trust our trip will be a merry one. It is my design to do into English as we may aptly express such barbarous usage-some of the Anthology—to transplant and naturalize among our northern rocks some of those rare and beautiful exotics. The soil is cold, and the clime rude-yet, with thy fostering care, and sunny smiles, the flowers may grow. And if, thus roughly torn from their warm home, they seem pale and sickly, have the justice, kind reader, to believe that they were beautiful-yea! most beautiful. The blame be on the unskillful hand that removed them from their own sunny Greece-the garden, where they bloomed. Thou knowest that the Syrian olive would be but a stinted thing among the snows of Greenland, even though "with cost, and care, and warmth, induced to shoot." Perchance my efforts may not be entirely without their value, since those, who have drunk with thirsty fervor at the fountain, my awkward paraphrase will only send back to their "first love" with renewed devotion, while that Sun of Poetry, which, though "shorn of his beams," will not, I trust, have lost all "his original brightness," will, in others, enkindle a holy ardor to climb the "Aonian mount," and gaze full on his unclouded splendor.

First of all, let me present thee with a glorious song-I mean glorious in its primal sky of Greece, before my dull northern disc transmitted its beams, dimmed and diminished. It is an ode to two tyrannicidal brothers, Aristogeiton and Harmodius, who, at the Panathenian festival of Minerva, concealing swords in the myrtle branches borne on that occasion, attacked Hipparchus, and by his death regained their country's freedom. It was sung by the Greeks at their entertainments. It has been Anglicised frequently, but its simple beauty, and deep enthusiasm, defy all translation.

In branch of myrtle will I bear the sword,

As did Harmodius of old,

When slew he Athens' tyrant-lord,

And, with his brother bold,
Armed in his country's cause,
Preserved her equal laws.

Dearest Harmodius! thou art not dead;

But in the islands of the bless'd thou art,
Where swift Achilles rests his weary head,
And brave Tydides calms his stormy heart.

In branch of myrtle will I bear the sword,
As did Harmodius of old,

Who, with his brother bold,

When votive cups at Pallas' shrine were poured,
Destroyed Hipparchus, Athens' tyrant-lord.

Thy glory on the earth shall never fade,

Dearest Harmodius, with thy brother brave,

Because the tyrant in the dust ye laid,

And did the equal laws of Athens save.

What have we next? Pollianus. And who was Pollianus? I know not. It is certain he has left us a very pretty epigram, which I have thus endeavored to render in Latin and English. Hem tibi!

To a miserly Usurer.

Multa tenes, et nulla tenes. Quare? Omnia locas.

Sic te inopem reddis, debitor ut teneat.

Though rich, yet poor. How thus? Your all you lend,
And rob yourself of what your debtors spend.

Here follows another, and, once for all, if any proud critic, in his wisdom, or pretty girl, in her ignorance, object to my translating, now and then, into bald Latin as well as plain English, let them know that I am a bit of a pedant. Some of it needs a Latin guise, to cover its roughness. The critic may deride, si placet, and the lady skip, if she like.

EPIGRAM. By Julianus Egyptius, whose poverty secured him against robbers.
Aedibus ex aliis, fures, vos quaerite lucrum.
His foribus custos pauperies mea erit.

Expect not here, ye thieves, your lust to sate,
For need, strong portress, watcheth at the gate.

Here is an epitaph. Upon whom? Euripides. By whom. Thucydides. Read it. It is instructive. The subject and the author are dead; but each sleeps under a stately tomb. Their works are their mausolea. But the idea-is it not affecting? Twenty-three centuries agone, a great historian weeping over the grave of a splen did poet!

Greece is thy tomb; but Sparta holds thy clay,

For there thy life beheld its latest day.

Athens-the Greece of Greece-first gave thee breath,
Dear to the muses, and renowned in death.

AN EPITAPH, which Hippo ordered to be placed on his monument.
Lo! Hippo's tomb, whom Fate, by death, has made
Peer to the gods in their immortal shade.

By Rufinus, to Melile—Anglicè, Fanny—a very pretty girl.

Lumina habes Junonia pulchra, manusque Minervae,
Pectora (proh!) Veneris, atque pedes Thetidos.

Felix, qui viderit, qui te audieritque, beatus:
Semideus tui amans, omnideus tui vir.

The word omnideus I claim as my own. I made it myself. Noli

tangere.

Thy face is brightened by fair Juno's eyes,
And Pallas lends thee her immortal hand;
Thy breasts, like those of Paphian Venus, rise;
Thy feet, like Thetis', trip across the sand.
Ah! happy he, that gazes on thy face,

And he twice-bless'd, that listens to thy voice;
Thy lover, sure, is of angelic race,

And a bright god-thy husband may rejoice.

An address to Mammon, by Timocrates, the Rhodian.

Vellem, vellem, caece Plute,

Nec in terra, nec in alto,

Tua forma cerneretur.
Tartarum autem inhabitare,
Acheronta teque oportet.
Ex te namque prava nobis
Enasci omnia videntur.

Sightless Mammon, may'st thou be
Neither on the earth nor sea;
But be thou condemned to dwell
In the deepest depth of hell.
For, thou eyeless god, from thee
Springeth all our misery.

Here we have Plato-the philosopher-tilting it in verse.

To Aristophanes, the comedian.

The Graces, seeking long to find
Some temple, free from all decay,
Chose, Aristophanes, thy mind,

As that, which cannot pass away.

To Sappho.

Falsely they say the Muses are but nine

A tenth is Lesbian Sappho-the divine.

In the following little morceau, the frog is considered as a priest to the Nymphs, whose particular jurisdiction was over streams and fountains.

To a brazen frog, set up by a traveler, as an offering to the Nymphs.

Thee-the Nymphs' servant-lover of the shower-
Moist songster, dwelling in the shallow springs-

The traveler, forming with mimetic power,

A brazen offering, to the temple brings.

For to the wanderer thine amphibious note

Forth from thy dewy lodge, all timely, rung,

And led his fainting footsteps to the spot,

Where from the earth the gushing fountain sprung.

To a statue of Pan-the shepherd-god-carved with a pipe in his mouth.

Seat thee, O Pan, beneath this vocal tree,

Whose high leaves whisper, as the west-winds rise.
And by my gurgling springs thy pipe shall be

A lull of magic to my closing eyes.

To a statue of Venus, at Cnidus, by Praxiteles.

To view her image at her Cnidian shrine.

The Paphian goddess through the billows came,
Looked long upon the lineaments divine,

And gazed, in rapture, at the faultless frame.
"Where did the sculptor view my naked form

With gaze unlawful?" Cythereia cried;
"'Tis the cold chisel makes the marble warm,
Like me, when Ares for my beauty sighed."

Reader! should we meet again, be it kindly.

HERMENEUTES.

"OUR MAGAZINE."

WHAT was contrived by the intellectual skill of many, has been accomplished by the physical energies of a few, and the first number of the "Yale Literary Magazine," is now before the public. But, dropping this Johnsonian magnificence, indulgent reader, so little consonant with the tremulous anxiety with which we pen these closing lines-how are you pleased? As you have glanced from one article to another, till your eye meets this last page, has your brow been gathering a frown, or has a pleasant smile lit up your features? In either case, but especially the former, we pray you to remember, that in preparing this number, we have, in some respects, labored at a disadvantage. Our utter inexperience in the mechanical portion of the work—the distraeting influence of the intervening vacation—with some other petty troubles, will, with your indulgence, account for some of the errors, which your sagacity has, doubtless, ere this discovered.

A word or two, now, of self-gratulation.—Our prospects are encouraging. Our subscription list fully equals our expectations-communications are abundant(alas! too much so, one might say, looking at the melancholy number of rejections,) and we have hardly heard one croaking voice, foreboding failure. We are confident in the assertion, that the future numbers will be superior in external appearance, and not a whit inferior in literary merit.

To those who have furnished communications for the present number, we render our sincere thanks, and request a continuance of their favors. To all we would extend a general invitation, 'to send us pieces'—asking of each 'according to his ability,'-from the gay trifling of wit, to the sober morality of wisdom -in prose, or in verse-in long, or in short.

We were prevented, by divers mischances, from issuing this number on the day it was due; and the same reason will account for the absence of an intended engraving from the cover.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The communication, signed A, contains many thoughts of peculiar poetical beauty, yet we regret to see, here and there, blemishes, which materially affect its merits as a whole, and which none but the author can properly remedy. A careful correction would do away those redundancies, with which it is now encumbered, and render it of more finished excellence. For the present, therefore, it is deferred.

Tuum Carmen, Grai, ‘limae labore' deficiens, “in cineres citissime redegimus” 'cinis ad cinerem.'

Z's manuscript is too extensive for our limited space, and also too obscure for our mental and bodily vision.

The "Musings of Adonis" are also among the "great rejected." To use his own language, "Their beauty and fragrance, (?)

"Long since in sad silence have flown,

Like thistle-down, far on the gale!"

"Omega" shall receive a place corresponding with his signature, by the by, one most appropriate, and withal, a fine typical emblem of the merits of his performance.

The perusal of the first couplet of the "Apostrophe to the Moon" sufficed us."Look-lo! behold!"

"O! thou shiny orb, that careerest above

Thy spirit how soothing,-thy light full of love!"

All articles intended for No. 2, we would wish to receive at an early date, through the Post Office.