Th' Achæans got to Troy, there's no denying;
All things are done, as they did that—by trying.
The old dame spoke oracles.
Know all things-e'en how Zeus espoused his Juno.
Praxinoa! what a crowd about the gates!
Immense! your hand; and, Eunoa, hold your mate's;
Do you keep close, I say, to Eutychis,
And close to us, for fear the way you miss.
Let us, together all, the entrance gain :
Ah me! my summer-cloak is rent in twain.
Pray, spare my cloak, heaven bless you, gentleman!
'Tis not with me-I will do what I can.
The crowd, like pigs, are thrusting.
And for your friendly part,
This year and ever be it well with you !
A kind and tender man as e'er I knew.
See how our Eunoa is prest-push through-
Well done! all in-as the gay bridegroom cried,
And turned the key upon himself and bride.
What rich, rare tapestry! Look, and you'll swear The fingers of the goddesses were here.
August Athene! who such work could do?
Who spun the tissue, who the figures drew?
How life-like are they, and they seem to move!
True living shapes they are, and not inwove!
How wise is man! and there he lies outspread
In all his beauty on his silver bed,
Thrice-loved Adonis ! in his youth's fresh glow,
Loved even where the rueful stream doth flow.
A STRANGER.
Cease ye like turtles idly thus to babble:
They'll torture all of us with brogue and gabble.
Who's you ? what's it to you our tongues we use?
Rule your own roost, not dames of Syracuse.
And this too know we were in times foregone
Corinthians, sir, as was Bellerophon.
We speak the good old Greek of Pelop's isle :
Dorians, I guess, may Dorian talk the while.
Nymph! grant we be at none but one man's pleasure; A rush for you-don't wipe my empty measure.
Praxinoa, hush! behold the Argive's daughter,
The girl who sings as though the Muses taught her,
That won the prize for singing Sperchis' ditty,
Prepares to chaunt Adonis; something pretty
I'm sure she'll sing with motion, voice, and eye,
She now preludes-how sweetly, gracefully!
Of Eryx, Golgos, and Idalia, Queen!
My mistress, sporting in thy golden sheen,
Bright Aphrodite! as the month comes on
Of every year, from dureful Acheron
What an Adonis-from the gloomy shore
The tender-footed Hours to thee restore !
Hours, slowest of the Blest! yet ever dear,
That wished-for come, and still some blessing bear.
Cypris! Dione's daughter! thou through portal
Of death, 'tis said, hast mortal made immortal,
Sweet Berenice, dropping, ever blest!
Ambrosial dew into her lovely breast.
Wherefore her daughter, Helen-like in beauty,
Arsinöe thy love repays with duty;
For thine Adonis fairest show ordains,
Bright Queen, of many names and many fanes !
All seasonable fruits; in silver cases
His gardens sweet; and alabaster vases
Of Syrian perfumes near his couch are laid;
Cakes, which with flowers and wheat the women made;
The shapes of all that creep, or take the wing,
With oil or honey wrought, they hither bring;
Here are green shades, with anise shaded more ;
And the young Loves him ever hover o'er,
As the young nightingales, from branch to branch,
Hover and try their wings, before they launch
Themselves in the broad Air. But, O! the sight
Of gold and ebony! of ivory white
Behold the pair of eagles! up they move
With his cup-bearer for Saturnian Jove.
And see yon couch with softest purple spread,
Softer than sleep, the Samian born and bred
Will own, and e'en Miletus: that pavilion
Queen Cypris has the nearer one her minion,
The rosy-armed Adonis; whose youth bears
The bloom of eighteen or of nineteen years;
Nor pricks the kiss-the red lip of the boy;
Having her spouse, let Cypris now enjoy.
Him will we, ere the dew of dawn is o'er,
Bear to the waves that foam upon the shore;
Then with bare bosoms and dishevelled hair,
Begin to chant the wild and mournful air.
Of all the demigods, they say, but one
Duly revisits Earth and Acheron-
Thou, dear Adonis ! Agamemnon's might,
Nor Aias, raging like one mad in fight;
Nor true Patroclus; nor his mother's boast,
Hector, of twenty sons famed, honoured most;
Nor Pyrrhus, victor from the Trojan siege-
Not one of them enjoyed this privilege;
Nor the Deucalions; nor Lapithæ ;
Argive Pelasgi; nor Pelopidæ.
Now, dear Adonis, fill thyself with glee,
And still returning, still propitious be.
Praxinoa, did ever mortal ear
A sweeter song from sweeter minstrel hear?
O happy girl! to know so many things-
Thrice happy girl, that so divinely sings!
But now 'tis time for home: let us be hasting;
My man's mere vinegar, and most when fasting:
Nor has he broken yet his fast to-day;
When he's a-hungered, come not in his way.
Farewell, beloved Adonis! joy to see!
When come, well come to those who welcome thee.
Jove's daughters hymn the gods; and bards rehearse
The deeds of worthies in their glowing verse.
The heaven-born Muses hymn the heavenly ring;
Of mortals, then, let mortal poets sing.
Yet who-as many as there be that live
Under the grey dawn, will a welcome give
To our sweet Graces, or the door-latch lift,
Or will not send them off without a gift?
Barefoot, with wrinkled brows, and mien deject,
They chide me for the way of chill neglect ;
Though loath, into their empty chest they drop,
And on cold knees their heavy heads they prop;
And dry their seat is, when no good they earn,
But from a fruitless journey back return.
What living man the poet will repay
With generous love for his ennobling lay?
I know not: men no longer, as before,
Would live for good deeds in poetic lore;
But are o'ercome by detestable gain ;
Close-fisted, every one doth fast retain
His money, thinking how to make it grow,
Nor freely would the smallest mite bestow;
But says:
"the knee is nearer than the shin;
Some good be mine! from gods bards honour win.
But who will hear another? one will do-
Homer, best poet, and the cheapest too
He costs me nothing." Fools! what boots the gold
Hid within doors in heaps cannot be told?
Not so the truly wise their wealth employ :
With some 'tis fit one's natural man to joy ;
Some to the bard should freely be assigned,
To kin-and many others of mankind.
The gods their offerings; guests should have their dues,
Welcome to come and go whene'er they choose.
But most of all the generous mind prefers
The Muses' consecrate interpreters.
So may you live to fame, when life is done,
Nor mourn inglorious at cold Acheron,
Like one from birth to poverty betrayed,
Whose palms are horny from the painful spade.
To many a serf Antiochus the great,
To many king Aleuas in his state,
Measured the monthly dole. Much kine to see
Lowed at the full stalls of the Scopadæ.
Innumerous flocks to some cool green retreat
The shepherds drove, to screen them from the heat,
O'er Cranon's plain-choice flocks in choicest place,
The wealth of Creon's hospitable race.
No pleasure had been theirs these things about,
When once their sweet souls they had emptied out
Into the broad raft of drear Acheron;
But they, sad with the thoughts of life foregone,
Had lain-their treasures left and memory hid-
Long ages
lain the wretched dead amid,
Had not the glorious Ceian breathed the fire
Of his quick spirit to the stringed lyre,
And would not let them altogether die,
But made them famous to posterity:
And e'en their swift-foot steeds obtained renown,
Which in the sacred race-course won the crown.
Who would have known the noble Lycian pair-
The sons of Priam with their pomp of hair-
Or Cycnus, as a woman fair to ken,
Had no bard sung the wars of former men?
Nor that Odysseus, who went wandering round,
Twice sixty moons, wherever man is found,
And, while alive, to farthest Hades sped,
And from the cavern of the Cyclops fled,
Had been aye famed; the keeper of the swine,
Eumæus, and the man the herded kine
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