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Dare to despise magnificence, my friend,
Prove thy divine descent by worth divine,
Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode.
So saying, he led Æneas by the hand,
And placed him on a cushion stuffed with leaves,
Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear.

[The Episode of Venus and Vulcan omitted.)
While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employed,
Awakened by the gentle dawn of day,
And the shrill song of birds beneath the eaves
Oi his low mansion, old Evander rose.
His tunic, and the sandals on his feet,
And his good sword well girded to his side,
A panther's skin dependent from his left
And over his right shoulder thrown aslant,
Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs followed him,
His whole retinue and his nightly guard.

OVID. TRIST. LIB. V. ELEG. XII.

Scribis, ut oblectem. You bid me write to amuse the tedious hours, And save from withering my poetic powers ; Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flow From the free mind, not fettered down by woe. Restless amidst unceasing tempests tossed, Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most. Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain ; Or childless Niobe from tears refrain, Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train ? Does grief or study most befit the mind To this remote, this barbarous nook confined ? Could you impart to my unshaken breast The fortitude by Socrates possessed, Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine, For what is human strength to wrath divine? Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so, My sufferings would have iaid that wisdom low. Could I forget my country, thee and all, And e'en the offence to which I owe my fall, Yet fear alone would freeze the poet's vein, While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain, Add that the fatal rust of long disuse Unfits me for the service of the Muse. Thistles and weeds are all we can expect From the best soil impoverished by neglect; Unexercised, and to his stall confined, The fleetest racer would be left behind : The best built bark that cleaves the watery way, Laid useless by, would moulder and decay,

No hope remains that time shall me restore,
Mean as I was, to what I was before.
Think how a series of desponding cares
Benumbs the genius and its force impairs.
How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet,
My verse constrained to move with measured feet,
Reluctant and laborious limps along,
And proves itself a wretched exile's song.
What is it tunes the most melodious lays ?
'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise,
A noble thirst, and not unknown to me,
While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea.
But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame?
No, rather let the world forget my name.
Is it because that world approved my strain,
You prompt me to the same pursuit again?
No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse,
I charge my hopeless ruin on the Muse,
And, like Perillus, meet my just desert,
The victim of my own pernicious art;
Fool that I was to be so warned in vain,
And shipwrecked once, to tempt the deep again!
Ill fares the bard in this unlettered land,
None to consult, and none to understand.
The purest verse has no admirers here,
Their own rude language only suits their ear.
Rude as it is, at length familiar grown,
I learn it, and almost unlearn my own ;-
Yet to say truth, even here the Muse disdains
Confinement, and attempts her former strains,
But finds the strong desire is not the power,
And what her taste condemns, the flames devour.
A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom,
And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome;
But oh the cruel art, that could undo
Its votary thus ! would that could perish too!

HOR. LIB. I. ODE IX.
Vides, ut altâ stet nive candidum

Soracte; .....
Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow
The groves beneath their fleey burdens bow,

The streams, congealed, forget to flow; Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pila

Of fuel on the hearth;
Broach the best cask, and make old Winter smile

With seasonable mirth.
This be our part,-let Heaven dispose the rest;

If Jove coinmand, the winds shall sieer

RETALIATION.

The works of ancient bards divine,

Aulus, thou scorn'st to read ; And should posterity read thine,

It would be strange indeed!

WHEN little more than boy in age,
I deemed myself almost a sage ;
But now seern worthier to be styled,
For ignorance-almost a child.

SUNSET AND SUNRISE. CONTEMPLATE, when the sun declines,

Thy death, with deep reflection ; And when again he rising shines,

Thy day of resurrection !

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