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:

τηλε δ' εν ούρεσι βροντά καναχεί χρύσεα δώματα προς θεοτερπή, στροφοδινούνται τ' άμφις νεφελαι,

περί δ' ουράνιος

στίλβει πόλος αστεροφεγγής. οι δ' ορυμάγδω γαν βροτολοίγω διαπερθομέναν, βρύχιον πέλαγος, χθόνα σεισθείσαν, ψάμμον φλογέαν, όλοα λοιμού λιμον επ' άτη, καταθραυoμένας ναύς ενι κύμασιν, αστέων άμoτον πυρ καιομένων,

χείράς θ' ικετών, λάθρα χαίρουσιν ορώντες το δε θρηνώδες μέλος ώγύγιον πέρι τερπομένοις ώσι δέχονται, κούκ αλέγουσιν δεινά λεγόντων, το παρ’ ανθρώπων αικιζομένων είσαναβαϊνον δώματ' 'Ολύμπου των τλασιπόνων, των άροτήρων, φιτυθείσας οι τ’ από γαίας σίτον ετήσιον, οίνον, έλαιον,

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.

θανατωθέντες δ' οι μεν εν Αίδου,
τοιάδε φάμα θρυλεί ψιθυρα,
διακναιόμενοι πημ’ αθλεύουσ',
οι δ' ενι βάσσαις 'Ηλυσιαϊσιν,
καμάτων εσαεί γυία λυθέντες,

κατά τ' άσφοδέλου

δέμνι' άλυποι διάγουσιν.
έστ’ αναπαύλας, έστ’ επί χερσου
γέρας άδιον, τούτο σαφέστατον,
ήε βαθύπλοον, ηε δυσάνεμον
αιέν έρετμου κόπον εξαντλείν.

λήγετε μόχθων,
φεύ μόχθων λήγεθ', εταίροι.

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?

a