Classic Poem

Zeus, hurler of thunderbolts tireless-winging,
Most Highest, returneth thy Feast-tide fair
To send me to wed with the lyre subtle-ringing
My song: of the chiefest of all Games singing
To the victor's triumph my witness I bear.
Yea, the hearts of the good are with joy ever leaping
When friends a harvest of triumph are reaping
O Kronos' Son, whose dominion is o'er
Etna, the wind-scourged burden laid
On Typho the demon of heads five-score,
Receive thou this revel-procession arrayed
For a victory won by the Graces' aid.

For its chant is a record for ever abiding
Of wide-prevailing achievement's renown,
On-ushering olive-crowned Psaumis, as riding
His chariot he hasteth, aglow for dividing
His fame with his own Camarina-town.
May our prayers be graciously heard in heaven
As we supplicate blessings yet to be given
Unto him who is strenuous ever to train
The steed, who with wide arms welcomes the guest,
The pure-hearted patriot who strives to attain
Peace—truth do I speak from an unfeigned breast!
Of man is the trial the one proof-test.

By such trial it was that Klymenus' son
Silenced the Lemnian women's taunting
Who mocked at his tresses grey;
For the footrace in armour of bronze he won.
To Hypsipyle then with no vain vaunting,
As he passed to be crowned, did he say:
‘Lo there, my fleetness of foot have ye seen!
And mine hands be as strong, and mine heart as keen.
Ay, and not seldom silver-hoary
Show the tresses of young men, long ere the story
Hath been told of their life's spring-day.’