But where friends fail us, we'll supply our friendship with our charity; men that remote in sorrows live shall by our lusty brimmers thrive. The worthy in disgrace shall find and in restraint who stifled lie shall taste the air of liberty. COTTON. Si non sit satis hospitum, accedent pietas quos numerat viri ;— si quos tristior opprimit sors vitæ, cyathis gaudia commodis addemus bona pauperi, vires invalidis, hac ope proderit, mæstis lætitiam dare, curarumque labor quos premit, otium. Virtus immerito rea hinc auctæ accipiet munera gratiæ, ducetque æra liberum sub divum rediens incola carceris. XXV. As when some hunter in the spring hath found a breeding eagle sitting on her nest, upon the craggy isle of a hill lake, and pierced her with an arrow as she rose, as that poor bird flies home, nor knows his lossso Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood over his dying son, and knew him not. M. ARNOLD. XXV. QUALIS, ubi in nido venator forte foventem vere aquilam pullos vidit, qua frangitur unda insula nuda lacus inter penetralia montis, surgentemque levi fixit sub nube sagitta, tum procul insequitur fractis si forte caducam viribus excipiat ;-rediens a cæde maritus agnorum dum radit iter sine matre relictos miratur longe pullos, cohibensque superbum remigium alarum, brevibus secat aera gyris tecta super, trepidumque refert per inane volatumn; dum ciet absentem frustra, raucisque querellis increpat:-interea letali vulnere languens illa jacet longe secretis abdita saxis, horrescens trepida pluma nervisque solut's. non iterum speculo sese mirabitur undæ nec per acuta volans scopulorum rore madentes æterno argutis rumpet stridoribus arces;— ut fraudis redit ille suae male conscius ales, haud secus infesto languenti vulneris ictu immitis fati nato pater inscius astat. XXVI. MOURN, Spring, thou darling of the year! ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear; thou, Summer, while each corny spear shoots up its head, thy gay green flow'ry tresses shear for him that's dead! Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, in grief thy sallow mantle tear! Thou, Winter, hurling through the air the roaring blast, wide o'er the naked world declare the worth we've lost! |