But as he set his mighty hand on it White fingers underneath his own were laid, 625 And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit; Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, But she ran on awhile, then as afraid Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay, Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. 630 Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, Now far ahead the Argive could she see, And in her garment's hem one hand she wound To keep the double prize, and strenuously Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she 635 To win the day, though now but scanty space Was left betwixt him and the winning-place. Short was the way unto such winged feet, Quickly she gained upon him, till at last He turned about her eager eyes to meet 640 And from his hand the third fair apple cast. She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, That in her hand it lay ere it was still. Nor did she rest, but turned about to win, 645 Once more, an unblest woful victory-- And yet--and yet--why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily? Why fails she now to see if far or nigh The goal is? why do her gray eyes grow dim? 650 Why do these tremors run through every limb? She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find, Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, A strong man's arms about her body twined. Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, 655 So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss: Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. * * * * * Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the posts! Upon the brazen altar break the sword, 660 And scatter incense to appease the ghosts Of those who died here by their own award. Bring forth the image of the mighty Lord, And her who unseen o'er the runners hung, And did a deed forever to be sung. 665 Here are the gathered folk, make no delay, Open King Schoeneus' well-filled treasury, Bring out the gifts long hid from light of day, The golden bowls o'erwrought with imagery, Gold chains, and unguents brought from over sea, 670 The saffron gown the old Phoenician[307] brought, Within the temple of the Goddess wrought. O ye, O damsels, who shall never see Her, that Love's servant bringeth now to you, Returning from another victory, 675 In some cool bower do all that now is due! Since she in token of her service new Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow, Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow.