Each for the contest takes her stand—
The goddess here, the mortal there—
And each proceeds with skilful hand
The means of victory to prepare.
The beam each loom supports full well,
And to the loom the warp is tied;
Nor will I now forget to tell
The reed that doth the warp divide.
The woof the shuttle in doth bring,
The nimble fingers guide its way;
And still from either work-frame ring
The blows inflicted by the slay.
Each to her bosom binds her vest:
The arms of each, quick moving, feel
No sense of toil, no need of rest,
For weariness is quench’d by zeal.
And all the gorgeous tints of Tyre
In varying shades are mingled there;
And every hue the sun’s bright fire
Can kindle in the showery air,—
When the wide rainbow spans the sky;
The bow whose colours, in the end
So different, yet so like when nigh,
In harmony’s own concord blend,—
And precious threads of glittering gold
Enrich the growing web. But say!
What ancient tale by each was told?
What legend of an earlier day?
Pallas her well-known triumph drew;
The gods assembled in their force,
And Neptune with his trident, too,
Exulting in the fiery horse,—
Which from the rock he made to bound:
But she herself, more deeply wise,
A greater blessing from the ground
The olive brought, and gain’d the prize.
The border of this main design
With Rhodope’s sad tale was set;
And all who dared the gods divine
To rival—and the fate they met.