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And dropping down on either side
Wisdom and the melting Muse Together mingle a resistless charm ; * The lord of battle drops his arm, And heav'nly souls their loftier fancies lose. he has omitted one beautiful phrase, βλεφαρων αδο κλαίσρον, which the attentive West has but poorly translated, if I remember right;
While gentle sleep his closing eyelid seals; besides the entire omission of that majestic description of the posture of the royal bird while dropping to slumber,
6 de XYWCOW
υγρου νωτον αιωρει, &c. yet I cannot but think, that Pindar is not a little indebted to his imitator for the translation of his κελαινω πιν δ' επι οι νεφελαν &c. which our Bard has thus rendered;
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
* Kas gap Brac
On Thracia's hills the lord of War
* But they, from whom immortal Jove
Fierce with hundred-handed strength,
Where the beams of day expire,
* Horace seems to ascribe to music a very different effect on wicked minds.
Vide Od. II. Lib. 3.
Arid oft the volvent flames sublimely bright,
Lifting short his painful head
Tooth and nail'strove to weary, him out of his life,
But, mark me-he ne'er thought of taking his wife.
But Heaven, at length, Job's forbearance rewards ;
At length double wealth, dotible honour arrives ; Heaven doubles his children, slaves, houses, and herds
But we don't hear a word of a couple of wires.
Movemur, nescio quo pacto, ipsis locis, quibus, quorum admin ramur, adsunt vestigia.
O! that to yonder sphere of light,
That scorns the mountain's crested height, Where never eagle dipt her plume in gold,
Upborne on wings of rapture I might soar, The world beneath with tranceful gaze behold, Then close my eyes in night, and see no more!
So might I from those frozen snows,
Where Norway's son's disdain repose, so where with blood-shot eye, and tusked mouth, Laps the fierce boar the billows of the South,
With panting soul, and orbs that mock at space, Each deedful scene of carth, that Iame has stampt,
Yet whither, whither shall I turn
The ardour of my longing eyes,
Or there, where Alpine ramparts rise.
Or where, of kingly floods supreme,
Or Scylla holds, with savage sway,
Its wild, unvoyageable way:
The angry Persian lashed the rebel tide,
But where that mighty dome,
That swept the southern sky,
Low in the dust its glories lie!
The warning voice has gone in vain
And quaff the cup of revelry!
Your curst carousals madly keep,
Hereafter they shall wake to weep: