PASSAGE OF HANNIBAL OVER THE ALPS.
As the Tartarean gulf, beneath the ground,
Yawns to the gloony lake in hell's profound;
So high earth's heaving mass the air invades,
And shrouds the heaven with intercepting shades.
BEYOND the Pyrenean's lofty bound,
Through blackening forests, shagg'd with pine No spring, no summer, strews its glories here,
The Carthaginian pass'd; and fierce explored The Volcan champaign with his wasting sword. Then trod the threatening banks with hastening force,
Where Rhone, high-swelling, rolls its sweeping
From Alpine heights, and steep rocks capp'd with snow,
Gushes the Rhone, where Gaul is stretch'd below,
Cleaves with a mighty surge the foaming plain,
And with broad torrent rushes in the main.
"Swollen Arar mingles slow its lingering tide,
That, silent gliding, scarcely seems to glide:
Caught in the headlong whirlpool, breaks away,
Snatch'd through the plains, and starting from
delay;
Plunged in the deep the hurried stream is tost,
And in the greater flood its name is lost.
Alert the troops its bridgeless current brave,
With head and neck uprais'd above the wave,
Secure their steely swords, or firm divide,
With sinewy arms, the strong and boisterous tide.
The war steed, bound on rafts, the river treads;
Nor the vast elephant, retarding, dreads
To tempt the ford; while scatter'd earth they
throw
O'er the tied planks that hide the stream below.
Loosed from the banks the gradual cord extends,
And on the flood the unconscious beast descends.
As the troop'd quadrupeds, down sliding slow,
Launch'd on the stream, that, quivering, dash'd
below,
Beneath the incumbent weight, with starting tide,
The rapid Rhone pour'd back on every side:
Toss'd its white eddies o'er the frothy strand,
And, sullen, murmur'd on its chafing sand.
Now stretch'd the onward host their long array,
Through the Tricastine plains; and wound their
way
O'er smooth ascents, and where Vocontia yields
The level champaign of her verdant fields.
Athwart their easy march Druentia spread
The devastation of its torrent bed:
Turbid with stones and trunks of trees, descends
The Alpine stream: the ashen forests rends;
Rolls mountain fragments, crumbling to the shock,
And beats with raving surge the channel'd rock.
Of nameless depth, its ever-changing bed
Betrays the fording warriors' faithless tread;
The broad and flat pontoon is launch'd in vain,
High swells the flood with deluges of rain;
Snatch'd with his arms, the staggering soldier
slides,
And mangled bodies toss in gulfy tides.
Lone winter dwells upon these summits drear,
And guards his mansion round the endless year.
Mustering from far, around his grisly form
Black rains, and hail-storm showers, and clouds
of storm.
Here in their wrathful kingdom whirlwinds roam,
And the blasts struggle in their Alpine home.
The upward sight a swimming darkness shrouds,
And the high crags recede into the clouds.
First Hercules those untried heights explored,
And midst the aerial hills adventurous soar'd;
The gods beheld him cleave through many a
cloud,
While sinking rocks beneath his footsteps bow'd,
And, striving, leave the vanquish'd steeps below,
Where never foot had touch'd the eternal snow.
Did Taurus, piled on Athos, pierce the skies,
And Mimas, heav'd on Rhodope, arise,
Hæmus its steepy mass on Othrys roll,
And Pelion, rear'd on Ossa, shade the pole,
Mountain on mountain would in vain be hurl'd,
And lessening shrink beside the Alpine world.
A lingering, holy dread, the soldier bound,
His step hung doubtful, as on sacred ground:
It seem'd that Nature's self the access denied,
That their invading arms the gods defied.
But no rude Alp, no terror of the scene,
Mov'd Hannibal, undaunted and serene:
Indignant sadness only chang'd his brow,
As with exhorting words he quicken'd now
Their languid hopes and hearts: "What shame
Tired with the favour of the heavenly powers,
Sick of our long success, those glorious bays
That crown'd the labour of our well-fought days;
To turn our recreant backs on mountain snows,
And slothful yield, where only rocks are foes?
Oh! now, my friends, e'en now, believe, ye climb
Despotic Rome's proud walls, and tread, sublime,
The capitol of Jove! thus, thus, we gain
The prize of toil, and Tiber owns our chain."
He spoke nor they delay'd: the troops he drew Up the steep hills, their promis'd spoil in view: Transgress'd the Herculean road, and first made known
Tracts yet untrodden, and a path their own;
When inaccessible the desert rose,
He burst a passage through forbidden snows.
He first the opposing ridge ascending tried,
And bade the unconquerable cliff subside;
Cheer'd on the lingering troops, and, beckoning
Stood on the crag, and shouted from the sky.
Oft when the slippery path belied the tread,
And concrete frost the whitening cliff bespread,
But now, the o'erhanging Alps, in prospect near, Through the reluctant ice his arm explored
Efface remember'd toils in future fear.
While with eternal frost, with hailstones piled,
The ice of ages grasps those summits wild.
Stiffening with snow, the mountain soars in air,
And fronts the rising sun, unmelted by the glare.
The upward track, that open'd to his sword.
Oft the thawed surface from the footsteps shrank,
Suck'd in the absorbing gulf the warriors sank;
Or from high ridge the mass of rushing snow
In humid ruin whelm'd the ranks below.
On dusky wings the west wind swept the heaven, | O'er jagged heights, and icy fragments rude,
Full in their face the snowy whirls were driven;
Now from their empty grasp the arms are torn,
And sudden on the howling whirlwind borne;
Snatch'd on the blast, the wrested weapons fly,
And wheel in airy eddies round the sky-
When, striving o'er th' ascent, the height they
gain,
With planted foot, increasing toils remain :
Yet other heights their upward view surprise,
And opening mountains upon mountains rise.
No joy results from breathless efforts past,
The plains are won, yet still the mountains
last;
Repeated summits fright their aching eyes,
While one white heap of frost in circling prospect
lies.
Thus in mid sea the mariner explores,
With fruitless longing, the receded shores:
When no fresh wind, with spirit-stirring gale,
Bends the tall mast, or fills the flagging sail;
O'er boundless deeps his eyes exhausted rove,
And rest, relieved, upon the skies above.
Thus climb they, midst the mountain solitude,
And from the rocky summits, haggard show
Their half-wild visage, clotted thick with snow-
Continual drizzlings of the drifting air
Scar their rough cheeks, and stiffen in their hair.
Now, pour'd from craggy dens, a headlong force,
The Alpine hordes hang threat'ning on their
course;
Track the known thickets, beat the mountain snow,
Bound o'er the steeps, and, hovering, hem the foe.
Here chang'd the scene; the snows were crim-
son'd o'er,
The hard ice trickled to the tepid gore;
With pawing hoof the courser delv'd the ground,
And rigid frost his clinging fetlock bound;
Nor yet his slippery fall the peril ends,
The fracturing ice the bony socket rends.
Twelve times they measur'd the long light of day,
And night's bleak gloom, and urged through
wounds their way;
Till on the topmost ridge their camp was flung,
High o'er the steepy crags, in airy distance, hung.
[From about the middle, to the end of the first century.]
PUBLIUS PAPINIUS STATIUS was the son of Papinius Statius, (a writer of some eminence in his day,) and born at Naples. He became so popular as a poet, or rather as a rehearser, that all Rome, according to Juvenal, would flock to hear him.
When Statius fix'd a morning to recite
His Thebaid to the town, with what delight
They flock'd to hear! with what fond rapture hung
On the sweet strains, made sweeter by his tongue!
Gifford.
Besides the Thebaid, (in the composition and revision of which he is said to have spent twelve years,) Statius composed several minor pieces, under the title of Sylvæ, and left a fragment at his death, entitled the Achilleid.
FROM THE THEBAID.
Book VI.
THIRD in the labours of the disc came on,
With sturdy step and slow, Hippomedon;
Artful and strong, he pois'd the well known
weight,
By Phlegyas warn'd, and fir'd by Mnestheus'
fate,
That to avoid, and this to emulate.
His vigorous arm he tried before he flung,
Brac'd all his nerves, and every sinew strung;
Then, with a tempest's whirl, and wary eye,
Pursued his cast, and hurl'd the orb on high:
The orb on high, tenacious of its course,
True to the mighty arm that gave it force,
Far overleaps all bound, and joys to see
Its ancient lord secure of victory.
The theatre's green height and woody wall
Tremble, ere it precipitates its fall;
The ponderous mass sinks in the cleaving ground,
While vales, and woods, and echoing hills re-
bound.
As when from Etna's smoking summit broke,
The eyeless Cyclops heav'd the craggy rock;
Where Ocean frets beneath the dashing oar,
And parting surges round the vessel roar;
'Twas there he aim'd the meditated harm,
And scarce Ulysses scap'd his giant arm.
A tiger's pride the victor bore away,
With native spots and artful labour gay;
A shining border round the margin roll'd,
And calm'd the terrors of his claws in gold.
How have I wrong'd thee, Sleep, thou gentlest
Of heaven! that I alone, at night's dread hour,
hood from the emperor Domitian, and acquired a considerable estate by his marriage with a lady of the name of Marcella.
MARCUS VALERIUS MARTIALIS was a native | and the younger Pliny, received the rank of knightof Bilbilis (now Arragon) in Spain. He migrated to Rome when very young, and was destined for the bar; but his inclinations leading him to poetry, he soon acquired a high reputation by his satiric epigrams. He was patronized by Silius-Italicus *The example of Martial has associated the idea of a sting or point with the epigram, which implied originally nothing more than a short and simple inscription.
For the general character of Martial's writings, though not, perhaps, of his life, we may refer to the following line in one of his own epigrams:
"Lasciva est nobis pagina, vita proba est."
THOU, whom (if faith or honour recommends
A friend) I rank amongst my dearest friends,
Remember, that you're verging on threescore;
Few days of life remain, if any more.
Defer not what no future time insures,
And only what is past, consider yours.
Successive cares and troubles for you stay;
Pleasure not so; it quickly glides away.
Then seize it fast; embrace it ere it flies;
Oft in the embrace it vanishes, it dies.
I'll live to-morrow"-(so the fool will say,)—
To-morrow is too late; then live to-day.
LET Rufus weep, rejoice, stand, sit, or walk,
Still he can nothing but of Nævia talk:
Let him eat, drink, ask questions, or dispute,
Still he must speak of Nævia, or be mute.
He wrote his father, ending with this line,
"I am, my lovely Nævia, only thine."
TO CATULLA.
THOU fairest girl of all I see!
So fair, yet so debas'd!
Ah! would that aught could render thee
Less beauteous, or more chaste.
ON ANTONIUS,—A GOOD MAN.
IN strength elate, in fame and conscience clear,
Antonius numbers now his eightieth year;
Joys o'er the past, and sees, without a sigh,
The inevitable step of fate draw nigh.
No memory of dark days, but pleasant all,-
Not one but willingly he would recall.
Thus is life's stage prolong'd; thus he, blest man!
Lives twice, who can enjoy life's former span.
WHEN from the bath, or hot, or cold, you come,
The kind Menogenes attends you home;
When at the courts you ply the healthy ball,
He picks it up adroitly, should it fall:
I will content the avarice of my sight
With the fair gildings of reflected light:
Pleasures abroad the sport of Nature yields,
Her living fountains and her smiling fields;
And then at home, what pleasure is't to see
A little, cleanly, cheerful family!
Which, if a chaste wife crown, no less in her
Than fortune, I the golden mean prefer:
Too noble, nor too wise, she should not be,
No, nor too rich, too fair, too fond of me.
Thus let my life slide silently away,
With sleep all night, and quiet all the day.
WELL then, sir, you shall know how far extend
The prayers and hopes of your poetic friend;
He does not palaces nor manors crave,
Would be no lord, but less a lord would have:
The ground he holds, if he his own can call,
He quarrels not with heaven, because 'tis small:
Let gay and toilsome greatness others please,
He loves of homely littleness the ease:
Can any man in gilded rooms attend,
Though wash'd, though dress'd, he follows where And his dear hours in humble visits spend,
Recovers and returns the dusty prize,
And overwhelms you with civilities.
Call for your towel; and, though more defil'd
Than the foul linen of a sickly child,
He'll swear 'tis whiter than the driven snow;
Comb your lank hair across your wrinkled brow,
And with a tone of extasy he'll swear
"Achilles had not such a head of hair!"
Himself will bring the vomit to your hand,
And wipe the drops that on your forehead stand;
Praise and admire you, till, fatigued, you say,-
Do, my good friend, do dine with me to-day!
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WONDER not, sir, (you who instruct the town
In the true wisdom of the sacred gown,)
That I make haste to live, and cannot hold
Patiently out, till I grow rich and old.
Life for delays and doubts no time does give,
None ever yet made haste enough to live.
Let him defer it when preposterous care
Omits himself, and reaches to his heir;
Who does his father's bounded stores despise,
And whom his own, too, never can suffice:
My humble thoughts no glittering roofs require,
Or rooms that shine with aught but constant fire;
When in the fresh and beauteous fields he may
With various healthful pleasures fill the day?
If there be man, ye gods! I ought to hate,
Dependence and attendance be his fate;
Still let him busy be, and in a crowd,
And very much a slave, and very proud:
Thus he, perhaps, powerful and rich may
grow;
No matter, O ye gods! that I'll allow;
But let him peace and freedom never see;
Let him not love this life, who loves not me.
Our chairs should take us to the play;
The walks, the baths, should wile the day;
The field, the porch, the tennis-court,
And study interchanged with sport.
But how unlike our real fate,
To this imaginary state!
We live not for ourselves-Alas!
Youth's joyous suns neglected pass,
Change into night, and never more
Return to bless us as before.
Oh! who that held enjoyment's power
Would waste in pain one precious hour?
TO-MORROW you will live, you always cry:—
In what far country does this morrow lie,
That 'tis so mighty long ere it arrive?
Beyond the Indies does this morrow live?
'Tis so far fetch'd, this morrow, that I fear
'Twill be both very old, and very dear.
To-morrow I will live, the fool does say:
To-day itself's too late the wise liv'd yesterday.
ON THE MAUSOLEUM OF AUGUSTUS.
FILL high the bowl with sparkling wine!
Cool the bright draught with summer-snow!
Amidst my locks let odours flow!
Around my temples roses twine!
See yon proud emblem of decay,
Yon lordly pile that braves the sky!
It bids us live our little day,
Teaching that gods themselves may die.
ME, who have liv'd so long among the great,
You wonder to hear talk of a retreat;
And a retreat so distant, as may show
No thoughts of a return, when once I go.
Give me a country, how remote soe'er,
Where happiness a moderate rate does bear,
Where poverty itself in plenty flows,
And all the solid use of riches knows.
The ground about the house maintains it, there,
The house maintains the ground about it, here.
Here even hunger's dear, and a full board
Devours the vital substance of its lord,-
The land itself does there the feast bestow,
The land itself must here to market go.
Three or four suits one winter here does waste,
One suit does there three or four winters last.
Here, every frugal man must oft be cold,
And little, lukewarm fires are to you sold.
There, fire's an element as cheap and free,
Almost, as any of the other three.
Stay you then here, and live among the great,
Attend their sports, and at their tables eat.
When all the bounties here of men you score,
The place's bounty, there, shall give me more.
TO JULIUS MARTIALIS.
WHAT Constitutes true bliss below,
A few plain rules, my friend, shall show :-
A competence, not earn'd with toil,
But left; a not ungrateful soil;
No strife; no law; a mind sedate;
A constant fire within one's grate;
Strength unimpair'd; a healthful frame;
Friends equal both in years and fame;
A plentiful, though simple board,
With wholesomes, but not dainties, stor'd;
Eves of sobriety, yet gladness;
And nights, though chaste, unmix'd with sadness,
With sleep to shorten night's dark sway;
Then, grateful for each coming day,
Enjoy the present as the past,
Nor wish, nor tremble at, the last.
ON AN ODD FELLOW.
IN all thy humours, whether grave or mellow,
Thou art such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow,
Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about
thee,
There is no living with thee or without thee.
JUVENAL:
[Born about 40,-Died about 120, A. D.]
concluded his days there at an advanced age, in the reign of Adrian.-The characteristics of Juvenal are energy, passion, and indignation; his aim was to alarm the vicious, and, if possible, to exterminate that vice which had, as it were, acquired a legal establishment in Rome. It is to be lamented, however, that his moral reflections, sublime and profound as many of them are, should
DECIMUS JUNIUS JUVENALUS was the son or foster-son of a rich freedman, and born at Aquinum in Campania. He received an excellent education, studied eloquence and law, but afterwards abandoned them for the more congenial pursuits of poetry. Having inflicted some satirical strokes on the player Paris, a favourite of Domitian, he is said to have been banished by that emperor into Egypt, with a military command-be frequently intermixed with pictures of pollua mildness of punishment one could have hardly expected from so unscrupulous a tyrant. On the accession of Nerva, he returned to Rome and
tion, which no pure mind can contemplate without disgust, or even losing some portion of its innocent simplicity.
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