before] on the fir’s green, blooming branch,
O Grasshopper, ’twas thine
To sit, or on the shady spray
Of the dusky, tufted pine;
And from thy hollow, well-winged sides
To sound the blithesome strain,
Sweeter than the music of the lyre
To the simple shepherd swain.
But thee alas! now overcome
By ants that haunt the road,
The cave of Pluto now conceals,
That unforeseen abode.
Yet still thy fate may be forgiven,
Since the vulgar fisher-throng
By their riddle slew Mæonides,
The very prince of song. *
ME, at Alphæus wreath’d, and twice the theme
Of heralds, by Castalia’s sacred stream, —
Me, Isthmus’ and Nemæa’s trumpet-tongue
Hailed fleet as winged storms! — I then was young.
Alas! wreaths loathe me now: and Eld[Eld =
Old Age] hath found
An outcast trundling mill-stones round and round.
I, THERIS, wreck’d and cast a corse[corse =
corpse] on shore,
Still shudder at old Ocean’s ceaseless roar.
For here, beneath the cliff’s o’ershadowing gloom,
Close by its waves have strangers dug my tomb.
Hence still its roaring, reft of life, I hear;
Its hateful surge still thunders in my ear,
For me alone, by Fate unrequited,
Remains no rest to soothe me — even though dead.
THRACIANS! who howl around an infants’ birth,
And give the funeral hour to songs of mirth
Well in your grief and gladness are exprest,
That Life is labour, and that Death is rest.