SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATION FROM MEDEA.

TELL me ye bards, whose skill sublime
 First charm'd the ear of youthful Time
 With numbers wrapt in heavn'ly fire,
 Who bade delighted echo swell
 The trembling transports of the lyre,
 The murmur of the shell, —
 Why to the burst of Joy alone
 Accords sweet music's soothing tone? 
Why can no bard, with magic strain,
 In slumbers steep the heart of pain? 
While varied tones obey your sweep,
 The mild, the plaintive, and the deep,
 Bends not despairing Grief to hear
 Your golden lute with ravish'd ear? 
Oh! has your sweetest shell no power to bind
 The fiercer pangs that shake the mind,
 And lull the wrath at whose command
 Murder bares her gory hand? 
When flush'd with joy, the rosy throng
 Weave the light dance, ye swell the song! 
Cease, ye vain warblers! cease to charm
 The breast with other raptures warm! 
Cease! till your hand with magic strain
 In slumbers steep the heart of pain!