O strand of Formiae, sweet with genial air, Who art Apollinaris' chosen home When, taking flight from his task-mistress Rome, The tired man doffs his load of troubling care. * * * * * Here the sea's bosom quivers in the wind; 'Tis no dead calm, but sweet serenity, Which bears the painted boat before the breeze, As though some maid at pains the heat to ban, Should waft a genial zephyr with her fan. No fisher needs to buffet the high seas, But whiles from bed or couch his line he casts, May see his captive in the toils below. * * * * * But, niggard Rome, thou giv'st how grudgingly! What the year's tale of days at Formiae For him who tied by work in town must stay? Stewards and lacqueys, happy your employ, Your lords prepare enjoyment, you enjoy. A. E. STREET. These are surely the most beautiful _scazons_[664] in the Latin tongue; the metre limps no more; a master-hand has wrought it to exquisite melody; the quiet undulation of the sea, the yacht's easy gliding over its surface, live before us in its music. Even more delicate is the homelier description of the gardens of Julius Martialis on the slopes of the Janiculum. It is animated by the sincerity that never fails Martial when he writes to his friend: Iuli iugera pauca Martialis hortis Hesperidum beatiora longo Ianiculi iugo recumbunt: lati collibus imminent recessus et planus modico tumore vertex caelo perfruitur sereniore et curvas nebula tegente valles solus luce nitet peculiari: puris leniter admoventur astris celsae culmina delicata villae. hinc septem dominos videre montes et totam licet aestimare Romam, Albanos quoque Tusculosque colles et quodcumque iacet sub urbe frigus (iv. 64). Martial's few acres, e'en more blest Than those famed gardens of the West, Lie on Janiculum's long crest; Above the slopes wide reaches hang recessed. The level, gently swelling crown Breathes air from purer heavens blown; When mists the hollow valleys drown 'Tis radiant with a light that's all its own. The clear stars almost seem to lie On the wrought roof that's built so high; The seven hills stand in majesty, And Rome is summed in one wide sweep of eye. Tusculan, Alban hills unfold, Each nook which holds its store of cold. A. E. STREET. Such a picture is unsurpassed in any language.[665] Statius, with all his brilliance, never came near such perfect success; he lacks sincerity; he can juggle with words against any one, but he never learned their truest and noblest use.