Epinicians

Perseus Greek · Perseus Greek · 283 sections

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Daughters of Zeus ruling on high, famed for the lyre, Pierian Muses weave
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Isthmian land son-in-law of wise Nereus
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of the island
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god-built gates of Pelops' shining island
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yoked horses to chariots,
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and they flew
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thick maidens
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of sleep, like honey to the mind our ancient city [homes] on the shores of the sea
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[and under] the rays of the sun
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and Makelo, loving the distaff,
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by the fair-flowing stream speaks fawning with the voice
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I am bereaved with double-edged grief
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deprivation totally
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on the third day warlike Minos came with a host of Cretans
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in fifty ships with flashing sterns.
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And by the will of Zeus Eukleios he subdued the deep-waisted maiden Dexithea, and left with her half of his people,
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battle-loving men, to whom he gave the craggy land as their share; and then he sailed off to the lovely city of Knossos,
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the king, the son of Europa. And in the tenth month the bride with beautiful hair bore
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Euxantius, to be ruler over the glorious island
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daughters
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city cut deep by the sun's rays.
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From his (Euxantius'?) family descended Argeius, who has a strong hand and the spirit of a lion, whenever the need for battle befalls him; and he is
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light on his feet, and does not the fine qualities of his father,
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those which Apollo, famed for the bow, bestowed on Pantheides: the art of healing,
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and friendly honor towards guests. With a good share of the Graces, and admired by many men, when he ended his life he left behind five greatly-praised sons,
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one of whom the son of Cronus seated on high has made a victor at the Isthmus, in return for good deeds, and has given a share of other shining garlands. I say it now and I always will: excellence has the greatest glory.
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Wealth keeps company with worthless men as well,
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and it tends to swell a man's thoughts; but he who does well to the gods cheers his heart with a more glorious hope.
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If a mortal has been granted health and can live off his own goods, he rivals the most fortunate. There is joy in all human life
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as long as it lacks disease and helpless deprivation. The rich man desires great things the same way the poor man desires less.
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But it is not sweet for mortals to get everything easily; they always seek to catch what flees from them.
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A man whose spirit is whirled about by the lightest ambitions
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has honor only as long as he lives. Excellence is a difficult struggle, but when the struggle is completed rightly it leaves a man, even when he dies, the enviable ornament of renown.
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Fame, whose gifts are revered, speed to holy Ceos bringing the gracious message:
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that Argeius won the victory in the battle of bold hands,
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and brought to mind the fine deeds which we, from the holy island of Euxantius, have shown at the famous neck of the Isthmus,
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winning seventy garlands.
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the native Muse summons the sweet clang of flutes, honoring the dear son of Pantheides with victory songs.
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Clio , giver of sweet gifts, sing the praises of the mistress of most fertile Sicily, Demeter, and of her violet-garlanded daughter, and of Hieron's swift horses, racers at Olympia;
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for they sped with majestic Victory and with Aglaia by the wide-whirling Alpheus, where they made the son of Deinomenes a prosperous man, a victor winning garlands.
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And the people shouted,
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Ah! thrice-blessed man! Zeus has granted him the honor of ruling most widely over the Greeks, and he knows not to hide his towered wealth under black-cloaked darkness.
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The temples teem with cattle-sacrificing festivities; the streets teem with hospitality. Gold flashes and glitters, the gold of tall ornate tripods standing
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before the temple, where the Delphians administer the great precinct
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of Phoebus beside the Castalian stream. A man should honor the god, for that is the greatest prosperity.
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For indeed, once the ruler of horse-taming Lydia,
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Croesus—when Zeus was bringing about the decreed fate, and Sardis was being sacked by the Persian army—Croesus was protected by the god of the golden lyre,
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Apollo. When he had come to that unexpected day,
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Croesus had no intention of waiting any longer for the tears of slavery. He had a pyre built before his bronze-walled courtyard,
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and he mounted the pyre with his dear wife and his daughters with beautiful hair;
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they were weeping inconsolably. He raised his arms to the steep sky
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and shouted, overweening deity, where is the gratitude of the gods? Where is lord Apollo?
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The palace of Alyattes falls into ruins countless
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city the Pactolus whirling with [gold runs red with blood],
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women are brutally led out of the well-built halls.
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What was hated is loved. To die is sweetest. So he spoke, and he bid the slave with the delicate step to kindle the wooden structure. His daughters cried out,
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and threw their arms out towards their mother;
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for death is most hateful to mortals when it is right before their eyes. But when the flashing force of terrible fire began to shoot through the wood,
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Zeus set a dark rain-cloud over it, and began to quench the golden flame.
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Nothing is unbelievable which is brought about by the gods' ambition. Then Apollo, born on Delos, brought the old man to live among the Hyperboreans,
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along with his slender-ankled daughters,
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because of his piety, since of all mortals he sent the greatest gifts to holy Pytho. And of all mortal men who live in Greece, not one, o greatly-praised Hieron, will be willing
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to say that he has sent more gold than you to Loxias. Every man who does not fatten himself with envy may praise a warlike man, a lover of horses,
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who has the scepter of Zeus,
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and a share of the violet-haired Muses. once ephemeral you consider; [life is] brief.
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But winged hope loosens the wits of ephemeral creatures. Lord Apollo said to the son of Pheres: Being a mortal, you must cultivate twin
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thoughts: that tomorrow will be the last day you see
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the sun's light, and that you will complete another fifty years of life deep in wealth. Cheer your spirit with pious deeds, for this is the highest of profits.
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To the thoughtful, what I sing is intelligible. The deep air is undefiled. The water of the sea does not decay. Gold is a delight. It is not lawful for a man to bypass gray
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old age, and recover flourishing youth.
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And yet the gleam of a mortal's excellence does not diminish along with the body—no, the Muse nurtures it. Hieron, you
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have displayed to mortals the most beautiful flowers of prosperity.
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Silence is no ornament for a successful man. With remembrance of fine deeds a man will also sing the gracious recompense made by the honey-voiced Cean nightingale.
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Golden-haired Apollo still loves the state of Syracuse and honors Hieron, the city's lawful ruler. For his praises are sung as a Pythian victor for a third time beside the navel of the high-ridged land,
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through the excellence of his swift-footed horses. Ourania's sweet-voiced cockerel, ruler of the lyre but with willing mind
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showered with hymns.
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And yet a fourth time we would be honoring the son of Deinomenes if some held the scales of Justice
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he can be crowned with garlands, as the only man on earth who has accomplished this in the vale of Cirrha by the sea; and he has two Olympian victories to sing of as well. What is better than to be loved by the gods
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and to be granted a share of every kind of noble deed?
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Fortunate in your fate, commander of the Syracusans, riders of whirling horses: you,
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if any man on earth today, will rightly understand this honor, sweet gift of the violet-garlanded Muses. Now, calm your righteous mind; rest it from cares, and consider: a hymn, woven with the help of the deep-waisted Graces,
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is sent from the holy island to your glorious city by your guest-friend, the brilliant servant of Ourania with her golden headband. He wants
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to pour forth his voice from his heart
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to praise Hieron. High above, slicing the deep air with his swift golden wings, the eagle, messenger of loud-thundering, wide-ruling
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Zeus, trusts boldly in his powerful strength, and thin-voiced birds crouch in fear. The peaks of the great earth do not restrain him,
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nor the rough, choppy waves of the untiring sea. In the everlasting void he shifts his delicate wings, riding the gusts of the west wind,
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a conspicuous sight for men.
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So now for me there are countless paths of song leading in every direction, thanks to dark-haired Nike and Ares with his bronze breastplate, to sing of your excellence,
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noble sons of Deinomenes. May the god not tire of doing good. Beside the wide-whirling Alpheus, golden-armed Dawn saw the victory of the chestnut horse Pherenicus, a runner swift as a wind-storm,
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and she saw him win in very holy Pytho. Laying my hand on the earth, I make this declaration: never in any contest has he been fouled by the dust of faster horses
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as he strained toward the finish-line. In force he is like Boreas; obeying his rider, he speeds a new victory and new applause to hospitable Hieron.
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Prosperous is he to whom a god has given a share of fine things, and a rich life to live out with enviable luck. For no man on earth
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was born to be fortunate in everything.
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So it was, they say, that the gate-destroying unconquerable son of Zeus of the flashing thunderbolt went down to the halls of slender-ankled Persephone
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to bring up into the light from Hades the razor-toothed dog, son of the fearsome Echidna. There he saw the souls of miserable mortals by the streams of Cocytus,
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like leaves swirled by the wind along the sheep-pasturing headlands of shining Ida. Among them, the shade of Porthaon's bold,
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spear-wielding descendant stood out.
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When the marvellous hero, son of Alcmene, saw him shining in his armor, he stretched the clear-sounding bowstring onto his bow, and opened the lid of his quiver and drew out a bronze-tipped
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arrow. But the soul of Meleager appeared in front of him and spoke to him, knowing him well: Son of great Zeus,
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stand where you are, and calm your spirit—

Perseus Greek. CTS URN tlg0199.tlg001.perseus-eng2. Via the Perseus Digital Library / Open Greek and Latin TEI corpora. Licence: Available under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. Source.