XIV.

    Epitaph of Eurymedon.

    Thou hast gone to the grave, and abandoned thy son
    Yet a babe, thy own manhood but scarcely begun. 
    Thou art throned among gods:  and thy country will take
    Thy child to her heart, for his brave father’s sake.

    XV.

    Another.

    Prove, traveller, now, that you honour the brave
    Above the poltroon, when he’s laid in the grave,
    By murmuring ‘Peace to Eurymedon dead.’ 
    The turf should lie light on so sacred a head.

    XVI.

    For a Statue of the Heavenly Aphrodite.

    Aphrodite stands here; she of heavenly birth;
    Not that base one who’s wooed by the children of earth. 
    ’Tis a goddess; bow down.  And one blemishless all,
    Chrysogone, placed her in Amphicles’ hall: 
    Chrysogone’s heart, as her children, was his,
    And each year they knew better what happiness is. 
    For, Queen, at life’s outset they made thee their friend;
    Religion is policy too in the end.

    XVII.

    To Epicharmus.

    Read these lines to Epicharmus.  They are Dorian, as was he
        The sire of Comedy. 
    Of his proper self bereaved, Bacchus, unto thee we rear
        His brazen image here;
    We in Syracuse who sojourn, elsewhere born.  Thus much we can
        Do for our countryman,
    Mindful of the debt we owe him.  For, possessing ample store
        Of legendary lore,
    Many a wholesome word, to pilot youths and maids thro’ life, he spake: 
        We honour him for their sake.

    XVIII.

    Epitaph of Cleita, Nurse of Medeius.

    The babe Medeius to his Thracian nurse
      This stone—­inscribed To Cleita—­reared in the midhighway. 
      Her modest virtues oft shall men rehearse;
    Who doubts it? is not ‘Cleita’s worth’ a proverb to this day?

    XIX.

    To Archilochus.

    Pause, and scan well Archilochus, the bard of elder days,
        By east and west
        Alike’s confest
      The mighty lyrist’s praise. 
    Delian Apollo loved him well, and well the sister-choir: 
        His songs were fraught
        With subtle thought,
      And matchless was his lyre.

    XX.

    Under a Statue of Peisander,
    WHO WROTE THE LABOURS OF HERACLES.

    He whom ye gaze on was the first
    That in quaint song the deeds rehearsed
    Of him whose arm was swift to smite,
    Who dared the lion to the fight: 
    That tale, so strange, so manifold,
    Peisander of Cameirus told. 
    For this good work, thou may’st be sure,
      His country placed him here,
    In solid brass that shall endure
    Through many a month and year.

    XXI.

    Epitaph of Hipponax.