Their monthly dole erewhile unnumbered thralls
    Sought in Antiochus’, in Aleuas’ halls;
    On to the Scopadae’s byres in endless line
    The calves ran lowing with the horned kine;
    And, marshalled by the good Creondae’s swains
    Myriads of choice sheep basked on Cranron’s plains. 
    Yet had their joyaunce ended, on the day
    When their sweet spirit dispossessed its clay,
    To hated Acheron’s ample barge resigned. 
    Nameless, their stored-up luxury left behind,
    With the lorn dead through ages had they lain,
    Had not a minstrel bade them live again:—­
    Had not in woven words the Ceian sire
    Holding sweet converse with his full-toned lyre
    Made even their swift steeds for aye renowned,
    When from the sacred lists they came home crowned. 
    Forgot were Lycia’s chiefs, and Hector’s hair
    Of gold, and Cycnus femininely fair;
    But that bards bring old battles back to mind. 
    Odysseus—­he who roamed amongst mankind
    A hundred years and more, reached utmost hell
    Alive, and ’scaped the giant’s hideous cell—­
    Had lived and died:  Eumaeus and his swine;
    Philoetius, busy with his herded kine;
    And great Laertes’ self, had passed away,
    Were not their names preserved in Homer’s lay. 
    Through song alone may man true glory taste;
    The dead man’s riches his survivors waste.

      But count the waves, with yon gray wind-swept main
    Borne shoreward:  from a red brick wash his stain
    In some pool’s violet depths:  ’twill task thee yet
    To reach the heart on baleful avarice set. 
    To such I say ‘Fare well’:  let theirs be store
    Of wealth; but let them always crave for more: 
    Horses and mules inferior things I find
    To the esteem and love of all mankind.

      But to what mortal’s roof may I repair,
    I and my Muse, and find a welcome there? 
    I and my Muse:  for minstrels fare but ill,
    Reft of those maids, who know the mightiest’s will. 
    The cycle of the years, it flags not yet;
    In many a chariot many a steed shall sweat: 
    And one, to manhood grown, my lays shall claim,
    Whose deeds shall rival great Achilles’ fame,
    Who from stout Aias might have won the prize
    On Simois’ plain, where Phrygian Ilus lies. 
    Now, in their sunset home on Libya’s heel,
    Phoenicia’s sons unwonted chillness feel: 
    Now, with his targe of willow at his breast,
    The Syracusan bears his spear in rest,
    Amongst these Hiero arms him for the war,
    Eager to fight as warriors fought of yore;
    The plumes float darkling o’er his helmed brow. 
    O Zeus, the sire most glorious; and O thou,
    Empress Athene; and thou, damsel fair,
    Who with thy mother wast decreed to bear
    Rule o’er rich Corinth,