Gay in his tartan stripes, a warrior bold,
Till from his neck quick sever'd slipp'd the gold.
Such the three spoils Feretrian Jove can show,
For his the hand that laid each chieftain low;
Or that the conquerors three their pillage wore,
And this the cause whence Jove his title bore.

CEASE,

XI.

Desine, Paulle, meum.

EASE, Paullus, cease for me in grief to languish;

Think not that grief can ope Death's darksome door,

E'en though hell's gloomy wardour hear thy an

guish,

Those tears but wet in vain th' unheeding shore.

Enter but once those fell and fatal portals,
Stern adamant forbids the backward way;

Pass once the ferry, prayers can move Immortals,
Not him who bars the dead from living day.

Such the sad strain the funeral trumpets sounded, What time my head sank faintly on the bier, When the first flame of death my form surrounded, A stern farewell to all I loved so dear.

What though I lived the wife that Paullus cherish'd,

In all the pride of stainless ancestry,

Yet not the less untimely have I perish'd,
And now a heap of dust is all of me.

Oh! darkness of the damn'd, and sluggish river,
Whose oozing wave entwines my faltering feet,
Too young I come to ye, but guilty never;
For this, stern Minos, softer judgment mete.

If not, let acus convoke his jury,

With careful ballot cast to judge of wrong, Let Minos take his seat, and each stern Fury, Hushing the court to silence, round him throng. Rest, Sisyphus, thy stone, thy wheel, Ixion

Poor Lydian, think awhile the wave thine own,
Cease, hell-hound, cease to guard the bars of iron,
And leave to-day the tortured shades alone.
Arraign'd I stand, no ready counsel near me,
No tongue but hers to guard Cornelia's fame,
Yet if I lie, stern judge of Orcus, hear me,

Be mine the Danaïds' task of endless shame.
If in ancestral worth be aught of honour,
My sires can tell of red Numantia's fields,
With all the Libos' lustre shining on her,
Scribonia's line no lesser glory yields.

The

years of maidenhood soon sped for ever, Soon came the matron's coif, and wedded life; And must we then so soon, my Paullus, sever? Yet can I boast none other call'd me wife.

Witness the dead that live in Roman story, Under whose marble Afric weeps her shame; Witness be Paullus, and the boasted glory,

Which Perses lost, of great Achilles' name;

Witness be thou, untainted hearth! that never
The husband or the censor blush'd for me;
Unsullied is the name that shines for ever,

Cornelia's sires were great, and great was she.
Spotless I've lived from wedlock to the ending,
Calm, quiet days in even tenour spent,
Nature's great lessons with my life-blood blending,
Have kept me pure, not fear of punishment.
Though stern mayhap my doom, yet still no maiden
Need blush to see Cornelia at her side,

Not Claudia's self, who moved the bark o'erladen, And drew her crownèd mistress o'er the tide; Nor she who seem'd the vestal fires to smother,

Whose linen robe display'd the spark within; Nor wouldst thou disavow me, sweetest mother, If to die all too early be not sin.

But no, the mother weeps, weep all the city,

And Cæsar's mournings consecrate my bier; Men saw that e'en a god could weep for pity,

To think that death had snatched his sister's

peer.

Mine was the robe that mark'd the mother's station, No barren stock was that which nurtured me;

Be ye, my sons, a mother's consolation,

For all my hopes will live again in ye.

Twice has the curule purple deck'd my brother,
A consul, e'er he wept his sister's lot,
Daughter, like me, once wedded, wed no other,
A censor was thy sire-forget it not.

Live long, my children, gladly shall I perish,
If mine enhance whate'er of me shall last;
For 'tis the highest hope which women cherish,
That all should freely criticize the past.
These sons of ours, to thee do I commend them,
My very bones are branded with this care,
Paullus, 'tis thine a mother's care to lend them,
And all a mother's load alone to bear.

Kiss them thyself, then kiss them for their mother,
All that be now thy care that once was mine,
When they are with thee, then thy feelings smother,
And counterfeit the mirth that is not thine.
Enough of thoughts of me, and midnights dreary,
Enough of idle dreams and visions vain,
Sad glances to my image, and the weary
Whisp'rings to it to answer thee again.

So if the hall should open to another,

And a new wife usurp the matron's field,
Learn, sons of mine, to love your second mother,
For e'en her jealousy to love must yield.
And praise not me, lest praise too freely spoken
Should urge comparison, and give her pain.
Yet would I hope his love is still unbroken,
My shade too dear for him to wed again.

Then learn to watch thy father's failing vigour,
Though none the sorrowing husband's cares as-

suage;

Live long, my sons, and compensate the rigour,

With which the fates cut short Cornelia's age.

A mother have I been, yet not a mourner,

Therefore 'tis well-away with words of gloom, Hither have all Cornelia's kindred borne her, Nor child of hers precedes her to the tomb.

My speech is o'er. Rise, rise, each weeping witness, Death can a higher boon than life repay;

The pure may hope for Heaven, be mine the fitness That bids the soul upsoar to endless day.

THE END.

GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, PRINTERS, ST. JOHN'S SQUARE, LONDON.