Hugo'S "Pool In The Forest."

How calm, how beauteous, and how cool-- How like a sister to the skies, Appears the broad, transparent pool That in this quiet forest lies. The sunshine ripples on its face, And from the world around, above, It hath caught down the nameless grace Of such reflections as we love.

But deep below its surface crawl The reptile horrors of the Night-- The dragons, lizards, serpents--all The hideous brood that hate the Light; Through poison fern and slimy weed, And under ragged, jagged stones They scuttle, or, in ghoulish greed, They lap a dead man's bones.

And as, O pool, thou dost cajole With seemings that beguile us well, So doeth many a human soul That teemeth with the lusts of hell.

HORACE I, 4.

'Tis spring! the boats bound to the sea; The breezes, loitering kindly over The fields, again bring herds and men The grateful cheer of honeyed clover.

Now Venus hither leads her train, The Nymphs and Graces join in orgies, The moon is bright and by her light Old Vulcan kindles up his forges.

Bind myrtle now about your brow, And weave fair flowers in maiden tresses-- Appease God Pan, who, kind to man, Our fleeting life with affluence blesses.

But let the changing seasons mind us That Death's the certain doom of mortals-- Grim Death who waits at humble gat And likewise stalks through kingly portals.

Soon, Sestius, shall Plutonian shades Enfold you with their hideous seemings-- Then love and mirth and joys of earth Shall fade away like fevered dreamings.

LOVE SONG--HEINE.

Many a beauteous flower doth spring From the tears that flood my eyes, And the nightingale doth sing In the burthen of my sighs.

If, O child, thou lovest me, Take these flowerets, fair and frail, And my soul shall waft to thee Love songs of the nightingale.

HORACE II, 3.

Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray; For though you pine your life away With dull complaining breath, Or speed with song and wine each day-- Still, still your doom is death.

Where the white poplar and the pine In glorious arching shade combine And the brook singing goes, Bid them bring store of nard and wine And garlands of the rose.

Let's live while chance and youth obtain-- Soon shall you quit this fair domain Kissed by the Tiber's gold, And all your earthly pride and gain Some heedless heir shall hold.

One ghostly boat shall some time bear From scenes of mirthfulness or care Each fated human soul!-- Shall waft and leave his burden where The waves of Lethe roll.

So come, I pri' thee, Dellius, mine-- Let's sing our songs and drink our wine In that sequestered nook Where the white poplar and the pine Stand listening to the brook.

THE TWO COFFINS.

In yonder old cathedral Two lonely coffins lie; In one the head of the state lies dead, And a singer sleeps hard by.

Once had that king great power, And proudly he ruled the land-- His crown e'en now is on his brow And his sword is in his hand!

How sweetly sleeps the singer With calmly folded eyes, And on the breast of the bard at rest The harp that he sounded lies.

The castle walls are falling And war distracts the land, But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot-- There in that dead king's hand!

But with every grace of nature There seems to float along-- To cheer the hearts of men-- The singer's deathless song!

HORACE I, 31.

As forth he pours the new made wine, What blessing asks the lyric poet-- What boon implores in this fair shrine Of one full likely to bestow it?

Not for Sardinia's plenteous store, Nor for Calabrian herds he prayeth, Nor yet for India's wealth galore, Nor meads where voiceless Liris playeth.

Let honest riches celebrate The harvest earned--I'd not deny it; Yet am I pleased with my estate, My humble home, my frugal diet.

Child of Latonia, this I crave; May peace of mind and health attend me, And down into my very grave May this dear lyre of mine befriend me!

HORACE TO HIS LUTE.

If ever in the sylvan shade A song immortal we have made, Come now, O lute, I pri' thee come-- Inspire a song of Latium.

A Lesbian first thy glories proved-- In arms and in repose he loved To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise His voice in Love's and Liber's praise; The Muses, too, and him who clings To Mother Venus' apron-strings, And Lycus beautiful, he sung In those old days when you were young.

O shell, that art the ornament Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content To Jove, and soothing troubles all-- Come and requite me, when I call!

HORACE I, 22.

Fuscus, whoso to good inclines-- And is a faultless liver-- Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear, Nor poison-arrowed quiver.

Ay, though through desert wastes he roams, Or scales the rugged mountains, Or rests beside the murmuring tide Of weird Hydaspan fountains!

Lo, on a time, I gayly paced The Sabine confines shady, And sung in glee of Lalage, My own and dearest lady.

And, as I sung, a monster wolf Slunk through the thicket from me--- But for that song, as I strolled along He would have overcome me!

Set me amid those poison mists Which no fair gale dispelleth, Or in the plains where silence reigns And no thing human dwelleth;

Still shall I love my Lalage-- Still sing her tender graces; And, while I sing my theme shall bring Heaven to those desert places!