ON A POPLAR NEAR THE WAYSIDE. THIS plant is sacred. Passenger, beware! From every wound a mortal pang I bear, My tender limbs support a virgin rind,

Not the rude bark that shades the forest kind; And, e'en in these dark glens and pathless glades, Their parent sun protects his poplar maids.

ON WINE.

THE wizards, at my first nativity,
Declared, with one accord, I soon should die;
What if (o'er all impends that certain fate)
I visit gloomy Minos soon or late?

Wine, like a racer, brings me there with ease,
The sober souls may walk it, if they please.

UNDER THE ROSE.

NoT the planet that, sinking in ocean,
Foretells future storms to our tars;
Not the sea, when in fearful commotion,
Its billows swell high to the stars;
Not the thunder, that rolls in October,
Is so hateful to each honest fellow,
As he, who remembers when sober,

The tales that were told him when mellow.

EPITAPH ON A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
HERE sleeps a daughter by a mother's side;
Nor slow disease nor war our fates allied;
When hostile banners over Corinth waved,
Preferring death, we left a land enslaved!
Pierced by a mother's steel, in youth I bled,
She nobly joined me in my gory bed ;-
In vain ye forge your fetters for the brave,
Who fly for sacred freedom to the grave.

CONJUGAL AFFECTION. SEE yonder blushing vine-tree grow, And clasp a dry and withered plane, And round its youthful tendril throw,

A shelter from the wind and rain. That sapless trunk, in former time,

Gave covert from the noontide blaze, And taught the infant shoot to climb,

That now the pious debt repays. And thus, kind powers, a partner give To share in my prosperity; Hang on my strength, while yet I live, And do me honour when I die.

ON ERINNA.

FEW were thy notes, Erinna,-short thy lay,But thy short lay the Muse herself hath given; Thus never shall thy memory decay,

Nor night obscure the fame, which lives in heaven;

While we, the unnumbered bards of after-times, Sink in the melancholy grave unseen, Unhonoured reach Avernus' fabled climes,

And leave no record that we once have been.

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF CORINTH. WHERE has thy grandeur, Corinth, shrunk from sight,

Thine ancient treasures, and thy rampart's height,
Thy godlike fanes and palaces ?-O where
Thy mighty myriads and majestic fair?
Relentless war has poured around thy wall,
And hardly spared the traces of thy fall.
We nymphs of Ocean deathless yet remain,
And sad and silent, sorrow near thy plain.

ON SAPPHO.

DOES Sappho then beneath thy bosom rest,
Eolian earth!-that mortal Muse confest
Inferior only to the choir above,
That foster-child of Venus and of Love,
Warm from whose lips divine Persuasion came
To ravish Greece and raise the Lesbian name?
O ye! who ever twine the threefold thread,
Ye Fates, why number with the silent dead
That mighty songstress, whose unrivall'd powers
Weave for the Muse a crown of deathless flowers.

ON HOMER'S BIRTH-PLACE. FROM Colophon some deem thee sprung, From Smyrna some, and some from Chios; These, noble Salamis have sung,

While those proclaim thee born in Ios; And others cry up Thessaly

The mother of the Lapitha.

Thus each to Homer has assign'd
The birth-place just which suits his mind.
But, if I read the volume right,

By Phœbus to his followers given,
I'd say they're all mistaken quite,
And that his real country's heaven;
While for his mother, she can be
No other than Calliope.

ON ORPHEUS.

No more, sweet Orpheus! shalt thou lead along
Oaks, rocks, and savage monsters with thy song,
Fetter the winds, the struggling hail-storm chain,
The snowy desert soothe, and sounding main;
For thou art dead;-the Muses o'er thy bier,
Sad as thy parent, pour the tuneful tear.
Weep we a child?-Not e'en the gods can save
Their glorious offspring from the hated grave.

ON PINDAR.

As the loud trumpet to the goatherd's pipe,
So sounds thy lyre, all other sounds surpassing;
Since round thy lips, in infant fullness ripe,
Swarm honied bees, their golden stores amass-
ing.

Thine, Pindar! be the palm,-by him decreed
Who holds on Mænalus his royal sitting;
Who, for thy love, forsook his simple reed,

And hymns thy lays in strains a god befitting.

I. ON ANACREON.

GROW, clustering ivy, where Anacreon lies; There may soft buds from purple meadows rise;

Gush, milky springs, the poet's turf to lave,
And, fragrant wine, flow joyous from his grave!
Thus charm'd, his bones shall press their narrow
bed,

If aught of pleasure ever reach the dead.
In these delights he soothed his age above,
His life devoting to the lyre and love.

The Same paraphrased.

AROUND the tomb, O bard divine,

Where soft thy hallowed brow reposes,
Long may the deathless ivy twine,

And summer pour her waste of roses!
And many a fount shall there distil,
And many a rill refresh the flowers;
But wine shall gush in every rill,

And every fount yield milky showers.
Thus shade of him whom nature taught
To tune his lyre and soul to pleasure-
Who gave to love his warmest thought,

Who gave to love his fondest measure;

Thus after death if spirits feel

Thou may'st from odours round thee streaming,

A pulse of past enjoyment steal,

And live again in blissful dreaming.

II. ON ANACREON.

She too, for whom that heart profusely shed
The purest nectar of its numbers,
She-the young spring of thy desires-has fled,
And with her blest Anacreon slumbers.
Farewell! thou hadst a pulse for every dart
That Love could scatter from his quiver;
And every woman found in thee a heart,
Which thou, with all thy soul, didst give her!

THE CURE FOR MISERY.

ONE fleecy ewe, one heifer, were the store That drove dire want from Aristides' door. He lost them both: his teeming heifer died; His single ewe the ravening wolf descried, And bore away: thus all he had was gone. Retiring to his silent hut alone,

The belt that bound his empty scrip he takes, Fastens the noose, and wretched life forsakes.

THE HONEST SHEPHERD.

WHEN 'hungry wolves had trespass'd on the fold,

And the robb'd shepherd his sad story told,
"Call in Alcides," said a crafty priest,
"Give him one half, and he'll secure the rest."
No, said the shepherd, if the Fates decree,
By ravaging my flock, to ruin me,

To their commands I willingly resign;
Power is their character, and patience mine:
Though, 'troth, to me there seems but little odds
Who prove the greatest robbers,-wolves or
gods.

AGAINST WATER-DRINKERS.
BACCHUS found me yesterday,

As, at my full length stretch'd, I lay,
Sated with the crystal tide-

The god stood frowning at my side,
And said "Such sleep upon thee waits
As those attends whom Venus hates.
Say, idiot! didst thou never hear
Of one Hippolytus ?-Beware!
His destiny may else be thine."
He left me then-the God of Wine;

But ever since this thing befell,
I've loathed the notion of a well.

THE WIDOW'S OFFERING.

To Pallas, Lysistrata offered her thimble
And distaff, of matronly prudence the symbol:

flight,

And drowsy Death thine eye-lid steepeth; Thy harp, that whispered through each lingering night,

Now mutely in oblivion sleepeth.

queen!

I'm a widow, and just forty winters have seen; So thy yoke I renounce, and henceforward decree To live with Love's goddess, and prove that I'm

free.

CUPID WOUNDED.

WHY weep'st thou, Cupid-thou, who steal'st men's hearts,

And with their hearts their reason?-Tell me why

Thou'st flung away thy cruel bow and darts, And doff'd thy radiant wings?-Has Lesbia's eye,

Which beams on all resistless, pierced thy breast?
'Tis so thy cause of sorrow stands confest;
And thou art doomed to suffer in thy turn,
And feel what torture 'tis with love to burn.

THE TYRANT LOVE.

Ar-tread on my neck, tyrant Cupid! I swear, Though so little, your weight is no trifle to bear: But I laugh at your darts tipp'd with flaming desire,

Since my heart, burnt to ashes, is proof against fire.

THE KISS.

TIMARION's kiss, like bird-lime, clings
About the happy lips it blesses;
Her eye its sun-like radiance flings

Beneath her dark o'ershadowing tresses.
One look, fond lover, and you're burn'd;
One touch, and all your strength is nought;
And Love himself this lesson learn'd,
Late in her nets, a captive caught.

THE DIN OF LOVE.
'Tis love, that murmurs in my breast,
And makes me shed the secret tear;
Nor day nor night my heart has rest,

For night and day his voice I hear.
A wound within my heart I find,

And oh! 'tis plain where Love has been,
For still he leaves a wound behind,
Such as within my heart is seen.

O bird of Love! with song so drear,
Make not my soul the nest of pain!
Oh, let the wing that brought thee here,
In pity waft thee hence again.

BEAUTY COMPARED WITH FLOWERS. 'Tis now that the white violet

steals out the spring to greet, And that, among his longed-for showers, narcissus smiles so sweet;

'Tis now that lilies, upland-born,

frequent the slopes of green,
And that the flower which lovers love,
of all the flowers the queen,
Without an equal any where,

in full-blown beauty glows-
Thou know'st it well, Zenophile!
Persuasion's flower, the rose!
Ah, why, ye hills and meadows,
should laughter thus illume
Your leafy haunts? So lavish why,

and prodigal of bloom?
Not all the wreaths of all the flowers
that spring herself might cull,
As mine own maiden e'er could be
one half so beautiful!

THE GIFTS OF THE GRACES. THE Graces, smiling, saw her opening charms, And clasped Arista in their lovely arms. Hence her resistless beauty; matchless sense; The music of her voice; the eloquence, That, e'en in silence flashes from her face; All strikes the ravished heart-for all is grace: List to my vows, sweet maid! or from my view Far, far away, remove! In vain I sue; For, as no space can check the bolts of Jove, No distance shields me from the shafts of Love.

THE GARLAND.

A FRESH garland will I braid
Of lilies blithe and fair,
Of the hyacinth's blue shade,
And the crocus's gold hair,
Of narcissus dewy-bright,
Of myrtle, never sere,
With the violet virgin white,

And sweet rose to lovers dear.-
-Thus, for Heliodora's hair,

Freshest, fairest flowers I've twin'd, But none half so sweet, so fair,

As the dear, dear locks they'll bind.

Oh! what had I with Love to do

A wolf among the sheep-folds roaming. There-take your wings-put on your shoe, And tell your playmates you are coming.

TO BACCHUS.

BACCHUS! I yield me to thy sway;
Master of revels, lead the way!
Conqueror of India's burning plain,
My heart obeys thy chariot rein.

In flames conceiv'd, thou sure wilt prove
Indulgent to the fire of Love;
Nor count me rebel, if I own
Allegiance to a double throne.
Alas! alas! that power so high
Should stoop to treacherous perfidy!
The mysteries of thy hallowed shrine
I ne'er profan'd-Why publish mine?

THE LOVER'S MESSAGE. HASTE thee, Dorcas! haste and bear This message to thy lady fair; And say besides-nay, pray begoneTell, tell her all-run, Dorcas, run! Whither so fast? a moment stay; Don't run with half your tale away; I've more to tell-ah me! I raveI know not what I'd do, or have. Go, tell her all-whate'er you know, Whate'er you think-go, Dorcas, go! But why a message send before, When we're already at the door.

THE VOW.

IN holy night we made the vow;

And the same lamp, which long before Had seen our early passion grow,

Was witness to the faith we swore. Did I not swear to love her ever? And have I ever dared to rove? Did she not vow a rival never

Should shake her faith, or steal her love? Yet now she says those words were air, Those vows were written all in water; And, by the lamp that heard her swear, Hath yielded to the first that sought her.

LOVE PROCLAIMED.

OYEZ! Take notice; Love, the runaway,
Fled from his bed-chamber at break of day.
The boy is an adept at wheedling, crying;
Talks much, is swift of foot, and given to lying.
Audacious, cunning, and with malice fraught,
He laughs at mischiefs his own wiles have
wrought:

With wings for flight equipp'd, and for attack
With darts, he bears a quiver at his back.
Who is his father I could ne'er discover-
Earth, sea, and air alike disown the rover.

For mirth or for mischief, to tickle or wound.
He'll try with his tears your heart to beguile,
But never you mind-he's laughing all the while;
For little he cares, so he has his own whim,
And weeping or laughing, 'tis all one to him.
His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash,
His tongue, like the red bolt, keen and rash;
And so savage is he, that his own dear mother
Is scarce, in his hands, more safe than another.
In short, to sum up this prodigy's praise,
He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways;
And if any one wants such an imp to employ,
He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy.
But see, the boy wakes-his bright tears flow-
His eyes seem to ask, Could I sell him? Oh, no;
Sweet child, no, no-though so naughty you be;
You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.

TO THE BEE.

WANDERING bee, who lov'st to dwell
In the vernal rose-bud's cell,
Wherefore leave thy place of rest
To light on Heliodora's breast?

Is it thus you mean to show,
When flies the shaft from Cupid's bow,
What a sweet and bitter smart

It leaves within this wounded heart?
Yes, thou friend to lovers, yes-
I thy meaning well can guess―
'Tis a truth too soon we learn;-
Go! with thy lesson home return.

TO HIS MISTRESS SLEEPING. THOU sleep'st, soft silken flower! Would I were sleep,

For ever on those lids my watch to keep!
So would I have thee all mine own,-nor he,
Who seals Jove's wakeful eyes, my rival be.

LOVE, THE TENNIS-PLAYER. LOVE acts the tennis-player's part, And throws to thee my panting heart; Heliodora! ere it fall,

Let Desire catch swift the ball;