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 To which heaven's rain gives increase: yet what land Is green as low-lying Egypt, when the Nile Wells forth and piecemeal breaks the sodden glebe? Where are like cities, peopled by like men? Lo he hath seen three hundred towns arise, Three thousand, yea three myriad; and o'er all He rules, the prince of heroes, Ptolemy. Claims half Phoenicia, and half Araby, Syria and Libya, and the AEthiops murk; Sways the Pamphylian and Cilician braves, The Lycian and the Carian trained to war, And all the isles: for never fleet like his Rode upon ocean: land and sea alike And sounding rivers hail king Ptolemy. Many are his horsemen, many his targeteers, Whose burdened breast is bright with clashing steel: Light are all royal treasuries, weighed with his. For wealth from all climes travels day by day To his rich realm, a hive of prosperous peace. No foeman's tramp scares monster-peopled Nile, Waking to war her far-off villages: No armed robber from his war-ship leaps To spoil the herds of Egypt. Such a prince Sits throned in her broad plains, in whose right arm Quivers the spear, the bright-haired Ptolemy. Like a true king, he guards with might and main The wealth his sires' arm won him and his own. Nor strown all idly o'er his sumptuous halls Lie piles that seem the work of labouring ants. The holy homes of gods are rich therewith; Theirs are the firstfruits, earnest aye of more. And freely mighty kings thereof partake, Freely great cities, freely honoured friends. None entered e'er the sacred lists of song, Whose lips could breathe sweet music, but he gained Fair guerdon at the hand of Ptolemy. And Ptolemy do music's votaries hymn For his good gifts—hath man a fairer lot Than to have earned much fame among mankind? The Atridae's name abides, while all the wealth Won from the sack of Priam's stately home A mist closed o'er it, to be seen no more. Ptolemy, he only, treads a path whose dust Burns with the footprints of his ancestors, And overlays those footprints with his own. He raised rich shrines to mother and to sire, There reared their forms in ivory and gold, Passing in beauty, to befriend mankind. Thighs of fat oxen oftentimes he burns On crimsoning altars, as the months roll on, Ay he and his staunch wife. No fairer bride E'er clasped her lord in royal palaces: And her heart's love her brother-husband won. In such blest union joined the immortal pair Whom queenly Rhea bore, and heaven obeys: One couch the maiden of the rainbow decks With myrrh-dipt hands for Hera and for Zeus.

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.'



IDYLL XVIII.

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 As closelywov'n a warp:— And who could wake with masterhand Such music from the harp, To broadlimbed Pallas tuning And Artemis her lay— As Helen, Helen in whose eyes The Loves for ever play?

"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!'"



IDYLL XIX.

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.'



IDYLL XX.

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.



IDYLL XXI.

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."



IDYLL XXII.

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 spat crimson blood. Cheered yet again the princes, when they saw The lips and jowl all seamed with piteous scars, And the swoln visage and the half-closed eyes. Still the prince teased him, feinting here or there A thrust; and when he saw him helpless all, Let drive beneath his eyelids at his nose, And laid it bare to the bone. The stricken man Measured his length supine amid the fern. Keen was the fighting when he rose again, Deadly the blows their sturdy gauntlets dealt. But while Bebrycia's chieftain sparred round chest And utmost shoulder, the resistless foe Made his whole face one mass of hideous wounds. While the one sweated all his bulk away, And, late a giant, seemed a pigmy now, The other's limbs waxed ever as he fought In semblance and in size. But in what wise The child of Zeus brought low that man of greed, Tell, Muse, for thine is knowledge: I unfold A secret not mine own; at thy behest Speak or am dumb, nor speak but as thou wilt.

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.

PART II.

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. Ye, coveting (to your shame) your neighbour's bed And kine and asses and whatever is his, Suborned the man and stole our wives by bribes. How often spake I thus before your face, Yea I myself, though scant I am of phrase: 'Not thus, fair sirs, do honourable men Seek to woo wives whose troth is given elsewhere. Lo, broad is Sparta, broad the hunting-grounds Of Elis: fleecy Arcady is broad, And Argos and Messene and the towns To westward, and the long Sisyphian reach. There 'neath her parents' roof dwells many a maid Second to none in godliness or wit: Wed of all these, and welcome, whom ye will, For all men court the kinship of the brave; And ye are as your sires, and they whose blood Runs in your mother's veins, the flower of war. Nay, sirs, but let us bring this thing to pass; Then, taking counsel, choose meet brides for you.' So I ran on; but o'er the shifting seas The wind's breath blew my words, that found no grace With you, for ye defied the charmer's voice. Yet listen to me now if ne'er before: Lo! we are kinsmen by the father's side. But if ye lust for war, if strife must break Forth among kin, and bloodshed quench our feud, Bold Polydeuces then shall hold his hands And his cousin Idas from the abhorred fray: While I and Castor, the two younger-born, Try war's arbitrament; so spare our sires Sorrow exceeding. In one house one dead Sufficeth: let the others glad their mates, To the bride-chamber passing, not the grave, And o'er yon maids sing jubilee. Well it were At cost so small to lay so huge a strife."

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 Of Zeus rushed in, and with his broadsword drave Through flank and navel, sundering with swift stroke His vitals: Lynceus tottered and he fell, And o'er his eyelids rushed the dreamless sleep. Nor did their mother see her elder son Come a fair bridegroom to his Cretan home. For Idas wrenched from off the dead man's tomb A jutting slab, to hurl it at the man Who had slain his brother. Then did Zeus bring aid, And struck the marble fabric from his grasp, And with red lightning burned his frame to dust. So doth he fight with odds who dares provoke The Tyndarids, mighty sons of mighty sire. Now farewell, Leda's children: prosper aye The songs I sing. What minstrel loves not well The Tyndarids, and Helen, and the chiefs That trod Troy down for Menelaeus' sake? The bard of Chios wrought your royal deeds Into his lays, who sang of Priam's state, And fights 'neath Ilion's walls; of sailor Greeks, And of Achilles towering in the strife. Yet take from me whate'er of clear sweet song The Muse accords me, even all my store! The gods' most precious gift is minstrelsy.



IDYLL XXIII.

Love Avenged

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 so stern a face. To launch, and steer in safety round the goal, Chariot and steed, and damage ne'er a wheel, This the lad learned of fond Amphitryon's self. Many a fair prize from listed warriors he Had won on Argive racegrounds; yet the car Whereon he sat came still unshattered home, What gaps were in his harness time had made. Then with couched lance to reach the foe, his targe Covering his rear, and bide the biting sword; Or, on the warpath, place his ambuscade, Marshal his lines and rally his cavaliers; This knightly Castor learned him, erst exiled From Argos, when her realms with all their wealth Of vineyards fell to Tydeus, who received Her and her chariots at Adrastus' hand. Amongst the Heroes none was Castor's match Till age had dimmed the glory of his youth.

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:

* * * * *



IDYLL XXV.

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, whose busy feet Troop to his wine-vats in fair summer-time. Yea, all these acres wise Augeas owns, These corn-clad uplands and these orchards green, Far as yon ledges whence the cataracts leap. Here do we haunt, here toil, as is the wont Of labourers in the fields, the livelong day. But prythee tell me thou—so shalt thou best Serve thine own interests—wherefore art thou here? Seeking Augeas, or mayhap some slave That serves him? I can tell thee and I will All thou would'st know: for of no churlish blood Thou earnest, nor wert nurtured as a churl: That read I in thy stateliness of form; The sons of heaven move thus among mankind."

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 Regarded as a star; so bright he shone Among the herd, the cynosure of eyes. He, soon as he descried the sun-dried skin Of the grim lion, made at Heracles (Whose eye was on him)—fain to make his crest And sturdy brow acquainted with his flanks. Straight the prince grasped him with no tender grasp By the left horn, and bowed that giant bulk To earth, neck foremost: then, by pressure brought To bear upon his shoulder, forced him back. The web of muscles that enwraps the nerves Stood out from the brute's fore-arm plain to see. Marvelled the King, and Phyleus his brave son, At the strange prowess of Amphitryon's child.

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 chariot-builder bends With practised skill his shafts of splintered fig, Hot from the fire, to be his axle-wheels; Flies the tough-rinded sapling from the hands That shape it, at a bound recoiling far: So from far-off the dread beast, all of a heap, Sprang on me, hungering for my life-blood. I Thrust with one hand my arrows in his face And my doffed doublet, while the other raised My seasoned cudgel o'er his crest, and drave Full at his temples, breaking clean in twain On the fourfooted warrior's airy scalp My club; and ere he reached me, down he fell. Headlong he fell, and poised on tremulous feet Stood, his head wagging, and his eyes grown dim; For the shrewd stroke had shattered brain and bone. I, marking him beside himself with pain. Fell, ere recovering he should breathe again, At vantage on his solid sinewy neck, My bow and woven quiver thrown aside. With iron clasp I gripped him from the rear (His talons else had torn me) and, my foot Set on him, forced to earth by dint of heel His hinder parts, my flanks entrenched the while Behind his fore-arm; till his thews were stretched And strained, and on his haunches stark he stood And lifeless; hell received his monstrous ghost. Then with myself I counselled how to strip From off the dead beast's limbs his shaggy hide, A task full onerous, since I found it proof Against all blows of steel or stone or wood. Some god at last inspired me with the thought, With his own claws to rend the lion's skin. With these I flayed him soon, and sheathed and armed My limbs against the shocks of murderous war. Thus, sir, the Nemean lion met his end, Erewhile the constant curse of beast and man."



IDYLL XXVI.

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?



IDYLL XXVII.

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.



IDYLL XXVIII.

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.'



IDYLL XXIX.

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.



IDYLL XXX.

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.



IDYLL XXXI.

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?"



FRAGMENT PROM THE "BERENICE."

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.

THE END