What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory's chief reward,
But who can strike a murd'rer's praise?
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand,
No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
His harp in shuddering chords would break.
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse,
Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father's bitter curse,
A brother's death-groan echoes there.
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire;
1. [The motto does not appear in Hours of Idleness or
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanc'd to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus rov'd afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to Love alone.
Fir'd with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler Hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due :
With glowing strings, the Epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft Desire.
Adieu, ye Chiefs renown'd in arms !
Adieu the clang of War's alarms ! ii.
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
i. The chords resumed a second strain,
To Jove's great son I strike again.
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.-[MS. Newstead.] ii. The Trumpet's blast with these accords
To sound the clash of hostile swords
Be mine the softer, sweeter care
To soothe the young and virgin Fair.-[MS. Newstead.]
Μεσονυκτίοις ποθ ̓ ὥραις, κ.τ.λ.1
'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven ;
Boötes, only, seem'd to rolli
His Arctic charge around the Pole ;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceas'd to weep:
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force;
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,—
"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"
"Alas!" replies the wily child
In faltering accents sweetly mild;
"A hapless Infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here;
A wandering baby who can fear?"
i. The Newstead MS. inserts
No Moon in silver robe was seen
Nor e'en a trembling star between.
I. [The motto does not appear in Hours of Idleness or Poems O. and T.]
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm ;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow :-
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has lost;
i. Touched with the seeming artless tale
Compassion's tears o'er doubt prevail;
Methought I viewed him, cold and damp,
I trimmed anew my dying lamp,
Drew back the bar-and by the light
A pinioned Infant met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders slung,
And hence a gilded quiver hung;
With care I tend my weary guest,
His shivering hands by mine are pressed:
My hearth I load with embers warm
To dry the dew drops of the storm:
Drenched by the rain of yonder sky
The strings are weak-but let us try.-[MS. Newstead.]
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortur'd heart it lies:
Then loud the joyous Urchin laugh'd:-
"My bow can still impel the shaft :
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?"
THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS.1
A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ENEID," LIB. 9.
NISUS, the guardian of the portal, stood,
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood;
Well skill'd, in fight, the quivering lance to wield,
Or pour his arrows thro' th' embattled field:
From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave,i
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave.
i. Him Ida sent, a hunter, now no more,
To combat foes, upon a foreign shore;
Near him, the loveliest of the Trojan band,
Did fair Euryalus, his comrade, stand;
Few are the seasons of his youthful life,
As yet a novice in the martial strife:
The Gods to him unwonted gifts impart,
A female's beauty, with a hero's heart.-[P. on V. Occasions.]
From Ida torn he left his native grove,
Through distant climes, and trackless seas to rove.—
1. [Lines 1-18 were first published in P. on V. Occasions, under the title of "Fragment of a Translation from the 9th Book of Virgil's Æneid."]
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