With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays
A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze,
Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls,
Nor aims at vulgar minds, or little souls,
Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high
Sends every arrow to the lofty sky;
Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn
The power of Cupid, and enamour'd burn.
"Thou also Damon, (neither need I fear
That hope delusive,) thou art also there;
For whither should simplicity like thine
Retire? where else such spotless virtue shine?
Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shades below,
Nor tears suit thee; cease then my tears to flow!
Away with grief, on Damon ill bestow'd!
Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode,
Has pass'd the showery arch, henceforth resides
With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides
Quaffs copious immortality and joy,

With hallow'd lips!-Oh! blest without alloy,
And now enrich'd, with all that faith can claim,
Look down, entreated by whatever name,
If Damon please thee most (that rural sound
Shall oft with echoes fill the groves around),
Or if Diodatus, by which alone

In those ethereal mansions thou art known.
Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste
Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste,
The honours, therefore, by divine decree
The lot of virgin worth, are given to thee;
Thy brows encircled with a radiant band,
And the green palm-branch waving in thy hand,

Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice,
And join with seraphs thy according voice,
Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyre
Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire."

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,
Neat, but not curiously adorn'd,
Which, in his early youth,

A poet gave, no lofty one in truth,
Although an earnest wooer of the Muse-
Say while in cool Ausonian shades,
Or British wilds he roam'd,
Striking by turns his native lyre,
By turns the Daunian lute,
And stepp'd almost in air,-

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,
From our great city to the source of Thames,
Cærulean sire;

Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring
Of the Aonian choir,

Durable as yonder spheres,

And through the endless lapse of years
Secure to be admired?

STROPHE II.

Now what god, or demigod,
For Britain's ancient genius moved
(If our afflicted land

Have expiated at length the guilty sloth
Of her degenerate sons)

Shall terminate our impious feuds,
And discipline, with hallow'd voice, recall?
Recall the Muses too,

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,
Where thou endurest, perhaps,

The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand,
Be comforted-

For lo! again the splendid hope appears
That thou may'st yet escape

The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings
Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove!

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,
Where he intends a richer treasure far

Than Iön kept (Iön, Erectheus’son
Illustrious, of the fair Creüsa born)
In the resplendent temple of his god,
Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine.

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,
And thou art sought by my propitious friend;

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,
And worthless deem'd by me!
Whate'er this steril genius has produced
Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent,
An unmolested happy home,

Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend;
Where never flippant tongue profane
Shall entrance find,

And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude
Shall babble far remote.

Perhaps some future distant age,

Less tinged with prejudice and better taught,
Shall furnish minds of power
To judge more equally.

Then, malice silenced in the tomb,
Cooler heads and sounder hearts,
Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise

I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.