THAMYRIS
1
O Echalian Eurytus in his hall
Held feast; and, charged with triumph and with wine,
Wrought to a glowing madness half divine,
The Thracian Thamyris sang, and held in thrall
The kings and leaning heroes, each and all;
And there he challenged, standing with raised head,
The Zeus-born Muses, offering, void of dread,
To meet and match them in the song, nor fall
In aught behind, nor yield the mastery;
But him, when his great spirit seemed most strong,
Leading at cool of dawn their sacred round,
The vengeful daughters of Mnemosyne
In the gray gorges near Eurotas found,
And made him blind, and took away his song.
2
Now by the gate at Argos, where the way
Brings all the traffic in from Argolis,
Gray-haired and full of grief, sits Thamyris,
Blind; and his numbed and witless fingers stray
Among the broken harp-strings--so men say--
And ever, when feet pass, he lifts his eyes,
Sightless and robbed of all their fire, and cries
With a great warning twenty times a day:
'The proud and boastful man who grasps a crown
For his own greatness, him the gods strike down.
Heroes and Bards know that it is not ye
That make yourselves, but a god gave it you;
Therefore walk heedfully, holding as is due
Your sacred gift with thankful mind in fee.'
1
O Echalian Eurytus in his hall
Held feast; and, charged with triumph and with wine,
Wrought to a glowing madness half divine,
The Thracian Thamyris sang, and held in thrall
The kings and leaning heroes, each and all;
And there he challenged, standing with raised head,
The Zeus-born Muses, offering, void of dread,
To meet and match them in the song, nor fall
In aught behind, nor yield the mastery;
But him, when his great spirit seemed most strong,
Leading at cool of dawn their sacred round,
The vengeful daughters of Mnemosyne
In the gray gorges near Eurotas found,
And made him blind, and took away his song.
2
Now by the gate at Argos, where the way
Brings all the traffic in from Argolis,
Gray-haired and full of grief, sits Thamyris,
Blind; and his numbed and witless fingers stray
Among the broken harp-strings--so men say--
And ever, when feet pass, he lifts his eyes,
Sightless and robbed of all their fire, and cries
With a great warning twenty times a day:
'The proud and boastful man who grasps a crown
For his own greatness, him the gods strike down.
Heroes and Bards know that it is not ye
That make yourselves, but a god gave it you;
Therefore walk heedfully, holding as is due
Your sacred gift with thankful mind in fee.'