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Lyrâque sæpe, sæpe melleo cantu
CODRUS ait, promens epigrammata, — “Nil nisi
SCRIBIMUS INDOCTI DOCTIQUE.
VERE novo, quo prata tepent, ardentque poetæ,
Et citharæ, et celeres suave loquuntur aquæ, Serus Apollinea sternit se Daphnis in umbra,
Et parat intonso thura precesque Deo. “Phæbe pater, dum tanta cohors te poscit amatque,
Dum rapiunt laurus tot fera labra tuas,Dum totoque foro, totoque impune Suburra,
Bacchantur tristes, esuriuntque, chori,
Dum resonant Aganippeo loca cuncta tumultu,
Templa Deum, montes, antra, macella, casæ,Dum nibil est nisi—cara Venus !'-“formose Cu
pido ! Angor, amor, cineres, vulnera, mella, rosæ,-Quid valeat tanta Daphnin secernere turba ?
Unde novo discat Daphnis honore frui? Quid faciam ut propria decorem mea tempora lauru?
Dic mihi, quid faciam ?"--dixit Apollo, “tace!”
(This was one of the Cambridge Prize Epigrams for 1824.)
TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING.
THE fields in spring were blossoming with poets and
with flowers, And silver streams, and golden dreams, were bab
ling in the bowers, When Daphnis lay at close of day within a shady
hollow, And filled the air with smoke and prayer, in honor of
Apollo. “Far-darting King of pipe and string,—while such a
host of suits “Are made to thee, unceasingly, for laurels and for
“ While far and wide, on every side, from Bond
street to the Fleet, “ Some rhyme for praise, and some for bays, and
multitudes for meat,“ While verse and prose our feet enclose, whatever
scene we search, “In feast, and fair, and market square, in parliament
and church,“ While Paphian smiles, and Cupid's wiles, fill all our
ears with vanity, “ And rosy chains, and pleasing pains, and fiddles
and insanity, “ By what new art shall Daphnis start from out the
herd of fools ? “ What wreath or name shall Daphnis claim unhearı
of in the schools ? “ What shall I leave that fame may weave a garland
all my own?” “Leave !” said the God, with fragrant pod,-“ Why,
leave it all alone!”
SIMPLES and sages
All write in these pages ! As many a weary witling knows, I'm Susan's Album! I enclose Within my green morocco covers The triflings of a score of lovers, Roses, lilies, sighings, sadness, All the armory of madness. In Susan's Album,—for it's true That Susan is a little blue,– All sorts of people rave and rant, Both those who can, and those who can't; And Susan smiles on each sweet ditty' In which her witless slaves grow witty, And says to all her scribbling suitors“Queen Venus is the best of tutors !”
SONG OF THE SAILORS OF SALAMIS.
(From SOPHOCLES, Ajax, v. 596.)
Fair Salamis, the billow's roar
Wanders around thee yet;
Firm in the ocean set.
Far from thy dear remembered rocks,
And Ajax, in his deep distress
Allied to our disgrace,
The bosom friend's embrace.
Who from thy shores in glory came
The first in valor and in fame ; The deeds that he hath done