Classic Poem

Sometimes the wind-battalions shouting loud
Do men most service, now again
The rains of heaven, the children of the cloud,
Bring blessing in their train.
But when by toil one winneth victory,
The singer's honey-throated lays
Upringing, plant for fame that yet shall be
A sure foundation, are a prophecy
Of exploits worthy praise.

Far beyond envy are the praises stored
For victors at Olympia crowned.
Songs are my sheep; I, as some shepherd-lord,
Find them fair pasture-ground.
By God's gift inspiration bloometh aye
In the bard's heart unfadingly
Son of Archestratus, know thou this day,
Agesidamus, that my victory-lay
Shall sweetly sound for thee,

Shall for the triumph of thy ring-craft grace
With splendour thy bright olive-wreath,
And honour therewithal the Lokrian race
Fanned by the West-wind's breath.
O Song-queens, hither speed your festal feet!
I pledge me in sincerity
No guest-repelling folk ye there shall meet,
Nor in fair chivalry
Unschooled: nay, over wisdom's heights they range,
They with the spear were valiant ever.
That these be like their sires is nowise strange:
Red fox and thunder-throated lion change
Their inborn nature never.