By hills the heifer-goddess loves so well,
The foray country of the Lord of Hell.

If Helle's cities, Tullus, charm thee yet,
And me and mine thou haply canst forget,
Though Atlas and his load attract thee there,
The grasp of Perseus on the Gorgon's hair,
The monster's kine, the Hesperids, the strife
Of god and giant struggling to the life;

Though Colchian Phasis' stream should feel thy

oar,

And every wave that Argo cleft of yore

When the rude pine took shape, and sheer'd the breeze,

Dove-led amid the rocks of pathless seas;

Though broad Cayster hold thy bark awhile,

Or the slow-rolling waves of seven-mouth'd Nile-
Yet nought on earth can match this land of Rome,
For here all Nature's wonders find a home.

Oh, hearts more apt to conquer than to kill,
Bright is the page of story that ye fill;
In spirit gentle as in arms renown'd,

Where victors smile and wrath forgets to wound!
Here Anio leaps, and from his Umbrian hill
Clitumnus vies with Martius' ceaseless rill;
Here Alba gleams by Nemi, and the wave
Where the twin gods their steeds were said to lave;
Yet scaly water-snakes ne'er haunt the stream,
Nor does Italia's wave with monsters teem;
No mother's boasting chains her child to die,
No Thyestean feast need Phoebus fly;

No absent son need perish from a brand
Lit for his murder by a mother's hand;
No leaf-hid king by Mænads torn, no hind
For maiden slain to buy the Greeks a wind;
No Juno's wrath to deck a rival's brow
With shapeless horns, and turn her to a cow;
No Sciron rocks, no robber-pines that bend
The hapless stranger, and their lord to rend.

So fair a land, my Tullus, gave thee birth—
Seek here the honours due to rank, to worth;
Give us thy eloquence, and happy be,
With wife to love, and children at thy knee.

XXIII.

Ergo tam doctæ.

AH! clever little tablets, lost to me,

What store of happy news has flown with ye,

Tablets I've held so often in this hand-
Ye owed your credit to no seal, no band,
The fair ye could appease were I not near,
And plead a moving tale in Beauty's ear.
No golden hinge enrich'd those modest backs,
Common the box-wood was, and cheap the wax;
But trusty slaves, what sort soe'er ye be,
Blest was the fortune that ye won for me.
And such, mayhap, your message: Yesterday-
"I'm very angry; why didst thou delay ?
"Is any maid yet fairer in thy eyes?

66

"Wretch, hast thou then of me been spreading lies?”

Mayhap, "Come quick, and spend the time with

me,

"Love has prepared a night's festivity."

With every word that clever maidens find
When for a stealthy talk the hour's assign'd.

Now 'neath his ponderous ledgers close press'd down,

They hold the bills of some hard-fisted clown.

But he who gives them back shall win my gold-
Who would for this mere slips of box withhold?
Then run, my boy, and fix it to the stall,
That Esquiline's my home be known to all.

XXIV.

Falsa est ista tuæ.

'00 high, proud girl, didst thou thy beauty prize,

That owed its charm to love's too partial eyes.
'Twas love's too flattering tale thy ears could fill—
'Twere shame if muse of mine should sing thee still.
I praised thy varying beauty, that in thee

Love might discover all he'd have thee be,
And said thy cheek with morning's blush could vie,
Though thou hadst fain been white as ivory.
The charm I swore no friends of mine could stay,
No magic thwart, no ocean purge away,
'Twas idle all-though now no fear of sword,
No thoughts of fire or shipwreck prompt the word.
Then with my hands fast bound, no power to move,
I fed the scorching crucible of Love,

But now my bark is crown'd, the shoals are past,
The anchor dropp'd, the haven gain'd at last;
I rest my limbs, aweary from the main,
My wounds are heal'd, and I am sound again.
Then hail to Reason's shrine, if such there be,
Since Jove has spurn'd my prayers, I bow to thee.

XXV.

Risus eram positis.

TOO long I've been a theme and jest to all,

The witlings' butt, the laughter of the hall; For five long years I've stoop'd to serve thee here— Now bite thy nails, and weep the bitter tear. But weep in vain-too oft the trick's been tried, I know the sting those treacherous drops can hide; The tears I shed for thee shall soon be dry, 'Tis thou hast snapp'd love's yoke by cruelty. Farewell, kind door, that wept so oft with me, No blows of mine have ever wounded thee! When age with stealing march bids Cynthia bow, And writes its luckless wrinkles on her brow, Then her grey locks in anger let her tear, And weep before the mirror's chiding stare; Be spurn'd in turn, and shiver in the cold,

And shrink beneath the taunts she launch'd of old. So dire a wreck my verse foretells will come— Let Beauty hear, and tremble at her doom.

STRAN

BOOK V.

I.

Hoc, quodcunque vides.

TRANGER, 'twas grass-grown hills the Phry-
gian found,

Where the huge city stretches far around;
Where stands the palace of the naval god,
Evander's wandering cattle press'd the sod.
Gods were of clay, though now in golden domes,
And plain, though not despised, those cottage homes.
From bare Tarpeia shot the thunderer's gleams,
And none but oxen greeted Tyber's streams,
Where up to Remus' halls yon stair begins-
One hearth contain❜d the empire of the twins;
And skin-clad senators to council went,
Where now there sits our bright-robed Parliament;
Old Romans hurrying to the trumpet's call,

A conclave in the mead, five score in all.
Then o'er our shores no floating awnings hung,
No saffron fragrance on the stage was flung,
No need for gods of foreign climes was felt,
When crowds at olden shrines adoring knelt,