DIRGE AT HIS BROTHER'S TOMB.

FROM THE LATIN OF CATULLUS.

O'ER many a realm, o'er many an ocean toss'd,
I come, my brother, to salute thy ghost!
Thus, on thy tomb, sad honour to bestow,
And vainly call the silent dust below.
Thou too art gone, e'en thee I must resign,
My more than brother-ah! no longer mine.
The funeral rites to ancient Romans paid
Duly I pay to thy lamented shade.

Take them-these tears their heartfelt homage tell,
And now-all hail for ever, and farewell!

REV. F. HODGSON.

TO LESBIA.

FROM THE LATIN OF CATULLUS,

WHY will my wanton maid inquire,
How many kisses I desire?

Go, count the conscious stars, that see
How fond I nightly steal to thee;
Count every beaming glance that flies
From those more radiant stars-thy eyes;
Count every pant that heaves thy breast,
When to my panting bosom press'd;
Go, count the loves, that ambush'd dwell
In every dimple's rosy dell;

Or, fluttering, play on frolic wings
Through every tress that drops in rings;
Count every charm of every kind,

That decks thy face, thy form, thy mind;
Then, Lesbia, nor till then, inquire

How many kisses I desire.

F. LAURENCE.

PASTORAL ELEGY.

FROM THE LATIN OF TIBULLUS.

LET others pile their yellow ingots high,
And see their cultured acres round them spread;
While hostile borderers draw their anxious eye,
And at the trumpet's blast their sleep is fled.
Me let my poverty to ease resign;

While my bright hearth reflects its blazing cheer; In season let me plant the pliant vine,

And, with light hand, my swelling apples rear. Hope, fail not thou! let earth her fruitage yield;

Let the brimm'd vat flow red with virgin wine; For, still, some lone bare stump that marks the field, Or antique crossway stone, with flowers I twine, In pious rite; and, when the year anew

Matures the blossom on the budding spray, I bear the peasant's God his grateful due; And firstling fruits upon his altar lay.

Still let thy temple's porch, oh Ceres! wear The spiky garland from my harvest field; And, midst my orchard, gainst the birds of air, His threatening hook let red Priapus wield.

Ye too, once guardians of a rich domain,

Now of poor fields, domestic gods! be kind! Then, for unnumber'd herds, a calf was slain; Now to your altars is a lamb consign'd.

The mighty victim of a scanty soil,

A lamb alone shall bleed before your shrine; While round it shout the youthful sons of toil, 'Hail! grant the harvest! grant the generous wine!'

Content with little, I no more would tread
The lengthening road, but shun the summer day
Where some o'erbranching tree might shade my
head;

And watch the murmuring rivulet glide away.

Nor could I blush to wield the rustic prong, The lingering oxen goad; or some stray lamb, Embosom'd in my garment, bear along,

Or kid forgotten by its heedless dam.

Spare my small flock! ye thieves and wolves, assail
The wealthier cotes that ampler booty hold;
Ne'er for my shepherd due lustrations fail;
I soothe with milk the goddess of the fold.

Be present, Deities! nor gifts disdain

From homely board; nor cups with scorn survey, Earthen, yet pure; for such the ancient swain Form'd for himself, and shaped of ductile clay.

I envy not my sires their golden heap;

Their garners' floors with sheafy corn bespread; Few sheaves suffice: enough, in easy sleep

To lay my limbs upon the' accustom❜d bed.

How sweet! to hear, without, the howling blast, And strain a yielding mistress to my breast? Or, when the gusty torrent's rush has pass'd, Sink, lull'd by beating rains, to shelter'd rest!

Be this my lot; be his the' unenvied store,
Who the drear storm endures, and raging sea;
Ah! perish emeralds and the golden ore,

If the fond anxious nymph must weep for me!

Messala! range the earth and main, that Rome
May shine with trophies of the foes that fell;
But me a beauteous nymph enchains at home,
At her hard door a sleepless sentinel.

I heed not praise, my Delia! while with thee;
Sloth brand my name, so I thy sight behold;
Let me the oxen yoke; oh come with me!
On desert mountains I will feed my fold.

And, while I press'd thee in my tender arms,
Sweet were my slumber on the rugged ground;
What boots the purple couch, if cruel charms
In wakeful tears the midnight hours have
drown'd?

Not the soft plume can yield the limbs repose,

Nor yet the broider'd covering soothe to sleep; Not the calm streamlet that in murmurs flows, With sound oblivious o'er the eyelids creep.

Iron is he, who might thy form possess,

Yet flies to arms, and thirsts for'plunder's gains; What though his spear Cilician squadrons press, What though his tent be pitch'd on plunder'd

plains:

[sand;

In gold and silver mail conspicuous he
May stride the steed, that, pawing, spurns the

May I my last looks fondly bend on thee,

And grasp thee with my dying, faltering hand!

And thou wilt weep when, cold, I press the bier
That soon shall on the flaming pyre be thrown;
And print the kiss, and mingle many a tear;
Not thine a breast of steel, a heart of stone.

Yes-thou wilt weep. No youth shall thence

return

With tearless eye; no virgin homeward wend; But thou forbear to violate my urn,

[rend. Spare thy soft cheeks, nor those loose tresses Now Fate permits; now blend the sweet embrace; Death, cowl'd in darkness, creeps with stealing tread;

Ill suits with sluggish age love's sprightly grace,
And murmur'd fondness with a hoary head.
The light amour be mine; the shiver'd door;
The midnight fray; ye trumps and standards,
hence!

Here is my camp; bleed they who thirst for ore:
Wealth I despise in easy competence.

C. A. ELTON.

TO NEÆRA.

FROM THE LATIN OF TIBULLUS.

WHY should my vows, Neæra, fill the sky,
And the sweet incense blend with many a prayer?
Not forth to issue on the gazing eye

From marble vestibule of mansion fair.

Not that unnumber'd steers may turn my field,
And the kind earth its copious harvests lend:
But that with thee the joys of life may yield
Their full satiety, till life has end.

And, when my days have measured out their light;
And, naked, I must Lethe's bank survey;
I on thy breast may close my fading sight,
And feel my dying age fall soft away.