Classic Poem

In which of the old-time glories that made thy land renowned
Hath thy spirit, O happy Thebe, delighted most of all?
When thou sawest the birth of the God of the tresses that toss unbound,
Dionysus, enthroned by Demeter to whom clashed cymbals call?
Or when thou didst welcome the chief of the Gods at the midnight hour,
What time he descended to earth in a golden-snowing shower,

When he stood at Amphitryon's portal, and went in unto the bride
Of Amphitryon, whence sprang god-begotten Herakles?
Was it when Teiresias' counsels inspired were thy joy and thy pride?
Was it when thou didst see Iolaus' chariot-masteries,
Or the Sown Men's tireless spears? Or when from thy fierce war-shout
Thou sentest Adrastus fleeing, bereft of the battle-rout

Of his countless comrades, back unto Argos the war-steed land?
Or when thou didst set the feet of the Dorian Spartans again
Firm in the ancient home, and when by a warrior-band,
Even thy sons of the Aegeid House, was Amyklae ta'en
Because they obeyed the Pythian oracle's command?
But alas! it sleepeth, the olden glory,
And mortals forget the heroic story,

Save only that which attains unto poesy's perfect flower
By reason that it hath been wedded to far-ringing streams of song
For Strepsiades then lead forth the procession in this glad hour
With strains sweet-rippling. He brings the pankratian meed of the strong
From Isthmus. In strength is he wondrous, and goodly withal to behold;
Nor his stature is shamed by his valour, his spirit aweless-bold

Glows on him a splendour breathed by the flower-tressed Muses' breath
A share in his crown to his namesake mother's brother he gave,
For whom Ares the brazen-bucklered mingled the wine of death
Yet a recompense of renown is laid up in store for the brave;
For let him be assured—whosoe'er, overgloomed by the cloud of war,
Beats back the hailstorm of blood from his dear land's heart afar,

By hurling death through the ranks of the host of his fatherland's foe—
Be assured that he maketh his nation's glory to shine more bright,
Yea, whether he live, or whether the hero in death lie low.
But thou, O scion of Diodotus, in that last fight
With strong Meleager didst vie—yea, as his did thy battle-fire glow!—
And with Hector and Amphiaraus vying
Didst breathe out youth's fair bloom in thy dying

In the press of the battle, the forefront of fight, where of warriors our chief
Bare up the weight of the struggle of war in hope's despair.
Ah me! at the woeful tidings I suffered unspeakable grief!
By the Earth-enfolder's grace now calm after storm shines fair.
With garlands enwreathing my locks will I sing this victory
O may not the triumph be marred by the high Gods' jealousy,

As onward I follow to taste the sweetness of this my day,
And peacefully journey to eld and the bourne that Fate doth ordain
For my life. For we all must die: alike are we passing away,
Though our fortune be diverse. How far soever one's gaze may strain,
Too frail is man to attain to the heaven brazen-floored
Even so did wingèd Pegasus fling his earthly lord,

When Bellerophon fain would have winged his flight to the mansions on high,
And have entered the glorious conclave of Gods with Zeus throned there.
Bitter the end is of pleasure attained unlawfully.
But to us, O Loxias, thou with thy glory of golden hair
Ever blooming in youth, do thou with a gift of thy grace draw nigh,
From Pytho's contests on us bestowing
A garland of bright flowers lovely-blowing.