In just proportion, as the gods ordain,
Is bliss diffused through life’s short span,
Or sorrow portioned out to man:
No favoured house can still maintain
From age to age its prosperous state,
For swift are the vicissitudes of fate,
Who now assails pride’s towering crest,
Now makes the drooping exile blest.
From destiny we cannot fly;
No wisdom can her shafts repel;
But he who vainly dares her power defy
Compassed with endless toils shall dwell.
Ask not from Heaven with impious prayer,
Blessings it cannot grant to man,
Nor waste in misery life’s short span
O’erwhelmed by querulous despair.
The nymph goes forth to meet a noble death,
Her brothers and this land to save,
And fame, with tributary breath
Shall sound her praises in the grave.
For dauntless virtue finds a way
Through labours which her progress would delay.
Such deeds as these, her father grace,
And add fresh splendour to her race,
But if with reverential awe thou shed
Over the virtuous dead
A tear of pity, in that tear I’ll join,
Inspired with sentiments like thine.