Oh, beloved Harmodius! never
Shall death be thine, who liv'st for ever!
Thy shade, as men have told, inherits
The islands of the blessed spirits;
Where deathless live the glorious dead;
Achilles fleet of foot, and Diomed.
In myrtles veil'd will I the falchion wear;
For thus the patriot sword
Harmodius and Aristogeiton bare,
When they the tyrant's bosom gored
When, in Minerva's festal rite,
They closed Hipparchus' eyes in night.
Harmodius' praise, Aristogeiton's name,
Shall bloom on earth with undecaying fame;
Who, with the myrtle-wreathed sword,
The tyrant's bosom gored;
And bade the men of Athens be
Regenerate in equality.—Elton.
Hybrias. (Book xv. § 50, p. 1112.)
My wealth is here—the sword, the spear, the breast-defending shield;
With this I plough, with this I sow, with this I reap the field;
With this I tread the luscious grape, and drink the blood-red wine;
And slaves around in order wait, and all are counted mine!
But he that will not rear the lance upon the battle-field,
Nor sway the sword, nor stand behind the breast-defending shield,
On lowly knee must worship me, with servile kiss adored,
And peal the cry of homage high, and hail me mighty Lord!
D. K. Sandford
The same.
My riches are the arms I wield,
The spear, the sword, the shaggy shield,
My bulwark in the battle-field:
With this I plough the furrow'd soil,
With this I share the reaper's toil,
