Lyrâque sæpe, sæpe melleo cantu IV. CODRUS ait, promens epigrammata, "Nil nisi nugæ !" Nostra tuæ nugæ sunt mala,—nos legimus. SCRIBIMUS INDOCTI DOCTIQUE. I. VERE novo, quo prata tepent, ardentque poetæ, "Phoebe pater, dum tanta cohors te poscit amatque, Dum resonant Aganippeo loca cuncta tumultu, Templa Deum, montes, antra, macella, casa,— Dum nihil est nisi-'cara Venus !'-'formose Cupido!' Angor, amor, cineres, vulnera, mella, rosa,-Quid valent 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 babling 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 lutes,― "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 unheard of in the schools? "What shall I leave that fame may weave a garland all my own?" "Leave!" said the God, with fragrant nod,--"Why, leave it all alone!" II. SIMPLES and sages All write in these pages !— my green morocco covers In Susan's Album,-for it's true All sorts of people rave and rant, Both those who can, and those who can't; 66 Queen Venus is the best of tutors!" TRANSLATIONS. SONG OF THE SAILORS OF SALAMIS. (From SOPHOCLES, Ajax, v. 596.) FAIR Salamis, the billow's roar Thy son is in a foreign clime Where Ida feeds her countless flocks, Far from thy dear remembered rocks, Worn by the waste of time,Comfortless, nameless, hopeless,-save In the dark prospect of the yawning grave. And Ajax, in his deep distress Allied to our disgrace, Hath cherished in his loneliness The bosom friend's embrace. Frenzy hath seized thy dearest son, The first in valor and in fame; The deeds that he hath done |