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96

97

ON A FADED VIOLET

HE colour from the flower is gone,

THE ich like thy sweet eyes smiled on me;

the odour from the flower is flown,
which breathed of thee and only thee!
A withered, lifeless, vacant form,
it lies on my abandoned breast,
and mocks the heart which yet is warm
with cold and silent rest.

I weep-my tears revive it not:

I sigh-it breathes no more on me; its mute and uncomplaining lot

is such as mine should be.

VENUS AND ADONIS

P. B. SHELLEY

'HE night of sorrow now is turned to day:

THE

her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,
like the fair sun when in his fresh array
he cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth:
and as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
so is her face illumined with her eye:
whose beams upon his hairless face are fixed,
as if from thence they borrowed all their shine;
were never four such lamps together mixed,
had not his clouded with his brow's repine;

but hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,
shone like the moon in water seen by night.
W. SHAKESPEARE

SIC VITA

IKE to the falling of a star,

are;

or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue;
or silver drops of morning dew;
or like a wind that chafes the flood;
or bubbles which on water stood;
even such is man, whose borrowed light
is straight called in and paid to-night.
The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
the spring entombed in autumn lies;
the dew dries up; the star is shot;
the flight is past, and man forgot.

H. KING

98

CHATTERTON

DYING swan of Pindus sings,

AD

in wildly mournful strains;

as Death's cold fingers snap the strings,
his suffering lyre complains.

The Bard, to dark despair resign'd,

with his expiring art,

sings, 'midst the tempest of his mind,
the shipwreck of his heart.

If Hope still seem to linger nigh,
and hover o'er his head,

her pinions are too weak to fly,
or Hope ere now had fled.

99 Rash minstrel! who can hear thy songs,
nor seek to share thy fire?

100

who read thine errors and thy wrongs,
nor execrate the lyre?

The lyre, that sunk thee to the grave
when bursting into bloom,

that lyre, the power to Genius gave
to blossom in the tomb.

Yes, till his memory fail with years,
shall Time thy strains recite;
and while thy story swells his tears,
thy song shall charm his flight.

Go

TO A SKYLARK

J. MONTGOMERY

O, tuneful bird, that glad'st the skies,
to Daphne's window speed thy way,
and there on quivering pinions rise,
and there thy vocal art display.
And if she deign thy notes to hear,
and if she praise thy matin song,
tell her, the sounds that soothe her ear
to Damon's native plains belong.
Tell her, in livelier plumes arrayed
the bird from Indian groves may shine:
but ask the lovely partial maid,

what are his notes compared to thine?

W. SHENSTONE

ΙΟΙ

THER

RESIGNATION

HERE is no flock, however watched and tended, but one dead lamb is there!

there is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

but has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying
and mournings for the dead;

the heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! these severe afflictions
not from the ground arise,

but oftentimes celestial benedictions

assume this dark disguise.

H. W. LONGFELLOW

102 ON THE VOTIVE OFFERING OF A NAUTILUS

103

ΚΟΓΧΟΣ ἐγώ, Ζεφυρίτι, παλαίτερος· ἀλλὰ σὺ νῦν με,
Κύπρι, Σεληναίης ἄνθεμα πρῶτον ἔχεις
ναύτιλον· ὃς πελάγεσσιν ἐπέπλεον, εἰ μὲν ἀῆται,
τείνας οἰκείων λαϊφος ἀπὸ προτόνων

εἰ δὲ γαληναίη, λιπαρὴ θεός, οὖλος ἐρέσσων
ποσσί νιν, ὥστ ̓ ἔργῳ τοὔνομα συμφέρεται.
ἔκ τ ̓ ἔπεσον παρὰ θῖνας Ἰουλίδος, ὄφρα γένωμαι
σοί τι περίσκεπτον παίγνιον, ̓Αρσινόη,

μηδέ μοι ἐν θαλάμῃσιν ἔθ ̓, ὡς πάρος (εἰμὶ γὰρ ἄπνους)
τίκτηται νοτερῆς ὤεον ἀλκυόνης.

Κλεινίου ἀλλὰ θυγατρὶ δίδου χάριν· οἶδε γὰρ ἐσθλὰ ῥέζειν, καὶ Σμύρνης ἐστὶν ἀπ ̓ Αἰολίδος.

ON A STATUE OF TIME

CALLIMACHVS

ΤΙΣ πόθεν ὁ πλάστης; Σικυώνιος. οὔνομα δὴ τίς;
Λύσιππος. σὺ δὲ τίς; Καιρὸς ὁ πανδαμάτωρ.
τίπτε δ ̓ ἐπ ̓ ἄκρα βέβηκας; ἀεὶ τροχάω. τί δὲ ταρσοὺς
ποσσὶν ἔχεις διφυεῖς; ἵπταμ ̓ ὑπηνέμιος.

χειρὶ δὲ δεξιτερῇ τί φέρεις ξύρον; ἄνδρασι δεῖγμα,
ὡς ἀκμῆς πάσης ὀξύτερος τελέθω.

ἡ δὲ κόμη τί κατ ̓ ὄψιν; ὑπαντιάσαντι λαβέσθαι
νὴ Δία. ταξόπιθεν δ ̓ ἐς τί φαλακρὰ πέλει;

104

τὸν γὰρ ἅπαξ πτηνοῖσι παραθρέξαντά με ποσσὶν
οὔτις ἔθ ̓ ἱμείρων δράξεται ἐξόπιθεν.

τοὔνεχ ̓ ὁ τεχνίτης σε διέπλασεν; εἵνεκεν ὑμέων,
ξεῖνε, καὶ ἐν προθύροις θῆκε διδασκαλίην.

POSIDIPPVS

ON A SUBURB OF AMASIA CALLED EROS

ΔΕΥΡ ̓ ἴθι, βαιόν, ὁδῖτα, πεσὼν ὑπὸ δάσκιον ἄλσος
ἄμπαυσον καμάτου γυῖα πολυπλανέος,

χῶρον ὅπου πλατάνων αὐτόῤῥυτον ἐς μέσον ὕδωρ
καλὰ πολυκρούνων ἐκπρορέει στομάτων·
ὁππόθι πορφυρέης ὑπὲρ αὔλακος εἴαρι θάλλει
ὑγρὸν ἴον ῥοδέῃ κιρνάμενον κάλυκι.

ἠνίδε πῶς δροσεροῖο πέδον λειμῶνος ἐρέψας
ἔκχυτον εὐχαίτης κισσὸς ἔπλεξε κόμην.
ἐνθάδε καὶ ποταμὸς λασίην παραμείβεται ὄχθην,
πέζαν ὑποξύων αὐτοφύτοιο νάπης.

οὗτος Ἔρως· τί γὰρ ἄλλο καὶ ἔπρεπεν οὔνομα χώρῳ πάντοθεν ἱμερτῶν πληθομένῳ Χαρίτων ;

MARIANVS SCHOLASTICVS

105

I

THE CLOUD

BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers
from the seas and the streams;

I bear light shades for the leaves when laid
in their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
the sweet buds every one,

when rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
as she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

and whiten the green plains under,

and then again I dissolve it in rain,
and laugh as I pass in thunder.

106 I am the daughter of earth and water,
and the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when with never a stain,

the pavilion of heaven is bare,

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and the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams

build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

and out of the caverns of rain,

like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.

EARLY DEATH

P. B. SHELLEY

SHE pass'd away, like morning dew,
before the sun was high;

so brief her time, she scarcely knew
the meaning of a sigh.

As round the rose its soft perfume,
sweet love around her floated;
admired she grew-while mortal doom
crept on unfeared, unnoted.

Love was her guardian Angel here,
but love to death resigned her;

tho' love was kind, why should we fear
but holy death is kinder?

NIGHT

AFTER THE BATTLE

H. COLERIDGE

TIGHT closed around the conqueror's way,
and lightnings showed the distant hill,

where those who lost that dreadful day
stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
for ever dimmed, for ever crost,-
O! who shall say what heroes feel

when all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream
and valour's task moved slowly by
while mute they watched, till morning's beam
I should rise and give them light to die.

T. MOORE

HE Autumn skies are flushed with gold,

and fair and bright the rivers run;

these are but streams of winter cold,

and painted mists that quench the sun.