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I have desire to proclaim with aid of the deep-vested Graces a victory at Pytho of Telesikrates bearing the shield of bronze, and to speak aloud his name, for his fair fortune and the glory wherewith he hath crowned Kyrene, city of charioteers.

Kyrene[1] once from Pelion’s wind-echoing dells Leto’s son, the flowing-haired, caught up and in a golden car bore away the huntress-maiden to the place where he made her queen of a land rich in flocks, yea richest of all lands in the fruits of the field, that her home might be the third part[2] of the mainland of earth, a stock that should bear lovely bloom.  And silver-foot Aphrodite awaited the Delian stranger issuing from his car divine, and lightly laid on him her hand:  then over their sweet bridal-bed she cast the loveliness of maiden shame, and in a common wedlock joined the god and the daughter of wide-ruling Hypseus, who then was king of the haughty Lapithai, a hero whose father’s father was the Ocean-god—­for amid the famous mountain-dells of Pindos the Naiad Kreuesa bare him after she had delight in the bed of Peneus, Kreuesa, daughter of Earth.

Now the child he reared was Kyrene of the lovely arms:  She was not one who loved the pacings to and fro before the loom, neither the delights of feastings with her fellows within the house, but with bronze javelins and a sword she fought against and slew wild beasts of prey; yea and much peace and sure she gave thereby to her father’s herds, but for sleep, the sharer of her bed, short spent she it and sweet, descending on her eyelids as the dawn drew near.

Once as she struggled alone, without spear, with a terrible lion, he of the wide quiver, far-darting Apollo, found her:  and straightway he called Cheiron from his hall and spake to him aloud:  ’Son of Philyra, come forth from thy holy cave, and behold and wonder at the spirit of this woman, and her great might, what strife she wageth here with soul undaunted, a girl with heart too high for toil to quell; for her mind shaketh not in the storm of fear.  What man begat her?  From what tribe was she torn to dwell in the secret places of the shadowing hills?  She hath assayed a struggle unachievable.  Is it lawful openly to put forth my hand to her, or rather on a bridal-bed pluck the sweet flower?’

To him the Centaur bold with a frank smile on his mild brow made answer straightway of his wisdom:  ’Secret are wise Lovecraft’s keys unto love’s sanctities, O Phoibos, and among gods and men alike all deem this shame, to have pleasure of marriage at the first openly.  Now even thee, who mayest have no part in lies, thy soft desire hath led to dissemble in this thy speech.