To the Racer's and the Poet's prize,
That, where Corinthus' temples rise,
Drew Grecian tribes from far and near,
Came Ibycus, to Phœbus dear.
To him the glorious gift of song
Apollo gave, and light he trod,
From Rhegium borne the waves along,
The Isthmian road, full of the god.

And now, where craggy ridges rise,
Acrocorinthus greets his eyes,
And, shuddering at the Power divine,
He treads Poseidon's grove of pine.
'Tis still around, but above he sees
The order'd Cranes, in squadron grey,
Seeking the tepid southern breeze,
Travel companions of his way.

"Welcome again, ye friendly band,
That with me left the sea-beat land;
I hail you for a happy sign,
A linked lot is yours and mine.
Drawn from afar by secret pow'rs,
In stranger's roof our rest we seek;
Some host of kindly heart be ours,
That guards the friendless and the weak."
And on with active foot he strains;
But when the middle wood he gains,
Two murderers, in the straitened way,
His onward progress sudden stay.
He must pass by force those foes so fell.
But weak in fight is the poet's hand —
To touch the lyre he knows right well,
But not to wield the battle brand.

On men and Gods for aid he calls;
On no kind ear his plaining falls:
His voice flies far and far around,
But there no living thing is found.
"And must I here deserted lie?
On foreign ground unpitied bleed?
By miscreant hands thus foully die.
And no avenger mark the deed ?"

He sinks, deep-pierced, amid the grove;
The flying Cranes rush loud above:
He sees no more, but he hears them cry.
With wailing sound, in the middle sky.
"Do ye," he says, "ye Cranes, do ye.
If hope from other tongues be o'er.
Lift up the cry of blood for me."
He breathes his prayer - he breathes no more.
The naked corpse is quickly found.
And, though deform'd by many a wound,
The friend, who thought his host to be.
Knew in the stiffen'd face 'twas he.
"And is it thus my friend I find,
When with the victor's wreath of pine
I hoped thy poet brows to bind,
All beaming with thy glory's shine!"

The news with sorrow pierces all
Who seek Posidon's festival;
A common loss all Grecia grieves,
Each breast a private pang receives:
And to the Prytane rolls the throng,
All fierce and loud, in vengeful mood,
And asks, to wreak the dead man's wrong
And soothe his shade, the murderer's blood.

But ah! what eye from all the host
That streams along the Isthmian coast
The splendour of the games to share,
Shall mark the dark assassin there?
Was it by robber hands he fell?
Or by some envious secret foe ?
That, Helios alone can tell.
Whose beams illumine all below.
Perhaps the murderer fearless seeks
His way among assembled Greeks,
And thinks, while vengeance pines in vain,
With triumph of a rival slain:
Perhaps th' Immortals he defies.
E'en standing where their temples are,
And joins the swelling throng that hies
To fill the spacious Theatre.

For dense they gather, row on row, —
The solid structure groans below;
Assembled Greeks, from far and near,
Wait till the spectacle appear:
Hoarse murmuring, like the ocean deeps,
The floods of faces spread and rise.
In wider and in wider sweeps,
And slope up to the azure skies.

Who tells each people, names each name.
That to that festal meeting came?
From Athens' cliff, from Aulis' strand.
From Phocis, from the Spartan's land.
From Asia's coasts, that distant lie,
From all the Islands, came the throng;
And there, in circle wide and high,
They heard the solemn choral song.

The Chorus, solemn ancient rite,
Comes from the scene's recess to light;
With measured motion, grave and slow.
Around the Theatre they go.
No human air and tread are those!
No sisters they of mortal birth!
Their giant stature towering shows
No beings of this daily earth.

A sable pall each form enfolds,
And each in bony fingers holds
A torch, that burns a dusky red.
And bloodless every cheek, as dead;
And where round human foreheads fall
The curling locks with grace divine,
There hissing snakes and vipers crawl,
And poison-swollen serpents twine.

And forming now their awful ring,
Their Hymn, in ancient wont, they sing,
Of force to pierce the hardest breast.
The conscious sinner to arrest:
Bearing no lyre to join its strains.
The Furies' song forth pealing rolls.
To stun the sense, to thrill the veins,
To wither all the hearers' souls.

"Blest he, who, free from sinful blot,
Preserves his soul without a spot!
We may not cross his even course;
He holds his way in native force.
But wo to him, who, skreen'd from light,
Has darkly done the murderer's deed:
We — awful Children of the Night —
We cling and fasten to his tread.

"And would he fly, and shun us so? —
We follow, and our snakes we throw.
That twine his hasty foot around,
And dash him stumbling to the ground.
Unwearying thus we chase our prey —
Repentance changes not our will —
Down to the shades we urge his way,
And even there we hold him still."

They sang, and danced with solemn tread,
And silence, stillness of the dead,
Hung over all the Theatre,
As if the God himself were near.
With measured motion, grave and slow.
With rites from former days that come.
Around the Theatre they go.
And vanish in the hinder gloom.

In every breast a shudder grew; —
The spell was true, or seeming true;
All own in awe the righteous Power
That watches in the secret hour;
That, deep, inscrutable, unseen.
Still winds the thread of fate aright;
Is darkly known the heart within.
But shuns the glare of common light.

But in the highest row a word
Is sudden through the stillness heard:
" See there, see there, Timotheiis!
Those are the Cranes of Ibycus."
And lo! a darkness in the sky.
And o'er the Theatre below;
The creatures wing their way on high, —
The order'd Cranes in dusky row.

"Of Ibycus!" the name so dear,
Calls back the grief of all who hear;
And on it sounds from tongue to tongue.
Like waves the ocean path along.
"Of Ibycus! so mourn'd to-day,
Whose murd'rous death our country stains:
What, what of him! what would he say?
And what of yonder flight of Cranes?"

The cry grows loud; the dark surmise
From heart to heart like lightning flies:
Each marks the moment, — each man sees
The working of the Eumenides.
Lo! vengeance for the poet's shade!
The murderer is self-betrayed.
"Who spake the word? keep him in hold,
And him to whom the thing was told."

Fain would the wretch whose tongue had erred
Unsay th' irrevocable word:
In vain — his lips as ashes pale
Reveal the conscious, guilty tale.
The Judge ascends the justice-seat,
The Scene becomes the judgment-hall;
The Murderers own the sentence meet,
And feel the sword of vengeance fall.