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,
Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father's bitter curse,

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;
Boötes, only, seem'd to roll

His Arctic charge around the Pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceas'd to weep:
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the reaims of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force; 10
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,
"What stranger breaks my blest re-
pose?"

"Alas!" replies the wily child
In faltering accents sweetly mild;
"A hapless Infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here;
A wandering baby who can fear?" 20
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the Infant, met my
sight;

His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers I
wring;

31

His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seiz'd his slender bow:
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has
lost;

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."

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