That, for my venerable Father’s sake
All meaner themes renounced, my Muse, on wings
Of Duty borne, might reach a loftier strain.
For thee, my Father! howsoe’er it please,
She frames this slender work, nor know I aught,
That may thy gifts more suitably requite;
Though to requite them suitably would ask
Returns much nobler, and surpassing far
The meagre stores of verbal gratitude.
But, such as I possess, I send thee all.
This page presents thee in their full amount
With thy son’s treasures, and the sum is nought;
Naught, save the riches that from airy dreams
In secret grottos and in laurel bow’rs,
I have, by golden Clio’s gift, acquir’d.
Verse is a work divine; despise not thou
Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more)
Man’s heav’nly source, and which, retaining still
Some scintillations of Promethean fire,
Bespeaks him animated from above.
The Gods love verse; the infernal Pow’rs themselves
Confess the influence of verse, which stirs
The lowest Deep, and binds in triple chains
Of adamant both Pluto and the shades.
In verse the Delphic priestess, and the pale
Tremulous Sybil make the Future known,
And He who sacrifices, on the shrine
Hangs verse, both when he smites the threat’ning bull,
And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide
To scrutinize the Fates envelop’d there.
We too, ourselves, what time we seek again
Our native skies, and one eternal Now
Shall be the only measure of our Being,
Crown’d 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
Unutt’rable, immortal, hearing which
Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress’d,
Orion, soften’d, drops his ardent blade,
And Atlas stands unconscious of his load.
Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet
Luxurious dainties destin’d to the gulph
Immense of gluttony were known, and ere
Lyaeus deluged yet the temp’rate 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 fall’n, and of the thunderbolt
Not yet produc’d from Aetna’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 follow’d. Not by chords alone
Well-touch’d, but by resistless accents more
To sympathetic tears the Ghosts themselves
He mov’d: 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, Pow’rs by whom inspir’d, thyself
Art skillfill to associate verse with airs
Harmonious, and to give the human voice
A thousand modulations, heir by right
Indisputable of Arion’s fame.
Now say, what wonder is it, if a son
Of thine delight in verse, if so conjoin’d
In close affinity, we sympathize
In social arts and kindred studies sweet?
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 bad’st me tread
The beaten path and broad that leads right on
To opulence, nor did’st condemn thy son
To the insipid clamours of the bar,
To laws voluminous and ill observ’d,
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 open’d once
The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn’d
The full-ton’d language, of the eloquent Greeks,
Whose lofty music grac’d the lips of Jove,
Thyself did’st counsel me to add the flow’rs
That Gallia boasts, those too with which the smooth
Italian his degentrate speech adorns,
That witnesses his mixture with the Goth,
And Palestine’s prophetic songs divine.
To sum the whole, whate’er the Heav’n 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 heav’n 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 conqu’ror’s ivy twines,
Henceforth exempt from th’unletter’d 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 venom’d 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,
Sufffice it, that I thus record thy gifts,
And bear them treasur’d 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 pile, not soon absorb’d
In the oblivious Lethaean gulph
Shall to Futurity perhaps convey
This theme, and by these praises of my sire
Improve the Fathers of a distant age.
TO GIOVANNI SALZILLI, A ROMAN POET, IN HIS ILLNESS.
>
(Translated From Milton)
My halting Muse, that dragg’st by choice along
Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song!
And lik’st that pace expressive of thy cares
Not less than Diopeia’s sprightlier airs
When in the dance she beats with measur’d tread
Heav’n’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 th’Aeolian band,
Sweeps with ungovern’d 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 learn’d her Youth.
Much good, Salsillus! and a body free
From all disease, that Milton asks for thee,
Who now endur’st the languor, and the pains
That bile inflicts diffus’d through all thy veins,
Relentless malady! not mov’d 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 Paean, or what name divine
Soe’er thou chuse, 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, render’d to the Muse he loves, again
He may enchant the meadows with his strain.
Numa, reclin’d in everlasting ease
Amid the shade of dark embow’ring trees,
Viewing with eyes of unabated fire
His loved Aegeria, shall that strain admire:
So sooth’d, 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, MARQUIS OF VILLA.
(Translated From Milton)
These verses also to thy praise the Nine
Oh 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 consign’d, not unaware
How high the charge, Marini 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 labour’d brass thy tribute to his shade.
Nor this contented thee-but lest the grave
Should aught absorb of their’s, which thou could’st save,
All future ages thou has deign’d 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
Chill’d 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 rear’d beneath our sullen sky,
Who fears not, indiscrete 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-hair’d Ocean laves,
Hear oft by night, or, slumb’ring, 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,
E’en we to Phoebus raise the polish’d rhyme,
We too serve Phoebus; Phoebus has receiv’d,
(If legends old may claim to be believ’d)
No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear,
The burnish’d 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 prais’d in hallow’d rhyme.
Hence, often as the maids of Greece surround
Apollo’s shrine with hymns of festive sound,
They name the virgins who arriv’d of yore
With British off’rings on the Delian shore,
Loxo, from Giant Corineus sprung,
Upis, on whose blest lips the Future hung,
And Hecaerge with the golden hair,
All deck’d with Pic’ish hues, and all with bosoms bare.
Thou therefore, happy Sage, whatever clime
Shall ring with Tasso’s praise in after-time,
Or with Marini’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 constrain’d to roam
The earth, an exile from his heav’nly home,
Enter’d, no willing guest, Admetus’ door,
Though Hercules had enter’d there before.
But gentle Chiron’s cave was near, a scene
Of rural peace, clothed with perpetual green,
And thither, oft as respite he requir’d
From rustic clamours loud, the God retir’d.
There, many a time, on Peneus’ bank reclin’d
At some oak’s root, with ivy thick entwin’d,
Won by his hospitable friend’s desire
He sooth’d his pains of exile with the lyre.
Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus’ shore,
Nor Oeta felt his load of forests more,
The upland elms descended to the plain,
And soften’d lynxes wonder’d at the strain.
Well may we think, O dear to all above!
Thy birth distinguish’d by the smile of Jove,
And that Apollo shed his kindliest pow’r,
And Maia’s son, on that propitious hour,
Since only minds so born can comprehend
A poet’s worth, or yield that worth a friend.
Hence, on thy yet unfaded cheek appears
The ling’ring freshness of thy greener years,
Hence, in thy front, and features, we admire
Nature unwither’d, and a mind entire.
Oh might so true a friend to me belong,
So skill’d to grace the votaries of song,
Should I recall hereafter into rhyme
The kings, and heroes of my native clime,
Arthur the chief, who even now prepares,
In subterraneous being, future wars,
With all his martial Knights, to be restor’d
Each to his seat around the fed’ral board,
And Oh, if spirit fail me not, disperse
Our Saxon plund’rers in triumphant verse!
Then, after all, when, with the Past content,
A life I finish, not in silence spent,
Should he, kind mourner, o’er my deathbed bend
I shall but
need to say— ‘Be yet my friend!’
He, faithful to my dust, with kind concern
Shal1 place it gently in a modest urn;
He too, perhaps, shall bid the marble breathe
To honour me, and with the graceful wreath
Or of Parnassus or the Paphian isle
Shall bind my brows — but I shall rest the while.
Then also, if the fruits of Faith endure,
And Virtue’s promis’d recompense be sure,
Borne to those seats, to which the blest aspire
By purity of soul, and virtuous fire,
These rites, as Fate permits, I shall survey
With eyes illumin’d by celestial day,
And, ev’ry cloud from my pure spirit driv’n,
Joy in the bright beatitude of Heav’n!
ON THE DEATH OF DAMON.
(Translated From Milton)
Ye Nymphs of Himera (for ye have shed
Erewhile for Daphnis and for Hylas dead,
And over Bion’s long-lamented bier,
The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear)
Now, through the villas laved by Thames rehearse
The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse,
What sighs he heav’d, and how with groans profound
He made the woods and hollow rocks resound
Young Damon dead; nor even ceased to pour
His lonely sorrows at the midnight hour.
The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear,
And golden harvest twice enrich’d the year,
Since Damon’s lips had gasp’d for vital air
The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there;
For he, enamour’d of the Muse, remain’d
In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain’d,
But, stored at length with all he wish’d to learn,
For his flock’s sake now hasted to return,
And when the shepherd had resumed his seat
At the elm’s root within his old retreat,
Then ’twas his lot, then, all his loss to know,
And, from his burthen’d heart, he vented thus his woe.
Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due
To other cares than those of feeding you.
Alas! what Deities shall I suppose
In heav’n or earth concern’d for human woes,
Since, Oh my Damon! their severe decree
So soon condemns me to regret of Thee!
Depart’st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid
With fame and honour, like a vulgar shade?
Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls,
And sep’rates sordid from illustrious souls,
Drive far the rabble, and to Thee assign
A happier lot with spirits worthy thine!
Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due
William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works Page 58
