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Gentle, yet daring; rash, yet mild;
Looks proudly o'er the strand);
Soft as the yielding sand.
With firm devotion bow'd;
Untold amidst the crowd.
TO MISS G,
ON HER VISITING OXFORD.
BY THE LATE CHARLES WILLIAM RUSSELL, ESQ.
As when the moon her orb conceals,
The little stars with lustre shine; But when her splendor she reveals,
They droop with envy and decline: So, lovely maid, when you appear
In native charms, and beauty bright; Though Oxford's nymphs with careless air
Affect to smile, they die with spite.
HORACE. ODE 9. LIB. II.
TO THE POET VALGIUS, ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON.
TRANSLATED BY MR. A. S. THELWALL.
Not always from black clouds the rains descend
For ever vex the troubled Caspian sea;
And unthawed snow; nor Jove's high towěring tree
Yet dost thou, Valgius, still deplore the fate Of thy lost Mystes; rest thy griefs ne'er find When Vesper rises, or the starry guide
Opes for the rapid sun, heavěn's roseate gate.
did not mourn His lost Antilochus thro' every year;
Nor were the Phrygian sisters, or their sire,
No more complain, but let us tune the lyre
And sing the trophies by Augustus won,
Who adds the swift Euphrates to his sway,
Peaceful, bestride the steed, and shun the battle-day.
HORACE. ODE 20.
ODE 20. Lib. II.
TRANSLATED BY MR, A. S. THELWALL.
On no accustom'd and no feeble wing,
A biform'd Poet, will I mount the skies,
Superior to all envy, lo! I rise,
From humble parents, since with favouring eyes
Of Styx escape, its bounding stream I spurn. The skin grows rough upon my limbs, I soar
Blanch'd to a stately bird, and now discern With plumage light my shoulders cover'd o'er,
My fingers into glossy feathers turn.
Swifter than Dædalus' too ventůrous boy,
I pass the Bosphorus’ resounding strand, A bird of song, o'er stormy Syrtes fly,
And view the frozen Hyperborean land. Colchians,—and Dacians, knowing to destroy
By semblant fear, the eager Marsian band And far Geloni know me; fierce in war,
The Iberian views me, and who drinks the Rhone. Be from my empty funeral, dirges far,
Banish base grief and the complaining groan: Restrain your clamour, be the funeral car
And needless trophies hence, Fame shall protect her
EPITAPH, , ON MARY, THE WIFB OF WILLIAM HAYWARD, ESQ.
BY MISS MITFORD.
Here, stranger! Hayward lies.--Ask you her worth?
THE DYING LOVER.
BY DR. RUSSELL.
Come, all ye shepherds, come around,
My hapless state survey;
And echo back the mournful lay.
In vain on ev'ry muse I call
Fit numbers to inspire ;
In vain my eyes, with weeping drown'd,
The soul-felt anguish tell; No pity in that breast is found,
Where pity always lov'd to dwell.
Then shepherds, haste! my last, last bed,
My bridal bed prepare; Hide, hide, thou earth my wretched head,
And free me from this black despair.