If
from afar bright Virtue to them cries, (Mother of heroes) they her call
despise : All fly like cowards, in hot haste they run, All, labour,
life-preserving labour, shun ; No happiness upon their dwellings
shines, No heart to serve th' immortal gods inclines ; But like to
brutes senseless, untaught, they lie, No heaven-born wisdom doth their
need supply : Nor seek they refuge in the god of light,
70 Nor pray his holy aid to heal their plight;
No
glorious deeds the grovelling wretches know, To cast a lustre on their
state of woe ; Their souls enveloped in her thickest clouds,
80 Impenetrable Darkness ever shrouds
With envious hindrance, lest their steps proceed
To tread the paths of Virtue's flowery mead ;
But her the wretches from their cities chase,
And scorn the helper of the human race.
Partner with heroes in tlrir high emprize,
A cruel death the poet-prophet dies ;
And hated is the man, and fear'd by all,
Whom people by the name magician call :
The god-like seer beneath the sword unjust,
His head struck off, lies out-stretch'd in the dust.—
But I to those who my behests obey,
Will treasure far above all gold convey :
A man I seek endowed with patient mind,
And full of zeal, to toil with me inclined ;
Eager to learn, and willing to be taught,
For all success must be with labour bought.
To words or deeds that no hard labour own,
High-thundering Jove ne'er grants the victor's crown.
90 With grievous toil yoked to his fiery car,
His
steeds bear Phoebus through the fields of air, And all exhausted by his
upward way, Glad to his Western goal conduct the Day.— Par bettor,
converse with the wise to hold, Than countless treasures of
all-powerful gold ; One morn as towards the fields (an annual rite) I
bore my offerings to the god of light I met Theodamas, that seer
renowned, Home to the city from the country bound.
