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HEROIC PIECES.
HIERO.
FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XVI.
The Sons of Virtue mark with high regard
The Muse's laurel'd priest—the holy bard;
Left in the grave their unsung glory fade,
And their cold moan pierce Acheron's dreary shade.
What tho' Aleua's and the Syrian's domes
Saw crouding menials fill their festal rooms;
What tho' o'er Scopas' fields rich plenty flow'd,
And herds innumerous thro' his vallies low'd;
What tho' the bountiful Creondæ drove
Full many a beauteous flock, thro' many a grove;
Yet when expiring life could charm no more,
And their sad spirits sought the Stygian shore;
Their grandeur vanish'd with their vital breath,
And riches could not follow them, in death!
Lo these, for many a rolling age, had lain
In blank oblivion, with the vulgar train,
Had not their Bard, the mighty Ceian, strung
His many-chorded harp, and sweetly sung
In various tones, each high-resounded name,
And giv'n to long posterity their fame!
The Muse's laurel'd priest—the holy bard;
Left in the grave their unsung glory fade,
And their cold moan pierce Acheron's dreary shade.
What tho' Aleua's and the Syrian's domes
Saw crouding menials fill their festal rooms;
What tho' o'er Scopas' fields rich plenty flow'd,
And herds innumerous thro' his vallies low'd;
What tho' the bountiful Creondæ drove
Full many a beauteous flock, thro' many a grove;
Yet when expiring life could charm no more,
And their sad spirits sought the Stygian shore;
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And riches could not follow them, in death!
Lo these, for many a rolling age, had lain
In blank oblivion, with the vulgar train,
Had not their Bard, the mighty Ceian, strung
His many-chorded harp, and sweetly sung
In various tones, each high-resounded name,
And giv'n to long posterity their fame!
Verse can alone the steed with glory grace,
Whose wreaths announce the triumph of the race!
Could Lycia's chiefs, or Cycnus' changing hues,
Or Ilion live, with no recording Muse?
Not ev'n Ulysses, who thro' dangers ran
For ten long years, in all the haunts of man;
Who ev'n descended to the depths of hell,
And fled, unmangled, from the Cyclops' cell—
Not he had liv'd, but sunk, Oblivion's prey,
Had no kind Poet stream'd the unfading ray!
Thus too Philoetius had in silence past,
And nameless old Laertes breath'd his last;
And good Eumæus fed his herds in vain,
But for Ionia's life-inspiring strain.
Whose wreaths announce the triumph of the race!
Could Lycia's chiefs, or Cycnus' changing hues,
Or Ilion live, with no recording Muse?
Not ev'n Ulysses, who thro' dangers ran
For ten long years, in all the haunts of man;
Who ev'n descended to the depths of hell,
And fled, unmangled, from the Cyclops' cell—
Not he had liv'd, but sunk, Oblivion's prey,
Had no kind Poet stream'd the unfading ray!
Thus too Philoetius had in silence past,
And nameless old Laertes breath'd his last;
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But for Ionia's life-inspiring strain.
For me, who now pursue the paths of fame,
Rough are these paths, and dim the Muse's flame;
Unless a patron's kind regard inspire,
And Jove's auspicious omens fan the fire.
Rough are these paths, and dim the Muse's flame;
Unless a patron's kind regard inspire,
And Jove's auspicious omens fan the fire.
The unwearied sun still rolls from year to year:
Still shall proud victors in the race appear!
Great as the stern Pelides' self, erelong
A man shall shine, the subject of my song;
Or in the might of towering Ajax rise,
Who fought on Simois' plain, where Ilus lies.
Ev'n now where Libya views the westering day,
Phœnician armies shrink in pale dismay!
Ev'n now, the Syracusians take the field,
Couch the strong spear, and bend the sallow shield;
While, as the chiefs by hymning poets blest,
Great Hiero comes, and nods the horse-hair crest!
Still shall proud victors in the race appear!
Great as the stern Pelides' self, erelong
A man shall shine, the subject of my song;
Or in the might of towering Ajax rise,
Who fought on Simois' plain, where Ilus lies.
Ev'n now where Libya views the westering day,
Phœnician armies shrink in pale dismay!
Ev'n now, the Syracusians take the field,
Couch the strong spear, and bend the sallow shield;
While, as the chiefs by hymning poets blest,
Great Hiero comes, and nods the horse-hair crest!
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Hear, O Minerva, and paternal Jove,
And ye, who honour with your guardian love
The walls of wealthy Syracuse, that throw
Their awful shadows on the lake below—
Hear! and may destiny o'erwhelming sweep
Our foes away, far distant thro' the deep!—
Far from this isle, a scatter'd few, to tell
Widows and orphan sons, what myriads fell!
And ye, who honour with your guardian love
The walls of wealthy Syracuse, that throw
Their awful shadows on the lake below—
Hear! and may destiny o'erwhelming sweep
Our foes away, far distant thro' the deep!—
Far from this isle, a scatter'd few, to tell
Widows and orphan sons, what myriads fell!
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CASTOR AND POLLUX.
FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XXII.
Leda's and Jove's great sons my verse inspire—
The sons of Jove, their ægis-bearing sire!
Castor;—and Pollux dreadful in the lists,
The cestus brac'd with thongs around his wrists!
My frequent song shall hymn your manly grace,
Ye twins, the glory of the Spartan race!
Powers, who protect us from the foe, and shield
Our scar'd steeds trampling on the carnag'd field!
Powers that o'erlook the struggling ship, and save,
When stars arise malignant o'er the wave!
Behold the loosen'd tempests swell the tide,
Lash the high helm, and bulge each bursting side,
And pour into the poop the mountain-surge;
While the rent vessel reels upon the verge
Of fate—its torn sails hanging in the blast,
And wildly dasht around each shatter'd mast!
Clouds big with hail the midnight heavens deform,
And the broad ocean thunders to the storm!
But ye, tho' now the closing waves pursue,
From the chasm rescue the despairing crew!
Lo! the clouds break! their scatter'd fragments fly,
Whilst the drear winds in whispering murmurs die;
And each mild star that marks the tranquil night
Gilds the reposing wave with friendly light.
The sons of Jove, their ægis-bearing sire!
Castor;—and Pollux dreadful in the lists,
The cestus brac'd with thongs around his wrists!
My frequent song shall hymn your manly grace,
Ye twins, the glory of the Spartan race!
Powers, who protect us from the foe, and shield
Our scar'd steeds trampling on the carnag'd field!
Powers that o'erlook the struggling ship, and save,
When stars arise malignant o'er the wave!
Behold the loosen'd tempests swell the tide,
Lash the high helm, and bulge each bursting side,
And pour into the poop the mountain-surge;
While the rent vessel reels upon the verge
Of fate—its torn sails hanging in the blast,
And wildly dasht around each shatter'd mast!
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And the broad ocean thunders to the storm!
But ye, tho' now the closing waves pursue,
From the chasm rescue the despairing crew!
Lo! the clouds break! their scatter'd fragments fly,
Whilst the drear winds in whispering murmurs die;
And each mild star that marks the tranquil night
Gilds the reposing wave with friendly light.
Midst shores, that threaten'd, as in act to close
Their adverse rocks, and Pontus drear with snows,
When Argo pass'd, (her freight the sons of gods)
And safely reach'd Bebrycia's wild abodes;
Strait down the vessel's sides the chiefs descend,
And o'er the shelter'd beach their footsteps bend;
Place on the kindling fires the vase; and spread
Soft on a shaded spot, their leafy bed.
Their adverse rocks, and Pontus drear with snows,
When Argo pass'd, (her freight the sons of gods)
And safely reach'd Bebrycia's wild abodes;
Strait down the vessel's sides the chiefs descend,
And o'er the shelter'd beach their footsteps bend;
Place on the kindling fires the vase; and spread
Soft on a shaded spot, their leafy bed.
The Royal Brothers, eager to explore
The sylvan scenes, far wander'd from the shore;
O'er a fair mountain's woodland summits stray'd,
The varied beauties of its brow survey'd;
And, tracing the recesses of the mount,
Found, deep-retir'd, a cool perennial fount.
Brimful beneath a craggy rock it gleam'd;
Whilst, at the bottom of the woodland beam'd
Full many a scatter'd pebble to the light,
As crystal or as polisht silver bright.
Beside this spot, the plane-tree quivering play'd,
And pensive poplars wav'd a paler shade;
While many a fir in living verdure grew,
And the deep cypress darken'd on the view:
And there each flower that marks the balmy close
Of Spring, the little bee's ambrosia, blows!
The sylvan scenes, far wander'd from the shore;
O'er a fair mountain's woodland summits stray'd,
The varied beauties of its brow survey'd;
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Found, deep-retir'd, a cool perennial fount.
Brimful beneath a craggy rock it gleam'd;
Whilst, at the bottom of the woodland beam'd
Full many a scatter'd pebble to the light,
As crystal or as polisht silver bright.
Beside this spot, the plane-tree quivering play'd,
And pensive poplars wav'd a paler shade;
While many a fir in living verdure grew,
And the deep cypress darken'd on the view:
And there each flower that marks the balmy close
Of Spring, the little bee's ambrosia, blows!
Hard by (his couch the rock) a chieftain frown'd,
His ears fresh reeking from the gauntlet's wound.
Dire was his giant form; and amply spher'd
The broad projection of his breasts appear'd:
Like some Colossus wrought too firm to feel,
His back all sinewy seem'd of solid steel.
On his strong brawny arms his muscles stood,
Like rocks, that, rounded by the torrent flood,
Thro' the clear wave their shelving ridges show,
One smooth and polisht prominence below.
His ears fresh reeking from the gauntlet's wound.
Dire was his giant form; and amply spher'd
The broad projection of his breasts appear'd:
Like some Colossus wrought too firm to feel,
His back all sinewy seem'd of solid steel.
On his strong brawny arms his muscles stood,
Like rocks, that, rounded by the torrent flood,
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One smooth and polisht prominence below.
Rough round his loins a lion's spoils were flung:
Suspended by the paws the trophy hung.
Suspended by the paws the trophy hung.
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HERCULES.
FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XXV.
And now, as broad enough for twoThe social path, inviting converse, grew,
He walk'd attentive by the hero's side,
Who thus, to gratify his wish, replied:
‘The Argive's story you recount, is true;
‘And hence, great Prince, the just surmise you drew:
‘Since then you ask, enamour'd of my fame,
‘How bled the furious beast, and whence he came;
‘My tongue shall tell you, in authentic strain,
‘What other Argives might attempt in vain.
‘Sent by some god, 'tis said, the monster flew
‘In vengeance, 'mid the base Phoronean crew,
‘For sacrifice unpaid; and rush'd amain,
‘One flood of carnage, thro' Pisæum's plain;
‘And o'er the Bembinœan glades, more fell,
‘Bade all the deluge of his fury swell!
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‘This beast, but wish'd me slain beneath his rage.
‘Arm'd with my bow, my quiver'd shafts, I went,
‘And grasp'd my club, on bold defiance bent—
‘My knotted club, of strong wild olive made,
‘That, rugged, its unpolisht rind display'd;
‘That with a wrench from Helicon I tore,
‘Its roots and all, and thence the trophy bore.
‘Soon as I reach'd the wood, I bent my bow,
‘Firm-strung its painted curve, and couching low,
‘Notch'd on the nerve, its arrow—look'd around,
‘And from my covert trac'd the forest-ground.
‘'Twas now high noon. No roar I heard, nor saw
‘One print that might betray the prowler's paw;
‘Nor rustic found, amidst his pastoral care,
‘Nor herdsman, who might shew the lion's lair.
‘Nor herds nor herdsmen venture to the plain;
‘All, fix'd by terror, in their stalls remain.
‘At length, as up the mountain-groves I go,
‘Amidst a thicket, I espy my foe:
‘Ere evening, gorg'd with carnage and with blood,
‘He sought his den deep-buried in the wood.
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‘And hang, still blacker, from his clotted mane;
‘While shooting out his tongue with foam besmear'd,
‘He licks the grisly gore that steep'd his beard.
‘Midst bowering shrubs I hid me from his view,
‘Then aim'd an arrow, as he nearer drew,
‘But from his flank the shaft rebounding flew.
‘His fiery eyes he lifted from the ground,
‘High rais'd his tawny head, and gaz'd around,
‘And gnash'd his teeth tremendous—when again,
‘(Vex'd that the first had spent its force in vain)
‘I launch'd an arrow at the monster's heart;
‘It flew—but left unpierc'd the vital part:
‘His shaggy hide repulsive of the blow,
‘The feather'd vengeance hiss'd, and fell below.
‘My bow, once more with vehemence I tried—
‘Then first he saw—and rising in the pride
‘Of lordly anger, to the fight impell'd,
‘Scour'd with his lashing tail his sides, and swell'd
‘His brindled neck, and bent into a bow
‘His back, in act to bound upon his foe!
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‘And flexile to a wheel each felly tends,
‘Thro' gradual heat—awhile the timber stands
‘In curves, then springs elastic from his hands;
‘Thus the fell beast, high bounding from afar,
Sprung, with a sudden impulse, to the war.
My left hand held my darts, and round my breast
‘Spread, thickly-wrought, my strong protecting vest.
‘My olive club I wielded in my right;
‘And his shagg'd temples struck, with all my might:
‘The olive snapp'd asunder on his head—
‘Trembling he reel'd—the savage fierceness fled
‘From his dimm'd eyes; and all contus'd his brain
‘Seem'd swimming in an agony of pain.
‘This—this I mark'd; and ere the beast respir'd,
‘Flung down my painted bow; with triumph fir'd,
‘Seiz'd instant his broad neck; behind him prest,
‘From his fell claws unsheath'd to guard my breast;
‘And twin'd, quick-mounting on his horrid back,
‘My legs in his, to guard from an attack
‘My griping thighs—then heav'd him (as the breath
‘Lost its last struggles in the gasp of death)
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‘Hell yawn'd—to hell his monster-spirit fled!
‘The conquest o'er, awhile I vainly tried
‘To strip with stone and steel the shaggy hide:
‘Some god inspir'd me, in the serious pause
‘Of thought, and pointed to the lion's claws.
‘With these full soon the prostrate beast I slay'd,
‘And in the shielding spoils my limbs array'd.
‘Thus drench'd with flocks and herds and shepherds' blood
‘Expir'd the monster of the Nemean wood.’
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