The boat’s stern-cables touched the sands, Has past from youth to oldness, — When under Ilion rushed the ship-borne bands.
 And from my eyes I learn — Being myself my witness — their return. Yet, all the same, without a lyre, my soul, Itself its teacher too, chants from within Erinus’ dirge, not having now the whole Of Hope’s dear boldness: nor my inwards sin — The heart that’s rolled in whirls against the mind Justly presageful of a fate behind. But I pray — things false, from my hope, may fall Into the fate that’s not-fulfilled-at-all!
 Especially at least, of health that’s great The term’s insatiable: for, its weight — A neighbour, with a common wall between — Ever will sickness lean; And destiny, her course pursuing straight, Has struck man’s ship against a reef unseen. Now, when a portion, rather than the treasure, Fear casts from sling, with peril in right measure, It has not sunk — the universal freight, (With misery freighted over-full) Nor has fear whelmed the hull. Then too the gift of Zeus, Two-handedly profuse, Even from the furrows’ yield for yearly use Has done away with famine, the disease;
 But blood of man to earth once falling-deadly, black — In times ere these, —