You, who have compassed land and sea Now all unburied lie; All vain your store of human lore, For you were doomed to die. The sire of Pelops likewise fell, Jove's honored mortal guest-- So king and sage of every age At last lie down to rest. Plutonian shades enfold the ghost Of that majestic one Who taught as truth that he, forsooth, Had once been Pentheus' son; Believe who may, he's passed away And what he did is done. A last night comes alike to all-- One path we all must tread, Through sore disease or stormy seas Or fields with corpses red-- Whate'er our deeds that pathway leads To regions of the dead. _Shade_. The fickle twin Illyrian gales O'erwhelmed me on the wave-- But that you live, I pray you give My bleaching bones a grave! Oh, then when cruel tempests rage You all unharmed shall be-- Jove's mighty hand shall guard by land And Neptune's on the sea. Perchance you fear to do what shall Bring evil to your race. Or, rather fear that like me here You'll lack a burial place. So, though you be in proper haste, Bide long enough I pray, To give me, friend, what boon will send My soul upon its way! UHLAND'S "CHAPEL." Yonder stands the hillside chapel, 'Mid the evergreens and rocks, All day long it hears the song Of the shepherd to his flocks. Then the chapel bell goes tolling-- Knolling for a soul that's sped; Silent and sad the shepherd lad Hears the requiem for the dead. Shepherd, singers of the valley, Voiceless now, speed on before; Soon shall knell that chapel bell For the songs you'll sing no more. "THE HAPPY ISLES" OF HORACE. Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles In the golden haze off yonder, Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles And the ocean loves to wander. Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills, Proudly the fig rejoices, Merrily dance the virgin rills, Blending their myriad voices. Our herds shall suffer no evil there, But peacefully feed and rest them-- Never thereto shall prowling bear Or serpent come to molest them. Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold, Nor feverish drought distress us, But he that compasseth heat and cold Shall temper them both to bless us. There no vandal foot has trod, And the pirate hordes that wander Shall never profane the sacred sod Of these beautiful isles out yonder. Never a spell shall blight our vines Nor Sirius blaze above us. But you and I shall drink our wines And sing to the loved that love us. So come with me where fortune smiles And the gods invite devotion-- Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles In the haze of that far-off ocean! HORATIAN LYRICS. I. Odes I, 11.