Then drive, for so thou canst, this pain,
This 'wildering frenzy from my brain!
O thou, untainted by the guile
Of parentage depraved and vile,
Thou, who dost ne'er in haglike wont,
Among the tombs of paupers hunt
For ashes newly laid in ground,
Love-charms and philtres to compound,
Thy heart is gentle, pure thy hands;
And there thy Partumeius stands,
Reproof to all, who dare presume
With barrenness to charge thy womb;
For never dame more sprightly rose
Or lustier from child-bed throes!

CANIDIA'S REPLY.

WHY pour your prayers to heedless ears?

Not rocks, when Winter's blast careers,

Lashed by the angry surf, are more

Deaf to the seaman dashed on shore !

What! Think, unpunished, to deride,
And rudely rend the veil aside,
That shrouds Cotytto's murky rites,
And love's, unfettered love's, delights?
And, as though you high priest might be
Of Esquilinian sorcery,

Branding my name with ill renown,
Make me the talk of all the town?
Where then my gain, that with my gold

I bribed Pelignian beldames old,
Or mastered, by their aid, the gift
To mingle poisons sure and swift?

You'd have a speedy doom? But no,
It shall be lingering, sharp, and slow.
Your life, ungrateful wretch! shall be
Spun out in pain and misery,
And still new tortures, woes, and pangs,
Shall gripe you with relentless fangs!
Yearns Pelops' perjured sire for rest,
Mocked by the show of meats unblest,
For rest, for rest, Prometheus cries,
As to the vulture chained he lies,
And Sisyphus his rock essays
Up to the mountain's top to raise ;
Still clings the curse, for Jove's decree
Forbids them ever to be free.

So you would from the turret leap,
So in your breast the dagger steep,
So, in disgust with life, would fain
Go hang yourself,-but all in vain!
Then comes my hour of triumph, then

I'll goad you till you writhe again;

Then shall you curse the evil hour,
You made a mockery of my power!
Think ye, that I who can at will
Move waxen images—my skill

You, curious fool! know all too well

That I who can by muttered spell
The moon from out the welkin shake,
The dead even from their ashes wake,

To mix the chalice to inspire
With fierce unquenchable desire,
Shall my so-potent art bemoan
As impotent 'gainst thee alone?

NOTES TO THE ODES

VOL. II.