Philosopher Pindar: The Complete Odes #6/71

When the king had driven back from rocky Pytho

he questioned everyone in the house about the boy Euadne

had borne, because, he said, his father was Phoebus,

and he would surpass all mortals as a seer for mankind,

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and his posterity would never fail. This much he revealed;

but they claimed that though the boy was five days old

they had neither seen nor heard of him.

And in truth he had been hidden on a bed of rushes under a great bush, his tender body suffused

with the gold and purple radiance of violets;

and this is why his mother had declared that for all time

he would be known by this immortal name.

When in time he plucked the fruit of lovely gold-crowned youth,

he waded midstream into the Alpheus

and called on Poseidon the wide ruler, his grandfather,

and on the bow-handler, guardian of god-built Delos.

Under the open night sky he asked for himself

an office in which he could minister to his people.

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Clear came his father’s voice in answer, saying:
‘Arise, my son, and accompany my voice

to a land which everyone may share.’

So they came to the steep rock of lofty Cronus’ son,

and there he gave him a double treasure of prophecy:

first, to hear the voice that could not lie;

and later, after the coming of bold Heracles,

a revered shoot from the stock of the Alcidae,

and his institution of a festival, thronged by men,

for his father—the great foundation of the games—

he told him to set up an oracle at the very top of Zeus’ altar.

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From that time the Iamid clan has been renowned in Hellas.

Prosperity has followed them; they honour noble deeds

and walk on a road where all can see them.

Their every action bears witness to this,

while the carping of other, rancorous men hangs over those

on whom, as they lead the race in the final lap of twelve,

revered Grace has shed a brilliant beauty.

If, Hagesias, your maternal ancestors,

living beneath the mountain of Cyllene,

did in truth piously offer abundant prayers and sacrifices

to Hermes, herald of the gods, whose charge it is

to watch over the games and the contests’ outcome,

and who holds Arcadia in honour, land of brave men;

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then, son of Sostratus, it is he who with his deep-thundering father

has brought about your good fortune. On my tongue I feel a sharp whetstone:

willingly, I am drawn on by lovely breaths of song.

My mother’s mother was Stymphalian Metope,

fair as a flower, who bore Thebe, driver of horses,

from whose enchanting spring I shall drink

while I weave an intricate song for spear-warriors.

Now, Aeneas,exhort your companions

first to proclaim Hera Parthenia,

and then to see if my truthful words

can deflect that ancient jibe, ‘Boeotian pig’;

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for you are an upright envoy,

a message-stick of the fair-haired Muses,

a sweet mixing-bowl of loud-echoing songs.

Tell them to remember Syracuse and Ortygia,

where Hieron rules with untainted sceptre and straight counsels,

honouring crimson-footed Demeter

and keeping the festival of her daughterof the white horses,

and the feast of mighty Zeus on Aetna.

Hieron is known to sweet-voiced lyres and songs;

may passing time not shatter his prosperity,

but may he with gracious affection welcome Hagesias’ revel

as it returns, home from home, leaving Stymphalus’ walls,

mother-city of Arcadia rich in flocks.

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On a stormy night it is wise to drop two anchors from a swift ship.

May some friendly god grant a glorious destiny to both.

Lord, master of the sea,husband of Amphitrite of the gold spindle,

grant them a straight passage, free from trouble,

and swell to fruition the pleasing flower of my songs.

OLYMPIAN 7

For Diagoras of Rhodes, winner in the boxing