One by Phrynichos[1] confirms the view taken above as to the calmness and harmony of his death—
"Blest, yea, thrice blest, was Sophocles, who lived
Long years, of subtle wit and prosperous life,
Who many noblest tragedies did frame,
And passed away at last without a pang."
But that which bears the name of Simmias of Thebes, the pupil of Socrates,[2] is of a higher kind, and may justly take its place among the most perfect of such forms of composition. A translation can give but a faint notion of its exquisite gracefulness, but it is worth while making the attempt.
"Creep gently, ivy, ever gently creep,
Where Sophocles sleeps on in calm repose;
Thy pale green tresses o'er the marble sweep,
While all around shall bloom the purpling rose.
There let the vine with rich, full clusters hang,
Its fair young tendrils fling around the stone;
Due meed for that sweet wisdom which he sang,
By Muses and by Graces called their own."
In another and very different way, even the great Satirist of Athens, who had at one time attacked him as grasping and covetous, now bore testimony to his greatness. There was no one to fill the place which he left vacant. In the play which Aristophanes brought out the year after his death, Dionysos himself is introduced, seeking in vain for a successor, and has to go into Hades, the world of the dead, to decide between the rival claims of Æschylos and Euripides. Sophocles, though he too is there, is beyond all rivalry,
- ↑ Anon. Pref. to Œd. Col.
- ↑ Anthol. Græc., vii. 27.
