FEDALMA. ZARCA.

No, no-I will not say it-I will go!
Father, I choose! I will not take a heaven
Haunted by shrieks of far-off misery.

This deed and I have ripened with the hours:

It is a part of me-a wakened thought
That, rising like a giant, masters me,

And grows into a doom. O mother life,
That seemed to nourish me so tenderly,
Even in the womb you vowed me to the fire,
Hung on my soul the burden of men's hopes,
And pledged me to redeem.—I'll pay the debt!
You gave me strength that I should pour it all

ΦΕΙΔΑΛΜΗ. ΞΑΡΚΗΣ.

Φ. μὴ δήτ'· ἐρῶ τόδ ̓ οὔποτ'· ἀλλ ̓ ἅμ ̓ ἕψομαι. πάτερ, δέδοκται· μηδ ̓ ἴση ζῴην θεοῖς φρίσσουσα κωκυτοῖσιν ἐκτόπου δύης. ἐμοὶ γὰρ ἔργον συντρόφως τόδ ̓ ἤκμασεν ὡς συμπεφυκός· οὗ μέλημ ̓ ἐγρηγορὸς γίγας τις ὡς πάνταρχον αἴρεται φρενών, δίκην ἀνάγκης βρίθον· ὦ ζωῆς γάνος μητρῷον, ὦ δόξασά μ' ηπίως τρέφειν, κάν γαστρί μ' οὖσαν πῦρ ἄρ ̓ ὧρισας περᾶν, ψυχῆς δ ̓ ἀπαρτῶσ ̓ ἐλπίδας πολλῶν μιᾶς τελεῖν κατηγγύησας· ὥσπερ οὖν τελῶ.

σθένος γὰρ εἰ μοι δοῦσ ̓ ἵν ̓ ἐγχέαιμι πᾶν

Into this anguish.

I can

never shrink

Back into bliss-my heart has grown too big
With things that might be. Father, I will go.

O Father, will the women of our tribe

Suffer as I do in the years to come

When you have made them great in Africa?
Redeemed from ignorant ills only to feel

A conscious woe? Then-is it worth the pains?
Were it not better when we reach that shore

To raise a funeral pile and perish all?

So closing up a myriad avenues

To misery yet unwrought? My soul is faint—

Will these sharp pains buy any certain good?

Zarca. Nay, never falter: no great deed is done

By falterers who wish for certainty.

No good is certain, but the steadfast mind,

The undivided will to seek the good:

The greatest gift the hero leaves his race,

Is to have been a hero.

GEORGE ELIOT.

εἰς τήνδ ̓ ἀνίαν· οὐδ ̓ ἂν εἰς στενὴν χαρὰν
θυμὸν κατισχνάναιμ ̓ ἔτ ̓ ἐξωγκωμένον

ἔρωτι τοῦ μελλοντος· ἔψομαι, πάτερ.

ἢ χατέραις, γεννῆτορ, ἐμφύλων μένει

ἐμοῖς ἴσ ̓ ἀντλεῖν καὶ μεταὖθις ἄλγεσιν,
ἑδρῶν κρατούσαις, σὴν δόσιν, Λιβυστικῶν;
ἐξ ἀγνοουσῶν ἢ ξυνειδυίαις τρέφειν

λύπας πάρεσται; κατα δρᾶν προύργου τάδε;
οὐ κρεῖσσον ἀκτὴν ἱγμένοις Λιβυστικὴν
κοινῇ πυρὰν νήσασιν ἐξολωλέναι,
ἀνηρίθμους εἴρξασι προσβολὰς κακῶν

μήπω φανέντων; φεῦ· φρέν ̓ ὡς βαρύνομαι μῶν κέρδος ὠδὶς ἐμπολᾷ πικρὰ σαφές; Ξ. μή νυν ὀκνήσῃς μηδέν· ὡς ὅσοι σαφῆ ποθοῦντες ὀκνοῦσ ̓ οὐδὲν αἴρονται μέγα. σαφὲς γὰρ ἀγαθὸν φρὴν ἀκίνητος μόνον, σπουδή τ' ἀκραιφνὴς τἀγάθ' ἐξιχνοσκοπεῖν. λείπει δ ̓ ὁ δράσας λαμπρὰ τοῖς ἐμφυλίοις τοῦτ ̓ αὐτὸ λῷστον, λαμπρὰ καὶ δεδρακέναι.

Dost thou look back?

DOST thou look back on what hath been,

As some divinely-gifted man,

Whose life in low estate began

And on a simple village green;

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,

And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance,

And grapples with his evil star:

Who makes by force his merit known, And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state's decrees,

And shape the whisper of the throne: