Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking, Brings life to the heart it shines o'er,

And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking, Made light what was darkness before.

But mute is the Day's sunny glory,

While thine hath a voice,* on whose breath, More sweet than the Syren's sweet story,†

My hopes hang, through life and through death!

MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.‡

BY PHILODEMUS.

My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown,

But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down
And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;
In short, she has woven such nets round my heart,
That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,
Unless I can find one that's dearer.

-

Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear,
And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear,
That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her;

• Ηματι γαρ σεο φεγγος ὁμοιον. αλλα το μεν που
Αφθογγον.

Συ δ'εμοι και το λάλημα φερεις
Κείνο, το Σειρήνων γλυκυερωτερον.

* Μικκη και μελανεύσα Φιλίννιον.

Ap. BRUNCK. X.

Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net,
And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget-
Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.

But 't is not her beauty that charms me alone,
'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone
From the depths of the grave could revive one:
In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom
I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb -
Unless I could meet with a live one.

STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING.*

BY MELEAGER.

STILL, like dew in silence falling,
Drops for thee the nightly tear;
Still that voice the past recalling,
Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
Still, still!

Day and night the spell hangs o'er me,
Here for ever fix'd thou art:

As thy form first shone before me,
So 'tis graven on this heart,
Deep, deep!

• Διει μοι δυνει μεν εν ουασιν ηχος Ερωτος.

Ap. BRUNCK. liii.

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
Dooms me to this lasting pain,
Thou who cam'st with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again?*
Why? why?

UP, SAILOR BOY, "TIS DAY.

UP, sailor boy, 'tis day!

The west wind blowing,

The spring tide flowing,

Summon thee hence away.

Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing? Chirp, chirp,- in every note he seem'd to say "Tis Spring, 'tis Spring.

Up boy, away,

Who'd stay on land to-day?

The very flowers

Would from their bowers

Delight to wing away!

Leave languid youths to pine

On silken pillows;

But be the billows

Of the great deep thine.

Ο πτανοι, μη και ποτ' εφιπτασθαι μεν, έρωτες,
Οιδατ', αποπτηναι δ' ουδ ὅσον ισχνετε.

Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, "Let us fly;"
While soft the sail, replying to the breeze,

Says, with a yielding sigh,
"Yes, where you please."
Up, boy! the wind, the ray,
The blue sky o'er thee,
The deep before thee,
All cry aloud, "Away!"

IN MYRTLE WREATHS.

BY ALCEUS.

IN myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover,
Like them of old whose one immortal blow

Struck off the galling fetters that hung over
Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.
Yes, lov'd Harmodius, thou 'rt undying;

Still midst the brave and free,

In isles, o'er ocean lying,

Thy home shall ever be.

In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning, Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade Leap'd forth like flame, the midnight banquet bright'ning,

And in the dust a despot victim laid.

Blest youths, how bright in Freedom's story Your wedded names shall be;

A tyrant's death your glory,

Your meed, a nation free!