78. Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, No minstrel dare the theme awake; Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, His harp in shuddering chords would break. 79. No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, A brother's death-groan echoes there. [First published, June, 1807.] TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. θέλω λέγειν Ατρείδας, κ.τ.λ. ODE I. TO HIS LYRE. ISH to tune my quivering lyre, To deeds of fame, and notes of fire; To echo, from its rising swell How heroes fought and nations fell, Then Atreus' sons advanc'd to war, Or Tvrian Cadmus rov'd afar; But still to martial strains unknown, My lyre recurs to Love alone. Fied with the hope of future fame, Ixek some nobler Hero's name; The dying chords are strung anew, To war, to war, my harp is due; With glowing strings, the Epic strain To Jove's great son I raise again; Akides and his glorious deeds, beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds; A, all in vain; my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft Desire. Adieu, ve Chiefs renown'd in arms! Adieu the clang of War's alarms! To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung; My harp shall all its powers reveal, To tell the tale my heart must feel; Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. [First published, June, 1807.] E 20 FROM ANACREON. Μεσονυκτίοις ποθ' ώραις, κ.τ.λ. ODE III. 'TWAS now the hour when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; His Arctic charge around the Pole; "Alas!" replies the wily child His bow across his shoulders flung, 31 His shivering limbs the embers warm; I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, 40 With equal ardour fir'd, and warli joy, His glowing friend address'd the Dard boy: "These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou da alone? Must all the fame, the peril, be thi own? Am I by thee despis'd, and left afar, As one unfit to share the toils of war Not thus his son the great Ophel taught: Not thus my sire in Argive comb fought; Not thus, when Ilion fell by heave hate, I track'd Æneas through the walks fate: Thou know'st my deeds, my breast void of fear, And hostile life-drops dim my g spear. Here is a soul with hope immor burns, And life, ignoble life, for G spurns. Mature in years, for sober wisdom fam'd, Mov'd by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd, 120 "Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy, Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy; When minds, like these, in striplings thus ye raise, Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise; In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, And, quivering, strain'd them to his agéd breast; With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd: 130 "What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize, Can we bestow, which you may not despise? To him Euryalus: -“No day shall shame The rising glories which from this I claim. Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown, But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart; My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain Her feeble age from dangers of the main; 180 Alone she came, all selfish fears above, A bright example of maternal love. Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave, Lest grief should bend my parent to the But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. Now, by my life!-my Sire's most sacred oath To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, If thou should'st fall, on her shall be bestow'd." Thus spoke the weeping Prince, then forth to view A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 210 |