The Two Workmen.

_MILO. BATTUS._

What now, poor o'erworked drudge, is on thy mind?

No more in even swathe thou layest the corn: Thy fellow-reapers leave thee far behind, As flocks a ewe that's footsore from a thorn.

By noon and midday what will be thy plight If now, so soon, thy sickle fails to bite?

BATTUS.

Hewn from hard rocks, untired at set of sun, Milo, didst ne'er regret some absent one?

MILO.

Not I. What time have workers for regret?

BATTUS.

Hath love ne'er kept thee from thy slumbers yet?

MILO.

Nay, heaven forbid! If once the cat taste cream!

BATTUS.

Milo, these ten days love hath been my dream.

MILO.

You drain your wine, while vinegar's scarce with me.

BATTUS.

--Hence since last spring untrimmed my borders be.

MILO.

And what la.s.s flouts thee?

BATTUS.

She whom we heard play Amongst Hippoc.o.o.n's reapers yesterday.

MILO.

Your sins have found you out--you're e'en served right: You'll clasp a corn-crake in your arms all night.

BATTUS.

You laugh: but headstrong Love is blind no less Than Plutus: talking big is foolishness.

MILO.

I talk not big. But lay the corn-ears low And trill the while some love-song--easier so Will seem your toil: you used to sing, I know.

BATTUS.

Maids of Pieria, of my slim la.s.s sing!

One touch of yours enn.o.bles everything.

[_Sings_]

Fairy Bombyca! thee do men report Lean, dusk, a gipsy: I alone nut-brown.

Violets and pencilled hyacinths are swart, Yet first of flowers they're chosen for a crown.

As goats pursue the clover, wolves the goat, And cranes the ploughman, upon thee I dote.

Had I but Croesus' wealth, we twain should stand Gold-sculptured in Love's temple; thou, thy lyre (Ay or a rose or apple) in thy hand, I in my brave new shoon and dance-attire.

Fairy Bombyca! twinkling dice thy feet, Poppies thy lips, thy ways none knows how sweet!

MILO.

Who dreamed what subtle strains our b.u.mpkin wrought?

How shone the artist in each measured verse!

Fie on the beard that I have grown for naught!

Mark, lad, these lines by glorious Lytierse.

[_Sings_]

O rich in fruit and cornblade: be this field Tilled well, Demeter, and fair fruitage yield!

Bind the sheaves, reapers: lest one, pa.s.sing, say-- 'A fig for these, they're never worth their pay.'

Let the mown swathes look northward, ye who mow, Or westward--for the ears grow fattest so.

Avoid a noontide nap, ye threshing men: The chaff flies thickest from the corn-ears then.

Wake when the lark wakes; when he slumbers, close Your work, ye reapers: and at noontide doze.

Boys, the frogs' life for me! They need not him Who fills the flagon, for in drink they swim.

Better boil herbs, thou toiler after gain, Than, splitting c.u.mmin, split thy hand in twain.

Strains such as these, I trow, befit them well Who toil and moil when noon is at its height: Thy meagre love-tale, b.u.mpkin, though shouldst tell Thy grandam as she wakes up ere 'tis light.

IDYLL XI.

The Giant's Wooing

Methinks all nature hath no cure for Love, Plaster or unguent, Nicias, saving one; And this is light and pleasant to a man, Yet hard withal to compa.s.s--minstrelsy.

As well thou wottest, being thyself a leech, And a prime favourite of those Sisters nine.

'Twas thus our Giant lived a life of ease, Old Polyphemus, when, the down scarce seen On lip and chin, he wooed his ocean nymph: No curlypated rose-and-apple wooer, But a fell madman, blind to all but love.

Oft from the green gra.s.s foldward fared his sheep Unbid: while he upon the windy beach, Singing his Galatea, sat and pined From dawn to dusk, an ulcer at his heart: Great Aphrodite's shaft had fixed it there.

Yet found he that one cure: he sate him down On the tall cliff, and seaward looked, and sang:--

"White Galatea, why disdain thy love?

White as a pressed cheese, delicate as the lamb, Wild as the heifer, soft as summer grapes!

If sweet sleep chain me, here thou walk'st at large; If sweet sleep loose me, straightway thou art gone, Scared like a sheep that sees the grey wolf near.