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