Whose copious current tore down with its torrent,
Oaks, ashes, and yew, with the ground where they grew,
And his rivals to boot, wrenched up by the root;
And his personal foes, who presumed to oppose,
All drowned and abolished, dispersed and demolished,
And drifted headlong, with a deluge of song.

And his airs and his tunes, and his songs and lampoons,
Were recited and sung by the old and the young:

At our feasts and carousals, what poet but he?

And "The fair Amphibribe" and "The Sycophant Tree," "Masters and masons and builders of verse!"

Those were the tunes that all tongues could rehearse;
But since in decay you have cast him away,

Stript of his stops and his musical strings,
Battered and shattered, a broken old instrument,

Shoved out of sight among rubbishy things.
His garlands are faded, and what he deems worst,
His tongue and his palate are parching with thirst.

And now you may meet him alone in the street,
Wearied and worn, tattered and torn,

All decayed and forlorn, in his person and dress,
Whom his former success should exempt from distress,
With subsistence at large at the general charge,
And a seat with the great at the table of State,
There to feast every day and preside at the play
In splendid apparel, triumphant and gay.

Seeing Crates, the next, always teased and perplexed,

With your tyrannous temper tormented and vexed;

That with taste and good sense, without waste or expense, From his snug little hoard, provided your board

With a delicate treat, economic and neat.

Thus hitting or missing, with crowns or with hissing,
Year after year he pursued his career,

For better or worse, till he finished his course.

These precedents held him in long hesitation;
He replied to his friends, with a just observation,
"That a seaman in regular order is bred

To the oar, to the helm, and to look out ahead;
With diligent practice has fixed in his mind
The signs of the weather, and changes of wind.
And when every point of the service is known,
Undertakes the command of a ship of his own.»

For reasons like these,
If your judgment agrees
That he did not embark

Like an ignorant spark,

Or a troublesome lout,

To puzzle and bother, and blunder about,
Give him a shout,

At his first setting out!

And all pull away
With a hearty huzza

For success to the play!

Send him away,

Smiling and gay,

Shining and florid,

With his bald forehead!

775

HITH

THE CLOUD CHORUS

From The Clouds'. Andrew Lang's Translation

SOCRATES SPEAKS

WITHER, come hither, ye Clouds renowned, and unveil your. [snow,

selves here;

Come, though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian Or whether ye dance with the Nereid Choir in the gardens clear, Or whether your golden urns are dipped in Nile's overflow, Or whether you dwell by Mæotis mere

Or the snows of Mimas, arise! appear!

And hearken to us, and accept our gifts ere ye rise and go.

THE CLOUDS SING

Immortal Clouds from the echoing shore

Of the father of streams from the sounding sea,
Dewy and fleet, let us rise and soar;

Dewy and gleaming and fleet are we!
Let us look on the tree-clad mountain-crest,

On the sacred earth where the fruits rejoice,
On the waters that murmur east and west,
On the tumbling sea with his moaning voice.
For unwearied glitters the Eye of the Air,
And the bright rays gleam;

Then cast we our shadows of mist, and fare
In our deathless shapes to glance everywhere

From the height of the heaven, on the land and air,
And the Ocean Stream.

C

Let us on, ye Maidens that bring the Rain,
Let us gaze on Pallas's citadel,

In the country of Cecrops fair and dear,.
The mystic land of the holy cell,

Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell,
And the gifts of the gods that know not stain,
And a people of mortals that know not fear.
For the temples tall and the statues fair,
And the feasts of the gods are holiest there,
The feasts of Immortals, the chaplets of flowers,
And the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring,
And the musical voices that fill the hours,

And the dancing feet of the maids that sing!

GRAND CHORUS OF BIRDS

From The Birds': Swinburne's Translation

OME on then, ye dwellers by nature in darkness, and like to the leaves' generations,

That are little of might, that are molded of mire, unenduring and shadowlike nations,

Poor plumeless ephemerals, comfortless mortals, as visions of shadows fast fleeing,

Lift up your mind unto us that are deathless, and dateless the date of. our being;

Us, children of heaven, us, ageless for aye, us, all of whose thoughts are eternal:

That ye may from henceforth, having heard of us all things aright as to matters supernal,

Of the being of birds, and beginning of gods, and of streams, and the dark beyond reaching,

Trustfully knowing aright, in my name bid Prodicus pack with his preaching!

It was Chaos and Night at the first, and the blackness of darkness,

and Hell's broad border,

Earth was not, nor air, neither heaven; when in depths of the womb of the dark without order

First thing, first-born of the black-plumed Night, was a wind-egg hatched in her bosom,

Whence timely with seasons revolving again sweet Love burst out as a blossom,

Gold wings glittering forth of his back, like whirlwinds gustily turning. He, after his wedlock with Chaos, whose wings are of darkness, in Hell broad-burning,

For his nestlings begat him the race of us first, and upraised us to light new-lighted.

And before this was not the race of the gods, until all things by Love were united:

And of kind united in kind with communion of nature the sky and the sea are

Brought forth, and the earth, and the race of the gods everlasting and blest. So that we are

Far away the most ancient of all things blest.

Love's generation

And that we are of

There are manifest manifold signs. We have wings, and with us have the Loves habitation;

And manifold fair young folk that forswore love once, ere the bloom of them ended,

Have the men that pursued and desired them subdued by the help of us only befriended,

With such baits as a quail, a flamingo, a goose, or a cock's comb staring and splendid.

All best good things that befall men come from us birds, as is plain to all reason:

For first we proclaim and make known to them spring, and the winter and autumn in season;

Bid sow, when the crane starts clanging for Afric in shrill-voiced emigrant number,

And calls to the pilot to hang up his rudder again for the season and slumber;

And then weave a cloak for Orestes the thief, lest he strip men of theirs if it freezes.

And again thereafter the kite reappearing announces a change in the breezes,

And that here is the season for shearing your sheep of their spring wool. Then does the swallow

Give you notice to sell your great-coat, and provide something light for the heat that's to follow.

Thus are we as Ammon or Delphi unto you, Dodona, nay, Phoebus Apollo.

For, as first ye come all to get auguries of birds, even such is in all things your carriage,

Be the matter a matter of trade, or of earning your bread, or of any

one's marriage.

And all things ye lay to the charge of a bird that belong to discerning prediction:

Winged fame is a bird, as you reckon; you sneeze, and the sign's as a bird for conviction;

All tokens are "birds" with you-sounds, too, and lackeys and don

keys. Then must it not follow

That we are to you all as the manifest godhead that speaks in pro phetic Apollo ?

H

A RAINY DAY ON THE FARM

From The Peace': Frere's Translation

ow sweet it is to see the new-sown cornfield fresh and even, With blades just springing from the soil that only ask a shower from heaven.

Then, while kindly rains are falling, indolently to rejoice,

Till some worthy neighbor calling, cheers you with his hearty voice.
Well, with weather such as this, let us hear, Trygæus tell us
What should you and I be doing? You're the king of us good fellows.
Since it pleases heaven to prosper your endeavors, friend, and mine,
Let us have a merry meeting, with some friendly talk and wine.
In the vineyard there's your lout, hoeing in the slop and mud
Send the wench and call him out, this weather he can do no good.
Dame, take down two pints of meal, and do some fritters in your way;
Boil some grain and stir it in, and let us have those figs, I say.
Send a servant to my house, any one that you can spare,—
Let him fetch a beestings pudding, two gherkins, and the pies of hare:
There should be four of them in all, if the cat has left them right;
We heard her racketing and tearing round the larder all last night.
Boy, bring three of them to us,- take the other to my father:
Cut some myrtle for our garlands, sprigs in flower or blossoms rather.
Give a shout upon the way to Charinades our neighbor, [labor.
To join our drinking bout to-day, since heaven is pleased to bless our

THE HARVEST

From The Peace': Translation in the Quarterly Review

H, 'TIS sweet, when fields are ringing

With the merry cricket's singing,

Oft to mark with curious eye

If the vine-tree's time be nigh:

Here is now the fruit whose birth

Cost a throe to Mother Earth.

Sweet it is, too, to be telling,

How the luscious figs are swelling;
Then to riot without measure
In the rich, nectareous treasure,
While our grateful voices chime,—
Happy season! blessed time.