And, may that power of ancient birth, Who sees with still benignant eye A happier doom accord ;- Ex ample meet for such a song, To Pallas dear is she ; Dear to the sire of gods, and dear To him, her son, in dreadful glee Who shakes the ivy-wreathed spear. And thus, they tell that deep below The sounding ocean's ebb and flow, Amid the daughters of the sea, A sister nymph must Ino be, And dwell in bliss eternally :But, ignorant and blind, We little know the coming hour; Shall sink like fall of summer eve, For grief and joy with fitful gale And, whence our blessings flow, To Theban Laius that befell, Fulfilled the former oracle, Unconscious parricide. Unconscious-yet avenging hell Pursued th' offender's stealthy pace, And heavy, sure, and hard it fell, The curse of blood, on all his race. Spared from their kindred strife, The young Thersander's life, Stern Polynices' heir, was left alone : In every martial game, And in the field of fame, For early force and matchless prowess known: Was left, the pride and prop to be Of good Adrastus' pedigree. And hence, through loins of ancient kings, The minstrel's harp, the poet's song, And where, mid Pythia's olives blue, And where his twice-twain coursers flew Such honor, earned by toil and care, Led by that star of heavenly ray, Which best may keep our darkling way For, whoso holds in righteousness the throne, How the foul spirits of the guilty dead, Of nether earth abide, and penal flame : The minister of God whose arm is there, But, ever bright, by day, by night, Exulting in excess of light; From labor free and long distress, The good enjoy their happiness. No more the stubborn soil they cleave, Nor stem for scanty food the wave; But with the venerable gods they dwell: No tear bedims their thankful eye, Nor mars their long tranquillity; While those accursed, how! in pangs unspeakable. But, who the thrice-renewed probation Of either world may well endure; The gorgeous blossoms of such blessed clime, Hence are their garlands woven-hence their hands Filled with triumphal boughs;-the righteous doom Of Rhadamanthus, whom, o'er these his lands, A blameless judge in every time to come, Chronos, old Chronos, sire of gods hath placed; Who with his consort dear, Dread Rhea, reigneth here, On cloudy throne with deathless honor graced. And still, they say, in high communion, |