XXV.

YET a few days, and thee

The all-beholding Sun shall see no more

In all his course: nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth to be resolved to earth again:
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go,

To mix for ever with the elements;

To be a brother to the insensible rock,

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone.—Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings, The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre.

W. S. BRYANT.

XXV.

Σὲ δ' οὐ διέξουσ ̓ ἡμέραι πολλαί, τέκνον, καί σ ̓ οὐκέτ ̓ ἐν τῷ παντὶ προσβλέψει δρόμῳ ὁ πάντα λεύσσων Ηλίου κύκλος πάλιν· οὐδ ̓ ἡ μυδῶσα χθών, ὅπου νέκυν σέθεν ἐθάπτομεν κλαίοντες, οὐδ ̓ ὁ πόντιος κόλπος τὰ λοίπ ̓ ἐναργὲς ἀμφέξει δέμας· ἀλλ ̓ ἥ σ ̓ ἔθρεψε Γαῖα τὰς βλάστας σεθὲν αὖτ ̓ ἀξιώσει συμμιγεῖς γαίᾳ λαβεῖν· ὥστ ̓ ἐκδεδυκὼς πᾶσαν ἀνθρώπου φύσιν, οὐδ' ὢν κατ' αὐτὸν αὐτός, οἰχήσει μιγείς ἀεὶ παλαιὰν ἐς κατάστασιν χθονός· πέτραις δ ̓ ἀδελφὸς ταῖς ἀναισθήτοις ἔσει, καμῃχάνοις βώλοισιν, ἅς τις ἀγρότης στρέψας ἀρότρῳ κάρτ ̓ ἐλάκτισεν ποδί· ῥίζας δ' ὑπεῖσαι μυρίας πάντῃ δρύες τὴν σὴν περῶσιν ἐντετηκότος κόνιν· ἀλλ ̓ οὐκ ἐνῆμος οὔθ ̓ ὁμιλίας δίχα χωρῶν ἐς ἀείφρουρον ἐγκείσει μυχόν· καὶ γὰρ γέροντας τῆς νέας χθονός σεθεν ἕξεις συνεύνους· ἐν δὲ κοίρανοι πάλαι ἀρχαιόπλουτοι, χοἱ σοφοὶ κεκμηκότες, πολιοί τε μάντεις, τῶν τε πρὶν μορφαὶ καλαὶ τῆς γῆς ἔχουσι τόνδε πάγκοινον τάφον.

XXVI.

I MET a traveller from an antique land,
Who said: 'Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
'Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
'Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
' And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
'Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

. Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, 'The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed. 'And on the pedestal these words appear:

6.66

My name is Ozymandias, King of kings. "Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" 'Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 'Of that colossal wreck boundless and bare 'The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

SHELLEY, Sonnet.

XXVI.

Ἐκ γῆς δ' ὁδοιπορῶν τις ἀρχαίας ἐμοὶ κύρσας ἔλεξε τοιάδ' · Ἐν μέσα χθονὸς ἐρημίᾳ πελώρι ̓ ἵστασθον λίθου,

νόσφιν παρέδρου σώματος, σκέλη δύο· πέλας δὲ κεῖται κατακεχωσμένον μέσον πρόσωπον ἡμίκλαστον, οὗ χείλων πλοκή, ὡς πικρὸν ἐντέλλοντος, ἀγγέλλει σαφῶς, ὡς κάρθ' ὁ γλύψας κεῖν ̓ ἐγίγνωσκεν πάθη, ἃ τὴν πλάσασαν χεῖρα τό τε θρέψαν κέαρ νικῶντ ̓ ἐν ἀπνόοισιν ἔμπεδον μένει·

γραφὴ δ' ὕπεστιν· ΟΖΥΜΑΝΔΙΑΣ ΚΛΥΩ

ΑΝΑΞ ΑΝΑΚΤΩΝ ΕΡΓ ΑΘΡΗΣΑΝΤΕΣ ΤΑΔΕ

ΟΥ ΜΗ ΜΕΘΗΣΕΤ ΕΛΠΙΔ Ω ΜΕΓΑΣΘΕΝΕΙΣ. περίεστι δ ̓ οὐδὲν ἄλλο· πλὴν ἐρειπίων κείνων σαπείσης ὥσπερ ὅλκαδος περὶ φυτευμάτων ἄμοιρα, τερμόνων ἄτερ, ψάμμων ἐρῆμα πέδια τείνεται πρόσω.

XXVII.

Ocean. HE sunk to the abyss? to the dark void? Apollo. An eagle so, caught in some bursting cloud On Caucasus; his thunder-baffled wings

Entangled in the whirlwind, and his eyes

Which gazed on the undazzling sun, now blinded By the white lightning, while the ponderous hail Beats on his struggling form, which sinks at length, Prone, and the aërial ice clings over it.

SHELLEY, Prometheus Unbound.