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Horace; Ode ix., Book iii.

HORACE.
While I could thy soul inflame,
And no other dared thee claim,
Persia’s monarch could not be
Half so blest as I with thee.
LYDIA.
While I flamed thy soul’s first fire,
Ere Chloe could thy soul inspire,
Such heavenly glory then was mine,
As Ilia’s fame could not outshine.
HORACE.
True, Chloe now does claim a part,
And with her lyre sways my heart;
For her, my soul’s loved consort—mine,
All to death would I resign!
LYDIA.
For me sweet Calai’s spirit burns,
And love for love my soul returns,
Twice would I death’s grim terrors dare,
That fates my gentle youth should spare!
HORACE.
Should love’s delicious dream again,
Fling round our souls that golden chain,
And Chloe hence depart fore’er,
That chain again would Lydia wear?
LYDIA.
Thou, fair as Hesperus of heaven;
Thou, light as is the breath of even,
Yet rasher than the impetuous sea,
I would live and die with thee!

Horace, Ode xvi., Book iii.

The brazen tower on Argo’s shore,
With turret high and bolted door,
And watchful dogs in ambuscade,
Had well secured the enamored maid,
But Jupiter—as fates foretold—
Descending in a shower of gold,
Allured the guards such sight to see,
And thus fulfilled the dread decree;
For well ’twas known no human power
Could e’er withstand the tempting shower.
Oh gold! whate’er be thy delight,
Must yield to thy resistless might;
Even faithful guards for thee retire,
And, perjured, own their base desire;
And walls of stone that have defied
The wrath of Jove, are hurled aside.
’Tis known by thy resistless sway,
The charms of beauty melt away,
And gates divide, and tyrants fall,
And shattered yields the embattled wall,
Kingdoms to endless night are hurled,
And Ruin rages o’er the world.
The insatiate thirst for gaining more,
But adds to wealth’s increasing store,—
Then, oh, MÆcenas, pride of Rome,
Whose banners wave o’er Freedom’s home,—
Care not for pomp and splendor great,
For gold can give—but cannot sate;
He who temptation’s power defies,
Shall gain from heaven what earth denies.
Far from this vain and idle show,
In humble guise I love to go,
Escaping all the toil and pain
Of those who care for naught but gain,
And in some simple, rustic cell,
In sweet contentment seek to dwell;
What more to me could Fate consign,
If all Apulia’s stores were mine?
The silver stream, the silent grove,
With myrtle bowers interwove,
The yellow corn-field’s golden sheen,
The gardens fair, the meadows green,—
These, these are pleasures all unknown
To him who holds a jewelled throne.
Happy am I, though not for me
Sweet nectar hives the laboring bee.
Nor can I claim the clustering vine,
Or Formian casks of ripening wine,
Nor e’en the verdant Gallic mead,
Where flocks in snowy whiteness feed;
Yet what can gilded wealth impart?—
It yields but flattery to the heart.
He whose desire is e’er for more,
Feels worse the pang of being poor,—
But blest is he whom God has given
With sparing hand the gifts of heaven.

Homeric Garlands[F]

ILIAD I. 43-52.

Thus spake the old man, praying, and Phoebus Apollo did hear him,—
Down from the heights of Olympus the god, in anger, descended;
Over his shoulders were flung the dreadful bow and the quiver
Bristling with arrows, that rattled as onward he moved in his anger:
Gloomy as night he went, and aloof from the Greeks’ broad encampment
Sat down in silence,—then forth flashed the bow and swift sped the arrow—
Loud thereupon rose the twang of the silver bow’s dreadful rebounding—
Far sped the death-bearing darts; first perished the mules and the fleet dogs,
Then at the Greeks did the angered god straightway aim his arrows—
Dismal by night flared the gleaming red of the funeral pyres.

ILIAD I. 528-539.

ILIAD VI. 466-580.

Thus spake illustrious Hector, and stretched forth his arms to take fondly
His son; but the boy, seized with dread, shrank back to his fair nurse’s bosom,
Crying, shrank back, scared thus at the sight of his helmeted father,
Fearful was he of the horse-hair plume o’er the dread helmet waving.
Then did the fond parents smile at the babe, and illustrious Hector
Quickly removed from his head the glittering helmet, and placed it
Gleaming upon the ground, then received he his dear child and kissed him.
Playfully tossing him up, he prayed thus to all the immortals:
“Hear me, O Zeus, and ye other gods, grant that my son may be honored,
Honored for valorous deeds as I ’mong the Trojans am honored!
Grant him to rule with might over Troy, and may he hereafter
Greater be called than his father! Grant, that he when returning
Homeward from battles well fought, may bear rich spoil from the conquered,
Cheering the heart of his mother with deeds of valor and glory!”

The Dying Slave[G]
(From the introduction to a Greek prize ode.)

I.

LEAVE thy gates of darkness, Death,
Come to take my fleeting breath;
Haste, oh, haste to set me free!—
Fettered thus to misery.

II.

Thou shalt not be greeted here
With pallid cheek and gushing tear—
Here no funeral ululation,
Sound of woe or lamentation.

III.

Gloomy Genius though thou be,
Yet thou dwellest with Liberty;
Here but the encircling dance shall greet thee,
Nought but songs of joy shall meet thee.

IV.

Thine no gloomy, lone dominion,—
Haste thee on thine ebon pinion;
O’er the swelling ocean speed me—
To my long lost home, oh, lead me!

V.

There ’neath the shady citron grove,
By limpid fountains lovers rove,
And there, to loved ones tell again
The heartless deeds of fellow men.

The Lorelei.
(From the German of Heine.)

I.

I KNOW not what it presages,
This sadness of my heart;—
A tale of bygone ages
From my mind will not depart.

II.

The air is cool and is darkling,
And softly flows the Rhine;
The crest of the mountain is sparkling
In the evening’s calm sunshine.

III.

Yonder at ease reclining
Sits a maiden wondrous fair,
Her golden jewels shining,
As she combs her golden hair.

IV.

With a golden comb she is combing,
And she sings a sad, sweet song,
That through the quiet gloaming,
So strangely floats along!

V.

The doomed in his shallop speeding,
Is seized with a pang of woe;—
He drifts on the rocks, naught heeding,
Save the mountain crest aglow.

VI.

Alas! ’neath the waves in their madness,
The sailor and boat are gone;—
And this, with her song of sadness,
The Lorelei has done.

The Two Streams.
(Adapted from the Italian of Metastasio.)
Quella onda che ruina.

I.

YON stream that dashes down the Alpine height,
Complains its fate, and struggles in its course,
Till dashed to spray by its impetuous force,
It sparkles like a diamond-shower bright.

II.

Another stream, in hidden vale apart,
Courses its slumbrous way, and ne’er may know
The lustre bright—the full-tide diamond glow,
Its depths might yield to glad the aching heart.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] This belief is current among the Indian tribes of North America.

[B] It is commonly believed among the Indians that the spirits of the dead turn into doves.

[C] It is said somewhere in the Talmud, I believe, that King Solomon had a certain ring, which, when he would turn so that its rays would flash full upon any one, that person was compelled to tell what he was thinking about.

[D] The Ottawa and St. Lawrence rivers were thus referred to by the Indians.

[E] similar story has been told by Francois Coppee in a French poem bearing the same title.

[F] This is but a feeble attempt to reproduce Homer in his own majestic Hexameter. Our language contains too many monosyllables to be cast successfully in this rhythm; hence we can give but a faint echo of the dash and roar of old Homer’s lines. The passages here reproduced, like most literary gems, lose much of their luster when taken from the settings in which the master has placed them.

[G] The slaves of the West Indies considered death as a passport to their native country.







                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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