For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, τῆλε δ ̓ ἐν οὔρεσι βροντὰ καναχεῖ χρύσεα δώματα πρὸς θεοτερπῆ, στροφοδινοῦνταί τ' ἀμφὶς νεφελαὶ, περὶ δ ̓ οὐράνιος στίλβει πόλος ἀστεροφεγγής. οἱ δ ̓ ὀρυμάγδῳ γᾶν βροτολοίγῳ διαπερθομέναν, βρύχιον πέλαγος, χθόνα σεισθεῖσαν, ψάμμον φλογέαν, ὀλοᾷ λοιμοῦ λιμὸν ἐπ ̓ ἄτῃ, καταθραυομένας ναῦς ἐνὶ κύμασιν, ἀστέων ἄμοτον πῦρ καιομένων, χεῖράς θ ̓ ἱκετῶν, λάθρα χαίρουσιν ὁρῶντες· τὸ δὲ θρηνῶδες μέλος ὠγύγιον πέρι τερπομένοις ὦσι δέχονται, κοὐκ ἀλέγουσιν δεινὰ λεγόντων, τὸ παρ' ἀνθρώπων αἰκιζομένων εἰσαναβαῖνον δώματ' Ολύμπου τῶν τλασιπόνων, τῶν ἀροτήρων, φιτυθείσας οἵ τ ̓ ἀπὸ γαίας σῖτον ἐτήσιον, οἶνον, ἔλαιον, διασώζουσιν κομίσαντες. Till they perish, and they suffer-some, 'tis whisper'd-down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at length on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Oh rest ye, brother-mariners, we will not wander more. θανατωθέντες δ' οἱ μὲν ἐν Αἵδου, δέμνι' ἄλυποι διάγουσιν. φεῦ μόχθων λήγεθ', ἑταῖροι. 1 Asch. Prom. 94. L. 1860. From Milton's Comus. I had not thought to have unlock'd my lips And she no wit encumber'd with her store; And then the Giver would be better thank'd, His praise due paid: for swinish Gluttony Crams, and blasphemes his Feeder. Shall I go on? |