FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
THE girl that was to ear and sight
More soft of tone, of skin more white
Than plumaged swans, that yield in death
The sweetest murmur of their breath;
Smooth as Galesus' soft-fleeced flocks;
Dainty as shells on Lucrine rocks;
As Red Sea pearls; bright ivory's glow;
Unsullied lilies; virgin snow;
Whose locks were tipp'd with ruddy gold,
Like wool that clothes the Boetic fold;
Like braided hair of girls of Rhine;
As tawny field-mouse sleek and fine;
Whose vermil mouth breathed Pæstum's rose,
Or balm fresh honeycombs disclose;
Or amber yielding odour sweet
From the chafing hand's soft heat;
By whom the peacock was not fair;
Nor squirrels pets, nor phoenix rare ;
Erotion crumbles in her urn;
Warm from the pile her ashes burn:
Ere yet had closed her sixteenth year,
The Fates accursed have spread her bier;
And with her all I doted on,
My loves, my joys, my sports, are gone.
Yet Pætus, who, like me distress'd,
Is fain to beat his mourning breast,
And tear his hair beside a grave,
Asks, Blush you not to mourn a slave?
I mourn a high, rich, noble wife:
And yet I bear my lot of life!'
Thy fortitude exceeds all bounds:
Thou hast two hundred thousand pounds :
Thou bear'st-'tis true-thy lot of life;
Thou bear'st-the jointure of thy wife.
FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
THEY tell me, Cotilus, that you're a beau :
What this is, Cotilus, I wish to know.
'A beau is one who, with the nicest care,
In parted locks divides his curling hair;
One who with balm and cinnamon smells sweet,
Whose humming lips some Spanish air repeat;
Whose naked arms are smooth'd with pummice-
And toss'd about with graces all his own: [stone,
A beau is one who takes his constant seat,
From morn till evening, where the ladies meet;
And ever, on some sofa hovering near,
Whispers some nothing in some fair one's ear;
Who scribbles thousand billets-doux a day;
Still reads, and scribbles; seals and sends away:
A beau is one who shrinks, if nearly press'd
By the coarse garment of a neighbour guest;
Who knows who flirts with whom, and still is found
At each good table in successive round:
A beau is one-none better knows than he
A race-horse and his noble pedigree’—
Indeed?-why, Cotilus, if this be so,
What teasing trifling thing is called a beau!
FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
THE sources of a happy life,
Dear friend, are these alone-
A purse not fill'd by busy strife,
But made by will our own.
A pleasant farm, a cheerful fire,
A soul unruffled by desire;
No lawsuits of the noisy town,
No painful duties of the gown;
Pure vigorous health, associates free,
Endear'd by sweet equality;
No rules of ceremonious art,
But manners flowing from the heart;
A plain, yet hospitable board,
And bumpers temperately pour'd-
A careless night, a joyous bed,
By modest love with roses spread;
Slumbers that make the darkness fly,
Content that never breathes a sigh,
And not a fear nor wish to die.
FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
IF, my dear Martial, fate allow'd
A safe retreat from folly's crowd;
If, far from care and busy strife,
Together we could lead our life-
True happiness we would not rate
By frequent visits to the great;
Nor hear the wrangling lawyer bawl,
Nor range proud statues round our hall:
Our chairs should take us to the play,
The walks, the baths should wile the day,
The field, the porch, the tennis court,
And study interchanged with sport.
But how unlike our real fate
Is this imaginary state!
We live not for ourselves-alas!
Youth's joyous suns neglected pass,
Change into night, and never more
Return to bless us as before.
Oh! who that held enjoyment's power
Would waste in pain one precious hour?
ON THE MAUSOLEUM OF AUGUSTUS.
FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
FILL high the bowl with sparkling wine,
Cool the bright draught with summer snow,
Amidst my locks let odours flow,
Around my temples roses twine.
See yon proud emblem of decay,
Yon lordly pile that braves the sky!
It bids us live our little day,
Teaching that gods themselves may die.
IMITATED FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
BETWEEN the pulpit and the bar
While thus you hesitate and trifle, You're growing older than old Parr :Johnny, indeed you waste your life ill. If towards the church your zeal draws strong, Three curacies are just now vacant: If not, the law goes on ding-dong
Rouse up, and try what you can make on't.
Let us, at least, an effort see
Be something, any thing for money! Zounds! while you're doubting what to be, You're likely to be nothing, Johnny!
FROM THE LATIN OF PETRONIUS.
FLOWERS, fair as those that Ida's hill o'erspread,
When blushing Juno press'd the mossy bed,
Where, robed by Beauty's queen in softer charms,
She clasped the glowing Thunderer in her arms,
Where azure harebells and musk roses bloom'd,
And lurking violets the breeze perfumed,
Blue, white, and red diversified the green,
And modest lilies smiled upon the scene:
Such were the flowers that deck'd that lonely grove
Where Circe bound me in the chains of love;
So soft the bank, so fragrant and so fair,
Where our fond sighs increased the gentle air.
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