This translation of the poem is by Dr. Henry More, and found in The Platonist, vol. 2, no. 9, p. 129.
I tune my strings to sing some sacred verse
Of my dear friend: in an immortal strein
His might praise I loudly will reherse
With honey-dewer words: some golden vein
The stricken chorns right weetly shall resound.
Come, blessed Muses, let's with one join noise,
With strong impulse, and hull harmonious sound,
Speak out his excellent worth. Advance your noice,
As once you did for great Æacides,
Wrapt with an heavenly rage, in decent dance,
Mov'd at the measures of Meonides.
Go to, you holy quire, let's all at once
Begin, and to the end hold up the song,
Into one heavenly harmony conspire;
I Phœbos with my lovely locks among
The midst of you shall sit, and life inspire.
Divine Plotinos! yet now more divine
Than when thy noble soul so stoutly strove
In that dark prison, where strong chains confine
Keep down the active mind it cannot move
To what it loveth most. Those fleshly bands
Thou now hast loos'd, broke from necessitie.
From bodies storms, and frothie works sands
Of this low restless life now setten free,
Thy feet do safely stand upon a shore,
Which foaming waves beat not in swelling rage,
Nor angry seas do threat with fell uprore;
Well hast thou swommen out, and left that stage
Of wicked actours, that tumultous rout
Of ignorant men. Now thy pure steps thous stay'st
In that high path, where God's light shines about,
And perfect Right its beauteous beams displayes.
How oft, when bitter wave of troubled flesh,
And whirlpool-turnings of the lower spright,
Thou stoutly s'rov'st with, heaven did thee refresh,
Held out a mark to guide thy wandring flight,
While thou in tumbling seas didst strongly toil
To reach the steadie Land, struckst with thy arms
The deafing surges, that with rage do boil:
Stear'd by that sign thou shunn'st those common harms.
How oft, when rasher cast of thy soul's eye
Had thee misguided into crooked wayes,
Wast thou directed by the Deitie?
They held out to thee their bright lamping rayes,
Dispers'd the mistie darkness, safely set
Thy feeble feet in the right path again.
Nor easie sleep so closely ere beset
Thy eyelids, nor did dimness ere so stain
Thy radiant sight, but thou such things didst see
Even in that tumult, that few can arrive
Of all named from Philosophie
To that high pitch, or to such secrets dive.
But sith this body thy pure soul divine
Hath left, quite risen from her rotten grave,
Thou now among those heavenly wights dost shine,
Whose abode this glorious lustre doth embrave:
There lovely friendship, mild-smiling Cupid's there,
With lively looks and amorous suavitie,
Full of pure pleasure, and fresh flowring cheer:
Ambrosian streams, sprang from the Deitie
Do frankly flow, and soft love-kindling winds
Do strike with a delicious sympathie
Those thender spirits, and fill up their minds
With satisfying joy. The puritie
Of holy fire their heart doth then invade,
And sweet perswasion, meek tranquillitie,
The gentle-breathing aire, the heavens nought sad
Do maken up this great felicitie.
Here Rhadamanthos, and just Æakos,
Here Minos abides, with those that liv'd of yore
I' th' golden age; here Plato vigorous
In holy virtue, and fair Pythagore.
These been the goodly offspring of Great Jove,
And liven here, and whoso fill'd the quire
And sweet assembly of immortal love
Purging their spirits with refining fire;
These with the happie angels live in blisse,
Full fraught with joy, and lasting pure delight,
In friendly feasts, and life-outfetching kisse.
But, ah! dear Plotin, what smart did thy spright
Endure, before thou reach'st this high degree
Of happiness? What agonies, what pains
Thou underwenst'st to set thy soul so free
From baser life? It now in heaven remains
'Mongst the pure Angels. O thrice happy wight!
That now art got into the Land of Life,
Fast plac'd in view of that Eternal Light,
And sitt'st secure from the foul bodie's strife.
But now, you comely virgins, make an end,
Break off this music, and deft seemly round,
Leave off your dance: For Plotin my dear friend
Thus much I meant my golden harp should sound.
no subject
This translation of the poem is by Dr. Henry More, and found in The Platonist, vol. 2, no. 9, p. 129.
I tune my strings to sing some sacred verse
Of my dear friend: in an immortal strein
His might praise I loudly will reherse
With honey-dewer words: some golden vein
The stricken chorns right weetly shall resound.
Come, blessed Muses, let's with one join noise,
With strong impulse, and hull harmonious sound,
Speak out his excellent worth. Advance your noice,
As once you did for great Æacides,
Wrapt with an heavenly rage, in decent dance,
Mov'd at the measures of Meonides.
Go to, you holy quire, let's all at once
Begin, and to the end hold up the song,
Into one heavenly harmony conspire;
I Phœbos with my lovely locks among
The midst of you shall sit, and life inspire.
Divine Plotinos! yet now more divine
Than when thy noble soul so stoutly strove
In that dark prison, where strong chains confine
Keep down the active mind it cannot move
To what it loveth most. Those fleshly bands
Thou now hast loos'd, broke from necessitie.
From bodies storms, and frothie works sands
Of this low restless life now setten free,
Thy feet do safely stand upon a shore,
Which foaming waves beat not in swelling rage,
Nor angry seas do threat with fell uprore;
Well hast thou swommen out, and left that stage
Of wicked actours, that tumultous rout
Of ignorant men. Now thy pure steps thous stay'st
In that high path, where God's light shines about,
And perfect Right its beauteous beams displayes.
How oft, when bitter wave of troubled flesh,
And whirlpool-turnings of the lower spright,
Thou stoutly s'rov'st with, heaven did thee refresh,
Held out a mark to guide thy wandring flight,
While thou in tumbling seas didst strongly toil
To reach the steadie Land, struckst with thy arms
The deafing surges, that with rage do boil:
Stear'd by that sign thou shunn'st those common harms.
How oft, when rasher cast of thy soul's eye
Had thee misguided into crooked wayes,
Wast thou directed by the Deitie?
They held out to thee their bright lamping rayes,
Dispers'd the mistie darkness, safely set
Thy feeble feet in the right path again.
Nor easie sleep so closely ere beset
Thy eyelids, nor did dimness ere so stain
Thy radiant sight, but thou such things didst see
Even in that tumult, that few can arrive
Of all named from Philosophie
To that high pitch, or to such secrets dive.
But sith this body thy pure soul divine
Hath left, quite risen from her rotten grave,
Thou now among those heavenly wights dost shine,
Whose abode this glorious lustre doth embrave:
There lovely friendship, mild-smiling Cupid's there,
With lively looks and amorous suavitie,
Full of pure pleasure, and fresh flowring cheer:
Ambrosian streams, sprang from the Deitie
Do frankly flow, and soft love-kindling winds
Do strike with a delicious sympathie
Those thender spirits, and fill up their minds
With satisfying joy. The puritie
Of holy fire their heart doth then invade,
And sweet perswasion, meek tranquillitie,
The gentle-breathing aire, the heavens nought sad
Do maken up this great felicitie.
Here Rhadamanthos, and just Æakos,
Here Minos abides, with those that liv'd of yore
I' th' golden age; here Plato vigorous
In holy virtue, and fair Pythagore.
These been the goodly offspring of Great Jove,
And liven here, and whoso fill'd the quire
And sweet assembly of immortal love
Purging their spirits with refining fire;
These with the happie angels live in blisse,
Full fraught with joy, and lasting pure delight,
In friendly feasts, and life-outfetching kisse.
But, ah! dear Plotin, what smart did thy spright
Endure, before thou reach'st this high degree
Of happiness? What agonies, what pains
Thou underwenst'st to set thy soul so free
From baser life? It now in heaven remains
'Mongst the pure Angels. O thrice happy wight!
That now art got into the Land of Life,
Fast plac'd in view of that Eternal Light,
And sitt'st secure from the foul bodie's strife.
But now, you comely virgins, make an end,
Break off this music, and deft seemly round,
Leave off your dance: For Plotin my dear friend
Thus much I meant my golden harp should sound.