Pythian X

Happy is Sparta, and blessèd is Thessaly, seeing there reignethIn one and the other a race descended from Herakles.Is not the vaunt out of season? O nay, for a summons constrainethMe from Pelinna and Pytho and sons of Aleuas, for theseWould bring to Hippokleas chanting of victory-choruses.

He hath tasted the joy of the athlete: the gorge of Parnassus hath hailed himTo 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-bidingAres did Phrikias run: in the mead under Kirrha's rock hidingWere 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 heightOf athlete-triumph hath climbed by his courage and bodily might,

And he who hath lived to behold a son by Fate's favour attainingThe 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 sacrificingBehold, as from altars he saw the smoke of ass-hecatombs risingUnto Apollo; yea, and the God hath delight evermoreIn 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 windingDances of maidens sweep, and the voice of the lyre rings clear,And the notes of the pipe, and their tresses with golden bay-leaves bindingBlithely they banquet, nor eld nor wasting disease draw nearTo that hallowed folk, but from toil and from clash of sword and spear

Dwell they afar, and the tyrannous Goddess of RetributionThey escape. To that happy folk of old fared Danae's sonGuided on by Athene, and breathing an aweless heart's resolution.And the Gorgon he slew, and he bare that head which luridly shoneWith 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 thereunderThe sea-floor, to guard thee against the reef that lurking lies.For the flower-sweet glory of this my song ever restlessly fliesFrom legend to legend, a bee with honey-laden thighs.

O, I trust that, the while the lips of Ephyra's singers are pouringMy sweet strains forth by the side of Peneius, my songs may makeHippokleas by age-mates and elders more honoured, with eyes adoringLooked 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-alluringDesire of his heart for the hour that is present—yet what the tideOf time in a year shall bring, none knoweth. Ah, but enduringShall be Thorax' friendship, I trust! On this car of the Muses I rideBy 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 exaltersOf Thessaly's commonweal, which ever they magnify.Yea, best in the hands of high-born men doth the piloting lieOf cities wherein their fathers have ruled in the years gone by.