Tell me, ye Muses, who th' Olympic height Cheer with your holy songs and presence bright; Tell me what blessings Bacchus gave to man, Since first his vessel o'er the waters ran. Ox-hides from Libya's coasts, and juicy kail: The narrow sea, still vocal with the wail Of lost Leander's bride, the tunny sends, And our first meal with kipper'd salmon mends. Groats come from Italy, and ribs of beef; While Thrace sends many a lie and many a thief. Still do the Spartans scratch their sides in vain, Mad with the itching of th' Odrysian pain. Then Syracuse gives cheese and well-fed pigs; Fair Athens olives sends, and luscious figs. Cursed of all islands let Corcyra be, Where no especial excellence we see. Sails come from Egypt, and this paper too; Incense from Syria; Crete upholds to view The cypress tall; and, dear to mighty Jove, In Paphlagonia grows the almond grove. The elephant sends its teeth from Afric's sands; Pears and fat sheep grow on Eubœa's lands; Rhodes sends us raisins, and beguiles the night With figs that make our dreams and slumbers light; From Phrygia slaves, allies from Arca's land; The Pagasæan ports their hirelings brand; Phœnicia sends us dates across the billows, And Carthage, carpets rich, and well-stuff'd pillows. 50. Pindar too, in the Pythian ode addressed to Hiero, says, Give me the noble Spartan hound With whose deep voice Eurotas' banks resound; While the dark rocks Of Scyrus give the choicest flocks Of milky goats; and, prompt at war's alarms, Brave Argos burnishes the well-proved arms, The Sicels build the rapid car, And the fierce Thebans urge the chariot to the war.[46:1] Critias tells us-- Know ye the land of the fair Proserpine, Where the cottabus splashes the ominous wine; Where the lightest and handsomest cars . . . . * * * * * And what can for tired limbs compare With the soft and yielding Thessalian chair? But no town with Miletus vies In the bridal bed's rich canopies. But none the golden bowl can chase, Or give to brass such varied grace, As that renowned hardy race That dwells by Arno's tide; Phœnicia, mother of the arts, Letters to learned men imparts; Thebes scaled the mountain's side, Bade the tough ash its trunk to yield, And fill'd with cars the battle-field; While Carians, masters of the seas, First launch'd the boat to woo the breeze. Offspring of clay and furnace bright, The choicest porcelain clear and light Boasts, as its birth-place, of the towers Which Neptune's and Minerva's powers From ills and dangers shield; Which beat back war's barbaric wave When Mede and Persian found a grave In Marathon's undying field.