« PreviousContinue »
So, lost in love, oppress'd by grief,
The sorrowing heart may know;
Parnassus, 20th June, 1814.
FROM A LONDON PAPER.
IT was customary in our publick schools, for the scholars to sing the ancient song of "Dulce Domum," previous to the vacation. This performance I lately attended with great pleasure at Winchester; whether the custom is observed in other schools, I cannot tell. The spirit and beauty of this celebrated composition, is acknowledged by every scholar, and perhaps some of your young literary friends may be induced, during the vacation, to favour us with a translation. Your's, ADVENA.
Concinamus, O Sodales,
Dulce melos domum,
Dulce domum resonemus.
Domum, domum, dulce domum,
Appropinquat, ecce! felix
Meta petita laborum.
Musa, libros mitte, fessa,
Jam datur otium,
Ridet annus, prata rident,
Jam repetit domum,
Nosque domum repetamus.
Heus, Rogere, fer caballos,
Matris et oscula,
Suaviter et repetamus.
Concinamus ad penates,
Vox et audiatur,
Phosphore, quid jubar,
Gaudia nostra moratur.
THE following Ode, was written by Cowley, upon the idea of two Angels playing a game of Chess.
It was said by Plautus,
"We are but Tennis balls for the Gods to play withall, " which they strike away at last, and call for new ones. When the fates lay hold on man, he is confounded and loses his wits. Fatality dazzles the sight of his judgment. So it happens that the designs and counsels of the man that is to perish, are corrupt.
LO! of themselves the enlivened chess men move:
Lo! the unbid ill organ'd pieces prove
As full of art and industry,
Of courage and of policy,
As we ourselves, who think there's nothing wise, but we.
Here a proud pawn, I admire,
That still advancing higher,
Another thing and name.
Here I am amazed at the bold actions of a knight,
Who does great wonders in the fight,
Here I the losing party blame,
For those false moves, which break the game,
These things have life, election, liberty.
Tis their own wisdom moulds their state,
Their faults and virtues make their fate.
Thus they do, (said I,) but strait
Lo! from my enlightened eyes, the mists and shadows fall, That hinder spirits from being visible,
And lo! I saw two Angels played the mate.
With men alas, no otherwise it proves :
Some climb to good, and some from good fortune fall;
Some wise men, and some fools we call,
Figures alas of speech, for destiny plays them all.
With fate what boots it to contend?
Such I began, so am, and so must end!
The star that did my being frame,
And some small light it did dispense,
But neither heat, nor influence.
No matter Cowley, let proud fortune see
That thou cans't her despise, no less than she does thee:
Let all her gifts the portion be of folly,
Fraud, extortion, vice and calumny,
Do thou not grieve, nor blush to be,
As all the inspired tuneful men,
AWAKE, awake, my lyre,
And tell thy silent master's humble tale,
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire,
Though so exalted she,
And I so lowly be,
Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark, how the strings awake,
And though the moving hand approach not near,
A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try,
Now all thy charms apply,
Revenge upon her ear, the conquest of her eye.
Weak lyre, thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found
And she to wound, but not to cure.
Too weak too, wilt thou prove
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.
Sleep, sleep again, my lyre,
For thou can'st never tell my humble tale
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire.
All thy vain mirth lay by,
Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die.
* Een Jonson.
SOUS ce tombeau gît St. Parin;
Solution of the first puzzle in the last Repository.
I TRIED a sceptre to transpose,
Solutions of the Latin enigmatical Epitaph in our last.
O superbe, tua superbia te superabit. Terra et es in terram ibie