Remove! no-grant me still this raging woe! Sweet is the wretchedness, that lovers know: But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see One destin'd mine) at once both her, and me.

Such were the trophies, that, in earlier days, By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise, Studious, yet indolent, and urg'd by youth,

That worst of teachers! from the ways of truth;

Till learning taught me, in his shady bow'r,

To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn

his pow'r.

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 matter 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.]

TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME.*

ANOTHER Leonora once inspir'd

Tasso, with fatal love to phrenzy fir'd,
But how much happier, liv'd he now, were he,
Pierc'd with whatever pangs for love of thee!

* 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.

Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine, With Adriana's lute of sound divine,

Fiercer then Pentheus' tho' his eye might roll,

Or ideot 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.

TO THE SAME.

NAPLES, too credulous, ah! boast no more
The sweet-voic'd Siren buried on thy shore,
That, when Parthenope deceas'd, she gave
Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave,

For still she lives, but has exchang'd the hoarse
Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,

Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains,

Of magic song, both gods, and

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, displeas'd to have a part alone,
Remov❜d 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,
Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd.
And "Oh," he cried, "that I had liv'd content
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant!
My av'rice has expensive prov'd to me,

Has cost me both my pippins, and my tree."

ΤΟ

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 vet'ran 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.