Classic Poem

TO HIERO OF SYRACUSE, VICTOR IN THE HORSE RACE

C AN 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,
So 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, in 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 thought 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 carned 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 Pelop's Lydian colony —
— Of earth-embracing Neptune, he
The darling, when, in days of yore,
All lovely from the caldron 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,
'Twere 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 parent say,
That, when in heaven a favoured guest,
He called the gods in turns to feast
On Sipylus, his mountain home: —
The sovereign of the ocean foam,
— Can mortal from 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 bard 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 vain,
To soothe thy weeping mother's pain,
Could bring the wanderer home again;
Some envious neighbour's spleen,
In distant hints, and darkly, said,
That in the caldron hissing red,
And on the god's great table spread,
Thy mangled limbs were seen —
But who shall tax, I dare not, I,
The blessed gods with gluttony? —
Full oft the sland'rous tongue has felt
By their high wrath the thunder dealt; —
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 rocks' impending weight: —
The fourth, with that tormented three
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 th' 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 sun 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
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 —
" Oh 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, sitting 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 wat'ry 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
Behold 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 Pelop's 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,
To 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 wandering 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 farther 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 —