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  She smiled and said; ‘Why thou’rt a tiny thing,

  As is the bee; yet sorely thou canst sting.’

  IDYLL XX. Town and Country

  Once I would kiss Eunicè. “Back,” quoth she,

  And screamed and stormed; “a sorry clown kiss me?

  Your country compliments, I like not such;

  No lips but gentles’ would I deign to touch.

  Ne’er dream of kissing me: alike I shun

  Your face, your language, and your tigerish fun.

  How winning are your tones, how fine your air!

  Your beard how silken and how sweet your hair!

  Pah! you’ve a sick man’s lips, a blackamoor’s hand:

  Your breath’s defilement. Leave me, I command.”

  Thrice spat she on her robe, and, muttering low,

  Scanned me, with half-shut eyes, from top to toe:

  Brought all her woman’s witcheries into play,

  Still smiling in a set sarcastic way,

  Till my blood boiled, my visage crimson grew

  With indignation, as a rose with dew:

  And so she left me, inly to repine

  That such as she could flout such charms as mine.

  O shepherds, tell me true! Am I not fair?

  Am I transformed? For lately I did wear

  Grace as a garment; and my cheeks, o’er them

  Ran the rich growth like ivy round the stem.

  Like fern my tresses o’er my temples streamed;

  O’er my dark eyebrows, white my forehead gleamed:

  My eyes were of Athenè’s radiant blue,

  My mouth was milk, its accents honeydew.

  Then I could sing — my tones were soft indeed! —

  To pipe or flute or flageolet or reed:

  And me did every maid that roams the fell

  Kiss and call fair: not so this city belle.

  She scorns the herdsman; knows not how divine

  Bacchus ranged once the valleys with his kine;

  How Cypris, maddened for a herdsman’s sake,

  Deigned upon Phrygia’s mountains to partake

  His cares: and wooed, and wept, Adonis in the brake.

  What was Endymion, sweet Selenè’s love?

  A herdsman’s lad. Yet came she from above,

  Down to green Latmos, by his side to sleep.

  And did not Rhea for a herdsman weep?

  Didst not thou, Zeus, become a wandering bird,

  To win the love of one who drove a herd?

  Selenè, Cybelè, Cypris, all loved swains:

  Eunicè, loftier-bred, their kiss disdains.

  Henceforth, by hill or hall, thy love disown,

  Cypris, and sleep the livelong night alone.

  IDYLL XXI. The Fishermen.

  ASPHALION, A COMRADE.

  Want quickens wit: Want’s pupils needs must work,

  O Diophantus: for the child of toil

  Is grudged his very sleep by carking cares:

  Or, if he taste the blessedness of night,

  Thought for the morrow soon warns slumber off.

  Two ancient fishers once lay side by side

  On piled-up sea-wrack in their wattled hut,

  Its leafy wall their curtain. Near them lay

  The weapons of their trade, basket and rod,

  Hooks, weed-encumbered nets, and cords and oars,

  And, propped on rollers, an infirm old boat.

  Their pillow was a scanty mat, eked out

  With caps and garments: such the ways and means,

  Such the whole treasury of the fishermen.

  They knew no luxuries: owned nor door nor dog;

  Their craft their all, their mistress Poverty:

  Their only neighbour Ocean, who for aye

  Bound their lorn hut came floating lazily.

  Ere the moon’s chariot was in mid-career,

  The fishers girt them for their customed toil,

  And banished slumber from unwilling eyes,

  And roused their dreamy intellects with speech: —

  ASPHALION.

  “They say that soon flit summer-nights away,

  Because all lingering is the summer day:

  Friend, it is false; for dream on dream have I

  Dreamed, and the dawn still reddens not the sky.

  How? am I wandering? or does night pass slow?”

  HIS COMRADE.

  “Asphalion, scout not the sweet summer so.

  ’Tis not that wilful seasons have gone wrong,

  But care maims slumber, and the nights seem long.”

  ASPHALION.

  “Didst thou e’er study dreams? For visions fair

  I saw last night; and fairly thou should’st share

  The wealth I dream of, as the fish I catch.

  Now, for sheer sense, I reckon few thy match;

  And, for a vision, he whose motherwit

  Is his sole tutor best interprets it.

  And now we’ve time the matter to discuss:

  For who could labour, lying here (like us)

  Pillowed on leaves and neighboured by the deep,

  Or sleeping amid thorns no easy sleep?

  In rich men’s halls the lamps are burning yet;

  But fish come alway to the rich man’s net.”

  COMRADE.

  “To me the vision of the night relate;

  Speak, and reveal the riddle to thy mate.”

  ASPHALION.

  “Last evening, as I plied my watery trade,

  (Not on an o’erfull stomach — we had made

  Betimes a meagre meal, as you can vouch,)

  I fell asleep; and lo! I seemed to crouch

  Among the boulders, and for fish to wait,

  Still dangling, rod in hand, my vagrant bait.

  A fat fellow caught it: (e’en in sleep I’m bound

  To dream of fishing, as of crusts the hound:)

  Fast clung he to the hooks; his blood outwelled;

  Bent with his struggling was the rod I held:

  I tugged and tugged: my efforts made me ache:

  ‘How, with a line thus slight, this monster take?’

  Then gently, just to warn him he was caught,

  I twitched him once; then slacked and then made taut

  My line, for now he offered not to ran;

  A glance soon showed me all my task was done.

  ’Twas a gold fish, pure metal every inch

  That I had captured. I began to flinch:

  ‘What if this beauty be the sea-king’s joy,

  Or azure Amphitritè’s treasured toy!’

  With care I disengaged him — not to rip

  With hasty hook the gilding from his lip:

  And with a tow-line landed him, and swore

  Never to set my foot on ocean more,

  But with my gold live royally ashore.

  So I awoke: and, comrade, lend me now

  Thy wits, for I am troubled for my vow.”

  COMRADE.

  “Ne’er quake: you’re pledged to nothing, for no prize

  You gained or gazed on. Dreams are nought but lies.

  Yet may this dream bear fruit; if, wide-awake

  And not in dreams, you’ll fish the neighbouring lake.

  Fish that are meat you’ll there mayhap behold,

  Not die of famine, amid dreams of gold.”

  IDYLL XXII. The Sons of Leda

  The pair I sing, that Ægis-armèd Zeus

  Gave unto Leda; Castor and the dread

  Of bruisers Polydeuces, whensoe’er

  His harnessed hands were lifted for the fray.

  Twice and again I sing the manly sons

  Of Leda, those Twin Brethren, Sparta’s own:

  Who shield the soldier on the deadly scarp,

  The horse wild-plunging o’er the crimson field,

  The ship that, disregarding in her pride

  Star-set and star-rise, meets disastrous gales: —

  Such g
ales as pile the billows mountain-high,

  E’en at their own wild will, round stem or stern:

  Dash o’er the hold, the timbers rive in twain,

  Till mast and tackle dangle in mid-air

  Shivered like toys, and, as the night wears on,

  The rain of heaven falls fast, and, lashed by wind

  And iron hail, broad ocean rings again.

  Then can they draw from out the nether abyss

  Both craft and crew, each deeming he must die:

  Lo the winds cease, and o’er the burnished deep

  Comes stillness; this way flee the clouds and that;

  And shine out clear the Great Bear and the Less,

  And, ‘twixt the Asses dimly seen, the Crib

  Foretells fair voyage to the mariner.

  O saviours, O companions of mankind,

  Matchless on horse or harp, in lists or lay;

  Which of ye twain demands my earliest song?

  Of both I sing; of Polydeuces first.

  Argo, escaped the two inrushing rocks,

  And snow-clad Pontus with his baleful jaws,

  Came to Bebrycia with her heaven-sprung freight;

  There by one ladder disembarked a host

  Of Heroes from the decks of Jason’s ship.

  On the low beach, to leeward of the cliff,

  They leapt, and piled their beds, and lit their fires:

  Castor meanwhile, the bridler of the steed,

  And Polydeuces of the nut-brown face,

  Had wandered from their mates; and, wildered both,

  Searched through the boskage of the hill, and found

  Hard by a slab of rock a bubbling spring

  Brimful of purest water. In the depths

  Below, like crystal or like silver gleamed

  The pebbles: high above it pine and plane

  And poplar rose, and cypress tipt with green;

  With all rich flowers that throng the mead, when wanes

  The Spring, sweet workshops of the furry bee.

  There sat and sunned him one of giant bulk

  And grisly mien: hard knocks had stov’n his ears:

  Broad were his shoulders, vast his orbèd chest;

  Like a wrought statue rose his iron frame:

  And nigh the shoulder on each brawny arm

  Stood out the muscles, huge as rolling stones

  Caught by some rain-swoln river and shapen smooth

  By its wild eddyings: and o’er nape and spine

  Hung, balanced by the claws, a lion’s skin.

  Him Leda’s conquering son accosted first: —

  POLYDEUCES.

  Luck to thee, friend unknown! Who own this shore?

  AMYCUS.

  Luck, quotha, to see men ne’er seen before!

  POLYDEUCES.

  Fear not, no base or base-born herd are we.

  AMYCUS.

  Nothing I fear, nor need learn this from thee.

  POLYDEUCES.

  What art thou? brutish churl, or o’erproud king?

  AMYCUS.

  E’en what thou see’st: and I am not trespassing.

  POLYDEUCES.

  Visit our land, take gifts from us, and go.

  AMYCUS.

  I seek naught from thee and can naught bestow.

  POLYDEUCES.

  Not e’en such grace as from yon spring to sip?

  AMYCUS.

  Try, if parched thirst sits languid on thy lip.

  POLYDEUCES.

  Can silver move thee? or if not, what can?

  AMYCUS.

  Stand up and fight me singly, man with man.

  POLYDEUCES.

  With fists? or fist and foot, eye covering eye?

  AMYCUS.

  Fall to with fists; and all thy cunning try.

  POLYDEUCES.

  This arm, these gauntlets, who shall dare withstand?

  AMYCUS.

  I: and “the Bruiser” lifts no woman’s-hand.

  POLYDEUCES.

  Wilt thou, to crown our strife, some meed assign?

  AMYCUS.

  Thou shalt be called my master, or I thine.

  POLYDEUCES.

  By crimson-crested cocks such games are won.

  AMYCUS.

  Lions or cocks, we’ll play this game or none.

  He spoke, and clutched a hollow shell, and blew

  His clarion. Straightway to the shadowy pine

  Clustering they came, as loud it pealed and long,

  Bebrycia’s bearded sons; and Castor too,

  The peerless in the lists, went forth and called

  From the Magnesian ship the Heroes all.

  Then either warrior armed with coils of hide

  His hands, and round his limbs bound ponderous bands,

  And, breathing bloodshed, stept into the ring.

  First there was much manoeuvring, who should catch

  The sunlight on his rear: but thou didst foil,

  O Polydeuces, valour by address;

  And full on Amycus’ face the hot noon smote.

  He in hot wrath strode forward, threatening war;

  Straightway the Tyndarid smote him, as he closed,

  Full on the chin: more furious waxed he still,

  And, earthward bent, dealt blindly random blows.

  Bebrycia shouted loud, the Greeks too cheered

  Their champion: fearing lest in that scant space

  This Tityus by sheer weight should bear him down.

  But, shifting yet still there, the son of Zeus

  Scored him with swift exchange of left and right,

  And checked the onrush of the sea-god’s child

  Parlous albeit: till, reeling with his wounds,

  He stood, and from his lips spat crimson blood.

  Cheered yet again the princes, when they saw

  The lips and jowl all seamed with piteous scars,

  And the swoln visage and the half-closed eyes.

  Still the prince teased him, feinting here or there

  A thrust; and when he saw him helpless all,

  Let drive beneath his eyelids at his nose,

  And laid it bare to the bone. The stricken man

  Measured his length supine amid the fern.

  Keen was the fighting when he rose again,

  Deadly the blows their sturdy gauntlets dealt.

  But while Bebrycia’s chieftain sparred round chest

  And utmost shoulder, the resistless foe

  Made his whole face one mass of hideous wounds.

  While the one sweated all his bulk away,

  And, late a giant, seemed a pigmy now,

  The other’s limbs waxed ever as he fought

  In semblance and in size. But in what wise

  The child of Zeus brought low that man of greed,

  Tell, Muse, for thine is knowledge: I unfold

  A secret not mine own; at thy behest

  Speak or am dumb, nor speak but as thou wilt.

  Amycus, athirst to do some doughty deed,

  Stooping aslant from Polydeuces’ lunge

  Locked their left hands; and, stepping out, upheaved

  From his right hip his ponderous other-arm.

  And hit and harmed had been Amyclæ’s king;

  But, ducking low, he smote with one stout fist

  The foe’s left temple — fast the life-blood streamed

  From the grim rift — and on his shoulder fell.

  While with his left he reached the mouth, and made

  The set teeth tingle; and, redoubling aye

  His plashing blows, made havoc of his face

  And crashed into his cheeks, till all abroad

  He lay, and throwing up his arms disclaimed

  The strife, for he was even at death’s door.

  No wrong the vanquished suffered at thy hands,

  O Polydeuces; but he sware an oath,

  Calling his sire Poseidon from the depths,

  Ne’er to do violence to a stranger m
ore.

  Thy tale, O prince, is told. Now sing I thee,

  Castor the Tyndarid, lord of rushing horse

  And shaking javelin, corsleted in brass.

  PART II.

  The sons of Zeus had borne two maids away,

  Leucippus’ daughters. Straight in hot pursuit

  Went the two brethren, sons of Aphareus,

  Lynceus and Idas bold, their plighted lords.

  And when the tomb of Aphareus was gained,

  All leapt from out their cars, and front to front

  Stood, with their ponderous spears and orbed shields.

  First Lynceus shouted loud from ‘neath his helm:

  “Whence, sirs, this lust for strife? Why, sword in hand,

  Raise ye this coil about your neighbours’ wives?

  To us Leucippus these his daughters gave,

  Long ere ye saw them: they are ours on oath.

  Ye, coveting (to your shame) your neighbour’s bed

  And kine and asses and whatever is his,

  Suborned the man and stole our wives by bribes.

  How often spake I thus before your face,

  Yea I myself, though scant I am of phrase:

  ‘Not thus, fair sirs, do honourable men

  Seek to woo wives whose troth is given elsewhere.

  Lo, broad is Sparta, broad the hunting-grounds

  Of Elis: fleecy Arcady is broad,

  And Argos and Messene and the towns

  To westward, and the long Sisyphian reach.

  There ‘neath her parents’ roof dwells many a maid

  Second to none in godliness or wit:

  Wed of all these, and welcome, whom ye will,

  For all men court the kinship of the brave;

  And ye are as your sires, and they whose blood

  Runs in your mother’s veins, the flower of war.

  Nay, sirs, but let us bring this thing to pass;

  Then, taking counsel, choose meet brides for you.’

  So I ran on; but o’er the shifting seas

  The wind’s breath blew my words, that found no grace

  With you, for ye defied the charmer’s voice.

  Yet listen to me now if ne’er before:

  Lo! we are kinsmen by the father’s side.

  But if ye lust for war, if strife must break

  Forth among kin, and bloodshed quench our feud,

  Bold Polydeuces then shall hold his hands

  And his cousin Idas from the abhorrèd fray:

  While I and Castor, the two younger-born,

  Try war’s arbitrament; so spare our sires

  Sorrow exceeding. In one house one dead

  Sufficeth: let the others glad their mates,

  To the bride-chamber passing, not the grave,

  And o’er yon maids sing jubilee. Well it were

  At cost so small to lay so huge a strife.”