She passed along, and then the king and prince
With their attendants wheeled in line and moved
Down to the royal stand, each to his place.
The trumpets sound, and now the games begin.
But see the scornful curl of Culture's lip
At such low sports! Dyspeptic preachers hear
Harangue the sleepers on their sinfulness!
Hear grave philosophers, so limp and frail
They scarce can walk God's earth to breathe his air,
Talk of the waste of time! Short-sighted men!
God made the body just to fit the mind,
Each part exact, no scrimping and no waste—
Neglect the body and you cramp the soul.
First brawny wrestlers, shining from the bath,
Wary and watchful, quick with arm and eye,
After long play clinch close, arms twined, knees locked,
Each nerve and muscle strained, and stand as still
As if a bronze from Vulcan's fabled shop,
Or else by power of magic changed to stone
In that supremest moment, when a breath
Or feather's weight would tip the balanced scale;
And when they fall the shouts from hill to hill
Sound like the voices of the mighty deep,
As wave on wave breaks on the rock-bound shore.
Then boxers, eye to eye and foot to foot,
One arm at guard, the other raised to strike.
The hurlers of the quoit next stand in line,
Measure the distance with experienced eye,
Adjust the rings, swing them with growing speed,
Until at length on very tiptoe poised,
Like Mercury just lighted on the earth,
With mighty force they whirl them through the air.
And then the spearmen, having for a mark
A lion rampant, standing as in life,
So distant that it seemed but half life-size,
Each vital part marked with a little ring.
And when the spears were hurled, six trembling stood
Fixed in the beast, piercing each vital part,
Leaving the victory in even scale.
For these was set far off a lesser mark,
Until at length by chance, not lack of skill,
The victory so long in doubt was won.
And then again the people wildly shout,
The prince victor and nobly vanquished praised.
Next runners, lithe and light, glide round the plain,
Whose flying feet like Mercury's seemed winged,
Their chests expanded, and their swinging arms
Like oars to guide and speed their rapid course;
And as they passed along the people cheered
Each well-known master of the manly art.
Then archers, with broad chests and brawny arms
Such as the blacksmith's heavy hammer wields
With quick, hard blows that make the anvil ring
And myriad sparks from the hot iron fly;
A golden eagle on a screen their mark,
So distant that it seemed a sparrow's size—
"For," said the prince, "let not this joyful day
Give anguish to the smallest living thing."
They strain their bows until their muscles seem
Like knotted cords, the twelve strings twang at once,
And the ground trembles as at the swelling tones
Of mighty organs or the thunder's roll.
Two arrows pierce the eagle, while the rest
All pierce the screen. A second mark was set,
When lo! high up in air two lines of swans,
Having one leader, seek their northern nests,
Their white plumes shining in the noonday sun,
Calling each other in soft mellow notes.
Instant one of the people cries "A mark!"
Whereat the thousands shout "A mark! a mark!"
One of the archers chose the leader, one the last.
Their arrows fly. The last swan left its mates
As if sore wounded, while the first came down
Like a great eagle swooping for its prey,
And fell before the prince, its strong wing pierced,
Its bright plumes darkened by its crimson blood.
Whereat the people shout, and shout again,
Until the hills repeat the mighty sound.
The prince gently but sadly raised the bird,
Stroked tenderly its plumes, calmed its wild fear,
And gave to one to care for and to cure.
And now the people for the chariot-race
Grow eager, while beneath the royal stand,
By folding doors hid from the public view,
The steeds, harnessed and ready, champ their bits
And paw the ground, impatient for the start.
The charioteers alert, with one strong hand
Hold high the reins, the other holds the lash.
Timour—a name that since has filled the world,
A Tartar chief, whose sons long after swept
As with destruction's broom fair India's plains—
With northern jargon calmed his eager steeds;
Azim, from Cashmere's rugged lovely vale,
His prancing Babylonians firmly held;
Channa, from Ganges' broad and sacred stream,
With bit and word checked his Nisaean three;
While Devadatta, cousin to the prince,
Soothed his impatient Arabs with such terms
As fondest mothers to their children use;
"Atair, my pet! Mira, my baby, hush!
Regil, my darling child, be still! be still!"
With necks high arched, nostrils distended wide,
And eager gaze, they stood as those that saw
Some distant object in their desert home.