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FROM MOSCHUS.

Τὰν ὅλα τὰν γλαυκὰν ὅταν ὤνεμος ἀτρέμα βάλλη, κ. τ. λ.

I.

WHEN winds that move not its calm surface sweep
The azure sea, I love the land no more:
The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep
Tempt my unquiet mind. But, when the roar
Of ocean's grey abyss resounds, and foam
Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst,
I turn from the drear aspect to the home

Of earth and its deep woods, where interspersed,
When winds blow loud, pines make sweet melody.
Whose house is some lone bark, whose toil the sea,
Whose prey the wandering fish, an evil lot

Has chosen. But I my languid limbs will fling Beneath the plane, where the brook's murmuring Moves the calm spirit but disturbs it not.

1816.

II.

PAN, ECHO, AND THE SATYR.

PAN loved his neighbour Echo; but that child
Of Earth and Air pined for the Satyr leaping;
The Satyr loved with wasting madness wild

The bright nymph Lyda :—and so three went weeping. As Pan loved Echo, Echo loved the Satyr;

The Satyr, Lyda :—and so love consumed them.
And thus-to each which was a woful matter-

To bear what they inflicted Justice doomed them;
For, in as much as each might hate the lover,
Each, loving, so was hated.-Ye that love not,
Be warned-in thought turn this example over,
That, when ye love, the like return ye prove not.

III.

FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH Of bion.

YE Dorian woods and waves, lament aloud,—
Augment your tide, O streams, with fruitless tears,
For the beloved Bion is no more!

Let every tender herb and plant and flower,

From each dejected bud and drooping bloom,
Shed dews of liquid sorrow, and with breath
Of melancholy sweetness on the wind
Diffuse its languid love; let roses blush,
Anemones grow paler for the loss

Their dells have known. And thou, O hyacinth,
Utter thy legend now—yet more, dumb flower,
Than "ah! alas!" Thine is no common grief—
Bion the . . is no more.

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FROM BION.

FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ADONIS.

I MOURN Adonis dead-loveliest Adonis

Dead, dead Adonis-and the Loves lament.
Sleep no more, Venus, wrapped in purple woof—
Wake, violet-stolèd queen, and weave the crown
Of Death, 'tis Misery calls, for he is dead.

The lovely one lies wounded in the mountains,

His white thigh struck with the white tooth; he scarce
Yet breathes; and Venus hangs in agony there.
The dark blood wanders o'er his snowy limbs,

His eyes beneath their lids are lustreless,

The rose has fled from his wan lips, and there
That kiss is dead which Venus gathers yet.

A deep deep wound Adonis

A deeper Venus bears within her heart.

See, his beloved dogs are gathering round-
The Oread nymphs are weeping. Aphrodite
With hair unbound is wandering through the woods,
Wildered, ungirt, unsandalled—-the thorns pierce
Her hastening feet, and drink her sacred blood.
Bitterly screaming out, she is driven on
Through the long vales; and her Assyrian boy,
Her love, her husband, calls. The purple blood
From his struck thigh stains her white navel now,
Her bosom, and her neck before like snow.

Alas for Cytherea !—the Loves mourn—
The lovely, the beloved is gone !—And now
Her sacred beauty vanishes away :

For Venus whilst Adonis lived was fair

Alas! her loveliness is dead with him.

The oaks and mountains cry, "Ai ai! Adonis !"
The springs their waters change to tears, and weep-
The flowers are withered up with grief

"Ai ai!

Echo resounds,

Adonis dead!"

"Adonis dead."

Who will weep not thy dreadful woe, O Venus?
Soon as she saw and knew the mortal wound
Of her Adonis-saw the life-blood flow

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From his fair thigh, now wasting, wailing loud,
She clasped him, and cried
Stay dearest one

Stay, Adonis !

and mix my lips with thine!

Wake yet a while, Adonis—oh but once !—
That I may kiss thee now for the last time—
But for as long as one short kiss may live!
Oh let thy breath flow from thy dying soul
Even to my mouth and heart, that I may suck
That.

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FROM VIRGIL.

THE TENTH ECLOGUE. [V. 1-26.]

MELODIOUS Arethusa, o'er my verse

Shed thou once more the spirit of thy stream :
Who denies verse to Gallus? So, when thou
Glidest beneath the green and purple gleam
Of Syracusan waters, mayst thou flow

Unmingled with the bitter Doric dew!
Begin, and, whilst the goats are browzing now
The soft leaves, in our way let us pursue

The melancholy loves of Gallus. List!

We sing not to the dead: the wild woods knew His sufferings, and their echoes

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... in what far woodlands wild

Wandered ye when unworthy love possessed Your Gallus? Not where Pindus is up-piled, Nor where Parnassus' sacred mount, nor where Aonïan Aganippe expands

The laurels and the myrtle-copses dim.

The pine-encircled mountain, Mænalus, The cold crags of Lycæus, weep for him ;

And Sylvan, crowned with rustic coronals, Came shaking in his speed the budding wands And heavy lilies which he bore: we knew Pan the Arcadian.

What madness is this, Gallus? Thy heart's care With willing steps pursues another there.

1816.

FROM DANTE.

FROM A SONNET IN THE VITA NOVA-ADAPTED.

WHAT Mary is when she a little smiles

I cannot even tell or call to mind,

It is a miracle so new, so rare.

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GUIDO, I would that Lapo, thou, and I,

Led by some strong enchantment, might ascend
A magic ship whose charmèd sails should fly

With winds at will, where'er our thoughts might wend

So that no change nor any evil chance

Should mar our joyous voyage, but it might be

That even satiety should still enhance

Between our hearts their strict community;
And that the bounteous wizard then would place
Vanna and Bice and my gentle love
Companions of our wandering, and would grace
With passionate talk, wherever we might rove,
Our time, and each were as content and free
As I believe that thou and I should be.

THE FIRST CANZONE OF THE CONVITO.

I.

YE who intelligent the Third Heaven move,
Hear the discourse which is within my heart,
Which cannot be declared, it seems so new.
The Heaven whose course follows your power and art,
O gentle creatures that ye are ! me drew,
And therefore may I dare to speak to you
Even of the life which now I live,—and yet
I pray that ye will hear me when I cry,
And tell of mine own Heart this novelty;
How the lamenting Spirit moans in it,
And how a voice there murmurs against her
Who came on the refulgence of your sphere.

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