Pythian I

O golden Lyre, who art Phoebus' treasureWhich he shares with the dusk-haired Song-queens aye,The light feet hear thee beating the measureAs the revellers marshal their dance-array.O Lyre, thy signals the singers obeyWhen in preludes of choral song low-dreamingO'er thy strings quick-throbbing the harmonies glide.Thou quenchest the thunderbolt's self red-gleamingJavelined with flame-jets aye outstreaming.On the sceptre of Zeus the slumber-tideO'er his eagle ripples, on either side

Of the king of birds as his pinions are trailing:O'er his bowing head doth a dark mist flowSweet-sealing his eyes; 'neath sleep's prevailingHis back heaves wave-like soft and slow,Spell-bound by thy melodies pulsing low.Yea, the soul of the wild War-god lies sleepingHushed, warm-cradled in slumber's nest,And his keen spear slips from his strong hand's keeping.Gods' hearts are thy shafts in enchantment steepingBy the inspiration of Phoebus to restLulled, and by the deep-bosomed Muses' behest.

But creatures beloved not of Zeus, things hauntingEarth's crypts, and the sea's gulfs storm-uprolled,Flee panic-struck, hearing the Pierids chanting,As was Typhon, whom Tartarus' dread depths hold,The hundred-headed, the hate undyingOf the Gods, in Cilician caverns of oldNursed. Sicily now and her sea-defyingCliffs above Kyme are heavily lyingOn his shag-haired breast, and the cloud-kissing heightOf a crag-column crusheth him—Etna, whiteThrough the livelong year with snows that biteWith ice-fangs cold.

Upbelched from his deep-hidden crypts is a fountainOf pure white fire none dare draw nigh.In the day from the lava-flood rifting the mountainIs the lurid smoke uptossed to the sky;In the darkness a red-rolling flame flares highAs it sweepeth the rocks with thunderous crashingTo the sea that afar below doth lie.'Tis the monster upspurting through anguish-gnashingJaws that fire-fountain fearfully flashing—A wondrous portent appalling the eye,A marvel to hear when men pass by;

Such horror is prisoned through years unending'Neath the heights dark-leaved in the earth's embrace,While his back is furrowed with gory rendingBy the flints of his restless resting-place!O Zeus, may we in thy sight find graceWho dost make this mountain thine habitation,This rich land's forefront, whose namesake-townHer founder ennobled, what time his nationWas ' of Etna' published by proclamationOf the Pythian herald who spake the renownOf Hiero's car-won victory-crown.

As seafarers hail as the first boon of HeavenThat their sails by a fair-speeding wind be fannedWhen the anchor is weighed, as an earnest givenOf yet fairer return to the home-land's strand,So reason enkindleth the expectationThat with this fair fortune linked hand in handShall the fame be of this thy new creationFor athletes and horses and glad celebrationOf her name by the singers. O Lycian KingAnd Delian, who lovest Castaly's spring,Of thy goodwill vouchsafe it, and stablish the thingFor this hero-land.

'Tis the Gods that ope all paths unto mortalsWhereby unto excellence toilers attain;For poesy's, prowess's, eloquence' portalsThey unbar. Albeit to praise I am fainThis hero, I trust I shall hurl not in vainWide of the lists my javelin, wingingFrom the hand that hath poised it its quivering flight,Beyond all rivals my shaft far-flinging.May the days through his life-tide be alway bringingWealth, bliss, in a course ever steered aright,With oblivion of fortune's past despite.

He shall surely recall the old wars' story—He whose steadfast soul was their battle-stay,—When his folk at the Gods' hands reaped for them glorySuch as none other Hellenes have borne awayFrom a stricken field, nor such goodly prey.For, a new Philoktetes, with help all-availingBattleward fared he, when came to imploreHumbly his friendship the proud ones, quailingFrom foes over-strong—as the heroes went sailingTo Lemnos, to bring him to Troyland's shoreWhom the wound snake-venomed tormented sore,

The archer, Poias' son, and he wendedTroyward, though sickness-worn was his frame,And he ravaged the city of Priam, and endedThe Danaans' toil; for of Fate this came.So by Hiero's side may a God go guidingHis steps, as in years past ever the same,The desire of his heart in its season providing.By Deinomenes' side, O my Muse, abidingChant thou the meed by the chariot wonOf the father whose triumph is joy for the son.This king, then, whose reign is in Etna begun,Sing we his fame,

For whom, with freedom on God's rock grounded,The statutes of Hyllus pledged to maintain,That city hath been by Hiero founded;For the sons of Pamphylus are ever fain—Yea, so is the line of the Herakleid strain'Neath the beetling crags of Taÿgetus dwelling—By Aegimius' Dorian laws to abide.They gat them Amyklae, and prospered past tellingWho from Pindus down-swooping in glory excellingBy the Tyndarids dwelt, who on white steeds ride,And their spear-fame as flower-studded meads blossomed wide.

Zeus All-accomplisher, grant that neverMay the tale of the fortunes of burgher and kingBe worser than now; may they prosper everWhere Amenas' waters are murmuring!By thy grace may the old chief's counsels bringTo his son and his folk, with all honour, fruitionIn their borders ever of concord and peace.May the war-cry of Tuscan no more nor PhoenicianBe heard on our shores since battle's decisionBy Cumae brought woe for lost ships upon theseWho in insolence claimed to be lords of the seas;

When the captain of Sicily's fleet on-leadingThe might of Syracuse, hurled to the seaTheir warrior youths from their ships light-speeding,And set you thereby, ye Hellenes, freeFrom thraldom's yoke hanging heavily o'er ye.Yea, Athens and Sparta shall guerdon meWith thanks for my Salamis-lay, for the storyOf the battle before Kithairon, the gloryWon when the Medes of the curved bow fell:And by Himera's bank shall the song-flood swellTo Deinomenes' sons' battle-prowess, and tellOf their victory.

If in season due be thy speech, if blendedInto close-knit order thy thoughts be, as whenA weaver upgathers his threads, attendedShall thy words be with scantier cavil of men.For if speech be tedious and long-drawn, thenThine hearers' eager expectancy dieth.And when burghers the praise of their fellows hear,On their hearts a weight of jealousy lieth.Yet better is envy than pity, which sighethOver failure. In justice thy folk do thou steer,And in truth's forge fashion thy tongue's keen spear.

How light soe'er be the word that hath flittedFrom thy lips, it is weighty, as coming from thee.To thy keeping a nation's weal is committed:Of thy deeds, good or ill, many watchers there be.Be thy spirit a flower of chivalry.If thou wilt that report true-royal declare thee,No niggard be thou: like a wise timoneerThy sails spread wide, that the breeze may bear theeOnward. Let time-serving guile not ensnare theeBy flattery, friend! Nought save the sincerePraise that, when mortals are no more here,

Lives on after death, to the world revealethWhat their true life was whose days are sped,And in chronicles shines and in lays outpealeth.Blooms Croesus' kindness with petals unshed;But Phalaris, ruthlessly joying in rendingMen's lives from the tortured in brass glowing red,He is compassed with infamy's hate unending,Nor lutes nor young voices in harmony blendingIn the hall of the feasters his name shall greet.Best of all is fair fortune; yet fame is sweet.Who wins both, life's chief crowns all meetTo engarland his head.