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.