alamos, parumque casto
Vexabat pede; sive Julietae
Luctantes odio paterno amores
Maris: te sequuntur Horror,
Arrectusque comas Pavor. Vicissim
In fletum populus jubetur ire,
Et suspiria personant theatrum.

Mox divinior enitescis, altrix
Altoris vigil et parens parentis.
At non Graecia sola vindicavit
Paternae columen decusque vitae
Natam; restat item patri Britanno
Et par Euphrasiae puella, quamque
Ad scenam pietas tulit paternam.

O Bruntona, cito exitura virgo,
Et visu cito subtrahenda nostro,
Breves deliciae, dolorque longus!
Gressum siste parumper oro; teque
Virtutesque tuas lyra sonandas
Tradit Granta suis vicissim almunis.

The following very elegant poem, published as a version of this ode, is
rather a paraphrase than a translation. What Gibbon said of Pope's Homer
may with some truth be applied to it: "_It has every merit but that of
resemblance to the original._" Might not a version equally elegant, but
adhering more closely to the original, and preserving more of its
peculiar genius be found in America. We wish some of our readers who
feel the inspiration of a happy Muse would make the experiment.

Maid of unboastful charms, whom white-rob'd Truth,
Right onward guiding through the maze of youth,
Forbade the Circe, PRAISE, to witch thy soul,
And dash'd to earth th' intoxicating bowl;
Thee, meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,
Clasp'd to her bosom, with a mother's care;
And, as she lov'd thy kindred form to trace,
The slow smile wander'd o'er her pallid face,
For never yet did mortal voice impart
Tones more congenial to the sadden'd heart;
Whether to rouse the sympathetic glow,
Thou pourest lone Monimia's tale of wo;
Or happy clothest, with funereal vest,
The bridal loves that wept in Juliet's breast.
O'er our chill limbs the thrilling terrors creep,
Th' entranc'd passions still their vigils keep;
Whilst the deep sighs, responsive to the song,
Sound through the silence of the trembling throng.
But purer raptures lighten'd from thy face,
And spread o'er all thy form a holier grace;
When from the daughter's breast the father drew
The life he gave, and mix'd the big tear's dew.
Nor was it thine th' heroic strain to roll,
With mimic feelings, foreign from the soul;
Bright in thy parent's eye we mark'd the tear;
Methought he said, "Thou art no actress here!
A semblance of thyself, the Grecian dame,