But rather to ensure thy happier haste,
Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou may'st;
Or that, whence young Triptolemus of yore
Desc ended, welcome on the Scythian shore.
The sands, that line the German coast, descried,
To opulent Hamburga turn aside!
So call'd, if legendary fame be true,
From Hama, whom a club-arm'd Cimbrian slew.
There lives, deep-learn'd and primitively just,
A faithful steward of his Christian trust,
My friend, and favourite inmate of my heart,
That now is forced to want its better part.
What mountains now, and seas, alas, how wide!
From me this other, dearer self divide,
Dear, as the sage renown'd for moral truth
To the prime spirit of the Attic youth!
Dear, as the Stagyrite to Ammon's son,
His pupil, who disdain'd the world he won!
Nor so did Chiron, or so Phoenix shine
In young Achilles' eyes, as he in mine.
First led by him through sweet Aonian shade,
Each sacred haunt of Pindus I survey'd ;
And favour'd by the muse, whom I implored,
Thrice on my lip the hallow'd stream I pour'd.
But thrice the sun's resplendent chariot roll'd
To Aries, has new-tinged his fleece with gold,
And Chloris twice has dress'd the meadows gay,
And twice has summer parch'd their bloom away,
Since last delighted on his looks I hung,
Or my ear drank the music of his tongue :
Fly, therefore, and surpass the tempest's speed;
Aware thyself, that there is urgent need!
Him, entering, thou shalt haply seated see
Beside his spouse, his infants on his knee;
Or turning, page by page, with studious look,
Some bulky father, or God's holy book;
Or ministering (which is his weightiest care)
To Christ's assembled flock their heavenly fare.
Give him, whatever his employment be,
Such gratulation, as he claims, from me;
And, with a downcast eye, and carriage meek,
Addressing him, forget not thus to speak!
"If, compass'd round with arms thou canst attend
To verse, verse greets thee from a distant friend.
Long due, and late, I left the English shore;
But make me welcome for that cause the more!
Such from Ulysses, his chaste wife to cheer,
The slow epistle came, though late, sincere.
But wherefore this why palliate I the deed,
For which the culprit's self could hardly plead?
Self-charged, and self-condemn'd, his proper
part
He feels neglected, with an aching heart;
But thou forgive: delinquents, who confess,
And pray forgiveness, merit anger less ;
From timid foes the lion turns away,
Nor yawns upon or rends a crouching prey;
Even pike-wielding Thracians learn to spare,
Won by soft influence of a suppliant prayer;
And heaven's dread thunderbolt arrested stands
By a cheap victim, and uplifted hands.
Long had he wish'd to write, but was withheld,
And, writes at last, by love alone compell'd;
For fame, too often true when she alarms,
Reports thy neighbouring fields a scene of arms;
Thy city against fierce besiegers barr'd,
And all the Saxon chiefs for fight prepared.
Enyo wastes thy country wide around,
And saturates with blood the tainted ground;
Mars rests contented in his Thrace no more,
But goads his steeds to fields of German gore:
The ever verdant olive fades and dies,
And Peace, the trumpet-hating goddess flies,
Flies from that earth which justice long had left,
And leaves the world of its last guard bereft.
"Thus horror girds thee round. Meantime alone
Thou dwell'st, and helpless in a soil unknown;
Poor, and receiving from a foreign hand
The aid denied thee in thy native land.
Oh, ruthless country, and unfeeling more
Than thy own billow-beaten chalky shore!
Leavest thou to foreign care the worthies, given
By Providence, to guide thy steps to heaven?
His ministers, commission'd to proclaim
Eternal blessings in a Saviour's name?
Ah then most worthy, with a soul unfed,
In Stygian night to lie for ever dead!
So once the venerable Tishbite stray'd
An exiled fugitive from shade to shade,
When, flying Ahab, and his fury wife,
In lone Arabian wilds, he shelter'd life;
So, from Philippi, wander'd forth forlorn
Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn;
And Christ himself, so left, and trod no more
The thankless Gergesene's forbidden shore.
"But thou take courage! strive against despair!
Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care!
Grim war indeed on every side appears,
And thou art menaced by a thousand spears;
Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offend
Even the defenceless bosom of my friend.
For thee the ægis of thy God shall hide,
Jehovah's self shall combat on thy side.
The same, who vanquish'd under Sion's towers
At silent midnight, all Assyria's powers;
The same, who overthrew in ages past
Damascus' sons that laid Samaria waste!
Their king he fill'd and them with fatal fears
By mimic sounds of clarions in their ears,
Of hoofs, and wheels, and neighings from afar,
Of clashing armour, and the din of war.
"Thou, therefore, (as the most afflicted may) Still hope, and triumph o'er thy evil day! Look forth, expecting happier times to come, And to enjoy, once more, thy native home!"
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.
WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S TWENTIETH YEAR.
TIME, never wandering from his annual round, Bids Zephyr breathe the spring, and thaw the ground;
Bleak winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain,
And earth assumes her transient youth again.
Dream I, or also to the spring belong
Increase of genius, and new powers of song?
Spring gives them, and, how strange soe'er it
Impels me now to some harmonious themes. [seems,
Castalia's fountain, and the forked hill
By day, by night, my raptured fancy fill;
My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within
A sacred sound that prompts me to begin.
Lo, Phoebus comes! with his bright hair he blends
The radiant laurel wreath; Phoebus descends;
I mount, and, undepress'd by cumberous clay,
Through cloudy regions win my easy way;
Rapt, through poetic shadowy haunts I fly;
The shrines all open to my dauntless eye,
My spirit searches all the realms of light,
And no Tartarean gulfs elude my sight.
But this ecstatic trance-this glorious storm
Of inspiration--what will it perform?
Spring claims the verse, that with his influence
And shall be paid with what himself bestows. [glows,
Thou, veil'd with opening foliage, lead'st the
Of feather'd minstrels, Philomel! in song; [throng
Let us, in concert, to the season sing,
Civic and sylvan heralds of the Spring!
With notes triumphant Spring's approach deTo Spring, ye Muses, annual tribute bear! [clare! The orient left and Ethiopia's plains,
The Sun now northward turns his golden reins; Night creeps not now, yet rules with gentle sway, And drives her dusky horrors swift away; Now less fatigued, on this ethereal plain Boötes follows his celestial wain; And now the radiant sentinels above, Less numerous, watch around the courts of Jove, For, with the night, force, ambush, slaughter fly, And no gigantic guilt alarms the sky. Now haply says some shepherd, while he views, Recumbent on a rock, the reddening dews, This night, this surely, Phoebus miss'd the fair, Who stops his chariot by her amorous care. Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow, Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow; Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear, Blesses his aid, who shortens her career. Come-Phoebus cries-Aurora come-too late Thou linger'st, slumbering, with thy wither'd mate! Leave him, and to Hymettus' top repair! Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there. The goddess, with a blush, her love betrays, But mounts, and driving rapidly, obeys. Earth now desires thee, Phoebus! and to engage Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age; Desires thee, and deserves; for who so sweet, When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat? Her breath imparts to every breeze that blows, Arabia's harvest, and the Paphian rose. Her lofty front she diadems around With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd; Her dewy locks with various flowers new-blown, She interweaves, various, and all her own, For Proserpine, in such a wreath attired, Tænarian Dis himself with love inspired. Fear not, lest, cold and coy, the nymph refuse! Herself, with all her sighing Zephyrs, sues; Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wing, And all her groves with warbled wishes ring. Nor, unendow'd and indigent, aspires The amorous Earth to engage thy warm desires, But, rich in balmy drugs, assists thy claim, Divine Physician! to that glorious name. If splendid recompense, if gifts can move Desire in thee, (gifts often purchase love) She offers all the wealth her mountains hide, And all that rests beneath the boundless tide. How oft, when headlong from the heavenly steep, She sees thee playing in the western deep, How oft she cries-"Ah Phoebus! why repair Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there? Can Tethys win thee? wherefore shouldst thou lave A face so fair in her unpleasant wave? Come, seek my green retreats, and rather chuse To cool thy tresses in my crystal dews,
The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest;
Come, lay thy evening glories on my breast,
And breathing fresh, through many a humid rose,
Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose!
No fears I feel like Semele to die;
Nor let thy burning wheels approach too nigh,
For thou canst govern them; here therefore rest,
And lay thy evening glories on my breast!" [flame,
Thus breathes the wanton Earth her amorous
And all her countless offspring feel the same;
For Cupid now through every region strays,
Brightening his faded fires with solar rays;
His new-strung bow sends forth a deadlier sound,
And his new-pointed shafts more deeply wound;
Nor Dian's self escapes him now untried,
Nor even Vesta at her altar-side;
His mother too repairs her beauty's wane,
And seems sprung newly from the deep again.
Exulting youths the Hymeneal sing,
With Hymen's name roofs, rocks, and vallies ring;
He, new-attired, and by the season drest,
Proceeds, all fragrant, in his saffron vest.
Now, many a golden-cinctured virgin roves
To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves,
All wish, and each alike, some favourite youth
Hers, in the bonds of Hymeneal truth.
Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again,
Nor Phillis wants a song, that suits the strain;
With songs the seaman hails the starry sphere,
And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear;
Jove feels himself the season, sports again
With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train.
Now too the Satyrs, in the dusk of eve,
Their mazy dance through flowery meadows weave,
And neither god nor goat, but both in kind,
Silvanus, wreathed with cypress, skips behind.
The Dryads leave their hollow sylvan cells
To roam the banks and solitary dells;
Pan riots now, and from his amorous chafe
Ceres and Cybele seem hardly safe;
And Faunus, all on fire to reach the prize,
In chase of some enticing Oread flies;
She bounds before, but fears too swift a bound,
And hidden lies, but wishes to be found.
Our shades entice the Immortals from above,
And some kind power presides o'er every grove;
And long, ye powers, o'er every grove preside,
For all is safe and blest, where ye abide!
Return, O Jove! the age of gold restore [roar?
Why chuse to dwell, were storms and thunder
At least, thou, Phoebus! moderate thy speed!
Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed,
Command rough Winter back, nor yield the pole
Too soon to Night's encroaching long controul!
Who, while he spent his Christmas in the country, sent the Author a poetical Epistle, in which he requested that his verses, if not so good as usual, might be excused on account of the many feasts to which his friends învited him, and which would not allow him leisure to finish them as he wished.
WITH no rich viands overcharged, I send [friend: Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd But wherefore should thy muse tempt mine away From what she loves, from darkness into day?
Art thou desirous to be told how well
I love thee, and in verse? verse cannot tell,
For verse has bounds, and must in measure move;
But neither bounds nor measure knows my love.
How pleasant, in thy lines described, appear
December's harmless sports, and rural cheer!
French spirits kindling with cerulean fires,
And all such gambols as the time inspires!
Think not that wine against good verse offends;
The muse and Bacchus have been always friends,
Nor Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found
With ivy, rather than with laurel, crown'd.
The nine themselves ofttimes have join'd the song
And revels of the Bacchanalian throng;
Not even Ovid could in Scythian air
Sing sweetly-why? no vine would flourish there.
What in brief numbers sung Anacreon's muse?
Wine, and the rose, that sparkling wine bedews.
Pindar with Bacchus glows;-his every line
Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine,
While, with loud crash o'erturn'd, the chariot lies
And brown with dust the fiery courser flies.
The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays
So sweet in Glycera's and Chloe's praise.
Now too the plenteous feast and mantling bowl
Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul;
The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow,
And casks not wine alone, but verse bestow.
Thus Phoebus favours, and the arts attend,
Whom Bacchus, and whom Ceres, both befriend :
What wonder then, thy verses are so sweet,
In which these triple powers so kindly meet?
The lute now also sounds, with gold in-wrought,
And touch'd, with flying fingers, nicely taught,
In tapestried halls high roof'd, the sprightly lyre
Directs the dancers of the virgin choir.
If dull repletion fright the muse away,
Sights, gay as these, may more invite her stay:
And, trust me, while the ivory keys resound,
Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around,
Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame,
Shall animate, at once, thy glowing frame,
And all the muse shall rush into thy breast,
By love and music's blended powers possest.
For numerous powers light Elegy befriend,
Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend;
Her, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, all approve,
And, with his blushing mother, gentle Love.
Hence to such bards we grant the copious use
Of banquets, and the vine's delicious juice.
But they, who demi-gods and heroes praise,
And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days,
Who now the counsels of high heaven explore,
Now shades, that echo the Cerberean roar,
Simply let these, like him of Samos, live,
Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give;
In beechen goblets let their beverage shine,
Cool from the crystal spring, their sober wine!
Their youth should pass in innocence, secure
From stain licentious, and in manners pure,
Pure as the priest, when robed in white he stands,
The fresh lustration ready in his hands.
Thus Linus lived, and thus, as poets write,
Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight;
Thus exiled Chalcas, thus the bard of Thrace,
Melodious tamer of the savage race;
Thus train'd by temperance, Homer led, of yore,
His chief of Ithaca from shore to shore,
Through magic Circe's monster-peopled reign,
And shoals insidious with the siren train;
And through the realms where grizly spectres Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell; [dwell, For these are sacred bards, and, from above, Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove.
Would'st thou, (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine Would'st thou be told my occupation here? [ear) The promised King of peace employs my pen, The eternal covenant made for guilty men, The new-born Deity with infant cries Filling the sordid hovel, where he lies: The hymning Angels, and the herald star, That led the wise, who sought him from afar, And idols on their own unhallow'd shore Dash'd, at his birth, to be revered no more!
This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse; Verse, that, reserved in secret, shall attend Thy candid voice, my critic, and my friend!
COMPOSED IN THE AUTHOR'S NINETEENTH YEAR.
As yet a stranger to the gentle fires,
That Amathusia's smiling queen inspires,
Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts,
And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts.
"Go, child," I said, "transfix the timorous dove!
An easy conquest suits an infant love;
Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be
Sufficient triumph to a chief like thee!
Why aim thy idle arms at human kind?
Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind."
The Cyprian heard, and, kindling into ire,
(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire.
It was the spring, and newly risen day
Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the first of May;
My eyes too tender for the blaze of light,
Still sought the shelter of retiring night,
When Love approach'd, in painted plumes array'd;
The insidious god his rattling darts betray'd,
Nor less his infant features, and the sly
Sweet intimations of his threatening eye.
Such the Sigean boy is seen above,
Filling the goblet for imperial Jove;
Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow'd their
Hylas, who perish'd in a Naiad's arms. [charms,
Angry he seem'd, yet graceful in his ire,
And added threats, not destitute of fire.
My power," he said, "by others' pain alone,
"Twere best to learn; now learn it by thy own!
With those who feel my power that power attest,
And in thy anguish be my sway confest!
I vanquish'd Phoebus, though returning vain
From his new triumph o'er the Python slain,
And when he thinks on Daphne, even he
Will yield the prize of archery to me.
A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped,
Behind him kill'd, and conquer'd as he fled:
Less true the expert Cydonian, and less true
The youth whose shaft his latent Procris slew.
Vanquish'd by me see huge Orion bend,
By me Alcides, and Alcides' friend.
At me should Jove himself a bolt design,
His bosom first should bleed transfixt by mine.
But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain,
Nor shall it reach thee with a trivial pain,
Thy muse, vain youth! shall not thy peace ensure,
Nor Phoebus' serpent yield thy wound a cure."
He spoke, and, waving a bright shaft in air, Sought the warm bosom of the Cyprian fair.
That thus a child should bluster in my ear, Provoked my laughter, more than moved my fear. I shunn'd not, therefore, public haunts, but stray'd Careless in city or suburban shade,
And passing, and repassing, nymphs, that moved
With grace divine, beheld where'er I roved.
Bright shone the vernal day, with double blaze,
As beauty gave new force to Phoebus' rays.
By no grave scruples check'd, I freely eyed
The dangerous show, rash youth my only guide,
And many a look of many a fair unknown
Met full, unable to controul my own.
But one I mark'd (then peace forsook my breast)
One-oh how far superior to the rest!
What lovely features! such the Cyprian queen
Herself might wish, and Juno wish her mien.
The very nymph was she, whom when I dared
His arrows, Love had even then prepared;
Nor was himself remote, nor unsupplied
With torch well-trimm'd and quiver at his side;
Now to her lips he clung, her eye-lids now,
Then settled on her cheeks, or on her brow;
And with a thousand wounds from every part
Pierced, and transpierced, my undefended heart.
A fever, new to me, of fierce desire
Now seized my soul, and I was all on fire,
But she, the while, whom only I adore,
Was gone, and vanish'd, to appear no more.
In silent sadness I pursue my way;
I pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay,
And while I follow her in thought, bemoan
With tears, my soul's delight so quickly flown.
When Jove had hurl'd him to the Lemnian coast,
So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost,
And so Oeclides, sinking into night,
From the deep gulf look'd up to distant light.
Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain,
Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain ?
Oh could I once, once more behold the fair,
Speak to her, tell her, of the pangs I bear,
Perhaps she is not adamant, would show
Perhaps some pity at my tale of woe.
Oh inauspicious flame !-'tis mine to prove
A matchless instance of disastrous love.
Ah spare me, gentle power!-If such thou be,
Let not thy deeds and nature disagree;
Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine
With vow and sacrifice, save only thine.
Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts,
Now own thee sovereign of all human hearts.
Remove! no-grant me still this raging woe!
Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know:
But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see
One destined mine) at once both her and me.
Such were the trophies, that, in earlier days, By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise, Studious, yet indolent, and urged by youth, That worst of teachers! from the ways of truth; Till learning taught me, in his shady bower, To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his power. Then, on a sudden, the fierce flame supprest, A frost continual settled on my breast, Whence Cupid fears his flames extinct to see, And Venus dreads a Diomede in me.
ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS. 1
PRAISE in old times the sage Prometheus won, Who stole æthereal radiance from the sun; But greater he, whose bold invention strove To emulate the fiery bolts of Jove.
TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME. 2
ANOTHER Leonora once inspired
Tasso, with fatal love to frenzy fired;
But how much happier, lived he now, were he,
Pierced with whatever pangs for love of thee !
Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,
With Adriana's lute of sound divine,
Fiercer than Pentheus' though his eye might roll,
Or idiot apathy benumb his soul,
You still, with medicinal sounds might cheer
His senses wandering in a blind career;
And sweetly breathing through his wounded breast,
Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.
NAPLES, too credulous, ah! boast no more
The sweet-voiced Siren buried on thy shore,
That, when Parthenope deceased, she gave
Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave,
For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse
Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,
Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains,
Of magic song, both gods and men detains.
THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD.
A PEASANT to his lord paid yearly court,
Presenting pippins, of so rich a sort
That he, displeased to have a part alone,
Removed the tree, that all might be his own.
The tree, too old to travel, though before
So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more.
The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void,
Cursed his own pains, so foolishly employ'd.
And "Oh," he cried, "that I had lived content
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant !
My avarice has expensive proved to me,
Has cost me both my pippins, and my tree."
1 The Poems on the subject of the Gunpowder Treason I have not translated, both because the matter of them is unpleasant, and because they are written with an asperity, which, however it might be warranted in Milton's day, would be extremely unseasonable now. C.
2 I have translated only two of the three poetical compliments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to me far superior to what I have omitted. C.
TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN,
WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE,
CHRISTINA, maiden of heroic mien !
Star of the North! of northern stars the queen!
Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how
The iron casque still chafes my veteran brow,
While following fate's dark footsteps, I fulfil
The dictates of a hardy people's will.
But soften'd, in thy sight, my looks appear,
Not to all queens or kings alike severe.
ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR,
LEARN, ye nations of the earth,
The condition of your birth;
Now be taught your feeble state;
Know, that all must yield to fate!
If the mournful rover, Death,
Say but once-" Resign your breath !"
Vainly of escape you dream,
You must pass the Stygian stream.
Could the stoutest overcome
Death's assault, and baffle doom,
Hercules had both withstood,
Undiseased by Nessus' blood.
Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain
By a trick of Pallas slain,
Nor the chief to Jove allied
By Achilles' phantom died.
Could enchantments life prolong,
Circe, saved by magic song,
Still had lived, and equal skill
Had preserved Medea still.
Dwelt in herbs, and drugs, a power
To avert man's destined hour,
Learn'd Machaon should have known
Doubtless to avert his own.
Chiron had survived the smart
Of the Hydra-tainted dart,
And Jove's bolt had been, with ease,
Foil'd by Asclepiades.
Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn
Helicon and Cirrha mourn,
Still hadst fill'd thy princely place,
Regent of the gowned race;
Hadst advanced to higher fame
Still, thy much-ennobled name,
Nor in Charon's skiff explored
The Tartarean gulf abhorr❜d.
But resentful Proserpine,
Jealous of thy skill divine,
Snapping short thy vital thread,
Thee too number'd with the dead.
Wise and good! untroubled be
The green turf, that covers thee!
Thence, in gay profusion, grow
All the sweetest flowers that blow!
Pluto's consort bid thee rest!
Eacus pronounce thee blest,
To her home thy shade consign,
Make Elysium ever thine!
ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY, WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S SEVENTEENTH YEAR.
My lids with grief were tumid yet,
And still my sullied cheek was wet
With briny tears, profusely shed
For venerable Winton dead;
When Fame, whose tales of saddest sound,
Alas! are ever truest found,
The news through all our cities spread
Of yet another mitred head
By ruthless fate to death consign'd,
Ely, the honour of his kind!
At once a storm of passion heaved
My boiling bosom ; much I grieved,
But more I raged, at every breath
Devoting Death himself to death.
With less revenge did Naso teem,
When hated Ibis was his theme;
With less, Archilochus, denied
The lovely Greek, his promised bride.
But lo! while thus I execrate,
Incensed, the minister of fate,
Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear,
Wafted on the gale I hear.
"Ah, much deluded! lay aside Thy threats, and anger misapplied!
Art not afraid with sounds like these
To offend, where thou canst not appease? Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus?) The son of Night and Erebus ;
Nor was of fell Erinnys born
On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn :
But, sent from God, his presence leaves,
To gather home his ripen'd sheaves,
To call encumber'd souls away
From fleshly bonds to boundless day,
(As when the winged hours excite,
And summon forth the morning-light)
And each to convoy to her place
Before the Eternal Father's face.
But not the wicked :-them, severe
Yet just, from all their pleasures here
He hurries to the realms below,
Terrific realms of penal woe!
Myself no sooner heard his call,
Than, 'scaping through my prison-wall,
I bade adieu to bolts and bars,
And soar'd, with angels, to the stars,
Like him of old, to whom 'twas given
To mount, on fiery wheels, to heaven.
Boötes' waggon, slow with cold,
Appall'd me not; nor to behold
The sword, that vast Orion draws,
Or even the Scorpion's horrid claws.
Beyond the Sun's bright orb I fly,
And, far beneath my feet, descry
Night's dread goddess, seen with awe,
Whom her winged dragons draw.
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