SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN

My wealth's a burly spear and brand,
And a right good shield of hides untann'd,
Which on my arm I buckle:
With these I ploug, 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
A massy spear and well-made shield,
Nor joy to draw the sword:

Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones,
Down in a trice on their marrow-bones,
To call me King and Lord.

FRAGMENT.

FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN.

THE mountain summits sleep: glens, cliffs, and caves,

Are silent-all the black earth's reptile broodThe bees-the wild beasts of the mountain wood: In depths beneath the dark red ocean's waves Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and

spray

Each bird is hush'd that stretched its pinions to the day.

MARTIAL ELEGY.

FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTEUS.

How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand,
In front of battle for their native land!
But oh! what ills await the wretch that yields,
A recreant outcast from his country's fields !
The mother whom he loves shall quit her home,
An aged father at his side shall roam;

His little ones shall weeping with him go,
And a young wife participate his wo;
While scorn'd and scowl'd upon by every face,
They pine for food, and beg from place to place

Stain of his breed! dishonouring 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,
And children, like himself, inured to shame.
VOL. I.-7

But we will combat for our father's 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 th' 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 unbless'd)
To welter in the combat's foremost thrust,
His hoary head dishevell'd in the dust,
And venerable bosom bleeding bare.

But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fai 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.