ANOTHER TRANSLATION OF THE SAME.
In myrtle my sword will I wreath,
Like our patriots, the noble and brave, Who devoted the tyrant to death,
And to Athens equality gave!
Lov'd Harmodius, thou never shalt die !
The poets exultingly tell
That thine is the fulness of joy,
Where Achilles and Diomed dwell.
In myrtle my sword will I wreath,
Like our patriots, the noble and brave,
Who devoted Hipparchus to death,
And buried his pride in the grave.
At the altar the tyrant they seiz'd,
While Minerva he vainly implor'd,
And the goddess of wisdom was pleas'd
With the victim of Liberty's sword.
May your bliss be immortal on high,
Among men as your glory shall be;
Ye doom'd the usurper to die,
And bade our dear country be free!
Oh Health, of all the heavenly powers
Most honoured and most blest!
Grant me, my few remaining hours,
To be thy constant guest.
Let my last days be spent with thee,
Propitious, smiling, deity!
Whatever grace from Riches springs,
Whatever joy from Children flows,
Whatever pomp Ambition brings,
Whatever transport Love bestows,
When Venus lends her subtle arts,
To chain desires and capture hearts,
Whatever good the gods impart,
Whatever pause from ill,
By thee is soften'd every smart,
From thee all joys distil!
These are thy gifts; and, without thee, How vain is man's felicity!
My riches are the arms I wield,
The mighty spear, the sword, the shield
Fenc'd with tough hides, to prove a tower
Of strength in battle's dangerous hour.
With this I plough the furrowed soil,
With this I share the reaper's toil,
With this I press the generous juice
Which my rich sunny vines produce;
With these, of rule and high command
I bear the mandate in my hand;
For while the slave and coward fear
To wield the buckler, sword, and spear,
They bend the supplicating knee,
And own my just supremacy.
I, who erewhile, in fame and beauty proud,
Before my Lattice drew an amorous crowd,
Laïs the fair, my hateful glass resign,
An offering, heavenly Venus, at thy shrine;
For what I am 'tis piteous to behold,
And time has ruined what I was of old.
ON THE IMAGE OF A SATYR AND A CUPID
SLEEPING BY A FOUNTAIN-SIDE.
From mortal hands my being I derive;
Mute marble once, from man I learned to live.
A satyr now, with nymphs I hold resort,
And guard the watery grottos where they sport.
In purple wine refus'd to revel more,
Sweet draughts of water from my urn I
But, stranger, softly tread, lest any sound
Should wake yon boy, in rosy slumbers bound.
See Note 21.
ON LOVE SLEEPING IN A GROVE.
I pierced the Grove, and in its deepest gloom
Beheld sweet Love, of heavenly form and bloom;
Nor bow nor quiver at his back were slung,
But, harmless, on the neighbouring branches hung;
On Rosebuds pillowed lay the little child,
In glowing slumbers pleased, and sleeping smiled,
While, all around, the bees delighted sip
The fragrance of his smooth and balmy lip.
Still glorying in thy virgin flower?
Yet in the gloomy paths below
No lovers will adorn thy bower;
Love's pleasures with the living glow.
Virgin! we shall be dust alone
On the sad shores of Acheron.
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