Shape not imagined horrors in my fate-
Even now my sufferings are not very great;
And when your grief's first transports shall subside,
I call upon your strength of soul and pride
To pay my memory, if 'tis worth the debt,
Love's glorying tribute—not forlorn regret :
I charge my name with power to conjure up
Reflection's balmy, not its bitter cup.

My pardoning angel, at the gates of heaven,
Shall look not more regard than you have given
To me and our life's union has been clad

In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had.

i

Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast?

Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past?
No! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast,
There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest;
And let contentment on your spirit shine,
As if its peace were still a part of mine:
For if you war not proudly with your pain,
For you I shall have worse than lived in vain.
But I conjure your manliness to bear
My loss with noble spirit—not despair:
I ask you by our love to promise this,

And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss,—
The latest from my living lips for yours."-

Words that will solace him while life endures: For though his spirit from affliction's surge Could ne'er to life, as life had been, emerge, Yet still that mind whose harmony elate

Rang sweetness, even beneath the crush of fate,

That mind in whose regard all things were placed
In views that soften'd them, or lights that graced,
That soul's example could not but dispense
A portion of its own bless'd influence;
Invoking him to peace, and that self-sway
Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away :

T

And though he mourn'd her long, 'twas with such wo As if her spirit watch'd him still below.

TRANSLATIONS.

SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN.

My wealth's a burly spear and brand,
And a right good shield of hides untann'd,
Which on my arm I buckle:

With these I plough, I reap, I sow,
With these I make the sweet vintage flow,
And all around me truckle.

But your wights that take no pride to wield
A massy spear and well-made shield,
Nor joy to draw the sword:

O! I bring those heartless, hapless drones,
Down in a trice on their marrow-bones,
To call me King and Lord.

FRAGMENT.

FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN.

THE mountain summits sleep: glens, cliffs, and

caves

Are silent—all the black earth's reptile brood— The bees-the wild beasts of the mountain wood: In depths beneath the dark red ocean's waves

Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray Each bird is hush'd that stretch'd its pinions to the day.

MARTIAL ELEGY.

FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTEUS.

How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand,
In front of battle, for their native land!

But oh! what ills await the wretch that yields,
A recreant outcast from his country's fields!
The mother whom he loves shall quit her home,
An aged father at his side shall roam ;
His little ones shall weeping with him go,
And a young wife participate his wo;
While, scorn'd and scowl'd upon by every face,
They pine for food, and beg from place to place.

Stain of his breed! dishonouring manhood's form,
All ills shall cleave to him :-Affliction's storm
Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years,
Till, lost to all but ignominious fears,

He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name,
And children, like himself, inured to shame.

But we will combat for our fathers' land, And we will drain the life-blood where we stand,