EW the words that I have spoken;
True love's words are ever few;
Yet by many a speechless token
Hath my heart discoursed to you.
Souls, that to each other listen,
Hear the language of a sigh,
Read the silent tears that glisten
In the tender trembling eye.
When your cheek is pale with sadness,
Dimmer grows the light of mine,
And your smiles of sunny gladness
In my face reflected shine.
Though my speech is faint and broken,
Though my words are ever few,
Yet by many a voiceless token
All my heart is known to you.
EN call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that yourself you daily such do see;
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit
And virtuous mind, is much more praised by me.
For all the rest, however fair it be,
Shall turn to nought, and lose their glorious hue;
But only that is permanent and free
From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue.
That is true beauty, that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed;
Derived from that fair spirit from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He only fair, and what he fair hath made;
All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade.
Οἶδα παῦρ' ἔπη λαλήσας· παῦρ ̓ ἔρως λαλεῖν φιλεῖ
ξυμβόλοις δ ̓ ὅμως ἀναύδοις σοὶ τὸ πᾶν ἐνιξάμην.
εὖ γὰρ οἶδε φρὴν ἐρῶσα τί στόνος λέγειν θέλει
δακρύων τ' ἄφωνος ὀμφὴ μαλθακοῦ δι ̓ ὄμματος.
σῆς παρῇδος ὠχριώσης ἥ τ' ἐμὴ μαραίνεται,
σῷ τ' ἐμὸς γέλωτι λαμπρὸς ἀντιφέγγεται γέλως.
ὧδε δυσκρίτως μόλις τε τἀμά σοι φωνῶν ὅμως
ξυμβόλοις ἔρωτ ̓ ἀναύδοις γνωρίσας ἅπαντ ̓ ἔχω.
ULCHRAM te memorant homines: tu, Lydia,
credis ;
Monstrat enim talem te tibi qvaeqve dies;
Sed magis illa mihi, qvae vere pulchra putantur,
Indole cum pura mens generosa, placent.
Cetera delebit, qvamvis pulcherrima, tempus ;
Fugerit eximio splendidus ore color.
Illa manent tantum, qvae dempta carne supersunt,
Illa vigent aegra libera sola lue.
Dixeris hanc formam, qva tu divina propago,
Luminis aetherei conspiciare iubar ;
Procreat hanc pulcher, qvi pulchri qvidqvid ubiqve est,
Conditor, exacti causa caputqve boni.
Pulcher is, et si cui pulchro dedit esse: sed, ut flos,
Ante suum pereunt cetera pulchra diem.
WAKE, Eolian Lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers that round them blow
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of music winds along
Deep, majestic, smooth and strong,
Thro' verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;
The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
O sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting Shell, the sullen Cares
And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
Has curbed the fury of his car,
And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command:
Perching on the sceptred hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing:
Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terrors of his beak and lightnings of his eye.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
Tempered to thy warbled lay.
O'er Idalia's velvet green
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen,
On Cytherea's day,
EPELLE somnum et dic age fervidis
Dic laeta chordis Aeolium melos,
Mille fluunt Heliconis arce
Vocalium cum murmure fontium
Rivi meantes, qvos sitientium
Floresqve pratorum et feraci
Vallis amat decorata risu.
Nunc lympha, multo devia tramite,
Levi fluento non sine viribus
Lambit virescentes recessus
Et Cereris geniale regnum :
Nunc latiori prona licentia
Secum labantum culmina rupium
Devolvit avulsosqve truncos
Et virides Heliconis umbras.
Salve libentum blanda cupidinum
Regina, victi pectoris arbitra :
Te Luctus exauditqve Cura,
Te placidis inimica ludis
Vindicta lenem fassa potentiam.
Audit cruento dirus ab Ismaro
Gradivus, infrenatqve currus
Et rabiem sitientis hastae:
Audit corusco de solio Iovis
Bellator ales; mox piceus sopor
Compescit alarum fragorem et
Fulmineos oculi minacis
Condit furores. Te seqvitur Chorus,
Utcumqve molli in gramine coetibus
Bacchata per noctem protervis
Idalias Cytherea nymphas
With antic Sports and blue-eyed Pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures;
Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet;
To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare :
Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay,
With arms sublime, that float upon the air,
In gliding state she wins her easy way:
O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
(Painted by Sir E. Landseer, R.A.)
HUNTRESS Queen, this pictured meed
The artist hangs within thy shrine,
Memorial of a bitter deed,
Wrought, Artemis, by thee or thine.
From parent teat with eager breath
A fawn requires its wonted food;
The wounded mother, faint in death,
Reddens the mountain snows with blood.
Yet why the piteous sight deplore?
Nay, goddess, lay thy shafts aside;
And in the chase delight no more,
Or let those idle tears be dried.
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