“Thou haunt’st, Adonis, earth and heaven in turn,
      Alone of heroes.  Agamemnon ne’er
    Could compass this, nor Aias stout and stern: 
      Not Hector, eldest-born of her who bare
    Ten sons, not Patrocles, nor safe-returned
    From Ilion Pyrrhus, such distinction earned: 
      Nor, elder yet, the Lapithae, the sons
    Of Pelops and Deucalion; or the crown
      Of Greece, Pelasgians.  Gracious may’st thou be,
    Adonis, now:  pour new-year’s blessings down! 
      Right welcome dost thou come, Adonis dear: 
      Come when thou wilt, thou’lt find a welcome here.”

    GORGO. 
    ’Tis fine, Praxinoae!  How I envy her
    Her learning, and still more her luscious voice! 
    We must go home:  my husband’s supperless: 
    And, in that state, the man’s just vinegar. 
    Don’t cross his path when hungry!  So farewell,
    Adonis, and be housed ’mid welfare aye!

IDYLL XVI.

The Value of Song.

    What fires the Muse’s, what the minstrel’s lays? 
    Hers some immortal’s, ours some hero’s praise,
    Heaven is her theme, as heavenly was her birth: 
    We, of earth earthy, sing the sons of earth. 
    Yet who, of all that see the gray morn rise,
    Lifts not his latch and hails with eager eyes
    My Songs, yet sends them guerdonless away? 
    Barefoot and angry homeward journey they,
    Taunt him who sent them on that idle quest,
    Then crouch them deep within their empty chest,
    (When wageless they return, their dismal bed)
    And hide on their chill knees once more their patient head. 
    Where are those good old times?  Who thanks us, who,
    For our good word?  Men list not now to do
    Great deeds and worthy of the minstrel’s verse: 
    Vassals of gain, their hand is on their purse,
    Their eyes on lucre:  ne’er a rusty nail
    They’ll give in kindness; this being aye their tale:—­

    “Kin before kith; to prosper is my prayer;
    Poets, we know, are heaven’s peculiar care. 
    We’ve Homer; and what other’s worth a thought? 
    I call him chief of bards who costs me naught.”

      Yet what if all your chests with gold are lined? 
    Is this enjoying wealth?  Oh fools and blind! 
    Part on your heart’s desire, on minstrels spend
    Part; and your kindred and your kind befriend: 
    And daily to the gods bid altar-fires ascend. 
    Nor be ye churlish hosts, but glad the heart
    Of guests with wine, when they must needs depart: 
    And reverence most the priests of sacred song: 
    So, when hell hides you, shall your names live long;
    Not doomed to wail on Acheron’s sunless sands,
    Like some poor hind, the inward of whose hands
    The spade hath gnarled and knotted, born to groan,
    Poor sire’s poor offspring, hapless Penury’s own!