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This translation of Pindar’s first Isthmian ode is part of ongoing work on Plato’s Phaedrus, and undertaken with that dialogue in mind, specifically on the topic/trope of leisure. The full Greek text of Pindar’s poem is here. Other (public domain) translations can be found here, here, and here.

While the original has an irregular line and meter, I ended up fitting the translation into iambic pentameter. I nonetheless prioritized keeping the “literal” meanings intact, with the goal of preserving the analogical inner-workings of the poem. It is best read outloud and not too fast.

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Isthmian 1
An Ode, by Pindar.

FOR HERODOTOS OF THEBES, CHARIOT.

My mother, Thebes of the golden shield,
I shall place your matter above non-leisure.
May rugged Delos, to whom I have myself
Supplied, not take offense: What’s more beloved
By good men than their parents, esteemed?

                Yield,
Apollo’s land: That, by the gods, dancing
For Phoibos of the unshorn hair, in flow-
Encircled Keos with her salt-born men,
And for the wave-splitting ridge of Isthmos:
Both graces I shall yoke to this one end.

Six garlands from her games did Isthmos send,
With Kadmos' team, and fame for glorious
Victory, to my fathers’ land. It was there
Alkmene bore her fearless son, before
Whom bristled once the bold hounds of Geruon.

But, making for Herodotos a gift
For his four-horsed chariot, its reins
Held not by another’s hands, to the hymn
I would fit him, either of Kastor or
Iolaos. For the mightiest among
Heroes of charioteers were born
To Lakedaimon and Thebes: and at
The games, of contests, they always sought out
The greatest count, and with tripods they filled
Their houses, and caldrons, and gold vessels,
Tasting the wreaths of victory:

             And their
Manifest excellence boldly radiated
In races run nude, or wearing forged armor
And clattering shields, likewise when hurling with
Taut hands the javelin or pointed spear,
And whenever they threw the quoit of stone.
(For in that time, there being no pentathlon,
Each deed was given a separate end.) Often,
Their rippling hair bound round by wreathed bundles,
They would appear beside the ever-flowing
River Dirke, or on the banks of Eurotas,
The mighty son of Iphikles, being
One people with the Spartan race, and he of
Tundareas, presiding with Achaians
In their highland seat of Therapne.

               Rejoice.
But I, attending to Poseidon with song,
The sacred Isthmos and the banks of the
Onchestos, will sing in honor of this man,
The famous dispensation of his father,
Asopodoros, and of Orchomenos,
His ancestral land, which received him when,
In desolate misfortune, he was driven
Ashore, shipwrecked, disposed by briny sea
Unmeasured:

     But these days, the good old times
Hath native destiny restored.

              Hard work
Brings foresight to the mind: And if he submits
Every impulse to excellence, both in
Expenditures and labors, then for him
Who obtains clamorous praise for valor,
One must bear no grudging thoughts.
It is an easy gift for a wise man
To speak a beautiful word, against
A multitude of hardships, and set straight
The common good.

      Different wages for different works
Are sweet to men, to the shepherd, the farmer,
The bird-catcher, the one raised by the sea:
Each and every one struggles to keep hunger
Perpetual from the belly. But who takes
Splendid glory in contests, the making
Of war, receives praise as their highest gain,
In citizens' and strangers' finest tongues.

For us, it will be seemly, by making,
To celebrate son of Kronos, earth-shaking,
Mere bystanders of horse races into
Benefactors of gleaming chariots,
And to invoke your sons, Amphituon,
From deepmost hollow of the Minyan,
The famous grove of Demeter, Eleusis
And Euboia, at these curving courses.
For Protesilaos, I also include
The sacred precinct of Achaian men,
In Phulake.

      To tell all that Hermes,
Lord of games, would bestow, by horses, upon
Herodotus, the brief measure of the hymn
Prevents. And very often, to be silent
Garners greater cheer.

        So may he be raised up
On splendid wings of Pieridean Muses'
Sweet voices. Beyond that, may all the choicest
Wreaths from Pythia, the Olympiads,
And from Alpheos fortify his hand:
Building honor for seven-gated Thebes.

But if anyone hoards hidden wealth within,
While marking others' trials in derision,
Their failure is to see: The soul, bereft
Of reputation, achieves its end, in Hades.

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