Charioteer

In that manner (archaic) he finished the statue of hisbrother. It stands mid-way in the hall of laurels ... between theSiphnians’ offering and the famous tripod of Naxos.

Only the priestof the inmost househas such height,only the faunin the gladesuch light, strong ankles,only the shade of the bay-treesuch rare darkas the darknesscaught under the filletthat covers your brow,only the bladeof the ash-treesuch length, such beautyas thou,O my brother;and only the godshave such loveas I bring you;but now,taut with love,more than any bright lover,I vowedto the innermostgod of the temple,this vow.

God of beauty, I cried,as the four stood alert,awaiting the shoutat the goalto be off;god of beauty,I cried to that god,if he merit the laurel,I dedicate all of my soulto you; to youall my strength and my power;if he merit the bay,I will fashion a statueof him, of my brother,out of thought,and the strength of my wristand the fire of my brain;I will strive night and daytill I mould from the clay,till I strike from the bronze,till I conjure the rock,the chisle, the tool,to embody this image;an image to startle,to capture men’s hearts,to make all other bronze,all art to come after,a mock,all beauty to follow,a shell that is empty;I’ll stake all my soulon that beauty,till God shall awakeagain in men’s hearts,who have said he is dead,our King and our Lover.

Then the start,ah the sight,ah but dim, veiled with tears,(so Achilles must weepwho finds his friend dead,)will he win?then the ring of the steelas two met at the goal,entangled and foul,misplaced at the start,who, who blunders? not you?what omens are set?alas, gods of the track,what ill wreaks its hate,speak it clear,let me knowwhat evil, what fate?for the ring of sharp steeltold two were in peril,two, two, one is you,already involvedwith the fears of defeat;two grazed;which must go?

As the wind,Althaia’s beauty came;as one after a cruel march,catches sight,toward the cold dusk,of the flowerthat’s her name-sake,strayed aparttoward the road-dust,from the streamin the wood-depth,so I in that darkness,my mouth bitterwith sheer loss,took courage,my heart spoke,remembering how she spoke:“I will seek hour by hourfresh cones, resinand pine-flowers,flower of pine,laurel flower;I will pray:‘let him comeback to us,to our home,with the trophy of zeal,with the love and the proofof the favour of god;let him merit the bay.’(I expect it,)I myself on earth praythat our father may pray;his voice nearer the godsmust carry beyondmy mere mortal prayer:‘O my father beyond,look down and be proud,ask this thingthat we win,ask it straight of the gods.’”

Was he glad,did he know?for the strengthof his prayer and her prayermet me nowin one flame,all my head, all my browwas one flame,taut and beatenand faintly aglow,as the wine-cupencrusted and beaten and finewith the pattern of leaves,(so my brow,)yet metallic and cool,as the gold of the frigid metalthat circles the heatof the wine.

Then the axel-tree cleft,not ours, gods be blest;now but three of you left,three alert and abreast,three--one streak of what fire?three straight for the goal:ah defeat,ah despair,still fate tricked our mares,for they swerved,flanks quivering and wet,as the windat the mid-stretchcaught and fluttered a white scarf;a veil shivering,only the flutteringof a white band,yet unnerved and champing,they turned,(only knowing the swards of Achæa)and he, O my love,that stranger,his stallionsstark frenzied and black,had taken the inmost course,overtook,overcame,overleapt,and crowded you back.

O those horseswe loved and we prized;I had gathered Alea mintand soft branchof the vine-stock in flower,I had stroked Elaphia;as one prays to a woman“be kind,”I had prayed Daphnaia;I had threatened Oreafor her trickof out-pacing the three,even these,I had almost despairedat her fleet, proud pace,O the four,O swift mares of Achæa.

Should I pray them again?or the gods of the track?or Althaia at home?or our father who died for Achæa?or our fathers beyondwho had vanquished the east?should I threaten or pray?

The sun struck the ridge of white marblebefore me:white sun on white marblewas black:the day was of ash,blind, unrepentant, despoiled,my soul cursed the race and the track,you had lost.You, lost at the last?

Ah fools,so you threatened to win?ah fools,so you knew my brother?

Greeks all,all crafty and feckless,even so, had you guessedwhat ran in his veins and mine,what blood of Achæa,had you dared,dared enter the contest,dared aspire with the rest?

You had gained,you outleapt them;a sudden, swift lift of the reins,a sudden, swift, taut grip of the reins,as suddenly loosed,you had gained.

When death comesI will seeno vision of after,(as some countthere may be an hereafter,)no thought of old lover,no girl, no woman,neither mother,nor yet my fatherwho died for Achæa,neither God with the harpand the sun on His brow,but thou,O my brother.

When death comes,instead of a vision,(I will catch it in bronze)you will standas you stood at the end,(as the herald announced it,proclaiming aloud,“Achæa has won,”)in-reining them now,so quiet,not turning to answerthe shout of the crowd.