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Thy decent limbs, thy drooping eyelids closed, And, at the last, had said — Farewell—ascendNor even in the skies forget thy friend !'

“Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare ; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Although well pleased, ye tuneful Tuscan swains ! My mind the

memory

of

your worth retains, Yet not your worth can teach me less to mourn My Damon lost: he too was Tuscan born, Born in your Lucca, city of renown! And wit possess’d, and genius, like your own. Oh how elate was I, when stretch'd beside The murmuring course of Arno's breezy tide, Beneath the poplar grove I pass’d my hours,

I

,
Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flowers,
And hearing, as I lay at ease along,
Your swains contending for the prize of song!
I also dared attempt (and, as it seems,
Not much displeased attempting) various themes,
For even I can presents boast from

you,
The shepherd's pipe, and osier-basket too,
And Dati, and Francini, both have made
My name familiar to the beechen shade,
And they are learn'd, and each in every place
Renown'd for song, and both of Lydian race.

Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare;
My thoughts are all now due to other care.
While bright the dewy grass with moonbeams shone,
And I stood hurdling in my kids alone,
How often have I said (but thou hadst found
Ere then thy dark cold lodgment underground)
Now Damon fings, or springes sets for hares,

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Or wicker-work for various use prepares ! How oft, indulging fancy, have I plann'd New scenes of pleasure that I hoped at hand, Calld thee abroad as I was wont, and cried, • What, hoa ! my friend—come, lay thy task aside ; !

-; Haste, let us forth together, and beguile The heat beneath yon whispering shades awhile, Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood, Or where Caflibelan's gray turrets stood ! There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teach Thy friend the name and healing powers of each, From the tall bluebell to the dwarfish weed, What the dry land, and what the marshes breed, For all their kinds alike to thee are known, And the whole art of Galen is thy own.' Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd be The useless herbs that gave not health to thee! Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream I meditating fat some statelier theme, The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though new, And unessay'd before, than wide they flew, Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustain The deep-toned music of the folemn strain ; And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell How proud a theme I choose-ye groves,

farewell! “ Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Of Brutus, Dardan chief, my song shall be, How with his barks he plough'd the British sea, First from Rutupia's towering headland seen, And of his confort's reign, fair Imogen; Of Brennus, and Belinus, brothers bold,

And of Arviragus, and how of old
Our hardy sires the Armorican controlld;
And of the wife of Gorloïs, who, surprised
By Uther, in her husband's form disguised,
(Such was the force of Merlin's art) became
Pregnant with Arthur of heroic fame.
These themes I now revolve-and oh-if Fate
Proportion to these themes my lengthen'd date,
Adieu my shepherd's reed—yon pine-tree bough
Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou
Forgotten and disused, unless ere long
Thou change thy Latian for a British song:
A British ?-even so—the powers of man
Are bounded; little is the most he can;
And it shall well suffice me, and shall be
Fame and proud recompense enough for me,
If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn,
If Alain bending o'er his crystal urn,
Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd stream,
Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem,
Tamar's ore-tinctured flood, and, after these,
The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades.

“Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare! My thoughts are all now due to other care. All this I kept in leaves of laurel-rind Enfolded safe, and for thy view design'd, This, and a gift from Manso's hand beside, (Manso, not least his native city's pride) Two cups

that radiant as their giver Thone, Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone. The spring was graven there; here Nowly wind The Red Sea Thores with groves of spices lined ;

Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs
The sacred, solitary Phænix shows,
And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her head
To see Aurora leave her watery bed.
- In other part, the expansive vault above,

,
And there too, even there, the god of love ;
With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays
A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze,
Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls,
Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls,
Nor deigns one look below, but, aiming high,
Sends every arrow to the lofty sky;
Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn
The

power of Cupid, and enamour'd burn. “ Thou also, Damon, (neither need I fear That hope delusive) thou art also there; For whither should simplicity like thine Retire, where else such spotless virtue shine ? Thoudwell'st not (thought profane) in shades below, Nor tears suit thee; cease then, my tears, to flow. Away with grief, on Damon ill bestow'd! Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode, Has pass’d the showery arch, henceforth resides With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides Quaffs copious immortality and joy With hallow'd lips !-Oh! blest without alloy, And now enrich'd with all that faith can claim, Look down, entreated by whatever name, If Damon please thee most (that rural sound Shall oft with echoes fill the groves around) Or if Deodatus, by which alone In those ethereal mansions thou art known.

Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste
Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste,
The honours, therefore, by divine decree
The lot of virgin worth, are given to thee :
Thy brows encircled with a radiant band,
And the green palm-branch waving in thy hand,
Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice,
And join with seraphs thy according voice,
Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyre
Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire.”

AN ODE, ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN ROUSE,

Librarian of the University of Oxford,

On a lojt Volume of my Poems, which he desired me to replace, that he might add them to my other

Works deposited in the Library.

This ode is rendered without rhyme, that it might more adequately represent the original, which, as Milton himself informs us, is of no certain measure. It may possibly for this reason difappoint the reader, though it cost the writer more labour than the translation of any other piece in the whole collection.

Strophe.
Y twofold book ! single in show,

But double in contents,
Neat, but not curiously adorn’d,
Which, in his early youth,
A poet gave, no lofty one in truth,

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