Λαὸν δέ στῆσον παρ' ἐρινεὸν, ἔνθα μάλιστα *Αμβατός ἐστι πόλις, καὶ ἐπίδρομον ἔπλετο τεῖχος. Τρὶς γὰρ τῇγ ̓ ἐλθόντες ἐπειρήσανθ' οἱ ἄριστοι, ̓Αμφ ̓ Αἴαντε δύω, καὶ ἀγακλυτὸν Ιδομενήα, Ἠδ ̓ ἀμφ' Ατρείδας, καὶ Τυδέος ἄλκιμον υἱόν που τις σφὶν ἔνισπε θεοπροπίων εὖ εἰδὼς, Η νυ καὶ αὐτῶν θυμὸς ἐποτρύνει καὶ ἀνώγει.
TRANSLATION.
Andromache to Hector.
Ah! doom'd, thyself, the victim of thy own Too daring courage! Pity of thy boy Thou feel'st not, or of me, thy widow soon; For soon the whole united Grecian host Will overwhelm thee, and thou must be slain. Earth yield me, then, a tomb! for refuge else, Or none so safe have I, thenceforth forlorn Of all defence, since father I have none, Or mother's genial home to shelter me. Achilles, when he suck'd Cilician Thebes, And fired her lofty domes, my father slew; He slew Eëtion-but a decent awe Forbidding him to bare a royal corse,
He burned him with his arms, heap'd high the soil That hides his urn, and the Orcades,
Jove's daughters, circled it round with elms. My seven brothers, feeding in the field Their flocks and herds, all perished in a day, For dread Achilles found and slew them all. My mother, whom in all her green retreats Hypoplacus obeyed, when, rich in spoils, The Conqu❜ror steer'd his gallant barks to Troy, Came captive in the fleet, but ransomed hence At countless cost, revisited her home, And by Diana pierc'd, at home expired. All these are lost; but in thy wedded love, My faithful Hector! I regain them all. Come then-let pity plead! to spare thy boy An orphan's woes, and widowhood to me,
Defend this tow'r; and where the fig-tree spreads Her branches, station thy collected force, For there Idomeneus, the king of Crete, Tydides, either Ajax, and the sons
Of Atreus, thrice with their united pow'rs Have press'd to seize the city; whether taught By some interpreter of signs from Heaven, Or prompted by remark, and self-advised.
Too daring prince! ah, whither dost thou run! Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son!
And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be, A widow I, a helpless orphan he!
For sure such courage length of life denies; And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. Greece in her single heroes strove in vain: Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain: Oh grant me, Gods! ere Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of Heaven, an early tomb! So shall my days in one sad tenor run, And end with sorrows as they first begun. No parent now remains my griefs to share, No father's aid, no mother's tender care. The fierce Achilles wrapp'd our walls in fire, Laid Thebé waste, and slew my warlike sire! His fate compassion in the victor bred; Stern as he was he yet rever'd the dead, His radiant arms preserv'd from hostile spoil, And laid him decent on the funeral pile.
Then raised a mountain where his bones were burn'd, The mountain-nymphs the rural tomb adorn'd: Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow A barren shade, and in his honour grow. By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell, In one sad day beheld the gates of hell, While the fat herds and snowy flocks they fed, Amid their fields the hapless heroes bled! My mother liv'd to bear the victor's bands, The queen of Hippoplacia's sylvan lands: Redeem'd too late, she scarce beheld again Her pleasing empire and her native plain, When ah! oppress'd by life-consuming woe, She fell a victim to Diana's bow.
Yet, while my Hector still survives, I see My father, mother, brethren, all in thee:
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all Once more will perish, if my Hector fall. Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share: Oh! prove a husband's and a father's care! That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy, Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy: Thou from this tower defend th' important post, There Agamemnon points his dreadful host, That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain, And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train. Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given, Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. Let others in the field their arms employ, But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy.
Μακαρίζομέν σε, τέττιξ, Οτι δενδρέων ἐπ' ἄκρων, Ολίγην δρόσον πεπωκώς, Βασιλεὺς ὅπως, ἀείδεις. Σὺ γάρ ἐστι κεῖνα πάντα, Οπόσα βλέπεις ἐν ἀγροῖς, Χ ̓ ὁπόσα φέρουσιν ὅλαι. Σὺ δὲ φιλίος γεωργῶν, Απὸ μηδενὸς τὶ βλάπτων. Σὺ δὲ τίμιος βροτοῖσι, Θέρεος γλυκὺς προφήτης. Φιλέουσι μέν σε Μοῦσαι Φιλέει δὲ Φοῖβος αὐτὸς, Λιγυρὴν δ ̓ ἔδωκεν οἴμην. Τὸ δὲ γῆρας οὔ σε τείρει, Σοφέ, γηγενής, φίλυμνε, Απαθὴς, αναιμόσαρκε Σχεδὸν εἶ θεοῖς ὅμοιος.
TRANSLATION.
To the Grasshopper.
Happy insect! all agree
None can be more bless'd than thee; Thou, for joy and pleasure born, Sipp'st the honied dew of morn. Happier than the sceptred king, Midst the boughs we hear thee sing. All the season's varied store
All thy little eyes explore;
Fruits that tempt, and flowers that shine,
Happy insect, all are thine.
Injuring nothing, blamed by none, Farmers love thee, pretty one! All rejoice thy voice to hear Singing blithe when summer's near. Thee the tuneful Muses love, Sweetly chirping in the grove. Thee the great Apollo bless'd With a voice above the rest. Thou from wasting age art free, Time has nought to do with thee. Skilful creature, child of song, Though to earth thou dost belong, Free from Nature's woes and pains, Free from flesh, or blood-fill'd veins, Happy thing, thou seem'st to me Almost a little god to be!
O thou, of all creation blest, Sweet insect, that delight'st to rest Upon the wild wood's leafy tops To drink the dew that morning drops, And chirp thy song with such a glee, That happiest kings may envy thee! Whatever decks the velvet field, Whate'er the circling seasons yield, Whatever buds, whatever blows, For thee it buds, for thee it grows. Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear, To him thy friendly notes are dear;
For thou art mild as matin dew, And still, when summer's flowery hue Begins to paint the blooming plain, We hear thy sweet prophetic strain; Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear, And bless the notes, and thee revere! The Muses love thy shrilly tone; Apollo calls thee all his own;
"Twas he who gave that voice to thee, "Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy; Unworn by age's dim decline,
The fadeless blooms of youth are thine. Melodious insect ! child of earth! In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth; Exempt from every weak decay, That withers vulgar frames away; With not a drop of blood to stain The current of thy purer vein; So blest an age is pass'd by thee, Thou seem'st a little deity!
1. ΕΚΤΩΡ ΕΙΣ ΑΝΔΡΟΜΑΧΗΝ.
Τὴν δ ̓ αὖτε προσέειπε μέγας κορυθαίολος Εκτωρ Η καὶ ἐμοὶ τάδε πάντα μέλει, γύναι· ἀλλὰ μάλ' αἰνῶς Αἰδέομαι Τρῶας καὶ Τρωάδας ἑλκεσιπέπλους,
Αἴκε, κακὸς ὡς, νόσφιν ἀλυσκάζω πολέμοιο Οὐδέ με θυμὸς ἄνωγεν, ἐπεὶ μάθον ἔμμεναι ἐσθλὸς Αἰεὶ, καὶ πρώτοισι μετά Τρώεσσι μάχεσθαι, Αρνύμενος πατρός τε μέγα κλέος, ἠδ ̓ ἐμὸν αὐτοῦ. Εὖ μὲν γὰρ τόδε οἶδα κατὰ φρένα καὶ κατὰ θυμὸν, Ἔσσεται ἦμαρ, ὅτ ̓ ἄν ποτ ̓ ὀλώλῃ Ἴλιος ἱρὴ, Καὶ Πρίαμος, καὶ λαὸς ἐϋμμελίω Πριάμοιο. ̓Αλλ ̓ οὔ μοι Τρώων τόσσον μέλει ἄλγος ὀπίσσω, Οὔτ ̓ αὐτῆς Εκάβης, οὔτε Πριάμοιο ἄνακτος, Οὔτε κασιγνήτων, οἵ κεν πολέες τε καὶ ἐσθλοὶ Ἐν κονίῃσι πέσοιεν ὑπ ̓ ἀνδράσι δυσμενέεσσιν, Οσσον σεῦ, ὅτε κέν τις ̓Αχαιών χαλκοχιτώνων Δακρυόεσσαν ἄγηται, ἐλεύθερον ἦμαρ ἀπούρας
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