Chapter XIX

Along the strand their speed the racers try,
And with their flying feet scarce touch the ground;
From goal to goal the nimble hunters fly,
Crowds shout above them, and the woods resound;
Here their lithe limbs the swarthy wrestlers ply,--
They tug, they writhe, they sweat, crowds shout around;
And there the circles watch the doubtful game,
Or greet the victor with their loud acclaim.