Studious, yet indolent, and urged by youth, To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his power. EPIGRAMS. ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS. PRAISE in old time the sage Prometheus won, [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.* ANOTHER Leonora once inspired * I have translated only two of the three poetical compliments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to me far superior to what I have omitted. 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, With Adriana's lute of sound divine, Fiercer than Pentheus' though his eye might roll, You still, with medicinal sounds might cheer TO THE SAME. NAPLES, too credulous, ah! boast no more For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD. A FABLE. A PEASANT to his lord paid yearly court, The tree, too old to travel, though before TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN, WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE. CHRISTINA, maiden of heroic mien ! Star of the North! of northern stars the queen! ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR, LEARN, ye nations of the earth, Now be taught your feeble state! Know, that all must yield to fate! If the mournful rover, Death, Say but once" Resign your breath!" Vainly of escape you dream, You must pass the Stygian stream. Could the stoutest overcome Death's assault, and baffle doom, Dwelt in herbs and drugs a power To avert man's destined hour, Learn'd Machaon should have known Doubtless to avert his own. Chiron had survived the smart Of the hydra-tainted dart, And Jove's bolt had been, with ease, Foil'd by Asclepiades. Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn Helicon and Cirrha mourn, Still hadst fill'd thy princely place, Regent of the gowned race: Hadst advanced to higher fame Wise and good! untroubled be Pluto's consort bid thee rest! ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY. My lids with grief were tumid yet, And still my sullied cheek was wet For venerable Winton dead; When fame, whose tales of saddest sound, Alas! are ever truest found, The news through all our cities spread Of yet another mitred head |