Cannot be heard so high.-I 'll look no more; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. ON the mountains wild 't is sweet, O'er Phrygian, Lydian mountain brows; Bacchus's self the maddening god! And flows with milk the plain, and flows with wine, Flows with the wild bees' nectar-dews divine; And soars, like smoke, the Syrian incense pale- The while the frantic Bacchanal Bacchus's daughters, ye the pride In Phrygian tones and Phrygian voices, Who to the mountain, to the mountain speeds; Like some young colt that by its mother feeds, Gladsome with many a frisking bound, The Bacchanal goes forth and treads the echoing ground. From the Greek of EURIPIDES. Translation of H. H. MILMAN. AN ALPINE DESCENT. My mule refreshed, his bells Jingled once more, the signal to depart, Fast frozen, and among huge blocks of ice On, and say nothing, for a word, a breath, |