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Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain, Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain ? Oh could I once, once more behold the fair, Speak to her, tell her, of the pangs I bear, Perhaps she is not adamant, would show Perhaps some pity at my tale of woe. Oh inauspicious flame !—’tis mine to prove A matchless instance of disastrous love. Ah

spare me, gentle power !—If such thou be, Let not thy deeds and nature disagree; Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine With vow and sacrifice, save only thine. Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts, Now own thee sovereign of all human hearts. Remove! no-grant me still this raging woe! Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know : But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see One destined mine) at once both her and me.

Such were the trophies, that, in earlier days, By vanity seduced, I toild to raise, Studious, yet indolent, and urged by youth, That worst of teachers ! from the ways of truth; Till learning taught me, in his shady bower, To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn

his

power. Then, on a sudden, the fierce flame supprest, A frost continual settled on my breast, Whence Cupid fears his flames extinct to see, And Venus dreads a Diomede in me.

EPIGRAMS.

ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS.

PRAISE in old times the

sage

Prometheus won,
Who stole æthereal radiance from the sun;
But greater he, whose bold invention strove
To emulate the fiery bolts of Jove.

[The Poems on the subject of the Gunpowder Treason I have

not translated, both because the natter of them is unpleasant, and because they are written with an asperity, which, however it might be warranted in Milton's day, would be extremely unseasonable now.] C.

TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME'.

ANOTHER Leonora once inspired
Tasso, with fatal love to frenzy fired;
But how much happier, lived he now, were he,
Pierced with whatever pangs for love of thee!
Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,
With Adriana's lute of sound divine,
Fiercer than Pentheus' though his eye might roll,
Or idiot apathy benumb his soul,
You still, with medicinal sounds might cheer
His senses wandering in a blind career;
And sweetly breathing through his wounded breast,
Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.

1 I have translated only two of the three poetical compliments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to me far superior to what I have omitted. C.

TO THE SAME.

NAPLES, too credulous, ah! boast no more
The sweet-voiced Siren buried on thy shore,
That, when Parthenope deceased, she gave
Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave,
For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse
Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,
Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains,
Of magic song, both gods and men detains.

THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD.

A FABLE.

A PEASANT to his lord paid yearly court,
Presenting pippins, of so rich a sort
That he, displeased to have a part alone,
Removed the tree, that all might be his own.
The tree, too old to travel, though before
So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more.
The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void,
Cursed his own pains, so foolishly employ’d.
And “ Oh,” he cried, “ that I had lived content
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant !
My avarice has expensive proved to me,
Has cost me both my pippins, and my

tree.”

TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN,

WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE.

CHRISTINA, maiden of heroic mien !
Star of the North! of northern stars the queen!
Behold what wrinkles I have earn’d, and how
The iron

casque
still chafes

my veteran brow,
While following fate's dark footsteps, I fulfil
The dictates of a hardy people's will.
But soften’d, in thy sight, my looks appear,
Not to all Queens or Kings alike severe.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR,

A PHYSICIAN.

birth;

LEARN, ye nations of the earth,
The condition of

your
Now be taught your feeble state ;
Know, that all must yield to fate!
If the mournful rover, Death,
_“Resign your

breath !”
Vainly of escape you dream,
You must pass the Stygian stream.
Could the stoutest overcome
Death's assault, and baffle doom,
Hercules had both withstood,
Undiseased by Nessus' blood.

Say but

once

Ne'er had Hector press’d the plain
By a trick of Pallas slain,
Nor the chief to Jove allied
By Achilles' phantom died.
Could enchantments life prolong,
Circe, saved by magic song,
Still had lived, and equal skill
Had preserved Medea still.

Dwelt in herbs, and drugs, a power To avert man's destined hour, Learn'd Machaon should have known Doubtless to avert his own.

Chiron had survived the smart
Of the Hydra-tainted dart,
And Jove's bolt had been, with ease,
Foil'd by Asclepiades.
Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn
Helicon and Cirrha mourn,
Still hadst fill'd thy princely place,
Regent of the gowned race;

Hadst advanced to higher fame
Still, thy much-ennobled name,
Nor in Charon's skiff explored
The Tartarean gulf abhorr’d.
But resentful Proserpine,
Jealous of thy skill divine,
Snapping short thy vital thread,
Thee too number'd with the dead.

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