MACEDONIUS. [About 550 A. D.] A contemporary of Agathias, surnamed Tяaros, or the Consul. Nothing more is known of him. So called from an office which he held in the | prostituting his muse in celebration of the infacourt of Justinian, corresponding to that of gentle- mous Theodora, and freely indulging himself in man usher. He was a courtier and voluptuary- all the debasing pleasures of the age. WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY? WHY does she so long delay? Night is waning fast away; Thrice have I my lamp renew'd, Watching here in solitude. Where can she so long delay? Where so long delay? Vainly now have two lamps shone; Gods, how oft the traitress dear TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE. To weave a garland for the Rose, And think, thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be, Were far less vain than to suppose, That silks and gems add grace to thee. Where is the pearl, whose orient lustre Who would not say that beauty's cestus When thou her bright-eyed conqueror art. Henceforth those eyes alone I see, Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven, Sits beck'ning us to bliss and thee. Happy the art that could dispose On the Same. HERE strive for empire, o'er the happy scene, The Nymphs of fountain, sea, and woodland green; The power of grace and beauty holds the prize Suspended, even to her votaries; And finds amazed, where'er she casts her eye, Their contest forms the matchless harmony. TWINST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATH THY BROW? TWIN'ST thou with lofty wreath thy brow? I almost think, whil'st aw'd I bow, Dost thou thy loosen'd ringlets leave, E'en when enwrapt in silvery veils, To haunt me with its unseen light. For thee the graces still attend, WHEN THE SAD WORD. WHEN the sad word "Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling, And, with it, hope passes away, Ere the tongue has half breathed it, my fond heart recalling That fated farewell, bids me stay. One hour from thy presence to be, Thy beauty, like day, on the dull world breaking, But mute is the day's sunny glory, While thine has a voice, on whose breath, More sweet than the syren's sweet story, My hopes hang through life and through death! AN EPITAPH. Oa! many a tear, from hearts by anguish torn, Around thy tomb our streaming eyelids pour'd; A common son, a common friend, we mourn, In thee too much belov'd, so much deplor'd. Harsh, heartless fate, nor pity had, nor ruthAlas! alas-nor spared thy tender youth. THE OFFERING OF A DESERTED LOVER. Oft on thy threshold stretch'd, at close of day, LOVE NOT EXTINGUISHED BY AGE. THE DRENCHED LOVER. THE Voice of the song and the banquet was o'er, And I hung up my chaplet at Glycera's door, When the mischievous girl from a window above, Who look'd down and laugh'd at the offering of love, Fill'd with water a goblet whence Bacchus had fled, And pour'd all the crystal contents on my head. So drench'd was my hair, three whole days it resisted All attempts of the barber to friz it or twist it; But the water (so whimsical, Love, are thy ways!) While it put out my curls, set my heart in a blaze. THE CHAIN OF LOVE. In wanton sport, my Doris from her fair THE PICTURE. On how unequal is the painter's art, THE HYMN OF ARION. HAIL, Neptune, greatest of the gods! EPITAPH. THOU art not dead, my Prote, though no more ON A CORPSE WASHED ASHORE. NOT rugged Trachis hides these whitening bones, Nor that black isle whose name its colour shows, But the wild beach, o'er which, with ceaseless moans, The vexed Icarian wave, eternal, flows, Of Drepanus ill-famèd promontory— And there, instead of hospitable rites, The long grass sweeping tells his fate's sad story To rude tribes gathered from the neighbouring heights. ULYSSES ON HIS RETURN. HAIL Ithaca, my loved paternal soil! How, after years of travel, war, and toil, How, after countless perils of the sea, My heart, returning, fondly clings to thee! Where I shall once more bless my father's age, And smooth the last steps of his pilgrimage; Again embrace my wife, again enjoy The sweet endearments of mine only boy. Now, from my soul, I feel how strong the chain That binds the passions to our native plain. ON A STATUE OF NIOBE. THIS female (so the poets sing) Was changed to stone by Dian's curse. The sculptor did a better thingHe did exactly the reverse. On the Same. RELENTING Heaven had given the mourner rest, ON A SHIPWRECKED PERSON. PERISH the hour-that dark and starless hourPerish the roaring main's tempestuous power,That whelm'd the ship, where loved Abdera's son Prayed to unheeding heaven, and was undone. Yes-all were wrecked; and, by the stormy wave To rough Seriphos borne, he found a grave,Found, from kind stranger hands, funereal fires, Yet reached, inurned, the country of his sires. ON ERINNA, THE POETESS. SCARCE nineteen summer suns had shed Youth's roses o'er the virgin's head, While by a guardian mother's side, Her customary tasks she plied, Bade the rich silks her loom prepare, Or plied the distaff's humbler care;— Her modest worth the Muses knew, Brought her bright genius forth to view, And-ah, too soon!-from mortal eyesBore her, their handmaid, to the skies. BIS DAT, QUI CITO DAT. SWIFT favours charm, but when too long they stay, They lose the name of kindness by delay. FUNERAL HONOURS. SEEK not to glad these senseless stones The wine, that o'er my grave is shed, On the Same. Оn, think not that with garlands crown'd, Inhuman near thy grave we tread; Or blushing roses scatter round, To mock the paleness of the dead! What though we drain the fragrant bowl, And false the triumph of our eyes; Each draught of joy is dash'd with tears, And all our songs but echo sighs. ON A POOR MAN BECOMING RICH IN HIS OLD AGE. Poon and destitute at twentyNow at three-score-I have plenty. What a miserable lot! Now, that I have hoarded treasure, I no more can taste of pleasure: When I could, I had it not. ON DEATH. THE bath, obsequious beauty's smile, ON A MURDERED CORPSE. THOUGH here thou'st laid my corpse, when none were nigh; One saw thee, murderer!-One all-seeing Eye. ON THE NINE LYRIC POETS. O SACRED Voice of the Pierian choir, Immortal Pindar! O enchanting air Of sweet Bacchylides! O rapturous lyre, Majestic graces, of the Lesbian fair. Muse of Anacreon, the gay, the young, Stesichorus, thy full Homeric stream! Soft elegies by Cea's poet sung! Persuasive Ibycus, thy glowing theme! Sword of Alcæus, that, with tyrant's gore Gloriously painted, lift'st thy point so high! Ye tuneful nightingales, that still deplore Your Aleman, prince of amorous poesy! Oh yet impart some breath of heav'nly fire To him who venerates the Grecian lyre! ON ONE WHO SLEW HIS MOTHER. O BURY not the dead, but let him lie A prey for dogs beneath th' unpitying sky! Our common mother, Earth, would grieve to hide The hateful body of the Matricide. ON A HAPPY OLD MAN. TAKE old Amyntor to thy breast, dear Soil, In kind remembrance of his former toil, Who first enrich'd and ornamented thee With many a lovely shrub and branching tree, And lured the stream to fall in artful showers Upon thy thirsting herbs and fainting flowers. First in the spring he knew the rose to rear, First in the autumn cull the ripen'd pear; His vines were envied all the village round, And favouring heaven showered plenty on his ground, Therefore, O Earth, lie lightly on his head, And with thy choicest spring-flowers deck his bed. ON A MISERABLE OLD MAN. Br years and misery worn, no hand to save With some poor pittance from a desperate grave; With the small strength my wretched age sup plied, I crawled beneath this lonely pile and died. Screened from the scoff of pride and grandeur's frown, In this sad spot I laid my sufferings down, |