Pythian VIII

O gentle-hearted Queen of Peace, thou DaughterOf Righteousness, to greatness dost thou raiseCities: of counsel calm and war's mad slaughterThe master-keys thou holdest. Of thy graceWelcome the praiseOf Aristomenes, in athlete-strifeWon at the Pythian Games. Thou knowest trulyHow to receive and give in season dulyThe kindly courtesies that sweeten life.

Yet thou, whenever any man hath drivenThine heart to righteous wrath, relentlessly,Sternly against the might of foes hast striven:Their insolence into the abyss of seaIs hurled by thee.Porphyrion had not learned thy mighty swayWhen he provoked thy spirit overmeasure.If willing be the giver, precious treasureIs that which the receiver bears away.

But violence bringeth low the fool high-vauntingAt last. Cilicia's spawn, that demon-thing,Typhoeus hundred-headed, spirit-daunting,Escaped not thee, nor yet the Giants' king,Whom lightning's wingAnd Phoebus' shafts o'erthrew, though ne'er so strong.Phoebus received with gracious condescendingXenokrates' son home from Kirrha wendingCrowned with Parnassian wreaths and Dorian song.

Ne'er hath she lost the favour of the Graces,That isle which aye doth public faith uphold.The Aiakids' glory never she effaces:Her fame abideth flawless as is toldIn songs of oldRings down the years the music of her name:They hymn the nurse of many an heir of gloryWho reaped renown in battle's stormy story,Who won the crown in many an athlete-game.

Yea, yet is she pre-eminent, a nationOf men heroic—but the time would failIf I should now essay the consecrationTo lyre-strings and to song's soft-rippling galeOf all that tale,Lest men's ears should be overfilled the whileAnd envy vex us. Let the task yet lyingBefore me speed on wings of poesy flying,Thy due, boy, youngest glory of thine isle.

Thou in the wrestlers' strife with feet unfailingFollowest thy mother's brethren glory-hymned:Theognotus at Olympia stood prevailing;His, nor Kleitomachus' fame by thee is dimmed,The mighty-limbedAt Isthmus victor. The Midylid ClanDost thou exalt, who gainest that fruitionOf glory of which the Prophet spake in visionBefore Thebes' gates, who saw in battle's van

Them of the Second Race, sons of the Seven,Who to avenge their sires from Argos came—Spake riddling, while that first fight yet was striven:'The spirit of their sires' heroic fameBrighter shall flameYet in the sons inborn. I see, I seeAlkmaion, with the iridescent-glancingDragon on his bright shield, foremost advancingThrough Kadmus' rifted gates victoriously.

But he, who in this war must flee the foemen,Hero Adrastus—in that day I seeHe is with tidings of far happier omenCompassed as with a wreath of victory.Yet also heIn his own house affliction's cup shall drain;For, of the Danaan host shall he, he onlyGather a slain son's bones in anguish lonely,Ere safe, with folk unscathed, he comes again

By the Gods' doom to Abas' street-ways stately.'So Amphiaraus spake. And also ICast on Alkmaion's tomb, rejoicing greatly,My wreaths of song: the dews of poesyThereonshall lie.Neighbour and warder of my wealth is he,Who met me to earth's storied centre faringWith triumph-boding. Dead, he still is sharingIn his forefathers' gift of prophecy.

But thou, Far-smiter, of whose presence hauntedIs that world-welcoming fane in Pytho's glen,Even there unto our champion hast thou grantedThe greatest of all joys within the kenOf mortal men.In the home-isle, at Artemis' Feast and thineThe Fivefold Contest's prize by thee was givenTo him, for which men passionately have striven.O King, I pray thee, graciously incline

Thine eyes on each new song, that still my singingMay with the Muses peal in harmony.Beside our revel-band of sweetly ringingVoices, doth Justice pace. Ye Gods, hear me!Oh let there beNo jealousy of thee in heavenly eyes,Xenarkes, nor of thine! If one attainethGlory the which with no long toil he gainethTo many a fool he seemeth to be wise,

Who think his own good counsel still begettethTriumph; yet not with man success is found:God is the all-bestower; yea, he settethOn high the low, abaseth the renownedEven to the ground.At Megara also didst thou win the prize;In Marathon's valley-nook thy name was glorious,Aristomenes, and thou didst stand victoriousIn thine own land at Hera's contests thrice.

With purpose grim thou hurld'st thee, with fierce straining,On four that met thee in the wrestling-ring,Youths to whom was not given by Fate's ordainingFrom Pythian Games thy glad mien home to bringWhich now I sing;Nor, as each fared back to his mother's side,Thrilled them with joy proud laughter softly pealing,But from the sneers of foes through byways stealingHeart-stung by their ill-hap in shame they hied.

He that in youth-tide's bloom hath won so latelyGlory, is wont to be uplifted highOn wings of hope; his courage waxeth greatlyWith lifting pinions: riches' witcheryDoth he defy.Yet ah, it is but for one little hourThat mortal bliss grows, not curse-overtaken.In one short hour, as by an earthquake shaken,'Tis hurled to the dust by adverse Destiny's power.

What are we?—what not?—things in one day ending!Man is a dream through shadows dimly seen.But when a glory shines from God descendingThen rests on men a sunbright splendour-sheenAnd life serene.Speed thou, Aegina, mother love-adored,This city on her voyage of freedom onward!May Zeus' and Aiakus' blessing lift her sunward,Peleus, Achilles, valiant Telamon ward!