Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
Even now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne.
Yet, D-r-t, let not this seduce thy soul,
To shun fair science, or evade control;
Though passive tutors,' fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol,-not to thee!
And, even in simple boyhood's opening dawn,
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn:
When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestined to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools;
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;"
Believe them not,-they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few, in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart! 't will bid thee, boy, forbear,
For well I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark'd, within that generous mind,
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind:
Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child,
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.

T is not enough, with other Sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour,
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names, that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot,
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll,
That well-emblazon'd, but neglected scroll,
Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find
One spot to leave a worthless name behind;-
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults;
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise;
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too;
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun,
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.

Turn to the annals of a former day,-
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;
One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British Drama forth.'
Another view! not less renown'd for Wit,
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine,
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me,
this little scene of joys and woes;

name,

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades, where Hope, Peace, and Friendship, all were

mine;

Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew ;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill, to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell-
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly through the dark blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.

D-r-t! farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For
me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe;
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;

No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice.
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought;
If these, but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,
Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain,
The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate,
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

1 "Thomas S-k-lle, Lord B-k-st, created Earl of D- by James the First, was one of the earliest and bright est ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first wbo produced a regular drama."-Anderson's British Poets.

2 Charles 8-k-lle, Earl of D-, esteemed the most accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of Wi liam III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch, in 1665, on the day previous to which be composed his celebrated song. His character has been drawn in the highest colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve Vide Anderson's British Poets.

Translations and Imitations.

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN

DYING.

ANIMULA! vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque, corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca?
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos.

TRANSLATION.

AH! gentle, fleeting, wavering Sprite, Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more, with wonted humour gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

"AD LESBIAM."

EQUAL to Jove that youth must be, Greater than Jove he seems to me, Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, Securely views thy matchless charms; Thai cheek, which ever dimpling glows, That mouth from whence such music flows, To him, alike, are always known, Reserved for him, and him alone. Ah! Lesbia! though 't is death to me, I cannot choose but look on thee; But, at the sight, my senses fly; I needs must gaze, but gazing die; Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, Parch'd to the throat, my tongue adheres, My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, My limbs deny their slight support; Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, With deadly languor droops my head, My ears with tingling echoes ring, And life itself is on the wing; My eyes refuse the cheering light, Their orbs are veil'd in starless night: Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, And feels a temporary death.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULIA

"LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERA"

YE Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread;
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she loved;
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom moved:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air;
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn,
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia's grief, I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee, my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow, Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay.

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.

TO ELLEN.

OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire;
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever;
E'en though the number did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour,
Could I desist?-ah! never-never.

TRANSLATION

OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.

HE who, sublime, in Epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's unequal hand alike control'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move.

The hand of Death is said to be unjust, or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus, at his decease.

TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON

TO HIS LYRE.

I WISH to tune my quivering lyre,
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire;
To echo from its rising swell,
How heroes fought, and nations fell;
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But, still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobier hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war my harp is due;

With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
All, all in vain, my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu! ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu! the clang of war's alarms.
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss, and sighs of flame.

ODE III.

TWAS now the hour, when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Bootes, only, seem'd to roll

His Arctic charge around the Pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or cease to weep;
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force:
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose;
"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"
"Alas!" replies the wily child,
In faltering accents, sweetly mild,
"A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home;
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast,
The mighty storm is pouring fast;
No prowling robber lingers here,
A wandering baby who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale;
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe;
I drew the bar, and by the light,
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung,
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart;)
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring.
His shivering limbs the embers warm,
And now, reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse:"
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies:
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd,
"My bow can still impel the shaft;
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?"

THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS.
A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ENEID, LIB. 9.
NISUS, the guardian of the portal, stood,

Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood;
Well skill'd in fight, the quivering lance to wield,.
Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field,
From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave,
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave
To watch the movements of the Daunian host,
With him, Euryalus sustains the post;
No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy,
And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy;
Though few the seasons of his youthful life,
As yet a novice in the martial strife,

"T was his, with beauty, valour's gift to share,
A soul heroic, as his form was fair;

These burn with one pure flame of generous love,
in war, united still they move;
In peace,
Friendship and glory form their joint reward,
And now combined, they hold the nightly guard.

"What god," exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire? Or, in itself a god, what great desire?

My labouring soul, with anxious thought opprest,
Abhors this station of inglorious rest;

The love of fame with this can ill accord,-
Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword.
See'st thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dini,
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb?
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain,
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign?
Then hear my thought:-In deep and sullen grief,
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief;
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine);
Were this decreed-beneath yon rising mound,
Methinks, an easy path perchance were found,
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls,
And lead Æneas from Evander's halls."
With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy,
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy
"These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone'
Must all the farne, the peril, be thine own?

Am I by thee despised, and left afar, As one unfit to share the toils of war? Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught, Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, I track'd Æneas tnrough the walks of fate; Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear; Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, And life, ignoble life, for Glory spurns; Fame, fame is cheaply carn'd by fleeting breath, The price of honour is the sleep of death." Then Nisus-"Calm thy bosom's fond alarms, Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms; More dear thy worth and valour than my own, I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne! So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, And clasp again the comrade of my youth. But should I fall, and he who dares advance Through hostile legions must abide by chance; If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low; Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve; When humbled in the dust, let some one be, Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me; Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse: Or, if my destiny these last deny,

If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie,
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb,
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom.
Why should thy doating wretched mother weep
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep?
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared,
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared;
Who braved what woman never braved before,
And left her native for the Latian shore."
"In vain you damp the ardour of my soul,"
Replied Euryalus, "it scorns control;
Hence, let us haste."-Their brother guards arose,
Roused by their call, nor court again repose;
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing,
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king.
Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran,
Aud lull'd alike the cares of brute and man;
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold;
Ou one great point the council are agreed,
An instant message to their prince decreed;
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield,
And poised, with easy arm, his ancient shield;
When Nisus and his friend their leave request
To offer something to their high behest.
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear,
The faithful pair before the throne appear;
Iulus greets them; at his kind command,
The elder first address'd the hoary band.

"With patience," thus Hyrtacides began,
"Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan;
Where yonder beacons, half-expiring, beam,
Our slumbering focs of future conquest dream,
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced,
Between the occan and the portal placed:
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke,
Whose shade securely our design will cloak.

If you, ye chiefs, and Fortune will allow,
We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow;
Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight,
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night;
Then shall Æneas in his pride return,
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn,
And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead,
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread;
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way,
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray:
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream,
The distant spires above the valleys gleam."

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed,
Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd:
"Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy,
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy;
When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise,
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise;
In gallant youth my fainting hopes revive,
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive."
Then, in his warm embrace, the boys he press'd,
And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast;
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd,
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd:-
"What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize
Can we bestow, which you may not despise?
Our deities the first, best boon have given,
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven.
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth,
Doubtless, await such young exalted worth;
Eneas and Ascanius shall combine
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine."
Iulus then: "By all the powers above!
By those Penates* who my country love;
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear,
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair!
Restore my father to my grateful sight,
And all my sorrows yield to one delight.
Nisus! two silver goblets are thine own,
Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown;
My sire secured them on that fatal day,
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey.
Two massy tripods also shall be thine,
Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine;
An ancient cup which Tyrian Dido gave,
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave:
But, when the hostile chiefs at length bow down,
When great Æneas wears Hesperia's crown,
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed,
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed,
Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast,

I pledge my word, irrevocably pass'd;

Nay more, twelve slaves and twice six captive dames,
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames,
And all the realms which now the Latians say,
The labours of to-night shall well repay.
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres,
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun,
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one;
Without thy aid no glory shall be mine,
Without thy dear advice, no great design;
Alike, through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy,
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy."

Household Goda

To him Euryaius

No day shall shame
The rising gories which from this I claim.
Fortune may favour or the skies may frown,
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown.
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart,
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart:
My mother sprung from Priam's royal line,
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine;
Nor Troy nor King Acestes' realms restrain
Her feebled age from dangers of the main;
Alone she came, all selfish fears above,
A bright example of maternal love.
Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave,
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave:
From this alone no fond adieus I seek,

No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek,
By gloomy Night, and thy right hand, I vow
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now:
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain,
In thee her much-loved child may live again;
ller dying hours with pious conduct bless,
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress:
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame,
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame."
Struck with a filial care, so deeply felt,
In tears, at once, the Trojan warriors melt;
Faster than all, Iulus' eyes o'erflow;
Such love was his, and such had been his woe.
"All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied,
"Nor this alone, but many a gift beside;
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim,
Creusa's style but wanting to the dame;
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run,
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son.
Now, by my life, my Sire's most sacred oath,
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth,
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd,
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd."
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew;
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel,
For friends to envy and for foes to feel.
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil,
Slain midst the forest, in the hunter's toil,
Mnestheus, to guard the elder youth, bestows,
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows;
Arm'd, thence they go, while all the assembled train,
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain;
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace,
Julus holds amidst the chiefs his place;
His prayers he sends, but what can prayers avail,
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale?

The trench is past, and, favour'd by the night, Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er? Alas! some slumber who shall wake no more! Chariots, and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen, And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between; Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine, A mingled chaos this of war and wine. "Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare, With me the conquest and the labour share; Here lies our path; lest any hand arise, Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies;

1 The mother of lulus, lost on the night when Troy was taken.

I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe,
And clear thy road, with many a deadly blow."
His whispering accents then the youth represt,
And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast;
Stretch'd at nis ease, th' incautious king reposed,
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed;
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince,
His omens more than augur's skill evince;
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all,
Could not avert his own untimely fall.
Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell,
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell:
The charioteer along his courser's sides
Expires, the steel his severed neck divides;
And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead,
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head;
From the swollen veins the blackening torrents pour,
Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore.
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire,
And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire;
Half the long night in childish games was past,
Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last;
Ah! happier far, had he the morn survey'd,
And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd.

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep,
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep;
Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls,
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls;
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams,
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams.

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came,
But falls on feeble crowds without a name;
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel,
Yet wakeful Rhesus sees the threatening steel,
His coward breast behind a jar he hides,
And, vainly, in the weak defence confides;
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins,
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains;
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow,
The feeble spirit seeks the shades below.
Now, where Messapus dwelt they bend their way,
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray;
There, unconfined behold each grazing steed,
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed;
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm,
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm:
"Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is past,
Full foes enough, to-night, have breathed their last;
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn.
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn."

What silver arms, with various arts emboss'd,
What bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd,
They leave regardless! yet, one glittering prize
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes;
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt,
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt:
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn,
Once by a line of former chieftains worn.
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears,
Messapus' helm his head, in triumph, bears,
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend,
To seek the vale, where safer paths extend.

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course: