Say, what lot can praise inspire, Noble father, like to thine? Of all gifts that man enjoyeth, Highest evermore is fame; E'en when death the clay destroyeth, Still survives a noble name. Hero! in the minstrel's strain Deathless shall thy glory be; For our earthly moments flee, And the dead alone remain. Since no voice the mourner raises, Telling of the vanquished man, I will sing of Hector's praises. Thus Tydeus' son began, Who his household altars shielded, Falling on the field of fame, E Spite of crowns to victors yielded, His is still the loftier aim. Who in mortal combat fell For his household altar's fame, E'en the foeman's lips shall tell. Nestor now, that warrior olden, Who a threefold life has seen, Gives the wreathéd wine-cup golden Unto Priam's weeping queen : 'Drink the cordial that I proffer, And thy bitter anguish calm : Wondrous gifts doth Bacchus offer, To the wounded heart a balm. Drink the cordial sparkling bright, And thy bitter anguish calm! To the wounded heart a balm, Bacchus' gift hath wondrous might.' Niobe in terror shrinking, Of celestial wrath the aim, Even she, the cordial drinking, Deepest sorrow overcame. While the cup of life is glowing At the lips of those who mourn, Swiftly hence their grief is borne. By the stream that darkly flows. Now the prophetess has risen, The divine, inspired maid, Gazing from her floating prison On her home in ashes laid. Vain is all our earthly glory; Like the vapour's wind-rocked train, Fadeth hence our life's brief story, And the gods alone remain. Round the horse and rider gay, Round the ship float grief and care; Ours is not the morrow's share, Let us therefore live to-day. DITHRY AMBE. NEVER the gods thou beholdest, Believe me, Never alone! Scarcely that Bacchus, the mirthful one, neareth, |