THE BROTHERS.

FROM THE PLAYS OF PUBLIUS TERENTIUS AFER.

ACT CTED at the funeral games of L. Æmilius Paulus, given by Q. Fabius Maximus and P. Cornelius Africanus. Principal actors, L. Attilius Prænestinus and Minutius Prothimus. The music composed for Tyrian flutes by Placcus, freedman to Claudius. Taken from the Greek of Menander. First acted, L. Ancius and M. Cornelius, consuls. Year of Rome, 593; before Christ, 160.

SELECTIONS.

SCENE, ATHENS.

Enter MICIO.

Ho, Storax! Eschinus did not return
Last night from supper-no, nor any one
Of all the slaves who went to see for him.
And what a world of fears possess me now!
How anxious that my son is not returned,
Lest he take cold or fall or break a limb!
Gods that a man should suffer any one
To wind himself so close about his heart
As to grow dearer to him than himself!
And yet he is not my son, but my brother's,
Whose bent of mind is wholly different.
I from youth upward even to this day
Have led a quiet and serene town-life,
And, as some reckon fortunate, ne'er married;
He, in all points the opposite of this,
Has passed his days entirely in the country
With thrift and labor, married, had two sons.
The elder boy is by adoption mine;

So that the pranks of youth, which other children

Hide from their fathers, I have used my son
Not to conceal from me; for whosoe'er
Hath won upon himself to play the false one
And practise impositions on a father
Will do the same with less remorse to others,
And 'tis, in my opinion, better far
To bind your children to you by the ties
Of gentleness and modesty than fear.
And yet my brother don't accord in this,
Nor do these notions nor this conduct please
him.

'Tis hard in him, unjust and out of reason, And he, I think, deceives himself indeed. Who fancies that authority more firm Founded on force than what is built on friendship;

For thus I reason, thus persuade myself:
He who performs his duty, driven to't
By fear of punishment, while he believes
His actions are observed, so long he's wary,
But if he hopes for secrecy returns

To his own ways again. But he whom kind

ness

Him also inclination makes your own:
He burns to make a due return, and acts,
Present or absent, evermore the same.
'Tis this, then, is the duty of a father,
To make a son embrace a life of virtue
Rather from choice than terror or constraint.
Here lies the mighty difference between
A father and a master. He who knows not

own,

Made him my joy and all my soul holds dear,
Striving to make myself as dear to him.
I give, o'erlook, nor think it requisite
That all his deeds should be controlled by me,
Giving him scope to act as of himself,

How to rule children.

SOSTRATA, CANTHARA. Enter GETA hastily.

GETA. We are now

So absolutely lost that all the world

Joining in consultation to apply

Relief to the misfortune that has fallen
On me, my mistress and her daughter, all
Would not avail. Ah me! so many trou-
bles

But why do I delay to tell my mistress This heavy news as soon as possible?

(Going.)

Sos. Let's call him back. Ho, Geta! CAN. Whosoe'er

Sos. I am Sostrata.

GETA. Where, where is Sostrata? (Turns about.) I sought you, madamImpatiently I sought you-and am glad To have encountered you thus readily. Sos. What is the matter? Why d'ye tremble thus ?

H1

HISTORY AND POETRY.

FROM THE GREEK OF LUCIAN.

ISTORY will not admit the least degree of falsehood. Poetry has its particular rules and precepts; history is governed by others directly opposite. With regard to the former the license is immoderate, and there is scarce any law but what the poet prescribes to himself. When he is full of the deity, and possessed, as it were, by the Muses, if he has a mind to put winged horses to his chariot and drive some through the waters and others over the tops of unbending corn, there is no offence taken; neither if his Jupiter hangs the earth and sea at the end of a chain are we afraid that it should break and destroy us all. If he wants to extol Agamemnon, who shall forbid his bestowing on him the head and eyes of Jupiter, the breast of his brother Neptune and the belt of Mars? The son of Atreus and Erope must be a composition of all the gods; nor are Jupiter, Mars and Neptune sufficient, perhaps, of themselves to give us an idea of his perfection. But if history admits any adulation of this kind, it becomes a sort of prosaic poetry without its numbers or magnificence, a heap of monstrous stories only more conspicuous by their incredibility. He is unpardonable, therefore, who cannot distinguish one from the other, but lays on history the paint of poetry, its flattery, fable and hyperbole; it is just as ridiculous as it would be to clothe one of our robust wrestlers, who is as hard as an oak, in fine purple or some such meretricious garb, and put paint on his cheeks. How would such ornaments debase and degrade him!

I

do not mean by this that in history we are not to praise sometimes, but it must be done at proper seasons and in a proper degree, that it may not offend the readers of future ages; for future ages must be considered in this affair. In history nothing fabulous can be agreeable, and flattery is disgusting to all readers except the very dregs of the people; good judges look with the eyes of Argus on every part, reject everything that is false and adulterated, and will admit nothing but what is true, clear and well expressed.

Translation of THOMAS FRANCKLIN

Be circumspect: oft with insidious ken
The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft
Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave,
Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch
With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing)
Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn
An everlasting foe, with watchful eye
Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap,
Her fell claws to thoughtless mice
Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web
Arachne in a hall or kitchen spreads
Obvious to vagrant flies. She secret stands
Within her woven cell; the humming prey,
Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils
Inextricable, nor will aught avail
Their arts or arms or shapes of lovely hue;
The
wasp insidious and the buzzing drone,
And butterfly, proud of expanded wings,
Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares,
Useless resistance make.

JOHN PHILIPS.

lawn:

'Twas early day-right early-and the dawn Waxed like the springtide of a waveless

sea

Beyond the dark hills and the umber lea, And with the breath of the upcoming day Ten thousand spirits of the blissful May From cowslip slopes, green banks and heathy fells

Did come and go like those sweet morningbells.

Oh, welcome, golden dawn! and, summer clime,

chime,

lime;

Am just new-born in some lost isle of joy,

spring,

With his own joy he hears the skylark sing,

...

And the young airs that ripple the treetops Have got their wings from his enchanted hopes;

The dazzling dews that on the roses lie, The sunlit streams, are kindled at his eye.

With heedless heart he looks across the land,

The jocund bells are pealing fast and sweet;

Softly they come and go like lovers'

sighs;

In one glad thought the young and old are met,

The simple and the wise.

fills

The teeming vales and robes the summer hills,

Are his; but from his tower he only sees One mossy roof half hid roof half hid among the trees:

There is the priceless treasure that outweighs

The dark-eyed damsel bending o'er the spring,

The scholar in dim cloister murmuring;
The dusty pilgrim stays across the stile;
The smith upon his anvil leans a while;
Boys whistle, beggars bustle, shepherds
sing:

ring.