Luce micant propriâ, Phæbive, per aëra purum Nunc stimulantis equos, argentea tela retorquent ? Phæbi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altis Appulsi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis,
Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre est Multâ onerata nive, et canis conspersa pruinis. Cætera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma ferè omnes Contristat menses, portenta hæc horrida nobis Illa strui voluit. Quoties de culmine summo Clivorum fluerent in littora prona, solutæ Sole, nives, propero tendentes in mare cursu, Illa gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere sese Mirum cæpit opus; glacieque ab origine rerum In glaciem aggestâ, sublimes vertice tandem Æquavit montes non crescere nescia moles. Sic immensa diu stetit, æternumque stetisset Congeries, hominum neque neque vi neque mobilis arte, Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset, Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum Antra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore, Dum ruit in pelagum, tanquam studiosa natandi, Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim, Insula, in Ægæo fluitâsse erratica ponto. Sed non ex glacie Delos; neque torpida Delum Bruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque. Sed vestita herbis erat illa, ornataque nunquam Deciduâ lauro; et Delum dilexit Apollo.
At vos, errones horrendi, et caligine digni Cimmeriâ, Deus idem odit. Natalia vestra, Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueri Sustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite cælum ! Ite! Redite! Timete moras; ni, leniter austro Spirante, et nitidas Phœbo jaculante sagittas Hostili vobis, pereatis gurgite nisti!
Seen floating in the German Ocean.
WHAT portents, from what distant region, ride Unseen, till now, in ours, th' astonish'd tide?
ages past, old Proteus, with his droves
Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves. But now, descending whence of late they stood, Themselves the mountains, seem to rove the flood. Dire times were they, full-charg'd with human woes, And these, scarce less calamitous than those. What view we now? More wond'rous still! Behold! Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold; And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, And all around the ruby's fiery glow.
Come they from India? where the burning earth, All-bounteous gives, her richest treasures birth;
And where the costly gems, that beam around The brows of mightiest potentates, are found? No. Never such a countless, dazzling store, Had left unseen the Ganges' peopled shore, Rapacious hands, and ever-watchful eyes, Should sooner far have mark'd, and seiz'd the prize. Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come From Ves'vius', or from Ætna's burning womb? Thus shine they, self-illum'd, or but display The borrow'd splendours of a cloudless day?
With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales that breathe, Now land-ward, and the current's force beneath, Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight, Advantag'd more, contemplates them aright. Their lofty summits, crested high, they show, With mingled sleet and long-incumbent snow. The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe, Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year, Their infant growth began. He bade arise Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. Oft' as, dissolv'd by transient suns, the snow Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below; He caught and curdled, with a freezing blast, The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. By slow degrees, uprose the wond'rous pile, And long-successive ages roll'd the while; Till, ceaseless in its growth, it clain'd to stand Tall, as its rival-mountains, on the land.
Thus stood and, unremovable by skill
Or force of man, had stood the structure still; * But that, tho' firmly fixt, supplanted yet
By pressure of its own enormous weight,
It left the shelving beach-and, with a sound, That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, Self-launch'd and swiftly, to the briny wave, As if instinct with strong desire to lave,
Down went the pond'rous mass. So Bards of old, How Delos swam th' Ægean deep, have told.
But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore
Herb, fruit, and flow'r. She, crown'd with laurel, wore, E'en under wintry skies, a summer-smile;
And Delos was Apollo's fav'rite isle.
But, horrid wand'rers of the deep, to you
He deems Cimmerian darkness only due. Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey; But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away. Hence! Seek your home; nor longer rashly dare The darts of Phæbus, and a softer air;
Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, In no congenial gulph for ever lost!
I make no apology for the introduction of the following Lines, though I have never learned who wrote them. Their elegance will sufficiently recommend them to persons of classical taste and erudition: and I shall be happy, if the English Version, that they have received from me, be found not to dishonour them. Affection for the of the worthy man, whom they celebrate, alone prompted me to this endeavour. W. COWPER.
TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD,
Spoken at the Westminster Election next after his decease.
OUR good old friend is gone, gone to his rest,
Whose social converse was itself a feast.. O ye of riper years, who recollect,
How once ye lov'd, and ey'd him with respect, Both in the firmness of his better day, While yet he rul'd you with a father's sway, And when impair'd by time, and glad to rest, Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest,
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