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?

PRAXINOa.

Persephone! 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 att.i.tudinizing now.

_Song_.

Queen, who lov'st Golgi and the Sicel hill And Ida; Aphrodite 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 Berenice's dust immortalize.

O called by many names, at many a shrine!

For thy sweet sake doth Berenice'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 b.u.t.terfly; 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 Aphrodite 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 own: all bliss be hers!

And him at dewy dawn we'll troop to bear Down where the breakers hiss against the sh.o.r.e: 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 compa.s.s 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 Lapithae, 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, Praxinoa! 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: Va.s.sals 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 G.o.ds bid altar-fires ascend.

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 h.e.l.l 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 Scopadae's byres in endless line The calves ran lowing with the horned kine; And, marshalled by the good Creondae'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 Cean 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 h.e.l.l Alive, and 'scaped the giant's hideous cell-- Had lived and died: Eumaeus and his swine; Philoetius, busy with his herded kine; And great Laertes' self, had pa.s.sed 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 sh.o.r.eward: 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 helmed brow.

O Zeus, the sire most glorious; and O thou, Empress Athene; 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 leaf.a.ge) 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 Minyae'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 G.o.ds, 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 compa.s.s n.o.blest 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 blessed G.o.ds; 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 Hebe's bower of bliss Convoy the bearded warrior and his arms.

Then how among wise ladies--blest the pair That reared her!--peerless Berenice shone!

Dione's sacred child, the Cyprian queen, O'er that sweet bosom pa.s.sed 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.