Yet of her charms the count is clear, I ween: There are five hundred things we see, And then five hundred too there be, Not seen. Her wit, her wisdom are direct from Heaven: But the sweet Graces from their store A thousand finer touches more Have given. Her cheek's warm dye what painter's brush could note? Beside her Flora would be wan And white as whiteness of the swan Her throat. Her supple waist, her arm from Venus came, Hebe her nose and lip confess, And, looking in her eyes, you guess Her name. THE NAMELESS CHARM. (_Expanded from an Epigram of Piron._) Stella, 'tis not your dainty head, Your artless look, I own; 'Tis not your dear coquettish tread, Or this, or that, alone; Nor is it all your gifts combined; 'Tis something in your face,-- The untranslated, undefined, Uncertainty of grace, That taught the Boy on Ida's hill To whom the meed was due; _All three have equal charms--but still This one I give it to!_ TO PHIDYLE. (HOR. III., 23.) Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain, At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow, O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall know Thy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane, And hale the nurslings of thy flock remain Through the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow 'Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow, Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain The Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce avail Thy modest gods with much slain to assail, Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please. Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault; More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease, Though pious but with meal and crackling salt. TO HIS BOOK. (HOR. EP. I., 20.) For mart and street you seem to pine With restless glances, Book of mine! Still craving on some stall to stand, Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand. You chafe at locks, and burn to quit Your modest haunt and audience fit For hearers less discriminate. I reared you up for no such fate. Still, if you _must_ be published, go; But mind, you can't come back, you know!