ON THE ASTROLOGERS.
THE 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 funeral cries.
ON AN OLD WOMAN.
MYCILLA dyes her locks, 'tis said;
But 'tis a foul aspersion;
She buys them black; they therefore need
No subsequent immersion.
ON FLATTERERS.
No mischief worthier of our fear
In nature can be found
Than friendship, in ostent sincere,
But hollow and unsound;
For lulled into a dangerous dream
We close enfold a foe,
Who strikes, when most secure we seem
The inevitable blow.
ON A TRUE FRIEND.
HAST thou a friend? Thou hast indeed
A rich and large supply,
Treasure to serve your every need,
Well managed, till you die.
ON THE SWALLOW.
ATTIC maid! with honey fed,
Bearest thou to thy callow brood
Yonder locust from the mead,
Destined their delicious food?
Ye have kindred voices clear,
Ye alike unfold the wing,
Migrate hither, sojourn here,
Both attendant on the spring!
Ah, for pity drop the prize;
Let it not with truth be said,
That a songster gasps and dies,
That a songster may be fed.
ON LATE ACQUIRED WEALTH.
POOR in my youth, and in life's later scenes
Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour,
Who nought enjoyed while young, denied the means;
And nought when old enjoyed, denied the power.
ON A BATH, BY PLATO.
DID Cytherea to the skies
From this pellucid lymph arise?
Or was it Cytherea's touch,
When bathing here, that made it such?
ON A FOWLER, BY ISIODORUS.
WITH Seeds and birdlime, from the desert air
Eumelus gathered free, though scanty, fare.
No lordly patron's hand he deigned to kiss,
Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bliss.
Thrice thirty years he lived, and to his heirs
His seeds bequeathed, his birdlime, and his snares.
CHARON ! receive a family on board
Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl;
Apollo and Diana, for a word
By me too proudly spoken, slew us all.
TRAVELLER, regret not me; for thou shalt find
Just cause of sorrow none in my decease,
Who, dying, children's children left behind,
And with one wife lived many a year in peace : Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters three, And oft their infants in my bosom lay,
Nor saw I one, of all derived from me,
Touched with disease, or torn by death away.
Their duteous hands my funeral rites bestowed,
And me, by blameless manners fitted well
To seek it, sent to the serene abode
Where shades of pious men for ever dwell.
THEY call thee rich ;-I deem thee poor,
Since, if thou darest not use thy store,
But savest it only for thine heirs,
The treasure is not thine, but theirs.
A MISER, traversing his house,
Espied, unusual there, a mouse,
And thus his uninvited guest
Briskly inquisitive addressed:
"Tell me, my dear, to what cause is it
I owe this unexpected visit?”
The mouse her host obliquely eyed,
And, smiling, pleasantly replied:
Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard!
I come to lodge, and not to board."
ART thou some individual of a kind
Long-lived by nature as the rook or hind?
Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such,
Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too much.
But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy breast
This lust of treasure-folly at the best!
For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb,
To fatten with thy spoils thou know'st not whom?
ON FEMALE INCONSTANCY.
RICH, thou hadst many lovers;-poor, hast none,
So surely want extinguishes the flame,
And she who called thee once her pretty one,
And her Adonis, now inquires thy name.
Where wast thou born, Sosicrates, and where,
In what strange country can thy parents live,
Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet aware
That want's a crime no woman can forgive?
ON THE GRASSHOPPER.
HAPPY songster, perched above,
On the summit of the grove,
Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing
With the freedom of a king!
From thy perch survey the fields
Where prolific nature yields
Nought that, willingly as she,
Man surrenders not to thee.
For hostility or hate
None thy pleasures can create.
Thee it satisfies to sing
Sweetly the return of spring,
Herald of the genial hours,
Harming neither herbs nor flowers.
Therefore man thy voice attends
Gladly, -thou and he are friends;
Nor thy never-ceasing strains
Phoebus or the Muse disdains
As too simple or too long,
For themselves inspire the song.
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying,
Ever singing, sporting, playing,
What has nature else to show
Godlike in its kind as thou?
HERMOCRATIA named-save only one,
Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none;
For neither Phœbus pierced my thriving joys,
Nor Dian-she my girls, or he my boys.
But Dian rather, when my daughters lay
In parturition, chased their pangs away.
And all my sons, by Phoebus' bounty, shared
A vigorous youth, by sickness unimpaired.
O Niobe! far less prolific! see
Thy boast against Latona shamed by me!
FOND youth! who dream'st that hoarded gold Is needful, not alone to pay
For all thy various items sold,
To serve the wants of every day;
Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat,
For savoury viands seasoned high;
But somewhat more important yet—
I tell thee what it cannot buy.
No treasure, hadst thou more amassed
Than fame to Tantalus assigned,
Would save thee from a tomb at last,
But thou must leave it all behind.
I give thee, therefore, counsel wise;
Confide not vainly in thy store,
However large-much less despise
Others comparatively poor;
But in thy more exalted state
A just and equal temper show,
That all who see thee rich and great
May deem thee worthy to be so.
FROM A HYMN OF CALLIMACHUS.
NOR oils of balmy scent produce,
Nor mirror for Minerva's use,
Ye nymphs who lave her; she, arrayed
In genuine beauty, scorns their aid.
Not even when they left the skies
To seek on Ida's head the prize
From Paris' hand, did Juno deign,
Or Pallas in the crystal plain
Of Simois' stream her locks to trace,
Or in the mirror's polished face,
Though Venus oft with anxious care
Adjusted twice a single hair.
TO DEMOSTHENES.
It flatters and deceives thy view,
This mirror of ill polished ore;
For were it just, and told thee true,
Thou wouldst consult it never more.
ON A SIMILAR CHARACTER.
You give your cheeks a rosy stain,
With washes dye your hair;
But paint and washes both are vain
To give a youthful air.
Those wrinkles mock your daily toil,
No labour will efface 'em,
You wear a mask of smoothest oil,
Yet still with ease we trace 'em.
An art so fruitless then forsake,
Which though you much excel in,
You never can contrive to make
Old Hecuba young Helen.
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