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The pride of the Jew was strong in Simonides, and therefore the slightly contemptuous curl of the lip with which he began his reply: "Balthasar has been a witness of wonderful things of miracles, O my master; and when he speaks of them, I bow with belief, for they are of sight and sound personal to him. But he is a son of Mizraim, and not even a proselyte.
We have seen that the dithyramb, debased in Attica to the Thespian chorus, was in the Dorian states already devoted to sublime themes, and enriched by elaborate art; and Simonides, whose elegies, peculiar for their sweetness, might have inspired the "ambrosial" Phrynichus, perhaps gave to the stern soul of Aeschylus, as to his own pupil Pindar, the model of a loftier music, in his dithyrambic odes.
Ilderim was at once restored to his good-humor. "Let us be off now," he said, rubbing his hands. "The business will do well with Simonides. The glory is ours. I will order the horses." "Stay," said Malluch. "I left a messenger outside. Will you see him?" "By the splendor of God! I forgot him."
Simonides the poet tells us that the father of Lykurgus was not Eunomus, but Prytanis. But most writers do not deduce his genealogy thus, but say that Soüs was the son of Prokles, and grandson of Aristodemus, and that Soüs begat Euripus; Euripus, Prytanis, and Prytanis, Eunomus.
"I am the Simonides of whom you speak, by birthright a Jew," the man made answer, in a voice singularly clear. "I am Simonides, and a Jew; and I return you your salutation, with prayer to know who calls upon me."
In time I forgot the circumstance, though there was much talk of it as a presage of the Messiah. Alas, alas! What children we are, even the wisest! When God walks the earth, his steps are often centuries apart. You have seen Balthasar?" "And heard him tell his story," said Ben-Hur. "A miracle! a very miracle!" cried Simonides.
“Ah, dearest and best,”—his voice had the old-time ring, his head the old-time poise,—“you need not fear to call me husband now!” “Glaucon,” she cried. “I am not fit to be your wife. I am not fit to kiss your feet.” They set the litter down. Even little Simonides, though a king among the curious, found the Acropolis peculiarly worthy of his study.
On inquiring as to the appearance of the young men who had sent for him, Simonides was satisfied that they were no other than Castor and Pollux themselves. Sappho Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of Greek literature. Of her works few fragments remain, but they are enough to establish her claim to eminent poetical genius.
Covering his face with his hand, he shook with the conflict between his wish, which was what he would have ordered, and the power that was upon him. "Come; we are waiting for you," said Simonides, the fourth time. Thereupon he walked mechanically after the chair and the litter. Esther walked with him.
As the car moved, they accompanied it with a dance of unspeakable ease, modesty, grace. A local poet—not Simonides, not Pindar, but some humbler bard—had invoked his muse for the grand occasion. Youths and maidens burst forth into singing. “Io! Io, pæan! the parsley-wreathed victor hail! Io! Io, pæan! sing it out on each breeze, each gale!
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