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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!
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.
Nor Similus, while Vulcan thus, alone,
Close to his cottage lay a garden-ground,
Of cash well earned, he took his homeward road,
Some such regale now also in his thought,
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;
March 20, 1799
Obscurest night involved the sky,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
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;
Or courage die away;
He shouted: nor his friends had failed
But so the furious blast prevailed,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
Delayed not to bestow.
Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;