And when I die, to friendship I entrust
In one small urn to mix our kindred dust; For as we loved on earth, the grave shall be Dearer than life in thy society.
FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES.
THE rites derived from ancient days
With thoughtless reverence we praise,
The rites that taught us to combine
The joys of music and of wine;
That bade the feast, the song, the bowl
O'erfill the saturated soul,
But ne'er the lute nor lyre applied
To soothe despair or soften pride,
Nor call'd them to the gloomy cells
Where Madness raves and Vengeance swells,
Where Hate sits musing to betray,
And Murder meditates his prey.
To dens of guilt and shades of care,
Ye sons of melody, repair,
Nor deign the festive hour to cloy
With superfluity of joy!
Ah, little needs the minstrel's power
To speed the light convivial hour;
The board with varied plenty crown'd
May spare the luxury of sound.
REPROOF OF DISCONTENT.
FROM THE GREEK OF MENANDER.
HADST only thou, of all mankind, been born
To walk in paths untroubled by a thorn,
From the first hour that gave thee vital air
Consign'd to pleasure, and exempt from care,
Heedless to wile away the day and night
In one unbroken banquet of delight,
Pamper each ruling sense, secure from ill,
And own no law superior to thy will;
If partial Heaven had ever sworn to give
This happy right as thy prerogative,
Then blame the gods, and call thy life the worst,
Thyself of all mankind the most accursed!
But if with us the common air you draw,
Subject alike to Nature's general law,
And on thy head an equal portion fall
Of life's afflicting weight imposed on all,
Take courage from necessity, and try
Boldly to meet the foe thou canst not fly.
Thou art a man, like others, doom'd to feel
The quick descent of Fortune's giddy wheel;
Weak human race! we strive to soar from sight
With wings unfitted to the daring flight;
Restless each fleeting object to obtain,
We lose in minutes what in years we gain:
But why shouldst thou, my honour'd friend,repine?
No grief peculiar or unknown is thine!
Though Fortune smile no more as once she smiled,
Nor pour her gifts on thee, her favourite child,
Patient and firm, the present ill redress,
Nor, by despairing, make thy little less.
Translations from the Minor Greek Poets.
THE COMPLAINT OF DANAE.
WHEN the wind resounding, high,
Bluster'd from the northern sky,
When the waves, in stronger tide,
Dash'd against the vessel's side,
Her care-worn cheek with tears bedew'd,
Her sleeping infant Danaë view'd.
And trembling still with new alarms,
Around him cast a mother's arms.
'My child! what woes does Danaë weep!
But thy young limbs are wrapp'd in sleep.
In that poor nook all sad and dark,
While lightnings play around our bark,
Thy quiet bosom only knows
The heavy sigh of deep repose.
The howling wind, the raging sea
No terror can excite in thee;
The angry surges wake no care,
That burst above thy long deep hair;
But couldst thou feel what I deplore,
Then would I bid thee sleep the more!
Sleep on, sweet boy! still be the deep!
Oh could I lull my woes to sleep!
Jove, let thy mighty hand o'erthrow
The baffled malice of my foe;
And may this child, in future years,
Avenge his mother's wrongs and tears!'
TO HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGEITON.
WITH myrtle will I braid my sword,
Such as the brave Harmodius bore; When Athens hail'd her rights restored, And proud Hipparchus was no more: Nor art thou, dear Harmodius, dead! Thine are the islands of the bless'd, Where Heroes old, stout Diomed,
And the swift son of Peleus rest.
My sword with myrtle will I braid,
Such as Aristogeiton bore;
When, at Minerva's shrine, the blade
Dropp'd with the victim tyrant's gore.
Dear patriot pair! your fame shall bloom
Immortal in the poet's strain;
Who, by the tyrant's righteous doom,
Bade Athens flourish free again.
HYMN TO HEALTH.
HEALTH, brightest visitant from heaven,
Grant me with thee to rest!
For the short term by Nature given
Be thou my constant guest!
For all the pride that wealth bestows,
The pleasure that from children flows,
Whate'er we court in regal state
That makes men covet to be great,
Whatever sweets we hope to find
In Love's delightful snare,
Whatever good by Heaven assign'd,
Whatever pause from care,
All flourish at thy smile divine;
The spring of loveliness is thine,
And every joy that warms our hearts
With thee approaches and departs.
ON A DAUGHTER WHO DIED YOUNG.
SWEET maid, thy parents fondly thought
To strew thy bride-bed, not thy bier;
But thou hast left a being fraught
With wiles and toils and anxious fear.
For her remains a journey drear,
For thee a bless'd eternal prime,
Uniting, in thy short career,
Youth's blossom with the fruit of time.
PAUL THE SILENTIARY.
THE OFFERING OF A DESERTED LOVER.
To thee the reliques of a thousand flowers,
Torn from the chaplet twined in gayer hours,
To thee the goblet carved with skill divine,
Erewhile that foam'd with soul-subduing wine,
The locks, now scatter'd on the dusty ground,
Once dropping odours and with garlands crown'd,
Outcast of pleasure, and of hope bereft,
Lais! to thee thy Corydon has left.
Oft on thy threshold stretch'd at close of day, He wept and sigh'd the cheerless night away,
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