Little maiden sweeter far to me Than the swans are with their vaunted snows, Maid more tender than the lambkins be Where Galaesus by Phalantus flows; Daintier than the daintiest shells that lie By the ripples of the Lucrine wave; Choicer than new-polished ivory That the herds in Indian jungles gave; Choicer than Erythrae's marbles white, Snows new-fallen, lilies yet unsoiled: Softer were your tresses and more bright Than the locks by German maidens coiled: Than the finest fleeces Baetis shows, Than the dormouse with her golden hue: Lips more fragrant than the Paestan rose, Than the Attic bees' first honey-dew, Or an amber ball, new-pressed and warm; Paled the peacock's sheen in your compare; E'en the winsome squirrel lost his charm, And the Phoenix seemed no longer rare. Scarce Erotion's ashes yet are cold; Greedily grim fate ordained to smite E'er her sixth brief winter had grown old-- Little love, my bliss, my heart's delight. A.D. INNES. Through all the playful affectations of the lines we get the portrait of a fairy-like child, light-footed as the squirrel, golden-haired and fair as ivory or lilies.[669] Martial was a child-lover before he was a man of letters. Beautiful as these little poems are, there is in Martial little trace of feeling for the sorrows of humanity in general. He can feel for his intimate friends, and his tears are ready to flow for his patron's sorrows. But the general impression given by his poetry is that of a certain hardness and lack of feeling, of a limited sympathy, and an unemotional temperament. It is a relief to come upon a poem such as that in which he describes a father's poignant anguish for the loss of his son (ix. 74): effigiem tantum pueri pictura Camoni servat, et infantis parva figura manet. florentes nulla signavit imagine voltus, dum timet ora pius muta videre pater. Here as in happy infancy he smiled Behold Camonus--painted as a child; For on his face as seen in manhood's days His sorrowing father would not dare to gaze. W. S. B. or to find a sudden outbreak of sympathy with the sorrows of the slave (iii. 21): proscriptum famulus servavit fronte notata, non fuit haec domini vita sed invidia.[670] When scarred with cruel brand, the slave Snatched from the murderer's hand His proscript lord, not life he gave His tyrant, but the brand. PROFESSOR GOLDWIN SMITH.