Classic Poem

One is the race of men, and one the race of Gods; but they
And we alike are children of the same Earth-mother's womb
Yet some Power wholly diverse sunders us: we fade away
To nought, but evermore abides their heaven's brazen dome,
Through all the years, the eternal years, their never-shaken home.
Yet have we something in us like the Gods, the everlasting—
It may be this our mighty mind, our nature it may be—
Yet know we not what course by day, or 'neath night's wings on-hasting
Is marked out, for our feet to run therein, by Destiny

Now, now Alkimidas hath proved, plain for all eyes to see,
That this his House is like the fields that flame with golden grain,
Which, in the alternating years, now yield abundantly
To toiling men the bread of life that loads the laughing plain,
And in the year thereafter rest, to gather strength again.
Lo, now Aegina's athlete-son, from where in Nemea holden
Are those heart-gladdening contests, cometh home, who, following
The course whose chart was by the destiny of Zeus unfolden,
Hath proved no baffled glory-hunter in the wrestling-ring.

His feet along the footprints of Praxidamas have raced,
Even those by one of his own blood, his father's father, traced,
Who, in Olympia victor, first brought home the olive-spray
For Aiakus' princely line's renown,
Five times at Isthmus won the crown,
At Nemea thrice, and wiped Sokleides' deedless stain away,
Of sons of Agesimachus the eldest—yet ungraced

Howbeit he saw the crown of prowess won by athletes three,
His sons, who dared the trial, and achieved. By Heaven's aid,
There is none other house beside that is by victory
Proclaimed the holder of more crowns in that stern strife essayed
At Hellas' inmost heart with gauntlets in the olive-glade.
Straight flew mine arrow to the mark, though I have told their story
In vaunting strain; yet none the less true rang my bowstring then.
Come, O my Muse, unto this victor waft thy gale of glory,
The breath of song! For when from earth have passed her mighty men,

Then rescued from oblivion are their noble deeds by lay
And legend. Oh, the Bassid Clan hath little lack of these,
That house of ancient fame! A freight of triumph-song bear they—
'Tis all their own. Well may their stately march of victories
Inspire the bards who till the fields of the Pierides
With plenteous theme for song! 'Neath Phoebus' temple's holy shadow
One of the blood of this same clan, his strong hands gauntlet-bound,
Kallias, won his house a victory in Pytho's meadow,
Who erst with Golden-distaff Leto's children favour found.

And brightly blazed at eventide his name by Castaly,
When rang the Graces' chant. The Bridge 'twixt sea and tireless sea
Gave honour to Kreontidas at that feast where the blood
Of bulls in third-year feasts is poured
Forth in the close of the Sea-lord
Brow-shadowed by the Lion's herb of Nemea once he stood
Victor 'neath Phlius' ancient hill dark-draped with many a tree.

For bards who tell the tale of old-time legend, broad and fair
On every hand stretch out the avenues that open lie
To glorify this world-famed isle: to her folk the Aiakids there
By their example gave of mighty deeds high destiny.
Across the land, across the sea, their name's renown flies high.
Yea, even to the Aethiop folk, who saw not home returning
Alive their chieftain Memnon, leapt that terrible renown
What time Achilles hurled on them grim conflict, vengeance-burning
For Nestor's son, and from his car to Troy's red plain sprang down.

And when the point of that wrath-gleaming spear laid low the son
Of splendour-glowing Dawn. This was the track oft trod before,
A chariot-highway, where the bards of olden time rode on
And I too follow in their path, inspired by legend-lore
Yet still the wave that nighest rolls unto the steering-oar
Disquiets most the shipman's heart; so, twofold burden bearing,
Alkimidas, on willing shoulders, to thy land I speed,
A messenger to tell that thou, thy new-won glory sharing
With thy far-famous house, this five-and-twentieth triumph-meed.

Hast gained in those proud conflict-lists which men name ‘Games Divine’
Yea also, and the hope of Polytimidas, and thine
Of garlands twain in Kronius' close were snatched, my son, from thee
By chance of lots. None can surpass
In training-lore Melesias:
He guides, like cunning charioteer, athletes to victory,
Teaching a swiftness fleet as dolphin dashing through the brine.