UNKNOWN AUTHORS.

CLYTEMNESTRA'S ADDRESS TO HER SON ORESTES, AS HE WAS IN THE ACT OF SLAYING HER TO AVENGE HIS FATHER, WHOM SHE HAD MURDERED (Jacobs IV. 113, xvi.).

Translated by C.

Strike! At my womb? It bore thee. At my breast? It nurtur'd thee in infancy to rest.

When the mother of Coriolanus entreated him to forego his vengeance against Rome, Shakespeare makes her say ("Coriolanus," Act V. sc. 3):

If I cannot persuade thee

Rather to show a noble grace to both parts,

Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner
March to assault thy country, than to tread

(Trust to 't, thou shalt not) on thy mother's womb,
That brought thee to this world.

THE LOVER'S WISH (Jacobs IV. 129, lviii.).
Translated by Shepherd.

Oh that I were the wind! whose gentle gales
Thy vest expand, and cool thy breast of snow:
Oh that I were a rose! which sweets exhales,
That on thy beauteous bosom I might blow.

The 20th Ode of Anacreon, to his Mistress, is in parts very similar. Broome translates a passage thus:

Oh were I made thy folding vest,

That thou might'st clasp me to thy breast.

A very sandal I would be,

To tread on--if trod on by thee.

There are several modern examples of the same idea. The most notable is Dumain's song in "Love's Labour's Lost" (Act IV. sc. 3): On a day (alack the day!)

Love, whose month is ever May,

Spied a blossom, passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, 'gan passage find;

That the lover, sick to death,

Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But alack, my hand is sworn,

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn.

Spenser has the same thought, but with the figure varied. See his 76th Sonnet. Kirke White has a song which, no doubt, has its origin in the Greek, probably in that of Anacreon. The first two stanzas are given:

J

Oh that I were the fragrant flower that kisses
My Arabella's breast that heaves on high!
Pleased should I be to taste the transient blisses,
And on the melting throne to faint, and die.
Oh that I were the robe that loosely covers
Her taper limbs, and Grecian form divine!
Or the entwisted zones, like meeting lovers,
That clasp her waist in many an aëry twine.

INSCRIPTION UNDER A STATUE OF PAN
(Jacobs IV. 171, cclix.).

Translated by Shepherd.

The god Pan speaks.

Come, stretch thy limbs beneath these shady trees,
That wave their branches to the western breeze,
Where, by yon limpid stream that gently flows,
My rustic pipe shall soothe thee to repose.

The translator, following Stephens, ascribes this epigram to Her

mocreon.

There are many epigrams in the Anthology of a similar character to this. They refer to one of the customs of the Greeks most pleasant to contemplate their sympathy with way-worn travellers. These shady spots, hallowed by the statue of the wood-god Pan, offered repose to tho weary, who were invited by the god himself to stretch their limbs beneath the trees, and to seek the sleep they needed, soothed by the pipe which he deigned to play for their pleasure. The enthusiastic Greeks felt for their minstrel-god the reverence and the gratitude which is excited in the breast of the Italian or the Swiss, when, in some lonely spot, he finds the image of the holy Virgin, and, worn with toil, casts himself at her feet to seek repose, confident in the protection she will afford him, and the sweet sleep she will send him.

THE STATUE OF A BACCHANTE IN THE PORTICO OF A TEMPLE (Jacobs IV. 175, cclxxviii.).

Translated by C.

Stop that Bacchante! see, tho' form'd of stone,
She has gain'd the threshold-Stop her, or she's gone.

Among the fragments of Cratinus, who flourished B.C. 454, there is an epigram on the loss of a statue, which, being the workmanship of Dædalus, the most ingenious artist of his age, was supposed to have escaped from its pedestal. The translation is by Cumberland (“Observer," No. 74):

My statue's gone! By Dædalus 'twas made;

It is not stolen therefore; it has stray'd.

Plato Comicus, who flourished B.C. 428, has a fragment on a statue of Mercury by the same artist, which Cumberland thus translates "Observer," No. 78):

"Hoa there! Who art thou? Answer me. Art dumb?"

INSCRIPTION ON A BATH AT SMYRNA
(Jacobs IV. 190, cccxliii.).

Translated in the "Poetical Register" for 1802.
The Graces bathing on a day,
Love stole their robes and ran away;
So naked here they since have been,
Ashamed in daylight to be seen.

The beautiful imitation of this epigram by Thomas Warton is well

known:

The Graces sought in yonder stream

To cool the fervid day,

When Love's malicious godhead came,

And stole their robes away.

Proud of the theft, the little god

Their robes bade Delia wear;

While they ashamed to stir abroad,

Remain all naked here.

A pretty epigram (Jacobs IV. 187, cccxxiv.) is translated by C.:]

The Graces bath'd here; and enchanted gave,

In fond return, their beauties to my wave.

ON LATE-ACQUIRED WEALTH (Jacobs IV. 210, ccccxxxv.).
Translated by Cowper.

Poor in my youth, and in life's later scenes
Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour,

Who nought enjoy'd while young, denied the means;
And nought when old enjoy'd, denied the power.

This picture of discontent, displays a man who was dissatisfied in his youth, because luxuries were denied him, and in his old age, because his strength was abated. The constant craving of the discontented man for something unpossessed, is well expressed in a fragment of Theognis, translated by Hookham Frere ("Works of Hesiod," &c., 1856, 438):

Learning and wealth the wise and wealthy find
Inadequate to satisfy the mind;

A craving eagerness remains behind;
Something is left for which we cannot rest;
And the last something always seems the best,
Something unknown, or something unpossest.

THE PORTENT (Jacobs IV. 216, cccclxiii.).
Translated by C.

Three playful maids their fate would try,
Who first was doom'd by lot to die.
Three times the awful die is thrown,
Three times it points to one alone,

Who smiled, nor deem'd that fate her own;
When sudden from the roof's dim height
She fell, and pass'd to fated night.—
Portents of ill err not, of brighter hours

No prayers can bring to pass, no human powers.

Instances of portents of death abound in the literature of ancient and modern times. Those which preceded the murder of Cæsar are among the best authenticated. The hold, however, which these have gained on the popular mind, is probably due to Shakespeare's notice of them, who makes Cæsar himself to be so strongly influenced by his wife's dream (though he puts it upon affection for her) as to refuse to go to the senate-house, saying to Decius ("Julius Cæsar," Act II. BC. 2):

Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at home:
She dreamt to-night she saw my statue,
Which, like a fountain with a hundred spouts,
Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans'

Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it.
And these does she apply for warnings and portents,
And evils imminent; and on her knee

Hath begg'd, that I will stay at home to-day.

Many modern stories of such portents only arise from the superstition of the vulgar; but there are a few, for which the evidence is strong, and the good faith of the narrators unimpeachable. It is not for us to say, that warnings of death or calamity may not be in mercy given by Him, in whom we live and move and have our being; and it argues as little wisdom to scoff at every portent and every warning, which is claimed as supernatural, as it does to believe all the folk-lore and the ghost-stories, which the ignorant hold in reverence, and at which children tremble. All that from the experience of mankind can be absolutely asserted is, that, proceeding from natural or supernatural causes, Campbell's celebrated line is continually verified:

And coming events cast their shadows before.

GREEK MANNER OF MOURNING FOR THE DEAD

(Stobæus).

Translated by C.

Lov'd shade! For thee we garlands wear,
For thee with perfumes bathe our hair;
For thee we pledge the festive wine,
For joy, immortal joy, is thine.

Where thou art gone no tears are shed,

"Twere sin to mourn the blest, the dead.

Two stanzas by Byron, "Bright be the place of thy soul," breathe very much the same spirit as this beautiful epigram. It may suffice to quote the second:

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be:

There should not be the shadow of gloom

In aught that reminds us of thee.

Young flowers and an evergreen tree
May spring from the spot of thy rest:
But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest?

In the tombs of Etruria statues are found of men, matrons, and maidens, adorned with jewels, and reclining as at feasts; each with a goblet in the hand in act to pledge his companion. See Dennis' "Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria," II. 442–4.