LINES: ‘WE MEET NOT AS WE PARTED’.

[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]

1.

We meet not as we parted,

We feel more than all may see;

My bosom is heavy-hearted,

And thine full of doubt for me:—

One moment has bound the free. _5

2.

That moment is gone for ever,

Like lightning that flashed and died—

Like a snowflake upon the river—

Like a sunbeam upon the tide,

Which the dark shadows hide. _10

3.

That moment from time was singled

As the first of a life of pain;

The cup of its joy was mingled

—Delusion too sweet though vain!

Too sweet to be mine again. _15

4.

Sweet lips, could my heart have hidden

That its life was crushed by you,

Ye would not have then forbidden

The death which a heart so true

Sought in your briny dew. _20

5.

...

...

...

Methinks too little cost

For a moment so found, so lost! _25

***

THE ISLE.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]

There was a little lawny islet

By anemone and violet,

Like mosaic, paven:

And its roof was flowers and leaves

Which the summer’s breath enweaves, _5

Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze

Pierce the pines and tallest trees,

Each a gem engraven;—

Girt by many an azure wave

With which the clouds and mountains pave _10

A lake’s blue chasm.

***

FRAGMENT: TO THE MOON.

[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]

Bright wanderer, fair coquette of Heaven,

To whom alone it has been given

To change and be adored for ever,

Envy not this dim world, for never

But once within its shadow grew _5

One fair as—

***

EPITAPH.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]

These are two friends whose lives were undivided;

So let their memory be, now they have glided

Under the grave; let not their bones be parted,

For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.

***

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1822, BY MRS. SHELLEY.

This morn thy gallant bark

Sailed on a sunny sea:

’Tis noon, and tempests dark

Have wrecked it on the lee.

Ah woe! ah woe!

By Spirits of the deep

Thou’rt cradled on the billow

To thy eternal sleep.

Thou sleep’st upon the shore

Beside the knelling surge,

And Sea-nymphs evermore

Shall sadly chant thy dirge.

They come, they come,

The Spirits of the deep,—

While near thy seaweed pillow

My lonely watch I keep.

From far across the sea

I hear a loud lament,

By Echo’s voice for thee

From Ocean’s caverns sent.

O list! O list!

The Spirits of the deep!

They raise a wail of sorrow,

While I forever weep.

With this last year of the life of Shelley these Notes end. They are

not what I intended them to be. I began with energy, and a burning

desire to impart to the world, in worthy language, the sense I have of

the virtues and genius of the beloved and the lost; my strength has

failed under the task. Recurrence to the past, full of its own deep and

unforgotten joys and sorrows, contrasted with succeeding years of

painful and solitary struggle, has shaken my health. Days of great

suffering have followed my attempts to write, and these again produced

a weakness and languor that spread their sinister influence over these

notes. I dislike speaking of myself, but cannot help apologizing to the

dead, and to the public, for not having executed in the manner I

desired the history I engaged to give of Shelley’s writings. (I at one

time feared that the correction of the press might be less exact

through my illness; but I believe that it is nearly free from error.

Some asterisks occur in a few pages, as they did in the volume of

“Posthumous Poems”, either because they refer to private concerns, or

because the original manuscript was left imperfect. Did any one see the

papers from which I drew that volume, the wonder would be how any eyes

or patience were capable of extracting it from so confused a mass,

interlined and broken into fragments, so that the sense could only be

deciphered and joined by guesses which might seem rather intuitive than

founded on reasoning. Yet I believe no mistake was made.)

The winter of 1822 was passed in Pisa, if we might call that season

winter in which autumn merged into spring after the interval of but few

days of bleaker weather. Spring sprang up early, and with extreme

beauty. Shelley had conceived the idea of writing a tragedy on the

subject of Charles I. It was one that he believed adapted for a drama;

full of intense interest, contrasted character, and busy passion. He

had recommended it long before, when he encouraged me to attempt a

play. Whether the subject proved more difficult than he anticipated, or

whether in fact he could not bend his mind away from the broodings and

wanderings of thought, divested from human interest, which he best

loved, I cannot tell; but he proceeded slowly, and threw it aside for

one of the most mystical of his poems, the “Triumph of Life”, on which

he was employed at the last.

His passion for boating was fostered at this time by having among our

friends several sailors. His favourite companion, Edward Ellerker

Williams, of the 8th Light Dragoons, had begun his life in the navy,

and had afterwards entered the army; he had spent several years in

India, and his love for adventure and manly exercises accorded with

Shelley’s taste. It was their favourite plan to build a boat such as

they could manage themselves, and, living on the sea-coast, to enjoy at

every hour and season the pleasure they loved best. Captain Roberts,

R.N., undertook to build the boat at Genoa, where he was also occupied

in building the “Bolivar” for Lord Byron. Ours was to be an open boat,

on a model taken from one of the royal dockyards. I have since heard

that there was a defect in this model, and that it was never seaworthy.

In the month of February, Shelley and his friend went to Spezia to seek

for houses for us. Only one was to be found at all suitable; however, a

trifle such as not finding a house could not stop Shelley; the one

found was to serve for all. It was unfurnished; we sent our furniture

by sea, and with a good deal of precipitation, arising from his

impatience, made our removal. We left Pisa on the 26th of April.

The Bay of Spezia is of considerable extent, and divided by a rocky

promontory into a larger and smaller one. The town of Lerici is

situated on the eastern point, and in the depth of the smaller bay,

which bears the name of this town, is the village of San Terenzo. Our

house, Casa Magni, was close to this village; the sea came up to the

door, a steep hill sheltered it behind. The proprietor of the estate on

which it was situated was insane; he had begun to erect a large house

at the summit of the hill behind, but his malady prevented its being

finished, and it was falling into ruin. He had (and this to the

Italians had seemed a glaring symptom of very decided madness) rooted

up the olives on the hillside, and planted forest trees. These were

mostly young, but the plantation was more in English taste than I ever

elsewhere saw in Italy; some fine walnut and ilex trees intermingled

their dark massy foliage, and formed groups which still haunt my

memory, as then they satiated the eye with a sense of loveliness. The

scene was indeed of unimaginable beauty. The blue extent of waters, the

almost landlocked bay, the near castle of Lerici shutting it in to the

east, and distant Porto Venere to the west; the varied forms of the

precipitous rocks that bound in the beach, over which there was only a

winding rugged footpath towards Lerici, and none on the other side; the

tideless sea leaving no sands nor shingle, formed a picture such as one

sees in Salvator Rosa’s landscapes only. Sometimes the sunshine

vanished when the sirocco raged—the ‘ponente’ the wind was called on

that shore. The gales and squalls that hailed our first arrival

surrounded the bay with foam; the howling wind swept round our exposed

house, and the sea roared unremittingly, so that we almost fancied

ourselves on board ship. At other times sunshine and calm invested sea

and sky, and the rich tints of Italian heaven bathed the scene in

bright and ever-varying tints.

The natives were wilder than the place. Our near neighbours of San

Terenzo were more like savages than any people I ever before lived

among. Many a night they passed on the beach, singing, or rather

howling; the women dancing about among the waves that broke at their

feet, the men leaning against the rocks and joining in their loud wild

chorus. We could get no provisions nearer than Sarzana, at a distance

of three miles and a half off, with the torrent of the Magra between;

and even there the supply was very deficient. Had we been wrecked on an

island of the South Seas, we could scarcely have felt ourselves farther

from civilisation and comfort; but, where the sun shines, the latter

becomes an unnecessary luxury, and we had enough society among

ourselves. Yet I confess housekeeping became rather a toilsome task,

especially as I was suffering in my health, and could not exert myself

actively.

At first the fatal boat had not arrived, and was expected with great

impatience. On Monday, 12th May, it came. Williams records the

long-wished-for fact in his journal: ‘Cloudy and threatening weather.

M. Maglian called; and after dinner, and while walking with him on the

terrace, we discovered a strange sail coming round the point of Porto

Venere, which proved at length to be Shelley’s boat. She had left Genoa

on Thursday last, but had been driven back by the prevailing bad winds.

A Mr. Heslop and two English seamen brought her round, and they speak

most highly of her performances. She does indeed excite my surprise and

admiration. Shelley and I walked to Lerici, and made a stretch off the

land to try her: and I find she fetches whatever she looks at. In

short, we have now a perfect plaything for the summer.’—It was thus

that short-sighted mortals welcomed Death, he having disguised his grim

form in a pleasing mask! The time of the friends was now spent on the

sea; the weather became fine, and our whole party often passed the

evenings on the water when the wind promised pleasant sailing. Shelley

and Williams made longer excursions; they sailed several times to

Massa. They had engaged one of the seamen who brought her round, a boy,

by name Charles Vivian; and they had not the slightest apprehension of

danger. When the weather was unfavourable, they employed themselves

with alterations in the rigging, and by building a boat of canvas and

reeds, as light as possible, to have on board the other for the

convenience of landing in waters too shallow for the larger vessel.

When Shelley was on board, he had his papers with him; and much of the

“Triumph of Life” was written as he sailed or weltered on that sea

which was soon to engulf him.

The heats set in in the middle of June; the days became excessively

hot. But the sea-breeze cooled the air at noon, and extreme heat always

put Shelley in spirits. A long drought had preceded the heat; and

prayers for rain were being put up in the churches, and processions of

relics for the same effect took place in every town. At this time we

received letters announcing the arrival of Leigh Hunt at Genoa. Shelley

was very eager to see him. I was confined to my room by severe illness,

and could not move; it was agreed that Shelley and Williams should go

to Leghorn in the boat. Strange that no fear of danger crossed our

minds! Living on the sea-shore, the ocean became as a plaything: as a

child may sport with a lighted stick, till a spark inflames a forest,

and spreads destruction over all, so did we fearlessly and blindly

tamper with danger, and make a game of the terrors of the ocean. Our

Italian neighbours, even, trusted themselves as far as Massa in the

skiff; and the running down the line of coast to Leghorn gave no more

notion of peril than a fair-weather inland navigation would have done

to those who had never seen the sea. Once, some months before, Trelawny

had raised a warning voice as to the difference of our calm bay and the

open sea beyond; but Shelley and his friend, with their one sailor-boy,

thought themselves a match for the storms of the Mediterranean, in a

boat which they looked upon as equal to all it was put to do.

On the 1st of July they left us. If ever shadow of future ill darkened

the present hour, such was over my mind when they went. During the

whole of our stay at Lerici, an intense presentiment of coming evil

brooded over my mind, and covered this beautiful place and genial

summer with the shadow of coming misery. I had vainly struggled with

these emotions—they seemed accounted for by my illness; but at this

hour of separation they recurred with renewed violence. I did not

anticipate danger for them, but a vague expectation of evil shook me to

agony, and I could scarcely bring myself to let them go. The day was

calm and clear; and, a fine breeze rising at twelve, they weighed for

Leghorn. They made the run of about fifty miles in seven hours and a

half. The “Bolivar” was in port; and, the regulations of the

Health-office not permitting them to go on shore after sunset, they

borrowed cushions from the larger vessel, and slept on board their

boat.

They spent a week at Pisa and Leghorn. The want of rain was severely

felt in the country. The weather continued sultry and fine. I have

heard that Shelley all this time was in brilliant spirits. Not long

before, talking of presentiment, he had said the only one that he ever

found infallible was the certain advent of some evil fortune when he

felt peculiarly joyous. Yet, if ever fate whispered of coming disaster,

such inaudible but not unfelt prognostics hovered around us. The beauty

of the place seemed unearthly in its excess: the distance we were at

from all signs of civilization, the sea at our feet, its murmurs or its

roaring for ever in our ears,—all these things led the mind to brood

over strange thoughts, and, lifting it from everyday life, caused it to

be familiar with the unreal. A sort of spell surrounded us; and each

day, as the voyagers did not return, we grew restless and disquieted,

and yet, strange to say, we were not fearful of the most apparent

danger.

The spell snapped; it was all over; an interval of agonizing doubt—of

days passed in miserable journeys to gain tidings, of hopes that took

firmer root even as they were more baseless—was changed to the

certainty of the death that eclipsed all happiness for the survivors

for evermore.

There was something in our fate peculiarly harrowing. The remains of

those we lost were cast on shore; but, by the quarantine-laws of the

coast, we were not permitted to have possession of them—the law with

respect to everything cast on land by the sea being that such should be

burned, to prevent the possibility of any remnant bringing the plague

into Italy; and no representation could alter the law. At length,

through the kind and unwearied exertions of Mr. Dawkins, our Charge

d’Affaires at Florence, we gained permission to receive the ashes after

the bodies were consumed. Nothing could equal the zeal of Trelawny in

carrying our wishes into effect. He was indefatigable in his exertions,

and full of forethought and sagacity in his arrangements. It was a

fearful task; he stood before us at last, his hands scorched and

blistered by the flames of the funeral-pyre, and by touching the burnt

relics as he placed them in the receptacles prepared for the purpose.

And there, in compass of that small case, was gathered all that

remained on earth of him whose genius and virtue were a crown of glory

to the world—whose love had been the source of happiness, peace, and

good,—to be buried with him!

The concluding stanzas of the “Adonais” pointed out where the remains

ought to be deposited; in addition to which our beloved child lay

buried in the cemetery at Rome. Thither Shelley’s ashes were conveyed;

and they rest beneath one of the antique weed-grown towers that recur

at intervals in the circuit of the massy ancient wall of Rome. He

selected the hallowed place himself; there is

‘the sepulchre,

Oh, not of him, but of our joy!—

...

And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time

Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;

And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,

Pavilioning the dust of him who planned

This refuge for his memory, doth stand

Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath,

A field is spread, on which a newer band

Have pitched in Heaven’s smile their camp of death,

Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath.’

Could sorrow for the lost, and shuddering anguish at the vacancy left

behind, be soothed by poetic imaginations, there was something in

Shelley’s fate to mitigate pangs which yet, alas! could not be so

mitigated; for hard reality brings too miserably home to the mourner

all that is lost of happiness, all of lonely unsolaced struggle that

remains. Still, though dreams and hues of poetry cannot blunt grief, it

invests his fate with a sublime fitness, which those less nearly allied

may regard with complacency. A year before he had poured into verse all

such ideas about death as give it a glory of its own. He had, as it now

seems, almost anticipated his own destiny; and, when the mind figures

his skiff wrapped from sight by the thunder-storm, as it was last seen

upon the purple sea, and then, as the cloud of the tempest passed away,

no sign remained of where it had been (Captain Roberts watched the

vessel with his glass from the top of the lighthouse of Leghorn, on its

homeward track. They were off Via Reggio, at some distance from shore,

when a storm was driven over the sea. It enveloped them and several

larger vessels in darkness. When the cloud passed onwards, Roberts

looked again, and saw every other vessel sailing on the ocean except

their little schooner, which had vanished. From that time he could

scarcely doubt the fatal truth; yet we fancied that they might have

been driven towards Elba or Corsica, and so be saved. The observation

made as to the spot where the boat disappeared caused it to be found,

through the exertions of Trelawny for that effect. It had gone down in

ten fathom water; it had not capsized, and, except such things as had

floated from her, everything was found on board exactly as it had been

placed when they sailed. The boat itself was uninjured. Roberts

possessed himself of her, and decked her; but she proved not seaworthy,

and her shattered planks now lie rotting on the shore of one of the

Ionian islands, on which she was wrecked.)—who but will regard as a

prophecy the last stanza of the “Adonais”?

‘The breath whose might I have invoked in song

Descends on me; my spirit’s bark is driven,

Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng

Whose sails were never to the tempest given;

The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!

I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;

Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,

The soul of Adonais, like a star,

Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.’

Putney, May 1, 1839.

THE COMPLETE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

VOLUME 3

OXFORD EDITION.

INCLUDING MATERIALS NEVER BEFORE

PRINTED IN ANY EDITION OF THE POEMS.

EDITED WITH TEXTUAL NOTES

BY

THOMAS HUTCHINSON, M. A.

EDITOR OF THE OXFORD WORDSWORTH.

1914.

CONTENTS.

TRANSLATIONS.

HYMN TO MERCURY. TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER.

HOMER’S HYMN TO CASTOR AND POLLUX.

HOMER’S HYMN TO THE MOON.

HOMER’S HYMN TO THE SUN.

HOMER’S HYMN TO THE EARTH: MOTHER OF ALL.

HOMER’S HYMN TO MINERVA.

HOMER’S HYMN TO VENUS.

THE CYCLOPS: A SATYRIC DRAMA. TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES.

EPIGRAMS:

1. TO STELLA. FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.

2. KISSING HELENA. FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.

3. SPIRIT OF PLATO. FROM THE GREEK.

4. CIRCUMSTANCE. FROM THE GREEK.

FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ADONIS. FROM THE GREEK OF BION.

FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF BION. FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

PAN, ECHO, AND THE SATYR. FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

FROM VERGIL’S TENTH ECLOGUE.

THE SAME.

FROM VERGIL’S FOURTH GEORGIC.

SONNET. FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE.

THE FIRST CANZONE OF THE “CONVITO”. FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE.

MATILDA GATHERING FLOWERS. FROM THE “PURGATORIO” OF DANTE.

FRAGMENT. ADAPTED FROM THE “VITA NUOVA” OF DANTE.

UGOLINO. “INFERNO”, 33, 22-75, TRANSLATED BY MEDWIN AND CORRECTED BY SHELLEY.

SONNET. FROM THE ITALIAN OF CAVALCANTI.

SCENES FROM THE “MAGICO PRODIGIOSO”. FROM THE SPANISH OF CALDERON.

STANZAS FROM CALDERON’S “CISMA DE INGLETERRA”.

SCENES FROM THE “FAUST” OF GOETHE.

JUVENILIA.

QUEEN MAB. A PHILOSOPHICAL POEM.

TO HARRIET ******.

QUEEN MAB.

SHELLEY’S NOTES.

NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY.

VERSES ON A CAT.

FRAGMENT: OMENS.

EPITAPHIUM [LATIN VERSION OF THE EPITAPH IN GRAY’S “ELEGY”].

IN HOROLOGIUM.

A DIALOGUE.

TO THE MOONBEAM.

THE SOLITARY.

TO DEATH.

LOVE’S ROSE.

EYES: A FRAGMENT.

ORIGINAL POETRY BY VICTOR AND CAZIRE.

1. ‘HERE I SIT WITH MY PAPER, MY PEN AND MY INK’.

2. TO MISS — — [HARRIET GROVE] FROM MISS — — [ELIZABETH SHELLEY].

3. SONG: ‘COLD, COLD IS THE BLAST’.

4. SONG: ‘COME [HARRIET]! SWEET IS THE HOUR’.

5. SONG: DESPAIR.

6. SONG: SORROW.

7. SONG: HOPE.

8. SONG: TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.

9. SONG: TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

10. THE IRISHMAN’S SONG.

11. SONG: ‘FIERCE ROARS THE MIDNIGHT STORM’.

12. SONG: TO — [HARRIET].

13. SONG: TO — [HARRIET].

14. SAINT EDMOND’S EVE.

15. REVENGE.

16. GHASTA; OR, THE AVENGING DEMON.

17. FRAGMENT; OR, THE TRIUMPH OF CONSCIENCE.

POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE; OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN.

1. VICTORIA.

2. ‘ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA’.

3. SISTER ROSA. A BALLAD.

4. ST. IRVYNE’S TOWER.

5. BEREAVEMENT.

6. THE DROWNED LOVER.

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET NICHOLSON.

ADVERTISEMENT.

WAR.

FRAGMENT: SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF

FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

DESPAIR.

FRAGMENT.

THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN.

MELODY TO A SCENE OF FORMER TIMES.

STANZA FROM A TRANSLATION OF THE MARSEILLAISE HYMN.

BIGOTRY’S VICTIM.

ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG TO THE GRASS OF A GRAVE.

LOVE.

ON A FETE AT CARLTON HOUSE: FRAGMENT.

TO A STAR.

TO MARY, WHO DIED IN THIS OPINION.

A TALE OF SOCIETY AS IT IS: FROM FACTS, 1811.

TO THE REPUBLICANS OF NORTH AMERICA.

TO IRELAND.

ON ROBERT EMMET’S GRAVE.

THE RETROSPECT: CWM ELAN, 1812.

FRAGMENT OF A SONNET: TO HARRIET.

TO HARRIET.

SONNET: TO A BALLOON LADEN WITH KNOWLEDGE.

SONNET: ON LAUNCHING SOME BOTTLES FILLED WITH KNOWLEDGE INTO THE

BRISTOL CHANNEL.

THE DEVIL’S WALK.

FRAGMENT OF A SONNET: FAREWELL TO NORTH DEVON.

ON LEAVING LONDON FOR WALES.

THE WANDERING JEW’S SOLILOQUY.

EVENING: TO HARRIET.

TO IANTHE.

SONG FROM THE WANDERING JEW.

FRAGMENT FROM THE WANDERING JEW.

TO THE QUEEN OF MY HEART.

EDITOR’S NOTES.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OF EDITIONS.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

***

TRANSLATIONS.

[Of the Translations that follow a few were published by Shelley

himself, others by Mrs. Shelley in the “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, or the

“Poetical Works”, 1839, and the remainder by Medwin (1834, 1847),

Garnett (1862), Rossetti (1870), Forman (1876) and Locock (1903) from

the manuscript originals. Shelley’s “Translations” fall between the

years 1818 and 1822.]

HYMN TO MERCURY.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824. This alone of the

“Translations” is included in the Harvard manuscript book. ‘Fragments of

the drafts of this and the other Hymns of Homer exist among the Boscombe

manuscripts’ (Forman).]

1.

Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove,

The Herald-child, king of Arcadia

And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love

Having been interwoven, modest May

Bore Heaven’s dread Supreme. An antique grove _5

Shadowed the cavern where the lovers lay

In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men,

And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then.

2.

Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling,

And Heaven’s tenth moon chronicled her relief, _10

She gave to light a babe all babes excelling,

A schemer subtle beyond all belief;

A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing,

A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief,

Who ‘mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve, _15

And other glorious actions to achieve.

3.

The babe was born at the first peep of day;

He began playing on the lyre at noon,

And the same evening did he steal away

Apollo’s herds;—the fourth day of the moon _20

On which him bore the venerable May,

From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon,

Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep,

But out to seek Apollo’s herds would creep.

4.

Out of the lofty cavern wandering _25

He found a tortoise, and cried out—‘A treasure!’

(For Mercury first made the tortoise sing)

The beast before the portal at his leisure

The flowery herbage was depasturing,

Moving his feet in a deliberate measure _30

Over the turf. Jove’s profitable son

Eying him laughed, and laughing thus begun:—

5.

‘A useful godsend are you to me now,

King of the dance, companion of the feast,

Lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you _35

Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain-beast,

Got you that speckled shell? Thus much I know,

You must come home with me and be my guest;

You will give joy to me, and I will do

All that is in my power to honour you. _40

6.

‘Better to be at home than out of door,

So come with me; and though it has been said

That you alive defend from magic power,

I know you will sing sweetly when you’re dead.’

Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore, _45

Lifting it from the grass on which it fed

And grasping it in his delighted hold,

His treasured prize into the cavern old.

7.

Then scooping with a chisel of gray steel,

He bored the life and soul out of the beast.— _50

Not swifter a swift thought of woe or weal

Darts through the tumult of a human breast

Which thronging cares annoy—not swifter wheel

The flashes of its torture and unrest

Out of the dizzy eyes—than Maia’s son _55

All that he did devise hath featly done.

8.

...

And through the tortoise’s hard stony skin

At proper distances small holes he made,

And fastened the cut stems of reeds within,

And with a piece of leather overlaid _60

The open space and fixed the cubits in,

Fitting the bridge to both, and stretched o’er all

Symphonious cords of sheep-gut rhythmical.

9.

When he had wrought the lovely instrument,

He tried the chords, and made division meet, _65

Preluding with the plectrum, and there went

Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet

Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent

A strain of unpremeditated wit

Joyous and wild and wanton—such you may _70

Hear among revellers on a holiday.

10.

He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal

Dallied in love not quite legitimate;

And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal,

And naming his own name, did celebrate; _75

His mother’s cave and servant maids he planned all

In plastic verse, her household stuff and state,

Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan,—

But singing, he conceived another plan.

11.

...

Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat, _80

He in his sacred crib deposited

The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet

Rushed with great leaps up to the mountain’s head,

Revolving in his mind some subtle feat

Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might _85

Devise in the lone season of dun night.

12.

Lo! the great Sun under the ocean’s bed has

Driven steeds and chariot—the child meanwhile strode

O’er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows,

Where the immortal oxen of the God _90

Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows,

And safely stalled in a remote abode.—

The archer Argicide, elate and proud,

Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud.

13.

He drove them wandering o’er the sandy way, _95

But, being ever mindful of his craft,

Backward and forward drove he them astray,

So that the tracks which seemed before, were aft;

His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray,

And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft _100

Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs,

And bound them in a lump with withy twigs.

14.

And on his feet he tied these sandals light,

The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray

His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, _105

Like a man hastening on some distant way,

He from Pieria’s mountain bent his flight;

But an old man perceived the infant pass

Down green Onchestus heaped like beds with grass.

15.

The old man stood dressing his sunny vine: _110

‘Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder!

You grub those stumps? before they will bear wine

Methinks even you must grow a little older:

Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine,

As you would ‘scape what might appal a bolder— _115

Seeing, see not—and hearing, hear not—and—

If you have understanding—understand.’

16.

So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast;

O’er shadowy mountain and resounding dell,

And flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed; _120

Till the black night divine, which favouring fell

Around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast

Wakened the world to work, and from her cell

Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime

Into her watch-tower just began to climb. _125

17.

Now to Alpheus he had driven all

The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun;

They came unwearied to the lofty stall

And to the water-troughs which ever run

Through the fresh fields—and when with rushgrass tall, _130

Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one

Had pastured been, the great God made them move

Towards the stall in a collected drove.

18.

A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped,

And having soon conceived the mystery _135

Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stripped

The bark, and rubbed them in his palms;—on high

Suddenly forth the burning vapour leaped

And the divine child saw delightedly.—

Mercury first found out for human weal _140

Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel.

19.

And fine dry logs and roots innumerous

He gathered in a delve upon the ground—

And kindled them—and instantaneous

The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around: _145

And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus

Wrapped the great pile with glare and roaring sound,

Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud,

Close to the fire—such might was in the God.

20.

And on the earth upon their backs he threw _150

The panting beasts, and rolled them o’er and o’er,

And bored their lives out. Without more ado

He cut up fat and flesh, and down before

The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two,

Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore _155

Pursed in the bowels; and while this was done

He stretched their hides over a craggy stone.

21.

We mortals let an ox grow old, and then

Cut it up after long consideration,—

But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen _160

Drew the fat spoils to the more open station

Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them; and when

He had by lot assigned to each a ration

Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware

Of all the joys which in religion are. _165

22.

For the sweet savour of the roasted meat

Tempted him though immortal. Natheless

He checked his haughty will and did not eat,

Though what it cost him words can scarce express,

And every wish to put such morsels sweet _170

Down his most sacred throat, he did repress;

But soon within the lofty portalled stall

He placed the fat and flesh and bones and all.

23.

And every trace of the fresh butchery

And cooking, the God soon made disappear, _175

As if it all had vanished through the sky;

He burned the hoofs and horns and head and hair,—

The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily;—

And when he saw that everything was clear,

He quenched the coal, and trampled the black dust, _180

And in the stream his bloody sandals tossed.

24.

All night he worked in the serene moonshine—

But when the light of day was spread abroad

He sought his natal mountain-peaks divine.

On his long wandering, neither Man nor God _185

Had met him, since he killed Apollo’s kine,

Nor house-dog had barked at him on his road;

Now he obliquely through the keyhole passed,

Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast.

25.

Right through the temple of the spacious cave _190

He went with soft light feet—as if his tread

Fell not on earth; no sound their falling gave;

Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread

The swaddling-clothes about him; and the knave

Lay playing with the covering of the bed _195

With his left hand about his knees—the right

Held his beloved tortoise-lyre tight.

26.

There he lay innocent as a new-born child,

As gossips say; but though he was a God,

The Goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled, _200

Knew all that he had done being abroad:

‘Whence come you, and from what adventure wild,

You cunning rogue, and where have you abode

All the long night, clothed in your impudence?

What have you done since you departed hence? _205

27.

‘Apollo soon will pass within this gate

And bind your tender body in a chain

Inextricably tight, and fast as fate,

Unless you can delude the God again,

Even when within his arms—ah, runagate! _210

A pretty torment both for Gods and Men

Your father made when he made you!’—‘Dear mother,’

Replied sly Hermes, ‘wherefore scold and bother?

28.

‘As if I were like other babes as old,

And understood nothing of what is what; _215

And cared at all to hear my mother scold.

I in my subtle brain a scheme have got,

Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are rolled

Will profit you and me—nor shall our lot

Be as you counsel, without gifts or food, _220

To spend our lives in this obscure abode.

29

‘But we will leave this shadow-peopled cave

And live among the Gods, and pass each day

In high communion, sharing what they have

Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey; _225

And from the portion which my father gave

To Phoebus, I will snatch my share away,

Which if my father will not—natheless I,

Who am the king of robbers, can but try.

30.

‘And, if Latona’s son should find me out, _230

I’ll countermine him by a deeper plan;

I’ll pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though stout,

And sack the fane of everything I can—

Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt,

Each golden cup and polished brazen pan, _235

All the wrought tapestries and garments gay.’—

So they together talked;—meanwhile the Day

31.

Aethereal born arose out of the flood

Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men.

Apollo passed toward the sacred wood, _240

Which from the inmost depths of its green glen

Echoes the voice of Neptune,—and there stood

On the same spot in green Onchestus then

That same old animal, the vine-dresser,

Who was employed hedging his vineyard there. _245

32.

Latona’s glorious Son began:—‘I pray

Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green,

Whether a drove of kine has passed this way,

All heifers with crooked horns? for they have been

Stolen from the herd in high Pieria, _250

Where a black bull was fed apart, between

Two woody mountains in a neighbouring glen,

And four fierce dogs watched there, unanimous as men.

33.

‘And what is strange, the author of this theft

Has stolen the fatted heifers every one, _255

But the four dogs and the black bull are left:—

Stolen they were last night at set of sun,

Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft.—

Now tell me, man born ere the world begun,

Have you seen any one pass with the cows?’— _260

To whom the man of overhanging brows:

34.

‘My friend, it would require no common skill

Justly to speak of everything I see:

On various purposes of good or ill

Many pass by my vineyard,—and to me _265

’Tis difficult to know the invisible

Thoughts, which in all those many minds may be:—

Thus much alone I certainly can say,

I tilled these vines till the decline of day,

35.

‘And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak _270

With certainty of such a wondrous thing,

A child, who could not have been born a week,

Those fair-horned cattle closely following,

And in his hand he held a polished stick:

And, as on purpose, he walked wavering _275

From one side to the other of the road,

And with his face opposed the steps he trod.’

36.

Apollo hearing this, passed quickly on—

No winged omen could have shown more clear

That the deceiver was his father’s son. _280

So the God wraps a purple atmosphere

Around his shoulders, and like fire is gone

To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there,

And found their track and his, yet hardly cold,

And cried—‘What wonder do mine eyes behold! _285

37.

‘Here are the footsteps of the horned herd

Turned back towards their fields of asphodel;—

But THESE are not the tracks of beast or bird,

Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell,

Or maned Centaur—sand was never stirred _290

By man or woman thus! Inexplicable!

Who with unwearied feet could e’er impress

The sand with such enormous vestiges?

38.

‘That was most strange—but this is stranger still!’

Thus having said, Phoebus impetuously _295

Sought high Cyllene’s forest-cinctured hill,

And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie,

And where the ambrosial nymph with happy will

Bore the Saturnian’s love-child, Mercury—

And a delightful odour from the dew _300

Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew.

39.

And Phoebus stooped under the craggy roof

Arched over the dark cavern:—Maia’s child

Perceived that he came angry, far aloof,

About the cows of which he had been beguiled; _305

And over him the fine and fragrant woof

Of his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piled—

As among fire-brands lies a burning spark

Covered, beneath the ashes cold and dark.

40.

There, like an infant who had sucked his fill _310

And now was newly washed and put to bed,

Awake, but courting sleep with weary will,

And gathered in a lump, hands, feet, and head,

He lay, and his beloved tortoise still

He grasped and held under his shoulder-blade. _315

Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew,

Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who

41.

Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook

Of the ample cavern, for his kine, Apollo

Looked sharp; and when he saw them not, he took _320

The glittering key, and opened three great hollow

Recesses in the rock—where many a nook

Was filled with the sweet food immortals swallow,

And mighty heaps of silver and of gold

Were piled within—a wonder to behold! _325

42.

And white and silver robes, all overwrought

With cunning workmanship of tracery sweet—

Except among the Gods there can be nought

In the wide world to be compared with it.

Latona’s offspring, after having sought _330

His herds in every corner, thus did greet

Great Hermes:—‘Little cradled rogue, declare

Of my illustrious heifers, where they are!

43.

‘Speak quickly! or a quarrel between us

Must rise, and the event will be, that I _335

Shall hurl you into dismal Tartarus,

In fiery gloom to dwell eternally;

Nor shall your father nor your mother loose

The bars of that black dungeon—utterly

You shall be cast out from the light of day, _340

To rule the ghosts of men, unblessed as they.

44.

To whom thus Hermes slily answered:—‘Son

Of great Latona, what a speech is this!

Why come you here to ask me what is done

With the wild oxen which it seems you miss? _345

I have not seen them, nor from any one

Have heard a word of the whole business;

If you should promise an immense reward,

I could not tell more than you now have heard.

45.

‘An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong, _350

And I am but a little new-born thing,

Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong:—

My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling

The cradle-clothes about me all day long,—

Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing, _355

And to be washed in water clean and warm,

And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm.

46.

‘O, let not e’er this quarrel be averred!

The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if e’er

You should allege a story so absurd _360

As that a new-born infant forth could fare

Out of his home after a savage herd.

I was born yesterday—my small feet are

Too tender for the roads so hard and rough:—

And if you think that this is not enough, _365

47.

I swear a great oath, by my father’s head,

That I stole not your cows, and that I know

Of no one else, who might, or could, or did.—

Whatever things cows are, I do not know,

For I have only heard the name.’—This said _370

He winked as fast as could be, and his brow

Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he,

Like one who hears some strange absurdity.

48.

Apollo gently smiled and said:—‘Ay, ay,—

You cunning little rascal, you will bore _375

Many a rich man’s house, and your array

Of thieves will lay their siege before his door,

Silent as night, in night; and many a day

In the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore

That you or yours, having an appetite, _380

Met with their cattle, comrade of the night!

49.

‘And this among the Gods shall be your gift,

To be considered as the lord of those

Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift;—

But now if you would not your last sleep doze; _385

Crawl out!’—Thus saying, Phoebus did uplift

The subtle infant in his swaddling clothes,

And in his arms, according to his wont,

A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont.

50.

...

...

And sneezed and shuddered—Phoebus on the grass _390

Him threw, and whilst all that he had designed

He did perform—eager although to pass,

Apollo darted from his mighty mind

Towards the subtle babe the following scoff:—

‘Do not imagine this will get you off, _395

51.

‘You little swaddled child of Jove and May!

And seized him:—‘By this omen I shall trace

My noble herds, and you shall lead the way.’—

Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place,

Like one in earnest haste to get away, _400

Rose, and with hands lifted towards his face

Round both his ears up from his shoulders drew

His swaddling clothes, and—‘What mean you to do

52.

‘With me, you unkind God?’—said Mercury:

‘Is it about these cows you tease me so? _405

I wish the race of cows were perished!—I

Stole not your cows—I do not even know

What things cows are. Alas! I well may sigh

That since I came into this world of woe,

I should have ever heard the name of one— _410

But I appeal to the Saturnian’s throne.’

53.

Thus Phoebus and the vagrant Mercury

Talked without coming to an explanation,

With adverse purpose. As for Phoebus, he

Sought not revenge, but only information, _415

And Hermes tried with lies and roguery

To cheat Apollo.—But when no evasion

Served—for the cunning one his match had found—

He paced on first over the sandy ground.

54.

...

He of the Silver Bow the child of Jove _420

Followed behind, till to their heavenly Sire

Came both his children, beautiful as Love,

And from his equal balance did require

A judgement in the cause wherein they strove.

O’er odorous Olympus and its snows _425

A murmuring tumult as they came arose,—

55.

And from the folded depths of the great Hill,

While Hermes and Apollo reverent stood

Before Jove’s throne, the indestructible

Immortals rushed in mighty multitude; _430

And whilst their seats in order due they fill,

The lofty Thunderer in a careless mood

To Phoebus said:—‘Whence drive you this sweet prey,

This herald-baby, born but yesterday?—

56.

‘A most important subject, trifler, this _435

To lay before the Gods!’—‘Nay, Father, nay,

When you have understood the business,

Say not that I alone am fond of prey.

I found this little boy in a recess

Under Cyllene’s mountains far away— _440

A manifest and most apparent thief,

A scandalmonger beyond all belief.

57.

‘I never saw his like either in Heaven

Or upon earth for knavery or craft:—

Out of the field my cattle yester-even, _445

By the low shore on which the loud sea laughed,

He right down to the river-ford had driven;

And mere astonishment would make you daft

To see the double kind of footsteps strange

He has impressed wherever he did range. _450

58.

‘The cattle’s track on the black dust, full well

Is evident, as if they went towards

The place from which they came—that asphodel

Meadow, in which I feed my many herds,—

HIS steps were most incomprehensible— _455

I know not how I can describe in words

Those tracks—he could have gone along the sands

Neither upon his feet nor on his hands;—

59.

‘He must have had some other stranger mode

Of moving on: those vestiges immense, _460

Far as I traced them on the sandy road,

Seemed like the trail of oak-toppings:—but thence

No mark nor track denoting where they trod

The hard ground gave:—but, working at his fence,

A mortal hedger saw him as he passed _465

To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste.

60.

‘I found that in the dark he quietly

Had sacrificed some cows, and before light

Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly

About the road—then, still as gloomy night, _470

Had crept into his cradle, either eye

Rubbing, and cogitating some new sleight.

No eagle could have seen him as he lay

Hid in his cavern from the peering day.

61.

‘I taxed him with the fact, when he averred _475

Most solemnly that he did neither see

Nor even had in any manner heard

Of my lost cows, whatever things cows be;

Nor could he tell, though offered a reward,

Not even who could tell of them to me.’ _480

So speaking, Phoebus sate; and Hermes then

Addressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and Men:—

62.

‘Great Father, you know clearly beforehand

That all which I shall say to you is sooth;

I am a most veracious person, and _485

Totally unacquainted with untruth.

At sunrise Phoebus came, but with no band

Of Gods to bear him witness, in great wrath,

To my abode, seeking his heifers there,

And saying that I must show him where they are, _490

63.

‘Or he would hurl me down the dark abyss.

I know that every Apollonian limb

Is clothed with speed and might and manliness,

As a green bank with flowers—but unlike him

I was born yesterday, and you may guess _495

He well knew this when he indulged the whim

Of bullying a poor little new-born thing

That slept, and never thought of cow-driving.

64.

‘Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine?

Believe me, dearest Father—such you are— _500

This driving of the herds is none of mine;

Across my threshold did I wander ne’er,

So may I thrive! I reverence the divine

Sun and the Gods, and I love you, and care

Even for this hard accuser—who must know _505

I am as innocent as they or you.

65.

‘I swear by these most gloriously-wrought portals

(It is, you will allow, an oath of might)

Through which the multitude of the Immortals

Pass and repass forever, day and night, _510

Devising schemes for the affairs of mortals—

I am guiltless; and I will requite,

Although mine enemy be great and strong,

His cruel threat—do thou defend the young!’

66.

So speaking, the Cyllenian Argiphont _515

Winked, as if now his adversary was fitted:—

And Jupiter, according to his wont,

Laughed heartily to hear the subtle-witted

Infant give such a plausible account,

And every word a lie. But he remitted _520

Judgement at present—and his exhortation

Was, to compose the affair by arbitration.

67.

And they by mighty Jupiter were bidden

To go forth with a single purpose both,

Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden: _525

And Mercury with innocence and truth

To lead the way, and show where he had hidden

The mighty heifers.—Hermes, nothing loth,

Obeyed the Aegis-bearer’s will—for he

Is able to persuade all easily. _530

68.

These lovely children of Heaven’s highest Lord

Hastened to Pylos and the pastures wide

And lofty stalls by the Alphean ford,

Where wealth in the mute night is multiplied

With silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove the herd _535

Out of the stony cavern, Phoebus spied

The hides of those the little babe had slain,

Stretched on the precipice above the plain.

69.

‘How was it possible,’ then Phoebus said,

‘That you, a little child, born yesterday, _540

A thing on mother’s milk and kisses fed,

Could two prodigious heifers ever flay?

Even I myself may well hereafter dread

Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian May,

When you grow strong and tall.’—He spoke, and bound _545

Stiff withy bands the infant’s wrists around.

70.

He might as well have bound the oxen wild;

The withy bands, though starkly interknit,

Fell at the feet of the immortal child,

Loosened by some device of his quick wit. _550

Phoebus perceived himself again beguiled,

And stared—while Hermes sought some hole or pit,

Looking askance and winking fast as thought,

Where he might hide himself and not be caught.

71.

Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill _555

Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might

Of winning music, to his mightier will;

His left hand held the lyre, and in his right

The plectrum struck the chords—unconquerable

Up from beneath his hand in circling flight _560

The gathering music rose—and sweet as Love

The penetrating notes did live and move

72.

Within the heart of great Apollo—he

Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure.

Close to his side stood harping fearlessly _565

The unabashed boy; and to the measure

Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud and free

His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure

Of his deep song, illustrating the birth

Of the bright Gods, and the dark desert Earth: _570

73.

And how to the Immortals every one

A portion was assigned of all that is;

But chief Mnemosyne did Maia’s son

Clothe in the light of his loud melodies;—

And, as each God was born or had begun, _575

He in their order due and fit degrees

Sung of his birth and being—and did move

Apollo to unutterable love.

74.

These words were winged with his swift delight:

‘You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you _580

Deserve that fifty oxen should requite

Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now.

Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight,

One of your secrets I would gladly know,

Whether the glorious power you now show forth _585

Was folded up within you at your birth,

75.

‘Or whether mortal taught or God inspired

The power of unpremeditated song?

Many divinest sounds have I admired,

The Olympian Gods and mortal men among; _590

But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired,

And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong,

Yet did I never hear except from thee,

Offspring of May, impostor Mercury!

76.

‘What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, _595

What exercise of subtlest art, has given

Thy songs such power?—for those who hear may choose

From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven,

Delight, and love, and sleep,—sweet sleep, whose dews

Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even:— _600

And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo

Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow:

77.

‘And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise

Of song and overflowing poesy;

And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice _605

Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly;

But never did my inmost soul rejoice

In this dear work of youthful revelry

As now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove;

Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love. _610

78.

‘Now since thou hast, although so very small,

Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,—

And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall,

Witness between us what I promise here,—

That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, _615

Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear,

And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee,

And even at the end will ne’er deceive thee.’

79.

To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:—

‘Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill: _620

I envy thee no thing I know to teach

Even this day:—for both in word and will

I would be gentle with thee; thou canst reach

All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill

Is highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove, _625

Who loves thee in the fulness of his love.

80.

‘The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee

Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude

Of his profuse exhaustless treasury;

By thee, ’tis said, the depths are understood _630

Of his far voice; by thee the mystery

Of all oracular fates,—and the dread mood

Of the diviner is breathed up; even I—

A child—perceive thy might and majesty.

81.

‘Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit _635

Can find or teach;—yet since thou wilt, come take

The lyre—be mine the glory giving it—

Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, and wake

Thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit

Of tranced sound—and with fleet fingers make _640

Thy liquid-voiced comrade talk with thee,—

It can talk measured music eloquently.

82.

‘Then bear it boldly to the revel loud,

Love-wakening dance, or feast of solemn state,

A joy by night or day—for those endowed _645

With art and wisdom who interrogate

It teaches, babbling in delightful mood

All things which make the spirit most elate,

Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play,

Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay. _650

83.

‘To those who are unskilled in its sweet tongue,

Though they should question most impetuously

Its hidden soul, it gossips something wrong—

Some senseless and impertinent reply.

But thou who art as wise as thou art strong _655

Canst compass all that thou desirest. I

Present thee with this music-flowing shell,

Knowing thou canst interrogate it well.

84.

‘And let us two henceforth together feed,

On this green mountain-slope and pastoral plain, _660

The herds in litigation—they will breed

Quickly enough to recompense our pain,

If to the bulls and cows we take good heed;—

And thou, though somewhat over fond of gain,

Grudge me not half the profit.’—Having spoke, _665

The shell he proffered, and Apollo took;

85.

And gave him in return the glittering lash,

Installing him as herdsman;—from the look

Of Mercury then laughed a joyous flash.

And then Apollo with the plectrum strook _670

The chords, and from beneath his hands a crash

Of mighty sounds rushed up, whose music shook

The soul with sweetness, and like an adept

His sweeter voice a just accordance kept.

86.

The herd went wandering o’er the divine mead, _675

Whilst these most beautiful Sons of Jupiter

Won their swift way up to the snowy head

Of white Olympus, with the joyous lyre

Soothing their journey; and their father dread

Gathered them both into familiar _680

Affection sweet,—and then, and now, and ever,

Hermes must love Him of the Golden Quiver,

87.

To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly sounded,

Which skilfully he held and played thereon.

He piped the while, and far and wide rebounded _685

The echo of his pipings; every one

Of the Olympians sat with joy astounded;

While he conceived another piece of fun,

One of his old tricks—which the God of Day

Perceiving, said:—‘I fear thee, Son of May;— _690

88.

‘I fear thee and thy sly chameleon spirit,

Lest thou should steal my lyre and crooked bow;

This glory and power thou dost from Jove inherit,

To teach all craft upon the earth below;

Thieves love and worship thee—it is thy merit _695

To make all mortal business ebb and flow

By roguery:—now, Hermes, if you dare

By sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear

89.

‘That you will never rob me, you will do

A thing extremely pleasing to my heart.’ _700

Then Mercury swore by the Stygian dew,

That he would never steal his bow or dart,

Or lay his hands on what to him was due,

Or ever would employ his powerful art

Against his Pythian fane. Then Phoebus swore _705

There was no God or Man whom he loved more.

90.

‘And I will give thee as a good-will token,

The beautiful wand of wealth and happiness;

A perfect three-leaved rod of gold unbroken,

Whose magic will thy footsteps ever bless; _710

And whatsoever by Jove’s voice is spoken

Of earthly or divine from its recess,

It, like a loving soul, to thee will speak,

And more than this, do thou forbear to seek.

91.

‘For, dearest child, the divinations high _715

Which thou requirest, ’tis unlawful ever

That thou, or any other deity

Should understand—and vain were the endeavour;

For they are hidden in Jove’s mind, and I,

In trust of them, have sworn that I would never _720

Betray the counsels of Jove’s inmost will

To any God—the oath was terrible.

92.

‘Then, golden-wanded brother, ask me not

To speak the fates by Jupiter designed;

But be it mine to tell their various lot _725

To the unnumbered tribes of human-kind.

Let good to these, and ill to those be wrought

As I dispense—but he who comes consigned

By voice and wings of perfect augury

To my great shrine, shall find avail in me. _730

93.

‘Him will I not deceive, but will assist;

But he who comes relying on such birds

As chatter vainly, who would strain and twist

The purpose of the Gods with idle words,

And deems their knowledge light, he shall have missed _735

His road—whilst I among my other hoards

His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May,

I have another wondrous thing to say.

96.

‘There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, who

Rejoicing in their wind-outspeeding wings, _740

Their heads with flour snowed over white and new,

Sit in a vale round which Parnassus flings

Its circling skirts—from these I have learned true

Vaticinations of remotest things.

My father cared not. Whilst they search out dooms, _745

They sit apart and feed on honeycombs.

95.

‘They, having eaten the fresh honey, grow

Drunk with divine enthusiasm, and utter

With earnest willingness the truth they know;

But if deprived of that sweet food, they mutter _750

All plausible delusions;—these to you

I give;—if you inquire, they will not stutter;

Delight your own soul with them:—any man

You would instruct may profit if he can.

96.

‘Take these and the fierce oxen, Maia’s child— _755

O’er many a horse and toil-enduring mule,

O’er jagged-jawed lions, and the wild

White-tusked boars, o’er all, by field or pool,

Of cattle which the mighty Mother mild

Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt rule— _760

Thou dost alone the veil from death uplift—

Thou givest not—yet this is a great gift.’

97.

Thus King Apollo loved the child of May

In truth, and Jove covered their love with joy.

Hermes with Gods and Men even from that day _765

Mingled, and wrought the latter much annoy,

And little profit, going far astray

Through the dun night. Farewell, delightful Boy,

Of Jove and Maia sprung,—never by me,

Nor thou, nor other songs, shall unremembered be. _770

NOTES:

_13 cow-stealing]qy. cattle-stealing?

_57 stony Boscombe manuscript. Harvard manuscript; strong edition 1824.

_252 neighbouring]neighbour Harvard manuscript.

_336 hurl Harvard manuscript, editions 1839; haul edition 1824.

_402 Round]Roused edition 1824 only.

_488 wrath]ruth Harvard manuscript.

_580 heifer-stealing]heifer-killing Harvard manuscript.

_673 and like 1839, 1st edition; as of edition 1824, Harvard manuscript.

_713 loving]living cj. Rossetti.

_761 from Harvard manuscript; of editions 1824, 1839.

_764 their love with joy Harvard manuscript; them with love and joy,

editions 1824, 1839.

_767 going]wandering Harvard manuscript.

***

HOMER’S HYMN TO CASTOR AND POLLUX.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition; dated

1818.]

Ye wild-eyed Muses, sing the Twins of Jove,

Whom the fair-ankled Leda, mixed in love

With mighty Saturn’s Heaven-obscuring Child,

On Taygetus, that lofty mountain wild,

Brought forth in joy: mild Pollux, void of blame, _5

And steed-subduing Castor, heirs of fame.

These are the Powers who earth-born mortals save

And ships, whose flight is swift along the wave.

When wintry tempests o’er the savage sea

Are raging, and the sailors tremblingly _10

Call on the Twins of Jove with prayer and vow,

Gathered in fear upon the lofty prow,

And sacrifice with snow-white lambs,—the wind

And the huge billow bursting close behind,

Even then beneath the weltering waters bear _15

The staggering ship—they suddenly appear,

On yellow wings rushing athwart the sky,

And lull the blasts in mute tranquillity,

And strew the waves on the white Ocean’s bed,

Fair omen of the voyage; from toil and dread _20

The sailors rest, rejoicing in the sight,

And plough the quiet sea in safe delight.

NOTE:

_6 steed-subduing emend. Rossetti; steel-subduing 1839, 2nd edition.

***

HOMER’S HYMN TO THE MOON.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition;

dated 1818.]

Daughters of Jove, whose voice is melody,

Muses, who know and rule all minstrelsy

Sing the wide-winged Moon! Around the earth,

From her immortal head in Heaven shot forth,

Far light is scattered—boundless glory springs; _5

Where’er she spreads her many-beaming wings

The lampless air glows round her golden crown.

But when the Moon divine from Heaven is gone

Under the sea, her beams within abide,

Till, bathing her bright limbs in Ocean’s tide, _10

Clothing her form in garments glittering far,

And having yoked to her immortal car

The beam-invested steeds whose necks on high

Curve back, she drives to a remoter sky

A western Crescent, borne impetuously. _15

Then is made full the circle of her light,

And as she grows, her beams more bright and bright

Are poured from Heaven, where she is hovering then,

A wonder and a sign to mortal men.

The Son of Saturn with this glorious Power _20

Mingled in love and sleep—to whom she bore

Pandeia, a bright maid of beauty rare

Among the Gods, whose lives eternal are.

Hail Queen, great Moon, white-armed Divinity,

Fair-haired and favourable! thus with thee _25

My song beginning, by its music sweet

Shall make immortal many a glorious feat

Of demigods, with lovely lips, so well

Which minstrels, servants of the Muses, tell.

***

HOMER’S HYMN TO THE SUN.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition;

dated 1818.]

Offspring of Jove, Calliope, once more

To the bright Sun, thy hymn of music pour;

Whom to the child of star-clad Heaven and Earth

Euryphaessa, large-eyed nymph, brought forth;

Euryphaessa, the famed sister fair _5

Of great Hyperion, who to him did bear

A race of loveliest children; the young Morn,

Whose arms are like twin roses newly born,

The fair-haired Moon, and the immortal Sun,

Who borne by heavenly steeds his race doth run _10

Unconquerably, illuming the abodes

Of mortal Men and the eternal Gods.

Fiercely look forth his awe-inspiring eyes,

Beneath his golden helmet, whence arise

And are shot forth afar, clear beams of light; _15

His countenance, with radiant glory bright,

Beneath his graceful locks far shines around,

And the light vest with which his limbs are bound,

Of woof aethereal delicately twined,

Glows in the stream of the uplifting wind. _20

His rapid steeds soon bear him to the West;

Where their steep flight his hands divine arrest,

And the fleet car with yoke of gold, which he

Sends from bright Heaven beneath the shadowy sea.

***

HOMER’S HYMN TO THE EARTH: MOTHER OF ALL.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition;

dated 1818.]

O universal Mother, who dost keep

From everlasting thy foundations deep,

Eldest of things, Great Earth, I sing of thee!

All shapes that have their dwelling in the sea,

All things that fly, or on the ground divine _5

Live, move, and there are nourished—these are thine;

These from thy wealth thou dost sustain; from thee

Fair babes are born, and fruits on every tree

Hang ripe and large, revered Divinity!

The life of mortal men beneath thy sway _10

Is held; thy power both gives and takes away!

Happy are they whom thy mild favours nourish;

All things unstinted round them grow and flourish.

For them, endures the life-sustaining field

Its load of harvest, and their cattle yield _15

Large increase, and their house with wealth is filled.

Such honoured dwell in cities fair and free,

The homes of lovely women, prosperously;

Their sons exult in youth’s new budding gladness,

And their fresh daughters free from care or sadness, _20

With bloom-inwoven dance and happy song,

On the soft flowers the meadow-grass among,

Leap round them sporting—such delights by thee

Are given, rich Power, revered Divinity.

Mother of gods, thou Wife of starry Heaven, _25

Farewell! be thou propitious, and be given

A happy life for this brief melody,

Nor thou nor other songs shall unremembered be.

***

HOMER’S HYMN TO MINERVA.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition;

dated 1818.]

I sing the glorious Power with azure eyes,

Athenian Pallas! tameless, chaste, and wise,

Tritogenia, town-preserving Maid,

Revered and mighty; from his awful head

Whom Jove brought forth, in warlike armour dressed, _5

Golden, all radiant! wonder strange possessed

The everlasting Gods that Shape to see,

Shaking a javelin keen, impetuously

Rush from the crest of Aegis-bearing Jove;

Fearfully Heaven was shaken, and did move _10

Beneath the might of the Cerulean-eyed;

Earth dreadfully resounded, far and wide;

And, lifted from its depths, the sea swelled high

In purple billows, the tide suddenly

Stood still, and great Hyperion’s son long time _15

Checked his swift steeds, till, where she stood sublime,

Pallas from her immortal shoulders threw

The arms divine; wise Jove rejoiced to view.

Child of the Aegis-bearer, hail to thee,

Nor thine nor others’ praise shall unremembered be. _20

***

HOMER’S HYMN TO VENUS.

[Published by Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862; dated 1818.]

[VERSES 1-55, WITH SOME OMISSIONS.]

Muse, sing the deeds of golden Aphrodite,

Who wakens with her smile the lulled delight

Of sweet desire, taming the eternal kings

Of Heaven, and men, and all the living things

That fleet along the air, or whom the sea, _5

Or earth, with her maternal ministry,

Nourish innumerable, thy delight

All seek ... O crowned Aphrodite!

Three spirits canst thou not deceive or quell:—

Minerva, child of Jove, who loves too well _10

Fierce war and mingling combat, and the fame

Of glorious deeds, to heed thy gentle flame.

Diana ... golden-shafted queen,

Is tamed not by thy smiles; the shadows green

Of the wild woods, the bow, the... _15

And piercing cries amid the swift pursuit

Of beasts among waste mountains,—such delight

Is hers, and men who know and do the right.

Nor Saturn’s first-born daughter, Vesta chaste,

Whom Neptune and Apollo wooed the last, _20

Such was the will of aegis-bearing Jove;

But sternly she refused the ills of Love,

And by her mighty Father’s head she swore

An oath not unperformed, that evermore

A virgin she would live mid deities _25

Divine: her father, for such gentle ties

Renounced, gave glorious gifts—thus in his hall

She sits and feeds luxuriously. O’er all

In every fane, her honours first arise

From men—the eldest of Divinities. _30

These spirits she persuades not, nor deceives,

But none beside escape, so well she weaves

Her unseen toils; nor mortal men, nor gods

Who live secure in their unseen abodes.

She won the soul of him whose fierce delight _35

Is thunder—first in glory and in might.

And, as she willed, his mighty mind deceiving,

With mortal limbs his deathless limbs inweaving,

Concealed him from his spouse and sister fair,

Whom to wise Saturn ancient Rhea bare. _40

but in return,

In Venus Jove did soft desire awaken,

That by her own enchantments overtaken,

She might, no more from human union free,

Burn for a nursling of mortality. _45

For once amid the assembled Deities,

The laughter-loving Venus from her eyes

Shot forth the light of a soft starlight smile,

And boasting said, that she, secure the while,

Could bring at Will to the assembled Gods _50

The mortal tenants of earth’s dark abodes,

And mortal offspring from a deathless stem

She could produce in scorn and spite of them.

Therefore he poured desire into her breast

Of young Anchises, _55

Feeding his herds among the mossy fountains

Of the wide Ida’s many-folded mountains,—

Whom Venus saw, and loved, and the love clung

Like wasting fire her senses wild among.

***

THE CYCLOPS.

A SATYRIC DRAMA TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; dated 1819.

Amongst the Shelley manuscripts at the Bodleian there is a copy,

‘practically complete,’ which has been collated by Mr. C.D. Locock. See

“Examination”, etc., 1903, pages 64-70. ‘Though legible throughout, and

comparatively free from corrections, it has the appearance of being a

first draft’ (Locock).]

SILENUS.

ULYSSES.

CHORUS OF SATYRS.

THE CYCLOPS.

SILENUS:

O Bacchus, what a world of toil, both now

And ere these limbs were overworn with age,

Have I endured for thee! First, when thou fled’st

The mountain-nymphs who nursed thee, driven afar

By the strange madness Juno sent upon thee; _5

Then in the battle of the Sons of Earth,

When I stood foot by foot close to thy side,

No unpropitious fellow-combatant,

And, driving through his shield my winged spear,

Slew vast Enceladus. Consider now, _10

Is it a dream of which I speak to thee?

By Jove it is not, for you have the trophies!

And now I suffer more than all before.

For when I heard that Juno had devised

A tedious voyage for you, I put to sea _15

With all my children quaint in search of you,

And I myself stood on the beaked prow

And fixed the naked mast; and all my boys

Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain

Made white with foam the green and purple sea,— _20

And so we sought you, king. We were sailing

Near Malea, when an eastern wind arose,

And drove us to this waste Aetnean rock;

The one-eyed children of the Ocean God,

The man-destroying Cyclopses, inhabit, _25

On this wild shore, their solitary caves,

And one of these, named Polypheme, has caught us

To be his slaves; and so, for all delight

Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody,

We keep this lawless giant’s wandering flocks. _30

My sons indeed on far declivities,

Young things themselves, tend on the youngling sheep,

But I remain to fill the water-casks,

Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering

Some impious and abominable meal _35

To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it!

And now I must scrape up the littered floor

With this great iron rake, so to receive

My absent master and his evening sheep

In a cave neat and clean. Even now I see _40

My children tending the flocks hitherward.

Ha! what is this? are your Sicinnian measures

Even now the same, as when with dance and song

You brought young Bacchus to Althaea’s halls?

NOTE:

_23 waste B.; wild 1824; ‘cf. 26, where waste is cancelled for wild’

(Locock).

CHORUS OF SATYRS:

STROPHE:

Where has he of race divine _45

Wandered in the winding rocks?

Here the air is calm and fine

For the father of the flocks;—

Here the grass is soft and sweet,

And the river-eddies meet _50

In the trough beside the cave,

Bright as in their fountain wave.—

Neither here, nor on the dew

Of the lawny uplands feeding?

Oh, you come!—a stone at you _55

Will I throw to mend your breeding;—

Get along, you horned thing,

Wild, seditious, rambling!

EPODE:

An Iacchic melody

To the golden Aphrodite _60

Will I lift, as erst did I

Seeking her and her delight

With the Maenads, whose white feet

To the music glance and fleet.

Bacchus, O beloved, where, _65

Shaking wide thy yellow hair,

Wanderest thou alone, afar?

To the one-eyed Cyclops, we,

Who by right thy servants are,

Minister in misery, _70

In these wretched goat-skins clad,

Far from thy delights and thee.

SILENUS:

Be silent, sons; command the slaves to drive

The gathered flocks into the rock-roofed cave.

CHORUS:

Go! But what needs this serious haste, O father? _75

SILENUS:

I see a Grecian vessel on the coast,

And thence the rowers with some general

Approaching to this cave.—About their necks

Hang empty vessels, as they wanted food,

And water-flasks.—Oh, miserable strangers! _80

Whence come they, that they know not what and who

My master is, approaching in ill hour

The inhospitable roof of Polypheme,

And the Cyclopian jaw-bone, man-destroying?

Be silent, Satyrs, while I ask and hear _85

Whence coming, they arrive the Aetnean hill.

ULYSSES:

Friends, can you show me some clear water-spring,

The remedy of our thirst? Will any one

Furnish with food seamen in want of it?

Ha! what is this? We seem to be arrived _90

At the blithe court of Bacchus. I observe

This sportive band of Satyrs near the caves.

First let me greet the elder.—Hail!

SILENUS:

Hail thou,

O Stranger! tell thy country and thy race.

ULYSSES:

The Ithacan Ulysses and the king _95

Of Cephalonia.

SILENUS:

Oh! I know the man,

Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus.

ULYSSES:

I am the same, but do not rail upon me.—

SILENUS:

Whence sailing do you come to Sicily?

ULYSSES:

From Ilion, and from the Trojan toils. _100

SILENUS:

How, touched you not at your paternal shore?

ULYSSES:

The strength of tempests bore me here by force.

SILENUS:

The self-same accident occurred to me.

ULYSSES:

Were you then driven here by stress of weather?

SILENUS:

Following the Pirates who had kidnapped Bacchus. _105

ULYSSES:

What land is this, and who inhabit it?—

SILENUS:

Aetna, the loftiest peak in Sicily.

ULYSSES:

And are there walls, and tower-surrounded towns?

SILENUS:

There are not.—These lone rocks are bare of men.

ULYSSES:

And who possess the land? the race of beasts? _110

SILENUS:

Cyclops, who live in caverns, not in houses.

ULYSSES:

Obeying whom? Or is the state popular?

SILENUS:

Shepherds: no one obeys any in aught.

ULYSSES:

How live they? do they sow the corn of Ceres?

SILENUS:

On milk and cheese, and on the flesh of sheep. _115

ULYSSES:

Have they the Bromian drink from the vine’s stream?

SILENUS:

Ah! no; they live in an ungracious land.

ULYSSES:

And are they just to strangers?—hospitable?

SILENUS:

They think the sweetest thing a stranger brings

Is his own flesh.

ULYSSES:

What! do they eat man’s flesh? _120

SILENUS:

No one comes here who is not eaten up.

ULYSSES:

The Cyclops now—where is he? Not at home?

SILENUS:

Absent on Aetna, hunting with his dogs.

ULYSSES:

Know’st thou what thou must do to aid us hence?

SILENUS:

I know not: we will help you all we can. _125

ULYSSES:

Provide us food, of which we are in want.

SILENUS:

Here is not anything, as I said, but meat.

ULYSSES:

But meat is a sweet remedy for hunger.

SILENUS:

Cow’s milk there is, and store of curdled cheese.

ULYSSES:

Bring out:—I would see all before I bargain. _130

SILENUS:

But how much gold will you engage to give?

ULYSSES:

I bring no gold, but Bacchic juice.

SILENUS:

Oh, joy!

Tis long since these dry lips were wet with wine.

ULYSSES:

Maron, the son of the God, gave it me.

SILENUS:

Whom I have nursed a baby in my arms. _135

ULYSSES:

The son of Bacchus, for your clearer knowledge.

SILENUS:

Have you it now?—or is it in the ship?

ULYSSES:

Old man, this skin contains it, which you see.

SILENUS:

Why, this would hardly be a mouthful for me.

ULYSSES:

Nay, twice as much as you can draw from thence. _140

SILENUS:

You speak of a fair fountain, sweet to me.

ULYSSES:

Would you first taste of the unmingled wine?

SILENUS:

’Tis just—tasting invites the purchaser.

ULYSSES:

Here is the cup, together with the skin.

SILENUS:

Pour: that the draught may fillip my remembrance.

ULYSSES:

See! _145

SILENUS:

Papaiapax! what a sweet smell it has!

ULYSSES:

You see it then?—

SILENUS:

By Jove, no! but I smell it.

ULYSSES:

Taste, that you may not praise it in words only.

SILENUS:

Babai! Great Bacchus calls me forth to dance!

Joy! joy!

ULYSSES:

Did it flow sweetly down your throat? _150

SILENUS:

So that it tingled to my very nails.

ULYSSES:

And in addition I will give you gold.

SILENUS:

Let gold alone! only unlock the cask.

ULYSSES:

Bring out some cheeses now, or a young goat.

SILENUS:

That will I do, despising any master. _155

Yes, let me drink one cup, and I will give

All that the Cyclops feed upon their mountains.

...

CHORUS:

Ye have taken Troy and laid your hands on Helen?

ULYSSES:

And utterly destroyed the race of Priam.

...

SILENUS:

The wanton wretch! she was bewitched to see _160

The many-coloured anklets and the chain

Of woven gold which girt the neck of Paris,

And so she left that good man Menelaus.

There should be no more women in the world

But such as are reserved for me alone.— _165

See, here are sheep, and here are goats, Ulysses,

Here are unsparing cheeses of pressed milk;

Take them; depart with what good speed ye may;

First leaving my reward, the Bacchic dew

Of joy-inspiring grapes.

ULYSSES:

Ah me! Alas! _170

What shall we do? the Cyclops is at hand!

Old man, we perish! whither can we fly?

SILENUS:

Hide yourselves quick within that hollow rock.

ULYSSES:

’Twere perilous to fly into the net.

SILENUS:

The cavern has recesses numberless; _175

Hide yourselves quick.

ULYSSES:

That will I never do!

The mighty Troy would be indeed disgraced

If I should fly one man. How many times

Have I withstood, with shield immovable.

Ten thousand Phrygians!—if I needs must die, _180

Yet will I die with glory;—if I live,

The praise which I have gained will yet remain.

SILENUS:

What, ho! assistance, comrades, haste, assistance!

[THE CYCLOPS, SILENUS, ULYSSES; CHORUS.]

CYCLOPS:

What is this tumult? Bacchus is not here,

Nor tympanies nor brazen castanets. _185

How are my young lambs in the cavern? Milking

Their dams or playing by their sides? And is

The new cheese pressed into the bulrush baskets?

Speak! I’ll beat some of you till you rain tears—

Look up, not downwards when I speak to you. _190

SILENUS:

See! I now gape at Jupiter himself;

I stare upon Orion and the stars.

CYCLOPS:

Well, is the dinner fitly cooked and laid?

SILENUS:

All ready, if your throat is ready too.

CYCLOPS:

Are the bowls full of milk besides?

SILENUS:

O’er-brimming; _195

So you may drink a tunful if you will.

CYCLOPS:

Is it ewe’s milk or cow’s milk, or both mixed?—

SILENUS:

Both, either; only pray don’t swallow me.

CYCLOPS:

By no means.—

...

What is this crowd I see beside the stalls? _200

Outlaws or thieves? for near my cavern-home

I see my young lambs coupled two by two

With willow bands; mixed with my cheeses lie

Their implements; and this old fellow here

Has his bald head broken with stripes.

SILENUS:

Ah me! _205

I have been beaten till I burn with fever.

CYCLOPS:

By whom? Who laid his fist upon your head?

SILENUS:

Those men, because I would not suffer them

To steal your goods.

CYCLOPS:

Did not the rascals know

I am a God, sprung from the race of Heaven? _210

SILENUS:

I told them so, but they bore off your things,

And ate the cheese in spite of all I said,

And carried out the lambs—and said, moreover,

They’d pin you down with a three-cubit collar,

And pull your vitals out through your one eye, _215

Furrow your back with stripes, then, binding you,

Throw you as ballast into the ship’s hold,

And then deliver you, a slave, to move

Enormous rocks, or found a vestibule.

NOTE:

_216 Furrow B.; Torture (evidently misread for Furrow) 1824.

CYCLOPS:

In truth? Nay, haste, and place in order quickly

The cooking-knives, and heap upon the hearth, _221

And kindle it, a great faggot of wood.—

As soon as they are slaughtered, they shall fill

My belly, broiling warm from the live coals,

Or boiled and seethed within the bubbling caldron. _225

I am quite sick of the wild mountain game;

Of stags and lions I have gorged enough,

And I grow hungry for the flesh of men.

SILENUS:

Nay, master, something new is very pleasant

After one thing forever, and of late _230

Very few strangers have approached our cave.

ULYSSES:

Hear, Cyclops, a plain tale on the other side.

We, wanting to buy food, came from our ship

Into the neighbourhood of your cave, and here

This old Silenus gave us in exchange _235

These lambs for wine, the which he took and drank,

And all by mutual compact, without force.

There is no word of truth in what he says,

For slyly he was selling all your store.

SILENUS:

I? May you perish, wretch—

ULYSSES:

If I speak false! _240

SILENUS:

Cyclops, I swear by Neptune who begot thee,

By mighty Triton and by Nereus old,

Calypso and the glaucous Ocean Nymphs,

The sacred waves and all the race of fishes—

Be these the witnesses, my dear sweet master, _245

My darling little Cyclops, that I never

Gave any of your stores to these false strangers;—

If I speak false may those whom most I love,

My children, perish wretchedly!

CHORUS:

There stop!

I saw him giving these things to the strangers. _250

If I speak false, then may my father perish,

But do not thou wrong hospitality.

CYCLOPS:

You lie! I swear that he is juster far

Than Rhadamanthus—I trust more in him.

But let me ask, whence have ye sailed, O strangers? _255

Who are you? And what city nourished ye?

ULYSSES:

Our race is Ithacan—having destroyed

The town of Troy, the tempests of the sea

Have driven us on thy land, O Polypheme.

CYCLOPS:

What, have ye shared in the unenvied spoil _260

Of the false Helen, near Scamander’s stream?

ULYSSES:

The same, having endured a woful toil.

CYCLOPS:

Oh, basest expedition! sailed ye not

From Greece to Phrygia for one woman’s sake?

ULYSSES:

’Twas the Gods’ work—no mortal was in fault. _265

But, O great Offspring of the Ocean-King,

We pray thee and admonish thee with freedom,

That thou dost spare thy friends who visit thee,

And place no impious food within thy jaws.

For in the depths of Greece we have upreared _270

Temples to thy great Father, which are all

His homes. The sacred bay of Taenarus

Remains inviolate, and each dim recess

Scooped high on the Malean promontory,

And aery Sunium’s silver-veined crag, _275

Which divine Pallas keeps unprofaned ever,

The Gerastian asylums, and whate’er

Within wide Greece our enterprise has kept

From Phrygian contumely; and in which

You have a common care, for you inhabit _280

The skirts of Grecian land, under the roots

Of Aetna and its crags, spotted with fire.

Turn then to converse under human laws,

Receive us shipwrecked suppliants, and provide

Food, clothes, and fire, and hospitable gifts; _285

Nor fixing upon oxen-piercing spits

Our limbs, so fill your belly and your jaws.

Priam’s wide land has widowed Greece enough;

And weapon-winged murder leaped together

Enough of dead, and wives are husbandless, _290

And ancient women and gray fathers wail

Their childless age;—if you should roast the rest—

And ’tis a bitter feast that you prepare—

Where then would any turn? Yet be persuaded;

Forgo the lust of your jaw-bone; prefer _295

Pious humanity to wicked will:

Many have bought too dear their evil joys.

SILENUS:

Let me advise you, do not spare a morsel

Of all his flesh. If you should eat his tongue

You would become most eloquent, O Cyclops. _300

CYCLOPS:

Wealth, my good fellow, is the wise man’s God,

All other things are a pretence and boast.

What are my father’s ocean promontories,

The sacred rocks whereon he dwells, to me?

Stranger, I laugh to scorn Jove’s thunderbolt, _305

I know not that his strength is more than mine.

As to the rest I care not.—When he pours

Rain from above, I have a close pavilion

Under this rock, in which I lie supine,

Feasting on a roast calf or some wild beast, _310

And drinking pans of milk, and gloriously

Emulating the thunder of high Heaven.

And when the Thracian wind pours down the snow,

I wrap my body in the skins of beasts,

Kindle a fire, and bid the snow whirl on. _315

The earth, by force, whether it will or no,

Bringing forth grass, fattens my flocks and herds,

Which, to what other God but to myself

And this great belly, first of deities,

Should I be bound to sacrifice? I well know _320

The wise man’s only Jupiter is this,

To eat and drink during his little day,

And give himself no care. And as for those

Who complicate with laws the life of man,

I freely give them tears for their reward. _325

I will not cheat my soul of its delight,

Or hesitate in dining upon you:—

And that I may be quit of all demands,

These are my hospitable gifts;—fierce fire

And yon ancestral caldron, which o’er-bubbling _330

Shall finely cook your miserable flesh.

Creep in!—

...

ULYSSES:

Ai! ai! I have escaped the Trojan toils,

I have escaped the sea, and now I fall

Under the cruel grasp of one impious man. _335

O Pallas, Mistress, Goddess, sprung from Jove,

Now, now, assist me! Mightier toils than Troy

Are these;—I totter on the chasms of peril;—

And thou who inhabitest the thrones

Of the bright stars, look, hospitable Jove, _340

Upon this outrage of thy deity,

Otherwise be considered as no God!

CHORUS (ALONE):

For your gaping gulf and your gullet wide,

The ravin is ready on every side,

The limbs of the strangers are cooked and done; _345

There is boiled meat, and roast meat, and meat from the coal,

You may chop it, and tear it, and gnash it for fun,

An hairy goat’s-skin contains the whole.

Let me but escape, and ferry me o’er

The stream of your wrath to a safer shore. _350

The Cyclops Aetnean is cruel and bold,

He murders the strangers

That sit on his hearth,

And dreads no avengers

To rise from the earth. _355

He roasts the men before they are cold,

He snatches them broiling from the coal,

And from the caldron pulls them whole,

And minces their flesh and gnaws their bone

With his cursed teeth, till all be gone. _360

Farewell, foul pavilion:

Farewell, rites of dread!

The Cyclops vermilion,

With slaughter uncloying,

Now feasts on the dead, _365

In the flesh of strangers joying!

NOTE:

_344 ravin Rossetti; spelt ravine in B., editions 1824, 1839.

ULYSSES:

O Jupiter! I saw within the cave

Horrible things; deeds to be feigned in words,

But not to be believed as being done.

NOTE:

_369 not to be believed B.; not believed 1824.

CHORUS:

What! sawest thou the impious Polypheme _370

Feasting upon your loved companions now?

ULYSSES:

Selecting two, the plumpest of the crowd,

He grasped them in his hands.—

CHORUS:

Unhappy man!

...

ULYSSES:

Soon as we came into this craggy place,

Kindling a fire, he cast on the broad hearth _375

The knotty limbs of an enormous oak,

Three waggon-loads at least, and then he strewed

Upon the ground, beside the red firelight,

His couch of pine-leaves; and he milked the cows,

And pouring forth the white milk, filled a bowl _380

Three cubits wide and four in depth, as much

As would contain ten amphorae, and bound it

With ivy wreaths; then placed upon the fire

A brazen pot to boil, and made red hot

The points of spits, not sharpened with the sickle _385

But with a fruit tree bough, and with the jaws

Of axes for Aetnean slaughterings.

And when this God-abandoned Cook of Hell

Had made all ready, he seized two of us

And killed them in a kind of measured manner; _390

For he flung one against the brazen rivets

Of the huge caldron, and seized the other

By the foot’s tendon, and knocked out his brains

Upon the sharp edge of the craggy stone:

Then peeled his flesh with a great cooking-knife _395

And put him down to roast. The other’s limbs

He chopped into the caldron to be boiled.

And I, with the tears raining from my eyes,

Stood near the Cyclops, ministering to him;

The rest, in the recesses of the cave, _400

Clung to the rock like bats, bloodless with fear.

When he was filled with my companions’ flesh,

He threw himself upon the ground and sent

A loathsome exhalation from his maw.

Then a divine thought came to me. I filled _405

The cup of Maron, and I offered him

To taste, and said:—‘Child of the Ocean God,

Behold what drink the vines of Greece produce,

The exultation and the joy of Bacchus.’

He, satiated with his unnatural food, _410

Received it, and at one draught drank it off,

And taking my hand, praised me:—‘Thou hast given

A sweet draught after a sweet meal, dear guest.’

And I, perceiving that it pleased him, filled

Another cup, well knowing that the wine _415

Would wound him soon and take a sure revenge.

And the charm fascinated him, and I

Plied him cup after cup, until the drink

Had warmed his entrails, and he sang aloud

In concert with my wailing fellow-seamen _420

A hideous discord—and the cavern rung.

I have stolen out, so that if you will

You may achieve my safety and your own.

But say, do you desire, or not, to fly

This uncompanionable man, and dwell _425

As was your wont among the Grecian Nymphs

Within the fanes of your beloved God?

Your father there within agrees to it,

But he is weak and overcome with wine,

And caught as if with bird-lime by the cup, _430

He claps his wings and crows in doting joy.

You who are young escape with me, and find

Bacchus your ancient friend; unsuited he

To this rude Cyclops.

NOTES:

_382 ten cj. Swinburne; four 1824; four cancelled for ten (possibly) B.

_387 I confess I do not understand this.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.]

_416 take]grant (as alternative) B.

CHORUS:

Oh my dearest friend,

That I could see that day, and leave for ever _435

The impious Cyclops.

...

ULYSSES:

Listen then what a punishment I have

For this fell monster, how secure a flight

From your hard servitude.

CHORUS:

O sweeter far

Than is the music of an Asian lyre _440

Would be the news of Polypheme destroyed.

ULYSSES:

Delighted with the Bacchic drink he goes

To call his brother Cyclops—who inhabit

A village upon Aetna not far off.

CHORUS:

I understand, catching him when alone _445

You think by some measure to dispatch him,

Or thrust him from the precipice.

NOTE:

_446 by some measure 1824; with some measures B.

ULYSSES:

Oh no;

Nothing of that kind; my device is subtle.

CHORUS:

How then? I heard of old that thou wert wise.

ULYSSES:

I will dissuade him from this plan, by saying _450

It were unwise to give the Cyclopses

This precious drink, which if enjoyed alone

Would make life sweeter for a longer time.

When, vanquished by the Bacchic power, he sleeps,

There is a trunk of olive wood within, _455

Whose point having made sharp with this good sword

I will conceal in fire, and when I see

It is alight, will fix it, burning yet,

Within the socket of the Cyclops’ eye

And melt it out with fire—as when a man _460

Turns by its handle a great auger round,

Fitting the framework of a ship with beams,

So will I, in the Cyclops’ fiery eye

Turn round the brand and dry the pupil up.

CHORUS:

Joy! I am mad with joy at your device. _465

ULYSSES:

And then with you, my friends, and the old man,

We’ll load the hollow depth of our black ship,

And row with double strokes from this dread shore.

CHORUS:

May I, as in libations to a God,

Share in the blinding him with the red brand? _470

I would have some communion in his death.

ULYSSES:

Doubtless: the brand is a great brand to hold.

CHORUS:

Oh! I would lift an hundred waggon-loads,

If like a wasp’s nest I could scoop the eye out

Of the detested Cyclops.

ULYSSES:

Silence now! _475

Ye know the close device—and when I call,

Look ye obey the masters of the craft.

I will not save myself and leave behind

My comrades in the cave: I might escape,

Having got clear from that obscure recess, _480

But ’twere unjust to leave in jeopardy

The dear companions who sailed here with me.

CHORUS:

Come! who is first, that with his hand

Will urge down the burning brand

Through the lids, and quench and pierce _485

The Cyclops’ eye so fiery fierce?

SEMICHORUS 1 [SONG WITHIN]:

Listen! listen! he is coming,

A most hideous discord humming.

Drunken, museless, awkward, yelling,

Far along his rocky dwelling; _490

Let us with some comic spell

Teach the yet unteachable.

By all means he must be blinded,

If my counsel be but minded.

SEMICHORUS 2:

Happy thou made odorous _495

With the dew which sweet grapes weep,

To the village hastening thus,

Seek the vines that soothe to sleep;

Having first embraced thy friend,

Thou in luxury without end, _500

With the strings of yellow hair,

Of thy voluptuous leman fair,

Shalt sit playing on a bed!—

Speak! what door is opened?

NOTES:

_495 thou cj. Swinburne, Rossetti; those 1824;

‘the word is doubtful in B.’ (Locock).

_500 Thou B.; There 1824.

CYCLOPS:

Ha! ha! ha! I’m full of wine, _505

Heavy with the joy divine,

With the young feast oversated;

Like a merchant’s vessel freighted

To the water’s edge, my crop

Is laden to the gullet’s top. _510

The fresh meadow grass of spring

Tempts me forth thus wandering

To my brothers on the mountains,

Who shall share the wine’s sweet fountains.

Bring the cask, O stranger, bring! _515

NOTE:

_508 merchant’s 1824; merchant B.

CHORUS:

One with eyes the fairest

Cometh from his dwelling;

Some one loves thee, rarest

Bright beyond my telling.

In thy grace thou shinest _520

Like some nymph divinest

In her caverns dewy:—

All delights pursue thee,

Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing,

Shall thy head be wreathing. _525

ULYSSES:

Listen, O Cyclops, for I am well skilled

In Bacchus, whom I gave thee of to drink.

CYCLOPS:

What sort of God is Bacchus then accounted?

ULYSSES:

The greatest among men for joy of life.

CYCLOPS:

I gulped him down with very great delight. _530

ULYSSES:

This is a God who never injures men.

CYCLOPS:

How does the God like living in a skin?

ULYSSES:

He is content wherever he is put.

CYCLOPS:

Gods should not have their body in a skin.

ULYSSES:

If he gives joy, what is his skin to you? _535

CYCLOPS:

I hate the skin, but love the wine within.

ULYSSES:

Stay here now: drink, and make your spirit glad.

NOTE:

_537 Stay here now, drink B.; stay here, now drink 1824.

CYCLOPS:

Should I not share this liquor with my brothers?

ULYSSES:

Keep it yourself, and be more honoured so.

CYCLOPS:

I were more useful, giving to my friends. _540

ULYSSES:

But village mirth breeds contests, broils, and blows.

CYCLOPS:

When I am drunk none shall lay hands on me.—

ULYSSES:

A drunken man is better within doors.

CYCLOPS:

He is a fool, who drinking, loves not mirth.

ULYSSES:

But he is wise, who drunk, remains at home. _545

CYCLOPS:

What shall I do, Silenus? Shall I stay?

SILENUS:

Stay—for what need have you of pot companions?

CYCLOPS:

Indeed this place is closely carpeted

With flowers and grass.

SILENUS:

And in the sun-warm noon

’Tis sweet to drink. Lie down beside me now, _550

Placing your mighty sides upon the ground.

CYCLOPS:

What do you put the cup behind me for?

SILENUS:

That no one here may touch it.

CYCLOPS:

Thievish One!

You want to drink;—here place it in the midst.

And thou, O stranger, tell how art thou called? _555

ULYSSES:

My name is Nobody. What favour now

Shall I receive to praise you at your hands?

CYCLOPS:

I’ll feast on you the last of your companions.

ULYSSES:

You grant your guest a fair reward, O Cyclops.

CYCLOPS:

Ha! what is this? Stealing the wine, you rogue! _560

SILENUS:

It was this stranger kissing me because

I looked so beautiful.

CYCLOPS:

You shall repent

For kissing the coy wine that loves you not.

SILENUS:

By Jupiter! you said that I am fair.

CYCLOPS:

Pour out, and only give me the cup full. _565

SILENUS:

How is it mixed? let me observe.

CYCLOPS:

Curse you!

Give it me so.

SILENUS:

Not till I see you wear

That coronal, and taste the cup to you.

CYCLOPS:

Thou wily traitor!

SILENUS:

But the wine is sweet.

Ay, you will roar if you are caught in drinking. _570

CYCLOPS:

See now, my lip is clean and all my beard.

SILENUS:

Now put your elbow right and drink again.

As you see me drink—...

CYCLOPS:

How now?

SILENUS:

Ye Gods, what a delicious gulp!

CYCLOPS:

Guest, take it;—you pour out the wine for me. _575

ULYSSES:

The wine is well accustomed to my hand.

CYCLOPS:

Pour out the wine!

ULYSSES:

I pour; only be silent.

CYCLOPS:

Silence is a hard task to him who drinks.

ULYSSES:

Take it and drink it off; leave not a dreg.

Oh that the drinker died with his own draught! _580

CYCLOPS:

Papai! the vine must be a sapient plant.

ULYSSES:

If you drink much after a mighty feast,

Moistening your thirsty maw, you will sleep well;

If you leave aught, Bacchus will dry you up.

CYCLOPS:

Ho! ho! I can scarce rise. What pure delight! _585

The heavens and earth appear to whirl about

Confusedly. I see the throne of Jove

And the clear congregation of the Gods.

Now if the Graces tempted me to kiss

I would not—for the loveliest of them all _590

I would not leave this Ganymede.

SILENUS:

Polypheme,

I am the Ganymede of Jupiter.

CYCLOPS:

By Jove, you are; I bore you off from Dardanus.

...

[ULYSSES AND THE CHORUS.]

ULYSSES:

Come, boys of Bacchus, children of high race,

This man within is folded up in sleep, _595

And soon will vomit flesh from his fell maw;

The brand under the shed thrusts out its smoke,

No preparation needs, but to burn out

The monster’s eye;—but bear yourselves like men.

CHORUS:

We will have courage like the adamant rock, _600

All things are ready for you here; go in,

Before our father shall perceive the noise.

ULYSSES:

Vulcan, Aetnean king! burn out with fire

The shining eye of this thy neighbouring monster!

And thou, O Sleep, nursling of gloomy Night, _605

Descend unmixed on this God-hated beast,

And suffer not Ulysses and his comrades,

Returning from their famous Trojan toils,

To perish by this man, who cares not either

For God or mortal; or I needs must think _610

That Chance is a supreme divinity,

And things divine are subject to her power.

NOTE:

_606 God-hated 1824; God-hating (as an alternative) B.

CHORUS:

Soon a crab the throat will seize

Of him who feeds upon his guest,

Fire will burn his lamp-like eyes _615

In revenge of such a feast!

A great oak stump now is lying

In the ashes yet undying.

Come, Maron, come!

Raging let him fix the doom, _620

Let him tear the eyelid up

Of the Cyclops—that his cup

May be evil!

Oh! I long to dance and revel

With sweet Bromian, long desired, _625

In loved ivy wreaths attired;

Leaving this abandoned home—

Will the moment ever come?

ULYSSES:

Be silent, ye wild things! Nay, hold your peace,

And keep your lips quite close; dare not to breathe, _630

Or spit, or e’en wink, lest ye wake the monster,

Until his eye be tortured out with fire.

CHORUS:

Nay, we are silent, and we chaw the air.

ULYSSES:

Come now, and lend a hand to the great stake

Within—it is delightfully red hot. _635

CHORUS:

You then command who first should seize the stake

To burn the Cyclops’ eye, that all may share

In the great enterprise.

SEMICHORUS 1:

We are too far;

We cannot at this distance from the door

Thrust fire into his eye.

SEMICHORUS 2:

And we just now _640

Have become lame! cannot move hand or foot.

CHORUS:

The same thing has occurred to us,—our ankles

Are sprained with standing here, I know not how.

ULYSSES:

What, sprained with standing still?

CHORUS:

And there is dust

Or ashes in our eyes, I know not whence. _645

ULYSSES:

Cowardly dogs! ye will not aid me then?

CHORUS:

With pitying my own back and my back-bone,

And with not wishing all my teeth knocked out,

This cowardice comes of itself—but stay,

I know a famous Orphic incantation _650

To make the brand stick of its own accord

Into the skull of this one-eyed son of Earth.

ULYSSES:

Of old I knew ye thus by nature; now

I know ye better.—I will use the aid

Of my own comrades. Yet though weak of hand _655

Speak cheerfully, that so ye may awaken

The courage of my friends with your blithe words.

CHORUS:

This I will do with peril of my life,

And blind you with my exhortations, Cyclops.

Hasten and thrust, _660

And parch up to dust,

The eye of the beast

Who feeds on his guest.

Burn and blind

The Aetnean hind! _665

Scoop and draw,

But beware lest he claw

Your limbs near his maw.

CYCLOPS:

Ah me! my eyesight is parched up to cinders.

CHORUS:

What a sweet paean! sing me that again! _670

CYCLOPS:

Ah me! indeed, what woe has fallen upon me!

But, wretched nothings, think ye not to flee

Out of this rock; I, standing at the outlet,

Will bar the way and catch you as you pass.

CHORUS:

What are you roaring out, Cyclops?

CYCLOPS:

I perish! _675

CHORUS:

For you are wicked.

CYCLOPS:

And besides miserable.

CHORUS:

What, did you fall into the fire when drunk?

CYCLOPS:

’Twas Nobody destroyed me.

CHORUS:

Why then no one

Can be to blame.

CYCLOPS:

I say ’twas Nobody

Who blinded me.

CHORUS:

Why then you are not blind. _680

CYCLOPS:

I wish you were as blind as I am.

CHORUS:

Nay,

It cannot be that no one made you blind.

CYCLOPS:

You jeer me; where, I ask, is Nobody?

CHORUS:

Nowhere, O Cyclops.

CYCLOPS:

It was that stranger ruined me:—the wretch _685

First gave me wine and then burned out my eye,

For wine is strong and hard to struggle with.

Have they escaped, or are they yet within?

CHORUS:

They stand under the darkness of the rock

And cling to it.

CYCLOPS:

At my right hand or left? _690

CHORUS:

Close on your right.

CYCLOPS:

Where?

CHORUS:

Near the rock itself.

You have them.

CYCLOPS:

Oh, misfortune on misfortune!

I’ve cracked my skull.

CHORUS:

Now they escape you—there.

NOTE:

_693 So B.; Now they escape you there 1824.

CYCLOPS:

Not there, although you say so.

CHORUS:

Not on that side.

CYCLOPS:

Where then?

CHORUS:

They creep about you on your left. _695

CYCLOPS:

Ah! I am mocked! They jeer me in my ills.

CHORUS:

Not there! he is a little there beyond you.

CYCLOPS:

Detested wretch! where are you?

ULYSSES:

Far from you

I keep with care this body of Ulysses.

CYCLOPS:

What do you say? You proffer a new name. _700

ULYSSES:

My father named me so; and I have taken

A full revenge for your unnatural feast;

I should have done ill to have burned down Troy

And not revenged the murder of my comrades.

CYCLOPS:

Ai! ai! the ancient oracle is accomplished; _705

It said that I should have my eyesight blinded

By your coming from Troy, yet it foretold

That you should pay the penalty for this

By wandering long over the homeless sea.

ULYSSES:

I bid thee weep—consider what I say; _710

I go towards the shore to drive my ship

To mine own land, o’er the Sicilian wave.

CYCLOPS:

Not so, if, whelming you with this huge stone,

I can crush you and all your men together;

I will descend upon the shore, though blind, _715

Groping my way adown the steep ravine.

CHORUS:

And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now,

Will serve our Bacchus all our happy lives.

***

EPIGRAMS.

[These four Epigrams were published—numbers 2 and 4 without title—by

Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition.]

1.—TO STELLA.

FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.

Thou wert the morning star among the living,

Ere thy fair light had fled;—

Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving

New splendour to the dead.

2.—KISSING HELENA.

FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.

Kissing Helena, together

With my kiss, my soul beside it

Came to my lips, and there I kept it,—

For the poor thing had wandered thither,

To follow where the kiss should guide it, _5

Oh, cruel I, to intercept it!

3.—SPIRIT OF PLATO.

FROM THE GREEK.

Eagle! why soarest thou above that tomb?

To what sublime and star-ypaven home

Floatest thou?—

I am the image of swift Plato’s spirit,

Ascending heaven; Athens doth inherit _5

His corpse below.

NOTE:

_5 doth Boscombe manuscript; does edition 1839.

4.—CIRCUMSTANCE.

FROM THE GREEK.

A man who was about to hang himself,

Finding a purse, then threw away his rope;

The owner, coming to reclaim his pelf,

The halter found; and used it. So is Hope

Changed for Despair—one laid upon the shelf, _5

We take the other. Under Heaven’s high cope

Fortune is God—all you endure and do

Depends on circumstance as much as you.

***

FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ADONIS.

PROM THE GREEK OF BION.

[Published by Forman, “Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1876.]

I mourn Adonis dead—loveliest Adonis—

Dead, dead Adonis—and the Loves lament.

Sleep no more, Venus, wrapped in purple woof—

Wake violet-stoled queen, and weave the crown

Of Death,—’tis Misery calls,—for he is dead. _5

The lovely one lies wounded in the mountains,

His white thigh struck with the white tooth; he scarce

Yet breathes; and Venus hangs in agony there.

The dark blood wanders o’er his snowy limbs,

His eyes beneath their lids are lustreless, _10

The rose has fled from his wan lips, and there

That kiss is dead, which Venus gathers yet.

A deep, deep wound Adonis...

A deeper Venus bears upon her heart.

See, his beloved dogs are gathering round— _15

The Oread nymphs are weeping—Aphrodite

With hair unbound is wandering through the woods,

‘Wildered, ungirt, unsandalled—the thorns pierce

Her hastening feet and drink her sacred blood.

Bitterly screaming out, she is driven on _20

Through the long vales; and her Assyrian boy,

Her love, her husband, calls—the purple blood

From his struck thigh stains her white navel now,

Her bosom, and her neck before like snow.

Alas for Cytherea—the Loves mourn— _25

The lovely, the beloved is gone!—and now

Her sacred beauty vanishes away.

For Venus whilst Adonis lived was fair—

Alas! her loveliness is dead with him.

The oaks and mountains cry, Ai! ai! Adonis! _30

The springs their waters change to tears and weep—

The flowers are withered up with grief...

Ai! ai! ... Adonis is dead

Echo resounds ... Adonis dead.

Who will weep not thy dreadful woe. O Venus? _35

Soon as she saw and knew the mortal wound

Of her Adonis—saw the life-blood flow

From his fair thigh, now wasting,—wailing loud

She clasped him, and cried ... ‘Stay, Adonis!

Stay, dearest one,... _40

and mix my lips with thine—

Wake yet a while, Adonis—oh, but once,

That I may kiss thee now for the last time—

But for as long as one short kiss may live—

Oh, let thy breath flow from thy dying soul _45

Even to my mouth and heart, that I may suck

That...’

NOTE:

_23 his Rossetti, Dowden, Woodberry; her Boscombe manuscript, Forman.

***

FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF BION.

FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

[Published from the Hunt manuscripts by Forman, “Poetical Works of P. B.

S.”, 1876.]

Ye Dorian woods and waves, lament aloud,—

Augment your tide, O streams, with fruitless tears,

For the beloved Bion is no more.

Let every tender herb and plant and flower,

From each dejected bud and drooping bloom, _5

Shed dews of liquid sorrow, and with breath

Of melancholy sweetness on the wind

Diffuse its languid love; let roses blush,

Anemones grow paler for the loss

Their dells have known; and thou, O hyacinth, _10

Utter thy legend now—yet more, dumb flower,

Than ‘Ah! alas!’—thine is no common grief—

Bion the [sweetest singer] is no more.

NOTE:

_2 tears]sorrow (as alternative) Hunt manuscript.

***

FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.

[Published with “Alastor”, 1816.]

Tan ala tan glaukan otan onemos atrema Balle—k.t.l.

When winds that move not its calm surface sweep

The azure sea, I love the land no more;

The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep

Tempt my unquiet mind.—But when the roar

Of Ocean’s gray abyss resounds, and foam _5

Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst,

I turn from the drear aspect to the home

Of Earth and its deep woods, where, interspersed,

When winds blow loud, pines make sweet melody.

Whose house is some lone bark, whose toil the sea, _10

Whose prey the wandering fish, an evil lot

Has chosen.—But I my languid limbs will fling

Beneath the plane, where the brook’s murmuring

Moves the calm spirit, but disturbs it not.

***