English

In which of the old-time glories that made thy land renowned
Hath thy spirit, O happy Thebe, delighted most of all?
When thou sawest the birth of the God of the tresses that toss unbound,
Dionysus, enthroned by Demeter to whom clashed cymbals call?
Or when thou didst welcome the chief of the Gods at the midnight hour,
What time he descended to earth in a golden-snowing shower,

When he stood at Amphitryon's portal, and went in unto the bride
Of Amphitryon, whence sprang god-begotten Herakles?

As they do in a banquet of men when the revelry runneth high,
So do we mingle a second bowl of the Song-queen's strain
Unto Lampon's athlete-seed do we render honour thereby.
Our first was outpoured to thee, Zeus, in the day that saw us gain
The crown of all crowns at Nemea; the second this day pour we
To the Lord of the Isthmus and Nereus' fifty Maids of the Sea
For the House's youngest scion Phylakidas' victory.
Oh may we make ready a third for the Saviour Olympus' Lord!
So may a libation of honey-sweet songs on Aegina be poured!

Theia of many names, O mother of the Sun,
Men set their stamp on gold for love of thee,
Of all things precious counting this the mightiest one;
Yea, and in rivalry,
Queen, for thy brightness on the sea do galleys clash in wars,
And in the whirling fight are marvels wrought by battle-cars.

He in the contests of the Games achieves renown
Desired of all, who hath won victory's meed
By hands that wreathed his head with many a crown,
Or by his fleet foot's speed
'Tis Heaven awards each prize of strength: two things alone there be

By grace of the Gods there be countless paths far-spreading before my feet;
But, Melissus, thou at the Isthmian Games hast shown me a highway meet
Whereon to follow in song the track of the prowess of thy line
Wherein the sons of Kleonymus ever have prospered by help divine,
And so pass on to the term of mortal life; but ever shifting
Are the winds of fate that swoop upon man, and drive him chartless-drifting.

Ay, the story of these from of yore is told, how with honour in Thebes they were named

The grime is on the window pane,
Pale the London sunbeams fall,
And show the smudge of mildew stain,
Which lies on the distempered wall.

I am a cripple, as you see,
And here I lie, a broken thing,
But God has given flight to me,
That mocks the swiftest eagle wing.

For if I will to see or hear,
Quick as the thought my spirit flies,
And lo! the picture flashes clear
Through all the mist of centuries.

I can recall the Tigris' strand,
Where once the Turk and Tartar met,

Beneath the yellow hair of May
The blushing flowers together lay,
The winds along the bending lea,
Kept flowing, flowing, like a sea
That could not rest,
When first a maid with tresses brown,
And blue eyes softly drooping down,
Sat in her chamber high and lone,
Locking a sweet dream, all her own,
Within her breast.

The elms around the homestead low
All night went swaying to and fro,
And the young summer's silver rain
Kept beating on the window pane,
So soft and low,
It could not trouble the fair maid

THE SURGING SEA of human life forever onward rolls,
And bears to the eternal shore its daily freight of souls;
Though bravely sails our bark today, pale Death sits at the prow,
And few shall know we ever lived a hundred years from now.

O mighty human brotherhood! Why fiercely war and strive,
While God's great world has ample space for everything alive?
Broad fields uncultured and unclaimed are waiting for the plow
Of progress that shall make them bloom a hundred years from now.

My Papa knows you, and he says you're a man who makes reading for books;
But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa,—I know by his looks
So I guess you're like me when I talk and I talk and I talk all the day.
And they only say, “Do stop that child! or, “Nurse, take Miss Edith away”

But Papa said if I was good I could ask you—alone by myself—
If you wouldn't write me a book like that little one up on the shelf.
I don't mean the pictures, of course, for to make THEM you've got to be smart

Now the holy Maiden calls me,
Bids me sing her wondrous story.
Son Divine, be thou my helper,
With thy gifts my harp enriching,
So that I may sing thy Mother,
Paint her picture full of beauty.
See, the Maiden womb conceiveth;
See, the Maiden breast is fruitful;
Wonder far surpassing nature—
Mother's milk and Maiden brightness,
All at once, in one pure body.
Wonders that no tongue can utter—
See, her Son the Virgin beareth.
Lo, she gives her milk to feed him,
Food to him who feedeth all things.

Said Christ our Lord, “I will go and see
How the men, my brethren, believe in me.”
He passed not again through the gate of birth,
But made himself known to the children of earth.

Then said the chief priests, and rulers, and kings,
“Behold, now, the Giver of all good things;
Go to, let us welcome with pomp and state
Him who alone is mighty and great.”

With carpets of gold the ground they spread
Wherever the Son of Man should tread,
And in palace-chambers lofty and rare
They lodged him, and served him with kingly fare.