If thus, oh gentle ships, ye do,
Then may ye win the fairest gales,
And swifter speed across the blue,
While Zeus breathes friendly on your sails.

A LATE CONVERT.

(Paulus Silentiarius.)

I that in youth had never been
The servant of the Paphian Queen,
I that in youth had never felt
The shafts of Eros pierce and melt,
Cypris! in later age, half grey,
I bow the neck to thee to-day. 
Pallas, that was my lady, thou
Dost more triumphant vanquish now,
Than when thou gained’st, over seas,
The apple of the Hesperides.

THE LIMIT OF LIFE.

Thirty-six is the term that the prophets assign,
And the students of stars to the years that are mine;
Nay, let thirty suffice, for the man who hath passed
Thirty years is a Nestor, and he died at last!

TO DANIEL ELZEVIR.

(From the Latin of Menage.)

What do I see!  Oh gods divine
And goddesses,—­this Book of mine,—­
This child of many hopes and fears,—­
Is published by the Elzevirs! 
Oh perfect Publishers complete! 
Oh dainty volume, new and neat! 
The Paper doth outshine the snow,
The Print is blacker than the crow,
The Title-Page, with crimson bright,
The vellum cover smooth and white,
All sorts of readers do invite,
Ay, and will keep them reading still,
Against their will, or with their will! 
Thus what of grace the Rhymes may lack
The Publisher has given them back,
As Milliners adorn the fair
Whose charms are something skimp and spare. 
Oh dulce decus, Elzevirs! 
The pride of dead and dawning years,
How can a poet best repay
The debt he owes your House to-day? 
May this round world, while aught endures,
Applaud, and buy, these books of yours! 
May purchasers incessant pop,
My Elzevirs, within your shop,
And learned bards salute, with cheers,
The volumes of the Elzevirs,
Till your renown fills earth and sky,
Till men forget the Stephani,
And all that Aldus wrought, and all
Turnebus sold in shop or stall,
While still may Fate’s (and Binders’) shears
Respect, and spare, the Elzevirs!

THE LAST CHANCE.

Within the streams, Pausanias saith,
That down Cocytus valley flow,
Girdling the grey domain of Death,
The spectral fishes come and go;
The ghosts of trout flit to and fro. 
Persephone, fulfil my wish,
And grant that in the shades below
My ghost may land the ghosts of fish.

[Greek text]

L. C.

Footnotes: 

{1} January 26, 1885.

{2} M. Antoninus iv 23.

{3} From the Romaic.