John Milton - Poemata - Latin, Greek and Italian Poems

With no rich viands overcharg'd, I send
Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd friend;
But wherefore should thy Muse tempt mine away
From what she loves, from darkness into day?

Art thou desirous to be told how well
I love thee, and in verse? Verse cannot tell.
For verse has bounds, and must in measure move;
But neither bounds nor measure knows my love.

How pleasant in thy lines described appear
December's harmless sports and rural cheer!
French spirits kindling with caerulean fires,
And all such gambols as the time inspires!

Think not that Wine against good verse offends;
The Muse and Bacchus have been always friends,
Nor Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found
With Ivy, rather than with Laurel, crown'd.

The Nine themselves oftimes have join'd the song
And revels of the Bacchanalian throng.
Not even Ovid could in Scythian air
Sing sweetly—why? no vine would flourish there.

What in brief numbers sang Anacreon's [61] A poet native to Teios in Ionia. muse?
Wine, and the rose, that sparkling wine bedews.
Pindar with Bacchus glows—his every line
Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine,
While, with loud crash o'erturn'd, the chariot lies
And brown with dust the fiery courser flies.

The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays
So sweet in Glycera's, and Chloe's praise. [62] See Horace's Odes (i, 19–23).
Now too the plenteous feast, and mantling bowl
Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul;
The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow,
And casks not wine alone, but verse, bestow.

Thus Phoebus favours, and the arts attend
Whom Bacchus, and whom Ceres, both befriend.
What wonder then, thy verses are so sweet,
In which these triple powers so kindly meet.

The lute now also sounds, with gold inwrought,
And touch'd with flying Fingers nicely taught,
In tap'stried halls high–roof'd the sprightly lyre
Directs the dancers of the virgin choir.

If dull repletion fright the Muse away,
Sights, gay as these, may more invite her stay;
And, trust me, while the iv'ry keys resound,
Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around,

Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame
Shall animate at once thy glowing frame,
And all the Muse shall rush into thy breast,
By love and music's blended pow'rs possest.

For num'rous pow'rs light Elegy befriend,
Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend;
Her, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, all approve,
And with his blushing Mother, gentle Love.
Hence, to such bards we grant the copious use
Of banquets, and the vine's delicious juice.

But they who Demigods and Heroes praise
And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days,
Who now the counsels of high heav'n explore,
Now shades, that echo the Cerberean roar, [63] Cerberus, the guardian of Hades.

Simply let these, like him of Samos [64] Pythagoras. live,
Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give;
In beechen goblets let their bev'rage shine,
Cool from the chrystal spring, their sober wine!

Their youth should pass, in innocence, secure
From stain licentious, and in manners pure,
Pure as the priest's, when robed in white he stands
The fresh lustration ready in his hands.

Thus Linus [65] A son of Apollo. liv'd, and thus, as poets write,
Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight, [66] Tiresias was gifted by Pallas with the power of understanding the language of birds to atone for his loss of sight.
Thus exil'd Chalcas, [67] The Grecian soothsayer at the siege of Troy. thus the bard of Thrace, [68] Orpheus.
Melodious tamer of the savage race!

Thus train'd by temp'rance, Homer led, of yore,
His chief of Ithaca [69] Odysseus. from shore to shore,
Through magic Circe's monster–peopled reign,
And shoals insidious with the siren train;

And through the realms, where griesly spectres dwell,
Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell;
For these are sacred bards, and, from above,
Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove.

Would'st thou (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine ear)
Would'st thou be told my occupation here?
The promised King of peace employs my pen,
Th'eternal cov'nant made for guilty men,

The new–born Deity with infant cries
Filling the sordid hovel, where he lies;
The hymning Angels, and the herald star
That led the Wise who sought him from afar,
And idols on their own unhallow'd floor
Dash'd at his birth, to be revered no more!

This theme [70] "The Hymn" from "On the Morning of Christ's Nativity." on reeds of Albion I rehearse;
The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse;
Verse that, reserv'd in secret, shall attend
Thy candid voice, my Critic and my Friend!

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires
That Amathusia's smiling Queen [72] Venus (Aphrodite), so called from Amethus in Cyprus, where she had a temple. inspires,
Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts,
And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts.

Go, child, I said, transfix the tim'rous dove,
An easy conquest suits an infant Love;
Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be
Sufficient triumph to a Chief like thee;

Why aim thy idle arms at human kind?
Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind.
The Cyprian [73] Cupid, called after his mother's title. heard, and, kindling into ire,
(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire.

It was the Spring, and newly risen day
Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the First of May;
My eyes too tender for the blaze of light,
Still sought the shelter of retiring night,

When Love approach'd, in painted plumes arrayed;
Th'insidious god his rattling darts betray'd,
Nor less his infant features, and the sly
Sweet intimations of his threat'ning eye.

Such the Sigeian boy [74] Ganymede, whom Jove, in the form of an eagle, spirited away to serve as his cup–bearer. See Ovid (Met. x, 155–161) is seen above,
Filling the goblet for imperial Jove;
Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow'd their charms,
Hylas, [75] The friend of Hercules, stolen by nymphs who had fallen in love with him. who perish'd in a Naiad's arms.

Angry he seem'd, yet graceful in his ire,
And added threats, not destitute of fire.
"My power," he said, "by others pain alone,
'Twere best to learn; now learn it by thy own!