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  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 ow
n: 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.