But in their joyous calm abodes,
The recompense of justice they receive;

And in the fellowship of gods
Without a tear eternal ages live.

While, banish'd by the Fates from joy and rest,
Intolerable woes the impious soul infest.
But they who, in true virtue strong,
The third purgation* can endure;
And keep their minds from fraudful wrong
And guilt's contagion pure;

They through the starry paths of Jove
To Saturn's blissful seat remove;
Where fragrant breezes, vernal airs,

Sweet children of the main,

Purge the bless'd island from corroding cares, And fan the bosom of each verdant plain; Whose fertile soil immortal fruitage bears:

Trees, from whose flaming branches flow, Array'd in golden bloom, refulgent beams;

And flowers of golden hue that blow

On the fresh borders of their parent streams. These by the bless'd in solemn triumph worn, Their unpolluted hands and clustering locks adorn.

WEST.

* Pindar in this follows the opinion of Pythagoras, who held the transmigration of the soul; according to which doctrine the several bodies, into which the soul successively passes, we e so many purgatories, that served to refine and purify it by degrees, till it was at last rendered fit to enter into the Fortunate Islands, the Paradise of the Ancients.

TO THE LYRE.

FROM THE GREEK OF PINDAR.

HAIL, golden lyre! whose heaven-invented string To Phoebus and the black-hair'd Nine belongs; Who in sweet chorus round their tuneful king Mix with their sounding chords their sacred

songs.

The dance, gay queen of pleasure, thee attends; Thy jocund strains her listening feet inspire: And each melodious tongue its voice suspends

Till thou, great leader of the heavenly quire, With wanton art preluding givest the signSwells the full concert then with harmony divine.

Then, of their streaming lightnings all disarm'd, The smouldering thunderbolts of Jove expire: Then, by the music of thy numbers charm'd,

The birds' fierce monarch* drops his vengeful ire; Perch'd on the sceptre of the' Olympian king, The thrilling darts of harmony he feels; And indolently hangs his rapid wing,

While gentle sleep his closing eyelid seals; And o'er his heaving wings in loose array To every balmy gale the' ruffling feathers play.

E'en Mars, stern god of violence and war,

Soothes with thy lulling strains his furious breast, And, driving from his heart each bloody care, His pointed lance consigns to peaceful rest.

Nor less enraptured each immortal mind
Owns the soft influence of enchanting song,
When, in melodious symphony combined,

Thy son, Latona, and the tuneful throng
Of Muses, skill'd in wisdom's deepest lore,
The subtle powers of verse and harmony explore.

WEST.

MARTIAL ELEGY.

FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTÆUS.

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 woe;
Whilst 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 father's land,
And we will drain the life-blood where we stand
To save our children:-fight ye side by side,
And serried close, ye men of youthful pride,
Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost
Of life itself in glorious battle lost.

Leave not our sires to stem the' unequal fight, Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant

might;

Nor lagging backward, let the younger breast
Permit the man of age (a sight unbless'd)
To welter in the combat's foremost thrust,
His hoary head dishevel'd in the dust,
And venerable bosom bleeding bare.

But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair,
And beautiful in death the boy appears,
The hero boy, that dies in blooming years:
In man's regret he lives and woman's tears,
More sacred than in life, and lovelier far,
For having perish'd in the front of war.

CAMPBELL.

THE CRETAN WARRIOR.

FROM THE GREEK OF HYBRIAS CRETENSIS.

My spear, my sword, my shaggy shield!
With these I till, with these I sow:
With these I reap my harvest field;

No other wealth the gods bestow.
With these I plant the fertile vine;
With these I press the luscious wine.
My spear, my sword, my shaggy shield!
They make me lord of all below,
For those that dread my spear to wield

Before my shaggy shield must bow:
Their fields, their vineyards, they resign;
And all that cowards have is mine.

DR. LEYDEN.

ODES.

FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON.

WHILE we invoke the wreathed spring,
Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing;
Resplendent rose! the flower of flowers,
Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers;
Whose virgin blush, of chasten'd dye,
Enchants so much our mortal eye.
When pleasure's bloomy season glows,
The Graces love to twine the rose;
The rose is warm Dione's bliss,
And flushes like Dione's kiss!
Oft has the poet's magic tongue
The rose's fair luxuriance sung;
And long the Muses, heavenly maids,
Have rear'd it in their tuneful shades.
When, at the early glance of morn,
It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,
"Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence,
To cull the timid floweret thence,
And wipe with tender hand away
The tear that on its blushes lay!
"Tis sweet to hold the infant stems,
Yet dropping with Aurora's gems,
And fresh inhale the spicy sighs
That from the weeping buds arise.
When revel reigns, when mirth is high,
And Bacchus beams in every eye,

Our rosy fillets scent exhale,

And fills with balm the fainting gale!