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 thou cam'st long since,

To pluck the hyacinth-blossom on the fell,

Thou and my mother, piloted by me.

I saw thee, see thee still, from that day forth

For ever; but 'tis naught, ay naught, to thee.

I know, sweet maiden, why thou art so coy:

Shaggy and huge, a single eyebrow spans

From ear to ear my forehead, whence one eye

Gleams, and an o'erbroad nostril tops my lip.

Yet I, this monster, feed a thousand sheep

That yield me sweetest draughts at milking-tide:

In summer, autumn, or midwinter, still

Fails not my cheese; my milkpail aye o'erflows.

Then I can pipe as ne'er did Giant yet,

Singing our loves—ours, honey, thine and mine—

At dead of night: and hinds I rear eleven

(Each with her fawn) and bearcubs four, for thee.

Oh come to me—thou shalt not rue the day—

And let the mad seas beat against the shore!

'Twere sweet to haunt my cave the livelong night:

Laurel, and cypress tall, and ivy dun,

And vines of sumptuous fruitage, all are there:

And a cold spring that pine-clad Ætna flings

Down from, the white snow's midst, a draught for gods!

Who would not change for this the ocean-waves?

"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.

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.

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.

ÆSCHINES.

Hail, sir Thyonichus.

THYONICHUS.

Æschines, to you.

ÆSCHINES.

I have missed thee.

THYONICHUS.

Missed me! Why what ails him now?

ÆSCHINES.

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.

ÆSCHINES.

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, Æschines my friend.

In lazy mood or trenchant, at thy whim

The world must wag. But what's thy grievance now?

ÆSCHINES.

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. "Shrewdly guessed," quoth she,

And blushed—her blushes might have fired a torch.

A wolf had charmed her: Wolf her neighbour's son,

Goodly and tall, and fair in divers eyes:

For his illustrious sake it was she pined.

This had been breathed, just idly, in my ear:

Shame on my beard, I ne'er pursued the hint.

Well, when we four were deep amid our cups,

The Knight must sing 'The Wolf' (a local song)

Right through for mischief. All at once she wept

Hot tears as girls of six years old might weep,

Clinging and clamouring round their mother's lap.

And I, (you know my humour, friend of mine,)

Drove at his face, one, two! She gathered up

Her robes and vanished straightway through the door.

"And so I fail to please, false lady mine?

Another lies more welcome in thy lap?

Go warm that other's heart: he'll say thy tears

Are liquid pearls." And as a swallow flies

Forth in a hurry, here or there to find

A mouthful for her brood among the eaves:

From her soft sofa passing-swift she fled

Through folding-doors and hall, with random feet:

'The stag had gained his heath': you know the rest.

Three weeks, a month, nine days and ten to that,

To-day's the eleventh: and 'tis just two months

All but two days, since she and I were two.

Hence is my beard of more than Thracian growth.

Now Wolf is all to her: Wolf enters in

At midnight; I am a cypher in her eyes;

The poor Megarian, nowhere in the race.

All would go right, if I could once unlove:

But now, you wot, the rat hath tasted tar.

And what may cure a swain at his wit's end

I know not: Simus, (true,) a mate of mine,

Loved Epichalcus' daughter, and took ship

And came home cured. I too will sail the seas.

Worse men, it may be better, are afloat,

I shall still prove an average man-at-arms.

THYONICHUS.

Now may thy love run smoothly, Æschines!

But should'st thou really mean a voyage out,

The freeman's best paymaster's Ptolemy.

ÆSCHINES.

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, Æschines,

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.

GORGO.

Praxinoä in?

PRAXINOÄ.

Yes, Gorgo dear! At last!

That you're here now's a marvel! See to a chair,

A cushion, Eunoä!

GORGO.

I lack naught.

PRAXINOÄ.

Sit down.

GORGO.

Oh, what a thing is spirit! Here I am,

Praxinoä, 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!

PRAXINOÄ.

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!

PRAXINOÄ.

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.

PRAXINOÄ.

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!

PRAXINOÄ.

All time's holiday

With idlers! Eunoä, 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?

PRAXINOÄ.

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.

PRAXINOÄ.

I think it is.

My mantle, Eunoä, 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, Eunoä, can't you? Doggedly she stands.

He'll be his rider's death!--How glad I am

My babe's at home.

GORGO.

Praxinoä, never mind!

See, we're before them now, and they're in line.

PRAXINOÄ.

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.

—Praxinoä, look what crowds are round the door!

PRAXINOÄ.

Fearful! Your hand, please, Gorgo. Eunoä, 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.

PRAXINOÄ.

They come in hundreds, and they push like swine.

STRANGER.

Lady, take courage: it is all well now.

PRAXINOÄ.

And now and ever be it well with thee,

Sweet man, for shielding us! An honest soul

And kindly. Oh! they're smothering Eunoä:

Push, coward! That's right! 'All in,' the bridegroom said

And locked the door upon himself and bride.

GORGO.

Praxinoä, look! Note well this broidery first.

How exquisitely fine—too good for earth!

Empress Athenè, 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?

PRAXINOÄ.

Persephonè! 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; Aphroditè 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 Berenicè's dust immortalize.

O called by many names, at many a shrine!

For thy sweet sake doth Berenicè'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 Aphroditè 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 Lapithæ, 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, Praxinoä! 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!

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 Scopadæ's byres in endless line

The calves ran lowing with the hornèd kine;

And, marshalled by the good Creondæ'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 Ceïan 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: Eumæus and his swine;

Philoetius, busy with his herded kine;

And great Laërtes' 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 helmèd brow.

O Zeus, the sire most glorious; and O thou,

Empress Athenè; and thou, damsel fair,

Who with thy mother wast decreed to bear

Rule o'er rich Corinth, o'er that city of pride

Beside whose walls Anapus' waters glide:—

May ill winds waft across the Southern sea

(Of late a legion, now but two or three,)

Far from our isle, our foes; the doom to tell,

To wife and child, of those they loved so well;

While the old race enjoy once more the lands

Spoiled and insulted erst by alien hands!

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 Minyæ'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!

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 blessèd 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 his heavenly mates,

And sees, with joy exceeding, children rise

On children; for that Zeus exempts from age

And death their frames who sprang from Heracles:

And Ptolemy, like Alexander, claims

From him; his gallant son their common sire.

And when, the banquet o'er, the Strong Man wends,

Cloyed with rich nectar, home unto his wife,

This kinsman hath in charge his cherished shafts

And bow; and that his gnarled and knotted club;

And both to white-limbed Hebè's bower of bliss

Convoy the bearded warrior and his arms.

Then how among wise ladies—blest the pair

That reared her!--peerless Berenicè shone!

Dionè'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 Aphroditè, matchless e'en in heaven

For beauty, thou didst love her; wouldst not let

Thy Berenicè 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 Berenicè, 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 Antigonè'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-spherèd Delos: grace the hill

Of Triops, and the Dorians' sister shores,

As king Apollo his Rhenæa'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 Æthiops 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 Atridæ'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.'