Though time hath not wreathed
My temples with snow,
Though age hath not breathed
A spell o'er my brow;
Yet care's withered fingers
Press on me with pain;
The fleeting pulse lingers,
And lingers in vain.
The eyes which behold thee,
Their brightness is flown;
The arms which enfold thee
Enfeebled are grown;
And friendship hath left me,
By fortune estranged;
All, all is bereft me,
For thou too art changed.
Yes, dark ills have clouded
The dawning in tears;
Adversity shrouded
My ripening years;
Life's path, wild and dreary,
Draws nigh to its close;
Heart-broken and weary,
I sigh for repose.
The world shall caress thee,
When I cease to be;
And suns rise to bless thee,
Which smile not for me;
And hearts shall adore thee,
And bend at thy shrine;
But none bow before thee
So truly as mine.
Jamqve Vale.
Aetas si nivibus mihi
Nondum tempora vestiit,
Nec rugis arat horridis
Frontem acerba senectus:
At me cura nigro terit
Dente; vita tremit, fugit,
Seu moratur adhuc, nihil
Profutura moratur.
Qvi te nunc oculi vident
Claritate vacant sua,
Qvaeqve bracchia te premunt
Manca viribus arent;
Et sodalitium vetus
Siccos deseruit cados;
Tuqve iam rapiens abis
Omnia, omnia tecum.
Ortam luce hilari diem
Fletu sors mala polluit,
Nec procella virilibus
Lenis incidit annis:
Sed prope est mihi terminus
Tristis et dubiae viae:
Lassa, debilis incipit
Mens avere qvietem.
Tu superstes amaberis,
Vita cum mihi fugerit;
Tu iuvabere solibus
Non mihi redituris:
Mille te prece pectora et
Submissis genibus colant,
Nemo qvanto ego, nemo te
Proseqvetur amore.
The Daughter, the devoted!
Since our country, our God, O my sire,
Demand that thy daughter expire;
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow,
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now.
And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow.
And of this, O my father, be sure,-
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,
And the last thought that soothes me below.
When the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent:
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my father and country are free.
When this blood of thy giving hath gushed,
When the voice that thou lovest is hushed,
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died.
No more, sweet Orpheus, shalt thou lead along
Oaks, rocks, and savage monsters with thy song,
Fetter the winds, the struggling hailstorm chain,
The snowy desert soothe, and sounding main;
For thou art dead: the Muses o'er thy bier,
Sad as thy parent, pour the tuneful tear.
Weep we a child? Not e'en the gods can save
Their glorious offspring from the hated grave.
BLAND (from ANTIPATER).
Cum patria, O genitor, cum numen postulet ipsum
Tingat ut Isacios nata cruore focos:
Cum voto fuerit clari laus empta triumphi,
Ne tibi nudatum parce ferire sinum.
Virgineae cessat munus sollemne qverellae;
Nec patrii montes me, velut ante, vident.
Si dilecta parat generosum dextera letum,
Qvid nimii vulnus tale doloris habet?
Hoc tibi pro certo stet in ima mente repostum:
Tam purum in venis flumen inesse meis
Qvam spes, in leto qvae me solantur, et istae
Concipies pro me qvas moriente preces.
Maesta meam qvando lugebit naenia mortem,
Naenia virgineis ingeminata choris,
Tu, pater, immotus iudex herosqve maneto;
Non ego sum lacrimis dedecoranda tuis,
Per qvam clara tuas ornat victoria turmas,
Frangit et indignum terra paterna iugum.
Cum vitam abstuleris, qvam tu, pater, ipse dedisti,
Et mea sub gelida lingva tacebit humo,
Natae semper ovans facito praeconia, meqve
Trade renidentem colla dedisse neci.
Non scopulos qvercusqve vagas, non amplius, Orpheu,
Tuis ligata monstra cantibus trahes:
Non sternes iterum ventos et grandinis imbrem,
Neqve alta nec nivosa Caucasi iuga
Mollieris. Te Mors rapuit. Sed busta canoris
Parens Camena rite lacrimis rigat.
Nos puerum gemimus? Non di de prole parentes
Tenebricosa depulere Tartara.
Motley's the only wear.
Fools they are the only nation.
Worth men's envy or admiration;
Free from care or sorrow-taking,
Selves and others merry-making;
All they speak or do is sterling;
Your fool he is your great man's darling,
And your ladies' sport and pleasure;
Tongue and bable are his treasure;
E'en his face begetteth laughter,
And he speaks truth free from slaughter.
He's the grace of every feast,
And sometimes the chiefest guest;
Hath his trencher and his stool,
When wit waits upon the fool.
O who would not be
He, He, He?
When he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrow behind,
Oh say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resigned?
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ;
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh, blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
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