Ye country comets, that portend No war nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grass's fall;
Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame To wandering mowers shows the way, That in the night have lost their aim, And after foolish fires do stray;
Your courteous lights in vain you waste, Since Juliana here is come,
For she my mind hath so displaced, That I shall never find my home.
This is Marvell's translation of one of his own Latin poems.
HOW vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays;
And their incessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close, To weave the garlands of repose!
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow; Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas! they know or heed, How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheresoe'er your bark I wound, No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, For other worlds, and other seas, Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk'd without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 't was beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 't were in one, To live in paradise alone.
How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new; Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we!
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckon'd but with herbs and flowers.
From his comedy The Mulberry Garden (1668).
PHILLIS is my only joy,
Faithless as the winds or seas,
Sometimes cunning, sometimes coy, Yet she never fails to please; If with a frown
I am cast down, Phillis smiling
And beguiling
Makes me happier than before.
Though alas! too late I find
Nothing can her fancy fix, Yet the moment she is kind I forgive her all her tricks; Which though I see, I can't get free,-
She deceiving,
I believing,
What need lovers wish for more.
JOHN DRYDEN. (1631-1700.)
CXVIII. THE LADY'S SONG.
From the fifth volume of Dryden's Miscellany Poems (1704). The song is said to have been written in 1691, and to refer to the exile of James II. and his queen.
A CHOIR of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To choose a May Lady to govern the year;
All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green; The garland was given, and Phillis was Queen:
But Phillis refused it, and sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.
While Pan, and fair Syrinx, are fled from our shore, The Graces are banish'd, and Love is no more:
The soft god of pleasure, that warm'd our desires, Has broken his vow, and extinguish'd his fires: And vows that himself and his mother will mourn, Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
Forbear your addresses, and court us no more; For we will perform what the deity swore: But if you dare think of deserving our charms, Away with your sheephooks, and take to your arms: Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn, When Pan, and his son, and fair Syrinx, return.
CXIX. AUTUMN: OR HYLAS AND AEGON.
Pope's four Pastorals, with an introductory Discourse on Pastoral Poetry, were printed, in 1709, in Tonson's Miscellany. They were written, however, in 1704, when the poet was only sixteen. The literary quarrel that arose out of them is described in the Introduction to this volume.
BENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Aegon sung their rural lays;
This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love, And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove. Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring; Hylas and Aegon's rural lays I sing.
Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire,1 The art of Terence, and Menander's fire;
Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms, Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms!
1 Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire. The allusion is to Wycherley, to whom the pastoral is dedicated.
« ForrigeFortsæt » |