Classic Poem

The singers of old, Thrasybulus, who mounted the car of the Queens of Song,
The golden-tired, giving voice to the ringing lyre and the tuneful tongue,
Shot lightly the arrows of honey-sweet strains in the fair one's praise,
Whosoever by bright summer-bloom of lovely form and face
Stirred hearts to dream upon splendour-throned Aphrodite's grace.

For then was the Muse not yet a lover of gain, nor a hireling was she.
Nor then honey-throated Terpsichore sold the melting melody
Of her lays, nor with faces silver-masked did they tread the stage
But now she biddeth us heed the word of the Argive sage
Which cometh all too near to the truth in this our age:

" 'Tis money, 'tis money that maketh the man!" he said,
When his friends forsook him so soon as his wealth had fled.
But enough — thou art wise. O, famous afar
Is the Isthmian victory won by the car
Thy swift steeds drew, that I sing.
For Poseidon gave to thy sire renown,
And the Dorian garland, the parsley crown
O'er Xenokrates' hair did he fling.

And so did he honour the lord of the goodly chariot, Akragas' star
And at Krisa looked down on him graciously Apollo prevailing afar,
And gave to him glory. In gleaming Athens did he attain
Mid the sons of Erechtheus the grace of triumph; nor might he complain
Of the skill of the hands that lashed his horses and swayed the rein,

Nikomachus' hands, that gave to his steeds full rein at the moment due,
He whom the truce-bearing heralds Elean of Zeus Kronion knew,
Who publish the Season of Games; for his hospitality well
They remembered; and sweetly their voices proclaimed o'er the hallowed dell
His triumph, when he on the lap of golden Victory fell.

In their land, which they name the Grove of Olympus' Lord,
Where the sons of Aenesidamus gained the award
Of honours whose memory aye is enscrolled
For, O Thrasybulus, known from of old
To the halls of thine ancient line
Is the winsome charm of the song that leaps
From the lips, as on the procession sweeps
In triumph for victory — thine!

For not uphillward nor steep is the path, if the bard is fain to guide
The feet of the praises of Helicon's Maids with famous men to abide
May song's shaft sped from mine hand as far past all else fly
As in sweetness of spirit unto Xenokrates none came nigh.
Amidst of his townsmen ever a prince of courtesy,

After the wont of the Panhellenes horse-rearing he fostered still:
He was constant at every feast of the Gods: no wind's breath blew so chill
On his guest-fain board as to make him furl his canvas-spread;
But far as the Phasis in summertide's gales the fame of him sped,
And in wintertide anchored his guest-renown in broad Nile's bed.

What though the cravings of envy like veils bedim.
The vision of many men's souls? — ah, never let him
Hush into coward silence the praise
Of his father's prowess, nor these my lays!
Not statue-like idly to stand
Did I fashion them! Nikesippus, bear
This, to my loyal friend to declare,
When thou comest to that far land.