Olympian I

Chiefest is water of all things, for streamingTherefrom all life and existence came;And all proud treasure of princes the gleamingSplendour of gold outshines, as the flameOf a great fire flings through the night its rays.But, heart of mine, if thou fain wouldst praiseTriumphs in athlete-contests won,Search not, when day with his glory is glowing,For a radiant star more life-bestowingIn the whole void sky, than the kingly sun.Even so shall we find no brighter crownThan Olympia giveth whereof to sing;For thence doth the chant of high renownO'er the spirits of bards its perfume fling,When, the praise of Kronion in song resounding,Unto Hiero's blest hearth wealth-aboundingThe hymn of his praise they bring.

Hiero!—yea, for the rod of his powerIs a sceptre of righteousness stretched o'er the landOf the myriad flocks; and the choice of the flowerOf chivalry ever is plucked by his hand.Yea, and he also is garlandedWith the blossom of song enstarring his head,The song that with gladsome voices nowWe singers chant, at the banquet meetingOf the Prince who giveth us friendship's greeting.Now, O my Muse, from its rest take thouThe lyre that is strung to the Dorian strain,If the glory of fleet Pherenikus, heWho triumphed in Pisa's Olympian plain,Haply with rapture of song thrilled thee,When flashed in the course by Alpheus' riverHis body by lash or by goad touched never,And wedded to victory

His lord, the ruler of Syracuse-town,The king who joyeth in gallant steeds.Flasheth afar his name's renown,Flasheth from Sicily far overseaWhere Pelops, the exile from Lydia's meads,Founded a hero-colony—Pelops, beloved of the Earth-enfolder,Poseidon the strong, when the Fate of the ThreadDrew him resplendent with ivory shoulderFrom the undefiled laver, whom men deemed dead.There be marvels full many; and fables hoaryWith inventions manifold broidered o'erFalsify legend, I wot, with a storyWherein truth liveth no more.

But the Grace of Beauty, which aye is weavingAll manner of charm round the souls of men,Taketh these tales unworthy believing,And arrays them in honour: so cometh it thenThat man with unwavering credence clingsTo a false-feigned tale of impossible things.But the after-days are the witnessesThat be wisest. Reverent speech beseemethThe mortal who uttereth that which he deemethOf the Gods—so shall his reproach be less.O Tantalus' son, I will speak not as theyWho told thy story in days of old!But thy father bade thee a guest that dayTo a banquet arrayed by the righteous-souledUpon Sipylus' loved height—so he tenderedTo the Gods requital for boons they had rendered.On a sudden the chariot of gold

Of the Lord of the Trident gleaming splendid,Whose soul was with love for thy youth overcome,Bare thee, as up through the blue ye ascended,To imperial Zeus's glory-home,Whither also came in the after-dayGanymedes ravished from earth awayIn halls celestial the nectar to pour.But when viewless thus from the earth they had caught thee,Nor the questers that far and near had sought theeTo the arms of thy mother could thee restore,Then spake some neighbour in envious spiteA whispered slander of sin and shame,How that over the boiling water's mightWhich hissed in the bronze that bestrode the flameDid they carve thy flesh with the knife, and seethe it,And served at the feast, and—dare lips breathe it?—That the God-guests ate of the same!

But impossible is it for me to callAny Blest One man-eater—with loathing and scornI recoil! O, the profit is passing smallThat the dealer in slander hath ofttimes found.But if ever a man on the earth was bornWhom the Watchers from Heaven with honour crowned,That man was Tantalus: yet of their favourNo profit he had, nor of that high bliss.But the man's proud stomach was drunk with its savourAnd gorged with pride; and by reason of thisHe drew on him ruin utter-crushing;For Zeus hung o'er him a huge black scaur,And he cowers from it aye on his head down-rushingFrom happiness exiled far.

And there unto torment fettered for everLiving on, living on in eternal despairHe abides with the Three on whom hope dawns never,He who from the feast of the Gods could dareTo steal the ambrosia and nectar wherebyThey had given him immortality,That the guests of his wine-cup might revel thereon!But who thinketh to hide his evil doingFrom God, he errs to his bitter ruing!So then the Immortals sent back his sonExiled to earth from the heavenly home,Thenceforth with the sons of a day to abide.But in process of time, when Pelops was comeTo the flower-bright season of life's springtide,When the soft rose-tint of his cheek 'gan darken,To the whisper of love did his spirit hearken,And he dreamed of the world-famed bride

Hippodameia, the glorious daughterOf the Lord of Pisa, a prize for himWho could win her. Alone by the surf-white waterOf the sea he stood in the darkness dim.To the Thunder-voiced he cried o'er the wave,To the Lord of the Trident mighty to save:And lo, at his side did the God appear.And 'O Poseidon,' he spake imploring,'If the gifts of the Cyprian Queen's outpouringTo thy spirit, O King, be in any wise dear,His bronze lance let not Enomaus liftTo mine hurt, but cause me to Elis to rideOn a god-given chariot passing swift:There throne thou me by victory's side.For lovers by that spear merciless-slayingHave died thirteen, and he still is delayingTo bestow his child as a bride.

In the path doth a mighty peril lie;To the craven soul no welcome it gives.But, seeing a man must needs once die,Wherefore should I unto old age screenFrom peril a life that only lives,Sitting nameless and fameless in darkness unseen,In the deeds of the valiant never sharing?Nay, lies at my feet the challenge now:I will accept it for doing and daring!Good speed to mine heart's desire grant thou!'Not fruitless the cry of his heart's desiringWas uttered. The God heard gracious-souled,And crowned him with honour. Winged steeds untiringHe gave, and a chariot of gold.

So he won for his bride that maiden peerless;For her terrible father he overcame.And she bare to him six sons battle-fearless,Captains of war-hosts, thirsting for fame.And his portion assured hath Pelops stillWhere the priests the blood of the sacrifice spill;And unto his tomb resorteth the throngOf strangers from far who have heard his story.From his grave-mound his spirit beholdeth the gloryOf the mighty Olympian strife of the strongIn the course that from Pelops its name hath ta'en,Wherein be contending the swift to runAnd the thews that be mighty in wrestling-strain.And whoso therein hath the victory won,Thereafter on through his life-days everSweetly his peace shall flow as a riverBlissfully gliding on

For those Games' sake. Yea, the good that unceasingOn man's lot daily as dew droppeth downIs that which to each is most well-pleasing.Now is it my bounden duty to crownWith a strain wherein hoof-beats triumphant ringIn Aeolian mood Sicilia's King.And hereof is my spirit assured past doubtThat amidst all men on the wide earth dwellingThere is found no host whom with prouder-swellingNotes in many a winding boutOf noble song I may glorify,Yea, none more learned in honour's lore,None who showeth therein more potency.The God who guardeth thee watcheth o'erThine hopes and thine aims, that no evil assail thee;And if—O nay, but he cannot fail thee!—I trust ere long once more

To chant a triumph than all more sweet,Inspiration-wafted, as one that fliesIn a chariot, on paths of utterance meet,Till I win unto Kronos' Hill sunbright.O yea, in my Muses' quiver liesA song-arrow winged for stronger flight.By diverse paths men upward aspire:Earth's highest summit by kings is attained.Thou therefore look to attain no higherThan earth. Be it thine on the height thou hast gainedTo pace mid splendour of royal achievingThy life through: mine be it no less longTo consort with victors, from Hellas receivingThe world o'er praise for my song.