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Non equidem priscce saeclum rediisse videtur

Pyrrhas, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes

Et sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix leviora

Adsunt, evulsi quando radicitus alti

In mare descendunt montes, fluctusque pererrant.

Quid vei'6 hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu?

Splendentes video, ceu pulchro ex a;re vel auro

Conflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis,

Bacca caerulea, et flammas imitante pyropo.

Ex oriente adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellus

Parturit omnigenas, quibus asva per omnia sump I u

Ingenti finxere sibi diademata reges?

Vix hoc crediderim. Non fallunt talia acutos

Mercatorum oculos: prius et quam littora Gangis

Liquissent, avidis gratissima praeda fuissent.

Ortos unde putemus? An illos Ves'vius atrox

Protulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus ^Etna?

Luce micant propria, Phcebive, per aera purum

Nunc stimulantis equos, argentea tela retorquent?

Phoebi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altis

Appulsi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis,

Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre est

Multa onerata nive et canis conspersa pruinis.

Caetera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Eruma fere omnes

Contristat menses, portenta haec horrida nobis

Ilia strui voluit. Quoties de culmine summo

Clivorum fluerent in littora piona, solutse

Sole, nives, propero tendentes in mare cursu,

Ilia gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere sese

Mirum ccepit opus ; glacieque ab origine rerum

In glaciem aggesta sublimes vertice tandem

iEquavit montes, non crescere nescia moles.

Sic immensa diu stetit, aeternumque stetisset,

Congeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte,

Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset,

Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum

Antra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore,

Dum ruit in pelagum, tanquam studiosa natandi,

Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim,

Insula, in ^Egaeo fluitasse erratica ponto.

Sed non ex glacie Delos ; neque torpida Delum

Bruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque.

Sed vestita herbis erat ilia, ornataque nunquam

Decidua lauro; et Dolum diJexit Apollo.

At vos, errones horrendi, et caligine digni

Cimmeria. Deus idem odit. Natalia vestra,

Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueri

Sustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite caelum!

Ite! Redite ! Timete moras; ni leniter austro

Spirante, et nitidas Phcebo jaculante sagittas

Hostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti!

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THE SALAD. BY VIRGIL. June 8, 1799. The winter night now well nigh worn away, The wakeful cock proclaimed approaching day, When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm, Yawned, stretched his limbs, and anxious to provide Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied, By slow degrees his tattered bed forsook, And poking in the dark, explored the nook Where embers slept with ashes heaped around, And with burnt fingers'-ends the treasure found.

It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose, Sure proof of latent fire, some smoke arose; When trimming with a pin the incrusted tow, And stooping it towards the coals below, He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite The lingering flame, and gains at length a light. With prudent heed he spreads his hand before The quivering lamp, and opes his granary door. Small was his stock, but taking for the day, A measured stint of twice eight pounds away, With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand, Fixt in the wall, affords his lamp a stand: Then baring both his arms, a sleeveless coat He girds, the rough exuviae of a goat; And with a rubber, for that use designed, Cleansing his mill within, begins to grind; Each hand has its employ; labouring amain, This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain. The stone revolving rapidly, now glows, And the bruised corn a mealy current flows; While he, to make his heavy labour light, Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right; And chants with rudest accent, to beguile His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while. And now, "Dame Cybale, come forth !" he cries; But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies.

From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid, Whose face and form alike her birth betrayed; With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin, Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin, Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet, Chapped into chinks, and parched with solar heat. Such, summoned oft, she came; at his command Fresh fuel heaped, the sleeping embers fanned, And made in haste her simmering skillet steam, Replenished newly from the neighbouring stream.

The labours of the mill performed, a sieve The mingled flour and bran must next receive, Which shaken oft, shoots Ceres through refined,

And better dressed, her husks all left behind.
This done, at once, his future plain repast,
Unleavened, on a shaven board he cast,
With tepid lymph, first largely soaked it all,
Then gathered it with both hands to a ball,
And spreading it again with both hands wide,
With sprinkled salt the stiffened mass supplied;
At length, the stubborn subBtance, duly wrought,
Takes from his palms impressed the shape it ought,
Becomes an orb, and quartered into shares,
The faithful mark of just division bears.
Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space,
For Cybale before had swept the place,
And there, with tiles and embers overspread,
She leaves it—reeking in its sultry bed.

Nor Similus, while Vulcan thus, alone,
His part performed, proves heedless of his own,
But sedulous, not merely to subdue
His hunger, but to please his palate too,
Prepares more savoury food. His chimney-side
Could boast no gammon, salted well, and dried,
And hooked behind him; but sufficient store
Of bundled anise, and a cheese it bore;
A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strung
With a tough broom-twig, in the corner hung;
The prudent hero therefore with address,
And quick despatch, now seeks another mess.

Close to his cottage lay a garden-ground,
With reeds and osiers sparely girt around;
Small was the spot, but liberal to produce,
Nor wanted aught that serves a peasant's use;
And sometimes even the rich would borrow thence,
Although its tillage was his sole expense.
For oft, as from his toils abroad he ceased,
Home-bound by weather or some stated feast,
His debt of culture here he duly paid,
And only left the plough to wield the spade.
He knew to give each plant the soil it needs,
To drill the ground, and cover close the seeds;
And could with ease compel the wanton rill
To turn, and wind, obedient to his will.
There flourished star-wort, and the branching beet,
The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet,
The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind,
The noxious poppy—quencher of the mind!
Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board,
The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd;
But these (for none his appetite controlled
With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold;
With broom-twigs neatly bound, each kind apart,
He bore them ever to the public mart;
Whence, laden still, but with a lighter load,

Of cash well earned, he took his homeward road,
Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome,
His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home.
There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red,
Or the curled endive's bitter leaf, he fed;
On scallions sliced, or with a sensual gust
On rockets—foul provocatives of lust;
Nor even shunned, 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, be 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,
Ami 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 The exterior coats, and cast them on the floor, Then cast away with like contempt the skin, Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. These searched, 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 expressed, And mixed the various juices of the rest. He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below Lost in each other their own powers forego, And with the cheese in compound, to the sight Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white. His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent; lie 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 smoothe 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 designed.

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.

THE CASTAWAY.

March 20, 1799

Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,

When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,

His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he, with whom he went,

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
With warmer wishes sent.

He loved them both, but both in vain,

Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,

Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

Or courage die away;
But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevailed,
That pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,

And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;

And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

Delayed not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
Their haste himself condemn,

Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die

Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour

In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent power,

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