, is an avowal that the object of this translation was not so much to bring to light the merit of an undistinguished and almost unknown ancient, as to endeavour to introduce into our language a species of poetry not frequently attempted, and but very seldom with success; that species which has been called the “simplex munditiis” in writing, where the thoughts are spirited and fanciful without quaintness, and the Style simple, yet not inelegant. Though the merit of succeeding in this point should not be given to the present attempt, yet it may in some measure become serviceable to the cause, by inciting others of better taste and abilities to endeavour to redeem our language from the imputation of barbarity in this respect.

  As to the many different measures which are here introduced, something besides the translator s caprice may be urged in their favour. For by a variation of metre, the Style almost necessarily undergoes an alteration; and in general, the particular Strain of each Epistle suggested the particular measure in which it is written. Had they been all in one kind of verse, they would have fatigued, they might have disgusted. At present, it is hoped that some analogy will be found between the mode of passion in each Epistle and the versification by which it is expressed; at the same time that a variety of metres, like a variety of prospects on a road, will conduct the reader with greater satisfaction through the whole Stage, though it be short.

  There remains but one thing more to be said. The original is divided into two parts; the present essay contains only the first. By its success must the fate of the second be determined. H. S.

  THE LOVE EPISTLES OF ARISTAENETUS

  EPISTLE I — LAIS

  ARISTÆNETUS TO PHILOCALUS.

  BLEST with a form of heavenly frame,

  Blest with a soul beyond that form,

  With more than mortal ought to claim,

  With all that can a mortal warm,

  Lai’s was from her birth design’d

  To charm, yet triumph o’er mankind.

  There Nature, lavish of her store,

  Gave all she could, and wish’d for more;

  Whilst Venus gazed, her form was such!

  Wondering how Nature gave so much;

  Yet added she new charms, for she

  Could add— “A fourth bright grace,” she said,

  “A fourth, beyond the other three,

  Shall raise my power in this sweet maid.”

  Then Cupid, to enhance the prize,

  Gave all his little arts could reach:

  To dart Love’s language from the eyes

  He taught— ’twas all was left to teach.

  O fairest of the virgin band!

  Thou master-piece of Nature’s hand!

  So like the Cyprian queen, I’d swear

  Her image fraught with life were there:

  But silent all: and silent be,

  That you may hear her praise from me:

  I’ll paint my Lais’ form; nor aid

  I ask — for I have seen the maid.

  Her cheek with native crimson glows,

  But crimson soften’d by the rose:

  ’Twas Hebe’s self bestow’d the hue,

  Yet health has added something too:

  But if an over-tinge there be,

  Impute it to her modesty.

  Her lips of deeper red, how thin!

  How nicely white the teeth within!

  Her nose how taper to the tip!

  And slender as her ruby lip!

  Her brows in arches proudly rise,

  As conscious of her powerful eyes:

  Those eyes, majestic-black, display

  The lustre of the god of day;

  And by the contrail of the white,

  The jetty pupil shines more bright.

  There the glad Graces keep their court,

  And in the liquid mirror sport.

  Her tresses, when no fillets bind,

  Wanton luxurious in the wind;

  Like Dian’s auburn locks they shone,

  But Venus wreath’d them like her own.

  Her neck, which well with snow might vie,

  I storm’d with nicest symmetry;

  In native elegance secure

  The most obdurate heart to wound;

  But she, to make her conquests sure,

  With sparkling gems bedecks it round:

  With gems that, ranged in order due,

  Present the fair one’s name to view.

  Her light-spun robes in every part

  Are fashioned with the nicest art,

  Tis Beauty’s self before your eyes.

  How stately doth my Lai’s go!

  With studied step, composedly slow;

  Superb, as some tall mountain fir,

  Whom Zephyr’s wing doth slightly stir:

  (For surely beauty is allied

  By Nature very near to Pride:)

  The grove indeed mild breezes move,

  But her the gentler gales of Love.

  From her the pencil learns its dye —

  The rosy lip, the sparkling eye;

  And bids the pictured form assume

  Bright Helen’s mien, and Hebe’s bloom.

  But how shall I describe her breast?

  That now first swells with panting throb

  To burst the fond embracing vest,

  And emulate her snow-white robe.

  So exquisitely soft her limbs!

  That not a bone but pliant seems;

  As if th’ embrace of Love — so warm!

  Would quite dissolve her beauteous form.

  But when she speaks! — good heavens! e’en now

  Methinks I hear my fav’rite song;

  E’en yet with Love’s respect I bow

  To all th’ enchantment of her tongue.

  Her voice most clear, yet ’tis not strong;

  Her periods full, though seldom long;

  With wit, good-natured wit, endow’d;

  Fluent her speech, but never loud.

  Witness, ye Loves! witness; for well I know

  To her you’ve oft attention given;

  Oft pensile flutter’d on your wings of snow

  To waft each dying sound to heaven.

  Ah! sure this fair enchantress found

  The zone which all the Graces bound:

  Not Momus could a blemish find

  Or in her person or her mind.

  But why should Beauty’s goddess spare

  To me this all-accomplish’d fair?

  I for her charms did ne’er decide,

  As Paris erst on lofty Ide;

  I pleased her not in that dispute;

  I gave her not the golden fruit:

  Then why the Paphian queen so free?

  Why grant the precious boon to me?

  Venus! what sacrifice, what prayer

  Can show my thanks for such a prize!

  — To bless a mortal with a fair,

  Whose charms are worthy of the skies.

  She too, like Helen, can inspire

  Th’ unfeeling heart of age with f
ire;

  Can teach their lazy blood to move,

  And light again the torch of love.

  “Oh!” cry the old, “that erst such charms

  Had bloom’d to bless our youthful arms;

  Or that we now were young, to show

  How we could love — some years ago!”

  Have I not seen th’ admiring throng

  For hours attending to her song?

  Whilst from her eyes such lustre shone

  It added brightness to their own:

  Sweet grateful beams of thanks they’d dart,

  That showed the feelings of her heart.

  Silent we’ve sat, with rapt’rous gaze!

  Silent — but all our thoughts were praise:

  Each turned with pleasure to the rest;

  And this the prayer that warm’d each breast:

  “Thus may that lovely bloom for ever glow,

  Thus may those eyes for ever shine!

  Oh may’st thou never feel the scourge of woe!

  Oh never be misfortune thine!

  Ne’er may the crazy hand of pining care

  Thy mirth and youthful spirits break!

  Never come sickness, or love-cross’d despair,

  To pluck the roses from thy cheek!

  But bliss be thine — the cares which love supplies,

  Be all the cares that you shall dread;

  The graceful drop, now glist’ning in your eyes,

  Be all the tears you ever shed.

  But hush’d be now thy am’rous song

  And yield a theme, thy praises wrong:

  Just to her charms, thou canst not raise

  Thy notes — but must I cease to praise?

  Yes — I will cease — for she’ll inspire

  Again the lay, who strung my lyre.

  Then fresh I’ll paint the charming maid,

  Content, if she my strain approves;

  Again my lyre shall lend its aid,

  And dwell upon the theme it loves.

  EPISTLE III — THE GARDEN OF PHYLLION

  PHILOPLATANUS TO ANTHOCOME.

  BLEST was my lot — ah! sure ’twas bliss, my friend,

  The day — by heavens! the long live day to spend

  With Love and my Limona! Hence! in vain

  Would mimic Fancy bring those scenes again;

  In vain delighted memory tries to raise

  My doubtful song, and aid my will to praise.

  In vain! Nor fancy strikes, nor memory knows,

  The little springs from whence those joys arose,

  Yet come, coy Fancy, sympathetic maid!

  Yes, I will ask, I will implore thy aid:

  For I would tell my friend whate’er befell;

  Whate’er I saw, whate’er I did, I’ll tell.

  But what I felt — sweet Venus! there inspire

  My lay, or wrap his soul in all thy fire.

  Bright rose the morn, and bright remain’d the day;

  The mead was spangled with the bloom of May;

  We on the bank of a sweet stream were laid,

  With blushing rose and lowly violets spread;

  Fast by our side a spreading plane-tree grew,

  And wav’d its head, that shone with morning dew.

  The bank acclivous rose, and swell’d above —

  The frizzled moss a pillow for my love.

  Trees with their ripen’d stores, glow’d all around,

  The loaded branches bow’d upon the ground;

  Sure the fair virgins of Pomona’s train

  In those glad orchards hold their fertile reign.

  The fruit nectareous, and the scented bloom

  Wafted on Zephyr’s wing their rich perfume;

  A leaf I bruised — what grateful scents arose!

  Ye gods! what odours did a leaf disclose.

  Aloft each elm slow waved its dusky top,

  The willing vine embraced the sturdy prop:

  And while we stray’d the ripen’d grape to find,

  Around our necks the clasping tendrils twin’d;

  I with a smile would tell th’ entangled fair,

  I envied e’en the vines a lodging there;

  Then twist them off, and sooth with am’rous play

  Her breasts, and kiss each rosy mark away.

  Cautious Limona trod — her step was slow —

  For much she fear’d the skulking fruits below;

  Cautious — left haply she, with slipp’ry tread,

  Might tinge her snowy feet with vinous red.

  Around with critic glance we view’d the store,

  And oft rejected what we’d praised before;

  This would my love accept, and this refuse,

  For varied plenty puzzled us to choose.

  “Here may the bunches tasteless, immature,

  Unheeded learn to blush, and well secure;

  In richer garb you turgid clusters stand,

  And glowing purple tempts the plund’ring hand.”

  “Then reach ’em down,” she said, “for you can reach,

  And cull, with daintiest hand, the best of each.”

  Pleased I obey’d, and gave my love — whilst she

  Return’d sweet thanks, and pick’d the best for me:

  ’Twas pleasing sure — yet I refused her suit,

  But kiss’d the liberal hand that held the fruit.

  Hard by the ever-jovial harvest train

  Hail the glad season of Pomona’s reign;

  With rustic song around her fane they stand,

  And lisping children join the choral band:

  They busily intent now strive to aid,

  Now first they’re taught th’ hereditary trade:

  ’Tis theirs to class the fruits in order due,

  For pliant rush to search the meadow through:

  To mark if chance unbruised a wind-fall drop,

  Or teach the infant vine to know its prop.

  And haply too some aged sire is there,

  To check disputes, and give to each his share;

  With feeble voice their little work he cheers,

  Smiles at their toil, and half forgets his years.

  “Here let the pippin, fretted o’er with gold,

  In fost’ring straw defy the winter’s cold;

  The hardier russet here will safely keep,

  And dusky rennet with its crimson cheek;

  But mind, my boys, the mellow pear to place

  In soft enclosure, with divided space;

  And mindful moll how lies the purple plum,

  Nor soil, with heedless touch, its native bloom.”

  Intent they listen’d to th’ instructing lord;

  But most intent to glean their own reward.

  Now turn, my loved Limona, turn and view

  How changed the scene! how elegantly new!

  Mark how you vintager enjoys his toil;

  Glows with flush red, and Bacchanalian smile:

  His slipp’ry sandals burst the luscious vine,

  And splash alternate in the new-born wine.

  Not far the lab’ring train, whose care supplies

  The trodden press, and bids fresh plenty rise.

  The teeming boughs that bend beneath their freight,

  One busy peasant eases of the weight;

  One climbs to where th’ aspiring summits shoot;

  Beneath, a hoary sire receives the fruit.

  Pleas’d we admir’d the jovial bulling throng,

  Blest e’en in toil! — but we admired not long.

  For calmer joys we left the busy scene,

  And sought the thicket and the stream again;

  For sacred was the fount, and all the grove

  Was hallow’d kept, and dedicate to love.

  Soon gentle breezes, freshen’d from the wave,

  Our temples fann’d, and whisper’d us to lave.

  The stream itself seem’d murm’ring at our feet

  Sweet invitation from the noonday heat.
r />   We bathed — and while we swam, so clear it flow’d,

  That every limb the crystal mirror show’d.

  But my love’s bosom oft deceived my eye,

  Resembling those fair fruits that glided by;

  For when I thought her swelling breast to clasp,

  An apple met my disappointed grasp.

  Delightful was the stream itself — I swear,

  By those glad nymphs who make the founts their care,

  It was delightful: — but more pleasing still,

  When sweet Limona sported in the rill:

  For her soft blush such sweet reflection gave,

  It tinged with rosy hues the pallid wave.

  Thus, thus delicious was the murm’ring spring,

  Nor less delicious the cool zephyr’s wing;

  Which mild allay’d the sun’s meridian power,

  And swept the fragrant scent from every flower;

  A scent, that feasted my transported sense,

  Like that, Limona’s sweet perfumes dispense:

  But still, my love, superior thine, I swear —

  At least thy partial lover thinks they are.

  Near where we sat, full many a gladd’ning sound,

  Beside the rustling breeze, was heard around:

  The little grasshopper essay’d its song,

  As if ’twould emulate the feather’d throng:

  Still lisp’d it uniform — yet now and then

  It something chirp’d, and skipp’d upon the green.

  Aloft the sprightly warblers fill’d the grove;

  Sweet native melody! sweet notes of love!

  While nightingales their artless strains essay’d,

  The air, methought, felt cooler in the glade:

  A thousand feather’d throats the chorus join’d,

  And held harmonious converse with mankind.

  Still in mine eye the sprightly songsters play,

  Sport on the wing, or twitter on the spray,

  On foot alternate rest their little limbs,

  Or cool their pinions in the gliding Streams;

  Surprise the worm, or sip the brook aloof,

  Or watch the spider weave his subtle woof.

  We the meantime discoursed in whispers low,

  Lest haply speech disturb the rural show.