For, believe me, ere long, when to manhood you

rise,

Though now, simple youth, as you follow, he flies; His pinions around you he'll suddenly spread, And familiarly flutter, and perch on your head.'

POLWHELE.

IDYLL.

FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

O'ER the smooth main,when scarce a zephyr blows
To break the dark blue ocean's deep repose,
I seek the calmness of the breathing shore,
Delighted with the fields and woods no more.
But when, white-foaming, heave the deeps on high,
Swells the black storm, and mingles sea with sky,
Trembling, I fly the wild tempestuous strand,
And seek the close recesses of the land.
Sweet are the sounds that murmur through the
wood
[flood;

While roaring storms upheave the dangerous
Then, if the winds more fiercely howl, they rouse
But sweeter music in the pine's tall boughs.
Hard is the life the weary fisher finds,
Who trusts his floating mansion to the winds,
Whose daily food the fickle sea maintains,
Unchanging labour, and uncertain gains.

Be mine soft sleep, beneath the spreading shade
Of some broad leafy plane inglorious laid,
Lull'd by a fountain's fall, that, murmuring near,
Soothes, not alarms, the toil-worn labourer's ear.

M.

THE STRAY CUPID.

FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

As Cupid from his mother Venus stray'd,
Thus, crying him aloud, the goddess said—
If any one a wandering Cupid see,
The little fugitive belongs to me.

And if he tell what path the rogue pursues,
My kisses shall reward him for the news:
But if he bring me back the boy I miss,
I'll give him something sweeter than a kiss.
So plain-so numerous are his marks, you'll own
That even among a score he may be known.
Flame colour'd is his glowing skin-not white;
Fierce are his eyes, that flash malignant light.
Smooth are his words, his voice as honey sweet,
Yet war is in his heart, and dark deceit!
Provoke him and his rage all check defies-
Frantic, in other's woe his pastime lies.
Bright clustering locks his lovely forehead grace,
But insolent expression marks his face.
Though little are his hands, those hands can fling
Darts e'en to Acheron, and the' infernal king.
Though bare his body, yet no art can find
A clue to trace the motions of his mind.
As the fleet bird, on airy pinions light,
From men to sighing maids he wings his flight;
Now here, now there, in many a circle strays,
Yet perching, on their vitals inly preys.
Lo! ready from his little bow to fly-

His arrow, swift though slight, can pierce the sky.
A golden quiver on his shoulder glows,

And holds the' imbitter'd darts for friends or foes.

E'en I their frequent wounds would vainly shun!
But his fell torch-its blaze e'en dims the sun!
If you secure the wanderer, bring him bound;
Nor mind him, though he cry and stamp the ground!
And trust him not, though smiling he appears;
Alike deceitful are his smiles and tears.
To kiss you, sweetly laughing, should he try,
Fly him-there's poison in his kisses-fly!
But if he say:
6 How idle your alarms!
Here, take my darts-my arrows-take my arms!'
Ah! touch them not-beware the treacherous aim;
His darts, his arrows, all are tipp'd with flame.

POLWHELE.

THE SACKING OF A CITY.

FROM THE GREEK OF ÆSCHYLUS.

BEFORE my sad presaging soul
What scenes of imaged horror roll!
I see the tender virgin's woe,
Ere yet her ripen'd beauties glow;
The hateful way I see her tread,
Forcibly torn from her sweet home:
Happier, far happier are the dead;
They rest within the silent tomb.
But, the walls humbled to the ground,
What dreadful miseries rage around!
Furious one leads the vengeful bands;
One stains with blood his reeking hands;
Wide roll, outrageous to destroy,

The dusky smoke, and torrent fires;
Whilst slaughtering Mars with hideous joy
The heaven-contemning rage inspires.

From house to house, from street to street*,
The crashing flames roar round, and meet;
Each way the fiery deluge preys,

And girds us with the circling blaze.
The brave, that midst these dire alarms
For their lost country greatly dare,
And fired with vengeance rush to arms,
Fall victims to the blood-stain'd spear.
The bleeding babe, with innocent cries,
Drops from his mother's breast, and dies.
See Rapine rushes, bent on prey,
His hasty step brooks no delay.
The spoiler, loaded with his store,
Envious the loaded spoiler views;
Disdains another should have more,
And his insatiate toil renews.

Thick on the earth the rich spoil lies:
For the rude plunderers' restless rolling tide,
Their worthless numbers waving wide,
Drop in their wild haste many a glittering prize.
Whilst, in her chaste apartment bred,

The trembling virgin, captive led,
Pours, in the anguish of her soul, the tear:
And, torn from all her heart holds dear,
The youthful bride, a novice yet in woe,
Obeys the haughty happy foe.

But ere such horrors blast my sight,
May these sad eyes close in eternal night!

POTTER.

* The translator makes no apology for adopting the interpretation of Pauw. Periti sciunt.

ELECTRA TAKING THE URN OF

ORESTES.

FROM THE GREEK OF SOPHOCLES.

During the absence of Agamemnon, Egysthus was left regent, and protector of his wife and children. Faithless to his trust, he intrigues with Clytemnestra: she murders her husband on his return; marries Ægysthus, and admits him as partner of her throne. To secure their power, they are bent on the murder of Orestes, heir to the crown, who would have fallen a sacrifice in his infancy, but for the affection of his sister Electra, who rescues him from death by privately sending him to Phocis. Meanwhile she hears frequent accounts of him, and cherishes a hope that when he has arrived at manhood he will return and be the avenger of his father. After the lapse of twenty years he arrives for that purpose, in company with his protector. To lull Clytemnestra into a fatal security, his companion relates to her that Orestes has been killed in a chariot race. A meeting between the brother and sister takes place, without any remembrance on either side. Orestes, mistaking Electra for one of the domestics, and desirous to keep his arrival a secret until the hour for vengeance should arrive, carries on the delusion by producing an urn in which his ashes are supposed to rest. Electra, believing him to be really dead, takes the urn in despair, and discovers herself by this passionate and beautiful address.

MOURNFUL remembrancer, whose orb contains
Whate'er of dear Orestes now remains,
How dead my hopes in thee, but lately sent
A blooming boy to happy banishment;
For now I bear whatever lived of thee
In this small record of mortality!

Oh had I died, before to foreign lands

I sent thee rescued from the murderer's hands! Then had we shared one melancholy doom, And peaceful slumber'd in thy father's tomb.