LXV.

Βῆ δ ̓ ἐλάαν ἐπὶ κύματ' ἄταλλε δέ κήτε ̓ ὑπ' αὐτοῦ
πάντοθεν ἐκ κευθμῶν, οὐδ' ἠγνοίησεν ἄνακτα
γηθοσύνῃ δὲ θάλασσα διΐστατο τοὶ δ ̓ ἐπέτοντο
ῥίμφα μάλ', οὐδ ̓ ὑπένερθε διαίνετο χάλκεος ἄξων·
τὸν δ' ἐς ̓Αχαιῶν νῆας εΰσκαρθμοι φέρον ἵπποι.
Ἔστι δέ τι σπέος εὐρὺ βαθείης βένθεσι λίμνης,
μεσσηγὺς Τενέδοιο καὶ Ἴμβρου παιπαλοέσσης
ἔνθ ̓ ἵππους ἔστησε Ποσειδάων ἐνοσίχθων.

Hom. Il. xiii. 27-34.

LXV.

Into ALCAICS.

Of old He who as God enjoys the boundless limits of the empire of the sea, swift through the Ægæan swell drove his horses and fleet chariot. Beneath the wheels of their longed-for Lord the floating monsters of the deep sported; and scattered troops of dolphins bounded forth upon the surface of the waves. With unwonted sounds of joy the sea gaping burst asunder in its depths; and ocean by wondrous commotions of its waters acknowledged its king. Then with eager flight the two-yoked horses rushed in among the Grecian ships; nor did the foam of the sea wet with light sprinkling the brazen axle. But He in deep recesses reposed at length, where the intervening water separates the caverns of Tenedos from the lofty crags of Imbros.

LXVI.

The poor and ignorant Arab, whether of the desert or town, moulds with clay the jars for his daily wants, in a

form which may be traced in the most elegant vases of Greece or Rome; and, what is no less remarkable, identical with that represented on monuments raised by his ancestors three thousand years before. If he speaks, he shows a ready eloquence; his words are glowing and apposite; his descriptions true, yet brilliant; his similes just, yet most fanciful. These high qualities seem to be innate in him; he takes no pains to cultivate, or to improve them: he knows nothing of reducing them to any rule, or measuring them by any standard. As it is with him, so it has been from time unknown with those who went before him: there has been little change-no progress.

Layard's Nineveh.

LXVI.

Into PROSE, literally rendered.

The Arab, though poor and untaught, whether he be from the desert or an inhabitant of the city, moulds for daily uses pitchers from clay, the like shapes to which are extant in the more refined vases of Greece and Rome. Yea, what we may more wonder at, entirely the same may be found in the monuments, which three thousand years ago his ancestors erected. If he speaks, he has prompt eloquence; he utters glowing, but fitting terms; his narrations are true, yet showy; his similes just, although they may be almost beyond measure inventive. These endowments seem to be implanted in him; he neither cares that they should be cultivated and improved, nor knows how to reduce them to rule, or measure them by any model. model. As it is now to himself, so of old it has been to those before him before the memory of men; scarcely any thing is changed, nothing at all progresses.

LXVII.

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon

the sea

We follow in his flight,

Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land-good night.
A few short hours and he will rise,
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;

My dog howls at the gate.

Byron's Childe Harold.

LXVII.

Into ELEGIACS.

And now farewell, and again farewell to me, native land; thee the wave of the sea snatches far from my sight. The winds sigh, the billows re-echo against the shores; the sea-bird completes its journey with obscene murmur. Lo, where the departing sun is buried in the wave of the sea; we too are carried away in flight, whither he flies. We fly, as the sun, so thee, driven away awhile; unwilling we say, native land, farewell. Brief hours have passed-then he will rise again, that hence to-morrow's dawn may shine, about to rise in the

I

sky. And soon I shall salute the azure both of sea and heaven; but the land which bore me is not to be beheld by me. The hall, in which as a boy I played, is left deserted; alas! its hearth is void of hospitality, and glows not with fire. The grass mixed with thorns clings to the walls; the dog, left as a guard, howls at the gate.

LXVIII.

The lapse of time and rivers is the same,
Both speed their journey with a restless stream;
The silent pace, with which they steal away,
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay.
Alike irrevocable both when past,

And a wide ocean swallows both at last.
Though each resemble each in every part,

A difference strikes at length the musing heart;
Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound
How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd!
But time, which should enrich the nobler mind,
Neglected leaves a weary waste behind.

Into HEXAMETERS.

LXVIII.

As of a river the course of time too is borne; both flow down in the channel of a ceaseless stream; gradually they pass by, with silent foot, with equal steps; not by entreaty, not by bribe can you stay them, vows delay them not at all; not the one, not the other will you be able to recall; in the deep waves of ocean both at last are swallowed up. Though the one may be mutually equal and like the other, they will have not a slight difference if any one weigh them. Rivers run not in vain;

where a river abounds, that land smiles with varied wealth and fertility; but that which should bestow gifts upon the divine mind, time neglected leaves a dry desert.

LXIX.

The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things:
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon death's purple altar now,

See where the victor victim bleeds.

All heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

Shirley.