CHOR. Propped on my faithful staff, from home,
And from the couch of palsied age,
In melancholy guise I roam,
Constrained to chaunt funereal strains,
As the expiring swan complains,
A war of words alone I wage,
In semblance, but a flitting sprite,
An airy vision of the night.
I totter; yet doth active zeal
This faithful bosom still inspire.
Ye children who have lost your sire,
Thou veteran, and thou aged dame,
Doomed for thy lord these griefs to feel,
Whose Pluto’s dreary mansions claim;
O weary not your tender feet.
Like steeds by galling harness bound,
To turn the ponderous mill around,
I would advance my friends to meet,
Yet are my utmost efforts vain,
This shattered frame I scarce sustain:
Draw near, O take this trembling hand,
And holding fast my robe, support
My steps, thy needful aid I court,
Because I am too weak to stand.
Lead on the chief, though now by years
Bowed down, who marshalled on the strand,
His comrades erst a hardy band;
With him in youth we launched our spears,
Nor then belied our native land.
See how their eyes dart liquid fire,
Those children emulate their sire;
But still hereditary fate,
Pursues with unrelenting hate
Their tender years, nor can their charms
Redeem them from impending harms.
What valiant champions of thy cause,
O Greece, thy violated laws,
When these thy great supports shall fail,
Torn from thy fostering land wilt thou bewail.
But I behold the monarch of the realm,
Tyrannic Lycus, who these doors approaches.