Oh! who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide-
The exulting sense-the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo th' approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight.

That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal;
And where the feebler faint, can only feel-
Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core,

Its hope awaken, and its spirit soar.

No dread of death, if with us die our foes,

Save that it seems e'en duller than repose.
Come when it will-we snatch the life of life;
When lost-what recks it, by disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamoured of decay

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;

Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head:
Ours the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang, one bound, escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave.

Ecquis scire potest-nisi qui mare noverit altum,
Victor et immensas pervolitârit aquas-
Gaudia quæ sensus agitent insana, vagantis
Quà notat æquoream semita nulla viam ?
Ipse sibi Martis qui prima exordia poscat

Grata putans, alii quæ metuenda putent-
Quæ timidi fugiant, nimio fervore requirat-
Et qua deficerent debiliora metu,

Sentiat ex imis corda exagitata medullis
Et spes accensas, et caluisse sinus!

Hoste simul cæso, necis haud pallescimus horam,
Attamen haud torpet segnior ipsa quies.
Sic veniat, vitâ, nam vera hæc vita, fruamur,
Morbo quid refert an periisse manu?
Langueat at si quis, senio contentus inerti,
Debilis annorum tædia longa trahat,
Ægrotans agitet caput, et suspiria ducat-

Nobis herba virens, et sine febre torus.
Dum luctantem animam vix longo angore resolvit,
Ruperit exiguus vincula nostra dolor.

Marmore compositos cineres monumenta coronent,

Quique omnes annos oderit, ossa colat.

Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us e'en banquets fond regret supply,
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,

When those who win at length divide the prey, And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow, "How had the brave who fell exulted now!"

Sunt lacrimæ nobis ultro de pectore natæ, Siquando exequias solverit Unda suis. Ipsa simul veros stimulant convivia luctus, Amissos quoties pocula fida cient.

Elogium et breviter dictum, sub fine pericli, Cum sua virtutis præmia quisque capit; Et desiderio victi inter pocula clamant,

"Jamque exultâssent, qui cecidere, boni!

TRANSLATIONS

AND

ADAPTATIONS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.

I.

THE FIELD.

LATE Pythias owned me, Abas owns to-day,
To-morrow who may own me, none can say;
Each in his turn accounts me as his own,
But I am Fortune's field, and hers alone.

IDEM LATINE.

DICTUS Achæmenidis nuper, nunc dicor Abantis, Cras dicendus ager fors et alius heri.

Hic putet esse suum, velut ille putaverit olim, Neminis at sane sum, nisi Sortis, ager.