Archytas, who couldst measure land and sea,
And tell the number of the countless sand,
A little dust's poor office unperformed
Keeps thee in durance by the Matine strand;
Nor aught avails it thee to have explored
With daring quest air's habitation high,
And sped in thought about the concave vault
Of heaven from pole to pole, foredoomed to die.
Death was the portion even of Pelops' sire,
The God's own messmate; died Tithonus too,
Though rapt aloft, and Minos, who of yore
The secrets of Jove's council-chamber knew.
Fast now in Tartarus abides the son
Of Panthus, unto Orcus' realm once more
Dispatched, for all that he, the sage thou deem'st
No teacher vain of truth and nature's lore,
Could tell—and straight the tale by token prove,
Unfastening his buckler from the pin—
Of Trojan times remembered, and of death
Put off with empty shell of nerves and skin.
No other ending one and all awaits
But night. Death's highway must be trod at last.
Some are for pastime to grim-visaged Mars
In war's arena by the Furies cast;
The hungry sea to sailors dealeth doom;
In indiscriminate medley throng the biers
Of old and young; ne'er yet to head of man
Did ruthless Proserpine deny her shears.
Ay, and upon me too the impetuous blast
That comes in westering Orion's train,
The south wind fell, and bore me down beneath
The whelming waters of the Illyrian main.
But I beseech thee, mariner, for bear
To pass in churlish haste upon thy way,
Ere on my bones and unsepulchred head
A slender meed of shifting sand thou lay.
So may the east wind, whatsoe'er of rude
Assault it shall to western waves intend,
In buffeting Venusia's woods, the while
Thy bark rides safely, all its rage expend;
And upon thee an ample recompense
Of goodly gains from wealth's true source be poured
By Jove all just and by the god of sea,
Hallowed Tarentum's tutelary lord!
Holds thee no scruple back from crime that woe
Will, after, on thine innocent children call?
Perchance the penalty to justice due,
And scorn returned upon thyself may fall.
My prayers will vengeance, if thou fail me, bring.
No offerings can thy guilt atone. Whate'er
Thy haste, 'tis but a moment's task; the rite
Of dust thrice sprinkled pay, and onward fare.
And tell the number of the countless sand,
A little dust's poor office unperformed
Keeps thee in durance by the Matine strand;
Nor aught avails it thee to have explored
With daring quest air's habitation high,
And sped in thought about the concave vault
Of heaven from pole to pole, foredoomed to die.
Death was the portion even of Pelops' sire,
The God's own messmate; died Tithonus too,
Though rapt aloft, and Minos, who of yore
The secrets of Jove's council-chamber knew.
Fast now in Tartarus abides the son
Of Panthus, unto Orcus' realm once more
Dispatched, for all that he, the sage thou deem'st
No teacher vain of truth and nature's lore,
Could tell—and straight the tale by token prove,
Unfastening his buckler from the pin—
Of Trojan times remembered, and of death
Put off with empty shell of nerves and skin.
No other ending one and all awaits
But night. Death's highway must be trod at last.
Some are for pastime to grim-visaged Mars
In war's arena by the Furies cast;
The hungry sea to sailors dealeth doom;
In indiscriminate medley throng the biers
Of old and young; ne'er yet to head of man
Did ruthless Proserpine deny her shears.
Ay, and upon me too the impetuous blast
That comes in westering Orion's train,
The south wind fell, and bore me down beneath
The whelming waters of the Illyrian main.
But I beseech thee, mariner, for bear
To pass in churlish haste upon thy way,
Ere on my bones and unsepulchred head
A slender meed of shifting sand thou lay.
So may the east wind, whatsoe'er of rude
Assault it shall to western waves intend,
In buffeting Venusia's woods, the while
Thy bark rides safely, all its rage expend;
And upon thee an ample recompense
Of goodly gains from wealth's true source be poured
By Jove all just and by the god of sea,
Hallowed Tarentum's tutelary lord!
Holds thee no scruple back from crime that woe
Will, after, on thine innocent children call?
Perchance the penalty to justice due,
And scorn returned upon thyself may fall.
My prayers will vengeance, if thou fail me, bring.
No offerings can thy guilt atone. Whate'er
Thy haste, 'tis but a moment's task; the rite
Of dust thrice sprinkled pay, and onward fare.