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English Sapphics have been attempted, but with little success, because in our language we have no certain rules by which to determine the quantity. The following version was made merely in the way of experiment how far it might be possible to imitate a Latin Sapphic in English without any attention to that circumstance.

HOR. B. I. ODE XXXVIII.

Boy! I detest all Persian fopperies,
Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting,
Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee,
Where latest roses linger.

Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily) Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking Beneath my vine's cool shelter.

HOR. LIB. II. ODE XVI.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti.

EASE is the weary merchant's pray'r,

Who plows bencath th' Ægcan flood, When neither moon nor stars appear,

Or faintly glimmer through the cloud.

For ease the Mede with quiver graced, For ease the Thracian hero sighs, Delightful ease all pant to taste,

A blessing which no treasure buys.

For neither gold can lull to rest,
Nor all a Consul's guard beat off
The tumults of a troubled breast,

The cares that haunt a gilded roof.

Happy the man, whose table shows
A few clean ounces of old plate,
No fear intrudes on his repose,

No sordid wishes to be great.

Poor short-liv'd things, what plans we lay!
Ah, why forsake our native home!
To distant climates speed away;

For self sticks close where'er we roam.

Care follows hard; and soon o'ertakes The well-rigg'd ship, the warlike steed, Her destin'd quarry ne'er forsakes,

Not the wind flies with half her speed.

From anxious fears of future ill

Guard well the cheerful, happy Now; Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile,

No blessing is unmix'd below.

K

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds,

Thy num'rous flocks around thee graze, And the best purple Tyre affords Thy robe magnificent displays.

On me indulgent Heav'n bestow'd
A rural mansion, neat and small;
This Lyre;—and as for yonder crowd,
The happiness to hate them all.

I make no apology for the introduction of the following lines, though I have never learned who wrote them. Their elegance will sufficiently recommend them to persons of classical taste and erudition, and I shall be happy if the English version that they have received from me, be found not to dishonour them. Affection for the memory of the worthy man whom they celebrate, alone prompted me to this endeavour. W. COWPER.

VERSES

TO THE

MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD,

SPOKEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT AFTER

HIS DECEASE.

ABIIT senex! periit senex amabilis !

Quo non fuit jucundior.

Lugete vos, ætas quibus maturior

Senem colendum præstitit,

Seu quando, viribus valentioribus

Firmoque fretus pectore,

Florentiori vos juventute excolens

Curâ fovebat patriâ,

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