born
Whom the Watchers from Heaven with honour crowned,
That man was Tantalus: yet of their favour
No profit he had, nor of that high bliss.
But the man’s proud stomach was drunk with its savour
And gorged with pride; and by reason of this
He 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-rushing
From happiness exiled far.
And there unto torment fettered for ever
Living on, living on in eternal despair
He abides with the Three2 on whom hope dawns never,
He who from the feast of the Gods could dare
To steal the ambrosia and nectar whereby
They had given him immortality,
That the guests of his wine-cup might revel thereon!
But who thinketh to hide his evil doing
From God, he errs to his bitter ruing!
So then the Immortals sent back his son
Exiled to earth from the heavenly home,
Thenceforth with the sons of a day to abide.
But in process of time, when Pelops was come
To 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 daughter
Of the Lord of Pisa, a prize for him
Who could win her. Alone by the surf-white water
Of 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 outpouring
To thy spirit, O King, be in any wise dear,
His bronze lance let not Oenomaus lift
To mine hurt, but cause me to Elis to ride
On a god-given chariot passing swift:
There throne thou me by victory’s side.
For lovers by that spear merciless-slaying
Have died thirteen, and he still is delaying
To 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 screen
From 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 desiring
Was uttered. The God heard gracious-souled,
And crowned him with honour. Winged steeds untiring
He 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 still
Where the priests the blood of the sacrifice spill;
And unto his tomb resorteth the throng
Of strangers from far who have heard his story.
From his grave-mound his spirit beholdeth the glory
Of the mighty Olympian strife of the strong
In the course that from Pelops its name hath ta’en,
Wherein be contending the swift to run
And the thews that be mighty in wrestling-strain.
And whoso therein hath the victory won,
Thereafter on through his life-days ever
Sweetly his peace shall flow as a river
Blissfully gliding on
For those Games’ sake. Yea, the good that unceasing
On man’s lot daily as dew droppeth down
Is that which to each is most well-pleasing.
Now is it my bounden duty to crown
With a strain wherein hoof-beats triumphant ring
In Aeolian mood Sicilia’s King.
And hereof is my spirit assured past doubt
That amidst all men on the wide earth dwelling
There is found no host whom with prouder-swelling
Notes in many a winding bout
Of 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’er
Thine 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 flies
In a chariot, on paths of utterance meet,
Till I win unto Kronos’ Hill sunbright.
O yea, in my Muses’ quiver lies
A 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 higher
Than earth. Be it thine on the height thou hast gained
To pace mid splendour of royal achieving
Thy life through: mine be it no less long
To consort with victors, from Hellas receiving
The world o’er praise for my song.
II
For Theron, ruler of Akragas in Sicily, on a victory won in the chariot-race, in 476 BC.
Songs, lords of the lyre! what God shall we hymn?—what hero’s praises?—
What man’s fame publish afar?
Pisa doth Zeus own; Heracles stablished Olympia’s races
With the regal spoils of his war;
Theron, who honours the guest, whose four steeds raced victorious,
Akragas’ stay, let us chant, full flower of an ancestry glorious,
His city’s saviour-star.
Toils bravely his fathers endured, and a hallowed home by the river
They reared: they were Sicily’s eye.
And to crown their inborn worth, Fair Fortune attended them, giver
Of wealth and of dignity.
Son of Kronos and Rhea, enthroned in Olympus, thou lord of the choicest
Of contests by Alpheus’ ford, guard, since in our song thou rejoicest,
For their sons ever graciously
Their fatherland-soil! When for right or for wrong hath been woven the tissue
Of our deeds, not Time the father of all can reverse the issue.
Yet oblivion may come of the past
With the dawn of a happier day; for overmastered and slain
By the sunlight of happiness oft is memory’s rankling pain,
When broad and high at the last
Prosperity grows by the fiat of God. Yea, of Kadmus’ daughters
This thing I have said proved true:—
Sore anguish they suffered, yet mightier blessings from out the waters
Of affliction the stricken ones drew.
Mid thunder-crash Semele perished, yet lives in the heavenly
