When I Had Dedicated Certain Of My Poems

TO MY MOST ESTIMABLE PRECEPTOR AND MOST FRIENDLY FRIEND, R. BROOKE.

'Well done, Muse!' was thy encouraging word, most estimable Praeceptor; 'Well done, Muse!' fluttering its wings, which it received from thy School of late, as from Apollo's workshop, timidly as yet, nor otherwise than beneath thine eyes.

Like as a nestling, feather'd gaily o'er, Is meditating towards the stars to soar, And in ambitious flights already vies With the wing'd chiefs that skim along the skies: What though he never has essay'd the air, And needs must trust in plumes untried to bear Unwonted burden heavenward? yet he quivers To stretch his wings, and his fair plumage shivers Round his light shoulders till he flits away, While whispering airs against his pinions play; Nor dreams he will suspend his wandering flight Anywhere short of regions starry bright. But when exhausted by the spaces high And the immeasurable void of sky, Hovering in empty air, far off he sees The fields and hedges and familiar trees-- O, how far off!--which used his sight to please; Then sudden overpower'd behold him sink, And from his hopes and lofty soarings shrink: To his dear mother his whole soul looks back, And down he flutters on the homeward track.

That I offer thee these poems, most honourable Sir, is not the ambitious desire to give, but the righteous wish to restore what is due. And I have not chosen thee so much the patron of my little book, as I recognise thee to be its owner. Thine indeed these things are, and mine: nor yet are they so much mine, but that if there is anything good in them, this is wholly thine; nor at the same time are they so far thine, that everything bad in them is not entirely mine. Thus, by a sort of common and joint right, they belong to each of us; lest either I should bring envy to myself, while I presumed to a share of thy praises, or injury to thee, by endeavouring to drag thee down to association with my feebleness. For concerning anything belonging to me, I should not venture even to myself to admit any merit, much less to proclaim it openly, except this one thing, than which there is nothing more excellent--namely, a mind not ungrateful, and cherishing in itself with most punctilious fidelity the record of thy kindnesses.

This in the presence of any witnesses, this openly in the face of heaven and to my own conscience, I boast of as my own. I proclaim myself in this particular incapable of enduring a rival; for others of thy admirers [pupils] may venerate thee, and do venerate thee, with more polite attention, but none will be able to do so with observance more sincere and felt. In conclusion; of these rivulets, however slender they may be and of no name, this at least will be the fitting praise--that at all events they know their own Ocean. R. WI.

IN OBITUM REV. V. D^{ris} MANSELL,

COLL. REGIN. M^{ri} QUI VEN. D^{s} BROOKE [M^{ri} COLL. TRIN.], INTERITUM PROXIME SECUTUS EST.

Ergo iterum in lacrymas et saevi murmura planctus Ire jubet tragica mors iterata manu; Scilicet illa novas quae jam fert dextra sagittas, Dextra priore recens sanguine stillat adhuc. Vos o, quos socia Lachesis prope miscuit urna, Et vicina colus vix sinit esse duos; Ite o, quos nostri jungunt consortia damni; Per nostras lacrymas o nimis ite pares; Ite per Elysias felici tramite valles, Et sociis animos conciliate viis. Illic ingentes ultro confundite manes, Noscat et aeternam mutua dextra fidem. Communes eadem spargantur in otia curae, Atque idem felix poscat utrumque labor. Nectarae simul ite vagis sermonibus horae; Nox trahat alternas continuata vices. Una cibos ferat, una suas vocet arbor in umbras; Ambobus faciles herba det una toros. Certum erit interea quanto sit major habenda Quam quae per vitam est, mortis amicitia.

TRANSLATION.

ON THE DEATH OF REV. DR. MANSELL,

MASTER OF QUEEN'S COLLEGE, WHICH FOLLOWED VERY CLOSELY THE DECEASE OF REV. DR. BROOKE.

In tears once more and sighs of cruel woe Death's tragic stroke repeated bids us go; That fatal hand, which now bears arrows new, Still freshly drips with former crimson dew. Ye whom Fate almost mingl'd in one urn, Whom to be two, close threads forbid discern; Go ye, who equally our sorrows share, By reason of our tears too much a pair; Go where Elysian vales your steps invite, In social paths your happy souls unite; There mix your mighty shades with willing mind, Eternal faith your blended right-hands find. Let common cares be lost in the same joys, While the same happy labour both employs; Through nectar'd hours in talk together range, And night continue the sweet interchange: One tree bear fruit for both, one tree yield shade, On the same turf your pleasant couch be made; Thus how much better will be plainly seen Friendship of Death than that of life, I ween. R. WI.

HONORATISSIMO DR. ROBERTO HEATH,