« ForrigeFortsæt »
To Death's dark house did grief-worn Anna haste,
Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;
Oft pouring on the winds the broken layAnd hark, I hear her—'twas the passing blast.
I love to sit upon her tomb's dark grass,
TRANSLATION OF WRANGHAM'S
Hendecasyllabi ad Bruntonam e Granta Exituram.t
MAID of unboastful charms ! whom white-robed
Truth Right onward guiding through the maze of youth, Forbade the Circe Praise to witch thy soul; And dash'd to earth th' intoxicating bowl :
* The last two lines were transferred to another poem printed in The Watchman. (See Vol. i. pp. 66-67.)
† Printed in a small volume of “Poems by Francis Wrangham, M.A., Member of Trinity College, Cambridge, Lond. 1795, pp. 79-83, where the original Hendecasyllables will be found. This translation was sent to Miss Brunton, sister of the Lady (Mrs. Merry) who was the subject of the original verses, with the lines that follow it in the text,
The meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,
For never yet did mortal voice impart
But purer raptures lighten'd from thy face, And spread o'er all thy form an holier grace, When from the daughter's breast the father drew The life he gave, and mix'd the big tear's dew. Nor was it thine th' heroic strain to roll With mimic feelings foreign from the soul : Bright in thy parent's eye we mark’d the tear; Methought he said, “ Thou art no Actress here ! “A semblance of thyself the Grecian dame, “And Brunton and Euphrasia still the same !"
O soon to seek the city's busier scene, Pause thee a while, thou chaste-eyed maid serene, Till Granta's sons from all her sacred bowers With grateful hand shall weave Pierian flowers To twine a fragrant chaplet round thy brow, Enchanting ministress of virtuous woe!
TO MISS BRUNTON,
WITH THE PRECEDING TRANSLATION.*
THAT darling of the Tragic Muse
When Wrangham sung her praise,
And sicken'd at his lays :
For soon the Goddess spied
And danced for joy and cried :
The fates have given to you !
I have my Brunton too."
THE MAD MONK.*
I HEARD a voice from Etna's side ;
Where, o'er a cavern's mouth
That fronted to the south
But him I could not see :
In melody most like to old Sicilian song : * Printed in Wrangham's Poems, 1795, p. 83, note.
† Printed in The Wild Wreath, edited by M, E. Robinson. Lond. Rich. Phillips, 1804, 8vo, pp. 142-144.
“ There was a time when earth, and sea, and skies,
The bright green vale, and forest's dark recess, With all things, lay before mine eyes
In steady loveliness :
Such sorrows as will never cease;
I only ask for peace; If I must live to know that such a time has been!”
A silence then ensued :
Till from the cavern came
A voice; it was the same ! And thus, in mournful tone, its dreary plaint re
newed :“Last night, as o'er the sloping turf I trod,
The smooth green turf, to me a vision gave Beneath mine eyes, the sod
The roof of Rosa's grave ! My heart has need with dreams like these to strive,
For, when I woke, beneath mine eyes I found
The plot of mossy ground, On which we oft have sat when Rosa was alive.
Why must the rock, and margin of the flood,
Why must the hills so many flowerets bear, Whose colours to a murder'd maiden's blood
Such sad resemblance wear ?
“ I struck the wound,—this hand of mine !
I loved to agony !
Did never love like me?
“Is it the stormy clouds above
That flashed so red a gleam ?
On yonder downward trickling stream ?'Tis not the blood of her I love.The sun torments me from his western bed :
Oh, let him cease for ever to diffuse
Those crimson spectre hues ! Oh, let me lie in peace, and be for ever dead ! ” Here ceased the voice. In deep dismay, Down thro' the forest I pursued my way.