Newly tranflated from Metaftafio.
HANKS, Nice, to thy treacherous arts,
At length I breathe again;
The pitying gods have ta'en my part,
And eas'd a wretch's pain:
I feel, I feel, that from its chain
My refcued foul is free.
Nor is it now I idly dream
Of fancied liberty.
Extinguish'd is my ancient flame,
All calm my thoughts remain;
And artful love in vain fhall,ftrive
To lurk beneath difdain.
No longer, when thy name I hear,
My conscious colour flies;
No longer, when thy face I fee,
My heart's emotions rise.
I fleep, yet not in every dream
Thy image pictur'd fee;
I wake, nor does my alter'd mind
Fix its first thought on thee:
From thee far diftant when I roam,
No fond concern I know;
With thee I stay, nor yet from thence
Does pain or pleasure flow.
Oft of my Nice's charms I fpeak,
Nor thrills my steadfast heart;
Oft I review the wrongs I bore,
Yet feel no inward smart.
No quick alarms confound my sense,
When Nice near I fee;
Even with my rival I can finile,
And calmly talk of thee.
Speak to me with a placid mien,
Or treat me with difdain;
Vain is to me the look fevere,
The gentle fmile as vain.
Loft is the empire o'er my foul,
Which once thofe lips poffeft;
Thofe eyes no longer can divine
Each fecret of my breast.
What pleafes now, or grieves my mind,
What makes me fad or gay,
It is not in thy power to give,
Nor canft thou take away:
Each pleasant spot without thee charms,
The wood, the mead, the hill;
And scenes of dulness, even with thee,
Are fcenes of dulnefs ftill.
Judge, if I fpeak with tongue fincere ;
Thou ftill art wond'rous fair;
Great are the beauties of thy form,
But not beyond compare:
And, let not truth offend thine ear,
My eyes at length incline
To (py fome faults in that lov'd face,
Which once appear'd divine.
When from its fecret deep recefs
I tore the painful dart
(My fhameful weakness I confefs),
It seem'd to fplit my heart;
But, to relieve a tortur'd mind,
To triumph o'er dildain,
To gain my captive felf once more,
I'd fuffer ev'ry pain.
Caught by the birdlime's treacherous twigs,
To which he chanc'd to stray,
The bird his faften'd feathers leaves,
Then gladly flies away :
His thorten'd wings he foon renews,
Of fnares no more afraid;
Then grows by paft experience wife,
Nor is again betray'd.
I know thy pride can ne'er believe
My paffion's fully o'er,
Becaufe I oft repeat the tale,
And still add fomething more:-
'Tis natural inftinct prompts my tongue,
And makes the story laft.
As all mankind are fond to boast
Of dangers they have patt.
The warrior thus, the combat o'er,
Recounts his bloody wars,
Tells all the hardships which he bore,
And fhews his ancient scars.
Thus the glad flave by profperous fate,
Freed from the fervile chain,
Shews to each friend the galling weight,
Which once he dragg'd with pain.
I speak, yet, fpeaking all my aim
Is but to eafe my mind;
I fpeak, yet care not if my words
With thee can credit find;
I speak, nor afk if my difcourfe
Is e'er approv'd by thee,
Or whether thou with equal ease
Doft talk again of me.
I leave a light inconftant maid,
Thou'ft loft a heart fincere ;-
I know not which wants comfort moft,
Or which has moft to fear:
I'm fure, a fwain fo fond and true,
Nice can never find;
A nymph like her is quickly found,
Falfe, faithlefs, and unkind.
To STELLA, March 23, 1723-4. By Dean Swift.
(Written on the day of her birth, but not on the subject, when I was fick in bed.]
ORMENTED with inceffant pains,
Can I devife poetic strains?
Time was, when I could yearly pay
My verfe on Stella's native day:
But now, unable grown to write,
I grieve the ever faw the light.
Ungrateful; fince to her I owe
That I thefe pains can undergo.
She tends me, like an humble flave;
And, when indecently I rave,
When out my brutifh paffions break,
With gall in every word I speak,
She, with foft fpeech, my anguish chears,
Or melts my paflions down with tears:
Although 'tis easy to defcry
She wants affiftance more than I;
Yet feems to feel my pains alone,
And is a Stoic in her own.
When, among scholars, can we find
So foft, and yet so firm a mind?
All accidents of life confpire
To raife up Stella's virtue higher;
Or elfe, to introduce the reft
Which had been latent in her breast.
Her firmnefs who could e'er have known,.
Had the not evils of her own?
Her kindness who could ever guefs,
Had not her friends been in diftrets?
Whatever base returns you find
From me, dear Stella, ftill be kind.
In your own heart you'll reap the fruit,
Though I continue ftill a brute.
But, when I once am out of pain,
I promise to be good again:
Meantime, your other jufter friends
Shall for my follies make amends:
So may we long continue thus,
Admiring you, you pitying us.
BRYAN and PEREENE. A Weft Indian Ballad; fom Reliques of ancient English poetry; founded on a real fact, that happened about three years ago in the island of St. Christopher's.
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