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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537568" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy VI. To Charles Diodati, When He Was Visiting In The Country (Translated From Milton)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">With no rich viands overcharg'd, I send<br>Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd friend;<br>But wherefore should thy Muse tempt mine away<br>From what she loves, from darkness into day?<br>Art thou desirous to be told how well<br>I love thee, and in verse? Verse cannot tell.<br>For verse has bounds, and must in measure move;<br>But neither bounds nor measure knows my love.<br>How pleasant in thy lines described appear<br>December's harmless sports and rural cheer! <br>French spirits kindling with caerulean fires,<br>And all such gambols as the time inspires!<br>Think not that Wine against good verse offends;<br>The Muse and Bacchus have been always friends,<br>Nor Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found<br>With Ivy, rather than with Laurel, crown'd.<br>The Nine themselves oftimes have join'd the song<br>And revels of the Bacchanalian throng.<br>Not even Ovid could in Scythian air<br>Sing sweetly--why? no vine would flourish there. <br>What in brief numbers sang Anacreon's muse?<br>Wine, and the rose, that sparkling wine bedews.<br>Pindar with Bacchus glows--his every line<br>Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine,<br>While, with loud crash o'erturn'd, the chariot lies<br>And brown with dust the fiery courser flies.<br>The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays<br>So sweet in Glycera's, and Chloe's praise.<br>Now too the plenteous feast, and mantling bowl<br>Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul; <br>The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow,<br>And casks not wine alone, but verse, bestow.<br>Thus Phoebus favours, and the arts attend<br>Whom Bacchus, and whom Ceres, both befriend.<br>What wonder then, thy verses are so sweet,<br>In which these triple powers so kindly meet.<br>The lute now also sounds, with gold inwrought,<br>And touch'd with flying Fingers nicely taught,<br>In tap'stried halls high-roof'd the sprightly lyre<br>Directs the dancers of the virgin choir. <br>If dull repletion fright the Muse away,<br>Sights, gay as these, may more invite her stay;<br>And, trust me, while the iv'ry keys resound,<br>Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around,<br>Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame<br>Shall animate at once thy glowing frame,<br>And all the Muse shall rush into thy breast,<br>By love and music's blended pow'rs possest.<br>For num'rous pow'rs light Elegy befriend,<br>Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend; <br>Her, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, all approve,<br>And with his blushing Mother, gentle Love.<br>Hence, to such bards we grant the copious use<br>Of banquets, and the vine's delicious juice.<br>But they who Demigods and Heroes praise<br>And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days,<br>Who now the counsels of high heav'n explore,<br>Now shades, that echo the Cerberean roar,<br>Simply let these, like him of Samos live,<br>Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give; <br>In beechen goblets let their bev'rage shine,<br>Cool from the chrystal spring, their sober wine!<br>Their youth should pass, in innocence, secure<br>From stain licentious, and in manners pure,<br>Pure as the priest's, when robed in white he stands<br>The fresh lustration ready in his hands.<br>Thus Linus liv'd, and thus, as poets write,<br>Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight,<br>Thus exil'd Chalcas, thus the bard of Thrace,<br>Melodious tamer of the savage race!<br>Thus train'd by temp'rance, Homer led, of yore,<br>His chief of Ithaca from shore to shore,<br>Through magic Circe's monster-peopled reign,<br>And shoals insidious with the siren train;<br>And through the realms, where griesly spectres dwell,<br>Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell;<br>For these are sacred bards, and, from above,<br>Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove.<br>Would'st thou (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine ear)<br>Would'st thou be told my occupation here? <br>The promised King of peace employs my pen,<br>Th'eternal cov'nant made for guilty men,<br>The new-born Deity with infant cries<br>Filling the sordid hovel, where he lies;<br>The hymning Angels, and the herald star<br>That led the Wise who sought him from afar,<br>And idols on their own unhallow'd floor<br>Dash'd at his birth, to be revered no more!<br>This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse;<br>The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse;<br>Verse that, reserv'd in secret, shall attend<br>Thy candid voice, my Critic and my Friend!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Cowper">William Cowper</a><div class=q>
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Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd friend;
But wherefore should thy Muse tempt mine away
From what she loves, from darkness into day?
Art thou desirous to be told how well
I love thee, and in vers..."></div>
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