The Athenaid: Volume II: Book the Twelfth
Now in the zodiac had the sun o'erpass'd
The tenth fair sign. The new succeeding month,
Though not by Flora, nor Vertumnus deck'd,
Nor green in hue, though first of winter's train,
Oft with unsully'd skies irradiate cheers
The prone creation, and delights mankind.
The birds yet warble on the leafless sprays,
The placid surface, glaz'd by clearest light,
In crystal rivers, and transparent lakes,
Or ocean's smooth cerulean bosom, shews
The finny tribes in play. The active son
Of Neocles uprises, and descries
A dawn which promis'd purity of air,
Of light and calmness, tempting sloth herself
To action. Thus he rous'd his native fire:
Of this kind season not a moment lose,
Themistocles. Sicinus ever nigh
He call'd: Provide two receptacles sure,
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The Athenaid: Volume I: Book the Tenth
Now is the season, when Vertumnus leads
Pomona's glowing charms through ripen'd groves
Of ruddy fruitage; now the loaden vine
Invites the gath'ring hand, which treasures joy
For hoary winter in his turn to smile.
An eastern course before autumnal gales
To Ephesus the Carian gallies bend;
While Medon coasts by Locris, and deplores
Her state of thraldom. Thrice Aurora shews
Her placid face; devourer of mankind,
The sea, curls lightly in fallacious calms;
To Medon then the wary master thus:
My chief, the dang'rous equinox is near
Whose stormy breath each prudent sailor shuns,
Secure in harbour; turbulent these streights
Between Euboea and the Locrian shore;
Fate lurks in eddies, threatens from the rocks;
The continent is hostile; we must stretch
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The Athenaid: Volume II: Book the Seventeenth
Sicinus, long by unpropitious winds
Lock'd in Geræstus, to their fickle breath,
Half-adverse still, impatient spread the sail.
Six revolutions of the sun he spent
To gain Phaleron. To his lord's abode
He swiftly pass'd, when chance his wond'ring eyes
On Aristides fix'd. An open space
Reveal'd the hero, issuing sage commands.
Th' omnipotent artificer of worlds
From chaos seem'd with delegated pow'r
To have entrusted that selected man.
From ashes, lo! a city new ascends,
One winter's indefatigable toil
Of citizens, whose spirit unsubdu'd
Subdues calamity. Each visage wears
A cheerful hue, yet solemn. Through the streets
Successive numbers from adjacent fields
Drive odorif'rous loads of plants and flow'rs,
Which please the manes. Amaranth and rose,
Fresh parsley, myrtle, and whate'er the sun,
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poem by Richard Glover
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The Athenaid: Volume III: Book the Twenty-eighth
While lamentation for Masistius dead
Depress'd the Persians, undisturb'd the Greeks
To all their camp refreshment had deriv'd
From clear Asopus. To th' accustom'd edge
Of his abounding flood they now resort.
Stones, darts and arrows from unnumber'd ranks,
Along the margin opposite dispos'd
By Mindarus, forbid access. Repulse
Disbands the Greeks. Exulting, he forgets
Cleora; active valour in his breast
Extinguishes the embers, cherish'd long
By self-tormenting memory, and warmth
Of fruitless passion. Present too his chief,
His friend and kinsman, from a fiery steed
Mardonius rules and stimulates the fight,
Like Boreas, riding on a stormy cloud,
Whence issue darts of light'ning, mix'd with hail
In rattling show'rs. The enemies dispers'd,
Embolden Mindarus to ford the stream.
In guidance swift of cavalry expert,
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The Athenaid: Volume II: Book the Nineteenth
The morning breaks; Nicanor sudden greets
The gen'ral; welcome tidings in these words
He utters loud: The citadel is won,
The tyrant slaughter'd. With our sacred guide
A rugged, winding track, in brambles hid,
Half up a crag we climb'd; there, stooping low,
A narrow cleft we enter'd; mazy still
We trod through dusky bowels of a rock,
While our conductor gather'd, as he stepp'd,
A clue, which careful in his hand he coil'd.
Our spears we trail'd; each soldier held the skirt
Of his preceding comrade. We attain'd
An iron wicket, where the ending line
Was fasten'd; thence a long and steep ascent
Was hewn in steps; suspended on the sides,
Bright rows of tapers cheer'd our eyes with light.
We reach'd the top; there lifting o'er his head
A staff, against two horizontal valves
Our leader smote, which open'd at the sound.
Behind me Hyacinthus on the rock
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poem by Richard Glover
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