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XXVIII.

But it is not the sins of the armies alone, but the sins of the whole kingdom, which brake off our hopes of peace; our nation is generally sinful: the city complains of the ambition and prodigality of the courtiers; the courtiers complain of the pride and covetousness of the citizens; the laity complain of the laziness and state-meddling of the clergy; the clergy complain of the hard dealings and sacrilege of the laity; the rich complain of the murmuring and ingratitude of the poor; the poor complain of the oppression and extortion of the rich. Thus every one is more ready to throw dirt in another's face, than to wash his own clean ; and in all these 'tis malice sets the varnish; sure truth doth lay the groundwork.

XXVIII.

Fuller.

Into PROSE, literally rendered.

And yet not so much of the soldiery, but rather of the whole state the offences are the cause, why our hopes of peace are broken off; we offend on all sides. To wit, the city (complains) of the courtiers, as given up to ambition and licence; the courtiers complain of the pride and avarice of the citizens. The populace rails at the priesthood, that it is slothful, and intermingles too much in public affairs; the priests impute hardness, yea impiety, to the populace. rich calls the poor man querulous and ungrateful; the poor allege the wrongful exactions of the rich. Hence it arises, that each individual would rather bespatter another man's face with mud, than cleanse his own; in all these, although malice overlays the paint, yet truth itself lays the foundation.

The

XXIX.

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave

The lovely vale that lies around thee;
Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,

When but a fount the morning found thee?

Born when the skies began to glow,

Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters,
No blossom bow'd its stalk to show
Where stole thy still and scanty waters.

Ah! what wild haste!-and all to be
A river, and expire in ocean:
Each fountain's tribute hurries thee

To that vast grave with quicker motion.

Far better 'twere to linger still

In this green vale, these flowers to cherish,
And die in peace an aged rill,

Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.

Bryant.

XXIX.

Into ELEGIACS.

O rivulet stay thy flight, why do'st thou desire to leave the plains, which a lovely valley surrounds with verdant hollow. Why mad would'st thou thus become a sea at early evening, when at the fresh morn thou wast sprung a fount. Born when brightness began to shine in the heaven; not a less daughter leaps from the rock of flint. The frail floweret nodded not on the edge of the bank, where

your

cold water was

wending its silent way. Why do you vainly hasten, whither does madness force you? that a river you should die in the waters of the sea. Each fountain while it affords light sprinklings hurries thee with more rapid flight to the dark deep. Oh! how far better thus to linger in the green vale, adorned with flowers, yourself an ornament to the flowers; better a rill you may repose in aged peace; why, scarce a young Danube, should you perish in rapid waters?

XXX.

Oft my steps have roam'd among

All the airy realms of song,

Learn't through Wisdom's maze to wind;

Yet availeth not my mind

Remedy 'gainst Fate to find.

Not all the drugs that Orpheus sage

Recorded in his Thracian page,

From her decree can save;
Not Phoebus, who the art divine
Of life-restoring medicine

To Esculapius gave.

Stern Goddess! at her altar's side

The votary kneels in vain,

And vainly clasps her statue's pride,
And heaps his victims slain.

Oh! never may she bid me bow
More lowly to her yoke than now.
E'en Jove, the everlasting God,
Whate'er he sanctions by his nod,
Through her performs, and needs her skill

To execute his sovereign will.

Anstice from Eur. Alcest. v. 983.

XXX.

Into ALCAICS.

As a sojourner among the lovely Muses oft wandering, I have traversed through the hidden regions of Wisdom, if I could beguile the cruel Fates. Whom Necessity binds in her strict law, not the Thracian melody of Orpheus has set free, nor has he skilled in the art of Apollo found a remedy. The vows and prayers of the suppliant avail nothing to propitiate the pitiless Goddess; in vain he brings three hundred victims, binds the chaplets on her images. May not the sterner destiny threaten against me more hostile attacks, nor in my coming lot may I experience the fury of the malignant Deity. Supreme amongst the highest, She sways over Jove, whom all things obey. Forsooth, whatever he may care to perform, he performs at the will of the powerful Sisters.

XXXI.

How soft the shades of evening creep

O'er yonder dewy sea;

Whose balmy mist hath lull'd to sleep

The tenants of the tree.

No wandering breeze is here to sweep
In shadowy ripple o'er the deep;
Yet swells the heaving sigh.

How calm the sky! Rest Ocean, rest!

From storm and ruffle free ;

Calm as the image on thy breast,

Of Her that governs thee!

And yet beneath the moon's mild reign.

Thy broad breast heaves, as one in pain;
Thou dark and silent sea.

There are whom Fortune vainly woos
With all her pageantry,

Whom every flattering bliss pursues,
Yet still they fare like thee;

The spell is laid within their mind,

Least wretched then, when most resign'd,
Their hearts throb silently.

XXXI.

Heber.

Into ELEGIACS.

The gathering shades of evening steal gently on, where the sea glides afar in the western waters. But to the birds, as many as fix their nests in the covert of the wood, they bring grateful slumbers with their soporific dew. In the bosom of the sea there arise as it were sighs, although not a fitful breeze sweeps the calm waters. See through the sky is repose, rest ye too, O waves; let not the violence of the wind, or the fury of the storm disturb you. Not otherwise may the pure image of the Goddess calm your breast, who by her influence kindly regulates your courses. But under the sway of the moon the wave moves its thrice-ample breast, as pain agitates the stricken heart of man. There are whom Fortune allures with deceptive countenance, puts forth her wiles and surpassing glory. There are whom the joys of fallacious life attend; and yet that lot is not better than thy lot. The more they yield to these, the less anguish oppresses them; yet within their hearts throb, the mind is sensible of its heavy burden.

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