Chapter_283

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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.