HERMESIANAX.

THIS elegiac poet, born at Colophon, lived in the time of Alexander the Great. His chief work bore the name of his mistress, Leontium, and from it the following fragment has been preserved.

THE LOVES OF POETS AND SAGES.

SUCH was the nymph whom Orpheus led
From the dark mansions of the dead,
Where Charon with his lazy boat
Ferries o'er Lethe's sedgy moat;

The undaunted minstrel smites the strings,
His strain through hell's vast concave rings;
Cocytus hears the plaintive theme,
And refluent turns his pitying stream;
Three-headed Cerberus, by fate
Posted at Pluto's iron gate,

Low-crouching rolls his haggard eyes
Ecstatic, and foregoes the prize;
With ears erect, at hell's wide doors,
Lies listening as the songster soars:
Thus music charmed the realm beneath,

And beauty triumph'd over death.

The bard, whom night's pale regent bore
In secret on the Athenian shore,

Musæus, felt the sacred flame,

And burnt for the fair Theban dame,

Antiope, whom mighty Love

Made pregnant by imperial Jove;

The poet plied his amorous strain,

Press'd the fond fair, nor press'd in vain;
For Ceres, who the veil undrew,
That screen'd her mysteries from view,
Propitious this kind truth reveal'd,
That woman close-besieged will yield.

Homer, of all past bards the prime,
And wonder of all future time,
Whom Jove with wit sublimely blest,
And touched with purest fire his breast,

From gods and heroes turned away
To warble the domestic lay,

And, wandering to the desert isle,

On whose parch'd rocks no seasons smile,
In distant Ithaca was seen

Chanting the suit-repelling queen.

Old Hesiod, too, his native shade
Made vocal to the Ascræan maid:

The bard his heaven-directed lore
Forsook, and hymn'd the gods no more;

Soft, love-sick ditties now he sung,

Love touch'd his harp, love tuned his tongue, Silenced his Heliconian lyre,

And quite put out religion's fire.

Mimnermus tuned his amorous lay,

When time had turned his temples gray;

Love revelled in his aged veins,

Soft was his lyre and sweet his strains;
Frequenter of the wanton feast,

Nanno his theme and youth his guest.

Alcæus strung his sounding lyre,
And smote it with a hand of fire,
To Sappho, fondest of the fair,
Chanting the loud and lofty air.

F'en Sophocles, whose honey'd lore
Rivals the bee's delicious store,
Chorus'd the praise of wine and love,
Choicest of all the gifts of Jove.

Pythagoras, whose boundless soul
Scaled the wide globe from pole to pole,
Earth, planets, seas, and heavens above,
Yet found no spot secure from love,
With love declines unequal war,

And, trembling, drags his conqueror's car;
Theano clasped him in her arms,
And Wisdom stooped to Beauty's charms.

E'en Socrates, whose moral mind
With truth enlighten'd all mankind,

Favor me with a beggar's basket; 'tis

No matter though a torch have singed it.
Eur. What's thy need on't?

Dic. None-beyond the wish to have it.

Eur. Away, and quit my doors: thou breedest trouble. Dic. (aside). A pestilence upon thee! (Aloud) Happy bard, Heaven fortune thee, as erst thy lady mother!

Eur. Will thou begone?

Dic. Not till I have my craving:

One little cup, so please you; one whose lip
Hath lost its wholeness-

Eur. Take it and begone:

Your presence breeds disturbance.

Dic. But, sweet Euripides! I fain would have

A pipkin with a cleanly sponge to wipe it.

Eur. The man will rob me of a tragedy complete.

Content your wish with this; and now away (giving a pipkin).

Dic. I have an ear to your request: one thing

Remains: that one not granted me—I am

A ruin'd man ;-crown it, and I am gone

For ever. Telephus bore leaves and herbs;

A scantling of the same within my basket.

Eur. The man will be my ruin; see, 'tis granted (giving him leaves):

A whole play lost, as I'm a living man.

Dic. This timely grace completes me: I retire—

It is too plain my presence breeds offence.

These eyes know not to turn their view discreet

On mighty men and pay them terms of honor

A plague upon't, was ever such a wretch!

I have forgot the primest thing of all.

(Addressing Euripides) Thou dearest, best of men-I pray

thee now

With most petitionary vehemence—

Crown but this one, one longing; if I ask

Aught more, all plagues and maladies light on me!—

Throw for the tender mercy one small potherb

Thou canst not lack,-thy mother will supply thee.*

Eur. Most frontless impudence! shut-to the door, boy.

* The enemies of Euripides said that his mother had been a seller of potherbs.

MENANDER.

THOUGH there are but few fragments of the comedies of Menander, he has elicited high praise both from ancient and modern critics. These fragments show, more than other Greek writings, the modern spirit. As Aristophanes was the leader of the Attic Old, or Political Comedy, so Menander was the leader of the New Comedy, or comedy of private life and manners. He wrote more than a hundred comedies, not one of which survives. Latin adaptations of them were made by Terence, who thus won greater fame than his original. The great Cæsar, who was a keen critic, pronounced the Roman writer but a "semi-Menander." These Latin plays became models for later Europe whenever the drama revived. Menander was born in 342 B.C. and died in 291. His writings show the influence of the philosopher Epicurus, whom he describes as rescuing Greece "from unreason as Themistocles had rescued her from slavery."

MAN'S LIFE.

SUPPOSE Some god should say, "Die when thou wilt,

Mortal, expect another life on earth;

And, for that life make choice of all creation,

What thou wilt be-dog, sheep, goat, man or horse;

For live again thou must, it is thy fate;

Choose only in what form-there thou art free."

So help me, Crato, I would fairly answer,—

Let me be all things, anything but man!

He only of all creatures feels affliction.
The generous horse is valued for his worth,
And dog by merit is preferred to dog;
The warrior cock is pampered for his courage,
And awes the baser brood--But what is man?
Truth, virtue, valor,-how do they avail him?
Of this world's good the first and greatest share
Is flattery's prize; the informer takes the next,
And barefaced knavery garbles what is left:
I'd rather be an ass than what I am,

And see these villains lord it o'er their betters.

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?

THE lot of all most fortunate is his,

Who, having stayed just long enough on earth
To feast his sight with the fair face of Nature,
Sun, sea, and clouds, and heaven's bright starry fires,
Drops without pain into an early grave.

For what is life, the longest life of man,

But the same scene repeated o'er and o'er?

A few more lingering days to be consumed

In throngs and crowds, with sharpers, knaves and thieves;
From such the speediest riddance is the best.

THE PROPER USE OF WEALTH.

WEAK is the vanity that boasts of riches,
For they are fleeting things; were they not such,
Could they be yours to all succeeding time,
"Twere wise to let none share in the possession;
But, if whate'er you have is held of Fortune;
And not of right inherent, why, my father,
Why, with such niggardly jealousy engross
What the next hour may ravish from your grasp,
And cast into some worthless favorite's lap?
Snatch then the swift occasion while 'tis yours;
Put this unstable boon to noble uses;

Foster the wants of men, impart your wealth,

And purchase friends; 'twill be more lasting treasure,
And when misfortune comes, your best resource.

PHILEMON.

PHILEMON, though inferior to Menander, was a great favorite with the Athenians, and often defeated his rival in the dramatic contests. Though born at Soli, in Cilicia, he spent most of his life in Athens, where he had been admitted to citizenship. He began to exhibit plays about 330 B.C., and is said to have composed altogether ninety-seven, yet only a few fragments of them remain. His favorite subjects were love intrigues, as was usually the case in the New Comedy, which he inaugurated. He is said to have died in the theatre, during the performance of one of his own compositions.