English

O breathing-place of Alpheus panting in chase of the Nymph Arethusa, O child
Of Syracuse world-renowned, Ortygia, couch of the Huntress-queen of the wild,
O sister of Delos, the chant sweet-ringing is speeding from thee to proclaim with singing
The mighty glory of tempest-footed horses, by Zeus' grace, Etna's lord;
For the chariot of Chromius and Nemea stir me to yoke to her victory song's reward.

Lo, how the Song's foundations are laid in homage of Gods, and in praise of the might

Fain am I, by the favour of the Graces
Deep-girt, to chant aloud the victory won
By Telesikrates, Kyrene's son,
At Pytho in the brazen-harnessed races.
His fortune fair I sing, and chant the glory
That crowns the city of the flying car,
Kyrene! — Her Apollo, saith the story,
The bright-haired Son of Leto, caught afar
From Pelion's dells with echoing winds enfolden,
And bare her thence upon his chariot golden,

This day, O Muse, in the presence of a friend it behoves thee to stand,
Even the King of Kyrene, the goodly battle-steed's land,
That so, when Arkesilas leadeth the revel-dance sweeping along,
Thou at his side mayst be swelling the breeze of acclaiming song
Which is due unto Leto's children, to Pytho the temple due,
Where of old, when Apollo's presence was a glory that shone therethrough,
The priestess enthroned by the golden eagles of Zeus revealed
That Battus should found an empire in Libya's fruitful field,

I were fain — if my tongue might breathe the prayer
Which on all lips trembles — that Philyra's son,
That yet alive old Cheiron were
Who perished from earth, ah, long agone,
Even heaven-born Kronos' seed, who of yore
A sceptre of wide dominion bore —
That now in the glens of Pelion
That man-brute reigned in the woods once more
Who was gracious-hearted to men when of old
He dwelt in the shadowy forest-land

O Syracuse, city in greatness excelling,
Precinct of Ares through gulfs of war
Who plungeth, O nurse of the warrior and steed
That in clash of the steel of battle-weed
Exult, from radiant Thebes do I speed
Bearing a song of the great race, telling
Of the swift earth-shaking four-horsed car,
The race wherein Hiero triumphward riding
Flashed down the course with his glorious team,
And crowned with garlands that glowed far-seen

'Neath our song's forecourt-rooftree pillars golden
Will we uprear; a palace shall it seem.
'Tis meet the forefront shine out far-beholden
Of work that hath such splendour-flashing theme.
The victor at Olympia, who withal
Is treasurer of Zeus's oracle-altar,
Who is co-founder of the glorious wall
Of Syracuse — shall his song-praises falter?
Share not the joy his fellow-burghers all?

Such sandal — let the son of Sostratus know it —

Chiefest is water of all things, for streaming
Therefrom all life and existence came;
And all proud treasure of princes the gleaming
Splendour of gold outshines, as the flame
Of a great fire flings through the night its rays.
But, heart of mine, if thou fain wouldst praise
Triumphs in athlete-contests won,
Search not, when day with his glory is glowing,
For a radiant star more life-bestowing
In the whole void sky, than the kingly sun

While in thy heart I held my place,
Nor any youth more dear could cling
To yon fair neck in fond embrace,
More blest was I than Persians' king. Lydia .

While none excelled me in thy love,
Nor after Chloe Lydia came,
I, glorious Lydia, towered above
The height of Roman Ilia's fame. Horace .

Now Thracian Chloe rules my heart,
Sweet lute player and songstress rare.
Fearless for her with life I'll part,

Lydia, prithee, say,
Why thus in haste, by all the gods above,
Sybaris with thy love
To wreck? Why loathes he Campus ground to-day
Who never flinched before from dust or sun's hot ray?

Why has he ceased to ride
With his compeers arrayed in martial band,
Subduing to his hand
With jagged bit his Gallic charger's pride?
Why shrinks he from the touch of Tiber's yellow tide?

Why oil with greater fear

Well, the fool wilfully had chosen his spare
Entertainment — and rooks flapping in his face —
And rats whiskering at his toes and every place —
And a crust and a cold house are philosopher's fare —
So his patriot brother hastened to prepare
The King his welcome. Edith with little heart
Helped him, and thought on Abbott's nobler part,
Till listen! a silver music of fanfare.

Strange how she managed more color then, and less cold.
Kings are divine — it is declared by tones
The horn-blowers send through the skies — caparisons