Much he endured, and many books he wrote,
The maid the inspiring subject of his song.
And that great poet whom Jove's Fate protects,
Sweetest of all the votaries of the muse,
Immortal Homer, sought the rocky isle
Of Ithaca, moved by love for all the virtue
And beauty of the chaste Penelope.
Much for her sake he suffer'd; then he sought
A barren isle far from his native land,
And wept the race of Icarus, and of Amyclus
And Sparta, moved by his own woes' remembrances.
Who has not heard of sweet Mimnermus' fame;
Parent of plaintive elegiac verses,
Which to his lyre in sweetest sounds he sang?
Much did he suffer, burning with the love
Of cruel Nanno; and full oft inflamed
With ardent passion, did he feast with her,
Breathing his love to his melodious pipe;
And to his hate of fierce Hermobius
And Pherecles, tuneful utterance he gave.
Antimachus, too, felt the flame inspired
By Lydian Lyde; and he sought the stream
Of golden-waved Pactolus, where he laid
His lost love underneath the tearless earth,
And weeping, went his way to Colophon;
And with his wailing thus sweet volumes fill'd,
Shunning all toil or other occupation.
How many festive parties frequent rang
With the fond love of Lesbian Alcæus,
Who sang the praises of the amorous Sappho,
And grieved his Teian[1] rival, breathing songs
Such as the nightingale would gladly imitate;
For the divine Anacreon also sought
To win the heart of the sacred poetess,
Chief ornament of all the Lesbian bands;
And so he roved about, now leaving Samos,
Now parting from his own enslavèd land,
Parent of vines, to wine-producing Lesbos;
And often he beheld Cape Lectum there,
Across th' Æolian wave. But greatest of all,
The Attic bee[2] oft left its rugged hill,
Singing in tragic choruses divine,
Bacchus and Love * *
I tell, besides, how that too cautious man,
Who earn'd deserved hate from every woman,
Stricken by a random shot, did not escape
Nocturnal pangs of Love; but wander'd o'er
The Macedonian hills and valleys green,
