Exsecrandum venenatum
Hunc dirumque mî dolorem,
Qui maxillam cruciatam
Nunc percurrit; ac sonorem
Dat in auribus frequènter,
Cum sevitiâ rodente;
Nervi quoque lacerantur,
Quasi machinâ torquente!
Febri, quidèm, aestuante,
Rheumatismo commordente,
Vel rigore congelante,
Sive colicâ premente,
Nos vicini miserentur,
Luctuoso comploratu;
Sed, Inferne morbos inter,
Nostro ludis ejulatu!
Barba madet mea sputis;
Atque sterno locum sellis,
In cachinnum nunc solutis
Antè foculum puellis,
Cùm saltare me viderent;
Memet interim volente
Ut in pectines urgerent,
Ex dolore, tam demente.
Inter omnes cruciatus,
Quibus homines premuntur,--
Sive messes devastates,
Sive pacta quae franguntur,
Sive funus amicorum,
Sive poenitentium sedeis,
Sive dolos improborum,--
Longè plurimùm tu lædis!
Ubicunque locus iste--
Orcum sacerdotes ferunt--
Unde planctus fremunt tristè,
Ac in ordinem sederunt
Mala valde luctuosa--
Istìc, uti mî videtur,
Odontalgia probrosa!
Istìc palma _te_ tolletur.
O, maligne tu torveque
Cacodæmon, instigare
Tot rixarum soliteque,
Ut in tabo saltitare
Cæci homines cogantur!
Fac, qui hostes sunt Scotorum,
Anni spatium cruciantur
Dirum dentium per dolorem!
Before I had finished the closing stanza, the pain entirely left
me--whether it was owing to the exorcizing qualities of the Latin, the
soothing influence of the verse, the defiance-breathing spirit of the
sentiment, or to the _length of time_ requisite for the performance,
I am unable to decide. Suffice it to say, that if any one, in making
trial of the remedy himself, after translating ten English stanzas into
Latin rhyme, experiences no relief, let him take an hundred stanzas. If
after this performance the pain still continues, let the prescription
be a thousand stanzas; and unless the patient be an uncommonly rapid,
or an unpardonably careless versifier, we hesitate not to predict that
ere he has accomplished half his task, one of two things will prove
true--either the tooth-ache will have left him for ever, or _he_ will
have bidden farewell to the tooth-ache, and, with it, to all the pains,
and sorrows, and sufferings of this ‘vale of tears.’
GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. V.
Whew! baked, parched, roasted, toasted, seethed, stewed, boiled,
broiled, and all the other synonymes of igniferous horror. Oh! ye
dark-skinned Ethiops, how I love you! Verily I am an amalgamationist.
“Ye are black, but comely as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of
Solomon.” Though angry Phoebus did once pour his fierceness upon your
sweating brows, till they were dusky as the wings of night, yet are ye
not misimproved thereby; for your impenetrable nigritude, surmounted
by your oily fleece--more precious than that golden one, after which
sailed Jason and the Argonauts--can bid defiance to the heat of
Hyperion. One would think young Phoebus had again mounted the car of
the far-flinging Apollo, when, as Ovid has it,
“Inferiusque suis fraternos currere Luna
Admiratur equos; ambustaque nubila fumant.”
The winds are currents of fused lead, and the atmosphere is a huge
sudorific. What relation has the weather to Greek Anthology? “Much
every way.” The heat unnerves the body, the body depresses the mind,
and the weakness of the mind deteriorates Greek Anthology. Yet now that
the god of day is on the outmost skirts of the horizon, let me invoke
thy still descent, Oh! Muse of Evening, in the exquisite words of
Collins.
“Oh, Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed--” &c. &c.
’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?