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 Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Falls, and floats adown the air. αἴ, αἴ, θυμοβόροις πονοῦμεν 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, 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 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, 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 φεύγει· τί δ ̓ ἀτερπὲς αἰὲν 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, To the influence of mild-minded melancholy: 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 : |