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!