OVID METAMORPHOSES, v. 576-606.

Pars ego nymharum, quae sunt in Achaide, dixit, una fui: nec me studiosius altera saltus

legit, nec posuit studiosius altera casses.

Sed quamvis formae numquam mihi fama petita est,
quamvis fortis eram, formosae nomen habebam.
Nec mea me facies nimium laudata iuvabat:
quaque aliae gaudere solent, ego rustica dote
corporis erubui, crimenque placere putavi.
Lassa revertebar, memini, Stymphalide silva.
Aestus erat, magnumque labor geminaverat aestum.
Invenio sine vortice aquas, sine murmure euntes,
perspicuas ad humum, per quas numerabilis alte
calculus omnis erat, quas tu vix ire putares.
Cana salicta dabant nutritaque populus unda
sponte sua natas ripis declivibus umbras.
Accessi, primumque pedis vestigia tinxi,
poplite deinde tenus: neque eo contenta, recingor,
molliaque impono salici velamina curvae,
nudaque mergor aquis: quas dum ferioque trahoque,
mille modis labens, excussaque brachia iacto,
nescio quod medio sensi sub gurgite murmur,
territaque insisto propioris margine ripae.
Quo properas, Arethusa? suis Alpheus ab undis,
quo properas? iterum rauco mihi dixerat ore.
Sicut eram, fugio sine vestibus: altera vestes
ripa meas habuit. Tanto magis instat et ardet;
et quia nuda fui, sum visa paratior illi.

Sic ego currebam, sic me ferus ille premebat,
ut fugere accipitrem penna trepidante columbae,
ut solet accipiter trepidas urgere columbas.

IDEM ANGLICE.

“One of Achaia's nymphs, of yore,
I roamed the pleasant woodlands o'er;
No maiden with more constant care
Chose hunting-ground or planted snare.
Though strongly-knit, nor e'en in thought
For form or feature caring aught,
Some called me fair. And yet almost
Their praises irked me, and the boast
Of others, all that gave me grace,
Made blushes mantle in

my

face. My country-nurtured modest ways Made it seem sin to earn such praise.

“ Home from Stymphalus' wood one day,
Full wearily I took my way;
’T was summer, and the summer heat
Seemed double to my toiling feet.
A stream's clear water I descry
Still and unrippled gliding by;
Deep at the bottom you might count
Each pebble of the glassy fount.
Scarcely the river seemed to move,
Where willow trees and poplar grove
Far in the liquid stream below
O’er shelving banks their shadows throw.

" Close to the brink I came and first
My feet scarce in the stream immersed,
Then ankle deep in the cool tide
I stood, nor yet was satisfied.

On a gnarled willow I laid down
My robe's thin texture from me thrown,
Plunged in, and borne on lissome limb,
I dive, I splash, I float, I swim.

“Some murmur strange beneath the flood
I heard, and frightened quickly stood
Upon the bank that nearest lay.
Ho, Arethusa, where away?
Where flyest thou so fast?' So cried
The god Alpheus from his tide.
Again I heard those accents dread,
Just as I was I turned and fled,
(My dress upon the willow lay
Beyond the river far away.)

“He followed swift, by passion spurred,
Which my fair form to madness stirred.
E'en as a fluttering dove I fled
That flies the kestrel. On he sped,
As the fell kestrel from above
Swoops down upon the trembling dove."

W. GOODCHILD.

FORMER PRIZEMEN.

MR. MC GEACHY'S PRIZE.

English Verse.
G. S. Benson
F. Moffat
F. Moffat
W. Stephens
F. R. Johnstone
A. Martin

H. P. Darwall
A. W. Freeland
D. R. Fearon
A. S. Aglen
C. J. Clayton

R. B. Reade
T. L. Papillon
A. Auchmuty
C. S. Oakley
W. H. A. Emra
C. C. Tucker
R. M. Waller
C. F. Grant
W. J. Greenwell
E. L. Bernays
W. M. Furneaux
A. C. Hilton
H. H. Turner

THE BISHOP OF CALCUTTA'S PRIZES.

FORMER

MATHEMATICAL MASTER'S 1866 S. H. Butcher

1867 W. M. Furneaux
1868 A. K. Connell
1869 F. Madan
1870 M. E. Yeatman

(CONTINUED).