In style Simonides is always pure and exquisitely polished. The ancients called him the sweet poet--Melicertes--_par excellence_. His #sôphrosynê#, or tempered self-restraint, gives a mellow tone not merely to his philosophy and moral precepts, but also to his art. He has none of Pindar's rugged majesty, volcanic force, gorgeous exuberance: he does not, like Pindar, pour forth an inexhaustible torrent of poetical ideas, chafing against each other in the eddies of breathless inspiration. On the contrary, he works up a few thoughts, a few carefully selected images, with patient skill, producing a perfectly harmonious result, but one which is always bordering on the commonplace. Like all correct poets, he is somewhat tame, though tender, delicate, and exquisitely beautiful. Pindar electrifies his hearer, seizing him like the eagle in Dante's vision, and bearing him breathless through the ether of celestial flame. Simonides leads us by the hand along the banks of pleasant rivers, through laurel groves, and by the porticos of sunny temples. What he possesses of quite peculiar to his own genius is pathos--the pathos of romance. This appears most remarkably in the fragment of a threnos which describes Danaë afloat upon the waves at night. It is with the greatest diffidence that I offer a translation of what remains one of the most perfect pieces of pathetic poetry in any literature: When, in the carven chest, The winds that blew and waves in wild unrest Smote her with fear, she, not with cheeks unwet, Her arms of love round Perseus set, And said: O child, what grief is mine! But thou dost slumber, and thy baby breast Is sunk in rest, Here in the cheerless brass-bound bark, Tossed amid starless night and pitchy dark. Nor dost thou heed the scudding brine Of waves that wash above thy curls so deep, Nor the shrill winds that sweep,-- Lapped in thy purple robe's embrace, Fair little face! But if this dread were dreadful too to thee, Then wouldst thou lend thy listening ear to me; Therefore I cry,--Sleep, babe, and sea be still, And slumber our unmeasured ill! Oh, may some change of fate, sire Zeus, from thee Descend, our woes to end! But if this prayer, too overbold, offend Thy justice, yet be merciful to me! The careful development of simple thoughts in Simonides may best be illustrated by the fragment on the three hundred Spartans who died at Thermopylæ: "Of those who died at Thermopylæ glorious is the fate and fair the doom; their grave is an altar; instead of lamentation, they have endless fame; their dirge is a chant of praise. Such winding-sheet as theirs no rust, no, nor all-conquering time, shall bring to naught. But this sepulchre of brave men hath taken for its habitant the glory of Hellas. Leonidas is witness, Sparta's king, who hath left a mighty crown of valor and undying fame."