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  Nor be ye churlish hosts, but glad the heart

  Of guests with wine, when they must needs depart:

  And reverence most the priests of sacred song:

  So, when hell hides you, shall your names live long;

  Not doomed to wail on Acheron’s sunless sands,

  Like some poor hind, the inward of whose hands

  The spade hath gnarled and knotted, born to groan,

  Poor sire’s poor offspring, hapless Penury’s own!

  Their monthly dole erewhile unnumbered thralls

  Sought in Antiochus’, in Aleuas’ halls;

  On to the Scopadæ’s byres in endless line

  The calves ran lowing with the hornèd kine;

  And, marshalled by the good Creondæ’s swains

  Myriads of choice sheep basked on Cranron’s plains.

  Yet had their joyaunce ended, on the day

  When their sweet spirit dispossessed its clay,

  To hated Acheron’s ample barge resigned.

  Nameless, their stored-up luxury left behind,

  With the lorn dead through ages had they lain,

  Had not a minstrel bade them live again: —

  Had not in woven words the Ceïan sire

  Holding sweet converse with his full-toned lyre

  Made even their swift steeds for aye renowned,

  When from the sacred lists they came home crowned.

  Forgot were Lycia’s chiefs, and Hector’s hair

  Of gold, and Cycnus femininely fair;

  But that bards bring old battles back to mind.

  Odysseus — he who roamed amongst mankind

  A hundred years and more, reached utmost hell

  Alive, and ‘scaped the giant’s hideous cell —

  Had lived and died: Eumæus and his swine;

  Philoetius, busy with his herded kine;

  And great Laërtes’ self, had passed away,

  Were not their names preserved in Homer’s lay.

  Through song alone may man true glory taste;

  The dead man’s riches his survivors waste.

  But count the waves, with yon gray wind-swept main

  Borne shoreward: from a red brick wash his stain

  In some pool’s violet depths: ‘twill task thee yet

  To reach the heart on baleful avarice set.

  To such I say ‘Fare well’: let theirs be store

  Of wealth; but let them always crave for more:

  Horses and mules inferior things I find

  To the esteem and love of all mankind.

  But to what mortal’s roof may I repair,

  I and my Muse, and find a welcome there?

  I and my Muse: for minstrels fare but ill,

  Reft of those maids, who know the mightiest’s will.

  The cycle of the years, it flags not yet;

  In many a chariot many a steed shall sweat:

  And one, to manhood grown, my lays shall claim,

  Whose deeds shall rival great Achilles’ fame,

  Who from stout Aias might have won the prize

  On Simois’ plain, where Phrygian Ilus lies.

  Now, in their sunset home on Libya’s heel,

  Phoenicia’s sons unwonted chillness feel:

  Now, with his targe of willow at his breast,

  The Syracusan bears his spear in rest,

  Amongst these Hiero arms him for the war,

  Eager to fight as warriors fought of yore;

  The plumes float darkling o’er his helmèd brow.

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

  Empress Athenè; and thou, damsel fair,

  Who with thy mother wast decreed to bear

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

  Beside whose walls Anapus’ waters glide: —

  May ill winds waft across the Southern sea

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

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

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

  While the old race enjoy once more the lands

  Spoiled and insulted erst by alien hands!

  And fair and fruitful may their cornlands be!

  Their flocks in thousands bleat upon the lea,

  Fat and full-fed; their kine, as home they wind,

  The lagging traveller of his rest remind!

  With might and main their fallows let them till:

  Till comes the seedtime, and cicalas trill

  (Hid from the toilers of the hot midday

  In the thick leafage) on the topmost spray!

  O’er shield and spear their webs let spiders spin,

  And none so much as name the battle-din!

  Then Hiero’s lofty deeds may minstrels bear

  Beyond the Scythian ocean-main, and where

  Within those ample walls, with asphalt made

  Time-proof, Semiramis her empire swayed.

  I am but a single voice: but many a bard

  Beside me do those heavenly maids regard:

  May those all love to sing, ‘mid earth’s acclaim,

  Of Sicel Arethuse, and Hiero’s fame.

  O Graces, royal nurselings, who hold dear

  The Minyæ’s city, once the Theban’s fear:

  Unbidden I tarry, whither bidden I fare

  My Muse my comrade. And be ye too there,

  Sisters divine! Were ye and song forgot,

  What grace had earth? With you be aye my lot!

  IDYLL XVII. The Praise of Ptolemy.

  With Zeus begin, sweet sisters, end with Zeus,

  When ye would sing the sovereign of the skies:

  But first among mankind rank Ptolemy;

  First, last, and midmost; being past compare.

  Those mighty ones of old, half men half gods,

  Wrought deeds that shine in many a subtle strain;

  I, no unpractised minstrel, sing but him;

  Divinest ears disdain not minstrelsy.

  But as a woodman sees green Ida rise

  Pine above pine, and ponders which to fell

  First of those myriads; even so I pause

  Where to begin the chapter of his praise:

  For thousand and ten thousand are the gifts

  Wherewith high heaven hath graced the kingliest king.

  Was not he born to compass noblest ends,

  Lagus’ own son, so soon as he matured

  Schemes such as ne’er had dawned on meaner minds?

  Zeus doth esteem him as the blessèd gods;

  In the sire’s courts his golden mansion stands.

  And near him Alexander sits and smiles,

  The turbaned Persian’s dread; and, fronting both,

  Rises the stedfast adamantine seat

  Erst fashioned for the bull-slayer Heracles.

  Who there holds revels with his heavenly mates,

  And sees, with joy exceeding, children rise

  On children; for that Zeus exempts from age

  And death their frames who sprang from Heracles:

  And Ptolemy, like Alexander, claims

  From him; his gallant son their common sire.

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

  Cloyed with rich nectar, home unto his wife,

  This kinsman hath in charge his cherished shafts

  And bow; and that his gnarled and knotted club;

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

  Convoy the bearded warrior and his arms.

  Then how among wise ladies — blest the pair

  That reared her! — peerless Berenicè shone!

  Dionè’s sacred child, the Cyprian queen,

  O’er that sweet bosom passed her taper hands:

  And hence, ’tis said, no man loved woman e’er

  As Ptolemy loved her. She o’er-repaid

  His love; so, nothing doubting, he could leave

  His substance in his loyal children’s care,


  And rest with her, fond husband with fond wife.

  She that loves not bears sons, but all unlike

  Their father: for her heart was otherwhere.

  O Aphroditè, matchless e’en in heaven

  For beauty, thou didst love her; wouldst not let

  Thy Berenicè cross the wailful waves:

  But thy hand snatched her — to the blue lake bound

  Else, and the dead’s grim ferryman — and enshrined

  With thee, to share thy honours. There she sits,

  To mortals ever kind, and passion soft

  Inspires, and makes the lover’s burden light.

  The dark-browed Argive, linked with Tydeus, bare

  Diomed the slayer, famed in Calydon:

  And deep-veiled Thetis unto Peleus gave

  The javelineer Achilles. Thou wast born

  Of Berenicè, Ptolemy by name

  And by descent, a warrior’s warrior child.

  Cos from its mother’s arms her babe received,

  Its destined nursery, on its natal day:

  ’Twas there Antigonè’s daughter in her pangs

  Cried to the goddess that could bid them cease:

  Who soon was at her side, and lo! her limbs

  Forgat their anguish, and a child was born

  Fair, its sire’s self. Cos saw, and shouted loud;

  Handled the babe all tenderly, and spake:

  “Wake, babe, to bliss: prize me, as Phoebus doth

  His azure-spherèd Delos: grace the hill

  Of Triops, and the Dorians’ sister shores,

  As king Apollo his Rhenæa’s isle.”

  So spake the isle. An eagle high overhead

  Poised in the clouds screamed thrice, the prophet-bird

  Of Zeus, and sent by him. For awful kings

  All are his care, those chiefliest on whose birth

  He smiled: exceeding glory waits on them:

  Theirs is the sovereignty of land and sea.

  But if a myriad realms spread far and wide

  O’er earth, if myriad nations till the soil

  To which heaven’s rain gives increase: yet what land

  Is green as low-lying Egypt, when the Nile

  Wells forth and piecemeal breaks the sodden glebe?

  Where are like cities, peopled by like men?

  Lo he hath seen three hundred towns arise,

  Three thousand, yea three myriad; and o’er all

  He rules, the prince of heroes, Ptolemy.

  Claims half Phoenicia, and half Araby,

  Syria and Libya, and the Æthiops murk;

  Sways the Pamphylian and Cilician braves,

  The Lycian and the Carian trained to war,

  And all the isles: for never fleet like his

  Rode upon ocean: land and sea alike

  And sounding rivers hail king Ptolemy.

  Many are his horsemen, many his targeteers,

  Whose burdened breast is bright with clashing steel:

  Light are all royal treasuries, weighed with his.

  For wealth from all climes travels day by day

  To his rich realm, a hive of prosperous peace.

  No foeman’s tramp scares monster-peopled Nile,

  Waking to war her far-off villages:

  No armed robber from his war-ship leaps

  To spoil the herds of Egypt. Such a prince

  Sits throned in her broad plains, in whose right arm

  Quivers the spear, the bright-haired Ptolemy.

  Like a true king, he guards with might and main

  The wealth his sires’ arm won him and his own.

  Nor strown all idly o’er his sumptuous halls

  Lie piles that seem the work of labouring ants.

  The holy homes of gods are rich therewith;

  Theirs are the firstfruits, earnest aye of more.

  And freely mighty kings thereof partake,

  Freely great cities, freely honoured friends.

  None entered e’er the sacred lists of song,

  Whose lips could breathe sweet music, but he gained

  Fair guerdon at the hand of Ptolemy.

  And Ptolemy do music’s votaries hymn

  For his good gifts — hath man a fairer lot

  Than to have earned much fame among mankind?

  The Atridæ’s name abides, while all the wealth

  Won from the sack of Priam’s stately home

  A mist closed o’er it, to be seen no more.

  Ptolemy, he only, treads a path whose dust

  Burns with the footprints of his ancestors,

  And overlays those footprints with his own.

  He raised rich shrines to mother and to sire,

  There reared their forms in ivory and gold,

  Passing in beauty, to befriend mankind.

  Thighs of fat oxen oftentimes he burns

  On crimsoning altars, as the months roll on,

  Ay he and his staunch wife. No fairer bride

  E’er clasped her lord in royal palaces:

  And her heart’s love her brother-husband won.

  In such blest union joined the immortal pair

  Whom queenly Rhea bore, and heaven obeys:

  One couch the maiden of the rainbow decks

  With myrrh-dipt hands for Hera and for Zeus.

  Now farewell, prince! I rank thee aye with gods:

  And read this lesson to the afterdays,

  Mayhap they’ll prize it: ‘Honour is of Zeus.’

  IDYLL XVIII. The Bridal of Helen.

  Whilom, in Lacedæmon,

  Tript many a maiden fair

  To gold-tressed Menelaus’ halls,

  With hyacinths in her hair:

  Twelve to the Painted Chamber,

  The queenliest in the land,

  The clustered loveliness of Greece,

  Came dancing hand in hand.

  For Helen, Tyndarus’ daughter,

  Had just been wooed and won,

  Helen the darling of the world,

  By Atreus’ younger son:

  With woven steps they beat the floor

  In unison, and sang

  Their bridal-hymn of triumph

  Till all the palace rang.

  “Slumberest so soon, sweet bridegroom?

  Art thou o’erfond of sleep?

  Or hast thou leadenweighted limbs?

  Or hadst thou drunk too deep

  When thou didst fling thee to thy lair?

  Betimes thou should’st have sped,

  If sleep were all thy purpose,

  Unto thy bachelor’s bed:

  And left her in her mother’s arms

  To nestle, and to play

  A girl among her girlish mates

  Till deep into the day: —

  For not alone for this night,

  Nor for the next alone,

  But through the days and through the years

  Thou hast her for thine own.

  “Nay! heaven, O happy bridegroom,

  Smiled as thou enteredst in

  To Sparta, like thy brother kings,

  And told thee thou should’st win!

  What hero son-in-law of Zeus

  Hath e’er aspired to be?

  Yet lo! one coverlet enfolds

  The child of Zeus, and thee.

  Ne’er did a thing so lovely

  Roam the Achaian lea.

  “And who shall match her offspring,

  If babes are like their mother?

  For we were playmates once, and ran

  And raced with one another

  (All varnished, warrior fashion)

  Along Eurotas’ tide,

  Thrice eighty gentle maidens,

  Each in her girlhood’s pride:

  Yet none of all seemed faultless,

  If placed by Helen’s side.

  “As peers the nascent Morning

  Over thy shades, O Night,

  When Winter disenchains the land,

  And Spring goes forth in w
hite:

  So Helen shone above us,

  All loveliness and light.

  “As climbs aloft some cypress,

  Garden or glade to grace;

  As the Thessalian courser lends

  A lustre to the race:

  So bright o’er Lacedæmon

  Shone Helen’s rosebud face.

  “And who into the basket e’er

  The yarn so deftly drew,

  Or through the mazes of the web

  So well the shuttle threw,

  And severed from the framework

  As closelywov’n a warp: —

  And who could wake with masterhand

  Such music from the harp,

  To broadlimbed Pallas tuning

  And Artemis her lay —

  As Helen, Helen in whose eyes

  The Loves for ever play?

  “O bright, O beautiful, for thee

  Are matron-cares begun.

  We to green paths and blossomed meads

  With dawn of morn must run,

  And cull a breathing chaplet;

  And still our dream shall be,

  Helen, of thee, as weanling lambs

  Yearn in the pasture for the dams

  That nursed their infancy.

  “For thee the lowly lotus-bed

  We’ll spoil, and plait a crown

  To hang upon the shadowy plane;

  For thee will we drop down

  (‘Neath that same shadowy platan)

  Oil from our silver urn;

  And carven on the bark shall be

  This sentence, ‘HALLOW HELEN’S TREE’;

  In Dorian letters, legibly

  For all men to discern.

  “Now farewell, bride, and bridegroom

  Blest in thy new-found sire!

  May Leto, mother of the brave,

  Bring babes at your desire,

  And holy Cypris either’s breast

  With mutual transport fire:

  And Zeus the son of Cronos

  Grant blessings without end,

  From princely sire to princely son

  For ever to descend.

  “Sleep on, and love and longing

  Breathe in each other’s breast;

  But fail not when the morn returns

  To rouse you from your rest:

  With dawn shall we be stirring,

  When, lifting high his fair

  And feathered neck, the earliest bird

  To clarion to the dawn is heard.

  O god of brides and bridals,

  Sing ‘Happy, happy pair!’”

  IDYLL XIX. Love Stealing Honey.

  Once thievish Love the honeyed hives would rob,

  When a bee stung him: soon he felt a throb

  Through all his finger-tips, and, wild with pain,

  Blew on his hands and stamped and jumped in vain.

  To Aphroditè then he told his woe:

  ‘How can a thing so tiny hurt one so?’