[We fear, from the last volume of his "Life of the Prince Consort," that Mr. Martin himself would not consider this lively translation of his as opportune as it seems to us. But whether he be willing or unwilling, many will he glad to make use of his words.]
From gods benign descended, thou,
Best guardian of the fates of Rome,
Too long already from thy home
Hast thou, dear chief, been absent now.
Oh, then, return, the pledge redeem
Thou gav'st the Senate, and once more
Its light to all the land restore;
For when thy face, like spring-tide's gleam,
Its brightness on the people sheds,
Then glides the day more sweetly by,
A brighter blue pervades the sky,
The sun a richer radiance spreads!
As on her boy the mother calls, —
Her boy, whom envious tempests keep
Beyond the vexed Carpathian deep,
From his dear home, till winter falls,
And still with vow and prayer she cries,
Still gazes on the winding shore, —
So yearns the country evermore
For Cæsar, with fond, wistful eyes.
For safe the herds range field and fen,
Full-headed stand the shocks of grain,
Our sailors sweep the peaceful main,
And man can trust his fellow-men.