What has been said about Simonides applies in a great measure also to Bacchylides, who was his nephew, pupil, and faithful follower. The personality of Bacchylides, as a man and a poet, is absorbed in that of his uncle--the greater bard, the more distinguished actor on the theatre of the world. While Simonides played his part in public life, Bacchylides gave himself up to the elegant pleasures of society; while Simonides celebrated in epigrams the military glories of the Greeks, Bacchylides wrote wine-songs and congratulatory odes. His descriptions of Bacchic intoxication and of the charms of peace display the same careful word-painting as the description by Simonides of Orpheus, with more luxuriance of sensual suggestion. His threnoi exhibit the same Ionian despondency and resignation--a dead settled calm, an elegant stolidity of epicureanism. That this excellent, if somewhat languid, lyrist may receive his due meed of attention, I have selected his most important fragment, the _Praise of Peace_, for translation (Bergk, vol. iii. p. 1230): To mortal men Peace giveth these good things: Wealth, and the flowers of honey-throated song; The flame that springs On carven altars from fat sheep and kine, Slain to the gods in heaven; and, all day long, Games for glad youths, and flutes, and wreaths, and circling wine. Then in the steely shield swart spiders weave Their web and dusky woof: Rust to the pointed spear and sword doth cleave; The brazen trump sounds no alarms; Nor is sleep harried from our eyes aloof, But with sweet rest my bosom warms: The streets are thronged with lovely men and young, And hymns in praise of boys like flames to heaven are flung. The tone common to Simonides and Bacchylides in funeral poems will be illustrated by the four following fragments:[103] Being a man, say not what comes to-morrow, Nor, seeing one in bliss, how long 'twill last; For wide-winged fly was ne'er of flight so fast As change to sorrow. Nay, not those elder men, who lived of yore, Of sceptred gods the half-immortal seed, Not even they to prosperous old age wore A life from pain and death and danger freed. Short is the strength of men, and vain their trouble, Through their brief age sorrows on sorrows double; O'er each and all hangs death escaped by none; Of him both good and bad an equal lot have won. For mortal men not to be born is best, Nor e'er to see the bright beams of the day; Since, as life rolls away, No man that breathes was ever alway blest.