Chapter 4

"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.

IDYLL XII.

The Comrades

Thou art come, lad, come! Scarce thrice hath dusk to day Given place--but lovers in an hour grow gray. As spring's more sweet than winter, grapes than thorns, The ewe's fleece richer than her latest-born's; As young girls' charms the thrice-wed wife's outshine, As fawns are lither than the ungainly kine, Or as the nightingale's clear notes outvie The mingled music of all birds that fly; So at thy coming passing glad was I. I ran to greet thee e'en as pilgrims run To beechen shadows from the scorching sun: Oh if on us accordant Loves would breathe, And our two names to future years bequeath!

'These twain'--let men say--'lived in olden days. This was a _yokel_ (in their country-phrase), That was his _mate_ (so talked these simple folk): And lovingly they bore a mutual yoke. The hearts of men were made of sterling gold, When troth met troth, in those brave days of old,'

O Zeus, O gods who age not nor decay! Let e'en two hundred ages roll away, But at the last these tidings let me learn, Borne o'er the fatal pool whence none return:-- "By every tongue thy constancy is sung, Thine and thy favourite's--chiefly by the young." But lo, the future is in heaven's high hand: Meanwhile thy graces all my praise demand, Not false lip-praise, not idly bubbling froth-- For though thy wrath be kindled, e'en thy wrath Hath no sting in it: doubly I am caressed, And go my way repaid with interest.

Oarsmen of Megara, ruled by Nisus erst! Yours be all bliss, because ye honoured first That true child-lover, Attic Diocles. Around his gravestone with the first spring-breeze Flock the bairns all, to win the kissing-prize: And whoso sweetliest lip to lip applies Goes crown-clad home to its mother. Blest is he Who in such strife is named the referee: To brightfaced Ganymede full oft he'll cry To lend his lip the potencies that lie Within that stone with which the usurers Detect base metal, and which never errs.

IDYLL XIII.

Hylas.

Not for us only, Nicias, (vain the dream,) Sprung from what god soe'er, was Eros born: Not to us only grace doth graceful seem, Frail things who wot not of the coming morn. No--for Amphitryon's iron-hearted son, Who braved the lion, was the slave of one:--

A fair curled creature, Hylas was his name. He taught him, as a father might his child, All songs whereby himself had risen to fame; Nor ever from his side would be beguiled When noon was high, nor when white steeds convey Back to heaven's gates the chariot of the day,

Nor when the hen's shrill brood becomes aware Of bed-time, as the mother's flapping wings Shadow the dust-browned beam. 'Twas all his care To shape unto his own imaginings And to the harness train his favourite youth, Till he became a man in very truth.

Meanwhile, when kingly Jason steered in quest Of the Gold Fleece, and chieftains at his side Chosen from all cities, proffering each her best, To rich Iolchos came that warrior tried, And joined him unto trim-built Argo's crew; And with Alcmena's son came Hylas too.

Through the great gulf shot Argo like a bird-- And by-and-bye reached Phasis, ne'er o'erta'en By those in-rushing rocks, that have not stirred Since then, but bask, twin monsters, on the main. But now, when waned the spring, and lambs were fed In far-off fields, and Pleiads gleamed overhead,

That cream and flower of knighthood looked to sail. They came, within broad Argo safely stowed, (When for three days had blown the southern gale) To Hellespont, and in Propontis rode At anchor, where Cianian oxen now Broaden the furrows with the busy plough.

They leapt ashore, and, keeping rank, prepared Their evening meal: a grassy meadow spread Before their eyes, and many a warrior shared (Thanks to its verdurous stores) one lowly bed. And while they cut tall marigolds from their stem And sworded bulrush, Hylas slipt from them.

Water the fair lad wont to seek and bring To Heracles and stalwart Telamon, (The comrades aye partook each other's fare,) Bearing a brazen pitcher. And anon, Where the ground dipt, a fountain he espied, And rushes growing green about its side.

There rose the sea-blue swallow-wort, and there The pale-hued maidenhair, with parsley green And vagrant marsh-flowers; and a revel rare In the pool's midst the water-nymphs were seen To hold, those maidens of unslumbrous eyes Whom the belated peasant sees and flies.

And fast did Malis and Eunica cling, And young Nychea with her April face, To the lad's hand, as stooping o'er the spring He dipt his pitcher. For the young Greek's grace Made their soft senses reel; and down he fell, All of a sudden, into that black well.

So drops a red star suddenly from sky To sea--and quoth some sailor to his mate: "Up with the tackle, boy! the breeze is high." Him the nymphs pillowed, all disconsolate, On their sweet laps, and with soft words beguiled; But Heracles was troubled for the child.

Forth went he; Scythian-wise his bow he bore And the great club that never quits his side; And thrice called 'Hylas'--ne'er came lustier roar From that deep chest. Thrice Hylas heard and tried To answer, but in tones you scarce might hear; The water made them distant though so near.

And as a lion, when he hears the bleat Of fawns among the mountains far away, A murderous lion, and with hurrying feet Bounds from his lair to his predestined prey: So plunged the strong man in the untrodden brake-- (Lovers are maniacs)--for his darling's sake.

He scoured far fields--what hill or oaken glen Remembers not that pilgrimage of pain? His troth to Jason was forgotten then. Long time the good ship tarried for those twain With hoisted sails; night came and still they cleared The hatches, but no Heracles appeared.

On he was wandering, reckless where he trod, So mad a passion on his vitals preyed: While Hylas had become a blessed god. But the crew cursed the runaway who had stayed Sixty good oars, and left him there to reach Afoot bleak Phasis and the Colchian beach.

IDYLL XIV.

The Love of Æschines.

_THYONICHUS. ÆSCHINES._

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.

IDYLL XV.

The Festival of Adonis.

_GORGO. PRAXINOÄ._

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!

IDYLL XVI.

The Value of Song.

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

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

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