With this I press the generous juice
That rich and sunny vines produce;
With these, of rule and high command
I bear the mandate in my hand;
For while the slave and coward fear
To wield the buckler, sword, and spear,
They bend the supplicating knee,
And own my just supremacy.—Merivale.
The same.
Great riches have I in my spear and sword,
And hairy shield, like a rampart thrown
Before me in war; for by these I am lord
Of the fields where the golden harvests are grown;
And by these I press forth the red red wine,
While the Mnotæ around salute me king;
Approaching, trembling, these knees of mine,
With the dread which the spear and the falchion bring.
J. A. St. John.
Aristotle. (Book xv. § 51, p. 1113.)
O sought with toil and mortal strife
By those of human birth,
Virtue, thou noblest end of life,
Thou goodliest gain on earth!
Thee, Maid, to win, our youth would bear,
Unwearied, fiery pains; and dare
Death for thy beauty's worth;
So bright thy proffer'd honours shine,
Like clusters of a fruit divine,
Sweeter than slumber's boasted joys,
And more desired than gold,
Dearer than nature's dearest ties:—
For thee those heroes old,
Herculean son of highest Jove,
And the twin-birth of Leda, strove
By perils manifold:
Pelides' son with like desire,
And Ajax, sought the Stygian fire.
