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If we except Lucretius and Statius, I know no Latin Poet, ancient or modern, who has equalled Casimir in boldness of conception, opulence of fancy, or beauty of versification. The Odes of this illustrious Jesuit were translated into English about one hundred and fifty years ago, by G. Hils, I think.* I never saw the translation. A few of the Odes have been translated in a very animated manner by Watts. I have subjoined the third Ode of the second Book, which, with the exception of the first line, is an effusion of exquisite elegance. In the imitation attempted, I am sensible that I have destroyed the effect of suddenness, by translating into two stanzas what is one in the original.

SONORA buxi filia sutilis,

Pendebis alta, barbite, populo,
Dum ridet aer, et supinas

Sollicitat levis aura frondes.
Te sibilantis lenior halitus
Perflabit Euri: me juvet interim
Collum reclinasse, et virenti

Sic temeret jacuisse ripa.
Eheu! serenum quæ nebulæ tegunt
Repente cælum! quis sonus imbrium!
Surgamus--heu semper fugaci

Gaudia præteritura passu. * The Oiles of Casimir, translated by G. H. (G. Hils). London, 1646, 12mo.

† Had Casimir any better authority for this quantity than Tertullian's line

Immemor ille Dei temere committere tale-? In the classic poets, the last syllable is, I believe, uniformly cut off.

H. N. C.

H. N. C.

IMITATION. THE 'HE solemn-breathing air is ended

Cease, O Lyre! thy kindred lay! From the poplar branch suspended, Glitter to the


of day!


On thy wires, hovering, dying,
Softly sighs the summer wind;
I will slumber, careless lying,
By yon waterfall reclined.
In the forest, hollow-roaring,
Hark! I hear a deep’ning sound-
Clouds rise thick with heavy lowering!
See! the horizon blackens round !

Parent of the soothing measure,
Let me seize thy wetted string !
Swiftly flies the flatterer, Pleasure,
Headlong, ever on the wing !


IF, while niy passion I impart,

You deem my words untrue,
O place your hand upon my heart-

Feel how it throbs for you!

Ah, no! reject the thoughtless claim

In pity to your Lover ! That thrilling touch would aid the flame,

It wishes to discover.





IM Hour! that sleep’st on pillowing clouds afar,

O rise, and yoke the turtles to thy car! Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove, And give me to the bosom of my Love! My gentle Love! caressing and carest, With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest; Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes, Lull with fond woe, and med’cine me with sighs ; While finely-flushing float her kisses meek, Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek. Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May Mourns the long absence of the lovely Day: Young Day, returning at her promised hour, Weeps o'er the sorrows of the fav’rite flower,Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs, And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes. New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels : His pitying mistress mourns, and mourning heals!



AI H! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!

I did but snatch away the unclasped knife;
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye,
And to quick laughter change this peevish cry!
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe,
Tutored by pain each source of pain to know !
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire;

Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright!
Untaught, yet wise ! mid all thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest !
Man's breathing Miniature ! thou mak'st me sigh-
A Babe art thou—and such a Thing am I!
To anger rapid, and as soon appeased,
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased,
Break Friendship’s mirror with a tetchy blow,
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow!

O thou that rearest with celestial aim
The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet
As on I totter with unpractised feet,
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,
Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy !




'HIS day among the faithful placed,

And fed with fontal manna,
O with maternal title graced —

Dear Anna's dearest Anna !


While others wish thee wise and fair,

A maid of spotless fame,
I'll breathe this more compendious prayer-

May'st thou deserve thy name!

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Thy mother's name—a potent spell,

That bids the virtues hie
From mystic grove and living cell

Confess'd to fancy's eye;


Meek quietness without offence;

Content in homespun kirtle ;
True love; and true love's innocence,

White blossom of the myrtle !

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Associates of thy name, sweet child !

These virtues mayst thou win; With face as eloquently mild,

To say, they lodge within.


So, when her tale of days all flown,

Thy mother shall be mist here ; When Heaven at length shall claim its own,

And angels snatch their sister;


Some hoary-headed friend, perchance,

May gaze with stifled breath ; And oft, in momentary trance,

Forget the waste of death.


E’en thus a lovely rose I view'd,

In summer-swelling pride ; Nor mark’d the bud that, green and rude,

Peep'd at the rose's side.

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