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Glaucopis forsakes her own;
The angry gods forget us;
But yet the blue streams along
Walk the feet of the silver song;
And the night-bird wakes the moon;
And the bees in the blushing noon

Haunt the heart of the old Hymettus.
We are fallen, but not forlorn,

If something is left to cherish;
As Love was the earliest born,

So Love is the last to perish.
Wreathe then the roses, wreathe;
The beautiful still is ours;
While the stream shall flow, and the sky shall
The beautiful still is ours.
Whatever is fair or soft or bright,

In the lap of Day or the arms of Night,
Whispers our soul of Greece—of Greece,
And hushes our care with a voice of peace.
Wreathe then the roses, wreathe;

They tell me of earlier hours;

And I hear the heart of my country breathe
From the lips of the stranger's flowers.


March 13, 1864.

Bulwer Lytton.

Music and frankincense of flowers belong
To this sweet festival of all the year:
Take then the latest blossom of my song
And to Love's canticle incline thine ear.
What is it that Love chants? Thy perfect praise.
What is it that Love prays? Worthy to prove.
What is it Love desires? Thy length of days.
What is it that Love asks? Return of Love.
Ah, what requital can Love ask more dear,
Than by Love's priceless self to be repaid?
Thy liberal love increasing year by year

Hath granted more than all my heart hath prayed,
And prodigal as nature, makes me pine
To think how poor my love compared with thine.
Julian Fane.



Cedit ab urbe sua-tanta est caelestibus iraimmemor heu! Pallas cedit ab urbe sua; at, quae caeruleo praeter pede labitur, unda

integrat argenteos iam numerosa choros ; iam Lunam Philomela ciet; penetralia Hymetti sole rubescentis nota frequentat apis. sternamur licet, at non spe sternemur adempta si quid inexstinctum quod foveamus erit; non nisi primigenus-sic creditur-est Amor ortus, non nisi supremus-crede-peribit Amor. nectamus roseas, nectat sibi quisque corollas,

sit mihi de Paphiis nexa corolla rosis; pulcher adhuc nobis hilari pede volvitur amnis, pulcher adhuc nobis fulget uterque polus; quidquid sive dies clari tenerique bonique,

seu nox, haec gremio, foverit, ille sinu, Atthidos inde subit mihi vox, vox Atthidos inde me mulcet placidas vaticinata vices. nectamus roseas, nectat sibi quisque, corollas, aetatem redolent quae fuit ante rosae; scilicet externis natus de floribus, hospes, afflatur patriae spiritus ipse meae.



a.d. III Idus Martias MDCCCLXIV

S. A.

Nunc decet et cantus et florea sacra profundi quolibet hac festo candidiore die :

nec tu sperne meae quae serta novissima musae, sed quo carmine amor te colit aure bibas. quid meditatur amor? quali te laude coronet. quid rogat? ut dignus fiat amore tuo. quidve erat in votis? caelum tu sera revisas.

quid petit? ut pretium par sit amoris amor. ecquid enim reddi pretiosius optet amore,

quem cuivis pretio posthabuisse nefas ? iste tamen crescens in euntes largior annos gestit amor votis plura dedisse meis. cum par naturae sis prodiga, maceror illud, quod prae materno sordet amore meus.



There's nothing great or bright, thou glorious Fall!
Thou may'st not to the fancy's sense recall;
The thunder-riven cloud-the lightning's leap—
The stirring of the chambers of the deep-
Earth's emerald green, and many-tinted dyes-
The fleecy whiteness of the upper skies-
The tread of armies thick'ning as they come.
The boom of cannon, and- the beat of drum—
The brow of beauty, and the form of grace-
The passion and the prowess of our race-
The song of Homer in its loftiest hour-
Th' unresisted sweep of Roman power-
Britannia's trident on the azure sea-
America's young shout of Liberty.

Oh, may the wars that madden in thy deeps,
There spend their rage, nor climb th' encircling steeps;
And, till the conflict of thy surges cease,
The nations on thy banks repose in peace.

The Earl of Carlisle.


Think not thy wisdom can illume away
The ancient tanglement of night and day.
Enough, to acknowledge both, and both revere :
They see not clearliest who see all things clear.
W. Watson.



Si quid decorum si memorabile est,
fas intuenti te mihi fingere,

o magne torrens, sive rimam
fulminis et tonitru caduco
nubem revulsam, seu thalamos maris
tumultuosi, seu viridi solum

certans smaragdo, vel colores

purpureos radiantis herbae.
exin superni vellera praefluunt
caeli; vel inter murmura cornuum
crebrosque telorum fragores
ingreditur legionis ordo.
spectanda frons hic Cypridos et nitor
levis iuventae: spiritus hic viget
mortalium, innataeque vires :

Maeonidae resonare carmen
sublime credas: ire Quiritium
cessura nulli signa,-Britanniae
fluctus gubernari tridente, et
poscere liberiora iura
natos ovantes Americae:—at precor
insanientes vortice lurido

certis refrenentur tumultus

obicibus, rabiemque ponant, et donec omnis desierit furor quo motus horres, protenus otio et pace communi fruatur

accola gens utriusque ripae.


E. D. S.

Nox commista die est: tua nec sapientia noctem luce sua poterit dissociare die.

agnosces ambo et venerabere: clarius illi

lumen inest, cui non omnia clara patent.



Their leader was false Sextus,

That wrought the deed of shame:
With restless pace and haggard face
To his last field he came.

Men said he saw strange visions
Which none beside might see;
And that strange sounds were in his ears
Which none might hear but he.
A woman fair and stately,

But pale as are the dead,
Oft through the watches of the night
Sate spinning by his bed.
And as she plied the distaff,

In a sweet voice and low,
She sang of great old houses

And fights fought long ago.
So spun she, and so sang she,

Until the east was grey,
Then pointed to her bleeding breast,
And shrieked, and fled away.




We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thou art goodly, O Love;

Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of a dove.

Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of the


Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the garment of thee. Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of fire; Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire; And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a maid; Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom delight makes


As the breath in the buds that stir is her bridal breath But Fate is the name of her; and his name is Death. Sawinburne.

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