Pray madam give my duty to my unkle and my good Ant, and my love to my Ingenious Cousin and humble service to good Mrs. Dwight.
Some of these letters are indorsed with the dates in Henry Gascoigne's hand "Dick Stelle."
Always. Dick from the beginning!
Pervigilium Veneris.
(Paraphrased.)
This poem, commonly printed amongst the verses "attributed to Gallus," was asserted by Erasmus to have beenn written by Catullus, and by Saumasius to be the work of some unknown poet of the middle ages. The supposition, however, which attributes the authorship of the poem to Annæus Florus, has been sanctioned by Wernsdorf: and certainly, whatever be the period which produced the Pervigilium Veneris, it would seem to have been a period of literary decadence, such as the age of Hadrian. That which has tempted to a paraphrase of this little poem is the essentially modern character of it. Its defects have the sort of charm which belongs to features the most faulty, if those features strengthen the family likeness in the countenance of a kinsman.
Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
Ye that never have loved before!
And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
Ye that have loved, love once more!
New is now the song I sing,
As the freshness of the morn
In the sweetness of the Spring,
When the old world is new-born.
In the Spring the loves assemble,
And the birds in budded bowers;
In the Spring the young leaves tremble
To wet kissings of sun showers.
'Tis the Spring time, and to-morrow,
All among the leafy groves,
Shall divine Dione borrow,
To make cradles for her Loves,
Myrtle branches glad and green.
And, to-morrow, lord and king
Love shall be, from morn to e'en,
Of the kingdoms of the Spring,
And Love's Mother, lady and queen,
These shall rule the world, I ween.
Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
Ye that never have loved before!
And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
Ye that have loved, love once more!
Form'd from out the white sea foam
And pure ichor all divine,
'Mid those azure flocks that roam
Pastured on the breezy brine,
When the Spring was on the earth,
And the Spring's warmth in the water,
Did old Ocean's joy give birth
To his wave-born wanton daughter,
Therefore to Dione dear
Is the birth-time of the year.
Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
Ye that never have loved before!
And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
Ye that have loved, love once more!
She it is, with gemmy blossoms,
That doth paint the purple year.
She, from whose abundant bosoms
(While the amorous atmosphere
Hums for joy) fresh-bubbled showers
Brim the milk-pails warm and white.
She, at morning, decks the flowers
With the lucid tears of night:
Dewy drops, whose downward brightness,
Pausing, trembling, seems to fall,
Yet, sustained by its own lightness,
Cannot leave those petals small!
Silver drops, from stars distill'd
By the balmy night serene:
Silent, sliding touches, skill'd
To unloose that clinging green
Woven the warm buds around
With such quaint concealing care;
Which their sweet breasts, yet unbound,
Do, for virgin vesture, wear;
Till the maiden flowers, at morn,
Blushing meet the enamoured sun
For whose kisses they were born;
Trembling, glowing, one by one
(Timorous and naked brides!)
Each from out her secret bower,
Where no more chill April hides
What to find the wistful shower,
Sighing low, the leaves divide,
Flower peeps forth after flower.
O that blush of maiden woo'd,
When her virgin love is won!
What is like it? Cypris' blood
And the kiss of Cypris' Son,
And the morning's purple wings,
And the ruby's burning heart,
These, and all delicious things,
Of its beauty are but part!
Yesterday, O trembling maid,
Buried those ripe blushes lay
Under virgin snows, afraid
Of the tale they tell to-day:
Yesterday, that little breast,
Happy bride, hid joy, like sorrow,
Fearful, in its flutter'd vest.
Love shall loose the strings to-morrow.
Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
Ye that never have loved before!
And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
Ye that have loved, love once more!
She, their gentle Deity,
Calls the nymphs in myrtle grove.
But their leader? Who is he,
If he be not armèd Love?
No. To-day is holiday.
Lore hath laid his arms aside.
Naked will he sport and play,
All the amorous Spring-tide,
Lest his bow and arrows trim,
Or his torch, should do some ill.
Yet, O nymphs, beware of him!
Naked Love is weapon'd still.
Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
Ye that never have loved before!
And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
Ye that have loved, love once more!
Maidens, chaste and pure as thou,
Virgin Delia, to thee
Venus sends us. Prithee now
To our revels welcome be.
Leave our pleasant grove unstain'd
By the blood of savage beast,
And, by maiden prayers constrain'd,
Deign to grace our jocund feast.
Nights of azure weather three,
Dancing these dim woods of thine,
Thou our merry troops shalt see
Crown'd with roses and myrtle twine.
Ceres will not be away;
Nor the tippling Bacchus, Lady;
Nor the Lord of lyric lay;
All along the leafage shady
(If thou wilt not say us nay)
Thee to charm, the sweet night long,
We will chaunt our roundelay;
And thyself shalt praise our song.
Prithee, Delia, do not stay
From Dione's court to-day.
