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Soon shalt thou be where, black and slow,
Cocytus laves the languid coast,

Where sadly wanders, deep below,

Of Danaus' line each guilty ghost, And Sisyphus still plies his labour lost.

Soon shalt thou leave thy fair domain,
And her, thy better half, to sigh;
Nor of those forests, rear'd in vain,
Aught but the cypress shall supply
Sad fuel at thy last solemnity.

Thy wines preserv'd with jealous care,
More costly than a monarch's store,
Soon squander'd by thy happier heir,

Fenc'd by a hundred locks no more,

At midnight poured shall stain the banquet floor.

FROM HORACE.

BOOK IV. ODE 7.

The snows are past away, the field renews

Its grassy robe, the trees with leaves are crown'd; All nature feels a change; the streams unloose

Their bands of ice, and bathe the meads around: The sister graces with the nymphs advance In light attire, weaving the joyous dance.

Warn'd by the varying year and hast'ning day,
Expect not thou, my friend, immortal joys:
Spring's zephyr melts the Winter's frost away,
And Spring the Summer's hotter breath destroys,
Soon forc'd to wait on Autumn's mellow train,
Till cold and sluggish Winter rules again.

The seasons' difference rolling moons repair;
But we, if once to that sad shore convey'd
Where the great manes of our fathers are,
Shall be but empty ashes and a shade.
Who knows if they that rule this mortal clime
Will add to-morrow to our sum of time?

Thy generous soul can best improve the hours
Of the short life allow'd by partial Heaven;
Yet thee, Torquatus, in those gloomy bow'rs
Where Minos' last tremendous doom is given,
Not all thy pride of honourable birth,
Nor wit, nor virtue, can restore to earth!

Not e'en the huntress of the silver bow
Who made the chaste Hippolitus her care,
Could bring his spirit from the realms below:
Nor Theseus, arm'd with force immortal, tear
His lov'd Pirithous from the triple chain
That bound his soul to that infernal plain.

SONNET.

Tu in bei facondi detti

Sciogli la lingua de' Fedeli tuoi, &c.

Aminta A. 2. Coro.

Love, the great master of true eloquence,
Disdains the tribute of a vulgar tongue :
Cold are the words and vain the affected song
Of him whose boasted passion is pretence.
The favoured few that to his court belong
With noblest gifts the mighty God presents;
Their powerful language chains the admiring sense,
And their warm words in torrents pour along.
And oft (oh wondrous excellence of Love!)

Oft trembling vows, and sighs, and accents broken, With far more force th' enraptur'd hearer move, Than smoothes the phrase with courtliest action spoken.

E'en silence oft has found the power to prove

Both words and prayers, when she is true love's token.

FROM OSSIAN'S BERRATHON.

"Bend thy blue course, ok stream! round the narrow plain of Lutha!"

Oh flow round Lutha's narrow plain, sweet stream,
And let the wild woods hanging o'er thee wave,
And let the sun there shed his warmest gleam
And light winds gently breathe o'er Ossian's grave!

At early morn the hunter passing by

No more shall hear my harp's harmonious fall; Then shall he drop the tender tear, and cry "Where is the tuneful son of great Fingal ?"

Then come, Malvina, all thy music yield,

Let thy soft song once more delight my breast,
Then raise my tomb in Lutha's narrow field,
And lull my dying spirits into rest.

Where art thou, lovely maid? Where is thy song?
Where are the soft sounds of thy passing feet?
Thou canst not come, nor shall I call thee long
Till in
my father's airy halls we meet.

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