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in EUTERPE -an embroidered veil, woven by a Gentle hand, preserving them from the dust.

A Gentle hand! ay! heaven bless her, there she comes gliding in at once like a light and a shadow! With smiles like words-yet what words but her own were ever like those smiles! We are somewhat blind now, and more than somewhat deaf-but that smile we as clearly see, that voice we as distinctly hear-as ever in youth we saw and heard the musical and resplendent Morn.

Leaning one arm on CLIO-for 'tis a girl's height-she stands like a Priestess at a religious rite; and

dipping the other into the Poetry, as into perfumes, brings out a bunch of incense, and lays it on our knees. The same lovely Image, in the same attitude, next moment at EUTERPE! And now our Heart's Desire and Delight is seated by our side." Maga must have some Poetry this month, my dearest Sir, and" (we kissed her hands as she spoke) "let me name the Series-OUR TWO VASES-shall you begin with Clio or with Euterpe?"

With Clio, my Beloved! and let thy Christopher read this-whatever it be, it must be beautiful, since thy hand hath touched it-aha! 'tis of Love of Love-of Love!

SAPPHO.

Blest as the gods I hold the youth who fondly sits by thee
To list thy low soft tones and drink thy smile of witchery :-
But as I gaze, within my breast such madd'ning passions rise,
That seems my very tongue to break, and speech its aid denies :
And all at once a subtle fire runs darting through each vein,
And dimness is before my sight-and whirling in my brain!
Quick tremors shoot through ev'ry limb, and icy sweat-drops flow,
And paler than the olive-leaf all suddenly I grow,—

The chilling breath of grief arrests the current of my breath,
Labours my breast-I gasp-I faint-one moment more were death!

Well-Love! since you will have it so, let us go on again with the Series. That version of the famous Ode, glows with much of the fire that so burns in the original that one might wonder that the very words were not consumed. 'Tis by an Oxonian who has given only his initials H. K., and they are not familiar to our eyes -but many a gifted spirit dwells within those sacred groves, and here is a leaf by another Infant of Isis

J. A., whose name "well may we guess, but dare not tell "On the Statue of Ariadne, at Frankfort-representing her riding on a Lion. Our memory of names is impairednor can we recal that of the Artistthough it is famous; the Statue itself we saw last summer, and thought it nobly beautiful-and our young Poet has it-vivid as life we were going to say-in his enamoured imagination.

Ride on, thou peerless beauty! frank and free
As yon white wave that curls thy Naxian sea,
Ride on triumphant, with that clear calm eye
Which looks a conquest ere the prize is nigh,
Borne on thy lion-steed ride forth to meet
A god fall down, and worship at thy feet;
Laden with India's spoils, elate in arms
He kneels, the captive of thy naked charms.
For ne'er in Theban meads, or Nyssian shades,
Ne'er in the depth of old Citharon's glades
Has the blythe hero of Olympus seen

So proud a gesture, so divine a mien—

What matchless grace! what soft seductions thrown
O'er that fine form, that needs no clasping zone!
What glowing warmth of youthful life express'd
In those fair outstretched arms, that heaving breast!
No girlish gracefulness, correctly slim,

Mars the luxuriance of each rounded limb;

But lovely womanhood's voluptuous prime
Breathes o'er that ample bust, that brow sublime,
And gives the island nymph a grace between
A Grecian goddess and an Asian queen.

Nay, do not keep your face so long averted-for the marble is pure as your own soul. Those lads write with an elegance and grace that are very delightful-and if CLIO continue to give to your touch such presentments, EUTERPE'S offerings must be beautiful indeed if they do not pale their colours. What have we here? Why, in spite of all we have so often said-Meleager on Spring! And other versions too from the Greek Anthology-after our own Series which would make a thick crown octavo--and Hay's which would make another! But there is no help for it-thy hand has saved this leaf from being wafted away into oblivion

-a fate from which, but for that touch, its own excellence could not have saved it--for swore we not by Styx that we should admit not into Maga, even from the pen of an angel, versions of any Greek poem that had before graced in English our imperishable page? But we are no Heathen god-and W. S. is not an angel-but a Queen's man, an accomplished scholar--and a conscientious curate at Castle Thorpe, Stoney Stratford, Bucks-and happy should we be to pass a Saturday and a Sunday with him there-as if we were one of his own parishioners.

MELEAGER ON SPRING.

When windy winter flies the milder air,
The purple hours of flow'ry spring smile fair.
With green grass garlanded, the dusky earth
Wreaths every plant with leaves, a budding birth,
And the mild dews of plant-producing morn
While laughing meadows drink, the rose is born.
On hills his shrill pipe blows the joyous swain,
The goat-herd stalks of many a white kid vain.
Now o'er the billows wide the sailors hail
Soft Zephyr's breeze to fill the bosoming sail.
Grape-bringing Bacchus frantic throngs address,
Plucking the flow'ring ivy's clustered tress.
And ox-born bees their toils with artful care,
Amid their hives in pierced cells prepare.
The fresh white wax its full stream pours along,
All winged tribes pipe free their shrilly song,
Halcyons on stream, and swallows o'er the vale,
Swans on the banks, in groves the nightingale ;
If bloom the green-haired plants, if earth is gay,
And pipes the swain, and flocks thick-fleeced play,
And mariners sail, and Bacchus danceth free,
And sing the birds, and works the toiling bee,
Why should not I to Spring pour forth sweet minstrelsy?

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Spell to touch thy stony heart?
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruined year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ;-
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
And gently on the orphan head
Of innocence descend!

But chiefly spare, O King of Clouds!
The sailor on his airy shrouds ;
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep."

What pity was in that sob! what compassion in that tear! O gentlest Lady! we think on a few lines in a forgotten poem, written many years ago by our friend Clifford-long since dead--who was prouder of his buckskin breeches than of any thing else in this life-yet of a fine genius and a tender heart!

ΑΛΛΟ.

"And oft when real sorrows asked a sigh, I've fondly viewed the pearl in Emma's

eye,

And kissed it ere it fell, more pleased to

see

A tear for others than a smile for me!"

But what in the name of goodness have we here? Latin and Greek! Why, a batch of the Epigrams of Theocritus! Take up your knitting, Mrs Gentle, while I look over a few of them-for we intend that our Article shall suit all tastes-and good people to whom Greek Epigrams are caviar will please skip two pages, though graced to gifted eyes with the fine scholarship of Fitzjames Price, an honour to Hereford. Let Mr Hughes look to the strange characters

for the character of the Ballantyne Press is at stake-and we have often threatened a list of errata.

έ.

Λῆς, ποτὶ τῶν νυμφῶν, διδύμοις αυλοῖσιν ἀεῖσαι
Αδύ τι μοι; κἠγὼν πακτίδ ̓ ἀειράμενος
Ταξεῦμαί τι κρέκειν· ὁ δὲ βεκόλος ἄμμιγα θελξεῖ
Δάφνις, καροδέτῳ πνεύματι μελπόμενος.
Εγγὺς δὲ στάντες λασιαύχενὸς ἄντρου ὄπισθεν,
Πᾶνα τὸν αἰγιβάταν ὀρφανίσωμες ὕπνου.

Quid mihi, per nymphas, grati tua cantet arundo,
Dum mea quid resonat fistula sumpta tibi :
Daphnidis intereà nobis cerata bubulci,

Si placet, effundat tibia dulce melos;
Antroque astantes, ubi quercûs umbra, vetemus
Agrestem solito Pana sopore frui.

Come, by the nymphs, I pr'ythee play
Upon thy pipe a roundelay,"

And I will take this reed of mine,
And give thee back a song for thine;
And Daphnis here, this shepherd swain,
Shall breathe for us some tuneful strain.
Thus 'neath yon oak's delicious shade,
Beside yon mossy cavern laid,

We'll banish with our merry numbers
Pan, the drowsy goatherd's, slumbers.

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Heu! abiit dulcis sobolès; descendit ad Orcum
Unguibus infensi casa capella lupi.

Jamque canes ululant, nequicquam-namque capellæ
Nec cineres passæ fata, neque ossa manent.

Ah! Thyrsis, weep no more ; though both thine eyes
Should melt in tears, thy weeping were in vain;
The kid is dead, the tender youngling lies

By the fell wolf's destructive talons slain.
Thy dogs, too, howl, but vain are all their cries,
Nor bones nor ashes of the dead remain,

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Parce, precor, vitæ, neque pontum e tempore sulca,
Navita; namque viris quam brevis hora datur.
Te, Cleonice, Thasi properantem ad litora tristem
Divitis, et Syrias prora vehebat opes:
Pleiadis ad casum, Cleonice, ut salsa tenebas,
Condidit Oceanus Pleiada teque simul.

O, mortal, heed thy life, nor quit the port
In unpropitious hour-thy span is short.
Lost Cleonicus thee, toward Thasus' shore,
From Colesgria trading, ocean bore,
About the Pleiads' setting, so the wave
On thee and her bestowed a common grave.

It amused us to see the dunderheads -all Scottish-scribbling their scorn of the Latin and English versions of the first four epigrams of Theocritus, in a late number by the same admira ble pen, and other pens equally admirable-nay, of the originals of which they could not read one letter. We love all that vegetates and lives in Scotland-plants and people; but how happens it that in a country possess. ing such scholars as Sandford, and Ramsay, and Willians, and Pillans, and Carson, and Piper, such barbarism should be so prevalent? Let our educated youth wipe off the reproach thus cast on the character of our colleges, by contributing to CLIO. What more graceful exercise of their taste and ingenuity? There are many accomplished scholars among them; and we are angry, and do well to be angry, to think that while that VASE is filled to overflowing with elegancies from all the seminaries in England, not one, so far as we know, has been wafted thither from this side of the Tweed.

Now, Lady Mine, yet, alas! not Lady Mine, lay down thy knittingand-but let us look at thy handiwork-eh! a worsted night-cap?Nay-it wants the tappitoury-and a night-cap without a tappitoury is little more than a night-cap but in name. Besides, you ought to know-for you have heard us tell it that we never wear a night-cap-any more than did Eschylus. We declare-HOSE! That is kind. Let them come up well above the knee-half-way up, or more-that no debateable land may be left between them and our flannel shirt comfortably long in the tail. Pardon the hiut-dearest-but our rheumatism has seized-all right, we see-lay it aside, love-and resuming your seat here-gladden the old man's heart by reading aloud-if, indeed, such a word can apply to voice of thine-these other pleasant trifles-from Theocritus, or Bion, or Moschus-omitting not the translators' names. do now.

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REV. MORDAUNT BARNARD, AMWELL, HODDESDON, Herts.
A sportive boy within a shady grove

Chasing wild birds, beheld the truant Love

Perch'd on a box-tree bough,-and joy'd, I ween,

To see bird larger than he e'er had seen.

He brought his lime twigs, and he rang'd them right,
And gaz'd, and gaz'd, to trace its devious flight.
Pettish at last with long and fruitless pain,
He threw his twigs away, and sought the swain
From whom he learn'd the art,-and told his tale,
How flew the bird, and how his art did fail.

-When he saw Love amid the boughs, the sage
Smil'd, shook his head, and thus appeas'd his rage:-
"Forbear thy sport, rash youth, and quit the prey!
The thing is venomous ;-flee far away!-
Though disappointed, bless thy happy fate!-
But if thou ever com'st to man's estate,
Yon flitting bird shall lay aside his dread,
Swoop boldly down, and perch upon thine head."

Come

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