The walls of Troy--the walls of Troy! 'Tis an old tale you will enjoy: A foe is there amid the fire, A foe 'twixt foemen in their ire. Aeneas takes a pious load With upward prayer to his god; E'en his old father, whose gray head Lay 'mong the dying and the dead: O venerable spoil in truth, Fit from the demons to fetch ruth. Fierce roar the flames, and fiercer still Rages the fight on plain and hill. 'Spare the old man,' Aeneas cries; 'Spare the white hairs; or if he dies, Be mine the privilege of his pyre; Be mine with him at once t'expire.' Scarcely are the true words spoken, When through line of battle broken Swift he passes; and this brave son His father bears in triumph on; Reck'ning that he a trophy has That the conquerors' doth surpass. He safely goes: for, lo, amaz'd, The foe upon them wistful gaz'd: The conquerors the conquer'd are By filial love so strong, so fair. The flames Troy willingly receives, Jubilant that the old man lives; Welcomes the torches, that the night May not conceal this deed of light. All praise to thee, high-hearted son! Thou an undying name hast won: The debt of love thou hast repaid Unto thy father, who is made Thy debtor now; for life he gave, And thou in turn his life dost save. Happy the son whom thus we see Father of his own sire to be. G. PHOENICIS GENETHLIACON ET EPICEDION. Phœnix alumna mortis, Quam mira tua puerpera! Tu scandis haud nidos, sed ignes. Non parere sed perire ceu parata: Mors obstetrix; atque ipsa tu teipsam paris, Tu tuique mater ipsa es, Tu tuique filia. Tu sic odora messis Surgis tuorum funerum; Tibique per tuam ruinam Reparata, te succedis ipsa. Mors ô Faecunda; sancta ô lucra pretiosae necis! Vive, monstrum dulce, vive, Tu tibique suffice. TRANSLATION. OF THE GENERATION AND REGENERATION OF THE PHŒNIX. Phœnix, nursling of Death, How wondrous is thy birth! Thou gainest not thy breath I' nest, like birds of Earth: 'Mid fire all flaming hot Thou strangely art begot; The leaping flames thee cherish When thou seem'st to perish. Lo, Death thy midwife is; Lo, thyself thou bearest. O tell me how is this, That mystery thou preparest? Thou mother of thyself! Thou daughter of thyself! When thy 'pointed hour is done, Thou an od'rous nest entwinest; And, as for thy destruction, Thou 'midst its fires reclinest. Most surely thou'rt consum'd; Most surely thou'rt relum'd. O fruitful Death! O gainful Death! Live then, self-containèd bird; Most pleasing wonder. The old legend is absurd; But truth lies under. G. EPITAPHIUM.