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,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song,
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning though the words are strong;
Chanted from an ill-us'd race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine, and oil:

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
Than labour in mid-ocean, wind and wave, and oar;

Oh rest ye, brother-mariners, we will not wander more.

1

θανατωθέντες δ' οἱ μὲν ἐν Αΐδου,
τοιάδε φάμα θρυλεῖ ψιθυρὰ,
διακναιόμενοι πῇμ' ἀθλεύουσ',
οἱ δ' ἐνὶ βάσσαις Ἠλυσιαῖσιν,
καμάτων ἐσαεὶ γυῖα λυθέντες,
κατά τ' ἀσφοδέλου

δέμνι' ἄλυποι διάγουσιν.
ἔστ' ἀναπαύλας, ἔστ' ἐπὶ χερσοῦ
γέρας ἅδιον, τοῦτο σαφέστατον,
ἠὲ βαθύπλοον, ἠὲ δυσάνεμον
αἰὲν ἐρετμοῦ κόπον ἐξαντλεῖν.
λήγετε μόχθων,

φεῦ μόχθων λήγεθ', ἑταῖροι.

1 Asch. Prom. 94.

L. 1860.

From Milton's Comus.

I had not thought to have unlock'd my lips
In this unhallow'd air, but that this juggler
Would think to charm my judgment, as mine eyes,
Obtruding false rules prank'd in reason's garb.
I hate when Vice can bolt her arguments,
And Virtue has no tongue to check her pride.-
Impostor! do not charge most innocent Nature.
As if she would her children should be riotous
With her abundance; she, good cateress,
Means her provision only to the good,
That live according to her sober laws,
And holy dictate of spare Temperance:

If every just man, that now pines with want,
Had but a moderate and beseeming share
Of that which lewdly pamper'd Luxury
Now heaps upon some few with vast excess,
Nature's full blessings would be well dispensed
In unsuperfluous even proportion,

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

:

Ne'er looks to Heaven amidst his gorgeous feast,

But with besotted base ingratitude

Crams, and blasphemes his Feeder. Shall I go on?