VI. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON (part 2 of 2)

VI. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON (part 2 of 2)

A FABLE.

A peasant to his lord paid yearly court, Presenting pippins of so rich a sort, That he, displeased to have a part alone, Removed the tree, that all might be his own. The tree, too old to travel, though before So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more. The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void, Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd, And, "Oh," he cried, "that I had lived content With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant! My avarice has expensive proved to me, Has cost me both my pippins and my tree."

TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN, WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE.

Christina, maiden of heroic mien! Star of the North! of northern stars the queen! Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how The iron casque still chafes my veteran brow, While following Fate's dark footsteps, I fulfil The dictates of a hardy people's will. But soften'd in thy sight my looks appear, Not to all queens or kings alike severe.

ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR, A PHYSICIAN.

Learn, ye nations of the earth, The condition of your birth, Now be taught your feeble state! Know, that all must yield to fate!

If the mournful rover, Death, Say but once--"Resign your breath!" Vainly of escape you dream, You must pass the Stygian stream.

Could the stoutest overcome Death's assault, and baffle doom, Hercules had both withstood, Undiseased by Nessus' blood.

Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain By a trick of Pallas slain, Nor the chief to Jove allied By Achilles' phantom died.

Could enchantments life prolong, Circe, saved by magic song, Still had lived, and equal skill Had preserved Medea still.

Dwelt in herbs and drugs a power To avert man's destined hour, Learn'd Machaon should have known Doubtless to avert his own:

Chiron had survived the smart Of the hydra-tainted dart, And Jove's bolt had been, with ease, Foil'd by Asclepiades.

Thou too, sage! of whom forlorn Helicon and Cirrha mourn, Still hadst fill'd thy princely place, Regent of the gowned race:

Hadst advanced to higher fame Still thy much ennobled name, Nor in Charon's skiff explored The Tartarean gulf abhorr'd.

But resentful Proserpine, Jealous of thy skill divine, Snapping short thy vital thread, Thee too number'd with the dead.

Wise and good! untroubled be The green turf that covers thee! Thence, in gay profusion, grow All the sweetest flowers that blow!

Pluto's consort bid thee rest! Æacus pronounce thee blest! To her home thy shade consign! Make Elysium ever thine!

ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY.

My lids with grief were tumid yet, And still my sullied cheek was wet With briny dews profusely shed For venerable Winton dead: When fame, whose tales of saddest sound, Alas! are ever truest found, The news through all our cities spread Of yet another mitred head By ruthless fate to death consign'd, Ely, the honour of his kind! At once a storm of passion heaved My boiling bosom, much I grieved; But more I raged, at every breath Devoting Death himself to death. With less revenge did Naso teem When hated Ibis was his theme; With less Archilochus denied The lovely Greek his promised bride. But lo! while thus I execrate, Incensed, the minister of fate, Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear, Wafted on the gale I hear. "Ah, much deluded! lay aside Thy threats and anger misapplied! Art not afraid with sounds like these To offend, where thou canst not appease? Death is not (wherefore dreamst thou thus?) The son of Night and Erebus: Nor was of fell Erynnis born On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn; But, sent from God, his presence leaves, To gather home his ripen'd sheaves, To call encumber'd souls away From fleshly bonds to boundless day, (As when the winged hours excite, And summon forth the morning light,) And each to convoy to her place Before the Eternal Father's face. But not the wicked--them, severe Yet just, from all their pleasures here He hurries to the realms below, Terrific realms of penal woe! Myself no sooner heard his call, Than, 'scaping through my prison wall, I bade adieu to bolts and bars, And soar'd, with angels, to the stars, Like him of old, to whom 'twas given To mount on fiery wheels to heaven. Boötes' waggon, slow with cold, Appall'd me not; nor to behold The sword that vast Orion draws, Or e'en the Scorpion's horrid claws. Beyond the sun's bright orb I fly, And far beneath my feet descry Night's dread goddess, seen with awe, Whom her winged dragons draw. Thus, ever wondering at my speed, Augmented still as I proceed, I pass the planetary sphere, The milky way--and now appear Heaven's crystal battlements, her door Of massy pearl, and emerald floor. "But here I cease. For never can The tongue of once a mortal man In suitable description trace The pleasures of that happy place; Suffice it, that those joys divine Are all, and all for ever, mine!"

NATURE UNIMPAIRED BY TIME.

Ah, how the human mind wearies herself With her own wanderings, and, involved in gloom Impenetrable, speculates amiss! Measuring in her folly things divine By human; laws inscribed on adamant By laws of man's device; and counsels fix'd For ever, by the hours that pass and die. How?--shall the face of nature then be plough'd Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last On the great parent fix a sterile curse? Shall even she confess old age, and halt, And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows? Shall foul antiquity with rust, and drought, And famine, vex the radiant worlds above? Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulf The very heavens, that regulate his flight? And was the sire of all able to fence His works, and to uphold the circling worlds, But, through improvident and heedless haste Let slip the occasion?--so then--all is lost-- And in some future evil hour, yon arch Shall crumble, and come thundering down, the poles Jar in collision, the Olympian king, Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forth The terrors of the Gorgon shield in vain, Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'd Down into Lemnos, through the gate of heaven. Thou also, with precipitated wheels, Phoebus! thy own son's fall shalt imitate, With hideous ruin shalt impress the deep Suddenly, and the flood shall reek, and hiss, At the extinction of the lamp of day. Then too shall Hæmus, cloven to his base, Be shatter'd, and the huge Ceraunian hills, Once weapons of Tartarean Dis, immersed In Erebus, shall fill himself with fear. No. The Almighty Father surer laid His deep foundations, and providing well For the event of all, the scales of fate Suspended in just equipoise, and bade His universal works, from age to age, One tenor hold, perpetual, undisturb'd. Hence the prime mover wheels itself about Continual, day by day, and with it bears, In social measure swift, the heavens around. Not tardier now is Saturn than of old, Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars. Phoebus, his vigour unimpair'd, still shows The effulgence of his youth, nor needs the god A downward course, that he may warm the vales; But, ever rich in influence, runs his road, Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone. Beautiful, as at first, ascends the star From odoriferous Ind, whose office is To gather home betimes the ethereal flock, To pour them o'er the skies again at eve, And to discriminate the night and day. Still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes and wanes Alternate, and with arms extended still She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams. Nor have the elements deserted yet Their functions; thunder with as loud a stroke As erst smites through the rocks and scatters them. The east still howls; still the relentless north Invades the shuddering Scythian, still he breathes The winter, and still rolls the storms along. The king of ocean, with his wonted force, Beats on Pelorus; o'er the deep is heard The hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell; Nor swim the monsters of the Ægean sea In shallows, or beneath diminished waves. Thou too, thy ancient vegetative power Enjoy'st, O Earth! Narcissus still is sweet; And Phoebus! still thy favourite, and still Thy favourite Cytherea! both retain Their beauty; nor the mountains, ore-enrich'd For punishment of man, with purer gold Teem'd ever, or with brighter gems the deep. Thus in unbroken series all proceeds; And shall, till wide involving either pole, And the immensity of yonder heaven, The final flames of destiny absorb The world, consumed in one enormous pyre!

ON THE PLATONIC IDEA AS IT WAS UNDERSTOOD BY ARISTOTLE.

Ye sister powers, who o'er the sacred groves Preside, and thou, fair mother of them all, Mnemosyne! and thou who, in thy grot Immense, reclined at leisure, hast in charge The archives and the ordinances of Jove, And dost record the festivals of heaven, Eternity!--inform us who is He, That great original, by nature chosen To be the archetype of human kind, Unchangeable, immortal, with the poles Themselves coëval, one, yet every where, An image of the God who gave him being? Twin-brother of the goddess born from Jove, He dwells not in his father's mind, but, though Of common nature with ourselves, exists Apart, and occupies a local home-- Whether, companion of the stars, he spend Eternal ages, roaming at his will From sphere to sphere the tenfold heavens, or dwell On the moon's side that nearest neighbours earth, Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sit Among the multitude of souls ordain'd To flesh and blood; or whether (as may chance) That vast and giant model of our kind In some far distant region of this globe Sequester'd stalk with lifted head on high O'ertowering Atlas, on whose shoulders rest The stars, terrific even to the gods. Never the Theban seer, whose blindness proved His best illumination, him beheld In secret vision; never him the son Of Pleione, amid the noiseless night Descending, to the prophet-choir reveal'd; Him never knew the Assyrian priest, who yet The ancestry of Ninus' chronicles, And Belus, and Osiris, far renown'd; Nor even thrice great Hermes, although skill'd So deep in mystery, to the worshippers Of Isis show'd a prodigy like him. And thou, who hast immortalized the shades Of Academus, if the schools received This monster of the fancy first from thee, Either recall at once thy banish'd bards To thy republic, or thyself, evinced A wilder fabulist, go also forth.

TO HIS FATHER.

Oh that Pieria's spring would through my breast Pour its inspiring influence, and rush No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood; That, for my venerable father's sake All meaner themes renounced, my muse, on wings Of duty borne, might reach a loftier strain! For thee, my father! howsoe'er it please, She frames this slender work; nor know I aught That may thy gifts more suitably requite: Though to requite them suitably would ask Returns much nobler, and surpassing far The meagre stores of verbal gratitude: But, such as I possess, I send thee all. This page presents thee in their full amount With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought; Nought, save the riches that from airy dream In secret grottoes and in laurel bowers, I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired. Verse is a work divine; despise not thou Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more) Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still Some scintillations of Promethean fire, Bespeaks him animated from above. The gods love verse; the infernal powers themselves Confess the influence of verse, which stirs The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains Of adamant both Pluto and the shades. In verse the Delphic priestess and the pale Tremulous sybil make the future known; And he who sacrifices, on the shrine Hangs verse, both when he smites the threatening bull And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide To scrutinize the fates enveloped there. We too, ourselves, what time we seek again Our native skies, and one eternal now Shall be the only measure of our being, Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, And make the starry firmament resound. And, even now, the fiery spirit pure That wheels yon circling orbs, directs himself Their mazy dance with melody of verse Unutterable, immortal, hearing which Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress'd; Orion, soften'd, drops his ardent blade, And Atlas stands unconscious of his load. Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet Luxurious dainties, destined to the gulf Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere Lyæus deluged yet the temperate board. Then sat the bard a customary guest To share the banquet, and, his length of locks With beechen honours bound, proposed in verse The characters of heroes and their deeds, To imitation; sang of chaos old, Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in search Of acorns fallen, and of the thunderbolt Not yet produced from Ætna's fiery cave. And what avails, at last, tune without voice, Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhaps The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear, And the oaks follow'd. Not by chords alone Well touch'd, but by resistless accents more, To sympathetic tears the ghosts themselves He moved; these praises to his verse he owes. Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain And useless powers, by whom inspired, thyself Art skilful to associate verse with airs Harmonious, and to give the human voice A thousand modulations, heir by right Indisputable of Arion's fame. Now say, what wonder is it, if a son Of thine delight in verse, if, so conjoin'd In close affinity, we sympathize In social arts and kindred studies sweet? Such distribution of himself to us Was Phoebus' choice; thou hast thy gift, and I Mine also, and between us we receive, Father and son, the whole inspiring God. No! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle muse, My father! for thou never badest me tread The beaten path, and broad, that leads right on To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son To the insipid clamours of the bar, To laws voluminous, and ill observed; But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill My mind with treasure, ledd'st me far away From city din to deep retreats, to banks And streams Aonian, and, with free consent, Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. I speak not now, on more important themes Intent, of common benefits, and such As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts, My father! who, when I had open'd once The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd The full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks, Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove, Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowers That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the smooth Italian his degenerate speech adorns, That witnesses his mixture with the Goth; And Palestine's prophetic songs divine. To sum the whole, whate'er the heaven contains, The earth beneath it, and the air between, The rivers and the restless deep, may all Prove intellectual gain to me, my wish Concurring with thy will; science herself, All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head, And offers me the lip, if, dull of heart, I shrink not, and decline her gracious boon. Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds That covet it; what could my father more? What more could Jove himself, unless he gave His own abode, the heaven, in which he reigns? More eligible gifts than these were not Apollo's to his son, had they been safe As they were insecure, who made the boy The world's vice-luminary, bade him rule The radiant chariot of the day, and bind To his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath. I therefore, although last and least, my place Among the learned in the laurel grove Will hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines, Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throng Profane, nor even to be seen by such. Away then, sleepless care, complaint, away, And envy, with thy "jealous leer malign!" Nor let the monster calumny shoot forth Her venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes! Ye all are impotent against my peace, For I am privileged, and bear my breast Safe, and too high, for your viperean wound. But thou! my father, since to render thanks Equivalent, and to requite by deeds Thy liberality, exceeds my power, Suffice it, that I thus record thy gifts, And bear them treasured in a grateful mind! Ye, too, the favourite pastime of my youth, My voluntary numbers, if ye dare To hope longevity, and to survive Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd In the oblivious Lethæan gulf, Shall to futurity perhaps convey This theme, and by these praises of my sire Improve the fathers of a distant age!

TO SALSILLUS, A ROMAN POET, MUCH INDISPOSED.

The original is written in a measure called Scazon, which signifies limping, and the measure is so denominated, because, though in other respects Iambic, it terminates with a Spondee, and has, consequently, a more tardy movement.

The reader will immediately see that this property of the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English.

My halting muse, that dragg'st by choice along Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song, And likest that pace, expressive of thy cares, Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs, When in the dance she beats with measured tread Heaven's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed; Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine. Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafted o'er From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore, Where Eurus, fiercest of the Æolian band, Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land, Of late to more serene Ausonia came To view her cities of illustrious name, To prove, himself a witness of the truth, How wise her elders, and how learn'd her youth. Much good, Salsillus! and a body free From all disease, that Milton asks for thee, Who now endurest the langour and the pains That bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins; Relentless malady! not moved to spare By thy sweet Roman voice and Lesbian air! Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies, And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies, Pythius, or Pæan, or what name divine Soe'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine! Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that melt With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt! If aught salubrious in your confines grow, Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe, That, render'd to the muse he loves, again He may enchant the meadows with his strain. Numa, reclined in everlasting ease Amid the shade of dark embowering trees, Viewing with eyes of unabated fire His loved Ægeria, shall that strain admire: So soothed, the tumid Tiber shall revere The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year, Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein, And guide them harmless, till they meet the main.

TO GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO,

MARQUIS OF VILLA.

MILTON'S ACCOUNT OF MANSO.

Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian nobleman of the highest estimation among his countrymen, for genius, literature, and military accomplishments. To him Torquato Tasso addressed his Dialogues on Friendship, for he was much the friend of Tasso, who has also celebrated him among the other princes of his country, in his poem entitled, Gerusalemme Conquistata, book xx.

Fra cavalier magnanimi, e cortesi, Risplende il Manso.

During the author's stay at Naples he received at the hands of the Marquis a thousand kind offices and civilities, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, sent him this poem a short time before his departure from that city.

These verses also to thy praise, the Nine, O Manso! happy in that theme, design, For, Gallus and Mæcenas gone, they see None such besides, or whom they love as thee; And if my verse may give the meed of fame, Thine too shall prove an everlasting name. Already such, it shines in Tasso's page (For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age, And, next, the muse consign'd (not unaware How high the charge) Marino to thy care, Who, singing to the nymphs Adonis' praise, Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays. To thee alone the poet would entrust His latest vows, to thee alone his dust; And thou with punctual piety hast paid, In labour'd brass, thy tribute to his shade. Nor this contented thee--but lest the grave Should aught absorb of theirs which thou could'st save, All future ages thou hast deign'd to teach The life, lot, genius, character of each, Eloquent as the Carian sage, who, true To his great theme, the life of Homer drew. I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who come Chill'd by rude blasts that freeze my northern home, Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim, And thine, for Phoebus' sake, a deathless name. Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eye A muse scarce rear'd beneath our sullen sky, Who fears not, indiscreet as she is young, To seek in Latium hearers of her song. We too, where Thames with its unsullied waves The tresses of the blue-hair'd Ocean laves, Hear oft by night, or, slumbering, seem to hear, O'er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling clear; And we could boast a Tityrus of yore Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore. Yes--dreary as we own our northern clime, E'en we to Phoebus raise the polish'd rhyme, We too serve Phoebus; Phoebus has received (If legends old may claim to be believed) No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear, The burnish'd apple, ruddiest of the year, The fragrant crocus, and, to grace his fane, Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train; Druids, our native bards in ancient time, Who gods and heroes praised in hallow'd rhyme! Hence, often as the maids of Greece surround Apollo's shrine with hymns of festive sound, They named the virgins who arrived of yore With British offerings on the Delian shore, Loxo, from giant Corineus sprung, Upis, on whose blest lips the future hung, And Hacaerge, with the golden hair, All deck'd with Pictish hues, and all with bosoms bare. Thou, therefore, happy sage, whatever clime Shall ring with Tasso's praise in after time, Or with Marino's, shalt be known their friend, And with an equal flight to fame ascend. The world shall hear how Phoebus and the Nine Were inmates once, and willing guests of thine. Yet Phoebus, when of old constrain'd to roam The earth, an exile from his heavenly home, Enter'd, no willing guest, Admetus' door, Though Hercules had ventured there before. But gentle Chiron's cave was near, a scene Of rural peace, clothed with perpetual green, And thither, oft as respite he required, From rustic clamours loud, the god retired. There, many a time, on Peneus' bank reclined At some oak's root, with ivy thick entwined, Won by his hospitable friend's desire, He soothed his pains of exile with the lyre. Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus' shore, Nor OEta felt his load of forest more; The upland elms descended to the plain, And soften'd lynxes wonder'd at that strain. Well may we think, Oh, dear to all above! Thy birth distinguish'd by the smile of Jove, And that Apollo shed his kindliest power, And Maia's son, on that propitious hour. Since only minds so born can comprehend A poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend. Hence on thy yet unfaded cheek appears The lingering freshness of thy greener years; Hence in thy front and features we admire Nature unwither'd and a mind entire. O might so true a friend to me belong, So skill'd to grace the votaries of song, Should I recall hereafter into rhyme The kings and heroes of my native clime, Arthur the chief, who even now prepares, In subterraneous being, future wars, With all his martial knights, to be restored Each to his seat around the federal board; And oh, if spirit fail me not, disperse Our Saxon plunderers in triumphant verse! Then, after all, when, with the past content, A life I finish, not in silence spent; Should he, kind mourner, o'er my deathbed bend, I shall but need to say--"Be yet my friend!" He too, perhaps, shall bid the marble breathe To honour me, and with the graceful wreath Or of Parnassus or the Paphian isle Shall bind my brows--but I shall rest the while. Then also, if the fruits of faith endure, And virtue's promised recompence be sure, Born to those seats to which the blest aspire By purity of soul and virtuous fire, These rites, as fate permits, I shall survey With eyes illumined by celestial day, And, every cloud from my pure spirit driven, Joy in the bright beatitude of heaven!

ON THE DEATH OF DAMON.

THE ARGUMENT.

Thyrsis and Damon, shepherds and neighbours, had always pursued the same studies, and had, from their earliest days, been united in the closest friendship. Thyrsis, while travelling for improvement, received intelligence of the death of Damon, and, after a time, returning and finding it true, deplores himself, and his solitary condition, in this poem.

By Damon is to be understood Charles Deodati, connected with the Italian city of Lucca by his father's side, in other respects an Englishman; a youth of uncommon genius, erudition, and virtue.

Ye Nymphs of Himera, (for ye have shed Erewhile for Daphnis, and for Hylas dead, And over Bion's long-lamented bier, The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear,) Now through the villas laved by Thames rehearse The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse, What sighs he heaved, and how with groans profound He made the woods and hollow rocks resound, Young Damon dead; nor even ceased to pour His lonely sorrows at the midnight hour. The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear, And golden harvest twice enrich'd the year, Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital air The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there; For he, enamour'd of the muse, remain'd In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd, But, stored at length with all he wish'd to learn, For his flock's sake, now hasted to return; And when the shepherd had resumed his seat At the elm's root, within his old retreat, Then 'twas his lot then all his loss to know, And from his burden'd heart he vented thus his woe: "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Alas! what deities shall I suppose In heaven, or earth, concerned for human woes, Since, oh my Damon! their severe decree So soon condemns me to regret of thee! Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid With fame and honour, like a vulgar shade! Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls, And separates sordid from illustrious souls, Drive far the rabble, and to thee assign A happier lot with spirits worthy thine! "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chance The wolf first give me a forbidding glance, Thou shalt not moulder undeplored, but long Thy praise shall dwell on every shepherd's tongue. To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay, And, after him, to thee the votive lay, While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love, Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove; At least, if ancient piety and truth, With all the learned labours of thy youth, May serve thee aught, or to have left behind A sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind. "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Who now my pains and perils shall divide, As thou wast wont, for ever at my side, Both when the rugged frost annoy'd our feet, And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat; Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent, Or the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went; Whose converse now shall calm my stormy day, With charming song who now beguile my way? "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. In whom shall I confide? Whose counsel find A balmy medicine for my troubled mind? Or whose discourse with innocent delight Shall fill me now, and cheat the wintry night, While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear, And blackening chestnuts start and crackle there, While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm, And the wind thunders through the neighbouring elm? "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Or who, when summer suns their summit reach, And Pan sleeps hidden by the sheltering beech, When shepherds disappear, nymphs seek the sedge, And the stretch'd rustic snores beneath the hedge, Who then shall render me thy pleasant vein Of Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again? "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Where glens and vales are thickest overgrown With tangled boughs, I wander now alone, Till night descend, while blustering wind and shower Beat on my temples through the shatter'd bower. "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Alas! what rampant weeds now shame my fields, And what a mildew'd crop the furrow yields; My rambling vines unwedded to the trees, Bear shrivell'd grapes; my myrtles fail to please; Nor please me more my flocks: they, slighted turn Their unavailing looks on me, and mourn. "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Ægon invites me to the hazel grove, Amyntas, on the river's bank to rove, And young Alphesiboeus to a seat Where branching elms exclude the mid-day heat. 'Here fountains spring--here mossy hillocks rise; Here zephyr whispers, and the stream replies.'-- Thus each persuades, but, deaf to every call, I gain the thickets, and escape them all. "Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due To other cares than those of feeding you. Then Mopsus said, (the same who reads so well The voice of birds, and what the stars foretell, For he by chance had noticed my return,) 'What means thy sullen mood, this deep concern? Ah, Thyrsis, thou art either crazed with love, Or some sinister influence from above; Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherds rue; His leaden shaft oblique has pierced thee through.' "Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are, My thoughts are all now due to other care. The nymphs amazed, my melancholy see, And, 'Thyrsis!' cry--'what will become of thee? What wouldst thou, Thyrsis? such should not appear The brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe; Brisk youth should laugh and love--ah, shun the fate Of those, twice wretched mopes! who love too late!' "Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Ægle with Hyas came, to soothe my pain, And Baucis' daughter, Dryope, the vain, Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neat Known far and near, and for her self-conceit; Chloris too came, whose cottage on the lands That skirt the Idumanian current stands; But all in vain they came, and but to see Kind words, and comfortable, lost on me. "Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Ah blest indifference of the playful herd, None by his fellow chosen, or preferr'd! No bonds of amity the flocks inthral, But each associates, and is pleased with all; So graze the dappled deer in numerous droves, And all his kind alike the zebra loves; That same law governs, where the billows roar, And Proteus' shoals o'erspread the desert shore; The sparrow, meanest of the feather'd race, His fit companion finds in every place, With whom he picks the grain that suits him best, Flirts here and there, and late returns to rest, And whom, if chance the falcon makes his prey, Or hedger with his well aim'd arrow slay, For no such loss the gay survivor grieves, New love he seeks, and new delight receives. We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice, Scorning all others, in a single choice. We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind, And if the long-sought good at last we find, When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals, And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals. "Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Ah, what delusion lured me from my flocks, To traverse Alpine snows and rugged rocks! What need so great had I to visit Rome, Now sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb? Or, had she flourish'd still, as when, of old, For her sake Tityrus forsook his fold, What need so great had I to incur a pause Of thy sweet intercourse for such a cause, For such a cause to place the roaring sea, Rocks, mountains, woods, between my friend and me? Else, had I grasp'd thy feeble hand, composed Thy decent limbs, thy drooping eyelids closed, And, at the last, had said--'Farewell--ascend-- Nor even in the skies forget thy friend!' "Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Although well pleased, ye tuneful Tuscan swains! My mind the memory of your worth retains, Yet not your worth can teach me less to mourn My Damon lost.--He too was Tuscan born, Born in your Lucca, city of renown! And wit possess'd, and genius, like your own. Oh how elate was I, when, stretch'd beside The murmuring course of Arno's breezy tide, Beneath the poplar grove I pass'd my hours, Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flowers, And hearing, as I lay at ease along, Your swains contending for the prize of song! I also dared attempt (and, as it seems, Not much displeased attempting) various themes, For even I can presents boast from you, The shepherd's pipe, and ozier basket too, And Dati and Francini both have made My name familiar to the beechen shade, And they are learn'd, and each in every place Renown'd for song, and both of Lydian race. "Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. While bright the dewy grass with moonbeams shone, And I stood hurdling in my kids alone, How often have I said (but thou hadst found Ere then thy dark cold lodgment underground) Now Damon sings, or springes sets for hares, Or wickerwork for various use prepares! How oft, indulging fancy, have I plann'd New scenes of pleasure that I hoped at hand, Call'd thee abroad as I was wont, and cried-- 'What, hoa! my friend--come lay thy task aside; Haste, let us forth together, and beguile The heat beneath yon whispering shades awhile, Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood, Or where Cassibelan's grey turrets stood! There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teach Thy friend the name and healing powers of each, From the tall bluebell to the dwarfish weed, What the dry land, and what the marshes breed, For all their kinds alike to thee are known, And the whole art of Galen is thy own.' Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd be The useless herbs that gave not health to thee! Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream, I meditating sat some statelier theme, The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though new, And unessay'd before, than wide they flew, Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustain The deep-toned music of the solemn strain; And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell How proud a theme I chose--ye groves, farewell. "Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. Of Brutus, Dardan chief, my song shall be, How with his barks he plough'd the British sea, First from Rutupia's towering headland seen, And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen; Of Brennus and Belinus, brothers bold, And of Arviragus, and how of old Our hardy sires the Armorican controll'd, And of the wife of Gorloïs, who, surprised By Uther, in her husband's form disguised, (Such was the force of Merlin's art,) became Pregnant with Arthur of heroic fame. These themes I now revolve--and Oh--if Fate Proportion to these themes my lengthen'd date, Adieu my shepherd's reed--yon pine tree bough Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou Forgotten and disused, unless ere long Thou change thy Latian for a British song: A British?--even so--the powers of man Are bounded; little is the most he can; And it shall well suffice me, and shall be Fame and proud recompence enough for me, If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn, If Alain bending o'er his crystal urn, Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd stream, Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem, Tamar's ore-tinctured flood, and, after these, The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades. "Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; My thoughts are all now due to other care. All this I kept in leaves of laurel rind Enfolded safe, and for thy view design'd, This--and a gift from Manso's hand beside, (Manso, not least his native city's pride,) Two cups that radiant as their giver shone, Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone. The spring was graven there; here slowly wind The Red sea shores with groves of spices lined; Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs The sacred, solitary phoenix shows, And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her head To see Aurora leave her watery bed. --In other part, the expensive vault above, And there too, even there, the god of love; With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but, aiming high, Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamour'd burn. "Thou, also, Damon, (neither need I fear That hope delusive,) thou art also there; For whither should simplicity like thine Retire, where else should spotless virtue shine? Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shades below, Nor tears suit thee--cease then, my tears, to flow. Away with grief: on Damon ill bestow'd! Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode, Has pass'd the showery arch, henceforth resides With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides Quaffs copious immortality and joy With hallow'd lips!--Oh! blest without alloy, And now enrich'd with all that faith can claim, Look down, entreated by whatever name, If Damon please thee most (that rural sound Shall oft with echoes fill the groves around) Or if Deodatus, by which alone In those ethereal mansions thou art known. Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste, The honours, therefore, by divine decree The lot of virgin worth, are given to thee: Thy brows encircled with a radiant band, And the green palm branch waving in thy hand, Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice, And join with seraphs thy according voice, Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyre Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire."

AN ODE, ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN ROUSE,

LIBRARIAN OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD,

On a lost Volume of my Poems, which he desired me to replace, that he might add them to my other Works deposited in the Library.

This ode is rendered without rhyme, that it might more adequately represent the original, which, as Milton himself informs us, is of no certain measure. It may possibly for this reason disappoint the reader, though it cost the writer more labour than the translation of any other piece in the whole collection.

STROPHE.

My twofold book! single in show But double in contents, Neat, but not curiously adorn'd, Which, in his early youth, A poet gave, no lofty one in truth, Although an earnest wooer of the muse-- Say, while in cool Ausonian shades Or British wilds he roam'd, Striking by turns his native lyre, By turns the Daunian lute, And stepp'd almost in air--

ANTISTROPHE.

Say, little book, what furtive hand Thee from thy fellow books convey'd, What time, at the repeated suit Of my most learned friend, I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller, From our great city to the source of Thames, Cærulean sire! Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring, Of the Aonian choir, Durable as yonder spheres, And through the endless lapse of years Secure to be admired?

STROPHE II.

Now what god, or demi-god, For Britain's ancient genius moved, (If our afflicted land Have expiated at length the guilty sloth Of her degenerate sons) Shall terminate our impious feuds, And discipline with hallow'd voice recall? Recall the muses too, Driven from their ancient seats In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore, And, with keen Phoebean shafts Piercing the unseemly birds, Whose talons menace us, Shall drive the Harpy race from Helicon afar?

ANTISTROPHE.

But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd, Whether by treachery lost, Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault, From all thy kindred books, To some dark cell or cave forlorn, Where thou endurest, perhaps, The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand, Be comforted-- For lo! again the splendid hope appears That thou mayst yet escape The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove!

STROPHE III.

Since Rouse desires thee, and complains That, though by promise his, Thou yet appear'st not in thy place Among the literary noble stores Given to his care, But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete. He, therefore, guardian vigilant Of that unperishing wealth, Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge, Where he intends a richer treasure far Than Iön kept (Iön, Erectheus' son Illustrious, of the fair Creüsa born) In the resplendent temple of his god, Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine.

ANTISTROPHE.

Haste, then, to the pleasant groves, The muses' favourite haunt; Resume thy station in Apollo's dome, Dearer to him Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill! Exulting go, Since now a splendid lot is also thine, And thou art sought by my propitious friend; For there thou shalt be read With authors of exalted note, The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome.

EPODE.

Ye, then, my works, no longer vain, And worthless deem'd by me! Whate'er this sterile genius has produced, Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent, An unmolested happy home, Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend, Where never flippant tongue profane Shall entrance find, And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude Shall babble far remote. Perhaps some future distant age, Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught, Shall furnish minds of power To judge more equally. Then, malice silenced in the tomb, Cooler heads and sounder hearts, Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.

TRANSLATIONS OF THE ITALIAN POEMS.

SONNET.

Fair Lady! whose harmonious name the Rhine, Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, Base were indeed the wretch who could forbear To love a spirit elegant as thine, That manifests a sweetness all divine, Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare, And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine. When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gay Such strains as might the senseless forest move, Ah then--turn each his eyes and ears away, Who feels himself unworthy of thy love! Grace can alone preserve him ere the dart Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.

SONNET.

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day Imbrowns the scene, some pastoral maiden fair Waters a lovely foreign plant with care, Borne from its native genial airs away, That scarcely can its tender bud display, So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare, Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there. While thus, O sweetly scornful! I essay Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown, And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain; So Love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has shown, That what he wills, he never wills in vain-- Oh that this hard and sterile breast might be To Him, who plants from heaven, a soil as free!

CANZONE.

They mock my toil--the nymphs and amorous swains-- And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry, Love-songs in language that thou little know'st? How darest thou risk to sing these foreign strains? Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd, And that thy fairest flowers here fade and die? Then with pretence of admiration high-- Thee other shores expect, and other tides, Rivers, on whose grassy sides Her deathless laurel leaf, with which to bind Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides; Why then this burden, better far declined? Speak, muse! for me--the fair one said, who guides My willing heart, and all my fancy's flights, "This is the language in which Love delights."

SONNET, TO CHARLES DEODATI.

Charles--and I say it wondering--thou must know That I, who once assumed a scornful air And scoff'd at Love, am fallen in his snare, (Full many an upright man has fallen so:) Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow Of golden locks, or damask cheek; more rare The heartfelt beauties of my foreign fair: A mien majestic, with dark brows that show The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind; Words exquisite, of idioms more than one, And song, whose fascinating power might bind, And from her sphere draw down the labouring moon; With such fire-darting eyes that, should I fill My ears with wax, she would enchant me still.

SONNET.

Lady! It cannot be but that thine eyes Must be my sun, such radiance they display, And strike me e'en as Phoebus him whose way Through horrid Libya's sandy desert lies. Meantime, on that side steamy vapours rise Where most I suffer. Of what kind are they, New as to me they are, I cannot say, But deem them, in the lover's language--sighs. Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals, Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend To soften thine, thy coldness soon congeals. While others to my tearful eyes ascend, Whence my sad nights in showers are ever drown'd, Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound.

SONNET.

Enamour'd, artless, young, on foreign ground, Uncertain whither from myself to fly; To thee, dear Lady, with an humble sigh Let me devote my heart, which I have found By certain proofs, not few, intrepid, sound, Good, and addicted to conceptions high: When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky, It rests in adamant self-wrapt around, As safe from envy as from outrage rude, From hopes and fears that vulgar minds abuse, As fond of genius, and fix'd fortitude, Of the resounding lyre and every muse. Weak you will find it in one only part, Now pierced by love's immedicable dart.

SIMILE IN PARADISE LOST.

'So when, from mountain tops, the dusky clouds Ascending,' &c.

. . . . . . .

Quales aërii montis de vertice nubes Cum surgunt, et jam Boreæ tumida ora quiêrunt, Coelum hilares abdit, spissâ caligine, vultus: Tum, si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore, Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat, Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agros Balatuque ovium colles vallesque resultant.

TRANSLATION OF DRYDEN'S EPIGRAM ON MILTON.

Tres tria, sed longè distantia, sæcula vates Ostentant tribus è gentibus eximios. Græcia sublimem, cum majestate disertum Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem. Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est, Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos.

July, 1780.

TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE.

I. THE GLOWWORM.

Beneath the hedge, or near the stream, A worm is known to stray, That shows by night a lucid beam, Which disappears by day.

Disputes have been, and still prevail, From whence his rays proceed; Some give that honour to his tail, And others to his head.

But this is sure--the hand of night That kindles up the skies, Gives him a modicum of light Proportion'd to his size.

Perhaps indulgent Nature meant, By such a lamp bestow'd, To bid the traveller, as he went, Be careful where he trod:

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light Might serve, however small, To show a stumbling stone by night, And save him from a fall.

Whate'er she meant, this truth divine Is legible and plain, 'Tis power almighty bids him shine, Nor bids him shine in vain.

Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme Teach humbler thoughts to you, Since such a reptile has its gem, And boasts its splendour too.

II. THE JACKDAW.

There is a bird who, by his coat And by the hoarseness of his note, Might be supposed a crow; A great frequenter of the church, Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch, And dormitory too.

Above the steeple shines a plate, That turns and turns, to indicate From what point blows the weather. Look up--your brains begin to swim, 'Tis in the clouds--that pleases him, He chooses it the rather.

Fond of the speculative height, Thither he wings his airy flight, And thence securely sees The bustle and the rareeshow, That occupy mankind below, Secure and at his ease.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses On future broken bones and bruises, If he should chance to fall. No; not a single thought like that Employs his philosophic pate, Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great roundabout, The world, with all its motley rout, Church, army, physic, law, Its customs and its businesses, Is no concern at all of his, And says--what says he?--Caw.

Thrice happy bird! I too have seen Much of the vanities of men; And, sick of having seen 'em, Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine And such a head between 'em.

III. THE CRICKET

Little inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my kitchen hearth, Wheresoe'er be thine abode, Always harbinger of good, Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song more soft and sweet; In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be express'd, Inoffensive, welcome guest! While the rat is on the scout, And the mouse with curious snout, With what vermin else infest Every dish, and spoil the best; Frisking thus before the fire, Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be Form'd as if akin to thee, Thou surpassest, happier far, Happiest grasshoppers that are; Theirs is but a summer's song, Thine endures the winter long, Unimpair'd, and shrill, and clear, Melody throughout the year.

Neither night nor dawn of day Puts a period to thy play: Sing, then--and extend thy span Far beyond the date of man. Wretched man, whose years are spent In repining discontent, Lives not, aged though he be, Half a span, compared with thee.

* * * * *

IV. THE PARROT.

In painted plumes superbly dress'd, A native of the gorgeous east, By many a billow toss'd; Poll gains at length the British shore, Part of the captain's precious store, A present to his toast.

Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd, To teach him now and then a word, As Poll can master it; But 'tis her own important charge, To qualify him more at large, And make him quite a wit.

Sweet Poll! his doting mistress cries, Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies, And calls aloud for sack. She next instructs him in the kiss; 'Tis now a little one, like Miss, And now a hearty smack.

At first he aims at what he hears; And, listening close with both his ears, Just catches at the sound; But soon articulates aloud, Much to the amusement of the crowd, And stuns the neighbours round.

A querulous old woman's voice His humorous talent next employs, He scolds, and gives the lie. And now he sings, and now is sick, Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick, Poor Poll is like to die!

Belinda and her bird! 'tis rare To meet with such a well match'd pair, The language and the tone, Each character in every part Sustain'd with so much grace and art, And both in unison.

When children first begin to spell, And stammer out a syllable, We think them tedious creatures; But difficulties soon abate, When birds are to be taught to prate, And women are the teachers.

THE THRACIAN.

Thracian parents, at his birth, Mourn their babe with many a tear, But, with undissembled mirth, Place him breathless on his bier.

Greece and Rome, with equal scorn, "O the savages!" exclaim, "Whether they rejoice or mourn, Well entitled to the name!"

But the cause of this concern And this pleasure would they trace, Even they might somewhat learn From the savages of Thrace.

RECIPROCAL KINDNESS THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE.

Androcles, from his injured lord, in dread Of instant death, to Lybia's desert fled, Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat, He spied at length a cavern's cool retreat; But scarce had given to rest his weary frame, When, hugest of his kind, a lion came: He roar'd approaching: but the savage din To plaintive murmurs changed--arrived within, And with expressive looks, his lifted paw Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw. The fugitive, through terror at a stand, Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand; But bolder grown, at length inherent found A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound. The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood, And firm and free from pain the lion stood. Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day Regales his inmate with the parted prey. Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared, Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared. But thus to live--still lost--sequester'd still-- Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge a heavier ill. Home! native home! O might he but repair! He must--he will, though death attends him there. He goes, and doom'd to perish on the sands Of the full theatre unpitied stands: When lo! the selfsame lion from his cage Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage. He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey The man, his healer, pauses on his way, And, soften'd by remembrance into sweet And kind composure, crouches at his feet. Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze: But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze? All this is natural: nature bade him rend An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.

A MANUAL,

MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE.

There is a book, which we may call (Its excellence is such) Alone a library, though small; The ladies thumb it much.

Words none, things numerous it contains: And things with words compared, Who needs be told, that has his brains, Which merits most regard?

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue A golden edging boast; And open'd, it displays to view Twelve pages at the most.

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind, Adorns its outer part; But all within 'tis richly lined, A magazine of art.

The whitest hands that secret hoard Oft visit: and the fair Preserve it in their bosoms stored, As with a miser's care.

Thence implements of every size, And form'd for various use, (They need but to consult their eyes,) They readily produce.

The largest and the longest kind Possess the foremost page; A sort most needed by the blind, Or nearly such, from age.

The full charg'd leaf which next ensues, Presents in bright array The smaller sort, which matrons use, Not quite so blind as they.

The third, the fourth, the fifth supply What their occasions ask, Who with a more discerning eye Perform a nicer task.

But still with regular decrease, From size to size they fall, In every leaf grow less and less; The last are least of all.

O! what a fund of genius, pent In narrow space is here! This volume's method and intent How luminous and clear!

It leaves no reader at a loss Or posed, whoever reads: No commentator's tedious gloss, Nor even index needs.

Search Bodley's many thousands o'er! No book is treasured there, Nor yet in Granta's numerous store, That may with this compare.

No!--rival none in either host Of this was ever seen, Or, that contents could justly boast, So brilliant and so keen.

AN ENIGMA.

A needle, small as small can be, In bulk and use surpasses me, Nor is my purchase dear; For little, and almost for nought, As many of my kind are bought As days are in the year.

Yet though but little use we boast, And are procured at little cost, The labour is not light; Nor few artificers it asks, All skilful in their several tasks, To fashion us aright.

One fuses metal o'er the fire, A second draws it into wire, The shears another plies; Who clips in length the brazen thread From him who, chafing every shred, Gives all an equal size.

A fifth prepares, exact and round, The knob with which it must be crown'd; His follower makes it fast: And with his mallet and his file To shape the point, employs awhile The seventh and the last.

Now, therefore, OEdipus! declare What creature, wonderful, and rare, A process that obtains Its purpose with so much ado At last produces!--tell me true, And take me for your pains!

SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED IN TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

None ever shared the social feast, Or as an inmate or a guest, Beneath the celebrated dome Where once Sir Isaac had his home, Who saw not (and with some delight Perhaps he view'd the novel sight) How numerous, at the tables there, The sparrows beg their daily fare. For there, in every nook and cell Where such a family may dwell, Sure as the vernal season comes Their nest they weave in hope of crumbs, Which kindly given, may serve with food Convenient their unfeather'd brood; And oft as with its summons clear The warning bell salutes their ear, Sagacious listeners to the sound, They flock from all the fields around, To reach the hospitable hall, None more attentive to the call. Arrived, the pensionary band, Hopping and chirping, close at hand, Solicit what they soon receive. The sprinkled, plenteous donative. Thus is a multitude, though large, Supported at a trivial charge; A single doit would overpay The expenditure of every day, And who can grudge so small a grace To suppliants, natives of the place?

FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS.

As in her ancient mistress' lap The youthful tabby lay, They gave each other many a tap, Alike disposed to play.

But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm, And with protruded claws Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm, Mere wantonness the cause.

At once, resentful of the deed, She shakes her to the ground With many a threat that she shall bleed With still a deeper wound.

But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest: It was a venial stroke: For she that will with kittens jest Should bear a kitten's joke.

INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST.

Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains-- And seldom another it can-- To seek a retreat while he reigns In the well-shelter'd dwellings of man, Who never can seem to intrude, Though in all places equally free, Come oft as the season is rude, Thou art sure to be welcome to me.

At sight of the first feeble ray That pierces the clouds of the east, To inveigle thee every day My windows shall show thee a feast. For, taught by experience, I know, Thee mindful of benefit long; And that, thankful for all I bestow, Thou wilt pay me with many a song.

Then, soon as the swell of the buds Bespeaks the renewal of spring, Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods, Or where it shall please thee to sing: And shouldst thou, compell'd by a frost, Come again to my window or door, Doubt not an affectionate host, Only pay as thou paid'st me before.

This music must needs be confess'd To flow from a fountain above; Else how should it work in the breast Unchangeable friendship and love? And who on the globe can be found, Save your generation and ours, That can be delighted by sound, Or boasts any musical powers?

STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE.

The shepherd touch'd his reed; sweet Philomel Essay'd, and oft essay'd to catch the strain, And treasuring, as on her ear they fell, The numbers, echo'd note for note again.

The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before A rival of his skill, indignant heard, And soon (for various was his tuneful store) In loftier tones defied the simple bird.

She dared the task, and, rising as he rose, With all the force that passion gives inspired, Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.

Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife, By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun; And, O sad victory, which cost thy life, And he may wish that he had never won!

ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,

WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1728.

Ancient dame, how wide and vast To a race like ours appears, Rounded to an orb at last, All thy multitude of years!

We, the herd of human kind, Frailer and of feebler powers; We, to narrow bounds confined, Soon exhaust the sum of ours.

Death's delicious banquet--we Perish even from the womb, Swifter than a shadow flee, Nourish'd but to feed the tomb.

Seeds of merciless disease Lurk in all that we enjoy; Some that waste us by degrees, Some that suddenly destroy.

And, if life o'erleap the bourn Common to the sons of men, What remains, but that we mourn, Dream, and dote, and drivel then?

Fast as moons can wax and wane Sorrow comes; and, while we groan, Pant with anguish, and complain, Half our years are fled and gone.

If a few (to few 'tis given), Lingering on this earthly stage, Creep and halt with steps uneven To the period of an age,

Wherefore live they, but to see Cunning, arrogance, and force, Sights lamented much by thee, Holding their accustom'd course?

Oft was seen, in ages past, All that we with wonder view; Often shall be to the last; Earth produces nothing new.

Thee we gratulate, content Should propitious Heaven design Life for us as calmly spent, Though but half the length of thine.

THE CAUSE WON.

Two neighbours furiously dispute; A field--the subject of the suit. Trivial the spot, yet such the rage With which the combatants engage, 'Twere hard to tell who covets most The prize--at whatsoever cost. The pleadings swell. Words still suffice: No single word but has its price. No term but yields some fair pretence For novel and increased expense. Defendant thus becomes a name, Which he that bore it may disclaim, Since both in one description blended, Are plaintiffs--when the suit is ended.

THE SILKWORM.

The beams of April, ere it goes, A worm, scarce visible, disclose; All winter long content to dwell The tenant of his native shell. The same prolific season gives The sustenance by which he lives, The mulberry leaf, a simple store, That serves him--till he needs no more! For, his dimensions once complete, Thenceforth none ever sees him eat; Though till his growing time be past Scarce ever is he seen to fast. That hour arrived, his work begins. He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins; Till circle upon circle, wound Careless around him and around, Conceals him with a veil, though slight, Impervious to the keenest sight. Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask, At length he finishes his task; And, though a worm when he was lost, Or caterpillar at the most, When next we see him, wings he wears, And in papilio pomp appears; Becomes oviparous; supplies With future worms and future flies The next ensuing year--and dies! Well were it for the world, if all Who creep about this earthly ball, Though shorter-lived than most he be, Were useful in their kind as he.

THE INNOCENT THIEF.

Not a flower can be found in the fields, Or the spot that we till for our pleasure, From the largest to the least, but it yields The bee never wearied a treasure.

Scarce any she quits unexplored With a diligence truly exact; Yet, steal what she may for her hoard Leaves evidence none of the fact.

Her lucrative task she pursues, And pilfers with so much address, That none of their odour they lose, Nor charm by their beauty the less.

Not thus inoffensively preys The cankerworm, in-dwelling foe! His voracity not thus allays The sparrow, the finch, or the crow.

The worm, more expensively fed, The pride of the garden devours; And birds peck the seed from the bed, Still less to be spared than the flowers.

But she with such delicate skill Her pillage so fits for her use, That the chemist in vain with his still Would labour the like to produce.

Then grudge not her temperate meals, Nor a benefit blame as a theft; Since, stole she not all that she steals, Neither honey nor wax would be left.

DENNER'S OLD WOMAN.

In this mimic form of a matron in years, How plainly the pencil of Denner appears! The matron herself, in whose old age we see Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she! No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low, No wrinkle, or deep-furrow'd frown on the brow! Her forehead indeed is here circled around With locks like the ribbon with which they are bound; While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin; But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe, Or that indicates life in its winter--is here. Yet all is express'd with fidelity due, Nor a pimple or freckle conceal'd from the view. Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste. The youths all agree, that, could old age inspire The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, And the matrons with pleasure confess that they see Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee. The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline, O wonderful woman! as placid as thine. Strange magic of art! which the youth can engage To peruse, half enamour'd, the features of age; And force from the virgin a sigh of despair, That she when as old shall be equally fair! How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd, Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd.

THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

Apelles, hearing that his boy Had just expired--his only joy! Although the sight with anguish tore him, Bade place his dear remains before him. He seized his brush, his colours spread; And--"Oh! my child, accept,"--he said, "('Tis all that I can now bestow,) This tribute of a father's woe!" Then, faithful to the twofold part, Both of his feelings and his art, He closed his eyes with tender care, And form'd at once a fellow pair. His brow with amber locks beset, And lips he drew not livid yet; And shaded all that he had done To a just image of his son. Thus far is well. But view again The cause of thy paternal pain! Thy melancholy task fulfil! It needs the last, last touches still. Again his pencil's powers he tries, For on his lips a smile he spies: And still his cheek unfaded shows The deepest damask of the rose. Then, heedful to the finish'd whole, With fondest eagerness he stole, Till scarce himself distinctly knew The cherub copied from the true. Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done. Long lives this image of thy son; Nor short-lived shall thy glory prove Or of thy labour or thy love.

THE MAZE.

From right to left, and to and fro, Caught in a labyrinth you go, And turn, and turn, and turn again, To solve the mystery, but in vain; Stand still, and breathe, and take from me A clue, that soon shall set you free! Not Ariadne, if you met her, Herself could serve you with a better. You enter'd easily--find where-- And make with ease your exit there!

NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUFFERER.

The lover, in melodious verses, His singular distress rehearses; Still closing with a rueful cry, "Was ever such a wretch as I!" Yes! thousands have endured before All thy distress; some, haply, more. Unnumber'd Corydons complain, And Strephons, of the like disdain; And if thy Chloe be of steel, Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel; Not her alone that censure fits, Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.

THE SNAIL.

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, As if he grew there, house and all Together.

Within that house secure he hides, When danger imminent betides Of storm, or other harm besides Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch, His self-collecting power is such, He shrinks into his house, with much Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Except himself has chattels none, Well satisfied to be his own Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, Nor partner of his banquet needs, And if he meets one, only feeds The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind, (He and his house are so combined,) If, finding it, he fails to find Its master.

THE CANTAB.

With two spurs or one, and no great matter which, Boots bought, or boots borrow'd, a whip or a switch, Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast, Paid part into hand;--you must wait for the rest. Thus equipt, Academicus climbs up his horse, And out they both sally for better or worse; His heart void of fear, and as light as a feather; And in violent haste to go not knowing whither. Through the fields and the towns; (see!) he scampers along: And is look'd at and laugh'd at by old and by young. Till, at length overspent, and his sides smear'd with blood, Down tumbles his horse, man and all in the mud. In a wagon or chaise, shall he finish his route? Oh! scandalous fate! he must do it on foot. Young gentlemen, hear!--I am older than you! The advice that I give I have proved to be true, Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it, The faster you ride, you're the longer about it.

TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES.

FROM THE GREEK OF JULIANUS.

A Spartan, his companion slain, Alone from battle fled; His mother, kindling with disdain That she had borne him, struck him dead; For courage, and not birth alone, In Sparta, testifies a son!

ON THE SAME BY PALLADAS.

A Spartan 'scaping from the fight, His mother met him in his flight, Upheld a falchion to his breast, And thus the fugitive address'd: "Thou canst but live to blot with shame Indelible thy mother's name, While every breath that thou shalt draw Offends against thy country's law; But, if thou perish by this hand, Myself indeed, throughout the land, To my dishonour, shall be known The mother still of such a son; But Sparta will be safe and free, And that shall serve to comfort me."

AN EPITAPH.

My name--my country--what are they to thee! What, whether base or proud my pedigree? Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men-- Perhaps I fell below them all--what then? Suffice it, stranger! that thou seest a tomb-- Thou know'st its use--it hides--no matter whom.

ANOTHER.

Take to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain With much hard labour in thy service worn! He set the vines that clothe yon ample plain, And he these olives that the vale adorn. He fill'd with grain the glebe; the rills he led Through this green herbage, and those fruitful bowers; Thou, therefore, earth! lie lightly on his head, His hoary head, and deck his grave with flowers.

ANOTHER.

Painter, this likeness is too strong, And we shall mourn the dead too long.

ANOTHER.

At threescore winters' end I died A cheerless being sole and sad; The nuptial knot I never tied, And wish my father never had.

BY CALLIMACHUS.

At morn we placed on his funeral bier Young Melanippus; and, at eventide, Unable to sustain a loss so dear, By her own hand his blooming sister died. Thus Aristippus mourn'd his noble race, Annihilated by a double blow, Nor son could hope nor daughter more to embrace, And all Cyrene sadden'd at his woe.

ON MILTIADES.

Miltiades! thy valour best (Although in every region known) The men of Persia can attest, Taught by thyself at Marathon.

ON AN INFANT.

Bewail not much, my parents! me, the prey Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here. An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year, He found all sportive, innocent, and gay, Your young Callimachus; and if I knew Not many joys, my griefs were also few.

BY HERACLIDES.

In Cnidus born, the consort I became Of Euphron. Aretimias was my name. His bed I shared, nor proved a barren bride, But bore two children at a birth, and died. One child I leave to solace and uphold Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old. And one, for his remembrance' sake, I bear To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there.

ON THE REED.

I was of late a barren plant, Useless, insignificant, Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore, A native of the marshy shore; But, gather'd for poetic use, And plunged into a sable juice, Of which my modicum I sip With narrow mouth and slender lip, At once, although by nature dumb, All eloquent I have become, And speak with fluency untired, As if by Phoebus' self inspired.

TO HEALTH.

Eldest born of powers divine! Bless'd Hygeia! be it mine To enjoy what thou canst give, And henceforth with thee to live: For in power if pleasure be, Wealth or numerous progeny, Or in amorous embrace, Where no spy infests the place; Or in aught that Heaven bestows To alleviate human woes, When the wearied heart despairs Of a respite from its cares; These and every true delight Flourish only in thy sight; And the sister graces three Owe, themselves, their youth to thee, Without whom we may possess Much, but never happiness.

ON INVALIDS.

Far happier are the dead, methinks, than they Who look for death, and fear it every day.

ON THE ASTROLOGERS.

The astrologers did all alike presage My uncle's dying in extreme old age; One only disagreed. But he was wise, And spoke not till he heard the funeral cries.

ON AN OLD WOMAN.

Mycilla dyes her locks, 'tis said: But 'tis a foul aspersion; She buys them black; they therefore need No subsequent immersion.

ON FLATTERERS.

No mischief worthier of our fear In nature can be found Than friendship, in ostent sincere, But hollow and unsound. For lull'd into a dangerous dream We close infold a foe, Who strikes, when most secure we seem, The inevitable blow.

ON A TRUE FRIEND.

Hast thou a friend? thou hast indeed A rich and large supply, Treasure to serve your every need, Well managed, till you die.

ON THE SWALLOW.

Attic maid! with honey fed, Bear'st thou to thy callow brood Yonder locust from the mead, Destined their delicious food?

Ye have kindred voices clear, Ye alike unfold the wing, Migrate hither, sojourn here, Both attendant on the spring!

Ah, for pity drop the prize; Let it not with truth be said That a songster gasps and dies, That a songster may be fed.

ON LATE ACQUIRED WEALTH.

Poor in my youth, and in life's later scenes Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour, Who nought enjoy'd while young, denied the means; And nought when old enjoy'd, denied the power.

ON A BATH, BY PLATO.

Did Cytherea to the skies From this pellucid lymph arise? Or was it Cytherea's touch, When bathing here, that made it such?

ON A FOWLER, BY ISIDORUS.

With seeds and birdlime, from the desert air, Eumelus gather'd free, though scanty fare. No lordly patron's hand he deign'd to kiss, Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bliss. Thrice thirty years he lived, and to his heirs His seeds bequeath'd, his birdlime, and his snares.

ON NIOBE.

Charon! receive a family on board, Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl, Apollo and Diana, for a word By me too proudly spoken, slew us all.

ON A GOOD MAN.

Traveller, regret not me; for thou shalt find Just cause of sorrow none in my decease, Who, dying, children's children left behind, And with one wife lived many a year in peace: Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters three, And oft their infants in my bosom lay, Nor saw I one of all derived from me, Touch'd with disease, or torn by death away. Their duteous hands my funeral rites bestow'd, And me, by blameless manners fitted well To seek it, sent to the serene abode Where shades of pious men for ever dwell.

ON A MISER.

They call thee rich--I deem thee poor, Since, if thou darest not use thy store, But savest it only for thine heirs, The treasure is not thine, but theirs.

ANOTHER.

A miser, traversing his house, Espied, unusual there, a mouse, And thus his uninvited guest Briskly inquisitive address'd: "Tell me, my dear, to what cause is it I owe this unexpected visit?" The mouse her host obliquely eyed, And, smiling, pleasantly replied: "Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard! I come to lodge, and not to board."

ANOTHER.

Art thou some individual of a kind Long-lived by nature as the rook or hind? Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such, Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too much. But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy breast This lust of treasure--folly at the best! For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb,

ON FEMALE INCONSTANCY.

Rich, thou hadst many lovers--poor, hast none, So surely want extinguishes the flame, And she who call'd thee once her pretty one, And her Adonis, now inquires thy name.

Where wast thou born, Sosicrates, and where, In what strange country can thy parents live, Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet aware That want's a crime no woman can forgive?

ON THE GRASSHOPPER.

Happy songster, perch'd above, On the summit of the grove, Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing With the freedom of a king. From thy perch survey the fields Where prolific nature yields Nought that, willingly as she, Man surrenders not to thee. For hostility or hate None thy pleasures can create. Thee it satisfies to sing Sweetly the return of spring, Herald of the genial hours, Harming neither herbs nor flowers. Therefore man thy voice attends Gladly--thou and he are friends; Nor thy never-ceasing strains, Phoebus or the muse disdains As too simple or too long, For themselves inspire the song. Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying, Ever singing, sporting, playing, What has nature else to show Godlike in its kind as thou?

ON HERMOCRATIA.

Hermocratia named--save only one-- Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none; For neither Phoebus pierced my thriving joys, Nor Dian--she my girls, or he my boys. But Dian rather, when my daughters lay In parturition, chased their pangs away. And all my sons, by Phoebus' bounty, shared A vigorous youth, by sickness unimpair'd. O Niobe! far less prolific! see Thy boast against Latona shamed by me!

FROM MENANDER.

Fond youth! who dream'st that hoarded gold Is needful, not alone to pay For all thy various items sold, To serve the wants of every day;

Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat, For savoury viands season'd high; But somewhat more important yet-- I tell thee what it cannot buy.

No treasure, hadst thou more amass'd Than fame to Tantalus assign'd, Would save thee from a tomb at last, But thou must leave it all behind.

I give thee, therefore, counsel wise; Confide not vainly in thy store, However large--much less despise Others comparatively poor;

But in thy more exalted state A just and equal temper show, That all who see thee rich and great, May deem thee worthy to be so.

ON PALLAS BATHING, FROM A HYMN OF CALLIMACHUS.

Nor oils of balmy scent produce, Nor mirror for Minerva's use, Ye nymphs who lave her; she, array'd In genuine beauty, scorns their aid. Not even when they left the skies, To seek on Ida's head the prize From Paris' hand, did Juno deign, Or Pallas in the crystal plain Of Simois' stream her locks to trace, Or in the mirror's polish'd face, Though Venus oft with anxious care Adjusted twice a single hair.

TO DEMOSTHENES.

It flatters and deceives thy view, This mirror of ill-polish'd ore; For, were it just, and told thee true, Thou wouldst consult it never more.

ON A SIMILAR CHARACTER.

You give your cheeks a rosy stain, With washes dye your hair; But paint and washes both are vain To give a youthful air.

Those wrinkles mock your daily toil, No labour will efface 'em, You wear a mask of smoothest oil, Yet still with ease we trace 'em.

An art so fruitless then forsake, Which though you much excel in, You never can contrive to make Old Hecuba young Helen.

ON AN UGLY FELLOW.

Beware, my friend! of crystal brook, Or fountain, lest that hideous hook, Thy nose, thou chance to see; Narcissus' fate would then be thine, And self-detested thou wouldst pine, As self-enamour'd he.

ON A BATTERED BEAUTY.

Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth you buy, A multifarious store! A mask at once would all supply Nor would it cost you more.

ON A THIEF.

When Aulus, the nocturnal thief, made prize Of Hermes, swift-wing'd envoy of the skies, Hermes, Arcadia's king, the thief divine, Who when an infant stole Apollo's kine, And whom, as arbiter and overseer Of our gymnastic sports, we planted here; "Hermes," he cried, "you meet no new disaster; Ofttimes the pupil goes beyond his master."

ON PEDIGREE.

FROM EPICHARMUS.

MY mother! if thou love me, name no more My noble birth! Sounding at every breath My noble birth, thou kill'st me. Thither fly, As to their only refuge, all from whom Nature withholds all good besides; they boast Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs Of their forefathers, and, from age to age Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race: But whom hast thou beheld, or canst thou name, Derived from no forefathers? Such a man Lives not; for how could such be born at all? And, if it chance that, native of a land Far distant, or in infancy deprived Of all his kindred, one, who cannot trace His origin, exist, why deem him sprung From baser ancestry than theirs who can? My mother! he whom nature at his birth Endow'd with virtuous qualities, although An Æthiop and a slave, is nobly born.

ON ENVY.

Pity, says the Theban bard, From my wishes I discard; Envy, let me rather be, Rather far, a theme for thee. Pity to distress is shown, Envy to the great alone-- So the Theban--But to shine Less conspicuous be mine! I prefer the golden mean, Pomp and penury between; For alarm and peril wait Ever on the loftiest state, And the lowest to the end Obloquy and scorn attend.

BY MOSCHUS.

I slept when Venus enter'd: to my bed A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led, A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said: "Shepherd, receive my little one! I bring An untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing." She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought, Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught, How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound, How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound, How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire Of Phoebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre. Such were my themes; my themes nought heeded he, But ditties sang of amorous sort to me, The pangs that mortals and immortals prove From Venus' influence and the darts of love. Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught; His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot.

BY PHILEMON.

Oft we enhance our ills by discontent, And give them bulk beyond what nature meant. A parent, brother, friend deceased, to cry-- "He's dead indeed, but he was born to die"-- Such temperate grief is suited to the size And burden of the loss; is just and wise. But to exclaim, "Ah! wherefore was I born, Thus to be left for ever thus forlorn?" Who thus laments his loss invites distress, And magnifies a woe that might be less, Through dull despondence to his lot resign'd, And leaving reason's remedy behind.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FABLES OF GAY.

LEPUS MULTIS AMICUS.

Lusus amicitia est, uni nisi dedita, ceu fit, Simplice ni nexus foedere, lusus amor. Incerto genitore puer, non sæpe paternæ Tutamen novit, deliciasque domûs: Quique sibi fidos fore multos sperat, amicus Mirum est huic misero si ferat ullus opem. Comis erat, mitisque, et nolle et velle paratus Cum quovis, Gaii more modoque, Lepus. Ille, quot in sylvis et quot spatiantur in agris Quadrupedes, nôrat conciliare sibi; Et quisque innocuo, invitoque lacessere quenquam Labra tenus saltem fidus amicus erat. Ortum sub lucis dum pressa cubilia linquit, Rorantes herbas, pabula sueta, petens, Venatorum audit clangores ponè sequentem, Fulmineumque sonum territus erro fugit. Corda pavor pulsat, sursum sedet, erigit aures, Respicit, et sentit jam prope adesse necem. Utque canes fallat latè circumvagus, illuc, Unde abiit, mirâ calliditate redit; Viribus at fractis tandem se projicit ultro In mediâ miserum semianimemque viâ. Vix ibi stratus, equi sonitum pedis audit, et, oh spe Quam lætâ adventu cor agitatur equi! Dorsum (inquit) mihi, chare, tuum concede, tuoque Auxilio nares fallere, vimque canum. Me meus, ut nosti, pes prodit--fidus amicus Fert quodcunque, lubens, nec grave sentit, onus. Belle, miselle lepuscule, (equus respondet) amara Omnia quæ tibi sunt, sunt et amara mihi. Verum age--sume animos--multi, me pone, bonique Adveniunt, quorum sis citò salvus ope. Proximus armenti dominus bos solicitatus Auxilium his verbis se dare posse negat: Quando quadrupedum, quot vivunt, nullus amicum Me nescire potest usque fuisse tibi, Libertate æquus, quam cedit amicus amico, Utar, et absque metu ne tibi displiceam; Hinc me mandat amor. Juxta istum messis acervum Me mea, præ cunctis chara, juvenca manet; Et quis non ultro quæcunque negotia linquit, Pareat ut dominæ cum vocat ipsa suæ? Nec me crudelem dicas--discedo--sed hircus, Cujus ope effugias integer, hircus adest. Febrem (ait hircus) habes. Heu, sicca ut lumina languent! Utque caput, collo deficiente, jacet! Hirsutum mihi tergum; et forsan læserit ægrum, Vellere eris melius fultus, ovisque venit. Me mihi fecit onus natura, ovis inquit, anhelans Sustineo lanæ pondera tanta meæ; Me nec velocem nec fortem jacto, solentque Nos etiam sævi dilacerare canes. Ultimus accedit vitulus, vitulumque precatur, Ut periturum alias ocyus eripiat. Remne ergo, respondet vitulus, suscepero tantam, Non depulsus adhuc ubere, natus heri? Te, quem maturi canibus validique relinquunt, Incolumem potero reddere parvus ego? Præterea tollens quem illi aversantur, amicis Forte parum videar consuluisse meis. Ignoscas oro. Fidissima dissociantur Corda, et tale tibi sat liquet esse meum. Ecce autem ad calces canis est! te quanta perempto Tristitia est nobis ingruitura!--Vale!

AVARUS ET PLUTUS.

Icta fenestra Euri flatu stridebat, avarus Ex somno trepidus surgit, opumque memor. Lata silenter humi ponit vestigia, quemque Respicit ad sonitum, respiciensque tremit; Angustissima quæque foramina lampade visit, Ad vectes, obices, fertque refertque manum. Dein reserat crebris junctam compagibus arcam Exultansque omnes conspicit intus opes. Sed tandem furiis ultricibus actus ob artes Queis sua res tenuis creverat in cumulum. Contortis manibus nunc stat, nunc pectora pulsans Aurum execratur, perniciemque vocat; O mihi, ait, misero mens quam tranquilla fuisset, Hoc celasset adhuc si modo terra malum! Nunc autem virtus ipsa est venalis; et aurum Quid contra vitii tormina sæva valet? O inimicum aurum? O homini infestissima pestis; Cui datur illecebras vincere posse tuas? Aurum homines suasit contemnere quicquid honestum est, Et præter nomen nil retinere boni. Aurum cuncta mali per terras semina sparsit; Aurum nocturnis furibus arma dedit. Bella docet fortes, timidosque ad pessima ducit, Foedifragas artes, multiplicesque dolos, Nec vitii quicquam est, quod non inveneris ortum Ex malesuadâ auri sacrilegâque fame. Dixit, et ingemuit; Plutusque suum sibi numen Ante oculos, irâ fervidus, ipse stetit. Arcam clausit avarus, et ora horrentia rugis Ostendens; tremulum sic Deus increpuit. Questibus his raucis mihi cur, stulte, obstrepis aures? Ista tui similis tristia quisque canit. Commaculavi egone humanum genus, improbe? Culpa, Dum rapis, et captas omnia, culpa tua est. Mene execrandum censes, quia tam pretiosa Criminibus fiunt perniciosa tuis? Virtutis specie, pulchro ceu pallio amictus Quisque catus nebulo sordida facta tegit. Atque suis manibus commissa potentia, durum Et dirum subito vergit ad imperium. Hinc, nimium dum latro aurum detrudit in arcam. Idem aurum latet in pectore pestis edax. Nutrit avaritiam et fastum, suspendere adunco Suadet naso inopes, et vitium omne docet. Auri et larga probo si copia contigit, instar Roris dilapsi ex æthere cuncta beat: Tum, quasi numen inesset, alit, fovet, educat orbos, Et viduas lacrymis ora rigare vetat. Quo sua crimina jure auro derivet avarus, Aurum animæ pretium qui cupit atque capit? Lege pari gladium incuset sicarius atrox Cæso homine, et ferrum judicet esse reum.

PAPILIO ET LIMAX.

Qui subito ex imis rerum in fastigia surgit, Nativas sordes, quicquid agatur, olet.

EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN.

ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT.

Thou mayst of double ignorance boast, Who know'st not that thou nothing know'st.

PRUDENT SIMPLICITY.

That thou mayst injure no man, dove-like be, And serpent-like, that none may injure thee!

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS.

I wish thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend; For when at worst, they say, things always mend.

RETALIATION.

The works of ancient bards divine, Aulus, thou scorn'st to read; And should posterity read thine, It would be strange indeed! When little more than boy in age, I deem'd myself almost a sage: But now seem worthier to be styled, For ignorance, almost a child.

SUNSET AND SUNRISE.

Contemplate, when the sun declines, Thy death with deep reflection! And when again he rising shines, The day of resurrection!

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

VIRGIL, OVID, HORACE, AND HOMER.

THE SALAD, BY VIRGIL.

The winter night now well nigh worn away, The wakeful cock proclaim'd approaching day, When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm, Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to provide Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied, By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook, And, poking in the dark, explored the nook Where embers slept with ashes heap'd around, And with burnt fingers' ends the treasure found. It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose, Sure proof of latent fire some smoke arose; When, trimming with a pin the incrusted tow, And stooping it towards the coals below, He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite The lingering flame, and gains at length a light. With prudent heed he spreads his hand before The quivering lamp, and opes his granary door. Small was his stock, but taking for the day A measured stint of twice eight pounds away, With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand, Fix'd in the wall, affords his lamp a stand: Then baring both his arms--a sleeveless coat He girds, the rough exuviæ of a goat: And with a rubber, for that use design'd, Cleansing his mill within--begins to grind; Each hand has its employ; labouring amain, This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain. The stone, revolving rapidly, now glows, And the bruised corn a mealy current flows; While he, to make his heavy labour light, Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right; And chants with rudest accent, to beguile His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while. And now, "Dame Cybale, come forth!" he cries; But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies. From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid, Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd. With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin, Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin, Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet, Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat. Such, summon'd oft, she came; at his command Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd, And made in haste her simmering skillet steam, Replenish'd newly from the neighbouring stream. The labours of the mill perform'd, a sieve The mingled flour and bran must next receive, Which shaken oft shoots Ceres through refined, And better dress'd, her husks all left behind. This done, at once his future plain repast Unleaven'd on a shaven board he cast, With tepid lymph first largely soak'd it all, Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball, And spreading it again with both hands wide, With sprinkled salt the stiffen'd mass supplied; At length the stubborn substance, duly wrought, Takes from his palms impress'd the shape it ought, Becomes an orb--and quarter'd into shares, The faithful mark of just division bears, Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space, For Cybale before had swept the place, And there, with tiles and embers overspread, She leaves it--reeking in its sultry bed. Nor Simulus, while Vulcan thus alone His part perform'd, proves heedless of his own, But sedulous, not merely to subdue His hunger, but to please his palate too, Prepares more savoury food. His chimney side Could boast no gammon, salted well and dried And hook'd behind him; but sufficient store Of bundled anise and a cheese it bore; A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strung With a tough broom twig, in the corner hung; The prudent hero, therefore, with address And quick despatch, now seeks another mess. Close to his cottage lay a garden ground. With reeds and osiers sparely girt around: Small was the spot, but liberal to produce; Nor wanted aught to serve a peasant's use, And sometimes e'en the rich would borrow thence, Although its tillage was its sole expense. For oft as from his toils abroad he ceased, Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast, His debt of culture here he duly paid, And only left the plough to wield the spade. He knew to give each plant the soil it needs, To drill the ground and cover close the seeds; And could with ease compel the wanton rill To turn and wind obedient to his will. There flourish'd star-wort, and the branching beet, The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet, The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind, The noxious poppy--quencher of the mind! Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board, The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd; But these (for none his appetite controll'd With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold; With broom twigs neatly bound, each kind apart, He bore them ever to the public mart: Whence laden still, but with a lighter load, Of cash well earn'd he took his homeward road, Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome, His gains in flesh-meat for a feast at home. There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red, Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed: On scallions sliced, or, with a sensual gust, On rockets--foul provocatives of lust! Nor even shunn'd with smarting gums to press Nasturtium--pungent face-distorting mess! Some such regale now also in his thought, With hasty steps his garden ground he sought; There, delving with his hands, he first displaced Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast; The tender tops of parsley next he culls, Then the old rue bush shudders as he pulls; And coriander last to these succeeds, That hangs on slightest threads her trembling seeds. Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demands The mortar at his sable servant's hands; When, stripping all his garlick first, he tore The exterior coats, and cast them on the floor, Then cast away with like contempt the skin, Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. These, search'd, and perfect found, he one by one Rinsed, and disposed within the hollow stone. Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese, With his injected herbs he cover'd these, And, tucking with his left his tunic tight, And seizing fast the pestle with his right, The garlick bruising first he soon express'd, And mix'd the various juices of the rest. He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below, Lost in each other, their own powers forego, And with the cheese in compound, to the sight Nor wholly green appear nor wholly white. His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent, He cursed full oft his dinner for its scent; Or, with wry faces, wiping as he spoke The trickling tears, cried, "Vengeance on the smoke!" The work proceeds: not roughly turns he now The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow; With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills, Some drops of olive oil he next instils, Then vinegar with caution scarcely less, And gathering to a ball the medley mess, Last, with two fingers frugally applied, Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side. And, thus complete in figure and in kind, Obtains at length the salad he design'd. And now black Cybale before him stands, The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands, He glad receives it, chasing far away All fears of famine for the passing day; His legs enclosed in buskins, and his head In its tough casque of leather, forth he led And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair, Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed share.

June, 1799.

TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL.

ÆNEID, BOOK VIII. LINE 18.

This Italy was moved--nor did the chief Æneas in his mind less tumult feel. On every side his anxious thought he turns, Restless, unfix'd, not knowing what to choose. And as a cistern that in brim of brass Confines the crystal flood, if chance the sun Smite on it, or the moon's resplendent orb, The quivering light now flashes on the walls, Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof: Such were the wavering motions of his mind. 'Twas night--and weary nature sunk to rest. The birds, the bleating flocks, were heard no more. At length, on the cold ground, beneath the damp And dewy vault, fast by the river's brink, The father of his country sought repose. When lo! among the spreading poplar boughs, Forth from his pleasant stream, propitious rose The god of Tiber: clear transparent gauze Infolds his loins, his brows with reeds are crown'd: And these his gracious words to soothe his care: "Heaven-born, who bring'st our kindred home again, Rescued, and givest eternity to Troy, Long have Laurentum and the Latian plains Expected thee; behold thy fix'd abode. Fear not the threats of war, the storm is past, The gods appeased. For proof that what thou hear'st Is no vain forgery or delusive dream, Beneath the grove that borders my green bank, A milk-white swine, with thirty milk-white young, Shall greet thy wondering eyes. Mark well the place; For 'tis thy place of rest, there end thy toils: There, twice ten years elapsed, fair Alba's walls Shall rise, fair Alba, by Ascanius' hand. Thus shall it be--now listen, while I teach The means to accomplish these events at hand. The Arcadians here, a race from Pallas sprung, Following Evander's standard and his fate, High on these mountains, a well chosen spot, Have built a city, for their grandsire's sake Named Pallanteum. These perpetual war Wage with the Latians: join'd in faithful league And arms confederate, add them to your camp. Myself between my winding banks will speed Your well oar'd barks to stem the opposing tide. Rise, goddess born, arise; and with the first Declining stars seek Juno in thy prayer, And vanquish all her wrath with suppliant vows. When conquest crowns thee, then remember me. I am the Tiber, whose cærulean stream Heaven favours; I with copious flood divide These grassy banks, and cleave the fruitful meads. My mansion, this--and lofty cities crown My fountain head."--He spoke and sought the deep, And plunged his form beneath the closing flood. Æneas at the morning dawn awoke, And, rising, with uplifted eye beheld The orient sun, then dipp'd his palms, and scoop'd The brimming stream, and thus address'd the skies: "Ye nymphs, Laurentian nymphs, who feed the source Of many a stream, and thou, with thy blest flood, O Tiber, hear, accept me, and afford, At length afford, a shelter from my woes. Where'er in secret cavern under ground Thy waters sleep, where'er they spring to light, Since thou hast pity for a wretch like me, My offerings and my vows shall wait thee still: Great horned Father of Hesperian floods, Be gracious now, and ratify thy word." He said, and chose two galleys from his fleet, Fits them with oars, and clothes the crew in arms. When lo! astonishing and pleasing sight, The milk-white dam, with her unspotted brood, Lay stretch'd upon the bank, beneath the grove. To thee, the pious Prince, Juno, to thee Devotes them all, all on thine altar bleed. That live-long night old Tiber smooth'd his flood, And so restrain'd it that it seem'd to stand Motionless as a pool, or silent lake, That not a billow might resist their oars. With cheerful sound of exhortation soon Their voyage they begin; the pitchy keel Slides through the gentle deep, the quiet stream Admires the unwonted burden that it bears, Well polish'd arms, and vessels painted gay. Beneath the shade of various trees, between The umbrageous branches of the spreading groves, They cut their liquid way, nor day nor night They slack their course, unwinding as they go The long meanders of the peaceful tide. The glowing sun was in meridian height, When from afar they saw the humble walls, And the few scatter'd cottages, which now The Roman power has equall'd with the clouds; But such was then Evander's scant domain. They steer to shore, and hasten to the town. It chanced the Arcadian monarch on that day, Before the walls, beneath a shady grove, Was celebrating high, in solemn feast, Alcides and his tutelary gods. Pallas, his son, was there, and there the chief Of all his youth; with these, a worthy tribe, His poor but venerable senate, burnt Sweet incense, and their altars smoked with blood. Soon as they saw the towering masts approach, Sliding between the trees, while the crew rest Upon their silent oars, amazed they rose, Not without fear, and all forsook the feast. But Pallas undismay'd, his javelin seized, Rush'd to the bank, and from a rising ground Forbade them to disturb the sacred rites. "Ye stranger youth! What prompts you to explore This untried way? and whither do ye steer? Whence, and who are ye? Bring ye peace or war?" Æneas from his lofty deck holds forth The peaceful olive branch, and thus replies: "Trojans and enemies to the Latian state, Whom they with unprovoked hostilities Have driven away, thou seest. We seek Evander-- Say this--and say beside, the Trojan chiefs Are come, and seek his friendship and his aid." Pallas with wonder heard that awful name, And "Whosoe'er thou art," he cried, "come forth: Bear thine own tidings to my father's ear, And be a welcome guest beneath our roof." He said, and press'd the stranger to his breast: Then led him from the river to the grove, Where, courteous, thus Æneas greets the king: "Best of the Grecian race, to whom I bow (So wills my fortune) suppliant, and stretch forth In sign of amity this peaceful branch, I fear'd thee not, although I knew thee well A Grecian leader, born in Arcady, And kinsman of the Atridæ. Me my virtue, That means no wrong to thee--the Oracles, Our kindred families allied of old, And thy renown diffused through every land, Have all conspired to bind in friendship to thee, And send me not unwilling to thy shores. Dardanus, author of the Trojan state, (So say the Greeks,) was fair Electra's son; Electra boasted Atlas for her sire, Whose shoulders high sustain the ethereal orbs. Your sire is Mercury, whom Maia bore, Sweet Maia, on Cyllene's hoary top. Her, if we credit aught tradition old, Atlas of yore, the self-same Atlas, claim'd His daughter. Thus united close in blood, Thy race and ours one common sire confess. With these credentials fraught, I would not send Ambassadors with artful phrase to sound And win thee by degrees--but came myself-- Me, therefore, me thou seest; my life the stake: 'Tis I, Æneas, who implore thine aid. Should Daunia, that now aims the blow at thee, Prevail to conquer us, nought then, they think, Will hinder, but Hesperia must be theirs, All theirs, from the upper to the nether sea. Take then our friendship, and return us thine. We too have courage, we have noble minds, And youth well tried, and exercised in arms." Thus spoke Æneas--He with fix'd regard Survey'd him speaking, features, form, and mien. Then briefly thus--"Thou noblest of thy name, How gladly do I take thee to my heart, How gladly thus confess thee for a friend! In thee I trace Anchises; his thy speech, Thy voice, thy countenance. For I well remember Many a day since, when Priam journey'd forth To Salamis, to see the land where dwelt Hesione, his sister, he push'd on E'en to Arcadia's frozen bounds. 'Twas then The bloom of youth was glowing on my cheek; Much I admired the Trojan chiefs, and much Their king, the son of great Laomedon. But most Anchises, towering o'er them all. A youthful longing seized me to accost The hero, and embrace him; I drew near, And gladly led him to the walls of Pheneus. Departing, he distinguish'd me with gifts, A costly quiver stored with Lycian darts, A robe inwove with gold, with gold imboss'd Two bridles, those which Pallas uses now. The friendly league thou hast solicited I give thee, therefore, and to-morrow all My chosen youth shall wait on your return. Meanwhile, since thus in friendship ye are come, Rejoice with us, and join to celebrate These annual rites, which may not be delay'd, And be at once familiar at our board." He said, and bade replace the feast removed; Himself upon a grassy bank disposed The crew; but for Æneas order'd forth A couch spread with a lion's tawny shag, And bade him share the honours of his throne. The appointed youth with glad alacrity Assist the labouring priest to load the board With roasted entrails of the slaughter'd beeves, Well kneaded bread and mantling bowls. Well pleased, Æneas and the Trojan youth regale On the huge length of a well pastured chine. Hunger appeased, and tables all despatch'd, Thus spake Evander: "Superstition here, In this old solemn feasting, has no part. No, Trojan friend, from utmost danger saved, In gratitude this worship we renew. Behold that rock which nods above the vale, Those bulks of broken stone dispersed around, How desolate the shatter'd cave appears, And what a ruin spreads the incumber'd plain. Within this pile, but far within, was once The den of Cacus; dire his hateful form That shunn'd the day, half monster and half man. Blood newly shed stream'd ever on the ground Smoking, and many a visage pale and wan Nail'd at his gate, hung hideous to the sight. Vulcan begot the brute: vast was his size, And from his throat he belch'd his father's fires. But the day came that brought us what we wish'd, The assistance and the presence of a God. Flush'd with his victory, and the spoils he won From triple-form'd Geryon lately slain, The great avenger, Hercules, appear'd. Hither he drove his stately bulls, and pour'd His herds along the vale. But the sly thief Cacus, that nothing might escape his hand Of villainy or fraud, drove from the stalls Four of the lordliest of his bulls, and four The fairest of his heifers; by the tail He dragg'd them to his den, that, there conceal'd, No footsteps might betray the dark abode. And now, his herd with provender sufficed, Alcides would be gone: they as they went Still bellowing loud, made the deep echoing woods And distant hills resound: when, hark! one ox, Imprison'd close within the vast recess, Lows in return, and frustrates all his hope. Then fury seized Alcides, and his breast With indignation heaved: grasping his club Of knotted oak, swift to the mountain top He ran, he flew. Then first was Cacus seen To tremble, and his eyes bespoke his fears. Swift as an eastern blast, he sought his den, And dread, increasing, winged him as he went. Drawn up in iron slings above the gate, A rock was hung enormous. Such his haste, He burst the chains, and dropp'd it at the door, Then grappled it with iron work within Of bolts and bars by Vulcan's art contrived. Scarce was he fast, when, panting for revenge, Came Hercules; he gnash'd his teeth with rage, And quick as lightning glanced his eyes around In quest of entrance. Fiery red and stung With indignation, thrice he wheeled his course About the mountain; thrice, but thrice in vain, He strove to force the quarry at the gate, And thrice sat down o'erwearied in the vale. There stood a pointed rock, abrupt and rude, That high o'erlook'd the rest, close at the back Of the fell monster's den, where birds obscene Of ominous note resorted, choughs and daws. This, as it lean'd obliquely to the left, Threatening the stream below, he from the right Push'd with his utmost strength, and to and fro He shook the mass, loosening its lowest base; Then shoved it from its seat; down fell the pile; Sky thunder'd at the fall; the banks give way, The affrighted stream flows upward to his source. Behold the kennel of the brute exposed, The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chance Earth yawning to the centre should disclose The mansions, the pale mansions of the dead, Loathed by the gods, such would the gulf appear, And the ghosts tremble at the sight of day. The monster braying with unusual din Within his hollow lair, and sore amazed To see such sudden inroads of the light, Alcides press'd him close with what at hand Lay readiest, stumps of trees, and fragments huge Of millstone size. He, (for escape was none,) Wondrous to tell! forth from his gorge discharged A smoky cloud that darken'd all the den; Wreath after wreath he vomited amain, The smothering vapour mix'd with fiery sparks. No sight could penetrate the veil obscure. The hero, more provoked, endured not this, But with a headlong leap he rush'd to where The thickest cloud enveloped his abode. There grasp'd he Cacus, spite of all his fires, Till, crush'd within his arms, the monster shows His bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard, And his press'd eyeballs start. Soon he tears down The barricade of rock, the dark abyss Lies open; and the imprison'd bulls, the theft He had with oaths denied, are brought to light; By the heels the miscreant carcass is dragg'd forth, His face, his eyes, all terrible, his breast Beset with bristles, and his sooty jaws Are view'd with wonder never to be cloy'd. Hence the celebrity thou seest, and hence This festal day Potitius first enjoin'd Posterity: these solemn rites he first, With those who bear the great Pinarian name, To Hercules devoted; in the grove This altar built, deem'd sacred in the highest By us, and sacred ever to be deem'd. Come, then, my friends, and bind your youthful brows In praise of such deliverance, and hold forth The brimming cup; your deities and ours Are now the same, then drink and freely too." So saying, he twisted round his reverend locks A variegated poplar wreath, and fill'd His right hand with a consecrated bowl. At once all pour libations on the board, All offer prayer. And now, the radiant sphere Of day descending, eventide drew near. When first Potitius with the priests advanced, Begirt with skins, and torches in their hands. High piled with meats of savoury taste, they ranged The chargers, and renew'd the grateful feast. Then came the Salii, crown'd with poplar too, Circling the blazing altars; here the youth Advanced, a choir harmonious, there were heard The reverend seers responsive; praise they sung, Much praise in honour of Alcides' deeds; How first with infant gripe two serpents huge He strangled, sent from Juno; next they sung, How Troja and OEchalia he destroy'd, Fair cities both, and many a toilsome task Beneath Eurystheus (so his stepdame will'd) Achieved victorious. Thou, the cloud-born pair, Hylæus fierce and Pholus, monstrous twins, Thou slew'st the minotaur, the plague of Crete, And the vast lion of the Nemean rock, Thee hell, and Cerberus, hell's porter, fear'd, Stretch'd in his den upon his half-gnaw'd bones. Thee no abhorred form, not e'en the vast Typhoeus could appal, though clad in arms. Hail, true-born son of Jove, among the gods At length enroll'd, nor least illustrious thou, Haste thee propitious, and approve our songs. Thus hymn'd the chorus; above all they sing The cave of Cacus, and the flames he breathed. The whole grove echoes, and the hills rebound. The rites perform'd, all hasten to the town. The king, bending with age, held as he went Æneas and his Pallas by the hand, With much variety of pleasing talk Shortening the way. Æneas, with a smile, Looks round him, charm'd with the delightful scene And many a question asks, and much he learns Of heroes far renown'd in ancient times. Then spake Evander. These extensive groves, Were once inhabited by fauns and nymphs, Produced beneath their shades, and a rude race Of men, the progeny uncouth of elms And knotted oaks. They no refinement knew Of laws or manners civilized, to yoke The steer, with forecast provident to store The hoarded grain, or manage what they had, But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs, Or fed voracious on their hunted prey. An exile from Olympus, and expell'd His native realm by thunder-bearing Jove, First Saturn came. He from the mountains drew This herd of men untractable and fierce, And gave them laws: and call'd his hiding-place, This growth of forests, Latium. Such the peace His land possess'd, the golden age was then, So famed in story; till by slow degrees Far other times, and of far different hue, Succeeded, thirst of gold and thirst of blood. Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hosts From Sicily, and Latium often changed Her master and her name. At length arose Kings, of whom Tybris of gigantic form Was chief; and we Italians since have call'd The river by his name; thus Albula (So was the country call'd in ancient days) Was quite forgot. Me from my native land An exile, through the dangerous ocean driven, Resistless fortune and relentless fate Placed where thou seest me. Phoebus, and The nymph Carmentis, with maternal care Attendant on my wanderings, fix'd me here.

[Ten lines omitted.]

He said, and show'd him the Tarpeian rock, And the rude spot where now the Capitol Stands all magnificent and bright with gold, Then overgrown with thorns. And yet e'en then The swains beheld that sacred scene with awe; The grove, the rock, inspired religious fear. This grove, he said, that crowns the lofty top Of this fair hill, some deity, we know, Inhabits, but what deity we doubt. The Arcadians speak of Jupiter himself, That they have often seen him, shaking here His gloomy Ægis, while the thunder storms Came rolling all around him. Turn thine eyes, Behold that ruin; those dismantled walls, Where once two towns, Janiculum ----, By Janus this, and that by Saturn built, Saturnia. Such discourse brought them beneath The roof of poor Evander; thence they saw, Where now the proud and stately forum stands, The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the field. Soon as he enter'd--Hercules, he said, Victorious Hercules, on his threshold trod, These walls contain'd him, humble as they are. Dare to despise magnificence, my friend, Prove thy divine descent by worth divine, Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode. So saying, he led Æneas by the hand, And placed him on a cushion stuff'd with leaves, Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear.

[The Episode of Venus and Vulcan omitted.]

While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employ'd, Awaken'd by the gentle dawn of day, And the shrill song of birds beneath the eaves Of his low mansion, old Evander rose. His tunic, and the sandals on his feet, And his good sword well girded to his side, A panther's skin dependent from his left, And over his right shoulder thrown aslant, Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs follow'd him, His whole retinue and his nightly guard.

OVID, TRIST. BOOK V. ELEG. XII.

Scribis, ut oblectem.

You bid me write to amuse the tedious hours, And save from withering my poetic powers; Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flow From the free mind, not fetter'd down by woe; Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost, Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most. Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain, Or childless Niobe from tears refrain, Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train? Does grief or study most befit the mind To this remote, this barbarous nook confined? Could you impart to my unshaken breast The fortitude by Socrates possess'd, Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine, For what is human strength to wrath divine? Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so, My sufferings would have laid that wisdom low. Could I forget my country, thee and all, And e'en the offence to which I owe my fall, Yet fear alone would freeze the poet's vein, While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain. Add that the fatal rust of long disuse Unfits me for the service of the muse. Thistles and weeds are all we can expect From the best soil impoverish'd by neglect; Unexercised, and to his stall confined, The fleetest racer would be left behind; The best built bark that cleaves the watery way, Laid useless by, would moulder and decay-- No hope remains that time shall me restore Mean as I was, to what I was before. Think how a series of desponding cares Benumbs the genius and its force impairs. How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet, My verse, constrain'd to move with measured feet, Reluctant and laborious limps along, And proves itself a wretched exile's song. What is it tunes the most melodious lays? 'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise, A noble thirst, and not unknown to me, While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea. But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame? No, rather let the world forget my name. Is it because that world approved my strain, You prompt me to the same pursuit again? No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse, I charge my hopeless ruin on the muse, And, like Perillus, meet my just desert, The victim of my own pernicious art; Fool that I was to be so warn'd in vain, And, shipwreck'd once, to tempt the deep again. Ill fares the bard in this unletter'd land, None to consult, and none to understand. The purest verse has no admirers here, Their own rude language only suits their ear. Rude as it is, at length familiar grown, I learn it, and almost unlearn my own-- Yet to say truth, e'en here the muse disdains Confinement, and attempts her former strains, But finds the strong desire is not the power, And what her taste condemns the flames devour. A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom, And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome; But oh the cruel art, that could undo Its votary thus! would that could perish too!

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE IX.

Vides, ut altá stet nive candidum Soracte; . . . . .

Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow, The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow, The streams, congeal'd, forget to flow, Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile Of fuel on the hearth; Broach the best cask, and make old winter smile With seasonable mirth.

This be our part--let Heaven dispose the rest; If Jove command, the winds shall sleep, That now wage war upon the foamy deep, And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may, When to-morrow's pass'd away, We at least shall have to say, We have lived another day; Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er, Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII.

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus.

Boy, I hate their empty shows, Persian garlands I detest, Bring not me the late-blown rose, Lingering after all the rest. Plainer myrtle pleases me, Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine; Myrtle more becoming thee, Waiting with thy master's wine.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII.

Boy! I detest all Persian fopperies, Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting; Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee, Where latest roses linger. Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily) Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking Beneath my vine's cool shelter.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE X.

Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach, So shalt thou live beyond the reach Of adverse fortune's power; Not always tempt the distant deep, Nor always timorously creep Along the treacherous shore.

He that holds fast the golden mean, And lives contentedly between The little and the great, Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, Imbittering all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the power Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower Comes heaviest to the ground; The bolts that spare the mountain's side His cloudcapt eminence divide, And spread the ruin round.

The well-inform'd philosopher, Rejoices with a wholesome fear, And hopes in spite of pain; If Winter bellow from the north, Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth, And Nature laughs again.

What if thine heaven be overcast, The dark appearance will not last; Expect a brighter sky. The God that strings the silver bow Awakes sometimes the muses too, And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way, Thy magnanimity display, And let thy strength be seen: But O! if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in.

A REFLECTION ON THE FOREGOING ODE.

And is this all? Can Reason do no more Than bid me shun the deep, and dread the shore? Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea, The Christian has an art unknown to thee: He holds no parley with unmanly fears; Where Duty bids he confidently steers, Faces a thousand dangers at her call, And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XVI.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti.

Ease is the weary merchant's prayer, Who ploughs by night the Ægean flood, When neither moon nor stars appear, Or faintly glimmer through the cloud.

For ease the Mede with quiver graced, For ease the Thracian hero sighs, Delightful ease all pant to taste, A blessing which no treasure buys.

For neither gold can lull to rest, Nor all a Consul's guard beat off The tumults of a troubled breast, The cares that haunt a gilded roof.

Happy the man whose table shows A few clean ounces of old plate, No fear intrudes on his repose, No sordid wishes to be great.

Poor short-lived things, what plans we lay Ah, why forsake our native home? To distant climates speed away; For self sticks close where'er we roam.

Care follows hard, and soon o'ertakes The well-rigg'd ship, the warlike steed; Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes-- Not the wind flies with half her speed.

From anxious fears of future ill Guard well the cheerful, happy now; Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile, No blessing is unmix'd below.

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds, Thy numerous flocks around thee graze, And the best purple Tyre affords Thy robe magnificent displays.

On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd A rural mansion, neat and small; This lyre;--and as for yonder crowd, The happiness to hate them all.

THE FIFTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

A HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF THE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY FROM ROME TO BRUNDUSIUM.

'Twas a long journey lay before us, When I and honest Heliodorus, Who far in point of rhetoric Surpasses every living Greek, Each leaving our respective home, Together sallied forth from Rome. First at Aricia we alight, And there refresh, and pass the night, Our entertainment rather coarse Than sumptuous, but I've met with worse. Thence o'er the causeway soft and fair To Appii Forum we repair. But as this road is well supplied (Temptation strong!) on either side With inns commodious, snug, and warm, We split the journey, and perform In two days' time what's often done By brisker travellers in one. Here, rather choosing not to sup Than with bad water mix my cup, After a warm debate in spite Of a provoking appetite, I sturdily resolved at last To balk it, and pronounce a fast, And in a moody humour wait, While my less dainty comrades bait. Now o'er the spangled hemisphere Diffused the starry train appear, When there arose a desperate brawl; The slaves and bargemen, one and all, Rending their throats (have mercy on us!) As if they were resolved to stun us. "Steer the barge this way to the shore; I tell you we'll admit no more; Plague! will you never be content?" Thus a whole hour at least is spent, While they receive the several fares, And kick the mule into his gears. Happy, these difficulties past, Could we have fallen asleep at last! But, what with humming, croaking, biting, Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting, These tuneful natives of the lake Conspired to keep us broad awake. Besides, to make the concert full, Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull, The bargeman and a passenger, Each in his turn, essay'd an air In honour of his absent fair. At length the passenger, opprest With wine, left off, and snored the rest. The weary bargeman too gave o'er, And, hearing his companion snore, Seized the occasion, fix'd the barge, Turn'd out his mule to graze at large, And slept forgetful of his charge. And now the sun o'er eastern hill Discover'd that our barge stood still; When one, whose anger vex'd him sore, With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore; Plucks up a stake, with many a thwack Assails the mule and driver's back. Then slowly moving on with pain, At ten Feronia's stream we gain, And in her pure and glassy wave Our hands and faces gladly lave. Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's height We reach, with stony quarries white. While here, as was agreed, we wait, Till, charged with business of the state, Mæcenas and Cocceius come, The messengers of peace from Rome. My eyes, by watery humours blear And sore, I with black balsam smear. At length they join us, and with them Our worthy friend Fonteius came; A man of such complete desert, Antony loved him at his heart. At Fundi we refused to bait, And laugh'd at vain Aufidius' state, A prætor now, a scribe before, The purple-border'd robe he wore, His slave the smoking censer bore. Tired, at Muræna's we repose, At Formia sup at Capito's. With smiles the rising morn we greet, At Sinuessa pleased to meet With Plotius, Varius, and the bard Whom Mantua first with wonder heard. The world no purer spirits knows; For none my heart more warmly glows. O! what embraces we bestow'd, And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd! Sure, while my sense is sound and clear, Long as I live, I shall prefer A gay, good-natured, easy friend To every blessing Heaven can send. At a small village, the next night, Near the Vulturnus we alight; Where, as employ'd on state affairs, We were supplied by the purveyors, Frankly at once, and without hire, With food for man and horse, and fire. Capua next day betimes we reach, Where Virgil and myself, who each Labour'd with different maladies, His such a stomach, mine such eyes, As would not bear strong exercise, In drowsy mood to sleep resort; Mæcenas to the tennis-court. Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated, Above the Caudian tavern seated; His kind and hospitable board With choice of wholesome food was stored. Now, O ye Nine, inspire my lays! To nobler themes my fancy raise! Two combatants, who scorn to yield The noisy, tongue-disputed field, Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claim A poet's tribute to their fame; Cicirrus of true Oscian breed, Sarmentus, who was never freed, But ran away. We don't defame him; His lady lives, and still may claim him. Thus dignified, in harder fray These champions their keen wit display, And first Sarmentus led the way. "Thy locks," quoth he, "so rough and coarse, Look like the mane of some wild horse." We laugh; Cicirrus undismay'd-- "Have at you!"--cries, and shakes his head. "'Tis well," Sarmentus says, "you've lost That horn your forehead once could boast; Since, maim'd and mangled as you are, You seem to butt." A hideous scar Improved, 'tis true, with double grace The native horrors of his face. Well, after much jocosely said Of his grim front, so fiery red, (For carbuncles had blotch'd it o'er As usual on Campania's shore,) "Give us," he cried, "since you're so big, A sample of the Cyclop's jig! Your shanks methinks no buskins ask, Nor does your phiz require a mask." To this Cicirrus: "In return Of you, sir, now I fain would learn, When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave, Your chains you to the Lares gave? For though a scrivener's right you claim, Your lady's title is the same. But what could make you run away, Since, pigmy as you are, each day A single pound of bread would quite O'erpower your puny appetite?" Thus joked the champions, while we laugh'd, And many a cheerful bumper quaff'd. To Beneventum next we steer; Where our good host by over care In roasting thrushes lean as mice Had almost fallen a sacrifice. The kitchen soon was all on fire, And to the roof the flames aspire; There might you see each man and master Striving, amidst this sad disaster, To save the supper. Then they came With speed enough to quench the flame. From hence we first at distance see The Apulian hills, well known to me, Parch'd by the sultry western blast; And which we never should have past, Had not Trivicius by the way Received us at the close of day. But each was forced at entering here To pay the tribute of a tear, For more of smoke than fire was seen-- The hearth was piled with logs so green. From hence in chaises we were carried Miles twenty-four, and gladly tarried At a small town, whose name my verse (So barbarous is it) can't rehearse. Know it you may by many a sign, Water is dearer far than wine; There bread is deem'd such dainty fare, That every prudent traveller His wallet loads with many a crust; For at Canusium you might just As well attempt to gnaw a stone As think to get a morsel down: That too with scanty streams is fed; Its founder was brave Diomed. Good Varius (ah, that friends must part!) Here left us all with aching heart. At Rubi we arrived that day, Well jaded by the length of way, And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter: Next day no weather could be better; No roads so bad; we scarce could crawl Along to fishy Barium's wall. The Egnatians next, who by the rules Of common sense are knaves or fools, Made all our sides with laughter heave, Since we with them must needs believe That incense in their temples burns, And without fire to ashes turns. To circumcision's bigots tell Such tales! for me, I know full well That in high heaven, unmoved by care, The gods eternal quiet share: Nor can I deem their spleen the cause, While fickle Nature breaks her laws. Brundusium last we reach: and there Stop short the muse and traveller.

1759.

THE NINTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT. ADAPTED TO THE PRESENT TIMES, 1759.

Sauntering along the street one day, On trifles musing by the way-- Up steps a free familiar wight, (I scarcely knew the man by sight.) "Carlos," he cried, "your hand, my dear; Gad, I rejoice to meet you here! Pray Heaven I see you well?" "So, so; E'en well enough as times now go: The same good wishes, sir, to you." Finding he still pursued me close-- "Sir, you have business I suppose." "My business, sir, is quickly done, 'Tis but to make my merit known. Sir, I have read"--"O learned sir, You and your learning I revere." Then sweating with anxiety, And sadly longing to get free, Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't, Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short, Beckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near, And whisper'd nothing in his ear. Teased with his loose unjointed chat-- "What street is this? What house is that?" O Harlow, how I envied thee Thy unabash'd effrontery, Who darest a foe with freedom blame, And call a coxcomb by his name! When I return'd him answer none, Obligingly the fool ran on, "I see you're dismally distress'd, Would give the world to be released. But by your leave, Sir, I shall still Stick to your skirts, do what you will. Pray which way does your journey tend?" "O, 'tis a tedious way, my friend; Across the Thames, the Lord knows where, I would not trouble you so far." "Well, I'm at leisure to attend you." "Are you?" thought I, "the Deil befriend you." No ass with double panniers rack'd, Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd, E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull As I, nor half so like a fool. "Sir, I know little of myself, (Proceeds the pert conceited elf) If Gray or Mason you will deem Than me more worthy your esteem. Poems I write by folios As fast as other men write prose; Then I can sing so loud, so clear, That Beard cannot with me compare. In dancing too I all surpass, Not Cooke can move with such a grace." Here I made shift with much ado To interpose a word or two.-- "Have you no parents, sir, no friends, Whose welfare on your own depends?" "Parents, relations, say you? No. They're all disposed of long ago."-- "Happy to be no more perplex'd! My fate too threatens, I go next. Despatch me, sir, 'tis now too late, Alas! to struggle with my fate! Well, I'm convinced my time is come-- When young, a gipsy told my doom. The beldame shook her palsied head, As she perused my palm, and said: "Of poison, pestilence, and war, Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh, You have no reason to beware. Beware the coxcomb's idle prate; Chiefly, my son, beware of that. Be sure, when you behold him, fly Out of all earshot, or you die." To Rufus' Hall we now draw near Where he was summoned to appear, Refute the charge the plaintiff brought, Or suffer judgment by default. "For Heaven's sake, if you love me, wait One moment! I'll be with you straight." Glad of a plausible pretence-- "Sir, I must beg you to dispense With my attendance in the court. My legs will surely suffer for't." "Nay, prithee, Carlos, stop awhile!" "Faith, sir, in law I have no skill. Besides, I have no time to spare, I must be going you know where." "Well, I protest I'm doubtful now Whether to leave my suit or you!" "Me without scruple!" I reply, "Me by all means, sir!"--"No, not I. Allons, Monsieur!" 'Twere vain, you know, To strive with a victorious foe. So I reluctantly obey, And follow where he leads the way. "You and Newcastle are so close, Still hand and glove, sir--I suppose." "Newcastle, let me tell you, sir, Has not his equal every where." "Well. There indeed your fortune's made: Faith, sir, you understand your trade. Would you but give me your good word: Just introduce me to my lord, I should serve charmingly by way Of second fiddle, as they say: What think you, sir? 'twere a good jest. 'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest." "Sir, you mistake the matter far, We have no second fiddles there-- Richer than I some folks may be; More learned, but it hurts not me. Friends though he has of different kind, Each has his proper place assign'd." "Strange matters these alleged by you!" "Strange they may be, but they are true." "Well then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever, Now I long ten times more than ever To be advanced extremely near One of his shining character. Have but the will--there wants no more, 'Tis plain enough you have the power. His easy temper (that's the worst) He knows, and is so shy at first."-- "But such a cavalier as you-- Lord, sir, you'll quickly bring him to!" "Well; if I fail in my design, Sir, it shall be no fault of mine. If by the saucy servile tribe Denied, what think you of a bribe? Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow, But try my luck again to-morrow; Never attempt to visit him But at the most convenient time; Attend him on each levee day, And there my humble duty pay-- Labour, like this, our want supplies; And they must stoop who mean to rise." While thus he wittingly harangued, For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang'd, Campley, a friend of mine, came by-- Who knew his humour more than I; We stop, salute, and--"Why so fast, Friend Carlos? Whither all this haste?"-- Fired at the thought of a reprieve, I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve, Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout, Do every thing but speak plain out: While he, sad dog, from the beginning Determined to mistake my meaning, Instead of pitying my curse, By jeering made it ten times worse. "Campley, what secret (pray!) was that You wanted to communicate?" "I recollect. But 'tis no matter. Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter. E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tell Another time, sir, just as well." Was ever such a dismal day? Unlucky cur, he steals away, And leaves me, half bereft of life, At mercy of the butcher's knife; When sudden, shouting from afar, See his antagonist appear! The bailiff seized him quick as thought, "Ho, Mr. Scoundrel! Are you caught? Sir, you are witness to the arrest." "Ay, marry, sir, I'll do my best." The mob huzzas. Away they trudge, Culprit and all, before the judge. Meanwhile I luckily enough (Thanks to Apollo) got clear off.

TRANSLATION OF AN EPIGRAM FROM HOMER.[922]

[922] No title is prefixed to this piece, but it appears to be a translation of one of the Επιγραμματα of Homer called Ο Καμινος, or The Furnace. Herodotus, or whoever was the author of the Life of Homer ascribed to him, observes, "certain potters, while they were busied in baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and having heard much said of his wisdom, called to him, and promised him a present of their commodity, and of such other things as they could afford, if he would sing to them, when he sang as follows."

Pay me my price, potters! and I will sing. Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted arm Protect their oven; let the cups and all The sacred vessels blacken well, and, baked With good success, yield them both fair renown And profit, whether in the market sold Or streets, and let no strife ensue between us. But, oh ye potters! if with shameless front Ye falsify your promise, then I leave No mischief uninvoked to avenge the wrong. Come, Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes, come, And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread, Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house, May neither house nor vestibule escape, May ye lament to see confusion mar And mingle the whole labour of your hands, And may a sound fill all your oven, such As of a horse grinding his provender, While all your pots and flagons bounce within. Come hither, also, daughter of the sun, Circe the sorceress, and with thy drugs Poison themselves, and all that they have made! Come, also, Chiron, with thy numerous troop Of centaurs, as well those who died beneath The club of Hercules, as who escaped, And stamp their crockery to dust; down fall Their chimney; let them see it with their eyes, And howl to see the ruin of their art, While I rejoice; and if a potter stoop To peep into his furnace, may the fire Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith.

Oct. 1790.

COWPER'S LATIN POEMS.

MONTES GLACIALES, IN OCEANO GERMANICO NATANTES.

En, quæ prodigia, ex oris allata remotis, Oras adveniunt pavefacta per æquora nostras! Non equidem priscæ sæclum rediisse videtur Pyrrhæ, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes Et sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix leviora Adsunt, evulsi quando radicitus alti In mare descendunt montes, fluctusque pererrant. Quid vero hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu? Splendentes video, ceu pulchro ex ære vel auro Conflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis, Baccâ cærulea, et flammas imitante pyropo. Ex oriente adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellus Parturit omnigenas, quibus æva per omnia sumptu Ingenti finxere sibi diademata reges? Vix hoc crediderim. Non fallunt talia acutos Mercatorum oculos: prius et quam littora Gangis Liquissent, avidis gratissima præda fuissent. Ortos unde putemus? An illos Ves'vius atrox Protulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus Ætna? Luce micant propria, Phoebive, per aëra purum Nunc stimulantis equos, argentea tela retorquent? Phoebi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altis Appulsi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis, Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre est Multa onerata nive et canis conspersa pruinis. Cætera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma fere omnes Contristat menses, portenta hæc horrida nobis Illa strui voluit. Quoties de culmine summo Clivorum fluerent in littora prona, solutæ Sole, nives, propero tendentes in mare cursu, Illa gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere sese Mirum coepit opus; glacieque ab origine rerum In glaciem aggesta sublimes vertice tandem Æquavit montes, non crescere nescia moles. Sic immensa diu stetit, æternumque stetisset Congeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte, Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset, Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum Antra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore, Dum ruit in pelagum, tanquam studiosa natandi, Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim, Insula, in Ægæo fluitasse erratica ponto. Sed non ex glacie Delos; neque torpida Delum Bruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque. Sed vestita herbis erat illa, ornataque nunquam Decidua lauro; et Delum dilexit Apollo. At vos, errones horrendi, et caligine digni Cimmeria, Deus idem odit. Natalia vestra, Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueri Sustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite coelum! Ite! Redite! Timete moras; ni leniter austro Spirante, et nitidas Phoebo jaculante sagittas Hostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti!

March 11, 1799.

ON THE ICE ISLANDS SEEN FLOATING IN THE GERMAN OCEAN.

What portents, from what distant region, ride, Unseen till now in ours, the astonish'd tide? In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves. But now, descending whence of late they stood, Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood. Dire times were they, full charged with human woes; And these, scarce less calamitous than those. What view we now? More wondrous still! Behold! Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold; And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, And all around the ruby's fiery glow. Come they from India, where the burning earth, All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; And where the costly gems, that beam around The brows of mightiest potentates, are found? No. Never such a countless dazzling store Had left unseen the Ganges' peopled shore. Rapacious hands, and ever watchful eyes, Should sooner far have mark'd and seized the prize. Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come From Vesuvius', or from Ætna's burning womb? Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display The borrow'd splendours of a cloudless day? With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales that breathe Now landward, and the current's force beneath, Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight, Advantaged more, contemplates them aright. Their lofty summits crested high they show, With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow. The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe, Bleak winter well nigh saddens all the year, Their infant growth began. He bade arise Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below; He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile, And long successive ages roll'd the while; Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand, Tall as its rival mountains on the land. Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill Or force of man, had stood the structure still, But that, though firmly fix'd, supplanted yet By pressure of its own enormous weight, It left the shelving beach--and, with a sound That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, As if instinct with strong desire to lave, Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old How Delos swam the Ægean deep have told. But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crown'd with laurel, wore, E'en under wintry skies, a summer smile; And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle. But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you He deems Cimmerian darkness only due. Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey, But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away. Hence, seek your home, nor longer rashly dare The darts of Phoebus and a softer air; Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, In no congenial gulf for ever lost!

March 19, 1799.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION TO WILLIAM NORTHCOT.

Hic sepultus est Inter suorum lacrymas GULIELMUS NORTHCOT, GULIELMI et MARIÆ filius Unicus, unice dilectus, Qui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis, Aprilis die septimo, 1780. Æt. 10.

Care, vale! Sed non æternum, care, valeto! Namque iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero. Tum nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros, Nec tu marcesces, nec lacrymabor ego.

TRANSLATION.

Farewell! "But not for ever," Hope replies, Trace but his steps and meet him in the skies! There nothing shall renew our parting pain, Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep again.

IN SEDITIONEM HORRENDAM,

CORRUPTELIS GALLICIS, UT FERTUR, LONDINI NUPER EXORTAM.

Perfida, crudelis, victa et lymphata furore, Non armis, laurum Gallia fraude petit. Venalem pretio plebem conducit, et urit Undique privatas patriciasque domos. Nequicquam conata sua, foedissima sperat Posse tamen nostra nos superare manu. Gallia, vana struis! Precibus nunc utere! Vinces, Nam mites timidis, supplicibusque sumus.

TRANSLATION.

False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart, France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part, To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys, Bids the low street and lofty palace blaze. Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone, She hires the worst and basest of our own. Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers us with ease, We always spare a coward on his knees.

MOTTO ON A CLOCK.

WITH A TRANSLATION BY HAYLEY.

Quæ lenta accedit, quam velox præterit hora! Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto vigil!

Slow comes the hour; its passing speed how great! Waiting to seize it--vigilantly wait!

A SIMILE LATINIZED.

Sors adversa gerit stimulum, sed tendit et alas: Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED.

To the March in Scipio.

Toll for the brave! The brave that are no more All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

Sept. 1782.

IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, CUI GEORGIUS REGALE NOMEN INDITUM.

Plangimus fortes. Periêre fortes, Patrium propter periêre littus Bis quatèr centum; subitò sub alto Æquore mersi.

Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat, Malus ad summas trepidabat undas, Cùm levis, funes quatiens, ad imum Depulit aura.

Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam Fortibus vitam voluêre parcæ, Nec sinunt ultrà tibi nos recentes Nectere laurus,

Magne, qui nomen, licèt incanorum, Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti! At tuos olim memorabit ævum Omne triumphos.

Non hyems illos furibunda mersit, Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes, Fissa non rimis abies, nec atrox Abstulit ensis.

Navitæ sed turn nimium jocosi Voce fallebant hilari laborem, Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram im- pleverat heros.

Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque, Humidum ex alto spolium levate, Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos Reddite amicis!

Hi quidem (sic dîs placuit) fuêre: Sed ratis, nondum putris, ire possit Rursus in bellum, Britonumque nomen Tollere ad astra.

IN BREVITATEM VITÆ SPATII HOMINIBUS CONCESSI.

BY DR. JORTIN.

Hei mihi! lege ratâ sol occidit atque resurgit, Lunaque mutatæ reparat dispendia formæ, Astraque, purpurei telis extincta diei, Rursus nocte vigent. Humiles telluris alumni. Graminis herba virens, et florum picta propago, Quos crudelis hyems lethali tabe peredit, Cum Zephyri vox blanda vocat, rediitque sereni Temperies anni, foecundo è cespite surgunt. Nos domini rerum, nos, magna et pulchra minati, Cum breve ver vitæ robustaque transiit ætas, Deficimus; nec nos ordo revolubilis auras Reddit in æthereas, tumuli neque claustra resolvit.

ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE.

TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING.

Suns that set, and moons that wane, Rise and are restored again; Stars, that orient day subdues, Night at her return renews. Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth Of the genial womb of earth, Suffer but a transient death From the winter's cruel breath. Zephyr speaks; serener skies Warm the glebe, and they arise. We, alas! earth's haughty kings, We, that promise mighty things, Losing soon life's happy prime, Droop, and fade, in little time. Spring returns, but not our bloom; Still 'tis winter in the tomb.

Jan. 1784.

THE LILY AND THE ROSE.

The nymph must lose her female friend, If more admired than she-- But where will fierce contention end, If flowers can disagree?

Within the garden's peaceful scene Appear'd two lovely foes, Aspiring to the rank of queen, The Lily and the Rose.

The Rose soon redden'd into rage, And, swelling with disdain, Appeal'd to many a poet's page To prove her right to reign.

The Lily's height bespoke command, A fair imperial flower; She seem'd design'd for Flora's hand The sceptre of her power.

This civil bickering and debate The goddess chanced to hear, And flew to save, ere yet too late The pride of the parterre.

Yours is, she said, the nobler hue, And yours the statelier mien; And, till a third surpasses you, Let each be deem'd a queen.

Thus soothed and reconciled, each seeks The fairest British fair; The seat of empire is her cheeks, They reign united there.

IDEM LATINE REDDITUM.

Heu inimicitias quoties parit æmula forma, Quam raro pulchræ pulchra placere potest! Sed fines ultra solitos discordia tendit, Cum flores ipsos bilis et ira movent.

Hortus ubi dulces præbet tacitosque recessus, Se rapit in partes gens animosa duas; Hic sibi regales Amaryllis candida cultus, Illic purpureo vindicat ore Rosa.

Ira Rosam et meritis quæsita superbia tangunt, Multaque ferventi vix cohibenda sinu, Dum sibi fautorum ciet undique nomina vatum, Jusque suum, multo carmine fulta, probat.

Altior emicat illa, et celso vertice nutat, Ceu flores inter non habitura parem, Fastiditque alios, et nata videtur in usus Imperii, sceptrum, Flora quod ipsa gerat.

Nec Dea non sensit civilis murmura rixæ, Cui curæ est pictas pandere ruris opes. Deliciasque suas nunquam non prompta tueri, Dum licet et locus est, ut tueatur, adest.

Et tibi forma datur procerior omnibus, inquit, Et tibi, principibus qui solet esse, color, Et donec vincat quædam formosior ambas, Et tibi reginæ nomen, et esto tibi.

His ubi sedatus furor est, petit utraque nympham, Qualem inter Veneres Anglia sola parit; Hanc penes imperium est, nihil optant amplius, hujus Regnant in nitidis, et sine lite, genis.

THE POPLAR FIELD.

The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade, And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years had elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, And the scene where his melody charm'd me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can, To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a being less durable even than he.[923]

[923] Cowper afterwards altered this last stanza in the following manner:--

The change both my heart and my fancy employs, I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys; Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.

IDEM LATINE REDDITUM.

Populeæ cecidit gratissima copia silvæ, Conticuêre susurri, omnisque evanuit umbra. Nullæ jam levibus se miscent frondibus auræ, Et nulla in fluvio ramorum ludit imago.

Hei mihi! bis senos dum luctu torqueor annos, His cogor silvis suetoque carere recessu, Cum serò rediens, stratasque in gramine cernens, Insedi arboribus, sub queîs errare solebam.

Ah ubi nunc merulæ cantus? Felicior illum Silva tegit, duræ nondum permissa bipenni; Scilicet exustos colles camposque patentes Odit, et indignans et non rediturus abivit.

Sed qui succisas doleo succidar et ipse, Et priùs huic parilis, quàm creverit altera silva, Flebor, et, exequiis parvis donatus, habebo Defixum lapidem tumulique cubantis acervum.

Tam subitò periisse videns tam digna manere, Agnosco humanas sortes et tristia fata-- Sit licèt ipse brevis, voluerique simillimus umbræ! Est homini brevior citiùsque obitura voluptas.

VOTUM.

O matutini rores, auræque salubres, O nemora, et lætæ rivis felicibus herbæ, Graminei colles, et amoenæ in vallibus umbræ! Fata modò dederint quas olim in rure paterno Delicias, procul arte, procul formidine novi, Quam vellem ignotus, quod mens mea semper avebat, Ante larem proprium placidam expectare senectam. Tum demùm, exactis non infeliciter annis, Sortiri tacitum lapidem, aut sub cespite condi!

TRANSLATION OF PRIOR'S CHLOE AND EUPHELIA.

Mercator, vigiles oculos ut fallere possit, Nomine sub ficto trans mare mittit opes; Lenè sonat liquidumque meis Euphelia chordis, Sed solam exoptant te, mea vota, Chlöe.

Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Euphelia crines, Cum dixit, mea lux, heus, cane, sume lyram. Namque lyram juxtà positam cum carmine vidit, Suave quidem carmen dulcisonamque lyram.

Fila lyræ vocemque paro, suspiria surgunt, Et miscent numeris murmura moesta meis, Dumque tuæ memoro laudes, Euphelia, formæ, Tota anima intereà pendet ab ore Chlöes.

Subrubet illa pudore, et contrahit altera frontem, Me torquet mea mens conscia, psallo, tremo; Atque Cupidineâ dixit Dea cincta coronâ, Heu! fallendi artem quam didicere parum.

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD.

SPOKEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT AFTER HIS DECEASE.

Our good old friend is gone; gone to his rest, Whose social converse was itself a feast. O ye of riper years, who recollect How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect, Both in the firmness of his better day, While yet he ruled you with a father's sway, And when, impair'd by time, and glad to rest, Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest, He took his annual seat, and mingled here His sprightly vein with yours--now drop a tear! In morals blameless, as in manners meek, He knew no wish that he might blush to speak, But, happy in whatever state below, And richer than the rich in being so, Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed At length from one[924] as made him rich indeed. Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here! Go! garnish merit in a higher sphere, The brows of those, whose more exalted lot He could congratulate, but envied not! Light lie the turf, good senior, on thy breast; And tranquil, as thy mind was, be thy rest. Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame, And not a stone now chronicles thy name!

[924] He was usher and under-master of Westminster near fifty years, and retired from his occupation when he was near seventy, with a handsome pension from the king.

Abiit senex. Periit senex amabilis, Quo non fuit jucundior. Lugete vos, ætas quibus maturior Senem colendum præstitit; Seu quando, viribus valentioribus Firmoque fretus pectore, Florentiori vos juventute excolens Curâ fovebat patriâ; Seu quando, fractus, jamque donatus rude Vultu sed usque blandulo, Miscere gaudebat suas facetias His annuis leporibus. Vixit probus, purâque simplex indole, Blandisque comis moribus, Et dives æquâ mente, charus omnibus, Unius auctus munere. Ite, tituli! Meritis beatioribus Aptate laudes debitas! Nec invidebat ille, si quibus favens Fortuna plus arriserat. Placide senex, levi quiescas cespite, Etsi superbum nec vivo tibi Decus sit inditum, nec mortuo Lapis notatus nomine!

As Cowper's Version of Homer is not included in this Edition of his Works, it seems necessary to assign the reasons which have led to the omission.

Distinguished as this Version unquestionably is, beyond any preceding attempt, for its fidelity and close adherence to the Grecian Bard, as well as for other excellences which have already been specified, it has still failed in securing an adequate reception from the British public. In the religious portion of the community it is well known that a very general sentiment of regret exists that the author of the Task, whose muse was capable of such high moral flights, should have consumed so many years in this laborious enterprise. Under these circumstances, its re-publication here, appeared to be undesirable, especially as it would have added one-third to the cost of the present Edition, and as editions of Cowper's Homer are already before the public, and accessible to all who attach an interest to this portion of the Poet's Works.

THREE PAPERS, BY COWPER,

INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR.

"During Cowper's visit to Eartham, he kindly pointed out to me," Hayley observes, "three of his papers in the last volume of the 'Connoisseur.'--I inscribed them with his name at the time; and imagine that the readers of his Life may be gratified in seeing them inserted here. I find other numbers of that work ascribed to him, but the three following I print as his, on his own explicit authority. Number 119, Thursday, May 6, 1756--Number 134, Thursday, August 19,--Number 138, Thursday, Sept. 16."

No. CXIX.

Plenus rimarum sum, huc et illuc perfluo.

TER.

Leaky at bottom; if those chinks you stop, In vain--the secret will run o'er at top.

There is no mark of our confidence taken more kindly by a friend than the entrusting him with a secret, nor any which he is so likely to abuse. Confidants in general are like crazy firelocks, which are no sooner charged and cocked than the spring gives way, and the report immediately follows. Happy to have been thought worthy the confidence of one friend, they are impatient to manifest their importance to another; till, between them and their friend and their friend's friend, the whole matter is presently known to all our friends round the Wrekin. The secret catches as it were by contact, and like electrical matter breaks forth from every link in the chain, almost at the same instant. Thus the whole Exchange may be thrown into a buzz to-morrow, by what was whispered in the middle of Marlborough Downs this morning; and in a week's time the streets may ring with the intrigue of a woman of fashion, bellowed out from the foul mouths of the hawkers, though at present it is known to no creature living but her gallant and her waiting maid.

As the talent of secresy is of so great importance to society, and the necessary commerce between individuals cannot be securely carried on without it, that this deplorable weakness should be so general is much to be lamented. You may as well pour water into a funnel or sieve, and expect it to be retained there, as commit any of your concerns to so slippery a companion. It is remarkable that, in those men who have thus lost the faculty of retention, the desire of being communicative is always most prevalent where it is least justified. If they are entrusted with a matter of no great moment, affairs of more consequence will perhaps in a few hours shuffle it entirely out of their thoughts; but if any thing be delivered to them with an earnestness, a low voice, and the gesture of a man in terror for the consequence of its being known; if the door is bolted, and every precaution taken to prevent surprise, however they may promise secresy, and however they may intend it, the weight upon their minds will be so extremely oppressive, that it will certainly put their tongues in motion.

This breach of trust, so universal amongst us, is perhaps, in great measure owing to our education. The first lesson our little masters and misses are taught is to become blabs and tell-tales: they are bribed to divulge the petty intrigues of the family below stairs to papa and mamma in the parlour, and a doll or hobby-horse is generally the encouragement of a propensity, which could scarcely be atoned for by a whipping. As soon as children can lisp out the little intelligence they have picked up in the hall or the kitchen, they are admired for their wit; if the butler has been caught kissing the housekeeper in his pantry, or the footman detected in romping with the chamber-maid, away flies little Tommy or Betsy with the news; the parents are lost in admiration of the pretty rogue's understanding, and reward such uncommon ingenuity with a kiss or a sugar-plum.

Nor does an inclination to secresy meet with less encouragement at school. The gouvernantes at the boarding-school teach miss to be a good girl, and tell them every thing she knows: thus, if any young lady is unfortunately discovered eating a green apple in a corner: if she is heard to pronounce a naughty word, or is caught picking the letters out of another miss's sampler; away runs the chit who is so happy as to get the start of the rest, screams out her information as she goes; and the prudent matron chucks her under the chin, and tells her that she is a good girl and every body will love her.

The management of our young gentlemen is equally absurd; in most of our schools, if a lad is discovered in a scrape, the impeachment of an accomplice, as at the Old Bailey, is made the condition of a pardon. I remember a boy, engaged in robbing an orchard, who was unfortunately taken prisoner in an apple-tree, and conducted, under the strong guard of the farmer and his dairy-maid to the master's house. Upon his absolute refusal to discover his associates, the pedagogue undertook to lash him out of his fidelity; but, finding it impossible to scourge the secret out of him, he at last gave him up for an obstinate villain, and sent him to his father, who told him he was ruined, and was going to disinherit him for not betraying his school-fellows.

I must own I am not fond of thus drubbing our youths into treachery; and am much pleased with the request of Ulysses, when he went to Troy, who begged of those who were to have the care of young Telemachus, that they would above all things teach him to be just, sincere, faithful, and to keep a secret.

Every man's experience must have furnished him with instances of confidants who are not to be relied on, and friends who are not to be trusted; but few perhaps have thought it a character so well worth their attention, as to have marked out the different degrees into which it may be divided, and the different methods by which secrets are communicated.

Ned Trusty is a tell-tale of a very singular kind. Having some sense of his duty, he hesitates a little at the breach of it. If he engages never to utter a syllable, he most punctually performs his promise; but then he has the knack of insinuating by a nod, and a shrug well-timed, or a seasonable leer, as much as others can convey in express terms. It is difficult, in short, to determine whether he is more to be admired for his resolution in not mentioning, or his ingenuity in disclosing, a secret. He is also excellent at a doubtful phrase, as Hamlet calls it, or ambiguous giving out, and his conversation consists chiefly of such broken inuendoes as--"well I know--or I could--and if I would--or, if I list to speak--or there be, and if there might," &c.

Here he generally stops; and leaves it to his hearers to draw proper inferences from these piecemeal premises. With due encouragement however he may be prevailed on to slip the padlock from his lips, and immediately overwhelms you with a torrent of secret history, which rushes forth with more violence for having been so long confined.

Poor Meanwell, though he never fails to transgress, is rather to be pitied than condemned. To trust him with a secret is to spoil his appetite, to break his rest, and to deprive him for a time of every earthly enjoyment. Like a man who travels with his whole fortune in his pocket, he is terrified if you approach him, and immediately suspects that you come with a felonious intention to rob him of his charge. If he ventures abroad, it is to walk in some unfrequented place, where he is least in danger of an attack. At home, he shuts himself up from his family, paces to and fro his chamber, and has no relief but from muttering over to himself what he longs to publish to the world; and would gladly submit to the office of town-crier, for the liberty of proclaiming it in the market-place. At length, however, weary of his burden, and resolved to bear it no longer, he consigns it to the custody of the first friend he meets, and returns to his wife with a cheerful aspect, and wonderfully altered for the better.

Careless is perhaps equally undesigning, though not equally excusable. Entrust him with an affair of the utmost importance, on the concealment of which your fortune and happiness depend, he hears you with a kind of half attention, whistles a favourite air, and accompanies it with the drumming of his fingers upon the table. As soon as your narration is ended, or perhaps in the middle of it, he asks your opinion of his swordknot--condemns his tailor for having dressed him in a snuff-coloured coat instead of a pompadour, and leaves you in haste to attend an auction, where, as if he meant to dispose of his intelligence to the best bidder, he divulges it with a voice as loud as an auctioneer's; and, when you tax him with having played you false, he is heartily sorry for it, but never knew that it was to be a secret.

To these I might add the character of the open and unreserved, who thinks it a breach of friendship to conceal any thing from his intimates; and the impertinent, who, having by dint of observation made himself master of your secret, imagines he may lawfully publish the knowledge it cost him so much labour to obtain, and considers that privilege as the reward due to his industry. But I shall leave these, with many other characters which my reader's own experience may suggest to him, and conclude with prescribing, as a short remedy for this evil, that no man may betray the counsel of his friend--let every man keep his own.

No. CXXXIV.

Delicta majorum immeritus lues, Romane, donec templa refeceris Ædesque labentes Deorum, et Foeda nigro simulacra fumo.--HOR.

The tott'ring tow'r and mould'ring wall repair, And fill with decency the house of pray'r; Quick to the needy curate bring relief, And deck the parish-church without a brief.

MR. VILLAGE TO MR. TOWN.

Dear Cousin,--The country at present, no less than the metropolis, abounding with politicians of every kind, I begin to despair of picking up any intelligence that might possibly be entertaining to your readers. However, I have lately visited some of the most distant parts of the kingdom with a clergyman of my acquaintance: I shall not trouble you with an account of the improvements that have been made in the seats we saw, according to the modern taste, but proceed to give you some reflections which occurred to us in observing several country churches, and the behaviour of their congregations.

The ruinous condition of some of these edifices gave me great offence; and I could not help wishing that the honest vicar, instead of indulging his genius for improvements, by enclosing his gooseberry-bushes with a Chinese rail, and converting half an acre of his glebe land into a bowling-green, would have applied part of his income to the more laudable purpose of sheltering his parishioners from the weather during their attendance on divine service. It is no uncommon thing to see the parsonage-house well thatched, and in exceeding good repair, while the church, perhaps, has scarce any other roof than the ivy that grows over it. The noise of owls, bats, and magpies, makes the principal part of the church music in many of these ancient edifices; and the walls, like a large map, seem to be portioned out into capes, seas, and promontories, by the various colours by which the damps have stained them. Sometimes, the foundation being too weak to support the steeple any longer, it has been found expedient to pull down that part of the building, and to hang the bells under a wooden shed on the ground beside it. This is the case in a parish in Norfolk, through which I lately passed, and where the clerk and the sexton, like the two figures of St. Dunstan's, serve the bells in the capacity of clappers, by striking them alternately with a hammer.

In other churches, I have observed that nothing unseemly or ruinous is to be found, except in the clergyman, and the appendages of his person. The 'squire of the parish, or his ancestors, perhaps to testify their devotion and leave a lasting monument of their magnificence, have adorned the altar-piece with the richest crimson velvet, embroidered with vine-leaves and ears of wheat; and have dressed up the pulpit with the same splendour and expense; while the gentleman who fills it, is exalted in the midst of all this finery, with a surplice as dirty as a farmer's frock, and a periwig that seems to have transferred its faculty of curling to the band which appears in full buckle beneath it.

But if I was concerned to see several distressed pastors, as well as many of our country churches in a tottering condition, I was more offended with the indecency of worship in others. I could wish that the clergy would inform their congregations, that there is no occasion to scream themselves hoarse in making their responses; that the town-crier is not the only person qualified to pray with true devotion; and that he who bawls the loudest, may nevertheless be the wickedest fellow in the parish. The old women too in the aisle might be told, that their time would be better employed in attending to the sermon, than in fumbling over their tattered Testaments till they have found the text; by which time the discourse is near drawing to a conclusion: while a word or two of instruction might not be thrown away upon the younger part of the congregation, to teach them that making posies in summer-time, and cracking nuts in autumn, is no part of the religious ceremony.

The good old practice of psalm-singing is indeed wonderfully improved in many country churches, since the days of Sternhold and Hopkins; and there is scarce a parish clerk who has so little taste as not to pick his staves out of the new version. This has occasioned great complaints in some places, where the clerk has been forced to bawl by himself, because the rest of the congregation cannot find the psalm at the end of their prayer books; while others are highly disgusted at the innovation, and stick as obstinately to the old version as to the old style.

The tunes themselves have also been new set to jiggish measures, and the sober drawl, which used to accompany the two first staves of the hundredth psalm, with the 'Gloria Patri,' is now split into as many quavers as an Italian air. For this purpose there is in every county an itinerant band of vocal musicians, who make it their business to go round to all the churches in their turns, and, after a prelude with a pitch-pipe, astonish the audience with hymns set to the new Winchester measure, and anthems of their own composing.

As these new-fashioned psalmodists are necessarily made up of young men and maids, we may naturally suppose that there is a perfect concord and symphony between them; and, indeed, I have known it happen, that these sweet singers have more than once been brought into disgrace by too close a unison between the thorough-base and the treble.

It is a difficult matter to decide which is looked upon as the greatest man in a country church, the parson or his clerk. The latter is most certainly held in the higher veneration, where the former happens to be only a poor curate, who rides post every sabbath from village to village, and mounts and dismounts at the church door. The clerk's office is not only to tag the prayers with an amen, or usher in the sermon with a stave, but he is also the universal father to give away the brides, and the standing god-father to all the new-born bantlings. But in many places there is still a greater man belonging to the church than either the parson or the clerk himself. The person I mean is the 'squire; who, like the king, may be styled the head of the church in his own parish. If the benefice be in his own gift, the vicar is his creature, and of consequence entirely at his devotion: or, if the care of the church be left to a curate, the Sunday fees, roast beef and plum-pudding, and the liberty to shoot in the manor, will bring him as much under the 'squire's command as his dogs and horses.

For this reason the bell is often kept tolling, and the people waiting in the churchyard an hour longer than the usual time; nor must the service begin till the 'squire has strutted up the aisle and seated himself in the great pew in the chancel. The length of the sermon is also measured by the will of the 'squire, as formerly by the hourglass, and I know one parish where the preacher has always the complaisance to conclude his discourse, however abruptly, the minute that the 'squire gives the signal by rising up after his nap.

In a village church, the 'squire's lady, or the vicar's wife, are perhaps the only females that are stared at for their finery; but in the large cities and towns, where the newest fashions are brought down weekly by the stage-coach or wagon, all the wives and daughters of the most topping tradesmen vie with each other every Sunday in the elegance of their apparel. I could even trace their gradations in their dress according to the opulence, the extent, and the distance of the place from London. I was at a church in a populous city in the north, where the mace-bearer cleared the way for Mrs. Mayoress, who came sideling after him in an enormous fan-hoop, of a pattern which had never been seen before in those parts. At another church in a corporation town, I saw several Négligées with furbelowed aprons, which had long disputed the prize of superiority; but these were most wofully eclipsed by a burgess's daughter just come from London, who appeared in a Trollope or Slammerkin with treble ruffles to the cuffs, pinked and gimped, and the sides of the petticoat drawn up in festoons. In some lesser borough towns, the contest I found lay between three or four black and green bibs and aprons; at one, a grocer's wife attracted our eyes by a new-fashioned cap called a Joan, and at another, they were wholly taken up by a mercer's daughter in a nun's hood.

I need not say any thing of the behaviour of the congregation in these more polite places of religious resort; as the same genteel ceremonies are practised there as at the most fashionable churches in town. The ladies, immediately on their entrance, breathe a pious ejaculation through their fan-sticks, and the beaux very gravely address themselves to the haberdashers' bills, glewed upon the lining of their hats. This pious duty is no sooner performed, than the exercise of bowing and courtseying succeeds: the locking and unlocking of the pews drowns the reader's voice at the beginning of the service; and the rustling of silks, added to the whispering and tittering of so much good company, renders him totally unintelligible to the very end of it.

I am, dear cousin, yours, &c.

No. CXXXVIII.

Servatâ semper lege et ratione loquendi.--JUV.

Your talk to decency and reason suit, Nor prate like fools, or gabble like a brute!

In the comedy of "The Frenchman in London," which, we are told, was acted at Paris with universal applause for several nights together, there is a character of a rough Englishman, who is represented as quite unskilled in the graces of conversation, and his dialogue consists almost entirely of a repetition of the common salutation of--"How do you do?--How do you do?" Our nation has, indeed, been generally supposed to be of a sullen and uncommunicative disposition; while, on the other hand, the loquacious French have been allowed to possess the art of conversing beyond all other people. The Englishman requires to be wound up frequently, and stops very soon; but the Frenchman runs on in a continued alarum. Yet it must be acknowledged, that, as the English consist of very different humours, their manner of discourse admits of great variety; but the whole French nation converse alike, and there is no difference in their address between a marquis and a valet-de-chambre. We may frequently see a couple of French barbers accosting each other in the street, and paying their compliments with the same volubility of speech, the same grimace and action, as two courtiers in the Tuileries.

I shall not attempt to lay down any particular rules for conversation, but rather point out such faults in discourse and behaviour as render the company of half mankind rather tedious than amusing. It is in vain, indeed, to look for conversation, where we might expect to find it in the greatest perfection, among persons of fashion; there it is almost annihilated by universal card-playing; insomuch that I have heard it given as a reason why it is impossible for our present writers to succeed in the dialogue of genteel comedy, that our people of quality scarce ever meet but to game. All their discourse turns upon the odd trick and the four honours, and it is no less a maxim with the votaries of whist than with those of Bacchus, that talking spoils company.

Every one endeavours to make himself as agreeable to society as he can; but it often happens, that those who most aim at shining in conversation overshoot their mark. Though a man succeeds, he should not (as is frequently the case) engross the whole talk to himself; for that destroys the very essence of conversation, which is talking together. We should try to keep up conversation like a ball bandied to and fro from one to another, rather than seize it ourselves, and drive it before us like a football. We should likewise be cautious to adapt the matter of our discourse to our company, and not talk Greek before ladies, or of the last new furbelow to a meeting of country justices.

But nothing throws a more ridiculous air over our conversations than certain peculiarities, easily acquired, but very difficultly conquered and discarded. In order to display these absurdities in a truer light, it is my present purpose to enumerate such of them as are most commonly to be met with; and first to take notice of those buffoons in society, the attitudinarians and face-makers. These accompany every word with a peculiar grimace or gesture; they assent with a shrug, and contradict with a twisting of the neck; are angry with a wry mouth, and pleased in a caper or a minuet step. They may be considered as speaking harlequins, and their rules of eloquence are taken from the posture-master. These should be condemned to converse only in dumb show with their own person in the looking-glass; as well as the smirkers and smilers, who so prettily set off their faces, together with their words, by a je-ne-sçai-quoi between a grin and a dimple. With these we may likewise rank the affected tribe of mimics, who are constantly taking off the peculiar tone of voice or gesture of their acquaintance; though they are such wretched imitators, that (like bad painters) they are frequently forced to write the name under the picture, before we can discover any likeness.

Next to these, whose elocution is absorbed in action, and who converse chiefly with their arms and legs, we may consider the professed speakers. And first, the emphatical; who squeeze, and press, and ram down every syllable with excessive vehemence and energy. These orators are remarkable for their distinct elocution and force of expression; they dwell on the important particles of and the, and the significant conjunctive and, which they seem to hawk up with much difficulty out of their own throats, and to cram them with no less pain into the ears of their auditors.

These should be suffered only to syringe, as it were, the ears of a deaf man, through a hearing-trumpet; though I must confess, that I am equally offended with whisperers or low speakers, who seem to fancy all their acquaintance deaf, and come up so close to you, that they may be said to measure noses with you, and frequently overcome you with the exhalations of a powerful breath. I would have these oracular gentry obliged to talk at a distance through a speaking-trumpet, or apply their lips to the walls of a whispering-gallery. The wits who will not condescend to utter any thing but a bon-mot, and the whistlers or tune-hummers, who never articulate at all, may be joined very agreeably together in concert; and to these tinkling cymbals I would also add the sounding brass--the bawler, who inquires after your health with the bellowing of a town-crier.

The tattlers, whose pliable pipes are admirably adapted to the "soft parts of conversation," and sweetly "prattling out of fashion," make very pretty music from a beautiful face and a female tongue; but from a rough manly voice and coarse features, mere nonsense is as harsh and dissonant as a jig from a hurdy-gurdy. The swearers I have spoken of in a former paper; but the half-swearers, who split, and mince, and fritter their oaths into Gad's but, ad's fish, and demme, the Gothic humbuggers, and those who "nick-name God's creatures," and call a man a cabbage, a crab, a queer cub, an odd fish, and an unaccountable muskin, should never come into company without an interpreter. But I will not tire my reader's patience by pointing out all the pests of conversation; nor dwell particularly on the sensibles, who pronounce dogmatically on the most trivial points, and speak in sentences;--the wonderers, who are always wondering what o'clock it is, or wondering whether it will rain or no, or wondering when the moon changes; the phraseologists, who explain a thing by all that, or enter into particulars with this, that, and t'other; and lastly, the silent men, who seem afraid of opening their mouths lest they should catch cold, and literally observe the precept of the gospel, by letting their conversation be only yea, yea, and nay, nay.

The rational intercourse kept up by conversation is one of our principal distinctions from brutes. We should, therefore, endeavour to turn this peculiar talent to our advantage, and consider the organs of speech as the instruments of understanding. We should be very careful not to use them as the weapons of vice, or tools of folly, and do our utmost to unlearn any trivial or ridiculous habits which tend to lessen the value of such an inestimable prerogative. It is indeed imagined by some philosophers, that even birds and beasts (though without the power of articulation) perfectly understand one another by the sounds they utter; and that dogs and cats, &c., have each a particular language to themselves, like different nations. Thus it may be supposed that the nightingales of Italy have as fine an ear for their own native wood notes, as any signor or signora for an Italian air; that the boars of Westphalia gruntle as expressively through the nose as the inhabitants in High German; and that the frogs in the dykes of Holland croak as intelligibly as the natives jabber their Low Dutch. However this may be, we may consider those whose tongues hardly seem to be under the influence of reason, and do not keep up the proper conversation of human creatures, as imitating the language of different animals: thus, for instance, the affinity between chatterers and monkeys, and praters and parrots, is too obvious not to occur at once: grunters and growlers may be justly compared to hogs; snarlers are curs; and the spitfire passionate are a sort of wild cats, that will not bear stroking, but will pur when they are pleased. Complainers are screech-owls; and story-tellers, always repeating the same dull note, are cuckoos. Poets that prick up their ears at their own hideous braying are no better than asses; critics in general are venomous serpents that delight in hissing; and some of them, who have got by heart a few technical terms, without knowing their meaning, are no other than magpies. I myself, who have crowed to the whole town for near three years past, may perhaps put my readers in mind of a dunghill cock; but as I must acquaint them that they will hear the last of me on this day fortnight, I hope they will then consider me as a swan, who is supposed to sing sweetly in his dying moments.

73, CHEAPSIDE, LONDON, JANUARY, 1847.

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ADAM'S Roman Antiquities; or, an Account of the Manners and Customs of the Romans: designed to illustrate the Latin Classics, by explaining Words and Phrases from the Rites and Customs to which they refer. A New Edition (the Twelfth), with Numerous Notes, improved Indices, and Analytical Questions, by JAMES BOYD, LL.D. 7_s._ cloth.

ÆSCHYLUS.--Popular English Specimens of the Greek Dramatic Poets; with Introductory Essay, and Explanatory Notes (ÆSCHYLUS). 18mo. 5_s._

ÆSOP'S Fables, with upwards of One Hundred and Fifty Engravings. Chiswick Edition. 3_s._ 6_d._

AIKIN'S Calendar of Nature, designed for the instruction of young persons, with numerous Cuts. A New and Improved Edition. 18mo, half bound. 1_s._ 6_d._

AIKIN AND BARBAULD'S Evenings at Home; a Variety of Miscellaneous Pieces for the Instruction of the Young. 18mo. 4_s._

AINSWORTH.--A new Abridgment of Ainsworth's Dictionary, English and Latin, for the use of Grammar Schools. Into this edition are introduced several alterations and improvements, for the special purpose of facilitating the labour and increasing the knowledge of the young scholar. By JOHN DYMOCK, LL.D. Twenty-ninth Edition, 18mo. 7_s._ 6_d._ roan.

ANTHON'S Q. Horatii Flacci Poemata. The Works of Horace, with Explanatory Notes selected from the larger Edition. By CHARLES ANTHON, LL.D., Rector of the Grammar School, Columbia College. A New Edition, edited by JAMES BOYD, LL.D., one of the Masters of the High School, Edinburgh. 12mo. 7s_._ 6_d._ roan.

ANTHON'S Select Orations of Cicero; with an English Commentary, and Historical, Geographical, and Legal Indices. A New Edition, with additions and emendations, by JAMES BOYD, LL.D. 6_s._ roan.

ANTHON'S C. Crispi Sallusti de Catilinæ Conjuratione Belloque Jugurthino Historiæ Animadversionibus illustravit CAROLUS ANTHON, LL.D., Editio octava; accedunt Notulæ quaedam et Quaestiones cura JACOBI BOYD, LL.D. 5_s._ roan.

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ANTHON'S Cæsar's Commentaries of the Gallic War; and the First Book of the Greek Paraphrase; with English Notes, critical and explanatory, Plans of Battles, Sieges, &c., and Historical, Geographical, and Archæological Indices. The Fourth Edition, with a Map and many Cuts. 6_s._ roan.

ANTHON'S P. VIRGILII MARONIS ÆNEIS.--The Æneid of Virgil, with English Notes, Critical and Explanatory; a Metrical Clavis; and an Historical, Geographical, and Mythological Index. By CHARLES ANTHON, LL.D., Jay Professor of the Greek and Latin Languages in Columbia College, New York, and Rector of the Grammar School. Edited, with considerable alterations, and adapted to the use of English Schools and Colleges, by the REV. W. TROLLOPE, M.A. 12mo, roan, 7_s._ 6_d._

ANTHON'S Homer's Iliad--(the First Three Books)--according to the ordinary text, and also with the restoration of the Digamma; to which are appended English Notes, Critical and Explanatory, a Metrical Index and Homeric Glossary. A New Edition by BENJAMIN DAVIES, Ph.D. Lips. 12mo, roan, 7_s._ 6_d._

ANTHON'S First Latin Lessons, containing the most important parts of the Grammar of the Latin Language. Together with appropriate Exercises in the translating and writing of Latin, for the use of Beginners. The Second Edition, edited by Rev. W. HAYES, B.A., one of the Classical Masters, King's College, London. 4_s._ roan.

ANTHON'S Grammar of the Greek Language, for the Use of Schools and Colleges. The Second Edition, revised and corrected, by Rev. J. R. MAJOR, D.D., Head Master, King's College, London. 4_s._ roan.

ANTHON'S System of Greek Prosody and Metre, for the Use of Schools and Colleges, together with the Choral Scanning of the Prometheus Vinctus of Æschylus, and the Ajax and OEdipus Tyrannus of Sophocles. A New Edition, revised and corrected, by Rev. J. R. MAJOR, D.D., Head Master of King's College, London. 2_s._ 6_d._ roan.

BALDWIN'S History of Rome, from the Building of the City to the Ruin of the Republic, with Maps and Plates. Seventh Edition, roan, 3_s._ 6_d._

BALDWIN'S History of Greece, from the Earliest Records of that Country to the time in which it was reduced into a Roman Province. The Third Edition, for the use of Schools, roan, 3_s._ 6_d._

BALDWIN'S Fables, Ancient and Modern; adapted for the use of Children. The Eleventh Edition, roan, 4_s._

BALDWIN'S Pantheon; or, Ancient History of the Gods of Greece and Rome; for the use of Schools and Young Persons of both sexes. The Eighth Edition, roan, 5_s._

BARROW'S (Sir John) Memoir of the Life of Peter the Great. Cloth, 5_s._

BONNYCASTLE'S Scholar's Guide to Arithmetic; with Notes containing the proof of each Rule, together with some of the most useful properties of Numbers. A New Edition, enlarged and improved, by REV. E. C. TYSON, M.A. Roan, 3_s._ 6_d._

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BURGESS'S Rudiments of Hebrew Grammar, in Two Parts. Part I. A Table of Roots, with the Formation, Inflection, and Composition of Words. Part II. Treating of the Verb Regular and Irregular; with a Vocabulary of Nouns, Verbs, and Participles; and an Introduction to Reading with Points. Third Edition, by BURGESS, LORD BISHOP OF ST. DAVID'S, 12mo. 7_s._

BURGESS'S Hebrew Elements; a Practical Introduction to the Reading of the Hebrew Scriptures, in Four Parts, viz., 1. Hebrew Primer; 2. Syllabarium Hebraicum; 3. Hebrew Reader, Part 1; 4. Hebrew Reader, Part 2, for the Use of Schools. Fourth Edition. By BURGESS, LORD BISHOP OF ST. DAVID'S. 12mo. 6_s._

CAMPBELL'S Lives of the British Admirals, and Naval History of Great Britain, from the time of Cæsar to the Chinese War of 1841. With Engravings, 12mo. 7_s._ cloth.

CARPENTER'S Comprehensive Dictionary of English Synonymes. Third Edition, greatly enlarged. 18mo. 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth.

CICERO.--Select Orations of Cicero, translated into English; with Notes, Historical, Critical, and Explanatory. By WILLIAM DUNCAN. New Edition (Oxford), 8vo, cloth, 7_s._

COBBINS.--Pictorial School Hand-book to the Holy Bible, with Wood Engravings. 18mo. cloth, 2_s._

COTTIN'S Elisabeth, ou Les Exilés de Sibérie. Nouvelle Edition, par VENTOUILLAC. 18mo. Cloth. 2_s._ 6_d._

CRABB'S Dictionary of General Knowledge; or, an Explanation of Words and Things connected with the Arts and Sciences, illustrated with 580 Woodcuts. Fourth Edition, greatly enlarged. Cloth, 7_s._

DAVENPORT'S Walker's Pronouncing Dictionary and Expositor of the English Language; in which the meaning of every word is clearly explained, and the sound of every syllable distinctly shown, exhibiting the principles of a pure and correct pronunciation. A New Edition, revised and enlarged. 18mo. Cloth, 5_s._

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DUNCAN'S New Hebrew-English and English-Hebrew Lexicon, in Three Parts; to which is appended a New Hebrew Grammar. 18mo. Cloth, 7_s._

ENFIELD'S Speaker; or, Miscellaneous Pieces, selected from the best English Writers, and disposed under proper heads, with a view to facilitate the improvement of youth in reading and speaking. 12mo. Bound, 3_s._ 6_d._

ENFIELD'S Progressive Spelling Book; or, a New Introduction to Spelling and Reading; arranged in easy lessons, and adapted to the capacities of youth. Bound, 1_s._ 3_d._

ENTICK'S New Spelling Dictionary, in which the Parts of Speech are accurately distinguished, and the Syllables accented according to the just and natural Pronunciation of each Word, with a Comprehensive Grammar of the English Language. Square, 2_s._ 6_d._ bound.

EUCLID.--The Elements of Euclid, viz., the First 14 Books, together with the Eleventh and Twelfth, printed with a few variations and improvements. From the text of Dr. SIMSON. A New Edition, corrected and revised. By WILLIAM RUTHERFORD, F.R.A.S. 5_s._

ELLIS'S Collection of English Exercises, translated from the writings of Cicero only, for Schoolboys to re-translate into Latin; and adapted to the principal Rules in the Syntax of the Eton, Ruddiman's, and other Grammars. A New Edition, corrected and carefully revised, by REV. G. N. WRIGHT. Cloth, 3_s._ 6_d._

FINDLAY'S Modern Atlas: forming a complete Compendium of Geography, exhibiting in Thirty Maps, the Extent, Divisions, Physical and Political Arrangements of every Country in the known world; and containing the Latest Discoveries in the Polar Regions, Africa, Polynesia, &c.; with an Introduction, explaining the Construction and Use of Maps, and a Copious Index for reference to the Maps, showing the Latitude and Longitude of every Place contained in the Atlas. Royal 8vo.; for the use of Schools and Young Persons. Half-bound, 12_s._

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FINDLAY'S Ancient Atlas according to the latest Discoveries. Royal 8vo. half-bound. 12_s._

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GARTLEY'S Murray's Grammar and Exercises abridged, comprising the substance of his large Grammar and Exercises, with additional Notes and Illustrations. By G. GARTLEY, Teacher of English Grammar, &c., Glasgow. 2_s._

GEOGRAPHY and History, selected by a Lady for the use of her own Children. Enlarged and continued to the present time. By the Rev. G. N. WRIGHT, M.A. A New Edition, roan. 4_s._ 6_d._

GOLDSMITH'S Grammar of Geography for the Use of Schools, with Maps and Illustrations. A New Edition, by the Rev. G. N. WRIGHT, M.A. Roan 3_s._ 6_d._

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HOLLINGS'S Life of Gustavus Adolphus, surnamed The Great, King of Sweden. 18mo. 5_s._ cloth.

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HOMER'S (Rev. P.) Introduction to the Greek Tongue, for the Use of Schools, with Notes, intended to explain the Principles on which many of the Rules were established. 12mo, roan, 4_s._

HUTTON'S Course of Mathematics, composed for the use of the Royal Military Academy. A New and carefully corrected Edition, entirely remodelled and adapted to the course of Instruction now pursued in the Royal Military Academy, by W. RUTHERFORD, F.R.A.S. 8vo, cloth. 16_s._

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MANGNALL'S Historical and Miscellaneous Questions for the Use of Young People, with a Selection of British and General Biography, &c. A New Edition, corrected and enlarged, and continued to the present time, by the Rev. G. N. WRIGHT, M.A. With 41 Illustrations. Roan. 4_s._ 6_d._

MARMONTEL'S Choix des Contes Moraux. Nouvelle Edition, par VENTOUILLAC. 18mo, cloth. 2_s._ 6_d._

MAVOR'S English Spelling Book, accompanied by a Progressive Series of Easy and Familiar Lessons, intended as an Introduction to the Reading and Spelling of the English Language. Tegg's New and Improved Edition. 1_s._ 3_d._

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Transcriber's note:

Page 90: TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.[110] The footnote marker was added by the transcriber.

Minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.

Mismatched quotes are not fixed if it's not sufficiently clear where the missing quote should be placed.

The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.