But another is of his body the Deathless Godhead's peer, Yet his words with the grace of sweetness are nowise wreathed about. Thus thou in beauty excellest, nor of other guise no doubt Would a very God be fashioned; but thy mind is an empty thing. But the soul that is dear in my breast hast thou set thee to stir up and sting, And in manner unmeet thou speakest: for I am not new to the play, As thou sayest, but mid the foremost meseems was I once on a day, While yet in my hands I trusted and the might of my youth unworn; Now of scathe and of grief am I holden, for a many things have I borne, Both the wars of men and the waves that were grievously hard on the way. But e'en as I am, with such burden of griefs, will I try me the play, For thy word to me is soul-biting, and thou speakest to egg me on." Odysseus beats the record. Therewith, and yet clad in his mantle, he ran forth and caught up the stone, Right great and thick to handle, and by no little greater than those Wherewith the folk Phæacian contended in their throws ; And, whirling it round, he hurled it forthwith with his mighty hand; And away the stone went humming, and they crouched low on the land, The long-oar-wont Phæacians, the ship-renowned men, From the flight of the stone, and it flew o'er all marks marked as then, As light from his hand it speeded. But Athene marked its fall; Yea, she in the shape of a man, and therewith she spake unto all : "Yea, e'en a blind man, O Stranger, could discern this cast where it went, By groping about; since in nowise with the crowd of casts is it blent, But is far the first. For this play then, hold up thine heart on high, For no cast of Phæacian menfolk shall reach or pass it by." Odysseus has somewhat to say. So she spake; but the goodly Odysseus, the toil-stout, then was glad, When he saw that a friend and a fellow amid the lists he had; And therewith he spake more lightly to those Phæacian men: "O youths, come up to that one! And yet the next one then I deem indeed that as far, or further yet, shall it fly; But whoso of all whom his heart or his soul now biddeth to try, Let him hither with me to be playing, since my wrath ye needs must stir. In boxing or wrestling or foot-race; I begrudge in no play that is here With any man Phæacian, save Laodamas, to contend; For he is my very guest-friend, and who would fight with a friend? A fool were he of menfolk, and a worthless wight were he, Who on him that gave him harbour thrust the strife of mastery, Amidst an outland people his own well-being to mar: But of others none will I gainsay, or slight, whoever they are; But rather I fain would know them, and prove them face to face, For at all plays am I handy that are played amid manfolk's race. But further than others the arrow, and the spearshaft can I cast; Forsooth in the foot-race only I doubt I may be o'erpassed By Phæacians; for very sorely and unseemly am I worn By the wash of many billows: since nought in our ship was borne Unfailing store of victual, and my limbs are all undone." Alcinous makes amends. So he spake, and they held their peace and kept silence every one, Save that Alcinous only spake out and answered again : "O guest, in good part we take it, thy speech outspoken and plain, For the valour with thee abiding to us would thou prove and show, Being wroth with him that arose and chid thee awhile ago. Whereas there is none of mortals who thy valour would gainsay If his heart had understanding how to speak the righteous way." WILLIAM MORRIS. THE MOUNTAINEER. (From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.") HE who ascends to mountain tops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above, the sun of glory glow, And far beneath, the earth and ocean spread; Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. George Gordon, Lord BYRON. GOLFER'S BALLADE FOR AUTUMN. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. - HERRICK. SEE how the pennoned maples burn! Each elm a palmer, russet-stoled; The wind breathes warnings down the wold, The wild geese wing their southward way; Too soon will close the cruel cold, So go ye golfing while ye may! To silvery notes the rills return, To vernal lyrics blithely trolled ; The wandering flocks, unsummoned, stray; Too soon will close the cruel cold, So go ye golfing while ye may! Anon will dawn a morning stern, With brooding cloud-banks ridged and rolled; Anon a ruthless hand will spurn The woodland arras, brightly scrolled; |