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My scornful brother with a smile

Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears,
His hated image ever haunts my eyes;
And why this grief? thy daughter lives, he cries.
Stung with my love, and furious with despair,
All torn my garments, and my

bosom bare,

140 My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim; Such inconsistent things are love and shame! 'Tis thou art all my care and my delight, My daily longing, and my dream by night: O night, more pleasing than the brightest day, 145 When fancy gives what absence takes away, And, dress’d in all its visionary charms, Restores


fair deferter to my arms! Then round your neck in wanton wreaths I twine, Then you, methinks, as fondly circle mine :

150 A thousand

Gaudet et' e noftro crescit moerore Charaxus 135

Frater; et ante oculos itque reditque meos. Utque pudenda mei videatur causa doloris ;

Quid dolet haec ? certe filia vivit, ait. Non veniunt in idem pudor atque amor : omne videbat Vulgus; eram lacero pectus aperta sinu.

140 Tu mihi cura, Phaon; te fomnia nostra reducunt;

Somnia formoso candidiora die. Illic te invenio, quanquam regionibus absis ; 145

Sed non longa fatis gaudia somnus habet. Saepe tuos noftra cervice onerare lacertos, Saepe tuae videor supposuisse meos.


A thousand tender words I hear and speak;
A thousand melting kisses give, and take :
Then fiercer joys, I blush to mention these,
Yet, while I blush, confefs how much they please.
But when, with day, the sweet delusions fly, 155
And all things wake to life and joy, but I,
As if once more forfaken, I complain,
And close my eyes to dream of you again :
Then frantic rise, and like fome Fury rove
Through lonely plains, and through the filent grové,
As if the filent grove, and lonely plains,
That knew my pleasurès, could relieve my pains.
I view the Grotto, once the fcene of love,
The rocks around, the hanging roofs above,


Blandior interdum; verisque simillima verba

Eloquor; et vigilant sensibus ora meis.... Ofcula cognofco; quae tu committere linguae,

Aptaque consuêras accipere, apta dare. Ulteriora pudet narrare ; sed omnia fiunt,

Et juvat, et fine te non libet effe mihi. At cum se Titan ostendit, et omnia fecum ; 155 Tam cito me somnos deftituiffe

queror. Antra nemusque peto, tanquam nemus antraque profint.

16о Conscia deliciis illa fuere tuis. Illuc mentis inops, ut quam furialis Erichtho

Impulit, in collo crine jacente feror. Antra vident očuli scabro pendentia topho,

Quae mihi Mygdonii marmoris instar erant.

That charm'd me more, with native mofs o'ergrown,
Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone.
I find the shades that veild our joys before ;
But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more.
Here the press’d herbs with bending tops betray
Where oft entwin'd in amorous folds we lay;

I kiss that earth which once was press'd by you,
And all with tears the withering herbs bedew.
For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,
And birds defer their songs till thy return;
Night shades the groves, and all in filence lie, 175
All but the mournful Philomel and I :
With mournful Philomel I join my strain,
Of Tereus fhe, of Phaon I complain.

A spring

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Invènio sylvam, quae faepe cubilia nobis

Praebuit, et multa texit opaca coma.
At non invenio dominum fylvaeque, meumque.

Vile solum locus eft: dos erat ille loci.
Agnovi prestas noti mihi cespitis herbas :

De noftro curvum pondere gramen erat. Incubui, tetigique locum qua parte fuisti ;

Grata prius lacrymas combibit herba meas. Quinetiam rami positis lugere videntur

Frondibus; et nullae dulce queruntur aves. Sola virum non ulta pie moestislına mater

Concinit Ismarium Daulias ales Ityn. Ales Ityn, Sappho desertos cantat amores :

Hactenus, ut media caetera nocte filent.


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From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,

And separate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood !

30 See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blaft of death ; Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball,

35 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent herses shall besiege your gates; There passengers fhall stand, and pointirg say, (While the long funerals blacken all the way) 40 Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steeld, And curft with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze

of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne’er learn'd to glow 45 For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade !) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier : 50 By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos’d, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos’d,


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By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear, 55
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What though no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress’d,
And the

green turf lie lightly on thy breast :
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their silver wings o’ershade
The ground now sacred by thy reliques made.

So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themselves mult fall, like those they sung, 75
Deaf, the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays ;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,

Life's idle business at one gasp be o’er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more !


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