Lord of the dreadful bow,

none triumph now for Python's death;

but thou dost save

from hungry grave

the life that hangs upon a summer breath.

Father of rosy day,

no more thy clouds of incense rise;

but waking flowers

at morning hours

give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

God of the Delphic fane,

no more thou listenest to hymns sublime;

but they will leave

on winds at eve

a solemn echo to the end of time.

T. HOOD.

Pythonis ætas immemor

hæc nescit arcu te timendo nobilem;

quæ metuit æstivis tamen

auris carere vita, tu præsens salus

Orco rapaci liberas.

Thurum, rubentis genitor Aurora, tibi

jam non adulatur vapor;

at mane florum suavis e cubilibus

exsurgit ad rotas odor

cæli sub axem. Sancte Delphorum incola,

laudis tuæ præconia

quamquam premit cum vatibus silentium,

at vesper hæc fidelibus

servata ventis reddit auri murmura

nullo tacenda sæculo.

2

VII.

OH! sacred memory, tablet of the heart, thou breathing shadow of departed days, still ever prompt to wake the slumb'ring smart, and backward lure the visionary gaze;

thou tellest but of scenes that melted by

are vanished now, like wreaths of winter snow;

the tear of sorrow gems thy lucid eye,

and yet, so beauteous is thy garb of woe,

we love thee still and clasp thy fond regret, too tender to renounce, too pleasing to forget. Why should mem'ry weep, that frowning truth

so early chased the mockeries of delight,

VII.

O DEA, quæ tamquam tabulis sub corde reponis quod vivax lapsi temporis umbra tulit; flectitur in vitam te mens ducente priorem, sopitus vigilat te revocante dolor:

visa refers tantum quorum vestigia tempus hibernæ rapuit more soluta nivis,

tristitia lucens oculus scintillat oborta, et tamen in palla veste decora nites:

blanda nimis sperni metuens oblivia vincis, et desiderio fortior instat Amor.

nil opus hic lacrimis, veri quod fronte severa eventus citius gaudia ficta fugant;

the idle dreams that flushed the cheek of youth,

and glittered baneful on the dazzled sight?

She hath not murdered Hope, though distant far, and trembling at her voice, with drooping plume,

gay Fancy flies; nor quenched that better star, whose radiant orb can cheer the wintry gloom, where sacred Virtue rears her hallowed nest,

there Peace shall linger still, companion of the breast.

CAMPBELL.