The Land of the Sun.
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime;
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the light wings of zephyr, oppressed with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?
'Tis the clime of the East-'tis the land of the Sun; Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh, wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.
The Lion and the Unicorn.
The lion and the unicorn
Were fighting for the crown;
The lion beat the unicorn
All round the town.
Some gave him white bread;
Some gave him brown;
Some gave him plum-cake,
And sent him out of town.
Nostin qvae regio miscet myrteta cupressis,
Indicio populi qvalia facta sui;
Vulture qva sceleris furor est immanior, et qva
Solvitur in gemitus turturis instar amor?
Nostin laeta cedris late iuga, laeta Lyaeo,
Qva cum perpetuo flore perenne iubar;
Qva zephyri errantis suaves rosa verna per hortos
Qvamlibet admissam tardat odore fugam;
Pomiferae decus est ubi citrus olivaqve silvae,
Mutaqve non umqvam vox, Philomela, tua est;
Qva, cum terrarum color alter et alter Olympi,
Major, in ambiguo est, gloria cedat utri;
Qva rubet oceani clarissima purpura; qvaqve
Multa rosis virgo textile nectit opus,
Nectit, et ipsa rosis est mollior: omniaqve, unam
Excipias animi vim modo, plena Deo?
Haec regio est Orientis; et haec gratissima Phoebo:
Num spectat populi blandior ausa sui?
O, ut amatorum vox illa novissima, dirum est
Qvodqve solent animo volvere, qvodqve loqvi.
Grande Certamen.
Εμάχονθ ̓ ὁ λέων χώ μουνόκερως
περὶ τοῦ στεφάνου
καὶ μουνόκερων ὁ μὲν ἀντίδικος
περὶ πᾶν ἔκιζ ̓ ἄστυ διώκων·
ὁ δὲ δωρηθεὶς ἄρτοις λευκοῖς,
φαιοῖς δ ̓ ἑτέροις, ποπάνοις τ ̓ ἄλλοις
μυριοκάρποις
οὕτως ἔκδημος ἐπέμφθη.
O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; oh, if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; As thou, from year to year, hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
John Anderson.
John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven, John,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
Αηδὸν ἐν θαλλοῖσιν εὐφύλλοις λιγ
μέλπουσα, πᾶν ὅθ ̓ ἕσπερος κοιμᾷ νάπος,
ἣ τοῖς ἐρῶσιν ἐλπίδ ̓ ἐμβάλλεις νέαν,
ὡς προσπολουσῶν εὐφιλῆ θέρους πόδα
Ὡρῶν φαεινῶν σὸν γὰρ εὔμουσον μέλος,
ὑφ' οὗ ξυνάπτει βλέφαρον ἡμέρας ὕπνος,
κόκκυγος ἄφρον ἢν πάρος φθάσῃ φανὲν
στόμ ̓, αἰσίους ἔρωτος ἐξανδᾷ τύχας
πρός σ', εἰ χάριν τήνδ' ἐκ Διὸς θελκτηρίαν
ἡδεῖ ἔχει σου γῆρος, ἀλλὰ νῦν καλῶ
εἰς καιρὸν ᾆσαι, πρίν με τὴν ἀναρσίαν
ὄρνιν δύσορνιν, θάμνον ΐζουσαν πέλας,
ἀνέλπιδι ζυγέντα σημῆναι μόρῳ.
πάλαι γὰρ ᾄδουσ ̓ ἀλλ ̓ ἀεί ποθ ̓ ὑστέρα
πολλαῖς διαδοχαῖς οὐδὲν ὠφελεῖς ἐτῶν.
καίτοι δίκην τίν' εἶχες; εἴτε γάρ σ' Ερως
εἴτ ̓ οὖν ἑταίραν Μοῦσα κικλήσκειν φιλεῖ,
κείνοιν ὁμιλῶ δοῦλος ὢν ἀμφοῖν ἐγώ.
Nec turpem senectam Degere.
Pamphile, care senex, primo mihi cognitus aevo
Corvus eras crines, tempora marmor eras.
Nunc frons calva tibi, nivea est coma; sed mihi vernat
Bruma tui capitis, Pamphile, care senex.
Pamphile, care senex, nos collem ascendimus una,
Et laeti socios vidimus ire dies:
Nosqve iter emensos nexis declive lacertis
Una qvies iunget, Pamphile, care senex.
Jealousy cruel as the Grave.
Had it pleased heaven
To try me with affliction; had he rained.
All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head;
Steeped me in poverty to the very lips;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some place of my soul
A drop of patience; but, alas, to make me
A fixed figure for the hand of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at,—
O! O!
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there where I have garnered up my heart;
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up-to be discarded thence!
Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubim,
Ay, there, look grim as hell!
Deine Augen sind nicht himmelblau,
Dein Mund, er ist kein Rosenmund,
Nicht Brust und Arme Lilien.
Ach welch ein Frühling wäre das,
Wo solche Lilien, solche Rosen
Im Thal und auf den Höhen blühten,
Und alles das ein klarer Himmel
Umfinge, wie dein blaues Aug'!
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