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, Provok'd my laughter, more than mov'd my fear. I shunn'd not, therefore, public haunts, but stray'd Careless in city, or suburban shade,

And passing, and repassing, nymphs, that mov'd
With grace divine, beheld where'er I rov'd.
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 dang'rous 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 dar'd
His arrows, Love had even then prepar'd!
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 ev'ry part
Pierced, and transpierced, my undefended heart.
A fever, new to me, of fierce desire

Now seiz'd 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 gulph 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 pow'r!-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 the sov'reign 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 destin'd 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 urg'd by youth,

That worst of teachers! from the ways of truth;

Till learning taught me, in his shady bow'r,

To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn

his pow'r.

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.

EPIGRAMS.

ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS.

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.

[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.]

TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME.*

ANOTHER Leonora once inspir'd

Tasso, with fatal love to phrenzy fir'd,
But how much happier, liv'd he now, were he,
Pierc'd with whatever pangs for love of thee!

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.