Chapter 7

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 Augéas, 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, Augéas 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, Augéas' 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 Helicè-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 Mycenæ: 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 Augéas' 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 barbèd 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.

Agavè of the vermeil-tinted cheek And Ino and Autonoä 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 Semelè 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.

Autonoä 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," Autonoä said. Agavè 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.

Autonoä'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 Ægis-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 Semelè, 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 Nomæa'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 Aphroditè'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 Aphroditè: "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, Aphroditè, 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 Aphroditè 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.