THE PARTING MESSAGE TO LESBIA.

Addressed to Furius and Aurelius.

(Translation of Lamb.)

Companions, who would gladly go
With me through every toil below
To man's remotest seats:
Whether Catullus should explore
Far India, on whose echoing shore
The eastern billow beats:

Whether he seek Hyrcania wild,
The Tartar hordes, or Arabs mild,
Or Parthia's archer train :
Or tread that intersected isle,
Whence pouring forth the sev❜nfold Nile
Discolors all the main.

Whether across the Alps he toil,
To view the war-ennobled soil

Where Cæsar's trophies stand;
The Rhine that saw its Gaul's disgrace,
Or dare the painted Briton race
In their extremest land.

Companions dear, prepared to wend
Where'er the gods may place your friend,
And every lot to share;

A few unwelcome words receive,
And to that once-loved fair I leave
My latest message bear.

Still let her live and still be blest,
By profligates in hundreds prest,

Still sport in ease and wealth;
Still of those hundreds love not one,
Still cast off each by turns undone
In fortune and in health.

But let her deem my passion o'er:
Her guilt has crush'd, to bloom no more,
The love her beauty raised;

As droops the flower, the meadow's pride,
Which springing by the furrow's side

The passing share has grazed.

INVITATION TO CECILIUS.

(Translation of Lamb.)

Go, paper, to Cæcilius say,
To him I love, the bard whose lay
The sweetest thoughts attend;
Say, he must quit his loved retreat,
Comum and Larius' lake, to greet
Verona and his friend.

Here let him some advice receive,
A friend of his and mine will give.
If wise, he'll speed his way;
Although the fair his haste may check
A thousand times, and on his neck
May hang, and beg his stay.

For, when of old she read his strains
To her on Dindymus who reigns,

Did raging passion seize

On all her heart; and since that day
She idly wears his youth away
In love and slothful ease.

Yet thee, fair girl, I not abuse,
More learned than the Sapphic Muse,
And warm with all her fire;
For, ah! so soft, so sweetly flow'd
His melting strains, his tender ode,
They well might love inspire.

THE ORIGINAL OF "DR. FELL."

(Translation of Thomas Moore.)

I love thee and hate thee, but if I can tell

The cause of my love and my hate, may I die!

I can feel it, alas! I can feel it too well,

That I love thee and hate thee, but cannot tell why.

TO THE PENINSULA OF SIRMIO, ON HIS RETURN HOME.

(Translation of Leigh Hunt.)

O best of all the scatter'd spots that lie

In sea or lake,-apple of landscape's eye,

How gladly do I drop within thy nest,
With what a sigh of full, contented rest,
Scarce able to believe my journey's o'er,
And that these eyes behold thee safe once more!
Oh where's the luxury like the smile at heart,
When the mind breathing, lays its load apart,-
When we come home again, tired out, and spread
The loosen'd limbs o'er all the wish'd-for bed!
This, this alone is worth an age of toil.
Hail, lovely Sirmio! Hail, paternal soil!
Joy, my bright waters, joy: your master's come!
Laugh every dimple on the cheek of home!

To CORNIFICIUS.

(Translation of Leigh Hunt.)

Sick, Cornificius, is thy friend,
Sick to the heart; and sees no end
Of wretched thoughts, that gathering fast
Threaten to wear him out at last.

And yet you never come and bring-
Though 'twere the least and easiest thing-
A comfort in that talk of thine:-

You vex me: this, to love like mine?
Prithee, a little talk for ease, for ease,
Full as the tears of poor Simonides.

TO HIS DEAD BROTHER.

(Translation of James Cranstoun.)

Brother! o'er many lands and oceans borne,
I reach thy grave, death's last sad rites to pay;
To call thy silent dust in vain, and mourn,
Since ruthless fate has hurried thee away:
Woe's me! yet now upon thy tomb I lay -
All soaked with tears for thee, thee loved so well
What gifts our fathers gave the honored clay
Of valued friends; take them my grief they tell:
And now, forever hail! forever fare thee well!

--
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POEMS OF TIBULLUS.

[ALBIUS TIBULLUS, a leading Roman elegiac poet, — the great quartet being, in order of seniority, Gallus, Tibullus, Propertius, and Ovid, was probably born B.C. 54, and died B.C. 19. He was a Roman knight of wealthy family, but early orphaned and his property confiscated in the civil wars; and was attached to the circle of Valerius Messala as Horace to that of Mæcenas. He distinguished himself in a campaign for Augustus, and accompanied Messala on a mission to Asia as far as Corcyra, where he fell sick; but hated war, had no ambition, and chose to live quietly in the country rather even than at Rome. He was of a gentle and affectionate nature, of fine person and winning manners, greatly beloved and his death deeply regretted. His poems, though not of great number or variety, rank high for style and artistic finish; he has been compared to Collins.]

A HUSBANDMAN'S LIFE THE IDEAL ONE.

(Translation by Sir Charles Elton.)

LET others pile their yellow ingots high,

And see their cultured acres round them spread;
While hostile borderers draw their anxious eye,
And at the trumpet's blast their sleep is fled.

Me let my poverty to ease resign;

While my bright hearth reflects its blazing cheer;
In season let me plant the pliant vine,

And, with light hand, my swelling apples rear.

Hope, fail not thou! let earth her fruitage yield;
Let the brimmed vat flow red with virgin wine:
For still some lone, bare stump that marks the field,
Or antique crossway stone, with flowers I twine,

In pious rite; and, when the year anew
Matures the blossom on the budding spray,
I bear the peasant's god his grateful due,
And firstling fruits upon his altar lay.

Still let thy temple's porch, O Ceres! wear
The spiky garland from my harvest field;
And 'midst my orchard, 'gainst the birds of air,
His threatening hook let red Priapus wield.

Ye too, once guardians of a rich domain,
Now of poor fields, domestic gods! be kind.
Then, for unnumbered herds, a calf was slain;
Now to your altars is a lamb consigned.

The mighty victim of a scanty soil,

A lamb alone shall bleed before your shrine; While round it shout the youthful sons of toil,

"Hail! grant the harvest! grant the generous wine!"

Content with little, I no more would tread

The lengthening road, but shun the summer day, Where some o'er-branching tree might shade my head, And watch the murmuring rivulet glide away.

Nor could I blush to wield the rustic prong,
The lingering oxen goad; or some stray lamb,
Embosomed in my garment, bear along,

Or kid forgotten by its heedless dam.

Spare my small flock! ye thieves and wolves, assail
The wealthier cotes, that ampler booty hold;
Ne'er for my shepherd due lustrations fail;
I soothe with milk the goddess of the fold.

Be present, deities! nor gifts disdain

From homely board; nor cups with scorn survey, Earthen, yet pure; for such the ancient swain

Formed for himself, and shaped of ductile clay.

I envy not my sires their golden heap;

Their garners' floors with sheafy corn bespread; Few sheaves suffice: enough, in easy sleep

To lay my limbs upon th' accustomed bed.

How sweet to hear, without, the howling blast,
And strain a yielding mistress to my breast!
Or, when the gusty torrent's rush has past,
Sink, lulled by beating rains, to sheltered rest!

Be this my lot; be his th' unenvied store,
Who the drear storm endures, and raging sea;
Ah! perish emeralds and the golden ore,

If the fond, anxious nymph must weep for me!

Messala! range the earth and main, that Rome
May shine with trophies of the foes that fell;
But me a beauteous nymph enchains at home,
At her hard door a sleepless sentinel.

I heed not praise, my Delia! while with thee;
Sloth brand my name, so I thy sight behold.
VOL. V. -20