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 brood—
The bees—the wild beasts of the mountain wood: