| |
| Now has the lingering month at last gone by, | |
| Again are all folk round the running place, | |
| Nor other seems the dismal pageantry | |
| Than heretofore, but that another face | |
| Looks o’er the smooth course ready for the race, | 5 |
| For now, beheld of all, Milanion | |
| Stands on the spot he twice has look’d upon. | |
| |
| But yet—what change is this that holds the maid? | |
| Does she indeed see in his glittering eye | |
| More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, | 10 |
| Some happy hope of help and victory? | |
| The others seem’d to say, “We come to die; | |
| Look down upon us for a little while, | |
| That, dead, we may bethink us of thy smile.” | |
| |
| But he—what look of mastery was this | 15 |
| He cast on her? why were his lips so red? | |
| Why was his face so flush’d with happiness? | |
| So looks not one who deems himself but dead, | |
| E’en if to death he bows a willing head; | |
| So rather looks a god well pleas’d to find | 20 |
| Some earthly damsel fashion’d to his mind. | |
| |
| Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, | |
| And even as she casts adown her eyes | |
| Redden to note his eager glance of praise, | |
| And wish that she were clad in other guise? | 25 |
| Why must the memory to her heart arise | |
| Of things unnoticed when they first were heard, | |
| Some lover’s song, some answering maiden’s word? | |
| |
| What makes these longings, vague, without a name, | |
| And this vain pity never felt before, | 30 |
| This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, | |
| This tender sorrow for the time past o’er, | |
| These doubts that grow each minute more and more? | |
| Why does she tremble as the time grows near, | |
| And weak defeat and woeful victory fear? | 35 |
| |
| But while she seem’d to hear her beating heart, | |
| Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out | |
| And forth they sprang, and she must play her part; | |
| Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, | |
| Though, slackening once, she turn’d her head about, | 40 |
| But then she cried aloud and faster fled | |
| Than e’er before, and all men deem’d him dead. | |
| |
| But with no sound he rais’d aloft his hand, | |
| And thence what seem’d a ray of light there flew | |
| And past the maid roll’d on along the sand; | 45 |
| Then trembling she her feet together drew, | |
| And in her heart a strong desire there grew | |
| To have the toy; some god she thought had given | |
| That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. | |
| |
| Then from the course with eager steps she ran, | 50 |
| And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. | |
| But when she turn’d again, the greatlimb’d man, | |
| Now well ahead, she fail’d not to behold, | |
| And, mindful of her glory waxing cold, | |
| Sprang up and follow’d him in hot pursuit, | 55 |
| Though with one hand she touch’d the golden fruit. | |
| |
| Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear | |
| She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize, | |
| And o’er her shoulder from the quiver fair | |
| Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes | 60 |
| Unnoticed, as amidst the people’s cries | |
| She sprang to head the strong Milanion, | |
| Who now the turning-post had well-nigh won. | |
| |
| But as he set his mighty hand on it | |
| White fingers underneath his own were laid, | 65 |
| And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit; | |
| Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, | |
| But she ran on awhile, then as afraid | |
| Waver’d and stopp’d, and turn’d and made no stay | |
| Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. | 70 |
| |
| Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, | |
| Now far ahead the Argive could she see, | |
| And in her garment’s hem one hand she wound | |
| To keep the double prize, and strenuously | |
| Sped o’er the course, and little doubt had she | 75 |
| To win the day, though now but scanty space | |
| Was left betwixt him and the winning place. | |
| |
| Short was the way unto such winged feet; | |
| Quickly she gain’d upon him, till at last | |
| He turn’d about her eager eyes to meet, | 80 |
| And from his hand the third fair apple cast. | |
| She waver’d not, but turn’d and ran so fast | |
| After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, | |
| That in her hand it lay ere it was still. | |
| |
| Nor did she rest, but turn’d about to win | 85 |
| Once more an unbless’d woeful victory— | |
| And yet—and yet—why does her breath begin | |
| To fail her, and her feet drag heavily? | |
| Why fails she now to see if far or nigh | |
| The goal is? why do her gray eyes grow dim? | 90 |
| Why do these tremors run through every limb? | |
| |
| She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find, | |
| Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, | |
| A strong man’s arms about her body entwin’d. | |
| Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, | 95 |
| So wrapt she is in new unbroken bliss: | |
| Made happy that the foe the prize hath won. | |
| She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. | |
| |
