weighed-down? Thee it becomes rather to be crowned almo as to thy locks with the fair garland, with the flower referente representing thy [innocent] mind. O, thou that-imitatest the sacred forms of the stars! Effer why art-thou-concealed so long, O rose? Put-forth thy delicate head from the ground, O daughter of the tepentis warm sky! 2 Now for thee the watery clouds disperse, which the zephyrs put-to-flight with their white cars. Now for aura thee the breath of the sportive Favonius calms the north-wind. EXERCISE XI. SAPPHIC. 1 tepor O Breeze! whom the warmth of spring and the Thracian animæ winds carry in a serene car, come hither, where the poplar invites thee with hospitable shades. 2 persultet Here for thee may the free Zephyr bound-through* vagus the leaves and branches: here may [it] flitting-about supinas vexet chide the restless leaves, and move the grass in gentle sport. revoluta 3 fuga While gliding through the sunny flowers, the course of the glassy water invites sleep, breathe-through both comante me and my lyre suspended from the leafy alder. 4 So may the sky and the suns smile with grateful coun manet tenance; so may the dew for thee distil with liquid foot, and suspend* itself on the silent herb. * The preposition in the first line, the verb in the second. PART III. SELECTIONS FOR TRANSLATION INTO LATIN LYRICS. EXERCISE I. Hope. 1 My banks they are furnish'd with bees, 2 I seldom have met with a loss, 3 Not a pine in my grove is there seen But a sweetbriar entwines it around: 4 Not my fields, in the prime of the year, EXERCISE II. The dying Kid. A tear bedews my Delia's eye Erewhile, in sportive circles round, She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound: From rock to rock pursue his way, And on the fearful margin play. Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell, She tells with what delight he stood She tells me how with eager speed He flew to hear my vocal reed; His ev'ry frolic, light as air, But knows my Delia, timely wise, Soon would the vine his wounds deplore, Were Delia's name and Strephon's love. No more those bow'rs might Strephon see, Each wayward passion soon would tear Then mourn not the decrees of Fate, |