Of whom is it that thou
Wouldst speak, my tender verse?
Why dost thou seek to be
So polished and so terse?
Is it of him wouldst tell,
My charge, my joy as well?
Of his grave malady
Is ended now the care :
Eleven years to-day

The sun to him doth bear,
Whom Leda's sons did know,
Warmed by his torch's glow.
Like to the honey sweet
Gathered from Hybla's comb,
Slow balm that soothed all breasts,
O verses mine, fly home,
Sonorous wings apart,
Unto his youthful heart!

O plant of noble seed,
Dear to both earth and sky,
Growing to crown the hopes
Of all my labour, I

Greet thee on this glad day,
Decked with so pure a ray!
Fain would I offer thee
Proud gifts of splendid cheer,
But who thereto e'er dowered
The sacred spirits here ?

Save for the harp alone,

No treasure do they own.
Ah, did I but possess

The Thessalian master's traits,

He who Thetis's son

Guided in rightful ways,

ben io ti farei doni

più che d' oro e canzoni. Già con medica mano quel Centauro ingegnoso redea feroce e sano

il suo alunno famoso ;

ma, non men che a la salma, porgea vigore a l' alma.

A lui, che gli sedea sopra l' irsuta schiena, Chiron si rivolgea

con la fronte serena,
tentando in su la lira
suon che virtude inspira.
Scorrea con giovanile
man pel selvoso mento
del precettor gentile ;
e con l'orecchio intento
d' Eàcide la prole

bevea queste parole:

'

Garzon, nato al soccorso di Grecia, or ti rimembra, perchè a la lotta e al corso io t'educai le membra. Che non può un' alma ardita se in forti membri ha vita ? Ben sul robusto fianco, stai; ben stendi de l'arco il nervo al lato manco, onde al segno ch' io marco va stridendo lo strale

da la cocca fatale.

Ma in van se il resto oblio, ti avrò possanza infuso.

I'd bring gifts manifold,

Worth more than songs and gold!
For with a healing hand
That Centaur's subtle skill
His famous pupil framed
Both fierce and sane of will;
He made the body whole,
Strengthening no less the soul.

To him who sat upon
His bristly back, O how
Chiron was wont to turn
Around his placid brow,
Sweeping sounds from his lyre
That Virtue did inspire.
Lightly a youthful hand
Would stroke the hairy chin
Of the preceptor kind,
As Aeacus's prole drank in
These words, his ears down-bent,
On listening all intent :

"Youth, born to succour Greece,

Dost mind thee still aright
Wherefore I trained thy limbs
Swiftly to run and fight?
What fruits a bold soul gives
That in strong body lives?

Well braced on stalwart flank
Dost stand, and tight indeed
The bow-string on thy left;
Unto the mark with speed
The whistling dart doth go
Forth from the deadly bow!

But with the rest forgot,
In vain the power I gave;

Non sai qual contro a Dio
fe' di sue forze abuso,
con temeraria fronte

chi monte impose a monte?
Di Teti, odi, o figliuolo,
il ver che a te si scopre.
Da l' alma origin solo
han le lodevol' opre ;
mal giova illustre sangue
ad animo che langue.
D' Eaco o di Pelèo

col seme in te non scese
il valor che Tesèo
chiari e Tirintio rese:
sol da noi si guadagna,
e con noi s' accompagna.
Gran prole era di Giove
il magnanimo Alcide,
ma quante egli fa prove,
e quanti mostri ancide,
onde s' inalzi poi
al seggio de gli eroi ?

Altri le altere cune

lascia, o garzon, che pregi ; le superbe fortune

del vile anco son fregi. Chi de la gloria è vago, sol di virtù sia pago.

Onora, o figlio, il Nume che da l'alto ti guarda ; ma solo a lui non fume incenso o vittim' arda. E d'uopo, Achille, alzare ne l'alma il primo altare.

Hast thou not heard of him,
Abusing might to brave
His God, with reckless will
Imposing hill on hill?

O son of Thetis, hear

The verse whence thou mayest know How from the soul alone

Praiseworthy works can grow ;

For noble blood doth still
Serve a sick soul but ill.

Not with Aeacus's seed
And Pelion's, valour came
To thee, which Theseus and
Tirynthius raised to fame;
None save ourselves can gain
It and with it remain.

Great-hearted son of Jove
Alcides was, but pray
What tests did he endure,
What monsters had to slay,
Ere he was counted meet
To fill a hero's seat?

Let others if they will,
O son, nurse pride of birth,
The splendid wealth of rogues
Prospers to-day on earth;
Though glory be adored,
Of virtue seek reward.
Honour, O son, the God
Who looks down from on high,
But burn for others too

Victims, let incense rise;
Achilles' soul divine

Contained his primal shrine.