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connected, with other Colleges and Universities. Messrs, Cullinan, Leech, and Ridgeway are Fellows of their Colleges in Cambridge. Mr. Davies is Professor of Latin in Galway; Mr. Crossley is Professor of Greek in Belfast; and Mr. Boulger is Professor of Greek in Cork. But I am authorized by these gentlemen to state that their verses are, in the fullest sense of the word, Dublin Translations, written under Dublin influences, and as the result of Dublin training.

I suppose no apology is needed for a collection like this. Whatever opinion may be held on the question whether versification should be required as a condition of success at examinations for prizes and honors in classics, it can hardly be denied that it is desirable to preserve the best efforts of those who have attained skill in this branch of classical study. In truth, the more verse-writing is disused as a test, the more reason does there appear to be for the publication of books like this. If the composer cannot secure as heretofore Scholarships and Fellowships by the exercise of his art, it is fair

that he should at least have the chance to recommend himself thereby to the good opinion of scholars, men of letters, and men of taste. In TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN, verse-writing is not disused as a test. Indeed, it never was more encouraged than it is now. But verse-writing does not, and never did, hold with us anything like the place which it used to hold in the Cambridge Tripos. Scholarships, Senior Moderatorships, even Fellowships, may be got with little or no skill in verse composition. But at all these examinations the marks are so allocated as to give a very considerable advantage to the skilful composer, and I think it would be difficult for a student to steadily maintain a position at the head of the men of his year without verse-writing.

I have had throughout the invaluable aid of my friend Professor Davies, and some of the principal contributors have from time to time favoured me with suggestions. But I was not able to furnish proofs to the various contributors-chiefly because they were widely scattered at the time when I was

making the compilation, and it was desirable that its publication should not be too long delayed. I must therefore make myself, and not the contributors, responsible for any errors which may be found.

ROBERT Y. TYRRELL.

4, TRIN. COLL., DUBLIN,

November, 1882.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

PAGE

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Translations into Greek.

If you go on thus you will kill yourself.
How now, my Lord! why do you keep alone
Hither came at noon Mournful none.
Die Sonne tönt nach alter Weise.
O unexpected stroke, worse than of death
Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot
Child, if a man serve law through all his life.
Though I could 'scape shot-free at London
Ye shining hosts

The king is kind; and, well we know, the king

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Glorious Orb! the idol Of early nature .

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard
Great honours are great burdens; but on whom
Her arms across her breast she laid

O well for him whose will is strong
Had I beheld That sacrilege.
Now is the winter of our discontent

You all look strangely on me; and you most
O gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry's wounds
Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums.

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Then this most wretched father went his way
Shall all thy mother's hopes lie in one tomb
Where Claribel low-lieth

But now farewell. I am going a long way
Early wert thou taken, Mary

Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt .
Ye quenchless stars! so eloquently bright
Liest thou here so low, the child of one
Death closes all; but something ere the end
Comme avec irrévérence

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours
Leucippus, thou art shot through with a shaft

O eine edle Himmelsgabe ist..

This is no answer, thou unfeeling man

Une jeune guenon cueillit

But I remember

As Saint Kevin he was walkin'

My dearest love, since thou wilt go

Thou see'st it with a lovelorn maiden's eyes

I have of late (but wherefore I know not)

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains

But as they left the darkening heath

Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling

Strew on her roses, roses

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SHAKSPEARE 142

ROSSETTI

146

SHELLEY

156

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SHAKSPEARE 160

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MACAULAY 162

2 SAMUEL

164

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GOETHE

166

This is strange your father's in some passion
Why did you melt your waxen man, Sister Helen.
The flower that smiles to-day to-morrow dies

Had'st thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife
Then tenfold round the body The roar of battle rose
The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places.
Meine Ruh' ist hin

Abhorred slave, Which any print of goodness wilt not take SHAKSPEARE 170

172

Three children sliding on the ice

G. GURTON

Come on, i' God's name, once more toward our father's

SHAKSPEARE 174

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