That thou one day would'st rise upon my view,
And shine the great avenger: but that hope
An unpropitious Demon, thine and mine,
Hath scatter'd on the gale-to me transmitting-
Ah, sad exchange for thy beloved form―

A heap of ashes, and an empty shade!

brother!

Ан me! ah me! Alas! thou piteous corse!-
A most disastrous journey hast thou ta'en,
My brother! for it hath destroy'd Electra.
Thou hast indeed destroy'd me, oh my
Wherefore, receive me to thine own abode!
Oh, take me-nothing now-unto thyself,
Who now art nothing! that with thee, beneath,
I may henceforward dwell. When thou wert here
I shar'd thy lot; and, dying, I desire

The sweet communion of my brother's grave.
To me the dead appear exempt from woe.

THE OPENING

OF THE

THIRD HYMN OF SYNESIUS.

AWAKE, my soul! invade the dazzling height
Of sacred song, and drink the stream of light;
Each dark, unruly passion charm to rest,
And fan the flame that purifies the breast.
A wreath the King of Gods may deign to wear,
I humbly weave: to his pure shrine I bear
A sacrifice unstain'd by crimson dews,
A free libation of the Heavenly Muse.
Borne on the wave, or pillow'd on the shore,
Expos'd to winds that rage, to seas that roar;
Or safe and shelter'd in my quiet home,

Or when o'er mountains wild and drear I roam;

Or when my liberated feet may gain

Their native realm, yon fair and blooming plain: In life, in death, in rapture, or in woe,

For thee, blest Lord! the note of praise shall flow!
Allur'd by solemn night's congenial calm,

For thee I frame the sweet poetic charm.
When orient roses wreath the purple morn;
When noontide splendors all the heavens adorn;
When placid evening spreads her gentle wing;
I wake for THEE the full resounding string.
Yon stars, that glow with everlasting youth,
The moon, who walks in light, attest my truth;
And mighty Sol, who leads the radiant choir,
And fills the sainted breast with hallow'd fire!

HELIODORA.

Δάκρυα σοι και νερθε δια χθονος, Ηλιοδώρα,
Δωςεμαι, στοργας λειψανον εις Αίδαν.

Analecta Græca.-Brunck. Vol. I. p. 30.

To thee, my Heliodora! unto thee,

Even in the silent grave, I give my tears— My piteous tears! all that remain to me

Of love, that blest my spirit for long years.

Upon thy much-wept tomb I vainly shed

The tears in which affection must have vent,

And sadly raise above thy narrow bed,

An idle tribute-Love's last monument.

I, Meleager! I most piteously,

Yea, piteously, bewail thee 'mongst the dead! Where is the germ so precious once to me?

Ah, Death hath cropt it!-Death hath bow'd its head.

Death-Death hath cropt it!—and the dust de

fil'd

The blooming flower!-Oh! mother Earth, do

thou,

'Thou universal nourisher-with wild

Entreaty I beseech thee-take her now, And clasp unto thy breast, with gentle arms, My Heliodora's all-lamented charms!—