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ENGLISH AND LATIN POEMS.
ENGLISH AND LATIN
ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED.
BY THE LATE
JOHN LATH Alf. D.C.L.
OF BEADWALL HALL. CHESHIRE.
• IX MIMORIAM.
T. RICHARDS, PRINTER,
GT. QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S INN.
C X T E N T S.
The articles in the Table of Contents printed in italics formed
part of a little volume published, without the author's
, name, at Sandbach. in 1836.
Paraphrase of the opening invocations of the Litany - • 3
Paraphrase of tlie Petition from the Litany, " In all time of our tri-
bulation", etc. - - - - - 5
Version of Psalm xxin, t: God, my Shepherd and my Guide"' - 7
Version of Psalm xxxix, " From all offence, I said, and wrong" - 9
Version of Psalm xcvi. i: In songs of praise unheard before" - 13
Version of Psalm cm. "With every faculty combined" - - 16
Version of Psalm cxxxix, ,,; Omniscient, omnipresent power"' - 20
Version of Psalm cxlvi, " Praise the Lord, O my soul, while I live
shall the Lord" - - - - - - u
Stanzas suggested by Lzekiel ch. ii. ver. 10 - - - 36
Paraphrase of a passage in Bishop Home's Sermon on the Redemption
• ■Time - ■ - - - - 30
On the Epiphany; suggested by the concluding paragraph of Bishop
Home's Sermon on that Festival - - ■ - 33
Hymn for New Year's Day : " Another year its course has sped" - 36
Hymn for Children : " Lord, who once thine arms unfolding'" - 38
" Far from the paths of sin'' - - - 40
" Lord, who once from Heaven descending" - 42
" "When first God's word to Samuel came" - 44
on the opening of Wheelock Church, Cheshire, Aug. 30, 1837 46
To my Wife .... - 51
The Twenty-fourth of May ... -54
On the Anniversary of my Wedding Day, 1827 - - - 55
Sonnet — " As amid Afric's sandy wastes the sight" - 59
Evenings at Home - - - 60
On the Second Birthday of J. H. L., 1825 - 67
Sonnet on first taking his eldest Child to Church - - - 72
Sonnet—" Departed spirit of my darling Child" -
" Stretched on the restless bed of pain" - - - 74
Epistle to my Father, Dec. 29, 1829 - - - 78
Lines in imitation of Pope
Fragment of a Moral Epistle -
The banished Tea-tray's Complaint
Ode to Deafness
To my Tooth
The Old Man of Verona. From Claudian - - - 105
TJie Story of Count Ugolino. Dante, Inferno, Canto 33 - - HI
Tasso. Gerusalemrne Liberata, Canto 1, Stanza n - - 119
Canto 3, Stanza i. The Approach to the Holy City - 123
Canto 4. Stanza ix. The Address of Satan - • 131
Canto 4, Stanza lxxxvi. The Arts of the Enchantress
Armida - - - - - - 141
Canto 12,' Stanza lxiv. The Baptism and Death of Clorinda 151
The Harper and the Nightingale. From Strada's " Prolusiones" - 159
,; Defendit nunierus", from Vincent Bourne - - - 169
" Innocens prsedatrix", from Vincent Bourne - - - 171
Ad Patrem, 1805 - - -
An Contraria mutuo se expellant: Afiirmatur
An Bruta cogitent : Afiirmatur
Ad Amicum Uxorem ducturum
Lines descriptive of the Garden at Springfield -
Against Pride in Dress. Watts - - - - 191
Signs of Eain. Dr. Jenner - - - - - 19?
The Poplar Field. Cowper - - - - - 203
The Rose, Cowper - - 207
Mortuary Verses. Cov/per ... - 211
Wilfrid's Song, from " Rokeby". Scott - - - 217
Go, lovely rose. Waller and Kirke White - - 223.
Epitaph in Wisbeach Churchyard - - - 227
The envious Snow ... - 229
Though the same sun. Pope ----- 229
Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang with me. Bishop Percy - • 231
When Spring unlocks the flowers. Heber - - - 235
The Song of Judith, chap, xvi, ver. 2 - - 239
~oc/c»(S v >3~
John Latham, the subject of this memoir, was
the eldest son of John Latham, M.D., F.R.S.,
and of Mary the eldest daughter of the Rev.
Peter Mere, vicar of Prestbury, in Cheshire.
He was born at Oxford (where his father then
resided, and practised as a physician) March the
18th, 1787. In the year 1789, Dr. Latham trans-
ferred himself and his family to London, where,
for forty years, he pursued his profession with
reputation and success. Finally withdrawing
from the world in 1829, he spent the last four-
teen years of his life in retirement, at Bradwall
in Cheshire, and died in 1843, at the advanced
age of eighty-two, leaving behind him a good
name, and a lasting title to the love and grati-
tude of his children.
Accidental circumstances determined for his
eldest son the place of his education very early
in life. Macclesfield school, in those days, had
a considerable reputation, which was sustained,
and afterwards greatly advanced, by Dr. David
Davies. To this school, and to the special care
of Dr. Davies, recently appointed its head-
master (and connected with his family by mar-
riage of his mother's sister), John Latham was
consigned at the early age of five years. How
he mastered the first hard elements of Latin
and Greek, whether with ease or difficulty,
cannot now be told. It may be presumed that
the course of his early education ran smoothly,
for he was always a happy boy ; but it is cer-
tain that, no sooner had he pierced the rind,
and tasted the fruit of classical literature, than
he perceived how sweet it was.
To the three or four last years of his school
education he was accustomed to look back as
to the most important period of his life. And
to him it was really so ; for although the know-
ledge acquired at that early age may generally
be less important, as preparatory only to things
more needful for the business of life, to him it
was rendered all in all by a coming event most
sad and unforeseen.
But all the value which belonged to this
period had been brought home to him, he con-
sidered^ by the sound instruction of Dr. Davies.
He had a filial feeling of gratitude towards
him ; he would often reckon up with thankful-
ness the sources of his happiness, and never
without ascribing a large share of it to the solid
and accurate learning of this admirable man.
In the days of his own mature scholarship he
would still quote many a well-remembered
maxim of Dr. Davies, and bow to it as authority.
It was remarkable of him, while yet at school,
that in the gradual growth of his mind, his
taste seemed to keep pace with his knowledge ;
and hence he was distinguished above other
boys chiefly by his compositions. His exercises
were seldom returned, after perusal, without
one of those marks of approbation appended,
which the pupils of Dr. Davies so well remem-
ber as their great objects of ambition; and,
among these, he would sometimes send up a
copy of English verses, or a Latin Sapphic, or
Alcaic ode of exceeding beauty.
It is interesting to record, as prominent parts
of his character at this time, his great love of
athletic exploits, his great bodily activity, and
his great personal courage : qualities which the
conditions of his after-life never brought into
active display, but which, had the field of enter-
prise been ever opened to him, might have
been no mean auxiliaries to force of intellect.
There were, however, other qualities in him,
as a boy, on which it is pleasing to look back
and trace in them the permanent lines of his
character. Perhaps that character was early
formed, both in its intellectual and moral aspects.
Already he was very methodical, and a great
economist of time; and hence, while he got
through much work of the kind he loved, he had
much leisure left for sports, which he loved also.
Goodnature was remarkable in him as a boy :
not the mere passive sympathy, but the active
principle of goodnature. He was ready to give
what cost him time, and trouble, and effort:
especially he would help the less successful in-
dustry of others in their studies. He would
set his face against all petty tyranny and bully-
ing, and always take part with the weak against
the strong. With very susceptible feelings, he
had a temper singularly placid and unresentful.
From his very boyhood it might be truly said
of him, that he never se hurt anybody by word
or deed." Amidst all the broils, and conflicts,
and license of a school, no profane or unbeseem-
ing word was ever known to pass liis lips.
He was hardly more than sixteen, when, in
1803, he was entered at the university of Ox-
ford. The day on which he first became a
member of the university was a memorable one.
It was the day of the commemoration, on which
the youthful, Reginald Heber, with the simple
feeling and fervor of a poet, recited, in the
Theatre, his beautiful prize poem of " Pales-
tine". Reginald Heber and he were members
of the same college, Brasenose, and were after-
wards elected fellows of All Souls, and became
personal friends. He did not go to reside at
Brasenose until January 1804.
Oxford, in those days, did not present the
strong incentives which it now does to literary
ambition. Still there were many reading men ;
many who became wise from their own love of
knowledge, or from a determination to fulfil the
purpose of their going there, though not from
the encouragements of the place. Among these
was John Latham. A contemporary has a pleas-
ing recollection of the large resort, once a-week,
to Latham's room, to hear him construe Aris-
tophanes, in preparation for the next day's
public lecture in hall.
The chancellor's prizes were then the chief
objects of competition ; the English essay for
bachelors ; and the Latin verse for undergra-
duates. The prize for English verse was only
occasionally given. John Latham won the prize
for Latin verse in 1806. The subject was
The examination for degrees was then only
in its first stage towards reform. It was held
publicly in the schools ; but there was, as yet,
attached to it no classification according to
merit. Those who did well were complimented
by the examiners; and John Latham, at the
end of Michaelmas term 1806, gained this,
which was then the greatest honour annexed
to the examination. In the same term, while
yet an undergraduate, and before he had passed
his examination for his degree, he was elected
a fellow of All Souls.
It had long been a settled thing in his family
that the law was to be his profession. His father
had lived and flourished among lawyers, and
the best and most eminent of them were his
most intimate friends. It was natural that his
thoughts and feelings, and his estimate of things,
should run in the same current with theirs, and
that his hopes should catch a glimpse of the
honours of their great profession one day falling
upon his son. Accordingly, about Christmas
1806, he was entered at Lincoln's Inn. On the
same day he received from the hands of Serjeant
Williams, his father's most intimate friend, a
present of his great work (Saunders* Reports),
and a plan laid down for his legal studies.
It is not possible to conceive a human being
happier than Dr. Latham at this period : him-
self only forty-five years of age, in the full
career of his professional success, enjoying the
esteem of the best men living, rejoicing in his
eldest son's university success, crowned by his
election to All Souls, and seeing him now at
the entrance of his profession, and looking upon
him, perhaps, as the example which others
whom he loved might be found to follow. Those
who knew the tenderness and enthusiasm of
his nature could understand his happiness : his
own family could tell how his heart overflowed
with gratitude. But there is a Will above our
will; and this higher Will, when it thinks fit,
unmakes our purposes, and breaks in pieces all
the images of our idol- worship, sometimes gra-
dually, sometimes suddenly and with a shock.
The winter of 1806 and 1807 was severe.
Ophthalmia was a prevalent disease. John La-
tham, whenever he caught cold, was apt to have
his eyes inflamed. A few days after his entrance
at Lincoln's Inn, late at night, and heated with
exertion, he was exposed to a current of cold
air. As usual, inflammation fell upon his eyes ;
but it did not, as usual, soon pass away. It
became rapidly worse, and defied all the means
employed to arrest its destructive progress ; and,
in one short month, he was all but blind for
ever. It was fondly hoped that enough of sight
would ultimately be preserved in one eye to
enable him to read ; but, alas ! it was only suf-
ficient to guide his steps ; and never did he
read a printed book again.
His disease and its treatment brought down
his health and strength so low, that two or three
months were needed for their restoration ; and
then he came back again into life. But all its
hopes were gone. Yet even then his own cheer-
fulness was the one bright ray shining through
the cloud which hung over his father's house.
And now he had not quite completed his twen-
tieth year ; a long life might be before him ;
he could form no purposes for the future ; he
could only wait upon the will of God, and trust
it as his guide. Happily his years had hitherto
been well spent ; and the seed of the sower,
fallen upon good ground, brought forth fruit
As his strength returned he began to think
of All Souls as his future home. He was the
youngest in years of all the Fellows ; he had
been very recently elected, and had resided
there only a few weeks prior to his calamity,
when he had all the fresh and happy feelings
which must naturally belong to one just adopted
into such a societv. But now, when he was
going to return to All Souls, he had far differ-
ent feelings. He thought of his own dependent
state ; of the society, which was still new to
him ; of friendships there, which were yet to be
formed ; and of his own unsuitable condition to
form them. As far as he durst frame any plans
for the future, it was among his hopes that his
college might become to him a second home.
Could it, indeed, ever become so ? The expe-
riment was to be tried ; and, with such thoughts
passing in his mind, he resumed his residence
at All Souls in the summer of 1807. Here he
made his first trial of the world since the sad
event which, had entirely changed his relation
to it. He was welcomed with great kindness
and sympathy ; all were ready to do him ser-
vices of friendship, and to participate with him
in whatever he took a pleasure and an interest
in. After a few terms of residence, his college
became indeed to him all that he had hoped,
even a second home : and, for fourteen years,
he spent several months of every year at All
Souls, deriving from it much tranquil happiness,
and much mental improvement, and many
A college life would perhaps, under any cir-
cumstances, have been not unsuitable to his
nature. In his actual state it brought within
his reach, by the help and sympathy of conge-
nial minds, what he could otherwise have hardly
obtained. In Oxford he was never idle; he
always found those who willingly admitted him
to share their reading and their studies. Some
read to him the current literature of the day,
some read books of more solid information,
some the classics, and some, who were prepar-
ing for holy orders, read divinity. In this
variety of literary intercourse he was often the
instructor as well as the instructed. In classics,
especially, his accuracy and his taste could
hardly fail to furnish a useful lesson to the
reader, whoever he might be.
And now, when the recovery of his sight
had become quite hopeless, unrepining at his
bereavement, and even thankful for the little
ray of light that still was left to him (sufficient
only to enable him to see near objects indis-
tinctly), and, by his cheerfulness, attaching even
strangers to him with a feeling of tenderness
and respect, he was a happy man. By what
seems to be a divinely-ordered law of compen-
sation, he had resources which almost counter-
balanced his great loss : his scholarship, his
love of literature, his memory, his powers of
imagination, and his extraordinary enjoyment
of music. As to the last, his natural fondness
for it seemed to grow upon him after he was
abridged of his enjoyments through the sense
of sight. Perhaps his ear was quickened by
the partial closing of that other sense to a nicer
and more exact perception of the differences of
sound ; for he has said that he could distin-
guish who were present in a room with him by
their very breathing. Either from his own in-
aptitude (as he asserted), or, as was more evi-
dently the truths from bad instruction, he was
unsuccessful in his attempt to become a prac-
tical musician ; nor did he possess any strictly
scientific knowledge of music. But his intense
enjoyment of it latterly amounted almost to a
passion, and was a large ingredient in his cup
of happiness. He would sit, silent and ab-
stracted, by the hour, listening with delight to
the performance of any first-rate instrumental
composition. His ready and well-furnished
memory was improved by a perpetual exercise,
and had its stores continually increased by fresh
accessions ; and he had the power of drawing
upon it at will, as a source of interest and
amusement. Thus his mind was never inactive.
When left alone, or when unable to sleep at
night, he would make the repetition of an
jEneid, or of a book of the odes of Horace,
serve for an occupation or an opiate. And
again, his strong imaginative faculty was an
inexhaustible resource to him. Limited as he
had become in the power of external observa-
tion, he was the more drawn within himself;
and the acquisitions of his mind afforded a wide
range of choice to his imagination. The great
pleasure that he took in this intellectual exer-
cise was evidenced by his perpetual production
of some fruit of it. Like his favourite Cowper,
he would turn any subject or idea that struck
him forcibly into poetry, and could make all,
from the most touching incident down to an
attack of deafness, or the loss of a tooth, alike
In recalling the particulars of this period of
John Latham's life, it may be mentioned that
he devoted himself, during the greater part of
the years 1811 and 1812, to the tuition of a
younger brother, previously to his entering at
the university. It was his first essay in the
work, which afterwards, as his own children
grew up, became to him, for so many years, the
one great practical occupation of his life. His
pupil, who survives him^ cherishes with an
affectionate and mournful gratitude the recol-
lection of that time. He remembers with what
heartiness his brother seemed to enter on their
daily work, as if it was a real pleasure to him-
self, and so brought him to seek and find an
interest in it ; and he feels, and thankfully
acknowledges, that to the mental discipline and
moral training of that period, he mainly owes
the happiness of forty years, which they have
since passed together, one in heart, and mind,
and taste, and feelings ; and even more than
In the summer of 1816, he made an excursion
of a few weeks, in company with his brother
Henry, to Paris, and through Belgium and
Holland. It was a source of much enjoyment
to him ; and, in order to impress his memory
with distinct ideas of the different places which
he visited, his first object always was to pace
the circuit of the walls, and then to ascertain
how the main streets intersected each other.
He ever afterwards recurred with pleasure to
this little tour, and all its novel incidents ; but
he remembered also his misery on the passage,
in a gale of wind, to Calais, and never could
resolve to make a second voyage.
In recurring to the past, John Latham's early
friends will recollect the pleasure that he de-
rived at this period from his occasional visits to
the theatre. Theatricals were then, what they
have now ceased to be, a subject of continual
interest and discussion in society; for it was
then that by-gone, brilliant epoch of the drama,
the age of the two Kembles, Mrs. Siddons,
Young, and Miss O'jSTeil, and of a host of comic
actors, all excelling in their art ; when nume-
rous plays of Shakspeare were brought upon
the stage by John Kernble, with a perfectness
perhaps never seen before or since. A privi-
lege of being admitted privately to the pit of
Covent Garden Theatre, before the inpouring
of the crowd, had been kindly granted to him a
of which he frequently availed himself; and,
seated in the centre of the front row, from
whence the shadows' of the actors passing by
could be distinguished by him, he entered fully
into the illusion of the scene.
His time was now divided periodically be-
tween All Souls, and his father's house in Har-
ley-street, or Cheshire ; and nothing occurred to
change or vary the tenor of his existence until
his marriage. On the 24th of May 1821, he
was married, at Crawley, Hants, to Elizabeth
A>'ne, the eldest daughter of his father's friend,
the late Sir Henry DAMPiER,one of the judges
of the Court of King's Bench ; and few women
could have been found so well qualified to be
the wife of one in his peculiar circumstances,
as she who then became his partner and true
helpmate, and to whom he was indebted for the
unbroken happiness of the next eighteen years,
the term of his married life. With a highly
cultivated mind, stored with accurate and ex-
tensive knowledge, and able to appreciate and
take part with him in all his intellectual enjoy-
ments, she had a disposition as domestic as his
own.. She had his strong moral and religious
principles, partook of all his tastes, and was,
moreover, what was to him no unattractive en-
dowment, a good musician.
Their first residence was in Somerset-street,
near Portman-square, where they passed ten
years in that quiet and unvaried round of life
which, in its retrospect, leaves so little for the
recollection of the mere spectator, and perhaps
little more even for those who have themselves
been parties to it. Friends, books, and music,
and literary composition, the " delightful in-
dustry enjoyed at home," made up the sum of it.
Of the way in which their happy evenings were
ordinarily passed, he has drawn a pleasing pic-
ture in a little poem inserted in this volume ;
one of those which, in many successive years,
he presented to his wife on the anniversary of
their wedding-day. Reading is there made
the main employment of the evening ; and read-
ing was the morning's occupation. It is, indeed,
extraordinary how many hours of every day
were spent by him continuously in reading ;
he had absolutely a craving for it, and the
regular indulgence of the appetite had become
essential to his comfort. For thirty years toge-
ther he did not omit the good custom of read-
ings every morning, the four lessons and the
psalms appointed for the day. Then came the
reading of the newspaper, that he might not be
uninformed of any incident of importance in
the current of events. Besides this, a course
of miscellaneous reading always was in pro-
gress, and the accumulating literature of the
day had to be kept pace with. His wife ac-
quired the faculty of employing herself mecha-
nically with her needle, or some other house-
wifery, without distracting her attention from
the book ; and, under the instruction of her
husband, she soon attained a knowledge of
Latin, so as to become his amanuensis in that
language, and enter into his enjoyment of its
As their family grew up about them, some of
the morning hours were devoted to the instruc-
tion of their children ; and in his teaching he
observed the scrupulous exactness, and the ad-
mirable method, of his old schoolmaster at Mac-
clesfield, of which he felt the value in his own
sound acquirements. An interchange of visits
with the houses of their many family con-
nexions in London, and a regular attendance
at every concert of the Ancient Music, in its
season, were the only evening pleasures that
they sought or cared for, out of their own
home. In 1829, Dr. Latham, then in his sixty-
eighth year, had finally retired from London
to his estate in Cheshire ; and three years later,
John Latham removed from Somerset-street to
Springfield, a house belonging to his father in
Sandbach parish, within five minutes' walk of
Bradwall Hall, his father's residence.
Springfield was a plain substantial house,
with the formal garden in the front of it, filled
with large antiquated evergreens, and laid out
with grass walks and quaintly- shaped flower
beds, which are described so neatly in a copy
of Latin verses in this volume. And there the
same even, happy tenor of their life went on ;
while their near residence increased the com-
fort of his aged father and mother. The grand-
father, always remarkable for his love of little
children (an amiable feature of his character
which his eldest son inherited), was enabled to
exchange visits many times a day with his
infant grandchildren ; and the society of his
son and daughter-in-law gave him a resource
and occupation, beyond the interest that he was
taking in his books and farm.
But his portion of domestic sorrow was to be
measured out to John Latham. He already had
experienced one affliction, in the death of an
engaging boy, at an age when he had become
peculiarly endeared to him ; and, at the begin-
ning of 1839, his happiness was still further
overcast by the rapidly declining health of his
wife. It was their custom to make an annual
round of visits to their relations in the south of
England ; and, while they were staying at her
mother's house in Tonbridge Wells, she died,
on the last day of May. Her immediate death
was not expected ; for she had not yet even
kept her room, when she was found lying dead
one morning by her husband's side. The de-
voted wife, who had been all in all to him, and
the mother of his children, was thus taken
from him with a stroke. But, though he felt
acutely, in devout submission to the will of
God he was enabled to possess his soul in
patience. The touching circumstances of his
wife's death are told by him in the following
lines, written at the time : —
" I will not see her in her coffin laid ; —
No, let her still be present to my sight
Such as I last beheld her ; not confined
With grave-clothes, and with trappings sad arrayed:
But, as by some fine sculptor's hand portrayed,
Half-raised, and partly on her side reclined ;
Her placid features as in hope resigned ;
Her parted lips as though e'en now they prayed :
One cheek upon her pillow gently prest,
Her pale hands on each other lightly thrown. —
Such was the lovely image which I woke
That morn to look upon ; — I turned, and spoke ;
'Sleep'st thou?' — I touched, I kissed her — life had
Her ransom'd spirit was indeed at rest."
The robust old age of Dr. Latham had gra-
dually been breaking down, under the increase
of the painful malady (stone in the bladder)
which was eventually to bring him to the grave ;
and when, upon the death of Mrs. Latham, in
December 1841, his aged father was left soli-
tary and bed-ridden, bereft of her who had
been the partner of his life for fifty-seven years,
John Latham moved his family from Spring-
field to the Hall : and in little more than
another year, on the 20th of April 1843, his
father died. But he was to be tried by a more
heavy sorrow ; for the hand of death was not
laid only upon those whose departure was to
be expected in the course of nature. The grave
was scarcely closed upon his father, when it
was reopened to receive his eldest son John
Henry. He had lost three other children, in
infancy or early childhood ; but this stroke fell
upon him at a time when he was hailing the
fulfilment of his own long-cherished, fondest
hopes, and the earnest of his boy's success in
after life^ in his brilliant university career.
John Henry, then an undergraduate of
Brasenose, was a young man of the greatest pro-
mise, and already of attainments far beyond his
years. He had gone to Rugby in the autumn of
1835, admirably grounded by his father's home-
instruction, and was placed at once in a position
very much in advance of his contemporaries in
the school. In March 1837, when he was just
fourteen, he gained the Rugbj r scholarship ;
but, in consequence of a severe attack of pleu-
risy at the beginning of 1838, it was found
necessary that he should be withdrawn from
school. From that time the advantages of
Rugby were entirely lost to him. He remained
at home a year : and, though he went back in
February 1839, the symptoms of returning ill-
ness did not permit him to continue at Rugby
more than a few weeks. Dr. Arnold, in a kind
letter of condolence written at the time to his
father, says, " he is now, at sixteen, the fourth
boy in the school, and quite equal to his place."
He now suffered a relapse of his original dis-
ease. For several months, and at the very time
of his mother's death, his life was in peril from
day to day. But at length present danger
passed away ; and then his father was willing
to sacrifice every other consideration to the
restoration of his health. He discouraged his
reading, and endeavoured to withdraw him
from books to out-door amusements. And in
truth, for more than a twelvemonth, which he
spent at home before he went to college, his
mind was far less engaged in study than it had
been for several previous years.
In the autumn of 1840, his health was suffi-
ciently re-established for him to go to Oxford.
But, so fearful was his father of the place and
its objects of ambition producing in him efforts
and excitement of mind beyond his bodily
strength, that John Henry went there with a
sort of tacit understanding that he was to con-
tend for no honours, and attempt nothing
beyond a common degree.
But he was no sooner in Oxford, than he
found a Craven scholarship thrown open to the
university, and immediately to be competed
for ; and when, feeling perhaps his own power,
he supplicated his father that he would allow
him to stand, it was an entreaty which a father
could not absolutely deny. He could only dis-
courage his purpose ; and this he did, by telling
him that success was beyond his reach, and
that such open scholarships could only be
gained by those who had had advantages of
previous training far beyond any which he had
enjoyed. Nevertheless, John Henry became a
candidate ; and, in the first term of his resi-
dence, he was elected Craven scholar. In the
Lent term of 1843, he was unsuccessfully a
candidate for Dean Ireland's scholarship ; when
Edwin Palmer, of Balliol, succeeded, and the
name of John Henry Latham was announced
as that of the candidate " qui proxime accessit".
But, though he failed in this object of his am-
bition, with what ability he contended for the
prize of classical taste and learning, is shewn not
only by the honourable mention made of him
by the examiners, but by his exercises, which
have been preserved. Several of them are
beautiful compositions, and prove how well the
father had formed the taste of his dear pupil
upon his own.
When he came home at Easter 1843, he was
far advanced in his preparation for the schools
in the ensuing autumn, looking forward to the
easy attainment of that further academical dis-
tinction which he knew would most gladden
his father's heart, — a place in the first class.
It was, however, otherwise ordained. His
system had been overwrought ; and, in the hope
that it might be recruited, he was advised not
to return to Oxford for the two terms preced-
ing the long vacation. But his health, which
had been too far undermined, gave way rapidly,
and he died within a few weeks of his grand-
father. This was almost the greatest sorrow
that John Latham ever knew ; yet he did not
permit himself to give way to depression, but
bowed in humble resignation to his chastise-
ment. He seldom spoke of him ; but in every
book that had belonged to John Henry, there
is inscribed, " olim e libris desideratissimi J.
H.", or some equivalent memorial ; and there
were indications that he was often present to
his thoughts. A beautiful window,* of his de-
signing, is erected to John Henry's memory in
the Bradwall chancel of Sandbach church. It
represents the raising of the widow's son to life,
with the text underneath, w Young man, I say
unto thee arise"; and, in the two side-lights,
are figures of Christian Faith and Hope, — the
emblems of the sources of his consolation.
Amongst his father's papers there is a single
sheet (containing only a few paragraphs written
from his dictation) of the commencement of a
memoir of this extraordinary boy. He found
it a task too painful for him to resume. After
stating that the window in the chancel of Sand-
bach church was fitted up with stained glass in
memory of his beloved and lamented son, it
thus proceeds : " Lest, in the course of years,
when the present generation shall have passed
away, any descendant of mine, or collateral
representative, should be unable to give an
answer, when asked, who the person was whose
* Executed by Messrs. Ward and Xixon.
name and early death are here recorded, I have
thought it right to put together the following
brief memoir, which I hope will be carefully
preserved in my family. Had it pleased God
to spare the life of my dear boy, and to grant
him bodily health at all proportioned to his in-
tellectual endowments, he would, in all human
calculation, have raised up a name for himself,
which would not have needed any other memo-
rial. But it was ordained otherwise ; and,
under the full conviction that it was so ordained
for the best, I have always bowed, without a
murmur, to the righteous dispensation of an
all- wise Providence.
" J. H. L. was born in Harley-street, Lon-
don, February 14, 1823, in the house of his
grandfather, Dr. Latham. Though at first puny
and delicate, before the expiration of six months
he became a strong and vigorous child, and by
an extraordinary vivacity of spirits, gave indi-
cations of a sound constitution and the promise
of future health, which, in point of fact, he very
generally enjoyed till about his fifteenth year.
If the parents of J. H. had been of the num-
ber of those who look with apprehension on the
intellectual precocity of children, as a prognos-
tic of early deaths they would indeed have had
much reason for alarm ; but they were not so,
and, on the contrary, watched with pride and
delight the early dawn and rapid development
of as fine an intellect as child was ever blessed
with. The quickness of his apprehension, and
his aptitude and eagerness to learn, were such,
that the labour of his parents, who were his
only instructors till he went to Rugby in his
thirteenth year, was rather to check than to
stimulate his progress ; and for myself I can
safely say, and his dear mother used to say the
same thing, that I do not remember ever to have
gone through a lesson with him which was not
a source of unmixed pleasure both to the teacher
and the pupil.
" The following extract from a letter of J. H.,
addressed to his grandfather, bearing the date
of January 4, 1832, six months before he com-
pleted his ninth year, will show the progress
which he had made, and was then making, in
his daily studies with me and his mother."
The extract mentions how, on such and such
days in the week, he did Greek grammar and
Greek Testament, writing out anomalous verbs
and derivations ; Caesar, and Virgil's JEneid,
which last he repeated the next morning ; Latin
verses and Latin exercises ; arithmetic, and geo-
graphy ; and that he had begun the second
volume of Robertson's History of America. And
" all this/ 5 the memoir adds, " was done with
such perfect ease to himself, that, at the time it
did not strike us as anything beyond the ordi-
nary course ; but, in the retrospect, when com-
pared with the attainments of other boys of the
same age, and with that of his younger brothers
while under my own tuition, at a much more
advanced age, it seems to me something very
extraordinary. 5 '
After his father's death, John Latham briefly
entertained the question, whether it might not
contribute to his happiness to remove again into
the south, where he would be within an easier
distance of his dearest family connexions ; but
he had a strong sense of the responsibilities of
his new position as a landowner and country
gentleman, and at the same time conceived that
it would have been his father's wish that he
should remain at Bradwall ; and therefore he
determined still to occupy the paternal house,
and there devote himself to the unobtrusive
duties of his station. How well those duties
were performed by him is known, and could be
best told by the small circle of attached friends
who lived with him in habits of social inter-
course. He became an active and useful magis-
trate, though it was with some difficulty that he
was prevailed upon to undertake the office ;
for he feared that his bereavement of sight
might disqualify him for its satisfactory per-
formance. But, though he entered upon it at
the first experimentally, and with much self-
distrust, when he found that it involved little
business which he was not competent to trans-
act, and that, in fact, it opened to him a wider
sphere of usefulness, he became fond of the
At no period of his life was the simple beauty
of his character seen so advantageously as at
this. It was, as it had always been, essentially
domestic ; and those who knew him in his own
quiet home could best appreciate its more strik-
ing features ; the way in which he entered into,
and brought home to himself, the hopes, and
schemes, and joys, and sorrows, of all those whom
he loved ; his general kindliness of feeling ; his
spirit of gentleness and moderation ; his happy,
never-failing cheerfulness ; his strong good sense ;
and the unpretending quietness with which,, in
conversation, he dealt out the various inform-
ation which his tenacious memory commanded.
Settled by strong conviction in his Christian faith,
he lived a life of unostentatious but habitual
piety. His daily reading of the Scriptures has
been already mentioned ; and when, as was his
constant practice if no clergyman was domes-
ticated with him, he led the morning and even-
ing prayers of his assembled household, there
was an unaffected earnestness in his manner,
and even a peculiarity of utterance, which
marked his feeling of the duty in which he was
engaged. The doing all the good within his
power was not with him a mere result of feel-
ing, but a principle ; and his prudent manage-
ment of a moderate, unencumbered independ-
ence enabled him to devote no small proportion
of his income to such deeds. It had been the
practice of his honoured father to set apart a
certain sum for private eleemosynary purposes,
which he called his " Corban-fund"; and the
good custom was not discontinued by his son.
He had a personal knowledge of all his poorer
neighbours, and his charities towards them were
unstinted. To the many public calls upon him
he responded more than liberally.
And so the last nine years of life were
passed by him ; doing much good with the
worldly means entrusted to his charge^ and
good incalculable by his personal influence and
example; regarded with respect and love by
friends and neighbours and dependents ; happy
at home, in the occupation which he loved,
the education of his younger son, and in the
affectionate attention of his elder son and of his
only daughter, who had devoted herself alto-
gether to his comfort since her mother's death,
and been, instead of her, his reader and amanu-
ensis, and his inseparable companion ; and inte-
rested in the few active public duties which lay
beyond the pale of his own family ; and only
varying this routine by his much-cherished cus-
tom of an annual interchange of visits with his
relations in the south.
In the month of August 1852, his daughter
was married to the Rev. Ambrose Jones, M.A.,
the incumbent of Elworth^ within the parish of
Sandbach ; and (as Bradwall Hall was in the
centre of the Elworth district, and that his
daughter should continue to reside with him
was essential to the comfort of her widowed
father), it was arranged that they should make
his house their home. But they were hardly
settled there, when, in the beginning of Decem-
ber, he was attacked by the disease which ter-
minated his mortal existence. It was found
that he had pleurisy, with water on the chest,
and that the operation of drawing off the fluid
by puncturing the side was immediately neces-
sary. But, though it was performed twice
successfully, the disease, which, in a younger
man, would probably have been arrested by the
operation, bade defiance to the best medical
skill. He lay eight weeks upon his death-bed.
His illness was not, indeed, attended by the
suffering of acute pain ; but there was still much
bodily distress incidental to it. Yet he showed
no fretfulness or impatience. He had some-
times, in his health, confessed the natural fear
with which he invariably looked forward, not
to death, but to the unknown pangs of dissolu-
tion ; and, at the reading of the Litany, he
habitually took up, and solemnly and audibly
repeated, the petition, " in the hour of death,
good Lord deliver us !" But, as he had felt his
great necessity, and had prayed to be delivered
from it, he received strength from his Saviour
in the hour of trial. For now, when he knew
that he was upon the bed of deaths he forgot
all these apprehensions ; and while those about
him were heart-broken, as they saw him lying
helpless, wasted, and worn out with his tedious
illness, and confounding, from his blindness,
midnight with midday, he was even cheerful ;
full of gratitude to his family and household
for their long, plutiful attendance on him, and
expressing no anxiety but that his poor depen-
dents might not lose their accustomed Christ-
mas gifts, and that no purposes of kindness
which he had expressed, should be forgotten
after his departure. He derived great comfort
from devotional reading to him, and especially
from the reading of the Psalms ; remarking that
he had often thought of the extraordinary adap-
tation that might be made, by any thoughtful
reader, of at least some part of almost every one
of them personally to his own state and circum-
stances; and how forcibly he felt this truth
now brought home to himself. One night,
when he had been sleeping disturbedly, under
the influence of laudanum, he awoke in a state
of great excitement. He had dreamed that he
was struggling with a serpent. te Read me," he
said," the 91st psalm, and I shall be composed."
In the last week of January, although the end
was not believed to be so near, it was felt that
every hope of ultimate recovery must be re-
signed. But, day by day, he grew more feeble,
untile on Sunday morning, the 30th of January,
it became evident that he was sinking rapidly ;
and never had Christian a more peaceful end.
He was quite conscious of approaching dissolu-
tion. Calm and composed, he commended his
spirit unto God who gave it. He asked a
blessing separately upon each of those who
stood around his bed, and breathed his last
about midday, without apparent pain or any
On the following Thursday he was interred
in Sandbach churchyard. Every shop and
house was closed, as the simple funeral proces-
sion passed through the street ; and his remains
were borne from the churchyard gate betwen
two lines of uncovered, sorrowing spectators,
into the church, and to the grave ; where, with
his father and his mother, his eldest son and
infant children, his body is buried in peace ; —
but his spirit lives for evermore.
He has left three surviving children : George
William, his eldest son; Mary Frances, wife
of the Rev. Ambrose Jones ; and Francis Law,
a boy at Rugby school.
It hardly can be necessary, but it may per-
haps be right to add, that this short sketch of
an uneventful life was drawn up with the view
to its being perused only by the personal friends
of the deceased ; nor is it likely that it will find
its way into the hands of many others. But
those who have had the happiness of a life-
long intimacy with John Latham, may feel
a melancholy pleasure in retracing, step by
step, these recollections of the past ; while those
who had the privilege of knowing him but
recently, and those whose early intercourse was
only broken off by their separating into differ-
ent paths in life, may be interested to know
more of the preceding or the after-course of
one whom they had learned to love. To these,
this little biography will, it is hoped, be an
acceptable addition to the volume offered to
them, as a memorial of their departed friend.
A stranger cannot be expected to take the same
personal interest in it ; but, if it has been truly
said, that a faithful record of the private life
of any individual, however undistinguished,
would contain both interest and instruction,
even an indifferent stranger may find them
here. He may learn how large a share of
earthly happiness was mercifully reserved for
one whom the world, from his bereavement,
might have deemed without resources ; and he
may see, in this slight portraiture, another ex-
ample of that peculiarly English character, —
the unobtrusive but accomplished and high-
minded Christian gentleman.
April 21, 1853.
OF THE OPENING- INVOCATION OE THE LITANY.
God the Father ! by whose power
Heaven and Earth and Sea were made.
And till time's expiring hour
All Creation shall be swayed ;
Hear us, when on thee we call,
Miserable sinners all !
God the Son ! For Man's salvation,
Who thyself the price didst pay,
Whose atoning expiation,
Our transgressions washed away :
Save us, when on thee we call,
Miserable sinners all !
God the Holy Ghost ! Proceeding
From the Father and the Son,
Who for Man art ever pleading,*'
Wretched Man by sin undone ;
Help us, when on thee we call,
Miserable sinners all !
Oh ineffable Communion !
Holy, blessed, glorious Three,
Three in one, mysterious union,
Undivided Trinity !
Oh have mercy, when we call,
Miserable sinners all !
* Eom. viii. 26.
OF THE PETITION FROM THE LITANY —
' IX ALL TIME OF OUR TRIBULATION, IX ALL TIME OF OLE WEALTH,
IN THE HOUR OF' DEATH, AND IN THE DAT OF JUDGMENT;
GOOD LORD DELIVER US."
In the dark season of distress,
In peril, want and woe,
If friends desert, or foes oppress,
Or sickness lay me low ;
If, reft of those I fondly love,
From earthly ills I flee,
To seek sweet. comfort from above;
Good Lord, deliver me !
If wealth be mine, from all the snares
Which riches with them bring ;
From worldly pleasures, worldly cares
The soul encumbering ;
From pride, and from that worst offence,
Forgetfulness of thee,
Whose hand that wealth did first dispense ;
Good Lord, deliver me !
When on the bed of death, a prey
To gloomy thoughts, I lie ;
Or worn by slow disease away,
Or racked with agony ;
Stung with remorse for what has been,
And dreading what shall be
When death has closed this mortal scene ;
Good Lord, deliver me !
And oh ! in that appalling hour,
When, clouds around thee spread,
Thou com'st, arrayed in pomp and power,
To judge the quick and dead;
When trembling, shrinking from thy face,
Thy servant thou shalt see
A suppliant at the throne of grace ;
Good Lord, deliver me !
Good Friday, 1825.
God, my Shepherd and my Guide,
Will for all my wants provide ;
He in pastures green will feed me,
And beside still waters lead me ;
He my ransomed soul shall bless,
Turning it to righteousness ;
And the path I ought to take
Teach me, for his dear name's sake.
Yea, when earth itself at last,
From my sight is fading fast,
When with shadows dark o'erspread,
Death's lone valley I shall tread ;
Yet no evil will I fear,
For thou, Lord, wilt still be near ;
With thy Eod and Staff wilt be
Present then to comfort me.
Thou, when foemen closed me round,
Mad'st my table to abound ;
Oil upon my head didst pour,
And didst make my cup run o'er ;
Me thy kindness ever new,
And fresh mercies still pursue ;
Therefore will I all my days
Seek thy House, and sing thy praise.
From all offence, I said, and wrong
I will take heed to guard my tongue ;
A bridle on my mouth I'll lay,
"While in my sight the ungodly stay.
With such resolve my peace I held,
My lips to silence I compell'd ;
Yea, though it cost me grief and pain,
E'en from good words I did refrain.
While thus I mused, the fire suppress' d
Long time within my labouring breast,
Kindling at last, resistless broke,
And as the Spirit moved, I spoke.
10 PSALM XXXIX.
Lord, let me know mine end, I said,
And since my days are numbered,
Tell me their sum, and make me sure,
How long my life may yet endure.
Behold, my days are but a span,
For verily the age of Man
Is nothing in respect of Thee,
But altogether vanity.
Man walketh in a shadow vain,
Vexing himself with fruitless pain,
He heaps up riches, nor the while
Knows who shall use the hoarded pile.
And now my hope, what is it, Lord ?
On Thee it rests and thy sure word ;
Keep me from all transgressions free,
The scoff of fools I would not be.
PSALM XXXIX. 1 1
In mute submission, for 'tis Thou,
Who chastenest me, I humbly bow ;
Yet oh, if such thy will, my God,
Take from me thy consuming rod.
When with rebukes thou dost chastise
Proud man for his iniquities,
Thou mak'st his beauty to decay,
Like garment to the moth a prey.
Thus ev'ry man, whate'er his state,
Or rich, or poor, or mean, or great,
Yea, ev'ry man whoe'er he be,
Is altogether vanity.
Hear Thou my prayer, in pity hear,
And to my cry bow down thine ear ;
Oh keep not silence when I call,
Nor let mv tears unheeded fall !
12 PSALM XXXIX.
Some space to serve Thee here accord ;
I am a stranger with Thee, Lord,
A sojourner on life's brief scene,
As all my sires before have been.
Then spare me, for a little spare !
That my lost strength I may repair,
To walk with Thee, ere hence I go
And be no longer seen below.
In songs of praise, unheard before,
Let all the earth the Lord adore ;
Sing to the Lord and praise his name,
Tell how from Him salvation came ;
His honour to the heathen show,
Let the whole earth his wonders know.
God cannot worthily be praised,
xlbove all gods so highly raised ;
They are but idols, wood and stone,
The Lord our God is God alone.
He made the heavens, there saints adore Him,
Glory and worship go before Him ;
Girded with power, with honour crowned,
God in his holy place is found.
14 PSALM XCVI.
Oh ! then unto the Lord ascribe,
Nation and kindred, tongue and tribe,
The honour due unto his name,
The glory He may justly claim.
With joy unto his courts repair,
And, as your gifts you offer there,
Meet worship to the Lord address,
In beauty and in holiness.
Then tell it out, that all may hear,
And God's eternal name revere,
Yea, tell it out, and bid the sound
Go forth to all the nations round,
That He is king, and how He made
The earth, and its foundations laid
So sure, that they may ne'er remove
Till that great day, when from above
In clouds descending He shall come,
To pass on all a righteous doom.
Be glad, thou earth; ye heavens, rejoice ;
Thou sea, send forth thy glorious voice ;
Forest and field, with one accord,
Rejoice, rejoice, before the Lord !
PSALM XCVI. 15
For now is our redemption nigh ;
E'en now, in might and majesty,
He comes ; with glory round Him spread,
He comes to judge both quick and dead,
To heal our woes, our wrongs redress,
And judge the world in righteousness.
With every faculty combined,
My soul, of body and of mind,
The praises of the Lord proclaim,
And bless, O bless his holy name ;
Nor ever let the memory part
Of all his goodness from my heart.
'Tis He, who doth thy sins forgive,
Thy sickness heals, and bids thee live
When death's dark shades were gathering round,
He saved thee and with mercy crown' cl,
Thy powers to youth and strength restoring,
Like new-fledged eagle heavenward soaring.
PSALM cm. 17
Tis He who doth the wronged redress
In judgment and in righteousness ;
His ways to Moses He revealed,
His out-stretched arm was Israel's shield ;
They saw His wonders, and adored
The mercies of the living Lord.
How doth His kindness still o'erflow,
Long- suffe ring and to anger slow !
Our faults He will not always chide.
In wrath He doth not long abide,
Nor with us deal, when we transgress,
According to our wickedness.
For look, how high this earth above
Is yonder Heaven, — so vast His love :
From East to West the space survey, —
So far He puts our sins away ;
Yea, as a Father, is He moved
With pity towards a child beloved.
18 PSALM cm.
For God, still merciful as just,
Remembers that we are but dust ;
Man's days are but as grass, a flower
That springs and withers in an hour ;
The winds pass o'er it and 'tis not;
Where late it bloomed, unknown, forgot.
But the Lord's mercies, ever sure,
Through generations shall endure ;
Towards children's children still displayed
Of such as in His Faith have stayed,
And ever thought upon His will,
How best His precepts to fulfil.
The Lord in heaven hath set His throne ;
His power through all the world is known :
Ye Angels, who in strength excel,
With trumpet-tongue His praises tell ;
Ye, who still hearkening to His voice,
To execute His word rejoice.
PSALM CIII. 19
Praise Him, all ye His Hosts, who stand
Prompt to perform your Lord's command ;
Bless ye, His works, your Maker's name,
In every place His power proclaim ;
And thou, my soul, unite to raise
The universal song of praise.
•Tune 9th, 1837.
Omniscient, Omnipresent power !
In every place and every hour,
I own thy sway ; when down I lie,
And when I rise, Thou still art nigh ;
My very thoughts to Thee are known,
Ere yet in speech or action shown.
About my path, about my bed,
The shadow of thy wing is spread ;
Thy sleepless and all-seeing eye
Doth my most secret ways espy ;
And in an instant every word,
My tongue lets fall, thine ear hath heard.
PSALM CXXXIX. 21
How, then, thy Spirit may I shun !
Or whither from thy presence run !
If, soaring through the realms of air,
I climb to Heaven, my God is there ;
If down to deepest Hell I go,
There too thy Spirit rules below.
If I should take the wings of morn,
And to earth's utmost bounds be borne,
In lonely isle, on desert plain,
Escape from Thee would still be vain :
E'en there thy power would be confest,
And thy right hand my flight arrest.
Come, night, and hide me ! should I say,
Straight would the night be turned to day ;
With Thee no shades obscure the night,
The darkness is as clear as light ;
The midnight gloom, the noonday sun,
Darkness and light, to Thee are one.
22 PSALM CXXXIX.
My body, fashioned with such art,
Such nice design in every part,
The work of thy Almighty Hand,
Exceeds my skill to understand.
How to such knowledge may I soar i
I can but wonder and adore.
When in the womb, like unformed clay,
My yet imperfect substance lay ;
From Thee my bones were not concealed,
But every member was revealed.
E'en then, through nature's hidden plan,
Thine eye beheld the future man.
How dear to me thy counsels, Lord !
Who may the sum of them record ?
In number countless as the sand
Heaped by the billows on the strand ;
E'en from my earliest waking hour,
I feel thy presence and thy power.
PSALM CXXXIX. 23
Shall not the wicked, Lord, be slain,
All such as take thy name in vain ?
Depart from me, ye men of blood ;
Ye that against the Lord have stood,
Ye scorners of His power divine,
I hate ye ! Hence, — God's foes are mine.
Then try me, Lord, prove every part,
Search all my thoughts, and sound my heart ;
Look well my footsteps do not stray,
But turn them from the evil way.
Xor let me from the true path rove,
That leads to endless joys above.
August Dth. 1826.
Praise the Lord, oh my Soul ! — while I live shall
For His mercies unnumbered be praised and adored.
Yea as long as my being endures will I raise
My voice to my God in thanksgiving and praise.
Oh put not your trust in the princes of earth,
Nor in any frail thing that from man has its birth ;
There is no help in them, their race quickly is sped ;
And, when once from the body the spirit is fled,
Turned again to their earth in the grave they must lie,
And with them their thoughts and vain projects
They alone, who their hope and their confidence cast
Upon Israel's God, shall find peace at the last :
PSAL3I CXLVI. 25
For ne'er can our trust in that Being prove vain,
Who made Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, with all they
Whose promise is sure, and whose truth stands con-
Who sooths the afflicted, and aids the oppressed ;
Who feedeth the hungry, whose words can unbind
The prisoner's bonds, and give sight to the blind ;
Who uplifts such as fall from the depths of despair,
While the righteous are still His peculiar care ;
Who succours the stranger, the widow befriends,
And His ear to the cry of the Fatherless lends —
But the way of the wicked, though secret, He knows,
And to nought brings their schemes, and their
Praise the Lord, oh my soul, then ; His praise let
me sing :
For the Lord God in Sion for ever is King.
Sept. 29, 1829.
SUGGESTED BY EZEKIEL II, 10 :
' AND HE SPREAD IT BEFORE ME: AND IT WAS WRITTEN WITHIN AND
WITHOUT; AND THERE WAS WRITTEN THEREIN LAMENTATION,
AND MOURNING, AND WOE."
And what was the Book which that vision of oH
To the Prophet's rapt spirit did show ?
Wherein to his shuddering sight were unrolled
Lamentation, and mourning, and woe ?
That mysterious roll was the volume of life,
The story of man here below ;
The record of evil, of passion, and strife,
Lamentation, and mourning, and woe.
Search the chronicle through, each condition and
Young and old, rich and poor, high and low :
You will still find inscribed upon every dark page
Lamentation, and mourning, and woe.
There is poverty, sickness, oppression, and wrong,
False friend and insidious foe :
Temptations and trials resistlessly strong,
And their fruit, lamentation and woe.
On the threshold of life, that to trouble we're born
By our wailings we seem to foreknow ;
And childhood's sweet prime, and youth's opening
Are too often o'erclouded with woe.
Full of hope we set forth, but how quickly doth fate
Blast that hope, and our projects o'erthrow;
And conviction comes soon, and remains long and
That our heritage here is but woe.
Mark the struggles of manhood to weather the
When the storms of adversity blow ;
And the waves of destruction on all sides prevail,
And beneath yawns the whirlpool of woe :
Without compass or star the frail vessel is tost
On the ocean of life to and fro ;
Till on shoal or on rock it is shipwrecked and lost
Amid weeping, and wailing, and woe.
Grant these perils surmounted; what then is our
But with painful decay, sad and slow,
To sink to the grave, disregarded, forgot,
'Mid infirmity, weakness, and woe ?
But riches, and rank, and the pleasures of sense,
These can happiness surely bestow ! —
Few and short are the joys which e'en these can
And their end disappointment and woe.
But the bliss, which is built on affection and love,
May not this be relied on ? Ah ! no ;
Too soon shall stern death each dear object remove,
And leave us to bitterer woe.
And though there be moments, which o'er the dark
May at times cast a transient glow ;
Like meteors they pass, and the brightness between
But deepens the gloom of our woe.
Cease, murmurer, cease ! hear Religion's sweet voice,
Which, whate'er we may here undergo,
Whispers peace to the mourner, and bids him re-
In the midst of affliction and woe.
For the day when in joy we shall reap draweth near,
Though in sorrow awhile we may sow ;
When from every face shall be wiped every tear
And the weary shall rest from his woe.
ON A PASSAGE IN BISHOP HORNE'S SERMON ON THE
REDEMPTION OF TIME.
The Husbandman with ceaseless toil
Still labours to improve his soil ;
When danger's near approach alarms,
The soldier sleeps not on his arms ;
When winds and waves are raging round,
The steersman at his helm is found ;
Each, to the post assigned him true,
Performs the work he has to do.
But when the heart as yet has known
No culture ; each good plant unsown,
Or choked with many a noxious weed
That overtops the nobler seed ;
When now the harvest is at hand,
And at the gate the reapers stand,
The Christian husbandman we view
Sit listless, having nought to do.
When man's worst foes, the world and sin,
And snares without him and within
The fortress of his peace assail,
And Satan's powers e'en now prevail ;
The Christian soldier we behold
His arms upon his bosom fold,
And idly some vain toy pursue ;
For he, forsooth, has nought to do.
When the poor weather-beaten soul
Is drifting amid rock and shoal,
Heaven's wrath above, and far beneath
The yawning gulf of Hell and death,
That very hour in sleep or play
The Christian steersman dreams away ;
Unconscious, 'mid a thoughtless crew,
That he or they had aught to do.
Ye senseless fools — Awake ! awake !
And fatal slumber from you shake !
Think how their seed-time they employ
Who hope at last to reap in joy :
Be strong and gird you to the fight ;
Be wise and steer your bark aright ;
Lest ye too late your folly rue,
And find that you had much to do.
ON. THE EPIPHAXL
SUGGESTED BY THE CONCLUDING PARAGRAPH OF BISHOP
HOENE'S SEB3ION ON THAT FESTIVAL.
Obedient to the leading Star,
The Eastern sages came from far
Their infant Saviour to adore,
And at his feet their offerings pour.
For us that Star still beams as bright,
And guides us with its heavenly light,
Where all who seek Him still may find
The promised Saviour of Mankind.
34 ON THE EPIPHANY.
And though nor incense, myrrh, nor gold,
Be our's to give, as their' s of old,
Presents as meet we still may bring ;
Nor will He slight the offering.
For faith, like gold that hath been tried
And in the furnace purified,
More precious in his sight will shine,
Than richest gifts from Ophir's mine.
To Him a tribute far more dear
Will be the penitential tear,
That dims the contrite sinner's eye,
Than costliest myrrh of Araby.
Then, like sweet incense, prayer, and praise,
And pure devotion's kindling blaze,
From the heart's altar shall arise,
The best and holiest sacrifice.
ON THE EPIPHANY. 35
While o'er the soul, Joy, Peace, and Love,
And Hope still fixed on things above,
Their balmy fragrance shed abroad,
And make it fitter for its God.
HYMN FOE NEW YEAE'S DAY.
Another year its course has sped :
How awful is the thought !
'Tis as a warning, from the dead,
Home to each bosom brought.
Of those on whom that opening year
"With life's fair promise shone,
Whom then we saw around us here,
How many now are gone !
Gone to the grave, and ere that sun,
Whose race begins to-day,
His annual circle shall have run,
We too may be as they.
HYMN FOR NEW YEARNS DAY. 37
Great God, whose overruling will
Our being doth sustain,
Grant, since thy mercy spares us still,
It may not be in vain !
Oh ! grant that w T hen this morn again
The rolling months bring round,
The tree now spared, if spared till then,.
Less worthless may be found.
So teach us, Lord, our fleeting days
To number, so improve,
That we may turn to wisdom's ways,
And seek the things above.
Jan. 1st. 1840.
HYMN FOE CHILDREN.
Lokd, who once thine arms unfolding,
Infants didst receive and bless,
Us thy children here beholding,
Aid, oh ! aid our helplessness !
Be our refuge and defence ;
Wash our souls in innocence !
Happy they whom thou hast planted,
Lord, thy hallowed courts within :
Shelter there alone is granted
From a world of woe and sin ;
There, secure from every ill,
God's own plants shall prosper still.
HYMN FOR CHILDREN. 39
As the palm-tree by the fountain
Heavenward lifts its towering head ;
As the cedars of the mountain
All around their branches spread ;
Such may we, oh Lord ! be found
Flourishing in holy ground.
Through all changes and all chances
May our leaf feel no decay,
May we still, as age advances,
Ampler fruits bring forth each day ;
Strengthened still with vigour new,
Still refreshed with heavenly dew.
HYMN FOR CHILDREN.
Fah from the paths of sin,
Which else he might have trod,
Blest ! who, these hallowed walls within,
Is early brought to God.
He, through life's various day
"Where'er his lot be east,
Trained from the first in wisdom's way,
Shall keep it to the last.
In that shall he abide
Through sunshine, storm, or shade ;
God's Holy Spirit for his guide,
His comfort and his aid.
HYMN FOR CHILDREN. 41
That book of perfect truth,
Which first was taught him here,
Shall guard him in the morn of youth,
In age's gloom shall cheer.
And when around his head
Life's last dim shadows close,
He shall not fear the grave's dark bed ;
'Twas thence his Saviour rose.
HYMN FOE CHILDREN
Lord ! who once from Heaven descending,
Lost mankind didst seek and save ;
Us in our distress befriending,
Grant the shelter which we crave.
From a sinful world we flee,
Shepherd of our souls, to Thee.
Israel's shepherd ! Thou wilt lead us
Comfort's living streams beside ;
There in pastures green wilt feed us,
And for all our wants provide ;
Happy they who hear thy voice,
And beneath thy staff rejoice.
HYMN FOR CHILDREX. 43
From the great destroyer's power,
From trie roaring lion's rage,
Seeking whom he may devour,
Lord protect our tender age ;
Day and night be near us still,
Guarding us from every ill.
From the arts that would allure us,
From the toils that would ensnare,
Thou, who slumberest not, secure us
By thy ever- watchful care ;
And, if e'er from Thee we roam,
Fetch, oh fetch, the wanderer home.
And at last, our perils ended,
Take us to that blessed fold,
Where the flock Thou here hast tended,
Shall in Heaven thy face behold,
And with hymns of praise adore,
Christ, their shepherd, evermore.
HYMN FOE CHILDBED
When first God's word to Samuel came
Calling his chosen child by name,
Prompt and obedient to the word,
He quickly learnt to know the Lord,
And, faithful from his earliest years,
" Speak Lord," he cried, "thy servant hears."
Like that good servant of thy choice,
Lord teach us too to know thy voice ;
And, when within these hallowed walls
That voice to us each Sabbath calls,
With spirit meek, and heart sincere,
Give us, thy children, grace to hear.
HY31JN" FOR CHILDREN. 45
If, when the tempter shall essay
To draw our heedless youth astray,
Some still small voice, our hearts within,
Shall softly whisper, " flee the sin",
That solemn warning let us fear ;
'Tis God who speaks, and we must hear.
Oft as thy table shall be spread,
And Thou, whose blood for all was shed,
E'en us hereafter shalt invite
To share that sweet and holy rite ;
May we, in humble faith, draw near,
Nor e'er in vain thy bidding hear.
So, when life's closing scene is nigh,
And soon or late with sudden cry
To meet the Bridegroom we are called ;
In that dread moment unappalled,
With Faith's bright lamp our souls to cheer,
The awful summons we shall hear.
FOR THE OPENING OF WHEELOCK CHURCH, CHESHIRE.
Aug. 30, 1837.
Wilt Thou indeed vouchsafe, oh Lord,
Within these humble courts to dwell,
In gorgeous Salem once adored
The mighty God of Israel ?
Sure Thou, whose spirit fills all space,
These narrow limits wilt disdain,
Thou whom e'en Heaven thy dwelling place,
The Heaven of Heavens may not contain !
Yet Thou hast said, where two or three
Are met together in thy name,
Thou in the midst of them wilt be ; —
Thy parting promise, Lord, we claim :
And oh, when to the throne of grace
Our prayers and praises hence shall rise,
Hear Thou from heaven thy dwelling place,
Nor scorn the simple sacrifice !
When here on bended knee we fall,
With contrite hearts our sins confess,
And on thy holy spirit call,
To aid us in our helplessness ;
Then turn not from us, Lord, thy face,
In whose blest light alone we live ;
But from yon heaven, thy dwelling place,
Look down in mercy, and forgive !
When here thy holy word is read,
Teach us its truth and power to feel ;
And when thy blessed board is spread,
Oh ! make us worthy there to kneel.
In every act still give us grace
To please Thee in this House of Prayer,
Till Thou to Heaven, thy dwelling place,
Shalt bid us come, and serve Thee there.
TO 1IT WIFE,
Here, mid the friendly quiet of these shades,
Whose scenes remote no worldly care invades,
Where the calm soul, while all around inspires
Pure joy and peace, within itself retires,
Like some lone miser, o'er its bliss to brood,
And undisturbed sum up its store of good :
With time to think, and leisure to be wise,
Here my full happiness I feel and prize ;
Wife of my bosom ! Nor wilt thou too fail
With grateful voice this hallowed morn to hail.
Four happy years, since this auspicious day
Our union sealed, have swiftly passed away :
Yet in no transient pleasures have they flown.
But rich in blessings which are still our own.
52 TO MY WIFE.
By me at least of all the circling year
Well may this morn be held supremely dear ;
Well may my bosom with such transports glow,
Conscious how much of bliss to it I owe.
For thou art mine ; but when I daily see
Thy noble gifts devoted all to me,
My wishes all preferred before thy own,
And all thy tastes conformed to mine alone ;
See thee for me the world's attractions scorn,
And those gay scenes thou wouldst so well adorn ;
And here content, without a wish to roam,
Place all thy happiness in me and home ;
Such love unbounded, in despair I say,
How can I e'er deserve, or how repay?
My grateful bosom would, but cannot, speak ;
Oh then believe, although my words be weak,
And these poor lines but feebly can express
How much I feel, I do not feel the less.
When He, the sovereign Lord of life and light,
Just though mysterious in his ways, my sight
With dim suffusion veiled, e'en then I felt
And owned the chastening blow in mercy dealt ;
TO MY WIFE. 53
Yes, even then wert thou designed to be,
Thou best of women, more than sight to me.
If great my loss, Heaven's bounty was as great,
For thou wert given that loss to compensate ;
And all those gentle aids by thee employed
With ceaseless love so well supply the void,
That, half in doubt if void there yet be left,
I oft inquire, of what am I bereft r
My friend, companion, monitress, and guide,
At home, abroad, my happiness, my pride ;
Thou dearest creature e'er on man bestowed,
To strew with flowers life's long and chequered road;
Oh mayst thou still upon my steps attend,
My guardian angel, to my journey's end !
Be mine the while, whene'er returning May
With new-blown hawthorn crowns this festal day,
In simple numbers unadorned with art,
To pour the tribute of a faithful heart ;
And, though I ne'er may merit, strive to prove
At least I know the value of thy love.
Bradwall, May 24th, 1825.
THE TWENTY-FOUETH OF MAT.
What, here again, good twenty-fourth of May !
Not that I e'er can see thee with regret,
But, since in pleasant Bradwall last we met,
It seems to me but as the other day ;
So rapidly the year has rolled away.
And, sooth to speak, by various causes let,
Thou find'st me unprepared to pay my debt,
The promised tribute of an annual lay ;
But, wouldst thou kindly condescend to stay
Thy flight an instant, I will pay thee yet.
How much I owe thee I can ne'er forget,
And still I love my lawful debts to pay : —
Now count my lines, I'll stake my credit on it,
You'll find fourteen ; and fourteen make a sonnet.
TO MY WIFE
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY WEDDING DAY.
Another year its course has run ;
And on this happy day,
Struggling through clouds, once more the sun
Has shed its genial ray.
For still all other days above
This morn shall ever shine ;
This day first made thee mine, my love,
This day first made thee mine.
All uninvoked the ready muse
Takes up her wonted strain,
With joy the pleasing task renews,
And tunes the lyre again.
56 TO MY WIFE.
Her pledge impatient to redeem
She pours the rapturous line,
And hails, exulting in the theme,
The day which made thee mine.
What though no friends in social glee
My festive board surround,
Nor with libations full and free
The votive glass be crowned ;
Less pure would glow my bosom, fired
With wassail and with wine,
Than by the simple thought inspired —
This day first made thee mine.
'Tis said the gifts we dearly prize
When first they are our own,
Too oft unthankful we despise
By use familiar grown.
Yet think not thee I prize the less,
Or would for worlds resign;
No ! I can never cease to bless
The day which made thee mine.
TO MY WIFE. 57
And tho' since first I called thee mine
Six summers now are past ;
And fools to wedded bliss assign
A term which may not last ;
Think not that to my latest year
My love will e'er decline ;
No ! time wilj. but the more endear
The day wdiich made thee mine.
Unmingled good was ne'er bestow T ed
On Pilgrims here below ;
All must alike pursue their road
Through chequered w r eal and w r oe.
But thou w ert given to cheer my way ;
Then will I ne'er repine,
But still draw comfort from that day
When first I called thee mine.
The dearest wife e'er sent by heaven
Unworthy man to bless,
The sweetest children ever given
To crow r n that happiness,
58 TO MY WIFE.
The happiest home love ever knew, —
These blessings all combine
To bid me hail with homage due
The day which made thee mine.
Since then so large a share of good
To this dear day I owe,
Well may my Soul with gratitude
To bounteous Heaven o'erflow :
And well all other days above
May this blest morn so shine ;
This day first made thee mine, my love,
This day first made thee mine.
May 24th, 1827.
As amid Afric's sandy wastes, the sight
Of green Oasis yields a sweet relief
To the spent traveller ; so, 'mid scenes of grief,
Where all has for a while been wrapt in night,
The spirit hails with joy one spot more bright,
Seeking from gloomy thought a respite brief,
And life's dark volume still has one fair leaf
To which fond memory turns with fresh delight.
To thee, and me, my love ! that radiant spot,
And that fair leaf is this auspicious day,
Which, or for good or ill, first linked our lot
In one : — Then let us, e'er it pass away,
Grateful confess, to it and Heaven we owe,
'Mid countless blessings else, our comfort too in woe.
May 24th, 182SL
EVENINGS AT HOME.
I iiOYE, for I have known and tried,
The joys which friendship can divide;
The pleasures of the social board
To me a rich repast afford ;
Not that unworthy gross delight
Which springs from pampered appetite,
But that pure banquet of the mind
Where the light play of wit refined,
And conversation's sparkling flow,
And the raised spirits' generous glow,
Shed round the festive scene a charm
Which e'en the dullest soul might warm.
EVENINGS AT HOME. 61
But yet to me more grateful far,
And sweeter beyond all compare,
The evenings of that dear, dear home,
From which my heart would never roam ;
With one beloved companion spent
In chastened joy and calm content,
All in one even tenour past,
And each as happy as the last.
Our frugal meal dispatched with speed,
To crown it no desert we need,
Save what our children best supply,
Themselves our highest luxury.
Yes, in their prattle and their play,
Their merry tongues and spirits gay,
There is a feast that never fails : —
Then come the oft repeated tales,
Which from its unexhausted stores
Their Mother's ample memory pours,
Of talking birds, and singing trees,
And Sindbad's travelled histories,
62 EVENINGS AT HOME.
And whatsoe'er has else been told
Of wonderful, in days of old :
Enchanting all ; yet none surpass
That maiden's slipper, which of glass
Her fairy gossip wrought, and none
Thy cat, immortal Whittington.
But if perchance a call to bed
Cut short the imperfect story's thread,
The eager listners straight obey,
And at the summons bound away
Without a murmur, though with sorrow,
Compounding for the rest to-morrow.
But other pleasures now ensue,
For ever various ever new,
In some instructive volume found
To me, in mute attention bound,
By her made vocal ; on whose tongue
With fresh delight I still have hung ;
Its gentle tones distinct and clear
So sweetly meet the listening ear.
Nor idle lies her needle by
EVEXIXGS AT HOME. 63
The while, but still its task doth ply ;
Beneath her eye the pattern grows,
The jasmin or the mimic rose ;
Unless some homelier work demand
The labour of her useful hand :
Unrivalled gift ! with perfect skill
Such twofold, office to fulfill;
As if, by some kind providence,
A double portion of that sense
Which is to me in part denied,
Were for my sake to her supplied.
Oh, how unbounded is their pleasure,
Whom Heaven has blest with taste and leisure,
If not profoundly to explore
The depths of philosophic lore,
Yet like the bee at large to stray,
And lightly o'er the surface play !
Stealing a sweet from every flower,
Which decks fair learning's varied bower.
So we, as fancy prompts us, chuse
The ancient or the modern muse ;
64 EVENINGS AT HOME.
Now listen to some traveller's tale,
Now with some bold adventurer sail ;
Thee, sober History, oft we woo^
Charming with interest ever new ;
Or, more attractive still to me,
Thy handmaid sweet Biography ;
Or haply thou mayst please us best
In novel-guise by fiction drest,
Such as of late thou hast been seen
Too oft with too seductive mien ;
And, if yon Wizard of the North
Have sent again his spirit forth,
As now, to fascinate once more
The w T orld so often charmed before,
With transports which no words may tell,
We yield us to the witching spell.
Yet may we not forget to turn,
Admonished by the bubbling urn,
To where those cups our leisure wait,
" Which cheer but not inebriate, "
EVENINGS AT HOME. 65
Grateful at once to scent and taste ;
We linger o'er the loved repast,
And still, with sweet discourse between,
Quaff the delicious draught serene.
Xor seldom, ere our evening end,
Variety's sweet charms to blend,
To music's captivating power
We dedicate the closing hour :
Whether my humour more incline
To Handel's lofty strain divine,
Or learn' d Corelli better please,
Or Haydn's enchanting harmonies,
Or Graun sublime, or Purcell bold,
Or he whose magic numbers hold
O'er every chord that sways the heart
Resistless empire — great Mozart.
And ever, ere we seek repose,
With solemn rite our day we close,
And with humility profound,
Our little household gathered round,
66 EVENINGS AT HOME.
To the great Author of all good
We bend in holy gratitude ;
And from whate'er by night might harm
Implore the shelter of His arm.
That evenings such as these are mine,
My own dear wife, the gift is thine ;
And, since to me such first were known,
This day, eight happy years have flown.
This day then will I ever bless,
From which I date such happiness ;
This day by me shall ne'er be past
Unsung, unhonoured ; till at last,
Tired with its oft repeated chime,
Thou bid me cease the endless rhyme..
May 2UK 1829.
ON THE SECOND BIRTHDAY OF J. H. L,
Dear mother of my darling boy,
For him you ask the lay,
And bid me with a song of joy
Salute this happy day ;
'Tis well ! For can a fitter strain
A rhyming sire employ ?
Then welcome, welcome, once again.
The birthday of my boy !
Since first those laughing eyes of his
Exulted in the light,
Two years of calm domestic bliss
Have winged their rapid flight.
68 ON THE SECOND BIRTHDAY
And oh ! if earthly happiness
Is e'er without alloy,
'Tis then, my love, when we caress
Our first-born darling boy.
Yes ! when that noble mien, that eye
Intelligent we view,
That well-knit form's fine symmetry,
That fair cheek's healthful hue ;
And hear the music of that voice,
Each note awakening joy,
Well may our thrilling hearts rejoice,
In such a lovely boy.
To hear his lisping tongue combine,
Strange phrase in sweetest tone,
While, half by sound and half by sign,
He makes his meaning known ;
To mark, as he with bounding pace
Pursues some favourite toy,
Activity, and strength, and grace
United in our boy ;
OF J. H. L. 69
Reflected in his features fair,
To trace his gentle mind ;
To see good humour smiling there,
With each affection kind ;
Each hour to watch new charms unfold ; —
These pleasures ne'er can cloy ;
Some thirst for honour, some for gold,
^ty treasure is my boy.
Should they who scoff at joys like these
The sportive mimic see
Invent a thousand ways to please,
With never failing glee ;
Now bold, and now affecting fear,
With playful archness coy ;
How would they check the cynic sneer,
And envy me my boy !
As with his gentle lips he presses
His infant sister's cheek,
And o'er her hangs with soft caresses,
And looks which fondness speak ;
70 ON THE SECOND BIRTHDAY
Cold were that heart, which such pure sight
Of love could not enjoy ;
Think then how rapturous our delight,
Whose own is that sweet boy.
My child ! oh couldst thou ever be
Spotless, as now thou art ;
From sorrow and from care as free,
As pure, as gay of heart !
But, since to trouble all are born,
Since ills must all annoy,
And clouds may darken life's bright morn
Now opening on our boy ;
Hear, gracious Heaven, a father's prayer ; —
Be Thou his guardian still ;
In danger keep ; in sickness spare ;
And shield from every ill !
But chief in youth's more trying hour,
When pleasure's arts decoy,
And passions urge with headstrong power,
Protect our darling boy !
OF J. H. L, 71
And if, as on our child we gaze,
Our hearts too proudly swell,
If our fond hopes too high we raise
For one we love so well ;
Oh ! let no blight of bitterness
Those visions quite destroy,
But ever give us cause to bless
The birthday of our boy !
Feb. 14th, 1825.
ON FIRST TAKING HIS ELDEST CHILD TO CHURCH.
Lord ! to thy hallowed courts when late I brought
My child, to learn how Thou wert worshipped there,
And marked him lift his little hands in prayer ;
And, in those holy words Thyself hast taught,
Amid the general murmur feebly caught
From time to time upon my listning ear
His gentle voice its part spontaneous bear ;
'Twas more than fancy, sure, that waked the thought,
The rapturous thought, that in the sacrifice
Which then ascended to the throne of Grace
My boy's sweet orisons might find a place,
And mount like morning incense to the skies :
Grateful to Thee, who still dost strength ordain
From childhood's guileless lips, and hearts that
know no stain.
Departed spirit of my darling child !
Watch, if blest spirits have such power, (for thou
Art sure a ministering Angel now,
From earthly taint all pure and undefiled,)
Watch o'er thy once loved parent, whispering mild
To his sad bosom peace, and teach him how
Submissive to the will of Heaven to bow.
And oh ! forgive, if in the transports wild
Of his first grief, he would have kept thee here,
In life's sweet prime so lovely and so dear;
Yet in far other place than this, through Him
Who therefore called thee hence, more meet to
And there to chaunt, 'mid choiring Cherubim,
Those hymns of praise thou lov'dst on earth so
ON A YOUNG LADY
SINGING THE EVENING HYMN IN HER SLEEP, A SHORT
TIME BEFORE HER DEATH.
Stretched on the restless bed of pain,
To slow disease a prey,
Courting reluctant sleep in vain
The gentle sufferer lay.
The tedious night was well-nigh spent,
When o'er her weary soul,
As by some pitying angel sent,
A balmy slumber stole.
OX A YOUNG LADY. 75
Still by that bed with tender care
The wakeful mother staid,
And poured to Pleaven her secret prayer
For comfort and for aid.
When hark ! upon her startled ear,
Amid the deep repose
Of the still chamber, soft and clear
A vocal strain arose.
It was that melody divine
In which, at evening hour,
Their spirits pure the good consign
To Heaven's protecting power.
Yes ! from those lips, in slumber deep
Now sealed, the numbers came ;
As though not e'en the body's sleep
Could quench devotion's flame.
76 ON A YOUNG LADY.
The mother heard, and knew it well
That sweet and solemn air ;
But sad upon her heart it fell,
And filled it with despair.
To her of happier days gone by,
Of health and joy it spoke,
And of too faithful memory
Each thrilling chord awoke.
And then the thought, oft checked in vain,
Resistless on her rushed,
How soon the lips which poured that strain
For ever should be hushed.
With agony it wrung her soul,
And down her woe-worn cheek
The scalding tears began to roll,
Her heart seemed nigh to break.
ON A YOUNG LADY.
Tis done ! the dreaded hour is past;
Fond mother, weep no more !
The child is gone to rest at last,
Her trial here is o'er.
And now perhaps a seraph bright
She chants with saints above,
As erst on earth was her delight,
Her hymns of praise and love.
EPISTLE TO MY FATHER, ON HIS BIRTHDAY.
Dec. 29, 1829.
Tho' thou, our Patriarch Host, art far away,
Whose wont it was, on this returning day,
Year after year to spread the festal board
With each rich offering of the season stored,
And gather round thee many a joyous guest,
Kindred and friends, and all who loved thee best ;
Yet shall the day not pass unhonoured by,
Nor good old use, by time half hallowed, die.
Still shall the festal board be spread, and still
Who love thee best their places there shall fill ;
Still as of old the sparkling glass be crowned
With votive bumpers, and the wish go round
(By fervent lips pronounced from hearts sincere)
That health; and every blessing which can cheer
EPISTLE TO MY FATHER, 79
The gently sloping path of life's decline.
My dear, my honoured father, may be thine.
While thus, with social rites and festive mirth,
We hail the day that gave a parent birth,
How do our grateful hearts within us glow
Warm with the sense of what to thee we owe !
But not to us alone, the partial few
From whom such tribute first and chief is due,
Is the remembrance of thy worth confined ;
In many a heart besides it rests enshrined.
For thine the pow T er to soften pain, to ease
And boldly grapple with each fierce disease,
To lengthen life, and mitigate, by skill
And kindness joined, the sum of human ill ;
Thine too no less that aspect all benign
Which beamed with tenderest sympathy, and thine
That cheerful voice which confidence bespoke,
And in the sufferer's sinking soul awoke
Hope, w T hich itself half wrought the promised cure,
E'er art came in to make that promise sure.
80 EPISTLE TO MY FATHER.
Hence, in deep lines indelibly impressed,
Thy memory lives in many a faithful breast,
And long shall live, to every rank endeared,
By high and low still honoured and revered.
But chief the poor thy virtues shall proclaim,
And grateful bless their good Physician's name.
Oft, as they pass thy once loved threshold by,
" This was his dwelling, " they shall say and sigh,
" (Would it were yet so !) who ne'er closed his door,
" When sickness sought admittance, on the poor ;
" For us he still employed his noble art,
" His sole reward his own approving heart.
" Yet One there is who from His place above
" Marks every act of charity and love ;
" He saw, and shall requite the generous deed
" Done to Himself, when done to those in need."
Meanwhile to Brad wall's peaceful shades retired,
Blest with that calm thy soul has long desired,
To thee perhaps the busy past may seem
The transient vision of a troubled dream ;
ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 81
No more in pent-up chariot, as of old,
From morn to eve o'er rattling pavement rolled,
No more condemned the same sad round to go.
Day after day, of sickness and of woe,
And draw with pain a suffocating breath
In chambers tainted with disease and death
Methinks I see trree now at early dawn,
Pacing with active step thy favorite lawn,
To tell thy flock, if haply all be there,
And breathe the freshness of the morning air.
Then o'er the distant fields I see thee stride
With gun in hand, and setter at thy side,
To seek the wild duck at the pool, or wake
The whirring pheasant from the rustling brake.
Or, should the recent gale a chance supply
On woodcock rare thy skill once more to try,
Another triumph shall thy brows adorn,
And a third trophy crown the lucky morn.
But other objects now thy care demand;
Nor wilt thou deem an hour misspent, to stand
82 EPISTLE TO MY FATHER.
And watch thy labourers, as beneath thine eve
With cheerful toil the task assigned they ply.
Whether it be some stagnant pool to drain,
And spread the rich deposit o'er the plain ;
Or level some old hedge, or raise a new.
And bid the fence a better line pursue ;
Or thro' some crowded copse to force a way,
And on the smothered saplings let the day,
Weed out the worthless, the more worthy spare,
And give them room to breathe a freer air.
How sweet the while, where'er thy footsteps tread,
Where'er thou view'st the landscape round thee
To feel (and who the feeling shall arraign ?)
Thyself the master of the wide domain ;
No thriftless heir, by partial fortune spoiled,
Of house and lands, for w r hich another toiled,
For every rood of land thou call'st thine own
Indebted to thyself and bounteous Heaven alone.
Oft arm in arm with her, who still has been
Thy best companion thro' life's chequered scene.
OX HIS BIRTHDAY. 83
With sauntering steps my fancy sees you stray
To where yon smiling cottage skirts the way ;
Along whose walls the pyracanthus spread
In winter garlands hangs its berries red ;
There pause awhile the pleasing sight to scan,
Then entering, ask how fares the good old man ;
And how he bears the rigour of the year,
And if he lacketh aught, his age to cheer ?
And draws our good Corycius towards his end ?
Ah me ! could wish of mine his days extend,
The hundredth year his lengthened life should
Ere to the grave his silver locks went down !
But, should the lowering skies forMd to roam.
As swiftly fly the busy hours at home ;
While, with the love of ancient learning fired,
Like classic Fox of public faction tired,
You find in studies, dear indeed of yore,
A charm and interest never felt before :
Pleased to retrace, now free from all alloy,
The well remembered lessons of the bov.
84 EPISTLE TO MY FATHER.
Whether on Ilion's bard your strength you try,
Or better pleased with gentle Tityrus, lie
Beneath the spreading beech, and hear his reed
To pastoral song attuned, or martial deed ;
Or warmed by Juvenal's indignant strain,
Loathe, more than ever, luxury's baneful reign.
And, more than ever, in the virtuous choice
That bade thee quit our modern Rome rejoice,
Nor wilt thou e'er thy best-loved task omit,
To search the hidden stores of Sacred Writ,
Pure as from holy penmen first it came,
And light at Learning's lamp Devotion's flame ;
To trace of word or phrase the genuine force,
Lost by transmission, upwards to its source ;
Draw forth each beauty, each dark passage clear,
And be thyself thy own interpreter.
Dear honoured parent, 'mid pursuits like these,
In active leisure, and in studious ease,
May the calm evening of thy well-spent day,
Like some smooth current, gently glide away. —
And oh ! whene'er this happy day comes round,
May it still find thee as it now hath found,
OX HIS BIRTHDAY. 85
Blest with whatever can make retirement sweet,
And shed a charm around thy loved retreat ;
One dear companion, that retreat to share,
Enhance each comfort and divide each care ;
Health, and the means and spirits to enjoy
Those simple pleasures which can never cloy ;
With that best gift of Heaven, a cheerful mind,
To every change that time may bring resigned ;
Content on earth mixed good and ill to prove,
In the strong hope of perfect bliss above.
A FEAGMENT IN IMITATION OF POPE.
So, (if great things may be compared with small,)
Some drowsy fiddler at a midnight ball,
Lulled by his own dull strains and well-marked
To sure returns of one expected chime ;
(While frequent draughts of potent ale conspire,
With late fatigue, to quell his minstrel fire,)
Feels o'er each sense a growing stupor creep,
Till his closed eyelids sink at last in sleep ; —
Yet ceases not the strain, — the unwearied sound
With method just prolongs its measured round ;
For still, impelled by habit's mighty sway,
The tuneful dreamer plays or seems to play ;
Just to each string his practised fingers rove,
And his curved elbow r moves, as wont to move ;
The restless fiddlestick still plays its part,
True to the precepts of its master's art;
Th' unconscious crowd applaud the sprightly tone,
And the man 's praised for quavers not his own.
FBAGMMT OF A MOEAL EPISTLE.
I know there are to whom the world appears
To grow in folly as it grows in years ;
Who think each age finds out, in crime more bold,
New modes of sinning, or improves the old.
Let the just Muse give praise where praise is due,
So shall she seem to blame with justice too ;
One vice at least has this our age redrest :
Oh could our age as well reform the rest !
Time was, when fashion's fools would almost
The poor dull soul, who spoke without an oath :
Mere affirmation could not credence gain ;
Would you seem serious, take God's name in vain;
FRAGMENT OF A NIGRAL EPISTLE. 91
Oaths mark'd in repartee the lucky hit,
Embellish' d narrative, and pointed wit.
Xor epithets could strength or grace bestow,
Which were not summon' d from the realms below.
Through all discourse the impious folly ran,
Till swearing formed the finished gentleman.
Now, without blasphemy may men converse,
Xor need, for talk, themselves or neighbours curse.
The vulgar vice may still our ears appal,
"Where draymen jostle, and where drunkards brawl ;
But if, in better scenes, by use grown strong,
It still maintains some empire o'er the tongue,
Oh ! let the laws of polished life prevail,
And fashion work a change where precepts fail !
Feb. SSnd, 1826.
THE BANISHED TEA-TEAY'S COMPLAINT.
A:n d is my doom resolved ? and am I chased,
A wretched exile, from the board I graced ?
And could not all my worth a respite gain,
And twice ten years of service, borne in vain?
Fond hope ! that such weak pleas could e'er pre-
When e'en the tears of fair Eliza fail !
Say, by what crime have I such fate deserved ?
In what sad instance from my duty swerved ?
Have I, unconscious of adhesive lard,
Soiled the fair napkin I was meant to guard ?
Or, faithless to the precious charge I bore,
Dashed the frail china to the ruthless floor ?
Such monstrous novelties has fashion wrought ;
An honest servant banished for no fault !
THE BAXISIIED TEA-TRAY's COMPLAINT. 93
Was it for this, the cunning artist's hand
The graceful oval shaped, and then japanned r
For this, with antic pencil did he trace
The Indian landscape o'er my polished face ?
Oh, had I been ignoble paper still,
Unshaped, unpolished by the workman's skill,
And in inglorious safety happier far,
Or lined a trunk, or capped a sweetmeat jar !
Alas how changed ! with silver vases crowned,
And painted porcelain ranged in order round,
True to my post I waited on the fair,
And each returning sun beheld me there :
Xow in some corner am I rudely thrown,
Or reared on kitchen shelf in secret moan :
There, as I lay and wailed my hapless fate,
(My yet unfinished woes to aggravate,)
I heard the supercilious cook-maid say,
" Thomas, we will not breakfast from a tray." —
So servants act their lord's caprices o'er,
And spurn the dog their masters spurned before.
But oh, if woes like mine admit relief,
Thoughts of revenge shall mitigate my grief ;
94 THE BANISHED TEA-TRAY'S COMPLAINT.
May all the ills that tea-tables torment
Come and requite my unjust banishment !
May buttered toast in greasy streams distil ;
May some unlucky hand the cream-jug spill ;
May half-boiled eggs their broken sides o'erflow,
And leave their yellow vestiges below ;
The urn's ill-fitted tap ne'er cease to drop ;
And coffee, from the biggin's gaping top,
O'er the white damask pour its sable rills,
And the swoln washtub swell the weekly bills ;
The unprotected board be pierced with stains,
And odious circles mock the footman's pains.
ODE TO DEAKfESS.
Fell tyrant of the human head,.
Relax thy rigid chain,
That holds fast bound in link of lead
At once my ear and brain !
To brute Stupidity allied,
Sure, Deafness, thou wert born of Pride ;
'Twas she, I ween, that doomed the fall
Of lank locks puritanical ;
Thought curls, forsooth, too priggish ; wigs too grave ;
Then with unsparing shears
Laid bare her votaries' ears,
And robbed them of the shield which prudent Nature
96 ODE TO DEAFNESS.
Say, Deafness ! by what magic sleight
Thou steal' st away our sense,
And at the mind's best entrance quite
Shut'st out intelligence ?
Do unseen gnomes, at thy command,
At the ear's portals take their stand;
And, as they watch the concave round,
Intercept the coming sound ?
Or waxen globules, packed in close array,
As vulgar quacks pretend,
Their viscous influence blend,
Obstruct the expected voice, and clog it on its
Or say, quick summoned to thy aid,
Do noxious vapours come ;
And, as each fibre they pervade,
Unbrace the tympanum ?
Or frosts, obedient to thy call,
The auditory nerves enthrall ;
Or the rude winds, whistling by,
Spoil the nice machinery ;
ODE TO DEAFNESS 97
Or damps collected through each secret pore,
As inwardly they gush,
In wild confusion rush,
Hiss through the troubled head, and like a cataract
Oh Deafness ! — whencesoe'er thy power,
What e'er thy secret be,
Restore me to the social hour,
Clear sense, and converse free ;
And take again the moping mood,
The tale, the jest half- understood,
The misplaced laugh, the unmeaning eye,
The question cross, the wrong reply.
Shouts spent in air, and repetitions vain : —
Fell tyrant of the head,
Relax thy link of lead,
And give to liberty my captive soul again !
TO MY TOOTH.
Farewell, my tooth ! but oh ! ere yet we part,
(Vile as thou seem'st, and useless as thou art.)
I pause to think, though thy brief course be run
And mine still lasts, how lately we were one.
Bone of my bone, whate'er to thee gave pain
Glanced like an arrow darting through my brain,
Each nerve with sympathetic anguish thrilled,
And all my shuddering frame with horror rilled :
Bitter or sweet, through thrice ten years of life
One common lot we had, like man and wife ;
At the same board, at home, abroad, we fed,
The costly banquet shared, or daily bread.
TO MY TOOTH. 99
But ah ! nor daily bread, nor banquet rare,
Henceforth with me, good grinder, shalt thou share.
For thee no more the savoury haunch shall smoke,
Nor tempting turtle thy dull sense provoke ;
No more, oh bliss ecstatic ! shalt thou lie
In partridge wing engulphed, or woodcock's thigh;
No more shalt water, as when erst in reach
Glowed the rich nect'rine or alluring peach ;
But, all thy revels o'er, thyself be cast
A dainty morsel to the worm at last.
But even-handed justice why arraign ?
If dead to pleasure, thou art dead to pain.
Thee from keen blasts thy fate shall now preserve,
And the cold stream, poured heedless on thy nerve ;
Ne'er shalt thou feel sharp springes through thee
Nor the fierce throb, still tugging at thy root ;
From hostile hand receive no buffet rude,
Nor, set on edge, resent the codling crude ;
Nor, mid plum-pudding, too securely rash,
Against some lurking pebble blindly dash ;
100 TO MY TOOTH.
As ships in unknown seas, with sudden shock,
Strike, split, and founder on some hidden rock.
But thee, my tooth, no fatal violence,
Seen or unseen, untimely hurried hence ;
Whether some parent fond, to thwart thee loth,
With cankering sweetmeats sapped thy early growth ;
Or whether, as with all things else on earth,
Corruption's seed sprang with thee at thy birth ;
Like some fair maid, consumption's lingering prey,
Long had I marked thee waste by slow decay :
Then ineffectual proved all human skill
To stay the progress of the growing ill ;
Vain each nice art to great Ruspini known,
Vain e'en thy magic waters, famed Cologne ;
Then cures infallible mendacious failed,
Nor powders, drops, nor essences availed,
Nor antiseptic nor narcotic drug,
Nor that great last resource, the golden plug ; —
The golden plug awhile prolonged thy date,
But gold itself must yield at last to fate,
TO MY TOOTH. J 01
Fate 7 before whom e'en mightiest monarchs bow ;
Then why lament? Ah well, my tooth, might' st
Yet did my fostering care through many a year
Preserve thee still, in weakness doubly dear ;
As mothers love their sickliest children most,
Of those less tender who more vigour boast,
^liat though thy feeble frame I might not trust
In dubious conflict with some veteran crust,
Or the brown nut, impregnable of shell ;
Yet still, my honest stump, thou serv'dst me well,
The lighter labours of the board didst share,
And what thou couldst wert zealous still to bear.
But swifter now thy wasting powers decayed,
Loose, and more loose, the nodding ruin swayed.
Yet did no terrors on thy fall attend,
No racking pains prognosticate thy end ;
Xo lancet marked the place with hideous gash ;
No torturing iron, with convulsive crash,
And horrid wrench, and agonizing pang,
Writhed from its socket thy tenacious fang ;
102 TO MY TOOTH.
Nor gaping wound proclaimed, nor streaming gore,
Nor mangled jaw, the bloody business o'er.
'Twixt my fore-finger pressed, and gentle thumb,
Thou kindly parted' st from the yielding gum :
The unconscious tongue scarce found the vacant
Nor knew the world, till now, that thou art not,
DE SENE VEBONENSL
Felix, qui patriis aevum transegit in agris ;
Ipsa domus puerum, quern videt ipsa senem ;
Qui, baculo nitens in qua reptabat arena,
Unius numerat saecula longa casse.
Ilium non vario traxit Fortuna tumultu,
Nee bibit ignotas mobilis hospes aquas.
THE OLD IFAX OF VERONA,
Blest who beyond his fathers' fields
Through life has never cared to roam,
To whom the self- same roof still yields
From infancy to age a home.
Whose steps, upon that very spot
Where once he crawled, a staff now bears,
Fond to retrace of that one cot
The annals through a hundred years.
In varied quest of distant schemes
Him fortune never forced to stray,
He never drank of unknown streams,
A restless wanderer far awav.
106 DE SENE VERONENSI.
Non freta mercator tremuit, non classica miles,
Non rauci lites pertulit ille fori ;
Indocilis rerum, vicinse nescius urbis,
Aspectu fruitur liberiore poli.
Frugibus alternis, non consule computat annos ;
Autumnum pomis, ver sibi flore notat.
Idem condit ager soles, idemque reducit,
Metiturque suo rusticus orbe diem ;
THE OLD MAW OF V EBON A. 107
Xo merchant, whom each swelling sea,
No soldier, whom each blast of war
Fills with alarm, no lawyer he
Vexed with the hoarse and wrangling bar.
In state affairs he boasts no skill,
What cities are he never knew ;
Enough, that Heaven's blue concave still
Is free and open to his view.
Others by consuls date the year, —
He by alternate crops computes ;
He knows 'tis spring when flowers appear,
'Tis autumn when he culls his fruits.
One field is his horizon's bound,
Here dawns the sun, there sets his ray,
"While, by the same unvaried round
Of toil, he measures every day.
108 DE SENE VERONENSI.
Ingentem meminit parvo qui gramine quercurn,
JEqusevumque videt consenuisse nemus :
Proxima cui nigris Verona remotior Indis,
Benacumque putat Littora Rubra lacum.
Sed tamen indomitee vires, firmisque lacertis
.Etas robustum tertia cernit avum.
Erret, et extremos alter scrutetur Iberos ;
Plus habet hie vitse, plus habet ille viae.
THE OLD MAX OF VERONA. 3 09
Yon spreading oak's enormous girth
A slender sapling he has knov a,
Both from one era took their birth.
And both together old have grown.
Verona's neighbouring town he deems
Remote as swarthy India's shore,
And Guarda's lake so distant seems,
Not the Red sea itself seems more.
Yet hath his vigour time defied,
Still can his arm in toil engage ;
While his son's sons behold with pride
Their lusty grandsire's green old age,
What then if some, the world to see,
To fair Iberia may have strayed :
On earth a longer sojourn he,
A longer journey they have made.
IL COME UGOUNO.
DANTE, INFERNO, CANTO XXXIII.
La bocca sollevo dal fiero pasto
Quel peccator, forbendola a' capelli
Del capo ch' egli avea diretro guasto :
Poi comincio : tu vuoi ch' i' rinnovelli
Disperato dolor che '1 cuor mi preme
Gia pur pensando, pria ch' i' ne favelli.
Ma se le mie parole esser den seme,
Che frutti infamia al traditor ch' i' rodo ?
Parlare e lagrimar vedrai insieme.
P non so chi tu sie, ne per che modo
Venuto se' qua giu : ma Fiorentino
Mi sembri veramente, quand' i' t' odo.
Tu de' saper ch' i y in '1 conte Ugolino,
E questi 1' arcivescovo Ruggieri,
Or ti diro perch' i' son tal vicino.
THE STOEY OF THE COOT UGOLMO.
DANTE. INFERNO. XXXIII.
Fftox his foul feast that sinner raised his head,
And wiped his blood-stained lips upon the hair
Which crowned the mangled scalp on which he fed.
" Would' st thou renew that anguish and despair/'
He cried, " which but to think of makes me quail
Ere yet my tongue the dreadful truth declare :
Yet, could I hope my words would aught avail,
This traitorous wretch with infamy to brand,
Despite my struggling tears I'd tell my tale.
I know not whom thou art, nor understand
How to this place thou cam'st ; but if aright
I hear, fair Florence is thy native land.
Know then that I, Count Ugolino hight ;
This, he who late the church of Pisa swayed ;
Why now such bitter foes I will recite.
112 IL CONTE UGOLIKO.
Che per 1' effetto de' suo' ma' pensieri
Fidandomi di lui io fossi preso,
E poscia morto, dir non e mestieri.
Pero quel che non puoi avere inteso,
Cioe, come la morte mia fu cruda,
Udirai e saprai se m' ha offeso.
Breve pertugio dentro da la muda,
La qual per me ha '1 titol de la Fame,
E 'n che conviene ancor ch' altrui si chiuda,
M' avea mostrato per lo suo forame
Piu lune gia, quand' i' feci '1 mal sonno
Che del futuro mi squarcio '1 velame.
Questi pareva a me maestro e donno
Cacciando ? 1 lupo e i lupicini al monto
Perche i Pisan veder Lucca non ponno.
Con cagne magre, studiose e conte,
Gualandi con Sismondi e con Lanfranchi
S'avea messi dinanzi da la fronte.
In picciol corso mi pareano stanchi
Lo padre e i figli, e con 1' agute scane
Mi parea lor veder fender li fianch'.
Quando fui desto innanzi la dimane.
THE STORY OF COUNT UGOLINO. 113
How by his wicked arts I was betrayed,
And mine own misplaced confidence, then died
His captive, all men know, nor need be said.
But that, which mystery still and darkness hide,
The horrors of that death which I endured
Hear, and if causeless be my hate, decide.
Thro' the small grate, whose bars that cell secured
Which shall from me the name of Famine gain,
Where many a victim yet shall be immured,
Oft had I watched the pale moon wax and wane ;
When a dire dream the veil of fate withdrew,
And shewed the fearful future all too plain.
This man, so dreamed I, did a wolf pursue
And his poor cubs e'en to that mountain's base
Which shuts out Lucca from the Pisans' view.
Gaunt were his hounds and keen, of noble race,
Gualandi and Sismondi, and with these
Lanfranch', were foremost in the cruel chase.
Their rage in vain the hunted father flees,
In vain the sons ; they soon o'ertake their prey,
And on their flank with fang remorseless seize.
With horror I awoke, ere yet 'twas day,
114 IL CONTE UGOLINO.
Pianger senti' fra '1 sonno i miei figliuoli
Ch' eran con meco, e dimandar del pane.
Ben se' crudel, se tu gia non ti duoli
Pensando cid ch' al mio cor s' annunziava :
E se non piangi, di che pianger suoli ?
Gia eran desti, e Y ora s' appressava
Che '1 cibo ne soleva esser addotto,
E per suo sogno ciascun dubitava,
Ed io senti' chiavar 1' uscio di sotto
A 1' orribile torre : ond' io guardai
Nel viso a' miei figliuoi senza far motto :
I' non piangeva, si dentro impetrai :
Piangevan elli ; ed Anselmuccio mio
Disse : tu guardi si, padre : che hai ?
Pero non lagrimai, ne rispos' io
Tutto quel giorno, ne la notte appresso.
Infin che 1' altro sol nel mondo uscio.
Com' un poco di raggio si fu messo
Nel doloroso carcere, ed io scorsi
Per quattro visi il mio aspetto stesso ;
Ambo le mani per dolor mi morsi :
THE STORY OF COUNT UGOLINO. 115
And heard my children from their troubled sleep
(For with me there immured my children lay)
Demanding bread. If thou a dry eye keep,
Yet think the while on all that then assailed
My boding heart ; say what can make thee weep ?
They woke; and, now the hour which ne'er had failed
To bring us food drew nigh, strange doubt and
Came over each, so strong our dreams prevailed.
But when the door which to our turret led
I heard fast locked, with stedfast gaze I eyed
My children's looks, but not a word I said.
I wept not, for my soul was petrified ;
But they did weep, and " Oh ! my father, why.
Why look'st thou so ?" my dear Anselmo cried.
Yet did I shed no tear, nor make reply.
So passed the dreadful day, and so the night,
Until the sun again in heaven was high.
Then, when my cell a ray of struggling light
Had entered, and my own dire looks I saw
Given back from four sad aspects to my sight,
My hands with anguish I began to gnaw ;
116 IL CONTE UGOLINO.
E quei pensando ch' i' '1 fessi per voglia
Di manicar, di subito levorsi,
E disser : padre, assai ci fia men doglia
Se tu mangi di noi : tu ne vestisti
Queste misere carni, e tu le spoglia.
Quetami allor per non fargli piu tristi :
Quel di e 1' altro stemmo tutti muti :
Ahi dura terra, perche non t' apristi ?
Posciache fummo al quarto di venuti,
Gaddo mi si gittd disteso a' piedi,
Dicendo : padre mio, che non m' ajuti ?
Quivi mori : e, come tu mi vedi,
Vid' io cascar li tre ad un' ad uno
Tra '1 quinto di e '1 sesto : ond' i' mi diedi
Gia cieco a brancolar sovra ciascuno,
E tre di gli chiamai, poich' e ? fur morti :
Poscia, piu che '1 dolor, pote '1 digiuno.
THE STORY OF COUNT UGOLIXO. 117
Which they misdeeming hunger's shameless deed,
Started in horror from their bed of straw,
And cried, " On us, dear father, wouldst thou feed
Less grief it were : with flesh thou didst invest
These wretched limbs ; now strip themin thy need."
To soothe their feelings I my own supprest ;
Two days we stood in speechless agony ; [rest !
Oh ! that the earth had yawned, and spared the
But when the fourth morn came, with feeble cry
His body at my feet poor Gaddo threw,
Exclaiming, " Help me, father, or I die!"
And then expired. As plain as me you view,
I saw them all fall senseless, one by one^x
Ere yet the sixth day dawned ; then blind I grew,
And two days more the corpse of each dear son
With groping arms I felt and called by name :
Till at the last what grief had left undone
Famine achieved, and death in pity came.
TASSO, GEEUSALEMME LIBEEATA.
O Mttsa, tu die di caduchi allori
Non circondi la fronte in Elicona,
Ma su nel cielo infra i beati cori
. Ai di s telle immortali aurea corona ;
Tu spira al petto mio celesti ardori,
Tu rischiara il mio canto, e tu perdona
S' intesso fregi al ver, s' adorno in parte
D' altri diletti, che de' tuoi, le carte.
Sai che la corre il mondo, ove piu versi
Di sue dolcezze il lusinghier Parnaso ;
E che '1 vero condito in molli versi,
I piu schivi, allettando, a persuaso.
Cosi air egro fanciul porgiamo aspersi
Di soavi licor gli orli del vaso :
Muse, whom no fabled Helicon inspires,
Whose brows are with no fabled laurels bound,
But thou, who sitt'st among the angelic choirs
In heaven's high courts, with starry glory crowned,
Oh ! fill my bosom with celestial fires ;
Nor blame the bard, if haply he be found
Some flowers of fancy with the truth to twine,
And grace his song with other charms than thine.
The world, thou know'st, by those is easiest led
Who poesy's seductive arts employ;
And oft o'er truths severe sweet numbers shed
Charms which the most reluctant hearts decoy.
So the cup's margin we with honey spread,
Tendering loathed med'cine to some wayward boy;
120 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
Succhi amari, ingannato, intanto ei beve ;
E dalF inganno suo vita riceve.
Tu, magnanimo Alfonso, il qual ritogli
Al furor di fortuna, e guidi in porto
Me peregrino errante, e fra scogli
E fra P onde agitato e quasi assorto ;
Queste mie carte in lieta fronte accogli,
Che quasi in voto a te sacrate P porto.
Forse un di fia che la presaga penna
Osi scriver di te quel ch' or n'accenna.
E ben ragion, (s ? egli avverra che 'n pace
II buon popol di Cristo unqua si veda,
E con navi e cavalli al fero Trace
Cerchi ritor la grande ingiusta preda)
Ch' a te lo scettro in terra, o, se ti piace,
L' alto imperio de J mari a te conceda.
Emulo di GofTredo, i nostri carmi
Intanto ascolta, e t' apparecchia alP armL
JERUSALEM DELIVERED. 121
The bitter potion he unconscious drains,
And from the cheat new life and vigour gains.
Oh, great and good of soul ! Alphonso ! thou
Whose arm first snatched from fortune's cruel hate
Me, the world's wandering outcast, long ere now
Whelm' d, but for thee, beneath the storms of fate :
My humble lay (oh, with auspicious brow
Accept the gift !) to thee I consecrate.
To thee 'tis due, and soon what now I dare
But darkly hint, I boldly shall declare.
For should the day e'er come when peace shall join
In one consenting league each Christian land,
And Europe's monarchs shall again combine
To ravish from the fierce barbarian's hand
His ill got prey, the choice shall then be thine
To head her armies, or her fleets command.
Then let my song thy just protection claim,
Thou future rival of great Godfrey's fame.
CAS TO TEBZO.
Gia Y aura messaggiera erasi desta
A nunziar che se ne vien 1' Aurora.
Ella intanto s' adorna ; e Y aurea testa
Di rose colte in paradiso inflora :
Quando il campo, ch' all' arme omai s' appresta.
In voce mormoraya alt a e sonora,
E prevenia le trombe ; e queste poi
Dier piu lieti e canori i segni suoi.
II saggio capitan con dolce morso
I desiderj lor guida e seconda;
Che piu facil saria svolger il corso
Presso Cariddi alia volubil onda ?
THE APPROACH TO THE HOLY CITY.
And now the breeze, swift harbinger of day,
Awakening, had announced the coming morn,
Whose golden tresses, dripping from the spray,
Fresh roses, culled in Paradise, adorn ;
When from the camp, ere yet the trumpet's bray
To arms had summoned, busy sounds w T ere borne
Of preparation ; then the clarions woke,
And in clear tones their joyful signal spoke.
Wise Godfrey sought with gentle hand to guide
That fiery ardour, which to check was vain ;
As soon might he control the boiling tide,
Which round Charybdis roars ; as soon restrain
124 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
O tardar Borea allor che scote il dorso
Dell' Apennino, e i legni in mare afTonda.
Gli ordina, gV incammina, e ? n suon gli regge
Rapido si, ma rapido con legge.
Ali a ciascuno al core, ed ali al piede ;
Ne del suo ratto andar pero s' accorge.
Ma quando il sol gli aridi campi fiede
Con raggi assai ferventi, e in alto sorge,
Ecco apparir Gerusalem si vede !
Ecco additar Gerusalem si scorge !
Ecco da mille voci unitamente
-Gerusalemme salutar si sente !
Cosi di naviganti audace stuolo
Che mova a ricercar estranio lido,
E in mar dubbioso, e sotto ignoto polo
Provi V onde fallaci, e '1 vento infldo ;
S' al fin discopre il desiato suolo,
Lo saluta da lunge in lieto grido,
JERUSALEM DELIVERED. 125
The storm which lashes Apennine's bleak side
And whelms the bark beneath the foaming main.
His ranks he marshals, and his march arrays,
And one sole will each eager movement sways.
With wings, each foot, each bosom, zeal supplies,
While, of their speed unconscious, on they bound.
But when the sun had climbed the middle skies.
Cleaving with fervid ray the arid ground,
Jerusalem the straining eye espies !
And emulous, from every rank around,
Jerusalem a thousand hands point out !
Jerusalem ! a thousand voices shout.
So when some daring and adventurous crew
In quest of foreign regions spread the sail,
And long thro' seas unknown their way pursue
Struggling with treacherous wave, and adverse
If the long looked for land at last they view,
With joyful cry from far the place they hail,
126 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
E T uno all' altro il mostra ; e intanto oblia
La noia e '1 mal della passata via.
Al gran piacer che quella prima vista
Dolcemente spiro nell' altrui petto,
Alta contrizion successe, mista
Di timoroso e reverente affetto.
Osano appena d' innalzar la vista
Ver la citta, di Cristo alb ergo eletto ;
Dove mori, dove sepulto fue,
Dove poi rivesti le membra sue.
Sommessi accenti e tacite parole,
Rotti singulti e flebili sospiri
Delia gente che 'n un s' allegra e duole,
Fan che per Y aria un mormorio s' aggiri,
Qual nelle folte selve udir si suole,
S' awien che tra le frondi il vento spiri ;
O quale infra gli scogli, o presso ai lidi,
Sibila il mar percosso in rauchi stridi.
JERUSALEM DELIVERED. 127
And, each to other pointing out the shore,
Their perils past remember now no more.
Such thro' the Christian host the joy which spread,
With such sweet transports every bosom glows.
But soon these raptures passed, and in their stead
Contrition deep and pious awe arose.
Now towards yon place they scarce dare lift the head
Which Jesus for his earthly dwelling chose ;
There too for man Himself to death he gave,
There rose again triumphant o'er the grave.
Low muttered sounds, and voices half suppressed,
And quick convulsive sobs, and mournful sighs.
Betray the deep emotions of each breast,
And on the air in mingled murmur rise.
So, thro' some tangled wood, the breathing west
Amid the whispering foliage swells and dies :
So on the jutting cliffs and shelving shore,
In deep hoarse tone the sullen breakers roar.
128 GERUSALEMME LIBE11ATA.
Nudo ciascuno il pie, calca il sentiero ;
Che V esempio de' duci ogni altro move.
Serico fregio o d' or, piuma o eimiero
Superbo, dal suo capo ognun rimove ;
Ed insieme del cor 1' abito altero
Depone, e calde e pie lagrime piove.
Pur, quasi al pianto abbia la via rinchiusa,
Cosi parlando ognun se stesso accusa :
Dun que ove tu, Signor, di mille rivi
Sanguinosi il terren lasciasti asperso,
D' amaro pianto aim en duo fonti vivi
In si acerba memoria oggi io non verso ?
Agghiacciato mio cor, che non derivi
Per gli occhi, e stilli in lagrime converso ?
Duro mio cor, che non ti spetri e frangi ?
Pianger ben merti ognor, s' ora non piangi.
JERUSALEM DELIVERED. 129
With naked foot the holy ground they prest ;
Each by example of his chieftain led :
Gay silk, and gorgeous gold, tall plume and crest
They cast with lowly reverence from their head.
Nor less from secret pride did they divest
Their inward thoughts, and tears of anguish shed ;
And yet, as if their hearts to mourn refused,
With keen reproach themselves they thus accused :
" What, even here, where thine own precious blood
"In ample stream, thou, Lord! for me didst spill,
" Shall I of tears begrudge a scantier flood;
" And shall my frozen heart, unsoftened still
" By poignant memory, keep its stubborn mood,
" Nor thro' mine eyes in bitter drops distil r
" Melt, melt, my flinty soul, while yet you may ;
" Eternal sorrow flee, and weep to-day !"
Feb. 22nd, 1826.
Tartaeei numi, di seder piu degni
La, sovra il sole ond' e Y origin vostra ;
Che meco gia dai piu felici regni
Spinse il gran caso in questa orribil chiostra ;
Gli antichi altrui sospetti, e i fieri sdegni
Noti son troppo, e l'alta impresa nostra.
Or colui regge a suo voler le stelle,
E noi siam giudicati alme rubelle.
Ed in vece del di sereno e puro
Del? aureo sol, degli stellati giri,
W a qui rinchiusi in quest' abisso oscuro,
Ne vuol ch' al primo onor per noi s' aspiri.
THE ADDRESS OF SATAN.
Ye powers of Tartarus ! worthier far to reign
Above that sun whence flows our high descent;
Ye who with me from yonder happy plain
Thrust down, in dungeon horrible are pent ;
The tyrant's jealous hate and proud disdain
Ye know, our enterprise, and its event.
He now with sway despotic rules the sky,
Us rebels calls and dooms to infamy :
And, in the place of day serene and pure,
Yon golden sun and all the starry choir,
Has fixed our lot in this abyss obscure ;
Xor must we more to our just rank aspire :
132 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
E poscia (ahi quanto a ricordarlo e duro !
Quest' e quel che piu inaspra i miei martiri)
Ne' bei seggi celesti a 1' uom chiamato,
L' uom vile, e di vil fango in terra nato.
Ne cio gli parve assai ; ma in preda a morte ?
Sol per fame piu danno, il figlio diede.
Ei venne, e ruppe le tartaree porte,
E porre oso ne' regni nostri il piede ;
E trarne V alme a noi dovute in sorte,
E riportarne al ciel si ricche prede,
Vincitor trionfando ; e in nostro scherno
L' insegne ivi spiegar del vinto inferno.
Ma che rinnuovo i miei dolor parlando ?
Chi non a gia le ingiurie nostre intese ?
E in qual parte si trovo, ne quando,
Ch' egli cessasse dalP usate imprese ?
Non piu dessi all' antiche andar pensando ?
Pensar debbiamo alle presenti offese.
THE ADDRESS OF SATAN. 133
And then, (oh thought most painful to endure !
What on my burning head heaps coals of fire,)
Has called up Man, to share those blest abodes,
Vile, earth-born man, and made scarce less than gods :
All this too little seemed ; but, chief and worst,
To work us woe, has given to death a prey
His only Son : he came, hell's barriers burst,
Within our realms his ensign dared display,
And souls, of right our own, condemned, accurst,
To heaven, a glorious prize, bore hence away,
Triumphant conqueror, and proclaimed on high
Scornful o'er baffled hell his victory.
But why repeat our wrongs, our pains revive ?
To whom are these our injuries unknown?
When did he not against our peace contrive,
And in what place has not his hate been shewn ?
Then be the past dismissed, and let us strive
To fix our thoughts on present ills alone ;
134 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
Deh ! non vedete omai come egli tenti
Tutte al suo culto richiamar le genti ?
Noi trarrem neghittosi i giorni e Y ore,
Ne degna cura fia che ? 1 cor n' accenda ?
E sofTrirem che forza ognor maggiore
II suo popol fedele in Asia prenda ?
E che Giudea soggioghi ? e che '1 suo onore,
Che '1 nome suo piu si dilati e stenda ?
Che suoni in altre lingue, e in altri carmi
Si scriva, e incida in novi bronzi e in marmi ?
Che sian gl' idoli nostri a terra sparsi ?
Che i nostri altari il mondo a lui converta ?
Ch' a lui sospesi i voti, a lui sol arsi
Siano gl' incensi, ed auro e mirra offerta ?
Ch', ove a noi tempio non solea serrarsi.
Or via non resti all' arti nostre aperta r
Che di tantf alme il solito tributo
Ne manchi, e in voto regno alberghi Pluto ?
THE ADDRESS OF SATAN. 135
Ah ! see you not 'tis now his aim and end
To force all nations at his shrine to bend ?
And shall we then in sloth consume our hours
And our dull hearts to vengeance ne'er inflame ?
And shall his faithful people stretch their powers
Through Asia's clime with still increasing fame ?
Shall Salem bow to them her subject towers,
And, more and more diffused, their Master's name
Sound in new tongues ; and thro' the world be found
On brass recorded, and in song renowned ?
Shall we behold our idols all o'erthrown?
And men our altars to his service turn,
To him pay all their vows, to him alone
Bring precious gold, and myrrh, and incense burn ?
Shall they, where once our open temples shone,
Mock our fallen arts and feeble sceptre spurn ?
Of forfeit souls our wonted tribute fail,
And desolation thro' our realms prevail r
136 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
Ah non fia ver ; che non sono anco estinti
Gli spirti in noi di quel valor primiero,
Quando di ferro e d' alte fiamm-e cinti
Pugnammo gia contra il celeste impero.
Fummo (io nol nego) in quel conflitto vinti ;
Pur non manco virtute al gran pensiero.
Ebbero i piu felici allor vittoria ;
Rimase a noi d' invitto ardir la gloria.
Ma perche piu v* indugio ? Itene, o miei
Fidi consorti, o mia potenza e forze ;
Ite veloci, ed opprimete i rei,
Prima che '1 lor poter piu si rinforze :
Prima che tutt' arda il regno degli Ebrei,
Questa flamma crescente omai s' ammorze ;
Fra loro entrate ; ed in ultimo lor danno
Or la forza s' adopri, ed or Y inganno.
Sia destin cio ch' io voglio : altri disperso
Sen vado errando ; altri rimanga ucciso ;
THE ADDRESS OF SATAN. 137
Forbid it, Hell ! that spirit is not fled,
That pristine inborn spirit ne'er can die,
Which, armed with fire and sword, our legions led
Their strength with heaven's imperious lord to try.
Grant in the shock our host discomfited ;
Yet soared' our valour and our daring high :
And, tho' to him the chance of victory fell,
Our's is the praise of courage nought can quell.
But why detain you ? Go, my faithful band ;
Ye, to whose aid all strength and power I owe,
Go ; and with speed, ere yet their strong right hand
Become too mighty, crush the hated foe ;
Arrest this flame, ere through Judea's land
Spread far and wide beyond control it grow.
Leave nought untried their ruin to achieve ;
By force o'erwhelm them, or by fraud deceive.
My will be fate ! let one self- exiled rove,
And one in private strife untimely die :
138 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
Altri in cure d' amor lascive immerso,
Idol si faccia un dolce sguardo e un riso :
Sia '1 ferro incontro al suo rettor converso
Dalla stuol ribellante e 'n se diviso :
Pera il campo e mini, e resti in tutto
Ogni vestigio suo con lui distrutto.
THE ADDRESS OF SATATV. 139
This be entangled in the toils of love,
And make an idol of some laughing eye :
Others, a fiery band, let faction move
"With rebel arms their leader to defy ;
Perish their camp, their place no more be seen,
And not a vestige tell they e'er had been !
Usa ogn' arte la donna, onde sia colto
Nelle sue rete alcun novello amante :
Ne con tutti, ne sempre un stesso volto
Serba, ma cangia a tempo atti e sembiante.
Or tien pudica il guardo in se raccolto ;
Or lo rivolge cupido e vagante :
La sferza in quegli, il freno adopra in questi,
Come lor vede in amar lenti, o presti.
Se scorge alcun che dal suo amor ritiri
L' alma, e i pensieri per difndenza affrene,
Gli apre un benigno riso, e in dolci giri
Volge le luci in lui liete e serene :
THE AETS OF AB3IEDA, THE ENCHANTRESS
By countless arts, all-powerful to destroy,
Fresh lovers still within her toils she drew ;
For not towards all one mode did she employ,
But various as the hearts she would subdue.
From this she shrank, like one reserved and coy :
On that a wandering glance lascivious threw ;
And now the spur she used, and now the rein,
To excite the slow to love, the quick restrain.
If one she marks who diffident retires,
Checking his thoughts with cold timidity,
With boldness him her gentle smile inspires,
And the soft roll of her voluptuous eye.
142 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
E cosi i pigri e timidi desiri
Sprona, ed affida la dubbiosa spene :
Ed ? inflammando 1' amorose voglie,
Sgombra quel gel che la paura accoglie.
Ad altri poi, ch' audace il segno varca,
Scorto da cieco e temerario duce,
De' cari detti, e de' begli occhi e parca
E in lui timore e riverenza induce.
Ma fra lo sdegno, onde la fronte e carca,
Pur anco un raggio di pieta riluce :
Si ch' altri teme ben, ma non dispera,
E piu s ? invoglia, quanto appar piu altera.
Stassi talvolta ella in disparte alquanto
E '1 volto e gli atti suoi compone e finge
Quasi dogliosa ; e in fin su gli occhi il pianto
Tragge sovente, e poi dentro il respinge :
E con quest' arti a lagrimar intanto
Seco mill' alme simplicette astringe ;
THE ARTS OF ARMIDA. 143
Thus, while she stimulates his dull desires,
And bids him hope he may not vainly sigh,
The kindling heat of love's resistless dart
Dissolves the frost that binds his torpid heart.
If some there -were who passed decorum's bound,
Urged by that blind, rash guide, great Venus' son,
Towards such, of gracious words more sparing found,
A look commanding reverence she put on.
Yet from that brow r severe, e'en w T hile she frowned,
A ray of mingled pity sweetly shone ;
Hence, awed, they yet despaired not ; and their flame
The fiercer grew, the haughtier seemed the dame.
Now from the crowd would she withdraw apart,
And in her look a pensive sorrow feign,
And from her eye the sudden tear would start,
Which she as quickly would suppress again.
And thus to weep with her full many a heart
Mistrustless of her guile she would constrain ;
144 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
E in foco di pieta strale d' amore
Tempra, onde pera a si fort' arme il core.
Poi, si come ella a quel pensier s' invole,
E novella speranza in lei si deste,
Ver gli amanti il pie clrizza e le parole,
E di gioja la fronte adorna e veste ;
E lampeggiar fa, quasi un doppio sole.
II chiaro sguardo, e '1 bel riso celeste
Sulle nebbie del duolo oscure e folte ;
Ch' avea lor prima intorno al petto accoite.
Ma mentre dolce parla, e dolce ride,
E di doppia dolcezza inebria i sensi,
Quasi dal petto lor 1' alma divide,
Non prima usata a quei diletti immensi.
Ahi crudo Amor ! ch' egualmente n' ancide
L 5 assenzio e '1 mel, die tu fra noi dispensi :
E d' ogni tempo egualmente mortali
Vengon da te le medicine e i mali.
THE ARTS OIT ARMIDA. 145
Such powerful arms, such fatal weapons prove,
By pity pointed, the keen shafts of love.
Then would she seem from these sad thoughts to fly,
As if fresh hope within her breast had sprung ;
And turn her step, with new-born gaiety
Of words and aspect, towards the enamoured throng;
As gleams the sunshine thro' the murky sky,
E'en so her heavenly smile its radiance flung
Athwart those clouds of sorrow dark and dense
Collected on her brow, and chased them thence.
While thus she softly speaks and sweetly smiles,
The double charm intoxicates each sense,
And every bosom of its heart despoils
Unused before to rapture so intense.
Oh, cruel love, which equally beguiles,
Whether it gall or honey- dew dispense ;
The wound, the cure, must to its victims prove
Fatal alike, when both proceed from love.
146 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
Fra si contrarie tempre, in ghiaccio e in foco,
In riso e in pianto, e fra paura e spene,
Inforsa ogni suo stato, e di lor gioco
L'ingannatrice donna a prender viene.
E s' alcun mai con suon tremante e fioco
Osa parlando d' accennar sue pene,
Finge, quasi in amor rozza e inesperta,
Non veder Talma ne' suoi detti aperta.
Oppur le luci vergognose e chine
Tenendo, d' onesta s'orna e colora;
Si che viene a celar le fresche brine
Sotto le rose onde il bel viso infiora ;
Qual neir ore piu fresche e mattutine
Del primo nascer suo veggiam 1' aurora ;
E '1 rossor dello sdegno insieme n' esce
Con la vergogna, e si confonde e mesce.
Ma se prima negli atti ella s J accorge
D' uom, che tenti scoprir Y accese voglie,
THE ARTS OF ARMIDA. 147
While various tempers thus, by frost and flame,
By smiles and tears, by fears and hopes are swayed,
With such disorder pleased, her cruel game
By turns on all the fair deceiver played.
But if with faltering tongue one dared to name
His passion, all unconscious seemed the maid,
As one in love's new ways unskilled and rude,
Who of such language nothing understood :
Or on the ground her bashful eyes she threw,
While maiden modesty her cheeks o'erspread,
Till 'mid the rose's all-involving hue
The lily fair was lost and hid its head.
Such in the fresh and early dawn we view,
Aurora blushing from Tithonus' bed.
Scorn too was in her look, and anger's flush
Confused and mingled with that virgin blush.
If one there were whom she perceived intent
On apt occasion to declare his pain,
148 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
Or gli s J invola e fugge, ed or gli porge
Modo onde parli, e in un tempo il ritoglie.
Cosi il di tutto in vano error lo scorge
Stanco, e deluso poi di speme il toglie.
Ei si riman qual cacciator eh' a sera
Perda alfin V orma di seguita fera.
Queste fur Y arti, onde mill' alme e mille
Prender furtivamente ella poteo ;
Anzi pur furon 1' arme, onde rapille,
Ed a forza d' amor serve le feo.
Qual meraviglia or fia, se V fero Achille
D' amor fu preda, ed Ercole, e Teseo,
3' ancor chi per Gesu la spada cinge
L' empio ne' lacci suoi talora stringe ?
THE ARTS OF AR3IIDA. 149
Him she would now avoid, and now present
The chance he sought, then straight recall again ;
Till in the fruitless chase the day was spent,
And he had found his hopes and labours vain ;
Like weary hunter who, at close of day,
Has lost all traces of his long- sought prey.
Such were the arts by which the beauteous Dame
Did, with nice skill, a thousand souls ensnare :
Such were the arms by which she overcame
And forced a thousand slaves her yoke to bear.
Who then shall Theseus, who Alcides blame,
Or Peleus' son, that they Love's victims were;
Since e'en those heroes who for Jesus drew
The righteous sword all- conquering Love o'erthrew ?
Ma ecco omai P ora fatale e giunta,
Che '1 viver di Clorinda al suo fin deve :
Spinge egli il ferro nel bel sen di punta,
Che vi s' immerge, e '1 sangue avido beve ;
E la veste, che d' or vago trapunta
Le mammelle stringea tenera e leve,
L' empie d' un caldo fiume : ella gia sente
Morirsi, e' 1 pie le manca egro e languente.
Segue egli la vittoria, e la trafitta
Vergine, minnacciando, incalza e preme :
Ella, mentre cadea, la voce ainitta
Movendo, disse le parole estreme,
THE BAPTISM AND DEATH OF CLORIXDA.
But now Clorinda to fate's stern arrest
Must yield : her hour is come ; life's debt is due !
With well- aimed thrust his weapon pierced her breast,
Sank deep within it, and her life blood drew.
The warm flood filled her gold- embroidered vest,
Whose soft light folds herbosom screened from view.
She felt the hand of death was on her laid,
Her staggering foot denied its wonted aid.
He by the hopes of conquest urged along,
Impetuous on the wounded maiden pressed ;
She, as she fell, with faint and faltering tongue
Scarce to her victor these last words addressed,
152 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
Parole ch' a lei novo un spirto ditta,
Spirto di fe, di carita, di speme :
Virtu ch' or Dio le infonde ; e se rubella
In vita fu, la vuole in morte aneella.
Amico, hai vinto ; io ti perdon : perdona
Su ancora, al corpo no, che nulla pave,
All' alma si : deh per lei prega, e dona
Battesmo a me, ch' ogni mia colpa lave.
In queste voci languide risuona
Un non so che di flebile e soave,
Ch' al cor gli scende, ed ogni sdegno ammorza,
E gli occhi a lagrimar gP invoglia e sforza.
Poco quindi lontan nel sen del monte
Scaturia mormorando un picciol rio :
Egli v' accorse, e Y elmo empie nel fonte,
E torno mesto al grande ufficio e pio.
Tremar senti la man, mentre la fronte,
Non conosciuta ancor, sciolse e scoprio.
THE BAPTISM AXD DEATH OF CLORINDA. 153
Words which a spirit in her heart new sprung
(Of Faith, Hope, Love, the spirit) did suggest ;
For so God willed, that she, who spurned the faith
While living, should his handmaid prove in death.
" Friend, thou hast conquered ; my forgiveness take;
Let me have thine ; I want no favour shewn
This fearless body ; for my poor soul's sake
Pray thou, and give me Baptism, which alone
May wash away my sins." As thus she spake
There was a plaintive sweetness in her tone
Which sinks into his heart ; all anger dies,
And tears, despite the warrior, fill his eyes.
With gentle murmur from a neighbouring hill
A streamlet flowed ; no more to hear or ask
Stayed he, but ran his helmet thence to fill ;
Then turned him sorrowing to his pious task :
E'en then his hands (tho' undiscovered still
Her features) trembled as they loosed her casque;
154 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
La vide, la conobbe ; e resto senza
E voce, e moto. Ahi vista ! ahi conoscenza !
Non mori gia ; che sue virtuti accolse
Tutte in quel punto, e in guardia al cor le mise,
E, premendo il suo affanno, a dar si volse
Vita coll' acqua a chi col ferro uccise.
Mentre egli il suon de' sacri detti sciolse,
Colei di gioia trasmutossi, e rise :
E in atto di morir lieto e vivace
Dir parea : s' apre il cielo, io vado in pace.
D' un bel pallore ha il bianco volto asperso,
Come a' gigli sarian miste viole ;
E gli occhi al cielo affisa, e in lei converso
Sembra per la pietate il cielo e '1 sole ;
E la man nuda e fredda alzando verso
II cavaliero, in vece di parole,
Gli da pegno di pace : in questa forma
Passa la bella donna, e par che dorma.
THE BAPTISM AND DEATH OF CLORINDA. 155
He saw, — he knew, — then reft of motion stood,
And speech. O sight, O knowledge to be rued !
But soon, the weakness of his heart to guard,
His prostrate energies he roused again ;
His own distress o'er- mastering, he prepared
To save by water her his sword had slain ;
Then as his lips the holy words declared,
She smiled with joy victorious o'er the pain
Of death's sharp sting, and seemed to say in heart :
" Heaven opens for me ; I in peace depart."
A livid paleness her fair face o'erspreads,
Like violet mingling with the lily white ;
On heaven she fixed her eyes ; and on the maid
Heaven seemed to look with pity and delight.
She had no strength for words, but in their stead,
Raising her cold bare hand towards the knight,
Gives him that pledge of peace ; and in this guise,
As one that falls asleep, the lovely maiden dies.
156 GERUSALEMME LIBERATA.
Come F alma gentile uscita ei vede,
Rallenta quel vigor ch' avea raccolto,
E F imperio di se libero cede
Al duol gia fatto impetuoso e stolto ;
Ch' al cor si stringe, e chiusa in breve sede
La vita empie di morte i sensi e '1 volto.
Gia, simile alF estinto il vivo langue
Al colore, al silenzio, agli atti, al sangue.
THE BAPTISM AND DEATH OF CLORODA. 157
But when he saw her noble spirit flown,
His lately rallied powers again give way :
And now his frantic grief impetuous grown,
Left him no longer o'er himself free sway;
To his heart's narrow seat confined alone,
(All else was death's) life faint and fluttering lay ;
You scarce would know the living from the dead,
Voice, action, hue, from both alike had fled.
PHILOMELA AC CUHAM)I CONCERTATIO.
FAMIANUS STRADA. LIB. II. PROLUSIO VI.
Jam Sol a medio pronus deflexerat orbe,
Mitius e radiis vibrans crinalibus ignem;
Cum Fidicen, propter Tiberina fluenta, sonanti
Lenibat plectro curas, aestumque levabat
Ilice defensus nigra, scenaque virenti.
Audiit hune hospes sylvae Philomela propinquse,
Musa loci, nemoris Siren, innoxia Siren,
Et prope succedens stetit abdita frondibus, alte
Accipiens sonitum, secumque remurmurat, et quos
Ille modos variat digitis, hsec gutture reddit.
THE HARPER AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
FROM STEAD A S PBOLUSIONES.
Now Sol, declining from the noon of day,
From his bright tresses cast a milder ray ;
When, by the side of gentle Tiber flung,
His harp, to solace care, a minstrel strung ;
While the dark ilex and the greenwood shade
With tangled boughs the sultry hour allayed.
Him, as it chanced, a nightingale, that long
Had charmed the neighbouring copse with match-
(The siren of the place, but one that meant no
O'erheard; and, by the foliage screened, more near
Approaching, drank each sound with greedy ear ;
And, to herself low murmuring, every note
His fingers struck, gave back with mimic throat.
160 PHILOMELA AC CITHAR^DI CONCERTATIO.
Sensit se Fidicen Philomela imitante referri,
Et placuit ludum volucri dare : plenius ergo
Explorat citharam, tentamentumque futurse
Praebeat ut pugnae, percurrit protinus omnes
Impulsu pernice fides. Nee segnius ilia,
Mille per excurrens variae discrimina vocis,
Venturi specimen praefert argutula cantus.
Tunc Fidicen, per fila movens trepidantia dextram,
Nunc contemnenti similis diverberat ungue,
Depectitque pari chordas et simplice ductu ;
Nunc carptim replicat, digitisque micantibus urget
Fila minutatim, celerique repercutit ictu.
Mox silet. Ilia modis totidem respondit, et artem
Arte refert. Nunc, ceu rudis aut incerta canendi,
Projicit in longum, nulloque plicatile flexu
Carmen init, simili serie, jugique tenor e
THE HARPER AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 161
The mocking strains in turn the harper heard,
And straight resolved to give the merry bird
The sport she seemed to seek ; for this, his lyre
He tunes with greater care, and proves each wire :
Then o'er the scale he runs with rapid thumb,
And sounds a prelude to the strife to come.
Not with less art the bird her voice essays, —
From high to low its compass she displays ;
Through each division running, soft and strong,
A previous sample of her powers of song.
Now o'er the frame his arm the minstrel flings ;
With careless air at first he touched the strings ;
And simple measures, regular and slow,
Seemed struck in scorn of such unequal foe :
Then o'er the chords his nimble fingers fly
With touch minute, and brilliant harmony ;
Brook no dull pause, but still take up again,
With rapid stroke, the ever varying strain.
He ceased ; and Philomel, with mimic art,
The measure caught, and echoed every part ;
Timid at first, as if from artless throat,
She slowly drew the long unvaried note ;
162 PHILOMELA AC CITHARJEDI CONCERTATIO.
Praebet iter liquidum labenti e pectore voci :
Nunc ceesim variat, modulisque canora minutis
Delibrat vocem, tremuloque reciprocat ore.
Miratur Fidicen parvis e faucibus ire
Tarn varium, tam dulce melos ; majoraque tentans
Alternat mira arte fides : dum torquet acutas,
Inciditque : graves operoso verbere pulsat,
Permiscetqne simul certantia rauca sonoris,
Ceu resides in bella viros clangore lacessat.
Hoc etiam Philomela canit ; dumque ore liquenti
Vibrat acuta sonum, modulisque interplicat eequis,
Ex inopinato gravis intonat, et leve murmur
Turbinat introrsus, alternantique sonore
Clarat, et infuscat, ceu Martia classica pulset.
Scilicet erubuit Fidicen, iraque calente
Aut non hoc, inquit, referes Citharistria sylvse,
THE HARPER AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 163
While from her breast, in smooth and even tide,
Her liquid voice spontaneous seemed to glide :
Then thickly warbled from her quivering bill,
In mellow tones she pours the varied trill ;
Minutely fine her trembling voice sustains,
And fills the wild woods with responsive strains.
The minstrel marvelled how from pipe so small
Such sweet, such various melody could fall :
A loftier effort of his art he tries,
And bids the notes alternate fall and rise.
Now shrill they pierce the ear, and now they rang
Beneath his touch with deep sonorous clang ;
Then in the trumpet's thrilling strains unite, —
Such strains as rouse dull laggards to the fight.
This, too, the bird achieves ; first, shrill and high,
The liquid music cleaves the vaulted sky;
Then on a sudden from her chest profound
In deep low murmurs came the gurgling sound ;
The notes alternate seem to sink and swell,
And on the ear like martial bugle fell.
The harper blushed, half angry, half ashamed ;
" Proud chantress of the woods," he then exclaimed,
164 PHILOMELA AC CITHAR^DI CONCERTATIO.
Aut fracta cedam cithara. Nee plura locutus,
Non imitabilibus plectrum concentibus urget.
Namque manu per fila volat : simul hos, simul illos
Explorat numeros, chordaque laborat in omni :
Et strepit, et tinuit, crescitque superbius, et se
Multiplicat relegens, plenoque choreumate plaudit :
Turn stetit expectans, si quid paret semula contra.
Ilia autem, quamquam vox dudum exercita fauces
Asperat, impatiens vinci, simul advocat omnes
Nequicquam vires : nam, dum discrimina tanta
THE HARPER AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 165
" Either to this thy baffled powers shall yield,
" Or I my harp will break, and quit the field !"
He said ; and putting forth his utmost pains,
Drew from his harp inimitable strains :
With flying fingers swept each sounding wire,
And called forth all the magic of his lyre.
On every chord he labours, and explores
Of taste and science all the hidden stores.
Now softly sweet the tinkling numbers came,
Now with loud crash resounds the vocal frame :
Now seem his hands in mutual chase to roll,
The strain redoubling ; till he crowned the whole,
As each new effort o'er the last still rose
With one full burst, one grand and glorious close ;
Then paused to listen if his rival still
Had aught to match this triumph of his skiLl.
But she, impatient to be thus outvied,
Though now too long and too severely tried
Her voice began to fail, yet gave not o'er
The strife, but summoned for one effort more
(Alas ! in vain) those powers too hardly tasked before.
For while the Harper to the contest brings
166 PHILOMELA AC CITHAR^DI COXCERTATIO.
Reddere tot fidium nativa et simplice tentat
Voce, eanaliculisque imitari grandia parvis,
Impar magnanimis ausis, imparque dolori
Deficit, et vitam summo in certamine linquens
Victoris cadit in plectrum, par nacta sepulchrum.
Usque adeo et tenues animas ferit semula virtus.
THE HARPER AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 167
The complex harmony of countless strings,
She on her mere unaided voice relies,
And simple nature's untaught energies ;
Unfit to compass her ambitious aim,
Or of defeat to bear the conscious shame,
She sinks exhausted by the unequal strife,
And quits the contest only with her life.
The victor's harp receives her latest breath, —
A death-bed not unworthy such a death.
To such brave deeds can emulation fire,
And little souls with scorn of life inspire.
Dec. 11th, 1824.
Blandioe, indulsit, felis, tibi Parca ; novena
Nam tibi net Lachesis fila novena colo.
Hinc, si missa voles celsi de culmine tecti,
Decidis in tutos prsecipitata pedes.
Nee miseram licet infestent laniique canesque,
Te lanii exanimant, exanimantve canes.
Si moriare semel, si bis, si terve, quaterve,
Plusquam dimidia parte superstes eris.
Fob, thee, blest cat ! the Fates indulgent twine
A ninefold thread of life from distaffs nine.
Hence, tho' from some high roof thou'rt headlong
Thou light* st in safety on thy feet at last.
Though dogs and butchers persecute thee still,
Nor dog nor butcher e'er can wholly kill.
For once, twice, thrice, four times, of life bereft,
Thou still hast more than half thy being left.
July 28th, 1827.
Sedxjla per campos, nullo defessa labor e,
In cella ut stipet mella, vagatur apis :
Purpureum vix florem opifex praetervolat unum,
Innumeras inter quas alit hortus opes ;
Herbula gramineis vix una innascitur agris,
Thesauri unde aliquid non studiosa legit.
A fiore ad florem transit, mollique volando
Delibat tactu suave quod intus habent.
Omnia delibat, parce sed et omnia, furti
Ut ne vel minimum videris indicium.
Omnia degustat tarn parce, ut gratia nulla
Floribus, ut nullus diminuatur odor.
Non ita prsedantur modice bruchique et erucse :
Non, ista hortorum maxima pestis, aves
THE HAMLESS PILFEEEE,
With toil unwearied, over lawn and lea,
In search of honey roams the industrious bee ;
Amid the countless stores the garden yields
There springs no flower, no plant in all the fields,
Which the skilled artist passes unexplored,
From which she culls not something for her hoard.
From flower to flower she flies ; and, as she flies,
What each contains of sweetness tastes, and tries.
From each she sips, and yet there is not left,
(So sparing and so delicate the theft,)
Of wrong committed e'en the slightest trace ;
No flower has lost an odour, none a grace.
Not thus the slugs and caterpillars prey ;
Not thus, the garden's pest, the pilfering jay ;
172 INNOCENS PR.EDATRIX.
Non ita rap tores corvi, quorum improba rostra
Despoliant agros effodiuntque sata.
Succos immiscens succis, ita suaviter omnes
Temperat, ut dederit chymia nulla pares.
Vix furtum est illud, dicive injuria debet,
Quod cera et multo melle rependit apis.
THE HARMLESS PILFERER. 173
Not thus the robber rook, with restless bill,
Intent on plundering some rich cornfield still.
Then, how she blends and tempers juice with juice !
No chemic art the like w r ould e'er produce.
Call it not robbery then, which she with store
Of wax repays, and honey o'er and o'er.
Dux tu perita fers opem, pater, manu
Angoribus dolentmm ;
Ultroque tristi, quid tins debes memor,
Adhuc moraris oppido ;
Nos, cum mar it a liberi, peregimus
Amoena ruris otia :
Xec scripta forte displicebunt gaudia,
Queis ipse potieris brevi.
Labuntur ergo ut lseta nobis tempora,
Xi taedeat, paucis lege.
Cum per fenestras sol novum mittat jubar,
Ortumque nunciet diem ;
Refecta jamjam membra corripiens toro
Pererro prata roscida,
178 AD PATREM.
Leetusque miror ut viget nascens nemus,
Seu crescat ulmus fortior,
Meliorve platanus, seu micans abies comis,
Fagusve juncta robori ;
Dum fida gressus turba comitatur canum
Subinde tentans, quod licet,
Dumos ; latentem quippe sub satis adhuc
Turbare perdicem nefas.
Turn gaudeo, vel arte ficto Dsedala
Muscae nitentis corpore
Trutam obstinatam, viribus fractam suis,
Vix victor ad ripam trahens ;
Hamove lsevem callide vermem implicans
Percis edacibus dolum;
Tincamque, piscinseque regem lucium
Haud parva capta praemia.
Hinc parca quales mensa delicias habet,
Hinc quantus est cibis sapor !
Mox, ire qua me amoena suadeat via,
Per rura, per campos equo
Exerceor; ni forte juverit magis
Tentare quid profecerim
AD PATRE3I. 179
Torquens sagittam, stridulamque arimdinem
Adusque me tarn dirigens.
At cum coruscus orbe sol altissimo
Accendat eestus fervidos,
Ah ! quanta morus (morus haud ipsi tuse
Cessura, vates inclyte)
Dat gaudia ! iliic tegminis sub frigore
Dulci recumbens otio,
Aut nota circum prata mugientium
Armenta prospecto vaga;
Aut miror ut se nunc in ipsa nubila
Columba praepes erigit.
Nunc visa labi, mox resurgit ocyus
Scinditque gyris aera.
Horamve quodvis lectitans opusculum
Impendo non inutilem ;
Ne forte credas mentis hsec inter, pater,
Torpere neglectas opes.
Nee nempe vitaB gaudiorum rustic se
Pars nulla debetur libris.
Sic cum per arva pallidam sensim stoiam
Tranquilla nox induxerit,
180 AD PATREM.
Cernas beatum, si quis est alter, gregem
" Circum renidentes lares."
Dum ridet herbis mensa non nocentibus,
Splendetque ccena simplici :
Nee sermo dulcis deficit ; nee te, pater,
Hunc inter obliviscimur.
Reddent maritse conjugem pauci dies,
Reddent parentem liberis !
Paucis diebus nostra tibi erunt gaudia,
Haud plena, ni tecum simul.
Aug. 13th, 1805.
AN COXTRABIA MUTUO SE EXPELLAXT
Vesper erat : plenoque ignes de more vetusto
Lydia subjectos cauta lebete premit;
Exierat forte ilia domo : mox tollere murmur
Inclusa serato carcere coepit aqua.
Surgit paulatim, flammseque coacta calore
Suppositae, fervens altius unda tumet.
Protinus hinc illinc costas amplexus aheni
Ex eere iratas ejicit ignis aquas.
Nee mora, praecipiti per fumea claustra volutus
Candentem torrens irrigat imbre focum.
Vis ignis suppressa perit. Quid plurima ? — Carbo,
Quo tua flamma abiit ? quo tua lympha, Lebes :
AN BBUTA COGITENT: AFFIEMATTIE.
Qua, strata in tabulis, sartorum fcetida turba
Sutile, transversis cruribus, urget opus ;
Praeteriens elephas, mirans insueta, fenestrae
Intulit, affixa. non sine mole, caput.
Intrusam, varia vafer arte, proboscida sartor
(Ludibrium sociis et sibi) pungit acu.
Non tulit hoc elephas : tacita sed percitus ira
Accepta ulcisci vulnera fraude parat.
Multa movens animo, vestigia lenta ferebat
Qua sudat tepida pigra cloaca lacu :
Hinc ubi ccenosum per colla absorbuit haustum
Sartorum indignans limina nota petit ;
Hie tabulas super, intextasque proboscida vestes
Exonerans, foedas expuit ultor aquas.
AN BRUTA COGITENT. 183
Protinus audiri convitia mutua, ibi omnes
Effusae merces, hebdomadisque labor.
Ille exprobatus tantorum causa malorum,
" Ne tos pceniteat res ea," sartor ait :
" Si norint docti sentire elephanta dolorem,
Hinc tamen, hinc discent pectus inesse ferae."
AD AMTCUM MODO UXOEEM DITCTUEUM.
O tu juventse prime comes meae,
Experte mecum nunc studio graves
Acri labores, nunc jocoso
Gaudia amicitiee Lyaeo,
Allene, ni tu Candide lsetior
Audis ; id olim seu nivei tibi
Fecere cognomen capilli,
Sive animus sine fraude simplex,
Pectusque purum, (ut crediderim magis)-
Quocunque gaudes nomine ; jam tria
Post lustra salve ! gratulanti
Kite mihi veterem sodalem.
AD A3IICUM. 185
Ergo illigavit compede subdolus,
Tenetque captum te Veneris puer ?
Jam nunc et arris it , facemque
Lsetus Hymen tibi nuptialem
Prsetendit ? O ! quam tu tibi conjugem
Duces beatis auspiciis domum !
Utrique consensere miris
Astra modis, animeeque vestrum.
Quam digna amari sunt tibi novimus,
Quantique amoris corda capacia ;
Illi Juventus, Gratiseque, et
Quicquid id est quod amoeniori
Cor omnium ad se nescio quo mo do
Allectat : illi pura Fides tibi
Devota, nee mutanda lsetis
Temporibus dubiisve Virtus.
186 AD AMICUM.
Multos in annos, O ! bone sis precor
Allene felix ! et tibi defluant
Desideranti pauca ab almo
Res, et honor, sobolesque coelo.
Scandant paternum Candiduli genu,
Natique natorum, et similes avi
Vultumque virtutesque in aevum
Perpetuurn referant nepotes.
LINES DESCRIPTIVE OF THE GAEDEX
Jam mihi quern nuper vidi lsetissimus hortum,
Fas sit quo possim breviter perscribere versu.
Principio hinc illinc ineunti maxima laurus
Circuitus patet in largos, et gramen obumbrat :
Inter utramque via. recta fert semita ad sedes.
Progresso paulum ad laevam de cespite vivo
Ecce crucis secta est Melitense more figura,
Quae varia riorum specie signata nitescit.
Ad dextram pariter, regalis forma coronae
Floribus innumeris gemmas imitatur et aurum ;
Multaque praeterea passim se sustulit arbos
Omnigenis ornata rosis ; et dahlia florum
(Si fo raise par esset odor,) regina, colores
Pandit mille novos, et millia nomina jactat ;
Nee circumduct© desunt pendentia muro
Prunaque purpurea, et mensis pyra grata secundis.
Sept. 2nd, 1839.
AGAINST PKIDE IN DEESS.
Why should our garments, made to hide
Our parents' shame, provoke our pride ?
The art of dress did ne'er begin.
Till Eve, our mother, learnt to sin.
When first she put the covering on,
Her robe of innocence was gone ;
And yet her children vainly boast
In the sad marks of glory lost.
How proud we are ! how fond to shew
Our clothes, and call them rich and new !
When the poor sheep and silkworm wore
That very clothing long before.
Primorum inventas probra ad celanda parentum,
Cur nobis tunicae tanto in honore forent ?
Non prius ornandi venerunt corporis artes
Peccare infelix quam didicisset Eve.
Turn primum ilia novo sese velavit amictu,
Ut stetit innocui tegmine nuda sinus ;
At nos dedecoris stulte ostentamus aviti,
Ilia progenies orta parente, notas.
Mirari juvat, et nitidas os tender e vestes,
Quanti sunt pretii, qua novitate micant !
Talia jactamus, sed bombyx ante gerebat
Has ipsas tunicas, ante gerebat ovis.
]92 AGAINST PRIDE IN DRESS.
The tulip and the butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I :
Let me be diest fine as I will
Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.
Then will I set my heart to find
Inward adorning s of the mind ;
Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,
These are the robes of richest dress.
No more shall worms with me compare ;
This is the raiment angels wear ;
The Son of God, when here below,
Put on this blest apparel too.
It never fades, it ne'er grows old ;
Nor fears the rain, nor moth, nor mould ;
It takes no spot, but still refines ;
The more 'tis worn, the more it shines.
AGAIXST PRIDE IN DRESS. 193
Papilio variis longe mihi prsenitet alis,
Praenitet innumeris tulipa picta modis.
Quo me cunque colam studio, musca aemula palmam
Me victo, et flores, vermiculique ferent.
Morum igitur cultus potior mihi cura, animique
Assidui ornatus interioris, erunt :
Veri sanctus amor, pietas, sapientia, virtus,
Haec mihi vestis erunt optima, summus honor.
Hac chlamyde instructo, tandem mihi cedite vermes ;
Hac solet angelicus sese amicire chorus.
Quinetiam hanc olim, dignatus vis ere terras,
Induit eterni Filius ipse Dei.
Nunquam obscuratur, nunquam obsolet ilia ; neque
Aut avido tineas ore, situmve timet :
Non maculam capit, at contra fit clarior usu,
Inque dies specie candidiore nitet.
194 AGAINST PRIDE IN DRESS.
In this on earth would I appear,
Then go to heav'n and wear it there ;
God will approve it, in his sight ;
'Tis His own work, and his delight.
AGAINST PRIDE IX DRESS. ]95
Hoc ergo, in terris dum commoror, orner amictu,
Sic quoque et etherias fas sit adire domos ;
Rex ibi ecelicolum vultu arridente probabit
Hoc opus Ipse suum, deliciasque suas.
SIGNS OF RAIN.
REASONS FOR NOT ACCEPTING THE INVITATION OF A FRIEND.
The hollow winds begin to blow,
The clouds look black, the glass is low,
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,
And spiders from their cobwebs peep ;
Last night the sun went pale to bed,
The moon in haloes hid her head ;
The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,
For see, a rainbow spans the sky ;
The walls are damp, the ditches smell,
Closed is the pink- eyed pimpernel ;
Hark, how the chairs and tables crack !
Old Betty's joints are on the rack.
Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry,
The distant hills are seeming nigh.
Jam flare incipiunt rauco cum murmure venti ;
Nigrescunt nubes ; sidit hydrargyrium ;
Fuligo deseendit ; aranea cassibus exit ;
Dormitansque canis sternitur ante focum.
Pallidus he sterna Sol nocte cubile petivit ;
Obvolvit nebulis humida Luna caput.
Praesagus pluviae ducit suspiria pastor,
En etenini coelos Iridis arcus obit.
Jamque putres foetent fossae ; murique madescunt ;
Pasta oculurn timide clausum anagallis habet.
Audisne ut mensse crepuere, sediliaque ultro ?
Et gemit, ossa adeo discruciantur, anus.
Yociferatur anas ; strepit acri guttere pavo ;
Longinqui apparet jam prope montis apex.
198 SIGNS OF RAIN.
How restless are the snorting swine !
The busy flies disturb the kine ;
Low o'er the grass the swallow wings ;
The cricket too, how sharp he sings !
Puss, on the hearth, with velvet paws
Sits wiping o'er her whisker' d jaws.
Through the clear stream the fishes rise,
And nimbly catch the incautious flies ;
The glowworms, numerous and bright,
Ilium' d the dewy dell last night ;
At dusk the squalid toad was seen
Hopping and crawling o'er the green;
The whirling wind the dust obeys,
And in the rapid eddy plays ;
The frog has changed his yellow vest,
And in a russet coat is drest ;
Though June, the air is cold and still ;
The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill;
My dog, so altered in his taste,
Quits mutton bones on grass to feast ;
And see yon rooks, how odd their flight !
They imitate the gliding kite,
SIGHTS OF RAIX. 199
Sus praeter solitum trepidat, nee stertere cessat ;
Morsibus exagitat musca molesta boves.
En liumilis volat, et campum vix radit hirundo ;
Turn magis arguto carmine grillus ovat.
Ante focum felis sedet, assiduoque labore
Hirta pedum plantis mollibus or a lavat.
Aspicias vitream per aquam se mittere pisces.
Ut si cauta par am musca sit, arripiant.
Turn vidi innumeris interlucentibus herb am
Vermibus hesterna nocte micare nemus.
Squallidus, erepens sub sera crepuscula, bufo
Pigra per immundam membra trahebat humum.
Pulvereamque rotans nubem, sublime per auras
Hue, illuc, rapido turbine, ventus agit.
Aspice quae nuper croceo fulgebat amictu
Vertitur, et fusca jam cute rana rubet.
Aura, aestiva licet, gelida est ; merulaeque canorae
Xon jam suave fluit carmen, at acre sonat.
Praeterea, oblitus naturae, vescitur herba,
Ossaque, proh monstrum ! linquit o villa canis.
Isti etiam corvi morem mutasse videntur,
Pennasque, ut milvi, vix agitare fuga ;
200 SIGNS OF RAIN.
And seem precipitate to fall,
As if they felt the piercing ball : —
'Twill surely rain, I see with sorrow;
Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.
SIGNS OF RAIN. 201
Turn quasi trajiceret subito cor letifer ictus,
Aere se librant, praecipitesque cadunt.
Crastina lux pluvias (experto credite,) ducet,
Propositum moniti ne faciamus iter.
THE POPLAR FIELD,
The poplars are felPd : farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade !
The winds play no longer, and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
Twelve years have elaps'd since I first took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew ;
And now on the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade !
The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat ;
And the scene where his melody charm' d me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
Stratum populeum nemus est ; cara umbra, valeto !
Frigus, et aurarum grate susurre, vale !
Non jam inter frondes leni flant murmure venti,
Non harum in vitreo flumine imago micat.
Bis sex praeteriere anni, ex quo tempore vidi
Dilectum, ornabat quern nemus illud, agrum ;
Quod nunc, ecce ! jacet subversum in gramine : et
Nunc mihi dat sedem, quae modo tegmen erat.
Jamque alias merulse latebras petiere, diei
Unde procul coryli fervida tela fugant.
Xec loca quae grato quondam modulamine sensus
Mulcerunt, resonant jam mihi suave melos.
204 THE POPLAR FIELD.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments I see
Have a being less durable even than he.
THE POPLAR FIELD. 205
Et mea vita fugax celeri pede labitur, et mox
Obrutus, hi quales sunt, ego truncus ero.
Adstabitque prius capiti lapis, ossaque condar
Cespite, quam veteri par nova sylva subit.
Has dum mente vices reputo, mortalibus setas
Quam brevis' est moneor, quam breve quicquid
Vita hominis velut umbra fugit, sed gaudia vitse
Hei mihi ! prsetereunt jam citiore fuga.
The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna convey' d;
The plentiful moisture encumber' d the flower,
And weigh' d down its beautiful head.
The cup was ail fill'd, and the leaves were all wet;
And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown' d,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I snapp'd it; it fell to the ground.
Qtjam modo iargus aqua madefecerat imber, ad
Munere portabat lseta Maria rosam ;
Et flos egregium, collecto humore gravatus,
Demisit collo languidiore caput.
Ut plenum vidi calicem, et folia humida circum,
Sponte videbatur flos mihi flere sua,
Et desiderio tristi moerere relicta?
Arboris, unde avida vi modo vulsus erat.
Hunc propere arripui, nimia licet obrutus unda
Yix oblectandis naribus aptus erat ;
Arripui, cautusque parum dum torqueo caulem,
Decussus cecidit flos miserandus linmi.
208 THE ROSE.
And such, I exclaim' d, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind ;
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign' d.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom' d with its owner awhile ;
And the tear that is wip'd with a little address
May be folio w'd perhaps by a smile.
THE ROSE. 209
Et tales, clamo, sunt qui lenimine vires
Infirmis animis suppeditare negant ;
Qui temere excruciant miseros, et frangere pergunt
Pectora, quae luctus jam grave pressit onus.
Haec, si forte mihi minus exagitata fuisset,
Paulisper poterat salva fuisse rosa ;
Et, quibus alma, aliquis lachrymam deterserat arte,
Mox risum videas, emicuisse genis.
COMPOSED FOR JOHN COX, PARISH CLERK OF NORTHAMPTON, AND
SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY, A.D. 1787.
While thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,
All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their house, the grave.
Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years ?
Did famine or did plague prevail,
That so much death appears ?
No ! these were vigorous as their sires,
Nor plague, nor famine came ;
This annual tribute death requires,
And never waives his claim.
Dum lunse tredecim viderunt currere Nenum
Et placido vectas amne natare rates,
Hos omnes, \ arise decurso tramite vitse,
Excepit tumuli non fugienda domus.
Ergone, jamdudum fragilis, nunc pronior setas
Est hominum ad celerem quam fuit ante necem :
An miseranda fames, an sa9\dit horrida pestis,
Quod sic corripuit mors properata gradum r
At vigor his idem datus est qui patribus olim,
Nee pestis venit, nee miseranda. fames ;
Hsec fatum poscit, poscetque tributa quotannis,
Xec sibi non reddi debita jura sinit.
212 MORTUARY VERSES.
Like crowded forest-trees we stand,
And some are mark'd to fall ;
The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.
Green as the bay-tree, ever green,
With its new foliage on,
The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen ;
I pass'd — and they were gone.
Read, ye that run, the aweful truth
With which I charge my page !
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.
No present health can health insure
For yet an hour to come ;
No med'cine, though it oft can cure,
Can always balk the tomb.
MORTUARY VERSES. 213
Haud secus ac sylvis denso stant ordine pinus,
Et nota csesuris illita ouique sua est ;
Sic nobis jussu divino ictura bipennis
Imminet, et Letho mox caput omne dabit.
Ssepe homines vidi qui prima setate virebant,
Qualis fronde nova laurus amicta viret.
Vidi securos ludo dare tempus inepto ;
Prseterii, — nusquam frivola turba fuit.
Perlege qui curris, non est mora longa legenti,
Perlege quae noster vera libellus habet ;
Vermis edax rosese latet heu ! sub flore juventae,
Esaque radicem verme senecta perit.
Quid si nunc valeas, non eras idcirco valebis,
Hora potest moibos proxima ferre suos ;
Ssepius attulerit forsan medicina salutem,
Non tamen immunis funere semper eris.
214 MORTUARY VERSES.
And oh ! that, humble as my lot
And scorn' d as is my strain,
These truths, though known, too much forgot,
I may not teach in vain.
So prays your clerk with all his heart,
And, ere he quits the pen,
Begs you for once to take his part,
And answer all — Amen !
MORTUARY VERSES. 215
Atque, oh ! sors quamvis humilis mea, nee fuit un-
Dignatum multo carmen honore meum ;
Quae toties cecini frustra, ne rursus inepta
Pectoreque immemori mox abitura canam.
Sic toto de corde precor, digitisque priusquam
Depono calamos, hanc superaddo precem :
Ut partes nostras vos excipiatis, et omnes
Una voce pium congeminetis Amen.
THE CYPEESS WfiEATH.
WILFE1D : S SONG FEOM " E.OKEBY."
O, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! —
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish' d holly 's all too bright ;
The mayflower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine ;
But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress-tree !
Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine ;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due ;
Nullah, nympha, mihi, nullam eontexe corollam,
Aut de cupressi facta sit ilia comis ;
Ah ! nimium fulgent mihi lilia vana, nimisque
Lsevis aquifolii planta nitoris habet ;
Nee rosa sylvestris, nee spinse floseulus albse
Me decet ; hse decorent tempora mcesta minus ;
Sed mihi, nympha, precor, nullam eontexe corollam,
Aut de cupressi facta sit ilia comis.
Impediat frontem festivae palmite vitis
Euphrosyne ridens lumina, labia, genas ;
Cultori sophias contingat sobria taxus ;
Sitque bono civi mascula quercus honor ;
218 THE CYPRESS WREATH.
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give ;
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree !
Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses bought so dear ;
Let Albion bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew ;
On favor' d Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green ; —
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree.
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair ;
And, while his crown of laurel leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell ; —
But, when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress tree.
THE CYPRESS WREATH. 219
Spem myrtus, vitamque novam dat amantibus aegris ;
At myrtum duro corde Matilda negat.
Ergo, nympha, mihi nullam contexe corollam,
Aut de cupressi facta sit ilia comis.
Evehat exultans, pretioso sanguine partas,
Quas junxit geminas Anglia lseta rosas ;
Cceruleum lotis hyacinthis rore galerum
Scotia (nee redolens desit Erica) tegat ;
Flore sibi caro, virides imitante smaragdos,
Semper honoratum cingat Ierna caput ;
At tu, nympha, mihi nullam contexe corollam,
Aut de cupressi facta sit ilia comis.
Barbitos icta sonet, dum vatum crinibus aptam
Virgineo est hederam cura parare choro ;
Sanguineaque manu dum victor laurea nectit
Serta, triumphales det tuba rauca modos.
At tibi cum tulerit notse vox tristis ad aures
Admonitus, animam corpore abisse meam,
Turn mihi, si libeat, contexas, nympha, corollam ;
Et de cupressi facta sit ilia comis.
220 THE CYPRESS WREATH.
Yes ! twine for me the cypress bough;
But O ! Matilda, twine not now !
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have looked and loved my last ;
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue ; —
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
And w r eave it of the cypress tree.
THE CYPRESS WREATH. 221
Immo age, fwnerese frondem mihi texe cupressi ;
Quin O paulisper flebile differ opus ;
Post aliquot menses, cum te vidisse supremum,
Et te supremum temp us amass e sinat ;
Cum mixtis rhuta violis, et rore marino
Spargent agrestes heec mea membra manus ;
Turn mihi, nympha, precor, turn demum texe corol-
Et de cupressi texta sit ilia comis.
October 9th, 1843.
GO, LOVELY LOSE.
Go, lovely rose !
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that 's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired ;
I, Formosa mese die rosa Lydiae,
Quae nunc et miserum me terit, et suum
Tempus, colligat ex hoc,
Illam quod tibi comparo,
Quam sit judicio pulchra et amabilis,
Praedulcisque meo ; die, rosa, virgini,
Quae spectanda juventa,
Et forma, et facie, tamen
E visu refugit, si vacuis virum
Desertisque fores edita tu locis,
Parvi gratia penditur
224 GO, LOYELY ROSE.
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die ; that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee :
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
Yet though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ;
And teach the maid,
That goodness time's rude hand defies ;
That virtue lives when beauty dies.
GO, LOVELY ROSE. 225
Semota ex oculis ; die age, prodeat
In lucem, neque se sic vetet appeti,
Sic laudata rubescat.
Turn demum morere ; ut tua
Ilia in morte legal, quam spatium breve
Raris usque eadem lex dedit omnibus,
Si quid suavius unquam,
Si quid sit speciosius.
Sed nympham e foliis dulcis odor tuis
Post mortem doceat, tempus ut invidum
Spernit, vivaque floret
Virtus, cum periit decor.
March 11th, 1844.
EPITAPH IN WISBEACH CHURCHYARD,
Beneath a sleeping infant lies ;
To earth his body lent
Hereafter shall more glorious rise,
But not more innocent.
And when the Arch-angel's trump shall blow,
And souls to bodies join,
Thousands shall wish their lives below
Had been as short as thine.
Subteh quiescit dormiens infantulus ;
Corpusque terrae creditum
Resurget olim gloria indutum nova,
Sua sed innocentia.
Ut angelorum principis canet tuba,
Rursusque vivent mortui,
Degisse tarn paucos in hac terra dies
Quam tu, quot optabunt, puer !
Feb. 3rd 1843.
THE ENVIOUS SNOW,
The envious snow comes down in haste,
To prove thy breast less fair,
But grieves to see itself surpassed,
And melts into a tear.
Though the same sun, with all diffusive rays,
Blush in the rose, and in the diamond blaze,
We prize the stronger effort of its power,
And justly set the gem before the flower.
Ccelo descendit propere nix invida, colli
Candorem fidens vincere posse tui,
Sed dolet, ut sese victam certamine sentit,
Fitque, tibi mcerens cedere, lachrymula,
December 16th. 1843.
Quid quod ubique jacit radios sol unus, et idem ;
Unde nitet pariter gemma, rubetque rosa,
Sideris aetherei laudabitur acrior ictus,
Et flori, ut jus est, anteferetur onyx.
November 1st. 1843.
OH NANM, WILT THOU GANG WITH ME?
Oh Nanny, wilt thou gang with me,
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ;
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly lot and russet gown ?
No longer drest in silken sheen,
No longer decked with jewels rare,
Say canst thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou art fairest of the fair ?
Oh Nanny, when thou'rt far away,
Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ;
Say, canst thou face the parching ray,
Nor shrink before the wintry wind ?
Oh ! can that soft, that gentle mien,
Extremes of hardships learn to bear,
Ergone vis mecum, comes hinc ire Anna? nee, urbis
Quod nitidae linquis gaudia, tristis abis ?
Num poterunt umbrae te delectare silentes,
Fusca contentam veste, humilique casa r
Cum tibi nee fulget, qua3 quondam serica fulsit
Vestis, nee gemmae quae micuere, micant ;
Regum aulas poteris, festosque relinquere ccetus
Pulchra ubi, prae pulchris omnibus, una nites ?
Cum procul hinc aberis, nonne, O cara Anna, revertes
Saepe in praeteritos anxia vota dies r
Qui disces, experta parum, nunc fervida solis
Spicula, nunc hyemis flamina rauca pati ?
Vultusne iste tuus norit tarn mollis iniqui
Temporis extremas posse subire vices ;
232 OH, NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WITH ME ?
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?
Oh ! Nanny, canst thou love so true,
Thro' perils keen with me to go ;
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,
To share with him the pang of woe ?
Say, should disease or pain befall,
Wilt thou assume the nurse's care ;
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?
And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath,
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death ?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay
Strew flow r ers, and drop the tender tear,
Nor then regret these scenes so gay,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?
OH, NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WITH ME ? 233
Nec laetae occurrent tristi tibi saepius aula?
Pulchra ubi, prae pulchris omnibus, Anna fuit ?
Sincerone adeo tibi pectus amore movetur,
Ut me nolueris per mala nulla sequi ;
Aut ego fortunae si quando incommoda plorem,
Curarumne comes fida levabis onus ?
Si dolor incident, si quis mihi morbus, an aegro
Sedula tu nutrix, suppeditabis opem ?
Nec tristi desiderio revocabitur hora,
Pulchra ubi, prae pulchris omnibus, Anna fuit ?
Atque ubi jam tandem moriar, nostramne fideli
Tu praesens animam dum fugit ore leges ?
Eluctansque premes suspirium, et aspera risu
Mulcebis placido quot necis hora feret ?
An tibi erit curae membra haec, jam frigida letho,
Floribus et tenera. spargere lachrymula. ?
Nec ccetus hilares istos meminisse pigebit,
Pulchra ubi, prae pulchris omnibus, Anna fuit ?
February 3rd, 1843.
HYMN, BY BISHOP HEBEE.
When spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laugh-
When summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's
When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and
the flood ;
In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker
The birds that wake the morning, and those that
love the shade,
The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy
The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his
Sett ver purpureos reserat lsetabile flores,
Ridentemque novo gramme pingit humum ;
Seu tener, sestivis delabens nubibus, imber
Corpora messorum victa calore levat ;
Seu glacialis hyems pigros tenet undique campos,
Et dura celeres compede frsenat aquas ;
Terra Deum testatur, et omnes laeta per horas
Auctorem rerum praedicat esse bonum.
Mane diem volucres hilari quae voce salutant,
Vesperis et placidi quas magis umbra juvat ;
Venti qui rapido nunc verrunt turbine montes,
Quae nunc sopit iners lenior aura nemus ;
Sol croceo qui de thalamo pulcherrimus exit,
Tramitis setherei lsetus inire viam ;
The moon and stars, their master's name in silent
Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky,
Shall man, alone -unthankful, his little praise deny ?
No, let the year forsake its course, the seasons cease
Thee, Master, must we always love ; and, Saviour,
The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer
The autumn droop in winter, the birds forsake the
The winds be lulPd, the sun and moon forget their
old decree ;
But we, in nature's latest hour, O Lord ! will cling to
I HYMN. 237
Et lima, et tacita fulgentia sidera pompa,
Divinam agnoscunt cuncta creata manum.
Ergone nos homines, quibus haec sunt omnia in usum
Tradita, et ad caelum queis patefacta via est ;
Nos soli ingrati nolemus solvere laudes,
Debita supremo munera parva Deo ?
Proh pudor ! antiquum licet annus deserat orbem,
Nee solitas norint tempora certa vices.
At Domine ! at nobis Tu semper amabere, nobis
Semper erit cultum nomen honore Tuum.
Marcescant verno reserati tempore flores,
Promissa aestatis munera terra neget ;
Inter eat brumae cedens autumnus iniqua? ;
Deserat umbrosum turba canora nemus :
Et sileant venti, legisque oblitus a vitas
Nee cursus peragat sol, neque luna suos ;
At nos, naturae suprema ubi venerit hora,
Dividet haerentes nos Tibi nulla dies.
THE SONG OF JUDITH,
CHAP. XVI. VER. 2.
" Begin unto my God with timbrels, sing unto my
Lord with cymbals : tune unto Him a new psalm :
exalt Him, and call upon his name.
For God breaketh the battles : for among the camps,
in the midst of the people, He hath delivered me out
of the hands of them that persecuted me.
Assur came out of the mountains from the north ;
he came with ten thousands of his army, the mul-
titude whereof stopped the torrents, and their horse-
men have covered the hills.
Pulsate sistruim principio Dei
Nomen vocantes ; tollite cymbala
Novisque mecum concinentes
Carminibus Domini Jehovae
Efferte laudes : Ille minacium
Iniqua fregit praelia, et h ostium
Me castra fallentem superba
Eripuit manibus scelestis.
Descendit Assur de Borese jugis,
Armata ducens millia ; tot maims
Rivos morabantur ; tegebat
Turba equitum, velut umbra, colles.
240 THE SONG OF JUDITH.
He bragged that he would burn up my borders,
and kill my young men with the sword, and dash the
sucking children against the ground, and make mine
infants as a prey, and my virgins as a spoil.
But the Almighty Lord hath disappointed them
by the hand of a woman.
For the mighty one did not fall by the young
men, neither did the sons of the Titans smite him,
nor high giants set upon him : but Judith the
THE SONG OF JUDITH. 241
Ergo hac tyrannus fretus ope, insolens
Fines daturum dixerat ignibus
Nostros, necaturumque ferro
Se juvenes, neque parciturum
Infantibus vel matris ab ubere
In saxa jactis ; turn pueros fore
Prsedam innocentes, et puellas
Militibus spolium protervis.
Verum has inanes Omnipotens minas
Irrisit, usus foeminea manu :
Non ense florentis juventa
Ille viri cecidit prof anus
Jactator ; ilium non soboles nova
Titania de stirpe neci dedit ;
Non interemerunt gigantes
Anachidae similes catervae ;
242 THE SONG OF JUDITH.
daughter of Merari weakened him with the beauty
of her countenance,
For she put off the garment of her widowhood
for the exaltation of those that were oppressed in
Israel, and anointed her face with ointment, and
bound her hair in a tire, and took a linen garment
to deceive him.
Her sandals ravished his eyes, her beauty took his
mind prisoner, and her fauchion passed through his
THE SOXG OF JUDITH. 243
Sed gloriantis robur Judith se
Vicit, Merari filia, per dolos
Aggressa, prsestantique vultu
Debilitans animum feiocem ;
Quae, cum mariti tristia funera
Mcereret, atras deposuit tamen
Vestes, ut oppressum levaret
Solliciti populum Israelis.
Xardo perunxit subdola Persico
Frontem decoram, sindonaque induit,
Mitraque velavit capillos,
Falleret ut speciosa capti
Mentem tyranni ; nee soleis nitor
Qui fascinaret lumina defuit :
Has ille devictus per artes
Succubuit, gladiusque collum
244 THE SONG OF JUDITH.
The Persians quaked at her boldness, and the
Medes were daunted at her hardiness.
Then my afflicted shouted for joy, and my weak
ones cried aloud; but they* were astonished: these
lifted up their voices, but they were overthrown.
The sons of the damsels have pierced them
through, and wounded them as fugitives' children ;
they perished by the battle of the Lord.
* The Assyrians.
THE SOXG OF JUDITH. 245
Obdormientis discidit impiger :
Ingentis ausi fama paventibus
Persis repentinos tumultus
Intulit, attonitisque Medis.
Turn gens meorum, moesta modo et malis
Afflicta, Tocem tollere gaudio ;
Et nuper innrmas excitari
Lsetiflcis animse triumphis ;
At mente perculsi interea, et novo
Casu stupentes, longe alios sonos
Illi dederunt atque mersi
Congemuere gravi ruina.
Multo cadebant vulnere perciti
Xostris ab omne parte sequentibus,
Et sauciati sic peribant
Ut pueri profugorum inermes ;
246 THE SONG OF JUDITH.
I will sing unto the Lord a new song : O Lord,
Thou art great and glorious, wonderful in strength
Let all creatures serve Thee : for Thou spakest
and they were made ; Thou did'st send forth thy
Spirit and it created them ; and there is none that
can resist thy voice.
For the mountains shall be moved from their
foundations with the waters, the rocks shall melt as
THE SOXG OF JUDITH. 247
Dux prseliorum quippe Deus stetit,
Salusque nobis. Ergo age, non prius
Audita cantabo Jehovse
Carmina ; Tu tibi vindicasti
Summos honores ; Tu celebrabere
Invictus armis, robore prsepotens :
Te quicquid in terris creatum est
Et Dominum colat et Parentem.
Vocem edidisti, cunctaque sunt tuo
Formata verbo ; Spiritus exiit
A Te tuus, totique mundo
Esse dedit ; nee in universe
Est orbe quicquam quod valeat Tibi
Contendere : ipsi sedibus a suis
Montes movebuntur, retroque
Te veniente ferentur amnes ;
248 THE SONG OF JUDITH.
wax at thy presence : yet Thou art merciful to them
that fear Thee.
For all sacrifice is too little for a sweet savour unto
Thee, and all the fat is not sufficient for thy
"burnt-offering : but he that feareth the Lord is great
at all times.
Woe to the nations that rise up against my
kindred! the Lord Almighty will take vengeance
of them in the day of judgment, in putting fire and
worms in their flesh ; and they shall feel them and
weep for ever.
THE SONG OP JUDITH. 249
Te saxa viso, cera uti in ignibus
Mollis, liquescent : Tu tamen omnibus
Qui corde Te fido verentur
Semper ades Bonus ac Benignus.
Non immolatis nidor ab hostiis
Gratissimus, non sufficiet Tibi
Fumantis arae sumptuosum
Munus ; id omne parum est ; sed ilium
Qui Te timebit pectore sirnpliei
Excelsa terrarum in loca provehes :
Vae gentibus, quae in me levarint
Atque meos apicem arrogantem !
Ultor supremo jamj am aderit die,
Ignemque vermesque inferet improbis,
Mittens in aeternos dolores,
Et gemitum, et sine fine fletum.
March 13th, 1851.
T. RICHARDS, PRINILR.
'• GT. QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S INN.