Only the good are truly brave-
Whilst the proud atheist scorns to crave
Thy aid-or owns the battle won
But by his sword and spear alone ;
Britannia's pious sons to thee
Their God ascribe the victory:
Such thine own heroes to their country given!
Oh, late demand them in the realms of Heaven.
HORACE, BOOK I. ODE 38, IMITATED.
"Persicos odi puer apparatus."
THE splendid table's shew I hate,
With glittering load of costly plate!
I care not what my dish's weight;
Nor if of clay or gold.
I only ask a sparkling glass;
An arbour's fragrant shade to pass
My listless hours; upon the grass
easy comfort roll'd,
See the beginning of Admiral Nelson's Letter to the Admi ralty." It hath pleased Almighty God," &c.
TRANSLATION OF THE 9th ODE OF
FAITHFUL Messenger of love,
Tell me, tell me, gentle dove
Whither thro' the lucid air,
Thee thy snowy pinions bear,
Scattering odours as they play
Along the azure vault of day?
Tell me, tell me, gentle dove,
What thy errand ? is it love?
"From Anacreon to his fair,
I a tender message bear.
To his fair whose charms enslave
Both the timid and the brave.
To Anacreon I belong;
Venus sold me for a song.
This the letter which I bring,
The poet fasten'd to my wing.
Me at my return awaits
Liberty and all its sweets:
Sweets disdain'd and empty joys!
Liberty I do not prize.
With Anacreon I'll remain ;
His no hard or cruel chain !
Thro' the damp and chilly sky
Why should I desire to fly,
Why should I a tender dove
O'er bleak hills delight to rove,
Or in the covert of a wood
Pick my scant and homely food?
Now I'm by Anacreon fed;
From his hand I snatch his bread;
Or the wine I gayly sip
Which has touch'd Anacreon's lip:
Then my dewy wings I throw
O'er his myrtle shaded brow,
Or by the generous draught inspir'd
Play and frolic till I'm tir'd;
And when the fumes of wine expire
Sink to sleep upon his lyre.
Stranger thou hast heard my tale,
Courteous stranger, now farewel,
Quick must I pursue my way,
For I have prated like a jay..
SEE! Betsy is weeping! how lovely, in grief
The kind hearted angel appears!
Her bosom oppress'd finds a grateful relief
In a plentiful shower of tears.
Yet her eyes, tho' half veil'd in the quivering dew,
Never look'd more enchantingly bright.
Thus the violet boasts a more beautiful hue
When it shines thro' the tears of the night,
FROM THE FRENCH OF DESPORTES,
CURL those auburn locks with care,
That shade thy forehead smooth, and fair;
With humble glance my glances seek;
In tones of magic sweetness speak;
Breathe full oft deceitful sighs;
Raise to heaven thine azure eyes;
Weep, and exhaust thy power to feign;
Thy wiles and hopes will all be vain!
Never more, to thee returning,
Shall my heart with love be burning!
So many groans of sad lament,
So many days in anguish spent,
So many nights of sleepless woe,
Thy fatal beauty made me know,,
That ne'er again thy spells shall blind me,
Ne'er again thy fetters bind me:
For I, at length, have learn'd to borrowroniza
Wisdom from my former sorrow! ·'
O wretched he! whose captive soul()
Owns a faithless fair's controul;.
And, while she mocks his fond believing,
Trusts her words and oaths deceiving!
Then cease, thou false one, cease to strive
My buried passion to revive!
If ever thy seductive art
To bondage lure again my heart,
Let the hard destiny be mine,
Unpitied and unheard to pine:
For he who twice to folly swerves,
No pardon for his fault deserves.
FROM THE FRENCH OF LA SABLIERE.
So much I press'd, so much I pray'd,
From Laura's lips I gain'd a kiss,
But swift as lightning through the shade,
So swiftly fled my bliss.
O Love! thou hast not done me right!
Had Justice in thy mind a place,
Thou hadst not destin'd my delight
To live so brief a space.
As long a time as I had press'd
To gain the dear delicious treasure,
So long, O Love! to make me blest,
Should I have felt the pleasure.
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