 | Cosmo De' Medici |  |
132
A TORCH-RACE
IN MEMORY OF PROMETHEUS.
Sanctæ Promethéæ retinens vestigia flammæ.
Milton, ad Patrem.
From thy temple of honor in Academe's groves,
Where sages and poets have taught divine truths,
When night clothes the statues of Gods and their Loves,
See!—a Torch-Race of fifty!—all marble-white youths.
Where sages and poets have taught divine truths,
When night clothes the statues of Gods and their Loves,
See!—a Torch-Race of fifty!—all marble-white youths.
Through the plane-trees and olives, the elm-rows and bays,
The grass-walks, the vine-walks, and labyrinth ways,
They rush and they rend,—they tear down, and dash,
With frantic brands flaming—the cry, shout, and crash
Of sapling and bough, arch'd bowers, trellice frames—
This once, the mute victims of these sacred Games!
The grass-walks, the vine-walks, and labyrinth ways,
They rush and they rend,—they tear down, and dash,
With frantic brands flaming—the cry, shout, and crash
Of sapling and bough, arch'd bowers, trellice frames—
This once, the mute victims of these sacred Games!
Midst tree-trunks, and shrub-tops, and founts of the rock,
The long-bearded comets stream on in one flock,
While cymbals and harps to the chorus respond,
With the double-pipe screaming, above and beyond;
And bulls-horns, and goats-horns, and conch-shells all drone,
Like Hephaistos when drunk in his forges alone,
And the roar of the flames and the song of the God,
Made Ætna's foot tremble, from lava to sod!
The long-bearded comets stream on in one flock,
While cymbals and harps to the chorus respond,
With the double-pipe screaming, above and beyond;
And bulls-horns, and goats-horns, and conch-shells all drone,
Like Hephaistos when drunk in his forges alone,
And the roar of the flames and the song of the God,
Made Ætna's foot tremble, from lava to sod!
Now the Race is ascending—now winding—now slanting,
And we leap up-and-down to their gasping and panting,
All lookers-on dance, in their wild-eyed delight,
As this Torch-Race Promethean, glorifies night!
And we leap up-and-down to their gasping and panting,
All lookers-on dance, in their wild-eyed delight,
As this Torch-Race Promethean, glorifies night!
133
O'er the clear circus' space, and slope of the hill,
The contest grows straighter, with steadying will:
Some fall—disappear—and some torch-blazes mingle,
Till the rapturous file becomes lengthened and single—
For now 'tis the high road!—the half mile's fierce strain
To the gorged lungs, the sinews, the blood-throbbing brain!
The contest grows straighter, with steadying will:
Some fall—disappear—and some torch-blazes mingle,
Till the rapturous file becomes lengthened and single—
For now 'tis the high road!—the half mile's fierce strain
To the gorged lungs, the sinews, the blood-throbbing brain!
Oh, the fast-flashing torch in the hand of that boy
Who leads the mad meteors!—a hand to fire Troy!
He will win!—he must win!—yet fleet as sharp wind,
Two other mad meteors now blaze close behind!
They toss, whirl, and tear, and side-by-side flare—
The wild brands out-streaming like tempest-torn hair!
While circles, and figures, and scrolls, are all blended
With sparkling devices, from Hades ascended!
Now closing concentric, intenser each light,
Which contracts and turns pale with this passion of flight!
Who leads the mad meteors!—a hand to fire Troy!
He will win!—he must win!—yet fleet as sharp wind,
Two other mad meteors now blaze close behind!
They toss, whirl, and tear, and side-by-side flare—
The wild brands out-streaming like tempest-torn hair!
While circles, and figures, and scrolls, are all blended
With sparkling devices, from Hades ascended!
Now closing concentric, intenser each light,
Which contracts and turns pale with this passion of flight!
But in vain!—'tis a Game where the prize is for one—
The first flying Torch, is still first—and 'tis done!
That youth of a Titan-line, wins the great Race!—
Then falls dead!—for his heart grew too large for life's space!
And t'were better die thus, than rot slow in one place.
The first flying Torch, is still first—and 'tis done!
That youth of a Titan-line, wins the great Race!—
Then falls dead!—for his heart grew too large for life's space!
And t'were better die thus, than rot slow in one place.
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