Classic Poem

Ill-omened was the day he chose, whoe'er
First planted thee, and impious the hand
Wherewith he reared thee up, O tree, to bear
Death to his race, dishonour to the land.

Of him I could believe it that he broke
His father's neck, and stained his chamber floor
With blood of guest at night by stealthy stroke
Laid low. With Colchic poisons and what more

Of foulest wickedness is known in all
The world he dealt, who set thee in my farm,
Accursed trunk, upon my head to fall,
And crush thine owner who ne'er did thee harm.

What risks to shun man never in his need
Is warned betimes. The Punic sailor quakes
With shuddering dread of Bosphorus, nor heed
Of hidden fate from elsewhere threatening takes.

The soldier fears the Parthian's arrows keen
And flight, the Parthian chains and prison gates
In Italy; but a death-blow unforeseen
Has borne off all alike, and all awaits.

Dark Proserpine's realm how nearly it befell
Mine eyes to see, and Aeacus' judgement seat,
The abodes apart wherein the righteous dwell,
And Sappho to Aeolian measure sweet

'Gainst Lesbian maids chanting her plaintive strain,
Thee too with golden quill and fuller tone
Of shipwreck's ills, of war and exile's pain
Uttering, Alcaeus, thy melodious moan!

To both due meed of silence reverent
The shades awe-stricken pay; but most the songs
Of battles and of tyrants' banishment
The crowd to hear with close packed shoulders throngs.

No wonder, when the hundred-headed hound
Droops his black ears entranced, his savage breast
Lulled by that music, and the serpents wound
Among the Furies' tresses are at rest.

Prometheus e'en, soothed by those artful airs,
And Pelops' father cease their woes to rue;
Nor, while to them he lists, Orion cares
Lions and timid lynxes to pursue.