The Oxford Book of Latin Verse Part 76

_217_

I give a part of the version of Stepney, whom Dr. Johnson describes as 'a very licentious translator'.

IF mighty G.o.ds can mortal sorrows know, And be the humble partners of our woe, Now loose your tresses, pensive Elegy,-- Too well your office and your name agree.

Tibullus, once the joy and pride of Fame, Lies now--rich fuel--on the trembling flame; Sad Cupid now despairs of conquering hearts, Throws by his empty quiver, breaks his darts, Eases his useless bows from idle strings.

Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings-- He wants, of which he robbed fond lovers, rest,-- And wounds with furious hands his pensive breast.

Those graceful curls which wantonly did flow, The whiter rivals of the falling snow, Forget their beauty and in discord lie, Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye.

In vain to G.o.ds (if G.o.ds there are) we pray, And needless victims prodigally pay; Worship their sleeping deities, yet Death Scorns votaries and stops the praying breath: To hallowed shrines intending Fate will come, And drag you from the altar to the tomb.

Go, frantic poet, with delusions fed, Thick laurels guard your consecrated head-- Now the sweet master of your art is dead.

What can _we_ hope, since that a narrow span Can measure the remains of thee, Great Man?

If any poor remains survive the flames Except thin shadows and mere empty names, Free in Elysium shall Tibullus rove, Nor fear a second death should cross his love.

There shall Catullus, crowned with bays, impart To his far dearer friend his open heart; There Gallus (if Fame's hundred tongues all lie) Shall, free from censure, no more rashly die.

Such shall our poet's blest companions be, And in their deaths, as in their lives, agree.

But thou, rich Urn, obey my strict commands, Guard thy great charge from sacrilegious hands; Thou, Earth, Tibullus' ashes gently use, And be as soft and easy as his Muse.

G. STEPNEY.

_240_

AFTER death nothing is, and nothing death-- The utmost limits of a gasp of breath.

Let the ambitious zealot lay aside His hope of heaven, whose faith is but his pride; Let slavish souls lay by their fear, Nor be concerned which way, or where, After this life they shall be hurled.

Dead, we become the lumber of the world, And to that ma.s.s of matter shall be swept Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept.

Devouring Time swallows us whole, Impartial Death confounds body and soul.

For h.e.l.l and the foul Fiend that rules The everlasting fiery goals, Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools, With his grim grisly dog that keeps the door, Are senseless stories, idle tales, Dreams, whimsies and no more.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

_261_

AND so Death took him. Yet be comforted: Above this sea of sorrow lift thy head.

Death--or his shadow--look, is over all; What but an alternating funeral The long procession of the nights and days?

The starry heavens fail, the solid earth Fails and its fashion. Why, beholding this, Why with our wail o'er sad mortality Mourn we for men, mere men, that fade and fall?

Battle or shipwreck, love or lunacy, Some warp o' the will, some taint o' the blood, some touch Of winter's icy breath, the Dog-star's rage Relentless, or the dank and ghostly mists Of Autumn--any or all of these suffice To die by. In the fee and fear of Fate Lives all that is. We one by one depart Into the silence--one by one. The Judge Shakes the vast urn: the lot leaps forth: we die.

But _he_ is happy, and you mourn in vain.

He has outsoared the envy of G.o.ds and men, False fortune and the dark and treacherous way, --Scatheless: he never lived to pray for death, Nor sinned--to fear her, nor deserved to die.

We that survive him, weak and full of woes, Live ever with a fearful eye on Death-- The how and when of dying: 'Death' the thunder, 'Death' the wild lightning speaks to us.

In vain,-- Atedius hearkens not to words of mine.

Yet shall he hearken to the dead: be done, Sweet lad he loved, be done with Death, and come, Leaving the dark Tartarean halls, come hither; Come, for thou canst: 'tis not to Charon given, Nor yet to Cerberus, to keep in thrall The innocent soul: come to thy father, soothe His sorrow, dry his eyes, and day and night A living voice be with him--look upon him, Tell him thou art not dead (thy sister mourns, Comfort her, comfort as a brother can) And win thy parents back to thee again.

H.W.G.

_262_

WHAT sin was mine, sweet, silent boy-G.o.d, Sleep, Or what, poor sufferer, have I left undone, That I should lack thy guerdon, I alone?

Quiet are the brawling streams: the shuddering deep Sinks, and the rounded mountains feign to sleep.

The high seas slumber pillowed on Earth's breast; All flocks and birds and beasts are stilled in rest, But my sad eyes their nightly vigil keep.

O! if beneath the night some happier swain, Entwined in loving arms, refuse thy boon In wanton happiness,--come hither soon, Come hither, Sleep. Let happier mortals gain The full embrace of thy soft angel wing: But touch me with thy wand, or hovering Above mine eyelids sweep me with thy train.

W.H. FYFE.

I append six _Sonnets to Sleep_ by six English poets of very different genius, none of whom, save perhaps Drummond, seems to have been influenced by Statius. Cowley's poem _To Sleep_ in the _Mistress_ may perhaps also be read--the last line shows that Cowley recalled Statius.

COME, Sleep, O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease!

I will good tribute pay if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light, A rosy garland and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

SIDNEY.

CARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my languish and restore the light; With dark forgetting of my care, return: And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth.

Cease dreams, the images of day's desires, To model forth the pa.s.sions of the morrow; Never let rising Sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.

Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

DANIEL.

SLEEP, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince whose approach peace to all mortal brings, Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, Sole comforter of minds with grief opprest; Lo! by thy charming-rod all breathing things Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possest, And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings Thou spares, alas! who cannot be thy guest.

Since I am thine, oh come, but with that face To inward light which thou art wont to show; With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe; Or if, deaf G.o.d, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou wilt, and that thou wilt bequeath,-- I long to kiss the image of my death.

DRUMMOND.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pa.s.s by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds, and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;-- I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?

Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

WORDSWORTH.

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight!

Shutting with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its lulling charities; Then save me, or the pa.s.sed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

KEATS.

THE crackling embers on the hearth are dead; The indoor note of industry is still; The latch is fast; upon the window-sill The small birds wait not for their daily bread; The voiceless flowers--how quietly they shed Their nightly odours; and the household ill Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds that fill The vacant expectation, and the dread Of listening night. And haply now She sleeps; For all the garrulous noises of the air Are hushed in peace; the soft dew silent weeps, Like hopeless lovers for a maid so fair:-- Oh! that I were the happy dream that creeps To her soft heart, to find my image there.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

Side by side with these sonnets may be placed Thomas Warton's _Ode_--a fine poem, too little known:--

ON this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep, Descend in all thy downy plumage drest, Wipe with thy wings these eyes that wake to weep, And place thy crown of poppies on my breast.

O steep my senses in Oblivion's balm, And soothe my throbbing pulse with lenient hand, This tempest of my boiling blood becalm-- Despair grows mild, Sleep, in thy mild command.

Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom, And sadly toiling through the tedious night, I seek sweet slumber while that virgin bloom For ever hovering haunts my unhappy sight.

Nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm: Black midnight and the blaze of noon alike To me appear, while with uplifted arm Death stands prepared, but still delays, to strike.

T. WARTON.