In vain he follows: o'er the lake no more
Will Charon waft him to the infernal shore.
What now his course? Will supplications gain
The unrelenting Manes? Oh, 'twere vain
To breathe the prayer, or wake the dulcet note:
She, cold and mute, moves on in that dim boat.

THROUGH Seven long months, uncheer'd by summer beam,

(So legends tell), at Strymon's desert stream,
Beneath aerial rocks, in freezing caves

He pour'd his sorrows o'er the charmed waves,
And oft was wont, with strains of hapless love,
To tame the tiger, and enchant the grove.

WRAPT in the poplar's gloom, with tuneful tongue, Thus Philomela mourns her ravish'd young, Whom, yet unfledg'd, unfeeling hands have borne, Borne from the nest: she on some bough forlorn Weeps through the night, renews her piteous tale, And fills with melting notes the murmuring vale.

FOR him no Venus smil'd; no tender mate
Charm'd that cold breast: alone, disconsolate,
O'er Hyperborean ice, where Winter throws
His mantle hoar of everlasting snows
On Tanais, o'er deserts yet uncross'd,

Fields ever wedded to Riphæan frost,

Madd'ning he roved, and wept his ravish'd mate, In vain recover'd from relenting Fate.

FIRED with resentment the Ciconian dames, Who came to celebrate with mystic flames And hymns, the nightly orgies of their God, Infuriate, scatter'd o'er th' empurpled sod

The beauteous youth, all mangled, bathed in gore. But while his head agrian Hebrus bore

Down his swift stream, that soft melodious tongue, Her name belov'd, though cold and quivering, sung:

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Eurydice!" with parting breath he cried;

"Ah! poor Eurydice!" he faintly sighed;

"Ah! poor Eurydice!" along the waters died.

THE ANSWER OF

CATO TO LABIENUS,

WHO WISHED HIM TO CONSULT AN ORACLE IN THE
DESERTS OF LIBYA.

[From Lucan.]

FULL of that God, whom in his secret breast
He ever bore, he spake: the hallow'd words
Were worthy of a shrine oracular.
O, Labienus, what should I inquire?
If it were better on the battled plain
To die a freeman, than to live a slave?
If life, howe'er protracted, be a span?
If good men stand invincible? If Fortune
Against the righteous wing her shaft in vain?
If holy motives be alone requir'd,

And Virtue, spurn'd or cherish'd, still be Virtue?

These truths we know, nor can the God himself Implant them deeper. With the Powers immortal We're closely linked; and, though each shrine were silent,

We ne'er could frustrate the Decrees of Heaven.
Th'Almighty needeth no interpreter,

That men may learn his counsel: at our birth
He told us all that we're concern'd to know.
Would he have chosen this deserted shore
That some lone stragglers might inquire his will?
Or buried sacred truth in barren sand?

What is his temple, but the earth, the sea,

The air, and Heaven, and Virtue? Why beyond
Explore the heavenly sanctities? whate'er

We
see, where'er we sojourn, there is Jove.
Let wavering bosoms, fluctuating minds,
For soothsayers pant:-I heed no Oracle.
By Death, and Death alone, I'm certified
The coward and the brave alike must fall.
Let it suffice that Jove hath told us this.
-He spake, and, leaving unexplor'd the faith
Of dubious Ammon, from the fane retir'd.

THE APOTHEOSIS OF

POMPEY THE GREAT.

[From Lucan.]

THINK not his manes slumber'd in the dust:
Deem not those lowly ashes could retain
A shade so mighty! From the tomb he burst,
And, leaving that inglorious tenement,
Soar'd on the gale, and sought the realm of Jove.
Where Æther's plains beneath the stars extend,
Between the earth and Cynthia's lucid path,
The hallow'd shades of mortals deified

In glory dwell; whom Virtue's holy fire

Made blameless, patient 'mid the teeming ills That harbour here, and, when their race was run, Compos'd their spirits in eternal peace.

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