  In that manner (archaic) he finished the statue of his brother. It stands mid-way in the hall of laurels ... between the Siphnians’ offering and the famous tripod of Naxos. ONLY the priest of the inmost house has such height, only the faun in the glade such light, strong ankles, only the shade of the bay-tree such rare dark as the darkness caught under the fillet that covers your brow, only the blade of the ash-tree such length, such beauty as thou, O my brother; and only the gods have such love as I bring you; taut with love, more than any bright lover, I vowed to the innermost god of the temple, this vow. God of beauty, I cried, as the four stood alert, awaiting the shout at the goal to be off; god of beauty, I cried to that god, if he merit the laurel, I dedicate all of my soul to you; to you all my strength and my power; if he merit the bay, I will fashion a statue of him, of my brother, out of thought, and the strength of my wrist and the fire of my brain; till I mould from the clay, till I strike from the bronze, till I conjure the rock, the chisle, the tool, to embody this image; an image to startle, to capture men’s hearts, to make all other bronze, all art to come after, a mock, all beauty to follow, a shell that is empty; I’ll stake all my soul on that beauty, till God shall awake again in men’s hearts, who have said he is dead, our King and our Lover. Then the start, ah the sight, ah but dim, veiled with tears, (so Achilles must weep who finds his friend dead,) then the ring of the steel as two met at the goal, entangled and foul, misplaced at the start, who, who blunders? not you? what omens are set? alas, gods of the track, what ill wreaks its hate, speak it clear, let me know what evil, what fate? for the ring of sharp steel told two were in peril, two, two, one is you, already involved with the fears of defeat; two grazed; which must go? As the wind, Althaia’s beauty came; as one after a cruel march, catches sight, toward the cold dusk, of the flower strayed apart toward the road-dust, from the stream in the wood-depth, so I in that darkness, my mouth bitter with sheer loss, took courage, my heart spoke, remembering how she spoke: “I will seek hour by hour fresh cones, resin and pine-flowers, flower of pine, laurel flower; I will pray: ‘let him come back to us, to our home, with the trophy of zeal, with the love and the proof of the favour of god; let him merit the bay.’ (I expect it,) that our father may pray; his voice nearer the gods must carry beyond my mere mortal prayer: ‘O my father beyond, look down and be proud, ask this thing that we win, ask it straight of the gods.’” Was he glad, did he know? for the strength of his prayer and her prayer met me now in one flame, all my head, all my brow was one flame, taut and beaten and faintly aglow, as the wine-cup encrusted and beaten and fine with the pattern of leaves, (so my brow,) as the gold of the frigid metal that circles the heat of the wine. Then the axel-tree cleft, not ours, gods be blest; now but three of you left, three alert and abreast, three—one streak of what fire? three straight for the goal: ah defeat, ah despair, still fate tricked our mares, for they swerved, flanks quivering and wet, as the wind at the mid-stretch caught and fluttered a white scarf; a veil shivering, only the fluttering of a white band, yet unnerved and champing, they turned, (only knowing the swards of AchÆa) that stranger, his stallions stark frenzied and black, had taken the inmost course, overtook, overcame, overleapt, and crowded you back. O those horses we loved and we prized; I had gathered Alea mint and soft branch of the vine-stock in flower, I had stroked Elaphia; as one prays to a woman “be kind,” I had prayed Daphnaia; I had threatened Orea for her trick of out-pacing the three, even these, I had almost despaired at her fleet, proud pace, O swift mares of AchÆa. Should I pray them again? or the gods of the track? or Althaia at home? or our father who died for AchÆa? or our fathers beyond who had vanquished the east? should I threaten or pray? The sun struck the ridge of white marble before me: white sun on white marble was black: the day was of ash, blind, unrepentant, despoiled, my soul cursed the race and the track, you had lost. You, lost at the last? Ah fools, so you threatened to win? ah fools, so you knew my brother? Greeks all, all crafty and feckless, even so, had you guessed what ran in his veins and mine, what blood of AchÆa, had you dared, dared enter the contest, dared aspire with the rest? You had gained, you outleapt them; a sudden, swift lift of the reins, a sudden, swift, taut grip of the reins, as suddenly loosed, you had gained. When death comes I will see no vision of after, (as some count there may be an hereafter,) no thought of old lover, no girl, no woman, neither mother, nor yet my father neither God with the harp and the sun on His brow, but thou, O my brother. When death comes, instead of a vision, (I will catch it in bronze) you will stand as you stood at the end, (as the herald announced it, proclaiming aloud, “AchÆa has won,”) in-reining them now, so quiet, not turning to answer the shout of the crowd. |
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