flood;

Then, if the winds more fiercely howl, they rouse
But sweeter music in the pine's tall boughs.
Hard is the life the weary fisher finds
Who trusts his floating mansion to the winds,
Whose daily food the fickle sea maintains,
Unchanging labour, and uncertain gains.
Be mine soft sleep, beneath the spreading shade
Of some broad leafy plane, inglorious laid,
Lull'd by a fountain's fall, that, murmuring near,
Soothes, not alarms, the toil-worn labourer's ear.

ALPHEUS AND ARETHUSA. FROM where his silver waters glide, Majestic, to the ocean-tide

Through fair Olympia's plain, Still his dark course Alpheus keeps Beneath the mantle of the deeps,

Nor mixes with the main.

To grace his distant bride, he pours
The sand of Pisa's sacred shores,

And flowers that deck'd her grove; And, rising from the unconscious brine, On Arethusa's breast divine

Receives the meed of love.

'Tis thus with soft bewitching skill
The childish god deludes our will,
And triumphs o'er our pride;
The mighty river owns his force,
Bends to the sway his winding course,
And dives beneath the tide.

EUROPA.

THE Queen of Love, on amorous wiles intent,
A pleasing dream to young Europa sent,
What time still night had roll'd the hours away,
And the fresh dawn began to promise day-
When balmy slumbers and composing rest
Close every eye, and soothe the pensive breast,
When dreams and visions fill the busy brain,
Prophetic dreams, that never rise in vain.
"Twas then Europa, as she sleeping lay,
Chaste as Diana, sister of the day,
Saw in her cause the adverse shore engag'd
In war with Asia; terribly they rag'd:
Each seem'd a woman; that, in foreign guise,
A native this, and claim'd the lovely prize
With louder zeal: "The beauteous Nymph," she

said

"Her daughter was, and in her bosom bred."
But she, who as a stranger was array'd,
Forc'd to her arms the unresisting maid;
Call'd her her right, by all the powers above,
Giv'n her by fate, and Ægis-bearing Jove.

The fair Europa, struck with sudden dread,
All pale and trembling started from her bed;
Silent she sat, and thought the vision true,
Still seem'd their forms to strive before her view:

That haunt my sleep, and break my golden rest? And who that form that seem'd so wond'rous kind?

The dear idea still delights my mind.
She, like a mother, press'd me in her arms:
But, O ye gods! that send such strange alarms,
Preserve these visionary scenes from harms."

She said, and lightly from her couch up

sprung,

Then sought her comrades, beautiful and young,
Her social mates; with them she lov'd to lave
Her limbs unblemish'd in the crystal wave;
With them on lawns the sprightly dance to lead,
Or pluck sweet lilies in the flowery mead.
The nymphs assembled soon, a beauteous band!
With each a curious basket in her hand;
Then reach'd those fields where oft they play'd
before,

The fragrant fields along the sea-beat shore,
To gather flowers, and hear the billows roar.
Europa's basket, radiant to behold,
The work of Vulcan, was compos'd of gold;
He gave it Libya, mighty Neptune's bride,
She Telephassa, next in blood allied;
From her bequeath'd to fair Europa came
This splendid basket of celestial frame.
Fair in the work the milk-white lö stood
In roughen'd gold, and, lowing, paw'd the flood,
(For Vulcan there had pour'd the azure main)
A heifer still, not yet transform'd again.
Two men stood figur'd on the ocean's brim,
Who watch'd the cow, that seem'd inclin'd to
swim.

Jove too appear'd, enamour'd, on the strand,
And strok'd the lovely heifer with his hand :
Till, on the banks of Nile again array'd,
In native beauty shone the blooming maid:
The sev'n-mouth'd Nile in silver currents roll'd,
And Jove was sculptur'd in refulgent gold.
Near piping Hermes sleepless Argus lies,
Watching the heifer with his hundred eyes:
From Argus, slain, a painted peacock grew,
Fluttering his feathers stain'd with various hue,
And, as a ship expands her swelling sail,
He round the basket spread his starry tail.
Such were the scenes the Lemnian god display'd,
And such the basket of the Tyrian maid.

The lovely damsels gather'd flow'rets bright,
Sweet to the smell, and beauteous to the sight;
The fragrant hyacinth of purple hue,
Narcissus, wild thyme, and the violet blue;
Some the gilt crocus or pale lily chose,
But fair Europa cropp'd the blooming rose;
And all her mates excell'd in radiant mein,
As 'midst the graces shines the Cyprian queen.
Not long, alas! in these fair fields she shone,
Nor long unloos'd preserv'd her virgin zone:
Saturnian Jove beheld the matchless maid,
And sudden transports his rapt soul invade;
He glows with all the fervid flame of love;
For Cupid's arrows pierce the breast of Jove.
But, best his amorous intent to screen,
And shun the jealous anger of his queen,

He laid his immortality aside,

And a bull's form the intriguing god belied;
But not of earthly shape, or mortal breed,
Such as at large in flowery pastures feed;
Whose stubborn necks beneath the yoke we bow,
Break to the wain, or harness to the plough.
His golden hue distinguish'd him afar;
Full in his forehead beam'd a silver star:
His large blue eyes, that shone serenely bright,
Languish'd with love, and sparkled with delight:
On his broad temples rose two equal horns,
Like that fair crescent which the skies adorns.
Gently he moves with peaceful look and bland,
And spreads no terror in the virgin band:
Nearer they draw, with eager longing led
To stroke his sides, and pat his comely head:
His breath divine ambrosial odours yields,
Sweeter than fragrance of the flowery fields.
At fair Europa's feet with joy he stands,
And prints sweet kisses on her lily hands.
His foamy lips she wipes, unaw'd by dread,
And strokes his sides, and pats his comely head.
Gently he low'd, as musical and clear

As notes soft warbled on the raptur'd ear:
And, as on earth his pliant knees he bent,

On the broad ocean safely sails the ship,
But bulls avoid, and dread the stormy deep.
Say, can a bull on sea-born viands feed?
Or, if descended from celestial breed,
Thy acts are inconsistent with a god:
Bulls rove the meads, and dolphins swim the
flood;

But earth and ocean are alike to thee,
Thy hoofs are oars that row thee through the sea.
Perhaps, like airy birds, thou soon wilt fly,
And soar amidst the regions of the sky.
Ah! wretched maid, to leave my native home,
And simply dare with bulls in meads to roam!
And now on seas I ride-ah! wretched maid!-
But, O! I trust, great Neptune, in thy aid;
Soon let my eyes my great conductor hail,
For not without a deity I sail."

Thus spoke the nymph, and thus the bull replied:

Courage, fair maid, nor fear the foaming tide; Though now a bull I seem to mortal eyes, Thou soon shalt see me ruler of the skies. What shape I please, at will I take and keep, And now a bull I cross the boundless deep; For thy bright charms inspire my breast with love:

meant;

Then turn'd his suppliant eyes, and view'd the

maid;

Who thus, astonish'd, to her comrades said:

Say, dearest mates, what can this beast intend? Let us (for lo! he stoops) his back ascend, And ride in sportive gambols round the mead; This lovely bull is, sure, of gentlest breed: So meek his manner, so benign his mind, He wants but voice to equal human kind.”

So spoke the fair, and up she rose to ride, And call'd her lingering partners to her side: Soon as the bull his pleasing burden bore, Vigorous he sprung, and hasten'd to the shore. The nymph, dismay'd, invok'd the virgin band For help, and wav'd her unavailing hand. On the soft bosom of the azure flood With his fair prize the bull triumphant rode : Up rose the Nereids to attend his train, And all the mighty monsters of the main. Cerulean Neptune was the Thunderer's guide, And for the passing pomp he smooth'd the tide : The Tritons hail'd him as he steer'd along, And sounded on their conchs the nuptial song. On Jove's broad back the lovely damsel borne Grasp'd with her fair right hand his polish'd horn, Her left essay'd her purple robe to save, That lightly brush'd the surface of the wave: Around her head soft breath'd the gentle gale, And fill'd her garment like a swelling sail. Europa's heart throbb'd quick with chiling fear, Far from her much-lov'd home, and comrades dear;

No sea-beat shore she saw, nor mountain's brow, Nor aught but sky above, and waves below. Then with a mournful look the damsel said:

CUPID PROCLAIMED.

OYEZ! cried Love's all-powerful Queen-
If any man has lately seen
My scape-grace, tell me where he is;

The sweet reward shall be a kiss:-
If further blisses you would rifle,
I shall not stand upon a trifle.
The boy's so notable, no doubt,
Among a score you'd find him out.
His skin glows like the fiery gleam;
His eyes flash like the lightning's beam;
His honied tongue distils with lies;
His heart is wrapt in dark disguise;
When passion rankles in his mind,
To savage deeds the elf's inclin'd;
And, under guise of harmless jest,
He stings the unsuspecting breast.
Innumerous curling tresses grace
His impudent and rakish face.
His hands are tiny, but their power
Extends to Pluto's gloomy bower.
The peevish urchin carries wings,
With which from heart to heart he springs,
As little birds, in wanton play,
Fly carelessly from spray to spray.
A trinket-bow and shafts he wears,

Which carry to the furthest stars.

His golden quiver swings behind,
With numerous fatal weapons lin'd,
Wherewith he deals sharp sorrows round,
And dares his mother's heart to wound.
His torch, with its portentous blaze,
Consumes the very solar rays.
If thou shalt catch the vagrant child,
Ah, be not by his tears beguil'd;
Bind fast his trickful hands, nor heed
Those smiles that secret treachery breed;
Drag him along, nor thoughtless stay
To fondle with him on the way.
Fly, fly his kisses:-they inflame
With every poison thou canst name;
And if he cry, "My arms I yield,"
Try not those deadly arms to wield:
Let prudence check this mad desire,—
They're pregnant with celestial fire.

LAMENT FOR BION.

YE mountain valleys, pitifully groan!
Rivers and Dorian springs, for Bion weep!
Ye plants drop tears; ye groves, lamenting
moan!

Exhale your life, wan flowers; your blushes deep

In grief, anemonies and roses, steep; In whimpering murmurs, Hyacinth! prolong The sad, sad woe thy lettered petals keep; Our minstrel sings no more his friends amongSicilian Muses! now begin the doleful song.

Ye nightingales! that mid thick leaves set loose

The gushing gurgle of your sorrow, tell The fountains of Sicilian Arethuse That Bion is no more-with Bion fell The song-the music of the Dorian shell. Ye swans of Strymon! now your banks along Your plaintive throats with melting dirges swell For him, who sang like you the mournful song; Discourse of Bion's death the Thracian nymphs among

The Dorian Orpheus, tell them all, is dead. His herds the song and darling herdsman miss, And oaks, beneath whose shade he propt his

The melancholy mountain silent is;
His pining cows no longer wish to feed,
But moan for him; Apollo wept, I wis,
For thee, sweet Bion! and in mourning weed
The brotherhood of Fauns, and all the Satyr breed.

The tears by Naiads shed are brimful bourns;
Afflicted Pan thy stifled music rues;
Lorn Echo 'mid her rocks thy silence mourns,
Nor with her mimic tones thy voice renews;
The flowers their bloom, the trees their fruit-
age lose;

No more their milk the drooping ewes supply;
The bees to press their honey now refuse;
What need to gather it and lay it by,
When thy own honey-lip, my Bion! thine is dry?
Sicilian Muses! lead the doleful chant;
Not so much near the shore the dolphin moans;
Nor so much wails within her rocky haunt
The nightingale; nor on their mountain thrones
The swallows utter such lugubrious tones;
Nor Ceyx such for faithful Halcyon,
Whose song the blue wave, where he perished,

For him their elegiac sadness shed;

And all the birds contagious sorrow caught; The sylvan realm was all with grief distraught. Who, bold of heart, will play on Bion's reed, Fresh from his lip, yet with his breathing fraught?

For still among the reeds does Echo feed On Bion's minstrelsy. Pan only may succeed To Bion's pipe; to him I make the gift; But, lest he second seem, e'en Pan may fear The pipe of Bion to his mouth to lift. For thee sweet Galatea drops the tear, And thy dear song regrets, which sitting near She fondly listed; ever did she flee The Cyclops and his song-but ah! more dear Thy song and sight than her own native sea; On the deserted sands the nymph without her fee Now sits and weeps, or weeping tends thy herd. Away with Bion all the muse-gifts flewThe chirping kisses breathed at every word: Around thy tomb the Loves their playmate rue; Thee Cypris loved-more than the kiss she drew,

And breathed upon her dying paramour.
Most musical of rivers! now renew
Thy plaintive murmurs; Meles! now deplore
Another son of song-as thou didst wail of yore

That sweet, sweet mouth of dear Calliope;
The threne, 'tis said, thy waves for Homer spun,
With saddest music filled the refluent sea;
Now melting wail and weep another son!
Both loved of fountains; that of Helicon
Gave Melesigenes his pleasant draught;
But to his Arethuse did Bion run,

And from her urn the glowing rapture quaffed:[ Thy elder glory sung how Helen bloomed and laughed;

On Thetis' mighty son his descant ran
And Menelaus; but our Bion chose
Not arms and tears to sing, but Love and Pan;
While browsed his herd, his gushing music rose;
He milked his kine; did pipes of reeds com-
pose;

Taught how to kiss; and fondled in his breast Young Love, and Cypris pleased. For Bion flows

In every glorious land a grief confest;
Ascra for her own bard, wise Hesiod, less exprest;

Baotian Hyla mourned for Pindar less;
Teös regretted less her minstrel hoar,
And Mitylene her sweet poetess;
Nor for Alcæus Lesbos suffered more;
Nor lovely Paros so much did deplore
Her own Archilochus. Breathing her fire
Into her sons of song, from shore to shore
For thee the pastoral Muse attunes her lyre
To woeful utterance of passionate desire.

Sicelidas, the famous Samian star,

And he with smiling eye and radiant face,
Cydonian Lycidas, renowned afar,
Lament thee; where quick Hales runs his race
Philetas wails; Theocritus, the grace
Of Syrcause, thee mourns; nor these among
Am I remiss Ausonian wreaths to place
Around thy tomb; to me doth it belong

To chant for thee, from whom I learnt the Dorian song;

Me with thy minstrel skill as proper heir-
Others thou didst endow with thine estate.
Alas! alas! when in a garden fair
Mallows, crisp dill, and parsley yield to fate,
These with another year regerminate;
But when of mortal life the bloom and crown,
The wise, the good, the valiant, and the great
Succumb to death, in hollow earth shut down,
We sleep, for ever sleep-for ever lie unknown.
Thus art thou squeezed, while frogs may croak
at will;

I envy not their croak. Thee poison slew-
How kept it in thy mouth its nature ill?
If thou didst speak, what cruel wretch could
brew

The draught? He did of course thy song eschew.

But Justice all o'ertakes. My tears fast flow For thee, my friend. Could I, like Orpheus true,

To gloomy Tartarus, how quickly would I go! Odysseus or Alcides, pass below

To see, and hear thee, haply, sing for Dis; But in the nymph's ear warble evermore, O dearest friend! thy sweetest harmonies: For whilom, on her own Etnean shore, She sang wild snatches of the Dorian lore. Nor will thy singing unrewarded be; Thee to thy mountain-haunts she will restore, As she gave Orpheus his Eurydice. Could I charm Dis with songs, I too would sing for thee.

A MOTHER LAMENTING HER CHILDREN.
BUT, as a bird bewails her callous brood,
While in the brake a serpent drains their blood,
And, all too weak the wished relief to bring,
Twittering her shrill complaints, on feeble wing
At distance hovers, nor will venture near
The fell destroyer, chill'd with conscious fear;
So I, all frantic, the wide mansion o'er,
Unhappy mother, my lost sons deplore.

CAPRICIOUS LOVE.

PAN for his neighbour Echo sighs;
She loves the dancing Satyr:
The Satyr, caught by Lyda's eyes,
Is dying to be at her.

As Echo fires the breast of Pan,
Behold the Dancer burn

The Nymph's soft heart-though Lyda's man :
Thus each is scorched in turn.

While all who slight, are slighted too,

They feel alternate pain:

Then hear-Love those that fancy you,
And you'll be loved again!*

The modern ballad in imitation of this Idyl must be well known to most of our readers.

"Tom loves Mary passing well,

While Mary she loves Harry,
While Harry sighs for bonny Bell,
And finds his love miscarry," &c. &c.