Fragment Of Chorus Of A Dejaneira

O frivolous mind of man,     Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts,     Though man bewails you not,     How I bewail you!     Little in your prosperity     Do you seek counsel of the Gods.     Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone.     In profound silence stern     Among their savage gorges and cold springs     Unvisited remain     The great oracular shrines.     Thither in your adversity     Do you betake yourselves for light,     But strangely misinterpret all you hear.     For you will not put on     New hearts with the inquirers holy robe,     And purged, considerate minds.     And him on whom, at the end     Of toil and dolour untold,     The Gods have said that repose     At last shall descend undisturbd,     Him you expect to behold     In an easy old age, in a happy home;     No end but this you praise.     But him, on whom, in the prime     Of life, with vigour undimmd,     With unspent mind, and a soul     Unworn, undebased, undecayd,     Mournfully grating, the gates     Of the city of death have for ever closed,     Him, I count him, well-starrd.