Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, And make the starry firmament resound. And, even now, the fiery spirit pure
That wheels yon circling orbs, directs himself Their mazy dance with melody of verse Unutterable, immortal, hearing which Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress'd; Orion, soften'd, drops his ardent blade, And Atlas stands unconscious of his load. Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet Luxurious dainties, destined to the gulf Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere Lyæus deluged yet the temperate board. Then sat the bard a customary guest
To share the banquet, and, his length of locks With beechen honors bound, proposed in versc The characters of heroes and their deeds, To imitation; sang of chaos old,
Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in search Of acorns fallen, and of the thunderbolt Not yet produced from Ætna's fiery cave. And what avails, at last, tune without voice, Devoid of matter! Such may suit perhaps The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear, And the oaks follow'd. Not by chords alone Well touch'd, but by resistless accents more, To sympathetic tears the ghosts themselves He moved; these praises to his verse he owes. Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain And useless powers, by whom inspired, thyself Art skilful to associate verse with airs Harmonious, and to give the human voice A thousand modulations, heir by right
Indisputable of Arion's fame.
Now say, what wonder is it, if a son Of thine delight in verse, if, so conjoin'd In close affinity, we sympathize
In social arts and kindred studies sweet? Such distribution of himself to us
Was Phoebus' choice; thou hast thy gift, and I Mine also, and between us we receive, Father and son, the whole inspiring God. No! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle muse, My father! for thou never badest me tread The beaten path, and broad, that leads right on To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son To the insipid clamors of the bar, To laws voluminous, and ill observed; But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill My mind with treasure, ledd'st me far away From city din to deep retreats, to banks And streams Aonian, and, with free consent, Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. I speak not now, on more important themes Intent, of common benefits, and such As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts, My father! who, when I had open'd once The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd The full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks, Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove, Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowers That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the smooth
Italian his degenerate speech adorns,
That witnesses his mixture with the Goth; And Palestine's prophetic songs divine.
To sum the whole, whate'er the heaven contains, The earth beneath it, and the air between,
The rivers and the restless deep, may all Prove intellectual gain to me, my wish Concurring with thy will; science herself, All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head, And offers me the lip, if, dull of heart,
I shrink not, and decline her gracious boon. Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds That covet it; what could my father more ? What more could Jove himself, unless he gave His own abode, the heaven in which he reigns? More eligible gifts than these were not Apollo's to his son, had they been safe As they were insecure, who made the boy The world's vice luminary, bade him rule The radiant chariot of the day, and bind To his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath. I therefore, although last and least, my place Among the learned in the laurel grove Will hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines, Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throng Profane, nor even to be seen by such.
Away then, sleepless care, complaint, away, And envy, with thy "jealous leer malign!" Nor let the monster calumny shoot forth Her venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes! Ye all are impotent against my peace, For I am privileged, and bear my breast Safe, and too high for your viperean wound. But thou, my father, since to render thanks Equivalent, and to requite by deeds Thy liberality, exceeds my power, Suffice it, that I thus record thy gifts,
And bear them treasured in a grateful mind! Ye, too, the favorite pastime of my youth, My voluntary numbers, if ye dare
To hope longevity, and to survive
Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd In the oblivious Lethæan gulf,
Shall to futurity perhaps convey
This theme, and by these praises of my sire Improve the fathers of a distant age!
TO SALSILLUS, A ROMAN POET, MUCH INDISPOSED.
The original is written in a measure called Scazon, which signifies limping, and the measure is so denominated, because, though in other respects Iambic, it terminates with a Spondee, and has, consequently, a more tardy movement.
The reader will immediately see that this property of the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English.
My halting muse, that dragg'st by choice along Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song, And likest that pace, expressive of thy cares, Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs, [tread When in the dance she beats with measured Heaven's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed; Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine
Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine. Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafted o'er From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore, Where Eurus, fiercest of the Æolian band, Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land, Of late to more serene Ausonia came To view her cities of illustrious name,
To prove himself a witness of the truth,
How wise her elders, and how learn'd her youth. Much good, Salsillus! and a body free From all disease, that Milton asks for thee, Who now endurest the languor and the pains That bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins;
Relentless malady! not moved to spare By thy sweet Roman voice and Lesbian air! Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies, And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies, Pythius, or Pæan, or what name divine So'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine! Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that melt With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt! If aught salubrious in your confines grow, Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe, That, render'd to the muse he loves, again He may enchant the meadow with his strain. Numa, reclined in everlasting ease Amid the shade of dark embowering trees, Viewing with eyes of unabated fire His loved Ægeria, shall that strain admire : So soothed, the tumid Tiber shall revere The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year, Shall curb his waters with a friendly reign, And guide them harmless, till they meet the main.
TO GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO,
MILTON'S ACCOUNT OF MANSO.
Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian nobleman of the highest estimation among his countrymen, for genius, literature, and military acomplishments. To him Torquato Tasso addressed his Dialogues on Friendship, for he was much the friend of Tasso, who has also celebrated him among the other princes of his country, in his poem entitled, Gerusalemme Conquistata, book xx.
Fra cavalier magnanimi, e cortesi, Risplende il Manso.
During the author's stay at Naples, he received at the
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