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’ 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 Hyllus 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, 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 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.