Olympian 1: For Hiero of Syracuse

Can earth, or fire, or liquid air,
With water's sacred stream compare?
Can aught that wealthy tyrants hold
Surpass the lordly blaze of gold?
Or lives there one, whose restless eye
Would seek along the empty sky,
Beneath the sun's meridian ray,
A warmer star, a purer day? —
O thou, my soul, whose choral song
Would tell of contests sharp and strong,
Extol not other lists above
The circus of Olympian Jove;
Whence, borne on many a tuneful tongue,
To Saturn's seed the anthem sung,
With harp, and flute, and trumpet's call,
Hath sped to Hiero's festival.
Over sheep-clad Sicily
Who the righteous sceptre beareth,
Every flower of Virtue's tree
Wove in various wreath he weareth.
But the bud of Poesy
Is the fairest flower of all;
Which the bards, with social glee,

Strew round Hiero's wealthy hall.
The harp on yonder pin suspended,
Seize it, boy, for Pisa's sake;
And that good steed's, whose thoughts will wake
A joy with anxious fondness blended;
No sounding lash his sleek side rended; —
By Alpheus' brink, with feet of flame,
Self-driven to the goal he tended,
And earned the olive wreath of fame
For that dear lord, whose righteous name
The sons of Syracusa tell,
Who loves the generous courser well:

Beloved himself by all who dwell
In Pelops' Lydian colony.
-Of earth-embracing Neptune, he
The darling, when, in days of yore,
All lovely from the cauldron red
By Clotho's spell delivered,
The youth an ivory shoulder bore.

-Well! — these are tales of mystery! —
And many a darkly-woven lie
With men will easy credence gain;
While truth, calm truth, may speak in vain;
For eloquence, whose honeyed sway
Our frailer mortal wits obey,
Can honour give to actions ill,
And faith to deeds incredible;
And bitter blame, and praises high,
Fall truest from posterity.
But, if we dare the deeds rehearse
Of those that aye endure,
'T were meet that in such dangerous verse
Our every word were pure. —
Then, son of Tantalus, receive
A plain unvarnished lay!
My song shall elder fables leave,

And of thy parents say,
That, when in heaven a favoured guest;
He called the gods in turn to feast
On Sipylus, his mountain home:
The sovereign of the ocean foam,
— Can mortal form such favour prove? —
Rapt thee on golden car above
To highest house of mighty Jove;

To which, in after day,
Came golden-haired Ganymede,
As bards in ancient story read,
The dark-winged eagle's prey.

And when no earthly tongue could tell
The fate of thee, invisible, —
Nor friends, who sought thee wide in vair,
To soothe the weeping mother's pain,
Could bring thy wanderer home again;

Some envious neighbour's spleen,
In distant hints, and darkly, said,
That in the cauldron hissing red,
And on the gods' great table spread,
Thy mangled limbs were seen.

But who shall tax, — I dare not, I, —
The blessed gods with gluttony?
Full oft the slanderous tongue has felt
By their high wrath the thunder dealt j
And sure, if ever mortal head
Heaven's holy watchers honoured,

That head was Lydia's lord.
Yet could not mortal heart digest
The wonders of that heavenly feast;
Elate with pride, a thought unblest

Above his nature soared.
And now condemned to endless dread
(Such is the righteous doom of fate),
He eyes, above his guilty head,
The shadowy rock's impending weight;
The fourth, with that tormented three l
In horrible society!
For that, in frantic theft,
The nectar cup he reft,
And to his mortal peers in feasting poured,
For whom a sin it were
With mortal life to share
The mystic dainties of the immortal board;
And who by policy
Can hope to 'scape the eye
Of him who sits above, by men and gods adored?

For such offence, a doom severe,
Sent down the son to sojourn here
Among the fleeting race of man; —
Who, when the curly down began
To clothe his cheek in darker shade,
To car-borne Pisa's royal maid l
A lover's tender service paid.
But, in the darkness first he stood
Alone, by Ocean's hoary flood,
And raised to him the suppliant cry,
The hoarse earth-shaking deity.
Nor called in vain: through cloud and storm
Half-seen, a huge and shadowy form,

The God of Waters came. —
He came, whom thus the youth addressed:
"O thou, if that immortal breast

Have felt a lover's flame,
A lover's prayer in pity hear,
Repel the tyrant's brazen spear

That guards my lovely dame!
And grant a car whose rolling speed
May help a lover at his need;
Condemned by Pisa's hand to bleed,
Unless I win the envied meed
In Elis' field of fame!
"For youthful knights thirteen
By him have slaughtered been,
His daughter vexing with perverse delay;
Such to a coward's eye
Were evil augury,
Nor durst a coward's heart the strife essay.
Yet, since alike to all
The doom of death must fall,
Ah! wherefore, silting in unseemly shade,
Wear out a nameless life,

Remote from noble strife,
And all the sweet applause to valour paid?-
Yes! I will dare the course! but thou,
Immortal friend, my prayer allow."
Thus not in vain, his grief he told.
The ruler of the watery space
Bestowed a wondrous car of gold,
And tireless steeds of winged pace.
So, victor in the deathful race,
He tamed the strength of Pisa's king,
And from his bride of beauteous face,
Beheld a stock of warriors spring,
Six valiant sons, as legends sing.

And now with fame and virtue crowned,
Where Alpheus' stream, in wat'ry ring,
Encircles half his turfy mound,
He sleeps beneath the piled ground,
Near that blest spot where strangers move
In many a long procession round

The altar of protecting Jove.
Yet chief, in yonder lists of fame,
Survives the noble Pelops' name;
Where strength of hands and nimble feet
In stern and dubious contest meet;
And high renown and honeyed praise,
And following length of honoured days,
The victor's weary toil repays.
But what are past or future joys?
The present is our own;
And he is wise who best employs
The passing hour alone.
To crown with knightly wreath the king
(A grateful task) be mine;
And on the smooth Æolian string

To praise his ancient line.
For ne'er shall wand'ring minstrel find
A chief so just — a friend so kind;
With every grace of fortune blest —
The mightiest, wisest, bravest, best!
God, who beholdeth thee and all thy deeds,
Have thee in charge, King Hiero! — so again
The bard may sing thy horny-hoofed steeds
In frequent triumph o'er the Olympian plain!
Nor shall the bard awake a lowly strain,
His wild notes flinging o'er the Cronian steep,
Whose ready Muse, and not invoked in vain,
For such high mark her strongest shaft shall keep.
Each hath his proper eminence:
To kings indulgent Providence
(No further search the will of Heaven)
The glories of the earth hath given.
Still may'st thou reign! enough for me
To dwell with heroes like to thee,
Myself the chief of Grecian minstrelsy.