"Ye Gods, whom destiny hath made And rend the sulphurous canopy (MAY, 1822.) THE HOOPOE'S INVOCATION TO THE NIGHTINGALE. (From the Birds of ARISTOPHANES, 1. 209.) WAKEN, dear one, from thy slumbers; Mourning from this leafy shrine Lost-lost Itys, mine and thine, Of a mother's agony; Echo, ere the murmurs fade, Bears them from the yew-tree's shade To the throne of Jove; and there, Peals from the immortal throng. (SEPTEMBER, 1826.) FROM LUCRETIUS, Bk. ii. 1 1-33. OH, sweet it is to listen on the shore When the wild tempest mocks the seaboy's cry; And sweet to mark the tumult and the roar Is happiness to us!-oh, rather deem That the mind loves, in its own fantasy, To wield the weapons and to scream the scream, And then to wake from death, and feel it was a dream. But naught is sweeter than to hold our state, weep, While Fortune scoffs alike at lords and slaves, And decks the perilous path with sceptres, and with graves. Oh, wretched souls! oh, weak and wasted breath, Painful in birth, and loathsome in decay! Eternal clouds are round us: doubt and death Lie dark between to-morrow and to-day; And thus our span of mourning flits away! If the veins glisten and the pulses glow, If the free spirits innocently play, Say, wilt thou seek for more? vain mortal, no! What more can Dust demand, or Destiny bestow? Yet Nature hath more blessings, her own joys, No rich aroma loads the languid air, No burnished silver gleams along the hall In dazzling whiteness, no fond lute is there To wreathe the sweetness of its magic thrall O'er listening ears, rapt hearts, at some high festival; Yet Nature's fondest sons and fairest daughters What do they reck beneath their tranquil bowers sky Laughs in the glad spring-dawning, and the hours Dress every hill and vale in herbs and odorous flowers! (1826.) STANS PEDE IN UNO. -Kaì vûv ẻv 'Apeî μαρτυρήσαι κεν πόλις Αί αντος ὀρθωθεῖσα ναύταις ἐν πολυφθόρῳ Σαλάμις Διὸς ἔμβρῳ. Pindar, Isth. v. 61. NOVENA Pindi turba, licet Jovis Per vacuum taceant Olympum, At usque clivo vos Heliconio Vos dominæ dominæque vatum Audite! Nymphæ Pierides, quibus Vos a quietis vos mihi montibus Adeste, Nymphæ! ferte per inclytas Urbes, et antiqua sacratos Relligione domos; juvabit |