er thou mayst be,
That hast this small field after me,
Let the yearly rites be paid
To her little slender shade;
So shall no disease or jar
Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar;
But this tomb be here alone
The only melancholy stone.

--Leigh Hunt

[Footnote 3: A little girl who died at six years of age.]

_NON AMO TE_

Martial. I, 32

Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare:
Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.[4]

[Footnote 4: This well known epigram is the original of one
equally famous in English, that written by Tom Brown on Dr. John
Fell, about 1670.

"I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.
The reason why I cannot tell;
But this I know and know full well
I do not like thee, Dr. Fell." ]

GRATITUDE

Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat
And sae the Lord be thanket.

--Burns

Translation

Sunt quibus est panis
nec amor tamen ullus edendi:
Sunt quibus hic amor est
deest tamen ipse cibus.
Panis at est nobis
et amor quoque panis edendi
Pro quibus est Domino
gratia habenda Deo.

--_The Lawrence Latinist_

A HYMN TO THE LARES

It was, and still my care is,
To worship ye, the Lares,
With crowns of greenest parsley,
And garlick chives not scarcely;
For favors here to warme me,
And not by fire to harme me;
For gladding so my hearth here,
With inoffensive mirth here;
That while the wassaile bowle here
With North-down ale doth troule here,
No sillable doth fall here,
To marre the mirth at all here.
For which, O chimney-keepers!
(I dare not call ye sweepers)
So long as I am able
To keep a country-table
Great be my fare, or small cheere,
I'll eat and drink up all here.

--Robert Herrick

ELYSIUM

Past the despairing wail--
And the bright banquets of the Elysian Vale
Melt every care away!
Delight, that breathes and moves forever,
Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!
Elysian life survey!
There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads,
His merry west-winds blithely leads
The ever-blooming May!
Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the Hours,
In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers,
And Truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day.
And joy today and joy tomorrow
But wafts the airy soul aloft;
The very name is lost to Sorrow,
And Pain is Rapture tuned more exquisitely soft.
Here the Pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb,
And forgets