The harsher languages of later days.
Nor in the Carian’s golden chronicle,
Though not arranged in metrical array,
Sound they less sweet. Alas! the glorious tribes,
Over whose chiselled lips they wont to roll
In honeyed song and fiery eloquence,
Have vanished. Hushed the lyres of Ibycus,
Bacchylides, and Sappho[1] starry-eyed,
And that delicious lute the Teian played
Within the halls of King Polycrates,