FROM BIANOR THE BITHYNIAN.

In Thebes the sons of Edipus are laid;
But not the tomb's all desolating shade,
The deep forgetfulness of Pluto's gate,
Nor Acheron can quench their deathless hate.
E'en hostile madness shakes the funeral pyres ;
Against each other blaze their pointed fires;
Unhappy boys! for whom high Jove ordains
Eternal Hatred's never sleeping pains.

See Note 35.

FROM ANTIPHILUS OF BYZANTIUM.

Hail venerable Boughs, that in mid sky
Spread broad and deep your leafy canopy!
Hail cool refreshing shade, abode most dear
To the sun-wearied traveller wand'ring near!
Hail, close inwoven bow'rs, fit dwelling place
For insect tribes and man's imperial race!
Me too reclining in your green retreat
Shield from the blazing day's meridian heat.

See Note 36.

FROM LEONIDAS OF ALEXANDRIA.

I.

ON THE VOTIVE IMAGE OF A LION.

In the dark Winter's night, while, all around,
The furious hail-storm clatters on the ground,
While every field is deep in drifted snow,
And Boreas bids his bitterest tempests blow,
A solitary Lion, gaunt and grim,

Rav'nous with cold and numb'd in every limb,
Stalks to the Goat-herd's miserable shed,
From the rude air to shield his storm-beat head.
Th' astonished natives of this lonely spot

care,

With cries of stifled horror fill the cot:
No more their numerous herds demand their
While for themselves they pour the broken pray'r,
And call the Saviour Jove as fix'd they stand
Together press'd, a trembling shuddering band.
Meanwhile the lordly savage, safe and warm,
Stays through the pelting of the wintry storm,
Then calmly quits the whole affrighted horde
And leaves their meal untouch'd upon the board.
In grateful memory of so rare a fate,
The swains to Jove this offering consecrate,
́And still suspended from the oak-tree shew
This faithful image of their generous foe.

See Note 37.

II.

ON AN INFANT

PLAYING ON THE EDGE OF A PRECIPICE.

Her infant playing on the verge of fate,
When but an instant's space had been too late,

And pointed crags had claim'd his forfeit breath,
The Mother saw; she laid her bosom bare;
Her child sprang forward the known bliss to share ;
And that which nourish'd life now sav'd from death.
See Note 38.

III.

A SOLDIER

DYING OF SICKNESS.

That soul which vanquish'd War could never win,
Now yields reluctant to a foe within:

Oh seize the sword! Grant me a Soldier's due!
And thus Disease shall own my triumph too.

FROM PARMENIO

OF MACEDON.

ON THE DEFEAT OF XERXES AT THERMOPYLE

Him who revers'd the laws great nature gave,
Sail'd o'er the continent and walk'd the wave,
Three hundred spears from Sparta's iron plain
Have stopp'd-Oh blush ye mountains, and thou
main !

THE SAME,

MORE FREELY TRANSLATED.

When from his throne arose great Persia's Lord
And on devoted Greece his myriads pour'd,
O'er the broad seas his chariots roll'd to shore,
And his proud navy humbled Athos bore;
But when the god of Sparta's iron coast
Sent his brave sons against the unnumber'd host,
Three hundred lances stemmed the battle's tide-
Mountains and seas your guilty blushes hide!

FROM

PHILIP OF THESSALONICA.

When thou wast younger, Rosalind,*
Thy graces every heart delighted;
Thy love on happier youths inclin'd,
And I alone was scorn'd and slighted.

When Time, a sure and silent thief,
Thy beauty's treasure had invaded,

For me remain'd a withered leaf,

But ah! the rose I lov'd, had faded.

This Epigram brings us to the period of the second collection. This Philip is the same with the collector mentioned in the preface.