Epodos. Vos tandem haud vacui mei labores, Quicquid hoc fterile fudit ingenium, Jam ferò placidam fperare jubeo Perfunctam invidiâ requiem, fedesque beatas Quas bonus Hermes Et tutela dabit folers Roüfi, 75 Quo neque lingua procax vulgi penetrabit, atque longè Turba legentum prava faceffet; At ultimi nepotes, Et cordatior ætas Judicia rebus æquiora forfitan Adhibebit integro finu. Tum livore fepulto, Si quid meremur fana pofteritas fciet 80 85 Ode tribus conftat Strophis, totidémque Antiftrophis, unâ demum Epodo claufis, quas, tametfi omnes nec verfuum numero, nec certis ubique colis exactè refpondeant, ita tamen fecuimus, commodè legendi potiùs, quàm ad antiquos concinendi modos rationem fpectantes. Alioquin hoc genus rectiùs fortaffe dici monoftrophicum debuerat. Metra partim funt xarà σχέσιν, partim ἀπολελυμένα. Phaleucia quæ funt, Spondæum tertio loco bis admittunt, quod idem in fecundo loco Catullus ad libitum fecit. Ad Ad CHRISTINAM Suecorum Reginam nomine Cromwelli *. Ellipotens Virgo, feptem Regina Trionum, Chriftina, Arctoï lucida ftella poli, Cernis quas merui dura fub caffide rugas, TRANSLATION +, from TOLAND's Life of MILTON. B RIGHT martial maid, queen of the frozen zone, The northern pole fupports thy fhining throne; Behold what furrows age and fteel can plow, The helmet's weight opprefs'd this wrinkled brow. Through fate's untrodden paths I move, my hands Still act my free-born people's bold commands: Yet this stern shade to you submits his frowns, Nor are these looks always fevere to crowns. These verses were sent to Chriftina Queen of Sweden with Cromwell's picture, and are by fome afcribed to Andrew Marvell, as by others to Milton: but they were probably Milton's, being more within his province as Latin Secretary. By Sir Fleetwood Shepheard. A FRAG A FRAGMENT, from the Italian; Addreffed to a young Lady, at Florence, who did not understand English. 'HEN, in your language, I, unfkill'd, addrefs Soft Italy's fair critics round Me press, Why, to our tongue's difgrace, does thy dumb love Then laughing they repeat my languid lays; Nymphs of thy native clime, perhaps—they cry, For whom thou haft a tongue, may feel thy praise; But we must understand ere we comply! Do thou, my foul's foft hope, these triflers awe! Tell them, 'tis nothing, how, or what, I write; Since love from filent looks can language draw, And scorns the lame impertinence of wit. A fmall |
