Elegy I. To Charles Deodati (Translated From Milton)

At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,
Charged with thy kindness, to their destin’d 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 impell
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 letter’d leisure spent
Beneath my father’s roof, be banishment,
Then call me banish’d, I will ne’er refuse
A name expressive of the lot I chuse.
I would that exiled to the Pontic shore,
Rome’s hapless bard had suffer’d nothing more!
He then had equall’d even Homer’s lays,
And, Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise.
For 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.
Whether some Senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir,
Wooer, or soldier, now unarm’d, be there,
Or some coif’d brooder o’er a ten years’ cause
Thunder the Norman gibb’rish of the laws.
The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire,
And, artful, speeds th’enamour’d son’s desire.
There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove,
What love is, know not, yet, unknowing, love.
Or, if impassion’d Tragedy wield high
The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly
Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye,
I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief.
At times, e’en bitter tears! yield sweet relief.
As when from bliss untasted torn away,
Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day,
Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below,
Fills the assassin’s heart with vengeful woe,
When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords,
Or Creon’s hall laments its guilty lords.
Nor always city-pent or pent at home
I dwell, but when Spring calls me forth to roam
Expatiate in our proud suburban shades
Of branching elm that never sun pervades.
Here many a virgin troop I may descry,
Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by,
Oh forms divine! Oh looks that might inspire
E’en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire!
Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes,
Outsparkling every star that gilds the skies.
Necks whiter than the iv’ry arm bestow’d
By Jove on Pelops, or the Milky Road!
Bright locks, Love’s golden snares, these falling low,
Those playing wanton o’er the graceful brow!
Cheeks too, more winning sweet than after show’r,
Adonis turn’d to Flora’s fav’rite flow’r!
Yield, Heroines, yield, and ye who shar’d th’embrace
Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place;
Give place ye turban’d Fair of Persia’s coast,
And ye, not less renown’d, Assyria’s boast!
Submit, ye nymphs of Greece! Ye once the bloom
Of Ilion, and all ye of haughty Rome,
Who swept of old her theatres with trains
Redundant, and still live in classic strains!
To British damsels beauty’s palm is due,
Aliens! to follow them is fame for you.
Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands,
Whose towering front the circling realm commands,
Too blest abode! no loveliness we see
In all the earth, but it abounds in thee.
The virgin multitude that daily meets,
Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets,
Outnumbers all her train of starry fires
With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires.
Fame says, that wafted hither by her doves,
With all her host of quiver-bearing Loves,
Venus, prefering Paphian scenes no more,
Has fix’d her empire on thy nobler shore.
But lest the sightless boy inforce my stay,
I leave these happy walls, while yet I may.
Immortal Moly shall secure my heart
From all the sorc’ry of Circaean art,
And I will e’en repass Cam’s reedy pools
To face once more the warfare of the Schools.
Meantime accept this trifle; Rhymes, though few,
Yet such as prove thy friend’s remembrance true.