Classic Poem

Happy is Sparta, and blessèd is Thessaly, seeing there reigneth
In one and the other a race descended from Herakles
Is not the vaunt out of season? O nay, for a summons constraineth
Me from Pelinna and Pytho and sons of Aleuas, for these
Would bring to Hippokleas chanting of victory-choruses

He hath tasted the joy of the athlete: the gorge of Parnassus hath hailed him
To the host of the dwellers around as first in the boys' double-race
Sweet, O Apollo, man's work is when God's strong help hath availed him,
Sweet in beginning and end; and this he achieved by thy grace;
And his prowess inborn in the print of the feet of his father doth pace.

For twice in Olympia's contests in armour of battle-biding
Ares did Phrikias run: in the mead under Kirrha's rock hiding
Were the feet of the father winged with the might of victory
So ever may fortune fair follow these in the days to be!
So may their splendour of wealth ever bloom as the flower-starred lea.

Of the blessings delightsome of Hellas may these win no small measure!
No jealous repentings of Gods turn ever to darkness their light!
Sooth, a God's heart only is painless; yet he winneth happiness' treasure,
And is hymned of the singers, whose prowess of hands or of feet to the height
Of athlete-triumph hath climbed by his courage and bodily might,

And he who hath lived to behold a son by Fate's favour attaining
The Pythian crown. Heaven's towers are for mortals unscaleable aye;
Yet all havens of splendour a mortal may sail to are his for the gaining
But neither the journeying foot nor the galley, quest as they may,
To the Rest-land Auroral shall find the mystery-hidden way.

Yet did Perseus the war-chief feast in their halls, and their sacrificing
Behold, as from altars he saw the smoke of ass-hecatombs rising
Unto Apollo; yea, and the God hath delight evermore
In the festival-banquets of these, and their chants that heavenward soar;
And he laugheth beholding the beasts as they wanton with ramp and roar.

Yea, and the Muse from their lives is not exiled, but circlewise winding
Dances of maidens sweep, and the voice of the lyre rings clear,
And the notes of the pipe, and their tresses with golden bay-leaves binding
Blithely they banquet, nor eld nor wasting disease draw near
To that hallowed folk, but from toil and from clash of sword and spear.

Dwell they afar, and the tyrannous Goddess of Retribution
They escape. To that happy folk of old fared Danae's son
Guided on by Athene, and breathing an aweless heart's resolution.
And the Gorgon he slew, and he bare that head which luridly shone
With serpents that dealt to the island people a death of stone

So the Gods but accomplish it, nought is too hard for our credence and wonder.
Now stay the car, Muse; from the prow slip the anchor to grapple thereunder
The sea-floor, to guard thee against the reef that lurking lies
For the flower-sweet glory of this my song ever restlessly flies
From legend to legend, a bee with honey-laden thighs.

O, I trust that, the while the lips of Ephyra's singers are pouring
My sweet strains forth by the side of Peneius, my songs may make
Hippokleas by age-mates and elders more honoured, with eyes adoring
Looked on by maidens young, for his victory-garlands' sake.
Men's hearts do diverse temptations with longing captive take;

But the prize for which each man hath striven, and won, is the soul-alluring
Desire of his heart for the hour that is present—yet what the tide
Of time in a year shall bring, none knoweth. Ah, but enduring
Shall be Thorax' friendship, I trust! On this car of the Muses I ride
By the help he hath rendered, a friend to a friend, and a guide to a guide.

As gold by the touchstone tried is the soul that from right never falters
His noble brethren withal will we praise, the princely exalters
Of Thessaly's commonweal, which ever they magnify
Yea, best in the hands of high-born men doth the piloting lie
Of cities wherein their fathers have ruled in the years gone by.