Chapter_259

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Hear! for our ploughshare is sundering

The glebe-furrows of starry-eyed

Aphrodite, where Graces guide

Our feet drawing nigh to the shrine

At the navel of earth hollow-thundering,

Where for Emmenus’ heaven-blest line

And for Akragas’ city enfolden

By her river, and, more than all,

For Xenocrates, riseth the hall

Of a treasure-house song-upholden

In Apollo’s glen of the golden

Gifts gracing his temple-wall.

That treasure no rain-storm, hurling

Its pitiless hosts from the cloud

Amid thunders crashing loud

Shall sweep to abysses of sea

By the storm-wind with shingle-drift swirling;

But the porch of our treasury

In brightness unsullied shall flame, it

Shall publish the triumph afar,

Thrasybulus, won by thy car

In Krisa; and men shall acclaim it

For thy sire and thy kindred, shall name it

Their glory, their splendour-star.

At thy right hand thou settest him ever,

And so by the charge dost thou hold

Which of yore mid the hills, it is told.

To Achilles the child left lone

Did Philyra’s son deliver,

Unto Peleus’ mighty son:

“First of Abiders in Heaven

Kronion do thou adore

Lord of the thunder’s roar,

And be reverence alway given

Unto thy parents, even

To the end, till life be o’er.”

This selfsame spirit aforetime

Did mighty Antilochus bear:

For his father’s sake did he dare

That Aethiop chief’s death-stroke

When Memnon prevailed in the war-time.

For trammelled was Nestor’s yoke

By the steed on the red earth lying

By the arrow of Paris shot.

Ever nearer was havoc wrought

By the lance that Memnon was plying;

And the sire to his son spake, crying

For help, being terror-distraught.

That cry on the air was not wasted;

But withstanding a mightier alone,

His father’s life with his own

That godlike son redeemed,

And death’s cup of glory he tasted.

So in after days he seemed

To the sons of each new generation

In those old times bygone

Ever the noblest son

In filial love’s consecration.

Now⁠—by none out of any nation

Is Thrasybulus outdone

In the duty ordained of our fathers.

With his sire’s brother’s glory he vies,

Is in usance of wealth ever wise,

Nor in arrogance lawlessly

Grasps at youth’s pleasures, but gathers

Flower-wisdom of poesy

To the Muses’ hid garden ascending.

And he draweth nigh unto thee,

O Earth-shaker, Lord of the sea,

In thy chariot-contests contending.

More sweet is his guest-befriending

Than the celled honeycomb of the bee.