Behold him here, for whom, so many days, Impervious clouds conceal'd thy sullen rays; For whom, as man no longer claim'd thy care, Such numbers fell by pestilential air!
But if the' abandon'd race of humankind
From gods above no more compassion find;
If such inclemency in heaven can dwell,
Yet why must unoffending Argos feel
The vengeance due to this unlucky steel?
On me, on me let all thy fury fall,
Nor err from me, since I deserve it all,
Unless our desert cities please thy sight,
Or funeral flames reflect a grateful light.
Discharge thy shafts, this ready bosom rend,
And to the shades a ghost triumphant send;
But for my country let my fate atone;
Be mine the vengeance, as the crime my own.'
Merit distress'd impartial Heaven relieves,
Unwelcome life relenting Phoebus gives;
For not the vengeful power, that glow'd with rage,
With such amazing virtue dared engage.
The clouds dispersed, Apollo's wrath expired,
And from the wondering god the' unwilling youth
retired.
FROM THE LATIN OF STATIUS.
How have I wrong'd thee, Sleep, thou gentlest
Of heaven! that I alone, at this dread hour,
Still from thy soft embraces am repress'd,
Nor drink oblivion on thy balmy breast?
Now every flock and every field is thine,
And seeming slumbers bend the mountain pine.
Hush'd is the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar,
And the smooth wave lies pillow'd on the shore.
But seven sad moons have seen this faded cheek,
And eyes too plainly that their vigils speak:
Aurora hears my plaint at her return,
And sheds her pitying dewdrops as I mourn.
And now some happy, some enraptured boy,
In the full pride of his permitted joy,
Clasping the fair, all blushes, to his breast,
Calls thee not, Sleep, nor courts thy worthless rest.
Come then to me-yet shed not here thy whole
Ambrosial influence o'er the wretched soul,
To that let happier easier hearts presume-
Touch me, more lightly, with thy passing plume!
REV. F. HODGSON *.
This poem has also been translated by Mr. Elton. The following are the concluding lines of his translation
'Ah me! yet now, beneath night's lengthening shade,
Some youth's twined arms enfold the twining maid;
Willing he wakes, while midnight hours roll on,
And scorns thee, Sleep! and waves thee to be gone.
Come, then, from them! Oh, leave their bed for mine;
I bid thee not with all thy plumes incline
On my bow'd lids; this kindest boon beseems
The happy crowd that share thy softest dreams :
Let thy wand's tip but touch my closing eye,
Or, lightly hovering, skim, and pass me by.
FROM THE LATIN OF JUVENAL.
THE spoils of war: a coat of mail, fix'd high
On trophied trunk, in emblem'd victory;
A dangling beaver from its helmet cleft;
A chariot's shiver'd beam; a pendant reft
From boarded galley; and the captive shown
On the triumphal arch in imaged stone;
Behold the sum of grandeur and of bliss!—
Greek, Roman, and Barbarian aim at this.
Hence the hot toil and hairbreadth peril came,
For less the thirst of virtue than of fame.
Who clasps mere naked virtue in his arms?
Strip off the tinsel, she no longer charms.
Yet has the glory of some few great names,
Enwrapp'd our country in destroying flames:
This thirst of praise and chisel'd titles read
On stones that guard the ashes of the dead.
But a wild fig-tree's wayward growth may tear
The rifted tomb, and shake the stones in air;
Since sepulchres a human fate obey,
And vaults, that shrine the dead, themselves decay.
Try in the balance Hannibal; adjust
The scales: how many pounds weighs this big hero's dust?
This-this is he whom Afric would, in vain,
Coop 'twixt the tepid Nile and Moorish main :
Swarth Ethiop tribes his yoke of empire bore,
And towery elephants bow'd down before.
Spain crouches as his vassal; at a bound
He high o'erleaps the Pyrenean's mound;
Nature with Alps and snows the pass defends;
Through juice-corroded rocks a way he rends,
And strides on Italy: yet nought is won;
He throws his glance beyond; 'yetnought is done,
Till at Rome's gates the Punic soldier beats,
And plants my standard in her very streets!'
Oh! how, in painting, would that form enchant!
That blinking hero on an elephant!
What is his end? oh godlike glory! say-
He flies in rout; in exile steals away:
A great and gazed at suppliant, lo! he takes
His out-door station, till a monarch wakes.
Nor swords nor stones nor arrows gave the wound,
And crush'd the soul that shook the world around.
What mighty means the blood-atonement bring?
Canna's avenger lurks within a ring.
Go! madman, scour the Alps, in glory's dream;
A tale for boys, and a declaimer's theme!
Lo! Pella's youth was cabin'd, cribb'd, confined
Within one world, too narrow for his mind:
Restless he turn'd in feverous discontent,
As if by Gyara's rocks, or scant Seriphum pent;
But brick-wall'd Babylon gave ample room;
Content he stretch'd him in a catacomb :
Death, death alone, the conscious truth attests,
What dwarfish frame this swelling soul invests.
They tell of Athos' mountain sail'd with ships;
Those bold historic lies from Grecian lips:
Of ocean bridged across with paving keels,
And harden'd waves o'erpass'd with chariot-
wheels:
We pin our faith on rivers deep that shrank,
And floods which, at a meal, the Median drank:
And all that marvel-mongering poet sings,
That maudlin swan, who bathed in wine his wings.
Say how from Salamis this sultan pass'd,
Who lash'd the eastern and the western blast;
Stripes which they knew not in the Æolian cave:
He who with fetters bound the' earth-shaking
wave,
And in his mercy only, spared to brand?
What! crouch'd a god like Neptune to his hand?
Then say, how pass'd he back?—behold him row
One bark through bloody waves, with corse-
choked prow:
Such is the glorious fame for which we sigh,
And such ambition's curse and penalty.
IMPOTENCY OF REVENGE, AND SELFPUNISHMENT OF THE WICKED.
FROM THE LATIN OF JUVENAL.
' AND shall no vengeance crush the perjured head?
Shall cheating infamy be fairly sped?' [thee,
Suppose him dragg'd in chains, and doom'd by
What would resentment more? to the last agony?
Thy loss remains the same: the' entrusted ore
From faithless keeping will return no more.
Aye-but some ease, detested ease! hath sprung
From those poor blood-drops which the rack hath
wrung.
But is revenge a good? a joy more sweet
Than life itself? the vulgar this repeat;
Blind and untaught, whom burning anger draws
On slight occasion, and from groundless cause.
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