I.
HE was a Grecian lad, who coming home | |
| With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily | |
| Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam | |
| Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously, | |
| And holding wave and wind in boy’s despite | 5 |
| Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night | |
| |
| Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear | |
| Like a thin thread of gold against the sky, | |
| And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear, | |
| And bade the pilot head her lustily | 10 |
| Against the nor’west gale, and all day long | |
| Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured song, | |
| |
| And when the faint Corinthian hills were red | |
| Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay, | |
| And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head, | 15 |
| And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray, | |
| And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold | |
| Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled, | |
| |
| And a rich robe stained with the fishes’ juice | |
| Which of some swarthy trader he had bought | 20 |
| Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse, | |
| And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought, | |
| And by the questioning merchants made his way | |
| Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day | |
| |
| Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud, | 25 |
| Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet | |
| Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd | |
| Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat | |
| Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring | |
| The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling | 30 |
| |
| The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang | |
| His studded crook against the temple wall | |
| To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang | |
| Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall; | |
| And then the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing, | 35 |
| And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering, | |
| |
| A beechen cup brimming with milky foam, | |
| A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery | |
| Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb | |
| Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee | 40 |
| Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil | |
| Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil | |
| |
| Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid | |
| To please Athena, and the dappled hide | |
| Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade | 45 |
| Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried, | |
| And from the pillared precinct one by one | |
| Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had done. | |
| |
| And the old priest put out the waning fires | |
| Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed | 50 |
| For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres | |
| Came fainter on the wind, as down the road | |
| In joyous dance these country folk did pass, | |
| And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass. | |
| |
| Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe, | 55 |
| And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine, | |
| And the rose-petals falling from the wreath | |
| As the night breezes wandered through the shrine, | |
| And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon | |
| Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon | 60 |
| |
| Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor, | |
| When from his nook upleapt the venturous lad, | |
| And flinging wide the cedar-carven door | |
| Beheld an awful image saffron-clad | |
| And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared | 65 |
| From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared | |
| |
| Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled | |
| The Gorgon’s head its leaden eyeballs rolled, | |
| And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield, | |
| And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold | 70 |
| In passion impotent, while with blind gaze | |
| The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze. | |
| |
| The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp | |
| Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast | |
| The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp | 75 |
| Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast | |
| Divide the folded curtains of the night, | |
| And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright. | |
| |
| And guilty lovers in their venery | |
| Forgat a little while their stolen sweets, | 80 |
| Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry; | |
| And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats | |
| Ran to their shields in haste precipitate, | |
| Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet. | |
| |
| For round the temple rolled the clang of arms, | 85 |
| And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear, | |
| And the air quaked with dissonant alarums | |
| Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear, | |
| And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed, | |
| And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade. | 90 |
| |
| Ready for death with parted lips he stood, | |
| And well content at such a price to see | |
| That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood, | |
| The marvel of that pitiless chastity, | |
| Ah! well content indeed, for never wight | 95 |
| Since Troy’s young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a sight. | |
| |
| Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air | |
| Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh, | |
| And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair, | |
| And from his limbs he threw the cloak away, | 100 |
| For whom would not such love make desperate, | |
| And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands violate | |
| |
| Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown, | |
| And bared the breasts of polished ivory, | |
| Till from the waist the peplos falling down | 105 |
| Left visible the secret mystery | |
| Which to no lover will Athena show, | |
| The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow. | |
| |
| Those who have never known a lover’s sin | |
| Let them not read my ditty, it will be | 110 |
| To their dull ears so musicless and thin | |
| That they will have no joy of it, but ye | |
| To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile, | |
| Ye who have learned who Eros is,—O listen yet a-while. | |
| |
| A little space he let his greedy eyes | 115 |
| Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight | |
| Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries, | |
| And then his lips in hungering delight | |
| Fed on her lips, and round the towered neck | |
| He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s will to check. | 120 |
| |
| Never I ween did lover hold such tryst, | |
| For all night long he murmured honeyed word, | |
| And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed | |
| Her pale and argent body undisturbed, | |
| And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed | 125 |
| His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast. | |
| |
| It was as if Numidian javelins | |
| Pierced through and through his wild and whirling brain, | |
| And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins | |
| In exquisite pulsation, and the pain | 130 |
| Was such sweet anguish that he never drew | |
| His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew. | |
| |
| They who have never seen the daylight peer | |
| Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain, | |
| And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear | 135 |
| And worshipped body risen, they for certain | |
| Will never know of what I try to sing, | |
| How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering. | |
| |
| The moon was girdled with a crystal rim, | |
| The sign which shipmen say is ominous | 140 |
| Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim, | |
| And the low lightening east was tremulous | |
| With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn, | |
| Ere from the silent sombre shrine this lover had withdrawn. | |
| |
| Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast | 145 |
| Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan, | |
| And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed, | |
| And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran | |
| Like a young fawn unto an olive wood | |
| Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood. | 150 |
| |
| And sought a little stream, which well he knew, | |
| For oftentimes with boyish careless shout | |
| The green and crested grebe he would pursue, | |
| Or snare in woven net the silver trout, | |
| And down amid the startled reeds he lay | 155 |
| Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day. | |
| |
| On the green bank he lay, and let one hand | |
| Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly, | |
| And soon the breath of morning came and fanned | |
| His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly | 160 |
| The tangled curls from off his forehead, while | |
| He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile. | |
| |
| And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak | |
| With his long crook undid the wattled cotes, | |
| And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke | 165 |
| Curled through the air across the ripening oats, | |
| And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed | |
| As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed. | |
| |
| And when the light-foot mower went afield | |
| Across the meadows laced with threaded dew, | 170 |
| And the sheep bleated on the misty weald, | |
| And from its nest the waking corn-crake flew, | |
| Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream | |
| And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem, | |
| |
| Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said, | 175 |
| “It is young Hylas, that false runaway | |
| Who with a Naiad now would make his bed | |
| Forgetting Herakles,” but others, “Nay, | |
| It is Narcissus, his own paramour, | |
| Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.” | 180 |
| |
| And when they nearer came a third one cried, | |
| “It is young Dionysos who has hid | |
| His spear and fawnskin by the river side | |
| Weary of hunting with the Bassarid, | |
| And wise indeed were we away to fly | 185 |
| They live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.” | |
| |
| So turned they back, and feared to look behind, | |
| And told the timid swain how they had seen | |
| Amid the reeds some woodland God reclined, | |
| And no man dared to cross the open green, | 190 |
| And on that day no olive-tree was slain, | |
| Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain. | |
| |
| Save when the neat-herd’s lad, his empty pail | |
| Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound | |
| Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail | 195 |
| Hoping that he some comrade new had found, | |
| And gat no answer, and then half afraid | |
| Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade | |
| |
| A little girl ran laughing from the farm | |
| Not thinking of love’s secret mysteries, | 200 |
| And when she saw the white and gleaming arm | |
| And all his manlihood, with longing eyes | |
| Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity | |
| Watched him a-while, and then stole back sadly and wearily. | |
| |
| Far off he heard the city’s hum and noise, | 205 |
| And now and then the shriller laughter where | |
| The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys | |
| Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air, | |
| And now and then a little tinkling bell | |
| As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well. | 210 |
| |
| Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat, | |
| The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree, | |
| In sleek and oily coat the water-rat | |
| Breasting the little ripples manfully | |
| Made for the wild-duck’s nest, from bough to bough | 215 |
| Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the slough. | |
| |
| On the faint wind floated the silky seeds, | |
| As the bright scythe swept through the waving grass, | |
| The ousel-cock splashed circles in the reeds | |
| And flecked with silver whorls the forest’s glass, | 220 |
| Which scarce had caught again its imagery | |
| Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragonfly. | |
| |
| But little care had he for any thing | |
| Though up and down the beech the squirrel played, | |
| And from the copse the linnet ’gan to sing | 225 |
| To her brown mate her sweetest serenade, | |
| Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen | |
| The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen. | |
| |
| But when the herdsman called his straggling goats | |
| With whistling pipe across the rocky road, | 230 |
| And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes | |
| Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to bode | |
| Of coming storm, and the belated crane | |
| Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain | |
| |
| Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose, | 235 |
| And from the gloomy forest went his way | |
| Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close, | |
| And came at last unto a little quay, | |
| And called his mates a-board, and took his seat | |
| On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping sheet, | 240 |
| |
| And steered across the bay, and when nine suns | |
| Passed down the long and laddered way of gold, | |
| And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons | |
| To the chaste stars their confessors, or told | |
| Their dearest secret to the downy moth | 245 |
| That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging froth | |
| |
| Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes | |
| And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked | |
| As though the lading of three argosies | |
| Were in the hold, and flapped its wings, and shrieked, | 250 |
| And darkness straightway stole across the deep, | |
| Sheathed was Orion’s sword, dread Mars himself fled down the steep, | |
| |
| And the moon hid behind a tawny mask | |
| Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean’s marge | |
| Rose the red plume, the huge and hornèd casque, | 255 |
| The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe! | |
| And clad in bright and burnished panoply | |
| Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea! | |
| |
| To the dull sailors’ sight her loosened locks | |
| Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet | 260 |
| Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks, | |
| And marking how the rising waters beat | |
| Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried | |
| To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side. | |
| |
| But he, the over-bold adulterer, | 265 |
| A dear profaner of great mysteries, | |
| An ardent amorous idolater, | |
| When he beheld those grand relentless eyes | |
| Laughed loud for joy, and crying out “I come” | |
| Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam. | 270 |
| |
| Then fell from the high heaven one bright star, | |
| One dancer left the circling galaxy, | |
| And back to Athens on her clattering car | |
| In all the pride of venged divinity | |
| Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank, | 275 |
| And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank. | |
| |
| And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew | |
| With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen, | |
| And the old pilot bade the trembling crew | |
| Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen | 280 |
| Close to the stern a dim and giant form, | |
| And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm. | |
| |
| And no man dared to speak of Charmides | |
| Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought, | |
| And when they reached the strait Symplegades | 285 |
| They beached their galley on the shore, and sought | |
| The toll-gate of the city hastily, | |
| And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery. | |
| |
II.
But some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare | |
| The boy’s drowned body back to Grecian land, | 290 |
| And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair | |
| And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand, | |
| Some brought sweet spices from far Araby, | |
| And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby. | |
| |
| And when he neared his old Athenian home, | 295 |
| A mighty billow rose up suddenly | |
| Upon whose oily back the clotted foam | |
| Lay diapered in some strange fantasy, | |
| And clasping him unto its glassy breast, | |
| Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest! | 300 |
| |
| Now where Colonos leans unto the sea | |
| There lies a long and level stretch of lawn, | |
| The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee | |
| For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun | |
| Is not afraid, for never through the day | 305 |
| Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play. | |
| |
| But often from the thorny labyrinth | |
| And tangled branches of the circling wood | |
| The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth | |
| Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood | 310 |
| Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away, | |
| Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first break of day | |
| |
| The Dyrads come and throw the leathern ball | |
| Along the reedy shore, and circumvent | |
| Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal | 315 |
| For fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment, | |
| And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes, | |
| Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise. | |
| |
| On this side and on that a rocky cave, | |
| Hung with the yellow-bell’d laburnum, stands, | 320 |
| Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave | |
| Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands, | |
| As though it feared to be too soon forgot | |
| By the green rush, its playfellow,—and yet, it is a spot | |
| |
| So small, that the inconstant butterfly | 325 |
| Could steal the hoarded honey from each flower | |
| Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy | |
| Its over-greedy love,—within an hour | |
| A sailor boy, were he but rude enow | |
| To land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted prow, | 330 |
| |
| Would almost leave the little meadow bare, | |
| For it knows nothing of great pageantry, | |
| Only a few narcissi here and there | |
| Stand separate in sweet austerity, | |
| Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars, | 335 |
| And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimetars. | |
| |
| Hither the billow brought him, and was glad | |
| Of such dear servitude, and where the land | |
| Was virgin of all waters laid the lad | |
| Upon the golden margent of the strand, | 340 |
| And like a lingering lover oft returned | |
| To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned, | |
| |
| Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust, | |
| That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead, | |
| Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost | 345 |
| Had withered up those lilies white and red | |
| Which, while the boy would through the forest range, | |
| Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counterchange. | |
| |
| And when at dawn the woodnymphs, hand-in-hand, | |
| Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied | 350 |
| The boy’s pale body stretched upon the sand, | |
| And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried, | |
| And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade, | |
| Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade. | |
| |
| Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be | 355 |
| So dread a thing to feel a sea-god’s arms | |
| Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny, | |
| And longed to listen to those subtle charms | |
| Insidious lovers weave when they would win | |
| Some fencèd fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin | 360 |
| |
| To yield her treasure unto one so fair, | |
| And lay beside him, thirsty with love’s drouth, | |
| Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair, | |
| And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth | |
| Afraid he might not wake, and then afraid | 365 |
| Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade, | |
| |
| Returned to fresh assault, and all day long | |
| Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy, | |
| And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song, | |
| Then frowned to see how froward was the boy | 370 |
| Who would not with her maidenhood entwine, | |
| Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine, | |
| |
| Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done, | |
| But said, “He will awake, I know him well, | |
| He will awake at evening when the sun | 375 |
| Hangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel, | |
| This sleep is but a cruel treachery | |
| To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea | |
| |
| Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s line | |
| Already a huge Triton blows his horn, | 380 |
| And weaves a garland from the crystalline | |
| And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn | |
| The emerald pillars of our bridal bed, | |
| For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral-crownèd head, | |
| |
| We two will sit upon a throne of pearl, | 385 |
| And a blue wave will be our canopy, | |
| And at our feet the water-snakes will curl | |
| In all their amethystine panoply | |
| Of diamonded mail, and we will mark | |
| The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark, | 390 |
| |
| Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold | |
| Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep | |
| His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold, | |
| And we will see the painted dolphins sleep | |
| Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks | 395 |
| Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous flocks. | |
| |
| And tremulous opal-hued anemones | |
| Will wave their purple fringes where we tread | |
| Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies | |
| Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread | 400 |
| The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck, | |
| And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.” | |
| |
| But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun | |
| With gaudy pennon flying passed away | |
| Into his brazen House, and one by one | 405 |
| The little yellow stars began to stray | |
| Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed | |
| She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed, | |
| |
| And cried, “Awake, already the pale moon | |
| Washes the trees with silver, and the wave | 410 |
| Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune, | |
| The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave | |
| The night-jar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass, | |
| And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky grass. | |
| |
| Nay, though thou art a God, be not so coy, | 415 |
| For in yon stream there is a little reed | |
| That often whispers how a lovely boy | |
| Lay with her once upon a grassy mead, | |
| Who when his cruel pleasure he had done | |
| Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun. | 420 |
| |
| Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still | |
| With great Apollo’s kisses, and the fir | |
| Whose clustering sisters fringe the sea-ward hill | |
| Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher | |
| Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen | 425 |
| The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar’s silvery sheen. | |
| |
| Even the jealous Naiads call me fair, | |
| And every morn a young and ruddy swain | |
| Wooes me with apples and with locks of hair, | |
| And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain | 430 |
| By all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love; | |
| But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove | |
| |
| With little crimson feet, which with its store | |
| Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad | |
| Had stolen from the lofty sycamore | 435 |
| At day-break, when her amorous comrade had | |
| Flown off in search of berried juniper | |
| Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager | |
| |
| Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency | |
| So constant as this simple shepherd-boy | 440 |
| For my poor lips, his joyous purity | |
| And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy | |
| A Dryad from her oath to Artemis; | |
| For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss, | |
| |
| His argent forehead, like a rising moon | 445 |
| Over the dusky hills of meeting brows, | |
| Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon | |
| Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse | |
| For Cytheræa, the first silky down | |
| Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and brown: | 450 |
| |
| And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds | |
| Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie, | |
| And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds | |
| Is in his homestead for the thievish fly | |
| To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead | 455 |
| Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed. | |
| |
| And yet I love him not, it was for thee | |
| I kept my love, I knew that thou would’st come | |
| To rid me of this pallid chastity; | |
| Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam | 460 |
| Of all the wide Ægean, brightest star | |
| Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets are! | |
| |
| I knew that thou would’st come, for when at first | |
| The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of Spring | |
| Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst | 465 |
| To myriad multitudinous blossoming | |
| Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons | |
| That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ rapturous tunes | |
| |
| Startled the squirrel from its granary, | |
| And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane, | 470 |
| Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy | |
| Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein | |
| Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood, | |
| And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s maidenhood. | |
| |
| The trooping fawns at evening came and laid | 475 |
| Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs | |
| And on my topmost branch the blackbird made | |
| A little nest of grasses for his spouse, | |
| And now and then a twittering wren would light | |
| On a thin twig which hardly bare the weigh of such delight. | 480 |
| |
| I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place, | |
| Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay, | |
| And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase | |
| The timorous girl, till tired out with play | |
| She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair, | 485 |
| And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare. | |
| |
| Then come away unto my ambuscade | |
| Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy | |
| For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade | |
| Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify | 490 |
| The dearest rites of love, there in the cool | |
| And green recesses of its farthest depth there is a pool, | |
| |
| The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage, | |
| For round its rim great creamy lilies float | |
| Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage, | 495 |
| Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat | |
| Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid | |
| To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place were made | |
| |
| For lovers such as we, the Cyprian Queen, | |
| One arm around her boyish paramour, | 500 |
| Strays often there at eve, and I have seen | |
| The moon strip off her misty vestiture | |
| For young Endymion’s eyes, be not afraid, | |
| The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade. | |
| |
| Nay if thou wil’st, back to the beating brine, | 505 |
| Back to the boisterous billow let us go, | |
| And walk all day beneath the hyaline | |
| Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico, | |
| And watch the purple monsters of the deep | |
| Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap. | 510 |
| |
| For if my mistress find me lying here | |
| She will not ruth or gentle pity show, | |
| But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere | |
| Relentless fingers string the cornel bow, | |
| And draw the feathered notch against her breast, | 515 |
| And loose the archèd cord, ay, even now upon the quest | |
| |
| I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake, | |
| Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at least | |
| Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake | |
| My parchèd being with the nectarous feast | 520 |
| Which even Gods affect! O come Love come, | |
| Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.” | |
| |
| Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees | |
| Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air | |
| Grew conscious of a God, and the grey seas | 525 |
| Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare | |
| Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed, | |
| And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade. | |
| |
| And where the little flowers of her breast | |
| Just brake into their milky blossoming, | 530 |
| This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest, | |
| Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering, | |
| And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart, | |
| And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart. | |
| |
| Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry | 535 |
| On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid, | |
| Sobbing for incomplete virginity, | |
| And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead, | |
| And all the pain of things unsatisfied, | |
| And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side. | 540 |
| |
| Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan, | |
| And very pitiful to see her die | |
| Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known | |
| The joy of passion, that dread mystery | |
| Which not to know is not to live at all, | 545 |
| And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly thrall. | |
| |
| But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere, | |
| Who with Adonis all night long had lain | |
| Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady, | |
| On team of silver doves and gilded wane | 550 |
| Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar | |
| From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star, | |
| |
| And when low down she spied the hapless pair, | |
| And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry, | |
| Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air | 555 |
| As though it were a viol, hastily | |
| She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume, | |
| And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous doom. | |
| |
| For as a gardener turning back his head | |
| To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows | 560 |
| With careless scythe too near some flower bed, | |
| And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose, | |
| And with the flower’s loosened loveliness | |
| Strews the brown mould, or as some shepherd lad in wantonness | |
| |
| Driving his little flock along the mead | 565 |
| Treads down two daffodils which side by side | |
| Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede | |
| And made the gaudy moth forget its pride, | |
| Treads down their brimming golden chalices | |
| Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages, | 570 |
| |
| Or as a schoolboy tired of his book | |
| Flings himself down upon the reedy grass | |
| And plucks two water-lilies from the brook, | |
| And for a time forgets the hour glass, | |
| Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way, | 575 |
| And lets the hot sun kill them, even so these lovers lay. | |
| |
| And Venus cried, “It is dread Artemis | |
| Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty, | |
| Or else that mightier may whose care it is | |
| To guard her strong and stainless majesty | 580 |
| Upon the hill Athenian,—alas! | |
| That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house should pass. | |
| |
| So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl | |
| In the great golden waggon tenderly, | |
| Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl | 585 |
| Just threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry | |
| Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast | |
| Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest. | |
| |
| And then each pigeon spread its milky van, | |
| The bright car soared into the dawning sky, | 590 |
| And like a cloud the aerial caravan | |
| Passed over the Ægean silently, | |
| Till the faint air was troubled with the song | |
| From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long. | |
| |
| But when the doves had reached their wonted goal | 595 |
| Where the wide stair of orbèd marble dips | |
| Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul | |
| Just shook the trembling petals of her lips | |
| And passed into the void, and Venus knew | |
| That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue, | 600 |
| |
| And bade her servants carve a cedar chest | |
| With all the wonder of this history, | |
| Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest | |
| Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky | |
| On the low hills of Paphos, and the faun | 605 |
| Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn. | |
| |
| Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere | |
| The morning bee had stung the daffodil | |
| With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair | |
| The waking stag had leapt across the rill | 610 |
| And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept | |
| Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept. | |
| |
| And when day brake, within that silver shrine | |
| Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous, | |
| Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine | 615 |
| That she whose beauty made Death amorous | |
| Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord, | |
| And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford. | |
| |
III.
In melancholy moonless Acheron, | |
| Far from the goodly earth and joyous day, | 620 |
| Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun | |
| Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May | |
| Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor, | |
| Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more, | |
| |
| There by a dim and dark Lethæan well | 625 |
| Young Charmides was lying, wearily | |
| He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel, | |
| And with its little rifled treasury | |
| Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream, | |
| And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream, | 630 |
| |
| When as he gazed into the watery glass | |
| And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned | |
| His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass | |
| Across the mirror, and a little hand | |
| Stole into his, and warm lips timidly | 635 |
| Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh. | |
| |
| Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw, | |
| And ever nigher still their faces came, | |
| And nigher ever did their young mouths draw | |
| Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame, | 640 |
| And longing arms around her neck he cast, | |
| And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast, | |
| |
| And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss, | |
| And all her maidenhood was his to slay, | |
| And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss | 645 |
| Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay | |
| To pipe again of love too venturous reed! | |
| Enough, enough that Erôs laughed upon that flowerless mead. | |
| |
| Too venturous poesy O why essay | |
| To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings | 650 |
| O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay | |
| Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings, | |
| Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill, | |
| Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quill! | |
| |
| Enough, enough that he whose life had been | 655 |
| A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame, | |
| Could in the loveless land of Hades glean | |
| One scorching harvest from those fields of flame | |
| Where passion walks with naked unshod feet | |
| And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet | 660 |
| |
| In that wild throb when all existences | |
| Seem narrowed to one single ecstasy | |
| Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress | |
| Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone | |
| Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne | 665 |
| Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone. | |
|
