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When Jove had hurld him to the Lemnian coast,
Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain,
Such were the trophies that, in earlier days,
of truth; Till Learning taught me in his shady bower To quit Love's servile yoke, and spurn his power. . Then, on a sudden, the fierce flame supprest, A frost continual settled on my breast, Whence Cupid fears his flames extinct to see, And Venus dreads a Diomede in me.
ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS.
RAISE in old times the sage Prometheus
Who stole ethereal radiance from the sun; But greater he, whose bold invention strove To emulate the fiery bolts of Jove.
[The Poems on the subject of the Gunpowder Treason I have not translated, both because the matter of them is unpleasant, and because they are written with an asperity, which, however it might be warranted in Milton's day, would be extremely unseasonable now.
TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME.*
NOTHER Leonora once inspired
But how much happier, lived he now,
were he, Pierced with whatever pangs for love of thee ! Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,
* I have translated only two of the three poetical compliments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to me far fuperior to what I have omitted.
With Adriana's lute of sound divine,
TO THE SAME.
APLES, too credulous, ah! boast no more
! The sweet-voiced Siren buried on thy
Thore, That, when Parthenope deceased, she gave Her sacred duft to a Chalcidic grave, For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course, Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains Of magic song both gods and men detains.
THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD.
PEASANT to his lord paid yearly court,
That he, displeased to have a part alone, Removed the tree, that all might be his own. The tree, too old to travel, though before
So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more.
my pippins and
TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN,
WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE.
HRISTINA, maiden of heroic mien !
Star of the North ! of northern stars the
Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how
ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHAN
CELLOR, A PHYSICIAN.
EARN, ye nations of the earth,
Now be taught your feeble state !
If the mournful rover, Death,
Dwelt in herbs and drugs a power
Chiron had survived the smart