תמונות בעמוד
PDF
ePub

But nearer care (O pardon it!) supplies
Sighs to my breast, and sorrow to my eyes:
Love, Love himself (the only friend I have).
May scorn his triumph, having bound his slave.
That tyrant god, that restless conqueror
May quit his pleasure, to assert his power;
Forsake the provinces that bless his sway,
To vanquish those which will not yet obey.
Another nymph with fatal power may rise,
To damp the sinking beams of Celia's eyes;
With haughty pride may hear her charms con-
fessed;

And scorn the ardent vows that I have blessed;
You every night may sigh for her in vain,

And rise each morning to some fresh disdain;
While Celia's softest look may cease to charm,
And her embraces want the power to warm;
While these fond arms, thus circling you, may
prove

More heavy chains than those of hopeless love.
Just gods! all other things their like produce;
The vine arises from her mother's juice;
When feeble plants, or tender flowers decay,
They to their seed their images convey;
Where the old myrtle her good influence sheds,
Sprigs of like leaf erect their filial heads;
And when the parent rose decays and dies,
With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise.
That product only which our passions bear,
Eludes the planter's miserable care;
While blooming Love assures us golden fruit,
Some inborn poison taints the secret root;

73

90

100

Soon fall the flowers of joy; soon seeds of hatred

shoot.

Say, shepherd, say, are these reflections true;
Or was it but the woman's fear, that drew
This cruel scene, unjust to Love and you;
Will you be only, and for ever mine;
Shall neither time, nor age our souls disjoin;
From this dear bosom shall I ne'er be torn;
Or you grow cold, respectful, and forsworn?
And can you not for her you love do more,
Than any youth for any nymph before!

110

AN ODE

PRESENTED TO THE KING, ON HIS MAJESTY'S ARRIVAL IN

HOLLAND, AFTER THE QUEEN'S DEATH.

Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam cari capitis? Præcipe lugubres
Cantus, Melpomene.

1 Ar Mary's tomb, (sad sacred place!)
The virtues shall their vigils keep:
And every Muse, and every Grace
In solemn state shall ever weep.

MDCXCV.1

2 The future, pious, mournful fair,
Oft as the rolling years return,
With fragrant wreaths, and flowing hair,
Shall visit her distinguished urn.

3 For her the wise and great shall mourn,
When late records her deeds repeat;
Ages to come, and men unborn

Shall bless her name, and sigh her fate.

4 Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust,

Her holy Queen's sad reliques guard;

1 Queen Mary died on the 28th December, 1694, in the 33d year of her age.

Till Heaven awakes the precious dust,

And gives the saint her full reward.

5 But let the king dismiss his woes,
Reflecting on his fair renown;
And take the cypress from his brows,
To put his wonted laurels on.

6 If pressed by grief our monarch stoops;
In vain the British lions roar:

If he, whose hand sustained them, droops,
The Belgic darts will wound no more.

7 Embattled princes wait the chief,

Whose voice should rule, whose arm should lead,
And, in kind murmurs, chide that grief,
Which hinders Europe being freed.

8 The great example they demand,
Who still to conquest led the way;
Wishing him present to command,
As they stand ready to obey.

9 They seek that joy, which used to glow,
Expanded on the hero's face;

When the thick squadrons pressed the foe,
And William led the glorious chase.

10 To give the mourning nations joy,
Restore them thy auspicious light,

Great sun, with radiant beams destroy

Those clouds, which keep thee from our sight.

11 Let thy sublime meridian course

For Mary's setting rays atone;

Our lustre with redoubled force
Must now proceed from thee alone.

12 See, pious King, with different strife
Thy struggling Albion's bosom torn;
So much she fears for William's life,
That Mary's fate she dares not mourn.

13 Her beauty, in thy softer half

Buried and lost, she ought to grieve:
But let her strength in thee be safe,
And let her weep, but let her live.

14 Thou, guardian angel, save the land
From thy own grief, her fiercest foe:
Lest Britain, rescued by thy hand,
Should bend and sink beneath thy woe.

15 Her former triumphs all are vain, Unless new trophies still be sought; And hoary majesty sustain

The battles, which thy youth has fought.

16 Where now is all that fearful love,

Which made her hate the war's alarms;
That soft excess, with which she strove
To keep her hero in her arms!

17 While still she chid the coming spring, Which called him o'er his subject seas: While, for the safety of the king,

She wished the victor's glory less.

18 'Tis changed, 'tis gone; sad Britain now Hastens her lord to foreign wars;

Happy, if toils may break his woe,
Or danger may divert his cares.

19 In martial din she drowns her sighs,
Lest he the rising grief should hear:
She pulls her helmet o'er her eyes,

Lest he should see the falling tear.

20 Go, mighty prince, let France be taught,
How constant minds by grief are tried;
How great the land, that wept and fought,
When William led, and Mary died.

21 Fierce in the battle make it known,
Where death with all his darts is seen,
That he can touch thy heart with none,
But that which struck the beauteous queen.

22 Belgia indulged her open grief,

While yet her master was not near;
With sullen pride refused relief,
And sat obdurate in despair.

23 As waters from their sluices, flowed
Unbounded sorrow from her eyes;
To earth her bended front she bowed,
And sent her wailings to the skies.

24 But when her anxious lord returned,

Raised is her head, her eyes are dried;
She smiles, as William ne'er had mourned;
She looks, as Mary ne'er had died.

25 That freedom which all sorrows claim,
She does for thy content resign;

« הקודםהמשך »