not so as to be heard by us, she so cast herself from the rock, as no one with a more daring spirit had essayed the dangerous leap. Of the by-standers many related that they saw her drop into the sea, whence she never emerged. But there were (some) who affirmed that she reached not to the end of her leap, but that, while falling, she was changed into a swan, and under this appearance flitted about before their eyes in mid air. LVI. Oh Peace! thou source and soul of social life, Who bids the trumpet hush his horrid clang, Who sheathes the murderous blade; the deadly spear Into the well-piled armory returns. Unviolated, him the virgin sings, And him the smiling mother to her train: Thomson. LVI. Into HEXAMETERS. Hail, Peace! thou fountain and spirit of genial life, may he enjoy a prosperous lot to whom we owe thee. It is of that boon H that both the clang of brass ceases, which before used to stir up mad nations to war, and that the blood-stained sword is sheathed, and the ample armories keep the deadly spears. Him the undefiled maiden sings, her modesty safe, and the mother rejoicing among the unharmed bands. Him the shepherd teaches the still silence of the valley to resound with; and the husbandmen, when the sure reward of their toil is obtained, extol; whether they are turning the land with the constant ploughshare, or whether they follow the wains afar into the city. Under this guide the sailor, when the moon puts forth her twinkling torch, lulls the waters of night; not one only land acknowledges the joy; he is praised in the whole world; as far as the Sun shines forth with the extended light of day; as far as the breeze bears the blessings of divine Peace, until every nation in the earth catch up the harmonious strain. LVII. Still glooms the night, still shines the day Beneath the Moon's soft, silver ray; Oh Azza, what is life to him Whose star is quenched, whose day is dim, Dim as the visioned hours of night, When sorrows frown, and cares affright? Blackwood's Magazine. LVII. Into ELEGIACS. The night is still darkling, and still the clear light of day shines, where pure Cynthia glitters in her rays; where the Sun in the height of heaven yields his gleaming fires, the whole face of nature is bright with light. Yet thou art snatched away-my deserted mind calls back to me former joy, and past days. What wonder that my heart within mourns thy beauties stolen, and feeds upon vain regret for thee. O loved one, what can life profit me left? the light of my star extinguished is hidden without light. It is void of light, as the horror of the silent night broods, which casts clouds upon the brow, fear upon the heart. LVIII. Κεῖται μοῦνος ἀπ ̓ ἄλλων.—Soph. Phil. 182. See where amid the waters of the unbroken sea an island is lashed by wild waves, Philoctetes in exile still wears on his life under malignant deities. Scarce his weapons and bow supply food; solitary he wanders by the inhospitable shore; scarce the caves are a resting-place for his limbs, which the blasts and the rain enter. But (neither) a mantle with Persian array, nor a couch laid with purple could give him rest; he could not enjoy savour wrought out from Sicilian dainties. Forsooth afflicted, in his inmost vitals and in his whole body he bears the wound of his foot; nor by night or day does restless anguish leave him in repose. It will avail him nothing if he pour wretched prayers and vain vows to the obdurate gods; but the wanton winds mock at his vows, the wave of the sea carries away his prayers. LIX. Fear and anger, to answer the purposes of nature, are happily so contrived as to operate sometimes instinctively, sometimes deliberately, according to circumstances. So far as deliberate, they fall in with the general system, and require no particular explanation: if any object have a threatening appearance, reason suggests means to avoid the danger: if a man be injured, the first thing he thinks of is, what revenge he shall take, and what means he shall employ. These particulars are not less obvious than natural. But as the passions of fear and anger, in their instinctive state, are less familiar to us, it may be acceptable to the reader to have them accurately delineated. Home on Criticism. LIX. Into PROSE, literally rendered. That they may answer the designs of nature, fear and anger affect us fitly enough, whether spontaneously or purposely, as the case may require. So far as they act purposely, they agree with the universal system, and there is no need that they should be more accurately explained. If any thing seem to threaten us, reason herself will admonish sufficiently, how we may ward off the danger. If however any one has received a wrong, this he first considers with himself, how far, and by what means, he can seek revenge. But these things are clear to all and of themselves. But since the influences of fear and anger, when they arise spontaneously, are less known to most, it will, I think, be acceptable to the reader, if we define them in some measure exactly. LX. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm ; Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare, Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Gray. LX. Into ALCAICS. Lo, the light of the auspicious day smiles more delightfully; the light Zephyrs blow: the gilded trireme exults to ride over the blue waves. Vaunting Youth with open heart climbs the prow; ignorant of the whirlwinds, which the evening gloom may collect, Pleasure sits on the swift stern. Pour forth wine from the capacious goblets; let the refined dainties add their savours; the Fates may leave a banquet to him, from whom they have taken away kingly honours. A gloomy pair, pale Hunger, craving Thirst, wait as witnesses |