To burn the Cyclops' eye, that all may share In the great enterprize. Have become lame; cannot move hand or foot. Chorus. The same thing has occured to us;-our ancles Are sprained with standing here, I know not how. Ulys. What, sprained with standing still? Chorus. And there is dust Or ashes in our eyes, I know not whence. Ulys. Cowardly dogs! ye will not aid me then? Chorus. With pitying my own back and my back bone, And with not wishing all my teeth knocked out, This cowardice comes of itself—but stay: I know a famous Orphic incantation To make the brand stick of its own accord Ulys. Of old I knew ye thus by nature; now Of my own comrades-yet though weak of hand And parch up to dust, Who feeds on bis guest. Burn and blind The Etnean hind! Scoop and draw, But beware lest he claw Your limbs near his maw. Cyc. Ah me! my eye-sight is parched up to cinders. Chorus. What a sweet pæan! sing me that again ! Cyc. Ah me! indeed, what woe has fallen upon me! But, wretched nothings, think ye not to flee Out of this rock; I, standing at the outlet, Will bar the way, and catch you as you pass. I perish! And besides miserable. Chorus. For you are wicked. Cyc. Chorus. What, did you fall into the fire when drunk? Cyc. 'Twas Nobody destroyed me. Cyc. I wish you were as blind as I am. Nay, It cannot be that no one made you blind. * * * Cyc. It was that stranger ruined me :-the wretch First gave me wine, and then burnt out my eye, For wine is strong and hard to struggle with. Have they escaped, or are they yet within ? Chorus. They stand under the darkness of the rock, And cling to it. Cyc. At my right hand or left? Chorus. Close on your right. Cyc. Not there, although you say so. Chorus. Now they escape you there. Not on that side. They creep about you on your left. Cyc. Where then? Chorus. Cyc. Ah! I am mocked! They jeer me in my ills. I keep with care this body of Ulysses. Cyc. What do you say? You proffer a new name. Ulys. My father named me so; and I have taken A full revenge for your unnatural feast; I should have done ill to have burned down Troy, And not revenged the murder of my comrades. Cyc. Ai ai! the ancient oracle is accomplished; That you should pay the penalty for this Ulys. I bid thee weep-consider what I say, I go towards the shore to drive my ship To mine own land, o'er the Sicilian wave. Cyc. Not so, if whelming you with this huge stone I can crush you and all your men together; I will descend upon the shore, though blind, Groping my way adown the steep ravine. Chorus. And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now, Will serve our Bacchus all our happy lives. 284 TRANSLATION FROM MOSCHUS. PAN loved his neighbour Echo-but that child The bright nymph Lyda-and so the three went weeping. The Satyr, Lyda-and thus love consumed them.- To bear what they inflicted, justice doomed them; Each, loving, so was hated.-Ye that love not SCENES FROM THE "MAGICO PRODIGIOSO" OF CALDERON. CYPRIAN as a Student; CLARIN and Moscon as poor Cyprian. In the sweet solitude of this calm place, This intricate wild wilderness of trees And flowers and undergrowth of odorous plants, To me are ever best society. And whilst with glorious festival and song Of a proud temple to great Jupiter, To its new shrine, I would consume what still Lives of the dying day, in studious thought, Far from the throng and turmoil. Go and enjoy the festival; it will You, my friends, Be worth the labour, and return for me When the sun seeks its grave among the billows, Which among dim grey clouds on the horizon Dance like white plumes upon a hearse ;—and here I shall expect you. Moscon. I cannot bring my mind, Great as my haste to see the festival Certainly is, to leave you, Sir, without Just saying some three or four hundred words. How is it possible that on a day Of such festivity, you can bring your mind To come forth to a solitary country With three or four old books, and turn your back On all this mirth? Clarin. My master's in the right; There is not any thing more tiresome Than a procession day, with troops of men, And dances, and all that. Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer; You praise not what you feel, but what he does ;Toadeater! Cla. You lie-under a mistake For this is the most civil sort of lie That can be given to a man's face. I now Cyp. Enough, you foolish fellows. Puffed up with your own doting ignorance, Now go, and as I said, return for me When night falls, veiling in its shadows wide |