Olympian 2: For Theron of Agragas

O Song! whose voice the harp obeys,
Accordant aye with answering string;
What god, what hero wilt thou praise,
What man of godlike prowess sing?

Lo, Jove himself is Pisa's king;
And Jove's strong son the first to raise
The barriers of th' Olympic ring.
And now, victorious on the wing
Of sounding wheels, our bards proclaim
The stranger Theron's honoured name,
The flower of no ignoble race,
And prop of ancient Agragas!

His patient sires, for many a year,
Where that blue river rolls its flood,
'Mid fruitless war and civil blood

Essayed their sacred home to rear.
Till time assigned, in fatal hour,
Their native virtues, wealth and power,
And made them from their low degree
The eye of warlike Sicily.

And may that power of ancient birth,
From Saturn sprung, and parent Earth,
Of tall Olympus' lord,
Who sees with still benignant eye
The games' long splendour sweeping by

His Alpheus' holy ford,
Appeased with anthems chanted high,
To Theron's late posterity

A happier doom accord!
Or good or ill, the past is gone,
Nor Time himself, the parent one,
Can make the former deeds undone;

But who would these recall,
When happier days would fain efface
The memory of each past disgrace,
And, from the gods, on Theron's race
Unbounded blessings fall?
Example meet for such a song,
The sister queens of Laius' blood;

Who sorrow's edge endured long,
Made keener by remembered good:
Yet now she breathes the air of heaven
(On earth by smouldering thunder riven),
Long-haired Semele: —

To Pallas dear is she, —
Dear to the sire of gods, and dear
To him, her son, in dreadful glee
Who shakes the ivy-wreathed spear.

And thus they tell that deep below
The sounding ocean's ebb and flow,
Amid the daughters of the sea,
A sister nymph must Ino be,
And dwell in bliss eternally.

But, ignorant and blind,
We little know the coming hour,
Or if the latter day shall lower,
Or if to nature's kindly power
Our life, in peace resigned,
Shall sink like fall of Summer eve,
And on the face of darkness leave

A ruddy smile behind.
For grief and joy with fitful gale
Our crazy bark by turns assail,

And, whence our blessings flow,
That same tremendous Providence
Will oft a varying doom dispense,
And lay the mighty low.
To Theban Laius that befell,
Whose son, with murder dyed,
Fulfilled the former oracle,

Unconscious parricide!
Unconscious! yet avenging hell
Pursued the offender's stealthy pace,
And heavy, sure, and hard it fell,
The curse of blood, on all his race.
Spared from their kindred strife
The young Thersander's life,
Stern Polynices' heir, was left alone:
In every martial game,

And in the field of fame,
For early force and matchless prowess known
Was left the pride and prop to be
Of good Adrastus' pedigree.
And hence, through loins of ancient kings,
The warrior blood of Theron springs:
Exalted name! to whom belong
The minstrel's harp, the poet's song,

In fair Olympia crowned;
And where, 'mid Pythia's olives blue,
An equal lot his brother drew;
And where his twice-twain coursers flew

The isthmus twelve times round.
Such honour, earned by toil and care,
May best his ancient wrongs repair,

And wealth, unstained by pride,
May laugh at Fortune's fickle power,
And blameless in the tempting hour

Of syren ease abide j
Led by that star of heavenly ray
Which best may keep our darkling way
O'er life's unsteady tide.
For whoso holds in righteousness the throne.
He in his heart hath known

How the foul spirits of the guilty dead,
In chambers dark and dread,
Of nether earth abide, and penal flame;
Where he whom none may name l
Lays bare the soul by stern necessity,

Seated in judgment high;
The minister of God whose arm is there,
In heaven alike and hell, almighty everywhere.
But ever bright, by day, by night,
Exulting in excess of light;
From labour free and long distress,
The good enjoy their happiness;
No more the stubborn soil they cleave,
Nor stem for scanty food the wave;
But with the venerable gods they dwell;
No tear bedims their thankful eye,
Nor mars their long tranquillity;
While those accursed howl in pangs unspeakable.

But who the thrice-renewed probation
Of either world may well endure,
And keep with righteous destination
The soul from all transgression pure:
To such and such alone is given
To walk the rainbow paths of heaven,
To that tall city of almighty time,
Where ocean's balmy breezes play,

And, flashing to the western day,
The gorgeous blossoms of such blessed clime,
Now in the happy isles are seen
Sparkling through the groves of green;
And now, all glorious to behold,
Tinge the wave with floating gold.—

Hence are their garlands woven—hence their hands
Filled with triumphal boughs;— the righteous doom
Of Rhadamanthus, whom, o'er these his lands,
A blameless judge in every time to come,
Chronos, old Chronos, sire of gods, hath placed;
Who, with his consort dear,
Dread Rhea, reigneth here
On cloudy throne with deathless honour graced.—
And still they say, in high communion,
Peleus and Cadmus here abide;
And, with the blest in blessed union
(Nor Jove has Thetis' prayer denied),

The daughter of the ancient Sea
Hath brought her warrior boy to be;
Him whose stern avenging blow
Laid the prop of Ilium low,
Hector, trained to slaughter fell,
By all but him invincible; —
And sea-born Cycnus tamed: and slew
Aurora's knight of Ethiop hue.
Beneath my rattling belt I wear
A sheaf of arrows keen and clear
Of vocal shafts, that wildly fly,

Nor ken the base their import high,
Yet to the wise they breathe no vulgar melody.
Yes, he is wise whom nature's dower
Hath raised above the crowd. —
But, trained in study's formal hour,
There are who hate the minstrel's power,

As daws who mark the eagle tower
And croak in envy loud! —
So let them rail! but thou, my heart,
Rest on the bow thy levelled dart;

Nor seek a worthier aim
For arrow sent on friendship's wing,
Than him the Agragantine king

Who best thy song may claim.
For, by eternal truth I swear,
His parent town shall scantly bear
A soul to every friend so dear,

A breast so void of blame;
Though twenty lustres rolling round,
With rising youth her nation crowned,
In heart, in hand, should none be found

Like Theron's honoured name. —
Yes! we have heard the factious lie! —
But let the babbling vulgar try
To blot his worth with tyranny.

Seek thou the ocean strand! —
And when thy soul would fain record
The bounteous gifts of yonder lord,
Go — reckon up the sand!