Volume 3 / Book 15 — POETICAL FRAGMENTS (continued 2)

The ground is swept, and the triclinium clean, The hands are purified, the goblets too Well rinsed, each guest upon his forehead bears A wreathed flow'ry crown; from slender vase A willing youth presents to each in turn A sweet and costly perfume; while the bowl, Emblem of joy and social mirth, stands by, Fill'd to the brim; another pours out wine Of most delicious flavour, breathing round Fragrance of flowers, and honey newly made; So grateful to the sense, that none refuse; While odoriferous gums fill all the room. Water is served too, cold, and fresh, and clear; Bread, saffron tinged, that looks like leaves of gold. The board is gaily spread with honey pure, And savoury cheese. The altar, too, which stands Full in the centre, crown'd with flow'ry wreaths; The house resounds with music and with song, With songs of grateful praise, such as become The wise and good to offer to the gods, In chaste and modest phrase. They humbly ask, Pouring their free libations, to preserve A firm and even mind; to do no wrong, But equal justice to dispense to all; A task more easy, more delightful far, Than to command, to slander, or oppress. At such repasts each guest may safely drink As much as suits his sober appetite, Then unattended seek his home, unless His feeble age requires assistance. Him Above all others let us praise, who while The cheerful cup goes round, shall charm the guests With free recital of acts worthy praise, And fit to be remember'd; that inspire The soul to valour, and the love of fame, The meed of virtuous action. Far from us The war of Titans; or the bloody strife Of the seditious Centaurs; such examples Have neither use nor profit—wiser far To look to brighter patterns that instruct, And lead the mind to great and good pursuits. —Anon.

Do you not know that by the term call'd life, We mean to give a softer tone to ills That man is heir to? Whether I judge right Or wrong in this, I'll not presume to say— Having reflected long and seriously, To this conclusion I am brought at last, That universal folly governs all; For in this little life of ours, we seem As strangers that have left their native home. We make our first appearance from the realms Of death and darkness, and emerge to light, And join th' assembly of our fellow-men— They who enjoy themselves the most, and drink, And laugh, and banish care, or pass the day In the soft blandishments of love, and leave No joy untasted, no delight untried That innocence and virtue may approve, And this gay festival afford, depart Cheerful, like guests contented, to their home. —Anon.

Come, Venus, come! Hither with thy golden cup, Where nectar-floated flowerets swim! Fill, fill the goblet up! These laughing lips shall kiss the brim— Come, Venus, come! —Anon.

Here jolly Pytheas lies, A right honest man, and wise, Who of goblets had very great store, Of amber, silver, gold, All glorious to behold, In number ne'er equall'd before. —J. A. St. John.

Then Polyneices of the golden locks, Sprung from the gods, before his father placed A table all of silver, which had once Been Cadmus's, next fill'd the golden bowl With richest wine. At this old Œdipus, Seeing the honour'd relics of his sire Profaned to vulgar uses, roused to anger, Pronounced fierce imprecations, wish'd his sons Might live no more in amity together, But plunge in feuds and slaughters, and contend For their inheritance: and the Furies heard. —J. A. St. John.

Troy's lofty towers by Grecians sack'd behold! Parrhasios' draught, by Mys engraved in gold. —J. A. St. John.

'Tis sweet in early morn to cool the lips With pure fresh water from the gushing fount, Mingled with honey in the Baucalis, When one o'er night has made too free with wine, And feels sharp thirst. —J. A. St. John.

A. But let me first describe the cup; 'twas round, Old, broken-ear'd, and precious small besides, Having indeed some letters on't. B. Yes, letters; Eleven, and all of gold, forming the name Of Saviour Zeus. A. Tush! no, some other god.—J. A. St. John.

A. If this hold not enough, see, the boy comes Bearing the Elephant! B. Immortal gods! What thing is that? A. A double-fountain'd cup, The workmanship of Alcon; it contains Only three gallons. —J. A. St. John.

Remark, how wisely ancient art provides The broad-brimm'd cup with flat expanded sides; A cup contrived for man's discreeter use, And sober portions of the generous juice: But woman's more ambitious thirsty soul Soon long'd to revel in the plenteous bowl; Deep and capacious as the swelling hold Of some stout bark she shaped the hollow mould, Then turning out a vessel like a tun, Simp'ring exclaim'd—Observe! I drink but one. —Cumberland.

Come then, my friend, and seize the flask, And while the deck around us rolls, Dash we the cover from the cask, And crown with wine our flowing bowls. While the deep hold is tempest-tost, We'll strain bright nectar from the lees: For, though our freedom here be lost, We drink no water on the seas. —C. Merivale.

You, Sir, a Cyrenean, as I take you, Look at your sect of desperate voluptuaries; There's Diodorus—beggary is too good for him— A vast inheritance in two short years, Where is it? Squander'd, vanish'd, gone for ever: So rapid was his dissipation.—Stop! Stop! my good friend, you cry; not quite so fast! This man went fair and softly to his ruin; What talk you of two years? As many days, Two little days, were long enough to finish Young Epicharides; he had some soul, And drove a merry pace to his undoing— Marry! if a kind surfeit would surprise us, Ere we sit down to earn it, such prevention Would come most opportune to save the trouble Of a sick stomach and an aching head: But whilst the punishment is out of sight, And the full chalice at our lips, we drink, Drink all to-day, to-morrow fast and mourn, Sick, and all o'er oppress'd with nauseous fumes; Such is the drunkard's curse, and Hell itself Cannot devise a greater. Oh that nature Might quit us of this overbearing burthen, This tyrant-god, the belly! take that from us, With all its bestial appetites, and man, Exonerated man, shall be all soul. —Cumberland.

Whoever has been weak enough to dote, And live in precious bondage at the feet Of an imperious mistress, may relate Some part of their iniquity at least. In fact, what monster is there in the world That bears the least comparison with them! What frightful dragon, or chimera dire, What Scylla, what Charybdis, can exceed them? Nor sphinx, nor hydra, nay, no winged harpy, Nor hungry lioness, nor poisonous adder, In noxious qualities, is half so bad. They are a race accursed, and stand alone Preeminent in wickedness. For instance, Plangon, a foul chimera; spreading flames, And dealing out destruction far and near, And no Bellerophon to crush the monster. Then Sinope, a many-headed hydra, An old and wrinkled hag—Gnathine, too, Her neighbour—Oh! they are a precious pair. Nanno's a barking Scylla, nothing less— Having already privately dispatch'd Two of her lovers, she would lure a third To sure destruction, but the youth escaped, Thanks to his pliant oars, and better fortune. Phryne, like foul Charybdis, swallows up At once the pilot and the bark. Theano, Like a pluck'd siren, has the voice and look Of woman, but below the waist, her limbs Wither'd and shrunk in to the blackbird's size. These wretched women, one and all, partake The nature of the Theban Sphinx; they speak In doubtful and ambiguous phrase, pretend To love you truly, and with all their hearts, Then whisper in your ear, some little want— A girl to wait on them forsooth, a bed, Or easy-chair, a brazen tripod too— Give what you will they never are content; And to sum up their character at once, No beast that haunts the forest for his prey Is half so mischievous. —Anon.

Away, away with these female friends! He whose embraces have encircled one, Will own a monster has been in his arms; Fell as a dragon is, fire-spouting like Chimæra, like the rapid ocean-portent, Three-headed and dog-snouted!— Harpies are less obscene in touch than they: The tigress robb'd of her first whelps, more merciful: Asps, scorpions, vipers, amphisbenæ dire, Cerastes, Ellops, Dipsas, all in one!— But come, let's pass them in review before us, And see how close the parallels will hold. And first for Plangon: where in the scale place her? E'en rank her with the beast whose breath is flame. Like her she deals combustion round; and foreigners By scores have perish'd in her conflagrations. One only 'scaped the fair incendiary, And that by virtue of his nimble steed. He back'd his baggage, and turn'd tail upon her.— Have commerce with Sinope, and you'll find That Lerna's monster was no tale; for like The hydra she can multiply her members, And fair Gnathæna is the present offshoot: Her morning charms for beauties in the wane Compensate—but—the dupe pays doubly for't. There's Nanno too:—Nanno and Scylla's pool Bear close similitude: two swains have made Already shipwreck in that gulf; a third Had shared their fortunes, but the wiser boy Plied well his oars, and boldly stood to sea-ward. If Nanno's Scylla, Phryne is Charybdis: Woe to the wretch who comes within her tide! Engulf'd in whelming waves, both bark and mariner Are suck'd into th' abyss of quick perdition! And what's Theano? bald, and bare, and peel'd, With whom but close-pluck'd sirens ranks she? woman In face and voice; but in her feet—a blackbird. But why enlarge my nomenclature? Sphinx is A common name for all: on her enigma Is moulded all their speech: love, fealty, Affection,—these are terms drop clear enough From them, but at their heels comes a request, Wrapt up in tortuous phrase of nice perplexity. (Mimics.)—"A four-foot couch perchance would grace their chamber! Their needs forsooth require a chair—three-footed, Or, for the nonce, two-footed—'twould content them." He that is versed in points and tricks, like Œdipus, Hears, and escapes perchance with purse uninjured; The easy fool gapes, gazes, and—hey! presto! Both purse and person's gone! —Mitchell.

What abject wretches do we make ourselves By giving up the freedom and delights Of single life to a capricious woman! Then, if she brings an ample fortune too, Her pride, and her pretensions are increased, And what should be a benefit, becomes A bitter curse, and grievous punishment. The anger of a man may well be borne, 'Tis quick, and sudden, but as soon subsides; It has a honied sweetness when compared To that of woman. If a man receives An injury, he may resent at first, But he will quickly pardon. Women first Offer the injury, then to increase Th' offence, instead of soothing, they inflict A deeper wound by obstinate resentment— Neglect what's fit and proper to be done, But eagerly pursue the thing they should not;— And then they grow fantastical withal, When they are perfectly in health complain In faint and feeble tone, "they're sick, they die." —Anon.

A man may marry once without a crime, But cursed is he who weds a second time. —Cumberland.

A. While prudence guides, change not, at any rate, A life of freedom for the married state: I ventured once to play that desperate game, And therefore warn you not to do the same. B. The counsel may be sage which you advance, But I'm resolved to take the common chance. A. Mild gales attend that voyage of your life, And waft you safely through the sea of strife: Not the dire Libyan, nor Ægean sea, Where out of thirty ships scarce perish three; But that, where daring fools most dearly pay, Where all that sail are surely cast away. —Fawkes.

As slowly I return'd from the Piræus, My mind impress'd with all the various pains, And pungent griefs, that torture human life, I thus began to reason with myself. The painters and the sculptors, who pretend By cunning art to give the form of Love, Know nothing of his nature, for in truth He's neither male nor female, god or man, Nor wise, nor foolish, but a compound strange, Partaking of the qualities of each, And an epitome of all in one. He has the strength and prowess of a man, The weak timidity of helpless woman; In folly furious, yet in prudence wise And circumspect. Mad as an untamed beast, In strength and hardihood invincible, Then for ambition he's a very demon. I swear by sage Minerva and the gods, I do not know his likeness, one whose nature Is so endued with qualities unlike The gentle name he bears. —Anon.

One day as slowly sauntering from the port, A thousand cares conflicting in my breast, Thus I began to commune with myself— Methinks these painters misapply their art, And never knew the being which they draw; For mark! their many false conceits of Love. Love is nor male nor female, man nor god, Nor with intelligence nor yet without it, But a strange compound of all these, uniting In one mix'd essence many opposites; A manly courage with a woman's fear, The madman's phrenzy in a reasoning mind, The strength of steel, the fury of a beast, The ambition of a hero—something 'tis, But by Minerva and the gods I swear! I know not what this nameless something is. —Cumberland.

Why, foolish painter, give those wings to Love? Love is not light, as my sad heart can prove: Love hath no wings, or none that I can see; If he can fly—oh! bid him fly from me! —Cumberland.

He who affirms that lovers are all mad, Or fools, gives no strong proof of his own sense; For if from human life we take the joys And the delights of love, what is there left That can deserve a better name than death? For instance, now, I love a music girl, A virgin too, and am I therefore mad? For she's a paragon of female beauty; Her form and figure excellent; her voice Melodiously sweet; and then her air Has dignity and grace. With what delight I gaze upon her charms! More than you feel At sight of him who for the public shows Gives you free entrance to the theatre. —Anon.

If love be folly, as the schools would prove, The man must lose his wits, who falls in love; Deny him love, you doom the wretch to death, And then it follows he must lose his breath. Good sooth! there is a young and dainty maid I dearly love, a minstrel she by trade; What then? must I defer to pedant rule, And own that love transforms me to a fool? Not I, so help me! By the gods I swear, The nymph I love is fairest of the fair; Wise, witty, dearer to her poet's sight Than piles of money on an author's night; Must I not love her then? Let the dull sot, Who made the law, obey it! I will not. —Cumberland.

Love, the disturber of the peace of heaven, And grand fomenter of Olympian feuds, Was banish'd from the synods of the gods: They drove him down to earth at the expense Of us poor mortals, and curtail'd his wings To spoil his soaring and secure themselves From his annoyance—Selfish, hard decree! For ever since he roams th' unquiet world, The tyrant and despoiler of mankind. —Cumberland.

The man who holds true pleasure to consist In pampering his vile body, and defies Love's great divinity, rashly maintains Weak impious war with an immortal god. The gravest master that the schools can boast Ne'er train'd his pupils to such discipline, As Love his votaries, unrivall'd power, The first great deity—and where is he, So stubborn and determinedly stiff, But shall at some time bend the knee to Love, And make obeisance to his mighty shrine? —Cumberland.

Sweetest flower, Euryale! Whom the maids with tresses fair, Sister Graces, make their care— Thee Cythera nourish'd—thee Pitho, with the radiant brow; And 'mid bowers where roses blow Led thy laughing infancy. —Bland.

Dost thou see any fellow poll'd and shaven, And askest me from whence the cause should come? He goes unto the wars to filch and raven, And play such pranks he cannot do at home. Such pranks become not those that beards do weare: And what harm is it if long beards we beare? For so it is apparent to be scene, That we are men, not women, by our chin. —Molle.

Wretch that I am, She had my love, when a mere caper-gatherer, And fortune's smiles as yet were wanting to her. I never pinch'd nor spared in my expenses, Yet now—doors closely barr'd are all the recompence That waits on former bounties ill bestow'd. —Mitchell.

They fly at all, and, as their funds increase, With fresh recruits they still augment their stock, Moulding the young novitiate to her trade; Form, features, manners, everything so changed, That not a trace of former self is left. Is the wench short? a triple sole of cork Exalts the pigmy to a proper size. Is she too tall of stature? a low chair Softens the fault, and a fine easy stoop Lowers her to standard-pitch.—If narrow-hipt, A handsome wadding readily supplies What nature stints, and all beholders cry, See what plump haunches!—Hath the nymph perchance A high round paunch, stuft like our comic drolls, And strutting out foreright? a good stout busk Pushing athwart shall force the intruder back. Hath she red brows? a little soot will cure 'em. Is she too black? the ceruse makes her fair: Too pale of hue? the opal comes in aid. Hath she a beauty out of sight? disclose it! Strip nature bare without a blush.—Fine teeth? Let her affect one everlasting grin, Laugh without stint—but ah! if laugh she cannot, And her lips won't obey, take a fine twig Of myrtle, shape it like a butcher's skewer, And prop them open, set her on the bit Day after day, when out of sight, till use Grows second nature, and the pearly row, Will she or will she not, perforce appears. —Cumberland.

Alas for Laïs! A slut, a wine-bibber—her only care Is to supply the cravings of the day, To eat and drink—to masticate and tipple. The eagle and herself are fittest parallels. In the first prime and lustlihood of youth, The mountain king ne'er quits his royal eyrie, But lamb, or straggling sheep, or earth-couch'd hare, Caught in his grip, repays the fierce descent: But when old age hath sapp'd his mettle's vigour, He sits upon the temple tops, forlorn, In all the squalid wretchedness of famine, And merely serves to point an augurs tale. Just such another prodigy is Laïs! Full teeming coffers swell'd her pride of youth: Her person ever fresh and new, your satrap Was more accessible than she;—but now, That life is flagging at the goal, and like An unstrung lute, her limbs are out of tune, She is become so lavish of her presence, That being daily swallow'd by men's eyes, They surfeit at the sight. She's grown companion to the common streets— Want her who will, a stater, a three-obol piece, Or a mere draught of wine brings her to hand! Nay, place a silver stiver in your palm, And, shocking tameness! she will stoop forthwith To pick it out. —Mitchell.

Laïs herself's a lazy drunkard now, And looks to nothing but her daily wine And daily meat. There has befallen her What happens to the eagle; who, when young, Swoops from the mountain in his pride of strength, And hurries off on high the sheep and hare; But, when he's aged, sits him dully down Upon some temple's top, weak, lean, and starved; And this is thought a direful prodigy. And Laïs would be rightly reckon'd one; For when she was a nestling, fair and youthful, The guineas made her fierce; and you might see E'en Pharnabázus easier than her. But now that her years are running four-mile heats, And all the junctures of her frame are loose, 'Tis easy both to see and spit upon her; And she will go to any drinking-bout; And take a crown-piece, aye, or e'en a sixpence, And welcome all men, be they old or young. Nay, she's become so tame, my dearest sir, She'll even take the money from your hand. —Walsh.

Archianássa's my own one, The sweet courtesan, Colophónian; E'en from her wrinkles I feel Love's irresistible steel! O ye wretches, whose hunger Was raised for her when she was younger! Through what flames, alas, Must she have forced you to pass! —Walsh.

Such was the nymph, whom Orpheus led From the dark regions of the dead, Where Charon with his lazy boat Ferries o'er Lethe's sedgy moat; Th' 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 his prize; With ears erect at hell's wide doors Lies listening, as the songster soars: Thus music charm'd the realms 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 his view, Propitious this kind truth reveal'd, That woman close besieged will yield. Old Hesiod too his native shade Made vocal to th' Ascrean maid; The bard his heav'n-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, Silent his Heliconian lyre, And love's put out religion's fire. Homer, of all past bards the prime, And wonder of all future time, Whom Jove with wit sublimely blest, And touch'd with purest fire his breast, From gods and heroes turn'd away To warble the domestic lay, And wand'ring to the desert isle, On whose parch'd sands no seasons smile, In distant Ithaca was seen Chanting the suit-repelling Queen. Mimnermus tuned his amorous lay, When time had turn'd his temples grey; Love revell'd in his aged veins, Soft was his lyre, and sweet his strains; Frequenter of the wanton feast, Nanno his theme, and youth his guest. Antimachus with tender art Pour'd forth the sorrows of his heart; In her Dardanian grave he laid Chryseis his beloved maid; And thence returning, sad beside Pactolus' melancholy tide, To Colophon the minstrel came, Still sighing forth the mournful name, Till lenient time his grief appeased, And tears by long indulgence ceased. 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. Whilst old Anacreon, wet with wine, And crown'd with wreaths of Lesbian vine, * * * * * * E'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. Euripides, whose tragic breast No yielding fair one ever press'd, At length in his obdurate heart Felt love's revengeful rankling dart, * * * * * * 'Till vengeance met him in the way, And bloodhounds made the bard their prey. Philoxenus, by wood-nymphs bred On famed Cythæron's sacred head, And train'd to music, wine, and song, 'Midst orgies of the frantic throng, When beauteous Galatea died, His flute and thyrsus cast aside; And wand'ring to thy pensive coast, Sad Melos! where his love was lost, Each night through the responsive air Thy echoes witness'd his despair: Still, still his plaintive harp was heard, Soft as the nightly-singing bird. Philetas too in Battis' praise Sung his long-winded roundelays; His statue in the Coan grove Now breathes in brass perpetual love. The mortified abstemious sage, Deep read in learning's crabbed page, Pythagoras, whose boundless soul Scaled the wide globe from pole to pole, Earth, planets, seas, and heav'n above, Yet found no spot secure from love; With love declines unequal war, And trembling drags his conqueror's car; Theano clasp'd him in her arms, And wisdom stoop'd to beauty's charms. E'en Socrates, whose moral mind With truth enlighten'd all mankind, When at Aspasia's side he sate, Still found no end to love's debate; For strong indeed must be that heart, Where love finds no unguarded part. Sage Aristippus by right rule Of logic purged the Sophist's school, Check'd folly in its headlong course, And swept it down by reason's force; 'Till Venus aim'd the heart-felt blow, And laid the mighty victor low. —Cumberland.

Orpheus,—Œagrus' son,—thou know'st full well,— The Thracian harper,—how with magic skill, Inspired by love, he struck the chorded shell, And made the shades obedient to his will, As from the nether gloom to light he led His love Agriope. He to Pluto's land, Baleful and cheerless, region of the dead, Sail'd far away,—and sought th' infernal strand, Where Charon, gaunt and grim, his hollow bark (Fraught with departed souls, an airy crowd) Steers o'er the Stygian billow dun and dark, And with a voice of thunder bellows loud O'er the slow pool, that scarcely creeps along Through sedge, and weedy ooze: but nathless he, On the lone margent, pour'd his love-sick song, And charm'd Hell's monsters with his minstrelsy. Cocytus scowl'd,—but grinn'd a ghastly smile, Albeit unused to the relenting mood: Cerb'rus, three-mouth'd, stopp'd short,—and paused the while, Low-crouching, list'ning, (for the sounds were good) Silent his throat of flame, his eyes of fire Quench'd in ecstatic slumber, as he lay. Thus Hell's stern rulers hearken'd to his lyre, And gave the fair one back to upper day.

Nor did Musæus, Luna's heav'nly child, And high-priest of the Graces, leave unsung The fair Antiope, in accents wild, As fell th' impassion'd language from his tongue: Who woo'd of many suitors, at the shrine Of mystic Ceres, by Eleusis' brow, Chanted the high response in strains divine,— And oped the secret springs,—and taught to know The heav'n-drawn truths, in holy rapture lost. But nought avail'd her zeal;—in evil hour, Theme of the lyre below, her hopes were cross'd: Death cropp'd the stalk, that bore so fair a flow'r.

I tell thee too, that the Bœotian bard, Sage Hesiod, quitted the Cumæan shore, A wand'rer not unwilling,—afterward In Heliconian Ascra seen to soar, Deathless upon the mighty wings of fame. 'Twas there he woo'd Eœa, peerless maid,— And strove to achieve her love,—and with her name Prefaced his verse, with hallow'd lore inlaid.

Enravish'd Homer, ward of Fate from Jove, Prince of melodious numbers, toil'd his way To barren Ithaca,—and tuned, for love Of chaste Penelope, the am'rous lay; Forgot his native land, and bade adieu To wide Ionia, for the island drear, And wail'd Icarius' house, and Sparta too, And dropp'd himself the sympathetic tear.

Mimnermus, school'd in hardship, who first taught To breathe soft airs of elegiac song, Fair Nanno ask'd, and had; and often sought, As by her side he blithely trudged along, The merry wake,—a ready piper arm'd With mouth-piece aptly fitted: and with worse Than deadly hate and indignation warm'd, Hermobius and Pherecles lash'd in verse.

Antimachus, for beauteous Lyda's love, Hied him to rich Pactolus' golden tide: But, well-a-day! his bliss stern Fate unwove; Short was her doom,—in Pergamus she died,— And in her grave was laid in prime of age. He, full of lamentation, journey'd on To Colophon,—and on the sacred page Enter'd his tale, and ceased, his mission done.

And well thou know'st, how famed Alcæus smote Of his high harp the love-enliven'd strings, And raised to Sappho's praise th' enamour'd note, Midst noise of mirth and jocund revellings: Ay, he did love that nightingale of song With all a lover's fervour,—and, as he Deftly attuned the lyre, to madness stung The Teian bard with envious jealousy. For her Anacreon, charming lyrist, woo'd, And fain would win, with sweet mellifluous chime, Encircled by her Lesbian sisterhood;— Would often Samos leave, and many a time, From vanquish'd Teos' viny orchards, hie To viny Lesbos' isle,—and from the shore, O'er the blue wave, on Lectum cast his eye, And think on by-gone days, and times no more.

And how, from, steep Colonus' rocky height, On lightsome pinions borne, the Attic bee Sail'd through the air, and wing'd her honied flight, And sang of love and wine melodiously In choric numbers: for ethereal Jove Bestow'd on Sophocles Archippe's charms, Albeit in eve of life,—and gave to love And fold the yielding fair one in his arms.

Nay, I aver, in very sooth, that he, Dead from his birth to love, to beauty blind, Who, by quaint rules of cold philosophy, Contemn'd the sex, and hated womankind,— That he,—e'en he,—with all his stoic craft, Cave to imperial Love unwilling way, And, sore empierced with Cupid's tyrant shaft, Could neither sleep by night, nor rest by day; What time, in Archelaus' regal hall, Ægino, graceful handmaid, viands brought Of choicest savour, to her master's call Obsequious, or wine's impurpled draught: Nor didst thou cease, through streets and highways broad, Euripides! to chase the royal slave, Till vengeance met thee, in his angry mood, And deep-mouth'd bloodhounds tore thee to the grave.

And him too of Cythera,—foster child Of all the Muses, train'd to love and song,— Philoxenus,—thou knowest,—how with wild And loud acclaim, (as late he pass'd along Through Colophon,) and shouts of joyfulness, The air was riv'n: for thou didst hear the tale Of Galatea lost, fair shepherdess, Whom e'en the firstlings of her flock bewail.

Nor is Philetas' name to thee unknown, Than whom a sweeter minstrel never was; Whose statue lives in his own native town, Hallow'd to fame, and breathes in deathless brass, Under a platane,—seeming still to praise The nimble Bittis, in the Coan grove, With am'rous ditties, and harmonious lays, And all the art, and all the warmth of love.

And they of humankind, (to crown my song,) Who, in th' austereness of their life, pursued Knowledge abstruse, her mazy paths among,— And sought for hidden lore,—and ceaseless woo'd The Muse severe, couching her doctrines sage In cogent language, marring ev'ry clog To intellectual sense, on reason's page;— Or, in the philosophic dialogue, Moulded th' important truths, they meant to prove, In milder form, and pleased and reason'd too;— And these confess'd the mighty power of Love, And bow'd the neck, nor could his yoke eschew.

Pythagoras, the Samian sage, who taught To solve the knots, perplex and intricate, Of fair geometry, and whilom brought Into a narrow sphere's brief compass strait The stars of heav'n, in order absolute; With frantic passion woo'd Theano's charms, Infuriate,—nor ceased his am'rous suit, Till he had clasp'd the damsel in his arms.

And what a flame of love the Paphian queen Lit, in her wrath, in the enamour'd breast Of Socrates,—whom of the sons of men Apollo named the wisest and the best! He in Aspasia's house each lighter care Chased from his breast, when at her side he sate In am'rous parley,—and, still ling'ring there, Could find no end to love, or love's debate.

Shrewd Aristippus, Cyrenean sage, To the Corinthian Isthmus' double shore Wended his way, his passion to assuage,— And shunn'd the calm retreats he loved before; Forsook the far-famed Athens,—inly moved By Laïs' charms, by Laïs lured astray,— And in voluptuous Eph'ra lived,—and loved,— From Academic bowers far away. —J. Bailey.

With her the sweet Anacreon stray'd, Begirt with many a Lesbian maid; And fled for her the Samian strand, For her his vine-clad native land— A bleeding country left the while For wine and love in Sappho's isle. —Anon.

Anacreon.—Spirit of love, whose tresses shine Along the breeze in golden twine; Come, within a fragrant cloud, Blushing with light, thy votary shroud; And, on those wings that sparkling play, Waft, oh! waft me hence away! Love! my soul is full of thee, Alive to all thy luxury. But she, the nymph for whom I glow, The pretty Lesbian, mocks my woe; Smiles at the hoar and silver'd hues Which time upon my forehead strews. Alas! I fear she keeps her charms In store for younger, happier arms! Sappho.—Oh Muse! who sitt'st on golden throne, Full many a hymn of dulcet tone The Teian sage is taught by thee; But, goddess, from thy throne of gold, The sweetest hymn thou'st ever told, He lately learn'd and sang for me. —Thos. Moore.

Pelting with a purple ball, Bright-hair'd Cupid gives the call, And tries his antics one and all, My steps to her to wile; But she—for thousands round her vie— Casts on my tell-tale locks her eye, And bids the grey-hair'd poet sigh— Another wins her smile! —Anon.

Again sweet Love, by Cytherea led, Hath all my soul possest; Again delicious rapture shed In torrents o'er my breast. Now Megalostrata the fair, Of all the Virgin train Most blessed—with her yellow floating hair— Hath brought me to the Muses' holy fane, To flourish there. —Bland.

What time soft Zephyrs fan the trees In the blest gardens of th' Hesperides, Where those bright golden apples glow, Fed by the fruitful streams that round them flow, And new-born clusters teem with wine Beneath the shadowy foliage of the vine; To me the joyous season brings But added torture on his sunny wings. Then Love, the tyrant of my breast, Impetuous ravisher of joy and rest, Bursts, furious, from his mother's arms, And fills my trembling soul with new alarms; Like Boreas from his Thracian plains, Clothed in fierce lightnings, in my bosom reigns, And rages still, the madd'ning power— His parching flames my wither'd heart devour; Wild Phrensy comes my senses o'er, Sweet Peace is fled, and Reason rules no more. —Bland.

One to the silver lustre of the moon, In graceful, careless, attitude reclined, Display'd her snowy bosom, full unzoned In all its naked loveliness: another Led up the sprightly dance; and as she moved, Her loose robes gently floating, the light breeze Lifted her vest, and to the enraptured eye Uncover'd her left breast. Gods! what a sight! What heavenly whiteness! breathing and alive, A swelling picture!—This from eyelids dark Beam'd forth a ray of such celestial light, As dazzled whilst it charm'd. A fourth appear'd, Her beauties half uncover'd, and display'd Her delicate arm, and taper fingers, small, And round, and white as polish'd ivory. Another yet, with garment loosely thrown Across her neck and shoulders; as she moved, The am'rous zephyrs drew aside her robe, Exposed her pliant limbs, full, round, and fair, Such as the Paphian Goddess might have own'd. Love smiled at my surprise, shook his light wings, And mark'd me for his victim.—Others threw Their careless limbs upon the bank bedeck'd With odoriferous herbs, and blossoms rare, Such as the earth produced from Helen's tears, The violet with dark leaves, the crocus too, That gave a warm tint to their flowing robes, And marjoram sweet of Persia rear'd its head To deck the verdant spot.— Anon.

There one reclined apart I saw, within the moon's pale light, With bosom through her parted robe appearing snowy white: Another danced, and floating free her garments in the breeze, She seem'd as buoyant as the wave that leaps o'er summer seas; While dusky shadows all around shrunk backward from the place, Chased by the beaming splendour shed like sunshine from her face. Beside this living picture stood a maiden passing fair, With soft round arms exposed: a fourth, with free and graceful air, Like Dian when the bounding hart she tracks through morning dew, Bared through the opening of her robes her lovely limbs to view. And oh! the image of her charms, as clouds in heaven above, Mirror'd by streams, left on my soul the stamp of hopeless love. And slumbering near them others lay, on beds of sweetest flowers, The dusky-petal'd violet, the rose of Paphian bowers, The inula and saffron flower, which on their garments cast And veils, such hues as deck the sky when day is ebbing fast; While far and near tall marjoram bedeck'd the fairy ground, Loading with sweets the vagrant winds that frolick'd all around. —J. A. St. John.

Poor mortal unmerry, who seekest to know What will bid thy brow soften, thy quips and cranks flow, To the house of the mother I bid thee repair— Thou wilt find, if she's pleased, what thy heart covets there. —J. A. St. John.

But Athené flung away From her pure hand those noxious instruments It late had touch'd, and thus did say— "Hence, ye banes of beauty, hence; What? shall I my charms disgrace By making such an odious face?" —Bland.

What means this tumult? Why this rage? What thunder shakes th' Athenian stage? 'Tis frantic Bromius bids me sing, He tunes the pipe, he smites the string; The Dryads with their chief accord, Submit, and hail the drama's lord. Be still! and let distraction cease, Nor thus profane the Muse's peace; By sacred fiat I preside, The minstrel's master and his guide; He, whilst the chorus strains proceed, Shall follow with responsive reed; To measured notes whilst they advance, He in wild maze shall lead the dance. So generals in the front appear, Whilst music echoes from the rear. Now silence each discordant sound! For see, with ivy chaplet crown'd, Bacchus appears! He speaks in me— Hear, and obey the god's decree!—Cumberland.

What revel-rout is this? What noise is here? What barb'rous discord strikes my ear? What jarring sounds are these, that rage Unholy on the Bacchic stage? 'Tis mine to sing in Bromius' praise— 'Tis mine to laud the god in dithyrambic lays— As o'er the mountain's height, The woodland Nymphs among, I wing my rapid flight, And tune my varied song, Sweet as the melody of swans,—that lave Their rustling pennons in the silver wave. Of the harmonious lay the Muse is sovereign still: Then let the minstrel follow, if he will— But not precede: whose stricter care should be, And more appropriate aim, To fan the lawless flame Of fiery youths, and lead them on To deeds of drunkenness alone, The minister of revelry— When doors, with many a sturdy stroke, Fly from their bolts, to shivers broke, And captive beauty yields, but is not won. Down with the Phrygian pipe's discordant sound! Crackle, ye flames! and burn the monster foul To very ashes—in whose notes are found Nought but what's harsh and flat,—no music for the soul,— The work of some vile handicraft. To thee, Great Dithyrambus! ivy-tressèd king! I stretch my hand—'tis here—and rapidly My feet in airy mazes fling. Listen my Doric lay; to thee, to thee I sing. —J. Bailey.

Now if a native Doctor prescribe, "Give him a porringer Of ptisan in the morning," we despise him. But in some brogue disguised 'tis admirable. Thus he who speaks of Beet is slighted, while We prick our ears if he but mention Bate, As if Bate knew some virtue not in Beet. —J. A. St. John.

Make way there, a wide space Yield to the god; For Dionysos has a mind to walk Bolt upright through your midst. —J. A. St. John.

Bacchus, to thee our muse belongs, Of simple chant, and varied lays; Nor fit for virgin ears our songs, Nor handed down from ancient days: Fresh flows the strain we pour to thee, Patron of joy and minstrelsy! —J. A. St. John.

Glitters with brass my mansion wide; The roof is deck'd on every side In martial pride, With helmets ranged in order bright And plumes of horse-hair nodding white, A gallant sight— —Fit ornament for warrior's brow— And round the walk, in goodly row, Refulgent glow Stout greaves of brass like burnish'd gold, And corslets there, in many a fold Of linen roll'd; And shields that in the battle fray The routed losers of the day Have cast away; Eubœan falchions too are seen, With rich embroider'd belts between Of dazzing sheen: And gaudy surcoats piled around, The spoils of chiefs in war renown'd, May there be found. These, and all else that here you see, Are fruits of glorious victory Achieved by me. —Bland.

Where is my lovely parsley, say? My violets, roses, where are they? My parsley, roses, violets fair, Where are my flowers? Tell me where. —J. A. St. John.

O Zeus! how glorious 'tis to die while piercing flutes are near, Pouring their stirring melodies into the faltering ear; On these alone doth Eros smile, within whose realms of night, Where vulgar ghosts in shivering bands, all strangers to delight, In leaky tub from Styx's flood the icy waters bear, Condemn'd, for woman's lovely voice, its moaning sounds to hear. —J. A. St. John.

A. What! know you not that cookery has much Contributed to piety? attend, And I will tell you how. This art at first Made the fierce cannibal a man; impress'd Upon his rugged nature the desire Of better food than his own flesh; prescribed Order and rule in all his actions; gave him That polish and respect for social life Which now makes up his sum of happiness. B. Say by what means. A. Attend and you shall hear. Time was that men, like rude and savage beasts, Prey'd on each other. From such bloody feasts A flood of evils burst upon the world; Till one arose, much wiser than the rest, And chose a tender victim from his flock For sacrifice; roasting the flesh, he found The savoury morsel good, and better far Than human carcass, from which time roast meat Became the general food, approved by all. In order to create variety Of the same dish, the art of cookery Began t' invent new modes of dressing it. In off'rings to the gods we still preserve The ancient custom, and abstain from salt; For in those early days salt was not used, Though now we have it in abundance; still, In solemn sacrifices, we conform To usage of old times: in private meals He who can season best is the best cook, And the desire of savoury meat inspires The invention of new sauces, which conduce To bring the art of cookery to perfection. B. You are, indeed, a new Palæphatus. A. Use gave experience, and experience skill. As cooks acquired more knowledge, they prepared The delicate tripe, with nice ingredients mix'd, To give it a new relish; follow'd soon The tender kid, sew'd up between two covers, Stew'd delicately down, and smoking hot, That melted in the mouth; the savoury hash Came next, and that disguised with so much art, And season'd with fresh herbs, and pungent sauce, That you would think it most delicious fish. Then salted meats, with store of vegetables, And fragrant honey, till the pamper'd taste, High fed with luscious dainties, grew too nice To feed on human garbage, and mankind Began to feel the joys of social life; The scatter'd tribes unite; towns soon were built And peopled with industrious citizens. These and a thousand other benefits Were the result of cookery alone. B. Oh, rare! where will this end? A. To us you owe The costly sacrifice, we slay the victims, We pour the free libations, and to us The gods themselves lend a propitious ear, And for our special merits scatter blessings On all the human race; because from us And from our art, mankind were first induced To live the life of reason, and the gods Received due honour. B. Prithee rest awhile, And leave religion out. —Anon.

The art of cookery drew us gently forth From that ferocious life, when void of faith The Anthropophaginian ate his brother! To cookery we owe well-order'd states, Assembling men in dear society. Wild was the earth, man feasting upon man, When one of nobler sense and milder heart First sacrificed an animal; the flesh Was sweet; and man then ceased to feed on man! And something of the rudeness of those times The priest commemorates; for to this day He roasts the victim's entrails without salt. In those dark times, beneath the earth lay hid The precious salt, that gold of cookery! But when its particles the palate thrill'd, The source of seasonings, charm of cookery! came. They served a paunch with rich ingredients stored; And tender kid, within two covering plates, Warm melted in the mouth. So art improved! At length a miracle not yet perform'd, They minced the meat, which roll'd in herbage soft, Nor meat nor herbage seem'd, but to the eye, And to the taste, the counterfeited dish Mimick'd some curious fish; invention rare! Then every dish was season'd more and more, Salted, or sour, or sweet, and mingled oft Oatmeal and honey. To enjoy the meal Men congregated in the populous towns, And cities flourish'd, which we cooks adorn'd With all the pleasures of domestic life.—D'Israeli.

Cook. Do you not know that cookery has brought More aids to piety than aught besides? Slave. What? is the matter thus? Cook. Yes, you Barbarian! It freed us from a beast-like, faithless life, And hateful cannibalism, and introduced us To order, and enclosed us in the world Where we now live. Slave. How? Cook. Listen, and I'll tell you. When cannibalism and many other crimes Were rife, a certain man, who was no fool, Slaughter'd a victim and then roasted it. So, when they found its flesh nicer than man's flesh, They did not eat each other any longer, But sacrificed their beasts and roasted them. And when they once had tasted of this pleasure, And a beginning had been made, they carried To greater heights the art of cookery. Hence, from remembrance of the past, men roast E'en to the present day the gods' meat-offerings Without employing salt; for in olden times It had not yet been used for such a purpose; So when their taste changed afterwards, they ate Salt also with their meat, still strictly keeping Their fathers' custom in the rites prescribed them. All which new ingenuity, and raising To greater heights the art of cookery, By means of sauces, has alone become The cause of safety unto all of us. Slave. This fellow is a fresh Palæphatus! Cook. Then, after this, as time was now advancing, One person introduced a season'd haggis; Another stew'd a kid right exquisitely, Or made some mince-meat, or slipp'd in a fish Disguised so quaintly that no eye observed it, Or greens, or pickled fish, or wheat, or honey. When through the pleasures that I'm now explaining, Each man was far removed from ever wishing To eat a portion of a human corpse; They all agreed to live with one another— A populace collected—towns were built— All through the cooking art, as I have shown. Slave. Good-bye; you fit your master to a wrinkle. Cook. It is we cooks who clip the victim's hair, And sacrifice, and offer up libations, Because the gods attend to us especially, As it was we who made these great discoveries, Which tend especially towards holy living. Slave. Pray leave off talking about piety! Cook. I beg your pardon. Come and take a snack Along with me, and get the things prepared.—Anon.

On the light wring of Zephyr that thitherward blows, What a dainty perfume has invaded my nose; And sure in yon copse, if we carefully look, Dwells a dealer in scents, or Sicilian cook!—W. J. B.

Good, good, Sibynna! Ours is no art for sluggards to acquire, Nor should the hour of deepest midnight see Us and our volumes parted:—still our lamp Upon its oil is feeding, and the page Of ancient lore before us:—What, what hath The Sicyonian deduced?—What school-points Have we from him of Chios? sagest Actides And Zopyrinus, what are their traditions?— Thus grapple we with mighty tomes of wisdom, Sifting and weighing and digesting all.—Anon.

A. Milesian hangings line your walls, you scent Your limbs with sweetest perfume, royal myndax Piled on the burning censer fills the air With costly fragrance. B. Mark you that, my friend! Knew you before of such a fumigation?—J. A. St. John.

Nor fell His perfumes from a box of alabaster; That were too trite a fancy, and had savour'd O' the elder time—but ever and anon He slipp'd four doves, whose wings were saturate With scents, all different in kind—each bird Bearing its own appropriate sweets:—these doves, Wheeling in circles round, let fall upon us A shower of sweet perfumery, drenching, bathing Both clothes and furniture—and lordlings all— I deprecate your envy, when I add, That on myself fell floods of violet odours .—Mitchell.

Oh! Health, it is the choicest boon Heaven can send us, And Beauty's arms, bright and keen, deck and defend us; Next follows honest Wealth—riches abounding— And Youth's pleasant holidays—friendship surrounding. —D. K. Sandford.

With his claw the snake surprising, Thus the crab kept moralizing:— "Out on sidelong turns and graces, Straight's the word for honest paces!" —D. K. Sandford.

Wreathed with myrtles be my glaive. Like the falchion of the brave, Death to Athens' lord that gave. Death to tyranny! Yes! let myrtle wreaths be round Such as then the falchion bound, When with deeds the feast was crown'd Done for liberty! Voiced by Fame eternally, Noble pair! your names shall be, For the stroke that made us free, When the tyrant fell. Death, Harmodius! came not near thee, Isles of bliss and brightness cheer thee, There heroic breasts revere thee, There the mighty dwell! —D. K. Sandford.

With myrtle-wreathed I'll wear my sword, As when ye slew the tyrant lord, And made Athenian freedom brighten; Harmodius and Aristogiton! Thou art not dead—it is confess'd— But haunt'st the Islands of the Blest,— Beloved Harmodius!—where Pelides, The swift-heel'd, dwells, and brave Tydides. With myrtle-wreathed I'll wear my sword, As when ye slew the tyrant lord Hipparchus, Pallas' festal night on; Harmodius and Aristogiton! Because ye slew the tyrant, and Gave Athens freedom, through the land Your flashing fame shall ever lighten; Harmodius and Aristogiton! —Walsh.

I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle-bough, The sword that laid the tyrant low, When patriots, burning to be free, To Athens gave equality. Harmodius, hail! though 'reft of breath, Thou ne'er shalt feel the stroke of death; The heroes' happy isles shall be The bright abode allotted thee. I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle-bough, The sword that laid Hipparchus low, When at Athena's adverse fane He knelt, and never rose again. While Freedom's name is understood, You shall delight the wise and good; You dared to set your country free, And gave her laws equality. —Bland.

In myrtle my sword will I wreathe, Like our patriots the noble and brave, Who devoted the tyrant to death, And to Athens equality gave. Loved Harmodius, thou never shalt die! The poets exultingly tell That thine is the fulness of joy Where Achilles and Diomed dwell. In myrtle my sword will I wreathe, Like our patriots the noble and brave, Who devoted Hipparchus to death, And buried his pride in the grave. At the altar the tyrant they seized, While Athena he vainly implored. And the Goddess of Wisdom was pleased With the victim of Liberty's sword. May your bliss be immortal on high. Among men as your glory shall be! Ye doom'd the usurper to die, And bade our dear country be free. —D.

In myrtles veil'd will I the falchion wear; For thus the patriot sword Harmodius and Aristogeiton bare, When they the tyrant's bosom gored; And bade the men of Athens be Regenerate in equality. Oh, beloved Harmodius! never Shall death be thine, who liv'st for ever! Thy shade, as men have told, inherits The islands of the blessed spirits; Where deathless live the glorious dead; Achilles fleet of foot, and Diomed. In myrtles veil'd will I the falchion wear; For thus the patriot sword Harmodius and Aristogeiton bare, When they the tyrant's bosom gored When, in Minerva's festal rite, They closed Hipparchus' eyes in night. Harmodius' praise, Aristogeiton's name, Shall bloom on earth with undecaying fame; Who, with the myrtle-wreathed sword, The tyrant's bosom gored; And bade the men of Athens be Regenerate in equality. —Elton.

My wealth is here—the sword, the spear, the breast-defending shield; With this I plough, with this I sow, with this I reap the field; With this I tread the luscious grape, and drink the blood-red wine; And slaves around in order wait, and all are counted mine! But he that will not rear the lance upon the battle-field, Nor sway the sword, nor stand behind the breast-defending shield, On lowly knee must worship me, with servile kiss adored, And peal the cry of homage high, and hail me mighty Lord! —D. K. Sandford.

My riches are the arms I wield, The spear, the sword, the shaggy shield, My bulwark in the battle-field: With this I plough the furrow'd soil, With this I share the reaper's toil, With this I press the generous juice That rich and sunny vines produce; With these, of rule and high command I bear the mandate in my hand; For while the slave and coward fear To wield the buckler, sword, and spear, They bend the supplicating knee, And own my just supremacy. —Merivale.

Great riches have I in my spear and sword, And hairy shield, like a rampart thrown Before me in war; for by these I am lord Of the fields where the golden harvests are grown; And by these I press forth the red red wine, While the Mnotæ around salute me king; Approaching, trembling, these knees of mine, With the dread which the spear and the falchion bring. —J. A. St. John.

O sought with toil and mortal strife By those of human birth, Virtue, thou noblest end of life, Thou goodliest gain on earth! Thee, Maid, to win, our youth would bear, Unwearied, fiery pains; and dare Death for thy beauty's worth; So bright thy proffer'd honours shine, Like clusters of a fruit divine, Sweeter than slumber's boasted joys, And more desired than gold, Dearer than nature's dearest ties:— For thee those heroes old, Herculean son of highest Jove, And the twin-birth of Leda, strove By perils manifold: Pelides' son with like desire, And Ajax, sought the Stygian fire. The bard shall crown with lasting bay, And age immortal make Atarna's sovereign, 'reft of day For thy dear beauty's sake: Him therefore the recording Nine In songs extol to heights divine, And every chord awake; Promoting still, with reverence due, The meed of friendship, tried and true. —Bland.

Oh! danger-seeking Glory, through the span Of life the best and highest aim of man: Say, have not Greeks, to win thy love, in fight Braved hottest perils, found in death delight? E'en Leda's twins, when felt thy dart than death Keener, than gold more potent, than the breath Of balmy sleep more grateful, with hearts fix'd By glory's charms, undaunted and untired To honour march'd? Nor with less eager pace Alcides battled on in glory's race; For love of thee Achilles sought his doom; For love of thee, 'round Ajax came the gloom Of madness and of death; for thee, of light Th' Atarnean's eyeballs widow'd sunk in night, Him, therefore, shall the muse, by poet's power, Though mortal make immortal. Glory's hour Flits not from such: who hand and heart have given To crown, with honours due, the child of heaven. —G. Burges.

Health! supreme of heavenly powers, Let my verse our fortunes tell— Mine with thee to spend the hours, Thine with me in league to dwell. If bright gold be worth a prayer, If the pledge of love we prize, If the regal crown and chair Match celestial destinies— If sweet joys and stolen treasures Venus' furtive nets enclose, If divinely-granted pleasures Yield a breathing-space from woes— Thine the glory, thine the zest! Thine the Spring's eternal bloom! Man has all, of thee possest, Dark, without thee, lowers his doom. —D. K. Sandford.

Health, brightest visitant from Heaven, Grant me with thee to rest! For the short term by nature given, Be thou my constant guest! For all the pride that wealth bestows, The pleasure that from children flows, Whate'er we court in regal state That makes men covet to be great; Whatever sweet we hope to find In love's delightful snares, Whatever good by Heaven assign'd, Whatever pause from cares,— All flourish at thy smile divine; The spring of loveliness is thine, And every joy that warms our hearts With thee approaches and departs. —Bland.

Oh! holiest Health, all other gods excelling, May I be ever blest With thy kind favour, and in life's poor dwelling Be thou, I pray, my constant guest. If aught of charm or grace to mortal lingers Round wealth or kingly sway, Or children's happy faces in their play, Or those sweet bands, which Aphrodite's fingers Weave round the trusting heart, Or whatsoever joy or breathing-space Kind Heaven hath given to worn humanity— Thine is the charm, to thee they owe the grace. Life's chaplet blossoms only where thou art, And pleasure's year attains its sunny spring; And where thy smile is not, our joy is but a sigh. —E. B. C.

Cook. A longing seizes me to come and tell To earth and heaven, how I dress'd the dinner. By Pallas, but 'tis pleasant to succeed In every point! How tender was my fish! How nice I served it up, not drugg'd with cheese, Nor brown'd above! It look'd the same exactly, When roasted, as it did when still alive. So delicate and mild a fire I gave it To cook it, that you'll scarcely credit me. Just as a hen, when she has seized on something Too large to swallow at a single mouthful, Runs round and round, and holds it tight, and longs To gulp it down, while others follow her; So the first guest that felt my fish's flavour Leapt from his couch, and fled around the room, Holding the dish, while others chased a-stern. One might have raised the sacred cry, as if It was a miracle; for some of them Snatch'd something, others nothing, others all. Yet they had only given me to dress Some paltry river-fish that feed on mud. If I had had a sea-char, or a turbot From Athens—Zeus the Saver!—or a boar-fish From Argos, or from darling Sicyon That fish which Neptune carries up to Heaven To feast the Immortals with—the conger-eel; Then all who ate it would have turn'd to gods. I have discover'd the elixir vitæ; Those who are dead already, when they've smelt One of my dishes, come to life again. —Anon.

Pupil. Good master, many men have written largely On cookery; so either prove you're saying Something original, or else don't tease me. Cook. No, Syrus; think that I'm the only person Who've found and know the gastronomic object. I did not learn it in a brace of years, Wearing the apron just by way of sport; But have investigated and examined The art by portions during my whole life— How many kinds of greens, and sorts of sprats— The manifold varieties of lentils:— To sum up all—when I've officiated During a funeral feast, as soon as ever The company return'd from the procession, All in their mourning robes, by merely lifting My saucepan's lid I've made the weepers laugh, Such titillations ran throughout their bodies, As if it was a merry marriage-banquet. Pupil. What? just by serving them with sprats and lentils? Cook. Pshaw! this is play-work merely! If I get All I require, and once fit up my kitchen, You'll see the very thing take place again That happen'd in the times of the old Sirens. The smell will be so sweet, that not a man Will have the power to walk right through this alley; But every passer-by will stand directly Close to my door, lock-jaw'd, and nail'd to it, And speechless, till some friend of his run up, With nose well plugg'd, and drag the wretch away. Pupil. You're a great artist! Cook. Yes, you do not know To whom you're prating. There are very many That I can spy amongst the audience there, Who through my means have eat up their estates. —Anon.