John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series
Page 104
—— — Et quæ
Desperes tractata nitescere posse, relinquas.
16
Thus I have ventur’d to give my Opinion on this Subject against the Authority of two great men, but I hope without offence to either of their Memories, for I both lov’d them living, and reverence them now they are dead. But if, after what I have urg’d, it be thought by better Judges, that the praise of a Translation consists in adding new Beauties to the piece, thereby to recompense the loss which it sustains by change of Language, I shall be willing to be taught better, and to recant. In the mean time, it seems to me, that the true reason, why we have so few versions which are tolerable, is not from the too close pursuing of the Authors Sence, but because there are so few, who have all the Talents, which are requisite for Translation, and that there is so little Praise, and so small Encouragement, for so considerable a part of Learning. 17
To apply in short, what has been said, to this present Work, the Reader will here find most of the Translations, with some little Latitude or variation from the Author’s Sence: That of Œnone to Paris, is in Mr. Cowley’s way of Imitation only. I was desir’d to say that the Author who is of the Fair Sex, understood not Latine. But if she does not, I am afraid she has given us occasion to be asham’d who do. 18
For my own part I am ready to acknowledge that I have transgress’d the Rules which I have given; and taken more liberty than a just Translation will allow. But so many Gentlemen whose Wit and Learning are well known being joyn’d in it, I doubt not but that their Excellencies will make you ample Satisfaction for my Errours. 19
Veni, Creator Spiritus
Translated in Paraphrase
CREATOR Spirit, by whose aid
The World’s Foundations first were laid,
Come, visit ev’ry pious Mind;
Come, pour thy Joys on Human Kind;
From Sin, and Sorrow set us free; 5
And make thy Temples worthy Thee.
O, Source of uncreated Light,
The Father’s promis’d Paraclite!
Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire,
Our Hearts with Heav’nly Love inspire; 10
Come, and thy Sacred Unction bring
To Sanctifie us, while we sing!
Plenteous of Grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sev’n-fold Energy!
Thou strength of his Almighty Hand, 15
Whose Pow’r does Heav’n and Earth command:
Proceeding Spirit, our Defence,
Who do’st the Gift of Tongues dispence,
And crown’st thy Gift with Eloquence!
Refine and purge our Earthy Parts; 20
But, oh, inflame and fire our Hearts!
Our Frailties help, our Vice controul;
Submit the Senses to the Soul;
And when Rebellious they are grown,
Then, lay thy hand, and hold ‘em down. 25
Chace from our Minds th’ Infernal Foe;
And Peace, the fruit of Love, bestow;
And, lest our Feet shou’d step astray,
Protect, and guide us in the way.
Make us Eternal Truths receive, 30
And practise, all that we believe:
Give us thy self, that we may see
The Father and the Son, by thee.
Immortal Honour, endless Fame,
Attend th’ Almighty Father’s Name: 35
The Saviour Son be glorify’d,
Who for lost Man’s Redemption dy’d:
And equal Adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee.
Te Deum
THEE, Sovereign God, our grateful Accents praise;
We own thee Lord, and bless thy wondrous ways;
To thee, Eternal Father, Earth’s whole Frame
With loudest Trumpets sounds immortal Fame.
Lord God of Hosts! for thee the heav’nly Pow’rs 5
With sounding Anthems fill the vaulted Tow’rs.
Thy Cherubims thrice Holy, Holy, Holy cry;
Thrice Holy, all the Seraphims reply,
And thrice returning Echoes endless Songs supply.
Both Heav’n and Earth thy Majesty display; 10
They owe their Beauty to thy glorious Ray.
Thy Praises fill the loud Apostles’ Quire:
The Train of Prophets in the Song conspire.
Legions of Martyrs in the Chorus shine,
And vocal Blood with vocal Musick join. 15
By these thy Church, inspir’d by heav’nly Art,
Around the World maintains a second Part,
And tunes her sweetest Notes, O God, to thee,
The Father of unbounded Majesty;
The Son, ador’d Co-partner of thy Seat, 20
And equal everlasting Paraclete.
Thou King of Glory, Christ, of the Most High
Thou co-eternal filial Deity;
Thou who, to save the World’s impending Doom,
Vouchsaf’dst to dwell within a Virgin’s Womb; 25
Old Tyrant Death disarm’d, before thee flew
The Bolts of Heav’n, and back the Foldings drew,
To give access, and make thy faithful way;
From God’s right Hand thy filial Beams display.
Thou art to judge the Living and the Dead; 30
Then spare those Souls for whom thy Veins have bled.
O take us up amongst thy blest above,
To share with them thy everlasting Love
Preserve, O Lord! thy People, and enhance
Thy Blessing on thine own Inheritance. 35
For ever raise their Hearts, and rule their ways,
Each Day we bless thee, and proclaim thy Praise;
No Age shall fail to celebrate thy Name,
No Hour neglect thy everlasting Fame.
Preserve our Souls, O Lord, this Day from Ill; 40
Have Mercy on us, Lord, have Mercy still:
As we have hop’d, do thou reward our Pain;
We’ve hop’d in thee, let not our Hope be vain.
Hymn for the Nativity of St. John Baptist
24th June
O SYLVAN Prophet! whose eternal Fame
Echoes from Judah’s Hills and Jordan’s Stream,
The Musick of our Numbers raise,
And tune our Voices to thy Praise.
A Messenger from high Olympus came 5
To bear the Tidings of thy Life and Name,
And told thy Sire each Prodigy
That Heav’n design’d to work in thee.
Hearing the News, and doubting in Surprize,
His faltering Speech in fetter’d Accent dy’s; 10
But Providence, with happy Choice,
In thee restor’d thy Father’s Voice.
In the Recess of Nature’s dark Abode,
Though still enclos’d, yet knewest thou thy God;
Whilst each glad Parent told and blest 15
The Secrets of each other’s Breast.
Lines in a Letter to his Lady Cousin, Honor Driden
Who Had Given Him a Silver Inkstand, with a Set of Writing Materials, 1655
FOR since ’twas mine, the white hath lost its Hiew,
To show twas n’ere it selfe but whilst in you,
The virgin Waxe hath blush’d it selfe to red
Since it with mee hath lost its Maydenhead.
You, Fairest Nymph, are Waxe: Oh may you bee 5
As well in Softnesse as in Purity!
Till Fate and your own happy Choice reveale
Whom you so farre shall bless to make your Seale.
Lines printed under the engraved portrait of Milton, in Tonson’s folio edition of the Paradise Lost, 1688
THREE Poets, in three distant Ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first in Loftiness of Thought surpass’d,
The next in Majesty, in both the last:
The Force of Nature could no farther go; 5
To make a third
she join’d the former two.
Impromptu Lines addressed to his Cousin, Mrs. Creed
In a Conversation after Dinner on the Origin of Names
SO much Religion in your Name doth dwell,
Your Soul must needs with Piety excel.
Thus Names, like [ ] Pictures drawn of old,
Their owners’ Nature and their Story told.
Your Name but half expresses, for in you 5
Belief and Practice do together go.
My Pray’rs shall be, while this short Life endures,
These may go Hand in Hand, with you and yours;
Till Faith hereafter is in Vision drown’d,
And Practice is with endless Glory crown’d. 10
Fragment of a Character of Jacob Tonson
His Publisher
WITH leering Looks, Bull-fac’d, and freckl’d fair,
With two left Legs, and Judas-colour’d Hair,
And frowzy Pores that taint the ambient Air.
Ovid’s Epistles: Canace to Macareus
THE ARGUMENT
Macareus and Canace, Son and Daughter to Æolus, God of the Winds, lov’d each other Incestuously: Canace was delivered of a Son, and committed him to her Nurse, to be secretly convey’d away. The Infant crying out, by that means was discovered to Æolus, who, inraged at the wickedness of his Children, commanded the Babe to be exposed to Wild Beasts on the Mountains: And withal, sent a Sword to Canace, with this Message, That her Crimes would instruct her how to use it. With this Sword she slew her self: But before she died, she writ the following Letter to her Brother Macareus, who had taken Sanctuary in the Temple of Apollo.
IF streaming Blood my fatal Letter stain,
Imagine, e’re you read, the Writer slain;
One hand the Sword, and one the Pen imploys,
And in my lap the ready Paper lyes.
Think in this posture thou behold’st me Write: 5
In this my cruel Father wou’d delight.
O were he present, that his Eyes and Hands
Might see and urge the Death which he commands!
Than all his raging Winds more dreadful, he,
Unmov’d, without a Tear, my Wounds wou’d see. 10
Jove justly plac’d him on a stormy Throne,
His Peoples temper is so like his own.
The North and South, and each contending Blast,
Are underneath his wide Dominion cast:
Those he can rule; but his tempestuous Mind 15
Is, like his airy Kingdom, unconfin’d.
Ah! what avail my Kindred Gods above,
That in their number I can reckon Jove!
What help will all my heav’nly Friends afford,
When to my Breast I lift the pointed Sword? 20
That Hour, which joyn’d us, came before its time:
In Death we had been one without a Crime,
Why did thy Flames beyond a Brothers move?
Why lov’d I thee with more than Sisters love?
For I lov’d too; and, knowing not my Wound, 25
A secret pleasure in thy Kisses found:
My Cheeks no longer did their Colour boast,
My Food grew loathsom, and my Strength I lost:
Still e’re I spoke, a Sigh wou’d stop my Tongue;
Short were my Slumbers, and my Nights were long. 30
I knew not from my Love these Griefs did grow,
Yet was, alas, the thing I did not know.
My wily Nurse, by long Experience found,
And first discover’d to my Soul its Wound.
’Tis Love, said she; and then my downcast eyes, 35
And guilty Dumbness, witness’d my Surprize.
Forc’d at the last, my shameful Pain I tell:
And, oh, what follow’d, we both know too well!
‘When half denying, more than half content,
‘Embraces warm’d me to a full Consent, 40
‘Then with tumultuous Joyes my Heart did beat,
‘And Guilt, that made them anxious, made them great.’
But now my swelling Womb heav’d up my Breast,
And rising weight my sinking Limbs opprest.
What Herbs, what Plants, did not my Nurse produce, 45
To make Abortion by their pow’rful Juice?
What Med’cines try’d we not, to thee unknown?
Our first Crime common; this was mine alone.
But the strong Child, secure in his dark Cell,
With Natures vigour, did our Arts repell. 50
And now the pale-fac’d Empress of the Night
Nine times had fill’d her Orb with borrow’d light:
Not knowing ’twas my Labour, I complain
Of sudden Shootings, and of grinding Pain
My Throws came thicker, and my cryes increast, 55
Which with her hand the conscious Nurse supprest.
To that unhappy Fortune was I come,
Pain urg’d my Clamours, but Fear kept me dumb.
With inward strugling I restrain’d my Cries,
And drunk the Tears that trickled from my Eyes. 60
Death was in Sight, Lucina gave no Aid;
And ev’n my dying had my Guilt betray’d.
Thou cam’st; And in thy Count’nance sate Despair;
Rent were thy Garments all, and torn thy Hair:
Yet, feigning comfort, which thou cou’dst not give, 65
(Prest in thy Arms, and whispr’ing me to live:)
For both our sakes, (said’st thou) preserve thy Life:
Live, my dear Sister, and my dearer Wife.
Rais’d by that Name, with my last Pangs I strove:
Such pow’r have Words, when spoke by those we love. 70
The Babe, as if he heard what thou hadst sworn,
With hasty Joy sprung forward to be born.
What helps it to have weather’d out one Storm?
Fear of our Father does another form.
High in his Hall, rock’d in a Chair of State, 75
The King with his tempestuous Council sate.
Through this large Room our only passage lay,
By which we cou’d the new-born Babe convey.
Swath’d in her lap, the bold Nurse bore him out,
With Olive branches cover’d round about; 80
And, mutt’ring Pray’rs, as holy Rites she meant,
Through the divided Crowd unquestion’d went.
Just at the Door, th’ unhappy Infant cry’d:
The Grandsire heard him, and the theft he spy’d.
Swift as a Whirl-wind to the Nurse he flyes, 85
And deafs his stormy Subjects with his cries.
With one fierce Puff he blows the leaves away:
Expos’d the self-discovered Infant lay.
The noise reach’d me, and my presaging Mind
Too soon its own approaching Woes divin’d. 90
Not Ships at Sea with Winds are shaken more,
Nor Seas themselves, when angry Tempests roar,
Than I, when my loud Father’s Voice I hear:
The Bed beneath me trembled with my Fear.
He rush’d upon me, and divulg’d my Stain; 95
Scarce from my Murther cou’d his hands refrain.
I only answer’d him with silent Tears;
They flow’d: my Tongue was frozen up with Fears.
His little Grand-child he commands away,
To Mountain Wolves and every Bird of prey. 100
The Babe cry’d out, as if he understood,
And beg’d his Pardon with what Voice he cou’d.
By what Expressions can my Grief be shown?
(Yet you may guess my Anguish by your own)
To see my Bowels, and, what yet was worse, 105
Your Bowels too, condemn’d to such a Curse!
Out went the King; my Voice its Freedom found,
My Breasts I beat, my blubber’d Cheeks I wound.
And now appear’d the Messenger of death;
/> Sad were his Looks, and scarce he drew his Breath, 110
To say, Your Father sends you — (with that word
His trembling hands presented me a Sword:)
Your Father sends you this; and lets you know,
That your own Crimes the use of it will show.
Too well I know the sence those Words impart: 115
His Present shall be treasur’d in my heart.
Are these the Nuptial Gifts a Bride receives?
And this the fatal Dow’r a Father gives?
Thou God of Marriage, shun thy own Disgrace,
And take thy Torch from this detested place: 120
Instead of that, let Furies light their brands,
And fire my Pile with their infernal Hands.
With happier Fortune may my Sisters wed;
Warn’d by the dire Example of the dead.
For thee, poor Babe, what Crime cou’d they pretend? 125
How cou’d thy Infant Innocence offend?
A guilt there was; but, Oh, that Guilt was mine!
Thou suffer’st for a Sin that was not thine.
Thy Mothers Grief and Crime! but just enjoy’d,