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

[HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE]

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

[ENCELADUS]

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

NIL ADMIRARI

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

PERDIDI DIEM