That none of their odour they lose,
Nor charm by their beauty the less.
Not thus inoffensively preys
The cankerworm, in-dwelling foe!
His voracity not thus allays
The sparrow, the finch, or the crow.
The worm, more expensively fed,
The pride of the garden devours;
And birds peck the seed from the bed,
Still less to be spared than the flowers.
But she with such delicate skill
Her pillage so fits for her use,
That the chemist in vain with his still
Would labour the like to produce.
Then grudge not her temperate meals,
Nor a benefit blame as a theft;
Since, stole she not all that she steals,
Neither honey nor wax would be left.
DENNER’S OLD WOMAN.
In this mimic form of a matron in years,
How plainly the pencil of Denner appears!
The matron herself, in whose old age we see
Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she!
No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low,
No wrinkle, or deep-furrow’d frown on the brow!
Her forehead indeed is here circled around
With locks like the ribbon with which they are bound;
While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin
Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin;
But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe,
Or that indicates life in its winter — is here.
Yet all is express’d with fidelity due,
Nor a pimple or freckle conceal’d from the view.
Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste
For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste.
The youths all agree, that, could old age inspire
The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire,
And the matrons with pleasure confess that they see
Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee.
The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline,
O wonderful woman! as placid as thine.
Strange magic of art! which the youth can engage
To peruse, half enamour’d, the features of age;
And force from the virgin a sigh of despair,
That she when as old shall be equally fair!
How great is the glory that Denner has gain’d,
Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain’d.
THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.
Apelles, hearing that his boy
Had just expired — his only joy!
Although the sight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him.
He seized his brush, his colours spread;
And— “Oh! my child, accept,” — he said,
“(’Tis all that I can now bestow,)
This tribute of a father’s woe!”
Then, faithful to the twofold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes with tender care,
And form’d at once a fellow pair.
His brow with amber locks beset,
And lips he drew not livid yet;
And shaded all that he had done
To a just image of his son.
Thus far is well. But view again
The cause of thy paternal pain!
Thy melancholy task fulfil!
It needs the last, last touches still.
Again his pencil’s powers he tries,
For on his lips a smile he spies:
And still his cheek unfaded shows
The deepest damask of the rose.
Then, heedful to the finish’d whole,
With fondest eagerness he stole,
Till scarce himself distinctly knew
The cherub copied from the true.
Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done.
Long lives this image of thy son;
Nor short-lived shall thy glory prove
Or of thy labour or thy love.
THE MAZE.
From right to left, and to and fro,
Caught in a labyrinth you go,
And turn, and turn, and turn again,
To solve the mystery, but in vain;
Stand still, and breathe, and take from me
A clue, that soon shall set you free!
Not Ariadne, if you met her,
Herself could serve you with a better.
You enter’d easily — find where —
And make with ease your exit there!
NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUFFERER.
The lover, in melodious verses,
His singular distress rehearses;
Still closing with a rueful cry,
“Was ever such a wretch as I!”
Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress; some, haply, more.
Unnumber’d Corydons complain,
And Strephons, of the like disdain;
And if thy Chloe be of steel,
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;
Not her alone that censure fits,
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.
THE SNAIL.
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Together.
Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides
Of weather.
Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house, with much
Displeasure.
Where’er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own
Whole treasure.
Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds
The faster.
Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
(He and his house are so combined,)
If, finding it, he fails to find
Its master.
THE CANTAB.
With two spurs or one, and no great matter which,
Boots bought, or boots borrow’d, a whip or a switch,
Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast,
Paid part into hand; — you must wait for the rest.
Thus equipt, Academicus climbs up his horse,
And out they both sally for better or worse;
His heart void of fear, and as light as a feather;
And in violent haste to go not knowing whither.
Through the fields and the towns; (see!) he scampers along:
And is look’d at and laugh’d at by old and by young.
Till, at length overspent, and his sides smear’d with blood,
Down tumbles his horse, man and all in the mud.
In a wagon or chaise, shall he finish his route?
Oh! scandalous fate! he must do it on foot.
Young gentlemen, hear! — I am older than you;
The advice that I give I have proved to be true;
Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it,
The faster you ride, you’re the longer about it.
Epigrams Translated from the Latin of Owen
CONTENTS
ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT
PRUDENT SIMPLICITY
TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS
WHEN LITTLE MORE THAN BOY IN AGE
RETALIATION
SUNSET AND SUNRISE
ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT
(Translated From Owen)
Thou mayst of double ignorance boast,
Who know’st not that thou nothing know’st.
PRUDENT SIMPLICITY
&
nbsp; (Translated From Owen)
That thou mayst injure no man, dove-like be,
And serpent-like, that none may injure thee!
TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS
(Translated From Owen)
I wish thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend;
For when at worst, they say, things always mend.
WHEN LITTLE MORE THAN BOY IN AGE
(Translated From Owen)
WHEN little more than boy in age,
I deemed myself almost a sage;
But now seem worthier to be styled,
For ignorance, almost a child.
RETALIATION
(Translated From Owen)
THE works of ancient bards divine,
Aulus, thou scorn’st to read;
And should posterity read thine,
It would be strange indeed!
SUNSET AND SUNRISE
(Translated From Owen)
Contemplate, when the sun declines,
Thy death with deep reflection!
And when again he rising shines,
The day of resurrection!
Translations of Greek and Latin Verses
CONTENTS
ON AN INFANT
ON A FOWLER, BY ISIDORUS
ON NIOBE
ON A GOOD MAN
ON A MISER
ON A MISER II
ON A MISER III
ON HERMOCRATIA
BY HERACLIDES
ON FEMALE INCONSTANCY
ON THE REED
TO HEALTH
ON THE SWALLOW
ON THE GRASSHOPPER
ON A BATH, BY PLATO
ON PALLAS BATHING, FROM A HYMN OF CALLIMACHUS
FROM MENANDER
ON LATE ACQUIRED WEALTH
ON FLATTERERS
ON A TRUE FRIEND
ON INVALIDS
ON THE ASTROLOGERS
ON AN OLD WOMAN
TO DEMOSTHENES
ON A SIMILAR CHARACTER
ON A BATTERED BEAUTY
ON AN UGLY FELLOW
ON A THIEF
ON ENVY
ON PEDIGREE. FROM EPICHARMUS
BY PHILEMON
BY MOSCHUS
AN EPIGRAM FROM HOMER
TRANSLATION OF PRIOR’S CHLOE AND EUPHELIA
TRANSLATION OF DRYDEN’S POEM ON MILTON.
TRANSLATION OF A SIMILE IN PARADISE LOST.
A SIMILE LATINISED.
ON AN INFANT
Bewail not much, my parents! me, the prey
Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here.
An infant, in my fifth scarce finish’d year,
He found all sportive, innocent, and gay,
Your young Callimachus; and if I knew
Not many joys, my griefs were also few.
ON A FOWLER, BY ISIDORUS
With seeds and birdlime, from the desert air,
Eumelus gather’d free, though scanty fare.
No lordly patron’s hand he deign’d to kiss
Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bliss.
Thrice thirty years he lived, and to his heirs
His seeds bequeath’d, his birdlime, and his snares.
ON NIOBE
Charon! receive a family on board
Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl,
Apollo and Diana, for a word
By me too proudly spoken, slew us all.
ON A GOOD MAN
Traveller, regret not me; for thou shalt find
Just cause of sorrow none in my decease,
Who, dying, children’s children left behind,
And with one wife lived many a year in peace;
Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters three,
And oft their infants in my bosom lay,
Nor saw I one of all derived from me,
Touch’d with disease, or torn by death away.
Their duteous hands my funeral rites bestow’d,
And me, by blameless manners fitted well
To seek it, sent to the serene abode
Where shades of pious men forever dwell.
ON A MISER
They call thee rich — I deem thee poor,
Since, if thou darest not use thy store,
But savest only for thine heirs,
The treasure is not thine, but theirs.
ON A MISER II
A miser traversing his house,
Espied, unusual there, a mouse,
And thus his uninvited guest
Briskly inquisitive address’d:
‘Tell me, my dear, to what cause is’t
I owe this unexpected visit?’
The mouse her host obliquely eyed,
And, smiling, pleasantly replied:
‘Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard!
I come to lodge, and not to board.’
ON A MISER III
Art thou some individual of a kind
Long-lived by nature as the rook or hind?
Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such,
Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too much.
But man thou seem’st, clear therefore from thy breast
This lust of treasure — folly at thy best!
For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb,
To fatten with thy spoils thou know’st not whom?
ON HERMOCRATIA
Hermocratia named — save only one —
Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none;
For neither Phoebus pierced my thriving joys,
Nor Dian — she my girls, or he my boys.
But Dian rather, when my daughters lay
In parturition, chased their pangs away.
And all my sons, by Phoebus’ bounty, shared
A vigorous youth, by sickness unimpair’d.
O Niobe! far less prolific! see
Thy hoast against Latona shamed by me!
BY HERACLIDES
In Cnidus born, the consort I became
Of Euphron. Aretimias was my name.
His bed I shared, nor proved a barren bride,
But bore two children at a birth, and died.
One child I leave to solace and uphold
Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old
And one, for his remembrance’ sake, I bear
To Pluto’s realm, till he shall join me there.
ON FEMALE INCONSTANCY
Rich, thou hadst many lovers — poor, hast none,
So surely want extinguishes the flame,
And she who call’d thee once her pretty one,
And her Adonis, now inquires thy name.
Where wast thou born, Socicrates, and where,
In what strange country can thy parents live,
Who seem’st, by thy complaints, not yet aware
That want’s a crime no woman can forgive?
ON THE REED
I was of late a barren plant,
Useless, insignificant,
Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore,
A native of the marshy shore;
But, gather’d for poetic use,
And plunged into a sable juice,
Of which my modicum I sip
With narrow mouth and slender lip,
At once, although by nature dumb,
All eloquent I have become,
And speak with fluency untired,
As if by Phoebus’ self inspired.
TO HEALTH
Eldest born of powers divine!
Bless’d Hygeia! be it mine
To enjoy what thou canst give,
And henceforth with thee to live:
For in power if pleasure be
Wealth or numerous progeny
Or in amorous embrace,
Where no spy infests the place;
Or in aught that Heaven bestows
To alleviate human woes,
When the wearied heart despairs
Of a respite from its cares;
These cold and every true delight
&
nbsp; Flourish only in thy sight;
And the sister graces three
Owe, themselves, their youth to thee
Without whom we may possess
Much, but never happiness.
ON THE SWALLOW
Attic maid! with honey fed,
Bear’st thou to thy callow brood
Yonder locust from the mead,
Destined their delicious food?
Ye have kindred voices clear,
Ye alike unfold the wing,
Migrate hither, sojourn here,
Both attendant on the spring!
Ah, for pity drop the prize;
Let it not with truth be said
That a songster gasps and dies,
That a songster may be fed.
ON THE GRASSHOPPER
Happy songster, perch’d above,
On the summit of the grove,
Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing
With the freedom of a king,
From thy perch survey the fields
Where prolific nature yields
Nough that, willingly as she,
Man surrenders not to thee.
For hostility or hate
None thy pleasures can create.
Thee it satisfies to sing
Sweetly the return of spring,
Herald of the genial hours,
Harming neither herbs nor flowers.
Therefore man thy voice attends
Gladly — thou and he are friends;
Nor thy never-ceasing strains,
Phoebus or the muse disdains
As too simple or too long,
For themselves inspire the song.
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying,
Ever singing, sporting, playing
What has nature else to show
William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works Page 74
