Bacchylides

Peaceful wealth, or painful toil,
Chance of war, or civil broil,
'Tis not for man's feeble race
These to shun, or those embrace.
...

Blue shadows wreathed the galley's prow that bore
Twice seven Attic youth, a glorious train
For Theseus, captain of the brunt of war,
Over the Cretan main.
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To mortal men Peace giveth these good things:
Wealth, and the flowers of honey-throated song;
The flame that springs
On craven altars from fat sheep and kine,
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Not to be born 'twere best,
Nor view the light of the sun;
Since to be ever blest
Is given to none:
And Fate deals out his share,
To each alike, of pain and care.
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Of happiness to mortal man
One is the road, and one the goal
To keep unburthen'd, all he can,
From loads of care the tranquil soul.
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Peace in all her sweetness hail!
No more the clarions ravish sleep;
Red rust-stains o'er the lances creep;
Gray spider-meshes gather on the mail:
Glad youths with girls the Comus-carols share;
In our feastful bowers
Song puts forth her flowers:
Peace with thy children, hail! Hail, Wealth and Order fair!
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Gold, nor purple tapestry:
But a well-disposéd mind;
But a gentle muse, and kind;
But bright wine to glad our souls,
Mantling in Boeotian bowls.
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The high immortal gods are free
From taint of man's infirmity;
Nor pale diseases round them wait,
Nor pain distracts their tranquil state.
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Folded arms and sauntering pace
Come not nigh this holy place.
She whose image here is seen,
Golden-Ægis-bearing queen,
Dread Itonia, doth ordain
For the suppliants at her fane
Other services than these
Tributes rare from bended knees.
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As gold the Lydian touch-stone tries,
So man-the virtuous, valiant, wise
Must to all-powerful Truth submit
His virtue, valour, and his wit.
...