Thou gazest at the stars, my star, And would I were the sky, That I might view thee from afar With many a glowing eye. By Theodorus, to Harmocrates, whose nasal developement was uncommonly huge. Thy nose, my friend, is so excessive, To call it _thine_ would be a wrong to’t, But rather _that_ is the possessive, And we should judge that you belong to’t; And having met thee, properly I say, Nose’s Harmocrates I saw to-day. Ammianus gives quite a caustic turn to the common wish, that the earth may lie lightly on the breast of the departed. Light lie the earth, Nearchus, on thy breast, That dogs may tear thee from thy place of rest. Here follows a little thing, replete with that still despair, so natural to a thoughtful Heathen. _By Archias._ I praise the Thracians, since for those they mourn, Whose eyes are opening to the light of day, But joy, when Death, the slave of Fate, has torn Their sons and daughters from their arms away. For we, the living, through each cruel ill With painful steps continually go, While they, who sleep beneath the grave’s green hill, Have found, at last, a refuge from their wo. Here is a most beautiful epitaph upon Sophocles, composed by Limmias, the Theban. In the first place, I will render it literally and consecutively into plain English, although, reader, thou knowest that—saving only in the Bible—the life and loveliness of all poetry dies under this _ossifying_ process. “Gently over the tomb of Sophocles, gently, oh! ivy, mayst thou creep, pouring thy green curls abroad; and all about it may the petals of the rose bloom, and the grape-loving vine, scattering its moist branches around, on account of the wise docility, which he of the honey-tongue displayed, among the Muses and the Graces.” It was thus elegantly translated many years since: Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid: Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine With blushing roses and the clustering vine; Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung, Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung, Whose soul, exalted like a god of wit, Among the Muses and the Graces writ. Beautifully done—yet somewhat marred by the incongruous idea of _a soul writing_. For my own attempt, I claim no merit, save something of fidelity.