The letter she devised: which being writ
And folded, 'O sweet father, tender and true,
Deny me not,' she said-' you never yet
Denied my fancies-this, however strange,
My latest; lay the letter in my hand
A little ere I die, and close the hand
Upon it; I shall guard it even in death.
And when the heat is gone from out my heart,
Then take the little bed on which I died
For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's
For richness, and me also like the Queen
In all I have of rich, and lay me on it.
And let there be prepared a chariot-bier
To take me to the river, and a barge
Be ready on the river, clothed in black.
I go in state to court, to meet the Queen.
There surely I shall speak for mine own self,
And none of you can speak for me so well.
And therefore let our dumb old man alone
Go with me, he can steer and row, and he
Will guide me to that palace, to the doors.'
She ceased her father promised; whereupon
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her death
Was rather in the fantasy than the blood.
But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh
Her father laid the letter in her hand,
And closed the hand upon it, and she died.
So that day there was dole in Astolat.
ἡ δ ̓ εἶπεν· ὦ πατερ σὺ φίλτατος γεγώς, μὴ νῦν μὲ ἀπώσῃς, οὐκ ἀποστραφεὶς λιτάς τὸ πρόσθεν ἄτοπον ὄνθ ̓ ὅμως δέχου πόθον τὸν ὕστατον δὴ δεῖ σε τάσδ' ἐπιστολάς ὅταν παραστῇ θάνατος, ἐνδοῦναι χερί, ξυναρμόσαι τε χεῖρ ̓, ἐπεὶ σώζειν θέλω τηρεῖν τε καὶ θανοῦσα, κἂν στέρνοις ὅταν ψυχρὸν τὸ θάλπος ᾖ βίου, σμικρὸν λέχος λαβὼν ἐν ᾧ τὸ νῦν φάος λείψω, φίλου τρέφουσ ̓ ἔρωθ ̓ Αἱμῶνος, εὖ κόσμει καλοῖς οὐ τῆς ἀνάσσης ὑστεροῦν ἀγάλμασιν, ὅσον θ ̓ ὑπάρχει μ' εὖ περιστείλας καλαῖς χλιδαῖς, ἀνάσσῃ προσφερῆ, δὸς τῷ λέχει. στεῖλον τ ̓ ἀπήνην, ἥτις εἰς ῥόον νεκρόν ἐμὸν κατάξει, καὶ μελάμπεπλον σκάφος ἕτοιμον ἔστω, πρὸς γὰρ ἀρχικούς δόμους σεμνὴν ὑπάρχειν εὐσταλῆ θ ̓ ὁδὸν πρέπει ξένη γ ̓ ἀνάσσης εἶμι, καὶ τοὐμὸν δέμας φώνην ἄφωνον, ὡς δοκεῖ, πέμψει καλῶς. ἦ γλῶσσα γὰρ τῳ μᾶλλον εὔγλωσσος λέγειν πάρεστιν ὑμῶν ἀντ ̓ ἐμοῦ ; μόνον μὲν οὖν τὸν κωφὸν ἡμῶν οἰκέτην ὁδοῦ θέλω ὀπαδὸν εἶναι· κεῖνος οἰακοστροφῶν ἄξει μ' ἐρέσσων τ ̓ ἐς θύρας τοῦ δώματος. Τοιαῦτα φησί· καὶ πατὴρ ὑπέσχετο δράσειν τάδ', ἡ δὲ φαιδρὸν ἐκφαίνει τάχα ὄμμ', ὥστε μᾶλλον τοῖς φίλοις κνρεῖν δοκεῖ φάντασμα θανάτου θάνατος ἢ βίου φθορά ἔπει δ ̓ ἀπέσβη δέκατον ἡλίου φάος, τότ' ἐντίθησι γράμματ' ἐν κόρης χερί πατὴρ, ἀκρούς τε χειρὸς ἐγκλείει κτένας. ἡ δ ̓ οὖν μεθῆκε πνεῦμα, καὶ πανήμερος ἀνίσταται κώκυτος ἐν πάσῃ πόλει.
THE LOTUS EATERS.
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And dear the last embraces of our wives,
And their warm tears, but all hath suffered change
For surely now our household hearths are cold;
Our sons inherit us; our looks are strange;
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy;
Or else the island princes over bold
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy,
And our great deeds as half-forgotten things.
Is there confusion in the little isle?
Let what is broken so remain.
The gods are hard to reconcile,
"Tis hard to settle order once again.
Τῶν δ ̓ ὅστις λωτοιο φάγοι μελιηδέα καρπόν,
οὐκέτ ̓ ἀπαγγεῖλαι πάλιν ἤθελεν, οὐδὲ νέεσθαι.
Καὶ δὴ φιλοῦμεν νυμφίου μνείαν λέχους,
καὶ τῶν δαμάρτων ὕσταθ ̓ ἡδονὴν ἔχει
ἀσπάσμαθ ̓ ἡμῖν καὶ τὰ θερμὰ δάκρυα.
ἀλλ ̓ οὐδέν ἡμῖν οὐ μετήλλακται χρόνῳ.
καὶ γὰρ πατρῴαις ἑστίαις οὐκ ἔστ ̓ ἔτι
θάλπος· τὰ δ ̓ ἡμῶν νῦν νέμουσιν οἱ τόκοι
καὶ δεινὸν ἡμῶν ὄμμα κἄκτοπον δοκεῖ,
χως φάσματ ̓ ἄν φαινοίμεθ', ἄχθος ἡδονῆς
ἢ χοὶ κρατοῦντες γῆς ἀεὶ τολμήστατοι
ἡμῶν ἔτλησαν τόν βίον βεβρωκέναι
ἴσως δὲ κἂν μολπαῖσι τις πλάσσοι μέλη,
δεκετῆ πονοῦντα πόλεμον Ιδαιον λέγων,
χἠμῶν τὰ κλεῖνα πράγμαθ' ὡς λελησμένα.
ἀλλ ̓ εἰ γ ̓ ἀκόσμως ἥδε γῆ ταράσσεται
εἶεν· τὸ θραυσθέν τοι μένειν οὕτως δοκεῖ·
χαλεπὸν γὰρ ἐστί τοι διαλλάσσειν θεούς
καὶ δυσχερές τὸν κόσμον ἐξορθοῦν πάλιν.
The single and peculiar life is bound
With all the strength and armour of the mind
To keep itself from noyance; but much more
That spirit on whose weal depend and rest
The lives of many. The cease of majesty
Dies not alone; but, like a gulf, doth draw
What's near it, with it: it is a massy wheel,
Fixed on the summit of a mighty mount,
To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things
Are mortised and adjoined; which, when it falls,
Each small annexment, petty consequence,
Attends the boisterous ruin; never alone
Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.
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