Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed :
On scallions sliced, or with a sensual gust,
On rockets-foul provocatives of lust!
Nor even shunn'd, with smarting gums, to press
Nasturtium-pungent, face-distorting mess!
Some such regale now also in his thought.
With hasty steps his garden ground he sought;
There delving with his hands, he first displaced
Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast;
The tender tops of parsley next he culls,
Then the old rue-bush shudders as he pulls,
And coriander last to these succeeds.
That hangs on slightest threads her trembling seeds.
Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demands
The mortar at his sable servant's hands;
When stripping all his garlick first, he tore
Th' exterior coats, and cast them on the floor,
Then cast away, with like contempt the skin,
Flimsier concealment of the cloves within.
These search'd, and perfect found, he one by one
Rinsed, and disposed within the hollow stone.
Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese,
With his injected herbs he covered these,
And tucking with his left his tunic tight,
And seizing fast the pestle with his right,
The garlick bruising first he soon express'd,
And mix'd the various juices of the rest.
He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below
Lost in each other their own pow'rs forego,
And with the cheese in compound, to the sight
Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white.
His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent,
He cursed full oft his dinner for its scent,
Or with wry faces, wiping as he spoke
The trickling tears, cried--"Vengeance on the smoke!"
The work proceeds: not roughly turns he now
The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow;
With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills,
Some drops of olive-oil he next instils ;
Then vinegar with caution scarcely less,
And gathering to a ball the medley mess;
Last, with two fingers frugally applied,
Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side:
And thus complete in figure and in kind,
Obtains at length the salad he design'd.
And now black Cybale before him stands, The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands: He glad receives it, chasing far away All fears of famine for the passing day; His legs enclosed in buskins, and his head In its tough casque of leather, forth he led And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair, Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed share.
TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES.
FROM THE GREEK OF JULIANUS.
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 PALLAADAS.
A SPARTAN, 'scaping from the fight,
His mother met him in his flight,
Upheld a falchion to his breast,
And thus the fugitive address'd:
"Thou canst but live to blot with shame
Indelible thy mother's name,
While ev'ry 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 surpass'd all other men-
Perhaps I fell below them all-what then?
Suffice it, Stranger! that thou seest a tomb-
Thou know'st 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 fill'd with grain the glebe; the rills he led
Through this green herbage, and those fruitful bow'rs;
Thou, therefore, earth! lie lightly on his head,
His hoary head, and deck his grave with flow'rs.
PAINTER, this likeness is too strong,
And we shall mourn the dead too long.
AT threescore winters' end I died
A cheerless being, sole and sad;
The nuptial knot I never tied.
And wish my father never had.
Ar morn we placed on his funereal bier
Young Melanippus; and at eventide,
Unable to sustain a loss so dear,
By her own hand his blooming sister died.
Thus Aristippus mourn'd his noble race,
Annihilated by a double blow,
Nor son could hope, nor daughter more t' embrace,
And all Cyrene sadden'd at his woe.
MILTIADES! thy valour best
(Although in every region known)
The men of Persia can attest,
Taught by thyself at Marathon.
ON AN INFANT.
BEWAIL not much, my parents! me, the prey
Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here,
An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year.
He found all sportive, innocent, and gay,
Your young Callimachus; and if I knew
Not many joys, my griefs were also few.
BY HERACLIDES.
IN Cnidus born, the consort I became
Of Euphron. Aretimias was my name,
His bed I shar'd, nor prov'd a barren bride,
But bore two children at a birth, and died.
One child I leave to solace and uphold
Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old;
And one, for his remembrance sake, I bear
To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there.
ON THE REED.
I WAS of late a barren plant,
Useless, insignificant,
Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore,
A native of the marshy shore;
But gather❜d for poetic use,
And plung'd into a sable juice,
Of which my modicum I sip,
With narrow mouth and slender lip,
At once, although by nature dumb,
All eloquent I have become,
And speak with fluency untired,
As if by Phoebus' self inspired.
TO HEALTH.
ELDEST born of pow'rs divine
Blest Hygeia! be it mine
To enjoy what thou canst give,
And henceforth with thee to live:
For in pow'r if pleasure be,
Wealth, or num'rous progeny,
Or in amorous embrace,
Where no spy infests the place :
Or in aught that Heav'n bestows,
To alleviate human woes,
When the wearied heart despairs
Of a respite from its cares;
These and ev'ry true delight
Flourish only in thy sight;
And the sister Graces Three
Owe, themselves, their youth to thee,
Without whom we may possess
Much, but never happiness.
ON THE ASTROLOGERS.
TH' Astrologers did all alike presage
My uncle's dying in extreme old age;
One only disagreed. But he was wise,
And spoke not, till he heard the fun'ral cries.
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