The Isthmian Odes
Mother mine, O Thebe of shield all-golden,
Me shall thy sovran behest embolden,
How full soever mine hands be, to lay
All other service aside for to-day.
O Delos, thou for whose exaltation
Hath my soul been outpoured, have no indignation!
What to a son true-hearted can be
More dear than a mother? Ah, yield to my plea,
Isle of Apollo! By grace of Heaven
Shall coupled fulfilment ere long be given
Unto hymnal-homages twain by me,
When to Him of the hair unshorn I come paying
Due honour with choral dance-arraying
In Keos by sea-waves weltered about—
Strains hailed by her shipmen with jubilant shout—
And honour the Isthmian ridge that doth sunder
Two seas that against its crag-walls thunder.
To Kadmus’ people from Isthmus have gone
Six crowns in her athlete-contests won
To grace with triumphant victory’s glory
My motherland, where, as is told in story,
Of Alkmena was born that aweless son
At whom quaked Geryon’s Hounds, that never had quaked before.
For Herodotus frame I an honour-lay, for his four-horse team,
And the reins that himself swayed, needing none other man’s chariot-lore.
I will sing so that he as a Kastor or lolaus shall seem;
For these of all heroes were mightiest charioteers on earth.
Unto the one Lacedaemon, Thebes to the other gave birth.
More athlete-contests did these adventure
Than any of champions beside dared enter,
And with brazen tripods their halls they graced,
And with cauldrons and goblets of gold rich-chased;
For they tasted the rapture of strife victorious,
And they bore thence garlands of triumph glorious;
And ever their prowess shone clear and bright,
Alike in the course where in eagle-flight
Raced runners with vestureless limbs white-flashing,
And when with the shields on their shoulders clashing
Men ran arrayed in the harness of fight,
And in all the deeds of their hands—in hurling
The javelin, and when they sped far-whirling
Across the field the discus of stone:—
For as yet was no fivefold contest known;
But each of the several strifes was striven
By itself, and to each was its own prize given.
So, many a time and oft, their hair
Wreathed with the victory-garlands fair,
These twain where Dirke’s fount upleapeth,
Or where Eurotas’ swift flood sweepeth,
Bowed thanking the nurturing waters there,
By Dirke, Iphikles’ son, his descent from the Dragon who drew;
By Eurotas, Tyndareus’ scion, who dwelt the Achaians among,
In his highland home of Therapnae. And now farewell unto you!
O’er Poseidon and holy Isthmus I cast the mantle of song,
And over Onchestus’ shores; and as this man’s honours I tell,
I will sing of the fate to Asopodorus his sire that befell.
And Orchomenus’ fields in my lay shall be chanted,
Henceforth by his father’s memory haunted,
Who was cast on her strand, a shipwrecked wight,
From the boundless waters, in evil plight;
But with welcoming kindness that land embraced him.
Yet his house’s fortune hath now upraised him
To behold once more the unclouded ray
Of prosperity’s sun of the former day.
Yea, he who hath suffered sore tribulation
Wins forethought for pain’s one compensation.
And bears it thenceforth in his heart for aye.
If a man seek noble achievement’s attaining,
With his soul’s full energies upward straining,
Unsparing alike of cost and pains,
Meet is it that when at the last he gains
The prize, our ennobling praise he inherit
Lavished on him with ungrudging spirit.
For easy it is for the bard inspired,
When by hard toil won is the goal desired,
To acclaim his endeavours with glad laudation,
And, along with the man, that the fame of his nation
Be set on high to be world-admired.
Sweet unto diverse men is the meed that from labour they reap,
To the shepherd, the ploughman, the fowler, to him who is fed from the sea.
Yet of these each strives but the wolf of hunger at bay to keep;
But who wins in the Games renown, or in battle victory,
When all men extol his achievement, receiveth the highest gain,
For praises as flowers on his head do strangers and citizens rain.
O, well it beseemeth our lips, the awaking
Of thanksgiving-praise to the King earth-shaking,
Who is also our neighbour, Kronos’ son,
He who sped of his kindness our chariots on,
Who is God of the swift steed goalward racing.
Meet is it withal that our song be praising,
Amphitryon, those great sons of thine,
And the Minyan valley’s recess divine,
And Eleusis’ Grove world-celebrated
To the Goddess Demeter consecrated,
And Euboea’s course’s curving line.
And with these I acclaim, as in holy paean,
Thy sacred precinct by heroes Achaean
Reared, Protesilaus, in Phylake.
But to tell over every victory
Which Hermes the Lord of the Games hath given
To the steeds that in many a race have striven
To win for Herodotus triumph’s bay,
The narrowing limits of this my lay
Take from me. Yea, and often the keeping
Of silence bringeth a richer reaping
Of joy, seeing Envy is balked of her prey.
Upborne on the shining wings of the sweet-voiced Muses nine,
With garlands from Pytho, with choicest wreaths from Alpheus’ flood
And Olympia’s contests won, may he his hands entwine
For the honour of Thebes seven-gated. But if one secretly brood
Over hoarded wealth, and at other men mouth, he considereth not
That to death he is rendering up his soul—and his name shall rot.
The singers of old, Thrasybulus, who mounted the car of the Queens of Song,
The golden-tired, giving voice to the ringing lyre and the tuneful tongue,
Shot lightly the arrows of honey-sweet strains in the fair one’s praise,
Whosoever by bright summer-bloom of lovely form and face
Stirred hearts to dream upon splendour-throned Aphrodite’s grace.
For then was the Muse not yet a lover of gain, nor a hireling was she.
Nor then honey-throated Terpsichore sold the melting melody
Of her lays, nor with faces silver-masked did they tread the stage.
But now she biddeth us heed the word of the Argive sage
Which cometh all too near to the truth in this our age:
“ ’Tis money, ’tis money that maketh the man!” he said,
When his friends forsook him so soon as his wealth had fled.
But enough—thou art wise. O, famous afar
Is the Isthmian victory won by the car
Thy swift steeds drew, that I sing.
For Poseidon gave to thy sire renown,
And the Dorian garland, the parsley crown
O’er Xenokrates’ hair did he fling.
And so did he honour the lord of the goodly chariot, Akragas’ star.
And at Krisa looked down on him graciously Apollo prevailing afar,
And gave to him glory. In gleaming Athens did he attain
Mid the sons of Erechtheus the grace of triumph; nor might he complain 20
Of the skill of the hands that lashed his horses and swayed the rein,
Nikomachus’ hands, that gave to his steeds full rein at the moment due,
He whom the truce-bearing heralds Elean of Zeus Kronion knew,
Who publish the Season of Games; for his hospitality well
They remembered; and sweetly their voices proclaimed o’er the hallowed dell
His triumph, when he on the lap of golden Victory fell
In their land, which they name the Grove of Olympus’ Lord,
Where the sons of Aenesidamus gained the award
Of honours whose memory aye is enscroUed.
For, O Thrasybulus, known from of old
To the halls of thine ancient line
Is the winsome charm of the song that leaps
From the lips, as on the procession sweeps
In triumph for victory—thine!
For not uphillward nor steep is the path, if the bard is fain to guide
The feet of the praises of Helicon’s Maids with famous men to abide.
May song’s shaft sped from mine hand as far past all else fly
As in sweetness of spirit unto Xenokrates none came nigh.
Amidst of his townsmen ever a prince of courtesy,
After the wont of the Panhellenes horse-rearing he fostered still:
He was constant at every feast of the Gods: no wind’s breath blew so chill
On his guest-fain board as to make him furl his canvas-spread;
But far as the Phasis in summertide’s gales the fame of him sped.
And in wintertide anchored his guest-renown in broad Nile’s bed.
What though the cravings of envy like veils bedim
The vision of many men’s souls?—ah, never let him
Hush into coward silence the praise
Of his father’s prowess, nor these my lays!
Not statue-like idly to stand
Did I fashion them! Nikesippus, bear
This, to my loyal friend to declare,
When thou comest to that far land.
What man soever hath prospered in winning prizes of high renown
In the Games, or is mighty in wealth, who yet in his spirit crusheth down
Pestilent arrogance, worthy is he to be graced with his townsmen’s praise;
For of thee, O Zeus, all excellence cometh that mortal men doth upraise;
And longer abideth their bliss who reverence thee: with the froward-hearted
Through life it abides not, but lo, as a suddenly vanishing dream hath departed.
It beseems that in guerdon of glorious achievement the deeds of the valiant we sing;
It beseems that mid triumph-procession with grace of loving welcoming
Should our praises conspire to exalt him! In contests twain hath fortune fair
Favoured Melissus, to turn his heart to delightsome joy from care.
In the glens of the Isthmus he won for him crowns: where the thunder-throated lion
Prowled through the cavernous Nemean dell, he proclaimed him Thebe’s scion
In the chariot-contest triumphant. He bringeth
No stain on the mighty name
Of the prowess his sires made glorious
Of old. Well know ye the fame
Which Kleonymus won, as the old lay singeth
How his chariot raced victorious.
By the mother akin to the Labdakid Clan, they walked in the ways of wealth, and they trained
With manifold toil the yoke of four.
But time with its onward-rolling days bringeth change upon change: unscarred, unpained
Are none but the Gods’ seed evermore.
By grace of the Gods there be countless paths far-spreading before my feet;
But, Melissus, thou at the Isthmian Games hast shown me a highway meet
Whereon to follow in song the track of the prowess of thy line
Wherein the sons of Kleonymus ever have prospered by help divine,
And so pass on to the term of mortal life; but ever shifting
Are the winds of fate that swoop upon man, and drive him chartless-drifting.
Ay, the story of these from of yore is told, how with honour in Thebes they were named.
Warders they were of the tribes dwelling round, and in arrogance brawling unshamed
No part they had; and what records soever there be of the men which have died,
Or of yet living men, such as fly wind-blown through the whole world far and wide,
Records of limitless glory, these they attained in their fullness receiving:
Yea, Heracles’ Pillars they touched by the gallant deeds of their line’s achieving;—
But let none press on to achievement that reacheth
Farther beyond that bound!—
And in that house many a lover
Of the rearing of steeds was found.
And they joyed in the lore that the War-god teacheth.
But ere one day’s hours passed over,
The merciless sleet-laden tempest of war had bereft of hero-scions four
That hearth once happy; but now again
After the wintry gloom of the months of changeful vesture, the earth once more
Hath blossomed with roses of crimson grain
By the will of Heaven. The Shaker of Earth, who hath at Onchestus his halls,
And whose mansion is on the sea-lashed ridge afront of Corinth’s walls,
Even he bestoweth upon that house this hymn of wondrous praise,
And the olden glory of far-famed deeds from her bed doth he upraise
Where erst she had fallen on sleep, but now is awakened, and shines resplendent
Over all her form, as the Morning Star mid the stars is a light transscendent—
That olden glory which even on Athens’ fields proclaimed the renown
Of a chariot-triumph; then in Adrastus’ Games at Sikyon-town
Gave wreathed leaves of such old-time song as these of our own days are.
Nor yet at the national contests failed they to ride the curved car;
But they joyed in contending with all the Hellenes, in spending on steeds their treasure.
But unhonoured, unsung, is the man that spareth his might against others to measure.
Yea, even when champions in strife be contending,
Till the end in uncertainty
Her face Queen Fortune veileth;
For triumph now giveth she
And anon defeat; but at whiles in the ending
The craft of the weaker prevaileth
To cast to the earth the stronger. Ye know of the prowess of Aias the blood-stained fame,
How, when the night was now far spent,
He cast himself on his own sword, thereby bringing reproach and abiding shame
On the sons of Hellenes that Troy ward went.
But lo, he is honoured of Homer the wide world over, who set on high
All knightly prowess of Aias; and his god-gifted poesy
Hath taught the measure whereby all other bards must frame the lay:
For a noble song passeth down the years with a voice that liveth for aye,
And over the harvest-abounding earth, and across the sea for ever
Goeth the sunbright shining of noble deeds, to be quenchèd never.
May the Muses to us be gracious, that so we may kindle a beacon-light
Of song for Melissus, a wreath that shall worthily crown the pankratian might
Of the son of the House of Telesias; for he showeth in conflict’s toil
The courage of roaring lions, and coupled therewith the fox’s guile
Who lies on his back, so holding at bay the eagle’s swoop down-rushing.
So cunning and strength must alike be used for the adversary’s crushing.
For not by nature was this man dowered
With Orion’s giant height;
Mean was he to outward showing,
But with iron-heavy might
In the grapple his foe he overpowered.
So of old for Antaius’ o’erthrowing
To his dwelling in Libya’s corn-land came a man low-statured, a hero who bore
A spirit unflinching in conflict-strain,
A scion of Thebes whose wrestling-grip should for ever stay him from roofing o’er
With the skulls of strangers Poseidon’s fane,
Even the son of Alkmena, who passed to Olympus after that he
Had tracked all lands, and traversed the cliff-walled face of the surf-white sea,
Had slain the sea-rovers, and safe for voyagers made the sea’s highway.
And now by the Aegis-bearer in glorious bliss he dwelleth for aye,
As a friend is honoured of all the Immortals, with Hebe hath made affiance,
Is lord of a golden palace, is kinsman to Hera by spousal-alliance.
For him above the Elektran Gate we burghers the feast prepare,
And the crown-like ring of the altars newly-built will we set to him there,
And our sacrifices will offer for those eight bronze-mailed heroes who died,
Whom Megara, Kreon’s daughter, bare, that mighty Hero’s bride—
They unto whom at the sun’s down-going the nightlong flame is uplifted,
And with odorous reek its smoke is lashing the welkin, through cloudland drifted.
Then on the second day is holden
The struggle of athlete-might,
The crown of the year’s games ended.
There with his brows made bright
With leaves of the myrtle-wreath enfolden
Twin triumphs Melissus blended,
When already among the boys he had won another by heeding diligently
The words of the wisely-counselling tongue
Of the pilot trainer who steered his course: with Melissus Orseas’ name join I
As I shed on them grace of delightsome song.
Theia of many names, O mother of the Sun,
Men set their stamp on gold for love of thee,
Of all things precious counting this the mightiest one;
Yea, and in rivalry,
Queen, for thy brightness on the sea do galleys clash in wars,
And in the whirling fight are marvels wrought by battle-cars.
He in the contests of the Games achieves renown
Desired of all, who hath won victory’s meed
By hands that wreathed his head with many a crown,
Or by his fleet foot’s speed.
’Tis Heaven awards each prize of strength: two things alone there be
That make life’s loveliest blossoms blow in wealth’s flower-spangled lea,
To have good hap and reputation fair.
Seek not to be as Zeus; all things are thine
If to thee falls of these best gifts thy share;
For mortal bounds must mortal men confine.
But, O Phylakidas, for thee at Isthmus lies in store
A twofold meed of fadeless fame, at Nemea for you twain,
For thee and Pytheas, crowns pankratian. Oh, mine heart no more
Rapture of song can taste, except the Aiakids swell the strain.
Led by the Graces I, by sons of Lampon summoned o’er,
To this, the city of fair governance, came. If she
To the clear path of deeds that Gods inspire
Hath turned her steps, grudge not the wine of minstrelsy,
Her valour’s glory-hire.
Yea, for in days heroic her brave sons earned glory’s crown,
And lyre and flute-notes manifold still peal out their renown
Through years past numbering. By Zeus Kronion’s grace
A new theme Oineus’ mighty sons have found
For bards inspired: Aetolians still with altar-blaze
Worship the world-renowned;
And chariot-speeding Iolaus still is Thebe’s pride,
Of Argos Perseus, Leda’s sons Eurotas’ stream beside.
And still Oenone worships the renown
Of Aiakus and his sons high-hearted, they
Who in stern battle sacked the Trojans’ town
First, when with Heracles they faced the fray,
Then, with the sons of Atreus:—upward wing, O Muse, thy flight!
Tell who were they before whom Kyknus fell, and Hector died.
Who smote the dauntless chief who led the Aethiop hosts to fight,
Memnon the brazen-mailed? And who, Kaïkus’ stream beside,
Met valiant Telephus, and with resistless spear did smite?
Even they whose home my lips proclaim the glorious isle
Aegina!—that tower builded long ago
For heroism’s feet to scale her stately pile.
My tongue’s true-aiming bow
Hath many a shaft whose flight shall sing their praise: yea, Aias’ state
Can witness how her shipmen’s prowess saved from thraldom’s fate
Salamis in that ruin-tempest heaven-sent,
When slaughter’s hailstorm did on myriads fall—
Yet hush, O lips of mine, the vaunt irreverent!
Is not Zeus Lord of all?
He ordereth this and that. These late-won honours gladly hail
Sweet song that hymns the victor’s joy. Now, whoso hears the tale
Of this Kleonikus’ house, e’en let him dare
The athlete-strife! Not dulled is yet the fame
Of their long toils! Nought for the cost they care:
No power hath this their fiery hopes to tame!
Yea, also Pytheas do I praise, who schooled unerringly
His brother’s hands to deal the blows whereby Phylakidas bare
To earth the limbs of rivals—ah, a cunning fighter he!
Ho, take for him a crown, and bring the fleecy fillet fair!
With song fresh-pinioned speed him on his path of victory!
As they do in a banquet of men when the revelry runneth high,
So do we mingle a second bowl of the Song-queen’s strain.
Unto Tampon’s athlete-seed do we render honour thereby.
Our first was outpoured to thee, Zeus, in the day that saw us gain
The crown of all crowns at Nemea; the second this day pour we
To the Lord of the Isthmus and Nereus’ fifty Maids of the Sea
For the House’s youngest scion Phylakidas’ victory.
Oh may we make ready a third for the Saviour Olympus’ Lord!
So may a libation of honey-sweet songs on Aegina be poured!
For if one of the sons of men who exults in the cost and the toil
Attain to achievement that shall like a god-built tower stand,
And with Heaven’s help plant the seed of renown in a fruitful soil,
God-honoured he casteth his anchor on Fortune’s farthest strand.
Unto such desires to attain this son of Kleonymus prays
Or ever he cometh with death or with hoar hairs face to face.
And of Klotho enthroned on high this day I implore her grace,
Praying her and her sister Fates propitiously now to draw near
To the heavenward-ringing petition of him that I hold so dear.
And you, O Aiakus’ sons, upon golden chariots mounted,
I deem it a sacred ordinance laid most clearly on me,
Whensoe’er I set foot on your isle, to shower on you praise; for uncounted
Highways of five-score feet stretch farther than eye can see
For your noble achievements: they pass to southward beyond Nile’s fountains,
And away to the land lying north of where Boreas leaps from his mountains.
No city there is so uncouth of speech, but hath heard the story
Of the blest one, spouse of a Goddess, of hero Peleus’ glory,
And hath heard of Aias Telamon’s scion, and Aias’ sire.
Him did Alkmena’s son, to requite Laomedon’s lie,
Lead with his warriors of Tiryns, an ally whose soul was afire
For the joy of the harness of battle, in galleys led him to Troy,
To the land of heroes’ travail. So Pergamus-city was laid
In the dust by Heracles’ might. Thereafter, with Telamon’s aid,
The tribes of the Meropes slew he, against him in battle arrayed,
And the herdman huge as a mountain, Alkyoneus, whom he found
In Phlegra, and spared not his bowstring’s thunder-clanging rebound.
But when Heracles came to bid to the voyaging Aiakus’ son,
Him with his company feasting he found, and as there he stood
In the lion-skin, Telamon called on the son of Amphitryon
The first libation to pour of the cluster’s nectar-blood;
And the chalice rough with the gold embossed with the word did he place
Wine-brimming in Heracles’ hands. Thereupon did the hero raise
His hands, the invincible hands, in prayer to the firmament’s space;
And he lifted his voice: “If ever, O Zeus Allfather, thou
Hast hearkened with willing soul unto prayer of mine, O now
“With heavenward-soaring prayers unto thee do I make my petition
To perfect in Eriboia’s womb for the man at my side
A valiant son, who shall aye be my friend by Fate’s decision,
One of thews invincibly stalwart, hard as the lion’s hide
That at Nemea, first of my labours, I slew, this fell enfolding
My shoulders, and may his courage be worthy his frame’s strong moulding!”
He spake, and a mighty eagle the God sent down from his heaven,
Monarch of birds; and with rapture thrilled for the omen given
Heracles lifted his voice, and he spake as speaketh a seer:
“Lo, thou shalt have the son thou desirest, Telamon;
And after the name of the bird that thou sawest but now appear,
So shalt thou name him, Aias, a world-famed mighty one,
In the battle-toils of thy people a warrior deadly strong.”
So spake he, and sat him down. But for me it were all too long
Of all their achievements to tell. I came, O Queen of Song,
For Phylakidas, Pytheas, Euthymenes, the march to array
Of the triumph-procession, and brief, after Argive wont, be the lay.
In Isthmian pankration victories three did they win by their might,
And from leaf-shadowed Nemea yet more triumphs, those glorious boys,
And their mother’s brother. How fair a portion of song to the light
Did they bring! And with brightest dews of refreshing did they rejoice
The Clan of the Psalychidae; and now have they raised to renown
By their prowess the House of Themistius; yea, and in this good town
Do they dwell, whereon the Gods with loving eyes look down.
And, honouring Hesiod’s words—“Whatsoever he findeth to do,”
That Lampon “doth with his might,” and exhorteth his sons thereto.
So he brings to his city glory, the weal of the whole state serving.
He is loved for his kindness to strangers: the golden mean alway
In purpose, the golden mean in action he follows unswerving.
His tongue is at one with his thoughts. Amid athletes he is, thou canst say,
As the Naxian stone that in grinding of bronze all other excelleth.
I will give him to drink of Dirke’s taintless spring that upwelleth
By the stately-rampired gates of the city of Kadmus, whose waters
Were caused to leap to the light by Memory’s deep-zoned daughters.
In which of the old-time glories that made thy land renowned
Hath thy spirit, O happy Thebe, delighted most of all?
When thou sawest the birth of the God of the tresses that toss unbound,
Dionysus, enthroned by Demeter to whom clashed cymbals call?
Or when thou didst welcome the chief of the Gods at the midnight hour,
What time he descended to earth in a golden-snowing shower,
When he stood at Amphitryon’s portal, and went in unto the bride
Of Amphitryon, whence sprang god-begotten Heracles?
Was it when Teiresias’ counsels inspired were thy joy and thy pride?
Was it when thou didst see Iolaus’ chariot-masteries,
Or the Sown Men’s tireless spears? Or when from thy fierce war-shout
Thou sentest Adrastus fleeing, bereft of the battle-rout
Of his countless comrades, back unto Argos the war-steed land?
Or when thou didst set the feet of the Dorian Spartans again
Firm in the ancient home, and when by a warrior-band,
Even thy sons of the Aegeid House, was Amyklae ta’en
Because they obeyed the Pythian oracle’s command?
But alas! it sleepeth, the olden glory,
And mortals forget the heroic story,
Save only that which attains unto poesy’s perfect flower
By reason that it hath been wedded to far-ringing streams of song.
For Strepsiades then lead forth the procession in this glad hour
With strains sweet-rippling. He brings the pankratian meed of the strong
From Isthmus. In strength is he wondrous, and goodly withal to behold;
Nor his stature is shamed by his valour, his spirit aweless-bold.
Glows on him a splendour breathed by the flower-tressed Muses’ breath.
A share in his crown to his namesake mother’s brother he gave,
For whom Ares the brazen-bucklered mingled the wine of death.
Yet a recompense of renown is laid up in store for the brave;
For let him be assured—whosoe’er, overgloomed by the cloud of war,
Beats back the hailstorm of blood from his dear land’s heart afar,
By hurling death through the ranks of the host of his fatherland’s foe—
Be assured that he maketh his nation’s glory to shine more bright,
Yea, whether he live, or whether the hero in death lie low.
But thou, O scion of Diodotus, in that last fight
With strong Meleager didst vie—yea, as his did thy battle-fire glow!—
And with Hector and Amphiaraus vying
Didst breathe out youth’s fair bloom in thy dying
In the press of the battle, the forefront of fight, where of warriors our chief
Bare up the weight of the struggle of war in hope’s despair.
Ah me! at the woeful tidings I suffered unspeakable grief!
By the Earth-enfolder’s grace now calm after storm shines fair.
With garlands enwreathing my locks will I sing this victory.
O may not the triumph be marred by the high Gods’ jealousy,
As onward I follow to taste the sweetness of this my day,
And peacefully journey to eld and the bourne that Fate doth ordain
For my life. For we all must die: alike are we passing away,
Though our fortune be diverse. How far soever one’s gaze may strain,
Too frail is man to attain to the heaven brazen-floored.
Even so did wingèd Pegasus fling his earthly lord,
When Bellerophon fain would have winged his flight to the mansions on high,
And have entered the glorious conclave of Gods with Zeus throned there.
Bitter the end is of pleasure attained unlawfully.
But to us, O Loxias, thou with thy glory of golden hair
Ever blooming in youth, do thou with a gift of thy grace draw nigh,
From Pytho’s contests on us bestowing
A garland of bright flowers lovely-blowing.
For Kleandros and his comrades, O ye youths, let some of you
Go and stand before his father Telesarchus’ gleaming door,
And wake the chant, the recompense for toils, his glorious due
For the crowns that from the Isthmus and from Nemea he bore.
What though I be stricken-hearted, to their praying have I hearkened,
And on the golden Muse I call. From night of woes that darkened
Around us are we rescued, and we may not brook bereaving
Of triumph-crowns, nor over cureless evils linger grieving.
But let us cheer the people with the sweetness of our song,
Though the pain have scarce departed; for the stone that hung so long
Above our heads—a very stone of Tantalus—at last
A God hath turned aside: the peril now is overpast,
That intolerable curse unto Hellas! But the night
Of terror hath departed, and the crushing load of care
Is lifted. Yet ’tis better evermore to keep in sight
The perils that be waiting in the path whereon we fare.
For Time is dogging mortals’ steps, with treacherous feet on-stealing,
And tangling all the ways of life. Yet even here is healing
For such as have but freedom. Let us still to hope be clinging!
In Thebe seven-gated nursed, the Graces’ flowers of singing
I needs must give Aegina; for Asopus’ daughters twain
Found favour in the sight of Zeus who over all doth reign.
And one of these by lovely-flowered Dirke’s fair demesne
He caused to dwell, to be the chariot-loving city’s queen.
But thee unto Oenopia’s isle he bore, and couched with thee.
And there unto the Thunder-crashing Father didst thou bear
A godlike scion, Aiakus, of men most righteous he;
Yea, even to the Gods in Heaven contention’s arbiter
Was he. His hero-sons and children’s children war-delighting
With peerless valour met the clanging bronze of warriors fighting;
And self-controlled they ruled their spirit, even as wisdom taught them.
Now when the Gods in council met, of all this they bethought them,
When Zeus with glory-girt Poseidon in contention strove
For Thetis’ hand; for either God was captive of her love,
And fain would win the fairest; but impossible it was
That Heaven’s eternal counsels should bring such a thing to pass
Whence once they heard the oracle that spake them Fate’s decree.
For Themis wise in counsel in the Gods’ assembly told
How that Destiny ordained it that the Lady of the Sea
Should bear a son more mighty than his father, who should hold
In his hand another sceptre more resistless than the levin
Or the trident, were she wedded with any lord of Heaven:—
“Cease to contend! In marriage to a mortal be she given.
Like Ares’ hands her son’s shall be where battle’s strife is striven,
His speed of foot as lightning-flash;—but she shall see him die
In war! I give my counsel that this honour from on high
To Peleus son of Aiakus be granted. All attest
That dweller in Iolkos’ plain of mortals holiest.
“Then let our message straight go forth to Cheiron’s cave divine,
Nor once again let Nereus’ daughter set the leaves of strife
In hands of Gods; but when the midmonth orbèd moonbeams shine
At eventide, then let her loose her maiden zone, the wife
Most lovely of a hero.” So the Goddess spake, preventing
The ruin-day of Kronos’ sons. And they in one consenting
Bent their immortal brows. Nor did her counsel’s fruitage wither;
For told it is that these two Kings in friendship came together
To Thetis’ bridal. And the lips of bards have published far
To them that saw it not the mighty prowess in the war
Of young Achilles, how he poured a dusky-crimson stain,
The life-blood of king Telephus, on Mysia’s vine-clad plain,
And bridge-like paved the Atreids’ safe return across the sea,
And rescued Helen; for he hewed asunder with his spear
Troy’s sinews, them who strove to stay the slaughter-work that he
Wrought in that battle-harried plain, yea, stayed the proud career
Of Memnon’s might, of Hector and the chiefs in strength excelling
Of Troy, to whom Achilles showed to Queen Persephone’s dwelling
The path—the Aiakids’ champion he!—and glory so was bringing
Unto Aegina and his race. Yea, lips immortal singing
Wailed o’er him dead, when Helicon’s Maids, a many-voicèd choir,
Stood by his death-rites, pouring forth their dirge around the pyre.
Ay, so the Immortals willed that heroism, even in death,
Should be a theme for Goddesses to hymn with praising breath.
Yea, to this day that law of honour holds: the Muses’ car
Speeds on to sound his glory forth who won the gauntlet-fight
In Isthmus’ glade, even Nikokles. Oh, peal his praise afar
Who won the Dorian parsley-crown, who vanquished by his might,
He too, all rivals, hurled them back with leap as of a lion.
Nor him dishonoureth now his father’s noble brother’s scion.
Twine then, ye comrades of the victor, twine the tender greenness
Of myrtle for his brows! Alkathous’ contest hailed his keenness
Of courage with fair fortune. Yea, with welcoming acclaim
The sons of Epidaurus met him. Meet it is the fame
Of such be sung by good men; for he hid not from the light,
As in oblivion’s pit, the splendour of his youthful might.