Sweet Echo.

SWEET Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy aery shell,

By slow Meander's margent green,

And in the violet-embroidered vale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale

Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well:
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcissus are?

O! if thou have

Hid them in some flowery cave,

Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere!

So may'st thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies.

MILTON.

ΑΧΩ, κλύθι μοι, Ἀχώ,

νυμφάων ἀγανωτάτα,

κρυπτὸν ἀέριον σκάφος

ναίουσ', ἢ χλοερὰν πλάκα
Μαιάνδρου πάρ ̓ ἀκύμονος,

βάσσας ἢ κάτ ̓ ἰοδνεφεῖς,
ὅπου θ ̓ ἁ δυσέρως πάννυχ
ἀηδὼν μέλος οἰκτρὸν
καλῶς σοὶ καταθρηνεῖ·
λίσσομαι, ἁβράν μοι,
κούρα, φράζε συνωρίδα,
που ναίει, μάλα τῷ σῷ
Ναρκίσσῳ δέμας ἐμφερής
εἰ δ ̓ ἔκρυψας ἐν ἄνθεσι
σπηλαίου τινος, ἀλλά μοι
εἴποις ποῦ ποτε, φιλτάτα
φεῦ δέσποιν ̓ ὀάρου θεὰ,
πρόφρασσ ̓, οὐρανόπαι. κεἰς που

λὸν οὕτω μεταναστάσ',
Ολύμποιο μελάθρων

εὐκέλαδον πάσῃ

δοίης ἁρμονία χάριν.

στροφή.

ἀντιστρ.

L. 1833.

The Sacrifice.

CHOOSE the darkest part o' th' grove,
Such as ghosts at noon-day love.
Dig a trench, and dig it nigh

Where the bones of Laius lie:

Altars raised of turf or stone
Will the infernal Pow'rs have none.
Answer me, if this be done?
'Tis done.

Is the sacrifice made fit?

Draw her backward to the pit:
Draw the barren heifer back;
Barren let her be and black.
Cut the curled hair that grows
Full betwixt her horns and brows:
And turn your faces from the sun.
Answer me, if this be done?
'Tis done.

Pour in blood and bloodlike wine,
To mother earth and Proserpine:
Mingle milk into the stream:
Feast the ghosts that love the steam.
Snatch a brand from funeral pile:
Toss it in to make them boil:

And turn your faces from the sun.
Answer me, if this be done?

'Tis done.

DRYDEN.

5

*ΑΓ ̓ οὗτ, σκοτεινὸν ἐξερευνήσας μυχὸν,
οἷον μεσημβρινοῖσιν ἐν χρόνοις φιλεῖ
εἴδωλ ̓ ἐνοικεῖν, Λαΐου πεσήμασι

παρ ̓ ὀστίνοισι σκάπτε μοι τάφρου βάθος.
οὐ γάρ τι χλωροῖς οὐδὲ λαϊνοῖς ποτὲ
χαίρουσι βωμοῖς οἵ γε νέρτεροι Θεοί.
λέγ ̓ εἰ πέπρακται ταῦτα ;

Πᾶν καλῶς ἔχει.

ἆρ' ηὐτρέπισται πάνθ' ὅσα σφαγῆς ἔχει;
τὴν στεῖραν οὖν ὄπισθεν εἰς τάφρον χρεὼν
μόσχον καθέλκειν· τοῦτο δ' εὖ φύλασσ ̓, ὅπως
στεῖραν τε καὶ μέλαιναν αἱμάξεις χεροίν.
ἔπειτα πλεκτὰς δεῖ σ ̓ ἀποθρίσαι τρίχας,
ἄσπερ κεράτων ὀμμάτων τ' ἔχει μέσας.
τρέπεσθε δ' ὄψιν πᾶς ἀνὴρ ἀφ' ἡλίου.
λέγ ̓ εἰ πέπρακται ταῦτα;

Πᾶν καλῶς ἔχει.

ἄλλ' αἵματ' ἐγχεῖν αἵμασίν τε προσφερὲς
οἴνου γάνος μέμνησο, παμμήτωρ δὲ Γῆ
δῶρον τόδ ̓ ἱερὸν ἥ τε Περσέφασσ ̓ ἔχοι·
προσθὲς δὲ ταῖς ῥοαῖσι συγκραθὲν γάλα,
ἵν ̓ ἀτμίσιν χαίροντες οἱ κεκμηκότες
θαλίαν ἔχωσιν· ἐκ δέ του νεκρῶν πυρᾶς
ἀφαρπάσας σὺ δαλὸν εἰς τάφρον βάλε,
ὅπως τὸ σύμπαν κάρτ ̓ ἀναζέσει φλογί.
τρέπεσθε δ' ὄψιν πᾶς ἀνὴρ ἀφ' ἡλίου.
λέγ ̓ εἰ πέπρακται ταῦτα ;

Πᾶν καλῶς ἔχει.

L. 1837.

The Lotos-eaters.

"COURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land: "This mountain wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land,

In which it seemed always afternoon.

All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go : And some thro' wav'ring lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumb'rous sheet of foam below.