Or else assiduously to dwell,

In conscious eloquence elate,
On those who conquer'd, those who fell
At sacred Troy's devoted gate.

But at what price the cask, so rare,
Of luscious Chian may be ours,
Who shall the tepid baths prepare,

And who shall strew the blooming flowers;

Beneath what roof we next salute,

And when shall smile these gloomy skies,
Thy wondrous eloquence is mute,

Nor here may graver topics rise.-—

her of total inconnection. When the latent meaning in the concluding verses is perspicuously paraphrased, it accounts for the poet's preference at that period, of trifling to literary subjects. These slight, and often obscure allusions, closely, and what is called faithfully translated, give a wild and unmeaning air to the Odes of Horace, which destroys their interest with the unlearned admirers of poetry. To give distinct shape and form to these embryo ideas, often capable of acquiring very interesting form and shape, is the aim of these Paraphrases.

Telephus, who was a Greek, appears to have been a youth of noble birth-being mentioned as such in the Ode to Phyllis, which will be found farther on amongst these Paraphrases. From that to Lydia, so well known, and so often translated, we learn that he had a beautiful form, and was much admired by the Roman ladies,

Fill a bright bumper to the moon!
She's new!-auspicious be her birth!
One to the midnight!—'tis our noon

Of jocund thought, and festal mirth!

And one to him, for whom the feasts
This night are held with poignant gust,
MURENA, whom his Rome invests

With solemn honours, sacred trust!

Kind omens shall his voice convey,
That may each rising care beguile;
Propitious fled the birds to-day?

Will Love be ours, and Fortune smile?

Arrange the cups of various size,

The least containing bumpers three,
And nine the rest.-Come, no disguise!
Nor yet constraint, the choice is free!

All but the Bard's-the bowl of nine
He is, in duty, bound to fill;

1. 6. Poignant gust-The translator was doubtful about using that word, till she recollected it in the gravest of Pope's Poems,

"Destroy all creatures for thy sport and gust;
"Then cry, If man's unhappy God's unjust."

Essay on Man.

The Muses number to decline
Were treason at Aonia's hill.

For here the Sisters shall preside,
So they allow us leave to laugh;
Unzoned the Graces round us glide,
While we the liquid ruby quaff.

Yet they, in kind and guardian care,
Dreading lest wild inebriate glee
With broils disturb our light career,

Would stint us to their number, three.

Away, ye prudes!—the caution wise
Becomes not this convivial hour,

That every dull restraint defies,

And laughs at all their frigid power.—

Thou say'st I rave;—and true thou say'st, Nor must thou check the flowing vein, For sprightly nonsense suits him best Whom grave reflection leads to pain.

Why mute the pipe's enlivening note? Why sleeps the charming lyre so long? O! let their strains around us float,

Mix'd with the sweet and jocund song!

And lavish be the roses strewn !

Ye flutes, ye lyres, exulting breathe! The festal hour disdains to own

The mournful note, the niggard wreath.

Old Lycon, with the venal fair,

Who courts yet hates his vile embrace, Our lively strains shall muttering hear, While Envy pales each sullen face:

Thou, with thy dark luxuriant hair,
Thou, TELEPHUS, as Hesper bright,
Thou art accomplish'd Chloe's care,
Whose glance is love's delicious light.

Thy utmost wish the fair-one crowns,
And thy calm'd heart may well pursue
The paths of knowledge ;-Lyce frowns,
And I, distasteful, shun their view.

From themes, that wake the powers of mind, The wounded spirit sickening turns;

To those be then this hour consign'd,

That Mirth approves, tho' Wisdom spurns.

They shall disarm my LYCE's frown,
The frolic jest, the lively strain,
In flowing bowls, shall gaily drown
The memory of her cold disdain.

ΤΟ

PHYLLIS.

EXHORTING HER TO BE CONTENT WITH A FRUGAL

SACRIFICE.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE TWENTY-THIRD.

MY PHIDYLE, retired in shady wild,

If thou thy virgin hands shalt suppliant raise, If primal fruits are on thy altars pil'd,

And incense pure thy duteous care conveys, To sooth the Lares, when the moon adorns, With their first modest light, her taper horns;

And if we pierce the throat of infant swine,
A frugal victim, not the baleful breath
Of the moist South shall blast our tender vine;
Nor shall the lambs sink in untimely death,
When the unwholesome gales of Autumn blow,
And shake the ripe fruit from the bending bough.