With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays With hallow'd lips!-Oh! blest without alloy, In those ethereal mansions thou art known. Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice, AN ODE ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN ROUSE, LIBRARIAN OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. ON A LOST VOLUME OF MY POEMS, WHICH HE DESIRED ME TO REPLACE, THAT HE MIGHT ADD THEM TO MY OTHER WORKS DEPOSITED IN THE LIBRARY. This Ode is rendered without rhime, that it might more adequately represent the original, which, as Milton himself informs us, is of no certain measure. It may possibly for this reason disappoint the reader, though it cost the writer more labour than the translation of any other piece in the whole collection. STROPHE. My twofold book! single in show, But double in contents, A poet gave, no lofty one in truth, ANTISTROPHE. Say, little book, what furtive hand Thee from thy fellow-books convey'd, What time, at the repeated suit Of my most learned friend, I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller, Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring Durable as yonder spheres, And through the endless lapse of years STROPHE II. Now what god, or demigod, Have expiated at length the guilty sloth Shall terminate our impious feuds, Driven from their ancient seats In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore, And with keen Phoebean shafts Piercing the unseemly birds, Whose talons menace us, Shall drive the harpy race from Helicon afar? ANTISTROPHE. But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd, Whether by treachery lost, Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault, From all thy kindred books, To some dark cell, or cave forlorn, The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand, For lo! again the splendid hope appears The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings STROPHE III. Since Rouse desires thee, and complains That though by promise his, Thou yet appear'st not in thy place Among the literary noble stores, Given to his care, But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete. He, therefore, guardian vigilant Of that unperishing wealth, Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge, Than Iön kept (Iön, Erectheus’son ANTISTROPHE. Haste, then, to the pleasant groves, The Muses' favourite haunt; Resume thy station in Apollo's dome. Dearer to him Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill! Exulting go, Since now a splendid lot is also thine, For there thou shalt be read With authors of exalted note, The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome. Ye then, my works, no longer vain, Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend; And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude Perhaps some future distant age, Less tinged with prejudice and better taught, Then, malice silenced in the tomb, I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim. |