Book 13
71
You know, too, how Œager's much-loved son, Skilfully playing on the Thracian harp, Brought back from hell his dear Agriope, And sail'd across th' inhospitable land Where Charon drags down in his common boat The souls of all the dead; and far resounds The marshy stream slow creeping through the reeds That line the death-like banks. But Orpheus dared With fearless soul to pass that lonely wave, Striking his harp with well-accustom'd hand. And with his lay he moved the pitiless gods, And various monsters of unfeeling hell. He raised a placid smile beneath the brows Of grim Cocytus; he subdued the glance So pitiless of the fierce, implacable dog, Who sharpen'd in the flames his fearful bark, Whose eye did glare with fire, and whose heads With triple brows struck fear on all who saw. He sang, and moved these mighty sovereigns; So that Agriope once again did breathe The breath of life. Nor did the son of Mene, Friend of the Graces, the sweet-voiced Musæus, Leave his Antiope without due honour, Who, amid the virgins sought by many suitors In holiest Eleusis' sacred soil, Sang the loud joyful song of secret oracles, Priestess of RharianRharia was a name of Ceres, from the Rharian plain near Eleusis, where corn was first sown by Triptolemus, the son of Rharus. It is Ἐς δ’ ἄρα ʽράριον ἷξε, φερέσβιον ὀ͂θαρ ἀρούρης Τὸ πρὶν, ἄταρ τότε γ’ οὔτι φερέσβιον ἀλλὰ ἕκηλον Εἱστήκει πανάφυλλον, ἔκευθε δ’ ἄρα κρῖ λευκὸν Μήδεσι δήμητρος καλλισφύρον.— Od. in Cerer. 450. Ceres, warning men. And her renown to Pluto's realms extends. Nor did these bards alone feel Cupid's sway; The ancient bard, leaving Bœotia's halls, Hesiod, the keeper of all kinds of learning, Came to fair Ascra's Heliconian village, Where long he sought Eoia's wayward love; Much he endured, and many books he wrote, The maid the inspiring subject of his song. And that great poet whom Jove's Fate protects, Sweetest of all the votaries of the muse, Immortal Homer, sought the rocky isle Of Ithaca, moved by love for all the virtue And beauty of the chaste Penelope. Much for her sake he suffer'd; then he sought A barren isle far from his native land, And wept the race of Icarus, and of Amyclus And Sparta, moved by his own woes' remembrances. Who has not heard of sweet Mimnermus' fame; Parent of plaintive elegiac verses, Which to his lyre in sweetest sounds he sang Much did he suffer, burning with the love Of cruel Nanno; and full oft inflamed With ardent passion, did he feast with her, Breathing his love to his melodious pipe; And to his hate of fierce Hermobius And Pherecles, tuneful utterance he gave. Antimachus, too, felt the flame inspired By Lydian Lyde; and he sought the stream Of golden-waved Pactolus, where he laid His lost love underneath the tearless earth, And weeping, went his way to Colophon; And with his wailing thus sweet volumes fill'd, Shunning all toil or other occupation. How many festive parties frequent rang With the fond love of Lesbian Alcæus, Who sang the praises of the amorous Sappho, And grieved his TeianAnacreon. rival, breathing songs Such as the nightingale would gladly imitate; For the divine Anacreon also sought To win the heart of the sacred poetess, Chief ornament of all the Lesbian bands; And so he roved about, now leaving Samos, Now parting from his own enslaved land, Parent of vines, to wine-producing Lesbos; And often he beheld Cape Lectum there, Across th' Aeolian wave. But greatest of all, The Attic beeSophocles. oft left its rugged hill, Singing in tragic choruses divine, Bacchus and Love * * * * * * I tell, besides, how that too cautious man, Who earn'd deserved hate from every woman, Stricken by a random shot, did not escape Nocturnal pangs of Love; but wander'd o'er The Macedonian hills and valleys green, Smitten with love for fair Argea, who Kept Archelaus' house, till the angry god Found a fit death for cold Euripides, Striving with hungry hounds in vain for life. Then there's the man whom, mid Cythera's rocks; The Muses rear'd, a faithful worshipper Of Bacchus and the flute, Philoxenus: Well all men know by what fierce passion moved He to this city came; for all have heard His praise of Galatea, which he sang Amid the sheepfolds. And you likewise know The bard to whom the citizens of Cos A brazen statue raised to do him honour, And who oft sang the praises of his Battis, Sitting beneath a plane-tree's shade, Philetas; In verses that no time shall e'er destroy. Nor do those men whose lot in life is hard, Seeking the secret paths of high philosophy, Or those whom logic's mazes hold in chains, Or that laborious eloquence of words, Shun the sharp struggle and sweet strife of Love; But willing, follow his triumphant car. Long did the charms of fair Theano bind The Samian Pythagoras, who laid bare The tortuous mysteries of geometry; Who all the mazes of the sphere unfolded, And knew the laws which regulate the world, The atmosphere which doth surround the world, And motions of the sun, and moon, and stars. Nor did the wisest of all mortal men, Great Socrates, escape the fierce contagion, But yielded to the fiery might of Venus, And to the fascinations of the sex, Laying his cares down at Aspasia's feet; And though all doubts of nature he could solve, He found no refuge from the pursuit of Love. Love, too, did draw within the narrow Isthmus The Cyrenean sage: and winning Lais, With her resistless charms, subdued and bound Wise Aristippus, who philosophy. Deserted, and preferr'd a trifling life.
