ὅτε λάρνακι ἐν δαιδαλέᾳ
ἄνεμός τέ μιν πνέων κινηθεῖσά τε λίμνα
δείματι ἤριπεν, οὔτ᾽ ἀδιάντοισι παρειαῖς,
ἀμφί τε Περσέϊ βάλλε φίλην χεῖρα,
εἶπέ τ᾽· ὦ τέκος, οἷον ἔχω πόνον.
σὺ δ᾽ ἀωτεῖς, γαλαθηνῷ τ᾽ ἤτορι κνώσσεις ἐν ἀτερπεῖ
δούρατι χαλκεογόμθῳ,
νυκτὶ ἀλαμπεῖ κυανέῳ τε δνόφῳ σταλείς·
ἅλμαν δ᾽ ὕπερθε τεᾶν κομᾶν βαθειᾶν
παριόντος κύματος οὐκ ἀλέγεις,
οὐδ᾽ ἀνέμου φθόγγον,
πορφυρέᾳ κείμενος ἐν χλανίδι, καλὸν πρόσωπον.
εἰ δέ τοι δεινὸν τό γε δεινὸν ἦν,
καί κεν ἐμῶν ῥημάτων λεπτὸν ὑπεῖχες οὖας.
κέλομαι δ᾽, εὗδε βρέφος, εὑδέτω δὲ πόντος,
εὑδέτω δ᾽ ἄμετρον κακόν·
μεταιβολία δέ τις φανείη, Ζεῦ πάτερ, ἐκ σέο·
ὅτι δὲ θαρσάλεον ἔπος
εὔχομαι νόσφιν δίκας, συγγνῶθί μοι.
When in the carven chest
The winds that blew and waves in wild unrest
Smote her with fear, she not with cheeks unwet
Her arms of love round Perseus set,
And said: “O child, what grief is mine!
But thou dost slumber, and thy baby breast
Is sunk in rest.
Here in the cheerless, brass-bound bark,
Tossed amid starless night and pitchy dark,
Nor dost thou heed the scudding brine
Of waves that wash above thy curls so deep,
Nor the shrill winds that sweep—
Lapped in thy purple robe’s embrace
Fair little face!
But if this dread were dreadful, too, to thee,
Then would’st thou lend thy listening ear to me;
Therefore I cry, Sleep, babe, and sea be still,
And slumber our unmeasured ill!
Oh, may some change of fate, sire Zeus, from Thee
Descend our woes to end!
But if this prayer, too overbold, offends
Thy justice,—yet be merciful to me.
It was natural also that the heroic poems of Simonides should have appealed to both men, and of special interest to know the delight that Tennyson took in one of these, and perhaps because of the similarity shown by his own splendid lines in the “Duke of Wellington” Ode:
He, that ever following her commands,
On with toil of heart and knees and hands,
Thro’ the long gorge to the far light has won
His path upward, and prevail’d,
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled
Are close upon the shining table-lands
To which our God Himself is moon and sun.
ἔστι τις λόγος
τὰν ἀρέταν ναίειν δυσανβάτοις ἐπὶ πέτραις·
ἁγνὰν δέ μιν θεὰν χῶρον ἁγνὸν ἀμφέπειν.
οὐδὲ πάντων βλεφάροις θνατῶν ἔσοπτος,
ῳ μὴ δακέθυμος ἱδρῶς
ἔνδοθεν μόλῃ, ἵκῃ τ᾽ ἐς ἄκρον
ἀνδρείας.
There is a tale
That Valour dwells above the craggy peaks
Hard, hard to scale,
A goddess pure in a pure land, and none
May see her face,
Save those who by keen Toil and sweat have won
That highest place,
That goal of manhood.
And with these heroic lines go the others on the men who fell at Thermopylae:
τῶν ἐν Θερμοπύλαις θανόντων
εὐκλεὴς μὲν ἁ τύχα, καλὸς δ᾽ ὁ πότμος,
βωμὸς δ᾽ ὁ τάφος, πρὸ γόων δὲ μνᾶστις, ὁ δ᾽ οἶκτος ἔπαινος·
ἐντάφιον δὲ τοιοῦτον οὔτ᾽ εὐρὼς
οὔθ᾽ ὁ πανδαμάτωρ ἀμαυρώσει χρόνος.
ἀνδρῶν ἀγαθῶν ὅδε σακὸς οἰκέταν εὐδοξίαν
‘Ελλάδος εἵλετο· μαρτυρεῖ δὲ Λεωνίδας,
ὁ Σπάρτας βασιλεύς, ἀρετᾶς μέγαν λελοιπὼς
κόσμον ἀέναόν τε κλέος.
Of those who fell at far Thermopylae,
Fair is the fate and high the destiny:
Their tomb an altar, memory for tears
And praise for lamentation through the years.
On such a monument comes no decay,
And Time that conquers all takes not away
Their greatness: for this holy Sepulchre
Of valiant men has called to dwell with her
The glory of all Greece. Bear witness, Sparta’s king,
Leonidas! thy ever-flowing spring
Of fame and the high beauty of thy deed!
There is a kindred note echoing through the popular catch in praise of the tyrannicides, Harmodius and Aristogeiton, one of the first bits of Greek that Tennyson made his sons learn:
ἐν μύρτου κλαδὶ τὸ ξίφος φορήσω,
ὥσπερ ‘Αρμόδιος καὶ ᾽Αριστογείτων,
ὅτε τὸν τύραννον κτανέτην
ἰσονόμους τ᾽ ᾽Αθήνας ἐποιησάτην.
In myrtle I wreathe my sword
As they wreathed it, the brave,
Brave Harmodius, Aristogeiton,
When they slew the oppressor, the lord,
And to Athens her freedom gave.
Mr. Dakyns must have rejoiced in a spirit that could feed boys on such gallant stuff as this.
From Goethe he would have selected the noble proem to Faust:
Ihr naht Euch wieder, schwankende Gestalten,