The Oxford Book of Latin Verse Part 71

That all mean sordid action we despise, And scorn to gain a throne by cheats and lies?

Thyrsis, thou hast sure blessings laid in store From thy just dealing in this curst amour.

What honour can in words or deeds be shown Which to the fair thou hast not said and done?

On her false heart they all are thrown away: She only swears more easily to betray.

Ye powers that know the many vows she broke, Free my just soul from this unequal yoke.

My love boils up, and like a raging flood Runs through my veins and taints my vital blood.

I do not vainly beg she may grow chaste, Or with an equal pa.s.sion burn at last-- The one she cannot practise, though she would, And I contemn the other, though she should--: Nor ask I vengeance on the perjured jilt; 'Tis punishment enough to have her guilt.

I beg but balsam for my bleeding breast, Cure for my wounds and from my labours rest.

W. WALSH.

IF any joy awaits the man Of generous hand and conscience clean, Who ne'er has leagued with powers unseen To wrong the partner of his plan;

Rich store of memories thou hast won From this thy seeming-fruitless love, Who all that man may do to prove His faith by word or deed hast done,

And all in vain. Her thankless heart Is hardened. Harden then thine own.

Writhe not but part, as stone from stone, And w.i.l.l.y-nilly heal the smart.

'Tis hard, ay, hard to fling aside A love long cherished. Yet you must.

Be strong, prevail, and from the dust A conqueror rise, whate'er betide.

Ye G.o.ds, who of your mercy give Force to the fainting, let my life Of honour win me rest from strife, And from my blood the canker drive; Ere yet from limb to limb it steal, And in black darkness plunge my soul, Oh, drive it hence and make me whole; A caitiff wounds, a G.o.d may heal.

No more for answering love I sue, No more that her untruth be true: Purge but my heart, my strength renew And doom me not my faith to rue.

D.A. SLATER.

_100_

OVER the mighty world's highway, City by city, sea by sea, Brother, thy brother comes to pay Pitiful offerings unto thee.

I only ask to grace thy bier With gifts that only give farewell, To tell to ears that cannot hear The things that it is vain to tell,

And, idly communing with dust, To know thy presence still denied, And ever mourn forever lost A soul that never should have died.

Yet think not wholly vain to-day This fashion that our fathers gave That hither brings me, here to lay Some gift of sorrow on thy grave.

Take, brother, gifts a brother's tears Bedewed with sorrow as they fell, And 'Greeting' to the end of years, And to the end of years 'Farewell'.

H.W.G.

_101_

FRIEND, if the mute and shrouded dead Are touched at all by tears, By love long fled and friendship sped And the unreturning years,

O then, to her that early died, O doubt not, bridegroom, to thy bride Thy love is sweet and sweeteneth The very bitterness of death.

H.W.G.

_103_

SICK, Cornificius, is thy friend, Sick to the heart: and sees no end Of wretched thoughts that gathering fast Threaten to wear him out at last.

And yet you never come and bring, Though 'twere the least and easiest thing, A comfort in that talk of thine.

You vex me. This to love of mine?

Prithee a little talk, for ease, Full as the tears of sad Simonides!

LEIGH HUNT.

_110_

AVAUNT, ye vain bombastic crew, Crickets that swill no Attic dew: Good-bye, grammarians cra.s.s and narrow, Selius, Tarquitius, and Varro: A pedant tribe of fat-brained fools, The tinkling cymbals of the schools!

s.e.xtus, my friend of friends, good-bye, With all our pretty company!

I'm sailing for the blissful sh.o.r.e, Great Siro's high recondite lore, That haven where my life shall be From every tyrant pa.s.sion free.

You too, sweet Muses mine, farewell, Sweet muses mine, for truth to tell Sweet were ye once, but now begone; And yet, and yet, return anon, And when I write, at whiles be seen In visits shy and far between.

T.H. WARREN.

I append Clough's _Lines Written in a Lecture Room_. The theme is that of Vergil inverted. But the mood in either poet is the same--that mood of pa.s.sionate revolt against academicism which never comes to some people and never departs from others:

AWAY, haunt thou not me, Thou dull Philosophy!

Little hast thou bestead, Save to perplex the head And leave the spirit dead.

Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go, While from the secret treasure-depths below, Fed by the skiey shower, And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high, Wisdom at once and Power, Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly?

Why labour at the dull mechanic oar, When the fresh breeze is blowing, And the strong current flowing, Right onward to the Eternal Sh.o.r.e?

A.H. CLOUGH.

_116_

Dryden's version of this piece shows him at his best as a translator of Vergil. 'Methinks I come,' he writes, 'like a malefactor, to make a speech upon the gallows, and to warn all other poets, by my sad example, from the sacrilege of translating Vergil.' But in the _Georgics_, at any rate, which he reckons 'more perfect in their kind than even the divine Aeneids,' he can challenge comparison with most of his rivals.

O HAPPY, if he knew his happy state, The swain, who, free from bus'ness and debate, Receives his easy food from Nature's hand, And just returns of cultivated land!

No palace, with a lofty gate, he wants, T' admit the tides of early visitants, With eager eyes devouring, as they pa.s.s, The breathing figures of Corinthian bra.s.s; No statues threaten, from high pedestals; No Persian arras hides his homely walls, With antic vests, which, through their shady fold, Betray the streaks of ill-dissembled gold: He boasts no wool, whose native white is dy'd With purple poison of a.s.syrian pride: No costly drugs of Araby defile, With foreign scents, the sweetness of his oil: But easy quiet, a secure retreat, A harmless life that knows not how to cheat, With home-bred plenty, the rich owner bless; And rural pleasures crown his happiness.

Unvex'd with quarrels, undisturb'd with noise, The country king his peaceful realm enjoys-- Cool grots, and living lakes, the flow'ry pride Of meads, and streams that through the valley glide, And shady groves that easy sleep invite, And, after toilsome days, a sweet repose at night.

Wild beasts of nature in his woods abound; And youth of labour patient, plough the ground, Inur'd to hardship, and to homely fare.

Nor venerable age is wanting there, In great examples to the youthful train; Nor are the G.o.ds ador'd with rites profane.

From hence Astraea took her flight, and here The prints of her departing steps appear.

Ye sacred muses! with whose beauty fir'd, My soul is ravish'd, and my brain inspir'd-- Whose priest I am, whose holy fillets wear-- Would you your poet's first pet.i.tion hear; Give me the ways of wand'ring stars to know, The depths of heav'n above, and earth below: Teach me the various labours of the moon, And whence proceed th' eclipses of the sun; Why flowing tides prevail upon the main, And in what dark recess they shrink again; What shakes the solid earth; what cause delays The summer nights, and shortens winter days.

But if my heavy blood restrain the flight Of my free soul, aspiring to the height Of nature, and unclouded fields of light-- My next desire is, void of care and strife, To lead a soft, secure, inglorious life-- A country cottage near a crystal flood, A winding valley, and a lofty wood.

Some G.o.d conduct me to the sacred shades, Where Baccha.n.a.ls are sung by Spartan maids, Or lift me high to Haemus' hilly crown, Or in the plains of Tempe lay me down, Or lead me to some solitary place, And cover my retreat from human race.

Happy the man, who, studying Nature's laws, Through known effects can trace the secret cause-- His mind possessing in a quiet state, Fearless of Fortune, and resign'd to Fate!

And happy too is he, who decks the bow'rs Of sylvans, and adores the rural pow'rs-- Whose mind, unmov'd, the bribes of courts can see, Their glitt'ring baits, and purple slavery-- Nor hopes the people's praise, nor fears their frown, Nor, when contending kindred tear the crown, Will set up one, or pull another down.

Without concern he hears, but hears from far, Of tumults, and descents, and distant war; Nor with a superst.i.tious fear is aw'd, For what befalls at home or what abroad.

Nor envies he the rich their happy store, Nor his own peace disturbs with pity for the poor.