That he, displeased to have a part alone, So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more. EPIGRAMS. ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS. PRAISE in old time the sage Prometheus won, 1 [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.1 ANOTHER Leonora once inspired Tasso with fatal love, to frenzy fired; 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. 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, You still with medicinal sounds might cheer And sweetly breathing through his wounded breast, TO THE SAME. NAPLES, too credulous, ah! boast no more For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN, WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE. CHRISTINA, maiden of heroic mien! Star of the North! of northern stars the queen! ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR, A PHYSICIAN. 1 LEARN, ye nations of the earth, 2 If the mournful rover, Death, Say but once-" Resign your breath!" 3 Could the stoutest overcome Death's assault, and baffle doom, 4 Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain Nor the chief to Jove allied 5 Could enchantments life prolong, 6 Dwelt in herbs and drugs a power Learn'd Machaon should have known 7 Chiron had survived the smart And Jove's bolt had been, with ease, 8 Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn Still hadst fill'd thy princely place, 9 Hadst advanced to higher fame 10 But resentful Proserpine, 11 Wise and good! untroubled be 12 Pluto's consort bid thee rest! ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY. My lids with grief were tumid yet, And still my sullied cheek was wet When Fame, whose tales of saddest sound, The news through all our cities spread By ruthless Fate to Death consign'd, At once a storm of passion heaved The lovely Greek his promised bride. 66 Ah, much deluded! lay aside Thy threats and anger misapplied! Art not afraid with sounds like these To offend, where thou canst not appease? Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus ?) Nor was of fell Erynnis born On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn; |