worthy kind of servitude, is incapable of producing any thing good or noble. I have seen originals, both in painting and poesy, much more beautiful than their natural objects; but I never saw a copy better than the original: which indeed cannot be otherwise; for men resolving in no case to shoot beyond the mark, it is a thousand to one if they shoot not short of it. It does not at all trouble me, that the grainmarians, perhaps, will not suffer this libertine way of rendering foreign authors to be called translation; for I am not so much enamoured of the name translator, as not to wish rather to be something better, though it want yet a name. I speak not so much all this, in defence of my manner of translating, or imitating, (or what other title they please) the two ensuing Odes of Pindar; for that would not deserve half these words; as by this occasion to rectify the opinion of divers men upon this matter. The Psalms of David (which I believe to have been in their original, to the Hebrews of his time, though not to our Hebrews of Buxtorfius's making, the most exalted pieces of poesy) are a great example of what I have said; all the translators of which, (even Mr. Sandys himself; for in despite of popular errour, I will be bold not to except him) for this very reason, that they have not sought to supply the lost excellencies of another language with new ones in their own, are so far from doing honour, or at least justice, to that divine poet, that methinks they revile him worse than Shimei. And Euchanan himself (though much the best of them all, and indeed a great person) comes in my opinion no less short of David, than his country does of Judea. Upon this ground I have, in these two Odes of Pindar, taken, left out, and added, what I please; nor make it so much my aim to let the reader know precisely what he spoke, as what was his way and manner of speaking; which has not been yet (that I know of) introduced into English, though it be the noblest and highest kind of writing in verse; and which might, perhaps, be put into the list of Pancirolus, among the lost inventions of antiquity. This essay is but to try how it will look in an English habit: for which experiment I have chosen one of his Olympic, and another of his Nemean Odes; which are as followeth. Written in praise of Theron, prince of Agrigentum, (a famous city in Sicily, built by his ancestors) who, in the seventy-seventh Olympic, won the chariot-prize. He is commended from the nobility of his race, (whose story is often toucht on) from his great riches, (an ordinary common-place in Pindar) from his hospitality, munificence, and other virtues. The Ode (according to the constant custom of the poet) consists more in digressions, than in the main subject: and the reader must not he choqued to hear him speak so often of his own Muse; for that is a liberty which this kind of poetry can hardly live without. QUEEN of all harmonious things, Dancing words, and speaking strings! [voice. And let the hills around reflect the image of thy Pisa does to Jove belong; Jove and Pisa claim thy song. The fair first-fruits of war, th' Olympic games, But, oh! what man to join with these can worthy Is Theron the next honour claims: first in Pisa's and in Virtue's race! Ev'n his own swift forefathers has outgone, Till on the fatal bank at last They Agrigentum built, the beauteous eye With pride and joy espy. Then chearful notes their painted years did sing, Their genuine virtues did more sweet and clear, ; To which, great son of Rhea! say For the past sufferings of this noble race Hearken no more to thy command) In no illustrious line Of the blue-ey'd Nereides, But death did them from future dangers free; For living man's security, Never did the Sun as yet So healthful a fair-day beget, That travelling mortals might rely on it. But Fortune's favour and her spite Roll with alternate waves, like day and night: Of gods that cannot lie, for they foretell but their own will. Erynnis saw 't, and made in her own seed The innocent parricide to bleed; She slew his wrathful sons with mutual blows: But better things did then succeed, And brave Thersander, in amends for what was past, arose. Brave Thersander was by none, In war, or warlike sports, out-done. Loud Olympus, happy thee, Isthmus and Nemæa, does twice happy see; By not being all thine own; Greatness of mind, and fortune too, In the noble chase of fame; [lame. Th' account they must hereafter give below; In deep unlovely vaults, The heavy necessary effects of voluntary faults. There neither earth nor sea they plough, For food, that whilst it nourishes does decay, Till all their little dross was purg'd at last, Then in rich Saturn's peaceful state The Muse-discover'd world of Islands Fortunate. There silver rivers through enamell'd meadows glide, And golden trees enrich their side; For bracelets to the arm, and garlands to the head. Here all the heroes, and their poets, live; Which did from thence a divine hardness take, That does from passion and from vice invulnerable make. To Theron, Muse! bring back thy wandering song, Whom those bright troops expect impatiently; And may they do so long! How, noble archer! do thy wanton arrows fly Thy sounding quiver can ne'er emptied be: Wallows in wealth, and runs a turning maze, Art, instead of mounting high, About her humble food does hovering fly; love; No more than gods do that of Styx prophane) A better man, or greater-soul'd, was born; No man near him should be poor! But in this thankless world the givers Wrongs and outrages to do, Lest men should think we owe. Appear'd not half so bright, Such monsters, Theron! has thy virtue found: Through earth, and air, and seas, and up to th' But all the malice they profess, Thy secure honour cannot wound; For thy vast bounties are so numberless, THE FIRST NEMEAN ODE OF Chromius, the son of Agesidamus, a young BEAUTEOUS EAUTEOUS Ortygia! the first breathing-place Of bright Latona, where she bred Who saw'st her tender forehead ere the horns Who, like a gentle scion newly started out, Thee first my song does greet, The torches which the mother brought heavenly vault. "To thee, O Proserpine! this isle I give," Said Jove, and, as he said, Smil'd, and bent his gracious head. "And thou, O isle!" said he, "for ever thrive, Of The country thick with towns be set, Let all the towns be then Nor let their warlike laurel scorn Go to great Syracuse, my Muse, and wait 'Twill open wide to let thee in, Joy, plenty, and free welcome, dwells within. And feast more upon thee, than thou on it. No doubt will thee admit, Chromius and thou art met aright, niass; They mov'd the vital lump in every part, For the great dower which Fortune made to it, Fame and public love to gain: Ev'n for self-concerning ends, 'Tis wiser much to hoard-up friends. Though happy men the present goods possess, How carly has young Chromius begun Whilst other youths yet at the barriers stay restrain, 'Twas ripe at first, and did disdain The slow advance of dull humanity. The big-limb'd babe in his huge cradle lay, When, lo! by jealous Juno's fierce commands, Rolling and hissing loud, into the room; To the bold babe they trace their bidden way; Forth from their flaming eyes dread lightnings went; beir gaping mouths did forked tongues, like Some of th' amazed women dropt down dead About the room, some into corners crept, All naked from her bed the passionate mother To save or perish with her child; She trembled, and she cry'd; the mighty infant smil'd: The mighty infant seem'd well pleas'd At his gay gilded foes; And, as their spotted necks up to the cradle rose, And angry circles cast about; Pindar's unnavigable song Like a swoln flool from some steep mountain pours along; The ocean meets with such a voice, So Pindar does new words and figures roll Which their triumphant brows around, To carve in polish'd verse the conqueror's images; Black blood, and fiery breath, and poisonous Whether the swift, the skilful, or the strong, soul, he squeezes out! With their drawn swords In ran Amphitryo and the Theban lords; With doubting wonder, and with troubled joy, Laugh, and point downwards to his prey, Where, in death's pangs and their own gore, they folding lay. When wise Tiresias this beginning knew, should owe To their great offspring here below; Walk with ineffable delight Be crowned in his nimble, artful, vigorous song; Such mournful, and such pleasing words, As joy to his mother's and his mistress' grief af. fords He bids him live and grow in fame; Like the laborious bee, For little drops of honey flee, And there with bumble sweets contents her in. dustry. THE RESURRECTION. Nor winds to voyagers at sea, Through the thick groves of never-withering light, Nor showers to earth, more necessary be, And, as he walks, affright The Lion and the Bear, Bull, Centaur, Scorpion, all the radiant monsters there. THE PRAISE OF PINDAR. IN IMITATION OF HORACE'S SECOND ODE, B. IV. Pindarum quisquis studet æmulari, &c. PINDAR is imitable by none; The phenix Pindar is a vast species alone. (Heaven's vital seed cast on the womb of Earth That never will decay Till Heaven itself shall melt away, Begin the song, and strike the living lyre; Who e'er but Daedalus with waxen wings could fly, Lo! how the Years to come, a numerous and And neither sink too low nor soar too high? But of vain boldness the unhappy fame, VOL. VIL well-fitted quire, All hand in hand do decently advance, And to my song with smooth and equal mea sures dance! K Whom thunder's dismal noise, And all that prophets and apostles louder spake, Could not, whilst they liv'd, awake, When dead t' arise; And open tombs, and open eyes, Back to their ancient home; And, where th' attending soul naked and shivering stands, Meet, salute, and join their hands; The mountains shake, and run about no less confus'd than they. Stop, stop, my Muse! allay thy vigorous heat, Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus closely in, Which does to rage begin, And this steep hill would gallop up with violent course; 'Tis an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse, Fierce and unbroken yet, Impatient of the spur or bit; Now prances stately, and anou flies o'er the place; But flings writer and reader too, that sits not sure. THE MUSE. Go, the rich chariot instantly prepare ; Let the postillion Nature mount, and let And let the airy footmen, running all beside, Figures, Conceits, Raptures, and Sentences, And innocent Loves, and pleasant Truths, and useful Lies, In all their gaudy liveries. Mount, glorious queen! thy travelling throne, For long, though cheerful, is the way, And with short silver wings cut the low liquid sky; Row through the trackless ocean of the air; The busy Morning's curious eye; The wheels of thy bold coach pass quick and free, And all's an open road to thee; Whatever God did say, Is all thy plain and smooth uninterrupted way! Nay, ev'n beyond his works thy voyages are known, Thou hast thousand worlds too of thine own. Thou speak'st, great queen! in the same style as he; And a new world leaps forth when thou say'st, "Let it be." Thou fathom'st the deep gulf of ages past, And canst pluck up with ease The years which thou dost please; Like shipwreck'd treasures, by rude tempests cast But fly With an unwearied wing the other way on high, Through the firm shell and the thick white, dost spy Years to come a-forming lie, Close in their sacred fecundine asleep, Till hatch'd by the Sun's vital heat, And, ripe at last, with vigorous might Break through the shell, and take their everlast ing flight! And sure we may The same too of the present say, If past and future times do thee obey. Thy certain hand holds fast this slippery snake: Thy verse does solidate and crystallize, Nay, thy immortal rhyme |