It remains to mention the “Poems of Grotius:” throughout his life, he sacrificed to the Muses.  The Prosopopoeia, in which he introduces the City of Ostend addressing the world, when, in the third year of her siege, the Marquis Spinola led the troops of Spain against her, was greatly, admired.  All the adjacent territory had been taken by the Spaniards, so that nothing remained of it to the confederates, but the precinct within the walls of the city; and even much of this had been wrested from the besieged.  All Europe had its eye fixed on the operations of Spinola.  It is therefore, with great propriety of language, that Grotius makes Ostend thus address herself to the world, in the following lines:—­

        “Area parva ducum, totus quam respicit orbis;
        Celsior una malis, et quam damnare ruinae
        Nunc quoque fata timent,—­alieno in litore resto. 
        Tertius annus abit; toties mutavimus hostem: 
        Saevit hyems pelago, morbisque furentibus aestas;
        Et minimum est quod fecit Iber,—­crudelior armis
        In nos orta lues,—­nullum est sine funere funus. 
        Nec perimit mors una semel:—­Fortuna quid haeres? 
        Qua mercede tenes mixtos in sanguine manes? 
        Quis tumulos moriens hos occupet hoste perempto? 
        Queritur,—­et sterili tantum de pulvere pugna est.”

“A small area of chiefs, whom the whole world contemplates; alone loftier than my woes; I, whom the Fates even yet, fear to condemn to ruin;—­remain on a foreign shore.

    “The third year now passes away; thrice has my foe
    been changed: 

    “The winter rages on the sea; the summer, by its furious
    heats.

    “The Spaniard has been my least enemy;—­more cruel
    than arms, a pestilence has risen among us; no funeral is
    without another; the dying never perish by a single death.

    “Fortune! why do’st thou hesitate?  By what reward
    do’st thou detain the manes mingled in blood?

    “Who, dying, will, after the destruction of the enemy,
    occupy these tombs?—­This is enquired.—­
    The contest is only for sterile dust.”

With the following poetical translation of these verses, the writer has been favoured by Mr. Sotheby, the elegant translator of “Oberon.”

        Scant battle-field of Chiefs, thro’ earth renown’d,
        Opprest, I loftier tow’r;—­and, now, while Fate
        Dreads to destroy, in foreign soil I stand. 
        Thrice chang’d the year, thrice have we chang’d the Foe. 
        Fierce Winter chafes the Deep, the Summer burns
        With fell disease:  less fell th’ Iberian sword. 
        Dire Pestilence spreads;—­on funerals funerals swell: 
        Nor does one death at once extirpate all. 
        Why, Fortune! linger? why our souls detain
        With blood immingled?  Who, the Foe extinct,
        Who, dying, shall these sepulchres possess,
        And in this sterile dust the conflict close?