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Mr and Mrs Patteson were drowned in the autumn of 1831.
TO AN INFANT DAUGHTER.
C. N. S.
I gaze upon thy cherub face,
Anon, a grey and aged sire And in its placid beauty trace
Sits feebly by the winter's fire, The sacred stamp of those pure skies, While near, with bright and busy hands, That lent thee to a father's eyes. A ministering spirit stands.
And many a lovely one is there, And propt aloft on a yew-tree high But none to match that lady fair,
The old jackdaw is sitting alone, And Vanity whispers a gentle song Flapping his grey wings merrily, To her willing heart as she glides merrily, along.
Watching the sexton with eager eye Erewhile she longed for the gentle From bis branching throne. spring
Deeper and deeper the cutting spade And the Zephyr's whispering ;
Pierces the clay, and the merry old But now, while treading the gorgeous soul, hall,
As he sees the bones rise from the And knowing that she is the light of all, chilly shade, The spring with the Zephyr's gentle Welcomes them forth with a “ tol stir
de rol." May sink into wintry gloom for her ; Yet oft she starts, with a fearful start, Slow moving o'er the snow-olad And the life.drops rush to her quailing ground, heart
The mourners bear the corse along, As she hears, on the wintry blast, a In deep unbroken silence bound, caw
A melancholy throng. From the ominous throat of the old 'Tis over-all are gone! Jackdaw.
Perchance to dream awhile
Of the departed one, 'Tis midnight now, and the revellers all And her benignant smile; Are silently sleeping ;
But time upon its gliding way
And bid the cloud of care decay
In pleasure's placid flow.
One youth remains !-he too hath As he hears the blast with a hollow
In search of peace from shore to Rush o'er the barren moor.
But anguish still, in every clime, Flitting through the chamber lone
Shall pierce him to the core. All the livelong night,
And now from his throne on the While the dew of sleep is strown
branching yew O'er each weary wight;
The old Jackdaw comes fluttering in, Through the aisles, so narrow and long, And his croaking voice on the frosty Where the wintry blast is sighing,
breeze With a dull and ghastly song
Is swelling in merry din.
Thrice o'er the grave he flaps his wing, Flying, fluttering, to and fro,
And thrice he croaks a hollow cry; Into every chamber peeping,
Then spreading forth on the cutting Where in beauty's genial glow,
blast Lovely maids are sleeping ;
He skims the deep blue sky. Sleeping in the pride of joy,
Tripping Fancy's varied measure, The years flow on-and now the tune. Little dreaming aught can cloy
ful throng Such an eager pleasure.
Have filled the budding bowers with
voice of song, Toll, toll, the solemn bell,
And o'er that lone churchyard the Ding, dong, ding dong.
placid flow Awake the death-chant--swell
Of summer sunset sheds a golden glow. The burial song
Day blends with night in eve's serenThe Sexton stands in the place of est gloom, bones,
Amid the dwellings of the dreary By the gaping jaws of a new-made tomb. grave,
On a grave a man is kneeling, He stumps about mid the grey tomb Death in silence o'er him stealing. stones,
He hath wandered to and fro, And warbles a merry stave ; Sinking 'neath a load of wo;
Till a heavy sleep fell o'er him, When the darkness fled and the morn. And a vision passed before him;
ing beams What it was—no mortal knew, Gilded the waves ofan hundred streams, But it shed a holier hue
When the joyful lark, on his heaven. O'er his spirit's deep despair,
ward way, Stilling every passion there,
Sang his first song to the dawning day, Shedding bliss of heavenly power On the tomb of a maiden long since Over death's descending hour.
The lifeless form of a man was laid ; From the branching yew a croaking And the villagers trembled with meikle cry
awe Tells that the bird of death is nigh ; When, on raising him up from the Thrice o'er the tombed and the tomb.
chilly ground, less dead
From his bosom dropt with a hollow He caws aloud,
Nuthurst, Horsham, 1838. My Dear Sir,
I took the following ode, without reference either to its length or merits -which are both great-simply because it stood next to those which have been so admirably translated by good Bishop Heber.
I will not now inflict upon you an essay on the peculiar character of Pindar as the great religious Poet of Greece," nor yet upon the comparative excellence of his various translators into English,-only, as I have mentioned Bishop Heber, permit me to advert to one single point-after all, perhaps, of no very great importance.
The Bishop, if I remember rightly, when reviewing Girdlestone's Pindar in an early number of the Quarterly, after making himself merry with the strict observers of Strophe, Antistrophe, and Epode, proceeded to exemplify his precepts in the versions of two odes, appended to that review, as well as in the others (making, in all, six), which are comprised in the new edition of his poems, published by Murray, 1829. And in this license he has been followed by Messrs Wheelwright and Cary in their translations. When one considers the old, legendary, and ballad-like style of his poetry, as contrasted with the Dra. matic Chorusses, there does, I confess, seem some reason for modifying our obedience to the despotic rule of Strophe, Antistrophe, and Epode. But, then, the question arises,- Have we a right, contrary to the expressed will and intention of the founder, to knock down all the walls and ceilings of his house of song, and lay the whole suite of apartments and complete interior of the building into one? (Which thing we do when we abolish all signs of Strophe &c., and make his odes plain monostrophies.) I trow not, and, therefore, I have adopted, in the accompanying version, the plan of making each Antistrophe correspond exactly with its twin Strophe-treating the Epode as a " tertium quid;" though I believe the first two Epodes do chance to answer the one to the other all but precisely.
By some such modification as this of the old Mede and Persian law, a suffi. cient idea of the form of an ancient ode is preserved to the English reader, without the constricta et distracta « membra poetæ" being subjected to the pleasing varieties of Procustean torture-which always must be the case, more or less, in every attempt to imitate to the very letter the precise reciprocating rythm of the original.
Believe me, then, my dear Sir,
Most faithfully yours,
William SNO BLEW.
AN HYMN OF PINDAR.
THE SEVENTH OLYMPIONIQUE.
TO DIAGORAS OF RHODES, CONQUEROR IN THE BOXING-MATCH.
With many an Argive spear ; As when a feast's free-hearted lord Where, capped with tower and citadel, Lifts high the wassail cup,
Their heads three cities rear, Around whose lip the vine-dew poured Fast by the beak that juts, unrent, Runs freshly sparkling up,
From Asia's boundless continent. And pledging, on his homeward way From house to house the bridegroom gay,
Fain would I build the song for them, To him presents it-golden all, Sons of the strong Eraclean stem, His treasures' chiefest coronal,
A common lay to all that spring Grace of the board and banquet hall; From old Tlepolemus the king. And honouring thus the league then Nor empty is, methinks, their pride knit,
For downwards, on the father's side, In sight of them, that round him sit, From Jove their lineage runs ; Exalts that envied youth, whose head While, by the mother traced, their shall rest,
name In happiness and joy, upon his true. From fair Astydameia came, love's maiden breast.
Amyntor's true born sons.
But round the o'erclouded minds o. II. 2.
men, So, to the wreath-crowned Men I lift Unnumbered errors lower; The nectar-flowing bowl,
And profitless the task to ken Chalice of song, the Muses' gift, What now may best betide, and then, Sweet fruitage of the soul;
At life's last closing hour. Their hearts to cheer the prize that gain
V. 2. On Pythian and Olympian plain. For, in the by-gone days of yore, And happy he, in life and death, The planter of this pleasant shore, Whose name the ever-living breath Tlepolemus, in anger hot, Of dulcet praise encompasseth. Alcmena's bastard brother smote, For to and fro doth glance the eye Licymnius :-him, with hand of blood, Of life-enlightening poesy,
And mace of gnarled olive-wood, With frequent chime of mellow-mur. At Tiryns' rocky tower muring shell,
He smote-and slew him where he Blent with the burst of full.voiced stood, flutes,
As forth he tripp'd, in heedless mood, That loud their descant swell. From Medea's matron-bower.
Thus Passion's fitful gusts, when they III. 3.
Within the bosom swell, Yes-pipe and lute ring gaily, while Drag even the wise man's steps astray: The sunny waves I pass,
Thence to the God he bent his way, That gird fair Rhodes, his fathers' And sought the oracle.
isleWith bold Diagoras;
VI. 3. Hymning the child of Aphrodite, His prayer he offered : when to him 'The Sun-god's Ocean-bride,
The Godhead, golden-tress'd, And him, the chief of giant height, Gave answer meet, and from his dim Who plucked with foremost hand in Sweet-incensed shrine address'd: fight, .
« Away! away! from Lerna-bay Proud guerdon of his manhood's might, Steer thy brave barks, and hold
The wreath upon Alpheus' side. Thine onward course the waters o'er, Him will I sing, for conqueror ho Unto a sea-encircled shore, Beside the fount of Castaly,
Where erst the gods' great emperor, And of good Damagetus tell,
Rain'd snows, thatgleam'd with gold, His sire, beloved by Justice well; And, soft descending, lighted down For on a noble isle they dwell,
In silence o'er a stately town.
• What time, by shrewd Hephaistus' Not yet, on the ocean's breast, craft,
Shone Rhodes in the light of day, The curtal-ax of brazen haft
But enshrouded and at rest Sheer through—Jove's topmost tem. In the deep-sea-hollows lay.
ples claft, And forth Athena sprang,
X. 1. Full arm'd-and long the Goddess Yet for the absent Helius, none laugh’d,
Mark'd out the lot_but left, And loud her war-note rang : Of frightful meed and portion reft, Whereat shook highest Heaven with The pure and holy Sun. dread,
Returning, he the wrong proclaimed, And Earth, the mother, shuddered.” And Jove afresh the lots had framed,
But that the God his wish forbade, VII. 1.
“ For in the hoary waves," he said, 'Twas then Hyperion's blessed son, « I see an islet sleep:
Fountain of light and life to man, And now it swells from the Ocean floor, Bade his loved children, every one, Mother of men, and ever more
The coming marvel keenly scan; A kindly nurse of sheep!". That they should rear, till then un. known,
XI. 2. Her first far-flaming altar-stone, Then, straightway, gave the God comWhose hallow'd hearth, with offerings
To Lachesis, that she, Might win the charmed heart of Jove, The golden-tiar'd Deity, And the spear-clashing maiden's love, Outstretch the accordant hand, For with success and joy is fraught And slighting not Heaven's awfuloath, Man's reverence of forecasting Plight with old Cronus' son her troth, thought.
That the fair isle, from darkness sent,
Full in the glorious firmament
Should stand, his fief for aye,
His crowning word, and on the breast Sweeps on, till from the mind it blot Of Truth alighting lay.
Stern duty's forward track.
spray, The hill they climb with reckless speed, And spread for him her sparkling And fashion'd, but with fireless rite, meads, A fane, upon that airy height. Sire of the sunlight's arrowy ray, Yet, from the full cloud's amber fold, Prince of the tierce flame-breathing Jove showered o'er them a flood of steeds. gold.
There, in bright Rhodes' embrace re
clined, IX. 3.
Seven sons the god begot ; And she, the Maid of flashing eye, Chiefs, wise of beart, of wariest mind, Vouchsafed them art's proud mastery, Were few, I ween, of human kind, O'er all on earth, with peerless hand Whom they surpassed not. To compass what their thoughts had Of these bold brethren, one plann'd.
To heroes three was sireHence each broad way with shapes Eulysus, his first-born son, grew rife,
And Lindus and Camire. That, starting, seem'd instinct with Apart they held, in triple share life ;
Carved out, their father's isle ; On them deep glory fell :
And hence three fenced cities bare But ne'er to its full strength is nurst Their lordly founder's style. The wise man's skill by arts accurst, Or witchery's wizard spell.
XIII. l. So list to a tale of the olden time; There, to their loved Tirynthian chief, When Jove, and they of heavenly Tlepolemus-sweet balm of grief, birth,
Asto a god-high towers tow'rd heaven, Were culling, clime by clime,
The pitchy pomp of flamesThe kingdoms of the earth,
Lord of the lists, to him is given