Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome,

His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home.
There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red,
Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed :
On scallions slic'd, or with a sensual gust,
On rockets-foul provocatives of lust!
Nor even shunn'd with smarting gums to press
Nasturtium-pungent face-distorting mess!

Some such regale now also in his thought,
With hasty steps his garden-ground he sought;
There delving with his hands, he first displac'd
Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast;
The tender tops of parsley next he culls,
Then the old rue-bush shudders as he pulls,
And coriander last to these succeeds,

That hangs on slightest threads her trembling seeds.

Plac'd near his sprightly fire he now demands The mortar at his sable servant's hands: When stripping all his garlick first, he tore Th' exterior coats, and cast them on the floor, Then cast away with like contempt the skin, Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. These search'd, and perfect found, he one by one, Rins'd, and dispos'd within the hollow stone. Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese, With his injected herbs he cover'd these, And tucking with his left his tunic tight, And seizing fast the pestle with his right,

The garlick bruising first, he soon express'd,
And mix'd the various juices of the rest.
He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below,
Lost in each other, their own pow'rs forego,
And with the cheese in compound, to the sight
Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white.
His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent,

He curs'd full oft his dinner for its scent,
Or with wry faces, wiping as he spoke,

The trickling tears, cried "vengeance on the smoke."
The work proceeds: not roughly turns he now
The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow,
With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills,
Some drops of olive-oil he next instils.

Then vinegar with caution scarcely less,
And gathering to a ball the medley mess,
Last, with two fingers frugally applied,
Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side.
And thus complete in figure and in kind,
Obtains at length the Salad he design'd.

And now black Cybale before him stands, The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands, He glad receives it, chasing far away All fears of famine for the passing day ; His legs enclos'd in buskins, and his head In its tough casque of leather, forth he led And yok'd his steers, a dull obedient pair, Then drove afield, and plung'd the pointed share.

TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES.

[Begun August, 1799.]

FROM

THE GREEK OF JULIANUS.

A SPARTAN, his companions slain,
Alone from battle fled,

His mother kindling with disdain

That she had borne him, struck him dead;

For courage, and not birth alone,
In Sparta, testifies a son!

ON

THE SAME BY PALAADAS.

A SPARTAN 'scaping from the fight,
His mother met him in his flight,
Upheld a faulchion to his breast,
And thus the fugitive address'd :

Thou canst but live to blot with shame "Indelible thy mother's name,

"While ev'ry breath, that thou shalt draw,
"Offends against thy country's law;
But, if thou perish by this hand,

66

"To my dishonour, shall be known
"The mother still of such a son;
"But Sparta will be safe and free,
"And that shall serve to comfort me."

AN EPITAPH.

My name-my country-what are they to thee? What, whether base or proud, my pedigree? Perhaps I far surpass'd all other menPerhaps I fell below them all-what then? Suffice it, stranger? that thou seest a tombThou know'st its use-i -it hides-no matter whom.

ANOTHER.

TAKE to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain With much hard labor in thy service worn! He set the vines, that clothe yon ample plain, And he these olives, that the vale adorn.

He fill'd with grain the glebe; the rills he led
Thro' this green herbage, and those fruitful bow'rs;
Thou, therefore, earth! lie lightly on his head,
His hoary head, and deck his grave with flow'rs.

ANOTHER.

PAINTER, this likeness is too strong,
And we shall mourn the dead too long.

ANOTHER.

Ar threescore winters' end I died

A cheerless being, sole and sad;

The nuptial knot I never tied,

And wish my father never had.

BY CALLIMACHUS.

AT morn we plac'd on his funeral bier Young Melanippus ; and at eventide, Unable to sustain a loss so dear,

By her own hand his blooming sister died.

Thus Aristippus mourn'd his noble race,

Annihilated by a double blow,

Nor son could hope, nor daughter more t' embrace, And all Cyrene sadden'd at his wo.