A Handbook for Latin Clubs

The Latin Club in secondary schools is the result of the incessant demand that our Latin instruction must be vivified. Many teachers feel the need of supplementary work in their Latin teaching, but they have been handicapped because of a lack of material as well as a lack of time. This is especially true of the teacher in the small town. To help meet this demand is the purpose of this book.

The programs have purposely been made too long for one session in order that the teacher may have some choice in selection, and that, in case all references are not accessible, enough may be secured to insure a reasonably varied program.

I would suggest that the Club purchase as many Perry pictures and Berlin photographs of classical subjects as possible and that its members coöperate with the city library board for the purchase of such books as are essential, in case there is no school fund available for this purpose. Some high school alumnus in whose heart there is appreciation of Rome's gift to us might present a book to his Alma Mater. Another might offer some suitable magazines, properly bound.

Of a Latin Club, as of most school work, it may be said that usus est optimus magister, and especially applicable in this connection are the words of Horace: Dimidium facti, qui coepit.

Omaha, Nebraska,

Programs

The Value of Latin	3
Pompeii	5
Ancient Rome	7
The Roman Forum	10
The Roman House	12
Roman Slaves	13
Roman Children	15
Education among the Romans	16
Some Common Professions and Trades among the Romans	17
Roman Doctors	19
The Roman Soldier	20
Caesar	21
Cicero	23
Vergil	25
Horace	27
Roman Literature	28
Some Famous Women of Ancient Rome	29
Roman Holidays	31
Funeral Customs and Burial Places	33
Roman Games	35
Some Famous Buildings of Ancient Rome	37
Some Famous Roman Letters	38
Some Ancient Romans of Fame	40
A Roman Banquet	42
Roman Roads	44
Some Roman Gods	46
Some Famous Temples of Ancient and Modern Rome	47
Some Religious Customs	49
Some Famous Pictures and Sculpture	51
Roman Book and Libraries	52
Ancient Myths and Legends	53
The Ancient Myth in Modern Literature	54
What English Owes to Greek	55
Modern Rome	56
Italy of To-day	58
O Tempora! O Mores!	60

Selections that may be used for the Programs

A Plea for the Classics	Eugene Field	65
On an Old Latin Text Book	T. W. Higginson	66
St. Augustine's Love of Latin	Andrew Lang	68
The Watch of the Old Gods		69
Old and New Rome	Herman Merivale	70
The Fall of Rome	Arthur Chamberlain	70
A Christmas Hymn	Alfred Dommett	71
Roman Girl's Song	Mrs. Hemans	73
Capri	Walter Taylor Field	74
Palladium	Matthew Arnold	76
After Construing	A. C. Benson	77
A Roman Mirror	Rennell Rodd	78
The Doom of the Slothful	John Addington Symonds	79
Hector and Andromache.   Schiller	Tr. Sir E. B. Lytton	80
Enceladus	Henry W. Longfellow	81
Nil Admirari	John G. Saxe	83
Perdidi Diem	Mrs. Sigourney	84
Jupiter and His Children	John G. Saxe	85
The Prayer of Socrates	John H. Finley	87
By the Roman Road	Anonymous	88
A Nymph's Lament	Nora Hopper	89
Helen of Troy	Nora Hopper	92
An Etruscan Ring	J. W. Mackail	93
Orpheus With His Lute	William Shakespeare	94
A Hymn in Praise of Neptune	Thomas Campion	94
Horace's Philosophy of Life	Tr. Sir Theodore Martin	95
An Invitation to Dine Written by Horace to Vergil
	Tr. Sir Theodore Martin	96
The Golden Mean.   Horace	Tr. Wm. Cowper	97
To the Reader.   Martial	Tr. Lord Byron	98
On Portia.   Martial	Tr. Lamb	98
To Potitus.   Martial	Tr. John Hay	99
What Is Given To Friends Is Not Lost.   Martial		99
To Cotilus.   Martial	Tr. Elton	100
The Happy Life.   Martial	Tr. Sir Richard Fanshawe	100
To a Schoolmaster.   Martial	Tr. John Hay	101
Epitaph on Erotion.   Martial	Tr. Leigh Hunt	102
Non Amo Te		102
Gratitude	Robert Burns	103
A Hymn to the Lares	Robert Herrick	103
Elysium.   Schiller	Tr. Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton	104
Orpheus	Robert Herrick	105
Cerberus	Oliver Herford	105
The Harpy	Oliver Herford	106
Cupid and the Bee	Anacreon	106
The Assembly of the Gods   A. Tassoni	Tr. A. Werner	107
A Model Young Lady of Antiquity	Pliny the Younger	109
Translation	Alfred J. Church	110
To Lesbia's Sparrow	Catullus	111
Translation	Elton	112
Cicero	Catullus	112
Translation	Charles Lamb	113
De Patientia	Thomas à Kempis	113
The Favorite Prayer of Mary Queen of Scots		114
Ultima Thule	Seneca	114
Translation		115
The Roman of Old	Anonymous	115
Ich bin Dein		116
Malum Opus	James A. Morgan	117
Felis		118
Amantis Res Adversae		119
Puer ex Jersey		121
Songs that may be used for the Programs Items in italics—except translators' names—have been added by the transcriber.
Flevit Lepus Parvulus		125
Carmen Vitae.    Longfellow	Tr. Benjamin L. D'Ooge	126
Text		127
Gaudeamus Igitur		128
Text		129
Lauriger Horatius		132
Text		133
America	Tr. George D. Kellogg	134
Integer Vitae	Horace	136
Text		137
Rock of Ages.    Toplady	Tr. William Gladstone	138
Dies Irae	Thomas of Celano	139
Ad Sanctum Spiritus	Robert II, King of France	142
Adeste Fideles		143
De Nativitate Domini		145
Bibliography		147
Acknowledgment		149
Footnotes	end of main text
Publisher's Price List	end of volume

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"Latin is the most logically constructed of all the languages, and will help more effectually than any other study to strengthen the brain centres that must be used when any reasoning is required."

"There is nothing on the earth, or under it, like Pompeii."

"Here is my religion, here is my race, here are the traces of my forefathers. I cannot express the charm which I find here, and which penetrates my heart and my senses."

"Is not a slave of the same stuff as you, his lord? Does he not enjoy the same sun, breathe the same air, die, even as you do? Then let your slave worship rather than dread you. Scorn not any man. The Universe is the common parent of us all."

"Pueri mei sunt mea ornamenta."

"Rome had her great shopping district (mainly on streets leading into the Forum), and seemingly her 'department stores'; also her class of inveterate shoppers."

"Caesar alone excepted, no ancient Roman has been so widely, so continuously, and so intensely alive since his death, as has been Marcus Tullius Cicero."

"The noble sage who knew everything."

"Haec studia adulescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res ornant, adversis perfugium ac solacium praebent, delectant domi, non impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur."

"A marked feature of the Roman character, a peculiarity which at once strikes the student of their history as compared with that of the Greeks was their great respect for the home and the mater familias."

"The world has nothing else like the Pantheon."

"The authors who have lived and written under an Italian sky, are reticent and shy in the foreign schoolroom. But if we transfer ourselves with them to the market and enter their families, then they grow confiding and social."

"They were a great race, not unworthy of their fame,—those ancient Romans; and Alpine flowers of moral beauty bloomed amid the Alpine snow and ice of their austere pride."

"None of my friends shall in his cups talk treason."

"Could the entire history of the construction of Roman military roads and highways be written, it would include romantic tales of hazard and adventure, of sacrifice and suffering, which would lend to the subject a dignity and effectiveness somewhat in keeping with their value to Rome and to the world."

"There are in Rome more gods than citizens."

"A vast wilderness of consecrated buildings of all shapes and fancies."

"In the house of every Greek and Roman was an altar; on this altar there had always to be a small quantity of ashes, and a few lighted coals. The fire ceased to glow upon the altar only when the entire family had perished; an extinguished hearth, an extinguished family, were synonymous expressions among the ancients."

"The debt of literature to the myth-makers of the Mediterranean has been an endless one starting at Mt. Olympus, and flowing down in fertilizing streams through all the literary ages."

"What shall I say of the modern city? Rome is yet the capital of the world."

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A Boston gentleman declares, By all the gods above, below, That our degenerate sons and heirs Must let their Greek and Latin go! Forbid, O Fate, we loud implore, A dispensation harsh as that; What! wipe away the sweets of yore; The dear "amo, amas, amat?" The sweetest hour the student knows Is not when poring over French, Or twisted in Teutonic throes, Upon a hard collegiate bench; 'Tis when on roots and kais and gars He feeds his soul and feels it glow, Or when his mind transcends the stars With "Zoa mou, sas agapo!" So give our bright, ambitious boys An inkling of these pleasures, too— A little smattering of the joys Their dead and buried fathers knew; And let them sing—while glorying that Their sires so sang, long years ago— The songs "amo, amas, amat" And "Zoa mou, sas agapo!" —Eugene Field

I remember the very day when the schoolmaster gave it to me.... And I remember that the rather stern and aquiline face of our teacher relaxed into mildness for a moment. Both we and our books must have looked very fresh and new to him, though we may all be a little battered now; at least, my New Latin Tutor is. It is a very precious book, and it should be robed in choice Turkey morocco, were not the very covers too much a part of the association to be changed. For between them I gathered the seed-grain of many harvests of delight; through this low archway I first looked upon the immeasurable beauty of words....

What liquid words were these: aqua, aura, unda! All English poetry that I had yet learned by heart—it is only children who learn by heart, grown people "commit to memory"—had not so awakened the vision of what literature might mean. Thenceforth all life became ideal....

Then human passion, tender, faithful, immortal, came also by and beckoned. "But let me die," she said. "Thus, thus it delights me to go under the shades." Or that infinite tenderness, the stronger even for its opening moderation of utterance, the last sigh of Aeneas after Dido,—

Or, with more definite and sublime grandeur, the vast forms of Roman statesmanship appear: "Today, Romans, you behold the commonwealth, the lives of you all, estates, fortunes, wives and children, and the seat of this most renowned empire, this most fortunate and beautiful city, preserved and restored to you by the distinguished love of the immortal gods, and by my toils, counsels, and dangers."

What great thoughts were found within these pages, what a Roman vigor was in these maxims! "It is Roman to do and suffer bravely." "It is sweet and glorious to die for one's country." "He that gives himself up to pleasure, is not worthy the name of a man."...

There was nothing harsh or stern in this book, no cynicism, no indifference; but it was a flower-garden of lovely out-door allusions, a gallery of great deeds; and as I have said before, it formed the child's first real glimpse into the kingdom of words.

I was once asked by a doctor of divinity, who was also the overseer of a college, whether I ever knew any one to look back with pleasure upon his early studies in Latin and Greek. It was like being asked if one looked back with pleasure on summer mornings and evenings. No doubt those languages, like all others, have fared hard at the hands of pedants; and there are active boys who hate all study, and others who love the natural sciences alone. Indeed, it is a hasty assumption, that the majority of boys hate Latin and Greek. I find that most college graduates, at least, retain some relish for the memory of such studies, even if they have utterly lost the power to masticate or digest them. "Though they speak no Greek, they love the sound on't." Many a respectable citizen still loves to look at his Horace or Virgil on the shelf where it has stood undisturbed for a dozen years; he looks, and thinks that he too lived in Arcadia.... The books link him with culture, and universities, and the traditions of great scholars.

On some stormy Sunday, he thinks, he will take them down. At length he tries it; he handles the volume awkwardly, as he does his infant; but it is something to be able to say that neither book nor baby has been actually dropped. He likes to know that there is a tie between him and each of these possessions, though he is willing, it must be owned, to leave the daily care of each in more familiar hands....

I must honestly say that much of the modern outcry against classical studies seems to me to be (as in the case of good Dr. Jacob Bigelow) a frank hostility to literature itself, as the supposed rival of science; or a willingness (as in Professor Atkinson's case) to tolerate modern literature, while discouraging the study of the ancient. Both seem to commit the error of drawing their examples of abuse from England, and applying their warnings to America.... Because the House of Commons was once said to care more for a false quantity in Latin verse than in English morals, shall we visit equal indignation on a House of Representatives that had to send for a classical dictionary to find out who Thersites was?...

Granted, that foreign systems of education may err by insisting on the arts of literary structure too much; think what we should lose by dwelling on them too little! The magic of mere words; the mission of language; the worth of form as well as of matter; the power to make a common thought immortal in a phrase, so that your fancy can no more detach the one from the other than it can separate the soul and body of a child; it was the veiled half revelation of these things that made that old text-book forever fragrant to me. There are in it the still visible traces of wild flowers which I used to press between the pages, on the way to school; but it was the pressed flowers of Latin poetry that were embalmed there first. These are blossoms that do not fade.

Andrew Lang, in his Adventures Among Books, writes:

"Saint Augustine, like Sir Walter Scott at the University of Edinburgh, was 'The Greek Dunce.' Both of these great men, to their sorrow and loss, absolutely and totally declined to learn Greek. 'But what the reason was why I hated the Greek language, while I was taught it, being a child, I do not yet understand.' The Saint was far from being alone in that distaste, and he who writes loathed Greek like poison—till he came to Homer. Latin the Saint loved, except 'when reading, writing, and casting of accounts was taught in Latin, which I held not far less painful or penal than the very Greek. I wept for Dido's death, who made herself away with the sword,' he declares, 'and even so, the saying that two and two makes four was an ungrateful song in mine ears, whereas the wooden horse full of armed men, the burning of Troy, and the very Ghost of Creusa, was a most delightful spectacle of vanity.'"

Were the old gods watching yet, From their cloudy summits afar, At evening under the evening star, After the star is set, Would they see in these thronging streets, Where the life of the city beats With endless rush and strain, Men of a better mold, Nobler in heart and brain, Than the men of three thousand years ago, In the pagan cities old, O'er which the lichens and ivy grow? Would they not see as they saw In the younger days of the race, The dark results of broken law, In the bent form and brutal face Of the slave of passions as old as earth, And young as the infants of last night's birth? Alas! the old gods no longer keep Their watch from the cloudy steep; But, though all on Olympus lie dead Yet the smoke of commerce still rolls From the sacrifice of souls, To the heaven that bends overhead.

Still, as we saunter down the crowded street, On our own thoughts intent, and plans and pleasures, For miles and miles beneath our idle feet, Rome buries from the day yet unknown treasures. The whole world's alphabet, in every line Some stirring page of history she recalls,— Her Alpha is the Prison Mamertine, Her Omega, St. Paul's, without the walls. Above, beneath, around, she weaves her spells, And ruder hands unweave them all in vain: Who once within her fascination dwells, Leaves her with but one thought—to come again. So cast thy obol into Trevi's fountain— Drink of its waters, and, returning home, Pray that by land or sea, by lake or mountain, "All roads alike may lead at last to Rome." —Herman Merivale

Rome ruled in all her matchless pride, Queen of the world, an empire-state; Her eagles conquered far and wide; Her word was law, her will was fate. Within her immemorial walls The temples of the gods looked down; Her forum echoed with the calls To greater conquest and renown. All wealth, all splendor, and all might The world could give, before her lay; She dreamed not there could come a night To dim the glory of her day. Rome perished: Legions could not save, Nor wealth, nor might, nor majesty,— The Roman had become a slave, But the barbarian was free. —Arthur Chamberlain

It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars— Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain: Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago. 'Twas in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home: Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway: What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago? Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor; A streak of light before him lay, Falling through a half shut stable-door Across his path. He passed—for naught Told what was going on within: How keen the stars, his only thought— The air how calm, and cold and thin In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! Oh, strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; The earth was still—but knew not why, The world was listening, unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever! To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever— In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! It is the calm and silent night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness—charmed and holy now! The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful prince of earth and heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! —Alfred Dommett

Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! On thy seven hills of yore Thou satt'st a queen. Thou hadst thy triumphs then Purpling the street, Leaders and sceptred men Bow'd at thy feet. They that thy mantle wore, As gods were seen— Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! Rome! thine imperial brow Never shall rise: What hast thou left thee now?— Thou hast thy skies! Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright! Veiling thy wastes afar, With color'd light. Thou hast the sunset's glow, Rome, for thy dower, Flushing tall cypress bough, Temple and tower! And all sweet sounds are thine, Lovely to hear, While night, o'er tomb and shrine Rests darkly clear. Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among. Many a flute's low swell, On thy soft air Lingers, and loves to dwell With summer there. Thou hast the south's rich gift Of sudden song— A charmed fountain, swift, Joyous and strong. Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead. Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien: Rome, Rome! Thou art no more As thou hast been! —Mrs. Hemans

Rising from the purpling water With her brow of stone, Sprite or nymph or Triton's daughter, Rising from the purpling water, Capri sits alone— Sits and looks across the billow Now the day is done Resting on her rocky pillow Sits and looks across the billow Toward the setting sun. Misty visions trooping sadly Glimmer through her tears, Shapes of men contending madly,— Misty visions trooping sadly From the vanished years. Here Tiberius from his palace On the headland gray Hurls his foes with gleeful malice, Proud Tiberius at his palace Murd'ring men for play. There Lamarque's recruits advancing Scale yon rocky spot, 'Neath the moon their bright steel glancing, See Lamarque's recruits advancing Through a storm of shot. But today the goat bells' tinkle And the vespers chime, Vineyards shade each rock-hewn wrinkle, And today the goat bells' tinkle Marks a happier time. Soft the olive groves are gleaming, War has found surcease, And as Capri sits a-dreaming Soft the olive groves are gleaming, Crowning her with peace. —Walter Taylor Field

Set where the upper streams of Simois flow Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood; And Hector was in Ilium, far below, And fought, and saw it not—but there it stood! It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their light On the pure columns of its glen-built hall. Backward and forward rolled the waves of fight Round Troy,—but while this stood, Troy could not fall. So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul. Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air; Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll; We visit it by moments, ah, too rare! Men will renew the battle in the plain Tomorrow; red with blood will Xanthus be; Hector and Ajax will be there again, Helen will come upon the wall to see. Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife, And fluctuate 'twixt blind hopes and blind despairs, And fancy that we put forth all our life, And never know how with the soul it fares. Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high, Upon our life a ruling effluence send; And when it fails, fight as we will, we die, And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end. —Matthew Arnold

Lord Caesar, when you sternly wrote The story of your grim campaigns And watched the ragged smoke-wreath float Above the burning plains, Amid the impenetrable wood, Amid the camp's incessant hum At eve, beside the tumbling flood, In high Avaricum, You little recked, imperious head, When shrilled your shattering trumpets' noise, Your frigid sections would be read By bright-eyed English boys. Ah me! Who penetrates today The secret of your deep designs? Your sovereign visions, as you lay Amid the sleeping lines? The Mantuan singer pleading stands; From century to century He leans and reaches wistful hands, And cannot bear to die. But you are silent, secret, proud, No smile upon your haggard face, As when you eyed the murderous crowd Beside the statue's base. I marvel: That Titanic heart Beats strongly through the arid page, And we, self-conscious sons of art, In this bewildering age, Like dizzy revellers stumbling out Upon the pure and peaceful night, Are sobered into troubled doubt, As swims across our sight, The ray of that sequestered sun, Far in the illimitable blue,— The dream of all you left undone, Of all you dared to do. —Arthur Christopher Benson

They found it in her hollow marble bed, There where the numberless dead cities sleep, They found it lying where the spade struck deep A broken mirror by a maiden dead. These things—the beads she wore about her throat, Alternate blue and amber, all untied, A lamp to light her way, and on one side The toll men pay to that strange ferry-boat. No trace today of what in her was fair! Only the record of long years grown green Upon the mirror's lustreless dead sheen, Grown dim at last, when all else withered there Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for me One picture of that immemorial land, For oft as I have held thee in my hand The chill bronze brightens, and I dream to see A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise And o'er one marble shoulder all the while Strange lips that whisper till her own lips smile And all the mirror laughs about her eyes. It was well thought to set thee there, so she Might smooth the windy ripples of her hair And knot their tangled waywardness or ere She stood before the queen Persephone. And still it may be where the dead folk rest She holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes, And looks upon the changelessness, and sighs And sets the dead land lilies in her hand. —Rennell Rodd

When through the dolorous city of damned souls The Florentine with Vergil took his way, A dismal marsh they passed, whose fetid shoals Held sinners by the myriad. Swollen and grey, Like worms that fester in the foul decay Of sweltering carrion, these bad spirits sank Chin-deep in stagnant slime and ooze that stank. Year after year forever—year by year, Through billions of the centuries that lie Like specks of dust upon the dateless sphere Of heaven's eternity, they cankering sigh Between the black waves and the starless sky; And daily dying have no hope to gain By death or change or respite of their pain. What was their crime, you ask? Nay, listen: "We Were sullen—sad what time we drank the light, And delicate air, that all day daintily Is cheered by sunshine; for we bore black night And murky smoke of sloth, in God's despite, Within our barren souls, by discontent From joy of all fair things and wholesome pent: Therefore in this low Hell from jocund sight And sound He bans us; and as there we grew Pallid with idleness, so here a blight Perpetual rots with slow-corroding dew Our poisonous carcase, and a livid hue Corpse-like o'erspreads these sodden limbs that take And yield corruption to the loathly lake." —John Addington Symonds

Andromache Will Hector leave me for the fatal plain, Where, fierce with vengeance for Patroclus slain, Stalks Peleus' ruthless son? Who, when thou glid'st amid the dark abodes, To hurl the spear and to revere the gods, Shall teach thine Orphan One? Hector Woman and wife beloved—cease thy tears; My soul is nerved—the war-clang in my ears! Be mine in life to stand Troy's bulwark!—fighting for our hearths, to go In death, exulting to the streams below, Slain for my father-land! Andromache No more I hear thy martial footsteps fall— Thine arms shall hang, dull trophies, on the wall— Fallen the stem of Troy! Thou go'st where slow Cocytus wanders—where Love sinks in Lethe, and the sunless air Is dark to light and joy! Hector Longing and thought—yea, all I feel and think May in the silent sloth of Lethe sink, But my love not! Hark, the wild swarm is at the walls! I hear! Gird on my sword—Belov'd one, dry the tear— Lethe for love is not! —Schiller

Under Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath. The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his head; But the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead. And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes; They talk together and say, "Tomorrow, perhaps today, Enceladus will arise!" And the old gods, the austere Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear At the ominous sounds they hear, And tremble, and mutter, "At length!" Ah me! for the land that is sown With the harvest of despair! Where the burning cinders, blown From the lips of the overthrown Enceladus, fill the air. Where ashes are heaped in drifts Over vineyard and field and town, Whenever he starts and lifts His head through the blackened rifts Of the crags that keep him down. See, see! the red light shines! 'Tis the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines, Of Alps and of Apennines, "Enceladus, arise!" —Henry W. Longfellow

When Horace in Venusian groves Was scribbling wit or sipping "Massic," Or singing those delicious loves Which after ages reckon classic, He wrote one day—'twas no vagary— These famous words:—Nil admirari! "Wonder at nothing!" said the bard; A kingdom's fall, a nation's rising, A lucky or a losing card, Are really not at all surprising; However men or manners vary, Keep cool and calm: Nil admirari! If kindness meet a cold return; If friendship prove a dear delusion; If love, neglected, cease to burn, Or die untimely of profusion,— Such lessons well may make us wary, But needn't shock: Nil admirari! Ah! when the happy day we reach When promisers are ne'er deceivers; When parsons practice what they preach, And seeming saints are all believers, Then the old maxim you may vary, And say no more, Nil admirari! —John G. Saxe

The Emperor Titus, at the close of a day in which he had neither gained any knowledge nor conferred benefit, was accustomed to exclaim, "Perdidi diem," "I have lost a day."

Why art thou sad, thou of the sceptred hand? The rob'd in purple, and the high in state? Rome pours her myriads forth, a vassal band, And foreign powers are crouching at thy gate; Yet dost thou deeply sigh, as if oppressed by fate. "Perdidi diem!"—Pour the empire's treasure, Uncounted gold, and gems of rainbow dye; Unlock the fountains of a monarch's pleasure To lure the lost one back. I heard a sigh— One hour of parted time, a world is poor to buy. "Perdidi diem!"—'Tis a mournful story, Thus in the ear of pensive eve to tell, Of morning's firm resolves, the vanish'd glory, Hope's honey left within the withering bell And plants of mercy dead, that might have bloomed so well. Hail, self-communing Emperor, nobly wise! There are, who thoughtless haste to life's last goal. There are, who time's long squandered wealth despise. Perdidi vitam marks their finished scroll, When Death's dark angel comes to claim the startled soul. —Mrs. Sigourney

A CLASSIC FABLE

Once, on sublime Olympus, when Great Jove, the sire of gods and men, Was looking down on this our Earth, And marking the increasing dearth Of pious deeds and noble lives, While vice abounds and meanness thrives,— He straight determined to efface At one fell swoop the thankless race Of human kind. "Go!" said the King Unto his messenger, "and bring The vengeful Furies; be it theirs, Unmindful of their tears and prayers, These wretches,—hateful from their birth,— To wipe from off the face of earth!" The message heard, with torch of flame And reeking sword, Alecto came, And by the beard of Pluto swore The human race should be no more! But Jove, relenting thus to see The direst of the murderous three, And hear her menace, bade her go Back to the murky realms below. "Be mine the cruel task!" he said, And, at a word, a bolt he sped, Which, falling in a desert place, Left all unhurt the human race! Grown bold and bolder, wicked men Wax worse and worse, until again The stench to high Olympus came, And all the gods began to blame The monarch's weak indulgence,—they Would crush the knaves without delay! At this, the ruler of the air Proceeds a tempest to prepare, Which, dark and dire, he swiftly hurled In raging fury on the world! But not where human beings dwell (So Jove provides) the tempest fell. And still the sin and wickedness Of men grew more, instead of less: Whereat the gods declare, at length, For thunder bolts of greater strength Which Vulcan soon, at Jove's command, Wrought in his forge with dexterous hand. Now from the smithy's glowing flame Two different sorts of weapons came: To hit the mark was one designed; As sure to miss, the other kind. The second sort the Thunderer threw, Which not a human being slew; But roaring loudly, hurtled wide On forest-top and mountain-side! MORAL What means this ancient tale? That Jove In wrath still felt a parent's love: Whatever crimes he may have done, The father yearns to spare the son. —John G. Saxe

Socrates Ere we leave this friendly sky, And cool Ilyssus flowing by, Change the shrill cicala's song For the clamor of the throng, Let us make a parting prayer To the gods of earth and air. Phaedrus My wish, O Friend, accords with thine, Say thou the prayer, it shall be mine. Socrates This then, I ask, O thou beloved Pan, And all ye other gods: Help, as ye can, That I may prosper in the inner man; Grant ye that what I have or yet may win Of those the outer things may be akin And constantly at peace within; May I regard the wise the rich, and care Myself for no more gold, as my earth-share, Than he who's of an honest heart can bear. —John H. Finley

"Poetry and paganism do not mix very well nowadays. The Hellenism of our versifiers is, as a rule, not Greek; it is derived partly from Swinburne and partly from Pater. But now and then there comes a poet who has real appreciation of the beauty of classic days; who can express sincerely and vividly the haunting charm of Greek or Roman culture. Such an one is the anonymous writer of these lines, which appeared in the London Punch."

The wind it sang in the pine-tops, it sang like a humming harp; The smell of the sun on the bracken was wonderful sweet and sharp. As sharp as the piney needles, as sweet as the gods were good, For the wind it sung of the old gods, as I came through the wood! It sung how long ago the Romans made a road, And the gods came up from Italy and found them an abode. It sang of the wayside altars (the pine-tops sighed like the surf), Of little shrines uplifted, of stone and scented turf, Of youths divine and immortal, of maids as white as the snow That glimmered among the thickets a mort of years ago! All in the cool of dawn, all in the twilight gray, The gods came up from Italy along the Roman way. The altar smoke it has drifted and faded afar on the hill; No wood-nymphs haunt the hollows; the reedy pipes are still; No more the youth Apollo shall walk in his sunshine clear; No more the maid Diana shall follow the fallow-deer (The woodmen grew so wise, the woodmen grew so old, The gods went back to Italy—or so the story's told!). But the woods are full of voices and of shy and secret things The badger down by the brook-side, the flick of a woodcock's wings, The plump of a falling fir-cone, the pop of the sunripe pods, And the wind that sings in the pine-tops the song of the ancient gods— The song of the wind that says the Romans made a road, And the gods came up from Italy and found them an abode!

O Sister Nymphs, how shall we dance or sing Remembering What was and is not? How sing any more Now Aphrodite's rosy reign is o'er? For on the forest-floor Our feet fall wearily the summer long, The whole year long: No sudden goddess through the rushes glides, No eager God among the laurels hides; Jove's eagle mopes beside an empty throne, Persephone and Ades sit alone, By Lethe's hollow shore. And hear not any more Echoed from poplar-tree to poplar-tree, The voice of Orpheus making sweetest moan For lost Eurydice. The Fates walk all alone In empty kingdoms, where is none to fear Shaking of any spear. Even the ghosts are gone From lightless fields of mint and euphrasy: There sings no wind in any willow-tree, And shadowy flute-girls wander listlessly Down to the shore where Charon's empty boat, As shadowed swan doth float, Rides all as listlessly, with none to steer. A shrunken stream is Lethe's water wan Unsought of any man: Grass Ceres sowed by alien hands is mown, And now she seeks Persephone alone. The gods have all gone up Olympus' hill, And all the songs are still Of grieving Dryads, left To wail about our woodland ways, bereft, The endless summertide. Queen Venus draws aside And passes, sighing, up Olympus' hill. And silence holds her Cyprian bowers, and claims Her flowers, and quenches all her altar-flames, And strikes dumb in their throats Her doves' complaining notes: And sorrow Sits crowned upon her seat: nor any morrow Hears the Loves laughing round her golden chair. (Alas, thy golden seat, thine empty seat!) Nor any evening sees beneath her feet The daisy rosier flush, the maidenhair And scentless crocus borrow From rose and hyacinth their savour sweet. Without thee is no sweetness in the morn, The morn that was fulfilled of mystery, It lies like a void shell, desiring thee, O daughter of the water and the dawn, Anadyomene! There is no gold upon the bearded corn, No blossom on the thorn; And in wet brakes the Oreads hide, forlorn Of every grace once theirs: no Faun will follow By herne or hollow Their feet in the windy morn. Let us all cry together "Cytherea!" Lock hands and cry together: it may be That she will heed and hear And come from the waste places of the sea, Leaving old Proteus all discomforted, To cast down from his head Its crown of nameless jewels, to be hurled In ruins, with the ruined royalty Of an old world. The Nereids seek thee in the salt sea-reaches, Seek thee; and seek, and seek, and never find: Canst thou not hear their calling on the wind? We nymphs go wandering under pines and beeches, And far—and far behind We hear Paris' piping blown After us, calling thee and making moan (For all the leaves that have no strength to cry, The young leaves and the dry), Desiring thee to bless these woods again, Making most heavy moan For withered myrtle-flowers, For all thy Paphian bowers Empty and sad beneath a setting sun; For dear days done! The Naiads splash in the blue forest-pools— "Idalia—Idalia!" they cry. "On Ida's hill, With flutings faint and shrill,— On Ida's hill the shepherds vainly try Their songs, and coldly stand their damsels by, Whatever tunes they try; For beauty is not, and Love may not be, On land or sea— Oh, not in earth or heaven, on land or sea, While darkness holdeth thee." The Naiads weep beside their forest-pools, And from the oaks a hundred voices call, "Come back to us, O thou desired of all! Elsewhere the air is sultry: here it cools And full it is of pine scents: here is still The world-pain that has driven from Ida's hill Thine unreturning feet. Alas! the days so fleet that were, and sweet, When kind thou wert, and dear, And all the loves dwelt here! Alas! thy giftless hands, thy wandering feet! Oh, here for Pithys' sake the air is sweet And here snow falls not, neither burns the sun Nor any winds make moan for dear days done. Come, then: the woods are emptied all of glee, And all the world is sad, desiring thee!" —Nora Hopper

I am that Helen, that very Helen Of Leda, born in the days of old: Men's hearts as inns that I might dwell in: Houseless I wander to-night, and cold. Because man loved me, no God takes pity: My ghost goes wailing where I was Queen! Alas! my chamber in Troy's tall city, My golden couches, my hangings green! Wasted with fire are the halls they built me, And sown with salt are the streets I trod, Where flowers they scattered and spices spilt me— Alas, that Zeus is a jealous God! Softly I went on my sandals golden; Of love and pleasure I took my fill; With Paris' kisses my lips were holden, Nor guessed I, when life went at my will, That the fates behind me went softlier still. —Nora Hopper

Where, girt with orchard and with oliveyard, The white hill-fortress glimmers on the hill, Day after day an ancient goldsmith's skill Guided the copper graver, tempered hard By some lost secret, while he shaped the sard Slowly to beauty, and his tiny drill, Edged with corundum, ground its way until The gem lay perfect for the ring to guard. Then seeing the stone complete to his desire, With mystic imagery carven thus, And dark Egyptian symbols fabulous, He drew through it the delicate golden wire, And bent the fastening; and the Etrurian sun Sank behind Ilva, and the work was done. What dark-haired daughter of a Lucumo Bore on her slim white finger to the grave This the first gift her Tyrrhene lover gave, Those five-and-twenty centuries ago? What shadowy dreams might haunt it, lying low So long, while kings and armies, wave on wave, Above the rock-tomb's buried architrave Went trampling million-footed to and fro? Who knows? but well it is so frail a thing, Unharmed by conquering Time's supremacy, Still should be fair, though scarce less old than Rome. Now once again at rest from wandering Across the high Alps and the dreadful sea, In utmost England let it find a home. —J. W. Mackail

Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing: To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung: as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep or hearing, die. —William Shakespeare

Of Neptune's empire let us sing At whose command the waves obey; To whom the rivers tribute pay, Down the high mountains sliding: To whom the scaly nation yields Homage for the crystal fields Wherein they dwell: And every sea-god pays a gem Yearly out of his wat'ry cell To deck great Neptune's diadem. The Tritons dancing in a ring Before his palace gates do make The waters with their echoes quake, Like the great thunder sounding: The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill, And the sirens, taught to kill With their sweet voice, Make every echoing rock reply Unto their gentle murmuring noise The praise of Neptune's empery. —Thomas Campion

Book II, Ode 16

(In part, only) He lives on little, and is blest, On whose plain board the bright Salt-cellar shines, which was his sire's delight, Nor terrors, nor cupidity's unrest, Disturb his slumbers light. Why should we still project and plan, We creatures of an hour? Why fly from clime to clime, new regions scour? Where is the exile, who, since time began, To fly from self had power? Fell care climbs brazen galley's sides; Nor troops of horse can fly Her foot, which than the stag's is swifter, ay, Swifter than Eurus when he madly rides The clouds along the sky. Careless what lies beyond to know, And turning to the best, The present, meet life's bitters with a jest, And smile them down; since nothing here below Is altogether blest. In manhood's prime Achilles died, Tithonus by the slow Decay of age was wasted to a show, And Time may what it hath to thee denied On me perchance bestow. To me a farm of modest size, And slender vein of song, Such as in Greece flowed vigorous and strong, Kind fate hath given, and spirit to despise The base, malignant throng. —Sir Theodore Martin

Book IV, Ode 12

Yes, a small box of nard from the stores of Sulpicius3 A cask shall elicit, of potency rare To endow with fresh hopes, dewy-bright and delicious, And wash from our hearts every cobweb of care. If you'd dip in such joys, come—the better the quicker!— But remember the fee—for it suits not my ends, To let you make havoc, scot-free, 'with my liquor, As though I were one of your heavy-pursed friends. To the winds with base lucre and pale melancholy!— In the flames of the pyre these, alas! will be vain, Mix your sage ruminations with glimpses of folly,— 'Tis delightful at times to be somewhat insane. —Sir Theodore Martin

Horace. Book II, Ode 10

Receive, dear friends, the truths I teach, So shalt thou live beyond the reach Of adverse Fortune's power; Not always tempt the distant deep, Nor always timorously creep Along the treacherous shore. He that holds fast the golden mean And lives contentedly between The little and the great, Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, Imbittering all his state. The tallest pines feel most the power Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower Comes heaviest to the ground; The bolts that spare the mountain's side His cloud-capt eminence divide, And spread the ruin round. The well-informed philosopher Rejoices with a wholesome fear, And hopes in spite of pain; If winter bellow from the north, Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth, And nature laughs again. What if thine heaven be overcast? The dark appearance will not last; Expect a brighter sky. The god that strings a silver bow Awakes sometimes the Muses too, And lays his arrows by. If hindrances obstruct thy way, Thy magnanimity display, And let thy strength be seen: But O! if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in. —William Cowper

Martial

He unto whom thou art so partial, O reader, is the well-known Martial, The Epigrammatist: while living, Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving So shall he hear, and feel, and know it: Post-obits rarely reach a poet. —Lord Byron

Martial. Book I, xlii

When the sad tale, how Brutus fell, was brought, And slaves refused the weapon Portia sought; "Know ye not yet," she said, with towering pride, "Death is a boon that cannot be denied? I thought my father amply had imprest This simple truth upon each Roman breast." Dauntless she gulph'd the embers as they flamed And, while their heat within her raged, exclaim'd "Now, troublous guardians of a life abhorr'd, Still urge your caution, and refuse the sword." —George Lamb

Martial. Book X, lxx

That scarce a piece I publish in a year, Idle perhaps to you I may appear. But rather, that I write at all, admire, When I am often robbed of days entire. Now with my friends the evening I must spend: To those preferred my compliments must send. Now at the witnessing a will make one: Hurried from this to that, my morning's gone. Some office must attend; or else some ball; Or else my lawyer's summons to the hall. Now a rehearsal, now a concert hear; And now a Latin play at Westminster. Home after ten return, quite tir'd and dos'd. When is the piece, you want, to be compos'd? —John Hay

Martial

Your slave will with your gold abscond, The fire your home lay low, Your debtor will disown his bond Your farm no crops bestow; Your steward a mistress frail shall cheat; Your freighted ship the storms will beat; That only from mischance you'll save, Which to your friends is given; The only wealth you'll always have Is that you've lent to heaven. —English Journal of Education, Jan., 1856

Martial

They tell me, Cotilus, that you're a beau: What this is, Cotilus, I wish to know. "A beau is one who, with the nicest care, In parted locks divides his curling hair; One who with balm and cinnamon smells sweet, Whose humming lips some Spanish air repeat; Whose naked arms are smoothed with pumice-stone, And tossed about with graces all his own: A beau is one who takes his constant seat From morn till evening, where the ladies meet; And ever, on some sofa hovering near, Whispers some nothing in some fair one's ear; Who scribbles thousand billets-doux a day; Still reads and scribbles, reads, and sends away; A beau is one who shrinks, if nearly pressed By the coarse garment of a neighbor guest; Who knows who flirts with whom, and still is found At each good table in successive round: A beau is one—none better knows than he A race-horse, and his noble pedigree"— Indeed? Why Cotilus, if this be so, What teasing trifling thing is called a beau! —Elton

Martial

To Julius Martialis

The things that make a life to please, (Sweetest Martial), they are these: Estate inherited, not got: A thankful field, hearth always hot: City seldom, law-suits never: Equal friends, agreeing forever: Health of body, peace of mind: Sleeps that till the morning bind: Wise simplicity, plain fare: Not drunken nights, yet loos'd from care: A sober, not a sullen spouse: Clean strength, not such as his that plows; Wish only what thou art, to be; Death neither wish, nor fear to see. —Sir Richard Fanshawe

Martial. Book X, lxii

Thou monarch of eight parts of speech, Who sweep'st with birch a youngster's breech, Oh! now awhile withhold your hand! So may the trembling crop-hair'd band Around your desk attentive hear, And pay you love instead of fear; So may yours ever be as full, As writing or as dancing school. The scorching dog-day is begun; The harvest roasting in the sun; Each Bridewell keeper, though requir'd To use the lash, is too much tir'd. Let ferula and rod together Lie dormant, till the frosty weather. Boys do improve enough in reason, Who miss a fever in this season. —John Hay

Martial. Book X, lxi

Underneath this greedy stone, Lies little sweet Erotion;4 Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold, Nipp'd away at six years old. Thou, whoever 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

Martial. I, 32

Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare: Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.5

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

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

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 in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim, The load he shall bear never more; Here the mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams Lull'd with harp strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams The fields, when the harvest is o'er. Here, He, whose ears drank in the battle roar, Whose banners streamed upon the startled wind A thunder-storm,—before whose thunder tread The mountains trembled,—in soft sleep reclined, By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore, Hears the stern clangour of wild spears no more. —Schiller

Orpheus he went (as poets tell) To fetch Euridice from hell; And had her; but it was upon This short, but strict, condition: Backward he should not looke while he Led her through hell's obscuritie. But ah! it happened as he made His passage through that dreadful shade, Revolve he did his loving eye, For gentle feare, or jelousie, And looking back, that look did sever Him and Euridice forever. —Robert Herrick

Dear Reader, should you chance to go To Hades, do not fail to throw A "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate, His anger to propitiate. Don't say "Good dog!" and hope thereby His three fierce Heads to pacify. What though he try to be polite And wag his tail with all his might, How shall one amiable Tail Against three angry Heads prevail? The Heads must win.—What puzzles me Is why in Hades there should be A watchdog; 'tis, I should surmise, The last place one would burglarize. —Oliver Herford

They certainly contrived to raise Queer ladies in the olden days. Either the type had not been fixed, Or else Zoölogy got mixed. I envy not primeval man This female on the feathered plan. We only have, I'm glad to say, Two kinds of human birds today— Women and warriors, who still Wear feathers when dressed up to kill. —Oliver Herford

Anacreon⁶

Young Cupid once a rose caressed, And sportively its leaflets pressed. The witching thing, so fair to view One could not but believe it true, Warmed, on its bosom false, a bee, Which stung the boy-god in his glee. Sobbing, he raised his pinions bright, And flew unto the isle of light, Where, in her beauty, myrtle-crowned, The Paphian goddess sat enthroned. Her Cupid sought, and to her breast His wounded finger, weeping, pressed. "O mother! kiss me," was his cry— "O mother! save me, or I die; A winged little snake or bee With cruel sting has wounded me!" The blooming goddess in her arms Folded and kissed his budding charms; To her soft bosom pressed her pride, And then with truthful words replied: "If thus a little insect thing Can pain thee with its tiny sting, How languish, think you, those who smart Beneath my Cupid's cruel dart? How fatal must that poison prove That rankles on the shafts of Love."

O'er rolling stars, from heavenly stalls advancing, The coaches soon were seen, and a long train Of mules with litters, horses fleet and prancing, Their trappings all embroidery, nothing plain; And with fine liveries, in the sunbeams glancing, More than a hundred servants, rather vain Of handsome looks and of their stature tall, Followed their masters to the Council Hall. First came the Prince of Delos, Phoebus hight, In a gay travelling carriage, fleetly drawn By six smart Spanish chestnuts, shining bright, Which with their tramping shook the aerial lawn; Red was his cloak, three-cocked his hat, and light Around his neck the golden fleece was thrown; And twenty-four sweet damsels, nectar-sippers, Were running near him in their pumps or slippers. Pallas, with lovely but disdainful mien, Came on a nag of Basignanian race; Tight round her leg, and gathered up, was seen Her gown, half Greek, half Spanish; o'er her face Part of her hair hung loose, a natural screen, Part was tied up, and with becoming grace; A bunch of feathers on her head she wore, And on her saddle-bow her falchion bore. But Ceres and the God of Wine appeared At once, conversing; and the God of Ocean Upon a dolphin's back his form upreared, Floating through waves of air with graceful motion; Naked, all sea-weed, and with mud besmeared; For whom his mother Rhea feels emotion, Reproaching his proud brother, when she meets him, Because so like a fisherman he treats him. Diana, the sweet virgin, was not there; She had risen early and o'er woodland green Had gone to wash her clothes in fountain fair Upon the Tuscan shore—romantic scene. And not returning till the northern star Had rolled through dusky air and lost its sheen, Her mother made excuses quite provoking, Knitting at the time, a worsted stocking. Juno-Lucina did not go—and why? She anxious wished to wash her sacred head. Menippus, Jove's chief taster, standing by For the disastrous Fates excuses made. They had much tow to spin, and lint to dry, And they were also busy baking bread. The cellarman, Silenus, kept away, To water the domestics' wine, that day. On starry benches sit the famous warriors Of the immortal kingdom, in a ring; Now drums and cymbals, echoing to the barriers, Announce the coming of the gorgeous king; A hundred pages, valets, napkin-carriers Attend, and their peculiar offerings bring. And after them, armed with his club so hard, Alcides, captain of the city guard. With Jove's broad hat and spectacles arrived The light-heeled Mercury; in his hand he bore A sack, in which, of other means deprived, He damned poor mortals' prayers, some million score; Those he disposed in vessels, well contrived, Which graced his father's cabinet of yore; And, wont attention to all claims to pay, He regularly signed them twice a day. Then Jove himself, in royal habit dressed, With starry diadem upon his head, And o'er his shoulders an imperial vest Worn upon holidays.—The king displayed A sceptre, pastoral shape, with hooked crest: In a rich jacket too was he arrayed, Given by the inhabitants of Sericane, And Ganymede held up his splendid train. —A. Tassoni

(Pliny, the Younger, writes the following in a letter relative to the death of Minicia Marcella, the daughter of his friend, Fundanus.)

Tristissimus haec tibi scribo, Fundani nostri filia minore defuncta, qua puella nihil umquam festivius, amabilius, nec modo longiore vita sed prope immortalitate dignius vidi. Nondum annos quattuor decem impleverat, et iam illi anilis prudentia, matronalis gravitas erat, et tamen suavitas puellaris cum virginali verecundia. Ut illa patris cervicibus inhaerebat! Ut nos amicos paternos et amanter et modeste complectabatur! ut nutrices, ut paedagogos, ut praeceptores, pro suo quemque officio diligebat! quam studiose, quam intellegenter lectitabat! ut parce custoditeque ludebat! Qua illa temperantia, qua patientia, qua etiam constantia novissimam valetudinem tulit! Medicis obsequebatur, sororem, patrem adhortabatur, ipsamque se destitutam corporis viribus vigore animi sustinebat. Duravit hic illi usque ad extremum nec aut spatio valetudinis aut metu mortis infractus est, quo plures gravioresque nobis causas relinqueret et desiderii et doloris. O triste plane acerbumque funus! O morte ipsa mortis tempus indignius! Iam destinata erat egregio iuveni, iam electus nuptiarum dies, iam nos vocati. Quod gaudium quo maerore mutatum est! Nec possum exprimere verbis quantum anima vulnus acceperim, cum audivi Fundanum ipsum, praecipientem, quod in vestes margarita gemmas fuerat erogaturus, hoc in tus et unguenta et odores impenderetur.

TRANSLATION

I have the saddest news to tell you. Our friend Fundanus has lost his youngest daughter. I never saw a girl more cheerful, more lovable, more worthy of long life—nay, of immortality. She had not yet completed her fourteenth year, and she had already the prudence of an old woman, the gravity of a matron, and still, with all maidenly modesty, the sweetness of a girl. How she would cling to her father's neck! how affectionately and discreetly she would greet us, her father's friends! how she loved her nurses, her attendants, her teachers,—everyone according to his service. How earnestly, how intelligently, she used to read! How modest was she and restrained in her sports! And with what self-restraint, what patience—nay, what courage—she bore her last illness! She obeyed the physicians, encouraged her father and sister, and, when all strength of body had left her, kept herself alive by the vigor of her mind. This vigor lasted to the very end, and was not broken by the length of her illness or by the fear of death; so leaving, alas! to us yet more and weightier reasons for our grief and our regret. Oh the sadness, the bitterness of that death! Oh the cruelty of the time when we lost her, worse even than the loss itself! She had been betrothed to a noble youth; the marriage day had been fixed, and we had been invited. How great a joy changed into how great a sorrow! I cannot express in words how it went to my heart when I heard Fundanus himself (this is one of the grievous experiences of sorrow) giving orders that what he had meant to lay out on dresses, and pearls, and jewels, should be spent on incense, unguents, and spices.

Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque, Et quantumst hominum venustiorum. Passer mortuus est meae puellae, Passer, deliciae meae puellae, Quem plus illa oculis suis amabat: Nam mellitus erat suamque norat Ipsa tam bene quam puella matrem, Nec sese a gremio illius movebat, Sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc Ad solam dominam usque pipiabat. Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum Illuc unde negant redire quemquam. At vobis male sit, malae tenebrae Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis: Tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis. O factum male! io miselle passer! Tua nunc opera meae puellae Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli. —Catullus TRANSLATION Each Love, each Venus, mourn with me! Mourn, every son of gallantry! The sparrow, my own nymph's delight, The joy and apple of her sight; The honey-bird, the darling dies, To Lesbia dearer than her eyes, As the fair one knew her mother, So he knew her from another. With his gentle lady wrestling, In her snowy bosom nestling; With a flutter and a bound, Quiv'ring round her and around; Chirping, twitt'ring, ever near, Notes meant only for her ear. Now he skims the shadowy way, Whence none return to cheerful day. Beshrew the shades! that thus devour All that's pretty in an hour. The pretty sparrow thus is dead; The tiny fugitive is fled. Deed of spite! poor bird!—ah! see, For thy dear sake, alas! for me!— My nymph with brimful eyes appears, Red from the flushing of her tears. —Elton

The following tribute to Cicero was written by Catullus, the Roman lyric poet (87-54 b.c.)

Disertissime Romuli nepotum, Quot sunt quotque fuere, Marce Tulli, Quot que post aliis erunt in annis, Gratius tibi maximas Catullus Agit, pessimus omnium poeta, Tanto pessimus omnium poeta Quanto tu optimus omnium patronum. TRANSLATION Tully, most eloquent, most sage Of all the Roman race, That deck the past or present age, Or future days may grace. Oh! may Catullus thus declare An overflowing heart; And, though the worst of poets, dare A grateful lay impart! 'Twill teach thee how thou hast surpast All others in thy line; For, far as he in his is last, Art thou the first in thine. —Charles Lamb

Patiendo fit homo melior, Auro pulchrior, Vitro clarior, Laude dignior, Gradu altior, A vitiis purgatior, Virtutibus perfectior, Iesu Christo acceptior, Sanctis quoque similior, Hostibus suis fortior, Amicis amabilior. —Thomas à Kempis

O Domine Deus! Speravi in te; O care mi Iesu! Nunc libera me: In dura catena In misera poena Desidero te; Languendo, gemendo, Et genuflectendo Adoro, imploro, Ut liberes me! TRANSLATION My Lord and my God! I have trusted in Thee; O Jesus, my Savior belov'd, set me free: In rigorous chains, in piteous pains, I am longing for Thee! In weakness appealing, in agony kneeling, I pray, I beseech Thee, O Lord, set me free!

American pride has often gloried in Seneca's "Vision of the West" written more than 1800 years ago.

Venient annis Saecula seris, quibus Oceanus Vincula rerum laxet, et ingens Pateat tellus, Tethysque novos Detegat orbes, nec sit terris Ultima Thule. —Seneca TRANSLATION A time will come in future ages far When Ocean will his circling bounds unbar, And, opening vaster to the Pilot's hand, New worlds shall rise, where mightier kingdoms are, Nor Thule longer be the utmost land.

Oh, the Roman was a rogue, He erat, was, you bettum; He ran his automobilis And smoked his cigarettum; He wore a diamond studibus And elegant cravatum, A maxima cum laude shirt And such a stylish hattum. He loved the luscious hic-haec-hoc, And bet on games and equi: At times he won: at others, though, He got it in the nequi. He winked (quousque tandem?) At puellas on the Forum, And sometimes even made Those goo-goo oculorum! He frequently was seen At combats gladiatorial, And ate enough to feed Ten boarders at Memorial: He often went on sprees, And said on starting homus, "Hic labor, opus est, Oh, where's my hic-haec-domus?" Although he lived in Rome— Of all the arts the middle— He was (excuse the phrase) A horrid individ'l; Ah, what a different thing Was the homo (dative homini) Of far away B. C. From us of Anno Domini! —Harvard Lampoon

The Journal of Education commends this ingenious poem, written in seven languages— English, French, German, Greek, Latin, Spanish, and Italian— as one of the best specimens of Macaronic verse in existence, and worthy of preservation by all collectors.

In tempus old a hero lived, Qui loved puellas deux; He no pouvait pas quite to say Which one amabat mieux. Dit-il lui-meme un beau matin, "Non possum both avoir, Sed si address Amanda Ann, Then Kate y yo have war. Amanda habet argent coin, Sed Kate has aureas curls; Et both sunt very agathæ Et quite formosæ girls." Enfin the joven anthropos, Philoun the duo maids, Resolved proponere ad Kate Devant cet evening's shades, Procedens then to Kate's domo, Il trouve Amanda there, Kai quite forgot his late resolves, Both sunt so goodly fair, Sed smiling on the new tapis, Between puellas twain, Coepit to tell suo love a Kate Dans un poetique strain. Mais, glancing ever et anon At fair Amanda's eyes, Illæ non possunt dicere Pro which he meant his sighs. Each virgo heard the demi-vow, Con cheeks as rouge as wine, Ed offering, each, a milk-white hand, Both whispered, "Ich bin dein."

Prope ripam fluvii solus A senex silently sat; Super capitum ecce his wig, Et wig super, ecce his hat. Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus, Dum elderly gentleman sat; Et a capite took up quite torve Et in rivum projecit his hat. Tunc soft maledixit the old man, Tunc stooped from the bank where he sat, Et cum scipio poked in the water, Conatus servare his hat. Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus, The moment it saw him at that; Et whisked his novum scratch wig In flumen, along with his hat. Ab imo pectore damnavit, In coeruleus eye dolor sat; Tunc despairingly threw in his cane, Nare cum his wig and his hat. L'Envoi Contra bonos mores, don't swear It est wicked you know (verbum sat) Si this tale habet no other moral Mehercle! You're gratus to that. —James A. Morgan

A cat sedebat on our fence As laeta as could be; Her vox surgebat to the skies, Canebat merrily. My clamor was of no avail, Tho' clare did I cry. Conspexit me with mild reproof, And winked her alter eye. Quite vainly ieci boots, a lamp, Some bottles and a book; Ergo, I seized my pistol, et My aim cum cura took. I had six shots, dixi, "Ye gods, May I that felis kill!" Quamquam I took six of her lives The other three sang still. The felis sang with major vim, Though man's aim was true, Conatus sum, putare quid In tonitru I'd do. A scheme advenit in my head Scivi, 'twould make her wince— I sang! Et then the hostis fled Non eam vidi since. —Tennessee University Magazine

A homo ibat, one dark night Puellas visitare Et mansit there so very late Ut illi constet cura. Pueri walking by the house Saw caput in fenestra, Et sunt morati for a while To see quis erat in there. Soon caput turned its nasum round In viam puerorum; Agnoscunt there the pedagogue, Oh! maximum pudorem! Progressus puer to the door Cum magna quietate, Et turned the key to lock him in Moratus satis ante. Tum pedagogue arose to go Est feeling hunky-dore: Sed non potest to get out Nam key's outside the fore. Ascendit sweetheart now the stairs Cum festinato pede, Et roused puellas from their sleep Sed habent non the door key. Tum excitavit dominum By her tumultuous voce Insanus currit to the door Et vidit puellam. "Furenti place," the master roared, "Why spoil you thus my somnum? Exite from the other door Si rogues have locked the front one." Puella tristis hung her head And took her lover's manum, Et cite from the other door His caput est impulsum. Cum magno gradu redit domum Retrorsum umquam peeping, Et never ausus est again Vexare people's sleeping.

Puer ex Jersey Iens ad school; Vidit in meadow, Infestum mule. Ille approaches O magnus sorrow! Puer it skyward Funus tomorrow. Moral Qui vidit a thing Non ei well-known Est bene for him Id relinqui alone. —Anonymous

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16th Century Student Song

Flevit lepus parvulus clamans altis vocibus: Chorus Quid feci hominibus, quod me sequuntur canibus? Neque in horto fui, neque olus comedi. Longas aures habeo, brevem caudam teneo. Leves pedes habeo, magnum saltum facio. Domus mea silva est, lectus meus durus est.

H. W. Longfellow, 1839, English B. L. D'Ooge, 1885, Latin F. H. Barthélémon, 1741-1808 Ne narrate verbis mæstis, Esse vitam somnium! Vita nam iners est inanis, Et est visum perfidum. Vita vera! vita gravis! Meta non est obitus; "Cinis es et cinis eris," Nihil est ad spiritus. Ned lætitia, nec mæror, Finis designatus est; Sed augere, est noster labor, Semper rem quæ nobis est. Ars est longa, tempus fugit, Ut cor tuum valens sit, Tamen modum tristem tundit Neniæ qui concinit. Orbis terræ campo in lato, In ætatis proeliis, Mutum pecus turpe ne esto! Heros esto in copiis! Fidere futuro noli! Anni numquam redeunt. Age nunc! age in præsenti! Fortes dei diligunt. Summi nos admonent omnes Simus inter nobilis, Et legemus, disce dentes, Signa viæ posteris; Signa forsitan futura Alicui felicia, Qui, tum in dura vitæ via, Cernat hæc cum gratia. Agite, tum nos nitamur Quidquid erit, fortiter, Superantes iam sequamur Patienter, acriter. Vita vera! vita gravis! Meta non est obitus; "Cinis es et cinis eris," Nihil est ad spiritus.

Gaudeamus igitur, Iuvenes dum sumus; Post iucundam iuventutem, Post molestam senectutem, Nos habebit humus. Ubi sunt, qui ante nos In mundo fuere? Transeas ad superos, Abeas ad inferos, Quos si vis videre. Vita nostra brevis est, Brevi finietur; Venit mors velociter, Rapit nos atrociter, Nemini parcetur. Vivat academia, Vivant professores, Vivat membrum quodlibet, Vivant membra quaelibet, Semper sint in flore. Vivant omnes virgines, Faciles formosae; Vivant et mulieres, Dulces et amabiles, Bonae, laboriosae. Vivat et res publica, Et qui illam regit. Vivat nostra civitas, Maecenatum caritas, Quae nos hic protegit. Pereat tristitia, Pereant osores, Pereat diabolus, Quivis antiburschius Atque irrisores. TRANSLATION While the glowing hours are bright, Let not sadness mar them, For when age shall rifle youth, And shall drive our joys unsooth, Then the grave will bar them. Where are those who from the world Long ago departed! Scale Olympus' lofty height— See grim Hades' murky night— There are the great hearted. Mortal life is but a span, That is quickly fleeting; Cruel death comes on apace And removes us from the race, None with favor treating. Long may this fair temple stand, Nassau now and ever! Long may her professors grace Each his own time honored place, Friendship failing never. May our charming maidens live, Matchless all in beauty, May our blooming matrons long Be the theme of grateful song, Patterns bright of duty. May our Union grow in strength, Faithful rulers guiding; In the blaze of Freedom's light Where the genial arts are bright, Find we rest abiding. Out on sighing! Vanish hate, And ye friends of sadness; To his chill abode of woe, Let the dread Philistine go, Who would steal our gladness. —Tr. J. A. Pearce, Jr.

Lauriger Horatius, Quam dixisti verum! Fugit Euro citius Tempus edax rerum. Chorus Ubi sunt, O pocula, Dulciora melle, Rixae, pax, et oscula Rubentis puellae? Crescit uva molliter, Et puella crescit, Sed poeta turpiter Sitiens canescit. Quid iuvat aeternitas Nominis, amare Nisi terrae filias Licet, et potare? TRANSLATION Horace, crowned with laurels bright, Truly thou hast spoken; Time outspeeds the swift winds' flight, Earthly power is broken. Chorus Give me cups that foaming rise, Cups with fragrance laden, Pouting lips and smiling eyes, Of a blushing maiden. Blooming grows the budding vine, And the maid grows blooming; But the poet quaffs not wine, Age is surely dooming. Who would grasp at empty fame? 'Tis a fleeting vision; But for love and wine we claim, Sweetness all Elysian. —Tr. J. A. Pearce, Jr.

This singable Latin translation of America was made by Professor George D. Kellogg of Union College and appeared in The Classical Weekly.

Te cano, Patria, candida, libera; te referet portus et exulum et tumulus senum; libera montium vox resonet. Te cano, Patria, semper et atria ingenuum; laudo virentia culmina, flumina; sentio gaudia caelicolum. Sit modulatio! libera natio dulce canat! labra vigentia, ora faventia, saxa silentia vox repleat! Tutor es unicus, unus avum deus! Laudo libens. Patria luceat, libera fulgeat, vis tua muniat, Omnipotens!

Horace. Book I, Ode xxii

Integer vitae, scelerisque purus Non eget Mauris jaculis nec arcu, Nec venenatis gravida sagittis, Fusce, pharetra. Sive per Syrtes, iter aestuosas, Sive facturus per inhospitalem Caucasum, vel quae loca fabulosus Lambit Hydaspes. Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis Arbor aestiva recreatur aura; Quod latus mundi nebulae malusque Iuppiter urget; Pone sub curru nimium propinqui Solis, in terra domibus negata: Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo, Dulce loquentem. TRANSLATION Fuscus, the man of life upright and pure Needeth nor javelin, nor bow of Moor Nor arrows tipped with venom deadly-sure, Loading his quiver. Whether o'er Afric's burning sand he rides, Or frosty Caucasus' bleak mountain-sides, Or wanders lonely, where Hydaspes glides, That storied river. Place me where no life-laden summer breeze Freshens the meads, or murmurs 'mongst the trees; Where clouds oppress, and withering tempests' breeze From shore to shore. Place me beneath the sunbeams' fiercest glare, On arid sands, no dwelling anywhere, Still Lalage's sweet smile, sweet voice e'en there I will adore. —Tr. William Greenwood

Iesu, pro me perforatus, Condar intra tuum latus, Tu per lympham profluentem, Tu per sanguinem tepentem, In peccata mi redunda, Tolle culpam, sordes munda. Coram te nec iustus forem, Quamvis tota vi laborem. Nec si fide nunquam cesso, Fletu stillans indefesso: Tibi soli tantum munus: Salva me, Salvator unus! Nil in manu mecum fero Sed me versus crucem gero; Vestimenta nudus oro, Opem debilis imploro; Fontem Christi quaero immundus, Nisi laves, moribundus. Dum hos artus vita regit; Quando nox sepulchre tegit; Mortuos cum stare iubes; Sedens iudex inter nubes; Iesu, pro me perforatus, Condar intra tuum latus. —Toplady. Tr. by Gladstone

Dies irae, dies illa Solvet saeclum in favilla, Teste David cum Sybilla. Quantus tremor est futurus, Quando iudex est venturus, Cuncta stricte discussurus! Tuba, mirum spargens sonum Per sepulcra regionum, Coget omnes ante thronum. Mors stupebit, et natura, Cum resurget creatura Iudicanti responsura. Liber scriptus proferetur, Inquo totum continetur, Unde mundus iudicetur. Iudex ergo cum sedebit, Quidquid latet, apparebit, Nil inultum remanebit. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, Quem patronum rogaturus, Cum vix iustus sit securus? Rex tremendae maiestatis, Qui salvandos salvas gratis, Salva me, fons pietatis! Recordare, Iesu pie, Quod sum causa tuae viae; Ne me perdas illa die! Quaerens me sedisti lassus, Redemisti crucem passus: Tantus labor non sit cassus! Iuste iudex ultionis, Donum fac remissionis Ante diem rationis! —Thomas of Celano TRANSLATION Day of Wrath,—that Day of Days,— When earth shall vanish in a blaze, As David, with the Sibyl, says! What a trembling will come o'er us, When the Judge shall be before us, For every hidden sin to score us! The trumpet with its wondrous sound, Piercing each sepulchral mound, Shall summon all, the throne around. Nature and death will stand aghast, When those who to the grave have past, Come answering to the judgment blast! The Written Book shall be unrolled, Wherein the deeds of all are told, And shall the doom of all unfold. For when the Judge shall be enthroned, No secret shall be left unowned, No crime or trespass unatoned. When for a guilty wretch like me, What plea, what pleader, will there be, When scarcely shall the just go free! King of tremendous majesty, Whose grace saves all who saved may be, Fountain of mercy, oh save me! Forget not then, dear Son of God, For my sake Thou thy way hast trod, Nor let me sink beneath thy rod. Yes, me to save Thou sat'st in pain, Nor didst the bitter Cross disdain,— Let not such anguish be in vain! Unerring Judge, thy wrath restrain, And let my sins remission gain, While still the days of grace remain. —Tr. Robert C. Winthrop

Veni, Sancte Spiritus, Et emitte coelitus Lucis tuae radium. Veni, pater pauperum, Veni, dator munerum, Veni, lumen cordium; O lux beatissima, Reple cordis intima Tuorum fidelium! Sine tuo numine Nihil est in homine, Nihil est innoxium. Da tuis fidelibus In te confitentibus Sacrum septenarium; Da virtutis meritum, Da salutis exitum, Da perenne gaudium! TRANSLATION Holy Spirit, come, we pray Shed from Heaven thine inward ray, Kindle darkness into day. Come, Thou Father of the poor, Come, Thou source of all our store, Light of hearts forevermore. Light most blissful! Fire divine! Fill, oh! fill these hearts of Thine! On our inmost being shine. If in Thee it be not wrought All in men is simply naught, Nothing pure in deed and thought. On the faithful who confide, Solely in Thyself as guide, Let Thy sevenfold gifts abide. Grant them virtue's full increase, Grant them safe and sweet release, Grant them everlasting peace!

A Christmas Hymn

Adeste, fideles, Laeti, triumphantes, Venite, venite in Bethlehem: Natum videte Regem Angelorum: Chorus Venite adoremus, Venite adoremus, Venite adoremus Dominum. Deum de Deo, Lumen de lumine, Gestant puellae viscera: Deum verum, Genitum non factum: Cantet nunc Io Chorus Angelorum, Cantet nunc aula caelestium: Gloria in Excelsis Deo: Ergo qui natus Die hodierna Iesu, tibi sit gloria: Patris aeterni Verbum caro factum. TRANSLATION O come, all ye faithful, Joyful and triumphant, O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem; Come and behold him. Born, the King of Angels; O come, let us adore Him, O come, let us adore Him, O come, let us adore Him, Christ the Lord. God of God, Light of Light, Lo! He abhors not the Virgin's womb; Very God, Begotten, not created; O come, let us adore Him, etc. Sing choirs of Angels, Sing in exultation, Sing, all ye citizens of Heav'n above: "Glory to God In the highest"; O come, let us adore Him, etc. Yea, Lord, we greet Thee, Born this happy morning; Jesu, to Thee be glory given; Word of the Father, Now in flesh appearing; O come, let us adore Him, etc.

Puer natus in Bethlehem Unde gaudet Ierusalem Hic iacet in praesepio, Qui regnat sine termino. Cognovit bos et asinus Quod puer erat Dominus. Reges de Saba veniunt, Aurum, thus, myrrham offerunt. Intrantes domum invicem Novum salutant Principem. De matre natus virgine Sine virile semine; Sine serpentis vulnere De nostro venit sanguine; In carne nobis similis, Peccato sed dissimilis; Ut redderet nos homines Deo et sibi similes In hoc natali gaudio Benedicamus Domino. Laudetur sancta Trinitas; Deo dicamus gratias.

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Bazin, René. The Italians of Today. New York. Henry Holt & Co.	$1.25
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Church, Alfred J. Roman Life in the Days of Cicero. New York. Dodd, Mead, & Co.	1.25
Clement, Clara Erskine. Rome: The Eternal City. Boston. Dana Estes & Co. 2 vols.	3.00
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Davis, William Stearns. Readings in Ancient History. Rome and the West. Boston. Allyn and Bacon	1.00
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Hare, Augustus J. C. Walks in Rome. New York. Macmillan	2.50
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Johnston, H. W. The Private Life of the Romans. Chicago. Scott, Foresman & Co.	1.50
Kelsey, Francis W. Latin and Greek in American Education. New York. Macmillan	1.50
Lanciani, Rodolfo. Ancient Rome in the Light of Recent Discoveries. Boston. Houghton, Mifflin Co.	6.00
Munro, Dana Carleton. Source Book in Roman History. New York. D. C. Heath & Co.	1.00
Peck, Harry Thurston. Harper's Dictionary of Classical Literature and Antiquities. New York. American Book Company	6.00
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Shumway, Edgar S. A Day in Ancient Rome. New York. D. C. Heath & Co. (Paper cover 30c.)	.75
Story, William W. Roba di Roma. Boston. Houghton, Mifflin Co.	2.50
Webster, Hutton. Ancient History. New York. D. C. Heath & Co.	1.50
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Wilkinson, William Cleaver. College Latin Course in English. New York. Chautauqua Press	1.50
Wilkinson, William Cleaver. Foreign Classics in English. Vol. IV. New York. Funk & Wagnalls	1.50

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I wish to express my sincere gratitude to Professor Benjamin L. D'Ooge, of the Michigan State Normal School, for his generous assistance and hearty encouragement in the preparation of this work.

Sincere thanks are due to the various authors and publishers of copyrighted books from which selections are taken for their courteous permission to copy.

Specific acknowledgment is due George Bell and Sons, London, for Martial's Epigrams; Smith, Elder, and Company, London, for The Doom of the Slothful; Houghton, Mifflin Co., for After Construing, A Roman Mirror, Enceladus, and the poems of John G. Saxe; The Chautauqua Press, for Capri and the Translations of Horace's Odes; Charles Scribner's Sons, for the Assembly of the Gods, Cerberus, the Harpy, A Plea for the Classics, and Malum Opus; The American Book Company, for Cupid and the Bee; Lothrop, Lee and Shepard Co., for A Christmas Hymn; New England Magazine, for the Fall of Rome; Little, Brown and Company, for the translation of Dies Irae; The Outlook Company, for the Prayer of Socrates; Allyn and Bacon, for the music for Flevit Lepus Parvulus.

I must beg forgiveness of any one whose rights I have overlooked and of a few whom, after repeated efforts, I have been unable to trace.

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Dotey's Exercise Books on Caesar's Gallic war. Four books. Each	.28
Perrin's Caesar's Civil War, with vocabulary. 340 pages	1.00
Towle & Jenks's Caesar's Gallic War. Books I and II. 378 pages	1.00
Towle & Jenks's Caesar's Gallic War. Books I and II, with Selections for Sight Reading. 518 pages	1.28
Towle & Jenks's Caesar's Gallic War. Books I, II, III, and IV	1.20
Towle & Jenks's Caesar's Gallic War. Complete. 604 pages	1.40
Towle & Jenks's Caesar for Sight Reading. 144 pages	.60
CICERO
Tunstall's Six Orations of Cicero.	1.20
Tunstall's Cicero's Orations. Eleven orations. 616 pages	1.40
LATIN COMPOSITION
Barss's Writing Latin, Book I. Based on Caesar. 144 pages	.56
Barss's Writing Latin, Book II. Based on Caesar and Cicero	.80
Daniels's Latin Drill and Composition. 125 pages	.48
OVID
Anderson's Selections from Ovid, with Vocabulary. 264 pages	1.12
FOR COLLEGE CLASSES
Carter's Roman Elegiac Poets. 330 pages	1.32
Bowen's Cicero's De Amicitia. 151 pages	.80
Bowen's Cicero's De Senectute. 164 pages	.80
Gildersleeve-Lodge Latin Grammar. Complete. 560 pages	1.40
Gildersleeve-Lodge Latin Composition. 201 pages	.80
Lease's Livy, Books I, XXI and XXII. 510 pages	1.36
Moore's Prose Exercises. Revised. 80 pages	.60
Penick's Sallust's Catiline. With vocabulary. 191 pages	1.00
Poteat's Select Letters of Cicero. 215 pages	1.00
Rockwood's Cicero's De Officiis. 183 pages	1.00
Sihler's Cicero's Second Philippic. 157 pages	1.00
Wilson's Juvenal. 372 pages	1.36