A Hymn to Pan…

A Hymn to Pan

Sing, Muse, this chief of Hermes’ love-got joys, Goat-footed, two-horn’d, amorous of noise, That through the fair greens, all adorn’d with trees, Together goes with Nymphs, whose nimble knees Can every dance foot, that affect to scale The most inaccessible tops of all Uprightest rocks, and ever use to call On Pan, the bright-hair’d God of pastoral; Who yet is lean and loveless, and doth owe By lot all loftiest mountains crown’d with snow; All tops of hills, and cliffy highnesses, All sylvan copses, and the fortresses Of thorniest queaches, here and there doth rove, And sometimes, by allurement of his love, Will wade the wat’ry softnesses. Sometimes (In quite oppos’d capriccios) he climbs The hardest rocks, and highest, every way Running their ridges. Often will convey Himself up to a watch-tow’r’s top, where sheep Have their observance. Oft through hills as steep His goats he runs upon, and never rests. Then turns he head, and flies on savage beasts, Mad of their slaughters; so most sharp an eye Setting upon them, as his beams let fly Through all their thickest tapistries. And then (When Hesp’rus calls to fold the flocks of men) From the green clossets of his loftiest reeds He rushes forth, and joy with song he feeds. When, under shadow of their motions set, He plays a verse forth so profoundly sweet, As not the bird that in the flow’ry spring, Amidst the leaves set, makes the thickets ring Of her sour sorrows, sweeten’d with her song, Runs her divisions varied so and strong. And then the sweet-voic’d Nymphs that crown his mountains (Flock’d round about the deep-black-water’d fountains) Fall in with their contention of song. To which the echoes all the hills along Their repercussions add. Then here and there (Plac’d in the midst) the God the guide doth bear Of all their dances, winding in and out, A lynce’s hide, besprinkled round about With blood, cast on his shoulders. And thus He, With well-made songs, maintains th’ alacrity Of his free mind, in silken meadows crown’d With hyacinths and saffrons, that abound In sweet-breath’d odours, that th’ unnumber’d grass (Besides their scents) give as through all they pass. And these, in all their pleasures, ever raise The blessed Gods’ and long Olympus’ praise: Like zealous Hermes, who of all I said Most profits up to all the Gods convey’d. Who, likewise, came into th’ Arcadian state, (That’s rich in fountains, and all celebrate For nurse of flocks,) where He had vow’d a grove (Surnam’d Cyllenius) to his Godhead’s love. Yet even himself (although a God he were) Clad in a squalid sheepskin, govern’d there A mortal’s sheep. For soft love ent’ring him Conform’d his state to his conceited trim, And made him long, in an extreme degree, T’ enjoy the fair-hair’d virgin Dryope. Which ere he could, she made consummate The flourishing rite of Hymen’s honour’d state; And brought him such a piece of progeny As show’d, at first sight, monstrous to the eye, Goat-footed, two-horn’d, full of noise even then, And (opposite quite to other childeren) Told, in sweet laughter, he ought death no tear. Yet straight his mother start, and fled, in fear, The sight of so unsatisfying a thing, In whose face put forth such a bristled spring. Yet the most useful Mercury embrac’d, And took into his arms, his homely-fac’d, Beyond all measure joyful with his sight; And up to heaven with him made instant flight, Wrapp’d in the warm skin of a mountain hare, Set him by Jove, and made most merry fare To all the Deities else with his son’s sight; Which most of all fill’d Bacchus with delight; And Pan they call’d him, since he brought to all Of mirth so rare and full a festival. And thus all honour to the shepherds’ King, For sacrifice to thee my Muse shall sing!

A Hymn to Vulcan

Praise Vulcan, now Muse; whom fame gives the prize For depth and fracture of all forge-devise; Who, with the sky-ey’d Pallas, first did give Men rules of buildings, that before did live In caves and dens, and hills, like savage beasts; But now, by art-fam’d Vulcan’s interests In all their civil industries, ways clear Through th’ all-things-bringing-to-their-ends (the year) They work out to their ages’ ends, at ease Lodg’d in safe roofs from Winter’s utmost prease. But, Vulcan, stand propitious to me, Virtue safe granting, and felicity!

A Hymn to Phœbus

O Phœbus! Even the swan from forth her wings, Jumping her proyning-bank, thee sweetly sings, By bright Peneus’ whirl-pit-making streams. Thee, that thy lute mak’st sound so to thy beams, Thee, first and last, the sweet-voic’d singer still Sings, for thy song’s all-songs-transcending skill. Thy pleasure, then, shall my song still supply, And so salutes thee King of Poesy.

A Hymn to Neptune

Neptune, the mighty marine God, I sing, Earth’s mover, and the fruitless ocean’s King, That Helicon and th’ Ægean deeps dost hold. O thou Earth-shaker! Thy command two-fold The Gods have sorted; making thee of horses The awful tamer, and of naval forces The Sure preserver. Hail, O Saturn’s birth! Whose graceful green hair circles all the earth. Bear a benign mind; and thy helpful hand Lend all submitted to thy dread command.

A Hymn to Jove

Jove now I sing, the greatest and the best Of all these Pow’rs that are with Deity blest, That far-off doth his dreadful voice diffuse, And, being King of all, doth all conduce To all their ends. Who (shut from all Gods else With Themis, that the laws of all things tells) Their fit composures to their times doth call, Weds them together, and preserves this all. Grace then, O far-heard Jove, the grace thou’st given, Most Glorious, and most Great of Earth and Heaven!

A Hymn to Vesta

Vesta, that as a servant oversees King Phœbus’ hallow’d house, in all degrees Of guide about it, on the sacred shore Of heavenly Pythos, and hast evermore Rich balms distilling from thy odorous hair, Grace this house with thy housewifely repair! Enter, and bring a mind that most may move, Conferring even, the great in counsels, Jove; And let my verse taste of your either’s love.

A Hymn to the Muses and Apollo

The Muses, Jove, and Phœbus, now I sing; For from the far-off-shooting Phœbus spring All poets and musicians, and from Jove Th’ ascents of kings. The man the Muses love, Felicity blesses; elocution’s choice In syrup lay’ng of sweetest breath his voice. Hail, Seed of Jove, my song your honours give, And so in mine shall yours and others’ live.

A Hymn to Bacchus

Ivy-crown’d Bacchus iterate in thy praises, O Muse; whose voice all loftiest echoes raises, And he with all th’ illustrious Seed of Jove Is join’d in honour, being the fruit of love To him, and Semele the-great-in-graces; And from the King his father’s kind embraces By fair-hair’d Nymphs was taken to the dales Of Nyssa, and with curious festivals Given his fair grought, far from his father’s view, In caves from whence eternal odours flew, And in high number of the Deities plac’d. Yet when the many-hymn-given God had past His Nurses’ cares, in ivies and in bays All over thicketed, his varied ways To sylvan coverts evermore He took, With all his Nurses, whose shrill voices shook Thickets, in which could no foot’s entry fall, And he himself made captain of them all. And so, O grape-abounding Bacchus, be Ever saluted by my Muse and me! Give us to spend with spirit our hours out here, And every hour extend to many a year.

A Hymn to Diana

Diana, that the golden spindle moves, And lofty sounds as well as Bacchus loves, A bashful virgin, and of fearful hearts The death-affecter with delighted darts, By sire and mother Phœbus’ sister born, Whose thigh the golden falchion doth adorn, I sing; who likewise over hills of shade And promontories that vast winds invade, Amorous of hunting, bends her all-gold bow, And sigh-begetting arrows doth bestow In fates so dreadful that the hill-tops quake, And bristled woods their leafy foreheads shake, Horrors invade earth, and [the] fishy seas Impassion’d furies; nothing can appease The dying brays of beasts. And her delight In so much death affects so with affright Even all inanimate natures; for, while she Her sports applies, their general progeny She all ways turns upon to all their banes. Yet when her fiery pleasures find their wanes, Her yielding bow unbent, to th’ ample house, Seated in Delphos, rich and populous, Of her dear brother, her retreats advance. Where th’ instauration of delightsome dance Amongst the Muses and the Graces she Gives form; in which herself the regency (Her unbent bow hung up, and casting on A gracious robe) assumes, and first sets gone The dances’ entry; to which all send forth Their heavenly voices, and advance the worth Of her fair-ankled mother, since to light She children brought the far most exquisite In counsels and performances of all The Goddesses that grace the heavenly hall. Hail then, Latona’s fair-hair’d Seed, and Jove’s! My song shall ever call to mind your loves.

A Hymn to Pallas

Pallas-Minerva’s deity, the renown’d, My Muse in her variety must resound; Mighty in councils; whose illustrous eyes In all resemblance represent the skies. A reverend maid of an inflexible mind; In spirit and person strong; of triple kind; Fautress of cities that just laws maintain; Of Jove, the-great-in-councils, very brain Took prime existence, his unbounded brows Could not contain her, such impetuous throes Her birth gave way to, that abroad she flew, And stood, in gold arm’d, in her Father’s view, Shaking her sharp lance. All Olympus shook So terribly beneath her, that it took Up in amazes all the Deities there. All earth resounded with vociferous fear. The sea was put up all in purple waves, And settled suddenly her rudest raves. Hyperion’s radiant son his swift-hov’d steeds A mighty time stay’d, till her arming weeds, As glorious as the Gods’, the blue-ey’d Maid Took from her deathless shoulders; but then stay’d All these distempers, and heaven’s counsellor, Jove, Rejoic’d that all things else his stay could move. So I salute thee still; and still in praise Thy fame, and others’, shall my memory raise.

A Hymn to Vesta and Mercury

Vesta I sing, who, in bequest of fate, Art sorted out an everlasting state In all th’ Immortals’ high-built roofs, and all Those of earth-dwelling men, as general And ancient honours given thee for thy gift Of free-liv’d chastity, and precious thrift. Nor can there amongst mortals banquets be, In which, both first and last, they give not thee Their endless gratitudes in pour’d-out wine, As gracious sacrifice to thy divine And useful virtues; being invok’d by all, Before the least taste of their festival In wine or food affect their appetites. And Thou, that of th’ adorn’d-with-all-delights Art the most useful angel, born a God Of Jove and Maia, of heaven’s golden rod The sole sustainer, and hast pow’r to bless With all good all men, great Argicides, Inhabit all good houses, see’ng no wants Of mutual minds’ love in th’ inhabitants, Join in kind blessing with the bashful maid And all-lov’d virgin, Vesta; either’s aid Combin’d in every hospitable house; Both being best seen in all the gracious House-works of mortals. Jointly follow then, Even from their youths, the minds of dames and men. Hail then, old Daughter of the oldest God, And thou Great Bearer of Heaven’s golden rod! Yet not to you alone my vows belong, Others as well claim th’ homage of my song.

A Hymn to Earth, the Mother of All

Mother of all things, the well-founded Earth, My Muse shall memorize; who all the birth Gives food that all her upper regions breed, All that in her divine diffusions feed In under continents, all those that live In all the seas, and all the air doth give Wing’d expeditions, of thy bounties eat; Fair children, and fair fruits, thy labour’s sweat, O great in reverence; and referr’d to thee, For life and death is all the pedigree Of mortal humans. Happy then is he Whom the innate propensions of thy mind Stand bent to honour. He shall all things find In all abundance; all his pastures yield Herds in all plenties; all his roofs are fill’d With rich possessions; he, in all the sway Of laws best order’d, cuts out his own way In cities shining with delicious dames, And takes his choice of all those striving flames; High happiness and riches, like his train, Follow his fortunes, with delights that reign In all their princes; glory invests his sons; His daughters, with their crown’d selections Of all the city, frolic through the meads, And everyone her call’d-for dances treads Along the soft-flow’r of the claver-grass. All this, with all those, ever comes to pass, That thy love blesses, Goddess full of grace, And treasurous Angel t’ all the human race. Hail, then, Great Mother of the Deified Kind, Wife to the cope of stars! Sustain a mind Propitious to me for my praise, and give (Answering my mind) my vows fit means to live.

A Hymn to the Sun

The radiant Sun’s divine renown diffuse, Jove’s daughter, great Calliope, my Muse; Whom ox-ey’d Euryphaëssa gave birth To the bright Seed of starry Heaven and Earth. For the far-fam’d Hyperion took to wife His sister Euryphaëssa, that life Of his high race gave to these lovely three: Aurora, with the rosy-wrists; and She That owns th’ enamouring tresses, the bright Moon; Together with the never-wearied Sun, Who (his horse mounting) gives both mortals light And all th’ Immortals. Even to horror, bright A blaze burns from his golden burgonet, Which to behold exceeds the sharpest set Of any eye’s intention, beams so clear It all ways pours abroad. The glorious cheer Of his far-shining face up to his crown Casts circular radiance, that comes streaming down About his temples, his bright cheeks, and all, Retaining the refulgence of their fall. About his bosom flows so fine a weed As doth the thinness of the wind exceed In rich context; beneath whose deep folds fly His masculine horses round about the sky, Till in this hemisphere he renders stay T’ his gold-yok’d coach and coursers; and his way, Let down by heaven, the heavenly coachman makes Down to the ocean, where his rest he takes. My salutations then, fair King, receive, And in propitious returns relieve My life with mind-fit means; and then from thee, And all the race of complete Deity, My song shall celebrate those half-god States, That yet sad death’s condition circulates, And whose brave acts the Gods show men that they As brave may aim at, since they can but die.

A Hymn to the Moon

The Moon, now, Muses, teach me to resound, Whose wide wings measure such a world of ground; Jove’s daughter, deck’d with the mellifluous tongue, And seen in all the sacred art of song. Whose deathless brows when she from heaven displays, All earth she wraps up in her orient rays. A heaven of ornament in earth is rais’d When her beams rise. The subtle air is sais’d Of delicate splendour from her crown of gold. And when her silver bosom is extoll’d, Wash’d in the ocean, in day’s equall’d noon Is midnight seated; but when she puts on Her far-off-sprinkling-lustre evening weeds, (The month is two cut; her high-breasted steeds Man’d all with curl’d flames, put in coach and all, Her huge orb fill’d,) her whole trims then exhale Unspeakable splendours from the glorious sky. And out of that state mortal men imply Many predictions. And with her then, In love mix’d, lay the King of Gods and men; By whom made fruitful, she Pandea bore, And added her state to th’ Immortal Store. Hail, Queen, and Goddess, th’ ivory-wristed Moon Divine, prompt, fair-hair’d! With thy grace begun, My Muse shall forth, and celebrate the praise Of men whose states the Deities did raise To semi-deities; whose deeds t’ endless date Muse-lov’d and sweet-sung poets celebrate.

A Hymn to Castor and Pollux

Jove’s fair Sons, father’d by th’ Oebalian king, Muses well-worth-all men’s beholdings, sing! The dear birth that bright-ankl’d Leda bore; Horse-taming Castor, and, the conqueror Of tooth-tongu’d Momus, Pollux; whom beneath Steep-brow’d Taygetus she gave half-god breath, In love mix’d with the black-clouds King of Heaven; Who, both of men and ships, being tempest driven, When Winter’s wrathful empire is in force Upon th’ implacable seas, preserve the course. For when the gusts begin, if near the shore, The seamen leave their ship, and, evermore Bearing two milk-white lambs aboard, they now Kill them ashore, and to Jove’s issue vow, When though their ship, in height of all the roar The winds and waves confound, can live no more In all their hopes, then suddenly appear Jove’s saving Sons, who both their bodies bear ’Twixt yellow wings down from the sparkling pole, Who straight the rage of those rude winds control, And all the high-waves couch into the breast Of th’ hoary seas. All which sweet signs of rest To seamen’s labours their glad souls conceive, And end to all their irksome grievance give. So, once more, to the swift-horse-riding race Of royal Tyndarus, eternal grace!

A Hymn to Men of Hospitality

Reverence a man with use propitious That hospitable rites wants; and a house (You of this city with the seat of state To ox-ey’d Juno vow’d) yet situate Near Pluto’s region. At the extreme base Of whose so high-hair’d city, from the race Of blue-wav’d Hebrus lovely fluent, grac’d With Jove’s begetting, you divine cups taste.

EPIGRAMS AND OTHER POEMS

To Cuma

Lend hospitable rites and house-respect, You that the virgin with the fair eyes deckt Make fautress of your stately-seated town, At foot of Sardes, with the high-hair’d crown, Inhabiting rich Cuma; where ye taste Of Hermus’ heavenly fluent, all embrac’d By curl’d-head whirl pits; and whose waters move From the divine seed of immortal Jove.

In his Return to Cuma

Swiftly my feet sustain me to the town, Where men inhabit whom due honours crown, Whose minds with free-given faculties are mov’d, And whose grave counsels best of best approv’d.

Upon the Sepulchre of Midus Cut in Brass, in the Figure of a Virgin

A maid of brass I am, infixed here T’ eternize honest Midus’ sepulchre; And while the stream her fluent seed receives, And steep trees curl their verdant brows with leaves, While Phœbus rais’d above the earth gives sight, And th’ humorous Moon takes lustre from his light, While floods bear waves, and seas shall wash the shore, At this his sepulchre, whom all deplore, I’ll constantly abide; all passers by Informing, “Here doth honest Midus lie.”

Cuma, refusing to eternize their State, Though Brought Thither by the Muses

O to what fate hath Father Jove given o’er My friendless life, born ever to be poor! While in my infant state he pleas’d to save me, Milk on my reverend mother’s knees he gave me, In delicate and curious nursery; Æolian Smyrna, seated near the sea, (Of glorious empire, and whose bright sides Sacred Meletus’ silver current glides,) Being native seat to me. Which, in the force Of far-past time, the breakers of wild horse, Phriconia’s noble nation, girt with tow’rs; Whose youth in fight put on with fiery pow’rs, From hence, the Muse-maids, Jove’s illustrous Seed, Impelling me, I made impetuous speed, And went with them to Cuma, with intent T’ eternize all the sacred continent And state of Cuma. They, in proud ascent From off their bench, refus’d with usage fierce The sacred voice which I aver is verse. Their follies, yet, and madness borne by me, Shall by some pow’r be thought on futurely, To wreak of him whoever, whose tongue sought With false impair my fall. What fate God brought Upon my birth I’ll bear with any pain, But undeserv’d defame unfelt sustain. Nor feels my person (dear to me though poor) Any great lust to linger any more In Cuma’s holy highways; but my mind (No thought impair’d, for cares of any kind Borne in my body) rather vows to try The influence of any other sky, And spirits of people bred in any land Of ne’er so slender and obscure command.

An Essay of his begun Iliads

Ilion, and all the brave-horse-breeding soil, Dardania, I sing; that many a toil Impos’d upon the mighty Grecian pow’rs, Who were of Mars the manly servitours.

To Thestor’s Son[1] inquisitive about the Causes of Things

Thestorides! of all the skills unknown To errant mortals, there remains not one Of more inscrutable affair to find Than is the true state of a human mind.

[1] Homer intimated, in this his answer to Thestorides, a will to have him learn the knowledge of himself, before he inquired so curiously the causes of other things. And from hence had the great peripatetic, Themistius, his most grave epiphoneme, Anima quæ seipsam ignorat, quid sciret ipsa de aliis? And, therefore, according to Aristotle, advises all philosophical students to begin with that study.Return to passage

To Neptune

Hear, pow’rful Neptune, that shak’st earth in ire, King of the great green, where dance all the quire Of fair-hair’d Helicon; give prosperous gales; And good pass, to these guiders of our sails, Their voyage rend’ring happily directed, And their return with no ill fate affected. Grant likewise at rough Mimas’ lowest roots, Whose strength up to her tops prærupt rocks shoots, My passage safe arrival; and that I My bashful disposition may apply To pious men, and wreak myself upon The man whose verbal circumvention In me did wrong t’ hospitious Jove’s whole state, And th’ hospitable table violate.

To the City of Erythræa

Worshipful Earth, Giver of all things good! Giver of even felicity; whose flood The mind all-over steeps in honeydew; That to some men dost infinite kindness shew, To others that despise thee art a shrew, And giv’st them gamester’s galls; who, once their main Lost with an ill chance, fare like abjects slain.

To Mariners

Ye wave-trod watermen, as ill as she That all the earth in infelicity Of rapine plunges; who upon your fare As sterv’d-like-ravenous as cormorants are; The lives ye lead, but in the worst degree, Not to be envied more than misery; Take shame, and fear the indignation Of Him that thunders from the highest throne, Hospitious Jove, who, at the back, prepares Pains of abhorr’d effect of him that dares The pieties break of his hospitious squares.

The Pine

Any tree else bears better fruit than thee, That Ida’s tops sustain, where every tree Bears up in air such perspirable heights, And in which caves and sinuous receipts Creep in such great abundance. For about Thy foots, that ever all thy fruits put out, As nourish’d by them, equal with thy fruits, Pour Mars’s iron-mines their accurs’d pursuits. So that when any earth-encroaching man, Of all the martial brood Cebrenian, Plead need of iron, they are certain still About thy roots to satiate every will.

To Glaucus, Who was so Miserably Sparing that he Feared All Men’s Access to Him

Glaucus! though wise enough, yet one word more Let my advice add to thy wisdom’s store, For ’twill be better so: Before thy door Give still thy mastiffs meat, that will be sure To lie there, therefore, still, and not endure (With waylaid ears) the softest foot can fall, But men and beasts make fly thee and thy stall.

Against the Samian Ministress or Nun

Hear me, O Goddess, that invoke thine ear, Thou that dost feed and form the youthful year, And grant that this dame may the loves refuse, And beds, of young men, and affect to use Humans whose temples hoary hairs distain, Whose pow’rs are passing coy, whose wills would fain.

Written on the Council Chamber

Of men, sons are the crowns of cities’ tow’rs; Of pastures, horse are the most beauteous flow’rs; Of seas, ships are the grace; and money still With trains and titles doth the family fill. But royal counsellors, in council set, Are ornaments past all, as clearly great As houses are that shining fires enfold, Superior far to houses nak’d and cold.

The Furnace called in to sing by Potters

If ye deal freely, O my fiery friends, As ye assure, I’ll sing, and serve your ends. Pallas, vouchsafe thou here invok’d access, I Impose thy hand upon this Forge, and bless All cups these artists earn so, that they may Look black still with their depth, and every way Give all their vessels a most sacred sale. Make all well-burn’d; and estimation call Up to their prices. Let them market well, And in all highways in abundance sell, Till riches to their utmost wish arise, And, as thou mak’st them rich, so make me wise. But if ye now turn all to impudence, And think to pay with lies my patience, Then will I summon ’gainst your Furnace all Hell’s harmfull’st spirits; Maragus I’ll call, Sabactes, Asbett, and Omadamus, Who ills against your art innumerous Excogitates, supplies, and multiplies. Come, Pallas, then, and all command to rise, Infesting forge and house with fire, till all Tumble together, and to ashes fall, These potters selves dissolv’d in tears as small. And as a horse-cheek chides his foaming bit, So let this Forge murmur in fire and flit, And all this stuff to ashy ruins run. And thou, O Circe, daughter of the Sun, Great-many-poison-mixer, come, and pour Thy cruell’st poisons on this Potters’ floor, Shivering their vessels; and themselves affect With all the mischiefs possible to direct ’Gainst all their beings, urg’d by all thy fiends. Let Chiron likewise come; and all those friends (The Centaurs) that Alcides’ fingers fled, And all the rest too that his hand strook dead, (Their ghosts excited) come, and macerate These earthen men; and yet with further fate Affect their Furnace; all their tear-burst eyes Seeing and mourning for their miseries, While I look on, and laugh their blasted art And them to ruin. Lastly, if apart Any lies lurking, and sees yet, his face Into a coal let th’ angry fire embrace, That all may learn by them, in all their lust, To dare deeds great, to see them great and just.

Eiresione, or the Olive Branch

The turrets of a man of infinite might, Of infinite action, substance infinite, We make access to; whose whole being rebounds From earth to heaven, and nought but bliss resounds. Give entry then, ye doors; more riches yet Shall enter with me; all the Graces met In joy of their fruition, perfect peace Confirming all; all crown’d with such increase, That every empty vessel in your house May stand replete with all things precious; Elaborate Ceres may your larders fill With all dear delicates, and serve in still; May for your son a wife make wish’d approach Into your tow’rs, and rapt in in her coach With strong-kneed mules; may yet her state prove staid, With honour’d housewiferies; her fair hand laid To artful loomworks; and her nak’d feet tread The gum of amber to a golden bead. But I’ll return; return, and yet not press Your bounties now assay’d with oft access, Once a year only, as the swallow prates Before the wealthy Spring’s wide open gates. Meantime I stand at yours, nor purpose stay More time t’ entreat. Give, or not give, away My feet shall bear me, that did never come With any thought to make your house my home.

To certain Fisher-Boys pleasing him with Ingenious Riddles

Yet from the bloods even of your self-like sires Are you descended, that could make ye heirs To no huge hoards of coin, nor leave ye able To feed flocks of innumerable rabble.

THE END OF ALL THE ENDLESS WORKS OF HOMER.

The Translator’s Epilogue

_The work that I was born to do is done! Glory to Him that the conclusion Makes the beginning of my life; and never Let me be said to live, till I live ever. Where’s the outliving of my fortunes then, Ye errant vapours of Fame’s Lernean fen, That, like possess’d storms, blast all not in herd With your abhorr’d heads; who, because cashier’d By men for monsters, think men monsters all, That are not of your pied Hood and your Hall, When you are nothing but the scum of things, And must be cast off; drones, that have no stings; Nor any more soul than a stone hath wings? Avaunt, ye hags! Your hates and scandals are The crowns and comforts of a good man’s care; By whose impartial perpendicular, All is extuberance, and excretion all, That you your ornaments and glories call. Your wry mouths censure right! Your blister’d tongues, That lick but itches! And whose ulcerous lungs Come up at all things permanent and sound! O you, like flies in dregs, in humours drown’d! Your loves, like atoms, lost in gloomy air, I would not retrieve with a wither’d hair. Hate, and cast still your stings then, for your kisses Betray but truth, and your applauds are hisses. To see our supercilious wizards frown, Their faces fall’n like fogs, and coming down, Stinking the sun out, makes me shine the more; And like a check’d flood bear above the shore, That their profane opinions fain would set To what they see not, know not, nor can let. Yet then our learn’d men with their torrents come, Roaring from their forc’d hills, all crown’d with foam, That one not taught like them, should learn to know Their Greek roots, and from thence the groves that grow, Casting such rich shades from great Homer’s wings, That first and last command the Muses’ springs. Though he’s best scholar, that, through pains and vows Made his own master only, all things knows. Nor pleads my poor skill form, or learned place, But dauntless labour, constant prayer, and grace. And what’s all their skill, but vast varied reading? As if broad-beaten highways had the leading To Truth’s abstract, and narrow path, and pit; Found in no walk of airy worldly wit. And without Truth, all’s only sleight of hand, Or our law-learning in a foreign land, Embroidery spent on cobwebs, braggart show Of men that all things learn, and nothing know. For ostentation humble Truth still flies, And all confederate fashionists defies. And as some sharp-brow’d doctor, English born, In much learn’d Latin idioms can adorn A verse with rare attractions, yet become His English Muse like an Arachnean loom, Wrought spite of Pallas, and therein bewrays More tongue than truth, begs, and adopts his bays; So Ostentation, be he never so Larded with labour to suborn his show, Shall sooth within him but a bastard soul, No more heaven heiring than, Earth’s son, the mole, But as in dead calms emptiest smokes arise, Uncheck’d and free, up straight into the skies; So drowsy Peace, that in her humour steeps All she affects, lets such rise while she sleeps. Many, and most men, have of wealth least store, But none the gracious shame that fits the poor. So most learn’d men enough are ignorant, But few the grace have to confess their want, Till lives and learnings come concomitant. Far from men’s knowledges their lives’-acts flow; Vainglorious acts then vain prove all they know. As night the life-inclining stars best shows, So lives obscure the starriest souls disclose. For me, let just men judge by what I show In acts expos’d how much I err or know; And let not envy make all worse than nought, With her mere headstrong and quite brainless thought, Others, for doing nothing, giving all, And bounding all worth in her bursten gall. God and my dear_ Redeemer _rescue me From men’s immane and mad impiety, And by my life and soul (sole known to Them) Make me of palm, or yew, an anadem. And so my sole_ God, the Thrice-Sacred-Trine, Bear all th’ ascription of all me and mine.

Supplico tibi, Domine, Pater, et Dux rationis nostræ, ut nostræ nobilitatis recordemur quâ Tu nos ornasti; et ut Tu nobis præstó sis, ut iis qui per sese moventur; ut et à corporis contagio, brutorumque affectuum, repurgemur, eosque superemus, atque regamus, et, sicut decet, pro instrumentis iis utamur. Deinde, ut nobis adjumento sis, ad accuratam rationis nostræ correctionem, et conjunctionem cum iis qui verè sunt per lucem veritatis. Et tertiùm, Salvatori supplex oro, ut ab oculis animorum nostrorum, caliginem prorsus abstergas, ut norimus bene qui Deus, aut mortalis, habendus. Amen.

Sine honore vivam, nulloque numera ero.

FINIS