James Boswell - THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON - All 6 Volumes in One Edition

He gave my flocks to graze the flowery meads,

And me to tune at ease th’ unequal reeds.

My admiration only I exprest,

(No spark of envy harbours in my breast)

That, when confusion o’er the country reigns,

To you alone this happy state remains.

Here I, though faint myself, must drive my goats,

Far from their ancient fields and humble cots.

This scarce I lead, who left on yonder rock

Two tender kids, the hopes of all the flock.

Had we not been perverse and careless grown,

This dire event by omens was foreshown;

Our trees were blasted by the thunder stroke, )

And left-hand crows, from an old hollow oak, )

Foretold the coming evil by their dismal croak. )

Translation of HORACE. Book I. Ode xxii.

The man, my friend, whose conscious heart

With virtue’s sacred ardour glows,

Nor taints with death the envenom’d dart,

Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows:

Though Scythia’s icy cliffs he treads,

Or horrid Africk’s faithless sands;

Or where the fam’d Hydaspes spreads

His liquid wealth o’er barbarous lands.

For while by Chloe’s image charm’d,

Too far in Sabine woods I stray’d;

Me singing, careless and unarm’d,

A grizly wolf surprised, and fled.

No savage more portentous stain’d

Apulia’s spacious wilds with gore;

No fiercer Juba’s thirsty land,

Dire nurse of raging lions, bore.

Place me where no soft summer gale

Among the quivering branches sighs;

Where clouds condens’d for ever veil

With horrid gloom the frowning skies:

Place me beneath the burning line,

A clime deny’d to human race;

I’ll sing of Chloe’s charms divine,

Her heav’nly voice, and beauteous face.

Translation of HORACE. Book II. Ode ix.

Clouds do not always veil the skies,

Nor showers immerse the verdant plain;

Nor do the billows always rise,

Or storms afflict the ruffled main.

Nor, Valgius, on th’ Armenian shores

Do the chain’d waters always freeze;

Not always furious Boreas roars,

Or bends with violent force the trees.

But you are ever drown’d in tears,

For Mystes dead you ever mourn;

No setting Sol can ease your care,

But finds you sad at his return.

The wise experienc’d Grecian sage

Mourn’d not Antilochus so long;

Nor did King Priam’s hoary age

So much lament his slaughter’d son.

Leave off, at length, these woman’s sighs,

Augustus’ numerous trophies sing;

Repeat that prince’s victories,

To whom all nations tribute bring.

Niphates rolls an humbler wave,

At length the undaunted Scythian yields,

Content to live the Roman’s slave,

And scarce forsakes his native fields.

Translation of part of the Dialogue between HECTOR and ANDROMACHE; from the Sixth Book of HOMER’S ILIAD.

She ceas’d: then godlike Hector answer’d kind,

(His various plumage sporting in the wind)

That post, and all the rest, shall be my care;

But shall I, then, forsake the unfinished war?

How would the Trojans brand great Hector’s name!

And one base action sully all my fame,

Acquired by wounds and battles bravely fought!

Oh! how my soul abhors so mean a thought.

Long since I learn’d to slight this fleeting breath,

And view with cheerful eyes approaching death

The inexorable sisters have decreed

That Priam’s house, and Priam’s self shall bleed:

The day will come, in which proud Troy shall yield,

And spread its smoking ruins o’er the field.

Yet Hecuba’s, nor Priam’s hoary age,

Whose blood shall quench some Grecian’s thirsty rage,

Nor my brave brothers, that have bit the ground,

Their souls dismiss’d through many a ghastly wound,

Can in my bosom half that grief create,

As the sad thought of your impending fate:

When some proud Grecian dame shall tasks impose,

Mimick your tears, and ridicule your woes;

Beneath Hyperia’s waters shall you sweat,

And, fainting, scarce support the liquid weight:

Then shall some Argive loud insulting cry,

Behold the wife of Hector, guard of Troy!

Tears, at my name, shall drown those beauteous eyes,

And that fair bosom heave with rising sighs!

Before that day, by some brave hero’s hand

May I lie slain, and spurn the bloody sand.

To a YOUNG LADY on her BIRTH-DAY[162].

This tributary verse receive my fair,

Warm with an ardent lover’s fondest pray’r.

May this returning day for ever find

Thy form more lovely, more adorn’d thy mind;

All pains, all cares, may favouring heav’n remove,

All but the sweet solicitudes of love!

May powerful nature join with grateful art,

To point each glance, and force it to the heart!

O then, when conquered crouds confess thy sway,

When ev’n proud wealth and prouder wit obey,

My fair, be mindful of the mighty trust,

Alas! ‘tis hard for beauty to be just.

Those sovereign charms with strictest care employ;

Nor give the generous pain, the worthless joy:

With his own form acquaint the forward fool,

Shewn in the faithful glass of ridicule;

Teach mimick censure her own faults to find, )

No more let coquettes to themselves be blind, )

So shall Belinda’s charms improve mankind. )

When first the peasant, long inclin’d to roam,

Forsakes his rural sports and peaceful home,

Pleas’d with the scene the smiling ocean yields,

He scorns the verdant meads and flow’ry fields:

Then dances jocund o’er the watery way,

While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play:

Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll,

And future millions lift his rising soul;

In blissful dreams he digs the golden mine,

And raptur’d sees the new-found ruby shine.

Joys insincere! thick clouds invade the skies,

Loud roar the billows, high the waves arise;

Sick’ning with fear, he longs to view the shore,

And vows to trust the faithless deep no more.

So the young Authour, panting after fame,

And the long honours of a lasting name,

Entrusts his happiness to human kind,

More false, more cruel, than the seas or wind.

‘Toil on, dull croud, in extacies he cries,

For wealth or title, perishable prize;

While I those transitory blessings scorn,

Secure of praise from ages yet unborn.’

This thought once form’d, all council comes too late,

He flies to press, and hurries on his fate;

Swiftly he sees the imagin’d laurels spread,

And feels the unfading wreath surround his head.

Warn’d by another’s fate, vain youth be wise,

Those dreams were Settle’s[164] once, and Ogilby’s[165]:

The pamphlet spreads, incessant hisses rise,

To some retreat the baffled writer flies;

Where no sour criticks snarl, no sneers molest,

Safe from the tart lampoon, and stinging jest;

There begs of heaven a less distinguish’d lot,

Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot.

EPILOGUE, intended to have been spoken by a LADY who was to personate the Ghost of HERMIONE[166].

Ye blooming train, who give despair or joy,

Bless with a smile, or with a frown destroy;

In whose fair cheeks destructive Cupids wait,

And with unerring shafts distribute fate;

Whose snowy breasts, whose animated eyes,

Each youth admires, though each admirer dies;

Whilst you deride their pangs in barb’rous play, }