COMPLIMENTARY POEMS TO MILTON
FROM THE LATIN AND ITALIAN
THE NEAPOLITAN, JOHN BAPTIST MANSO
To the EnglISHMAN, JOHN MILTON
WHAT features, form, mien, manners, with a mind
Oh how intelligent and how refined!
Were but thy piety from fault as free,
Thou would'st no Angle but an Angel be.
ADDRESSED TO THE ENGLISHMAN, JOHN MILTON, A POET WORTHY OF
THREE LAURELS, THE GRECIAN, LATIN, AND ETRUSCAN,
BY JOHN SALSILLO, OF ROME
MELES and Mincio, both, your urns depress!
Sebetus, boast henceforth thy Tasso less!
But let the Thames o'erpeer all floods, since he,
For Milton famed, shall single match the three.
GREECE, Sound thy Homer's, Rome, thy Virgil's name,
But England's Milton equals both in fame.
ADDRESSED TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS ENGLISHMAN, MR. JOHN MILTON,
BY SIGNOR ANTONIO FRANCINI, GENTLEMAN OF FLORENCE
EXALT me, Clio, to the skies,
That I may form a starry crown
Beyond what Helicon supplies
În laureate garlands of renown:
To nobler worth be brighter glory given,
And to a heavenly mind a recompense from heaven.
Time's wasteful hunger cannot prey
On everlasting high desert,
Nor can oblivion steal away
Its record graven in the heart ;
Lodge but an arrow, virtue, on the bow
That binds my lyre, and death shall be a vanquished foe.
In Ocean's blazing flood enshrined,
Whose vassal tide around her swells,
Albion, from other climes disjoined,
The prowess of the world excels;
She teems with heroes that to glory rise
With more than human force in our astonished eyes.
To virtue driven from other lands
Their bosoms yield a safe retreat;
Her law alone their deed commands,
Her smiles they feel divinely sweet.
Confirm this record, Milton, generous youth!
And by true virtue prove thy virtues' praise a truth.
Zeuxis, all energy and flame,
Set ardent forth in his career;
Urged to his task by Helen's fame
Resounding ever in his ear;
To make his image to her beauty true
From the collected fair each sovereign charm he drew.
The bee, with subtlest skill endued,
Thus toils to earn her precious juice
From all the flowery myriads strewed
O'er meadow and parterre profuse ;
Confederate voices one sweet air compound,
And various chords consent in one harmonious sound.
An artist of celestial aim,
Thy genius, caught by moral grace,
With ardent emulation's flame
The steps of virtue toiled to trace,
Observed in every land who brightest shone,
And, blending all their best, made perfect good thy own.
From all in Florence born, or taught
Our country's sweetest accent there,
Whose works, with learned labour wrought,
Immortal honours justly share,
Thou hast such treasure drawn of purest ore,
That not even Tuscan bards can boast a richer store.
Babel confused, and with her towers
Unfinished spreading wide the plain,
Has served but to evince thy powers
With all her tongues confused in vain,
Since not alone thy England's purest phrase
But every polished realm's thy various speech displays.
The secret things of heaven and earth,
By nature, too reserved, concealed
From other minds of highest worth,
To thee are copiously revealed;
Thou knowest them clearly, and thy views attain
The utmost bounds prescribed to moral truth's domain.
Let time no more his wing display
And boast his ruinous career,
For virtue, rescued from his sway,
His injuries may cease to fear;
Since all events that claim remembrance find
A chronicle exact in thy capacious mind.
Give me, that I may praise thy song,
Thy lyre, by which alone I can,
Which, placing thee the stars among,
Already proves thee more than man;
And Thames shall seem Permessus, while his stream,
Graced with a swan like thee, shall be my favourite theme.
I who beside the Arno strain
To match thy merit with my lays,
Learn, after many an effort vain,
To admire thee rather than to praise,
And that by mute astonishment alone,
Not by the faltering tongue, thy worth may best be shown.
THE LATIN POEMS OF MILTON
Ar length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,
Charged with thy kindness, to their destined home;
They come, at length, from Deva's western side,
Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be,
Though born of foreign race, yet born for me,
And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam,
Must seek again so soon his wonted home.
I well content, where Thames with refluent tide
My native city laves, meantime reside,
Nor zeal nor duty now my steps impel
To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell,
Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I,
That, to the musing bard, all shade deny.
'Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain,
And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain.
If peaceful days, in lettered leisure spent
Beneath my father's roof, be banishment,
Then call me banished, I will ne'er refuse
A name expressive of the lot I choose.
I would that, exiled to the Pontic shore,
Rome's hapless bard had suffered nothing more;
He then had equalled even Homer's lays,
And Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise.
And here I woo the Muse, with no control;
And here my books-my life-absorb me whole.
Here too I visit, or to smile or weep,
The winding theatre's majestic sweep ;
The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits
My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits,
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