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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.
Pendebis alta, barbite, populo,
Sollicitat levis aura frondes.
Sic temeret jacuisse ripa.
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
On thy wires, hovering, dying,
Parent of the soothing measure,
IMITATED FROM THE WELSH.
IF, while niy passion I impart,
You deem my words untrue,
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.
THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.
(COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS, AND IN ABSENCE.)
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!
TO AN INFANT.
AI H! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!
I did but snatch away the unclasped knife;
Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
O thou that rearest with celestial aim
CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.
And fed with fontal manna,
Dear Anna's dearest Anna !
While others wish thee wise and fair,
A maid of spotless fame,
May'st thou deserve thy name!
Thy mother's name—a potent spell,
That bids the virtues hie
Confess'd to fancy's eye;
Meek quietness without offence;
Content in homespun kirtle ;
White blossom of the myrtle !
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.