SPEECH OF AJAX.

SOPH. AJ. 645.

ALL strangest things the multitudinous years
Bring forth, and shadow from us all we know.
Falter alike great oath and steeled resolve;
And none shall say of aught, "This may not be."
Lo! I myself, but yesterday so strong,
As new-dipt steel am weak and all unsexed
By yonder woman: yea I mourn for them,
Widow and orphan, left amid their foes.
But I will journey seaward-where the shore
Lies meadow-fringed-so haply wash away
My sin, and flee that wrath that weighs me down.
And, lighting somewhere on an untrodden way,
I will bury this my lance, this hateful thing,

Deep in some earth-hole where no eye shall see

Night and Hell keep it in the underworld!

For never to this day, since first I grasped
The gift that Hector gave, my bitterest foe,
Have I reaped aught of honour from the Greeks.
So true that byword in the mouths of men,
"A foeman's gifts are no gifts, but a curse."

Wherefore henceforward shall I know that
God

Is great; and strive to honour Atreus' sons. Princes they are, and should be obeyed. How else?

Do not all terrible and most puissant things
Yet bow to loftier majesties? The Winter,
Who walks forth scattering snows, gives place anon
To fruitage-laden Summer; and the orb

Of weary Night doth in her turn stand by,
And let shine out, with his white steeds, the Day.
Stern tempest-blasts at last sing lullaby

To groaning seas: even the archtyrant, Sleep,

Doth loose his slaves, not hold them chained for

ever.

And shall not mankind too learn discipline?

I know, of late experience taught, that him

Who is my foe I must but hate as one

Whom I may yet call Friend: and him who loves

me

Will I but serve and cherish as a man

Whose love is not abiding. Few be they

Who, reaching Friendship's port, have there found

rest.

But, for these things, they shall be well. Go thou, Lady, within, and there pray that the Gods May fill unto the full my heart's desire. And ye, my mates, do unto me with her Like honour: bid young Teucer, if he come, To care for me, but to be your friend still. For where my way leads, thither I shall go: Do ye my bidding; haply ye may hear, Though now is my dark hour, that I have peace.

SONNET.

TO THE ISLAND OF SIRMIO.

FROM CATULLUS.

GEM of all isthmuses and isles that lie,

Fresh or salt water's children, in clear lake Or ampler ocean: with what joy do I

Approach thee, Sirmio! Oh! am I awake, Or dream that once again mine eye beholds Thee, and has looked its last on Thracian wolds?

Sweetest of sweets to me that pastime seems, When the mind drops her burden: when the pain Of travel past our own cot we regain,

And nestle on the pillow of our dreams! 'Tis this one thought that cheers us as we roam. Hail, O fair Sirmio! Joy, thy lord is here! Joy too, ye waters of the Golden Mere! And ring out, all ye laughter-peals of home!

YET once more, O ye laurels! and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.