ACHILLES’ SONG.
I.
Glory is in the balance laid,
An early doom and endless praise;
’Gainst these in adverse scale are weighed
The joys of peace and length of days.
Give me the grave—the glory give,
The field of honor, and the tomb!
What boots it like a hind to live,
And sink at last in lampless gloom?
II.
The soft embrace of love I yield,
The pleasures of the Sybarite;
And, rushing to the gory field,
With battle’s carnage feast my sight.
Though meteor-like my course may be,
Through blood and slaughter quickly run;
A growing fame remains to me,
While rivers flow, and shines the sun.