Not — whosoever was the great of yore,Bursting to bloom with bravery all round —Is in our mouths: he was, but is no more.And who it was that after came to be,Met the thrice-throwing wrestler, — heIs also gone to ground.But Zeus — if any, heart and soul, that name —Shouting the triumph-praise — proclaim,Complete in judgment shall that man be found. Zeus, who leads onward mortals to be wise,Appoints that suffering masterfully teach.In sleep, before the heart of each,A woe-remembering travail sheds in dewDiscretion, — ay, and melts the unwilling tooBy what, perchance, may be a graciousnessOf gods, enforced no less, —As they, commanders of the crew,Assume the awful seat. And then the old leader of the Achaian fleet,Disparaging no seer —