Brother! o'er many lands and oceans borne, I reach thy grave, death's last sad rite to pay; To call thy silent dust in vain, and mourn, Since ruthless fate has hurried thee away: Woe's me! yet now upon thy tomb I lay-- All soaked with tears for thee, thee loved so well-- What gifts our fathers gave the honored clay Of valued friends; take them, my grief they tell: And now, forever hail! forever fare thee well! Translation of James Cranstoun. FAREWELL TO HIS FELLOW-OFFICERS The milder breath of Spring is nigh; The stormy equinoctial sky To Zephyr's gentle breezes yields. Behind me soon the Phrygian fields, Nicæa's sun-beat realm, shall lie. To Asia's famous towns we'll hie. My heart, that craves to wander free, Throbs even now expectantly. With zeal my joyous feet are strong; Farewell, dear comrades, loved so long! Afar together did we roam; Now ways diverse shall lead us home. Translation of W. C. Lawton. VERSES FROM AN EPITHALAMIUM And now, ye gates, your wings unfold! The virgin draweth nigh. Behold The torches, how upon the air They shake abroad their gleaming hair! Come, bride, come forth! no more delay! The day is hurrying fast away! But lost in shame and maiden fears, She stirs not,--weeping, as she hears The friends that to her tears reply,-- Thou must advance, the hour is nigh! Come, bride, come forth! no more delay! The day is hurrying fast away!" Dry up thy tears! For well I trow, No woman lovelier than thou, Aurunculeia, shall behold The day all panoplied in gold, And rosy light uplift his head Above the shimmering ocean's bed! As in some rich man's garden-plot, With flowers of every hue inwrought, Stands peerless forth with drooping brow The hyacinth, so standest thou! Come, bride, come forth! no more delay! The day is hurrying fast away! * * * * * Soon my eyes shall see, mayhap, Young Torquatus on the lap Of his mother, as he stands Stretching out his tiny hands, And his little lips the while Half-open on his father smile. And oh! may he in all be like Manlius his sire, and strike Strangers, when the boy they meet, As his father's counterfeit, And his face the index be Of his mother's chastity! Him, too, such fair fame adorn, Son of such a mother born, That the praise of both entwined Call Telemachus to mind, With her who nursed him on her knee, Unparagoned Penelope! Now, virgins, let us shut the door! Enough we've toyed, enough and more! But fare ye well, ye loving pair, We leave ye to each other's care; And blithely let your hours be sped In joys of youth and lustyhed! Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.