Puslapio vaizdai
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"EXTREMUM TANAIN"

(TO J. K.)

EFORE thy doors too long of late,
O Lyce, I bewail my fate;

Not Don's barbarian maids, I trow,
Would treat their luckless lovers so;
Thou, thou alone art obstinate.

Hast thou nor eyes nor ears, Ingrate!
Hark! how the NORTH WIND shakes thy gate!
Look! how the laurels bend with snow
Before thy doors!

Lay by thy pride,—nor hesitate,
Lest Love and I grow desperate;

If prayers, if gifts for naught must go,
If naught my frozen pallor show,-
Beware! ... I shall not always wait
Before thy doors!

"VIXI PUELLIS"

WE loved of yore, in warfare bold,

Nor laurelless. Now all must go;

Let this left wall of Venus show The arms, the tuneless lyre of old.

Here let them hang, the torches cold,
The portal-bursting bar, the bow,
We loved of yore.

But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold, And Memphis free from Thracian snow, Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow, Smite,-smite but once that pretty scold We loved of yore!

"WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE"

WHE

HEN I saw you last, Rose,
You were only so high;---

How fast the time goes!

Like a bud ere it blows,
You just peeped at the sky,
When I saw you last, Rose!

Now your petals unclose,
Now your May-time is nigh;-
How fast the time goes!

And a life,-how it grows!
You were scarcely so shy,
When I saw you last, Rose!

In your bosom it shows
There's a guest on the sly;
(How fast the time goes!)

Is it Cupid? Who knows!
Yet you used not to sigh,
When I saw you last, Rose;
How fast the time goes!

"VIXI PUELLIS"

WE loved of yore, in warfare bold,

Nor laurelless. Now all must go;

Let this left wall of Venus show The arms, the tuneless lyre of old.

Here let them hang, the torches cold,
The portal-bursting bar, the bow,
We loved of yore.

But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold,

And Memphis free from Thracian snow, Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow, Smite,-smite but once that pretty scold We loved of yore!

FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS

SINGER of the field and fold,

THEOCRITUS! Pan's pipe was thine,-

Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

For thee the scent of new-turned mould,
The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,-
The beechen bowl made glad with wine..
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told,-
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine ..
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Alas for us! Our songs are cold;
Our Northern suns too sadly shine :-
O Singer of the field and fold,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold!

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