'Strike the lyre, as Timotheus
struck it before Alexander! Drown in melody the barking of the curs who
wait for our offal in the street!'
Feebly and interruptedly the terrified boy began; the wild continuous
noises of the moaning voices from without sounding their awful
accompaniment to the infidel philosophy of his song as he breathed it
forth in faint and faltering accents. It ran thus:--
TO GLYCO
Ah, Glyco! why in flow'rs array'd? Those festive wreaths less quickly
fade Than briefly-blooming joy! Those high-prized friends who share your
mirth Are counterfeits of brittle earth, False coin'd in Death's alloy!
The bliss your notes could once inspire, When lightly o'er the god-like
lyre Your nimble fingers pass'd, Shall spring the same from others'
skill--When you're forgot, the music still The player shall outlast!
The sun-touch'd cloud that mounts the sky, That brightly glows to warm
the eye, Then fades we know not where, Is image of the little breath Of
life--and then, the doom of Death That you and I must share!
Helpless to make or mar our birth, We blindly grope the ways of earth,
And live our paltry hour; Sure, that when life has ceased to please, To
die at will, in Stoic ease, Is yielded to our pow'r!
Who, timely wise, would meanly wait The dull delay of tardy Fate, When
Life's delights are shorn? No! When its outer gloss has flown, Let's
fling the tarnish'd bauble down As lightly as 'twas worn.
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