I.

TO THE MUSE.

Sed tempus lustrare aliis Helicona choreis.

*

'Tis time to traverse Helicon in themes of higher strain— 'Tis time to spur my Thracian steed across a wider plain; Now I would sing of mighty hosts and deeds of battle done, And chronicle the Roman fields my general has won ; And if my powers of song should fail-to dare were surely fame:

Enough that I have had the will; no higher praise I claim.

Let hot youth sing the laughing loves-be war the theme of

age;

Be war my theme-till now the dream of love has filled my

page.

With sober mien and graver brow I now must walk along,
Now on another lyre my Muse essays another song.

Rise, O my Muse! from lowly themes; put on your strength, ye Nine!

Who haunt the clear Pierian springs-outpour the lofty line!

Euphrates boasts no more the Parthian horseman's flying fight,
And grieves it kept the Crassi, slain in miserable plight;
Nay more, Augustus, India lays her neck beneath thy heel-
Arabia's homes, untouched before, in grievous terror reel;

* Et campum Emathio jam dare tempus equo.—(Mueller.)

Yea, wheresoe'er earth stretches out her lands to shores afar, The captive soil shall feel thy hands invincible in war.

I'll track thy camp, and, while the tramp of warriors fires my lay,

I'll earn the poet's wreath of fame: heaven grant I see the day!

As when we cannot reach the head of statues all too high,
We lay a chaplet at the feet, so now perforce do I,
Unfit to climb the giddy heights of Epic song divine,

In humble adoration lay poor incense on thy shrine;

For not as yet my Muse hath known the wells of Ascra's

grove :

Permessus' gentle wave alone hath laved the limbs of Love.

II.

ΤΟ CYNTHIA.

Scribant de te alii vel sis ignota iicebit.

BE sung by others, or unsung remain,

Who sings thy praises sows a sterile plain.
All, all thy gifts with thee on Fate's dark day

One bier shall bear; nor shall the traveller say,
All heedless passing where thy bones are laid,
"Here lie the ashes of a learnèd maid."

III.

CUPID'S EFFIGY.

Quicunque ille fuit, puerum qui pinxit Amorem,
Nonne putas miras hunc habuisse manus?

THINK'ST not that he had hands of cunning rare
Whoe'er first painted Love a little boy?
He saw what heedless beings lovers were,
Losing life's blessings for a trivial toy.

Nor yet in vain those airy wings he gave,
And bade him flutter in the human breast:

Truly we're tost upon a restless wave,

And on by ever-changing breezes prest.

Nor bears the Boy those barbèd shafts for show,
And Cretan quiver from his shoulders slung;
Dreamless of danger, ere we see the foe,

He strikes and leaves his victim torment-wrung.

In me his shafts, in me his image lies;
But, sure, his wings of gossamer are gone,
For ne'er, alas! he from my bosom flies,
But in my blood keeps ever warring on.

In my scorched marrow why delight to dwell?
Hence, Boy! on others with thy darts make raid;
On hearts unscathed outpour thy venom fell-
Not me thou woundest, but my wasted shade.

E

Slay me-from whom will then such songs arise? My Muse, though lowly, is thy glory great, Who sings of Cynthia's head and jet-black eyes, Her lovely fingers and her mincing gait.

IV.

TO CYNTHIA.

Non tot Achaemeniis armantur Susa sagittis.

FEWER the shafts that Susa doth contain,

Than in my breast the arrows lodged by Love, Who bade me not the tender Muse disdain, But make my dwelling in the Ascraean grove;

Not with my lyre Pierian oaks to draw,

Or lead wild beasts Ismarian vales along, But to thrill Cynthia's soul with breathless awe, And o'er Inachian Linus soar in song.

To me the prize of woman's winsome charms,
Or her high lineage, is not half so dear,

As in my gifted maiden's circling arms

To read my lays and please her faultless ear.

Why should I heed the babbling tongue of Fame,
Sure of the verdict of the girl I love?

Let her but smile and feed my tender flame,
And I can bear the enmity of Jove.

When, therefore, death shall close my failing eyes,
This boon I crave: at my last rites let no
Long image-train be borne in pompous guise,
Nor trumpet sound the idle notes of woe.

No costly bier with ivory posts be mine-
No couch bespread with rich embroideries—
No odour-breathing censers ranged in line:

Be mine the poor man's humble obsequies.

Meet pomp-my three small books which I shall bearBest gift I have-to queen Persephone;

But follow thou, thy barèd bosom tear,

Call me by name the while nor weary be.

On my cold lips be thy last kisses prest,

While fragrant Syrian nard-one box-thou'lt burn; And when the blazing pile has done the rest, Consign my relics to a little urn.

Plant o'er the hallowed spot the dark-green bay,
To shade my tomb, and these two lines engrave :
"Here, loathsome ashes, lies the bard to-day,
Who erst was one loved one's all-faithful slave."

No meaner glory then shall mantle round
The lowly hillock where my dust is laid,
Than lights the Phthian hero's lofty mound,
That drank the life-blood of the Trojan maid.

When death shall come-remember 'tis thy doom—
Seek, hoar with years, the ever-mindful stone;
But oh, be kind, nor spurn me in the tomb!
The very mould can feel an outrage shown.