Classic Poem

ODE I .

Water, great principle whence nature springs,
The prime of elements, and first of things,
Amidst proud riches' soul-inflaming store,
As through the night the fiery blaze
Pours all around the streaming rays,
Conspicuous glows the golden oar.
But if thee, O my soul, a fond desire
To sing the contests of the great,
Calls forth to' awake the ethereal fire.
What subject worthier of the lyre,
Olympia's glories to relate!
Full in the forehead of the sky,
The sun, the world's bright radiant eye,
Shines o'er each lesser flame;
On earth what theme suffices more
To make the Muses' offspring soar,
Than the Olympian Victor's fame?
But from the swelling column, where on high
It peaceful hangs, take down the doric lyre,
If with sweet love of sacred melody
The steeds of Hiero thy breast inspire.
When born along the flowery side,
Where smooth Alpheus' waters glide,
Their voluntary virtue flies,
Nor needs the drivers rouzing cries,
But rapid seize the dusty space,
To reap the honours of the race,
The merit of their speed;
And bind with laurel wreath the manly brows
Of him the mighty King of Syracuse,
Delighting in the victor steed.
Far sounds his glory through the winding coast
Of Lydia, where his wandering host
From Elis, Pelops led to new abodes;
There prosper'd in his late found reign,
Lov'd by the ruler of the main;
When at the banquet of the Gods,
In the pure laver of the Fates again,
Clotho, the youth to life renew'd,
With potent charm and mystic strain,
When by his cruel father slain,
With ivory shoulder bright endow'd,
Oft fables with a fond surprize,
When shaded o'er with fair disguise,
The wandering mind detain;
Deluded by the kind deceit,
We joy more in the skilful cheat,
Than in truth's faithful strain.
But chief to verse these wonderous pow'rs belong,
Such grace has Heaven bestow'd on song;
Blest Parent! from whose loins immortal joys,
To mitigate our pain below,
Softening the anguish of our woe,
Are sprung, the children of its voice:
Song can o'er unbelief itself prevail;
The virtue of its magic art,
Can make the most amazing tale
With shafts of eloquence assail,
Victorious, the yielding heart:
But Time on never-ceasing wings
Experienc'd wisdom slowly brings,
And teaches mortal race
Not to blaspheme the Holy One,
That deathless fills the heavenly throne,
Inhabiting eternal space.
Therefore, O son of Tantalus! will I
In other guise thy wond'rous tale unfold,
And juster to the Rulers of the sky,
With lips more hallow'd than the bards of old.
For when thy Sire the Gods above,
To share the kind return of love,
Invited from their native bow'rs,
To his own lov'd Sipylian tow'rs,
The trident pow'r, by fierce desire
Subdued, on golden steeds of fire,
Thee bore aloft to Jove on high;
Where since young Ganymede, sweet Phrygian boy,
Succeeded to the ministry of joy,
And nectar banquet of the sky.
But when no more on earth thy form was seen,
Conspicuous in the walks of men,
Nor yet to soothe thy mother's longing sight,
Thy searching train sent to explore
Thy lurking-place, could thee restore,
The weeping fair's supreme delight:
Then Envy's forked tongue began to' infest
And wound thy Sire's untainted fame,
That he to each ethereal guest
Had serv'd thee up a horrid feast,
Subdued by force of all-devouring flame;
But, the blest Pow'rs of Heav'n to' accuse,
Far be it from the holy Muse,
Of such a feast impure;
Vengeance protracted for a time,
Still overtakes the slanderer's crime,
At Heaven's slow appointed hour.
Yet certain, if the Pow'r who wide surveys,
From his watch-tow'r, the earth and seas,
E'er dignify'd the perishable race;
Him, Tantalus they rais'd on high,
Him, the chief favourite of the sky,
Exalted to sublimest grace.
But his proud heart was lifted up and vain,
Swell'd with his envy'd happiness,
Weak and frail his mortal brain,
The lot superior to sustain;
He fell degraded from his bliss.
For on his head the' Almighty Sire,
Potent in his kindled ire,
Hung a rock's monstrous weight:
Too feeble to remove the load,
Fix'd by the sanction of the God,
He wander'd erring from delight.
The watchful synod of the skies decreed
His wasted heart a prey to endless woes,
Condemn'd a weary pilgrimage to lead,
On earth secure, a stranger to repose.
Because, by mad ambition driv'n,
He robb'd the sacred stores of Heav'n:
The ambrosial vintage of the skies
Became the daring spoiler's prize,
And brought to sons of mortal earth
The banquet of celestial birth,
With endless blessings fraught,
And to his impious rev'lers pour'd the wine,
Whose precious sweets make blest the Pow'rs divine,
Gift of the rich immortal draught.
Foolish the man who hopes his crimes may lie
Unseen by the Supreme all-piercing eye;
He, high enthron'd above all Heaven's height,
The works of men with broad survey,
As in the blazing flame of day,
Beholds the secret deeds of night.
Therefore his son the' immortals back again
Sent to these death-obnoxious abodes,
To taste his share of human pain,
Exil'd from the celestial reign,
And sweet communion of the gods.
But when the fleecy down began
To clothe his chin, and promise man;
The shafts of young desire,
And love of the fair female kind,
Inflam'd the youthful hero's mind,
And set his amorous soul on fire.
Won by fair Hippodamia's lovely eyes,
The Pisan tyrant's blooming prize,
High in his hopes he purpos'd to obtain;
O'ercome her savage sire in arms,
The price of her celestial charms;
For this the Ruler of the main
Invoking in the dreary solitude,
And secret season of the night;
Oft, on the margin of the flood
Alone, the raging lover stood,
Till to his long-desiring sight,
From below the sounding deeps,
His scaly herds where Proteus keeps,
The favourite youth to please,
Dividing swift the hoary stream,
Refulgent on his golden team,
Appear'd the trident-sceptred King of seas.
To whom the youth: " If e'er with fond delight,
The gifts of Venus could thy soul inspire,
Restrain fell oenemaus' spear in fight;
And me, who dare adventurous to aspire,
Me grant, propitious, to succeed,
Enduing with unrival'd speed
The flying car, decreed to gain
The laurel wreath, on Elis' plain,
Victorious o'er the father's pow'r;
Who dire, so many hapless lovers slain,
Does still a maid the wond'rous fair detain,
Protractive of the sweet connubial hour,
Danger demands a soul secure of dread,
Equal to the daring deed!
Since then, the' immutable decrees of Fate,
Have fix'd, by their vicegerent Death,
The limits of each mortal breath,
Doom'd to the urn, or soon or late:
What mind resolv'd and brave would sleep away
His life, when glory warms the blood,
Only to enjoy some dull delay,
Inactive to his dying day,
Not aiming at the smallest good?
But the blooming maid inspires
My breast to far sublimer fires,
To raise my glory to the skies;
Gracious O! favouring Pow'r, give ear,
Indulgent to my vow sincere,
Prosp'ring the mighty enterprize."
So pray'd the boy: nor fell his words in vain,
Unheeded by the Ruler of the main;
A golden car, earth's shaking Pow'r bestow'd,
And to the glittering axle join'd
Unrivall'd steeds, fleet as the wind;
Glad of the present of the god,
The ardent youth demands the promis'd fight;
In dust the haughty parent laid,
Neptune fulfils the youth's delight,
And wings his chariot's rapid flight,
To win the sweet celestial maid.
She with six sons, a fair increase,
Crown'd the Hero's warm embrace,
Whom virtue's love inspir'd;
Upright to walk in virtue's ways,
The surest path to noblest praise,
The noblest praise the youth acquir'd,
Now by Alpheus' stream, meandering fair,
Whose humid train wide spreads the Pisan plains,
A sepulchre, sublimely rear'd in air,
All, of the mighty man that was, contains.
There frequent in the holy shade,
The vows of stranger-chiefs are paid,
And on the sacred altar lies
The victim, smoking to the skies,
When heroes, at the solemn shrine,
Invoke the pow'rs with rites divine,
From every distant soil,
And drive about the consecrated mound
The sounding car, or on the listed ground
Urge the fleet racers, or the wrestlers toil.
Happy the man whom favouring Fate allows
The wreaths of Pisa to surround his brows;
All wedded to delight, his after-days
In calm and even tenor run,
The noble dow'r of conquest won,
Such conscious pleasure flows from praise.
Thee, Muse, great Hiero's virtue to prolong,
It fits, and to resound his name:
Exalting o'er the vulgar throng,
In thy sweet Eolian song,
His garland of Olympian fame.
Nor shalt thou, O! my Muse, e'er find
A more sublime or worthier mind,
To better fortunes born:
On whom the gracious love of God,
The regal pow'r has kind bestow'd,
And arts of sway, that power to adorn.
Still may thy God, O potent king! employ
His sacred ministry of joy,
Solicitous with tutelary care,
To guard from the attacks of Fate
Thy blessings lasting as they're great,
The pious Poet's constant pray'r.
Then to the mighty bounty of the sky,
The Muse shall add a sweeter lay,
With wing sublime when she shall fly,
Where Cronius rears his cliffs on high,
Smote with the burning shafts of day;
If the Muses' quiver'd God
Pave for song the even road,
With sacred rapure warm,
A further flight aloft in air
Elanc'd, shall wing my tuneful spear,
More vigorous from the Muse's arm!
To many heights the daring climber springs,
Ere he the hightest top of pow'r shall gain;
Chief seated there the majesty of Kings;
The rest at different steps below remain:
Exalted to that wondrous height,
To' extend the prospect of delight,
May'st thou, O Hiero! live content,
On the top of all ascent:
To thee, by bounteous Fates, be giv'n
To' inhabit still thy lofty heav'n:
To me, in arts of peace,
Still to converse with the fair victor host,
For graceful song, an honourable boast,
Conspicuous through the realms of Greece.