Pythian III

I were fain—if my tongue might breathe the prayerWhich on all lips trembles that Philyra's son,That yet alive old Cheiron wereWho perished from earth, ah, long agone,Even heaven-born Kronos' seed, who of yoreA sceptre of wide dominion bore—That now in the glens of PelionThat man-brute reigned in the woods once moreWho was gracious-hearted to men when of oldHe dwelt in the shadowy forest-landWhere he fostered Asklepius kindly-souled,The lord of leechcraft, whose healing handFrom the limbs of the stricken banished painWith salves by the which each malady's baneFrom their frames was banned.

The daughter of Phlegyas, lord of the car,Not yet with help of the Travail-queenHad borne that Healer renowned afar,Ere by Artemis' golden arrows keenIn her bride-bower stricken to death she lay,And trod the unreturning wayUnto Hades' halls; for Apollo had seenThe transgression that slew his love in a day.For the wrath of the Sons of Zeus not in vainBurns. In her folly she dared think scornOf his anger: unknown to her sire had she ta'enTo her arms a human lover, forswornTo her bridal troth, to her plighted word,To the love of Apollo the Archer-lordOf the hair unshorn,

Though she bare 'neath her zone a God's pure seed,Yet the marriage-feast's coming she would not abide;Not she of the full-voiced song took heed,Such song as the young girl-mates of the brideMerrily chant in the eventide.But she longed for a love that was otherwhereWith the passion that oft is the soul's death-snare.For a people foolish beyond compareIs found among mortals, who scorn things near,And gaze upon things that be far away,And chase an ever-elusive preyWith hopes whose fulfilment shall never appear.

Even with such overmastering mightDid unbridled desire o'er the spirit sweepOf Koronis in queenly vesture dight,That she dared in the unblest couch to sleepOf a stranger faring from Arcady.But she 'scaped not the all-beholding eyeOf the God,—albeit where myriad sheepTo his altar at Pytho be led to dieWas the Lord of the Temple then,—for their lustBy the all-divining mind was descried.To his soul's inner vision did Phoebus trustAs it were to a seer enthroned at his side.He knows not delusion, whom neither manNor God by thought or by action canDeceive or misguide.

So when of her harlotry Phoebus was wareWith the stranger Ischys Eilatus' son,And her godless guile in his sight lay bare,Then sent he against that faithless oneHis sister Artemis rushing with mightOf a Goddess whose arrows resistlessly smiteUnto Lakereia, by whose walls shineThe mere Boebeïs' waters bright,Whereby did the woman unwedded abideWhom her evil genius misled to the doomWhich destroyed her; and many a neighbour diedWith her, by her sin dragged down to the tomb,As when on a mountain the fire that hath leaptFrom one spark over a forest hath swept,And doth wholly consume.

But now when her kinsmen had laid the maidIn the midst of the pinewood walls of the pyre,And when round about her upleaping playedThe splendour-light of the Lord of Fire,Spake Apollo: 'I will not by death so direEndure that mine own son also should dieIn the flames wherein doth his mother lie!'He spake, and at one stride stood thereby,And he caught up the child from the corse, and sprangThe flames asunder. That babe he broughtTo Magnesia's Centaur, by him to be taughtTo heal each mortal malady's pang.

And so what mortals soever soughtUnto him of the earth's afflicted ones,Or with sores by nature's corruption wrought,Or with limbs deep-gashed by the gleaming bronze,Or the stone hurled far from the whirling sling,Or through feverous summers languishing,Or whom winter had cramped in sinews and bones,He delivered them all, that leechcraft-king,And loosed from their diverse infirmitiesOr by spells with magic's nepenthe rife;Or a pain-lulling draught would he pour for these,Or with salves that requickened the fainting lifeThe limbs of those would he swathe around,Or for cureless sores was a remedy foundIn the merciful knife.

But alas for him, even leechcraft's loreMay be made the thrall of the lust of gain!Even him did guerdon of golden ore,In his palm as it glittered, seduce to his bane,To bring back a man from the realm of the deadWhom Hades already had captive led.Wherefore Kronion smote those twainWith the vengeance-bolt from his hand swift-sped;And that all-dreaded thunder-stoneDashed from their bosoms the breath for their sin.From the Gods it behoves that we seek aloneThings meet for mortal spirits to win,That, knowing what lies at the feet of man,And discerning the bounds of our mortal span,We abide therein.

Covet not thou, O my soul, to liveThe Immortals' life! Let us use as we mayThe means that Fate to our hands shall give.Yet, if Cheiron the wise in his cave this dayDwelt, and our honey-sweet songs might layOn his spirit a spell that his will might bend,I had won on him then some healer to sendTo deliver from feverous pains my friend,Such an one as Asklepius Apollo's son.O'er Ionian waters voyagingOh then had I reached Arethusa's spring,And to Etna's ruler, mine host, had I gone,

Who o'er Syracuse holdeth empery,A king to his citizens gracious-souled;Never jealous of good men's weal is heWhom stranger-friends from far lands holdAs a father with worshipful marvelling.O might I but land on his shores and bringA twofold boon, even health's pure gold,And the triumph-chant therewithal that I singTo light with splendour the Pythian crownWhich his steed Pherenikus in days gone byAt Kirrha won for his lord's renown,To my friend then, crossing the deep sea, IHad come as a light clear-shining afar,Ay, beaming brighter than any starIn yonder sky.

Yet, unto the Mother, the Goddess adored,For thine helping with prayers would I fain draw near,Whose praises, with those of the Forest-lord,Beside my portal chanted I hearBy maidens oft, when the night is still.But, Hiero, seeing thyself hast skillTo interpret the lore of the ancient seer,This knowest thou—This is the high Gods' willTo apportion alway afflictions twainFor each one boon that on man they bestow.It is only the foolish who cannot sustainWith fit resignation their burden of woe:But spirits heroic their sorrow can hide'Neath a calm smile; so life's fairer sideTo the world do they show.

Yet on thee doth a lot of happiness wait;For if upon any man She hath deignedWith favour to look, all-ruling Fate,'Tis on him who over a nation hath reigned.Nor Peleus nor Kadmus the godlike attainedTo a life safeguarded from suffering aye:Yet of all men these, as the old myths say,To the highest happiness rose, for theyHeard the gold-tired Muses on PelionAnd in Thebes of the seven gates, when the brideOf the one was Harmonia lovely-eyed,And Thetis the Sea-queen Peleus won.

Yea, and the Gods sat at meat with these,And the Sons of Kronos did they beholdAs kings in the heavenly palacesSeated upon their thrones of gold,And received of them many a bridal gift;And by Zeus were they saved from the stormy driftOf woes overpast o'er their heads that had rolled;And their hearts in gladness did they uplift.Yet the days of their joyance were all too brief;For the years drew nigh when Kadmus should seeHis portion of happiness turned to griefBy the bitter travail of daughters three.Yet Thyone the white-armed drew from aboveDown to her couch by the spell of loveZeus' majesty.

And the son of Peleus, the only sonWhom Thetis the deathless Goddess boreIn Phthia to him—from that glorious oneThe arrow in battle his sweet life tore;And the Danaans' wail rang loud, as they yearnedFor their mightiest lost, on the pyre as he burned.Now if any of mortals by wisdom's loreThe way of truth in his soul hath discerned,Well may he be happy, if God bestowThe fortune fair by the Blessèd given.Yet ever the blasts veer to and froOf the winds that fly o'er the fields of heaven.Not long doth the bliss of mortals endure,Yea, though it have come in full measure, and pureFrom sorrow's leaven.

Small shall I be if small my estate,And great shall I grow if great it be.What fortune soever for me may wait,I will strive to adorn it worthily.Should God grant easeful wealth unto me,I would fain win fame too in oncoming days.So Nestor and Lycian Sarpedon in laysRinging loud on the lips of men, have praise,Whom we see as it were in temples enshrinedUppiled by the master-builders of song;For through glorious strains liveth chivalry long—But the path unto that fame few may find.