The Complete Poems (Penguin Classics)

  Nec tu perge precor sacras contemnere Musas,

  Nec vanas inopesque puta, quarum ipse peritus

  Munere, mille sonos numeros componis ad aptos,

  Millibus et vocem modulis variare canoram

  60 Doctus, Arionii merito sis nominis haeres.

  Nunc tibi quid mirum, si me genuisse poetam

  Contigerit, caro si tam prope sanguine iuncti

  Cognatas artes, studiumque affine sequamur:

  Ipse volens Phoebus se dispertire duobus,

  65 Altera dona mihi, dedit altera dona parenti,

  Dividuumque deum genitorque puerque tenemus.

  Tu tamen ut simules teneras odisse Camenas,

  Non odisse reor, neque enim, pater, ire iubebas

  Qua via lata patet, qua pronior area lucri,

  70 Certaque condendi fulget spes aurea nummi;

  Nec rapis ad leges, male custoditaque gentis

  Iura, nec insulsis damnas clamoribus aures.

  Sed magis excultam cupiens ditescere mentem,

  Me procul urbano strepitu, secessibus altis

  75 Abductum Aoniae iucunda per otia ripae,

  Phoebaeo lateri comitem sinis ire beatum.

  Officium cari taceo commune parentis,

  Me poscunt maiora; tuo pater optime sumptu

  Cum mihi Romuleae patuit facundia linguae,

  80 Et Latii veneres, et quae Iovis ora decebant

  Grandia magniloquis elata vocabula Graiis,

  Addere suasisti quos iactat Gallia flores,

  Et quam degeneri novus Italus ore loquelam

  Fundit, barbaricos testatus voce tumultus,

  85 Quaeque Palaestinus loquitur mysteria vates.

  Denique quicquid habet caelum, subiectaque coelo

  Terra parens, terraeque et coelo interfluus aer,

  Quicquid et unda tegit, pontique agitabile marmor,

  Per te nosse licet, per te, si nosse libebit.

  90 Dimotaque venit spectanda scientia nube,

  Nudaque conspicuos inclinat ad oscula vultus,

  Ni fugisse velim, ni sit libasse molestum.

  I nunc, confer opes quisquis malesanus avitas

  Austriaci gazas, Peruanaque regna praeoptas.

  95 Quae potuit maiora pater tribuisse, vel ipse

  Iupiter, excepto, donasset ut omnia, coelo?

  Non potiora dedit, quamvis et tuta fuissent,

  Publica qui iuveni commisit lumina nato

  Atque Hyperionios currus, et frena diei,

  100 Et circum undantem radiata luce tiaram.

  Ergo ego iam doctae pars quamlibet ima catervae

  Victrices hederas inter laurosque sedebo;

  Iamque nec obscurus populo miscebor inerti,

  Vitabuntque oculos vestigia nostra profanos.

  105 Este procul vigiles curae, procul este querelae,

  Invidiaeque acies transverso tortilis hirquo;

  Saeva nec anguiferos extende Calumnia rictus;

  In me triste nihil foedissima turba potestis,

  Nec vestri sum iuris ego; securaque tutus

  110 Pectora, vipereo gradiar sublimis ab ictu.

  At tibi, care pater, postquam non aequa merenti

  Posse referre datur, nec dona rependere factis,

  Sit memorasse satis, repetitaque munera grato

  Percensere animo, fidaeque reponere menti.

  115Et vos, O nostri, iuvenilia carmina, lusus,

  Si modo perpetuos sperare audebitis annos,

  Et domini superesse rogo, lucemque tueri,

  Nec spisso rapient oblivia nigra sub Oreo,

  Forsitan has laudes, decantatumque parentis

  120 Nomen, ad exemplum, sero servabitis aevo.

  To his Father

  Now I wish that the Pierian fountains1 would divert their refreshing channels through my breast, and that the whole stream pouring from the twin peaks3 would flow from my lips, so that my Muse, forgetting trivial songs, might rise on bold wings to do her duty and honour my father. The poem that she is meditating is a feeble composition, best of fathers, and perhaps not pleasing to you, but I do not know what gifts of mine could more appropriately repay your gifts to me, though my greatest gifts could never repay yours – for your gifts can never be matched by the barren gratitude of empty words. Nevertheless, this page shows all my possessions, and I have counted out on this paper all the wealth that I own, for I own nothing but what golden Clio14 has given me – the fruit of dreams in a distant cavern, fruit of laurel groves in a sacred wood, the shades of Parnassus.

  Do not despise divine song, the poet’s work. Nothing provides clearer evidence of our divine source, our heavenly seed; nothing better graces by its origin the human mind, for poetry retains some holy sparks of the Promethean fire.20 The high gods love poetry, and poetry has power to shake the trembling depths of Tartarus and bind the gods below; it chains the unyielding ghosts with triple adamant. With poetry Apollo’s priestesses and the trembling, pallid Sibyls reveal secrets of the future.25 The sacrificial priest composes verses at ceremonial altars, both when he smites the bull that tosses its horns and when he consults secret destiny in the smoking flesh and, sagacious of the future, discerns fate in the warm entrails. We too, when we return to our native Olympus, and the never-ending ages stand fixed in changeless eternity, shall walk through the temples of heaven wearing crowns of gold, blending our sweet songs with the soft harp, so that the stars and the twin poles of heaven’s vault will echo.33 Even now, the fiery spirit35 who circles the swift spheres is itself singing, in harmony with the starry choirs, an immortal melody, an inexpressible song.37 Meanwhile the shining Serpent38

  restrains his hot hissing, and fierce Orion, grown mild, lowers his sword, and Mauretanian Atlas no longer feels the weight of the stars.

  Songs were the customary adornments of royal feasts in the days when luxury and the bottomless gulf of insatiable gluttony were not yet known, and wine sparkled at the table only in moderation. The custom then was that the poet would sit at the festal banquet, his unshorn hair garlanded with oak leaves, and he would sing of the deeds of heroes, of their exemplary exploits, of Chaos and the broad foundations of the world. He would sing of crawling gods and deities nourished by acorns,48 of the thunderbolt not yet brought from the chasm of Etna.49 In short, what use is the inane modulation of the voice without words, meaning, and rhythm of speech? That kind of song suits the woodland choristers, but not Orpheus, who held back rivers and gave ears to the oak trees by his song, not his lyre, and by his singing drew tears from lifeless ghosts.55 That fame he owes to song.

  Desist then, I implore you, from despising the sacred Muses; don’t think them worthless or unprofitable. It is by their gift that you yourself have the skill to match a thousand notes to fit rhythms, and the expertise to vary the singer’s voice through a thousand modulations – may you deservedly inherit Arion’s fame.60 Now, since it has been my lot to be born a poet, why should you think it so strange that we, who are so closely joined by blood, should pursue sister arts and kindred interests? Phoebus64 himself, wishing to divide himself between us two, gave some gifts to me and others to my father; and, father and son, we share the divided god. But though you pretend to hate the delicate Muses, I do not believe that you really hate them. For, father, you did not bid me go where the broad way stretches open, where it is easier to reap a harvest of lucre, and where the golden hope of piling up money shines bright and sure. You do not drive me into the law, and our country’s ill-guarded statutes; you do not condemn my ears to that ridiculous clamour. But, wishing rather to enrich the mind that you have cultivated, you have led me far away from the din of the city, into deep seclusion and delightful leisure by the Aonian75 stream, and you allow me to walk by Apollo’s side as his blessed companion.

  I say nothing of a dear father’s usual kindness, for I must speak of greater things. When, at your expense, dear father, I had acquired fluency in the tongue of Romulus, the beauties of Latin, and the lofty speech of the sublime Greeks, fit for Jo
ve’s own lips, you persuaded me to add the flowers that are the boast of France, the language that the modern Italian pours from his decadent lips (his utterance testifying to the barbarian invasions), and those sacred mysteries uttered by the Hebrew prophets. In short, all that heaven contains, and mother earth below the sky, and the air that flows between earth and sky, and whatever the water conceals, and the bright, tossing surface of the sea – all this, thanks to you, I am able to know, if I choose to learn about it. Knowledge comes into view from behind a parting cloud. Naked, she visibly bends her face to my kisses – if I choose not to run away, if I do not find her irksome.

  Go now and pile up riches, whoever has an insane preference for the ancient treasures of Austria or the realms of Peru.94 What greater gift could a father have given – or Jove himself – though he had given all things except heaven? He gave no greater gifts (even had they proved safe) who gave to his young son98 the universal light, the chariot of Hyperion,99 the reins of day, and the tiara that radiates waves of light. Therefore, I who now have a place, albeit a low one, among the ranks of the learned, shall one day sit among those who are crowned with the victor’s ivy and laurel.102 I shall not mingle unknown with the uncultivated throng, and my steps will shun the sight of profane eyes. Begone, wakeful cares; begone, complaints, and the goatish, sidelong glance of squint-eyed Envy. Spiteful Calumny, do not gape with serpent jaws. You cannot harm me, detestable band; I am not under your power. I shall walk high above your viper’s sting, with a safe, untroubled breast.

  But for you, dear father, since I cannot repay you as you deserve, or do anything to repay your gifts, let it suffice that I have recorded them, and that I count over your repeated favours with a grateful mind, and cherish them in a loyal heart.114

  And you, my youthful poems and amusements, if only you dare hope to live for ever, to survive your master’s pyre and see the light, and if dark oblivion does not carry you down to crowded Orcus,118 then perhaps these praises, and the name of the father celebrated in them, will be preserved as an example for future ages.

  Psalm CXIV

  ’Iσpαλ τε Παîδες, τ’ άλαά Φûλ’ ‘Iαkώβou

  AìλùΠτιov λíΠε, δµov, άΠεΧθέα, βαρóΦwvov,

  Δ τóτε μoûvov ηv ûιov λέvoς uìες ‘Ioûδα.

  ’Ev δέ θεòς λαoîûi ûέλα kρεíwv βαûíεuεv.

  5 Eδε kαì έvτρoΠάδηv íΦúλα’ έώΦηoε θάλασσα,

  KùµαííΠ εìλuµέvη oθí ò δ’ ρ’ έoτuΦελíХθη

  ‘I ρòς’ Ioρδάvης Πoτì άρλuεiδέα Πηλv.

  ’Ek δ’ ρεα ûkρθµoîûιv άΠειρέσισ kλovέovτo,

  ‘Ως kριoì σΦρiλówvτες έüτραΦερ έv άλwς.

  10 Bαιóτεραι δ’ µα Πσσι άvûûlíρτûαv έρíΠvαι,

  Oα Παραì ûúρiγγi Φíλ ùΠρ µµητέρi eς.

  TíΠτe ûú λ’ αív θλαûûα Πέλwρ Φuγάδ’ έώηûας;

  KúµαΠ εíλuµέvη oθí τí δ’ ρ’ έτuΦελХθης

  ‘Iρòς ’Ioρδvη Πoù άργuρoεiδέα Πηγv;

  15 TíΠτ’ ρεα okαρθµoïûiv άΠεiρέûiû kλovέεûθε

  Bαióτερi τí δ’ ρ’ µµες άvαûkiρτûατ’ έρíΠvαi,

  Oα Παραì ûúρiγγi Φíλ úΠò µητέρi ρveς;

  Σεíεo Ωαîα τρέouûα θεÒv µεΩά’ έkτuΠέovτα

  20 Γ αîα θεòv τρεíouû’ Παûτov uέβας ‘Iûuαkíδαo

  ‘’ς τε kαì έk ûΠiλάδwv Πùς Хέε µoρµúρovτας,

  Kρvηv ι’ γέvαov Πέιρης έΠò δαkρuoέûûης.

  Psalm 114

  When the children of Israel, when the glorious tribes of Jacob left the land of Egypt, a hateful land of barbarous speech, then indeed were the sons of Judah the one devout race, and among these peoples Almighty God was king. The sea saw this, and fled in reverence, coiled in roaring waves. Sacred Jordan was thrust back to its silver source. The immense mountains leapt and tumbled like lusty rams in a rich meadow. At the same time all the smaller crags skipped like lambs about their dear mother at the sound of the pipe. Why, monstrous and terrible sea, did you rush in flight, coiled in roaring waves? Why, sacred Jordan, were you thrust back to your silver source? Why, immense mountains, did you leap and tumble like lusty rams in a rich meadow? Why, smaller crags, did you skip like lambs about their dear mother at the sound of the pipe? Shake, earth, in fear of God who thunders mightily; earth, fear God, the highest majesty of Isaac’s seed, who pours forth roaring torrents from the crags, and an everlasting spring from the weeping rock.

  Philosophus ad Regenm

  Philosophus ad regem quendam qui eum ignotum et insontem inter reos forte captum inscius damnaverat, τvv έΠì θαvάτ ΠopεuÒµεvoς, ηαελ ûuβιτ µιo µιτ.

  Ω ἂvα εí ὀλέσῃς µε τòv ἔvvoµov, oὐδέ τιv’ ἀvδρŵv

  Δειvòv ὃλwς δράσαvτα, σoΦώτατov ἲσθι kάρηov

  Pηïδíwς άΦέλoιo, τò δ’ὕστερov αὐθι voήσεις,

  Mαψιδíwς δ ἀρ’ ἔΠιτα τεòv Πρòς θuµòv óδuρῃ

  5 Toιóvδ’ ἐκ Πòλεως Περιώvuµov ᾄλκαρ óλέσσας.

  A Philosopher to a King

  These impromptu verses were sent to a king by a philosopher who was being taken to his death because the king had unwittingly condemned him – unrecognized and innocent – when he happened to be arrested along with some criminals.

  If, O King, you destroy me, a law-abiding man who has done no harm to anybody, know that you may easily destroy a very wise head, but later you will see what you have done, and you will lament in vain to your heart4 that you have destroyed so famous a guardian of the city.

  Ad Salsillum poetam Romanum aegrotantem. Scazontes.

  O Musa gressum quae volens trahis claudum,

  Vulcanioque tarda gaudes incessu,

  Nec sentis illud in loco minus gratum

  Quam cum decentes flava Deiope suras

  5 Alternat aureum ante Iunonis lectum,

  Adesdum et haec s’is verba pauca Salsillo

  Refer, Camena nostra cui tantum est cordi,

  Quamque ille magnis praetulit immerito divis.

  Haec ergo alumnus ille Londini Milto,

  10 Diebus hisce qui suum linquens nidum

  Polique tractum (pessimus ubi ventorum,

  Insanientis impotensque pulmonis

  Pernix anhela sub love exercet flabra)

  Venit feraces Itali soli ad glebas,

  15 Visum superba cognitas urbes fama

  Virosque doctaeque indolem iuventutis,

  Tibi optat idem hie fausta multa Salsille,

  Habitumque fesso corpori penitus sanum;

  Cui nunc profunda bilis infestat renes,

  20 Praecordiisque fixa damnosum spirat.

  Nec id pepercit impia quod tu Romano

  Tam cultus ore Lesbium condis melos.

  O dulce divum munus, O Salus Hebes

  Germana! Tuque Phoebe morborum terror

  25 Pythone caeso, sive tu magis Paean

  Libenter audis, hic tuus sacerdos est.

  Querceta Fauni, vosque rore vinoso

  Colles benigni, mitis Evandri sedes,

  Siquid salubre vallibus frondet vestris,

  30 Levamen aegro ferte certatim vati.

  Sic ille caris redditus rursum Musis

  Vicina dulci prata mulcebit cantu.

  Ipse inter atros emirabitur lucos

  Numa, ubi beatum degit otium aeternum,

  35 Suam reclivis semper Aegeriam spectans.

  Tumidusque et ipse Tibris hinc delinitus

  Spei favebit annuae colonorum;

  Nec in sepulcris ibit obsessum reges

  Nimium sinistro laxus irruens loro;

  40 Sed frena melius temperabit undarum,

  Adusque curv
i salsa regna Portumni.

  To Salzilli, the Roman poet, when he mas ill. Scazons.

  O Muse, who willingly drags a lame1 foot, and enjoys Vulcan’s halting gait,2 and finds it no less pleasing, in its place, than the graceful ankles of fair-haired Deiopea4 when she dances before Juno’s golden couch, come now, if you please, and carry these few words to Salzilli, who is so fond of my poetry that he ranks it undeservedly above that of the great, divine poets. These lines therefore come to you, Salzilli, from Milton, a nursling of London who has lately left his nest and his own quarter of the sky (where the worst of winds, with wildly raging lungs, swiftly drives the furious gusts under the heavens), and has come to Italy’s fruitful soil to see her cities, renowned by proud fame, her men, and the learning and genius of her youth. That same Milton wishes you many blessings, Salzilli, and sound health for your exhausted body, whose kidneys suffer from an excess of bile, which spreads disease from its fixed seat in your entrails. This cursed disease has shown you no mercy, though you are a cultured poet and have framed Roman lips to the poetry of Lesbos.22

  O sweet gift of the gods, Health, sister of Hebe!23 And you, Phoebus (or Paean,25 if you prefer to be called by that name), the terror of all diseases since you slew the Python–this man Salzilli is your own priest. Oak groves of Faunus,27 and you hills rich with the dewy grape, mild Evander’s home,28 if any healing plant grows in your valleys, eagerly bring it to cure the sick poet. Then, restored to his dear Muses, he will delight the surrounding meadows with his sweet song. Numa34 himself will marvel, lying in the dark groves where he spends eternity in blessed leisure, gazing forever upon his Egeria. The swollen Tiber himself, charmed by the song, will favour the farmers’ annual hopes; he will not, with his left rein loose, rush on to invest kings in their tombs,39 but will better bridle his waves, as far as the briny realms of curving Portumnus.41

  Mansus

  Ioannes Baptista Mansus Marchio Villensis vir ingenii laude, turn literarum studio, nee non et bellica virtute apud Italos clarus in primis est. Ad quern Torquati Tassi dialogus extat de Amicitia scriptus; erat enim Tassi amicissimus; ab quo etiam inter Campaniae principes celebratur, in illo poemate cui titulus Gerusalemme Conquistata, lib. 20.