English

Translated from the Latin of Mr. Addison .

Of wondrous Art the Muse delighted sings,
And rare Diversion rais'd from trivial things,
Of Pygmy-folk, by Pow'r mechanic wrought,
And Men, the Product of the Workman's Thought.
 Where the throng'd Street resounds with Laughter loud,
And Andrew , drolling, charms the gaping Croud;
Within, whom Mirth and Novelty invite
To humble Sport and innocent Delight,
In a small Theatre an Audience meets,
And fills, but unpromiscuous fills the Seats;

“Fly on, fly on, where the thistle-down's waving;
 “Where the bean fields stand rich, with both perfume and dew,
“Where the bee in each blossom the honey is saving,
 “Oh, thither I'll fly, if you'll fly with me too;
“Or, round a tuberose-bush we'll gambol it gaily,
 “I know a rose-tree, so bright are her dyes,
“That you'll think when you see it, Cupid comes daily,
 “And fans every leaf with his wings, or his sighs.”

‘No, sister, no; where the blue waves are curling,
 ‘I know a bark that is borne to and fro,

(“Jeune fille, l'amour.”)

Dear Child, at first dear love's a mirror bright
Whereo'er fair women bend with fond delight
 For bold or timorous gazing;
With heavenly beams each heart it doth fulfil,
Making all good things lovelier, all things ill
 From the rapt soul erasing.
Then one bends nearer, 'tis a pool … and then
A deep abysm! and clinging hands are vain
 To banks frail flowers are crowning!—
Charming is love, but deadly! Fear it, Sweet,
In a river first the foolish little feet
 Dip; then a fair form's drowning!

( " A quoi je songe? " )

What do I dream of? Far from the low roof,
Where now ye are, children, I dream of you;
Of your young heads that are the hope and crown
Of my full summer, ripening to its fall.
Branches whose shadow grows along my wall,
Sweet souls scarce open to the breath of day,
Still dazzled with the brightness of your dawn.
I dream of those two little ones at play,
Making the threshold vocal with their cries,
Half tears, half laughter, mingled sport and strife,
Like two flowers knocked together by the wind.

Of ladyes bewtie to declair
I do rejois to tell;
Quhan thai ar young, men think tham fait,
And lustie lyk to sell.
Thay do appeir for to excell,
Sa wounderous moy thai mak it.
Sueit, sueit is thair bewis,
Ay whil thai be contractit.

Quhan thai have thair virginitie;
Thay seim to be ane sanct;
Seim as thay knew divinitie.
Na propertie thai want.
Quha swers thame trew, and seims constant,
And trests in all thay say,
Sune, sune he is begylit,
And lichtlied for ay.

Sen Adam, our progenitour

O Fylthy Letchery,
Fyre of foule fraylty,
Nursse to ympietie,
Warre, pryde and ielousie,
Whose substance is gluttony,
Whose smoke is infamy,
Whose sparkes are vanity,
Whose flame obscurity,
Whose coles impurity,
And ashes mysery.

My carefull case, and pensiue pyning plight,
Constraynth my Pen, against my will to wright:
The plunged state, wherein I lyue and dwell,
Doth force me forth, my dolefull tale to tell.

My heaped woes, all solace sets asyde,
Whose secret smarte (alas) I faine would hyde,
But as the subiect Oxe, to yoke must yeelde,
So vanquisht wightes, are forste forsake the feelde.

My lucklesse lotte, denies me all releife,
I seeke for helpe, but finde increase of griefe.
I languishe still, in long and deepe dispaire,

In wyll to strong, in worke to weake is loue,
In hope to bolde, in feare more faynte then needes:
In thought a thousand guyles it stryues to proue,
In guyle, suspition painefull passions breedes.
Suspition easely yeelds to light beleefe,
And light beleefe to iealousie is thrall,
The iealous mynde deuoures it selfe with griefe,
Thus loue at once doth frye, freese, ryse and fall.
On pleasures paste to thinke, it takes delighte,
Whyles present blisse, by fonde conceyte it balkes,
Although the fruite it fynde, be pensiue plight,

A RELIGIOUS SONNET .

Bright on the Shield of Virtue, when 'twas giv'n
(Of dazzling lustre, and of pow'rs divine)
By pure Religion, from the Court of Heav'n,
And Mercy bade the gift on mortals shine,
To guard the breast of Passion and of Youth —
On that fair Shield was grav'd the name of Truth!
Invineible shall prove its heav'nly force,
And ev'n in Death's dark vale secure its course;
For He, whose suff'rings spoke transcendent love,

Whylste slye deceyte, by sleight of smyling cheare,
Yeeldes tickling hope, to dandle on our dayes:
We dread no guyle, no doubling drift we feare,
Our sounde beliefe such setled trust doth rayse.
But when in syne, we finde our selues misled,
We blame the frawde that so our fancies fed.

And gripte with griefe, our former trust we wayle,
Exclayming lowde that falshood so can fayne,
When glosing shewes clokt vnder friendships vayle,
Fals out but sleyght, to foster hope in vayne.