Translations from the Minor Greek Poets.
THE COMPLAINT OF DANAE.
WHEN the wind resounding, high,
Bluster'd from the northern sky,
When the waves, in stronger tide,
Dash'd against the vessel's side,
Her care-worn cheek with tears bedew'd,
Her sleeping infant Danaë view'd.
And trembling still with new alarms,
Around him cast a mother's arms.
'My child! what woes does Danaë weep!
But thy young limbs are wrapp'd in sleep.
In that poor nook all sad and dark,
While lightnings play around our bark,
Thy quiet bosom only knows
The heavy sigh of deep repose.
The howling wind, the raging sea
No terror can excite in thee;
The angry surges wake no care,
That burst above thy long deep hair;
But couldst thou feel what I deplore,
Then would I bid thee sleep the more!
Sleep on, sweet boy! still be the deep!
Oh could I lull my woes to sleep!
Jove, let thy mighty hand o'erthrow
The baffled malice of my foe;
And may this child, in future years,
Avenge his mother's wrongs and tears!'
TO HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGEITON.
WITH myrtle will I braid my sword,
Such as the brave Harmodius bore; When Athens hail'd her rights restored, And proud Hipparchus was no more: Nor art thou, dear Harmodius, dead! Thine are the islands of the bless'd, Where Heroes old, stout Diomed,
And the swift son of Peleus rest.
My sword with myrtle will I braid,
Such as Aristogeiton bore;
When, at Minerva's shrine, the blade
Dropp'd with the victim tyrant's gore.
Dear patriot pair! your fame shall bloom
Immortal in the poet's strain;
Who, by the tyrant's righteous doom,
Bade Athens flourish free again.
HEALTH, brightest visitant from heaven,
Grant me with thee to rest!
For the short term by Nature given
Be thou my constant guest!
For all the pride that wealth bestows,
The pleasure that from children flows,
Whate'er we court in regal state
That makes men covet to be great,
Whatever sweets we hope to find
In Love's delightful snare,
Whatever good by Heaven assign'd,
Whatever pause from care,
All flourish at thy smile divine;
The spring of loveliness is thine,
And every joy that warms our hearts
With thee approaches and departs.
ON A DAUGHTER WHO DIED YOUNG.
SWEET maid, thy parents fondly thought
To strew thy bride-bed, not thy bier;
But thou hast left a being fraught
With wiles and toils and anxious fear.
For her remains a journey drear,
For thee a bless'd eternal prime,
Uniting, in thy short career,
Youth's blossom with the fruit of time.
PAUL THE SILENTIARY.
THE OFFERING OF A DESERTED LOVER.
To thee the reliques of a thousand flowers,
Torn from the chaplet twined in gayer hours,
To thee the goblet carved with skill divine,
Erewhile that foam'd with soul-subduing wine,
The locks, now scatter'd on the dusty ground,
Once dropping odours and with garlands crown'd,
Outcast of pleasure, and of hope bereft,
Laïs! to thee thy Corydon has left.
Oft on thy threshold stretch'd at close of day, He wept and sigh'd the cheerless night away,
Nor dared invoke thy name, nor dared aspire
To melt thy bosom with his amorous fire,
Or plead a gracious respite to his pain,
Or speak the language of a happier swain.
Alas! alas! now cold and senseless grown,'
These last sad offerings make his sorrows known,
And dare upbraid those scornful charms which gave
His youth unpitied to the cheerless grave.
BEAUTY COMPARED WITH FLOWERS. We ask no flowers to crown the blushing rose, Nor glittering gems thy beauteous form to deck, The pearl, in Persia's precious gulf that glows, Yields to the dazzling whiteness of thy neck. Gold adds not to the lustre of thy hair, But, vanquish'd, sheds a fainter radiance there. The Indian hyacinth's celestial hue
Shrinks from the bright effulgence of thine eye, The Paphian cestus bathed thy lips in dew, And gave thy form ambrosial harmony. My soul would perish in the melting gaze, But for thine eyes, where Hope for ever plays. PAUL THE SILENTIARY.
REMEMBRANCE AND FORGETFULNESS. ALL hail, Remembrance and Forgetfulness! Tráce,Memory,trace whate'er is sweet or kind— When friends forsake us, or misfortunes press, Oblivion, rase the record from our mind. MACEDONIUS.
A MOTHER ON THE DEATH OF HER SON.
Ан! dear hapless boy, art thou gone?
Sole support of my languishing years!
Hast thou left thy fond mother alone
To wear out life's evening in tears?
To forsake me thus old and forlorn,
Ere thy youth had attain'd its gay bloom!
Thy sun was scarce risen at morn,
When it set in the night of the tomb.
Alas! the fresh beam of the day
Happy mortals with thankfulness see;
But I sicken, O sun, at thy ray:
It brings sadness and wailing to me!
Oh! might the dear child but return,
From despair his lost mother to save!
Or might I but share in his urn!
Might I flee in his arms to the grave!
LEONIDAS OF TARENTUM.
CLING to thy home! If there the meanest shed
Yield thee a hearth and shelter for thine head,
And some poor plot, with vegetables stored,
Be all that Heaven allots thee for thy board,
Unsavoury bread, and herbs that scatter'd grow,
Wild on the river's brink or mountain's brow,
Yet e'en this cheerless mansion shall provide
More heart's repose than all the world beside.
BLAND.
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