XII

     Not Lycophron the exile now appeared,
     But young Periander, from the shadow cleared,
     That haunted his rebellious brows.  The prince
     Grew bright for him; saw youth, if seeming loth,
     Return:  and of pure pardon to convince,
     Despatched the messenger most dear with both.

     XIII

     His daughter, from the exile’s Island home,
     Wrote, as a flight of halcyons o’er the foam,
     Sweet words:  her brother to his father bowed;
     Accepted his peace-offering, and rejoiced. 
     To bring him back a prince the father vowed,
     Commanded man the oars, the white sails hoist.

     XIV

     He waved the fleet to strain its westward way
     On to the sea-hued hills that crown the bay: 
     Soil of those hospitable islanders
     Whom now his heart, for honour to his blood,
     Thanked.  They should learn what boons a prince confers
     When happiness enjoins him gratitude!

     XV

     In watch upon the offing, worn with haste
     To see his youth revived, and, close embraced,
     Pardon who had subdued him, who had gained
     Surely the stoutest battle between two
     Since Titan pierced by young Apollo stained
     Earth’s breast, the prince looked forth, himself looked through.

     XVI

     Errors aforetime unperceived were bared,
     To be by his young masterful repaired: 
     Renewed his great ideas gone to smoke;
     His policy confirmed amid the surge
     Of States and people fretting at his yoke. 
     And lo, the fleet brown-flocked on the sea-verge!

     XVII

     Oars pulled:  they streamed in harbour; without cheer
     For welcome shadowed round the heaving bier. 
     They, whose approach in such rare pomp and stress
     Of numbers the free islanders dismayed
     At Tyranny come masking to oppress,
     Found Lycophron this breathless, this lone-laid.

     XVIII

     Who smote the man thrown open to young joy? 
     The image of the mother of his boy
     Came forth from his unwary breast in wreaths,
     With eyes.  And shall a woman, that extinct,
     Smite out of dust the Powerful who breathes? 
     Her loved the son; her served; they lay close-linked!

     XIX

     Dead was he, and demanding earth.  Demand
     Sharper for vengeance of an instant hand,
     The Tyrant in the father heard him cry,
     And raged a plague; to prove on free Hellenes
     How prompt the Tyrant for the Persian dye;
     How black his Gods behind their marble screens.

     Solon

     I