FROM ROMEO AND JULIET.

Rom. He jests at scars, that never felt a woundBut soft! what light from yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!—

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou her maid art far more fair than she:

Be not her maid, since she is envious;

Her vestal livery is but sick and green,

And none but fools do wear it: cast it off.—

It is my lady; Oh, it is my love!

Oh that she knew she were !—

She speaks, yet she says nothing; What of that? eye discourses; I will answer it.

Her

I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do intreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres, till they return.

THE SAME TRANSLATED.

This Translation obtained the Porson Prize. Some alterations have since been made.

ῬΩΜ. Οὐλαῖς γελᾷ τις τραυμάτων ἄπειρος ὤν. τί δῆτ ̓ ἐκείνης θυρίδος ἐξέλαμψε φως;

ἕως ἄρ ̓ ἦν τόδ', ἥλιος δ ̓ Ἰουλία.

αρ

ἀνέλθε, καλλιφεγγὲς ἥλιε, κτενῶν
φθονερὰν σελήνην, ἣ τέτηκεν ἄλγεσι,
σοῦ τῆς γε δούλης καλλονῇ νικωμένη.
τί τῇ φθονούσῃ λάτρις εἶ; τί σοι μέλει
ἔσθημα παρθένειον; ὡς μελαγχολεί,
μῶραί τε νιν φοροῦσι· σοὶ δ ̓ ἐκδυτέα.
δέσποιν' ἐμὴ πέφηνε, καρδίας ἐμῆς
τὰ φίλταθ'· ὡς γὰρ εἰδέναι τόδ ̓ ὠφελε.
φωνεῖ τι, φωνεῖ· κοὐδὲν εἶφ ̓ ὅμως τί μήν;
ἴσσων με σαίνει φθέγμα τοῦτ ̓ ἀμείψομαι.
ἄγαν γ ̓ ἀναιδής εἰμ'· ἔμ ̓ οὐ προσεννέπει
ἀλλ ̓ ἀστέρ ̓ ἀσχολοῦντε καλλίστω τινε
λίσσεσθον αὐτῆς ὄμματ ̓, ἔστε δὴ πάλιν
ἱκνῆσθον, ἐν τοῖς οἶσιν αὐγάζειν κύκλοις.

What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven

Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek!

Jul.

Rom.

Ah me!

She speaks;

Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturnèd wondering eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:

Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

εἰ δ ̓ ἦν ἐκεῖ μὲν ὄμματ', ἐν δ ̓ αὐτῆς κάρα
ἄστρω μετοικισθέντε, πρὸς παρηΐδα
μαυροῦτ ̓ ἂν ἄστρα, λαμπὰς ὡς παρ' ἥλιον,
μετάρσιός τ' ὀφθαλμὸς οὐρανοῦ διὰ
πέμποι σέλας τηλαυγές, ὀρνίθων μέλη
ἑῷα κινῶν, ὡς σκότου πεφευγότος.
ἴδ ̓ ὡς παρειὰν εἰς χέρ ̓ ἀγκλίνασ ̓ ἔχει
εἴθ ̓ ἦν ἐκείνης δεξιᾶς χειρὶς ἐγὼ,
ὅπως ἐκείνης ἡπτόμην παρηΐδος.

ΙΟΥΛ. ὦ μοι

ΡΩΜ. ἐφθέγξατ ̓ ὦ φθέγξαιο, φαιδιμὴ, πάλιν· ὕπερθε γάρ μου τῆσδ ̓ ἄγαλμα νυκτὸς εἶ, ὡς εὖτε θνητοῖς ἦλθεν ἄγγελος Θεοῦ, οἱ δ ̓ ἐκπλαγέντες ὑπτιάζουσιν κόρας, κἀς το πίσω κλίνουσιν ὥστε προσβλέπειν νεφελῶν ἐφιππεύοντα τῶν βραδυστόλων, πτεροῖσι ναυστολοῦντα κόλπον αἰθέρος.

ἸΟΥΛ. ὦ Ῥωμεὼν, τί δῆτα Ῥωμεὼν ἔφυς ;

πατέρα τ ̓ ἀναίνου κὤνομ ̓· εἰ δὲ μὴ θέλεις,
ὄμνυ φιλήτωρ τῆσδε πιστὸς ἐμμενεῖν,
κἀγὼ δόμων τε καὶ γένους ἐξίσταμαι.

SONG, BY MOORE.

Fond soother of my infant tear,
Fond sharer of my infant joy,
Doth not thy shade still linger here?
Am I not still thy soul's employ?

And oh, as when at close of day

Our virgins climb'd the sacred mount,

And harping sang their choral lay

And danced around Cassotis' fount;

As then 'twas all thy wish and care
That mine should be the simplest mien,

My voice and lyre the sweetest there,

My step the lightest on the green;

So now, each line of grace to mould,
Around my form thine eyes are shed,
Arranging every snowy fold,

And guiding every mazy tread.
And when I lead the hymning choir,
Thy spirit still unseen and free
Hovers between my lip and lyre,

And weds them into harmony.