Yet still that mind whose harmony elate Rang sweetness, even beneath the crush of fate,- Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away: And though he mourned her long, 'twas with such woe As if her spirit watched him still below." TRANSLATIONS. MARTIAL ELEGY. FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTÆUS. How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, But, O! what ills await the wretch that yields, Stain of his breed, dishonoring manhood's form, All ills shall cleave to him :- Affliction's storm Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years, Till, lost to all but ignominious fears, He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name, But we will combat for our fathers' land, And we will drain the life-blood where we stand, To save our children: fight ye side by side, And serried close, ye men of youthful pride, Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost Of life itself in glorious battle lost. Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight, Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might; Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast Permit the man of age (a sight unblessed) To welter in the combat's foremost thrust, His hoary head dishevelled in the dust, But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, And beautiful in death the boy appears, The hero boy, that dies in blooming years: In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears, More sacred than in life, and lovelier far For having perished in the front of war. SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN. My wealth's a burly spear and brand, Which on my arm I buckle ; With these I plough, I reap, I sow, With these I make the sweet vintage flow, And all around me truckle. But your wights that take no pride to wield O, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, FRAGMENT. FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN. THE mountain summits sleep: glens, cliffs, and caves In depths beneath the dark red ocean's waves Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. Σκαιους δε λεγων, κουδέν τι σοφους Τους προσθε βροτους ουκ αν αμάρτοις. MEDEA, V. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit. TELL me, ye bards, whose skill sublime Why to the burst of Joy alone Why can no bard, with magic strain, When, flushed with joy, the rosy throng SPEECH OF THE CHORUS, IN THE SAME TRAGEDY, TO DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER PURPOSE OF PUTTING HER CHILDREN TO DEATH, AND O HAGGARD queen! to Athens dost thou guide Where Peace and Mercy dwell forevermore? The land where Truth, pure, precious and sublime, Rear their bright banners o'er unconquered towers! |