o’er that city of pride
    Beside whose walls Anapus’ waters glide:—­
    May ill winds waft across the Southern sea
    (Of late a legion, now but two or three,)
    Far from our isle, our foes; the doom to tell,
    To wife and child, of those they loved so well;
    While the old race enjoy once more the lands
    Spoiled and insulted erst by alien hands!

      And fair and fruitful may their cornlands be! 
    Their flocks in thousands bleat upon the lea,
    Fat and full-fed; their kine, as home they wind,
    The lagging traveller of his rest remind! 
    With might and main their fallows let them till: 
    Till comes the seedtime, and cicalas trill
    (Hid from the toilers of the hot midday
    In the thick leafage) on the topmost spray! 
    O’er shield and spear their webs let spiders spin,
    And none so much as name the battle-din! 
    Then Hiero’s lofty deeds may minstrels bear
    Beyond the Scythian ocean-main, and where
    Within those ample walls, with asphalt made
    Time-proof, Semiramis her empire swayed. 
    I am but a single voice:  but many a bard
    Beside me do those heavenly maids regard: 
    May those all love to sing, ’mid earth’s acclaim,
    Of Sicel Arethuse, and Hiero’s fame.

    O Graces, royal nurselings, who hold dear
    The Minyae’s city, once the Theban’s fear: 
    Unbidden I tarry, whither bidden I fare
    My Muse my comrade.  And be ye too there,
    Sisters divine!  Were ye and song forgot,
    What grace had earth?  With you be aye my lot!

IDYLL XVII.

The Praise of Ptolemy.

    With Zeus begin, sweet sisters, end with Zeus,
    When ye would sing the sovereign of the skies: 
    But first among mankind rank Ptolemy;
    First, last, and midmost; being past compare. 
    Those mighty ones of old, half men half gods,
    Wrought deeds that shine in many a subtle strain;
    I, no unpractised minstrel, sing but him;
    Divinest ears disdain not minstrelsy. 
    But as a woodman sees green Ida rise
    Pine above pine, and ponders which to fell
    First of those myriads; even so I pause
    Where to begin the chapter of his praise: 
    For thousand and ten thousand are the gifts
    Wherewith high heaven hath graced the kingliest king.

      Was not he born to compass noblest ends,
    Lagus’ own son, so soon as he matured
    Schemes such as ne’er had dawned on meaner minds? 
    Zeus doth esteem him as the blessed gods;
    In the sire’s courts his golden mansion stands. 
    And near him Alexander sits and smiles,
    The turbaned Persian’s dread; and, fronting both,
    Rises the stedfast adamantine seat
    Erst fashioned for the bull-slayer Heracles. 
    Who there holds revels with