L OVE'S infidel
Whom I adore,
You know too well
That I love you more
By a hundred score
Than mine eyes or heart!
So you'd die before
You'd be called “sweet-heart!”

But if I could seem
To set no store
By your esteem,
Then you'd love me more
By a hundred score
Than your eyes or heart,
And almost implore
To be called “sweet-heart!”

“'Tis the way of love
That who loves the best
The least can he move
His Lady's breast.”…
Ah, would I could test
The proverb's truth
And hate—in jest—

O ye who your lot by Kephisus have found,
Ye who dwell in the land where the swift horse races,
O bright Orchomenus' queens, ye Graces
Who compass the ancient Minyans round
With your guardian arms, O song-renowned,
Now hearken my prayer! By your bounty all pleasure,
All sweet things on menfolk descend in full measure,
All wisdom, all beauty, all fame with its splendour.
'Tis with help that the Graces, the worshipful, render
That the Gods' own dancings and feastings be holden;
Yea, these be dispensers of all things in Heaven.

What man soever hath prospered in winning prizes of high renown
In the Games, or is mighty in wealth, who yet in his spirit crusheth down
Pestilent arrogance, worthy is he to be graced with his townsmen's praise;
For of thee, O Zeus, all excellence cometh that mortal men doth upraise;
And longer abideth their bliss who reverence thee: with the froward-hearted
Through life it abides not, but lo, as a suddenly vanishing dream hath departed.

It beseems that in guerdon of glorious achievement the deeds of the valiant we sing;

Zeus, hurler of thunderbolts tireless-winging,
Most Highest, returneth thy Feast-tide fair
To send me to wed with the lyre subtle-ringing
My song: of the chiefest of all Games singing
To the victor's triumph my witness I bear.
Yea, the hearts of the good are with joy ever leaping
When friends a harvest of triumph are reaping
O Kronos' Son, whose dominion is o'er
Etna, the wind-scourged burden laid
On Typho the demon of heads five-score,
Receive thou this revel-procession arrayed
For a victory won by the Graces' aid.

O Camarina, bright daughter of Ocean, with glad spirit greet
Him who the crown of Olympian achievement and glory most sweet
Brings for his gifts to thee won by his car-team's unwearying feet,

Psaumis! O nurse of a nation, to magnify thee hath he raised
Altars, twin altars twice three, where at feasts of the Blessèd Ones blazed
Steers that were slain; and for five days the goals of the race-course they grazed,

Chariots of horses and mules, and swift coursers. To thee consecrated
All his proud glory was, and to his sire and the burg new-created.

Hear, O thou Daughter of Zeus the Deliverer, Fortune the Saver
From peril! Keep watch and ward, I implore,
Over Himera, burg of the far-stretching might; for 'tis by thy favour
That ships be steered to their haven-shore
Over the sea; and torrent-like wars, and council-decisions
Be guided on land. Tossed high, whelmed low
Be the hopes of men, as over a sea of delusive visions
Cleaving the treacherous waves they go.

But through all the years never any of men on the earth abiding
Hath found sure tokens from God to reveal

No fairer prelude of the minstrel's victory-chant can be
Than praise of Athens' mighty town,
When he would hymn the far-prevailing Alkmaionidae,
And their swift steeds' renown.
Yea, for what fatherland, what habitation,
O singer, canst thou name
That doth transcend, through all the Hellene nation,
Fair Athens' fame?

There is no city but therethrough doth that proud story ring
Of King Erechtheus' burghers told,
Who made thy shrine in hallowed Pytho, Phoebus Harper-King,
A marvel to behold.
In Isthmian contests five were ye victorious

As the sons of Homer, the singers of deftly-woven lays,
Ever begin their chants with a prelude in Zeus's praise,
So in the Grove whose glory is chanted in every nation
This hero-athlete hath laid his achievements' first foundation
Where in Nemean Zeus's name are bestowed the victor's bays.

And if She, who unswerving hath guided his feet, even Destiny,
On the path by his forefathers trodden, hath given this man to be
A glory to mighty Athens, he surely is fated victorious,
This son of Timonous, often to pluck the flower most glorious

Mother mine, O Thebe of shield all-golden,
Me shall thy sovran behest embolden,
How full soever mine hands be, to lay
All other service aside for to-day
O Delos, thou for whose exaltation
Hath my soul been outpoured, have no indignation!
What to a son true-hearted can be
More dear than a mother? Ah, yield to my plea,
Isle of Apollo! By grace of Heaven
Shall coupled fulfilment ere long be given
Unto hymnal-homages twain by me,

When to Him of the hair unshorn I come paying
Due honour with choral dance-arraying

Sometimes the wind-battalions shouting loud
Do men most service, now again
The rains of heaven, the children of the cloud,
Bring blessing in their train.
But when by toil one winneth victory,
The singer's honey-throated lays
Upringing, plant for fame that yet shall be
A sure foundation, are a prophecy
Of exploits worthy praise.

Far beyond envy are the praises stored
For victors at Olympia crowned.
Songs are my sheep; I, as some shepherd-lord,
Find them fair pasture-ground.
By God's gift inspiration bloometh aye