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.