PRA. We have husbands, beside, that will bluster and cuff!
One tyrant, be sure, is in conscience enough. GOR. Hush-hush-my dear life! she's preparing the song:
The sweet little Grecian! how still is the throng! She'll excel pensive Sperchis! see-see her pre
With a languish so soft-so delicious an air!
So meltingly plaintive her musical tone is
But hark!—she's beginning the death of Adonis.
THE GREEK GIRL SINGS.
Sweet-smiling arbitress of love,
Queen of the soft Idalian grove;
Whom Golgos and the' Erycian height—
And thy fair fanes of gold delight!
How loved the down-shod Hours have led
Thy own Adonis from the dead,
To all thy ardent wishes dear;
Restored-to bless the closing year!
Still, though they move on lagging wing,
The Hours some balmy blessing bring!
Hail, daughter of Dioné, hail,
Whose power from dark Avernus' vale
Caught Berenicé to the bless'd,
And with ambrosia fill'd her breast!
For thee, bright goddess of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
The child of Berenicé comes-
Arsinoe (Helenlike she blooms),
With nature's luxuries to adorn
Thy loved Adonis' festal morn!
Lo! fruits, whate'er creation yields,
Lo! the ripe produce of the fields
And gardens, mingling many a dye,
In silver baskets round him lie!
See, richly cased in glowing gold,
Yon box of alabaster hold
The sweets of Syrian groves: and stored
With honeyed cakes the luscious board!
Observe, whatever skims the air,
Or lives on earth, assembled there!
And green shades, arched with anise, rise,
Where many a little Cupid flies,
Like the young nightingales that love,
New-fledged, to flutter through the grove-
Now perching, now with short essay
Borne on weak wing from spray to
Of gold-of ebon what a store!
And see two ivory eagles soar,
Swift carrying to the seats above
The blooming cupbearer of Jove!
Behold that tapestry diffuse
The richness of the Tyrian hues!
E'en they who tend Milesian sheep
Would own, 'tis softer far than sleep!
Amid this bed's relieving shade,
Mark rosy-arm'd Adonis laid!
And on that couch survey the bride,
Rejoicing in the vernal pride
Of him, whose love-embathed kiss
Glows with the breath of eager bliss!
Now let her joy-But ere the morn
Shall dry the dews that gem the thorn,
His image to the shore we'll bear,
With robes unzoned, and flowing hair-
With bosoms open'd to the day;
And warble thus the choral lay
Thou-thou alone, dear youth, 'tis said,
Canst leave the mansions of the dead;
And, passing oft the dreary bourne,
Duly to earth's green seats return!
Such favour not the' Atridæ knew,
Nor who the fleecy flocks o'erthrew !
Nor Hector, his fond mother's joy;
Nor Pyrrhus, proud of plunder'd Troy!
Nor e'en Patroclus great and good;
Nor they who boast Deucalion's blood;
Nor Pelops' sons; nor, first in fame,
The high Pelasgians' blazon'd name.'
Propitious, O Adonis, hear;
Thus bring delight each future year!
Kind to our vows Adonis prove,
And greet us with returning love!
GOR. How sweetly she sings! Lord, how much she must know!
Happy minstrel! but bless me, 'tis high time to
my husband return before dinner is ready, With his blustering vagaries my head would be
Adieu, then, at present, my sweetest Adonis! And again may you meet such a crowd of your cronies!
The Graces; or, Hiero.
WHILE each fair action of celestial birth
Jove's race record, and Bards the deeds of earth;
The deathless Muse and mortal Poet share,
Touch'd with a kindred flame, a kindred care.
Yet who, beneath the circling sun, repays
With grateful presents our applausive lays?
Lo! from the proud unhospitable dome
Our panegyrics haste ungifted home;
Indignant, of the cold regard complain,
Sigh o'er our song, and mourn the journey vain!
Then recommitted to their lonely seat,
An empty chest's chill comfortless retreat;
Timid and pinch'd by penury, they freeze,
And press with fainting heads their shivering
knees.
For, ah! who values now the plauding lyre?
Who feels the patriot's-who the hero's, fire?
Alas! no chieftains, as in ancient days,
Love the fair meed, and tremble for our praise!
All-all, the sordid ministers of gain,
Heed not the hollow tinkling of our strain;
Wiser to solid heaps of silver trust,
Nor e'en impart an atom of its rust.
'Led by an alien's dreams let others roam-
I care not-charity begins at home!
(With hand upon his breast, the miser cries)
Money is all I want-Be others wise!
My humble prayer is only to be rich---
Heaven will provide the poet with a niche:
Beside, had I a wish for sterling sense,
I've Homer, and can read without expense.'
Say, wretch, what profits all thy precious ore?
Say, what avails to heap the shining store?
Not thus the wise their prosper'd riches use,
The friends and benefactors of the Muse:
While prudence for themselves reserves a part,
Their kindred praise the hospitable heart;
Each fellow being owns their generous cares,
And every god his due libation shares.
"Tis theirs to welcome every coming guest;
And, blessing each departing friend, be bless'd:
But chiefly theirs, to mark with high regard
The Muse's laurel'd priest-the holy bard;
Lest in the grave their unsung glory fade,
And their cold moan pierce Acheron's dreary
shade:
As the poor labourer, who, with portion scant,
Laments his long hereditary want.
What though Aleua's and the Syrian's domes
Saw crowding menials fill their festal rooms;
What though o'er Scopas' fields rich plenty flow'd,
And herds innumerous through his valleys low'd;
What though the bountiful Creondæ drove
Full many a beauteous flock through many a
Yet when expiring life could charm no more,
And their sad spirits sought the Stygian shore;
Their grandeur vanish'd with their vital breath,
And riches could not follow them in death!
Lo these, for many a rolling age, had lain
In blank oblivion, with the vulgar train,
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