TO THE SWALLOW.
ATTIC maid! with honey fed,
Bearest thou to thy callow brood
Yonder locust from the mead,
Destined their delicious food?
Ye have kindred voices clear,
Ye alike unfold the wing,
Migrate hither, sojourn here,
Both attendant on the spring!
Ah, for pity drop the prize;
Let it not with truth be said
That a songster gasps and dies
That a songster may be fed.
ON LATE-ACQUIRED WEALTH.
POOR in my youth, and in life's later scenes
Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour,
Who nought enjoyed while young, denied the means;
And nought when old enjoyed, denied the power.
ON A BATH, BY PLATO.
DID Cytherea to the skies
From this pellucid lymph arise?
Or was it Cytherea's touch,
When bathing here, that made it such?
ON A FOWLER, BY ISIODORUS.
WITH seeds and birdlime, from the desert air,
Eumelus gathered free, though scanty, fare.
No lordly patron's hand he deigned to kiss,
Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bliss.
Thrice thirty years he lived, and to his heirs
His seeds bequeathed, his birdlime, and his snares.
CHARON ! receive a family on board,
Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl;
Apollo and Diana, for a word
By me too proudly spoken, slew us all.
TRAVELLER, regret me not; for thou shalt find
Just cause of sorrow none in my decease,
Who, dying, children's children left behind,
And with one wife lived many a year in peace :
Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters three,
And oft their infants in my bosom lay,
Nor saw I one, of all derived from me,
Touched with disease, or torn by death away.
Their duteous hands my funeral rites bestowed,
And me, by blameless manners fitted well
To seek it, sent to the serene abode
Where shades of pious men for ever dwell.
ART thou some individual of a kind
Long-lived by nature as the rook or hind?
Heap treasure, then; for if thy need be such,
Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too much.
But man thou seem'st: clear therefore from thy breast
This lust of treasure-folly at the best!
For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb,
To fatten with thy spoils thou know'st not whom?
RICH, thou hadst many lovers;-poor, hast none :
So surely want extinguishes the flame,
And she who called thee once her pretty one,
And her Adonis, now inquires thy name.
Where wast thou born, Sosicrates, and where,
In what strange country, can thy parents live,
Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet aware
That want's a crime no woman can forgive?
HERMOCRATIA named-save only one,
Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none;
For neither Phoebus pierced my thriving joys,
Nor Dian-she my girls, or he my boys.
But Dian rather, when my daughters lay
In parturition, chased their pangs away.
And all my sons, by Phoebus' bounty, shared
A vigorous youth, by sickness unimpaired.
O Niobe! far less prolific ! see
Thy boast against Latona shamed by me!
FOND youth! who dream'st that hoarded gold Is needful, not alone to pay
For all thy various items sold,
To serve the wants of every day;
Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat,
For savoury viands seasoned high;
But somewhat more important yet—
I tell thee what it cannot buy.
No treasure, hadst thou more amassed
Than fame to Tantalus assigned,
Would save thee from a tomb at last,
But thou must leave it all behind.
I give thee, therefore, counsel wise;
Confide not vainly in thy store,
However large-much less despise
Others comparatively poor;
But in thy more exalted state
A just and equal temper show,
That all who see thee rich and great
May deem thee worthy to be so.
HAPPY Songster, perched above,
On the summit of the grove,
Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing
With the freedom of a king!
From thy perch survey the fields
Where prolific nature yields
Nought that, willingly as she,
Man surrenders not to thee.
For hostility or hate
None thy pleasures can create.
Thee it satisfies to sing
Sweetly the return of spring,
Herald of the genial hours,
Harming neither herbs nor flowers.
Therefore man thy voice attends
Gladly,-thou and he are friends,
Nor thy never-ceasing strains
Phoebus or the Muse disdains
As too simple or too long,
For themselves inspire the song.
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying,
Ever singing, sporting, playing,
What has nature else to show
Godlike in its kind as thou?
WHEN Aulus, the nocturnal thief, made prize
Of Hermes, swift-winged envoy of the skies,
Hermes, Arcadia's king, the thief divine,
Who when an infant stole Apollo's kine,
And whom, as arbiter and overseer
Of our gymnastic sports, we planted here;
'Hermes," he cried, "you meet no new disaster;
Ofttimes the pupil goes beyond his master."
FROM A HYMN OF CALLIMACHUS.
NOR oils of balmy scent produce,
Nor mirror for Minerva's use,
Ye nymphs who lave her; she, arrayed
In genuine beauty, scorns their aid.
Not even when they left the skies
To seek on Ida's head the prize
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