Kitabı oku: «The Works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 12», sayfa 17

My preface begins already to swell upon me, and looks as if I were afraid of my reader, by so tedious a bespeaking of him; and yet I have Horace and Theocritus upon my hands; but the Greek gentleman shall quickly be dispatched, because I have more business with the Roman.

That which distinguishes Theocritus from all other poets, both Greek and Latin, and which raises him even above Virgil in his Eclogues, is the inimitable tenderness of his passions, and the natural expression of them in words so becoming of a pastoral. A simplicity shines through all he writes. He shows his art and learning, by disguising both. His shepherds never rise above their country education in their complaints of love. There is the same difference betwixt him and Virgil, as there is betwixt Tasso's "Aminta" and the "Pastor Fido" of Guarini. Virgil's shepherds are too well read in the philosophy of Epicurus and of Plato, and Guarini's seem to have been bred in courts; but Theocritus and Tasso have taken theirs from cottages and plains. It was said of Tasso, in relation to his similitudes, mai esce del bosco, that he never departed from the woods; that is all his comparisons were taken from the country. The same may be said of our Theocritus. He is softer than Ovid: he touches the passions more delicately, and performs all this out of his own fund, without diving into the arts and sciences for a supply. Even his Doric dialect has an incomparable sweetness in its clownishness, like a fair shepherdess in her country russet, talking in a Yorkshire tone. This was impossible for Virgil to imitate; because the severity of the Roman language denied him that advantage. Spenser has endeavoured it in his "Shepherd's Calendar;" but neither will it succeed in English; for which reason I forbore to attempt it. For Theocritus writ to Sicilians, who spoke that dialect; and I direct this part of my translations to our ladies, who neither understand, nor will take pleasure in such homely expressions. I proceed to Horace.

Take him in parts, and he is chiefly to be considered in his three different talents, as he was a critic, a satirist, and a writer of odes. His morals are uniform, and run through all of them; for, let his Dutch commentators say what they will, his philosophy was Epicurean; and he made use of gods and providence only to serve a turn in poetry. But since neither his Criticisms, which are the most instructive of any that are written in this art, nor his Satires, which are incomparably beyond Juvenal's, (if to laugh and rally is to be preferred to railing and declaiming,) are no part of my present undertaking, I confine myself wholly to his Odes. These are also of several sorts: some of them are panegyrical, others moral, the rest jovial, or (if I may so call them) Bacchanalian. As difficult as he makes it, and as indeed it is, to imitate Pindar, yet, in his most elevated flights, and in the sudden changes of his subject with almost imperceptible connections, that Theban poet is his master. But Horace is of the more bounded fancy, and confines himself strictly to one sort of verse, or stanza, in every Ode. That which will distinguish his style from all other poets, is the elegance of his words, and the numerousness of his verse. There is nothing so delicately turned in all the Roman language. There appears in every part of his diction, or (to speak English) in all his expressions, a kind of noble and bold purity. His words are chosen with as much exactness as Virgil's; but there seems to be a greater spirit in them. There is a secret happiness attends his choice, which in Petronius is called curiosa felicitas, and which I suppose he had from the feliciter audere of Horace himself. But the most distinguishing part of all his character seems to me to be his briskness, his jollity, and his good humour; and those I have chiefly endeavoured to copy. His other excellencies, I confess, are above my imitation. One Ode, which infinitely pleased me in the reading, I have attempted to translate in Pindaric verse: it is that, which is inscribed to the present Earl of Rochester, to whom I have particular obligations, which this small testimony of my gratitude can never pay.⁵⁶ It is his darling in the Latin, and I have taken some pains to make it my master-piece in English; for which reason I took this kind of verse, which allows more latitude than any other. Every one knows it was introduced into our language, in this age, by the happy genius of Mr Cowley. The seeming easiness of it has made it spread; but it has not been considered enough, to be so well cultivated. It languishes in almost every hand but his, and some very few, whom (to keep the rest in countenance) I do not name. He, indeed, has brought it as near perfection as was possible in so short a time. But, if I may be allowed to speak my mind modestly, and without injury to his sacred ashes, somewhat of the purity of English, somewhat of more equal thoughts, somewhat of sweetness in the numbers, in one word, somewhat of a finer turn, and more lyrical verse, is yet wanting. As for the soul of it, which consists in the warmth and vigour of fancy, the masterly figures, and the copiousness of imagination, he has excelled all others in this kind. Yet if the kind itself be capable of more perfection, though rather in the ornamental parts of it than the essential, what rules of morality or respect have I broken, in naming the defects, that they may hereafter be amended? Imitation is a nice point, and there are few poets who deserve to be models in all they write. Milton's "Paradise Lost" is admirable; but am I therefore bound to maintain, that there are no flats amongst his elevations, when it is evident he creeps along sometimes for above an hundred lines together? Cannot I admire the height of his invention, and the strength of his expression, without defending his antiquated words, and the perpetual harshness of their sound? It is as much commendation as a man can bear, to own him excellent; all beyond it is idolatry. Since Pindar was the prince of lyric poets, let me have leave to say, that, in imitating him, our numbers should, for the most part, be lyrical: for variety, or rather where the majesty of thought requires it, they may be stretched to the English heroick of five feet, and to the French Alexandrine of six. But the ear must preside, and direct the judgment to the choice of numbers. Without the nicety of this, the harmony of Pindaric verse can never be complete; the cadency of one line must be a rule to that of the next; and the sound of the former must slide gently into that which follows, without leaping from one extreme into another. It must be done like the shadowings of a picture, which fall by degrees into a darker colour. I shall be glad, if I have so explained myself as to be understood; but if I have not, quod nequeo dicere, et sentio tantum,⁵⁷ must be my excuse.

There remains much more to be said on this subject; but, to avoid envy, I will be silent. What I have said is the general opinion of the best judges, and in a manner has been forced from me, by seeing a noble sort of poetry so happily restored by one man, and so grossly copied by almost all the rest. A musical ear, and a great genius, if another Mr Cowley could arise in another age, may bring it to perfection. In the mean time,

 
– fungar vice cotis, acutum
Reddere quæ ferrum valet, expers ipsa secandi.
 

I hope it will not be expected from me, that I should say any thing of my fellow undertakers in this Miscellany. Some of them are too nearly related to me, to be commended without suspicion of partiality;⁵⁸ others I am sure need it not; and the rest I have not perused.

To conclude, I am sensible that I have written this too hastily and too loosely; I fear I have been tedious, and, which is worse, it comes out from the first draught, and uncorrected. This I grant is no excuse; for it may be reasonably urged, why did he not write with more leisure, or, if he had it not, (which was certainly my case,) why did he attempt to write on so nice a subject? The objection is unanswerable; but, in part of recompence, let me assure the reader, that, in hasty productions, he is sure to meet with an author's present sense, which cooler thoughts would possibly have disguised. There is undoubtedly more of spirit, though not of judgment, in these uncorrect essays; and consequently, though my hazard be the greater, yet the reader's pleasure is not the less.

John Dryden.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THEOCRITUS

AMARYLLIS: OR, THE THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS, PARAPHRASED. ⁵⁹

 
To Amaryllis love compels my way,
My browzing goats upon the mountains stray;
O Tityrus, tend them well, and see them fed }
In pastures fresh, and to their watering led;}
And 'ware the ridgling with his budding head.}
Ah, beauteous nymph! can you forget your love,
The conscious grottos, and the shady grove,
Where stretched at ease your tender limbs were laid,
Your nameless beauties nakedly displayed?
Then I was called your darling, your desire,
With kisses such as set my soul on fire:
But you are changed, yet I am still the same;
My heart maintains for both a double flame,
Grieved, but unmoved, and patient of your scorn;
So faithful I, and you so much forsworn!
I die, and death will finish all my pain;
Yet, ere I die, behold me once again:
Am I so much deformed, so changed of late?
What partial judges are our love and hate!
Ten wildings have I gathered for my dear;
How ruddy, like your lips, their streaks appear!
Far-off you viewed them with a longing eye
Upon the topmost branch (the tree was high);
Yet nimbly up, from bough to bough, I swerved,⁶⁰
And for to-morrow have ten more reserved.
Look on me kindly, and some pity shew,
Or give me leave at least to look on you.
Some god transform me by his heavenly power,
Even to a bee to buzz within your bower,
The winding ivy-chaplet to invade,
And folded fern, that your fair forehead shade.
Now to my cost the force of love I find,
The heavy hand it bears on human kind.
The milk of tygers was his infant food, }
Taught from his tender years the taste of blood; }
His brother whelps and he ran wild about the wood.}
Ah nymph, trained up in his tyrannic court,
To make the sufferings of your slaves your sport!
Unheeded ruin! treacherous delight!
O polished hardness, softened to the sight!
Whose radiant eyes your ebon brows adorn,
Like midnight those, and these like break of morn!
Smile once again, revive me with your charms,
And let me die contented in your arms.
I would not ask to live another day,
Might I but sweetly kiss my soul away.
Ah, why am I from empty joys debarred?
For kisses are but empty when compared.
I rave, and in my raging fit shall tear
The garland, which I wove for you to wear,
Of parsley, with a wreath of ivy bound,
And bordered with a rosy edging round.
What pangs I feel, unpitied and unheard!
Since I must die, why is my fate deferred!
I strip my body of my shepherd's frock;
Behold that dreadful downfal of a rock,
Where yon old fisher views the waves from high!
'Tis that convenient leap I mean to try.
You would be pleased to see me plunge to shore,
But better pleased if I should rise no more.
I might have read my fortune long ago,
When, seeking my success in love to know,
I tried the infallible prophetic way,
A poppy-leaf upon my palm to lay.
I struck, and yet no lucky crack did follow;
Yet I struck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow;
And, which was worse, if any worse could prove,
The withering leaf foreshowed your withering love.
Yet farther, – ah, how far a lover dares!
My last recourse I had to sieve and sheers,
And told the witch Agreo my disease:
(Agreo, that in harvest used to lease;
But, harvest done, to chare-work did aspire;
Meat, drink, and two-pence was her daily hire;)
To work she went, her charms she muttered o'er,}
And yet the resty sieve wagged ne'er the more; }
I wept for woe, the testy beldame swore, }
And, foaming with her God, foretold my fate,
That I was doomed to love, and you to hate.
A milk-white goat for you I did provide;
Two milk-white kids run frisking by her side,
For which the nut-brown lass, Erithacis,
Full often offered many a savoury kiss.
Hers they shall be, since you refuse the price;
What madman would o'erstand his market twice!
My right eye itches, some good-luck is near,}
Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear; }
I'll set up such a note as she shall hear. }
What nymph but my melodious voice would move?
She must be flint, if she refuse my love.
Hippomenes, who ran with noble strife }
To win his lady, or to lose his life, }
(What shift some men will make to get a wife?)}
Threw down a golden apple in her way;
For all her haste, she could not choose but stay:
Renown said, Run; the glittering bribe cried, Hold;
The man might have been hanged, but for his gold.
Yet some suppose 'twas love, (some few indeed!)
That stopt the fatal fury of her speed:
She saw, she sighed; her nimble feet refuse
Their wonted speed, and she took pains to lose.
A prophet some, and some a poet cry,⁶¹
(No matter which, so neither of them lie,)
From steepy Othry's top to Pylus drove
His herd, and for his pains enjoyed his love.
If such another wager should be laid,
I'll find the man, if you can find the maid.
Why name I men, when love extended finds
His power on high, and in celestial minds?
Venus the shepherd's homely habit took,
And managed something else besides the crook;
Nay, when Adonis died, was heard to roar,
And never from her heart forgave the boar.
How blest was fair Endymion with his moon,
Who sleeps on Latmos' top from night to noon!
What Jason from Medea's love possest,
You shall not hear, but know 'tis like the rest.
My aching head can scarce support the pain;
This cursed love will surely turn my brain:
Feel how it shoots, and yet you take no pity;
Nay, then, 'tis time to end my doleful ditty.
A clammy sweat does o'er my temples creep,
My heavy eyes are urged with iron sleep;
I lay me down to gasp my latest breath,
The wolves will get a breakfast by my death;
Yet scarce enough their hunger to supply,
For love has made me carrion ere I die.
 

THE EPITHALAMIUM OF HELEN AND MENELAUS. FROM THE EIGHTEENTH IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS. ⁶²

 
Twelve Spartan virgins, noble, young, and fair,
With violet wreaths adorned their flowing hair;
And to the pompous palace did resort,
Where Menelaus kept his royal court.
There, hand in hand, a comely choir they led, }
To sing a blessing to his nuptial bed, }
With curious needles wrought, and painted flowers bespread.}
Jove's beauteous daughter now his bride must be,
And Jove himself was less a God than he;
For this their artful hands instruct the lute to sound,
Their feet assist their hands, and justly beat the ground.
This was their song: – Why, happy bridegroom, why,
Ere yet the stars are kindled in the sky,
Ere twilight shades, or evening dews are shed,
Why dost thou steal so soon away to bed?
Has Somnus brushed thy eye-lids with his rod,}
Or do thy legs refuse to bear their load, }
With flowing bowls of a more generous god? }
If gentle slumber on thy temples creep,
(But, naughty man, thou dost not mean to sleep,)
Betake thee to thy bed, thou drowzy drone,
Sleep by thyself, and leave thy bride alone:
Go, leave her with her maiden mates to play
At sports more harmless till the break of day;
Give us this evening; thou hast morn and night,
And all the year before thee, for delight.
O happy youth! to thee, among the crowd
Of rival princes, Cupid sneezed aloud;
And every lucky omen sent before,
To meet thee landing on the Spartan shore.
Of all our heroes, thou canst boast alone,
That Jove, whene'er he thunders, calls thee son;
Betwixt two sheets thou shalt enjoy her bare,}
With whom no Grecian virgin can compare; }
So soft, so sweet, so balmy, and so fair. }
A boy, like thee, would make a kingly line;
But oh, a girl like her must be divine.
Her equals we in years, but not in face,
Twelve score viragos of the Spartan race,
While naked to Eurotas' banks we bend,
And there in manly exercise contend,
When she appears, are all eclipsed and lost,
And hide the beauties that we made our boast.
So, when the night and winter disappear,
The purple morning, rising with the year,
Salutes the spring, as her celestial eyes
Adorn the world, and brighten all the skies;
So beauteous Helen shines among the rest,
Tall, slender, straight, with all the Graces blest.
As pines the mountains, or as fields the corn,
Or as Thessalian steeds the race adorn;
So rosy-coloured Helen is the pride
Of Lacedemon, and of Greece beside.
Like her no nymph can willing osiers bend }
In basket-works, which painted streaks commend;}
With Pallas in the loom she may contend. }
But none, ah! none can animate the lyre,
And the mute strings with vocal souls inspire;
Whether the learned Minerva be her theme,
Or chaste Diana bathing in the stream,
None can record their heavenly praise so well
As Helen, in whose eyes ten thousand Cupids dwell.
O fair, O graceful! yet with maids enrolled,
But whom to-morrow's sun a matron shall behold!
Yet ere to-morrow's sun shall show his head,}
The dewy paths of meadows we will tread, }
For crowns and chaplets to adorn thy head. }
Where all shall weep, and wish for thy return,
As bleating lambs their absent mother mourn.
Our noblest maids shall to thy name bequeath
The boughs of Lotos, formed into a wreath.
This monument, thy maiden beauties due,
High on a plane-tree shall be hung to view;
On the smooth rind the passenger shall see
Thy name engraved, and worship Helen's tree;
Balm, from a silver-box distilled around,
Shall all bedew the roots, and scent the sacred ground.
The balm, 'tis true, can aged plants prolong,
But Helen's name will keep it ever young.
Hail bride, hail bridegroom, son-in-law to Jove!
With fruitful joys Latona bless your love!
Let Venus furnish you with full desires,
Add vigour to your wills, and fuel to your fires!
Almighty Jove augment your wealthy store,
Give much to you, and to his grandsons more!
From generous loins a generous race will spring,
Each girl, like her, a queen; each boy, like you, a king.
Now sleep, if sleep you can; but while you rest,
Sleep close, with folded arms, and breast to breast.
Rise in the morn; but oh! before you rise,
Forget not to perform your morning sacrifice.
We will be with you ere the crowing cock
Salutes the light, and struts before his feathered flock.
Hymen, oh Hymen, to thy triumphs run,
And view the mighty spoils thou hast in battle won!
 

THE DESPAIRING LOVER. FROM THE TWENTY-THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS

 
With inauspicious love, a wretched swain
Pursued the fairest nymph of all the plain;
Fairest indeed, but prouder far than fair,
She plunged him hopeless in a deep despair:
Her heavenly form too haughtily she prized,
His person hated, and his gifts despised;
Nor knew the force of Cupid's cruel darts,
Nor feared his awful power on human hearts;
But either from her hopeless lover fled,
Or with disdainful glances shot him dead.
No kiss, no look, to cheer the drooping boy,
No word she spoke, she scorned even to deny;
But, as a hunted panther casts about
Her glaring eyes, and pricks her listening ears to scout;
So she, to shun his toils, her cares employed,
And fiercely in her savage freedom joyed.
Her mouth she writhed, her forehead taught to frown,
Her eyes to sparkle fires to love unknown;
Her sallow cheeks her envious mind did shew,
And every feature spoke aloud the curstness of a shrew.
Yet could not he his obvious fate escape;
His love still dressed her in a pleasing shape;
And every sullen frown, and bitter scorn,
But fanned the fuel that too fast did burn.
Long time, unequal to his mighty pain,
He strove to curb it, but he strove in vain;
At last his woes broke out, and begged relief
With tears, the dumb petitioners of grief;
With tears so tender, as adorned his love,
And any heart, but only hers, would move.
Trembling before her bolted doors he stood,
And there poured out the unprofitable flood;
Staring his eyes, and hagard was his look;
Then, kissing first the threshold, thus he spoke.
Ah nymph, more cruel than of human race!
Thy tygress heart belies thy angel face;
Too well thou show'st thy pedigree from stone,
Thy grandame's was the first by Pyrrha thrown;
Unworthy thou to be so long desired;
But so my love, and so my fate required.
I beg not now (for 'tis in vain) to live;
But take this gift, the last that I can give.
This friendly cord shall soon decide the strife
Betwixt my lingering love and loathsome life:
This moment puts an end to all my pain;
I shall no more despair, nor thou disdain.
Farewell, ungrateful and unkind! I go
Condemned by thee to those sad shades below.
I go the extremest remedy to prove,
To drink oblivion, and to drench my love:
There happily to lose my long desires;
But ah! what draught so deep to quench my fires?
Farewell, ye never-opening gates, ye stones,
And threshold guilty of my midnight moans!
What I have suffered here ye know too well;
What I shall do, the Gods and I can tell.
The rose is fragrant, but it fades in time;
The violet sweet, but quickly past the prime;
White lilies hang their heads, and soon decay,
And whiter snow in minutes melts away:
Such is your blooming youth, and withering so;
The time will come, it will, when you shall know
The rage of love; your haughty heart shall burn
In flames like mine, and meet a like return.
Obdurate as you are, oh! hear at least
My dying prayers, and grant my last request! —
When first you ope your doors, and, passing by,
The sad ill-omened object meets your eye,
Think it not lost a moment if you stay;
The breathless wretch, so made by you, survey;
Some cruel pleasure will from thence arise,
To view the mighty ravage of your eyes.
I wish (but oh! my wish is vain, I fear)
The kind oblation of a falling tear.
Then loose the knot, and take me from the place,
And spread your mantle o'er my grisly face;
Upon my livid lips bestow a kiss, —
O envy not the dead, they feel not bliss!
Nor fear your kisses can restore my breath;
Even you are not more pitiless than death.
Then for my corpse a homely grave provide,
Which love and me from public scorn may hide;
Thrice call upon my name, thrice beat your breast,
And hail me thrice to everlasting rest:
Last, let my tomb this sad inscription bear; – }
"A wretch, whom love has killed, lies buried here; }
"O passengers, Aminta's eyes beware." }
Thus having said, and furious with his love,
He heaved, with more than human force, to move
A weighty stone, (the labour of a team,)
And, raised from thence, he reached the neighbouring beam;
Around its bulk a sliding knot he throws,
And fitted to his neck the fatal noose;
Then, spurning backward, took a swing, till death
Crept up, and stopt the passage of his breath.
The bounce burst ope the door; the scornful fair
Relentless looked, and saw him beat his quivering feet in air;
Nor wept his fate, nor cast a pitying eye,
Nor took him down, but brushed regardless by;
And, as she past, her chance or fate was such,
Her garments touched the dead, polluted by the touch.
Next to the dance, thence to the bath did move;
The bath was sacred to the God of Love;
Whose injured image, with a wrathful eye,
Stood threatning from a pedestal on high.
Nodding a while, and watchful of his blow,
He fell, and, falling, crushed the ungrateful nymph below:
Her gushing blood the pavement all besmeared;
And this her last expiring voice was heard; —
"Lovers, farewell, revenge has reached my scorn;
"Thus warned, be wise, and love for love return."