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How happy they who thus escape while young,
Ere vice has time to stifle right with wrong;
Whose visionary life, on wings of wind,
Speeds far away, and leaves all ills behind.

TRANSLATION OF THE

FORTIETH ODE OF ANACREON.*

.

BY ROBERT FARREN CHEETHAM.

CUPID

once, in evil hour,

Cropp'd the pride of Flora's bow'r;
Cropp'd a rose, nor chanc'd to see,
Within the flow'r a sleeping bee:
But soon his fingers felt the smart
Inflicted by its tiny dart.

The god, unus'd to suffer pain,
Blew his hand, and shriek'd amain:
Flying then with ruffled mien,
To the fair Idalian Queen,
"O Mamma!" he wildly cries,
"Wounded, save, thy Cupid dies!
Me a little serpent stung,

Hid the rose-bud leaves among,
Deck'd with curious wings like me,
Ploughmen call the thing a bec.”

Wiping Love's tear-streaming eyes,
Archly smiling-she replies:

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'Cupid, if a thing so small

Pain thee thus, and give thee thrall,
Think, O think, what torturing woe
They, who feel thy dart, must know."

SONNET TO THE RIVER TWEED.

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

O TWEED! a stranger that, with wand'ring feet, O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile; If so his weary thoughts he might beguile, Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.

The waving branches that romantic bend

O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow; The murmurs of thy wand'ring wave below, Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.

Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,
When Spring returns in all her wonted pride,
The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more,
Yet here with pensive peace could I abide:
Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,
To muse upon thy banks at even tide.

R

How happy they who thus escape while young,
Ere vice has time to stifle right with wrong;
Whose visionary life, on wings of wind,
Speeds far away, and leaves all ills behind.

TRANSLATION OF THE

FORTIETH ODE OF ANACREON.

BY ROBERT FARREN CHEETHAM.

CUPID once, in evil hour,

Cropp'd the pride of Flora's bow'r;
Cropp'd a rose, nor chanc'd to see,
Within the flow'r a sleeping bee:
But soon his fingers felt the smart
Inflicted by its tiny dart.

The god, unus'd to suffer pain,
Blew his hand, and shriek'd amain:
Flying then with ruffled mien,
To the fair Idalian Queen,
"O Mamma!" he wildly cries,
"Wounded, save, thy Cupid dies!
Me a little serpent stung,

Hid the rose-bud leaves among,
Deck'd with curious wings like me,
Ploughmen call the thing a bec."

Wiping Love's tear-streaming eyes,
Archly smiling-she replies:
"Cupid, if a thing so small

Pain thee thus, and give thee thrall,
Think, O think, what torturing woe

They, who feel thy dart, must know."

SONNET TO THE RIVER TWEED.

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

O TWEED! a stranger that, with wand'ring feet, O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile; If so his weary thoughts he might beguile, Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.

The waving branches that romantic bend

O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow; The murmurs of thy wand'ring wave below, Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.

Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,
When Spring returns in all her wonted pride,
The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more,
Yet here with pensive peace could I abide:
Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,
To muse upon thy banks at even tide.

R

"

VIRTUE'S REPLY TO PLEASURE.

SPENCE.

"TIs with the gods and godlike men I dwell,
Me, his supreme delight, th' Almighty sire,
Regards well pleas'd; whatever works excel,
All or divine, or human, I inspire.

Counsel with strength, and industry with art,
In union meet, conjoin'd with me reside;
My dictates arm, instruct, and mend the heart,
The surest policy, the wisest guide.

With me true friendship dwells: she deigns to bind
Those generous souls alone, whom I before have join'd.

Nor need my friends the various costly feast,
Hunger to them th' effects of art supplies;
Labour prepares their weary limbs to rest,

Sweet is their sleep: light, cheerful, strong they rise.

Thro' health, thro' joy, thro' pleasure and renown, They tread my paths: and, by a soft descent,

At length to age all gently sinking down,

Look back with transport on a life well spent. In which, no hour flew unimprov'd away,

In which, some generous deed distinguish'd every day.

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