Thou, dear Adonis! Agamemnon's might,
Nor Aias, raging like one mad in fight;
Nor true Patroclus; nor his mother's boast,
Hector, of twenty sons famed, honoured most;
Nor Pyrrhus, victor from the Trojan siege—
Not one of them enjoyed this privilege;
Nor the Deucalions; nor Lapithæ ;
Argive Pelasgi; nor Pelopidæ.

Now, dear Adonis, fill thyself with glee,
And still returning, still propitious be.

GORGO.

Praxinoa, did ever mortal ear

A sweeter song from sweeter minstrel hear?
O happy girl to know so many things -
Thrice happy girl, that so divinely sings !

But now 'tis time for home: let us be hasting;
My man's mere vinegar, and most when fasting:
Nor has he broken yet his fast to-day;

When he's a-hungered, come not in his way.

Farewell, beloved Adonis ! joy to see!

When come, well come to those who welcome thee.

IDYL XVI.

THE GRACES.

ARGUMENT.

This piece was written in honour of Hiero, a prince illustrious for the moderation with which he governed, and for his military exploits. The poet inveighs against the avarice of the wealthy men of rank, who neither cultivated in themselves the qualities that deserve glory, nor showed any favour to the poets, by whom a worthy fame is best perpetuated. He then passes to a consideration of the admirable qualities of Hiero, and praises him for his munificence. He prays for the prosperity of Syracuse, and predicts that the fame of Hiero will be known in the remotest regions. At the end of the poem, he invokes the Graces to be ever with him, that he may conciliate the favour of men.

IDYL XVI.

THE GRACES.

JOVE's daughters hymn the gods; and bards rehearse
The deeds of worthies in their glowing verse.
The heaven-born Muses hymn the heavenly ring;
Of mortals, then, let mortal poets sing.
Yet who as many as there be that live
Under the grey dawn, will a welcome give
To our sweet Graces, or the door-latch lift,
Or will not send them off without a gift?
Barefoot, with wrinkled brows, and mien deject,
They chide me for the way of chill neglect;
Tho' loath, into their empty chest they drop,
And on cold knees their heavy heads they prop;
And dry their seat is, when no good they earn,
But from a fruitless journey back return.

What living man the poet will repay
With generous love for his ennobling lay?
I know not: men no longer, as before,
Would live for good deeds in poetic lore;
But are o'ercome by detestable gain;
Close-fisted, every one doth fast retain
His money, thinking how to make it grow,
Nor freely would the smallest mite bestow,
But says:
"the knee is nearer than the shin;

Some good be mine! from gods bards honour win.
But who will hear another? one will do-

Homer, best poet, and the cheapest too—
He costs me nothing." Fools! what boots the gold
Hid within doors in heaps cannot be told?
Not so the truly wise their wealth employ :

With some 'tis fit one's natural man to joy ;
Some to the bard should freely be assigned,

To kin—and many others of mankind.

The gods their offerings; guests should have their dues,
Welcome to come and go whene'er they choose.
But most of all the generous mind prefers

The Muses' consecrate interpreters.

So may you live to fame, when life is done,

Nor mourn inglorious at cold Acheron,