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Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consum'd with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone,

We only toil, who are the first of things,

And make perpetual moan,

Still from one sorrow to another thrown:

Nor ever fold our wings,

And cease from wanderings:

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;

Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings,

"There is no joy but calm!"

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

Lo! in the middle of the wood

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care,

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed and turning yellow

Falls, and floats adown the air.

αἴ, αἴ, θυμοβόροις πονοῦμεν
ταλαίφρονες αὕτως
ἀνακεστοτάταις ἀνίαις
ἡμεῖς· πάρα δ ̓ ἄλλοις
δια λυγρᾶς ἀνάπαυσις ὀϊζύος,
ὅσ ̓ ἔστιν· ἦ μόνοισιν

είμαρται καμάτων ἀφύκτων

στένειν ἀλίαστα, θεῶν μετ' ἔργοις

πρωτεία μάταν λαχοῦσιν ;

ἡμῖν τοῖς ὑπεράλλοις, χθονίων τοῖς μεγ ̓ ἀρίστοις, στρ' ὅρνις ὣς πτερύγων ἀκάματός τις πολυπλάγκτοισιν ἐρετμοῖς,

1

ὕπνοιο κηληθμὸς ἀμβρότοιο

ἆρ ̓ οὔποτ ̓ ἐμβάψει κάρα ;

πόνων ἄγευστος λέλογχεν ὄλβον, ἔναυλον τόδ' ἐφυμνεῖ 'ν φρεσὶ δαίμων.

φεῦ· ὕλας ἐν ὀμφαλοῖσιν ἀβρότοισι,

βλάσταν φύλλον ὑπεκδὺν, ἀνέμου σαινόμενον κιναθίσμασι,

χλωρὸν εὐρυφνὲς βρύει,

ἀκτῖνες δ ̓ ἀμέριμνον

ἔνδιον, νυχίᾳ δ ̓ αὖτε σελάνα τρέφεν ἔρσα·

ἀντ.

τέλος δ ̓ ἀλλόχροον ῥεῖ, κατὰ δ ̓ οὗρον μετέωρον δια

φεύγει.

1 #sch. Agam. 52.

Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,

The full-juic'd apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.

All its allotted length of days,

The flower ripens in its place,

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

Hateful is the dark-blue sky

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.

Death is the end of life: ah, why

Should life all labour be?

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,

And in a little while our lips are dumb.

Let us alone.

What is it that will last?

All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace

In ever climbing up the climbing wave?

All things have rest, and ripen tow'rd the grave

In silence; ripen, fall and cease.

Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease!

θέρους ἐν αὐγαῖς πέπον τεθηλὸς,
ὡραῖον ἔπεσεν ἔννυχον

ἄκρας οπώρας ἄφωνα μᾶλον.

ζωᾶς μοιρίδιον τέρμα τελείας

ἀνθέων γένη κατάνυσ ̓ ἁδυόσμων,

ἀκμάζοντ ̓ ἀπόνως, φροῦδα δ ̓ ἔπειτ ̓ ᾤχετ ̓ ἐπασσυτέρα ῥοπᾷ,

εὐκάρποισι δυσεκλύτως

ἐῤῥιζωμέν' ἀρούραις.

1 στυγνόν πόλου κυάνεον βάθος πάλαι πορφυροειδοῦς ὑπερτέταται θαλάττας

ζῶσιν θάνατος πέπρωται·

ζῶντες δ ̓ ἀπαύστῳ πόνῳ ἄλλως βίον ἀντλοῦμεν·

ἐᾶτ'· ἐσσυμένων ῥίμφ ̓ ἐνιαυτῶν
σιγὰ τάχ ̓ ἔπεισιν· οὐδὲν
σταθμὸν ἔχει βέβαιον.
πάντ ̓ ἐκλέλοιπεν, φοβερῷ
δὲ τῶν πάλαι σύζυγ ̓ ὁμίλῳ

φεύγει· τί δ ̓ ἀτερπὲς αἰὲν
ἀδμῆτ', ἀμάχου κατ ̓ ἄτας,

στρο

ἀντιστρ.

κλύδων' ἔπ ̓ ἀμβαίνομεν ; ἔσθ ̓ ἡσυχίας πᾶσιν σιγ ̓ εἰσερχομένας μοῖρα καθ' ὥραν

τᾶς πουλυπλάνων ὀνείρων,

ἢ θανάτου τύχοιμεν.

1 Soph. Antig. 781-800.

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,

With half-shut eyes ever to seem

Falling asleep in a half-dream!

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech;

Eating the Lotos, day by day,

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray:
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy:
To muse and brood and live again in memory,

With those old faces of our infancy

Heap'd over with a mound of grass,

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

Dear is the mem'ry of our wedded lives,

And dear the last embraces of our wives

And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change: For surely now our household hearths are cold :

Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange :

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