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 unfinish'd war?

How would the Trojans brand great Hector's name!
And one base action sully all my fame,

Acquir'd by wounds and battles bravely fought!
Oh! how my soul abhors so mean a thought:
Long have 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 shall 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,
Mimic 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 MISS ****

On her playing upon a Harpsichord in a Room hung with Flower-pieces of her own painting.

WHEN Stella strikes the tuneful string
In scenes of imitated spring,

Where beauty lavishes her powers
On beds of never-fading flowers,

And pleasure propagates around
Each charm of modulated sound;
Ah! think not in the dangerous hour,
The nymph fictitious as the flower,

But shun, rash youth, the gay alcove,
Nor tempt the snares of wily love.

When charms thus press on every sense, What thought of flight or of defence? Deceitful hope and vain desire,

For ever flutter o'er her lyre,
Delighting as the youth draws nigh,
To point the glances of her eye,
And forming with unerring art
New chains to hold the captive heart.
But on these regions of delight

Might truth intrude with daring flight,
Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young,
One moment hear the moral song,
Instruction with her flowers might spring,
And wisdom warble from her string.
Mark when from thousand mingled dyes
Thou seest one pleasing form arise,
How active light and thoughtful shade,
In greater scenes each other aid.
Mark when the different notes agree
In friendly contrariety,

How passion's well accorded strife,
Gives all the harmony of life;

Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame,

Consistent still, though not the same;

Thy music teach the nobler art,
To tune the regulated heart.

EVENING,

AN ODE. TO STELLA.

EVENING now from purple wings Sheds the grateful gifts she brings; Brilliant drops bedeck the mead, Cooling breezes shake the reed; Shake the reed, and curl the stream Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam; Near the chequer'd, lonely grove, Hears, and keeps thy secrets, love. Stella, thither let us stray!

Lightly o'er the dewy way.

Phœbus drives his burning car,
Hence, my lovely Stella, far;
In his stead, the queen of night
Round us pours a lambent light;
Light that seems but just to show
Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow;

Let us now in whisper'd joy,

Evening's silent hours employ,

Silence best, and conscious shades,

Please the hearts that love invades ;

L

Other pleasures give them pain,

Lovers all but love disdain.

TO THE SAME.

WHETHER Stella's eyes are found,
Fix'd on earth, or glancing round,
If her face with pleasure glow,
If she sigh at others woe,
If her easy air express

Conscious worth or soft distress,
Stella's eyes, and air, and face,
Charm with undiminish'd grace.
If on her we see display'd
Pendent gems, and rich brocade,
If her chintz with less expence
Flows in easy negligence;
Still she lights the conscious flame,
Still her charms appear the same;
If she strikes the vocal strings,
If she's silent, speaks, or sings,
If she sit, or if she move,

Still we love, and still approve.

Vain the casual transient glance, Which alone can please by chance, Beauty, which depends on art, Changing with the changing art,