Not thus inoffensively preys
The canker-worm; in-dwelling foe! His voracity not thus allays
The sparrow, the finch, or the crow.
The worm, more expensively fed,
The pride of the garden devours;
And birds pick the seed from the bed,
Still less to be spared than the flowers.
But she, with such delicate skill,
Her pillage so fits for our use,
That the chymist in vain with his still
Would labour the like to produce.
Then grudge not her temperate meals,
Nor a benefit blame as a theft;
Since, stole she not all that she steals,
Neither honey, nor wax would be left.
THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.
APELLES, hearing that his boy
Had just expired-his only joy!
Although the sight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him.
He seized his brush, his colours spread;
And-" Oh! my child, accept"-he said,
"("Tis all that I can now bestow,)
"This tribute of a father's woe!"
Then, faithful to the two-fold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes, with tender care,
And formed at once a fellow pair.
His brow, with amber locks beset,
And lips he drew, not lived yet;
And shaded all that he had done,
To a just image of his son.
Thus far is well. But view again
The cause of thy paternal pain!
Thy melancholy task fulfil!
It needs the last, last touches still.
Again his pencil's power he tries,
For on his lips a smile he spies;
And still his cheek unfaded shows
The deepest damask of the rose.
Then, heedful to the finished whole,
With fondest eagerness he stole,
'Till scarce himself distinctly knew
The cherub copied from the true.
Now, painter, cease! thy task is done;
Long lives this image of thy son:
Nor short-lived shall the glory prove,
Or of thy labour, or thy love.
A SPARTAN, his companions slain,
Alone from battle fled;
His mother, kindling with disdain
That she had borne him, struck him dead:
For courage, and not birth alone,
In Sparta, testifies a son.
ON THE SAME, BY PALLADAS.
A SPARTAN, 'scaping from the fight,
His mother met him in his flight,
Upheld a faulchion to his breast,
And thus the fugitive addressed;
"Thou canst but live to blot with shame
"Indelible thy mother's name,
"While every breath that thou shalt draw "Offends against thy country's law: "But if thou perish by this hand,
" Myself, indeed, throughout the land,
"To my dishonour shall be known
"The mother still of such a son ;
"But Sparta will be safe and free,
"And that shall serve to comfort me."
My name-my country-what are they to thee?
What-whether base or proud, my pedigree?
Perhaps I far surpassed all other men-
Perhaps I fell below them all-what then?
Suffice it, stranger, that thou seest a tomb-
Thou knowest its use-it hides-no matter whom.
TAKE to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain
With much hard labour in thy service worn.
He set the vines that clothe yon ample plain,
And he these olives that the vale adorn.
He filled with grain the glebe, the rills he led Through this green herbage, and those fruitful bowers:
Thou, therefore, Earth, lie lightly on his head,
His hoary head, and deck his grave with flowers.
PAINTER, this likeness is too strong,
And we shall mourn the dead too long.
Ar three-score winters end I died
A cheerless being, sole and sad;
The nuptial knot I never tied,
And wish my father never had.
BY CALLIMACHUS.
Ar morn we placed on his funereal bier
Young Melanippus; and at even-tide,
Unable to sustain a loss so dear,
By her own hand his blooming sister died.
Thus Aristippus mourned his noble race,
Annihilated by a double blow;
Nor son could hope, nor daughter more to embrace, And all Cyrene saddened at his woe.
ON MILTIADES.
MILTIADES, thy valour best
(Although in every region known)
The men of Persia can attest,
Taught by thyself at Marathon.
|