Forthwith the oars with measured plash descended, all's now at stake!" A like salute from our whole line back rolled In Persian speech. Nor more delay, but straight Trireme on trireme, brazen beak on beak, Dashed furious. A Greek ship led on the attack, And from the prow of a Phoenician struck The figure-head; and now the grapple closed Of each ship with his adverse desperate. At first the main line of the Persian fleet Stood the harsh shock; but soon their multitude Became their ruin; in the narrow frith They might not use their strength, and, jammed together, Their ships with brazen beaks did bite each other, Stroke after stroke dealt dexterous all around, τοὶ δ ̓ ὥστε θύννους ἤ τιν ̓ ἰχθύων βόλον Glory in all her beauty, all her forms; But, O queen, Audible still, and far beyond thy cliffs, As when they first were uttered, are those words As men that fish for tunnies, so the Greeks, sea With wail and moaning was possessed around, Till black-eyed Night shot darkness o'er the fray. These ills thou hearest: to rehearse the whole, Ten days were few; but this, my queen, believe, No day yet shone on earth whose brightness looked On such a tale of death. Tr. by J. S. Blackie. Divine which praised the valiant and the just; "Stay! spare him! save the last! Medea! — is that blood? again! it drops From my imploring hand upon my feet! I will invoke the Eumenides no more. I will forgive thee, bless thee, bend to thee do but thou, Medea, "And shall I too deceive?" Cries from the fiery car an angry voice; And swifter than two falling stars.descend They lie three paces from him, such they lie show Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarred To give the inertest masses of our earth Her loveliest forms was thine, to fix the gods Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. A nobler work remains: thy citadel Invites all Greece; o'er lands and floods remote Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee: Confide then in thy strength, and unappalled Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings Run bellowing, where their herdsmen goad them on; Instinct is sharp in them, and terror true, Parnassus (From Childe Harold, Canto I) THOU Parnassus! whom I now survey, Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Oft have I dreamed of thee! whose glorious name In silent joy to think at last I look on thee! Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, Which others rave of, though they know it not? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, |