THE DEAD OX.

FROM VIRGIL, GEORG. III.

Lo! smoking in the stubborn plough, the ox
Falls, from his lip foam gushing crimson-stained,
And sobs his life out. Sad of face the ploughman
Moves, disentangling from his comrade's corpse
The lone survivor: and its work half-done,
Abandoned in the furrow stands the plough.
Not shadiest forest-depths, not softest lawns,
May move him now: not river amber-pure,
That tumbles o'er the cragstones to the plain.
Powerless the broad sides, glazed the rayless eye,
And low and lower sinks the ponderous neck.
What thank hath he for all the toil he toiled,
The heavy-clodded land in man's behoof

Upturning? Yet the grape of Italy,

The stored-up feast hath wrought no harm to him: Green leaf and taintless grass are all their fare; The clear rill or the travel-freshened stream

Their cup: nor one care mars their honest sleep.

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SPEECH OF AJAX.

SOPH. AJ. 645.

ALL strangest things the multitudinous years
Bring forth, and shadow from us all we know.
Falter alike great oath and steeled resolve;
And none shall say of aught, "This may not be."
Lo! I myself, but yesterday so strong,
As new-dipt steel am weak and all unsexed
By yonder woman: yea I mourn for them,
Widow and orphan, left amid their foes.

But I will journey seaward-where the shore

Lies meadow-fringed-so haply wash away

My sin, and flee that wrath that weighs me down.
And, lighting somewhere on an untrodden way,
I will bury this my lance, this hateful thing,

Deep in some earth-hole where no eye shall see—
Night and Hell keep it in the underworld!
For never to this day, since first I grasped
The gift that Hector gave, my bitterest foe,
Have I reaped aught of honour from the Greeks.
So true that byword in the mouths of men,
"A foeman's gifts are no gifts, but a curse."
Wherefore henceforward shall I know that
God

Is great; and strive to honour Atreus' sons. Princes they are, and should be obeyed. How else?

Do not all terrible and most puissant things

Yet bow to loftier majesties? The Winter,
Who walks forth scattering snows, gives place anon
To fruitage-laden Summer; and the orb

Of weary Night doth in her turn stand by,

And let shine out, with his white steeds, the Day. Stern tempest-blasts at last sing lullaby

To groaning seas: even the archtyrant, Sleep,

Doth loose his slaves, not hold them chained for

ever.

And shall not mankind too learn discipline?

I know, of late experience taught, that him

Who is my foe I must but hate as one

Whom I may yet call Friend: and him who loves

me

Will I but serve and cherish as a man

Whose love is not abiding. Few be they

Who, reaching Friendship's port, have there found

rest.

But, for these things, they shall be well. Go thou, Lady, within, and there pray that the Gods May fill unto the full my heart's desire. And ye, my mates, do unto me with her Like honour: bid young Teucer, if he come, To care for me, but to be your friend still. For where my way leads, thither I shall go: Do ye my bidding; haply ye may hear,

Though now is my dark hour, that I have peace.