Bellerophôn By Arran and Isla Leigh [i.e. by K. H. Bradley and E. E. Cooper] |
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THE SONG OF THE HÊLIADAI. |
 | Bellerophôn |  |
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THE SONG OF THE HÊLIADAI.
I
The sun's mighty horses are idle,Fire-nostrilled and lightning-maned;
They champ for the mastering bridle
By which their fierce beauty is reined,
And their splendid power to a god's power chained—
Weep with me, daughters of Hêlios!
II
Their great golden wings are beatenAgainst the prisoning walls,
And their fiery food is uneaten
In the cloud-scooped laden stalls;
Round their bright chafed feet scorn-trampled it falls.—
Weep with me, daughters of Hêlios!
III
From their nostrils red streaks are beaming,Meteor-like and intense,
While their lustrous flanks are gleaming,
And they pant with breathings dense
For the blue steep wastelands free of fence.—
Weep with me, daughters of Hêlios!
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IV
Burnished hoofs, fire-edged, ears uplifted,They hear the chariot's sound;
The chariot, like oak-leaves drifted,
Is fulvid;—when they are bound
With blood-gold darkness it shades the ground!—
Weep with me, daughters of Hêlios!
V
Wherefore tremble the haughty creatures,And roll their blue eye-balls wild?
They see not the god's ruling features,
But his lovely mortal child,
Crownless, uncurbing, by pride beguiled.—
Weep with me, daughters of Hêlios!
VI
To the turmoil of wheels echoes waken,Sanguine glow the sky-tracts clear,
For the slight hand the reins hath taken,
And the restive chargers rear;
Their heads feel the strain of human fear.—
Weep with me, daughters of Hêlios!
VII
Then the deathless coursers fly, crashingThe clouds on their ruinous way,
Through hail and rent tempest dashing;
The heaven itself is their prey.—
Oh, dreadful, doomful, pitiless day!
Weep with me, daughters of Hêlios!
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VIII
The sky is lashed by their scathing fire,The mountains are molten heaps,
The land is one blackened funeral pyre,
The wind as the typhoon sweeps;
Yet the struggling form its wild grasp keeps.—
Weep with me, daughters of Hêlios!
IX
Then the pressed purple cloud is rivenBy the lightning's archery;
The bolt towards the boy is driven,
He falls; and the steeds are free
Through the stroke of Immortality!—
Weep with me, daughters of Hêlios!
X
He falls, and the great-breasted oceanWhelms his scorched limbs 'neath the wave,
And softly, with mother-like motion,
She heaps with white foam his grave:
No prayer can win him, no pleading save.—
Weep with me, daughters of Hêlios!
XI
Though he failed in his high endeavour,He thought great thoughts, and his name
Shall nor die, nor be buried ever,
Nor blasted by scornful blame;
A god alone could the sun-steeds tame.—
Sing with me, daughters of Hêlios!
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