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acquaintance with Cornutus did not commence till after he had taken the virile gown:

Cum primum pavido custos mihi purpura cessit

Now the age at which the prætexta was laid aside, was seventeen years.

Among the number of friends and companions of Persius, were the poets Lucan and Bassus. The latter is mentioned with respect by Quintilian.

The author of the fragment says, sero cognovit (nempe Persius) Senecam, sed non ut caperetur ejus ingenio. By this I can only understand, that Persius could never relish the pompous eloquence, and declamatory style of Seneca. It is impossible that he should not have admired the talents, and respected the virtues of that philosopher, who was also a Stoic.

Persius was a person of the mildest manners, remarkable for the beauty of his form, and for the modesty of his appearance. His piety was exemplary, in discharging the relative duties of his situation. When he died he left a sum of money, together with his books, to Cornutus. The phi.

losopher accepted the books, and delivered the money to the sisters of his pupil. It

appears that Persius wrote seldom and slowly. His satires were much valued by his cotemporaries. The poet Lucan particularly admired them.

He is said to have died of a stomach complaint. He forms one of the few examples of a young man, during the course of a short life, having acquired immortality for his name by his virtues, his ta. Jents, and his learning,

ADVERTISEMENT,

In English poetry, where the words beaven, even, &c. are intended to be read as one syllable, they are generally written beav'n, ev'n, with an apostrophe. I have, however, written these words at length; and have left it to the reader to determine the quantity, in which he will be easily guided by his ear.

Page 13, line 5, for do, read does.

THE

TRANSLATOR'S PROLOGUE.

POET AND FRIEND.

V. II2.

POET.

Nay, spare your censures, nor condemn the lays :
The town-the town may yet accord its praise. --
Enlightened Warton may approve the style;
And classic Gifford nod the head and smile.
F. Have I not told you o'er and o'er again,
Not to indulge your rhiming scribbling vein?
Besides, your age : consider, sir, your age,
And learn to temper your poetic rage.
P. As time speeds on, and years revolve, my friend,
I grow too idle, or too old to mend.
While yet a youth, my pure descriptive lays
The learn'd could suffer, and the partial praise.

Her brilliant tints Imagination threw,
O'er the wild scenes my artless pencil drew ;
Soft numbers fell unstudied from my tongue,
Fancy was pleased, and Judgment yet was young:
Gay Hope then smoothed the wrinkled brow of Time,
Love waved his torch, and youth was in its prime.
But soon the tempest gather'd o'er my head,
Health lost her bloom, and faithless Pleasure fled;
Friendship retired, and left me to decay,
And Love desponding threw his torch away.
'Twas then, when sickness and when sorrow drew
Their sable curtain on my clouded view;
When lost to hope, I wander'd, wan and pale,
O'er Cintra's rocks, or sought Vaucluse's vale;
That left in distant climes to droop and pine,
The Muse's converse and her art were mine:
Nor less beloved has been the tuneful lay,
Since fortune smiled, and fate restored my day.
F. O idle talk ! your early song, 'tis true,
Might please the rustic and unletter'd crew:
But now the strain has lost its wonted fire,
His art the Poet, and its tones the lyre.
P, And yet for me the Muses still have charms,
Their light yet guides me, and their fire yet warms.

For me the silvan world has beauties still,
The shaded valley, or the sun-clad hill.
Nor yet unwelcome does the hour draw nigh,
Which leaves me free from busy crowds to fly;
The hour which warns me to renew the oil,
The poet's pleasure, and the student's toil.
Nor undelighted does my mind recall
Its infant joys in yonder Gothic hall;
Where still the legendary tale goes round,
Of charms and spells, of treasures lost and found,
Of fearful goblins, and malicious sprites,
Enchanted damsels, and enamour'd knights :
Or led by fancy back to ancient times,
To fairer regions, and to milder climes,
I love through all the Muse's haunts to rove,
On Hybla's hill, or in th' Aonian grove.
Or seek those fabled scenes, by poets sung,
Where his famed lyre the Thracian artist strung;
Where Phợbus, sighing o'er the shepherd's tomb,
Bade the sweet flower of Hyacinthus bloom;
Where with young Zephyr Flora loved to play,
And hid her blushes in the lap of May;
Where Dian nightly woo'd a blooming boy,
And, veil'd by darkness, was no longer coy;

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