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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
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
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
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.
GEM of all isthmuses and isles that lie,
Fresh or salt water's children, in clear lake Or ampler ocean: with what joy do I
Approach thee, Sirmio! Oh! am I awake, Or dream that once again mine eye beholds Thee, and has looked its last on Thracian wolds ?
Sweetest of sweets to me that pastime seems, When the mind drops her burden: when—the pain Of travel pastour own cot we regain,
And nestle on the pillow of our dreams! 'Tis this one thought that cheers us as we roam.
Hail, O fair Sirmio! Joy, thy lord is here!
Joy too, ye waters of the Golden Mere ! And ring out, all ye laughter-peals of home!
YET once more, O ye laurels ! and once more
Yé myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer :
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? He knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
EN ! iterum laurus, iterum salvete myricæ
Pallentes, nullique hederæ quæ ceditis ævo.
Has venio baccas, quanquam sapor asper acerbis,
Decerptum, quassumque manu folia ista proterva,
Maturescentem prævortens improbus annum.
Causa gravis, pia causa, subest, et amara deûm lex;
Nec jam sponte mea vobis rata tempora turbo.
Nam periit Lycidas, periit superante juventa
Imberbis Lycidas, nec par manet illius alter.
Quis cantare super Lycida neget? Ipse quoque artem
Nôrat Apollineam, versumque imponere versu.
Non nullo vitreum fas innatet ille feretrum
Flente, voluteturque arentes corpus ad auras,
Indotatum adeo et lacrymæ vocalis egenum.