From her then exhausted store
Nought for Woman had she more:
How does Nature prove her care?
Beauty's charms is Woman's share,
Stronger far than warrior's dress
Is her helpless loveliness.
Safety smiles in Beauty's eyes,
She the hostile flame defies:
Fiercest swords submissive fall,-
Lovely Woman conquers all!

ODE III.-CUPID BENIGHTED.

'TWAS at the solemn midnight hour,
When silence reigns with awful pow'r,
Just when the bright and glittering Bear2
Is yielding to her keeper's care;

When spent with toil, with cares oppress'd,
Man's busy race has sunk to rest,

Sly Cupid, sent by cruel Fate,
Stood loudly knocking at my gate.

'Who's there,' I cried,' at this late hour?

Who is it batters thus my door?

Begone! you break my blissful dreams'
But he, on mischief bent, it seems,
With feeble voice and piteous cries

In childish accents thus replies:

1 Longuepierre has observed that this is one of the most beautiful odes in the collection; and it is I think a good proof of the truth of his remark, that after a lapse of more than 2000 years its spirit and meaning are still preserved, and are to be found embodied in a pretty little song, which was a few years ago a popular favorite.

2 The Bear and Boötes, or the Bear-keeper, are two constellations near the North Pole.

'Be not alarm'd, kind sir, 'tis I,
A little wretched, wandering boy.
Pray ope the door-I've lost my way
This moonless night-alone I stray:
I'm stiff with cold, I'm drench'd all o'er ;
For pity's sake, pray ope the door.'
Touch'd with this simple tale of woe,
And little dreaming of a foe,

I rose, lit up my lamp, and straight
Undid the fastenings of the gate;
And there indeed a boy I spied,
With bow and quiver at his side.
Wings too he wore—a strange attire!
My guest I seated near the fire,
And while the blazing faggots shine,
I chafed his little hands in mine.
His dank and dripping locks I wrung,
That down his shoulders loosely hung.
Soon as his cheeks began to glow,
'Come now,' he cries, let's try this bow;
For much I fear, this rainy night,
The wet and damp have spoil'd it quite.'
That instant twang'd the sounding string,
Loud as the whizzing gad-fly's wing:
Too truly aim'd, the fatal dart

My bosom pierced, with painful smart.'
Up sprung the boy with laughing eyes,
And, Wish me joy, mine host!' he cries.
'My bow is sound in ev'ry part;

Thou'lt find the arrow in thy heart.'

1 In the original it is pierced through the middle of my liver.' The ancients, as may be proved by numerous passages, considered the liver to be the seat of the affections; and it is reasonable to suppose that the sympathy existing between this organ and the brain was as well known to them as it is to physicians in the present day.

ODE IV.-ON HIMSELF.

On this flowery couch reclining,
Thick with leaves of myrtle strew'd,'
Every graver care resigning,

I will drink in joyous mood.

His tunic shorten'd-standing near me,
His waist with rushy girdle bound,
With rosy wine let Cupid cheer me,
And serve the golden goblet round.

For, ah! with what unwearied pace2
The ceaseless wheel of life runs on!
Just like the chariot's rapid race,

How swift the course, how quickly run!

Yet thus, alas! our moments fly;
Thus pass our fleeting years away;
And soon shall we neglected lie,
A little dust-a lump of clay!

1 Madame Dacier observes that the ancients were fond of reposing on leaves of fragrant herbs and flowers, which afforded them a soft and pleasant couch, and at the same time regaled their senses with their agreeable odors. A passion for perfumes and flowers seems to be common to all oriental nations.

2 If, according to the ancient proverb, it is commendable to receive instruction even from an enemy, surely we should not disdain to be made wiser by a heathen. These lines contain a fine moral sentiment; and the Christian reader, excited by higher motives, will seek to improve that time which, ceaseless in its progress, and irrevocable in its flight, is given to him for nobler purposes than to be wasted in trifling pursuits or sensual indulgences.

Then why, when life's short scene is o'er,
Anoint a cold unconscious stone? 1
Why vainly rich libations pour,

Or call my ghost with useless moan?

Nay, rather, friends, anoint me now,
While life remains, and fate is kind;
With rosy garlands crown my brow,
And go, my lovely fair one find.

My cares I'll drown in pleasure's tide,
Before my wand'ring spirit go
Where unsubstantial spectres glide,

And dance in dismal shades below.2

1 The custom among the ancients of pouring sweet unguents on the tombs of their deceased friends, and crowning them with chaplets of flowers, is well known. The eastern nations are still remarkable for the careful and affectionate attention they bestow on their departed relatives.

The Turkish burying-ground stands on the slope of the hill, at a small distance from the town, near that of the Jews, and is encircled by a deep grove of cypress trees. No guard or shade around a cemetery can be so suitable as that of this noble tree with its waveless and mournful foliage, it looks the very emblem of mortality. The orientals love that every thing should be sad and impressive round the abodes of their dead, which they never approach but with the deepest reverence; and they often sit for hours in their kiosques on the Bosphorus, gazing with mournful pleasure on the shores of Asia, where the ashes of their fathers are laid.'-Carne's Letters from the East, p. 65.

2 It seems not a little remarkable that the ancients, amid all their wild and extravagant fancies, never affected the skies; or, in other words, that they contented themselves with an elysium in the infernal regions, assigning the heavens above them to their gods and demi-gods alone. In this, as in many other respects, Christianity has enlarged our ideas, and exalted our hopes beyond the most daring conceptions of the heathen world.

ODE V.-ON THE ROSE.1

WITH sparkling wine sweet roses join,
"Twill make the nectar'd draught divine;
Let mirth and laughter rule the hour,
While roses, pluck'd from Love's own bower,
Around our moisten'd temples twine,
And add fresh fragrance to the wine.
O, lovely rose! to thee I sing,
Thou sweetest, fairest child of spring!
O thou art dear to all the gods,
The darling of their bless'd abodes.
Thy breathing buds and blossoms fair
Entwine young Cupid's golden hair,
When gaily dancing, hand in hand,
He joins the Graces' lovely band.
Then bring fresh garlands, crown my brows,
And while thus joyous, I carouse,
Admitted, Bacchus, to thy shrine,
Thy praise I'll sing in hymns divine;
Or, thick with rosy chaplets crown'd,
With Chloe dance a sprightly round,
Whose snowy bosom softly swells,
And tales of tender transport tells.

1 Among the ancients, especially the Grecians, the rose was particularly esteemed. It was always introduced at entertainments; and it was customary on such occasions to employ flowers and perfumes, not merely for pleasure, but because they imagined their odors prevented the intoxicating effects of wine. With the Romans they were held in equal estimation, as appears from the following passage:

Here pour your wines, your odors shed;
Bring forth the rose's short-lived flower,

While Fate yet spins thy mortal thread,

While youth and fortune give th' indulgent hour.

Francis' Horace, b. ii. ode 3.