Here sleeps a Daughter by her Mother's side; Nor slow disease nor war our fates allied. When hostile banners over Corinth wav'd, Preferring death, we left a land enslav'd. Pierc'd by a Mother's steel, in youth I bled, She nobly join'd me in my gory bed; In vain ye forge your fetters for the brave, Who fly for sacred freedom to the grave.
ON THE DEATH OF ORPHEUS.
No more, sweet Orpheus, shalt thou lead along Oaks, rocks, and savage monsters, with thy song, Fetter the winds, the straggling hail-storm chain, The snowy desert soothe, and sounding main; For thou art dead; the Muses o'er thy bier, Sad as thy Parent, pour the tuneful tear. Weep we a child? Not e'en the gods can save Their glorious offspring from the hated grave.
Grow, clustering Ivy, where Anacreon lies; There may soft buds from purple meadows rise. Gush, milky springs, the poet's turf to lave, And, fragrant wine, flow joyous from his grave: Thus charm'd, his bones shall press their narrow bed, If aught of pleasure ever reach the dead. In these delights he sooth'd his age above, His life devoting to the lyre and love.
This rudely sculptur'd porter-pot Denotes where sleeps a female sot; Who pass'd her life, good easy soul! In sweetly chirping o'er her bowl. Not for her friends or children dear She mourns-but only for her beer. E'en in the very grave, they say, She thirsts for drink to wet her clay; And, faith, she thinks it very wrong This jug should stand unfill'd so long.
FROM ARCHIAS.
Thracians, who howl around an infant's birth And give the funeral hour to songs and mirth, Well in your grief and gladness are express'd That life is labour and that death is rest.
O hateful Bird of Morn, whose harsh alarms Drive me thus early from Chrysilla's arms, Forc'd from th' embrace so newly tried to fly, With bitter soul, to curs'd society.
Old age has sprinkled Tithon's brows with snow; No more his veins in ruddy currents flow:
How cold his sense! his wither'd heart how dead! Who drives so soon a goddess from his bed.
FROM CRINAGORAS OF MITYLENE.
Children of Spring, but now in wintry snow We purple roses for Amanda blow. Duteous we smile upon thy natal morn, Thy bridal bed to-morrow we adorn; O sweeter far to bloom our little day
Wreath'd in thy hair than wait the sunny May. See Note 34.
ON THE DEATH OF A SOLDIER
ARMY OF GERMANICUS.
Let Cynegirus' name, renown'd of yore, And brave Othryades be heard no more! By Rhine's swoln streams Italian Arrius lay Transfix'd with wounds, and sobb'd his soul away; But seeing Rome's proud Eagle captive led He started from the ghastly heaps of dead, The captor slew, the noble prize brought home, And found Death only not to be o'ercome.
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