( 165 ) Wisdom's bright palm is his, who to the praise EPODE. Man, erring man,* by Jove is led Reflection's sober path to tread; In sorrow's softening hour, He opes the portals of the soul To wisdom's salutary power, And bids affliction's sway, the passions wild controul. * Man, erring man. This portion of the chorus is highly interesting, not only from its pensive tone, and moral grandeur, but also as having apparently suggested to Gray the train of thought which pervades his beautiful Ode to Adversity. That he had this chorus in view is evident from his having prefixed, as the motto, the three fine lines, commencing, Τὸν φρονεῖν βροτος οδώ σαντα, τὸν πάθει, &c. Dr. Johnson supposes him to have taken the hint from O Diva, gratum quæ regis Antium-but the connection is much less apparent in this case than the other. ( 166 ) Oft when the harassed body sleeps, The rigid means by Heaven assigned, To check presumption's mad career, High seated on their thrones in glorious majesty. STROPHE. Where gently flows the refluent tide, Vainly to break the spell he sought, Day glided after day, yet no deliverance wrought. ANTISTROPHE. The chief, though much by grief impelled, Stifled the workings of his soul, All fruitless bursts of passion quelled, By sovereign reason's wise controul, ( 167 ) Nor blamed the prophet; though the flower Of Greece sunk under famine's power, And furious gales from Strymon tore The cables of the ships, and strewed with wrecks the shore. STROPHE. But when the heaven-instructed seer Announced Diana's stern decree, The remedy proved more severe, More baleful than the storm-bound sea. While of her ruthless ire he spoke, Tears fell, and sighs commingling broke From th' Atridæ, each the ground Touched with his sceptre, and the elder utterance found. ANTISTROPHE. Most cruel fate! shall then this hand To barbarous rites my child consign, Pride of my house, and shall I stand To view her life-blood stain this shrine? Yet glory calls-'tis mine to wield, The sword, and rule the tented field, My friends will not their murmurs quell, Until a virgin's blood break the wind-holding spell. STROPHE. But when necessity's strong plea* Had nature's yearning pangs represt, Infuriate rage, impiety, Boiled in the monarch's phrenzied breast: The lovely fair was doomed to bleed, Her sire the dreadful rites decreed, To speed the moment which should land, The slaughter-breathing host on Ilion's fated strand. ANTISTROPHE. In vain her supplicating shriek Assails a father's ears-in vain He bids fierce ruffians 'neath the shrine * But when necessity's strong plea, &c. Vide the remarks on Necessity, p. 65 of the Essay. |