(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 In horrible society !— For that, in frantic theft, The nectar cup he reft, And to his mortal peers in feasting pour'd, 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 ador'd? } 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 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 rais'd to him the suppliant cry, The hoarse earth-shaking deity.— Nor call'd in vain, through cloud and storm Half-seen, a huge and shadowy form, The God of Waters came. He came, whom thus the youth address'd "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; Condemn'd by Pisa's hand to bleed Unless I win the envied meed In Elis' field of fame! For youthful knights thirteen By him have slaughter'd 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 Bestow'd a wondrous car of gold, And tireless steeds of winged pace.So, victor in the deathful race, He tam'd the strength of Pisa's king, And, from his bride of beauteous face, Six valiant sons, as legends sing. And now, with fame and virtue crown'd, 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 honey'd praise, And following length of honour'd 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, 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; The mightiest, wisest, bravest, best! God, who beholdeth thee and all thy deeds, |