Then fiercer joys, I blush to mention these,

Yet, while I blush, confess how much they please.

But when, with day, the sweet delusions fly,

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And all things wake to life and joy, but I,

As if once more forsaken, I complain,

And close my eyes to dream of you again:
Then frantic rise, and like some fury rove

Through lonely plains, and through the silent grove,
As if the silent grove, and lonely plains,
That knew my pleasures, could relieve my pains.
I view the grotto, once the scene of love,

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The rocks around, the hanging roofs above,

That charm'd me more, with native moss o'ergrown,
Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone.
I find the shades that veil'd our joys before;
But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more.
Here the press'd herbs with bending tops betray
Where oft entwined in amorous folds we lay;
I kiss that earth which once was press'd by you,
And all with tears the withering herbs bedew.
For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,
And birds defer their songs till thy return:
Night shades the groves, and all in silence lie,
All but the mournful Philomel and I:
With mournful Philomel I join my strain,
Of Tereus she, of Phaon I complain,

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A spring there is, whose silver waters show,
Clear as a glass, the shining sands below:
A flowery lotos spreads its arms above,
Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove;
Eternal greens the mossy margin grace,
Watch'd by the sylvan genius of the place.

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Here as I lay, and swell'd with tears the flood,
Before my sight a watery virgin stood :
She stood, and cry'd, "O you that love in vain!
Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main.
There stands a rock, from whose impending steep
Apollo's fane surveys the rolling deep;
There injured lovers leaping from above,
Their flames extinguish, and forget to love.
Deucalion once with hopeless fury burn'd,
In vain he loved, relentless Pyrrha scorn'd:

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But when from hence he plung'd into the main,
Deucalion scorn'd, and Pyrrha loved in vain.
Haste, Sappho, haste, from high Leucadia throw
Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps below!"
She spoke, and vanish'd with the voice-I rise,
And silent tears fall trickling from my eyes.

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I go, ye nymphs! those rocks and seas to prove ;
How much I fear! but ah, how much I love!
I go, ye nymphs, where furious love inspires;
Let female fears submit to female fires.
To rocks and seas I fly from Phaon's hate,
And hope from seas and rocks a milder fate.
Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow,
And softly lay me on the waves below!
And thou, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain,
Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o'er the main,
Nor let a lover's death the guiltless flood profane!
On Phoebus' shrine my heart I'll then bestow,
And this inscription shall be placed below,
"Here she who sung, to him that did inspire,
Sappho to Phœbus consecrates her lyre;

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What suits with Sappho, Phoebus, suits with thee;
The gift, the giver, and the god agree."

But why, alas, relentless youth, ah why

To distant seas must tender Sappho fly?

Thy charms than those may far more powerful be,
And Phoebus' self is less a god to me.

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Ah! canst thou doom me to the rocks and sea,

O far more faithless and more hard than they?

Ah! canst thou rather see this tender breast
Dash'd on these rocks than to thy bosom press'd?
This breast, which once, in vain! you liked so well;
Where the Loves play'd, and where the Muses dwell.
Alas! the Muses now no more inspire,
Untuned my lute, and silent is my lyre;
My languid numbers have forgot to flow,
And fancy sinks beneath a weight of woe.
Ye Lesbian virgins, and ye Lesbian dames,
Themes of my verse, and objects of my flames,

No more your groves with my glad songs shall ring,

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No more these hands shall touch the trembling string: 235

My Phaon's fled, and I those arts resign;

(Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!)

Return, fair youth, return, and bring along
Joy to my soul, and vigour to my song.
Absent from thee, the poet's flame expires;
But ah! how fiercely burn the lover's fires !
Gods! can no prayers, no sighs, no numbers move
One savage heart, or teach it how to love?

The winds my prayers, my sighs, my numbers bear,
The flying winds have lost them all in air!
Oh when, alas! shall more auspicious gales
To these fond eyes restore thy welcome sails?
If you return—ah! why these long delays?
Poor Sappho dies while careless Phaon stays.
O launch thy bark, nor fear the watery plain;
Venus for thee shall smooth her native main.
O launch thy bark, secure of prosp'rous gales;
Cupid for thee shall spread the swelling sails.1
If you will fly-(yet ah! what cause can be,
Too cruel youth, that you should fly from me?)
If not from Phaon I must hope for ease,
Ah let me seek it from the raging seas:
To raging seas unpitied I'll remove,

And either cease to live, or cease to love!

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1 ["If Pope ever fails," says Mr. Bowles, "it is where he generalises too much. This is particularly objectionable where in the original there is any marked, distinct, and beautiful picture: so Pope only says,

"Cupid for thee shall spread the swelling sails,"

whereas in Ovid, Cupid appears before us in the very act of guiding the vessel seated as the pilot, and with his tender hand (tenerâ manu) contracting, or letting flow the sail."]

52

JANUARY AND MAY;

OR, THE MERCHANT'S TALE.

FROM CHAUCER.

["This translation," says Pope, was done at sixteen or seventeen years of age." Perhaps no better apology could be offered for his engaging in such a task. The gross indelicacy of the story had deterred even Dryden from attempting to modernise it. The elder bard selected the more romantic tales of Chaucer-" such tales," he says, as savour nothing of immodesty;" and among those which he condemns as unfit for modern taste he expressly mentions the two which Pope translated. To shoot with the bow of Dryden was Pope's early ambition, and the sanguine unchecked spirit of sixteen or seventeen saw none of the obstacles which restrained the veteran of sixtyeight. Nor will he suffer by a comparison with Dryden as respects poetical merit. His version of Chaucer's tales is executed with great freedom and vigour and a perfect mastery of his author and his subject. There are simple touches of nature and pathos in Chaucer which neither of his imitators could have reached; Dryden fails in the attempt, but none of these lay in the way of Pope in the humorous stories he selected. He had only to deal with the venerable poet, in that capacity in which he admired him, "as a master of manners, of description, and the first tale-teller in the true enlivened natural way." Mr. Tyrrwhit, the great restorer of Chaucer, doubts whether this Merchant's Tale is of Italian growth, though the scene is laid in Italy. The adventure of the tree he found in a collection of Latin fables written by one Adolphus, in elegiac verse, in the year 1315.]

THERE lived in Lombardy, as authors write,

In days of old, a wise and worthy Knight;

Of gentle manners, as of generous race,

Bless'd with much sense, more riches, and some grace;

Yet, led astray by Venus' soft delights,

5

He scarce could rule some idle appetites:

For long ago, let priests say what they could,

Weak sinful laymen were but flesh and blood.

But in due time, when sixty years were o'er,
He vow'd to lead this vicious life no more;
Whether pure holiness inspired his mind,
Or dotage turn'd his brain, is hard to find:
But his high courage prick'd him forth to wed,
And try the pleasures of a lawful bed.
This was his nightly dream, his daily care,
And to the heavenly powers his constant prayer,
Once ere he died, to taste the blissful life
Of a kind husband and a loving wife.

These thoughts he fortified with reasons still,
(For none want reasons to confirm their will.)
Grave authors say, and witty poets sing,
That honest wedlock is a glorious thing:
But depth of judgment most in him appears,
Who wisely weds in his maturer years.
Then let him choose a damsel young and fair,
To bless his age, and bring a worthy heir;

To soothe his cares, and free from noise and strife,
Conduct him gently to the verge of life.
Let sinful bachelors their woes deplore,

Full well they merit all they feel, and more:
Unaw'd by precepts human or divine,

Like birds and beasts, promiscuously they join;
Nor know to make the present blessing last,
To hope the future, or esteem the past;
But vainly boast the joys they never tried,
And find divulged the secrets they would hide.
The married man may bear his yoke with ease,
Secure at once himself and Heaven to please;
And pass his inoffensive hours away,
In bliss all night, and innocence all day:

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40

Though Fortune change, his constant spouse remains,
Augments his joys, or mitigates his pains.

But what so pure, which envious tongues will spare? Some wicked wits have libell'd all the fair. With matchless impudence they style a wife,

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The dear-bought curse, and lawful plague of life;
A bosom-serpent, a domestic evil,

A night invasion, and a mid-day devil.

Let not the wise these slanderous words regard,
But curse the bones of every lying bard.