Classic Poem

When conflict's bitter strain to its decision
At last attaineth, then the best physician
Is mirth, to close the overtasking day.
And song, the Muses' child inspired, can lay
On the heart's wounds her magic hands of healing
Not steaming baths so softly charm away
The ache of toil, as words of praise outpealing
In unison with the lyre. Man's speech shall long
Outlast his deeds, what words soe'er the tongue
Hath drawn up, by the Graces' kind control,
From wells of inspiration in the soul.

Now be it mine to make such song-oblation,
To Zeus Kronion tendering dedication
Thereof, and Nemea. This my prelude be
To Timasarchus' wrestling. Be it of thee
Welcomed, O Aiakids' stronghold goodly-towered,
Beacon of justice, aliens' sanctuary!
O were thy sire Timokritus yet dowered
With life's heat by the sun all-quickening,
Oft bending o'er the changeful cithern-string
Would he have waked his music for his son,
And hymned the glorious triumph he hath won,

Who from Kleonae brought a perfume-streaming
Festoon of wreaths, and one from marble-gleaming
Renownèd Athens; and again beside
Amphitryon's sepulchre fame-glorified
Old Kadmus' sons in Thebe seven-gated
Rained on him flowers with welcome kindly-eyed
In whose love is Aegina consecrated;
For thither as a friend to friends he hied,
As doth a ship into a haven glide,
Came to that burg which welcomes aye the guest,
Came to the Hall of Herakles heaven-blest,

With whom went stalwart Telamon for the smiting
Of Troy, and met the Meropes grim-fighting,
And Alkyoneus the giant did they slay,
A warrior terrible in battle-play;
Yet slew him not till rocks like slingstones whirling
From his hands crushed in shattered disarray
Twelve cars, and hero-riders deathward hurling
Twice twelve he strewed amid that wreck of cars
Wholly unversed is he in lore of wars
To whose ears never that old saying came,
‘Who doeth violence must endure the same.’

But not for me is legend's full unfolding,
Who see the law of song mine hand withholding:
Yea, and the hasting hours brook no delay
A strong spell draws me on to sing the day
Of the New Moon that on those Games was shining
Though round thee breast-high plash the deep-sea spray,
Stand firm! Strive on 'gainst treacherous foes' designing!
O'er foes triumphant shall we win the port
In clear day! One of less heroic sort,
With envy evil-eyed, in darkness schemes;
But fruitless to the ground shall fall his dreams.

But one thing certainly mine heart divineth,
That, whatso excellence Lord Fate designeth
For me, Time's onward-stealing feet will bring
To its ordained perfection that same thing.
Weave on, O winsome Lyre, make speed in weaving
Thy web of song that shall accordant ring
With Lydian harmony, song-vesture cleaving
Lovingly round Oenone and Cyprus, where,
Far from the ancient home constrained to fare,
An island-king Telamonian Teucer is,
While Aias rules ancestral Salamis;

And in the Euxine Sea a sunbright island
Achilles rules; and in the Phthian highland
Still Thetis queens it; in the pastures green
Of broad Epirus, where long forelands lean
From oakwoods of Dodona downward trending
To the Ionian sea-gulf's rippling sheen,
Neoptolemus rules a people cattle-tending
But the land under Pelion capt with cloud,
Iolkos, was of old to thraldom bowed
When Peleus turned thereon a warring hand,
And to Haimonians gave the traitor's land;

Because Akastus, son of Pelias, hearkened
Unto Hippolyte's counsels treachery-darkened,
From Peleus stole the sword that Daedalus wrought,
And by the ambush of the man-brutes sought
To murder him: howbeit righteous Cheiron
Rescued him, and that destiny he brought
To pass which Fate had framed with hand of iron
So Peleus quenched the violence of fire,
And quelled the keen claws and the furious ire
Of lions dauntless-hearted, and the grim
Edge of the terrible teeth that threatened him,

And won to wife the Child of Nereus hoary,
Thetis the bright-throned, saw the enringing glory
Of seats whereon the Lords of sky and sea
Were throned, their bridal gifts of sovranty
To him and his seed after him revealing,
Even the mighty kingdoms that should be
But past Gadeira and the gloom concealing
The outsea none press. Turn the sail again
Of the ship backward unto Europe's main.
The whole tale of the sons of Aiakus' line
To tell throughout transcends all powers of mine.

I with the Clan Theandrid covenanted
To be their herald: lo, my lips have chanted
Their prowess! Of those contests is my song
Which make the thews of champions passing strong.
Olympia, Isthmus, Nemea,—wheresoever
They prove their might amid the athlete-throng,
Without renown for fruit they turn back never
Home, Timasarchus, where thy clan, 'tis told,
In victory-crowns pre-eminence doth hold.
If thou wouldst bid me rear, besides all these,
Unto thy mother's brother Kallikles

A pillar more than Parian marble splendid—
As gold when the refiner's work is ended
Shows all its brightness forth, so by the lay
That chants great deeds in war or athlete-play
A man is raised to heights of bliss excelling
The pomp of kings—let him then, though to-day
On Acheron's shore thy Kallikles be dwelling,
Yet catch the sound of this my voice that sings
On earth his praise who in the athlete-rings
Of the great Trident-wielder thunder-voiced
With brows at Corinth garland-crowned rejoiced.

His praise did Euphanes thy grandsire hoary
Sing, fain to tell, my son, his prowess' story.
Hymned by the old bards men of old have been;
But, whatsoe'er each singer's self hath seen,
That trusteth he that best of all he singeth
So he that chants Melesias' praise, I ween,
Would be as one who every rival flingeth
To earth, with words like wrestlers' limbs that twine;
In grapple of speech yields never his mighty line—
A courteous conqueror of a noble foe,
He deals the churl relentless overthrow.