Obrazy na stronie

worthy kind of servitude, is incapable of producing any thing good or noble. I have seen originals, both in painting and poesy, much more beautiful than their natural objects; but I never saw a copy better than the original: which indeed cannot be otherwise; for men resolving in no case to shoot beyond the mark, it is a thousand to one if they shoot not short of it. It does not sat all trouble me, that the grammarians, perhaps, will not suffer this libertime way of rendering foreign authors to be called translation; for I am not somuch enamoured of the name translator, as not to wish rather to be something better, though it want yet a name. I speak not so much all this, in defence of my manner of translating, or imitating, (or what other title they please) the two ensuing Odes of Pindar; for that would not deserve half these words; as by this occasion to rectify the opinion of divers Inen upon this matter. The Psalms of David (which I believe to have been in their original, to the Hebrews of his time, though not to our Hebrews of Buxtorfius's making, the most exalted pieces of poesy) are a great example of what I have said; all the translators of which, (even Mr. Sandys himself; for in despite of popular errour, I will be bold not to except him) for this very reason, that they have not sought to supply the lost excellencies of another language with new ones in their own, are so far from doing honour, or at least justice, to that divine poet, that methinks they revile him worse than Shimei. And Buchanan himself (though much the best of them all, and indeed a great person) comes in my opinion no less short of David, than his country does of Judea. Upon this ground I have, in these two Odes of Pindar, taken, left out, and added, what I please; nor make it so much my aim to let the reader know precisely what he spoke, as what was his way and manner of speaking; which has not been yet (that I know of) introduced into English, though it be the noblest and highest kind of writing in verse; and which might, perhaps, be put into the list of Pancirolus, among the lost inventions of antiquity. This essay is but to try how it will look in an English habit: for which experiment I have chosen one of his Olympic, and another of his Nemaean Odes; which are as followeth.


Written in praise of Theron, prince of Agrigentum, (a famous city in Sicily, built by his ancestors) who, in the seventy-seventh Olympic, won the chariot-prize. He is commended from the nobility of his race, (whose story is often toucht on) from his great riches, (an ordinary common-place in Pindar) from his hospitality, munificence, and other virtues. The Ode (according to the constant custom of the poet) consists more in digressions, than in the main subject: and the leader must not be choqued to hear him speak so often of his

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Queen of all harmonious things,
Dancing words, and speaking strings!
What god, what hero, wilt thousing?
What happy man to equal glories bring 2
Begin, begin thy noble choice, [voice,
And let the hills around reflect the image of thy
Pisa does to Jove belong;
Jove and Pisa claim thy song.
The fair first-fruits of war, th’ Olympic games,
Alcides offer'd-up to Jove;
Alcides too thy strings may move: [prove!
But, oh! whatman to join with these oan worthy
Join Theron boldly to their sacred names;
Theron the nexthonour claims:
Theron to no man gives place,
Is first in Pisa's and in Virtue's race?
Theron there, and he alone,
Ev’n his own swift forefathers has outgone,

They through rough ways, o'er many stops they

past, Till on the fatal bank at last They Agrigentum built, the beauteous eye Offair-fac’d Sicily; Which does itself i' th' river by With pride and joy espy. Then chearful notes their painted years did sing, And Wealth was one, and Honour th’ other, wing; Their genuine virtues did more sweet and clear, In Fortune's graceful dress, appear. To which, great son of Rhea' say The firm word, which forbids things to decay! If in Olympus' top, where thou Sitt'st to behold thy sacred show; If in Alpheus' silver flight; If in my verse, thou dost delight, My verse, O Rhea's son which is Lofty as that, and smooth as this,

For the past sufferings of this noble race (Since things once past, and fled out of thise hand, Hearken no more to thy command) Let present joys fill up their place, And with Oblivion's silent stroke deface Of foregone ills the very trace. In no illustrious line Do these happy changes shine More brightly, Theron! than in thine, So, in the crystal palaces Of the blue-ey'd Nereides, Ino her endless youth does please, And thanks her fall into the seas. Beauteous Semele does no less Her cruel midwife, Thunder, bless; . Whilst, sporting with the gods on high, She enjoys secure their company; Plays with lightnings as they fly, Nortrembles at the bright embraces of the Deity

But death did them from future dangers free;
What god, alas! will caution be
For living man's security,
Or will ensure our vessel in this faithless sea?

Never did the Sun as yet So healthful a fair-day beget, That travelling mortals might rely on it. But Fortune's favour and her spite Roll with alternate waves, like day and night: Vicissitudes which thy great race pursue, Eser since the fatal son his father slew, And did old oracles fulfil Of gods that camot lie, for they foretell but their own will.

Erynnis saw 't, and made in her own seed
The innocent parricide to bleed;
She slew his wrathful sons with mutual blows:
But better things did then succeed,
And brave. Thersander, in amends for what was
past, arose.
Brave Thersander was by none,
In war, or warlike sports, out-done.
Thou, Theron, his great virtues dost revive;
He in my verse and thee again does live.
Loud Olympus, happy thee,
Isthmus and Nemaca, does twice happy see;
For the well-natur'd honour there,
Which with thy brother thou didst share,
Was to thee double grown
By not being all thine own;
And those kind pious glories do deface
The old fraternal quarrel of thy race.

Greatness of mind, and fortune too, Th’ Olympic trophies shew: Both their several parts must do In the noble chase of fame; [lame. This without that is blind, that without this is Nor is fair Virtue's picture seen aright But in Fortune's golden light. Riches alone are of uncertain date, And on short man long cannot wait; The virtuous make of them the best, And put them out to Fame for interest; With afrail good they wisely buy The solid purchase of eternity: They, whilst life's air they breathe, consider well, and know Th'account they musthereafter give below; Whereas th' unjust and covetous above, In deep unlovely vaults, By the just decrees of Jove, Unrelenting torments prove, The heavy necessary effects of voluntary faults.

Whilst in the lands of unexhausted light,
O'er which the god-like Sun's unwearied sight
Ne'er winks in clouds, or sleeps in might,
An endless spring of age the good enjoy,
Where neither Want does pinch, nor Plenty
There neither earth nor sea they plough,
Nor aught to labour owe
For food, that whilst it nourishes does decay,
And in the lamp of life consumes away.
Thrice had thesemen through mortal bodies past,
Didthrice the trial undergo, -
Till all their little dross was purg'd atlast,
The furnace had no more to do.
Then in rich Saturn's peaceful state
Were they for sacred treasures plac'd,
The Muse-discover'd world of Islands Fortunate,

Soft-footed winds with tuneful voices there Dance through the perfum’d air.

There silver rivers through enamell'd meadows
And golden trees enrich their side;
Th’ illustrious leaves no dropping autumn fear,
And jewels for their fruit they bear,
Which by the blest are gathered
For bracelets to the arm, and garlands to the
Here all the heroes, and their poets, live;
Wise Rhadamanthus did the sentence give,
Who for his justice was thought fit
With sovereign Saturn on the bench to sit.
Peleus here, and Cadmus, reign;
Here great Achilles, wrathful now no more,
Since his blest mother (who before
Had try’d it on his body in vain)
Dipt now his soul in Stygian lake,
Which did from thence a divine hardness take,
That does from passion and from vice invulnera-
ble make. *
To Theron, Muse! bring back thy wandering
Whom those bright troops expect impatiently;
And may they do so long !
How, noble archer! do thy wantonarrows fly
At all the game that does but cross thine eye:
Shoot, and spare not, for I see
Thy sounding quiver can ne'er emptied be:
Let Art use method and good-husbandry,
Art lives on Nature's alms, is weak and poor;
Nature herself has unexhausted store,
Wallows in wealth, and runs a turning maze,
That no vulgar eye can trace.
Art, instead of mounting high,
About her humble food does hovering fly;
Like o ignoble crow, rapine and noise does
Whilst Nature, like the sacred bird of Jove,
Now bears loud thunder; and anon with silent

Joy The beauteous Phrygian boy Defeats the strong, o'ertakes the flying prey, And sometimes basks in th' open flames of day; And sometimes too he shrowds His soaring wings among the clouds. Leave, wanton Muse! thy roving flight; To thy loud string the well-fletcht arrow put; Let Agrigentum be the butt, And Theron be the white. And, lest the name of verse should give | Malicious men pretext to misbelieve, By the Castalian waters swear, (A sacred oath no poets dare To take in vain, No more than gods do that of Styx prophane) Swear, in no city e'erbefore, A better man, or greater-soul’d, was born; Swear, that Theron sure has sworn No man near him should be poor! Swear, that none e'er had such a graceful art Fortune's free gifts as freely to impart, With an unenvious hand, and an unbounded heart. But in this thankless world the givers Are envied ev'n by the receivers: Tis now the cheap and frugal fashion, Rather to hide, than pay, the obligation: Nay, 'tis much worse than so; lt now an artifice does grow,

Wrongs and outrages to do, Lest men should think we owe. Such monsters, Theron' has thy virtue found: But all the malice they profess, Thy secure honour cannot wound; for thy vastbounties are so numberless, That them or to conceal, or else to tell, Is equally impossible !


Chromius, the son of Agesidamus, a young gentleman of Sicily, is celebrated for having won the prize of the chariot-race in the Nemaean games, (a solemnity instituted first to celebrate the funeral of Opheltes, as is at large described by Statius; and afterwards continued every third year, with an extraordinary conflux of all Greece, and with incredible honour to the conquerors in all the exercises there practised) upon which occasion the poet begins with the commendation of his country, which I take to have been Ortygia, (an island belonging to Sicily, and a part of §yracuse, being joined to it by a bridge) though the title of the Ode call him AEtnasan Chromius, perhaps because he was made governor of that town by Hieron. From thence he falls into the praise of Chromius's person, which he draws from his great endowments of mind and body, and most especially from his hospitality, and the worthy use of his riches. He likens his beginning to that of Hercules; and, according to his usual manner of being transported with any good hint that meets him in his way, passing into a digression of Hercules, and his slaying the two serpents in his cradle, concludes the Ode with that history.

Braurents Ortygia! the first breathing-place
Of great Alpheus' close and amorous race
Fair #. sister, the childbed
Ofbright Latona, where she bred
Th' original new Moon!
Who saw'st her tender forehead ere the horns
were grown!
who, like a gentle scion newly started out,
From Syracusa's side dost sprout!
Thee first my song does greet,
With numbers smooth and fleet
As thine own horses' airy feet,
When they young Chromius' chariot drew,
And o'er the Nemaean race triumphant flew,
Jove will approve my song and me;
Jove is concern'd in Nemea, and in thee.

With Jove my song; this happy man, Young Chromius, too, with Jove began; From hence came his success, Norought he therefore like it less, Since the best fame is that of happiness; For whom should we esteem above The men whom gods do love? *Tis them alone the Muse too does approve, Lo! now it makes this victory shine O'er all the fruitful isle of Proserpine! The torches which the mother brought When the ravish'd maid she sought,

Appear'd not half so bright, But cast a weaker light, Through earth, and air, and seas, and up to th’ heavenly vault.

“To thee, O Proserpine ! this isle I give,”
Said Jove, and, as he said,
Smil'd, and bent his gracious head.
“And thou, O isle!” said he, “for ever thrive,
And keep the value of our gift alive!
As Heaven with stars, so let
The country thick with towns be set,
And, numberless as stars,
Let all the towns be then
Replenish'd thick with men,
Wise in peace, and bold in wars!
Of thousand glorious towns the nation,
Of thousand glorious men each town a con-
Nor let their warlike laurel scorn
With the Olympic olive to be worn,
Whose gentler honours do so well the brows of
Peace adorn o'

Go to great Syracuse, my Muse, and wait
At Chromius' hospitable gate;
*Twill open wide to let thee in,
When thy lyre's voice shall but begin;
Joy, plenty, and free welcome, dwells within.
The Tyrian beds thou shalt find ready drest,
The ivory table crowded with a feast :
The table which is free for every guest,
No doubt will thee admit,
And feast more upon thee, than thou on it.
Chromius and thou art met aright,
For, as by Nature thou dost write,
So he by Nature loves, and does by Nature fight,

Nature herself, whilst in the womb he was,
Sow'd strength and beauty through the forming
They mov'd the vital lump in every part,
And carv'd the members cut with wondrous art.
She fill'd his mind with courage, and with wit,
And a vastbounty, apt and fit
For the great dower which Fortune made to it,
'Tis madness, sure, treasures to hoard,
And make them useless, as in mines, remain,
To lose th' occasion Fortune does afford
Fame and public love to gain:
Ev’n for self-concerning ends,
'Tis wiser much to hoard-up friends.
Though happy men the present goods possess,
Th’ unhappy have their share in future hopes to
How early has young Chromius begun
The race of virtue, and how swiftly run,
And borne the noble prize away,
Whilst other youths yet at the barriers stay!
None but Alcides e'er set earlier forth than he:
The god, his father's blood, nought could
'Twas ripe at first, and did disdain
The slow advance of dull humanity.
The big-limb'd babe in his huge cradle lay,
Too weighty to be rock'd by nurses' hands,
Wrapt in purple swaddling-bands;
When, lo! by jealous Juno's fierce commands,
Two dreadful serpents come,
Rolling and hissing loud, into the room;
To the bold babe they trace their bidden way;

Forth from their flaming eyes dread lightnings went ; heir gaping mouths did forked tongues, like thunderbolts, present.

Some of th’ amazed women dropt down dead
With fear, some wildly fled
About the room, some into corners crept,
Where silently they shook and wept:
All naked from her bed the passionate mother
To save or perish with her child;
She trembled, and she cry'd; the mighty infant
The mighty infant seem'd well pleas'd
At his gay gilded foes;
And, as their spotted necks up to the cradle rose,
With his young warlike hands on both he seiz'd :
In vain they rag'd, in vain they hiss'd,
In vain their armed tails they twist,
Ard angry circles cast about;
Black blood, and fiery breath, and poisonous
soul, he squeezes out!

With their drawn swords In ran Amphitryo and the Theban lords; With doubting wonder, and with troubled joy, They saw the conquering boy Laugh, and point downwards to his prey, Where, in death's pangs and their own gore, they folding lay. When wise Tiresiastbis beginning knew, He told with ease the things to ensue; Frum what monsters he should free The earth, the air, and sea; What mighty tyrants he should slay, Greater monsters far than they ; How much at Phlaogra's field the distrest gods should owe To their great offspring here below; And how his club should there outdo Apollo's silver bow, and his own father's thunder too: And that the grateful gods, at last, The race of his laborious virtue past, Heaven, which he sav'd, should to him give; Where, marry'd to etermal youth, he should for cver live; Drink nectar with the gods, and all his senses please In their harmonious, golden palaces; Walk with ineffable delight Through the thick groves of never-withering light, And, as he walks, affright The Lion and the Bear, Bull, “. Scorpion, all the radiant monsters there.

THE PRAISE OF PINDAR. In thirtation of Horace's second ODE, B. IV. Pindarum quisquis studetaemulari, &c.

Pispan is imitable by none;
The phenix Pindar is a vast species alone.
Whoe'er but Daedalus with waxen wings could fly,
And neither sink too low nor soar too high
What could he who follow'd claim,
But of vain boldness the unhappy fame,
And by his fall a sea to name?
*OL. vii,

Pindar's unnavigable song Like a swoln flood from some steep mountain pours along; The ocean meets with such a voice, From his enlarged mouth, as drowns the ocean's noise.

So Pindar does new words and figures roll
Down his impetuous dithyrambic tide,
Which in no channel deigns tabide,
Which neither banks nor dykes control:
Whether th’ immortal gods he sings,
In a no less immortal strain,
Or the great acts of god-descended kings,
Who in his numbers still survive and reign;
Each rich-embroider'd line,
Which their triumphant brows around,
By his sacred hand is bound,
Does all their starry diadems outshine.
Whether at Pisa's race he please
To carve in polish'dverse the conqueror's images;
Whether the swift, the skilful, or the strong,
Be crowned in his nimble, artful, vigorous song;
Whether some brave young man's untimely fate,
In wordsworth dying for, he celebrate—
Such mournful, and such pleasing words,
Asjoy to his mother's and his mistress' grief af.
He bids him live and grow in fame;
Among the stars he sticks his name;
The grave can but the dross of him devour,
So small is Death's, so great the poet's power!
Lo, how th' obsequious wind and swelling air
The Theban swan does upwards bear
Into the walks of clouds, where he does play,
And with extended wings opens his liquid way!
Whilst, alas! my timorous Muse
Unambitious tracts pursues;
Does with weak, unballast wings,
About the mossy brooks and springs,
About the trees' new-blossom'd heads,
About the gardens' painted beds,
About the fields and flowery meads,
Andall inferior beauteous things,
Like the laborious bee,
For little drops of honey flee,
And there with humble sweets contents her in-

The Resurrection.

Not winds to voyagers at sea,
Nor showers to earth, more necessary be,
(Heaven's vital seed cast on the womb of Earth
To give the fruitful Year a birth)
Than Verse to Virtue; which can do
The midwife's office and the nurse's too;
It feeds it strongly, and it clothesitgay,
And, when it dies, with comely pride
Embaims it, and erects a pyramid
That never will decay
Till Heaven itself shall melt away,
And nought behind it stay.
Begin the song, and strike the living lyre;
Lo! how the Years to come, a numerous and
- well-fitted quire,
All hand in hand do decently advance,
And to my song with smooth and equal mea-
suras dance!

Whilst the dance lasts, how long soe'er it be,

My music's voice shall bear it company;
Till all gentle notes be drown'd
In the last trumpet’s dreadful sound:

That to the spheres themselves shall silence
Untune the universal string: [bring,
Then all the wide-extended sky,
And all th’ harmonious worlds on high,
And Virgil's sacred work shall die;

And he himself shall see in one fire shine

Rich Nature's ancient Troy, though built by

hands divine.

Whom thunder's dismal noise, And all that prophets and apostles louder spake, And all the creatures' plain conspiring voice, Could not, whilst they liv'd, awake, This mightier sound shall make When dead to arise; And open tombs, and open eyes, To the long sluggards of five thousand years! This mightier sound shall make its hearers ears. Then shall the scatter'd atoms crowding come Back to their ancient home; Some from birds, from fishes some; Some from earth, and some from seas; Some from beasts, and some from trees; Some descend from clouds on high, Some from metals upwards fly, And, where th' attending soul naked and shivering stands, Meet, salute, and join their hands; As dispers'd soldiers, at the trumpet's call, Haste to their colours all. Unhappy most, like tortur'd men, Their joints new set, to be new-rack'd again, To mountains they for shelter pray, The mountains shake, and run about no less confus’d than they.

Stop, stop, my Muse' allay thy vigorous heat,
Kindled at a hint so great;
Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus closely in,
Which does to rage begin, -
And this steep hill would gallop up with violent
course ;
*Tis an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse,
Fierce and unbroken yet,
Impatient of the spur or bit;
Now prances stately,and anon flies o'er the place;
Disdains the servile law of any settled pace,
Conscious and proud of his own natural force:
*Twill no unskilful touch endure,
But flings writer and reader too, that sits not


Go, the rich chariot instantly prepare;
The queen, my Muse, will take the air:
Unruly Fancy with strong Judgment trace;
Put in nimble-footed Wit,
Smooth-pac’d Eloquence join with it;
Sound Memory with young Invention place;
Harness all the winged race:
Let the postillion Nature mount, and let
The coachman Art be set;
And let the airy footmen, running all beside,
Make a long row of goodly pride,

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Where never foot of man, or hoof of beast,
The passage press'd;
Where never fish did fly,
And with short silver wings cut the low liquid sky;
Where bird with painted oars did ne'er
Row through the trackless ocean of the air;
Where never yet did pry
The busy Morning's curious eye;
The wheels of thy bold coach pass quick and free,
And all’s an open road to thee;
Whatever God did say,
Is all thy plain and smooth uninterrupted way!
Nay, ev'm beyond his works thy voyages are
Thou hast thousand worlds too of thine own.
Thou speak'st, great queen! in the same style
as he;
And a new world leaps forth when thou say'st,
“Let it be.”

Thou fathom'st the deep gulf of ages past,
And canst pluck up with ease
The years which thou dost please;
Like shipwreck'd treasures, by rude tempests
Long since into the sea,
Brought up again to light and public use by thee,
Nor dost thou only dive so low,
But fly
With an unwearied wing the other way on high,
Where Fates among the stars do grow;
There into the close nests of Time dost peep,
And there, with piercing eye,
Through the firm shell and the thick white, dost
Years to come a-forming lie,
Close in their sacred fecundine asleep,
Till hatch'd by the Sun's vital heat,
Which o'er them yet doesbrooding set,
They life and motion get,
And, ripe at last, with vigorous might
Break through the shell, and take their everlast-
ing flight!
And sure we may
The same too of the present say,
If past and future times do thee obey.
Thou stop'st this current, and dost make
This running river settle like a lake;
Thy certain hand holds fast this slippery snake:
The fruit which does so quickly waste,
Men scarce can see it, much less taste,
Thou comfitest in sweets to make it last,
This shining piece of ice,
Which melts so soon away
With the Sun's ray,
Thy verse does solidate and crystallize,
Till it a lasting mirror be
Nay, thy immortal rhyme
Makes this one short point of time

To fill up half the orb of roundetermity.

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