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 honored 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 deeds of yonder lord,
Go-reckon up the sand.
May my solemn strain ascending Please the long-haired Helen well, And those brave twins of Leda's shell The stranger's holy cause defending, With whose high name the chorus blending To ancient Agragas shall rise, And Theron for the chariot prize Again, and not in vain, contending. The muse in numbers bold and high, Hath taught my Dorian note to fly, Worthy of silent awe, a strange sweet hatony. Yes, as I fix mine eager view
On yonder wreath of paly blue,
That olive wreath, whose shady round
Amid the courser's mane is bounded;
I feel again the sacred glow
That bids my strain of rapture flow,
With shrilly breath of Spartan flute,
The many-voiced harp to suit ;
And wildly fling my numbers sweet,
Again mine ancient friend to greet.
Nor, Pisa, thee I leave unsung;
To men the parent of renown.
Amid whose shady ringlets strung,
Etolia binds her olive crown;
Whose sapling root from Scythian down
And Ister's fount Alcides bare,
To deck his parent's hallowed town;
With placid brow and suppliant prayer
Soothing the favored northern sced,
Whose horny-hoofed victims bleed
To Phoebus of the flowing hair.
A boon from these the hero prayed:
One graft of that delightful tree;
To Jove's high hill a welcome shade,
To men a blessed fruit to be,
And crown of future victory.
For that fair moon, whose slender light
With inefficient horn had shone,
When late on Pisa's airy height
He reared to Jove the altar stone;
Now, through the dappled air, alone,
In perfect ring of glory bright,
Guided her golden-wheeled throne ;
The broad and burning eye of night.
And now the days were told aright,
When Alpheus, from his sandy source,
Should judge the champion's eager might,
And mark of wheels the rolling force.
Nor yet a tree to cheer the sight
The Cronian vale of Pelops bore ;
Obnoxious to the noonday weight
Of summer suns, a naked shore.
But she who sways the silent sky,
Latona's own equestrian maid,
Beheld how far Alcides strayed,
Bound on adventure strange and high :
Forth from the glens of Arcady
To Istrian rocks in ice arrayed
He urged the interminable race,
(Such penance had Eurystheus laid,)
The golden-horned hind to chase,
Which, grateful for Diana's aid,
By her redeemed from foul embrace,
Old Atlas' daughter hallowed.
Thus, following where the quarry fled,
Beyond the biting North he past,
Beyond the regions of the blast,
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