“The late narcissus, and the winding trail
Of Bear’s-foot, myrtles green, and ivy pale.
(Dryden)
Nec sera comantem
Narcissum, aut flexi tacuissem vimen Acanthi,
Pallentesque hederas, et amantes, littoral myr-
tos.—Virgil, Georgics, IV, 122.*
One of man’s first cares ought to be of his person, for it houses his soul, supplying that glorious essence with the warmth of its home’s heart. It might be supposed, accepting this view, that therefore a finely toned, well-proportioned, vigorous and, especially, a muscled and athleticized physique, would keep its soul particularly well. Therefore, looks to the athlete and, specifically, a champion, for the finest soul.
Our reigning paladin of fisticuffs is such an admirable houser. Of late he’s pitted his edifice against less than worthy opponents, to be sure, but the soul need not be threatened nor tested, to claim fullness. It flourishes within our champion and friend of the friendless. Muhammed Ali is not only at peace with himself, but attracts the favor, nay, the worship indeed, of a peaceable army of brothers and sisters. He has allied himself with the Muslim forces to help march his people to glory in a new Eden. Now, it may seem a contradiction to consider that out of personal combat our hero seeks to wrest not only the victor’s laurel, but peaceful co-existence; but the paradox is only apparent, not substantial. His body wars, but his soul merely marches on.
It measures its cadence in original and, sometimes, delightful style. For Ali has rhythm. He composes his own drumming doggerel, couched usually in heroic couplets that not only steady his soul’s progress, but edify his pantingly eager partisans with sharp and simple truths. And, always sure to gain advantage and fullest effect of even the merest gesture, Ali pricks his foes first from afar with his honed verses. Later, he stuns them at close range. He swaggers a bit. Or shall I say, dare I even think it, too much? Narcissus dared and over-did and suffered a transformation; which delights us now in woods and window boxes, on city lanes and in garden plots.
Muhammed’s swagger, lilting lines, crusading spirit, and proud soul come to us in another such delightful form. He preens and primps, but never seems to curry favor. He attends to his soul’s needs by keeping it stabled safe in God’s assigned home. That home is a fortress, yet is bears its weight as nothing when called to exercise its care upon its kin, those children housed in less sturdy ‘bodes. Borne by Ali’s faith, this fortress makes its genial way through town and country both; though ponderous, upon a light crusade; and, championing his subjects, his soul floats to victory like a butterfly, stinging from safe within its battlements, like a bee.