I
For Hiero, ruler of Syracuse, on his victory in the chariot-race, 470 BC, in which he was proclaimed as “of Etna,” a new city founded by him near Mt. Etna. In 480 BC he had defeated the Carthaginian invaders in the battle of Himera, and in 474 BC, the Etruscans in a sea-fight of Cumae. In BC 475 there was a great eruption of Mt. Etna. All these events are referred to in this Ode.
O golden Lyre, who art Phoebus’ treasure
Which he shares with the dusk-haired Song-queens aye,
The light feet hear thee beating the measure
As the revellers marshal their dance-array.
O Lyre, thy signals the singers obey
When in preludes of choral song low-dreaming
O’er thy strings quick-throbbing the harmonies glide.
Thou quenchest the thunderbolt’s self red-gleaming
Javelined with flame-jets aye outstreaming.
On the sceptre of Zeus the slumber-tide
O’er his eagle ripples, on either side
Of the king of birds as his pinions are trailing:
O’er his bowing head doth a dark mist flow
Sweet-sealing his eyes; ’neath sleep’s prevailing
His back heaves wave-like soft and slow,
Spell-bound by thy melodies pulsing low.
Yea, the soul of the wild War-god lies sleeping
Hushed, warm-cradled in slumber’s nest,
And his keen spear slips from his strong hand’s keeping.
Gods’ hearts are thy shafts in enchantment steeping
By the inspiration of Phoebus to rest
Lulled, and by the deep-bosomed Muses’ behest.
But creatures beloved not of Zeus, things haunting
Earth’s crypts, and the sea’s gulfs storm-uprolled,
Flee panic-struck, hearing the Pierids chanting,
As was Typhon, whom Tartarus’ dread depths hold,
The hundred-headed, the hate undying
Of the Gods, in Cilician caverns of old
Nursed. Sicily now and her sea-defying
Cliffs above Kyme are heavily lying
On his shag-haired breast, and the cloud-kissing height
Of a crag-column crusheth him—Etna, white
Through the livelong year with snows that bite
With ice-fangs cold.
Upbelched from his deep-hidden crypts is a fountain
Of pure white fire none dare draw nigh.
In the day from the lava-flood rifting the mountain
Is the lurid smoke uptossed to the sky;
In the darkness a red-rolling flame flares high
As it sweepeth the rocks with thunderous crashing
To the sea that afar below doth lie.
’Tis the monster upspurting through anguish-gnashing
Jaws that fire-fountain fearfully flashing—
A wondrous portent appalling the eye,
A marvel to hear when men pass by;
Such horror is prisoned through years unending
’Neath the heights dark-leaved in the earth’s embrace,
While his back is furrowed with gory rending
By the flints of his restless resting-place!
O Zeus, may we in thy sight find grace
Who dost make this mountain thine habitation,
This rich land’s forefront, whose namesake-town
Her founder ennobled, what time his nation
Was “of Etna” published by proclamation
Of the Pythian herald who spake the renown
Of Hiero’s car-won victory-crown.
As seafarers hail as the first boon of Heaven
That their sails by a fair-speeding wind be fanned
When the anchor is weighed, as an earnest given
Of yet fairer return to the home-land’s strand,
So reason enkindleth the expectation
That with this fair fortune linked hand in hand
Shall the fame be of this thy new creation
For athletes and horses and glad celebration
Of her name by the singers. O Lycian King
And Delian, who lovest Castaly’s spring,
Of thy goodwill vouchsafe it, and stablish the thing
For this hero-land.
’Tis the Gods that ope all paths unto mortals
Whereby unto excellence toilers attain;
For poesy’s, prowess’s, eloquence’ portals
They unbar. Albeit to praise I am fain
This hero, I trust I shall hurl not in vain
Wide of the lists my javelin, winging
From the hand that hath poised it its quivering flight,
Beyond all rivals my shaft far-flinging.
May the days through his life-tide be alway bringing
Wealth, bliss, in a course ever steered aright,
With oblivion of fortune’s past despite.
He shall surely recall the old wars’ story—
He whose steadfast soul was their battle-stay—
When his folk at the Gods’ hands reaped for them glory
Such as none other Hellenes have borne away
From a stricken field, nor such goodly prey.
For, a new Philoktetes, with help all-availing
Battleward fared he, when came to implore
Humbly his friendship the proud ones, quailing
From foes over-strong—as the heroes went sailing
To Lemnos, to bring him to Troyland’s shore
Whom the wound snake-venomed tormented sore,
The archer, Poias’ son, and he wended
Troyward, though sickness-worn was his frame,
And he ravaged the city of Priam, and ended
The Danaans’ toil; for of Fate this came.
So by Hiero’s side may a God go guiding
His steps, as in years past ever the same,
The desire of his heart in its season providing.
By Deinomenes’16 side, O my Muse, abiding
Chant thou the meed by the chariot won
Of the father whose triumph is joy for the son.
This king, then, whose reign is in Etna begun,
Sing we his fame,
For whom, with freedom on God’s rock grounded,
The statutes of Hyllus17 pledged to maintain,
That city hath been by Hiero founded;
For the sons of Pamphylus are ever fain—
Yea, so is the line of the Herakleid strain
’Neath the beetling crags of Taÿgetus dwelling—
By Aegimius’ Dorian laws to abide.
They gat them Amyklae, and prospered past telling
Who from Pindus down-swooping in glory excelling
By the Tyndarids dwelt, who on white steeds ride,
And their spear-fame as flower-studded meads blossomed wide.
Zeus All-accomplisher, grant that never
May the tale of the fortunes of burgher and king
Be worser than now; may they prosper ever
Where Amenas’ waters are murmuring!
By thy grace may the old chief’s counsels bring
To his son and his folk, with all honour, fruition
In their borders ever of concord and peace.
May the war-cry of Tuscan no more nor Phoenician
Be heard on our shores since battle’s decision
By Cumae brought woe for lost ships upon these
Who in insolence claimed to be lords of the seas;
When the captain of Sicily’s fleet on-leading
The might of Syracuse, hurled to the sea
Their warrior youths from their ships light-speeding,
And set you thereby, ye Hellenes, free
From thraldom’s yoke hanging heavily o’er ye.
Yea, Athens and Sparta shall guerdon me
With thanks for my Salamis-lay, for the story
Of the battle before Kithairon,18 the glory
Won when the Medes of the curved bow fell:
And by Himera’s bank shall the song-flood swell
To Deinomenes’ sons’ battle-prowess, and tell
Of their victory.
If in season due be thy speech, if blended
Into close-knit order thy thoughts be, as when
A weaver upgathers his threads, attended
Shall thy words be with scantier cavil of men.
For if speech be tedious and long-drawn, then
Thine hearers’ eager expectancy dieth.
And when burghers the praise of their fellows hear,
On their hearts a weight of jealousy lieth.
Yet better is envy than pity, which sigheth
Over failure. In justice thy folk do thou steer,
And in truth’s forge fashion thy tongue’s keen spear.
How light soe’er be the word that hath flitted
From thy lips, it is weighty, as coming from thee.
To thy keeping a nation’s weal is committed:
Of thy deeds, good or ill, many watchers there be.
Be thy spirit a flower of chivalry.
If thou wilt that report true-royal declare thee,
No niggard be thou: like a wise timoneer
Thy sails spread wide, that the breeze may bear thee
Onward. Let time-serving guile not ensnare thee
By flattery, friend! Nought save the sincere
Praise that, when mortals are no more here,
Lives on after death, to the world revealeth
What their true life was whose days are sped,
And in chronicles shines and in lays outpealeth.
Blooms Croesus’ kindness with petals unshed;
But Phalaris, ruthlessly joying in rending
Men’s lives from the tortured in brass glowing red,
He is compassed with infamy’s hate unending,
Nor lutes nor young voices in harmony blending
In the hall of the f casters his name shall greet.
Best of all is fair fortune; yet fame is sweet.
Who wins both, life’s chief crowns all meet
To engarland his head.
II
For Hiero of Syracuse, on his victory in a chariot-race, not at Pytho, but at Thebes, BC 475 (?).
O Syracuse, city in greatness excelling,
Precinct of Ares through gulfs of war
Who plungeth, O nurse of the warrior and steed
That in clash of the steel of battle-weed
Exult, from radiant Thebes do I speed
Bearing a song of the great race, telling
Of the swift earth-shaking four-horsed car,
The race wherein Hiero triumphward riding
Flashed down the course with his glorious team,
And crowned with garlands that glowed far-seen
Ortygia, the haunt of the River-queen
Artemis—aided of her, I ween,
His hands as with spells of enchantment were guiding
Those steeds with a bridle of rainbow-gleam;
For she, the arrow-triumphant Maiden,
And Hermes the Ruler of Contests, bring—
Yea, the gifts of the Gods’ linked hands they are—
These harness-adornings that glitter afar
When he yokes strong steeds to his shining car
And its wheels rein-piloted, victory-laden,
Invoking the wide-ruling Trident-king.
The prowess-guerdon of song sweet-ringing
From the lips of many a bard shall swell
To the feet of lords that o’er far lands reign;
As the Cyprian bards in triumphant strain
Chant Kinyras’ praises once and again,
Aphrodite’s priestly minion singing
Whom Apollo the golden-haired loved well;
For their gratitude’s praise for his kindness is gushing
From the hearts in loving reverence bowed.
O Deinomenes’ son, the Lokrian maid19
In the far west sings at her door unafraid
The delivering might of thine arm, that stayed
War’s march of afflictions spirit-crushing,
That her eyes no longer are terror-cowed.
In old-time legend it stands recorded
That Ixion, the while on the fire-winged wheel
By the sentence of Gods he is endlessly whirled,
Ever shrieketh his warning, a cry that is hurled
Unto men’s ears up from the underworld—
“Be the kindness of thy benefactors rewarded
With all the love that thine heart can reveal!”
That lesson he learned in uttermost measure;
For, though he received a life of bliss
Mid the Children of Kronos, the gracious-souled,
He contented him not with its joys untold,
But for Hera he lusted frenzy-bold,
Of Zeus’s couch the inviolate treasure;
For presumption drave him on into this
His overweening infatuation.
But swiftly he reaped meet harvest of sin
To suffer of all hell’s torments the worst:
For his twofold transgression earned the Accurst
That vengeance—the one, that he was the first
Who stained mankind with contamination
Of the treacherous spilling of blood of kin;
The other, that in the recesses most holy
Of the bride-bower of Zeus did he make essay
Of the Queen of Heaven! Meet is it to know
Our mortality’s limits, meet to forego
The lawless loves that their victim throw
Into gulfs of destruction. Such was his folly;
For with nought but a cloud it was that he lay,
Unknowing all, to his own confusion
Lured on by a sweetly-beckoning lie;
For the cloud-wrought image the semblance bare
Of Kronos’ Child, Heaven’s fairest fair;
For the hands of Zeus had fashioned the snare,
The beautiful bane, for his soul’s delusion.
So he compassed his own dire doom thereby,
Outstretched on the wheel’s arms crucifying,
Tangled in bonds whence escape is none,
Shrieking that warning the whole world o’er.
And his cloud-mate, unblessed of the Graces, bore
A monstrous child—such dam never more
Nor such offspring shall be, ’neath a black curse lying
Of menfolk, of godfolk—a thing to shun!
And the cloud-mother reared that evil abortion
And named Kentaurus. By Pelion’s foot
In Magnesia he mated with many a mare;
And a horde of monsters was born of them there
Wondrous to see, for the likeness they bare
Of either parent; the upper portion
As man was shapen, the nether as brute.
What purpose soever God conceiveth
He accomplisheth; none his intent may defy—
God, who o’ertaketh the eagle’s wing,
Who outstrippeth the dolphin, o’er waves though it spring,
And the pride of man to the dust can bring,
While unto the lowly one glory he giveth
That waxeth not old as the years fleet by.
But for me is it well that I lack not discretion
From slander’s viper-fangs to refrain.
Ay, venomous-tongued Archilochus’ fate
Have I known from of old, and his low estate
Who with rancorous speech fed fat his hate.
Of all things that Fortune can give in possession
Riches with wisdom are best to attain.
These blessings be thine, may all see plainly;
And this thou showest, O liberal-souled,
O princely ruler of many a street
Fair-circled with towers where thy squadrons meet;
And such riches and honour thy weal complete
That in fantasy’s folly he striveth vainly
Who saith that any surpassed thee of old
Among Hellene lords that be famed in story.
On the prow of my galley with flowers hung round
Will I take my stand as the praises I sing
Of thy prowess. Young hearts win strengthening
From courage when trumpets for onset ring.
Yea, thou, I proclaim it, hast won thee glory
Therefrom, a glory that knows no bound,
Now warring mid horsemen battleward racing,
And now mid warriors afoot that fight.
And thy wisdom now when thy locks be grey
Is of all gainsaying unperilled—O yea,
It giveth me fullest assurance aye
For extolling thy name with manifold praising.
All hail! This song o’er the sea-foam white
Like Tyrian merchandise lo, I have brought thee.
Let thine eyes then smile on the Kastor-strain
That my fingers from chords Aeolian drew:
O greet it thou with the honour due
To the seven-stringed lute. To thyself be true,
To the royal wisdom the years have taught thee.
’Tis from children alone that the ape doth gain
The praise of beauty, is beauteous ever!
Rhadamanthus is homed in the Isles of the Blest,
For the fruit of his soul was uncankered of guile:
No pleasure he hath in the treacherous wile
Of the whisperer working by calumnies vile.
The secret speakings of slander never
Can be openly fought and for ever repressed.
There is nothing of man in them—nay, ’tis the slinking
Spirit of foxes they show; and yet
From his cunning what gain doth the sly fox reap?
As for me—while the rest of the net-tackle deep
In the briny darkness doth toilsomely sweep
The sea-floor—I, like the float unsinking
Am riding the waves high over the net.
In a city of honest men unavailing
Is the trickster’s babble, yet still he essays,
Fawning on all men, the toils to twine
Of his subtlety. Never his vaunt shall be mine—
“To a friend he I friend, to a foe malign!
As a wolf will I covertly track him, assailing
This side and that side, by crooked ways.”
In what state soever a people be dwelling,
’Tis the man of straightforward speech alway
That unto the foremost place attains;
Whether it be where a despot reigns,
Or where the rabble hot-headed strains
Against use and wont, or where sages excelling
In wisdom the helm of the commonweal sway.
Strive not against God, who exalts at his pleasure
Now one, now setteth another on high.
Yet doth not even His will seem right
Unto envious ones, but they strain over-tight
The line, and their own hearts so do they smite
With a wound whose bitterness none may measure,
Ere the prize be gained for the which they sigh.
Nay, better it is that a man bear lightly
The yoke of Fate on his neck that lies.
But he makes for his feet a perilous road
Who backward lashes against the goad.
But on me be this fair fortune bestowed,
To dwell among them which walk uprightly,
And to be well-pleasing in good men’s eyes.
III
For Hiero of Syracuse, on victories won by his racehorse, Pherenikus, in 482 and 478 BC. Probable date of Ode, 474, when Hiero was suffering from the disease of which he died in 467.
I were fain—if my tongue might breathe the prayer
Which on all lips trembles—that Philyra’s son,
That yet alive old Cheiron were
Who perished from earth, ah, long agone,
Even heaven-born Kronos’ seed, who of yore
A sceptre of wide dominion bore—
That now in the glens of Pelion
That man-brute reigned in the woods once more
Who was gracious-hearted to men when of old
He dwelt in the shadowy forest-land
Where he fostered Asklepius kindly-souled,
The lord of leechcraft, whose healing hand
From the limbs of the stricken banished pain
With salves by the which each malady’s bane
From their frames was banned.
The daughter of Phlegyas, lord of the car,
Not yet with help of the Travail-queen
Had borne that Healer renowned afar,
Ere by Artemis’ golden arrows keen
In her bride-bower stricken to death she lay,
And trod the unreturning way
Unto Hades’ halls; for Apollo had seen
The transgression that slew his love in a day.
For the wrath of the Sons of Zeus not in vain
Burns. In her folly she dared think scorn
Of his anger: unknown to her sire had she ta’en
To her arms a human lover, forsworn
To her bridal troth, to her plighted word,
To the love of Apollo the Archer-lord
Of the hair unshorn,
Though she bare ’neath her zone a God’s pure seed,
Yet the marriage-feast’s coming she would not abide;
Not she of the full-voiced song took heed,
Such song as the young girl-mates of the bride
Merrily chant in the eventide.
But she longed for a love that was otherwhere
With the passion that oft is the soul’s death-snare.
For a people foolish beyond compare
Is found among mortals, who scorn things near,
And gaze upon things that be far away,
And chase an ever-elusive prey
With hopes whose fulfilment shall never appear.
Even with such overmastering might
Did unbridled desire o’er the spirit sweep
Of Koronis in queenly vesture dight,
That she dared in the unblest couch to sleep
Of a stranger faring from Arcady.
But she ’scaped not the all-beholding eye
Of the God—albeit where myriad sheep
To his altar at Pytho be led to die
Was the Lord of the Temple then—for their lust
By the all-divining mind was descried.
To his soul’s inner vision did Phoebus trust
As it were to a seer enthroned at his side.
He knows not delusion, whom neither man
Nor God by thought or by action can
Deceive or misguide.
So when of her harlotry Phoebus was ware
With the stranger Ischys Eilatus’ son,
And her godless guile in his sight lay bare,
Then sent he against that faithless one
His sister Artemis rushing with might
Of a Goddess whose arrows resistlessly smite
Unto Lakereia, by whose walls shine
The mere Boebeïs’ waters bright,
Whereby did the woman unwedded abide
Whom her evil genius misled to the doom
Which destroyed her; and many a neighbour died
With her, by her sin dragged down to the tomb,
As when on a mountain the fire that hath leapt
From one spark over a forest hath swept,
And doth wholly consume.
But now when her kinsmen had laid the maid
In the midst of the pinewood walls of the pyre,
And when round about her upleaping played
The splendour-light of the Lord of Fire,
Spake Apollo: “I will not by death so dire
Endure that mine own son also should die
In the flames wherein doth his mother lie!”
He spake, and at one stride stood thereby,
And he caught up the child from the corse, and sprang
The flames asunder. That babe he brought
To Magnesia’s Centaur, by him to be taught
To heal each mortal malady’s pang.
And so what mortals soever sought
Unto him of the earth’s afflicted ones,
Or with sores by nature’s corruption wrought,
Or with limbs deep-gashed by the gleaming bronze,
Or the stone hurled far from the whirling sling,
Or through feverous summers languishing,
Or whom winter had cramped in sinews and bones,
He delivered them all, that leechcraft-king,
And loosed from their diverse infirmities
Or by spells with magic’s nepenthe rife;
Or a pain-lulling draught would he pour for these,
Or with salves that requickened the fainting life
The limbs of those would he swathe around,
Or for cureless sores was a remedy found
In the merciful knife.
But alas for him, even leechcraft’s lore
May be made the thrall of the lust of gain!
Even him did guerdon of golden ore,
In his palm as it glittered, seduce to his bane,
To bring back a man from the realm of the dead
Whom Hades already had captive led.
Wherefore Kronion smote those twain
With the vengeance-bolt from his hand swift-sped;
And that all-dreaded thunder-stone
Dashed from their bosoms the breath for their sin.
From the Gods it behoves that we seek alone
Things meet for mortal spirits to win,
That, knowing what lies at the feet of man,
And discerning the bounds of our mortal span,
We abide therein.
Covet not thou, O my soul, to live
The Immortals’ life! Let us use as we may
The means that Fate to our hands shall give.
Yet, if Cheiron the wise in his cave this day
Dwelt, and our honey-sweet songs might lay
On his spirit a spell that his will might bend,
I had won on him then some healer to send
To deliver from feverous pains my friend,
Such an one as Asklepius Apollo’s son.
O’er Ionian waters voyaging
Oh then had I reached Arethusa’s spring,
And to Etna’s ruler, mine host, had I gone,
Who o’er Syracuse holdeth empery,
A king to his citizens gracious-souled;
Never jealous of good men’s weal is he
Whom stranger-friends from far lands hold
As a father with worshipful marvelling.
O might I but land on his shores and bring
A twofold boon, even health’s pure gold,
And the triumph-chant therewithal that I sing
To light with splendour the Pythian crown
Which his steed Pherenikus in days gone by
At Kirrha won for his lord’s renown,
To my friend then, crossing the deep sea, I
Had come as a light clear-shining afar,
Ay, beaming brighter than any star
In yonder sky.
Yet, unto the Mother, the Goddess adored,
For thine helping with prayers would I fain draw near.
Whose praises, with those of the Forest-lord,
Beside my portal chanted I hear
By maidens oft, when the night is still.
But, Hiero, seeing thyself hast skill
To interpret the lore of the ancient seer,
This knowest thou—This is the high Gods’ will
To apportion alway afflictions twain
For each one boon that on man they bestow.
It is only the foolish who cannot sustain
With fit resignation their burden of woe:
But spirits heroic their sorrow can hide
’Neath a calm smile; so life’s fairer side
To the world do they show.
Yet on thee doth a lot of happiness wait;
For if upon any man She hath deigned
With favour to look, all-ruling Fate,
’Tis on him who over a nation hath reigned.
Nor Peleus nor Kadmus the godlike attained
To a life safeguarded from suffering aye:
Yet of all men these, as the old myths say,
To the highest happiness rose, for they
Heard the gold-tired Muses on Pelion
And in Thebes of the seven gates, when the bride
Of the one was Harmonia lovely-eyed,
And Thetis the Sea-queen Peleus won.
Yea, and the Gods sat at meat with these,
And the Sons of Kronos did they behold
As kings in the heavenly palaces
Seated upon their thrones of gold,
And received of them many a bridal gift;
And by Zeus were they saved from the stormy drift
Of woes overpast o’er their heads that had rolled;
And their hearts in gladness did they uplift.
Yet the days of their joyance were all too brief;
For the years drew nigh when Kadmus should see
His portion of happiness turned to grief
By the bitter travail of daughters three.
Yet Thyone the white-armed drew from above
Down to her couch by the spell of love
Zeus’ majesty.
And the son of Peleus, the only son
Whom Thetis the deathless Goddess bore
In Phthia to him—from that glorious one
The arrow in battle his sweet life tore;
And the Danaans’ wail rang loud, as they yearned
For their mightiest lost, on the pyre as he burned.
Now if any of mortals by wisdom’s lore
The way of truth in his soul hath discerned,
Well may he be happy, if God bestow
The fortune fair by the Blessèd given.
Yet ever the blasts veer to and fro
Of the winds that fly o’er the fields of heaven.
Not long doth the bliss of mortals endure,
Yea, though it have come in full measure, and pure
From sorrow’s leaven.
Small shall I be if small my estate,
And great shall I grow if great it be.
What fortune soever for me may wait,
I will strive to adorn it worthily.
Should God grant easeful wealth unto me,
I would fain win fame too in oncoming days.
So Nestor and Lycian Sarpedon in lays
Ringing loud on the lips of men, have praise,
Whom we see as it were in temples enshrined
Uppiled by the master-builders of song;
For through glorious strains liveth chivalry long—
But the path unto that fame few may find.
IV
For Arkesilas of Kyrene, on his victory in the chariot-race, 462 BC. The Ode is mainly taken up with the story of the Argonauts because one of them, Euphemus, was the ancestor of the kings of Kyrene, and his descendant Battus was the founder of the colony.
This day, O Muse, in the presence of a friend it behoves thee to stand,
Even the King of Kyrene, the goodly battle-steed’s land,
That so, when Arkesilas leadeth the revel-dance sweeping along,
Thou at his side mayst be swelling the breeze of acclaiming song
Which is due unto Leto’s children, to Pytho the temple due,
Where of old, when Apollo’s presence was a glory that shone therethrough,
The priestess enthroned by the golden eagles of Zeus revealed
That Battus should found an empire in Libya’s fruitful field,
Should depart from his hallowed island, and build on the gleaming height
Of the breast of the earth a city of chariots splendour-dight.
In the seventeenth generation so should the word be fulfilled
Which at Thera Medea spake, which the daughter passionate-willed
Of Aietes, the Colchian princess, breathed from immortal lips
To the heroes that with Jason fared on the highway of ships:
“Hearken to me, ye scions of warriors mighty-souled,
Ye that of Gods be descended, to the thing of my tongue foretold:
Lo, from this land of Thera that is scourged by the brine of the sea
Shall in Epaphus’ daughter Libya be planted in days to be
A root that shall grow into cities that mortals shall hold full dear.
To the temple-foundations of Ammon, of Libyan Zeus, lying near.
“And instead of the short-finned dolphin shall they take the fleetfoot steed,
Wield reins instead of the oar-blade, drive chariots of whirlwind speed.
For by that augury-token fulfilled shall be Thera’s fate
To become the mother-city of burgs exceeding great,
That token the which aforetime at Tritonis the mere’s outflow
On Euphemus who leapt from Argo did a God of the sea bestow,
A God who in man’s shape proffered a clod of earth for his gift:
And Zeus Kronion thundered approval thereof from the lift.
“For he lighted on us, that stranger, as the men were in act to hang
Upon Argo’s side the anchor, the curb of the brazen fang.
Over ridges of homeless desert had they borne for twelve days’ space
Away from the Ocean the galley that wont o’er the sea to race;
For they haled her ashore, obeying the counsel spoken of me.
Then came that Solitary, the Triton-god of the sea,
Wearing the splendid semblance of a worship-worthy man,
And with words of kindly welcome his utterance began,
Such speech as of hosts good-hearted is spoken, when such draw near
Unto far-travelled guests, and bid them to taste of the banquet’s cheer.
“Howbeit for that guest-feasting the heroes might not stay,
For the lure of the sweet home-coming beckoned them ever away.
But Eurypylus he named him, deathless Earth-shaker’s son,
Born of the Land-enfolder: yet marking our haste to begone,
He put forth his hand, and straightway caught up from the earth a clod
As it lay at his feet, and proffered the same as the gift of a god.
Nor scorned it Euphemus, but leaping from Argo’s deck to the strand
He received that fateful guest-gift, and clasped the giver’s hand.
But alas, it abode not with us! Washed over the galley’s side
It fleeted away on the sea-brine in the dusk of eventide
“Adrift on the heaving outsea: yet laid I once and again
My charge to watch it safely on our helpers the serving-men:
But ah, they forgat! So on Thera’s isle the unperishing seed
Of Libya the wide is upwashen before the time decreed.
For if only Euphemus, the scion of Poseidon the chariot-lord—
Whom Europa Tityos’ daughter bare on the margent-sward
Of Kephisus—to Tainarus speeding, there in the homeland had hurled
That clod through the chasm-portals of Hades’ underworld,
“Then in the fourth generation the sons of his blood had ta’en
With the Danaans’ help possession of Libya’s boundless plain;
For then from great Lacedaemon, from Argos’ wide-mouthed bay
And Mycenae, had warriors thither fared in a mighty array.
But, as things have befallen, Euphemus shall wed with an alien dame,
And shall win him from those espousals a chosen seed of his name
The which, of the high Gods honoured, shall come unto Thera’s strand
And beget a man to be ruler of that cloud-shadowed land:
Unto him in the hall of Phoebus, the temple rich in gold,
Shall the word of the revelation of an oracle be told,
“When in days to come he descendeth into the sanctuary
At Pytho, bidding him carry a host of men oversea
To Kronion’s fertile precinct that lieth beside the Nile.”
Even such was the chant prophetic that Medea uttered, the while
Moveless sitting in silence the heroes bowed the head,
And hearkened the counsel of wisdom that breathed in the words that she said.
Blest scion of Polymnestus, of no man save of thee
The oracle told that glory by the voice of the Delphic Bee
With utterance unprompted; and “All hail!” thrice she cried,
And proclaimed thee the destined ruler of Kyrene’s kingdom wide,
When thou earnest to ask what healing the Gods would grant of their grace
For thy stammering tongue. Of a surety now in the latter days,
As when mid the springtide’s roses a burgeoning tree is seen,
So, eighth in the line of Battus, Arkesilas’ leaf is green.
Even him did Apollo and Pytho cause to be triumph-renowned
In the chariot-race in the presence of all folk dwelling around.
I will hymn his fame to the Song-queens, and will sing of the Golden Fleece,
Of the Minyans’ Quest and the sowing of god-given glory for these.
What Power overshadowing lured them forth on the sea-track long?
What peril to that Quest bound them with clamps as of adamant strong?
A god-given oracle boded that Pelias should die
By the hands of Aiolus’ children, or their merciless subtlety.
Yea, a prophecy came to him chilling the heart of the crafty-souled;
From the mid-stone of Earth-mother vestured with trees was the word outrolled:
“Above all things else beware thou with uttermost heed,” said the God,
“Of the man that from highland homesteads with single sandal shod
Unto far-renowned lolkos of the sunny plains shall fare,
Be he a man of thy country, or stranger from otherwhere.”
At the last was he come, a hero of wondrous-mighty frame;
With lances twain that quivered in his iron grasp he came.
And twofold vesture arrayed him; the garb of the Magnete folk
To his goodly limbs close-lapping clung; but tossed like a cloak
O’er his shoulders a pard’s fell screening from arrowy showers lay.
From the glory of his bright tresses nought had been shorn away,
But unminished, a rippling splendour, adown his back they shone.
With feet unfaltering straightway and swiftly strode he on,
And he stood, as one that proveth a spirit of peril uncowed,
In the midst of the place of folkmote filled with its thronging crowd.
And no man knew him; but awestruck they gazed, and one spake word:
“Of a surety is this not Apollo, nor Aphrodite’s lord
Of the chariot of brass! And Otus, and Ephialtes thou
The dauntless, in gleaming Naxos perished long ere now,
Ye sons of Iphimedeia; nor Tityos could outrun
The arrow as lightning leaping the heart of the quarry that won,
Which Artemis out of her quiver invincible sped, that man
Might be warned to grasp not at dalliance beyond our mortal span.”
So spake they each unto other, questioning, answering thus.
But now Cometh Pelias speeding with haste impetuous
His mules and his polished chariot—suddenly stayed he and stared
In amaze at the one foot sandalled of the man with the left foot bared,
The unmistakable token! Howbeit he hid in his heart
His dread, and he spake: “Thou stranger, say of what land thou art,
And what is thy fatherland tell me! What womb gave thee birth?
What giantess was thy mother of the ancient children of Earth?
Speak out! Of thy lineage tell us; and see that thou do not defile
Thy lips with words of feigning, with falsehoods loathsome-vile!”
But unafraid that stranger answering spake to the king
With unangry words: “The wisdom of Cheiron hither I bring:
From Chariklo and Philyra’s presence, from the cave of the shadows I come
Whom the Centaur’s stainless daughters reared in their mountain-home.
Years twice ten there I accomplished, and never deed or word
In truth or in honesty lacking in me have they seen or heard.
And hither I come returning to this the home of my race
To win me back the honour that in unforgotten days
Was my sire’s, which a godless usurper out of his hands hath torn,
The honour to Aiolus granted of Zeus, by his sons to be borne.
“For I hear how the lawless-hearted, one Pelias, lured astray
By the lusts of his envy, by violence snatched the sceptre away
From my father and mother, to whom it pertained by ancestral right,
These, dreading the tyrant’s outrage, so soon as I looked on the light,
As though for a new-dead dear one, made dusky-garbed lament,
And amid wild wailing of women the babe from the home they sent
Swaddled in purple swathings, by paths Night knew alone;
And to Cheiron they gave me to foster, to the Centaur, Kronos’ son.
“Now therefore of this my story the sum and the substance ye know;
And I pray you, O kindly burghers, to me do ye plainly show
The dwelling wherein my fathers, lords of white steeds, abode;
For the feet of a son of Aison shall surely not have trode
Upon alien soil in the homeland, the land I claim for mine!
Jason my name is: the Centaur named me with lips divine.”
Then his father’s eyes, as he entered the old home, knew him again,
And gushed from his aged eyelids the tears like summer rain;
For his spirit rejoiced within him when he beheld that son,
The chief est among ten thousand, the goodliest-moulded one.
And the brethren twain of the father came thither the son to greet,
So soon as they heard the tidings of his home-returning feet.
Not from afar came Pheres from Hypereia’s spring:
From Messene fared Amythaon: Admetus hastening
Thitherward came with Melampus, and greeted lovingly
Their kinsman. And while they feasted, with gracious courtesy
Did Jason commune with them ever, and he made them abundant cheer,
And he lengthened out all joyance of the hearts that held him dear:
For five long nights together, five days, did the hero abide
Still plucking the consecrated flowers of the festal tide.
But with earnest speech on the sixth day at last did Jason begin
To set forth from the beginning the whole tale unto his kin.
And these to his counsel consented: from the banqueting-couch straightway
With these he uprose; to the palace of Pelias on passed they.
And they hasted and stood there; and hearing them, came to meet the men
That son of Tyro the lovely-haired. Spake Jason then,
And of wise speech laid the foundation, with words of unangry tone
Soft-flowing: “Son of Poseidon the Cleaver of crag-piled stone,
“The spirits of men run swiftly, too swiftly they run on the path
Of the wages of treachery, rather than guerdons that justice hath;
Yet their lives glide on to the reckoning stern that for all doth remain.
But thee and me it behoveth by law our passions to rein,
And for days to come to be weaving the web of our well-being so.
One mother had our forefathers—this I would say dost thou know—
Rash-hearted Salmoneus and Kretheus; and we who in these days see
Helios’ majesty golden, of the third generation are we.
Now if there arise black hatred ’twixt mortals by blood akin.
Far off stand the Destiny-weavers, to see not the shame and the sin.
“Us twain it beseemeth in no wise with spear or with bronze-forged sword
To apportion the goodly honour of our fathers’ treasure-hoard;
Nor needeth it—lo, all sheep-flocks and tawny herds of kine
I yield unto thee, and the pastures and tilth-lands, still to be thine,
Whereof thou hast spoiled my parents, and ever art swelling thy store.
O yea, and it nowise vexeth my soul that of these evermore
Thou increasest thine house’s riches:—but the kingly sceptre and throne
Whereon the son of Kretheus sat in the days bygone,
And over a nation of horsemen ruled in equity,
Even these without malice between us yield unto him and to me,
“Lest out of it some new mischief should spring up.” Thus he spake.
And with words that peaceably sounded did Pelias answer make:
“I will be as thou wilt: but already is old age compassing
Mine head; but thy life is waxing in the fiower-tide of thy spring;
And strength is thine for appeasing the Powers of the world below;
For unto the halls of Aietes Phrixus biddeth us go
To lead homeward his spirit, and hither the fell thick-fleeced to bear
Of the Ram from the sea that saved him, from his stepdame’s impious snare.
“Such was the strange hest spoken by a voice in a dream that came.
And to Kastaly’s oracle also have I sent to enquire of the same,
Whether truly the quest should be ventured; and the oracle biddeth me
To make ready with speed a galley to bring these home oversea.
This emprise do thou accomplish of free will: then, when again
Thou comest, I swear to yield thee the throne thereon to reign.
And let Zeus himself be the witness, that the oath-pledge firm may be,
Zeus, the ancestral father of the race of thee and me.”
So in peace they parted, consenting that so should the covenant stand.
Then Jason sent heralds to publish the Quest through every land.
And lo, three sons of Kronion came at his call straightway:
No labour of battle could tire them, seed of the Highest they!
The one of Alkmena the star-eyed was born, and of Leda twain.
And there came two heroes with helmets tossing the stormy mane;
And these were the Earth-shaker’s scions, and honour was blent with their might.
Thither they journeyed from Pylos and Tainarus’ foreland-height.
Perfected so is the glory that thou, Euphemus, hast found,
And thine, Periklymenus, peerless in prowess far-renowned.
And, sped by Apollo thither, the master of harp-strings came,
The father of song, even Orpheus of unforgotten fame.
And of Hermes, the Lord of the Golden Sword, have two sons gone
To the toil wherefrom no respite was given, Echion the one,
And the other Eurytus, joying in the strength of life’s spring-day.
And swiftly came from their dwelling at the roots of Pangaius that lay
Zetes and Kalais: gladly their father Boreas, king
Of the Winds, arrayed them in pinions on their shoulders fluttering.
Hera it was that enkindled the yearning whose strong spell drew
All these demigod heroes to be of Argo’s crew,
That none by the side of his mother be left still drowsing on
In a sodden life unperilled, but, though through death it were won,
Along with the rest his compeers he should find in the land oversea
And drain the magic chalice of the glory of chivalry.
So came they, the flower of all shipmen, down to Iolkos’ shore;
And the tale of them all told Jason, and thanked them o’er and o’er.
And his helper Mopsus the prophet enquired the will of Heaven,
For he noted the tokens of bird-flight and hallowed lots that were given;
Then joyfully cried to them: “Get you aboard, for the hour is now!”
And they heaved and hung the anchor over the galley’s prow.
Then a golden bowl their chieftain took in his hands, and high
On the stern unto Zeus the Father of the Heavenly Ones did he cry,
Unto him whose lance is the lightning; to the rushing feet did he pray
Of the waves, and the wild wind-pinions, to speed them on their way;
To the nights and the great deep’s highways he prayed, that the days might be
Gracious, and kindly the fortune of the home-return oversea.
And a voice of thunder propitious out of the welkin crashed,
And dazzling gleams of lightning from the rifted cloud-walls flashed.
And the heroes breathed more lightly, their hearts with comfort glowed,
For they put their trust in the tokens that God from his heaven forth-showed.
And of hopes with fear unmingled the seer spake, while he bade
To smite with the oar the waters: the swiftly-flashing blade
Swung by their hands untiring over the sea sped on,
And the south-wind onward-wafting blew; and so they won
To the mouth of the Sea Unfriendly: there made they a holy place
To the Lord of the Deep; and a red-felled herd of the bulls of Thrace
Was there, and a new-built altar of stone with a basin therein.
And now, as they sped on, deeper they plunged into peril’s gin.
But they cried to the Lord of Shipmen to bring them safely through
The resistless rush of the Countering Rocks; for these were two,
And alive they were, and onward they rolled more fearful-fast
Than the thunderous-roaring battalions of winds; but death at the last
By the demigods’ voyage was dealt them. To Phasis then came they,
And there with the swart-faced Colchians they clashed in battle-play,
Yea, in the very presence of King Aietes. Then
The Queen of the Darts keen-piercing brought from Olympus to men
That dappled bird of the madness of love, the wryneck, and bound
Was the thing by the Lady of Cyprus on a wheel whirled ceaselessly round
From whose arms there was no escaping; and she was the first that brought
Unto earth that charm. And to Aison’s son the Goddess taught
The Suppliant’s Incantation, whose glamour should cause to depart
All reverent love of parents out of Medea’s heart,
That a longing for Hellas might lash her with Suasion’s whip, till afire
Was her soul. And she straightway taught him to achieve the tasks that her sire
Had appointed to him; for she blended in magical wise with oil
Strange drugs to anoint him, counter-spells for the fiery toil.
And therewithal these vowed them each unto other to be
Linked in the bands delightsome of spousal unity.
But when in the midst Aietes had set the adamant plough
And the bulls, which out of their glowing jaws were breathing now
The flame of a fire fierce-burning, as hoof after hoof of them stamped
On the shuddering ground, as with brazen feet they heavily tramped,
Then, unholpen of any, he led them to the yoke; straight furrows he drew,
And up from a trench of a fathom deep huge clods he threw.
Thereafter he cried his challenge: “This work now let your king,
Whosoe’er hath command of your galley, to its accomplishment bring,
“And so bear off for his guerdon the unperishing coverlet,
Even the Fleece with golden-gleaming tassels beset.”
As he spake it, his saffron mantle did Jason cast aside,
And trusting in God he grappled with the task, and the rushing tide
Of flame played on him unquailing, for magic wrapped him round
By the spells of the sorceress-stranger. He seized the plough, and he bound
The bulls’ necks fast in the harness, he stabbed each strong-ribbed frame
With the merciless goad; and so to the end of the set task came
That stalwart hero. Aietes, in amazement’s agony,
Beholding the might of the stranger, gasped a wordless cry.
Then to the strong-limbed hero, in token of love that they bare.
Stretched forth their hands his comrades, and crowned with garlands his hair,
And with loving praises they hailed him, and glad acclaiming shout.
Then straightway the wondrous scion of Helios pointed out
The place where the golden-gleaming Fleece was hung, wide-strained
By the falchion of Phrixus: he trusted the goal should ne’er be attained
Of that last toil by the stranger: in a tangled thicket it lay
In a ravening dragon’s warding whose jaw-teeth gripped it aye;
And in length and in breadth was he greater than a galley fifty-oared
Welded by iron mallets with blow upon blow down-poured.
Too long for me is the wheel-rutted track, for the sands run low
Of time; moreover a certain short bypath I know
Who am leader in song unto many. The serpent lurid-eyed,
Iridescent-scaled, by the magic spells of the hero died—
O Arkesilas;—and aided of Medea, he stole her, and fled
With her who was Pelias’ death-snare. Through Ocean’s deeps they sped
And the Red Sea; thence to the husband-slayers in Lemnos they came.
There strove they for guerdons of raiment in many an athlete-game,
And they couched with the women: in alien furrows there did they sow
By night or by day the fateful seed of the bright sun-glow
Of your line’s fair fortune. Planted there was Euphemus’ race,
Destined to fadeless increase through ever-during days.
In the homesteads of Lacedaemon the wanderers tarried awhile;
In Thera thereafter abode they, once named Kalliste’s Isle.
Thence was it the Son of Leto led your sires oversea,
And gave them the plains of Libya, to bring prosperity
To the land by god-given honours, and to rule o’er the hallowed town
Of golden-throned Kyrene, the Nymph of old renown,
Having devised for it counsel that ruleth in righteousness aye.
Now learn thou of Oedipus’ wisdom:20—“If one should shear away
With the axe keen-cleaving the branches of a stately oak, and bring
To shame its glorious beauty, even in the perishing
Of its fruitage, it still giveth token of that which it was of old,
Yea, though it should come to the hearth-fire at last in the winter’s cold,
Or whether, a great beam resting athwart the columns tall
That bear the weight of the rafters of a proud lord’s feasting-hall,
It doeth slavish service walled in ’twixt roof and floor,
And the place that knew it aforetime shall know it again no more.”
A physician thou art most timely; the light that from thee doth pour
The Healer-god honours. For tending a deeply festering sore
One needeth a hand most gentle. The weakest fool may shake
A state to its very foundations; but hard is the struggle to make
It again in its place stand firmly, unless God hasten to be
Unto its rulers a pilot o’er discord’s stormy sea.
But for thee is the vesture woven of such fair fortune. Be strong
In thy striving to stablish Kyrene in weal to continue long;
And of Homer’s sayings ponder thou this with diligent heed:—
“A prudent messenger bringeth,” he saith, “unto every deed
Honour exceeding goodly.” By a message rightly told
The Muse herself is exalted. Now Kyrene knoweth of old,
And the world-famed hall of Battus knoweth, how righteously
Demophilus ruled his spirit: a youth mid the youths was he
In years, albeit in counsel was he as an elder of days,
Yea, as one that through years a hundred hath run life’s weary race.
He silenceth slander; her blatant tongue is loud no more;
And insolence overweening hath he throughly learned to abhor:
He contendeth not with the noble; he lingereth no long space
In bringing a work to fulfilment;—for Opportunity stays
By a man but a fleeting moment: well is it marked of him still
How it waiteth on him as a helper, not as the slave of his will.
Of all gifts this is the saddest, to know what is best for man,
And yet that Fate the tyrant thy winning thereto should ban.
Ay, Atlas still stands straining beneath heaven’s crushing load,
From all his possessions exiled, from his ancestral abode.
Yet by Zeus ever-living the Titans were unchained; and as on time fleets,
With the lulling and veering of breezes may the shipmen shift the sheets.
And this thy banished one prayeth that, now that his cup of pain
Hath been drained to the dregs, he may look on the home of his youth again,
May have part by Apollo’s fountain in the feast, may yield his heart
To the joyance of youth, and mid burghers wise in the minstrel’s art
May hold in his hands the cithern cunningly carved, and to peace
May attain, doing hurt unto no man, and injured by none of these;
And shall tell how fair a fountain of song immortal he found
For Arkesilas, late welcomed by a friend on Theban ground.
V
For Arkesilas of Kyrene, on the same victory as the preceding ode. It was sung at Kyrene on the return of the charioteer Karrhotus, the king’s brother-in-law, and leader of his armies (according to the scholiast). He brought back his horses, but his chariot remained at Delphi, consecrated to Apollo.
Far-reaching power has wealth for him to whom
It comes, a gift that Destiny sends
With stainless honour linked: so leads he home
A charm that wins him friends.
Thon, O Arkesilas the heaven-blest,
Since from its first steps glory crowned
Thy life, hast held that boon of Heaven in quest,
Hast sought fair fame, and found,
With aid of Kastor of the chariot golden,
Who bade the wintry tempest cease,
And sheds upon thine hearthstone bliss-enfolden
Sunlight of skies of peace.
Whoso are noble bear with fairest grace
Such power as God bestows on thee;
And thou on paths of righteousness dost pace
Crowned with prosperity;
For over mighty cities king thou art;
And thy discernment eagle-eyed,
Inborn with thee, hath wedded to thine heart
Honour as to a bride.
And this day crowns thy bliss with triumph glorious
In Pythian Games by fleet steeds won.
Now hast thou welcomed home the chant victorious
As sweeps the revel on,
Phoebus’ delight. So, when the song they raise
Around Kyrene’s garden fair
Of Aphrodite, to give God the praise
For all, have thou a care.
And hold Karrhotus dearest friend, who brought
Not back, to cloak disaster’s shame,
Excuse, the child of late-wise Afterthought,
When to the halls he came
Of Battus’ sons, whose just rule lives in story;
But, hailed her guest by Kastaly’s Spring,
Won for thee with his car a crown of glory—
Thy car all-conquering!
With reins unsnapped through all that hallowed space
Around the courses twelve he swung,
Nor car nor harness brake he in the race,
But dedicate hath hung
On Phoebus’ wall the craftsmen’s masteries
Riding whereon he passed ere then
The hill of Krisa to the plain that lies
In the God’s bosomed glen.
The cypress shrine now hath them in possession
By that self-moulded statue placed
Which Cretan bowmen ’neath the roof Parnassian
Unto the God upraised.
Beseems that with blithe heart thou welcome one
Who hath done thee such service fair.
Splendour ye shed on Alexibius’ son,
O Graces of bright hair!
O happy thou, that after labour sore
Thou hast the praise of noblest song
To keep thy memory green! Mid those twoscore
Drivers, who mid the throng
Were hurled to earth, thou with a heart undaunted
Didst drive unscathed thy chariot on,
And now to Libya from Games glory-haunted
And thy sires’ home hast won.
No man is now, nor shall be, portionless
Of trouble: yet on Battus’ line
Still waits the olden bliss, though happiness
And grief may intertwine.
Kyrene’s warder-tower is this, a light
Of splendour on the stranger shed.
Yea, thunder-throated lions in affright
From Battus’ outcry fled—
That voice from overseas! Your founder Apollo
Thrilled them with dread, that on the word
Of prophecy might sure fulfilment follow
For him, Kyrene’s lord.
’Tis Phoebus gives to men and women skill
To heal all manner of disease;
He gave the lyre, he teacheth whom he will
All Song’s sweet melodies.
Into men’s hearts Fair Governance he brings,
Mother of peace: o’er Pytho’s cell
He broodeth, whence his voice prophetic rings.
In Sparta he made dwell,
In Argos, Pylos’ hallowed town, undaunted
Heracles’ and Aigimius’ line.
Now Sparta’s dear renown must needs be chanted
By her son’s lips, yea, mine.
Thence my forefathers sprang, the Aigeïdae,
Who, by the Gods’ grace destiny-led,
To Thera fared of old, whence also we
That Feast inherited
Of sacrifice wherein all people share,
And in thy feast Karneian, King
Apollo, of Kyrene builded fair
The glorious honour sing,
Where dwell the brazen-harnessed Trojan strangers,
Antenor’s sons, who fled the war
Wherein they saw Troy burnt, and came, sea-rangers,
With Helen from afar.
Kind welcome to that chariot-driving band
With gifts and sacrifice they gave
Whom Aristoteles brought to Libyan land
In swift ships o’er the wave,
Cleaving a deep path through the sea, and made
Greater the temple-groves divine,
And for the festival-processions laid
A paved road’s level line
For trampling steeds, and pilgrims magnifying
Apollo, Helper of our race.
There now in death apart is Battus lying
Hard by the market-place.
Blest was he while with men he found a home:
All reverence him, their hero, yet.
Apart from him is each king’s hallowed tomb
Before the palace set.
To them in Hades wins some echo through—
If such life-music reach the dead—
How prowess is besprent with kindly dew
Of victory-song outshed.
So theirs too is Arkesilas’ triumph-story,
The fame that justice doth award.
While chant the youths, ’tis meet he sing the glory
Of Phoebus Golden-sword,
He whom glad Pythian songs immortalize—
The victor’s guerdon for all pains.
I bat repeat the praises of the wise
In these my triumph-strains.
His mind, his tongue, transcend his spring of life;
In courage as a broad-winged erne
Mid weakling fowl, a tower in athlete-strife
No strength can overturn.
Even from his mother’s knee did he give token
Of wings with my Song-queens to soar:
Of his car-driving skill the praise is spoken
By this the wide world o’er.
And all paths that exalt his Libyan home
Hath he essayed. Now graciously
God perfecteth his powers. Through years to come,
Blest Kronos’ Sons, do ye
Vouchsafe to him alike with hand and mind
Still to excel. May his work stay,
Wrecked by no blast of devastating wind
In his life’s autumn-day.
The mighty mind of Zeus is ever guiding
Their destiny whom he loveth well.
To Battus’ seed may he grant fame abiding
Also in Pisa’s dell.
O gentle-hearted Queen of Peace, thou Daughter
Of Righteousness, to greatness dost thou raise
Cities: of counsel calm and war’s mad slaughter
The master-keys thou holdest. Of thy grace
Welcome the praise
Of Aristomenes, in athlete-strife
Won at the Pythian Games. Thou knowest truly
How to receive and give in season duly
The kindly courtesies that sweeten life.
Yet thou, whenever any man hath driven
Thine heart to righteous wrath, relentlessly,
Sternly against the might of foes hast striven:
Their insolence into the abyss of sea
Is hurled by thee.
Porphyrion had not learned thy mighty sway
When he provoked thy spirit overmeasure.
If willing be the giver, precious treasure
Is that which the receiver bears away.
But violence bringeth low the fool high-vaunting
At last. Cihcia’s spawn, that demon-thing,
Typhoeus hundred-headed, spirit-daunting,
Escaped not thee, nor yet the Giants’ king,
Whom lightning’s wing
And Phoebus’ shafts o’erthrew, though ne’er so strong.
Phoebus received with gracious condescending
Xenokrates’ son home from Kirrha wending
Crowned with Parnassian wreaths and Dorian song.
Ne’er hath she lost the favour of the Graces,
That isle which aye doth public faith uphold.
The Aiakids’ glory never she effaces:
Her fame abideth flawless as is told
In songs of old.
Rings down the years the music of her name:
They hymn the nurse of many an heir of glory
Who reaped renown in battle’s stormy story,
Who won the crown in many an athlete-game.
Yea, yet is she pre-eminent, a nation
Of men heroic—but the time would fail
If I should now essay the consecration
To lyre-strings and to song’s soft-rippling gale
Of all that tale,
Lest men’s ears should be overfilled the while
And envy vex us. Let the task yet lying
Before me speed on wings of poesy flying,
Thy due, boy, youngest glory of thine isle.
Thou in the wrestlers’ strife with feet unfailing
Followest thy mother’s brethren glory-hymned:
Theognotus at Olympia stood prevailing;
His, nor Kleitomachus’ fame by thee is dimmed,
The mighty-limbed
At Isthmus victor. The Midylid Clan
Dost thou exalt, who gainest that fruition
Of glory of which the Prophet spake in vision
Before Thebes’ gates, who saw in battle’s van
Them of the Second Race, sons of the Seven,
Who to avenge their sires from Argos came—
Spake riddling, while that first fight yet was striven:
“The spirit of their sires’ heroic fame
Brighter shall flame
Yet in the sons inborn. I see, I see
Alkmaion, with the iridescent-glancing
Dragon on his bright shield, foremost advancing
Through Kadmus’ rifted gates victoriously.
“But he, who in this war must flee the foemen,
Hero Adrastus—in that day I see
He is with tidings of far happier omen
Compassed as with a wreath of victory.
Yet also he
In his own house affliction’s cup shall drain;
For, of the Danaan host shall he, he only
Gather a slain son’s bones in anguish lonely,
Ere safe, with folk unscathed, he comes again
“By the Gods’ doom to Abas’ street-ways stately.”
So Amphiaraus spake. And also I
Cast on Alkmaion’s tomb, rejoicing greatly,
My wreaths of song: the dews of poesy
Thereon shall lie.
Neighbour and warder of my wealth is he,
Who met me to earth’s storied centre faring
With triumph-boding. Dead, he still is sharing
In his forefathers’ gift of prophecy.
But thou, Far-smiter, of whose presence haunted
Is that world-welcoming fane in Pytho’s glen,
Even there unto our champion hast thou granted
The greatest of all joys within the ken
Of mortal men.
In the home-isle, at Artemis’ Feast and thine
The Fivefold Contest’s prize by thee was given
To him, for which men passionately have striven.
O King, I pray thee, graciously incline
Thine eyes on each new song, that still my singing
May with the Muses peal in harmony.
Beside our revel-band of sweetly ringing
Voices, doth Justice pace. Ye Gods, hear me!
Oh let there be
No jealousy of thee in heavenly eyes,
Xenarkes, nor of thine! If one attaineth
Glory the which with no long toil he gaineth
To many a fool he seemeth to be wise.
Who think his own good counsel still begetteth
Triumph; yet not with man success is found:
God is the all-bestower; yea, he setteth
On high the low, abaseth the renowned
Even to the ground.
At Megara also didst thou win the prize;
In Marathon’s valley-nook thy name was glorious,
Aristomenes, and thou didst stand victorious
In thine own land at Hera’s contests thrice.
With purpose grim thou hurld’st thee, with fierce straining,
On four that met thee in the wrestling-ring,
Youths to whom was not given by Fate’s ordaining
From Pythian Games thy glad mien home to bring
Which now I sing;
Nor, as each fared back to his mother’s side,
Thrilled them with joy proud laughter softly pealing,
But from the sneers of foes through byways stealing
Heart-stung by their ill-hap in shame they hied.
He that in youth-tide’s bloom hath won so lately
Glory, is wont to be uplifted high
On wings of hope; his courage waxeth greatly
With lifting pinions: riches’ witchery
Doth he defy.
Yet ah, it is but for one little hour
That mortal bliss grows, not curse-overtaken.
In one short hour, as by an earthquake shaken,
’Tis hurled to the dust by adverse Destiny’s power.
What are we?—what not?—things in one day ending!
Man is a dream through shadows dimly seen.
But when a glory shines from God descending
Then rests on men a sunbright splendour-sheen
And life serene.
Speed thou, Aegina, mother love-adored,
This city on her voyage of freedom onward!
May Zeus’ and Aiakus’ blessing lift her sunward,
Peleus, Achilles, valiant Telamon ward!
Fain am I, by the favour of the Graces
Deep-girt, to chant aloud the victory won
By Telesikrates, Kyrene’s son,
At Pytho in the brazen-harnessed races.
His fortune fair I sing, and chant the glory
That crowns the city of the flying car,
Kyrene!—Her Apollo, saith the story,
The bright-haired Son of Leto, caught afar
From Pelion’s dells with echoing winds enfolden,
And bare her thence upon his chariot golden,
That huntress-maid, to where he made her queen
Of flocks and harvests in her wide demesne,
The third part of the great earth’s boundless bosom,
A root of leafage fair and lovely blossom.
Then welcomed Aphrodite silver-footed
Her Delian guest, and touched with fingers light
The car a God had fashioned starry-bright;
And o’er their bridal couch, the rapture-fruited,
The loveliness of shamefastness down-shedding
In bonds of mutual love she linked the twain,
The Archer-god unto the daughter wedding
Of Hypseus wide-dominioned, who did reign
In that day o’er the haughty Lapith nation,
A hero-son of the third generation
Of Ocean’s Lord. Him mid the mountain-dells
World-famed where mighty Pindus heavenward swells,
The child of Earth, Kreusa Fountain-maiden,
Bare to Peneius’ bed with sweetness laden.
His child Kjnrene of the arms of snow
Had little love for pacings to and fro
Before the loom, nor for feast-revelry
With maiden-friends home-keeping young as she;
But warring with bronze darts without surcease,
And with the hunter’s knife, that princess slew
Fierce beasts of prey. Ay, wide-spread was the peace
And restful that her father’s cattle knew.
But little wasted she upon her eyes
Of slumber, restfellow that sweetly lies
On tired ones, when Dawn’s feet prepare to climb the skies.
Where gloomed the forest-solitudes around her
She grappled a fierce lion once in fight
Spearless. Then He of the far arrow-flight,
Apollo, God of the wide quiver, found her.
Straightway amazement-stricken did he cry on
Cheiron, whose rocky hall was hard thereby:
“Leave thou thine hallowed cave, O Philyra’s scion;
Gaze on the mighty strength with wondering eye
Of yonder woman, how with brow undaunted
She wages conflict grim! Not terror-haunted
Her spirit is in peril’s tempest-rush:
Her iron heart no weight of toil can crush!
What sire begat a child so lion-hearted?
From what strong kindred is she exile-parted,
“That now in hidden folds she should be dwelling
Of hills dark-shadowed? She puts to the test
Strength limitless! Doth it beseem the Blest
To lay on her his glorious hands all-quelling
Even now, or rather to pluck this sweet flower
Of spousal rites upon a bridal bed?”
Came on the Centaur inspiration’s power,
And in the wisdom of his heart he said,
“With eyes beneath his kindly brow soft-smiling:
Phoebus, the keys of Suasion heart-beguiling
That ope the portal of love’s sanctities
Are from the light withheld. A shame it is
For Gods or men to leap to love’s fruition
First in broad day, dishonouring Night’s sweet mission.
“Now even thee, whose tongue hath never lied,
Nor can, thy softened mood hath turned aside
To utter feignèd speech. Thou askest, King,
The maiden’s lineage!—thou to whom everything
Is known, all issues whereto all things tend,
All paths that lead thereto through all the world:
How many leaves earth up to light doth send
In spring, the number of the sand-grains hurled
Down seas and streams when waves wind-driven rise,
And what shall come to pass and whence—thine eyes
See clearly. Yet, if I must match me against the wise,
“I will speak on. To this glade sombre-shady
Thou cam’st to espouse her; yea, and thou shalt bear
Her overseas unto the garden fair
Of Zeus, where thou shalt make her royal lady
Of a new city. Thou shalt gather thither
An isle-folk round its plain-encircled hill.
And that land’s queen, content to queen it with her,
Libya of broad meads, shall with gracious will
Welcome thy glorious bride in golden bower.
And there the lady Libya shall, for dower,
Give her a portion of the land to be
Lawful domain beneath her sovereignty,
Land rich in tribute of all plants fruit-laden
And wildwood-prowlers for thine huntress-maiden.
“There shall she bear the son whom thou hast given,
Whom glorious Hermes in his hour of birth
Shall from his mother take, and bear to Earth
And to the Hours, the splendour-throned in Heaven.
And while upon their knees thy child is lying
Soft-cradled, these between his lips shall pour
Ambrosia and nectar; so undying,
Even as a God, shall he be evermore,
As Zeus, as holy Apollo: sweetest, dearest
To all his friends, to their hearts ever nearest.
Nomeus, ‘flock-warder,’ Agreus, these shall name
Thy son, as Aristaius those acclaim.”
His words spurred on the God’s heart passion-thrilling
To bring to pass the bridal’s sweet fulfilling.
Swift are the acts of Gods, and short their ways
Whose purposes to their fulfilment race.
That selfsame day saw Love his goal attain;
For in a golden chamber were the twain
Made one, in Libya’s bower, whence she looks down
On a fair city famed in athlete-rings.
Kameades’ son hath linked Kyrene’s town
At Pytho with the fair flower fortune brings.
His victory there hath published wide her name.
The city of fair girls with glad acclaim
Greets him who brings to her from Delphi lovely fame.
Great deeds of prowess lure the bard unwitting
To lengthen out his strain; yet brevity
Grace-clad the wise hear most acceptably.
In everything to grasp the season fitting
Crowneth the emprise. Thebe seven-gated
Knew it; nor Iolaus failed to tread
That path. He clave Eurystheus’ head all-hated
With the keen sword; but when himself lay dead,
Then Thebe buried him with honour, heaping
His grave-mound where Amphitryon lay sleeping,
Her chariot-chief—that tomb wherein did rest
His father’s father, he who was the guest
Of the Sown Men, lords of white steeds, who greeted
That hero well in Thebe stately-streeted.
To him and Zeus did royal-souled Alkmena
In love united, in one travail bear
The might of twin sons: conquerors they were
Ever, these twain, in battle’s grim arena.
A dullard is the man who never raiseth
His voice to sing the deeds of Heracles,
And Dirke’s streams remembereth not nor praiseth
Whose Fountain-maid reared him and Iphikles.
Unto these now will I uplift a chanting
Of triumph-song for that their gracious granting
Of vows’ fulfilment. On me may your light,
O Graces ringing-voiced, shine ever bright!
Aegina and Nisus’ Hill have heard me singing
Three times ere this, Kyrene’s praise outringing.
And so the impotence that is the shame
Of tongue-tied bards do I escape. I claim
That citizens, friends or foes, shall ne’er conceal
Good work accomplished for the common weal,
That jealousy set not at nought the rede
Of that old Sea-god: “Give whole-hearted praise,
If justice claim it, for each noble deed,
Even to a foe—dispraise is thy disgrace!”
Our maids at Pallas’ yearly feasts saw thee
Full oft victorious, and prayed silently,
Telesikrates, that such their spouse or son might be.
In Games Olympian thine was fame far-ringing,
And in the lists beside Earth’s central stone,
And in the land thou claimest for thine own:—
But lo, as I would quench my thirst for singing,
I hear a voice that speaks of old-time glory
That bids me pay a debt, recall the pride
Of thy forefathers, bids me tell the story
How, for the winning of a Libyan bride,
Hasted to Irasa’s city many a lover
Of a fair-haired one famed the wide world over,
Drawn thither for Antaius’ daughter’s sake,
Whom many a gallant kinsman fain would take
To wife, and many in far countries dwelling;
For wondrous was her beauty, past all telling.
With passionate longing for love’s fruit they sought her,
This mortal Hebe of the Golden Crown.
Howbeit a marriage of more high renown
Her father purposed for his princess-daughter.
For he had heard how Danaus meditated
At Argos how should spousal-rites be won
For eight-and-forty daughters yet unmated,
Ere their life’s noontide should have come and gone,
And how he compassed this with no delaying.
For at the limits of the lists arraying
The throng of suitors of the maidens sweet,
He bade them by contention of swift feet
Decide which several daughter should be given
To each whose feet had for the guerdon striven.
So would that lord of Libya-land decide
Between those suitors for a princess-bride.
He set the maid bedecked with gold and gem
To be the goal and prize, and cried to them
That he should lead her home who foremost sped
And touched her robes. Of all that suitor-band
Alexidamus’ swift feet foremost fled,
And his hand clasped the noble maiden’s hand,
And led her through the Nomad horse-array.
Leaves many and wreaths upon him showered they,
Ay, many a victory-plume had he won ere that day.
X
For Hippokleas of Thessaly, on his victory in the quarter-mile race for boys, 498 BC. The expenses of the composition and performance of this ode since the winner’s family were not in a position to meet them) were, for the honour of his country, borne by Thorax, head of the Aleuadae Clan, the aristocratic rulers of Larissa. These claimed descent from Perseus, through Heracles.
Happy is Sparta, and blessed is Thessaly, seeing there reigneth
In one and the other a race descended from Heracles.
Is not the vaunt out of season? O nay, for a summons constraineth
Me from Pelinna and Pytho and sons of Aleuas, for these
Would bring to Hippokleas chanting of victory-choruses.
He hath tasted the joy of the athlete: the gorge of Parnassus hath hailed him
To the host of the dwellers around as first in the boys’ double-race.
Sweet, O Apollo, man’s work is when God’s strong help hath availed him,
Sweet in beginning and end; and this he achieved by thy grace;
And his prowess inborn in the print of the feet of his father doth pace.
For twice in Olympia’s contests in armour of battle-biding
Ares did Phrikias run: in the mead under Kirrha’s rock hiding
Were the feet of the father winged with the might of victory.
So ever may fortune fair follow these in the days to be!
So may their splendour of wealth ever bloom as the flower-starred lea.
Of the blessings delightsome of Hellas may these win no small measure!
No jealous repen tings of Gods turn ever to darkness their light!
Sooth, a God’s heart only is painless; yet he winneth happiness’ treasure,
And is hymned of the singers, whose prowess of hands or of feet to the height
Of athlete-triumph hath climbed by his courage and bodily might,
And he who hath lived to behold a son by Fate’s favour attaining
The Pythian crown. Heaven’s towers are for mortals unscaleable aye;
Yet all havens of splendour a mortal may sail to are his for the gaining
But neither the journeying foot nor the galley, quest as they may,
To the Rest-land Auroral shall find the mvstery-hidden way.
Yet did Perseus the war-chief feast in their halls, and their sacrificing
Behold, as from altars he saw the smoke of ass-hecatombs rising
Unto Apollo; yea, and the God hath delight evermore
In the festival-banquets of these, and their chants that heavenward soar;
And he laugheth beholding the beasts as they wanton with ramp and roar.
Yea, and the Muse from their lives is not exiled, but circlewise winding
Dances of maidens sweep, and the voice of the lyre rings clear,
And the notes of the pipe, and their tresses with golden bay-leaves binding
Blithely they banquet, nor eld nor wasting disease draw near
To that hallowed folk, but from toil and from clash of sword and spear
Dwell they afar, and the tyrannous Goddess of Retribution
They escape. To that happy folk of old fared Danae’s son
Guided on by Athene, and breathing an aweless heart’s resolution.
And the Gorgon he slew, and he bare that head which luridly shone
With serpents that dealt to the island people a death of stone.
So the Gods but accomplish it, nought is too hard for our credence and wonder.
Now stay the car. Muse; from the prow slip the anchor to grapple thereunder
The sea-floor, to guard thee against the reef that lurking lies.
For the flower-sweet glory of this my song ever restlessly flies
From legend to legend, a bee with honey-laden thighs.
O, I trust that, the while the lips of Ephyra’s singers are pouring
My sweet strains forth by the side of Peneius, my songs may make
Hippokleas by age-mates and elders more honoured, with eyes adoring
Looked on by maidens young, for his victory-garlands’ sake.
Men’s hearts do diverse temptations with longing captive take;
But the prize for which each man hath striven, and won, is the soul-alluring
Desire of his heart for the hour that is present—yet what the tide
Of time in a year shall bring, none knoweth. Ah, but enduring
Shall be Thorax’ friendship, I trust! On this car of the Muses I ride
By the help he hath rendered, a friend to a friend, and a guide to a guide.
As gold by the touchstone tried is the soul that from right never falters.
His noble brethren withal will we praise, the princely exalters
Of Thessaly’s commonweal, which ever they magnify.
Yea, best in the hands of highborn men doth the piloting lie
Of cities wherein their fathers have ruled in the years gone by.
XI
For Thrasydaius of Thebes, on his victory in the Boys’ foot-race, 474 BC. Sung at Thebes in a procession to the temple of Apollo.
Daughters of Kadmus!—Semele borne mid flame
To Olympus’ streets—White Goddess whose earth-name
Was Ino, who dost share the hyaline caves
Of Nereus’ daughters, maidens of the waves;
Come with the mother of that mighty son
Heracles: pace to Melia’s temple on.
Come to the treasure-house of tripods golden
Which Loxias hath in chiefest honour holden,
And named the Shrine Ismenian, the home
Of truthful oracles. Ye children come
Born of Harmonia! Lo, he doth command
The host of goddess-heroines of the land
To gather to his temple, that at fall
Of eventide ye may with one voice all
Of holy Themis sing, of Pytho’s visions,
And of Earth’s Heart that giveth just decisions.
Of seven-gated Thebes the glory sing,
And of the strife in Kirrha’s athlete-ring
Wherein hath Thrasydaius made renowned
His sire’s hearth, for the third time garland-crowned
In those rich fields where Pylades the loyal
Welcomed the heir to Sparta’s sceptre royal,
Orestes: him his nurse Arsinoe
Rescued from the fierce hands, the treachery
Most foul of Klytaemnestra, when she laid
The young child’s father dead with murderous blade,
And when with the pale-gleaming bronze she sped
To Acheron’s shadowy margent of the dead
Kassandra, Dardanid Priam’s prophet-daughter
With Agamemnon’s soul, in one red slaughter
Wrought by a ruthless woman. Was she stung
By heavy-handed wrath, to life that sprung
When on the altar Iphigeneia lay
Beside Euripus’ sea-gorge, far away
From her own land? Or was she adultery’s thrall
Passion-seduced to sin beneath night’s pall?—
For brides new-wedded hatefullest transgression,
Not to be hidden, made the world’s possession
By scandal-gloating neighbours’ tongues: for spite
Of jealousy clings cloudlike to the height
Of royal station. Of the common herd
The sins and follies pass unmarked, unheard.
So, after ten long years returned, to die on
His own hearthstone in Amyklae, Atreus’ scion,
And drew to death with him the prophetess-maid,
When he, avenging Helen’s rape, had laid
Low all Troy’s homes delectable in flame.
But that child-head, his son Orestes, came
Safe to old Strophius, his father’s guest,
Who in the vale dwelt ’neath Parnassus’ crest.
And the years watched that murderess, till they brought her
A son to join with hers her paramour’s slaughter.
Surely, O friends, where brancheth into twain
One track, in wilderment have I in vain
Sought the straight path I travelled hitherto!
Was it some wind that from the right course blew
Me, as a boat drifts chartless o’er the sea?
Nay, Muse, ’tis thine, if thou for silver fee
Didst covenant to uplift thy voice in singing,
To send it this way now, now that way ringing,
Now to the father’s wreath at Pytho won,
To Thrasydaius now, his victor son.
Gladness and glory ever shine on these:
Erewhile they won proud chariot-victories
When down Olympus’ world-famed course went dashing
Their horses’ splendour of swiftness sunlike-flashing.
Last, mid disvestured runners forth they came
In Pytho’s athlete-lists, and put to shame
A host of Hellene rivals by their speed.
God grant that I may crave such prowess-meed
As fits with honour, while life’s tree is green
May seek things possible. Still have I seen,
In all states, happiest is the middle station,
But despotism hath my condemnation.
The general good I seek with my whole might.
So baffled is infatuate envy’s spite,
When he who hath climbed high holds his spirit’s reins,
And the brute pride of arrogance restrains.
So, when his feet draw nigh the last long home,
More bright and fair to him shall dark death come,
Who to his nearest and his dearest leaveth
A good name—costlier treasure none receiveth.
’Tis this hath raised above the common throng
Iolaus Iphikles’ son renowned in song;
So Kastor’s might lives on in poesy’s strain,
And thine, King Polydeukes, god-born twain,
Who in the tomb lie through one day of sorrow,
On whom Heaven’s glory shineth on each morrow.
