’Tis of no use. Inspiration cannot be awakened to-night. The summit of Soracte is no longer ‘white with snow’--the waters of Helicon stand at blood-heat--the fountain of Bandusia, “_splendidior vitro_,” has seethed its own frogs--and the gushings of Arethusa herself are hot enough to boil eggs. Nevertheless, one draught, oh goddess. ‘Extremum hunc, mihi concede laborem.’ _Upon Magnasus, by Lucillius._ With nose so huge, Olympicus, beware How thy mad feet approach a fountain cool, And in thy wanderings, shun with heedful care The sleeping mirror of the mountain-pool, For, like Narcissus of unhappy fate, Thy wondrous phiz will through the waters shine, And as he died of love, so thou of hate Wilt gaze astonished, and with anguish pine. The following is trite, yet true. The ambitious might, but will not profit thereby. What is so obvious is forgotten. All names, all ranks are levelled by the grave, The bloom of beauty, and the pride of state, And he, who, living, was a humble slave, Death renders even as the monarch great. _To a statue of Venus at Cnidos, by Praxiteles._ No! not the artist’s skillful hand, Nor chisel wrought that form divine; For thus didst thou on Ida stand, And thus before the shepherd shine. * * * * * Around the pillar, that surmounts my tomb, No garlands wreathe, and scatter no perfume, Nor burn the watch fire--’tis an empty stone-- Thy waste is useless, for my race is run. Give what thou hast, while life is in its bud-- These late libations turn my _dust_ to _mud_. The buried drink not; for, with life’s last charms, Forgetfulness enshrouds them in her arms. There is very little poetry in the following commemoration: but, if the poor fellow did actually perform the _subscribed_ feats, and that for fame, he deserved to be immortalized. _To the statue of Phayllus, a Crotonian, and victor in the_ five games. Feet fifty-five Phayllus leaped, (At which the Muses wondered) And when the disc he raised and hurled, He conquered full five hundred. _The tettix (a species of balm-cricket) to its shepherd-captors._ Why, oh ye shepherds, from the dew-moist boughs With thriftless chase the tettix do ye take, The Dryads’ wayside singer, who arouse The lonely echoes, till the woods awake, And chant at mid-day, where the wood-nymph dwells Among the mountains and the darkling dells. The black-bird, starling, and the thrush assault, For they are daily plunderers of you; ’Tis right that they should perish for their fault; But who is jealous for the morning-dew? TO CORRESPONDENTS An essay “On the reason of animals not the reason of man,” is accepted, and shall appear soon. An essay “On the study of human nature in the works of the imagination,” is under consideration.