And one fond form shall often glide, When tolls the evening bell, To whisper o'er that tomb and tide One echoless "farewell!" And shed one tear in that din grove, The silent tear of parted love. Raise not for me a Pyramid! The tear that gleams in that pale lid And in thy breast, thy tender breast, My shade shall find a home of rest! IN OBITUM VIRI ADMODUM REVERENDI DOCTISSIMIQUE THOME FANSHAWE MIDDLETON, EPISCOPI CALCUTTENSIS. CARMEN GRECUM IN CURIA CANTABRIGIENSI RECITATUM COMITIIS MAXIMIS, A. D. M.DCCC.XXIII. ΝΑΜΑΤΩΝ πάτερ, βαθύπλουτε Γάγγα, χαῖρε, χαῖρ ̓ ἐμοί· σὺ μὲν ἐς θάλασσαν ἡμέρας λαχὼν ἀτέλευτον αὐγὰν εὔῤῥοον ἱεῖς κυμάτων κλύδωνα· βλέπων δ' ἐς εὐρὺ ὠρανῶ μέλαθρον ἀεὶ ποτ' αὔρας γαρύεις ἀγαλλόμενος μέγαν πο λύῤῥοθον ὕμνον. ἡ μάκαρ σύ· θεσπεσίᾳ γὰρ αὐδᾷ τὸν Θεὸν τὸν αἰὲν ἀλαθέ ̓ αἰὲν εὖ σέβεις· παῖδες δὲ τεοὶ κακᾷ κε κρυμμένοι ὄρφνα κεῖνται· ἐν δ ̓ αἰνὸν δέος, ἐν δ' ὄνειδος βάρβαρον, μῦθοί τε κενοὶ πέτονται· ἔνθα γὰρ λαῶν φρέν ̓ ἀναλίοις πτυ χαῖσι καλύπτει HINDOSTAN. TRANSLATION OF A GREEK ODE TO THE MEMORY OF THE VERY REVEREND AND LEARNED THOMAS FANSHAWE MIDDLETON, BISHOP OF CALCUTTA, RECITED AT THE CAMBRIDGE COMMENCEMENT, A. D. 1823. FATHER of rivers, Ganges, hail to thee! Unwearied, to the sea; And, ever gazing with a steadfast gaze Thy changeless song of praise. So thou art happy: for thy hymn is loud Dim Ignorance spreads her cloud Around thee; and wild fancies, wild and vain, Darkness, Sin's mother, there Holds her unlovely reign; ὁ Σκότος, πυκνὸν νέφος ἀμπετάσσας, οὐδὲ Φῶς, Θεοῦ τόδε τερπνὸν ἄνθος, σπαργανωθὲν ἐκ νεφελῶν καλοὺς βέβακε ποτ' ἀγρούς. ποσσάκις, φεῦ, ποσσάκις αἱματηρὰς παρθένων, πεπλώματα θ ̓ ἁβρόπηνα, χρυσίου θ ̓ ἁγνὸν σέλας, ἀργυρόν τε, βάρβαρον χλίδαμα· μάλ' ἐκφοβεῖται δῖα Σελάνα λαμπάδων ὁρῶσα φάος πάρεστιν ὁ κόρα· σιγῶσα δίκαν χιμαίρας κεῖται ἐν τείχει ξυλίνῳ μάταιον δάκρυ χέοισα. φεῦ Νεαλλίνα· χλοερὸν γὰρ ἄνθος, δωμάτων ἄγαλμα, κακῶς ἔλωλεν αὐτόχειρ ὄλωλ'· ἱερέων δὲ τέχναι οὔποτ' ἄκραντοι. * “ Oh sight of grief! the wives of Arvalan, Young Azla, young Nealliny are seen; Their widow robes of white, With gold and jewels bright, Each like an Eastern queen." &c. See SOUTHEY's Curse of Kehama. And never, since thy glorious course began, Hath the glad light, Nature's most precious flower, Looked from its home of power Upon the soul of Man. How often yet-how often will the sun Behold the rites of death with that calm smile? Lo, they have laid the pile; The virgins, one by one, Chant solemnly the hymn-the funeral hymn! Makes the clear day look dim. Where is the Victim? Lo, the bride appears, Mute, motionless, a blameless sacrifice; Upon the pile she lies, Weeping unheeded tears. Woe for Nealliny, the tender reed! Woe! she has said th' irrevocable vow ; Self-slaughtered? Answer thou, Priest of a bloody creed! |