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XLIV.

The Joy of Grief.

ION. CLEMANTHE.

Ion. No, thou must live, my fair one.
There are a thousand joyous things in life
Which pass unheeded in a life of joy,

As thine hath been, till breezy sorrow comes
To ruffle it; and daily duties paid

Hardly at first, at length will bring repose
To the sad mind that studies to perform them.
Thou dost not mark me.

Clem.

Oh, I do! I do!

Ion. If for thy brother's and thy father's sake Thou art content to live, the healer Time Will reconcile thee to the lovely things Of this delightful world.

Talfourd.

XLV.

The Traveller.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheldt or wandering Po,
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee,
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

Goldsmith.

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Ι. Οὐκ ἔστι ταῦτα· ζῆν σε δεῖ, φίλον κάρα.
πόλλ ̓ ἐστι τερπνὰ τῆσδε τῆς ζωῆς ἰδεῖν,
ἃ λανθάνει φεύγοντ ̓ ἐν εὐεστοῖ φιλῃ,
οἵαν πρὶν ἦγες, ἔστε δὴ λύπης πνοὴ
ἔλθῃ, θύελλ ̓ ὅπως τις· ἀλλ ̓ εἴ τις τελῶν
ἃ χρὴ κατ' ἦμαρ τλημόνως θυμῷ πονεῖ
μόγις τὸ πρῶτον, ἐν χρόνῳ φέρει τάδε
σχολήν τιν' ἄτης κἀνάπαυλαν ἐκ κακῶν.
ξυνήκας, ὦ παῖ;

Κ.

Πᾶν γ' ὅσον λέγεις, ἄναξ· Ι. Εἰ δ' αὖ πατρός τε καὶ κασιγνήτου χάριν τλαίης ἔτι ζῆν, καὶ σέ γ' ἐς τέλος ποτὲ ἴσως Χρόνος δύναιτ' ἄν, εὐμαρὴς θεός, τερπνοῦ διδάσκειν ἡδονὰς στέργειν βίου.

J. G. L.

XLV.

Desiderium.

REPIT ubi Scaldis piger, aut Padus errat amœnus,
Te procul ut lentus, tristis, egenus eo,
Quas mea cunque feram vestigia solus in oras,
Te pia non mecum corda vagata petunt :
Sponte petunt fratrem, sine fine dolentia: crescit
Longior ex omni tracta catena gradu.

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XLVI.

IT was the spring, and newly risen day
Peeped o'er the hamlets on the first of May;
My eyes, too tender for the blaze of light,
Still sought the shelter of retiring night,
When Love approached in painted plumes arrayed,
The insidious god his rattling darts betrayed,
Nor less his infant features, and the sly
Sweet intimations of his threatening eye.
Such the Sigean boy is seen above
Filling the goblet for imperial Jove ;

Such he on whom the Nymphs bestowed their charms,
Hylas, who perished in a Naiad's arms:

Angry he seemed, yet graceful in his ire,

And added threats, not destitute of fire.

XLVII.

To a female Cupbearer.

COME, Leila, fill the goblet up,

Reach round the rosy wine:

Think not that we will take the cup
From any hand but thine.

A draught like this 't were vain to seek ;
No grape can such supply;

It steals its tints from Leila's cheek,

Its brightness from her eye.

XLVI.

ΗΜΟΣ ὑπὲρ κώμας ἀνεφαίνετο ἱερὸν ἦμαρ, ὥρῃ ἐν εἰαρινῇ, θέρεος νέον ἀρχομένοιο, ὄσσε δέ μοι λαμπραῖς νικωμένω ἀκτίνεσσι χαζούσης νυκτὸς δνοφερὴν ποθέεσκε καλυπτρήν, τῆμος Ἔρως πτερύγεσσιν ἐχρίμπτετο δαιδαλέαισι στίλβων, τὸν δ ̓ ἐπιόντα βέλη καὶ καμπύλα τόξα προὔφαινεν κλάγγοντ ̓, ἔγνων δέ μιν, οὐδέ μ' ἔληθε παιδὸς ἔχων νεαροῖο φύσιν καὶ χρῶτα μελιχρόν. νεῦσε δὲ μειδιόων, δόλιον δέ οἱ ὄμμα φαίνθη. τοῖος ἐὼν μορφὴν παῖς Δαρδάνου ἱπποδάμοιο φαίνεται, ὃς κατ' Ὄλυμπον ὑπέρτατον οἰνοχοεύει χρυσείοις δεπάεσσι Διὶ Κρονίωνι ἄνακτι· τοῖος Ὕλας, τὸν πάντα χαριζόμεναι φιλέεσκον Νυμφαὶ ἐϋπλόκαμοι, κοῦραι Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο, Νηϊάδος λευκαῖσιν ὃς ὤλετ ̓ ἐν ἀγκοινῇσι· εἴσατο δ ̓ ὀργισθέντι· τὸ δ ̓ οὐκ ἀχάριστον ἐτύχθη. ἠπείλησε δ ̓ ἔπειτα, πυρὸς δ' οὐ δεύετ ̓ ἀπειλή.

G. Β.

XLVII.

Hebe Ministra.

ADDE merum; cyathos age divide, Leila, rubentes ;
Nolumus ex alia pocula sumta manu.
Huic similem frustra cuperemus habere liquorem ;
Quamlibet haud talem nobilis uva parit.

Ille trahit Leila roseos ex ore colores,
Ex oculis nitidas surripit ille faces.

B.

XLVIII.

Elegy on the Death of an unfortunate Lady.

BY foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances and the public show?
What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polished marble emulate thy face?

What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressed,
And the green turf lie lightly
turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.

Pope.

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