BOOK III.—ODE XXIX. 47

ORIGINAL PIECES.

ODE TO HARRIS 59

THE DOCTOR WITHOUT A SOUL; OR, THE CREATURES OF ROMANCE 63

A MATRIMONIAL DIALOGUE AND MARINE ECLOGUE 73

THE PILOT IN SIGHT 83

THE ARRIVAL; OR, THE LAND-LUBBER’S SONG 87

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SPANISH.

GIL POLO.

Love is not blind, but I alone, who steer My wishes headlong unto death: Love is no child, but I; who in a breath Laugh and lament, and hope and fear: What folly then to speak of “flames of Love!” Love’s fire from untamed passion springs, High and presumptuous thoughts are Cupid’s wings, Or hopes as vain on which he soars above. Love has no chains, Love bears no bow To take, or strike the sound, and free: No power has he save that which we bestow; A poet’s fiction gave him birth, The dream of fools, adored on earth By none except the sons of vanity.

QUEVEDO.

No more shall custom dash my coward heart, Nor shadowy forms nor gloomy fears o’erpower My soul, that waits the cold, dark, final hour: Soul! be thyself, arm, courage is thy part. If Death, though clad in sorrow’s sable weeds, Bring peace, a stranger to my troubled breast, I’ll give him welcome so he give me rest, And thank him as his brandish’d dart he speeds. Forgive me that I harbour’d childish fears Of thee, the struggling soul who comest to aid, As now the disentangled mesh it clears, Mortality’s frail snare: no more afraid I welcome thee with smiles, not greet with tears, For well I know my Ransom hath been paid.

QUEVEDO.

I saw, its lofty ramparts undermined, Crumbling to earth, my native town decay; I saw my fathers’ house, nor saw resign’d, Alike assail’d Time’s not disdained prey: Upon its black and Time-dishonour’d wall My sword ancestral eager I survey’d; Devouring Time, triumphant over all, Had eaten into its corroded blade: My shorten’d staff still yielded as I prest The prop on which my age must yet rely, And all on which my hand or eye could rest Gave sad and solemn warning that we die.

ARGENSOLA.

Father of all! unfold, since thou art just, Why does thy providence all coldly see Pale innocence enchain’d that would be free, Whilst fraud ascends the judgment-seat august. Who nerves the arm of power which dares oppose An impious resistance to thy will? Shall holy zeal and timid reverence still Groan at the feet of thy obdurate foes? See! impious hands victorious banners wave! Hark! virtue moans scarce heard amid the shout Of insolent triumph, and its boisterous mirth! Thus I complaining spoke: A form shone out, Gravely it spoke: “Is thy soul’s centre earth? Oh blind one! not to _see beyond_ the grave!”

ON THE PROOFS OF A DEITY.

ORIGINAL.

Talk not of proofs: God must be seen, and felt, And known by meditation; not deduced Like some hard problem, or a riddle spelt By frequent guessing. Proofs on proofs adduced, Speak they so plainly as the wailing cry Of her first infant tells the mother’s heart A mother’s love doth well from God on high? Who hath not heard, in solitude apart, God’s voice upon the wind? Who hath not seen And felt Him present? seen Him earth pervade? Each spring, their wither’d crowns renew with green In aged trees? seen Him in depths of shade? And glorious sunshine? and reveal’d in light Of stars? and in the sea’s resistless might?

VILLEGAS.

I.

Now, Spring the year’s contracted brow Unknits, and robes in brightest green The trees; and, victims to the plough, Fresh flowers are strew’d where snows were seen. The honours of the time complete, Come forth, and welcome in the spring, Which spreads a carpet for thy feet, A verdant broider’d offering For thee, whom, honour’d as her queen, She mourns away, and welcomes seen.

II.

Here in this flowing mirror see, Worthy of thy reflected face, Exulting in its waters free, Charms which art’s rivalry disgrace. The bygone waters would return, The waters present stay their course; The coming waters from their urn A passage prematurely force; All jealous, striving to possess The image of thy loveliness.

III.

Nature is eloquent to teach: Her lessons do not thou disdain: The birds, though unendow’d with speech, Can carol love, in song complain. Come, seek their school: their love-taught notes The text of nature will expound; The thrilling music of their throats Teach us what bliss in love is found; And all their pretty wanton ways, Mutely reprove our dull delays.

MELENDEZ.

CUPID A BUTTERFLY.

Observing once, with secret spite, The rustic maidens, wild with fright, Fly from him when his arms he bore, Revenge the wily Cupid swore; And straight a stratagem design’d, For Cupid’s malice is refined. He seems a butterfly complete, With down upon his baby feet; His little arms are changed to wings; And sportive into air he springs. Now through the meadows he meanders, And now from flower to flower he wanders; Hovers o’er this, on that alights, Whose honied cup his lip invites. The maidens think him what he seems, Not one of aught deceptive dreams, And eager in the chase they strive: One stoops to take him up alive, As on the ground fatigue he feigns; Again he flies and mocks her pains; A second calls with accents kind; Another panting lags behind. He sees them in the contest warm, Then starts into his proper form, And sets their simple hearts on fire, To gratify his childish ire. But from that time, in love we see The butterfly’s inconstancy. Love tarries not, but onward springs; Alas! the urchin kept his wings.

MELENDEZ.

I.

When I was yet a little boy, And Dorila as young, Forth to the fields we went with joy, Where the first violets sprung.

II.

Her hands arranged, with natural grace, For each a garland gay; And thus, midst childish sports, apace The moments danced away.

III.

Our age advanced, as they withdrew, Unwatch’d by us the while; By slow degrees our knowledge grew, Till innocence seem’d guile.

IV.

The sight of me would now provoke A smile, I scarce knew why, From Dorila; and if I spoke, A laugh was the reply.

V.

The flowers I pluck’d she swiftly twined, Her own had little care; It took her twice as long to bind My chaplet in my hair.

VI.

One summer’s eve two doves we spied; Their trembling bills were cross’d; Then first we knew for what we sigh’d: The lesson was not lost.

A FABLE.

ALTERED FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE.

A Piedmontese, from fair to fair, Display’d a Vestris in a bear; An ape likewise, whose tricks self-taught The grinning crowd’s approval caught, (Judgment as that of critics sound, Who think all’s wit where mischief’s found): And last it was his luck to own, A treasure in itself alone; A pig, to letters train’d, polite Of course, the beast was erudite. With open mouth, each wondering lout Would view its orthographic snout Choose letters, and hard words compose, Without the due didactic blows. Then, if some rude unletter’d hind, Impell’d by generous shame, repined, Felt his own ignorance, and thought That letters might, though late, be taught; How would the burly shaven priest Exorcise the sleek, learned beast; Judge it possess’d, a hog of hell, Whose devil-directed nose could spell, Pointing to knowledge, and to sin; Whilst secretly he’d grieve within O’er spelling true, ah! not his own! And think the pig, their rival grown, Might shake their intellectual throne; And force his convent, fond of rule, Once more to put themselves to school! The bear, first favourite no more, Surly, as though his ears were sore, The fickle public to regain, And give the “pas” to dance again, Tries and retries his steps with care, Since to be perfect’s not in bear. The pig and ape, spectators mute, Observe the labours of the brute Shuffling, and struggling hard for ease, And ever labouring to please. At length Sir Bruin thinks he spies Derision in pig’s watchful eyes; And criticism seems to sneak In that dry tongue-distended cheek. “Good! Eh?” he daring asks; “my style Is all my own, it’s new.” “It’s vile,” The Ape cries, midst the Hog’s dissent, Who finds the dancing excellent; Praises the grace of hams and paws, Applauded, (he could spare applause,) So natural! and owns that pigs Shine less in minuets and jigs; And even the critic he defies To equal that which he decries. Then Bruin, with a thoughtful air, Cries, “Friend, your panegyric spare; A censuring Ape I might distrust, His blame’s too general to be just; But, oh! preserve me from my friends! I must dance ill—a Hog commends.”

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE.