But mute is the Day's sunny glory,

While thine hath a voice *, on whose breath, More sweet than the Syren's sweet story f, My hopes hang, through life and through death!

Ηματι γαρ στο φεγγος ὁμοιον, αλλα το μεν που
Αφθογγον.

Συ δ' εμοι και το λαλημα φερεις

Κείνο, το Σειρήνων γλυκυερωτερον.

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;

Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net,

And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forgetTill I light upon lips that are sweeter.

* Μικκη και μελανεύσα Φιλίννιον.

Ap. BRUNCK. x.

But 'tis 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!

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
Dooms me to this lasting pain,

* Αιει μοι δυνει μεν εν ουασιν ηχος Ερωτος.

Ap. BRUNCK. liii.

Thou who cam'st with so much fleetness, Why so slow to go again? *

Why? why?

* Ω πτανοι, μη και ποτ' εφιπτασθαι μεν, Ερωτες, Οιδατ', αποπτηναι δ' ουδ δσον ισχυετε.