True happiness we would not rate
By frequent visits to the great;
Nor hear the wrangling lawyer bawl,
Nor range proud statues round our hall:
Our chairs should take us to the play,
The walks, the baths should wile the day,
The field, the porch, the tennis court,
And study interchanged with sport.
But how unlike our real fate
Is this imaginary state!
We live not for ourselves-alas!
Youth's joyous suns neglected pass,
Change into night, and never more
Return to bless us as before.
Oh! who that held enjoyment's power
Would waste in pain one precious hour?
ON THE MAUSOLEUM OF AUGUSTUS.
FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
FILL high the bowl with sparkling wine,
Cool the bright draught with summer snow,
Amidst my locks let odours flow,
Around my temples roses twine.
See yon proud emblem of decay,
Yon lordly pile that braves the sky!
It bids us live our little day,
Teaching that gods themselves may die.
IMITATED FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
BETWEEN the pulpit and the bar
While thus you hesitate and trifle, You're growing older than old Parr :Johnny, indeed you waste your life ill. If towards the church your zeal draws strong, Three curacies are just now vacant: If not, the law goes on ding-dong
Rouse up, and try what you can make on't.
Let us, at least, an effort see
Be something, any thing for money! Zounds! while you're doubting what to be, You're likely to be nothing, Johnny!
FROM THE LATIN OF PETRONIUS.
FLOWERS, fair as those that Ida's hill o'erspread,
When blushing Juno press'd the mossy bed,
Where, robed by Beauty's queen in softer charms,
She clasped the glowing Thunderer in her arms,
Where azure harebells and musk roses bloom'd,
And lurking violets the breeze perfumed,
Blue, white, and red diversified the green,
And modest lilies smiled upon the scene:
Such were the flowers that deck'd that lonely grove
Where Circe bound me in the chains of love;
So soft the bank, so fragrant and so fair,
Where our fond sighs increased the gentle air.
FROM THE LATIN OF STATIUS.
WHEN by a thousand darts the Python slain
With orbs unroll'd lay covering all the plain
(Transfix'd as o'er Castalia's streams he hung,
And suck'd new poisons with his triple tongue),
To Argos' realms the victor-god resorts,
And enters old Crotopos' humble courts.
This rural prince one only daughter bless'd,
That all the charms of blooming youth possess'd;
Fair was her face, and spotless was her mind,
Where filial love with virgin sweetness join'd:
Happy! and happy still she might have proved,
Were she less beautiful or less beloved!
But Phoebus loved, and on the flowery side
Of Nemea's stream the yielding fair enjoy'd.
Now, ere ten moons their orb with light adorn,
The' illustrious offspring of the god was born;
The nymph, her father's anger to evade,
Retires from Argos to the silvan shade;
To woods and wilds the pleasing burden bears,
And trusts her infant to a shepherd's cares.
How mean a fate, unhappy child, is thine!`
Ah! how unworthy those of race divine!
On flowery herbs in some green covert laid,
His bed the ground, his canopy the shade;
He mixes with the bleating lambs his cries,
While the rude swain his rural music tries
To call soft slumbers on his infant eyes.
Yet e'en in those obscure abodes to live
Was more, alas! than cruel Fate would give;
For on the grassy verdure as he lay,
And breathed the freshness of the early day,
Devouring dogs the helpless infant tore,
Fed on his trembling limbs, and lapp'd the gore.
The' astonish'd mother, when the rumour came,
Forgets her father, and neglects her fame;
With loud complaints she fills the yielding air,
And beats her breast, and rends her flowing hair;
Then wild with anguish to her sire she flies,
Demands the sentence, and contented dies.
But touch'd with sorrow for the deed too late,
The raging god prepares to' avenge her fate.
He sends a monster, horrible and fell,
Begot by furies in the depths of hell.
The pest a virgin's face and bosom bears;
High on her crown a rising snake appears,
Guards her black front, and hisses in her hairs:
About the realm she walks her dreadful round,
When night with sable wings o'erspreads the
ground,
Devours young babes before their parents' eyes,
And feeds and thrives on public miseries.
But generous rage the bold Choroebus warms, Choroebus! famed for virtue as for arms; Some few, like him, inspired with martial flame, Thought a short life well lost for endless fame. These, where two ways in equal parts divide, The direful monster from afar descried, Two bleeding babes depending at her side; Whose panting vitals, warm with life, she draws, And in their hearts imbrues her cruel claws. The youths surround her with extended spears; But brave Choroebus in the front appears;
Deep in her breast he plunged his shining sword, And hell's dire monster back to hell restored. The Inachians view the slain with vast surprise, Her twisting volumes, and her rolling eyes,
Her spotted breast and gaping womb imbrued
With livid poison and our children's blood.
The crowd in stupid wonder fix'd appear,
Pale e'en in joy, nor yet forget to fear.
Some with vast beams the squalid corse engage,
And weary all the wild efforts of rage.
The birds obscene, that nightly flock'd to taste,
With hollow screeches fled the dire repast;
And ravenous dogs, allured by scented blood,
And starving wolves ran howling to the wood.
But fired with rage, from cleft Parnassus' brow
Avenging Phoebus bent his deadly bow,
And hissing flew the feather'd shafts below:
A night of sultry clouds involved around
The towers, the fields, and the devoted ground:
And now a thousand lives together fled,
Death with his scithe cut off the fatal thread,
And a whole province in his triumph led.
But Phoebus ask'd why noxious fires appear, And raging Sirius blasts the sickly year? Demands their lives by whom his monster fell, And dooms a dreadful sacrifice to hell.
Bless'd be thy dust, and let eternal fame
Attend thy manes and preserve thy name,
Undaunted hero! who, divinely brave,
In such a cause disdain'd thy life to save,
But view'd the shrine with a superior look,
And its upbraided godhead thus bespoke-
'With piety, the soul's securest guard,
And conscious virtue, still its own reward,
Willing I come, unknowing how to fear,
Nor shalt thou, Phoebus, find a suppliant here:
Thy monster's death to me was owed alone,
And 'tis a deed too glorious to disown.
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