The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
IDYLL I. | 1 |
IDYLL II. | 3 |
IDYLL III. | 6 |
IDYLL IV. | 8 |
IDYLL V. | 9 |
IDYLL VI. | 13 |
IDYLL VII. | 14 |
IDYLL VIII. | 17 |
IDYLL IX. | 19 |
IDYLL X. | 20 |
IDYLL XI. | 21 |
IDYLL XII. | 23 |
IDYLL XIII. | 23 |
IDYLL XIV. | 25 |
IDYLL XV. | 26 |
IDYLL XVI. | 30 |
IDYLL XVII. | 32 |
IDYLL XVIII. | 35 |
IDYLL XIX. | 36 |
IDYLL XX. | 36 |
IDYLL XXI. | 37 |
IDYLL XXII. | 39 |
PART II. | 41 |
Love Avenged | 43 |
IDYLL XXV. | 47 |
IDYLL XXVI. | 52 |
IDYLL XXVII. | 53 |
IDYLL XXVIII. | 55 |
IDYLL XXIX. | 55 |
IDYLL XXX. | 56 |
IDYLL XXXI. | 57 |
FRAGMENT PROM THE “BERENICE.” | 58 |
The Death of Daphnis.
THYRSIS. A GOATHERD.
THYRSIS.
Sweet are the whispers of
yon pine that makes
Low music o’er the spring,
and, Goatherd, sweet
Thy piping; second thou to
Pan alone.
Is his the horned ram? then
thine the goat.
Is his the goat? to thee shall
fall the kid;
And toothsome is the flesh
of unmilked kids.
GOATHERD.
Shepherd, thy lay is as the
noise of streams
Falling and falling aye from
yon tall crag.
If for their meed the Muses
claim the ewe,
Be thine the stall-fed lamb;
or if they choose
The lamb, take thou the scarce
less-valued ewe.
THYRSIS.
Pray, by the Nymphs, pray,
Goatherd, seat thee here
Against this hill-slope in
the tamarisk shade,
And pipe me somewhat, while
I guard thy goats.
GOATHERD.
I durst not, Shepherd, O I
durst not pipe
At noontide; fearing Pan,
who at that hour
Rests from the toils of hunting.
Harsh is he;
Wrath at his nostrils aye
sits sentinel.
But, Thyrsis, thou canst sing
of Daphnis’ woes;
High is thy name for woodland
minstrelsy:
Then rest we in the shadow
of the elm
Fronting Priapus and the Fountain-nymphs.
There, where the oaks are
and the Shepherd’s seat,
Sing as thou sang’st
erewhile, when matched with him
Of Libya, Chromis; and I’ll
give thee, first,
To milk, ay thrice, a goat—she
suckles twins,
Yet ne’ertheless can
fill two milkpails full;—
Next, a deep drinking-cup,
with sweet wax scoured,
Two-handled, newly-carven,
smacking yet
0’ the chisel.
Ivy reaches up and climbs
About its lip, gilt here and
there with sprays
Of woodbine, that enwreathed
about it flaunts
Her saffron fruitage.
Framed therein appears
A damsel (’tis a miracle
of art)
In robe and snood: and
suitors at her side
With locks fair-flowing, on
her right and left,
Battle with words, that fail
to reach her heart.
She, laughing, glances now
on this, flings now
Her chance regards on that:
they, all for love
Wearied and eye-swoln, find
their labour lost.
Carven elsewhere an ancient
fisher stands
On the rough rocks: thereto
the old man with pains
Drags his great casting-net,
as one that toils
Full stoutly: every fibre
of his frame
Seems fishing; so about the
gray-beard’s neck
(In might a youngster yet)
the sinews swell.
Hard by that wave-beat sire
a vineyard bends
Beneath its graceful load
of burnished grapes;
A boy sits on the rude fence
watching them.
Near him two foxes: down
the rows of grapes
One ranging steals the ripest;
one assails
With wiles the poor lad’s
THYSIS [sings].
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
The voice of Thyrsis.
AEtna’s Thyrsis I.
Where were ye, Nymphs, oh
where, while Daphnis pined?
In fair Peneus’ or in
Pindus’ glens?
For great Anapus’ stream
was not your haunt,
Nor AEtna’s cliff, nor
Acis’ sacred rill.
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
O’er him the wolves,
the jackals howled o’er him;
The lion in the oak-copse
mourned his death.
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
The kine and oxen stood around
his feet,
The heifers and the calves
wailed all for him.
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
First from the mountain Hermes
came, and said,
“Daphnis, who frets
thee? Lad, whom lov’st thou so?”
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
Came herdsmen, shepherds came,
and goatherds came;
All asked what ailed the lad.
Priapus came
And said, “Why pine,
poor Daphnis? while the maid
Foots it round every pool
and every grove,
(Begin, sweet Maids, begin
the woodland song)
“O lack-love and perverse,
in quest of thee;
Herdsman in name, but goatherd
rightlier called.
With eyes that yearn the goatherd
marks his kids
Run riot, for he fain would
frisk as they:
(Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song):
“With eyes that yearn
dost thou too mark the laugh
Of maidens, for thou may’st
not share their glee.”
Still naught the herdsman
said: he drained alone
His bitter portion, till the
fatal end.
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
Came Aphrodite, smiles on
her sweet face,
False smiles, for heavy was
her heart, and spake:
“So, Daphnis, thou must
try a fall with Love!
But stalwart Love hath won
the fall of thee.”
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
Then “Ruthless Aphrodite,”
Daphnis said,
“Accursed Aphrodite,
foe to man!
Say’st thou mine hour
is come, my sun hath set?
Dead as alive, shall Daphnis
work Love woe.”
Begin, sweet
Page 3
Maids, begin the woodland song.
“Fly to Mount Ida, where
the swain (men say)
And Aphrodite—to
Anchises fly:
There are oak-forests; here
but galingale,
And bees that make a music
round the hives.
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
“Adonis owed his bloom
to tending flocks
And smiting hares, and bringing
wild beasts down.
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
“Face once more Diomed:
tell him ’I have slain
The herdsman Daphnis; now
I challenge thee.’
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
“Farewell, wolf, jackal,
mountain-prisoned bear!
Ye’ll see no more by
grove or glade or glen
Your herdsman Daphnis!
Arethuse, farewell,
And the bright streams that
pour down Thymbris’ side.
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
“I am that Daphnis,
who lead here my kine,
Bring here to drink my oxen
and my calves.
Begin, sweet
Maids, begin the woodland song.
“Pan, Pan, oh whether
great Lyceum’s crags
Thou haunt’st to-day,
or mightier Maenalus,
Come to the Sicel isle!
Abandon now
Rhium and Helice, and the
mountain-cairn
(That e’en gods cherish)
of Lycaon’s son!
Forget, sweet
Maids, forget your woodland song.
“Come, king of song,
o’er this my pipe, compact
With wax and honey-breathing,
arch thy lip:
For surely I am torn from
life by Love.
Forget, sweet
Maids, forget your woodland song.
“From thicket now and
thorn let violets spring,
Now let white lilies drape
the juniper,
And pines grow figs, and nature
all go wrong:
For Daphnis dies. Let
deer pursue the hounds,
And mountain-owls outsing
the nightingale.
Forget, sweet
Maids, forget your woodland song.”
So spake he, and he never
spake again.
Fain Aphrodite would have
raised his head;
But all his thread was spun.
So down the stream
Went Daphnis: closed
the waters o’er a head
Dear to the Nine, of nymphs
not unbeloved.
Now give me goat
and cup; that I may milk
The one, and pour the other
to the Muse.
Fare ye well, Muses, o’er
and o’er farewell!
I’ll sing strains lovelier
yet in days to be.
GOATHERD.
Thyrsis, let honey and the
honeycomb
Fill thy sweet mouth, and
figs of AEgilus:
For ne’er cicala trilled
so sweet a song.
Here is the cup: mark,
friend, how sweet it smells:
The Hours, thou’lt say,
have washed it in their well.
Hither, Cissaetha! Thou,
go milk her! Kids,
Be steady, or your pranks
will rouse the ram.
The Sorceress.
Where are the bay-leaves,
Thestylis, and the charms?
Fetch all; with fiery wool
the caldron crown;
Let glamour win me back my
false lord’s heart!
Twelve days the wretch hath
not come nigh to me,
Nor made enquiry if I die
or live,
Nor clamoured (oh unkindness!)
at my door.
Sure his swift fancy wanders
otherwhere,
The slave of Aphrodite and
of Love.
I’ll off to Timagetus’
wrestling-school
At dawn, that I may see him
and denounce
His doings; but I’ll
charm him now with charms.
So shine out fair, O moon!
To thee I sing
My soft low song: to
thee and Hecate
The dweller in the shades,
at whose approach
E’en the dogs quake,
as on she moves through blood
And darkness and the barrows
of the slain.
All hail, dread Hecate:
companion me
Unto the end, and work me
witcheries
Potent as Circe or Medea wrought,
Or Perimede of the golden
hair!
Turn, magic
wheel, draw homeward him I love.
First we ignite the grain.
Nay, pile it on:
Where are thy wits flown,
timorous Thestylis?
Shall I be flouted, I, by
such as thou?
Pile, and still say, ‘This
pile is of his bones.’
Turn, magic
wheel, draw homeward him I love.
Delphis racks me: I burn
him in these bays.
As, flame-enkindled, they
lift up their voice,
Blaze once, and not a trace
is left behind:
So waste his flesh to powder
in yon fire!
Turn, magic
wheel, draw homeward him I love.
E’en as I melt, not
uninspired, the wax,
May Mindian Delphis melt this
hour with love:
And, swiftly as this brazen
wheel whirls round,
May Aphrodite whirl him to
my door.
Turn, magic
wheel, draw homeward him I love.
Next burn the husks.
Hell’s adamantine floor
And aught that else stands
firm can Artemis move.
Thestylis, the hounds bay
up and down the town:
The goddess stands i’
the crossroads: sound the gongs.
Turn, magic
wheel, draw homeward him I love.
Hushed are the voices of the
winds and seas;
But O not hushed the voice
of my despair.
He burns my being up, who
left me here
No wife, no maiden, in my
misery.
Turn, magic
wheel, draw homeward him I love.
Thrice I pour out; speak thrice,
sweet mistress, thus:
“What face soe’er
hangs o’er him be forgot
Clean as, in Dia, Theseus
(legends say)
Forgat his Ariadne’s
locks of love.”
Turn, magic,
wheel, draw homeward him I love.
The coltsfoot grows in Arcady,
the weed
That drives the mountain-colts
and swift mares wild.
Like them may Delphis rave:
so, maniac-wise,
Race from his burnished brethren
home to me.
Turn, magic
wheel, draw homeward him I love.
He lost this tassel from his
[Exit Thestylis.
Now, all alone, I’ll weep
a love whence sprung
When born? Who wrought my sorrow? Anaxo
came,
Her basket in her hand, to Artemis’ grove.
Bound for the festival, troops of forest beasts
Stood round, and in the midst a lioness.
Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came
my love.
Theucharidas’ slave, my Thracian nurse now
dead
Then my near neighbour, prayed me and implored
To see the pageant: I, the poor doomed thing,
Went with her, trailing a fine silken train,
And gathering round me Clearista’s robe.
Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came
my love.
Now, the mid-highway reached by Lycon’s
farm,
Delphis and Eudamippus passed me by.
With beards as lustrous as the woodbine’s
gold
And breasts more sheeny than thyself, O Moon,
Fresh from the wrestler’s glorious toil
they came.
Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came
my love.
I saw, I raved, smit (weakling) to my heart.
My beauty withered, and I cared no more
For all that pomp; and how I gained my home
I know not: some strange fever wasted me.
Ten nights and days I lay upon my bed.
Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came
my love.
And wan became my flesh, as ’t had been
dyed,
And all my hair streamed off, and there was left
But bones and skin. Whose threshold crossed
I not,
Or missed what grandam’s hut who dealt in
charms?
For no light thing was this, and time sped on.
Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came
my love.
At last I spake the truth to that my maid:
“Seek, an thou canst, some cure for my sore
pain.
Alas, I am all the Mindian’s! But begone,
And watch by Timagetus’ wrestling-school:
There doth he haunt, there soothly take his rest.
Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came
my love.
“Find him alone: nod softly: say,
‘she waits’;
And bring him.” So I spake: she
went her way,
And brought the lustrous-limbed one to my roof.
And I, the instant I beheld him step
Lightfooted o’er the threshold of my door,
(Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came
my love,)
Became all cold like snow, and from my brow
Brake the damp dewdrops: utterance I had
none,
Not e’en such utterance as a babe may make
That babbles to its mother in its dreams;
Lady, farewell:
turn ocean-ward thy steeds:
As I have purposed, so shall
I fulfil.
Farewell, thou bright-faced
Moon! Ye stars, farewell,
That wait upon the car of
noiseless Night.
The Serenade.
I pipe to Amaryllis; while
my goats,
Tityrus their guardian, browse
along the fell.
O Tityrus, as I love thee,
feed my goats:
And lead them to the spring,
and, Tityrus, ’ware
The lifted crest of yon gray
Libyan ram.
Ah winsome Amaryllis!
Why no more
Greet’st thou thy darling,
from the caverned rock
Peeping all coyly? Think’st
thou scorn of him?
Hath a near view revealed
him satyr-shaped
Of chin and nostril?
I shall hang me soon.
See here ten apples:
from thy favourite tree
I plucked them: I shall
bring ten more anon.
Ah witness my heart-anguish!
Oh were I
A booming bee, to waft me
to thy lair,
Threading the fern and ivy
in whose depths
Thou nestlest! I have
learned what Love is now:
Fell god, he drank the lioness’s
milk,
In the wild woods his mother
cradled him,
Whose fire slow-burns me,
smiting to the bone.
O thou whose glance is beauty
and whose heart
All marble: O dark-eyebrowed
maiden mine!
Cling to thy goatherd, let
him kiss thy lips,
For there is sweetness in
an empty kiss.
Thou wilt not? Piecemeal
I will rend the crown,
The ivy-crown which, dear,
I guard for thee,
Inwov’n with scented
parsley and with flowers:
Oh I am desperate—what
betides me, what?—
Still art thou deaf?
I’ll doff my coat of skins
And leap into yon waves, where
on the watch
For mackerel Olpis sits:
tho’ I ’scape death,
That I have all but died will
pleasure thee.
That learned I when (I murmuring
‘loves she me?’)
The Love-in-absence,
crushed, returned no sound,
But shrank and shrivelled
on my smooth young wrist.
I learned it of the sieve-divining
crone
Who gleaned behind the reapers
yesterday:
‘Thou’rt wrapt
up all,’ Agraia said, ’in her;
She makes of none account
her worshipper.’
Lo! a white goat,
and twins, I keep for thee:
Mermnon’s lass covets
them: dark she is of skin:
But yet hers be they; thou
but foolest me.
She cometh, by
the quivering of mine eye.
I’ll lean against the
pine-tree here and sing.
She may look round: she
is not adamant.
[Sings] Hippomenes, when he a maid would wed, Took apples in his hand and on he sped. Famed Atalanta’s heart was won by this; She marked, and maddening sank in Love’s abyss.
From Othrys did
the seer Melampus stray
To Pylos with his herd:
and lo there lay
In a swain’s arms a
maid of beauty rare;
Alphesiboea, wise of heart,
she bare.
Did not Adonis
rouse to such excess
Of frenzy her whose name is
Loveliness,
(He a mere lad whose wethers
grazed the hill)
That, dead, he’s pillowed
on her bosom still?
Endymion sleeps
the sleep that changeth not:
And, maiden mine, I envy him
his lot!
Envy Iasion’s:
his it was to gain
Bliss that I dare not breathe
in ears profane.
My head aches.
What reck’st thou? I sing no more:
E’en where I fell I’ll
lie, until the wolves
Rend me—may that
be honey in thy mouth!
The Herdsmen.
BATTUS. CORYDON.
BATTUS.
Who owns these cattle, Corydon?
Philondas? Prythee say.
CORYDON.
No, AEgon: and he gave
them me to tend while he’s away.
BATTUS.
Dost milk them in the gloaming,
when none is nigh to see?
CORYDON.
The old man brings the calves
to suck, and keeps an eye on me.
BATTUS.
And to what region then hath
flown the cattle’s rightful lord?
CORYDON.
Hast thou not heard?
With Milo he vanished Elis-ward.
BATTUS.
How! was the wrestler’s
oil e’er yet so much as seen by him?
CORYDON.
Men say he rivals Heracles
in lustiness of limb.
BATTUS.
I’m Polydeuces’
match (or so my mother says) and more.
CORYDON.
—So off he started;
with a spade, and of these ewes a score.
BATTUS.
This Milo will be teaching
wolves how they should raven next.
CORYDON.
—And by these bellowings
his kine proclaim how sore they’re vexed.
BATTUS.
Poor kine! they’ve found
their master a sorry knave indeed.
CORYDON.
They’re poor enough,
I grant you: they have not heart to feed.
BATTUS.
Look at that heifer! sure
there’s naught, save bare bones, left of her.
Pray, does she browse on dewdrops,
as doth the grasshopper?
CORYDON.
Not she, by heaven! She
pastures now by AEsarus’ glades,
And handfuls fair I pluck
her there of young and green grass-blades;
Now bounds about Latymnus,
that gathering-place of shades.
BATTUS.
That bull again, the red one,
my word but he is lean!
I wish the Sybarite burghers
aye may offer to the queen
Of heaven as pitiful a beast:
those burghers are so mean!
CORYDON.
Yet to the Salt Lake’s
edges I drive him, I can swear;
Up Physcus, up Neaethus’
side—he lacks not victual there,
With dittany and endive and
foxglove for his fare.
BATTUS.
Well, well! I pity AEgon.
His cattle, go they must
To rack and ruin, all because
vain-glory was his lust.
The pipe that erst he fashioned
is doubtless scored with rust?
CORYDON.
Nay, by the Nymphs! That
pipe he left to me, the self-same day
He made for Pisa: I am
too a minstrel in my way:
Well the flute-part in ‘Pyrrhus’
and in ‘Glauca’ can I play.
I sing too ‘Here’s
to Croton’ and ’Zacynthus O ‘tis
fair,’
And ’Eastward to
Page 9
Lacinium:’—the bruiser Milo there
His single self ate eighty
loaves; there also did he pull
Down from its mountain-dwelling,
by one hoof grasped, a bull,
And gave it Amaryllis:
the maidens screamed with fright;
As for the owner of the bull
he only laughed outright.
BATTUS.
Sweet Amaryllis! thou alone,
though dead, art unforgot.
Dearer than thou, whose light
is quenched, my very goats are not.
Oh for the all-unkindly fate
that’s fallen to my lot!
CORYDON.
Cheer up, brave lad! tomorrow
may ease thee of thy pain:
Aye for the living are there
hopes, past’ hoping are the slain:
And now Zeus sends us sunshine,
and now he sends us rain.
BATTUS.
I’m better. Beat
those young ones off! E’en now their teeth
attack
That olive’s shoots,
the graceless brutes! Back, with your white face,
back!
CORYDON.
Back to thy hill, Cymaetha!
Great Pan, how deaf thou art!
I shall be with thee presently,
and in the end thou’lt smart.
I warn thee, keep thy distance.
Look, up she creeps again!
Oh were my hare-crook in nay
hand, I’d give it to her then!
BATTUS.
For heaven’s sake, Corydon,
look here! Just now a bramble-spike
Ran, there, into my instep—and
oh how deep they strike,
Those lancewood-shafts!
A murrain light on that calf, I say!
I got it gaping after her.
Canst thou discern it, pray?
CORYDON.
Ay, ay; and here I have it,
safe in my finger-nails.
BATTUS.
Eh! at how slight a matter
how tall a warrior quails!
CORYDON.
Ne’er range the hill-crest,
Battus, all sandal-less and bare:
Because the thistle and the
thorn lift aye their plumed heads there.
BATTUS.
—Say, Corydon,
does that old man we wot of (tell me please!)
Still haunt the dark-browed
little girl whom once he used to tease?
CORYDON.
Ay my poor boy, that doth
he: I saw them yesterday
Down by the byre; and, trust
me, loving enough were they.
BATTUS.
Well done, my veteran light-o’-love!
In deeming thee mere man,
I wronged thy sire: some
Satyr he, or an uncouth-limbed Pan.
The Battle of the Bards.
COMETAS. LACON. MORSON.
COMETAS.
Goats, from a shepherd who
stands here, from Lacon, keep away:
Sibyrtas owns him; and he
stole my goatskin yesterday.
LACON.
Hi! lambs! avoid yon fountain.
Have ye not eyes to see
Cometas, him who filched a
pipe but two days back from me?
COMETAS.
Sibyrtas’ bondsman own
a pipe? whence gotst thou that, and how?
Tootling through straws with
Corydon mayhap’s beneath thee now?
LACON.
’Twas Lycon’s
gift, your highness. But pray, Cometas, say,
What is that skin wherewith
thou saidst that Lacon walked away?
Why, thy lord’s self
had ne’er a skin whereon his limbs to lay.
COMETAS.
The skin that Crocylus gave
me, a dark one streaked with white,
The day he slew his she-goat.
Why, thou wert ill with spite,
Then, my false friend; and
thou would’st end by beggaring me quite.
LACON.
Did Lacon, did Calaethis’
son purloin a goatskin? No,
By Pan that haunts the sea-beach!
Lad, if I served thee so,
Crazed may I drop from yon
hill-top to Crathis’ stream below!
COMETAS.
Nor pipe of thine, good fellow—the
Ladies of the Lake
So be still kind and good
to me—did e’er Cometas take.
LACON.
Be Daphnis’ woes my
portion, should that my credence win!
Still, if thou list to stake
a kid—that surely were no sin—
Come on, I’ll sing it
out with thee—until thou givest in.
COMETAS.
‘The hog he braved
Athene.’ As for the kid, ’tis there:
You stake a lamb against him—that
fat one—if you dare.
LACON.
Fox! were that fair for either?
At shearing who’d prefer
Horsehair to wool? or when
the goat stood handy, suffer her
To nurse her firstling, and
himself go milk a blatant cur?
COMETAS.
The same who deemed his hornet’s-buzz
the true cicala’s note,
And braved—like
you—his better. And so forsooth you
vote
My kid a trifle? Then
come on, fellow! I stake the goat.
LACON.
Why be so hot? Art thou
on fire? First prythee take thy seat
’Neath this wild woodland
olive: thy tones will sound more sweet.
Here falls a cold rill drop
by drop, and green grass-blades uprear
Their heads, and fallen leaves
are thick, and locusts prattle here.
COMETAS.
Hot I am not; but hurt I am,
and sorely, when I think
That thou canst look me in
the face and never bleach nor blink—
Me, thine own boyhood’s
tutor! Go, train the she-wolf’s brood:
Train dogs—that
they may rend thee! This, this is gratitude!
LACON.
When learned I from thy practice
or thy preaching aught that’s right,
Thou puppet, thou misshapen
lump of ugliness and spite?
COMETAS.
When? When I beat thee,
wailing sore: yon goats looked on with glee,
And bleated; and were dealt
with e’en as I had dealt with thee.
LACON.
Well, hunchback, shallow be
thy grave as was thy judgment then!
But hither, hither! Thou’lt
not dip in herdsman’s lore again.
COMETAS.
Nay, here are oaks and galingale:
the hum of housing bees
Makes the place pleasant,
and the birds are piping in the trees.
And here are two cold streamlets;
here deeper shadows fall
Than yon place owns, and look
what cones drop from the pinetree tall.
LACON.
Come hither, and tread on
lambswool that is soft as any dream:
Still more unsavoury than
thyself to me thy goatskins seem.
Here will I plant a bowl of
milk, our ladies’ grace to win;
And one, as huge, beside it,
sweet olive-oil therein.
COMETAS.
Come hither, and trample dainty
fern and poppy-blossom: sleep
On goatskins that are softer
than thy fleeces piled three deep.
Here will I plant eight milkpails,
great Pan’s regard to gain,
Bound them eight cups:
full honeycombs shall every cup contain.
LACON.
Well! there essay thy woodcraft:
thence fight me, never budge
From thine own oak; e’en
have thy way. But who shall be our judge?
Oh, if Lycopas with his kine
should chance this way to trudge!
COMETAS.
Nay, I want no Lycopas.
But hail yon woodsman, do:
’Tis Morson—see!
his arms are full of bracken—there, by you.
LACON.
We’ll hail him.
COMETAS.
Ay, you hail him.
LACON.
Friend, ’twill not take thee long:
We’re striving which is master, we twain,
in woodland song:
And thou, my good friend Morson, ne’er look
with favouring eyes
On me; nor yet to yonder lad be fain to judge
the prize.
COMETAS.
Nay, by the Nymphs, sweet Morson, ne’er for Cometas’ sake
Stretch thou a point; nor e’er let him undue advantage take.
Sibyrtas owns yon wethers; a Thurian is he:
And here, my friend, Eumares’ goats, of Sybaris, you may see.
LACON.
And who asked thee, thou naughty
knave, to whom belonged these flocks,
Sibyrtas, or (it might be)
me? Eh, thou’rt a chatter-box!
COMETAS.
The simple truth, most worshipful,
is all that I allege:
I’m not for boasting.
But thy wit hath all too keen an edge.
LACON.
Come sing, if singing’s
in thee—and may our friend get back
To town alive! Heaven
help us, lad, how thy tongue doth clack!
COMETAS. [Sings]
Daphnis the mighty minstrel
was less precious to the Nine
Than I. I offered yesterday
two kids upon their shrine.
LACON. [Sings]
Ay, but Apollo fancies me
hugely: for him I rear
A lordly ram: and, look
you, the Carnival is near.
COMETAS.
Twin kids hath every goat
I milk, save two. My maid, my own,
Eyes me and asks ‘At
milking time, rogue, art thou all alone?’
LACON.
Go to! nigh twenty baskets
doth Lacon fill with cheese:
Hath time to woo a sweetheart
too upon the blossomed leas.
COMETAS.
Clarissa pelts her goatherd
with apples, should he stray
By with his goats; and pouts
her lip in a quaint charming way.
LACON.
Me too a darling smooth of
face notes as I tend my flocks:
How maddeningly o’er
that fair neck ripple those shining locks!
COMETAS.
Tho’ dogrose and anemone
are fair in their degree,
The rose that blooms by garden-walls
still is the rose for me.
LACON.
Tho’ acorns’ cups
are fair, their taste is bitterness, and still
I’ll choose, for honeysweet
are they, the apples of the hill.
COMETAS.
A cushat I will presently
procure and give to her
Who loves me: I know
where it sits; up in the juniper.
LACON.
Pooh! a soft fleece, to make
a coat, I’ll give the day I shear
My brindled ewe—(no
hand but mine shall touch it)—to my dear.
COMETAS.
Back, lambs, from that wild-olive:
and be content to browse
Here on the shoulder of the
hill, beneath the myrtle boughs.
LACON.
Run, (will ye?) Ball and Dogstar,
down from that oak tree, run:
And feed where Spot is feeding,
and catch the morning sun.
COMETAS.
I have a bowl of cypress-wood:
I have besides a cup:
Praxiteles designed them:
for her they’re treasured up.
LACON.
I have a dog who throttles
wolves: he loves the sheep, and they
Love him: I’ll
give him to my dear, to keep wild beasts at bay.
COMETAS.
Ye locusts that o’erleap
my fence, oh let my vines escape
Your clutches, I beseech you:
the bloom is on the grape.
LACON.
Ye crickets, mark how nettled
our friend the goatherd is!
I ween, ye cost the reapers
pangs as acute as his.
COMETAS.
Those foxes with their bushy
tails, I hate to see them crawl
Round Micon’s homestead
and purloin his grapes at evenfall.
LACON.
I hate to see the beetles
that come warping on the wind.
And climb Philondas’
trees, and leave never a fig behind.
COMETAS.
Have you forgot that cudgelling
I gave you? At each stroke
You grinned and twisted with
a grace, and clung to yonder oak.
LACON.
That I’ve forgot—but
I have not, how once Eumares tied
You to that selfsame oak-trunk,
and tanned your unclean hide.
COMETAS.
There’s some one ill—of
heartburn. You note it, I presume,
Morson? Go quick, and
fetch a squill from some old beldam’s tomb.
LACON.
I think I’m stinging
somebody, as Morson too perceives—
Go to the river and dig up
a clump of sowbread-leaves.
COMETAS.
May Himera flow, not water,
but milk: and may’st thou blush,
Crathis, with wine; and fruitage
grow upon every rush.
LACON.
For me may Sybaris’
fountain flow, pure honey: so that you,
My fair, may dip your pitcher
each morn in honey-dew.
COMETAS.
My goats are fed on clover
and goat’s-delight: they tread
On lentisk leaves; or lie
them down, ripe strawberries o’er their head.
LACON.
My sheep crop honeysuckle
bloom, while all around them blows
In clusters rich the jasmine,
as brave as any rose.
COMETAS.
I scorn my maid; for when
she took my cushat, she did not
Draw with both hands my face
to hers and kiss me on the spot.
LACON.
I love my love, and hugely:
for, when I gave my flute,
I was rewarded with a kiss,
a loving one to boot.
COMETAS.
Lacon, the nightingale should
scarce be challenged by the jay,
Nor swan by hoopoe: but,
poor boy, thou aye wert for a fray.
MORSON.
I bid the shepherd hold his
peace. Cometas, unto you
I, Morson, do adjudge the
lamb. You’ll first make offering due
Unto the nymphs: then
savoury meat you’ll send to Morson too.
COMETAS.
By Pan I will! Snort,
all my herd of he-goats: I shall now
O’er Lacon, shepherd
as he is, crow ye shall soon see how.
I’ve won, and I could
leap sky-high! Ye also dance and skip,
My horned ewes: in Sybaris’
fount to-morrow all shall dip.
Ho! you, sir, with the glossy
coat and dangerous crest; you dare
Look at a ewe, till I have
slain my lamb, and ill you’ll fare.
What! is he at his tricks
again? He is, and he will get
(Or my name’s not Cometas)
a proper pounding yet.
The Drawn Battle.
DAPHNIS. DAMOETAS.
Daphnis the herdsman and Damoetas
once
Had driven, Aratus, to the
selfsame glen.
One chin was yellowing, one
shewed half a beard.
And by a brookside on a summer
noon
The pair sat down and sang;
but Daphnis led
The song, for Daphnis was
the challenger.
DAPHNIS.
“See! Galatea pelts
thy flock with fruit,
And calls their master ‘Lack-love,’
Polypheme.
Thou mark’st her not,
blind, blind, but pipest aye
Thy wood-notes. See again,
she smites thy dog:
Sea-ward the fleeced flocks’
sentinel peers and barks,
And, through the clear wave
visible to her still,
Careers along the gently babbling
beach.
Look that he leap not on the
maid new-risen
From her sea-bath and rend
her dainty limbs.
She fools thee, near or far,
like thistle-waifs
In hot sweet summer:
flies from thee when wooed,
Unwooed pursues thee:
risks all moves to win;
For, Polypheme, things foul
seem fair to Love.”
And then, due prelude made, Damoetas sang.
DAMOETAS.
“I marked her pelt my
dog, I was not blind,
By Pan, by this my one my
precious eye
That bounds my vision now
and evermore!
But Telemus the Seer, be his
the woe,
His and his children’s,
that he promised me!
Yet do I too tease her; I
pass her by,
Damoetas then
kissed Daphnis lovingly:
One gave a pipe and one a
goodly flute.
Straight to the shepherd’s
flute and herdsman’s pipe
The younglings bounded in
the soft green grass:
And neither was o’ermatched,
but matchless both.
Harvest-Home.
Once on a time did Eucritus
and I
(With us Amyntas) to the riverside
Steal from the city.
For Lycopeus’ sons
Were that day busy with the
harvest-home,
Antigenes and Phrasidemus,
sprung
(If aught thou holdest by
the good old names)
By Clytia from great Chalcon—him
who erst
Planted one stalwart knee
against the rock,
And lo, beneath his foot Burine’s
rill
Brake forth, and at its side
poplar and elm
Shewed aisles of pleasant
shadow, greenly roofed
By tufted leaves. Scarce
midway were we now,
Nor yet descried the tomb
of Brasilas:
When, thanks be to the Muses,
there drew near
A wayfarer from Crete, young
Lycidas.
The horned herd was his care:
a glance might tell
So much: for every inch
a herdsman he.
Slung o’er his shoulder
was a ruddy hide
Torn from a he-goat, shaggy,
tangle-haired,
That reeked of rennet yet:
a broad belt clasped
A patched cloak round his
breast, and for a staff
A gnarled wild-olive bough
his right hand bore.
Soon with a quiet smile he
spoke—his eye
Twinkled, and laughter sat
upon his lip:
“And whither ploddest
thou thy weary way
Beneath the noontide sun,
Simichidas?
For now the lizard sleeps
upon the wall,
The crested lark folds now
his wandering wing.
Dost speed, a bidden guest,
to some reveller’s board?
Or townward to the treading
of the grape?
For lo! recoiling from thy
hurrying feet
The pavement-stones ring out
right merrily.”
Then I: “Friend
Lycid, all men say that none
I spake to gain
mine ends; and laughing light
He said: “Accept
this club, as thou’rt indeed
A born truth-teller, shaped
by heaven’s own hand!
I hate your builders who would
rear a house
High as Oromedon’s mountain-pinnacle:
I hate your song-birds too,
whose cuckoo-cry
Struggles (in vain) to match
the Chian bard.
But come, we’ll sing
forthwith, Simichidas,
Our woodland music: and
for my part I—
List, comrade, if you like
the simple air
I forged among the uplands
yesterday.
[Sings] Safe be my true-love convoyed o’er the main To Mitylene—though the southern blast Chase the lithe waves, while westward slant the Kids, Or low above the verge Orion stand— If from Love’s furnace she will rescue me, For Lycidas is parched with hot desire. Let halcyons lay the sea-waves and the winds, Northwind and Westwind, that in shores far-off Flutters the seaweed—halcyons, of all birds Whose prey is on the waters, held most dear By the green Nereids: yea let all things smile On her to Mitylene voyaging, And in fair harbour may she ride at last. I on that day, a chaplet woven of dill Or rose or simple violet on my brow, Will draw the wine of Pteleas from the cask Stretched by the ingle. They shall roast me beans, And elbow-deep in thyme and asphodel And quaintly-curling parsley shall be piled My bed of rushes, where in royal ease I sit and, thinking of my darling, drain With stedfast lip the liquor to the dregs. I’ll have a pair of pipers, shepherds both, This from Acharnae, from Lycope that; And Tityrus shall be near me and shall sing How the swain Daphnis loved the stranger-maid; And how he ranged the fells, and how the oaks (Such oaks as Himera’s banks are green withal) Sang dirges o’er him waning fast away Like snow on Athos, or on Haemus high, Or Rhodope, or utmost Caucasus. And he shall sing me how the big chest held (All through the maniac malice of his lord) A living goatherd: how the round-faced bees, Lured from their meadow by the cedar-smell, Fed him with daintiest flowers, because the Muse Had made his throat a well-spring of sweet song. HappyPage 16
Cometas, this sweet lot was thine! Thee the chest prisoned, for thee the honey-bees Toiled, as thou slavedst out the mellowing year: And oh hadst thou been numbered with the quick In my day! I had led thy pretty goats About the hill-side, listening to thy voice: While thou hadst lain thee down ’neath oak or pine, Divine Cometas, warbling pleasantly.”
He spake and paused;
and thereupon spake I.
“I too, friend Lycid,
as I ranged the fells,
Have learned much lore and
pleasant from the Nymphs,
Whose fame mayhap hath reached
the throne of Zeus.
But this wherewith I’ll
grace thee ranks the first:
Thou listen, since the Muses
like thee well.
[Sings] On me the young Loves sneezed: for hapless I Am fain of Myrto as the goats of Spring. But my best friend Aratus inly pines For one who loves him not. Aristis saw— (A wondrous seer is he, whose lute and lay Shrined Apollo’s self would scarce disdain)— How love had scorched Aratus to the bone. O Pan, who hauntest Homole’s fair champaign, Bring the soft charmer, whosoe’er it be, Unbid to his sweet arms—so, gracious Pan, May ne’er thy ribs and shoulderblades be lashed With squills by young Arcadians, whensoe’er They are scant of supper! But should this my prayer Mislike thee, then on nettles mayest thou sleep, Dinted and sore all over from their claws! Then mayest thou lodge amid Edonian hills By Hebrus, in midwinter; there subsist, The Bear thy neighbour: and, in summer, range With the far AEthiops ’neath the Blemmyan rocks Where Nile is no more seen! But O ye Loves, Whose cheeks are like pink apples, quit your homes By Hyetis, or Byblis’ pleasant rill, Or fair Dione’s rocky pedestal, And strike that fair one with your arrows, strike The ill-starred damsel who disdains my friend. And lo, what is she but an o’er-ripe pear? The girls all cry ‘Her bloom is on the wane.’ We’ll watch, Aratus, at that porch no more, Nor waste shoe-leather: let the morning cock Crow to wake others up to numb despair! Let Molon, and none else, that ordeal brave: While we make ease our study, and secure Some witch, to charm all evil from our door.”
I ceased.
He smiling sweetly as before,
Gave me the staff, ‘the
Muses’ parting gift,’
And leftward sloped toward
Pyxa. We the while,
Bent us to Phrasydeme’s,
Eucritus and I,
And baby-faced Amyntas:
there we lay
Half-buried in a couch of
fragrant reed
And fresh-cut vineleaves,
who so glad as we?
A wealth of elm and poplar
shook o’erhead;
Hard by, a sacred spring flowed
gurgling on
From the Nymphs’ grot,
and in the sombre boughs
The sweet cicada chirped laboriously.
Hid in the thick thorn-bushes
far away
The treefrog’s note
was heard; the crested lark
Sang with the goldfinch; turtles
made their moan,
And o’er the fountain
hung the gilded bee.
The Triumph of Daphnis.
DAPHNIS. MENALCAS. A GOATHERD.
Daphnis, the gentle herdsman,
met once, as legend tells,
Menalcas making with his flock
the circle of the fells.
Both chins were gilt with
coming beards: both lads could sing and play:
Menalcas glanced at Daphnis,
and thus was heard to say:—
“Art thou for singing,
Daphnis, lord of the lowing kine?
I say my songs are better,
by what thou wilt, than thine.”
Then in his turn spake Daphnis,
and thus he made reply:
“O shepherd of the fleecy
flock, thou pipest clear and high;
But come what will, Menalcas,
thou ne’er wilt sing as I.”
MENALCAS.
This art thou fain to ascertain,
and risk a bet with me?
DAPHNIS.
This I full fain would ascertain,
and risk a bet with thee.
MENALCAS.
But what, for champions such
as we, would, seem a fitting prize?
DAPHNIS.
I stake a calf: stake
thou a lamb, its mother’s self in size.
MENALCAS.
A lamb I’ll venture
never: for aye at close of day
Father and mother count the
flock, and passing strict are they.
DAPHNIS.
Then what shall be the victor’s
fee? What wager wilt thou lay?
MENALCAS.
A pipe discoursing through
nine mouths I made, full fair to view;
The wax is white thereon,
the line of this and that edge true.
I’ll risk it: risk
my father’s own is more than I dare do.
DAPHNIS.
A pipe discoursing through
nine mouths, and fair, hath Daphnis too:
The wax is white thereon,
the line of this and that edge true.
But yesterday I made it:
this finger feels the pain
Still, where indeed the rifted
reed hath cut it clean in twain.
But who shall be our umpire?
who listen to our strain?
MENALCAS.
Suppose we hail yon goatherd;
him at whose horned herd now
The dog is barking—yonder
dog with white upon his brow.
Then out they
called: the goatherd marked them, and up came
he;
Then out they sang; the goatherd
their umpire fain would be.
To shrill Menalcas’
lot it fell to start the woodland lay:
Then Daphnis took it up.
And thus Menalcas led the way.
MENALCAS.
“Rivers and vales, a
glorious birth! Oh if Menalcas e’er
Piped aught of
pleasant music in your ears:
Then pasture, nothing loth,
his lambs; and let young Daphnis fare
No worse, should
he stray hither with his steers.”
DAPHNIS.
“Pastures and rills,
a bounteous race! If Daphnis sang you e’er
Such songs as
ne’er from nightingale have flowed;
Then to his herd your fatness
lend; and let Menalcas share
Like boon, should
e’er he wend along this road.”
MENALCAS.
“’Tis spring,
’tis greenness everywhere; with milk the udders
teem,
And all things
that are young have life anew,
Where my sweet maiden wanders:
but parched and withered seem,
When she departeth,
lawn and shepherd too.”
DAPHNIS.
“Fat are the sheep,
the goats bear twins, the hives are thronged with
bees,
Rises the oak
beyond his natural growth,
Where falls my darling’s
footstep: but hungriness shall seize,
When she departeth,
herd and herdsman both.”
MENALCAS.
“Come, ram, with thy
blunt-muzzled kids and sleek wives at thy side,
Where winds the
brook by woodlands myriad-deep:
There is her haunt.
Go, Stump-horn, tell her how Proteus plied
(A god) the shepherd’s
trade, with seals for sheep.”
DAPHNIS.
“I ask not gold, I ask
not the broad lands of a king;
I ask not to be
fleeter than the breeze;
But ’neath this steep
to watch my sheep, feeding as one, and fling
(Still clasping
her) my carol o’er the seas.”
MENALCAS.
“Storms are the fruit-tree’s
bane; the brook’s, a summer hot and dry;
The stag’s
a woven net, a gin the dove’s;
Mankind’s, a soft sweet
maiden. Others have pined ere I:
Zeus! Father!
hadst not thou thy lady-loves?”
Thus far, in alternating strains,
the lads their woes rehearst:
Then each one gave a closing
stave. Thus sang Menalcas first:—
MENALCAS.
“O spare, good wolf,
my weanlings! their milky mothers spare!
Harm not the little lad that
hath so many in his care!
What, Firefly, is thy sleep
so deep? It ill befits a hound,
Tending a boyish master’s
flock, to slumber over-sound.
And, wethers, of this tender
grass take, nothing coy, your fill:
So, when it comes, the after-math
shall find you feeding still.
So! so! graze on, that ye
be full, that not an udder fail:
Part of the milk shall rear
the lambs, and part shall fill my pail.”
Then Daphnis flung
a carol out, as of a nightingale:—
DAPHNIS.
“Me from her grot but
yesterday a girl of haughty brow
Spied as I passed her with
my kine, and said, “How fair art thou!”
I vow that not one bitter
word in answer did I say,
But, looking ever on the ground,
went silently my way.
The heifer’s voice,
the heifer’s breath, are passing sweet to me;
And sweet is sleep by summer-brooks
upon the breezy lea:
As acorns are the green oak’s
pride, apples the apple-bough’s;
So the cow glorieth in her
calf, the cowherd in his cows.”
Thus the two lads; then spoke
the third, sitting his goats among:
GOATHERD.
“O Daphnis, lovely is
thy voice, thy music sweetly sung;
Such song is pleasanter to
me than honey on my tongue.
Accept this pipe, for thou
hast won. And should there be some notes
That thou couldst teach me,
as I plod alongside with my goats,
I’ll give thee for thy
schooling this ewe, that horns hath none:
Day after day she’ll
fill the can, until the milk o’errun.”
Then how the one
lad laughed and leaped and clapped his hands for
glee!
A kid that bounds to meet
its dam might dance as merrily.
And how the other inly burned,
struck down by his disgrace!
A maid first parting from
her home might wear as sad a face.
Thenceforth was
Daphnis champion of all the country side:
And won, while yet in topmost
youth, a Naiad for his bride.
Pastorals.
DAPHNIS. MENALCAS. A SHEPHERD.
SHEPHERD.
A song from Daphnis!
Open he the lay,
He open: and Menalcas
follow next:
While the calves suck, and
with the barren kine
The young bulls graze, or
roam knee-deep in leaves,
And ne’er play truant.
But a song from thee,
Daphnis—anon Menalcas
will reply.
DAPHNIS.
Sweet is the chorus of the
calves and kine,
And sweet the
herdsman’s pipe. But none may vie
With Daphnis; and a rush-strown
bed is mine
Near a cool rill,
where carpeted I lie
On fair white
goatskins. From a hill-top high
The westwind swept me down
the herd entire,
Cropping the strawberries:
whence it comes that I
No more heed summer,
with his breath of fire,
Than lovers heed the words
of mother and of sire.
Thus Daphnis: and Menalcas answered thus:—
MENALCAS.
O AEtna, mother mine!
A grotto fair,
Scooped in the
rocks, have I: and there I keep
All that in dreams men picture!
Treasured there
Are multitudes
of she-goats and of sheep,
Swathed in whose
wool from top to toe I sleep.
The fire that boils my pot,
with oak or beech
Is piled—dry
beech-logs when the snow lies deep;
And storm and
sunshine, I disdain them each
As toothless sires a nut,
when broth is in their reach.
I clapped applause,
and straight produced my gifts:
A staff for Daphnis—’twas
the handiwork
Of nature, in
my father’s acres grown:
Yet might a turner
find no fault therewith.
I gave his mate
a goodly spiral-shell:
We stalked its
inmate on the Icarian rocks
And ate him, parted
fivefold among five.
He blew forthwith the trumpet
on his shell.
Tell, woodland
Muse—and then farewell—what song
I, the chance-comer,
sang before those twain.
SHEPHERD.
Ne’er let
a falsehood scarify my tongue!
Crickets
with crickets, ants with ants agree,
And hawks with
hawks: and music sweetly sung,
Beyond
all else, is grateful unto me.
Filled
aye with music may my dwelling be!
Not slumber, not
the bursting forth of Spring
So
charms me, nor the flowers that tempt the bee,
As those sweet
Sisters. He, on whom they fling
One gracious glance, is proof
to Circe’s blandishing.
The Two Workmen.
MILO. BATTUS.
What now, poor o’erworked
drudge, is on thy mind?
No more
in even swathe thou layest the corn:
Thy fellow-reapers leave thee
far behind,
As flocks
a ewe that’s footsore from a thorn.
By noon and midday what will
be thy plight
If now, so soon, thy sickle
fails to bite?
BATTUS.
Hewn from hard rocks, untired
at set of sun,
Milo, didst ne’er regret
some absent one?
MILO.
Not I. What time have workers
for regret?
BATTUS.
Hath love ne’er kept
thee from thy slumbers yet?
MILO.
Nay, heaven forbid! If
once the cat taste cream!
BATTUS.
Milo, these ten days love
hath been my dream.
MILO.
You drain your wine, while vinegar’s scarce
with me.
BATTUS.
—Hence since last spring untrimmed
my borders be.
MILO.
And what lass flouts thee?
BATTUS.
She whom we heard play
Amongst Hippocooen’s reapers yesterday.
MILO.
Your sins have found you out—you’re
e’en served right:
You’ll clasp a corn-crake in your arms all
night.
BATTUS.
You laugh: but headstrong Love is blind no
less
Than Plutus: talking big is foolishness.
MILO.
I talk not big. But lay the corn-ears low
And trill the while some love-song—easier so
Will seem your toil: you used to sing, I know.
BATTUS.
Maids of Pieria, of my slim lass sing!
One touch of yours ennobles everything.
[Sings]
Fairy Bombyca! thee do men
report
Lean, dusk, a
gipsy: I alone nut-brown.
Violets and pencilled hyacinths
are swart,
Yet first of flowers
they’re chosen for a crown.
As goats pursue the clover,
wolves the goat,
And cranes the ploughman,
upon thee I dote.
Had I but Croesus’ wealth,
we twain should stand
Gold-sculptured in Love’s temple; thou,
thy lyre
(Ay or a rose or apple) in thy hand,
I in my brave new shoon and dance-attire.
Fairy Bombyca! twinkling dice thy feet,
Poppies thy lips, thy ways none knows how sweet!
MILO.
Who dreamed what subtle strains our bumpkin wrought?
How shone the artist in each measured verse!
Fie on the beard that I have grown for naught!
Mark, lad, these lines by glorious Lytierse.
[Sings]
O rich in fruit
and cornblade: be this field
Tilled well, Demeter,
and fair fruitage yield!
Bind the sheaves, reapers:
lest one, passing, say—
‘A fig for these, they’re never
worth their pay.’
Let the mown swathes look northward,
ye who mow,
Or westward—for the ears grow fattest
so.
Avoid a noontide nap, ye threshing
men:
The chaff flies thickest from the corn-ears
then.
Wake when the
lark wakes; when he slumbers, close
Your work, ye
reapers: and at noontide doze.
Boys, the frogs’
life for me! They need not him
Who fills the
flagon, for in drink they swim.
Better boil herbs,
thou toiler after gain,
Than, splitting
cummin, split thy hand in twain.
Strains such as these, I trow,
befit them well
Who toil and moil
when noon is at its height:
Thy meagre love-tale, bumpkin,
though shouldst tell
Thy grandam as
she wakes up ere ’tis light.
The Giant’s Wooing
Methinks all nature hath no
cure for Love,
Plaster or unguent, Nicias,
saving one;
And this is light and pleasant
to a man,
Yet hard withal to compass—minstrelsy.
As well thou wottest, being
thyself a leech,
And a prime favourite of those
Sisters nine.
’Twas thus our Giant
lived a life of ease,
Old Polyphemus, when, the
down scarce seen
On lip and chin, he wooed
his ocean nymph:
No curlypated rose-and-apple
wooer,
But a fell madman, blind to
all but love.
Oft from the green grass foldward
fared his sheep
Unbid: while he upon
the windy beach,
Singing his Galatea, sat and
pined
From dawn to dusk, an ulcer
at his heart:
Great Aphrodite’s shaft
had fixed it there.
Yet found he that one cure:
he sate him down
On the tall cliff, and seaward
looked, and sang:—
“White Galatea, why
disdain thy love?
White as a pressed cheese,
delicate as the lamb,
Wild as the heifer, soft as
summer grapes!
If sweet sleep chain me, here
thou walk’st at large;
If sweet sleep loose me, straightway
thou art gone,
Scared like a sheep that sees
the grey wolf near.
I loved thee, maiden, when
“But thou
mislik’st my hair? Well, oaken logs
Are here, and embers yet aglow
with fire.
Burn (if thou wilt) my heart
out, and mine eye,
Mine only eye wherein is my
delight.
Oh why was I not born a finny
thing,
To float unto thy side and
kiss thy hand,
Denied thy lips—and
bring thee lilies white
And crimson-petalled poppies’
dainty bloom!
Nay—summer hath
his flowers and autumn his;
I could not bring all these
the selfsame day.
Lo, should some mariner hither
oar his road,
Sweet, he shall teach me straightway
how to swim,
That haply I may learn what
bliss ye find
In your sea-homes. O
Galatea, come
Forth from yon waves, and
coming forth forget
(As I do, sitting here) to
get thee home:
And feed my flocks and milk
them, nothing loth,
And pour the rennet in to
fix my cheese!
“The blame’s
my mother’s; she is false to me;
Spake thee ne’er yet
one sweet word for my sake,
Though day by day she sees
me pine and pine.
I’ll feign strange throbbings
in my head and feet
To anguish her—as
I am anguished now.”
O Cyclops, Cyclops,
where are flown thy wits?
Go plait rush-baskets, lop
the olive-boughs
To feed thy lambkins—’twere
the shrewder part.
Chase not the recreant, milk
the willing ewe:
The world hath Galateas fairer
yet.
“—Many
a fair damsel bids me sport with her
The livelong night, and smiles
if I give ear.
On land at least I still am
somebody.”
Thus did the Giant
feed his love on song,
And gained more ease than
may be bought with gold.
The Comrades
Thou art come, lad, come!
Scarce thrice hath dusk to day
Given place—but
lovers in an hour grow gray.
As spring’s more sweet
than winter, grapes than thorns,
The ewe’s fleece richer
than her latest-born’s;
As young girls’ charms
the thrice-wed wife’s outshine,
As fawns are lither than the
ungainly kine,
Or as the nightingale’s
clear notes outvie
The mingled music of all birds
that fly;
So at thy coming passing glad
was I.
I ran to greet thee e’en
as pilgrims run
To beechen shadows from the
scorching sun:
Oh if on us accordant Loves
would breathe,
And our two names to future
years bequeath!
’These twain’—let
men say—’lived in olden days.
This was a yokel (in
their country-phrase),
That was his mate (so
talked these simple folk):
And lovingly they bore a mutual
yoke.
The hearts of men were made
of sterling gold,
When troth met troth, in those
brave days of old,’
O Zeus, O gods
who age not nor decay!
Let e’en two hundred
ages roll away,
But at the last these tidings
let me learn,
Borne o’er the fatal
pool whence none return:—
“By every tongue thy
constancy is sung,
Thine and thy favourite’s—chiefly
by the young.”
But lo, the future is in heaven’s
high hand:
Meanwhile thy graces all my
praise demand,
Not false lip-praise, not
idly bubbling froth—
For though thy wrath be kindled,
e’en thy wrath
Hath no sting in it:
doubly I am caressed,
And go my way repaid with
interest.
Oarsmen of Megara,
ruled by Nisus erst!
Yours be all bliss, because
ye honoured first
That true child-lover, Attic
Diocles.
Around his gravestone with
the first spring-breeze
Flock the bairns all, to win
the kissing-prize:
And whoso sweetliest lip to
lip applies
Goes crown-clad home to its
mother. Blest is he
Who in such strife is named
the referee:
To brightfaced Ganymede full
oft he’ll cry
To lend his lip the potencies
that lie
Within that stone with which
the usurers
Detect base metal, and which
never errs.
Hylas.
Not for us only, Nicias, (vain
the dream,)
Sprung from what
god soe’er, was Eros born:
Not to us only grace doth
graceful seem,
Frail things who
wot not of the coming morn.
No—for Amphitryon’s
iron-hearted son,
Who braved the lion, was the
slave of one:—
A fair curled creature, Hylas
was his name.
He taught him,
as a father might his child,
All songs whereby himself
had risen to fame;
Nor ever from
his side would be beguiled
When noon was high, nor when
white steeds convey
Back to heaven’s gates
the chariot of the day,
Nor when the hen’s shrill
brood becomes aware
Of bed-time, as
the mother’s flapping wings
Shadow the dust-browned beam.
’Twas all his care
To shape unto
his own imaginings
And to the harness train his
favourite youth,
Till he became a man in very
truth.
Meanwhile, when kingly Jason
steered in quest
Of the Gold Fleece,
and chieftains at his side
Chosen from all cities, proffering
each her best,
To rich Iolchos
came that warrior tried,
And joined him unto trim-built
Argo’s crew;
And with Alcmena’s son
came Hylas too.
Through the great gulf shot
Argo like a bird—
And by-and-bye
reached Phasis, ne’er o’erta’en
By those in-rushing rocks,
that have not stirred
Since then, but
bask, twin monsters, on the main.
But now, when waned the spring,
and lambs were fed
In far-off fields, and Pleiads
gleamed overhead,
That cream and flower of knighthood
looked to sail.
They came, within
broad Argo safely stowed,
(When for three days had blown
the southern gale)
To Hellespont,
and in Propontis rode
At anchor, where Cianian oxen
now
Broaden the furrows with the
busy plough.
They leapt ashore, and, keeping
rank, prepared
Their evening
meal: a grassy meadow spread
Before their eyes, and many
a warrior shared
(Thanks to its
verdurous stores) one lowly bed.
And while they cut tall marigolds
from their stem
And sworded bulrush, Hylas
slipt from them.
Water the fair lad wont to
seek and bring
To Heracles and
stalwart Telamon,
(The comrades aye partook
each other’s fare,)
Bearing a brazen
pitcher. And anon,
Where the ground dipt, a fountain
he espied,
And rushes growing green about
its side.
There rose the sea-blue swallow-wort,
and there
The pale-hued
maidenhair, with parsley green
And vagrant marsh-flowers;
and a revel rare
In the pool’s
midst the water-nymphs were seen
To hold, those maidens of
unslumbrous eyes
Whom the belated peasant sees
and flies.
And fast did Malis and Eunica
cling,
And young Nychea
with her April face,
To the lad’s hand, as
stooping o’er the spring
He dipt his pitcher.
For the young Greek’s grace
Made their soft senses reel;
and down he fell,
All of a sudden, into that
black well.
So drops a red star suddenly
from sky
To sea—and
quoth some sailor to his mate:
“Up with the tackle,
boy! the breeze is high.”
Him the nymphs
pillowed, all disconsolate,
On their sweet laps, and with
soft words beguiled;
But Heracles was troubled
for the child.
Forth went he; Scythian-wise
his bow he bore
And the great
club that never quits his side;
And thrice called ’Hylas’—ne’er
came lustier roar
From that deep
chest. Thrice Hylas heard and tried
To answer, but in tones you
scarce might hear;
The water made them distant
though so near.
And as a lion, when he hears
the bleat
Of fawns among
the mountains far away,
A murderous lion, and with
hurrying feet
Bounds from his
lair to his predestined prey:
So plunged the strong man
in the untrodden brake—
(Lovers are maniacs)—for
his darling’s sake.
He scoured far fields—what
hill or oaken glen
Remembers not
that pilgrimage of pain?
His troth to Jason was forgotten
then.
Long time the
good ship tarried for those twain
With hoisted sails; night
came and still they cleared
The hatches, but no Heracles
appeared.
On he was wandering, reckless
where he trod,
So mad a passion
on his vitals preyed:
While Hylas had become a blessed
god.
But the crew cursed
the runaway who had stayed
Sixty good oars, and left
him there to reach
Afoot bleak Phasis and the
Colchian beach.
The Love of AEschines.
THYONICHUS. AESCHINES.
AESCHINES.
Hail, sir Thyonichus.
THYONICHUS.
AEschines, to you.
AESCHINES.
I have missed thee.
THYONICHUS.
Missed me! Why what ails him now?
AESCHINES.
My friend, I am ill at ease.
THYONICHUS.
Then this explains
Thy leanness, and thy prodigal moustache
And dried-up curls. Thy counterpart I saw,
A wan Pythagorean, yesterday.
He said he came from Athens: shoes he had
none:
He pined, I’ll warrant,—for a
quartern loaf.
AESCHINES.
Sir, you will joke—But
I’ve been outraged, sore,
And by Cynisca. I shall
go stark mad
Ere you suspect—a
hair would turn the scale.
THYONICHUS.
Such thou wert always, AEschines
my friend.
In lazy mood or trenchant,
at thy whim
The world must wag. But
what’s thy grievance now?
AESCHINES.
That Argive, Apis the Thessalian
Knight,
Myself, and gallant Cleonicus,
supped
Within my grounds. Two
pullets I had slain,
And a prime pig: and
broached my Biblian wine;
’Twas four years old,
but fragrant as when new.
Truffles were served to us:
and the drink was good.
Well, we got on, and each
must drain a cup
To whom he fancied; only each
must name.
We named, and took our liquor
as ordained;
But she sate silent—this
before my face.
Fancy my feelings! “Wilt
not speak? Hast seen
A wolf?” some wag said.
THYONICHUS.
Now may thy love run smoothly, AEschines!
But should’st thou really mean a voyage out,
The freeman’s best paymaster’s Ptolemy.
AESCHINES.
What is he else?
THYONICHUS.
A gentleman: a man
Of wit and taste; the top of company;
Loyal to ladies; one whose eye is keen
For friends, and keener still for enemies.
Large in his bounties, he, in kingly sort,
Denies a boon to none: but, AEschines,
One should not ask too often. This premised,
If thou wilt clasp the military cloak
O’er thy right shoulder, and with legs astride
Await the onward rush of shielded men:
Hie thee to Egypt. Age overtakes us all;
Our temples first; then on o’er cheek and
chin,
Slowly and surely, creep the frosts of Time.
Up and do somewhat, ere thy limbs are sere.
The Festival of Adonis.
GORGO. PRAXINOAe.
GORGO.
Praxinoae in?
PRAXINOAe.
Yes, Gorgo dear! At last!
That you’re here now’s a marvel!
See to a chair,
A cushion, Eunoae!
GORGO.
I lack naught.
PRAXINOAe.
Sit down.
GORGO.
Oh, what a thing is spirit! Here I am,
Praxinoae, safe at last from all that crowd
And all those chariots—every street a mass
Of boots and uniforms! And the road, my dear,
Seemed endless—you live now so far away!
PRAXINOAe.
This land’s-end den—I
cannot call it house—
My madcap hired to keep us
twain apart
And stir up strife. ’Twas
like him, odious pest!
GORGO.
Nay call not, dear, your lord,
your Deinon, names
To the babe’s face.
Look how it stares at you!
There, baby dear, she never
meant Papa!
It understands, by’r
lady! Dear Papa!
PRAXINOAe.
Well, yesterday (that means
what day you like)
‘Papa’ had rouge
and hair-powder to buy;
He brought back salt! this
oaf of six-foot-one!
GORGO.
Just such another is that
pickpocket
My Diocleides. He bought
t’other day
Six fleeces at seven drachms,
his last exploit.
What were they? scraps of
worn-out pedlar’s-bags,
Sheer trash.—But
put your cloak and mantle on;
And we’ll to Ptolemy’s,
the sumptuous king,
To see the Adonis.
As I hear, the queen
Provides us something gorgeous.
PRAXINOAe.
Ay, the grand
Can do things grandly.
GORGO.
When you’ve seen yourself,
What tales you’ll have to tell to those
who’ve not.
’Twere time we started!
PRAXINOAe.
All time’s holiday
With idlers! Eunoae, pampered minx, the jug!
Set it down here—you cats would sleep
all day
On cushions—Stir yourself, fetch water,
quick!
Water’s our first want. How she holds
the jug!
Now, pour—not, cormorant, in that wasteful
way—
You’ve drenched my dress, bad luck t’you!
There, enough:
I have made such toilet as my fates allowed.
Now for the key o’ the plate-chest.
Bring it, quick!
GORGO.
My dear, that full pelisse
becomes you well.
What did it stand you in,
straight off the loom?
PRAXINOAe.
Don’t ask me, Gorgo:
two good pounds and more.
Then I gave all my mind to
trimming it.
GORGO.
Well, ’tis a great success.
PRAXINOAe.
I
think it is.
My mantle, Eunoae, and my
parasol!
Arrange me nicely. Babe,
you’ll bide at home!
Horses would bite you—Boo!—Yes,
cry your fill,
But we won’t have you
maimed. Now let’s be off.
You, Phrygia, take and nurse
the tiny thing:
Call the dog in: make
fast the outer door!
[Exeunt.
Gods! what a crowd! How,
when shall we get past
This nuisance, these unending
ant-like swarms?
Yet, Ptolemy, we owe thee
thanks for much
Since heaven received thy
sire! No miscreant now
Creeps Thug-like up, to maul
the passer-by.
What games men played erewhile—men
shaped in crime,
Birds of a feather, rascals
every one!
—We’re done
for, Gorgo darling—here they are,
The Royal horse! Sweet
sir, don’t trample me!
That bay—the savage!—reared
up straight on end!
Fly, Eunoae, can’t you?
Doggedly she stands.
He’ll be his rider’s
death!—How glad I am
My babe’s at home.
GORGO.
Praxinoae,
never mind!
See, we’re before them
now, and they’re in line.
PRAXINOAe.
There, I’m myself.
But from a child I feared
Horses, and slimy snakes.
But haste we on:
A surging multitude is close
behind.
GORGO [to Old Lady].
From the palace, mother?
OLD LADY.
Ay,
child.
GORGO.
Is
it fair
Of access?
OLD LADY.
Trying
brought the Greeks to Troy.
Young ladies, they must try
who would succeed.
GORGO.
The crone hath said her oracle
and gone.
Women know all—how
Adam married Eve.
—Praxinoae, look
what crowds are round the door!
PRAXINOAe.
Fearful! Your hand, please,
Gorgo. Eunoae, you
Hold Eutychis—hold
tight or you’ll be lost.
We’ll enter in a body—hold
us fast!
Oh dear, my muslin dress is
torn in two,
Gorgo, already! Pray,
good gentleman,
(And happiness be yours) respect
my robe!
STRANGER.
I could not if I would—nathless
I will.
PRAXINOAe.
They come in hundreds, and
they push like swine.
STRANGER.
Lady, take courage: it
is all well now.
PRAXINOAe.
And now and ever be it well
with thee,
Sweet man, for shielding us!
An honest soul
And kindly. Oh! they’re
smothering Eunoae:
Push, coward! That’s
right! ‘All in,’ the bridegroom said
And locked the door upon himself
and bride.
GORGO.
Praxinoae, look! Note
well this broidery first.
How exquisitely fine—too
good for earth!
Empress Athene, what strange
sempstress wrought
Such work? What painter
painted, realized
Such pictures? Just like
life they stand or move,
Facts and not fancies!
What a thing is man!
How bright, how lifelike on
his silvern couch
Lies, with youth’s bloom
scarce shadowing his cheek,
That dear Adonis, lovely e’en
in death!
A STRANGER.
Bad luck t’you, cease
your senseless pigeon’s prate!
Their brogue is killing—every
word a drawl!
GORGO.
Where did he spring from?
Is our prattle aught
To you, Sir? Order your
own slaves about:
You’re ordering Syracusan
ladies now!
Corinthians bred (to tell
you one fact more)
As was Bellerophon: islanders
in speech,
For Dorians may talk Doric,
I presume?
PRAXINOAe.
Persephone! none lords it
over me,
Save one! No scullion’s-wage
for us from you!
GORGO. Hush, dear. The Argive’s daughter’s going to sing The Adonis: that accomplished vocalist Who has no rival in “The Sailor’s Grave.” Observe her attitudinizing now.
Song.
Queen, who lov’st Golgi
and the Sicel hill
And Ida; Aphrodite
radiant-eyed;
The stealthy-footed Hours
from Acheron’s rill
Brought once again
Adonis to thy side
How changed in twelve short
months! They travel slow,
Those precious
Hours: we hail their advent still,
For blessings do they bring
to all below.
O Sea-born! thou
didst erst, or legend lies,
Shed on a woman’s soul
thy grace benign,
And Berenice’s
dust immortalize.
O called by many names, at
many a shrine!
For thy sweet
sake doth Berenice’s child
(Herself a second Helen) deck
with all
That’s fair,
Adonis. On his right are piled
Ripe apples fallen from the
oak-tree tall;
And silver caskets
at his left support
Toy-gardens, Syrian scents
enshrined in gold
And alabaster,
cakes of every sort
That in their ovens the pastrywomen
mould,
When with white
meal they mix all flowers that bloom,
Oil-cakes and honey-cakes.
There stand portrayed
Each bird, each
butterfly; and in the gloom
Of foliage climbing high,
and downward weighed
By graceful blossoms,
do the young Loves play
Like nightingales, and perch
on every tree,
And flit, to try
their wings, from spray to spray.
Then see the gold, the ebony!
Only see
The ivory-carven
eagles, bearing up
To Zeus the boy
who fills his royal cup!
Soft as a dream, such tapestry
gleams o’erhead
As the Milesian’s
self would gaze on, charmed.
But sweet Adonis hath his
own sweet bed:
Next Aphrodite
sleeps the roseate-armed,
A bridegroom of eighteen or
nineteen years.
Kiss the smooth
boyish lip—there’s no sting there!
The bride hath found her own:
all bliss be hers!
And him at dewy
dawn we’ll troop to bear
Down where the breakers hiss
against the shore:
There, with dishevelled
dress and unbound hair,
Bare-bosomed all, our descant
wild we’ll pour:
“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!
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!
Their monthly dole erewhile
unnumbered thralls
Sought in Antiochus’,
in Aleuas’ halls;
On to the Scopadae’s
byres in endless line
The calves ran lowing with
the horned kine;
And, marshalled by the good
Creondae’s swains
Myriads of choice sheep basked
on Cranron’s plains.
Yet had their joyaunce ended,
on the day
When their sweet spirit dispossessed
its clay,
To hated Acheron’s ample
barge resigned.
Nameless, their stored-up
luxury left behind,
With the lorn dead through
ages had they lain,
Had not a minstrel bade them
live again:—
Had not in woven words the
Ceian sire
Holding sweet converse with
his full-toned lyre
Made even their swift steeds
for aye renowned,
When from the sacred lists
they came home crowned.
Forgot were Lycia’s
chiefs, and Hector’s hair
Of gold, and Cycnus femininely
fair;
But that bards bring old battles
back to mind.
Odysseus—he who
roamed amongst mankind
A hundred years and more,
reached utmost hell
Alive, and ’scaped the
giant’s hideous cell—
Had lived and died: Eumaeus
and his swine;
Philoetius, busy with his
herded kine;
And great Laertes’ self,
had passed away,
Were not their names preserved
in Homer’s lay.
Through song alone may man
true glory taste;
The dead man’s riches
his survivors waste.
But count the
waves, with yon gray wind-swept main
Borne shoreward: from
a red brick wash his stain
In some pool’s violet
depths: ’twill task thee yet
To reach the heart on baleful
avarice set.
To such I say ‘Fare
well’: let theirs be store
Of wealth; but let them always
crave for more:
Horses and mules inferior
things I find
To the esteem and love of
all mankind.
But to what mortal’s
roof may I repair,
I and my Muse, and find a
welcome there?
I and my Muse: for minstrels
fare but ill,
Reft of those maids, who know
the mightiest’s will.
The cycle of the years, it
flags not yet;
In many a chariot many a steed
shall sweat:
And one, to manhood grown,
my lays shall claim,
Whose deeds shall rival great
Achilles’ fame,
Who from stout Aias might
have won the prize
On Simois’ plain, where
Phrygian Ilus lies.
Now, in their sunset home
on Libya’s heel,
Phoenicia’s sons unwonted
chillness feel:
Now, with his targe of willow
at his breast,
The Syracusan bears his spear
in rest,
Amongst these Hiero arms him
for the war,
Eager to fight as warriors
fought of yore;
The plumes float darkling
o’er his helmed brow.
O Zeus, the sire most glorious;
and O thou,
Empress Athene; and thou,
damsel fair,
Who with thy mother wast decreed
to bear
Rule o’er rich Corinth,
And fair and fruitful
may their cornlands be!
Their flocks in thousands
bleat upon the lea,
Fat and full-fed; their kine,
as home they wind,
The lagging traveller of his
rest remind!
With might and main their
fallows let them till:
Till comes the seedtime, and
cicalas trill
(Hid from the toilers of the
hot midday
In the thick leafage) on the
topmost spray!
O’er shield and spear
their webs let spiders spin,
And none so much as name the
battle-din!
Then Hiero’s lofty deeds
may minstrels bear
Beyond the Scythian ocean-main,
and where
Within those ample walls,
with asphalt made
Time-proof, Semiramis her
empire swayed.
I am but a single voice:
but many a bard
Beside me do those heavenly
maids regard:
May those all love to sing,
’mid earth’s acclaim,
Of Sicel Arethuse, and Hiero’s
fame.
O Graces, royal nurselings,
who hold dear
The Minyae’s city, once
the Theban’s fear:
Unbidden I tarry, whither
bidden I fare
My Muse my comrade. And
be ye too there,
Sisters divine! Were
ye and song forgot,
What grace had earth?
With you be aye my lot!
The Praise of Ptolemy.
With Zeus begin, sweet sisters,
end with Zeus,
When ye would sing the sovereign
of the skies:
But first among mankind rank
Ptolemy;
First, last, and midmost;
being past compare.
Those mighty ones of old,
half men half gods,
Wrought deeds that shine in
many a subtle strain;
I, no unpractised minstrel,
sing but him;
Divinest ears disdain not
minstrelsy.
But as a woodman sees green
Ida rise
Pine above pine, and ponders
which to fell
First of those myriads; even
so I pause
Where to begin the chapter
of his praise:
For thousand and ten thousand
are the gifts
Wherewith high heaven hath
graced the kingliest king.
Was not he born
to compass noblest ends,
Lagus’ own son, so soon
as he matured
Schemes such as ne’er
had dawned on meaner minds?
Zeus doth esteem him as the
blessed gods;
In the sire’s courts
his golden mansion stands.
And near him Alexander sits
and smiles,
The turbaned Persian’s
dread; and, fronting both,
Rises the stedfast adamantine
seat
Erst fashioned for the bull-slayer
Heracles.
Who there holds revels with
Then how among
wise ladies—blest the pair
That reared her!—peerless
Berenice shone!
Dione’s sacred child,
the Cyprian queen,
O’er that sweet bosom
passed her taper hands:
And hence, ’tis said,
no man loved woman e’er
As Ptolemy loved her.
She o’er-repaid
His love; so, nothing doubting,
he could leave
His substance in his loyal
children’s care,
And rest with her, fond husband
with fond wife.
She that loves not bears sons,
but all unlike
Their father: for her
heart was otherwhere.
O Aphrodite, matchless
e’en in heaven
For beauty, thou didst love
her; wouldst not let
Thy Berenice cross the wailful
waves:
But thy hand snatched her—to
the blue lake bound
Else, and the dead’s
grim ferryman—and enshrined
With thee, to share thy honours.
There she sits,
To mortals ever kind, and
passion soft
Inspires, and makes the lover’s
burden light.
The dark-browed Argive, linked
with Tydeus, bare
Diomed the slayer, famed in
Calydon:
And deep-veiled Thetis unto
Peleus gave
The javelineer Achilles.
Thou wast born
Of Berenice, Ptolemy by name
And by descent, a warrior’s
warrior child.
Cos from its mother’s
arms her babe received,
Its destined nursery, on its
natal day:
’Twas there Antigone’s
daughter in her pangs
Cried to the goddess that
could bid them cease:
Who soon was at her side,
and lo! her limbs
Forgat their anguish, and
a child was born
Fair, its sire’s self.
Cos saw, and shouted loud;
Handled the babe all tenderly,
and spake:
“Wake, babe,
to bliss: prize me, as Phoebus doth
His azure-sphered Delos:
grace the hill
Of Triops, and the Dorians’
sister shores,
As king Apollo his Rhenaea’s
isle.”
So spake
the isle. An eagle high overhead
Poised in the clouds screamed
thrice, the prophet-bird
Of Zeus, and sent by him.
For awful kings
All are his care, those chiefliest
on whose birth
He smiled: exceeding
glory waits on them:
Theirs is the sovereignty
of land and sea.
But if a myriad realms spread
far and wide
O’er earth, if myriad
nations till the soil
Now farewell,
prince! I rank thee aye with gods:
And read this lesson to the
afterdays,
Mayhap they’ll prize
it: ‘Honour is of Zeus.’
The Bridal of Helen.
Whilom, in Lacedaemon,
Tript many a maiden
fair
To gold-tressed Menelaus’
halls,
With hyacinths
in her hair:
Twelve to the Painted Chamber,
The queenliest
in the land,
The clustered loveliness of
Greece,
Came dancing hand
in hand.
For Helen, Tyndarus’
daughter,
Had just been
wooed and won,
Helen the darling of the world,
By Atreus’
younger son:
With woven steps they beat
the floor
In unison, and
sang
Their bridal-hymn of triumph
Till all the palace
rang.
“Slumberest so soon,
sweet bridegroom?
Art thou o’erfond
of sleep?
Or hast thou leadenweighted
limbs?
Or hadst thou
drunk too deep
When thou didst fling thee
to thy lair?
Betimes thou should’st
have sped,
If sleep were all thy purpose,
Unto thy bachelor’s
bed:
And left her in her mother’s
arms
To nestle, and
to play
A girl among her girlish mates
Till deep into
the day:—
For not alone for this night,
Nor for the next
alone,
But through the days and through
the years
Thou hast her
for thine own.
“Nay! heaven, O happy
bridegroom,
Smiled as thou
enteredst in
To Sparta, like thy brother
kings,
And told thee
thou should’st win!
What hero son-in-law of Zeus
Hath e’er
aspired to be?
Yet lo! one coverlet enfolds
The child of Zeus,
and thee.
Ne’er did a thing so
lovely
Roam the Achaian
lea.
“And who shall match
her offspring,
If babes are like
their mother?
For we were playmates once,
and ran
And raced with
one another
(All varnished, warrior fashion)
Along Eurotas’
tide,
Thrice eighty gentle maidens,
Each in her girlhood’s
pride:
Yet none of all seemed faultless,
If placed by Helen’s
side.
“As peers the nascent
Morning
Over thy shades,
O Night,
When Winter disenchains the
land,
And Spring goes
forth in white:
So Helen shone above us,
All loveliness
and light.
“As climbs aloft some
cypress,
Garden or glade
to grace;
As the Thessalian courser
lends
A lustre to the
race:
So bright o’er Lacedaemon
Shone Helen’s
rosebud face.
“And who into the basket
e’er
The yarn so deftly
drew,
Or through the mazes of the
web
So well the shuttle
threw,
And severed from the framework
“O bright, O beautiful,
for thee
Are matron-cares
begun.
We to green paths and blossomed
meads
With dawn of morn
must run,
And cull a breathing chaplet;
And still our
dream shall be,
Helen, of thee, as weanling
lambs
Yearn in the pasture
for the dams
That nursed their infancy.
“For thee the lowly
lotus-bed
We’ll spoil,
and plait a crown
To hang upon the shadowy plane;
For thee will
we drop down
(’Neath that same shadowy
platan)
Oil from our silver
urn;
And carven on the bark shall
be
This sentence,
‘HALLOW HELEN’S TREE’;
In Dorian letters, legibly
For all men to
discern.
“Now farewell, bride,
and bridegroom
Blest in thy new-found
sire!
May Leto, mother of the brave,
Bring babes at
your desire,
And holy Cypris either’s
breast
With mutual transport
fire:
And Zeus the son of Cronos
Grant blessings
without end,
From princely sire to princely
son
For ever to descend.
“Sleep on, and love
and longing
Breathe in each
other’s breast;
But fail not when the morn
returns
To rouse you from
your rest:
With dawn shall we be stirring,
When, lifting
high his fair
And feathered neck, the earliest
bird
To clarion to
the dawn is heard.
O
god of brides and bridals,
Sing
‘Happy, happy pair!’”
Love Stealing Honey.
Once thievish Love the honeyed
hives would rob,
When a bee stung him:
soon he felt a throb
Through all his finger-tips,
and, wild with pain,
Blew on his hands and stamped
and jumped in vain.
To Aphrodite then he told
his woe:
‘How can a thing so
tiny hurt one so?’
She smiled and said; ’Why
thou’rt a tiny thing,
As is the bee; yet sorely
thou canst sting.’
Town and Country
Once I would kiss Eunice.
“Back,” quoth she,
And screamed and stormed;
“a sorry clown kiss me?
Your country compliments,
I like not such;
No lips but gentles’
would I deign to touch.
Ne’er dream of kissing
me: alike I shun
Your face, your language,
and your tigerish fun.
How winning are your tones,
how fine your air!
Your beard how silken and
how sweet your hair!
Pah! you’ve a sick man’s
lips, a blackamoor’s hand:
Your breath’s defilement.
Leave me, I command.”
Thrice spat she
on her robe, and, muttering low,
Scanned me, with half-shut
eyes, from top to toe:
Brought all her woman’s
witcheries into play,
Still smiling in a set sarcastic
way,
Till my blood boiled, my visage
crimson grew
With indignation, as a rose
with dew:
And so she left me, inly to
repine
That such as she could flout
such charms as mine.
O shepherds, tell
me true! Am I not fair?
Am I transformed? For
lately I did wear
Grace as a garment; and my
cheeks, o’er them
Ran the rich growth like ivy
round the stem.
Like fern my tresses o’er
my temples streamed;
O’er my dark eyebrows,
white my forehead gleamed:
My eyes were of Athene’s
radiant blue,
My mouth was milk, its accents
honeydew.
Then I could sing—my
tones were soft indeed!—
To pipe or flute or flageolet
or reed:
And me did every maid that
roams the fell
Kiss and call fair: not
so this city belle.
She scorns the herdsman; knows
not how divine
Bacchus ranged once the valleys
with his kine;
How Cypris, maddened for a
herdsman’s sake,
Deigned upon Phrygia’s
mountains to partake
His cares: and wooed,
and wept, Adonis in the brake.
What was Endymion, sweet Selene’s
love?
A herdsman’s lad.
Yet came she from above,
Down to green Latmos, by his
side to sleep.
And did not Rhea for a herdsman
weep?
Didst not thou, Zeus, become
a wandering bird,
To win the love of one who
drove a herd?
Selene, Cybele, Cypris, all
loved swains:
Eunice, loftier-bred, their
kiss disdains.
Henceforth, by hill or hall,
thy love disown,
Cypris, and sleep the livelong
night alone.
The Fishermen.
ASPHALION, A COMRADE.
Want quickens wit: Want’s
pupils needs must work,
O Diophantus: for the
child of toil
Is grudged his very sleep
by carking cares:
Or, if he taste the blessedness
of night,
Thought for the morrow soon
warns slumber off.
Two ancient fishers
once lay side by side
On piled-up sea-wrack in their
wattled hut,
Its leafy wall their curtain.
Near them lay
The weapons of their trade,
basket and rod,
Hooks, weed-encumbered nets,
and cords and oars,
And, propped on rollers, an
infirm old boat.
Their pillow was a scanty
mat, eked out
With caps and garments:
such the ways and means,
Such the whole treasury of
the fishermen.
They knew no luxuries:
owned nor door nor dog;
Their craft their all, their
mistress Poverty:
Their only neighbour Ocean,
who for aye
Bound their lorn hut came
floating lazily.
Ere the moon’s
chariot was in mid-career,
The fishers girt them for
their customed toil,
And banished slumber from
unwilling eyes,
And roused their dreamy intellects
with speech:—
ASPHALION.
“They say
that soon flit summer-nights away,
Because all lingering is the
summer day:
Friend, it is false; for dream
on dream have I
Dreamed, and the dawn still
reddens not the sky.
How? am I wandering? or does
night pass slow?”
HIS COMRADE.
“Asphalion,
scout not the sweet summer so.
’Tis not that wilful
seasons have gone wrong,
But care maims slumber, and
the nights seem long.”
ASPHALION.
“Didst thou
e’er study dreams? For visions fair
I saw last night; and fairly
thou should’st share
The wealth I dream of, as
the fish I catch.
Now, for sheer sense, I reckon
few thy match;
And, for a vision, he whose
motherwit
Is his sole tutor best interprets
it.
And now we’ve time the
matter to discuss:
For who could labour, lying
here (like us)
Pillowed on leaves and neighboured
by the deep,
Or sleeping amid thorns no
easy sleep?
In rich men’s halls
the lamps are burning yet;
But fish come alway to the
rich man’s net.”
COMRADE.
“To me the
vision of the night relate;
Speak, and reveal the riddle
to thy mate.”
ASPHALION.
“Last evening,
as I plied my watery trade,
(Not on an o’erfull
stomach—we had made
Betimes a meagre meal, as
you can vouch,)
I fell asleep; and lo!
I seemed to crouch
Among the boulders, and for
fish to wait,
Still dangling, rod in hand,
my vagrant bait.
A fat fellow caught it:
(e’en in sleep I’m bound
To dream of fishing, as of
crusts the hound:)
Fast clung he to the hooks;
his blood outwelled;
Bent with his struggling was
the rod I held:
I tugged and tugged:
my efforts made me ache:
‘How, with a line thus
slight, this monster take?’
Then gently, just to warn
him he was caught,
I twitched him once; then
slacked and then made taut
My line, for now he offered
not to ran;
A glance soon showed me all
my task was done.
’Twas a gold fish, pure
metal every inch
That I had captured.
I began to flinch:
’What if this beauty
be the sea-king’s joy,
Or azure Amphitrite’s
treasured toy!’
With care I disengaged him—not
to rip
With hasty hook the gilding
from his lip:
And with a tow-line landed
him, and swore
Never to set my foot on ocean
more,
But with my gold live royally
ashore.
So I awoke: and, comrade,
lend me now
Thy wits, for I am troubled
for my vow.”
COMRADE.
“Ne’er quake:
you’re pledged to nothing, for no prize
You gained or gazed on.
Dreams are nought but lies.
Yet may this dream bear fruit;
if, wide-awake
And not in dreams, you’ll
fish the neighbouring lake.
Fish that are meat you’ll
there mayhap behold,
Not die of famine, amid dreams
of gold.”
The Sons of Leda
The pair I sing, that AEgis-armed
Zeus
Gave unto Leda; Castor and
the dread
Of bruisers Polydeuces, whensoe’er
His harnessed hands were lifted
for the fray.
Twice and again I sing the
manly sons
Of Leda, those Twin Brethren,
Sparta’s own:
Who shield the soldier on
the deadly scarp,
The horse wild-plunging o’er
the crimson field,
The ship that, disregarding
in her pride
Star-set and star-rise, meets
disastrous gales:—
Such gales as pile the billows
mountain-high,
E’en at their own wild
will, round stem or stern:
Dash o’er the hold,
the timbers rive in twain,
Till mast and tackle dangle
in mid-air
Shivered like toys, and, as
the night wears on,
The rain of heaven falls fast,
and, lashed by wind
And iron hail, broad ocean
rings again.
Then can they draw from out
the nether abyss
Both craft and crew, each
deeming he must die:
Lo the winds cease, and o’er
the burnished deep
Comes stillness; this way
flee the clouds and that;
And shine out clear the Great
Bear and the Less,
And, ’twixt the Asses
dimly seen, the Crib
Foretells fair voyage to the
mariner.
O saviours, O companions of
mankind,
Matchless on horse or harp,
in lists or lay;
Which of ye twain demands
my earliest song?
Of both I sing; of Polydeuces
first.
Argo, escaped
the two inrushing rocks,
And snow-clad Pontus with
his baleful jaws,
Came to Bebrycia with her
heaven-sprung freight;
There by one ladder disembarked
a host
Of Heroes from the decks of
Jason’s ship.
On the low beach, to leeward
of the cliff,
They leapt, and piled their
beds, and lit their fires:
Castor meanwhile, the bridler
of the steed,
And Polydeuces of the nut-brown
face,
Had wandered from their mates;
and, wildered both,
Searched through the boskage
of the hill, and found
Hard by a slab of rock a bubbling
spring
Brimful of purest water.
In the depths
Below, like crystal or like
silver gleamed
The pebbles: high above
it pine and plane
And poplar rose, and cypress
tipt with green;
With all rich flowers that
throng the mead, when wanes
The Spring, sweet workshops
of the furry bee.
There sat and sunned him one
of giant bulk
And grisly mien: hard
knocks had stov’n his ears:
Broad were his shoulders,
vast his orbed chest;
Like a wrought statue rose
his iron frame:
And nigh the shoulder on each
brawny arm
Stood out the muscles, huge
as rolling stones
Caught by some rain-swoln
river and shapen smooth
By its wild eddyings:
and o’er nape and spine
Hung, balanced by the claws,
a lion’s skin.
Him Leda’s conquering
son accosted first:—
POLYDEUCES.
Luck to thee, friend unknown!
Who own this shore?
AMYCUS.
Luck, quotha, to see men ne’er
seen before!
POLYDEUCES.
Fear not, no base or base-born
herd are we.
AMYCUS.
Nothing I fear, nor need learn
this from thee.
POLYDEUCES.
What art thou? brutish churl,
or o’erproud king?
AMYCUS.
E’en what thou see’st:
and I am not trespassing.
POLYDEUCES.
Visit our land, take gifts
from us, and go.
AMYCUS.
I seek naught from thee and
can naught bestow.
POLYDEUCES.
Not e’en such grace
as from yon spring to sip?
AMYCUS.
Try, if parched thirst sits
languid on thy lip.
POLYDEUCES.
Can silver move thee? or if
not, what can?
AMYCUS.
Stand up and fight me singly,
man with man.
POLYDEUCES.
With fists? or fist and foot,
eye covering eye?
AMYCUS.
Fall to with fists; and all
thy cunning try.
POLYDEUCES.
This arm, these gauntlets,
who shall dare withstand?
AMYCUS.
I: and “the Bruiser”
lifts no woman’s-hand.
POLYDEUCES.
Wilt thou, to crown our strife,
some meed assign?
AMYCUS.
Thou shalt be called my master,
or I thine.
POLYDEUCES.
By crimson-crested cocks such
games are won.
AMYCUS.
Lions or cocks, we’ll
play this game or none.
He spoke, and
clutched a hollow shell, and blew
His clarion. Straightway
to the shadowy pine
Clustering they came, as loud
it pealed and long,
Bebrycia’s bearded sons;
and Castor too,
The peerless in the lists,
went forth and called
From the Magnesian ship the
Heroes all.
Then either warrior
armed with coils of hide
His hands, and round his limbs
bound ponderous bands,
And, breathing bloodshed,
stept into the ring.
First there was much manoeuvring,
who should catch
The sunlight on his rear:
but thou didst foil,
O Polydeuces, valour by address;
And full on Amycus’
face the hot noon smote.
He in hot wrath strode forward,
threatening war;
Straightway the Tyndarid smote
him, as he closed,
Full on the chin: more
furious waxed he still,
And, earthward bent, dealt
blindly random blows.
Bebrycia shouted loud, the
Greeks too cheered
Their champion: fearing
lest in that scant space
This Tityus by sheer weight
should bear him down.
But, shifting yet still there,
the son of Zeus
Scored him with swift exchange
of left and right,
And checked the onrush of
the sea-god’s child
Parlous albeit: till,
reeling with his wounds,
He stood, and from his lips
Amycus, athirst
to do some doughty deed,
Stooping aslant from Polydeuces’
lunge
Locked their left hands; and,
stepping out, upheaved
From his right hip his ponderous
other-arm.
And hit and harmed had been
Amyclae’s king;
But, ducking low, he smote
with one stout fist
The foe’s left temple—fast
the life-blood streamed
From the grim rift—and
on his shoulder fell.
While with his left he reached
the mouth, and made
The set teeth tingle; and,
redoubling aye
His plashing blows, made havoc
of his face
And crashed into his cheeks,
till all abroad
He lay, and throwing up his
arms disclaimed
The strife, for he was even
at death’s door.
No wrong the vanquished suffered
at thy hands,
O Polydeuces; but he sware
an oath,
Calling his sire Poseidon
from the depths,
Ne’er to do violence
to a stranger more.
Thy tale, O prince,
is told. Now sing I thee,
Castor the Tyndarid, lord
of rushing horse
And shaking javelin, corsleted
in brass.
The sons of Zeus had borne
two maids away,
Leucippus’ daughters.
Straight in hot pursuit
Went the two brethren, sons
of Aphareus,
Lynceus and Idas bold, their
plighted lords.
And when the tomb of Aphareus
was gained,
All leapt from out their cars,
and front to front
Stood, with their ponderous
spears and orbed shields.
First Lynceus shouted loud
from ’neath his helm:
“Whence, sirs, this
lust for strife? Why, sword in hand,
Raise ye this coil about your
neighbours’ wives?
To us Leucippus these his
daughters gave,
Long ere ye saw them:
they are ours on oath.
He spoke—his
words heaven gave not to the winds.
They, the two first-born,
disarrayed and piled
Their arms, while Lynceus
stept into the ring,
And at his shield’s
rim shook his stalwart spear.
And Castor likewise poised
his quivering lance;
High waved the plume on either
warrior’s helm.
First each at other thrust
with busy spear
Where’er he spied an
inch of flesh exposed:
But lo! both spearpoints in
their wicker shields
Lodged ere a blow was struck,
and snapt in twain.
Then they unsheathed their
swords, and framed new modes
Of slaughter: pause or
respite there was none.
Oft Castor on broad shield
and plumed helm
Lit, and oft keen-eyed Lynceus
pierced his shield,
Or grazed his crest of crimson.
But anon,
As Lynceus aimed his blade
at Castor’s knee,
Back with the left sprang
Castor and struck off
His fingers: from the
maimed limb dropped the sword.
And, flying straightway, for
his father’s tomb
He made, where gallant Idas
sat and saw
The battle of the brethren.
But the child
IDYLL XXIII.
A lad deep-dipt in passion
pined for one
Whose mood was
froward as her face was fair.
Lovers she loathed, for tenderness
she had none:
Ne’er knew
what Love was like, nor how he bare
A bow, and arrows to make
young maids smart:
Proof to all speech, all access,
seemed her heart.
So he found naught his furnace
to allay;
No quiver of lips,
no lighting of kind eyes,
Nor rose-flushed cheek; no
talk, no lover’s play
Was deigned him:
but as forest-beasts are shy
Of hound and hunter, with
this wight dealt she;
Fierce was her lip, her eyes
gleamed ominously.
Her tyrant’s-heart was
imaged in her face,
That flushed,
then altering put on blank disdain.
Yet, even then, her anger
had its grace,
And made her lover
fall in love again.
At last, unable to endure
his flame,
To the fell threshold all
in tears he came:
Kissed it, and lifted up his
voice and said:
“O heart
of stone, O curst and cruel maid
Unworthy of all love, by lions
bred,
See, my last offering
at thy feet is laid,
The halter that shall hang
me! So no more
For my sake, lady, need thy
heart be sore.
Whither thou doom’st
me, thither must I fare.
There is a path,
that whoso treads hath ease
(Men say) from love; Forgetfulness
is there.
But if I drain
that chalice to the lees,
I may not quench the love
I have for you;
Now at your gates I cast my
long adieu.
Your future I foresee.
The rose is gay,
And passing-sweet
the violet of the spring:
Yet time despoils them, and
they soon decay.
The lily droops
and dies, that lustrous thing;
The solid-seeming snowdrift
melts full fast;
And maiden’s bloom is
rare, but may not last.
The time shall come, when
you shall feel as I;
And, with seared
heart, weep many a bitter tear.
But, maiden, grant one farewell
courtesy.
When you come
forth, and see me hanging here,
E’en at your door, forget
not my hard case;
But pause and weep me for
a moment’s space.
And drop one tear, and cut
me down, and spread
O’er me
some garment, for a funeral pall,
That wrapped thy limbs:
and kiss me—let the dead
Be privileged
thus highly—last of all.
You need not fear me:
not if your disdain
Changed into fondness could
I live again.
And scoop a grave, to hide
my loves and me:
And thrice, at
parting, say, ‘My friend’s no more:’
Add if you list, ‘a
faithful friend was he;’
And write this
epitaph, scratched upon your door:
Stranger, Love slew him.
Pass not by, until
Thou hast paused and said,
‘His mistress used him ill.’”
This said, he grasped a stone:
that ghastly stone
At the mid threshold
’neath the wall he laid,
And o’er the beam the
light cord soon was thrown,
And his neck noosed.
In air the body swayed,
Its footstool spurned away.
Forth came once more
The maid, and saw him hanging
at her door.
No struggle of heart it cost
her, ne’er a tear
She wept o’er
that young life, nor shunned to soil,
By contact with the corpse,
her woman’s-gear.
But on she went
to watch the athletes’ toil,
Then made for her loved haunt,
the riverside:
And there she met the god
she had defied.
For on a marble pedestal Eros
stood
Fronting the pool:
the statue leaped, and smote
And slew that miscreant.
All the stream ran blood;
And to the top
a girl’s cry seemed to float.
Rejoice, O lovers, since the
scorner fell;
And, maids, be kind; for Love
deals justice well.
IDYLL XXIV.
The Infant Heracles.
Alcmena once had
washed and given the breast
To Heracles, a babe of ten
months old,
And Iphicles his junior by
a night;
And cradled both within a
brazen shield,
A gorgeous trophy, which Amphitryon
erst
Had stript from Pterelaeus
fall’n in fight.
She stroked their baby brows,
and thus she said:
“Sleep,
children mine, a light luxurious sleep,
Brother with brother:
sleep, my boys, my life:
Blest in your slumber, in
your waking blest!”
She spake and
rocked the shield; and in his arms
Sleep took them. But
at midnight, when the Bear
Wheels to his setting, in
Orion’s front
Whose shoulder then beams
broadest; Hera sent,
Mistress of wiles, two huge
and hideous things,
Snakes with their scales of
azure all on end,
To the broad portal of the
chamber-door,
All to devour the infant Heracles.
They, all their length uncoiled
upon the floor,
Writhed on to their blood-feast;
a baleful light
Gleamed in their eyes, rank
venom they spat forth.
But when with lambent tongues
they neared the cot,
Alcmena’s babes (for
Zeus was watching all)
Woke, and throughout the chamber
there was light.
Then Iphicles—so
soon as he descried
The fell brutes peering o’er
the hollow shield,
And saw their merciless fangs—cried
lustily,
And kicked away his coverlet
of down,
Fain to escape. But Heracles,
he clung
Round them with warlike hands,
in iron grasp
Prisoning the two: his
clutch upon their throat,
The deadly snake’s laboratory,
where
He brews such poisons as e’en
heaven abhors.
They twined and twisted round
the babe that, born
After long travail, ne’er
had shed a tear
E’en in his nursery;
soon to quit their hold,
For powerless seemed their
spines. Alcmena heard,
While her lord slept, the
crying, and awoke.
“Amphitryon,
up: chill fears take hold on me.
Up: stay not to put sandals
on thy feet.
Hear’st thou our child,
our younger, how he cries?
Seest thou yon walls illumed
at dead of night,
But not by morn’s pure
beam? I know, I know,
Sweet lord, that some strange
thing is happening here.”
She spake; and
he, upleaping at her call,
Made swiftly for the sword
of quaint device
That aye hung dangling o’er
his cedarn couch:
And he was reaching at his
span-new belt,
The scabbard (one huge piece
of lotus-wood)
Poised on his arm; when suddenly
the night
Spread out her hands, and
all was dark again.
Then cried he to his slaves,
whose sleep was deep:
“Quick, slaves of mine;
fetch fire from yonder hearth:
And force with all your strength
the doorbolts back!
Up, loyal-hearted slaves:
the master calls.”
Forth came at
once the slaves with lighted lamps.
The house was all astir with
hurrying feet.
But when they saw the suckling
Heracles
With the two brutes grasped
firm in his soft hands,
They shouted with one voice.
But he must show
The reptiles to Amphitryon;
held aloft
His hands in childish glee,
and laughed and laid
At his sire’s feet the
monsters still in death.
Then did Alcmena
to her bosom take
The terror-blanched and passionate
Iphicles:
Cradling the other in a lambswool
quilt,
Her lord once more bethought
him of his rest.
Now cocks had
thrice sung out that night was e’er.
Then went Alcmena forth and
told the thing
To Teiresias the seer, whose
words were truth,
And bade him rede her what
the end should be:—
’And if the gods bode
mischief, hide it not,
Pitying, from me: man
shall not thus avoid
The doom that Fate upon her
distaff spins.
Son of Eueres, thou hast ears
to hear.’
Thus spake the
queen, and thus he made reply:
“Mother of monarchs,
Perseus’ child, take heart;
And look but on the fairer
side of things.
For by the precious light
that long ago
Left tenantless these eyes,
I swear that oft
Achaia’s maidens, as
when eve is high
They mould the silken yarn
upon their lap,
Shall tell Alcmena’s
story: blest art thou
Of women. Such a man
in this thy son
Shall one day scale the star-encumbered
heaven:
His amplitude of chest bespeaks
him lord
Of all the forest beasts and
all mankind.
Twelve tasks accomplished
he must dwell with Zeus;
His flesh given over to Trachinian
fires;
And son-in-law be hailed of
those same gods
Who sent yon skulking brutes
to slay thy babe.
Lo! the day cometh when the
fawn shall couch
In the wolfs lair, nor fear
the spiky teeth
That would not harm him.
But, O lady, keep
Yon smouldering fire alive;
prepare you piles
Of fuel, bramble-sprays or
fern or furze
Or pear-boughs dried with
swinging in the wind:
And let the kindled wild-wood
burn those snakes
At midnight, when they looked
to slay thy babe.
And let at dawn some handmaid
gather up
The ashes of the fire, and
diligently
Convey and cast each remnant
o’er the stream
Faced by clov’n rocks,
our boundary: then return
Nor look behind. And
purify your home
First with sheer sulphur,
rain upon it then,
(Chaplets of olive wound about
your heads,)
Innocuous water, and the customed
salt.
Lastly, to Zeus almighty slay
a boar:
So shall ye vanquish all your
enemies.”
Spake Teiresias,
and wheeling (though his years
Weighed on him sorely) gained
his ivory car.
And Heracles as some young
orchard-tree
Grew up, Amphitryon his reputed
sire.
Old Linus taught him letters,
Phoebus’ child,
A dauntless toiler by the
midnight lamp.
Each fall whereby the sons
of Argos fell,
The flingers by cross-buttock,
each his man
By feats of wrestling:
all that boxers e’er,
Grim in their gauntlets, have
devised, or they
Who wage mixed warfare and,
adepts in art,
Upon the foe fall headlong:
all such lore
Phocian Harpalicus gave him,
Hermes’ son:
Whom no man might behold while
yet far off
And wait his armed onset undismayed:
A brow so truculent roofed
Such tutors this fond mother
gave her son.
The stripling’s bed
was at his father’s side,
One after his own heart, a
lion’s skin.
His dinner, roast meat, with
a loaf that filled
A Dorian basket, you might
soothly say
Had satisfied a delver; and
to close
The day he took, sans fire,
a scanty meal.
A simple frock went halfway
down his leg:
* * * * *
Heracles the Lion Slayer.
* * * * *
To whom thus spake
the herdsman of the herd,
Pausing a moment from his
handiwork:
“Friend, I will solve
thy questions, for I fear
The angry looks of Hermes
of the roads.
No dweller in the skies is
wroth as he,
With him who saith the asking
traveller nay.
“The flocks
Augeas owns, our gracious lord,
One pasture pastures not,
nor one fence bounds.
They wander, look you, some
by Elissus’ banks
Or god-beloved Alpheus’
sacred stream,
Some by Buprasion, where the
grape abounds,
Some here: their folds
stand separate. But before
His herds, though they be
myriad, yonder glades
That belt the broad lake round
lie fresh and fair
For ever: for the low-lying
meadows take
The dew, and teem with herbage
honeysweet,
To lend new vigour to the
horned kine.
Here on thy right their stalls
thou canst descry
By the flowing river, for
all eyes to see:
Here, where the platans blossom
all the year,
And glimmers green the olive
that enshrines
Rural Apollo, most august
of gods.
Hard by, fair mansions have
been reared for us
His herdsmen; us who guard
with might and main
His riches that are more than
tongue may tell:
Casting our seed o’er
fallows thrice upturn’d
Or four times by the share;
the bounds whereof
Well do the delvers know,
Then answered him the warrior
son of Zeus.
“Yea, veteran, I would
see the Epean King
Augeas; surely for this end
I came.
If he bides there amongst
his citizens,
Ruling the folk, determining
the laws,
Look, father; bid some serf
to be my guide,
Some honoured master-worker
in the fields,
Who to shrewd questions shrewdly
can reply.
Are not we made dependent
each on each?”
To him the good
old swain made answer thus:
“Stranger, some god
hath timed thy visit here,
And given thee straightway
all thy heart’s desire.
Hither Augeas, offspring of
the Sun,
Came, with young Phyleus splendid
in his strength,
But yesterday from the city,
to review
(Not in one day) his multitudinous
wealth,
Methinks e’en princes
say within themselves,
‘The safeguard of the
flock’s the master’s eye.’
But haste, we’ll seek
him: to my own fold I
Will pilot thee; there haply
find the King.”
He said and went
in front: but pondered much
(As he surveyed the lion-skin
and the club,
Itself an armful) whence this
stranger came;
And fain had asked. But
fear recalled the words
That trembled on his lip,
the fear to say
Aught that his fiery friend
might take amiss.
For who can fathom all his
fellow’s mind?
The dogs perceived
their coming, yet far off:
They scented flesh, they heard
the thud of feet:
And with wild gallop, baying
furiously,
Ran at Amphitryon’s
son: but feebly whined
And fawned upon the old man
at his side.
Then Heracles, just lifting
from the ground
A pebble, scared them home,
and with hard words
Cursed the whole pack; and
having stopped their din
(Inly rejoiced, nathless,
to see them guard
So well an absent master’s
house) he spake:
“Lo! what
a friend the royal gods have given
Man in the dog! A trusty
servant he!
Had he withal an understanding
heart,
To teach him when to rage
and when forbear,
What brute could claim like
praise? But, lacking wit,
’Tis but a passionate
random-raving thing.”
He spake:
the dogs ran scurrying to their lairs.
And now the sun wheeled round
his westering car
And led still evening on:
from every field
Came thronging the fat flocks
to bield and byre.
Then in their thousands, drove
on drove, the kine
Came into view; as rainclouds,
onward driven
By stress of gales, the west
or mighty north,
Come up o’er all the
heaven; and none may count
And naught may stay them as
they sweep through air;
Such multitudes the storm’s
strength drives ahead,
Such multitudes climb surging
in the rear—
So in swift sequence drove
succeeded drove,
And all the champaign, all
the highways swarmed
With tramping oxen; all the
sumptuous leas
Rang with their lowing.
Soon enough the stalls
Were populous with the laggard-footed
kine,
Soon did the sheep lie folded
in their folds.
Then of that legion none stood
idle, none
Gaped listless at the herd,
with naught to do:
But one drew near and milked
them, binding clogs
Of wood with leathern thongs
around their feet:
One brought, all hungering
for the milk they loved,
The longing young ones to
the longing dams.
One held the pail, one pressed
the dainty cheese,
Or drove the bulls home, sundered
from the kine.
Pacing from stall to stall,
Augeas saw
What revenue his herdsman
brought him in.
With him his son surveyed
the royal wealth,
And, strong of limb and purpose,
Heracles.
Then, though the heart within
him was as steel,
Framed to withstand all shocks,
Amphitryon’s son
Gazed in amazement on those
thronging kine;
For none had deemed or dreamed
that one, or ten,
Whose wealth was more than
regal, owned those tribes:
Such huge largess the Sun
had given his child,
First of mankind for multitude
of flocks.
The Sun himself gave increase
day by day
To his child’s herds:
whatever diseases spoil
The farmer, came not there;
his kine increased
In multitude and value year
by year:
None cast her young, or bare
unfruitful males.
Three hundred bulls, white-pasterned,
crumple-horned,
Ranged amid these, and eke
two hundred roans,
Sires of a race to be:
and twelve besides
Herded amongst them, sacred
to the Sun.
Their skin was white as swansdown,
and they moved
Like kings amid the beasts
of laggard foot.
Scorning the herd in uttermost
disdain
They cropped the green grass
in untrodden fields:
And when from the dense jungle
to the plain
Leapt a wild beast, in quest
of vagrant cows;
Scenting him first, the twelve
went forth to war.
Stern was their bellowing,
in their eye sat death,
Foremost of all for mettle
and for might
And pride of heart loomed
Phaeton: him the swains
Then townwards,
leaving straight that rich champaign,
Stout Heracles his comrade,
Phyleus fared;
And soon as they had gained
the paven road,
Making their way hotfooted
o’er a path
(Not o’er-conspicuous
in the dim green wood)
That left the farm and threaded
through the vines,
Out-spake unto the child of
Zeus most high,
Who followed in his steps,
Augeas’ son,
O’er his right shoulder
glancing pleasantly.
“O stranger,
as some old familiar tale
I seem to cast thy history
in my mind.
For there came one to Argos,
young and tall,
By birth a Greek from Helice-on-seas,
Who told this tale before
a multitude:
How that an Argive in his
presence slew
A fearful lion-beast, the
dread and death
Of herdsmen; which inhabited
a den
Or cavern by the grove of
Nemean Zeus.
He may have come from sacred
Argos’ self,
Or Tiryns, or Mycenae:
what know I?
But thus he told his tale,
and said the slayer
Was (if my memory serves me)
Perseus’ son.
Methinks no islander had dared
that deed
Save thee: the lion’s
skin that wraps thy ribs
Argues full well some gallant
feat of arms.
But tell me, warrior, first—that
I may know
If my prophetic soul speak
truth or not—
Art thou the man of whom that
stranger Greek
Spoke in my hearing?
Have I guessed aright?
How slew you single-handed
that fell beast?
How came it among rivered
Nemea’s glens?
For none such monster could
the eagerest eye
Find in all Greece: Greece
harbours bear and boar,
And deadly wolf: but
not this larger game.
’Twas this that made
his listeners marvel then:
They deemed he told them travellers’
tales, to win
By random words applause from
standers-by.”
Then Phyleus from the mid-road
edged away,
That both might walk abreast,
and he might catch
More at his ease what fell
from Heracles:
Who journeying now alongside
thus began:—
“On the
prior matter, O Augeas’ child,
Thine own unaided wit hath
ruled aright.
But all that monster’s
history, how it fell,
Fain would I tell thee who
hast ears to hear,
Save only whence it came:
for none of all
The Argive host could read
that riddle right.
Some god, we dimly guessed,
our niggard vows
Resenting, had upon Phoroneus’
realm
Let loose this very scourge
of humankind.
On peopled Pisa plunging like
a flood
The brute ran riot: notably
it cost
Its neighbours of Bembina
woes untold.
And here Eurystheus bade me
try my first
Passage of arms, and slay
that fearsome thing.
So with my buxom bow and quiver
lined
With arrows I set forth:
my left hand held
My club, a beetling olive’s
stalwart trunk
And shapely, still environed
in its bark:
This hand had torn from holiest
Helicon
The tree entire, with all
its fibrous roots.
And finding soon the lion’s
whereabouts,
I grasped my bow, and on the
bent horn slipped
The string, and laid thereon
the shaft of death.
And, now all eyes, I watched
for that fell thing,
In hopes to view him ere he
spied out me.
But midday came, and nowhere
could I see
One footprint of the beast
or hear his roar:
And, trust me, none appeared
of whom to ask,
Herdsman or labourer, in the
furrowed lea;
For wan dismay kept each man
in his hut.
Still on I footed, searching
through and through
The leafy mountain-passes,
till I saw
The creature, and forthwith
essayed my strength.
Gorged from some gory carcass,
on he stalked
At eve towards his lair; his
grizzled mane,
Shoulders, and grim glad visage,
all adrip
With carnage; and he licked
his bearded lips.
I, crouched among the shadows
of the trees
On the green hill-top, waited
his approach,
And as he came I aimed at
his left flank.
The barbed shaft sped idly,
nor could pierce
The flesh, but glancing dropped
on the green grass.
He, wondering, raised forthwith
his tawny head,
And ran his eyes o’er
all the vicinage,
And snarled and gave to view
his cavernous throat.
Meanwhile I levelled yet another
shaft,
Ill pleased to think my first
had fled in vain.
In the mid-chest I smote him,
where the lungs
Are seated: still the
arrow sank not in,
But fell, its errand frustrate,
at his feet.
Once more was I preparing,
sore chagrined,
To draw the bowstring, when
the ravenous beast
Glaring around espied me,
lashed his sides
With his huge tail, and opened
war at once.
Swelled his vast neck, his
dun locks stood on end
With rage: his spine
moved sinuous as a bow,
Till all his weight hung poised
on flank and loin.
And e’en as, when a
The Bacchanals.
Agave of the vermeil-tinted
cheek
And
Ino and Autonoae marshalled erst
Three bands of
revellers under one hill-peak.
They
plucked the wild-oak’s matted foliage first,
Lush ivy then,
and creeping asphodel;
And reared therewith twelve
shrines amid the untrodden fell:
To Semele three,
to Dionysus nine.
Next,
from a vase drew offerings subtly wrought,
And prayed and
placed them on each fresh green shrine;
So
by the god, who loved such tribute, taught.
Perched on the
sheer cliff, Pentheus could espy
All, in a mastick hoar ensconced
that grew thereby.
Autonoae marked him, and with,
frightful cries
Flew
to make havoc of those mysteries weird
That must not
be profaned by vulgar eyes.
Her
frenzy frenzied all. Then Pentheus feared
And fled:
and in his wake those damsels three,
Each with her trailing robe
up-gathered to the knee.
“What will
ye, dames,” quoth Pentheus. “Thou
shalt guess
At
what we mean, untold,” Autonoae said.
Agave moaned—so
moans a lioness
Over
her young one—as she clutched his head:
While Ino on the
carcass fairly laid
Her heel, and wrenched away
shoulder and shoulder-blade.
Autonoae’s
turn came next: and what remained
Of
flesh their damsels did among them share,
And back to Thebes
they came all carnage-stained,
And
planted not a king but aching there.
Warned by this
tale, let no man dare defy
Great Bacchus; lest a death
more awful he should die,
And when he counts
nine years or scarcely ten,
Rush
to his ruin. May I pass my days
Uprightly, and be loved of
upright men!
And
take this motto, all who covet praise:
(’Twas AEgis-bearing
Zeus that spake it first:)
‘The godly seed fares
well: the wicked’s is accurst.’
Now bless ye Bacchus,
whom on mountain snows,
Prisoned
in his thigh till then, the Almighty laid.
And bless ye fairfaced
Semele, and those
Her
sisters, hymned of many a hero-maid,
Who wrought, by
Bacchus fired, a deed which none
May gainsay—who
shall blame that which a god hath done?
A Countryman’s Wooing.
DAPHNIS. A MAIDEN.
THE MAIDEN.
How fell sage Helen? through
a swain like thee.
DAPHNIS.
Nay the true Helen’s
just now kissing me.
THE MAIDEN.
Satyr, ne’er boast:
‘what’s idler than a kiss?’
DAPHNIS.
Yet in such pleasant idling
there is bliss.
THE MAIDEN.
I’ll wash my mouth:
where go thy kisses then?
DAPHNIS.
Wash, and return it—to
be kissed again.
THE MAIDEN.
Go kiss your oxen, and not
unwed maids.
DAPHNIS.
Ne’er boast; for beauty
is a dream that fades.
THE MAIDEN.
Past grapes are grapes:
dead roses keep their smell.
DAPHNIS.
Come to yon olives: I
have a tale to tell.
THE MAIDEN.
Not I: you fooled me
with smooth words before.
DAPHNIS.
Come to yon elms, and hear
me pipe once more.
THE MAIDEN.
Pipe to yourself: your
piping makes me cry.
DAPHNIS.
A maid, and flout the Paphian?
Fie, oh fie!
THE MAIDEN.
She’s naught to me,
if Artemis’ favour last.
DAPHNIS.
Hush, ere she smite you and
entrap you fast.
THE MAIDEN.
And let her smite me, trap
me as she will!
DAPHNIS.
Your Artemis shall be your
saviour still?
THE MAIDEN.
Unhand me! What, again?
I’ll tear your lip.
DAPHNIS.
Can you, could damsel e’er,
give Love the slip?
THE MAIDEN.
You are his bondslave, but
not I by Pan!
DAPHNIS.
I doubt he’ll give thee
to a worser man.
THE MAIDEN.
Many have wooed me, but I
fancied none.
DAPHNIS.
Till among many came the destined
one.
THE MAIDEN.
Wedlock is woe. Dear
lad, what can I do?
DAPHNIS.
Woe it is not, but joy and
dancing too.
THE MAIDEN.
Wives dread their husbands:
so I’ve heard it said.
DAPHNIS.
Nay, they rule o’er
them. What does woman dread?
THE MAIDEN.
Then children—Eileithya’s
dart is keen.
DAPHNIS.
But the deliverer, Artemis,
is your queen.
THE MAIDEN.
And bearing children all our
grace destroys.
DAPHNIS.
Bear them and shine more lustrous
in your boys.
THE MAIDEN.
Should I say yea, what dower
awaits me then?
DAPHNIS.
Thine are my cattle, thine
this glade and glen.
THE MAIDEN.
Swear not to wed, then leave
me in my woe?
DAPHNIS.
Not I by Pan, though thou
should’st bid me go.
THE MAIDEN.
And shall a cot be mine, with
farm and fold!
DAPHNIS.
Thy cot’s half-built,
fair wethers range this wold.
THE MAIDEN.
What, what to my old father
must I say?
DAPHNIS.
Soon as he hears my name he’ll
not say nay.
THE MAIDEN.
Speak it: by e’en
a name we’re oft beguiled.
DAPHNIS.
I’m Daphnis, Lycid’s
and Nomaea’s child.
THE MAIDEN.
Well-born indeed: and
not less so am I.
DAPHNIS.
I know—Menalcas’
daughter may look high.
THE MAIDEN.
That grove, where stands your
sheepfold, shew me please.
DAPHNIS.
Nay look, how green, how tall
my cypress-trees.
THE MAIDEN.
Graze, goats: I go to
learn the herdsman’s trade.
DAPHNIS.
Feed, bulls: I shew my
copses to my maid.
THE MAIDEN.
Satyr, what mean you?
You presume o’ermuch.
DAPHNIS.
This waist is round, and pleasant
to the touch.
THE MAIDEN.
By Pan, I’m like to
swoon! Unhand me pray!
DAPHNIS.
Why be so timorous? Pretty
coward, stay.
THE MAIDEN.
This bank is wet: you’ve
soiled my pretty gown.
DAPHNIS.
See, a soft fleece to guard
it I put down.
THE MAIDEN.
And you’ve purloined
my sash. What can this mean?
DAPHNIS.
This sash I’ll offer
to the Paphian queen.
THE MAIDEN.
Stay, miscreant—some
one comes—I heard a noise.
DAPHNIS.
’Tis but the green trees
whispering of our joys.
THE MAIDEN.
You’ve torn my plaidie,
and I am half unclad.
DAPHNIS.
Anon I’ll give thee
a yet ampler plaid.
THE MAIDEN.
Generous just now, you’ll
one day grudge me bread.
DAPHNIS.
Ah! for thy sake my life-blood
I could shed.
THE MAIDEN.
Artemis, forgive! Thy
eremite breaks her vow.
DAPHNIS.
Love, and Love’s mother,
claim a calf and cow.
THE MAIDEN.
A woman I depart, my girlhood
o’er.
DAPHNIS.
Be wife, be mother; but a
girl no more.
Thus interchanging
whispered talk the pair,
Their faces all aglow, long
lingered there.
At length the hour arrived
when they must part.
With downcast eyes, but sunshine
in her heart,
She went to tend her flock;
while Daphnis ran
Back to his herded bulls,
a happy man.
The Distaff.
Distaff, blithely whirling
distaff, azure-eyed Athena’s gift
To the sex the aim and object
of whose lives is household thrift,
Seek with me the gorgeous
city raised by Neilus, where a plain
Roof of pale-green rush o’er-arches
Aphrodite’s hallowed fane.
Thither ask I Zeus to waft
me, fain to see my old friend’s face,
Nicias, o’er whose birth
presided every passion-breathing Grace;
Fain to meet his answering
welcome; and anon deposit thee
In his lady’s hands,
thou marvel of laborious ivory.
Many a manly robe ye’ll
fashion, much translucent maiden’s gear;
Nay, should e’er the
fleecy mothers twice within the selfsame year
Yield their wool in yonder
pasture, Theugenis of the dainty feet
Would perform the double labour:
matron’s cares to her are sweet.
To an idler or a trifler I
had verily been loth
To resign thee, O my distaff,
for the same land bred us both:
In the land Corinthian Archias
built aforetime, thou hadst birth,
In our island’s core
and marrow, whence have sprung the kings of earth:
To the home I now transfer
thee of a man who knows full well
Every craft whereby men’s
bodies dire diseases may repel:
There to live in sweet Miletus.
Lady of the Distaff she
Shall be named, and oft reminded
of her poet-friend by thee:
Men shall look on thee and
murmur to each other, ’Lo! how small
Was the gift, and yet how
precious! Friendship’s gifts are priceless
all.’
Loves.
‘Sincerity comes with
the wine-cup,’ my dear:
Then now o’er our wine-cups
let us be sincere.
My soul’s treasured
secret to you I’ll impart;
It is this; that I never won
fairly your heart.
One half of my life, I am
conscious, has flown;
The residue lives on your
image alone.
You are kind, and I dream
I’m in paradise then;
You are angry, and lo! all
is darkness again.
It is right to torment one
who loves you? Obey
Your elder; ’twere best;
and you’ll thank me one day.
Settle down in one nest on
one tree (taking care
That no cruel reptile can
clamber up there);
As it is with your lovers
you’re fairly perplext;
One day you choose one bough,
another the next.
Whoe’er at all struck
by your graces appears,
Is more to you straight than
the comrade of years;
While he’s like the
friend of a day put aside;
For the breath of your nostrils,
I think, is your pride.
Form a friendship, for life,
with some likely young lad;
So doing, in honour your name
shall be had.
Nor would Love use you hardly;
though lightly can he
Bind strong men in chains,
and has wrought upon me
Till the steel is as wax—but
I’m longing to press
That exquisite mouth with
a clinging caress.
No? Reflect
that you’re older each year than the last;
That we all must grow gray,
and the wrinkles come fast.
Reflect, ere you spurn me,
that youth at his sides
Wears wings; and once gone,
all pursuit he derides:
Nor are men over keen to catch
charms as they fly.
Think of this and be gentle,
be loving as I:
When your years are maturer,
we two shall be then
The pair in the Iliad over
again.
But if you consign all my
words to the wind
And say, ‘Why annoy
me? you’re not to my mind,’
I—who lately in
quest of the Gold Fruit had sped
For your sake, or of Cerberus
guard of the dead—
Though you called me, would
ne’er stir a foot from my door,
For my love and my sorrow
thenceforth will be o’er.
The Death of Adonis.
Cythera saw Adonis
And knew that
he was dead;
She marked the brow, all grisly
now,
The cheek no longer
red;
And “Bring the boar
before me”
Unto her Loves
she said.
Forthwith her winged attendants
Ranged all the
woodland o’er,
And found and bound in fetters
Threefold the
grisly boar:
One dragged him at a rope’s
end
E’en as
a vanquished foe;
One went behind and drave
him
And smote him
with his bow:
On paced the creature feebly;
He feared Cythera
so.
To him said Aphrodite:
“So, worst
of beasts, ’twas you
Who rent that thigh asunder,
Who him that loved
me slew?”
And thus the beast made answer:
“Cythera,
hear me swear
By thee, by him that loved
thee,
And by these bonds
I wear,
And them before whose hounds
I ran—
I meant no mischief to the
man
Who seemed to
thee so fair.
“As on a carven statue
Men gaze, I gazed
on him;
I seemed on fire with mad
desire
To kiss that offered
limb:
My ruin, Aphrodite,
Thus followed
from my whim.
“Now therefore take
and punish
And fairly cut
away
These all unruly tusks of
mine;
For to what end
serve they?
And if thine indignation
Be not content
with this,
Cut off the mouth that ventured
To offer him a
kiss”—
But Aphrodite pitied
And bade them
loose his chain.
The boar from that day forward
Still followed
in her train;
Nor ever to the wildwood
Attempted to return,
But in the focus of Desire
Preferred to burn
and burn.
Loves.
Ah for this the most accursed,
unendurable of ills!
Nigh two months a fevered
fancy for a maid my bosom fills.
Fair she is, as other damsels:
but for what the simplest swain
Claims from the demurest maiden,
I must sue and sue in vain.
Yet doth now this thing of
evil my longsuffering heart beguile,
Though the utmost she vouchsafes
me is the shadow of a smile:
And I soon shall know no respite,
have no solace e’en in sleep.
Yesterday I watched her pass
me, and from down-dropt eyelids peep
At the face she dared not
gaze on—every moment blushing more—
And my love took hold upon
me as it never took before.
Home I went a wounded creature,
with a gnawing at my heart;
And unto the soul within me
did my bitterness impart.
“Soul, why
deal with me in this wise? Shall thy folly know
no bound?
Canst thou look upon these
temples, with their locks of silver crowned,
And still deem thee young
and shapely? Nay, my soul, let us be sage;
Act as they that have already
sipped the wisdom-cup of age.
Men have loved and have forgotten.
Happiest of all is he
To the lover’s woes
a stranger, from the lover’s fetters free:
Lightly his existence passes,
as a wild-deer fleeting fast:
Tamed, it may be, he shall
voyage in a maiden’s wake at last:
Still to-day ’tis his
to revel with his mates in boyhood’s flowers.
As to thee, thy brain and
marrow passion evermore devours,
Prey to memories that haunt
thee e’en in visions of the night;
And a year shall scarcely
pluck thee from thy miserable plight.”
Such and divers
such reproaches did I heap upon my soul.
And my soul in turn made answer:—“Whoso
deems he can control
Wily love, the same shall
lightly gaze upon the stars of heaven
And declare by what their
number overpasses seven times seven.
Will I, nill I, I may never
from my neck his yoke unloose.
So, my friend, a god hath
willed it: he whose plots could outwit Zeus,
And the queen whose home is
Cyprus. I, a leaflet of to-day,
I whose breath is in my nostrils,
am I wrong to own his sway?”
Ye that would fain net fish
and wealth withal,
For bare existence
harrowing yonder mere,
To this our Lady slay at even-fall
That holy fish,
which, since it hath no peer
For gloss and
sheen, the dwellers about here
Have named the Silver Fish.
This done, let down
Your nets, and
draw them up, and never fear
To find them empty * * * *
EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS.
I.
Yours be yon dew-steep’d
roses, yours be yon
Thick-clustering ivy, maids
of Helicon:
Thine, Pythian Paean, that
dark-foliaged bay;
With such thy Delphian crags
thy front array.
This horn’d and shaggy
ram shall stain thy shrine,
Who crops e’en now the
feathering turpentine.
II.
To Pan doth white-limbed Daphnis
offer here
(He once piped
sweetly on his herdsman’s flute)
His reeds of many a stop,
his barbed spear,
And scrip, wherein
he held his hoards of fruit.
III.
Daphnis, thou
slumberest on the leaf-strown lea,
Thy
frame at rest, thy springes newly spread
O’er the
fell-side. But two are hunting thee:
Pan,
and Priapus with his fair young head
Hung with wan
ivy. See! they come, they leap
Into thy lair—fly,
fly,—shake off the coil of sleep!
IV.
For yon oaken avenue, swain,
you must steer,
Where a statue
of figwood, you’ll see, has been set:
It has never been barked,
has three legs and no ear;
But I think there
is life in the patriarch yet.
He is handsomely shrined within
fair chapel-walls;
Where, fringed
with sweet cypress and myrtle and bay,
A stream ever-fresh from the
rock’s hollow falls,
And the ringleted
vine her ripe store doth display:
And the blackbirds, those
shrill-piping songsters of spring,
Wake the echoes
with wild inarticulate song:
And the notes of the nightingale
plaintively ring,
As she pours from
her dun throat her lay sweet and strong.
Sitting there, to Priapus,
the gracious one, pray
That the lore
he has taught me I soon may unlearn:
Say I’ll give him a
kid, and in case he says nay
To this offer,
three victims to him will I burn;
A kid, a fleeced ram, and
a lamb sleek and fat;
He will listen, mayhap, to
my prayers upon that.
V.
Prythee, sing something sweet
to me—you that can play
First and second at once.
Then I too will essay
To croak on the pipes:
and yon lad shall salute
Our ears with a melody breathed
through his flute.
In the cave by the green oak
our watch we will keep,
And goatish old Pan we’ll
defraud of his sleep.
VI.
Poor Thyrsis! What boots
it to weep out thine eyes?
Thy kid was a
fair one, I own:
But the wolf with his cruel
claw made her his prize,
And to darkness
her spirit hath flown.
Do the dogs cry? What
boots it? In spite of their cries
There is left
of her never a bone.
VII.
For a Statue of AEsculapius.
Far as Miletus travelled Paean’s
son;
There to be guest of Nicias,
guest of one
Who heals all sickness; and
who still reveres
Him, for his sake this cedarn
image rears.
The sculptor’s hand
right well did Nicias fill;
And here the sculptor lavished
all his skill.
VIII.
Ortho’s Epitaph.
Friend, Ortho of Syracuse
gives thee this charge:
Never venture out, drunk,
on a wild winter’s night.
I did so and died. My
possessions were large;
Yet the turf that I’m
clad with is strange to me quite.
IX.
Epitaph of Cleonicus.
Man, husband existence:
ne’er launch on the sea
Out of season:
our tenure of life is but frail.
Think of poor Cleonicus:
for Phasos sailed he
From the valleys
of Syria, with many a bale:
With many a bale, ocean’s
tides he would stem
When the Pleiads
were sinking; and he sank with them.
X.
For a Statue of the Muses.
To you this marble statue,
maids divine,
Xenocles raised, one tribute
unto nine.
Your votary all admit him:
by this skill
He gat him fame: and
you he honours still.
XI.
Epitaph of Eusthenes.
Here the shrewd physiognomist
Eusthenes lies,
Who could tell all your thoughts
by a glance at your eyes.
A stranger, with strangers
his honoured bones rest;
They valued sweet song, and
he gave them his best.
All the honours of death doth
the poet possess:
If a small one, they mourned
for him nevertheless.
XII.
For a Tripod Erected by Damoteles to Bacchus.
The precentor Damoteles, Bacchus,
exalts
Your tripod, and,
sweetest of deities, you.
He was champion of men, if
his boyhood had faults;
And he ever loved
honour and seemliness too.
XIII.
For a Statue of Anacreon.
This statue, stranger, scan
with earnest gaze;
And, home returning,
say “I have beheld
Anacreon, in Teos; him whose
lays
Were all unmatched
among our sires of eld.”
Say further: “Youth
and beauty pleased him best;”
And all the man
will fairly stand exprest.
XIV.
Epitaph of Eurymedon.
Thou hast gone to the grave,
and abandoned thy son
Yet a babe, thy own manhood
but scarcely begun.
Thou art throned among gods:
and thy country will take
Thy child to her heart, for
his brave father’s sake.
XV.
Another.
Prove, traveller, now, that
you honour the brave
Above the poltroon, when he’s
laid in the grave,
By murmuring ‘Peace
to Eurymedon dead.’
The turf should lie light
on so sacred a head.
XVI.
For a Statue of the Heavenly Aphrodite.
Aphrodite stands here; she
of heavenly birth;
Not that base one who’s
wooed by the children of earth.
’Tis a goddess; bow
down. And one blemishless all,
Chrysogone, placed her in
Amphicles’ hall:
Chrysogone’s heart,
as her children, was his,
And each year they knew better
what happiness is.
For, Queen, at life’s
outset they made thee their friend;
Religion is policy too in
the end.
XVII.
To Epicharmus.
Read these lines to Epicharmus.
They are Dorian, as was he
The
sire of Comedy.
Of his proper self bereaved,
Bacchus, unto thee we rear
His
brazen image here;
We in Syracuse who sojourn,
elsewhere born. Thus much we can
Do
for our countryman,
Mindful of the debt we owe
him. For, possessing ample store
Of
legendary lore,
Many a wholesome word, to
pilot youths and maids thro’ life, he spake:
We
honour him for their sake.
XVIII.
Epitaph of Cleita, Nurse of Medeius.
The babe Medeius to his Thracian
nurse
This stone—inscribed
To Cleita—reared in the midhighway.
Her modest virtues
oft shall men rehearse;
Who doubts it? is not ‘Cleita’s
worth’ a proverb to this day?
XIX.
To Archilochus.
Pause, and scan well Archilochus,
the bard of elder days,
By
east and west
Alike’s
confest
The mighty lyrist’s
praise.
Delian Apollo loved him well,
and well the sister-choir:
His
songs were fraught
With
subtle thought,
And matchless
was his lyre.
XX.
Under a Statue of Peisander,
WHO WROTE THE LABOURS OF HERACLES.
He whom ye gaze on was the
first
That in quaint song the deeds
rehearsed
Of him whose arm was swift
to smite,
Who dared the lion to the
fight:
That tale, so strange, so
manifold,
Peisander of Cameirus told.
For this good work, thou may’st
be sure,
His country placed
him here,
In solid brass that shall
endure
Through many a month and year.
XXI.
Epitaph of Hipponax.
Behold Hipponax’ burialplace,
A true bard’s grave.
Approach it not, if you’re a base
And base-born knave.
But if your sires were honest men
And unblamed you,
Sit down thereon serenely then,
And eke sleep too.
* * * * *
Tuneful Hipponax rests him here.
Let no base rascal venture near.
Ye who rank high in birth and mind
Sit down—and sleep, if so inclined.
XXII.
On his own Book.
Not my namesake of Chios,
but I, who belong
To the Syracuse burghers,
have sung you my song.
I’m Praxagoras’
son by Philinna the fair,
And I never asked praise that
was owing elsewhere.