HORACE. ODE 9. LIB. II.

TO THE POET VALGIUS, ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON.

TRANSLATED BY MR. A. S. THELWALL.

NOT
always from black clouds the rains descend
On the dank field; nor doth the angry storm
For ever vex the troubled Caspian sea;
yet the cold Armenian shore, my friend,
Thro' evěry month doth stubborn ice deform,

Nor

And unthawed snow; nor Jove's high towering tree

For ever combat with the northern wind;

Nor widow'd ash aye strew its Gargan pride.Yet dost thou, Valgius, still deplore the fate Of thy lost Mystes; rest thy griefs ne'er find When Vesper rises, or the starry guide

The

Opes for the rapid sun, heaven's roseate gate.

sage who liv'd three ages, did not mourn His lost Antilochus thro' evěry year;

Nor were the Phrygian sisters, or their sire,

For ever for young Troilus forlorn ;

Their grief had end. Thou also dry the tear;
No more complain, but let us tune the lyre

And sing the trophies by Augustus won,
Who bids the cold Niphates own his might,
Who adds the swift Euphrates to his sway,
And bids his waves in gentler current run:
In narrower bounds the Alani, in affright,
Peaceful, bestride the steed, and shun the battle-day.

HORACE. ODE 20. LIB. II.

TO MECENAS.

TRANSLATED BY MR. A. S, THELWALL.

ON no accustom'd and no feeble wing,
A biform'd Poet, will I mount the skies,
On this base earth no longer lingering;
Superior to all envy, lo! I rise,

And leave your far-fam'd city. Tho' I spring
From humble parents, since with favouring eyes
You view me, O Mæcenas! I the shore

Of Styx escape, its bounding stream I spurn.
The skin grows rough upon my limbs, I soar
Blanch'd to a stately bird, and now discern
With plumage light my shoulders cover'd o'er,
My fingers into glossy feathers turn.

Swifter than Dædalus' too venturous boy,
I pass the Bosphorus' resounding strand,
A bird of song, o'er stormy Syrtes fly,
And view the frozen Hyperborean land.
Colchians, and Dacians, knowing to destroy
By semblant fear, the eager Marsian band
And far Geloni know me; fierce in war,

The Iberian views me, and who drinks the Rhone.
Be from my empty funeral, dirges far,

Banish base grief and the complaining groan:
Restrain your clamour, be the funeral car

And needless trophies hence, Fame shall protect her

own.

ЕРІТАРН,

ON MARY, THE WIFE OF WILLIAM HAYWARD, ESQ.

BY MISS MITFORD.

HERE, stranger! Hayward lies.-Ask you her worth?
Go count the sighs which from her death had birth!
Seek of her husband, of her children seek,

Why changes as they pass each healthful cheek?
Seek of the poor, why still upon her grave
They pay the kindly tears her pity gave?
And faltering they will say,-In age, in youth,
Her life was usefulness, her speech was truth;
Her heart to all that breathed expanded wide;
Her faith to Heaven ascended ;-and she died.

THE DYING LOVER.

BY DR. RUSSELL.

I.

COME, all ye shepherds, come around,
My hapless state survey;

Ye woods, ye hills, my grief resound,
And echo back the mournful lay.

In vain my eyes, with weeping drown'd, The soul-felt anguish tell;

No pity in that breast is found,

Where pity always lov'd to dwell.

V.

Then shepherds, haste! my last, last bed, My bridal bed prepare;

Hide, hide, thou earth my wretched head, And free me from this black despair.

VI.

I come, ye worms, my flesh to give ;
Feast, feast, insatiate crew;

Sure Myra will at least believe,

That her scorn'd swain to death was true.

VII.

Yet, oh ye pow'rs! who plac'd on high,

Our inmost wishes see,

Bless the dear maid, for whom I die!
And may she never love like me!

THE LILY.

SHOULD the rude wind too roughly blow,
Then would yon gem of living snow
Droop o'er its parent bed!

And tho' the mildest breeze should play,
Nor evening's dew, nor morning's ray,
Could raise its weeping head!

Ah! thus by dark suspicion's breath,
The rose of love was chilled to death,
Never to blossom more!

In vain did hope contend with fears,
Nor sweetest smiles, nor softest tears,
Could e'er that rose restore.

WHISTON BRISTOW.