FOOTNOTES:

ἡ λίθος ἐστ' ἀμέθυστος, ἐγὼ δ' ὁ πότης Διόνυσος·πεισάτω ἢ νήφειν μ', ἢ μαθέτω μεθύειν.

Amid this multitude of poems it is difficult to make a fair or representative selection. There are, however, four which I cannot well omit. The first is written by Poseidippus on a lost statue of Lysippus (ii. 584):

τίς πόθεν ὁ πλάστης; Σικυώνιος· οὔνομα δὴ τίς;Λύσιππος. σὺ δὲ τίς; Καιρὸς ὁ πανδαμάτωρ·τίπτε δ' ἐπ' ἄκρα βέβηκας; ἀεὶ τροχάω. τὶ δὲ ταρσοὺςποσσὶν ἔχεις διφυεῖς; ἵπταμ' ὑπηνέμιος·χειρὶ δὲ δεξιτερῇ τὶ φέρεις ξυρόν; ἀνδράσι δεῖγμαὡς ἀκμῆς πάσης ὀξύτερος τελέθω.ἡ δὲ κόμη τὶ κατ' ὄψιν; ὑπαντιάσαντι λαβέσθαι.νὴ Δία τἀξόπιθεν δ' εἰς τὶ φαλακρὰ πέλει;τὸν γὰρ ἅπαξ πτηνοῖσι παραθρέξαντά με ποσσὶνοὔτις ἔθ' ἱμείρων δράξεται ἐξόπιθεν.τοὔνεχ' ὁ τεχνίτης σε διέπλασεν; εἵνεκεν ὑμῶν,ξεῖνε· καὶ ἐν προθύροις θῆκε διδασκαλίην.[249]

The second describes the statue of Nemesis erected near Marathon by Pheidias—that memorable work by which the greatest of sculptors recorded the most important crisis in the world's history (ii. 573):

χιονέην με λίθον παλιναυξέος ἐκ περιωπῆςλαοτύπος τμήξας πετροτόμοις ἀκίσιΜῆδος ἐποντοπόρευσεν, ὅπως ἀνδρείκελα τεύξῃ,τῆς κατ' Ἀθηναίων σύμβολα καμμονίης·ὡς δὲ δαϊζομένοις Μαραθὼν ἀντέκτυπε Πέρσαιςκαὶ νέες ὑγροπόρουν χεύμασιν αἱμαλέοις,ἔξεσαν Ἀδρήστειαν ἀριστώδινες Ἀθῆναι,δαίμον' ὑπερφιάλοις ἀντίπαλον μερόπων·ἀντιταλαντεύω τὰς ἔλπιδας· εἰμὶ δὲ καὶ νῦνΝίκη Ἐρεχθείδαις, Ἀσσυρίοις Νέμεσις.[250]

The third celebrates the Aphrodite of Praxiteles in Cnidos, whose garden has been so elegantly described by Lucian (ii. 560):

ἡ Παφίη Κυθέρεια δι' οἴδματος ἐς Κνίδον ἦλθεβουλομένη κατιδεῖν εἰκόνα τὴν ἰδίην·πάντη δ' ἀθρήσασα περισκέπτῳ ἐνὶ χώρῳ,φθέγξατο· ποῦ γυμνὴν εἶδέ με Πραξιτέλης;[251]

The fourth is composed with much artifice of style upon a statue of Love bound by his arms to a pillar (ii. 567):

κλαῖε δυσεκφύκτως σφιγχθεὶς χέρας, ἄκριτε δαῖμον,κλαῖε μάλα, στάζων ψυχοτακῆ δάκρυα,σωφροσύνας ὑβριστά, φρενοκλόπε, λῃστὰ λογισμοῦ,πτανὸν πῦρ, ψυχᾶς τραῦμ' ἀόρατον, Ἔρως·θνατοῖς μὲν λύσις ἐστὶ γόων ὁ σός, ἄκριτε, δεσμός·ᾧ σφιγχθεὶς κωφοῖς πέμπε λιτὰς ἀνέμοις·ὃν δὲ βροτοῖς ἀφύλακτος ἐνέφλεγες ἐν φρεσὶ πυρσὸνἄθρει νῦν ὑπὸ σῶν σβεννύμενον δακρύων.[252]

In bringing this review of the Anthology to a close, I feel that I have been guilty of two errors. I have wearied the reader with quotations; yet I have omitted countless epigrams of the purest beauty. The very riches of this flower-garden of little poems are an obstacle to its due appreciation. Each epigram in itself is perfect, and ought to be carefully and lovingly studied. But it is difficult for the critic to deal in a single essay with upwards of four thousand of these precious gems. There are many points of view which with adequate space and opportunity might have been taken for the better illustration of the epigrams. Their connection with the later literature of Greece, especially with the rhetoricians, Philostratus, Alciphron, and Libanius, many of whose best compositions are epigrams in prose—as Jonson knew when he turned them into lyrics; their still more intimate æsthetic harmony with the engraved stones and minor bass-reliefs, which bear exactly the same relation to Greek sculpture as the epigrams to the more august forms of Greek poetry; the lives of their authors; the historical events to which they not unfrequently allude—all these are topics for elaborate dissertation.

Perhaps, however, the true secret of their charm is this: that in their couplets, after listening to the choric raptures of triumphant public art, we turn aside to hear the private utterances, the harmoniously modulated whispers of a multitude of Greek poets telling us their inmost thoughts and feelings. The unique melodies of Meleager, the chaste and exquisite delicacy of Callimachus, the clear dry style of Straton, Plato's unearthly subtlety of phrase, Antipater's perfect polish, the good sense of Palladas, the fretful sweetness of Agathias, the purity of Simonides, the gravity of Poseidippus, the pointed grace of Philip, the few but mellow tones of Sappho and Erinna, the tenderness of Simmias, the biting wit of Lucillius, the sunny radiance of Theocritus—all these good things are ours in the Anthology. But beyond these perfumes of the poets known to fame is yet another. Over very many of the sweetest and the strongest of the epigrams is written the pathetic word ἀδέσποτον—without a master. Hail to you, dead poets, unnamed, but dear to the Muses! Surely with Pindar and with Anacreon and with Sappho and with Sophocles the bed of flowers is spread for you in those "black-petalled hollows of Pieria" where Ion bade farewell to Euripides.

FOOTNOTES:[163]He mutilated and, so to speak, castrated this book quite as much as he arranged its contents, by withdrawing the more lascivious epigrams according to his own boast.[164]Paris, 1864-1872. The translations quoted by me are taken principally from the collections of Wellesley (Anthologia Polyglotta) and Burgess (Bohn's Series), and from the Miscellanies of the late J. A. Symonds, M.D. The versions contributed by myself have no signature.[165]I have spoken of these compositions of Simonides as though they all belonged to the dedicatory epigrams. A large number of them are, however, incorporated among the epitaphs proper.[166]To those of Lacedæmon, stranger, tell,That, as their laws commanded, here we fell.John Sterling.There is no very good translation of this couplet. The difficulty lies in the word ῥήμασι. Is this equivalent to ῥήτραις, as Cicero, who renders it bylegibus, seems to think? Or is it the same asorders?[167]What time the Greeks with might and warlike deed,Sustained by courage in their hour of need,Drove forth the Persians, they to Zeus that freesThis altar built, the free fair pride of Greece.[168]They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead;They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.I wept, as I remembered how often you and IHad tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest,Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake,For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.[169]Would that swift ships had never been; for soWe ne'er had wept for Sopolis: but heDead on the waves now drifts; while we must goPast a void tomb, a mere name's mockery.[170]Here lapped in hallowed slumber Saon lies,Asleep, not dead; a good man never dies.J. A. Symonds, M.D.[171]Thou wert the morning star among the living,Ere thy fair light had fled;Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus givingNew splendor to the dead.Shelley.[172]We who once left the Ægean's deep-voiced shore,Lie 'neath Ecbatana's champaign, where we fell.Farewell Eretria, thou famed land of yore,And neighbor Athens, and loved sea, farewell.[173]Pillars of death, carved sirens, tearful urns,In whose sad keeping my poor dust is laid,To him, who near my tomb his footsteps turns,Stranger or Greek, bid hail; and say a maidRests in her bloom below; her sire the nameOf Baucis gave; her birth and lineage high;And say her bosom friend Erinna cameAnd on this tomb engraved her elegy.Elton.[174]This is the dust of Timas, whom unwedPersephone locked in her darksome bed:For her the maids who were her fellows shoreTheir curls and to her tomb this tribute bore.Sleep, poor youth, sleep in peace,Relieved from love and mortal care;[175]Merciless heaven! why didst thou show me lightFor so few years and speedy in their flight?Was it to vex by my untimely deathWith tears and wailings her who gave me breath?Who bore me, and who reared me, and who wroughtMore for my youth with many a careful thoughtThan my dead sire: he left me in his hallAn orphan babe: 'twas she alone did all.My joy it was beneath grave men of laws,Just pleas to urge and win approved applause;But from my cheek she never plucked the flowerOf charming youth, nor dressed my bridal bower,Nor sang my marriage hymn, nor saw, ah me!My offspring shoot upon our ancient tree,That now is withered. Even in the tombI wail Politta's woe, the gloom on gloomThat swells her grief for Phronton; since a boyIn vain she bore, his country's empty joy.[176]Thou art not dead, my Prote! thou art flownTo a far country better than our own;Thy home is now an island of the blest;There 'mid Elysian meadows take thy rest:Or lightly trip along the flowery glade,Rich with the asphodels that never fade!Nor pain, nor cold, nor toil shall vex thee more,Nor thirst, nor hunger on that happy shore;Nor longings vain (now that blest life is won)For such poor days as mortals here drag on;To thee for aye a blameless life is givenIn the pure light of ever-present Heaven.J. A. Symonds, M.D.[177]Home to their stalls at eve the oxen cameDown from the mountain through the snow-wreaths deep;But ah! Therimachus sleeps the long sleep'Neath yonder oak, lulled by the levin-flame.[178]She who was once but in her flesh a slaveHath for her flesh found freedom in the grave.[179]Hades is stern; but when you died, he said,Smiling, "Be jester still among the dead."[180]Know well that thou art mortal: therefore raiseThy spirit high with long luxurious days.When thou art dead, thou hast no pleasure then.I too am earth, who was a king of menO'er Nineveh. My banquets and my lustAnd love-delights are mine e'en in the dust;But all those great and glorious things are flown.True doctrine for man's life is this alone.[181]When homeward cowering from the fight you ranWithout or sword or shield, a naked man,Your mother then, Demetrius, through your sidePlunged her blood-drinking spear, nor wept, but cried:Die; let not Sparta bear the blame; but sheSinned not, if cowards drew their life from me![182]Travelling to Ephyre, by the road-sideThe tomb and name of Lais I espied:I wept and said: "Hail, queen, the fame of thee,Though ne'er I saw thee, draws these tears from me;How many hearts for thee were broken, howBy Lethe lustreless thou liest now!"[183]My name, my country—what are they to thee?What, whether base or proud my pedigree?Perhaps I far surpassed all other men;Perhaps I fell below them all; what then?Suffice it, stranger! that thou seest a tomb;Thou know'st its use; it hides—no matter whom.W. Cowper.[184]Orpheus! No more the rocks, the woods no more,Thy strains shall lure; no more the savage herds,Nor hail, nor driving clouds, nor tempest's roar,Nor chafing billows list thy lulling words;For thou art dead: and all the Muses mourn,But most Calliope, thy mother dear.Shall we then, reft of sons, lament forlorn,When e'en the gods must for their offspring fear?J. A. Symonds, M.D.[185]Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade,Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid;Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwineWith blushing roses and the clustering vine:Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung,Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung;Whose soul, exalted like a god of wit,Among the muses and the graces writ.—Anon.[186]Hail, dear Euripides, for whom a bedIn black-leaved vales Pierian is spread:Dead though thou art, yet know thy fame shall be,Like Homer's, green through all eternity.[187]If it be true that in the grave the deadHave sense and knowledge, as some men assert,I'd hang myself to see Euripides.[188]Around the tomb, O bard divine!Where soft thy hallowed brow reposes,Long may the deathless ivy twine,And summer pour his waste of roses!And many a fount shall there distil,And many a rill refresh the flowers;But wine shall gush in every rill,And every fount yield milky showers.Thus, shade of him whom nature taughtTo tune his lyre and soul to pleasure,Who gave to love his warmest thought,Who gave to love his fondest measure;Thus, after death, if spirits feel,Thou mayest, from odors round thee streaming,A pulse of past enjoyment steal,And live again in blissful dreaming.T. Moore.[189]Stranger, beware! This grave hurls words like hail:Here dwells the dread Hipponax, dealing bale.E'en 'mid his ashes, fretful, poisonous,He shoots iambics at slain Bupalus.Wake not the sleeping wasp: for though he's dead,Still straight and sure his crooked lines are sped.[190]Here sleeps Archilochus by the salt sea;Who first with viper's gall the muse did stain,And bathed mild Helicon with butchery.Lycambes weeping for her daughters threeLearned this. Pass then in silence: be not fainTo stir the wasps that round his grave remain.[191]Tell me, good dog, whose tomb you guard so well?The Cynic's. True: but who that Cynic, tell.Diogenes, of fair Sinope's race.What! He that in a tub was wont to dwell?Yes: but the stars are now his dwelling-place.J. A. Symonds, M.D.[192]These are Erinna's songs: how sweet, though slight!—For she was but a girl of nineteen years:—Yet stronger far than what most men can write:Had Death delayed, whose fame had equalled hers?[193]Does Sappho then beneath thy bosom rest,Æolian earth? that mortal Muse confessedInferior only to the choir above,That foster-child of Venus and of Love;Warm from whose lips divine Persuasion came,Greece to delight, and raise the Lesbian name?O ye, who ever twine the threefold thread,Ye Fates, why number with the silent deadThat mighty songstress, whose unrivalled powersWeave for the Muse a crown of deathless flowers?Francis Hodgson.[194]Piera's clarion, he whose weighty brainForged many a hallowed hymn and holy strain,Pindar, here sleeps beneath the sacred earth:Hearing his songs a man might swear the broodOf Muses made them in their hour of mirth,What time round Cadmus' marriage-bed they stood.[195]As the war-trumpet drowns the rustic flute,So when your lyre is heard all strings are mute:Not vain the labor of those clustering beesWho on your infant lips spread honey-dew;Witness great Pan who hymned your melodies,Pindar, forgetful of his pipes for you.[196]Earth in her breast hides Plato's dust: his soulThe gods forever 'mid their ranks enroll.And—Eagle! why soarest thou above the tomb?To what sublime and starry-paven homeFloatest thou?I am the image of swift Plato's spirit,Ascending heaven: Athens does inheritHis corpse below.Shelley.[197]Straight is the way to Acheron,Whether the spirit's race is runFrom Athens or from Meroë:Weep not, far off from home to die;The wind doth blow in every sky,That wafts us to that doleful sea.J. A. Symonds, M.D.[198]God, grant us good, whether or not we pray;But e'en from praying souls keep bad away.[199]Your goods enjoy, as if about to die;As if about to live, use sparingly.That man is wise, who, bearing both in mind,A mean, befitting waste and thrift, can find.Burgess.[200]Why shrink from Death, the parent of repose,The cure of sickness and all human woes?As through the tribes of men he speeds his way,Once, and but once, his visit he will pay;Whilst pale diseases, harbingers of pain,Close on each other crowd—an endless train.W. Shepherd.[201]All life's a scene, a jest: then learn to play,Dismissing cares, or bear your pains alway.[202]This wretched life of ours is Fortune's ball;'Twixt wealth and poverty she bandies all:These, cast to earth, up to the skies rebound;These, tossed to heaven, come trembling to the ground.Goldwin Smith.[203]Oh for the joy of life that disappears!—Weep then the swiftness of the flying years:We sit upon the ground and sleep away,Toiling or feasting; but time runs for aye,Runs a fell race against poor wretched man,Bringing for each the day that ends his span.[204]Tears were my birthright; born in tears,In tears too must I die;And mine has been, through life's long years,A tearful destiny.Such is the state of man; from birthTo death all comfortless:Then swept away beneath the earthIn utter nothingness.Edward Stokes.[205]My sire begat me; 'twas no fault of mine:But being born, in Hades I must pine:O birth-act that brought death! O bitter fateThat drives me to the grave disconsolate!To naught I turn, who nothing was ere birth;For men are naught and less than nothing worth.Then let the goblet gleam for me, my friend;Pour forth care-soothing wine, ere pleasures end.[206]See Fitzgerald's faultless translation of theRubáiyátof Omar Khayyám, published by Quaritch.[207]Morn follows morn; till while we careless playComes suddenly the darksome king, whose breathOr wastes or burns or blows our life away,But drives us all down to one pit of death.[208]Thou sleepest, friend: but see, the beakers call!Awake, nor dote on death that waits for all.Spare not, my Diodorus, but drink freeTill Bacchus loose each weak and faltering knee.Long will the years be when we can't carouse—Long, long: up then ere age hath touched our brows.[209]Drink and be merry. What the morrow bringsNo mortal knoweth: wherefore toil or run?Spend while thou mayst, eat, fix on present thingsThy hopes and wishes: life and death are one.One moment: grasp life's goods; to thee they fall:Dead, thou hast nothing, and another all.Goldwin Smith.[210]The country that gave birth to me is Gadara, an Attic city on Assyrian shores.[211]Who grew to man's estate in Tyre and Gadara, and found a fair old age in Cos. If then thou art a Syrian, Salaam! if a Phœnician, Naidios! if a Hellene, Hail![212]I'll twine white violets, and the myrtle green;Narcissus will I twine, and lilies sheen;I'll twine sweet crocus, and the hyacinth blue;And last I twine the rose, love's token true:That all may form a wreath of beauty meetTo deck my Heliodora's tresses sweet.Goldwin Smith.[213]Poor Cleariste loosed her virgin zoneNot for her wedding, but for Acheron;'Twas but last eve the merry pipes were swelling,And dancing footsteps thrilled the festive dwelling;Morn changed those notes for wailings loud and long,And dirges drowned the hymeneal song;Alas! the very torches meant to waveAround her bridal couch, now light her to the grave!J. A. Symonds, M.D.[214]Fair blows the breeze: the seamen loose the sail:—O men that know not love, your favoring galeSteals half my soul, Andragathos, from me!Thrice lucky ships, and billows of the seaThrice blessed, and happiest breeze that bears the boy!Oh would I were a dolphin, that my joy,Here on my shoulders ferried, might beholdRhodes, the fair island thronged with boys of gold![215]"O soul too loving, cease at length from even in dreams thus idly basking in the warmth of Beauty's empty shapes."[216]"Pour forth; and again cry, again, and yet again, 'to Heliodora!'"[217]"I pray thee, Earth, all-nourishing, in thy deep breast, O mother, to enfold her tenderly, for whom my tears must flow for aye."[218]"This one boon I ask of thee, great mother of all gods, beloved Night! Nay, I beseech thee, thou fellow wanderer with Revelry, O holy Night!"[219]"The boy is honey-teared, tireless of speech, swift, without sense of fear, with laughter on his roguish lips, winged, bearing arrows in a quiver on his shoulders."[220]"Why vainly in thy bonds thus pant and fret? Love himself bound thy wings and set thee on a fire, and rubbed thee, when thy breath grew faint with myrrh, and when thou thirstedst gave thee burning tears to drink."[221]"A reveller I go freighted with fire not wine beneath the region of my heart."[222]"How could it be that poet also should not sing fair songs in spring?"[223]Those who on the shores of the Mediterranean have traced out beds of red tulips or anemones or narcissus from terrace to terrace, over rocks and under olive-branches, know how delicately true to nature is the thought contained in the one epithet οὐρεσίφοιτα—roaming like nymphs along the hills, now single and now gathered into companies, as though their own sweet will had led them wandering.[224]Soar upward to the air divine:Spread broad thy pinions aquiline:Carry amid thy plumage himWho fills Jove's beaker to the brim:Take care that neither crookèd clawMake the boy's thigh or bosom raw;For Jove will wish thee sorry speedIf thou molest his Ganymede.[225]Drink now, and love, Democrates; for weShall not have wine and boys eternally:Wreathe we our heads, anoint ourselves with myrrh,Others will do this to our sepulchre:Let now my living bones with wine be drenched;Water may deluge them when I am quenched.[226]Gazing at stars, my star? I would that I were the welkin,Starry with infinite eyes, gazing forever at thee!Frederick Farrar.[227]Kissing Helena, togetherWith my kiss, my soul beside itCame to my lips, and there I kept it—For the poor thing had wandered thither,To follow where the kiss should guide it,Oh cruel I to intercept it!Shelley.[228]Shine forth, night-wandering, horned, and vigilant queen,Through the shy lattice shoot thy silver sheen;Illume Callistion: for a goddess mayGaze on a pair of lovers while they play.Thou enviest her and me, I know, fair moon,For thou didst once burn for Endymion.[229]We trod the brimming wine-press ankle-high,Singing wild songs of Bacchic revelry:Forth flowed the must in rills; our cups of woodLike cockboats swam upon the honeyed flood:With these we drew, and as we filled them, quaffed,With no warm Naiad to allay the draught:But fair Rhodanthe bent above the press,And the fount sparkled with her loveliness:We in our souls were shaken; yea, each manQuaked beneath Bacchus and the Paphian.Ah me! the one flowed at our feet in streams—The other fooled us with mere empty dreams![230]Comus, 463, etc.[231]Three things must epigrams, like bees, have all;A sting and honey and a body small.Riley.[232]A certain Cyril gives this as his definition of a good epigram (ii. 75; compare No. 342 on p.69):πάγκαλόν ἐστ' ἐπίγραμμα τὸ δίστιχον· ἢν δὲ παρέλθῃςτοὺς τρεῖς, ῥαψῳδεῖς κοὐκ ἐπίγραμμα λέγεις.Two lines complete the epigram—or three:Write more; you aim at epic poetry.Here the essence of this kind of poetry is said to be brevity. But nothing is said about a sting. And on the point of brevity, the Cyril to whom this couplet is attributed is far too stringent when judged by the best Greek standards. The modern notion of the epigram is derived from a study of Martial, whose best verses are satirical and therefore of necessity stinging.[233]Spring with her waving treesAdorns the earth: to heavenThe pride of stars is given:Athens illustrates Greece:She on her brows doth setOf men this coronet.[234]Though thou shouldst gnaw me to the root,Destructive goat, enough of fruitI bear, betwixt my horns to shed,When to the altar thou art led.Merivale.[235]The Germans at GreekAre sadly to seek,Not five in five-score,But ninety-five more;All—save only Hermann;And Hermann's a German.Porson.[236]Attic maid! with honey fed,Bear'st thou to thy callow broodYonder locust from the mead,Destined their delicious food?Ye have kindred voices clear,Ye alike unfold the wing,Migrate hither, sojourn here,Both attendant on the spring.Ah! for pity drop the prize;Let it not with truth be said,That a songster gasps and dies,That a songster may be fed.W. Cowper.[237]Though but the being of a day,When I yon planet's course survey,This earth I then despise;Near Jove's eternal throne I stand,And quaff from an immortal handThe nectar of the skies.Philip Smyth.[238]Bacon's version, "The world's a bubble, and the life of man—," is both well known and too long to quote. The following is from the pen of Sir John Beaumont:What course of life should wretched mortals take?In courts hard questions large contention make:Care dwells in houses, labor in the field,Tumultuous seas affrighting dangers yield.In foreign lands thou never canst be blessed;If rich, thou art in fear; if poor, distressed.In wedlock frequent discontentments swell;Unmarried persons as in deserts dwell.How many troubles are with children born;Yet he that wants them counts himself forlorn.Young men are wanton, and of wisdom void;Gray hairs are cold, unfit to be employed.Who would not one of these two offers choose,Not to be born, or breath with speed to lose?[239]In every way of life true pleasure flows:Immortal fame from public action grows:Within the doors is found appeasing rest;In fields the gifts of nature are expressed.The sea brings gain, the rich abroad provideTo blaze their names, the poor their wants to hide:All household's best are governed by a wife;His cares are light, who leads a single life:Sweet children are delights which marriage bless;He that hath none disturbs his thoughts the less.Strong youth can triumph in victorious deeds;Old age the soul with pious motions feeds.All states are good, and they are falsely ledWho wish to be unborn or quickly dead.Sir John Beaumont.[240]Where, Corinth, are thy glories now,Thy ancient wealth, thy castled brow,Thy solemn fanes, thy halls of state,Thy high-born dames, thy crowded gate?There's not a ruin left to tellWhere Corinth stood, how Corinth fell.The Nereids of thy double seaAlone remain to wail for thee.Goldwin Smith.[241]Seeing the martyred corpse of Sparta's kingCast 'mid the dead,Xerxes around the mighty limbs did flingHis mantle red.Then from the shades the glorious hero cried:"Not mine a traitor's guerdon. 'Tis my prideThis shield upon my grave to wear.ForbearYour Persian gifts; a Spartan I will goTo Death below."[242]One day three girls were casting lots in play,Which first to Acheron should take her way;Thrice with their sportive hands they threw, and thriceTo the same hand returned the fateful dice;The maiden laughed when thus her doom was told:Alas! that moment from the roof she rolled!So sure is Fate whene'er it bringeth bale,While prayers and vows for bliss must ever fail.J. A. Symonds. M.D.[243]Aerial branches of tall oak, retreatOf loftiest shade for those who shun the heat,With foliage full, more close than tiling, whereDove and cicada dwell aloft in air,Me, too, that thus my head beneath you lay,Protect, a fugitive from noon's fierce ray.Goldwin Smith.[244]Wide-spreading plane-tree, whose thick branches meetTo form for lovers an obscure retreat,Whilst with thy foliage closely intertwineThe curling tendrils of the clustered vine,Still mayst thou flourish, in perennial green,To shade the votaries of the Paphian queen.W. Shepherd.[245]Come sit you down beneath this towering tree,Whose rustling leaves sing to the zephyr's call;My pipe shall join the streamlet's melody,And slumber on your charmèd eyelids fall.J. A. Symonds, M.D.[246]Spare the parent of acorns, good wood-cutter, spare!Let the time-honored fir feel the weight of your stroke,The many-stalked thorn, or acanthus worn bare,Pine, arbutus, ilex—but touch not the oak!Far hence be your axe, for our grandams have sungHow the oaks are the mothers from whom we all sprung.Merivale.[247]Why, ruthless shepherds, from my dewy sprayIn my lone haunt, why tear me thus away?Me, the Nymphs' wayside minstrel, whose sweet noteO'er sultry hill is heard and shady grove to float?Lo! where the blackbird, thrush, and greedy hostOf starlings fatten at the farmer's cost!With just revenge those ravages pursue;But grudge not my poor leaf and sip of grassy dew.Wrangham.[248]Phœbus, thou know'st me—Eunomus, who beatSpartis: the tale for others I repeat;Deftly upon my lyre I played and sang,When 'mid the song a broken harp-string rang,And seeking for its sound, I could not hearThe note responsive to my descant clear.Then on my lyre, unasked, unsought, there flewA grasshopper, who filled the cadence due;For while six chords beneath my fingers cried,He with his tuneful voice the seventh supplied:The midday songster of the mountains setHis pastoral ditty to my canzonet;And when he sang, his modulated throatAccorded with the lifeless strings I smote.Therefore I thank my fellow-minstrel: heSits on a lyre in brass, as you may see.[249]The sculptor's country? Sicyon. His name?Lysippus. You? Time, that all things can tame.Why thus a-tiptoe? I have halted never.Why ankle-winged? I fly like wind forever.But in your hand that razor? 'Tis a pledgeThat I am keener than the keenest edge.Why falls your hair in front? For him to bindWho meets me. True: but then you're bald behind?Yes, because when with winged feet I have passed'Tis vain upon my back your hands to cast.Why did the sculptor carve you? For your sakeHere in the porch I stand; my lesson take.[250]My snowy marble from the mountain rudeA Median sculptor with sharp chisel hewed,And brought me o'er the sea, that he might placeA trophied statue of the Greeks' disgrace.But when the routed Persians heard the roarOf Marathon, and ships swam deep in gore,Then Athens, nurse of heroes, sculptured meThe queen that treads on arrogance to be:I hold the scales of hope: my name is this—Nike for Greece, for Asia Nemesis.[251]Bright Cytherea thought one dayTo Cnidos she'd repair,Gliding across the watery wayTo view her image there.But when, arrived, she cast aroundHer eyes divinely bright,And saw upon that holy groundThe gazing world's delight,Amazed, she cried—while blushes toldThe thoughts that swelled her breast—Where did Praxiteles beholdMy form? or has he guessed?J. H. Merivale.[252]Weep, reckless god; for now your hands are tied:Weep, wear your soul out with the flood of tears,Heart-robber, thief of reason, foe to pride,Winged fire, thou wound unseen the soul that sears!Freedom from grief to us these bonds of thine,Wherein thou wailest to the deaf winds, bring:Behold! the torch wherewith thou mad'st us pine,Beneath thy frequent tears is languishing!

[163]He mutilated and, so to speak, castrated this book quite as much as he arranged its contents, by withdrawing the more lascivious epigrams according to his own boast.

[164]Paris, 1864-1872. The translations quoted by me are taken principally from the collections of Wellesley (Anthologia Polyglotta) and Burgess (Bohn's Series), and from the Miscellanies of the late J. A. Symonds, M.D. The versions contributed by myself have no signature.

[165]I have spoken of these compositions of Simonides as though they all belonged to the dedicatory epigrams. A large number of them are, however, incorporated among the epitaphs proper.

[166]To those of Lacedæmon, stranger, tell,That, as their laws commanded, here we fell.John Sterling.There is no very good translation of this couplet. The difficulty lies in the word ῥήμασι. Is this equivalent to ῥήτραις, as Cicero, who renders it bylegibus, seems to think? Or is it the same asorders?

[166]

To those of Lacedæmon, stranger, tell,That, as their laws commanded, here we fell.

John Sterling.

There is no very good translation of this couplet. The difficulty lies in the word ῥήμασι. Is this equivalent to ῥήτραις, as Cicero, who renders it bylegibus, seems to think? Or is it the same asorders?

[167]What time the Greeks with might and warlike deed,Sustained by courage in their hour of need,Drove forth the Persians, they to Zeus that freesThis altar built, the free fair pride of Greece.

[167]

What time the Greeks with might and warlike deed,Sustained by courage in their hour of need,Drove forth the Persians, they to Zeus that freesThis altar built, the free fair pride of Greece.

[168]They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead;They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.I wept, as I remembered how often you and IHad tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest,Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake,For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

[168]

They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead;They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.I wept, as I remembered how often you and IHad tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest,Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake,For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest,Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake,For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

[169]Would that swift ships had never been; for soWe ne'er had wept for Sopolis: but heDead on the waves now drifts; while we must goPast a void tomb, a mere name's mockery.

[169]

Would that swift ships had never been; for soWe ne'er had wept for Sopolis: but heDead on the waves now drifts; while we must goPast a void tomb, a mere name's mockery.

[170]Here lapped in hallowed slumber Saon lies,Asleep, not dead; a good man never dies.J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[170]

Here lapped in hallowed slumber Saon lies,Asleep, not dead; a good man never dies.

J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[171]Thou wert the morning star among the living,Ere thy fair light had fled;Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus givingNew splendor to the dead.Shelley.

[171]

Thou wert the morning star among the living,Ere thy fair light had fled;Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus givingNew splendor to the dead.

Shelley.

[172]We who once left the Ægean's deep-voiced shore,Lie 'neath Ecbatana's champaign, where we fell.Farewell Eretria, thou famed land of yore,And neighbor Athens, and loved sea, farewell.

[172]

We who once left the Ægean's deep-voiced shore,Lie 'neath Ecbatana's champaign, where we fell.Farewell Eretria, thou famed land of yore,And neighbor Athens, and loved sea, farewell.

[173]Pillars of death, carved sirens, tearful urns,In whose sad keeping my poor dust is laid,To him, who near my tomb his footsteps turns,Stranger or Greek, bid hail; and say a maidRests in her bloom below; her sire the nameOf Baucis gave; her birth and lineage high;And say her bosom friend Erinna cameAnd on this tomb engraved her elegy.Elton.

[173]

Pillars of death, carved sirens, tearful urns,In whose sad keeping my poor dust is laid,To him, who near my tomb his footsteps turns,Stranger or Greek, bid hail; and say a maidRests in her bloom below; her sire the nameOf Baucis gave; her birth and lineage high;And say her bosom friend Erinna cameAnd on this tomb engraved her elegy.

Elton.

[174]This is the dust of Timas, whom unwedPersephone locked in her darksome bed:For her the maids who were her fellows shoreTheir curls and to her tomb this tribute bore.Sleep, poor youth, sleep in peace,Relieved from love and mortal care;

[174]

This is the dust of Timas, whom unwedPersephone locked in her darksome bed:For her the maids who were her fellows shoreTheir curls and to her tomb this tribute bore.Sleep, poor youth, sleep in peace,Relieved from love and mortal care;

[175]Merciless heaven! why didst thou show me lightFor so few years and speedy in their flight?Was it to vex by my untimely deathWith tears and wailings her who gave me breath?Who bore me, and who reared me, and who wroughtMore for my youth with many a careful thoughtThan my dead sire: he left me in his hallAn orphan babe: 'twas she alone did all.My joy it was beneath grave men of laws,Just pleas to urge and win approved applause;But from my cheek she never plucked the flowerOf charming youth, nor dressed my bridal bower,Nor sang my marriage hymn, nor saw, ah me!My offspring shoot upon our ancient tree,That now is withered. Even in the tombI wail Politta's woe, the gloom on gloomThat swells her grief for Phronton; since a boyIn vain she bore, his country's empty joy.

[175]

Merciless heaven! why didst thou show me lightFor so few years and speedy in their flight?Was it to vex by my untimely deathWith tears and wailings her who gave me breath?Who bore me, and who reared me, and who wroughtMore for my youth with many a careful thoughtThan my dead sire: he left me in his hallAn orphan babe: 'twas she alone did all.My joy it was beneath grave men of laws,Just pleas to urge and win approved applause;But from my cheek she never plucked the flowerOf charming youth, nor dressed my bridal bower,Nor sang my marriage hymn, nor saw, ah me!My offspring shoot upon our ancient tree,That now is withered. Even in the tombI wail Politta's woe, the gloom on gloomThat swells her grief for Phronton; since a boyIn vain she bore, his country's empty joy.

[176]Thou art not dead, my Prote! thou art flownTo a far country better than our own;Thy home is now an island of the blest;There 'mid Elysian meadows take thy rest:Or lightly trip along the flowery glade,Rich with the asphodels that never fade!Nor pain, nor cold, nor toil shall vex thee more,Nor thirst, nor hunger on that happy shore;Nor longings vain (now that blest life is won)For such poor days as mortals here drag on;To thee for aye a blameless life is givenIn the pure light of ever-present Heaven.J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[176]

Thou art not dead, my Prote! thou art flownTo a far country better than our own;Thy home is now an island of the blest;There 'mid Elysian meadows take thy rest:Or lightly trip along the flowery glade,Rich with the asphodels that never fade!Nor pain, nor cold, nor toil shall vex thee more,Nor thirst, nor hunger on that happy shore;Nor longings vain (now that blest life is won)For such poor days as mortals here drag on;To thee for aye a blameless life is givenIn the pure light of ever-present Heaven.

J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[177]Home to their stalls at eve the oxen cameDown from the mountain through the snow-wreaths deep;But ah! Therimachus sleeps the long sleep'Neath yonder oak, lulled by the levin-flame.

[177]

Home to their stalls at eve the oxen cameDown from the mountain through the snow-wreaths deep;But ah! Therimachus sleeps the long sleep'Neath yonder oak, lulled by the levin-flame.

[178]She who was once but in her flesh a slaveHath for her flesh found freedom in the grave.

[178]

She who was once but in her flesh a slaveHath for her flesh found freedom in the grave.

[179]Hades is stern; but when you died, he said,Smiling, "Be jester still among the dead."

[179]

Hades is stern; but when you died, he said,Smiling, "Be jester still among the dead."

[180]Know well that thou art mortal: therefore raiseThy spirit high with long luxurious days.When thou art dead, thou hast no pleasure then.I too am earth, who was a king of menO'er Nineveh. My banquets and my lustAnd love-delights are mine e'en in the dust;But all those great and glorious things are flown.True doctrine for man's life is this alone.

[180]

Know well that thou art mortal: therefore raiseThy spirit high with long luxurious days.When thou art dead, thou hast no pleasure then.I too am earth, who was a king of menO'er Nineveh. My banquets and my lustAnd love-delights are mine e'en in the dust;But all those great and glorious things are flown.True doctrine for man's life is this alone.

[181]When homeward cowering from the fight you ranWithout or sword or shield, a naked man,Your mother then, Demetrius, through your sidePlunged her blood-drinking spear, nor wept, but cried:Die; let not Sparta bear the blame; but sheSinned not, if cowards drew their life from me!

[181]

When homeward cowering from the fight you ranWithout or sword or shield, a naked man,Your mother then, Demetrius, through your sidePlunged her blood-drinking spear, nor wept, but cried:Die; let not Sparta bear the blame; but sheSinned not, if cowards drew their life from me!

[182]Travelling to Ephyre, by the road-sideThe tomb and name of Lais I espied:I wept and said: "Hail, queen, the fame of thee,Though ne'er I saw thee, draws these tears from me;How many hearts for thee were broken, howBy Lethe lustreless thou liest now!"

[182]

Travelling to Ephyre, by the road-sideThe tomb and name of Lais I espied:I wept and said: "Hail, queen, the fame of thee,Though ne'er I saw thee, draws these tears from me;How many hearts for thee were broken, howBy Lethe lustreless thou liest now!"

[183]My name, my country—what are they to thee?What, whether base or proud my pedigree?Perhaps I far surpassed all other men;Perhaps I fell below them all; what then?Suffice it, stranger! that thou seest a tomb;Thou know'st its use; it hides—no matter whom.W. Cowper.

[183]

My name, my country—what are they to thee?What, whether base or proud my pedigree?Perhaps I far surpassed all other men;Perhaps I fell below them all; what then?Suffice it, stranger! that thou seest a tomb;Thou know'st its use; it hides—no matter whom.

W. Cowper.

[184]Orpheus! No more the rocks, the woods no more,Thy strains shall lure; no more the savage herds,Nor hail, nor driving clouds, nor tempest's roar,Nor chafing billows list thy lulling words;For thou art dead: and all the Muses mourn,But most Calliope, thy mother dear.Shall we then, reft of sons, lament forlorn,When e'en the gods must for their offspring fear?J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[184]

Orpheus! No more the rocks, the woods no more,Thy strains shall lure; no more the savage herds,Nor hail, nor driving clouds, nor tempest's roar,Nor chafing billows list thy lulling words;For thou art dead: and all the Muses mourn,But most Calliope, thy mother dear.Shall we then, reft of sons, lament forlorn,When e'en the gods must for their offspring fear?

J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[185]Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade,Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid;Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwineWith blushing roses and the clustering vine:Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung,Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung;Whose soul, exalted like a god of wit,Among the muses and the graces writ.—Anon.

[185]

Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade,Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid;Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwineWith blushing roses and the clustering vine:Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung,Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung;Whose soul, exalted like a god of wit,Among the muses and the graces writ.—Anon.

[186]Hail, dear Euripides, for whom a bedIn black-leaved vales Pierian is spread:Dead though thou art, yet know thy fame shall be,Like Homer's, green through all eternity.

[186]

Hail, dear Euripides, for whom a bedIn black-leaved vales Pierian is spread:Dead though thou art, yet know thy fame shall be,Like Homer's, green through all eternity.

[187]If it be true that in the grave the deadHave sense and knowledge, as some men assert,I'd hang myself to see Euripides.

[187]

If it be true that in the grave the deadHave sense and knowledge, as some men assert,I'd hang myself to see Euripides.

[188]Around the tomb, O bard divine!Where soft thy hallowed brow reposes,Long may the deathless ivy twine,And summer pour his waste of roses!And many a fount shall there distil,And many a rill refresh the flowers;But wine shall gush in every rill,And every fount yield milky showers.Thus, shade of him whom nature taughtTo tune his lyre and soul to pleasure,Who gave to love his warmest thought,Who gave to love his fondest measure;Thus, after death, if spirits feel,Thou mayest, from odors round thee streaming,A pulse of past enjoyment steal,And live again in blissful dreaming.T. Moore.

[188]

Around the tomb, O bard divine!Where soft thy hallowed brow reposes,Long may the deathless ivy twine,And summer pour his waste of roses!And many a fount shall there distil,And many a rill refresh the flowers;But wine shall gush in every rill,And every fount yield milky showers.Thus, shade of him whom nature taughtTo tune his lyre and soul to pleasure,Who gave to love his warmest thought,Who gave to love his fondest measure;Thus, after death, if spirits feel,Thou mayest, from odors round thee streaming,A pulse of past enjoyment steal,And live again in blissful dreaming.

Around the tomb, O bard divine!Where soft thy hallowed brow reposes,Long may the deathless ivy twine,And summer pour his waste of roses!

And many a fount shall there distil,And many a rill refresh the flowers;But wine shall gush in every rill,And every fount yield milky showers.

Thus, shade of him whom nature taughtTo tune his lyre and soul to pleasure,Who gave to love his warmest thought,Who gave to love his fondest measure;

Thus, after death, if spirits feel,Thou mayest, from odors round thee streaming,A pulse of past enjoyment steal,And live again in blissful dreaming.

T. Moore.

[189]Stranger, beware! This grave hurls words like hail:Here dwells the dread Hipponax, dealing bale.E'en 'mid his ashes, fretful, poisonous,He shoots iambics at slain Bupalus.Wake not the sleeping wasp: for though he's dead,Still straight and sure his crooked lines are sped.

[189]

Stranger, beware! This grave hurls words like hail:Here dwells the dread Hipponax, dealing bale.E'en 'mid his ashes, fretful, poisonous,He shoots iambics at slain Bupalus.Wake not the sleeping wasp: for though he's dead,Still straight and sure his crooked lines are sped.

[190]Here sleeps Archilochus by the salt sea;Who first with viper's gall the muse did stain,And bathed mild Helicon with butchery.Lycambes weeping for her daughters threeLearned this. Pass then in silence: be not fainTo stir the wasps that round his grave remain.

[190]

Here sleeps Archilochus by the salt sea;Who first with viper's gall the muse did stain,And bathed mild Helicon with butchery.Lycambes weeping for her daughters threeLearned this. Pass then in silence: be not fainTo stir the wasps that round his grave remain.

[191]Tell me, good dog, whose tomb you guard so well?The Cynic's. True: but who that Cynic, tell.Diogenes, of fair Sinope's race.What! He that in a tub was wont to dwell?Yes: but the stars are now his dwelling-place.J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[191]

Tell me, good dog, whose tomb you guard so well?The Cynic's. True: but who that Cynic, tell.Diogenes, of fair Sinope's race.What! He that in a tub was wont to dwell?Yes: but the stars are now his dwelling-place.

J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[192]These are Erinna's songs: how sweet, though slight!—For she was but a girl of nineteen years:—Yet stronger far than what most men can write:Had Death delayed, whose fame had equalled hers?

[192]

These are Erinna's songs: how sweet, though slight!—For she was but a girl of nineteen years:—Yet stronger far than what most men can write:Had Death delayed, whose fame had equalled hers?

[193]Does Sappho then beneath thy bosom rest,Æolian earth? that mortal Muse confessedInferior only to the choir above,That foster-child of Venus and of Love;Warm from whose lips divine Persuasion came,Greece to delight, and raise the Lesbian name?O ye, who ever twine the threefold thread,Ye Fates, why number with the silent deadThat mighty songstress, whose unrivalled powersWeave for the Muse a crown of deathless flowers?Francis Hodgson.

[193]

Does Sappho then beneath thy bosom rest,Æolian earth? that mortal Muse confessedInferior only to the choir above,That foster-child of Venus and of Love;Warm from whose lips divine Persuasion came,Greece to delight, and raise the Lesbian name?O ye, who ever twine the threefold thread,Ye Fates, why number with the silent deadThat mighty songstress, whose unrivalled powersWeave for the Muse a crown of deathless flowers?

Francis Hodgson.

[194]Piera's clarion, he whose weighty brainForged many a hallowed hymn and holy strain,Pindar, here sleeps beneath the sacred earth:Hearing his songs a man might swear the broodOf Muses made them in their hour of mirth,What time round Cadmus' marriage-bed they stood.

[194]

Piera's clarion, he whose weighty brainForged many a hallowed hymn and holy strain,Pindar, here sleeps beneath the sacred earth:Hearing his songs a man might swear the broodOf Muses made them in their hour of mirth,What time round Cadmus' marriage-bed they stood.

[195]As the war-trumpet drowns the rustic flute,So when your lyre is heard all strings are mute:Not vain the labor of those clustering beesWho on your infant lips spread honey-dew;Witness great Pan who hymned your melodies,Pindar, forgetful of his pipes for you.

[195]

As the war-trumpet drowns the rustic flute,So when your lyre is heard all strings are mute:Not vain the labor of those clustering beesWho on your infant lips spread honey-dew;Witness great Pan who hymned your melodies,Pindar, forgetful of his pipes for you.

[196]Earth in her breast hides Plato's dust: his soulThe gods forever 'mid their ranks enroll.And—Eagle! why soarest thou above the tomb?To what sublime and starry-paven homeFloatest thou?I am the image of swift Plato's spirit,Ascending heaven: Athens does inheritHis corpse below.Shelley.

[196]

Earth in her breast hides Plato's dust: his soulThe gods forever 'mid their ranks enroll.

And—

Eagle! why soarest thou above the tomb?To what sublime and starry-paven homeFloatest thou?I am the image of swift Plato's spirit,Ascending heaven: Athens does inheritHis corpse below.

Eagle! why soarest thou above the tomb?To what sublime and starry-paven homeFloatest thou?

I am the image of swift Plato's spirit,Ascending heaven: Athens does inheritHis corpse below.

Shelley.

[197]Straight is the way to Acheron,Whether the spirit's race is runFrom Athens or from Meroë:Weep not, far off from home to die;The wind doth blow in every sky,That wafts us to that doleful sea.J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[197]

Straight is the way to Acheron,Whether the spirit's race is runFrom Athens or from Meroë:Weep not, far off from home to die;The wind doth blow in every sky,That wafts us to that doleful sea.

J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[198]God, grant us good, whether or not we pray;But e'en from praying souls keep bad away.

[198]

God, grant us good, whether or not we pray;But e'en from praying souls keep bad away.

[199]Your goods enjoy, as if about to die;As if about to live, use sparingly.That man is wise, who, bearing both in mind,A mean, befitting waste and thrift, can find.Burgess.

[199]

Your goods enjoy, as if about to die;As if about to live, use sparingly.That man is wise, who, bearing both in mind,A mean, befitting waste and thrift, can find.

Burgess.

[200]Why shrink from Death, the parent of repose,The cure of sickness and all human woes?As through the tribes of men he speeds his way,Once, and but once, his visit he will pay;Whilst pale diseases, harbingers of pain,Close on each other crowd—an endless train.W. Shepherd.

[200]

Why shrink from Death, the parent of repose,The cure of sickness and all human woes?As through the tribes of men he speeds his way,Once, and but once, his visit he will pay;Whilst pale diseases, harbingers of pain,Close on each other crowd—an endless train.

W. Shepherd.

[201]All life's a scene, a jest: then learn to play,Dismissing cares, or bear your pains alway.

[201]

All life's a scene, a jest: then learn to play,Dismissing cares, or bear your pains alway.

[202]This wretched life of ours is Fortune's ball;'Twixt wealth and poverty she bandies all:These, cast to earth, up to the skies rebound;These, tossed to heaven, come trembling to the ground.Goldwin Smith.

[202]

This wretched life of ours is Fortune's ball;'Twixt wealth and poverty she bandies all:These, cast to earth, up to the skies rebound;These, tossed to heaven, come trembling to the ground.

Goldwin Smith.

[203]Oh for the joy of life that disappears!—Weep then the swiftness of the flying years:We sit upon the ground and sleep away,Toiling or feasting; but time runs for aye,Runs a fell race against poor wretched man,Bringing for each the day that ends his span.

[203]

Oh for the joy of life that disappears!—Weep then the swiftness of the flying years:We sit upon the ground and sleep away,Toiling or feasting; but time runs for aye,Runs a fell race against poor wretched man,Bringing for each the day that ends his span.

[204]Tears were my birthright; born in tears,In tears too must I die;And mine has been, through life's long years,A tearful destiny.Such is the state of man; from birthTo death all comfortless:Then swept away beneath the earthIn utter nothingness.Edward Stokes.

[204]

Tears were my birthright; born in tears,In tears too must I die;And mine has been, through life's long years,A tearful destiny.Such is the state of man; from birthTo death all comfortless:Then swept away beneath the earthIn utter nothingness.

Tears were my birthright; born in tears,In tears too must I die;And mine has been, through life's long years,A tearful destiny.

Such is the state of man; from birthTo death all comfortless:Then swept away beneath the earthIn utter nothingness.

Edward Stokes.

[205]My sire begat me; 'twas no fault of mine:But being born, in Hades I must pine:O birth-act that brought death! O bitter fateThat drives me to the grave disconsolate!To naught I turn, who nothing was ere birth;For men are naught and less than nothing worth.Then let the goblet gleam for me, my friend;Pour forth care-soothing wine, ere pleasures end.

[205]

My sire begat me; 'twas no fault of mine:But being born, in Hades I must pine:O birth-act that brought death! O bitter fateThat drives me to the grave disconsolate!To naught I turn, who nothing was ere birth;For men are naught and less than nothing worth.Then let the goblet gleam for me, my friend;Pour forth care-soothing wine, ere pleasures end.

[206]See Fitzgerald's faultless translation of theRubáiyátof Omar Khayyám, published by Quaritch.

[207]Morn follows morn; till while we careless playComes suddenly the darksome king, whose breathOr wastes or burns or blows our life away,But drives us all down to one pit of death.

[207]

Morn follows morn; till while we careless playComes suddenly the darksome king, whose breathOr wastes or burns or blows our life away,But drives us all down to one pit of death.

[208]Thou sleepest, friend: but see, the beakers call!Awake, nor dote on death that waits for all.Spare not, my Diodorus, but drink freeTill Bacchus loose each weak and faltering knee.Long will the years be when we can't carouse—Long, long: up then ere age hath touched our brows.

[208]

Thou sleepest, friend: but see, the beakers call!Awake, nor dote on death that waits for all.Spare not, my Diodorus, but drink freeTill Bacchus loose each weak and faltering knee.Long will the years be when we can't carouse—Long, long: up then ere age hath touched our brows.

[209]Drink and be merry. What the morrow bringsNo mortal knoweth: wherefore toil or run?Spend while thou mayst, eat, fix on present thingsThy hopes and wishes: life and death are one.One moment: grasp life's goods; to thee they fall:Dead, thou hast nothing, and another all.Goldwin Smith.

[209]

Drink and be merry. What the morrow bringsNo mortal knoweth: wherefore toil or run?Spend while thou mayst, eat, fix on present thingsThy hopes and wishes: life and death are one.One moment: grasp life's goods; to thee they fall:Dead, thou hast nothing, and another all.

Goldwin Smith.

[210]The country that gave birth to me is Gadara, an Attic city on Assyrian shores.

[211]Who grew to man's estate in Tyre and Gadara, and found a fair old age in Cos. If then thou art a Syrian, Salaam! if a Phœnician, Naidios! if a Hellene, Hail!

[212]I'll twine white violets, and the myrtle green;Narcissus will I twine, and lilies sheen;I'll twine sweet crocus, and the hyacinth blue;And last I twine the rose, love's token true:That all may form a wreath of beauty meetTo deck my Heliodora's tresses sweet.Goldwin Smith.

[212]

I'll twine white violets, and the myrtle green;Narcissus will I twine, and lilies sheen;I'll twine sweet crocus, and the hyacinth blue;And last I twine the rose, love's token true:That all may form a wreath of beauty meetTo deck my Heliodora's tresses sweet.

Goldwin Smith.

[213]Poor Cleariste loosed her virgin zoneNot for her wedding, but for Acheron;'Twas but last eve the merry pipes were swelling,And dancing footsteps thrilled the festive dwelling;Morn changed those notes for wailings loud and long,And dirges drowned the hymeneal song;Alas! the very torches meant to waveAround her bridal couch, now light her to the grave!J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[213]

Poor Cleariste loosed her virgin zoneNot for her wedding, but for Acheron;'Twas but last eve the merry pipes were swelling,And dancing footsteps thrilled the festive dwelling;Morn changed those notes for wailings loud and long,And dirges drowned the hymeneal song;Alas! the very torches meant to waveAround her bridal couch, now light her to the grave!

J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[214]Fair blows the breeze: the seamen loose the sail:—O men that know not love, your favoring galeSteals half my soul, Andragathos, from me!Thrice lucky ships, and billows of the seaThrice blessed, and happiest breeze that bears the boy!Oh would I were a dolphin, that my joy,Here on my shoulders ferried, might beholdRhodes, the fair island thronged with boys of gold!

[214]

Fair blows the breeze: the seamen loose the sail:—O men that know not love, your favoring galeSteals half my soul, Andragathos, from me!Thrice lucky ships, and billows of the seaThrice blessed, and happiest breeze that bears the boy!Oh would I were a dolphin, that my joy,Here on my shoulders ferried, might beholdRhodes, the fair island thronged with boys of gold!

[215]"O soul too loving, cease at length from even in dreams thus idly basking in the warmth of Beauty's empty shapes."

[216]"Pour forth; and again cry, again, and yet again, 'to Heliodora!'"

[217]"I pray thee, Earth, all-nourishing, in thy deep breast, O mother, to enfold her tenderly, for whom my tears must flow for aye."

[218]"This one boon I ask of thee, great mother of all gods, beloved Night! Nay, I beseech thee, thou fellow wanderer with Revelry, O holy Night!"

[219]"The boy is honey-teared, tireless of speech, swift, without sense of fear, with laughter on his roguish lips, winged, bearing arrows in a quiver on his shoulders."

[220]"Why vainly in thy bonds thus pant and fret? Love himself bound thy wings and set thee on a fire, and rubbed thee, when thy breath grew faint with myrrh, and when thou thirstedst gave thee burning tears to drink."

[221]"A reveller I go freighted with fire not wine beneath the region of my heart."

[222]"How could it be that poet also should not sing fair songs in spring?"

[223]Those who on the shores of the Mediterranean have traced out beds of red tulips or anemones or narcissus from terrace to terrace, over rocks and under olive-branches, know how delicately true to nature is the thought contained in the one epithet οὐρεσίφοιτα—roaming like nymphs along the hills, now single and now gathered into companies, as though their own sweet will had led them wandering.

[224]Soar upward to the air divine:Spread broad thy pinions aquiline:Carry amid thy plumage himWho fills Jove's beaker to the brim:Take care that neither crookèd clawMake the boy's thigh or bosom raw;For Jove will wish thee sorry speedIf thou molest his Ganymede.

[224]

Soar upward to the air divine:Spread broad thy pinions aquiline:Carry amid thy plumage himWho fills Jove's beaker to the brim:Take care that neither crookèd clawMake the boy's thigh or bosom raw;For Jove will wish thee sorry speedIf thou molest his Ganymede.

[225]Drink now, and love, Democrates; for weShall not have wine and boys eternally:Wreathe we our heads, anoint ourselves with myrrh,Others will do this to our sepulchre:Let now my living bones with wine be drenched;Water may deluge them when I am quenched.

[225]

Drink now, and love, Democrates; for weShall not have wine and boys eternally:Wreathe we our heads, anoint ourselves with myrrh,Others will do this to our sepulchre:Let now my living bones with wine be drenched;Water may deluge them when I am quenched.

[226]Gazing at stars, my star? I would that I were the welkin,Starry with infinite eyes, gazing forever at thee!Frederick Farrar.

[226]

Gazing at stars, my star? I would that I were the welkin,Starry with infinite eyes, gazing forever at thee!

Frederick Farrar.

[227]Kissing Helena, togetherWith my kiss, my soul beside itCame to my lips, and there I kept it—For the poor thing had wandered thither,To follow where the kiss should guide it,Oh cruel I to intercept it!Shelley.

[227]

Kissing Helena, togetherWith my kiss, my soul beside itCame to my lips, and there I kept it—For the poor thing had wandered thither,To follow where the kiss should guide it,Oh cruel I to intercept it!

Shelley.

[228]Shine forth, night-wandering, horned, and vigilant queen,Through the shy lattice shoot thy silver sheen;Illume Callistion: for a goddess mayGaze on a pair of lovers while they play.Thou enviest her and me, I know, fair moon,For thou didst once burn for Endymion.

[228]

Shine forth, night-wandering, horned, and vigilant queen,Through the shy lattice shoot thy silver sheen;Illume Callistion: for a goddess mayGaze on a pair of lovers while they play.Thou enviest her and me, I know, fair moon,For thou didst once burn for Endymion.

[229]We trod the brimming wine-press ankle-high,Singing wild songs of Bacchic revelry:Forth flowed the must in rills; our cups of woodLike cockboats swam upon the honeyed flood:With these we drew, and as we filled them, quaffed,With no warm Naiad to allay the draught:But fair Rhodanthe bent above the press,And the fount sparkled with her loveliness:We in our souls were shaken; yea, each manQuaked beneath Bacchus and the Paphian.Ah me! the one flowed at our feet in streams—The other fooled us with mere empty dreams!

[229]

We trod the brimming wine-press ankle-high,Singing wild songs of Bacchic revelry:Forth flowed the must in rills; our cups of woodLike cockboats swam upon the honeyed flood:With these we drew, and as we filled them, quaffed,With no warm Naiad to allay the draught:But fair Rhodanthe bent above the press,And the fount sparkled with her loveliness:We in our souls were shaken; yea, each manQuaked beneath Bacchus and the Paphian.Ah me! the one flowed at our feet in streams—The other fooled us with mere empty dreams!

[230]Comus, 463, etc.

[231]Three things must epigrams, like bees, have all;A sting and honey and a body small.Riley.

[231]

Three things must epigrams, like bees, have all;A sting and honey and a body small.

Riley.

[232]A certain Cyril gives this as his definition of a good epigram (ii. 75; compare No. 342 on p.69):πάγκαλόν ἐστ' ἐπίγραμμα τὸ δίστιχον· ἢν δὲ παρέλθῃςτοὺς τρεῖς, ῥαψῳδεῖς κοὐκ ἐπίγραμμα λέγεις.Two lines complete the epigram—or three:Write more; you aim at epic poetry.Here the essence of this kind of poetry is said to be brevity. But nothing is said about a sting. And on the point of brevity, the Cyril to whom this couplet is attributed is far too stringent when judged by the best Greek standards. The modern notion of the epigram is derived from a study of Martial, whose best verses are satirical and therefore of necessity stinging.

[232]A certain Cyril gives this as his definition of a good epigram (ii. 75; compare No. 342 on p.69):

πάγκαλόν ἐστ' ἐπίγραμμα τὸ δίστιχον· ἢν δὲ παρέλθῃςτοὺς τρεῖς, ῥαψῳδεῖς κοὐκ ἐπίγραμμα λέγεις.Two lines complete the epigram—or three:Write more; you aim at epic poetry.

πάγκαλόν ἐστ' ἐπίγραμμα τὸ δίστιχον· ἢν δὲ παρέλθῃςτοὺς τρεῖς, ῥαψῳδεῖς κοὐκ ἐπίγραμμα λέγεις.

Two lines complete the epigram—or three:Write more; you aim at epic poetry.

Here the essence of this kind of poetry is said to be brevity. But nothing is said about a sting. And on the point of brevity, the Cyril to whom this couplet is attributed is far too stringent when judged by the best Greek standards. The modern notion of the epigram is derived from a study of Martial, whose best verses are satirical and therefore of necessity stinging.

[233]Spring with her waving treesAdorns the earth: to heavenThe pride of stars is given:Athens illustrates Greece:She on her brows doth setOf men this coronet.

[233]

Spring with her waving treesAdorns the earth: to heavenThe pride of stars is given:Athens illustrates Greece:She on her brows doth setOf men this coronet.

[234]Though thou shouldst gnaw me to the root,Destructive goat, enough of fruitI bear, betwixt my horns to shed,When to the altar thou art led.Merivale.

[234]

Though thou shouldst gnaw me to the root,Destructive goat, enough of fruitI bear, betwixt my horns to shed,When to the altar thou art led.

Merivale.

[235]The Germans at GreekAre sadly to seek,Not five in five-score,But ninety-five more;All—save only Hermann;And Hermann's a German.Porson.

[235]

The Germans at GreekAre sadly to seek,Not five in five-score,But ninety-five more;All—save only Hermann;And Hermann's a German.

Porson.

[236]Attic maid! with honey fed,Bear'st thou to thy callow broodYonder locust from the mead,Destined their delicious food?Ye have kindred voices clear,Ye alike unfold the wing,Migrate hither, sojourn here,Both attendant on the spring.Ah! for pity drop the prize;Let it not with truth be said,That a songster gasps and dies,That a songster may be fed.W. Cowper.

[236]

Attic maid! with honey fed,Bear'st thou to thy callow broodYonder locust from the mead,Destined their delicious food?Ye have kindred voices clear,Ye alike unfold the wing,Migrate hither, sojourn here,Both attendant on the spring.Ah! for pity drop the prize;Let it not with truth be said,That a songster gasps and dies,That a songster may be fed.

Attic maid! with honey fed,Bear'st thou to thy callow broodYonder locust from the mead,Destined their delicious food?

Ye have kindred voices clear,Ye alike unfold the wing,Migrate hither, sojourn here,Both attendant on the spring.

Ah! for pity drop the prize;Let it not with truth be said,That a songster gasps and dies,That a songster may be fed.

W. Cowper.

[237]Though but the being of a day,When I yon planet's course survey,This earth I then despise;Near Jove's eternal throne I stand,And quaff from an immortal handThe nectar of the skies.Philip Smyth.

[237]

Though but the being of a day,When I yon planet's course survey,This earth I then despise;Near Jove's eternal throne I stand,And quaff from an immortal handThe nectar of the skies.

Philip Smyth.

[238]Bacon's version, "The world's a bubble, and the life of man—," is both well known and too long to quote. The following is from the pen of Sir John Beaumont:What course of life should wretched mortals take?In courts hard questions large contention make:Care dwells in houses, labor in the field,Tumultuous seas affrighting dangers yield.In foreign lands thou never canst be blessed;If rich, thou art in fear; if poor, distressed.In wedlock frequent discontentments swell;Unmarried persons as in deserts dwell.How many troubles are with children born;Yet he that wants them counts himself forlorn.Young men are wanton, and of wisdom void;Gray hairs are cold, unfit to be employed.Who would not one of these two offers choose,Not to be born, or breath with speed to lose?

[238]Bacon's version, "The world's a bubble, and the life of man—," is both well known and too long to quote. The following is from the pen of Sir John Beaumont:

What course of life should wretched mortals take?In courts hard questions large contention make:Care dwells in houses, labor in the field,Tumultuous seas affrighting dangers yield.In foreign lands thou never canst be blessed;If rich, thou art in fear; if poor, distressed.In wedlock frequent discontentments swell;Unmarried persons as in deserts dwell.How many troubles are with children born;Yet he that wants them counts himself forlorn.Young men are wanton, and of wisdom void;Gray hairs are cold, unfit to be employed.Who would not one of these two offers choose,Not to be born, or breath with speed to lose?

[239]In every way of life true pleasure flows:Immortal fame from public action grows:Within the doors is found appeasing rest;In fields the gifts of nature are expressed.The sea brings gain, the rich abroad provideTo blaze their names, the poor their wants to hide:All household's best are governed by a wife;His cares are light, who leads a single life:Sweet children are delights which marriage bless;He that hath none disturbs his thoughts the less.Strong youth can triumph in victorious deeds;Old age the soul with pious motions feeds.All states are good, and they are falsely ledWho wish to be unborn or quickly dead.Sir John Beaumont.

[239]

In every way of life true pleasure flows:Immortal fame from public action grows:Within the doors is found appeasing rest;In fields the gifts of nature are expressed.The sea brings gain, the rich abroad provideTo blaze their names, the poor their wants to hide:All household's best are governed by a wife;His cares are light, who leads a single life:Sweet children are delights which marriage bless;He that hath none disturbs his thoughts the less.Strong youth can triumph in victorious deeds;Old age the soul with pious motions feeds.All states are good, and they are falsely ledWho wish to be unborn or quickly dead.

Sir John Beaumont.

[240]Where, Corinth, are thy glories now,Thy ancient wealth, thy castled brow,Thy solemn fanes, thy halls of state,Thy high-born dames, thy crowded gate?There's not a ruin left to tellWhere Corinth stood, how Corinth fell.The Nereids of thy double seaAlone remain to wail for thee.Goldwin Smith.

[240]

Where, Corinth, are thy glories now,Thy ancient wealth, thy castled brow,Thy solemn fanes, thy halls of state,Thy high-born dames, thy crowded gate?There's not a ruin left to tellWhere Corinth stood, how Corinth fell.The Nereids of thy double seaAlone remain to wail for thee.

Goldwin Smith.

[241]Seeing the martyred corpse of Sparta's kingCast 'mid the dead,Xerxes around the mighty limbs did flingHis mantle red.Then from the shades the glorious hero cried:"Not mine a traitor's guerdon. 'Tis my prideThis shield upon my grave to wear.ForbearYour Persian gifts; a Spartan I will goTo Death below."

[241]

Seeing the martyred corpse of Sparta's kingCast 'mid the dead,Xerxes around the mighty limbs did flingHis mantle red.Then from the shades the glorious hero cried:"Not mine a traitor's guerdon. 'Tis my prideThis shield upon my grave to wear.ForbearYour Persian gifts; a Spartan I will goTo Death below."

[242]One day three girls were casting lots in play,Which first to Acheron should take her way;Thrice with their sportive hands they threw, and thriceTo the same hand returned the fateful dice;The maiden laughed when thus her doom was told:Alas! that moment from the roof she rolled!So sure is Fate whene'er it bringeth bale,While prayers and vows for bliss must ever fail.J. A. Symonds. M.D.

[242]

One day three girls were casting lots in play,Which first to Acheron should take her way;Thrice with their sportive hands they threw, and thriceTo the same hand returned the fateful dice;The maiden laughed when thus her doom was told:Alas! that moment from the roof she rolled!So sure is Fate whene'er it bringeth bale,While prayers and vows for bliss must ever fail.

J. A. Symonds. M.D.

[243]Aerial branches of tall oak, retreatOf loftiest shade for those who shun the heat,With foliage full, more close than tiling, whereDove and cicada dwell aloft in air,Me, too, that thus my head beneath you lay,Protect, a fugitive from noon's fierce ray.Goldwin Smith.

[243]

Aerial branches of tall oak, retreatOf loftiest shade for those who shun the heat,With foliage full, more close than tiling, whereDove and cicada dwell aloft in air,Me, too, that thus my head beneath you lay,Protect, a fugitive from noon's fierce ray.

Goldwin Smith.

[244]Wide-spreading plane-tree, whose thick branches meetTo form for lovers an obscure retreat,Whilst with thy foliage closely intertwineThe curling tendrils of the clustered vine,Still mayst thou flourish, in perennial green,To shade the votaries of the Paphian queen.W. Shepherd.

[244]

Wide-spreading plane-tree, whose thick branches meetTo form for lovers an obscure retreat,Whilst with thy foliage closely intertwineThe curling tendrils of the clustered vine,Still mayst thou flourish, in perennial green,To shade the votaries of the Paphian queen.

W. Shepherd.

[245]Come sit you down beneath this towering tree,Whose rustling leaves sing to the zephyr's call;My pipe shall join the streamlet's melody,And slumber on your charmèd eyelids fall.J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[245]

Come sit you down beneath this towering tree,Whose rustling leaves sing to the zephyr's call;My pipe shall join the streamlet's melody,And slumber on your charmèd eyelids fall.

J. A. Symonds, M.D.

[246]Spare the parent of acorns, good wood-cutter, spare!Let the time-honored fir feel the weight of your stroke,The many-stalked thorn, or acanthus worn bare,Pine, arbutus, ilex—but touch not the oak!Far hence be your axe, for our grandams have sungHow the oaks are the mothers from whom we all sprung.Merivale.

[246]

Spare the parent of acorns, good wood-cutter, spare!Let the time-honored fir feel the weight of your stroke,The many-stalked thorn, or acanthus worn bare,Pine, arbutus, ilex—but touch not the oak!Far hence be your axe, for our grandams have sungHow the oaks are the mothers from whom we all sprung.

Merivale.

[247]Why, ruthless shepherds, from my dewy sprayIn my lone haunt, why tear me thus away?Me, the Nymphs' wayside minstrel, whose sweet noteO'er sultry hill is heard and shady grove to float?Lo! where the blackbird, thrush, and greedy hostOf starlings fatten at the farmer's cost!With just revenge those ravages pursue;But grudge not my poor leaf and sip of grassy dew.Wrangham.

[247]

Why, ruthless shepherds, from my dewy sprayIn my lone haunt, why tear me thus away?Me, the Nymphs' wayside minstrel, whose sweet noteO'er sultry hill is heard and shady grove to float?Lo! where the blackbird, thrush, and greedy hostOf starlings fatten at the farmer's cost!With just revenge those ravages pursue;But grudge not my poor leaf and sip of grassy dew.

Wrangham.

[248]Phœbus, thou know'st me—Eunomus, who beatSpartis: the tale for others I repeat;Deftly upon my lyre I played and sang,When 'mid the song a broken harp-string rang,And seeking for its sound, I could not hearThe note responsive to my descant clear.Then on my lyre, unasked, unsought, there flewA grasshopper, who filled the cadence due;For while six chords beneath my fingers cried,He with his tuneful voice the seventh supplied:The midday songster of the mountains setHis pastoral ditty to my canzonet;And when he sang, his modulated throatAccorded with the lifeless strings I smote.Therefore I thank my fellow-minstrel: heSits on a lyre in brass, as you may see.

[248]

Phœbus, thou know'st me—Eunomus, who beatSpartis: the tale for others I repeat;Deftly upon my lyre I played and sang,When 'mid the song a broken harp-string rang,And seeking for its sound, I could not hearThe note responsive to my descant clear.Then on my lyre, unasked, unsought, there flewA grasshopper, who filled the cadence due;For while six chords beneath my fingers cried,He with his tuneful voice the seventh supplied:The midday songster of the mountains setHis pastoral ditty to my canzonet;And when he sang, his modulated throatAccorded with the lifeless strings I smote.Therefore I thank my fellow-minstrel: heSits on a lyre in brass, as you may see.

[249]The sculptor's country? Sicyon. His name?Lysippus. You? Time, that all things can tame.Why thus a-tiptoe? I have halted never.Why ankle-winged? I fly like wind forever.But in your hand that razor? 'Tis a pledgeThat I am keener than the keenest edge.Why falls your hair in front? For him to bindWho meets me. True: but then you're bald behind?Yes, because when with winged feet I have passed'Tis vain upon my back your hands to cast.Why did the sculptor carve you? For your sakeHere in the porch I stand; my lesson take.

[249]

The sculptor's country? Sicyon. His name?Lysippus. You? Time, that all things can tame.Why thus a-tiptoe? I have halted never.Why ankle-winged? I fly like wind forever.But in your hand that razor? 'Tis a pledgeThat I am keener than the keenest edge.Why falls your hair in front? For him to bindWho meets me. True: but then you're bald behind?Yes, because when with winged feet I have passed'Tis vain upon my back your hands to cast.Why did the sculptor carve you? For your sakeHere in the porch I stand; my lesson take.

[250]My snowy marble from the mountain rudeA Median sculptor with sharp chisel hewed,And brought me o'er the sea, that he might placeA trophied statue of the Greeks' disgrace.But when the routed Persians heard the roarOf Marathon, and ships swam deep in gore,Then Athens, nurse of heroes, sculptured meThe queen that treads on arrogance to be:I hold the scales of hope: my name is this—Nike for Greece, for Asia Nemesis.

[250]

My snowy marble from the mountain rudeA Median sculptor with sharp chisel hewed,And brought me o'er the sea, that he might placeA trophied statue of the Greeks' disgrace.But when the routed Persians heard the roarOf Marathon, and ships swam deep in gore,Then Athens, nurse of heroes, sculptured meThe queen that treads on arrogance to be:I hold the scales of hope: my name is this—Nike for Greece, for Asia Nemesis.

[251]Bright Cytherea thought one dayTo Cnidos she'd repair,Gliding across the watery wayTo view her image there.But when, arrived, she cast aroundHer eyes divinely bright,And saw upon that holy groundThe gazing world's delight,Amazed, she cried—while blushes toldThe thoughts that swelled her breast—Where did Praxiteles beholdMy form? or has he guessed?J. H. Merivale.

[251]

Bright Cytherea thought one dayTo Cnidos she'd repair,Gliding across the watery wayTo view her image there.But when, arrived, she cast aroundHer eyes divinely bright,And saw upon that holy groundThe gazing world's delight,Amazed, she cried—while blushes toldThe thoughts that swelled her breast—Where did Praxiteles beholdMy form? or has he guessed?

J. H. Merivale.

[252]Weep, reckless god; for now your hands are tied:Weep, wear your soul out with the flood of tears,Heart-robber, thief of reason, foe to pride,Winged fire, thou wound unseen the soul that sears!Freedom from grief to us these bonds of thine,Wherein thou wailest to the deaf winds, bring:Behold! the torch wherewith thou mad'st us pine,Beneath thy frequent tears is languishing!

[252]

Weep, reckless god; for now your hands are tied:Weep, wear your soul out with the flood of tears,Heart-robber, thief of reason, foe to pride,Winged fire, thou wound unseen the soul that sears!Freedom from grief to us these bonds of thine,Wherein thou wailest to the deaf winds, bring:Behold! the torch wherewith thou mad'st us pine,Beneath thy frequent tears is languishing!

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