Α.

XXVII.

Ω. Αρ' ἤριπ' ἐς κευθμῶια; κἀς σκότον κενόν ; ὡς ἐν καταρραγέντι Καυκάσῳ νέφει πίτνει τις, ἐμβρόντητά τ' αἰετὸς πτερὰ δίνῃ θυέλλων ἐμπλακείς, τά τ' ὄμματα τὰ πρόσθεν οὐ μεμυκόθ ̓ ἡλίου βολαῖς ἀργῇ τυφλωθεὶς ἀστραπῇ· βαρεῖα δὲ βάλλει χάλαζα σῶμ ̓ ἀγωνισθὲν πόνῳ· τὸ δ ̓ αὖ τελευτὼν πρηνὲς ἤριπεν βίᾳ, ὕπερθεν ἐμπεπηγὸς αἰθρίῳ κρυεῖ.

XXVIII.

O FRIEND, it seems, when first our lives begin,
When we, fresh mariners, first hoist the sail,
On favouring seas by favouring breezes borne,
As though the bark of our felicity

Could never be ornately trimmed enough,
Nor be enough full-freighted with delights;
As though each thing we wanted were a wrong
Done to us ;-so we loosen from the land.
But what another lesson will anon

Be learned; and of them who claimed so much,
Deeming it all too little for their needs,
Some will be thankful if one broken plank
Of all their tempest-shattered bark remain,
Bearing them up above the salt-sea foam
Of this world's infelicity to shore.

XXVIII.

Ὅταν γάρ, ὡς ἔοικ', ἀφορμῶντες βίου ἡμεῖς τὸ πρῶτον, ὡς κυβέρνηται νέοι, ἀρώμεθ' ἵστι, ουρίαν πόντου πλάκα ὑπ ̓ οὐρίαις πνοαῖσιν ἐξανηγμένοι, μέλλει τὰ καλλωπίσματ ̓ ὀλβίας σκαφῆς χὴ ναῦν γεμίζουσ ̓ οὐκέτ ̓ ἀρκέσειν χλιδή· ὡς πάνθ', ὁσώνπερ ἐνδεεῖς πεφύκαμεν, ἀτιμίαν ἔχοντα πλεονέκτῃ φρενί· τοιαῦτα δὴ φρονοῦντες ἐξορμώμεθα· οἵαν δὲ γνώμην, ὦγαθ', ἐκμαθήσομεν νέαν μεταλλαξάντες ἐν χρόνῳ φυσίν· οἳ γάρ ποτ' ἠξιώμεθ ̓ ἐκ πολλῆς ὕβρεως χρέος τοσοῦτον καὶ τόδ ̓ ἐξάρκον μόγις πρὸς ἐσχάτων δή· στερκτέον χρείων τινὶ ναὸς ῥαγείσης εἴπερ ἐξ ἐρειπίων ἀλλ' ἓν περίεστι κωπίον σεσωσμένον, ἐφ ̓ ᾧ σαλεύον οἶδμα ναυστολῶν ἅλος ἐς γῆν δύσομβρον ἐξαλύξεται μόρον.

XXIX.

Nox erat, et placidum carpebant fessa soporem
Corpora per terras: sylvæque et sæva quiêrant
Æquora quum medio volvuntur sidera lapsu ;
Quum tacet omnis ager, pecudes, pictæque volucres,
Quæque lacus late liquidos, quæque ardua dumis
Rura tenent, somno positæ sub nocte silenti,
Lenibant curas, et membra oblita laborum.
At non infelix animi Phoenissa: nec unquam
Solvitur in somnos, oculisve aut pectore noctem
Accipit; ingeminant curæ, rursusque resurgens
Sævit amor, magnoque irarum fluctuat æstu.

Sic adeo insistit, secumque ita corde volutat: En! quid ago? rursusne procos irrisa priores Experiar, Nomadumque petam connubia supplex, Quos ego sim toties jam dedignata maritos? Iliacas igitur classes, atque uitima Teucrûm

XXIX.

TRANSLATION FROM THE FOURTH ÆNEID OF VIRGIL.

'TWAS Night, and creatures of the land and deep
Drank the sweet slumber that the weary sleep.
Now sinks the strife of wood and raging ocean,
Stars in high zenith wheel with noiseless motion.
No voice is heard upon the silent wold

From plumaged birds, or from the slumbering fold:
Whoe'er the tenants of wide gleaming lake,
Or the dark shadows of the bosky brake,
Couched in deep sleep beneath night's canopy,
And lulled to sweet forgetfulness they lie.
But not the poor Phoenician. Night's still call
Charms not her eyelids, or her bosom's thrall;
Back on her heart redoubled passions roll,
And Love's returning current floods her soul.

Thus she began and communed with her woe:
Ah! wretch deluded, whither shall I go?
Make trial now of those I scorned to wed,
And sue the honour of a Wanderer's bed!
Ah no! embark amidst the crews of Troy,