Wednesday 17 June 2015

"La Vida es Sueño" by Pedro Calderón de la Barca (First Act, end) (in Spanish)



                         [En el palacio real]
                Sale por una puerta ASTOLFO con acompañamiento de soldados, y por otra ESTRELLA con damas.  Suena m&ucute;sica.
ASTOLFO:      Bien al ver los excelentes
           rayos, que fueron cometas,
           mezclan salvas diferentes
           las cajas y las trompetas,
           los pájaros y las fuentes;
              siendo con música igual,
           y con maravilla suma,
           a tu vista celestial
           unos, clarines de pluma,
           y otras, aves de metal;
              y así os saludan, señora,
           como a su reina las balas,
           los pájaros como a Aurora,
           las trompetas como a Palas
           y las flores como a Flora;
              porque sois, burlando el día
           que ya la noche destierra,
           Aurora, en el alegría,
           Flora en paz, Palas en guerra,
           y reina en el alma mía.
ESTRELLA:     Si la voz se ha de medir
           con las acciones humanas,
           mal habéis hecho en decir
           finezas tan cortesanas,
           donde os pueda desmentir
              todo ese marcial trofeo
           con quien ya atrevida lucho;
           pues no dicen, según creo,
           las lisonjas que os escucho,
           con los rigores que veo.
              Y advertid que es baja acción,
           que sólo a una fiera toca,
           madre de engaño y traición,
           el halagar con la boca
           y matar con la intención.
ASTOLFO:      Muy mal informado estáis,
           Estrella, pues que la fe
           de mis finezas dudáis,
           y os suplico que me oigáis
           la causa, a ver si la sé.
              Falleció Eustorgio Tercero,
           rey de Polonia; quedó
           Basilio por heredero,
           y dos hijas, de quien yo
           y vos nacimos.  No quiero
              cansar con lo que no tiene
           lugar aquí, Clorilene,
           vuestra madre y mi señora,
           que en mejor imperio agora
           dosel de luceros tiene,
              fue la mayor, de quien vos
           sois hija; fue la segunda,
           madre y tía de los dos,
           la gallarda Recisunda,
           que guarde mil años Dios;
              casó en Moscovia; de quien
           nací yo.  Volver agora
           al otro principio es bien.
           Basilio, que ya, señora,
           se rinde al común desdén
              del tiempo, más inclinado
           a los estudios que dado
           a mujeres, enviudó
           sin hijos, y vos y yo
           aspiramos a este estado.
              Vos alegáis que habéis sido
           hija de hermana mayor;
           yo, que varón he nacido,
           y aunque de hermana menor,
           os debo ser preferido.
              Vuestra intención y la mía
           a nuestro tío contamos;
           él respondió que quería
           componernos, y aplazarnos
           este puesto y este día.
              Con esta intención salí
           de Moscovia y de su tierra;
           con ésta llegué hasta aquí,
           en vez de haceros yo guerra
           a que me la hagáis a mí.
              ¡Oh!, quiera Amor, sabio dios,
           que el vulgo, astrólogo cierto,
           hoy lo sea con los dos,
           y que pare este concierto
           en que seáis reina vos,
              pero reina en mi albedrío.
           Dándoos, para más honor,
           su corona nuestro tío,
           sus triunfos vuestro valor
           y su imperio el amor mío.
ESTRELLA:     A tan cortés bizarría
           menos mi pecho no muestra,
           pues la imperial monarquía,
           para sólo hacerla vuestra
           me holgara que fuese mía;
              aunque no está satisfecho
           mi amor de que sois ingrato,
           si en cuanto decís sospecho
           que os desmiente ese retrato
           que está pendiente del pecho.
ASTOLFO:      Satisfaceros intento
           con él...  Mas lugar no da
           tanto sonoro instrumento,
           que avisa que sale ya
           el rey con su parlamento.
        Tocan y sale el rey BASILIO, viejo y acompañamiento
ESTRELLA:       Sabio Tales...
ASTOLFO:                  Docto Euclides...
ESTRELLA:  ...que entre signos...
ASTOLFO:                ...que entre estrellas...
ESTRELLA:  ...hoy gobiernas...
ASTOLFO:                ...hoy resides...
ESTRELLA:  ...y sus caminos...
ASTOLFO:                  ...sus huellas...
ESTRELLA:  ...describes...
ASTOLFO:               ...tasas y mides...
ESTRELLA:     ...deja que en humildes lazos...
ASTOLFO:   ...deja que en tiernos abrazos...
ESTRELLA:  ...hiedra de ese tronco sea.
ASTOLFO:   ...rendido a tus pies me vea.
BASILIO:   Sobrinos, dadme los brazos,
              y creed, pues que leales
           a mi precepto amoroso
           venís con afectos tales,
           que a nadie deje quejoso
           y los dos quedéis iguales;
              y así, cuando me confieso
           rendido al prolijo peso,
           sólo os pido en la ocasión
           silencio, que admiración
           ha de pedirla el suceso.
          Ya sabéis --estadme atentos,
           amados sobrinos míos,
           corte ilustre de Polonia,
           vasallo, deudos y amigos--,
           ya sabéis que yo en el mundo
           por mi ciencia he merecido
           el sobrenombre de docto,
           pues, contra el tiempo y olvido,
           los pinceles de Timantes,
           los mármoles de Lisipo,
           en el ámbito del orbe
           me aclaman el gran Basilio.
           Ya sabéis que son las ciencias
           que más curso y más estimo,
           matemáticas sutiles,
           por quien al tiempo le quito,
           por quien a la fama rompo
           la jurisdicción y oficio
           de enseñar más cada día;
           pues, cuando en mis tablas miro
           presentes las novedades
           de los venideros siglos,
           le gano al tiempo las gracias
           de contar lo que yo he dicho.
           Esos círculos de nieve,
           esos doseles de vidrio
           que el sol ilumina a rayos,
           que parte la luna a giros;
           esos orbes de diamantes,
           esos globos cristalinos
           que las estrellas adornan
           y que campean los signos,
           son el estudio mayor
           de mis años, son los libros
           donde en papel de diamante,
           en cuadernos de zafiros,
           escribe con líneas de oro,
           en caracteres distintos,
           el cielo nuestros sucesos
           ya adversos o ya benignos.
           Éstos leo tan veloz,
           que con mi espíritu sigo
           sus rápidos movimientos
           por rumbos o por caminos.
           ¡Pluguiera al cielo, primero
           que mi ingenio hubiera sido
           de sus márgenes comento
           y de sus hojas registro,
           hubiera sido mi vida
           el primero desperdicio
           de sus iras, y que en ellas
           mi tragedia hubiera sido;
           porque de los infelices
           aun el mérito es cuchillo,
           que a quien le daña el saber
           homicida es de sí mismo!
           Dígalo yo, aunque mejor
           lo dirán sucesos míos,
           para cuya admiración
           otra vez silencio os pido.
           En Clorilene, mi esposa,
           tuve un infelice hijo,
           en cuyo parto los cielos
           se agotaron de prodigios.
           Antes que a la luz hermosa
           le diese el sepulcro vivo
           de un vientre --porque el nacer
           y el morir son parecidos--,
           su madre infinitas veces,
           entre ideas y delirios
           del sueño, vio que rompía
           sus entrañas, atrevido,
           un monstruo en forma de hombre,
           y entre su sangre teñido,
           le daba muerte, naciendo
           víbora humana del siglo.
           Llegó de su parto el día,
           y los presagios cumplidos
           --porque tarde o nunca son
           mentirosos los impíos--,
           nació en horóscopo tal,
           que el sol, en su sangre tinto,
           entraba sañudamente
           con la luna en desafío;
           y siendo valla la tierra,
           los dos faroles divinos
           a luz entera luchaban,
           ya que no a brazo partido.
           El mayor, el más horrendo
           eclipse que ha padecido
           el sol, después que con sangre
           lloró la muerte de Cristo,
           éste fue, porque anegado
           el orbe entre incendios vivos,
           presumió que padecía
           el último parasismo;
           los cielos se escurecieron,
           temblaron los edificios,
           llovieron piedras las nubes,
           corrieron sangre los ríos.
           En este mísero, en este
           mortal planeta o signo,
           nació Segismundo, dando
           de su condición indicios,
           pues dio la muerte a su madre,
           con cuya fiereza dijo:
           "Hombre soy, pues que ya empiezo
           a pagar mal beneficios."
           Yo, acudiendo a mis estudios,
           en ellos y en todo miro
           que Segismundo sería
           el hombre más atrevido,
           el príncipe más crüel
           y el monarca más impío,
           por quien su reino vendría
           a ser parcial y diviso,
           escuela de las traiciones
           y academia de los vicios;
           y él, de su furor llevado,
           entre asombros y delitos,
           había de poner en mí
           las plantas, y yo, rendido,
           a sus pies me había de ver
           --¡con qué congoja lo digo!--
           siendo alfombra de sus plantas
           las canas del rostro mío.
           ¿Quién no da crédito al daño,
           y más al daño que ha visto
           en su estudio, donde hace
           el amor propio su oficio?
           Pues dando crédito yo
           a los hados, que adivinos
           me pronosticaban daños
           en fatales vaticinios,
           determiné de encerrar
           la fiera que había nacido,
           por ver si el sabio tenía
           en las estrellas dominio.
           Publicóse que el infante
           nació muerto, y prevenido
           hice labrar una torre
           entre las peñas y riscos
           de esos montes, donde apenas
           la luz ha hallado camino,
           por defenderle la entrada
           sus rústicos obeliscos.
           Las graves penas y leyes,
           que con públicos editos
           declararon que ninguno
           entrase a un vedado sitio
           del monte, se ocasionaron
           de las causas que os he dicho.
           Allí Segismundo vive
           mísero, pobre y cautivo,
           adonde sólo Clotaldo
           le ha hablado, tratado y visto.
           Éste le ha enseñado ciencias;
           éste en la ley le ha instruído
           católica, siendo solo
           de sus miserias testigo.
           Aquí hay tres cosas:  La una
           que yo, Polonia, os estimo
           tanto, que os quiero librar
           de la opresión y servicio
           de un rey tirano, porque
           no fuera señor benigno
           el que a su patria y su imperio
           pusiera en tanto peligro.
           La otra es considerar
           que si a mi sangre le quito
           el derecho que le dieron
           humano fuero y divino,
           no es cristiana caridad;
           pues ninguna ley ha dicho
           que por reservar yo a otro
           de tirano y de atrevido,
           pueda yo serlo, supuesto
           que si es tirano mi hijo,
           porque él delito no haga,
           vengo yo a hacer los delitos.
           Es la última y tercera
           el ver cuánto yerro ha sido
           dar crédito fácilmente
           a los sucesos previstos;
           pues aunque su inclinación
           le dicte sus precipicios,
           quizá no le vencerán,
           porque el hado más esquivo,
           la inclinación más violenta,
           el planeta más impío,
           sólo el albedrío inclinan,
           no fuerzan el albedrío.
           Y así, entre una y otra causa
           vacilante y discursivo,
           previne un remedio tal,
           que os suspenda los sentidos.
           Yo he de ponerle mañana,
           sin que él sepa que es mi hijo
           y rey vuestro, a Segismundo,
           que aqueste su nombre ha sido,
           en mi dosel, en mi silla,
           y en fin, en el lugar mío,
           donde os gobierne y os mande,
           y donde todos rendidos
           la obediencia le juréis;
           pues con aquesto consigo
           tres cosas, con que respondo
           a las otras tres que he dicho.
           Es la primera, que siendo
           prudente, cuerdo y benigno,
           desmintiendo en todo al hado
           que de él tantas cosas dijo,
           gozaréis el natural
           príncipe vuestro, que ha sido
           cortesano de unos montes
           y de sus fieras vecino.
           Es la segunda, que si él,
           soberbio, osado, atrevido
           y crüel, con rienda suelta
           corre el campo de sus vicios,
           habré yo, piadoso, entonces
           con mi obligación cumplido;
           y luego en desposeerle
           haré como rey invicto,
           siendo el volverle a la cárcel
           no crueldad, sino castigo.
           Es la tercera, que siendo
           el príncipe como os digo,
           por lo que os amo, vasallos,
           os daré reyes más dignos
           de la corona y el cetro;
           pues serán mis dos sobrinos
           que junto en uno el derecho
           de los dos, y convenidos
           con la fe del matrimonio,
           tendrá lo que han merecido.
           Esto como rey os mando,
           esto como padre os pido,
           esto como sabio os ruego,
           esto como anciano os digo;
           y si el Séneca español,
           que era humilde esclavo, dijo,
           de su república un rey,
           como esclavo os lo suplico.
ASTOLFO:   Si a mí responder me toca,
           como el que, en efecto, ha sido
           aquí el más interesado,
           en nombre de todos digo,
           que Segismundo parezca,
           pues le basta ser tu hijo.
TODOS:     Danos al príncipe nuestro,
           que ya por rey le pedimos.
BASILIO:   Vasallos, esa fineza
           os agradezco y estimo.
           Acompañad a sus cuartos
           a los dos atlantes míos,
           que mañana le veréis.
TODOS:     ¡Viva el grande rey Basilio!
                Vanse todos.  Antes que se va el rey BASILIO, sale CLOTALDO,
ROSAURA, CLARÍN, y detiénese el rey
CLOTALDO:  ¿Podréte hablar?
BASILIO:                   ¡Oh, Clotaldo!,
           tú seas muy bien venido.
CLOTALDO:  Aunque viniendo a tus plantas
           es fuerza el haberlo sido,
           esta vez rompe, señor,
           el hado triste y esquivo
           el privilegio a la ley
           y a la costumbre el estilo.
BASILIO:   ¿Qué tienes?
CLOTALDO:               Una desdicha,
           señor, que me ha sucedido,
           cuando pudiera tenerla
           por el mayor regocijo.
BASILIO:   Prosigue.
CLOTALDO:             Este bello joven,
           osado o inadvertido,
           entró en la torre, señor,
           adonde al príncipe ha visto,
           y es...
BASILIO:      No te aflijas, Clotaldo;
           si otro día hubiera sido,
           confieso que lo sintiera;
           pero ya el secreto he dicho,
           y no importa que él los sepa,
           supuesto que yo lo digo.
           Vedme después, porque tengo
           muchas cosas que advertiros
           y muchas que hagáis por mí;
           que habéis de ser, os aviso,
           instrumento del mayor
           suceso que el mundo ha visto;
           y a esos presos, porque al fin
           no presumáis que castigo
           descuidos vuestros, perdono.
                          Vase el rey BASILIO
CLOTALDO:  ¡Vivas, gran señor, mil siglos!
           (Mejoró el cielo la suerte.      Aparte
           Ya no diré que es mi hijo,
           pues que lo puedo excusar).
           Extranjeros peregrinos,
           libres estáis.
ROSAURA:                Tus pies beso
           mil veces.
CLARÍN:              Y yo los piso,
           que una letra más o menos
           no reparan dos amigos.
ROSAURA:   La vida, señor, me das dado;
           y pues a tu cuenta vivo,
           eternamente seré
           esclavo tuyo.
CLOTALDO:               No ha sido
           vida la que yo te he dado;
           porque un hombre bien nacido,
           si está agraviado, no vive;
           y supuesto que has venido
           a vengarte de un agravio,
           según tú propio me has dicho,
           no te he dado vida yo,
           porque tú no la has traído;
           que vida infame no es vida.
           (Bien con aquesto le animo).           Aparte
ROSAURA:   Confieso que no la tengo,
           aunque de ti la recibo;
           pero yo con la venganza
           dejaré mi honor tan limpio,
           que pueda mi vida luego,
           atropellando peligros,
           parecer dádiva tuya.
CLOTALDO:  Toma el acero bruñido
           que trujiste; que yo sé
           que él baste, en sangre teñido
           de tu enemigo, a vengarte;
           porque acero que fue mío
           --digo este instante, este rato
           que en mi poder le he tenido--,
           sabrá vengarte.
ROSAURA:                    En tu nombre
           segunda vez me le ciño.
           Y en él juro mi venganza,
           aunque fuese mi enemigo
           más poderoso.
CLOTALDO:                ¿Eslo mucho?
ROSAURA:   Tanto, que no te lo digo,
           no porque de tu prudencia
           mayores cosas no fío,
           sino porque no se vuelva
           contra mí el favor que admiro
           en tu piedad.
CLOTALDO:                 Antes fuera
           ganarme a mí con decirlo;
           pues fuera cerrarme el paso
           de ayudar a tu enemigo.
           (¡Oh, si supiera quién es!)   Aparte
ROSAURA:   Porque no pienses que estimo
           tan poco esa confïanza,
           sabe que el contrario ha sido
           no menos que Astolfo, duque
           de Moscovia.
CLOTALDO:                (Mal resisto             Aparte
           el dolor, porque es más grave,
           que fue imaginado, visto.
           Apuremos más el caso).
           Si moscovita has nacido,
           el que es natural señor,
           mal agraviarte ha podido;
           vuélvete a tu patria, pues,
           y deja el ardiente brío
           que te despeña.
ROSAURA:                  Yo sé
           que aunque mi príncipe ha sido
           pudo agraviarme.
CLOTALDO:                 No pudo,
           aunque pusiera, atrevido,
           la mano en tu rostro.  (¡Ay, cielos!)
ROSAURA:   Mayor fue el agravio mío.
CLOTALDO:  Dilo ya, pues que no puedes
           decir más que yo imagino.
ROSAURA:   Sí dijera; mas no sé
           con qué respeto te miro,
           con qué afecto te venero,
           con qué estimación te asisto,
           que no me atrevo a decirte
           que es este exterior vestido
           enigma, pues no es de quien
           parece.  Juzga advertido,
           si no soy lo que parezco
           y Astolfo a casarse vino
           con Estrella, si podrá
           agraviarme.  Harto te he dicho.
                        Vanse ROSAURA y CLARÍN
CLOTALDO:  ¡Escucha, aguarda, detente!
           ¿Qué confuso laberinto
           es éste, conde no puede
           hallar la razón el hilo?
           Mi honor es el agraviado,
           poderoso el enemigo,
           yo vasallo, ella mujer;
           descubra el cielo camino;
           aunque no sé si podrá,
           cuando, en tan confuso abismo,
           es todo el cielo un presagio,
           y es todo el mundo un prodigio.
                             Vase CLOTALDO

FIN DEL PRIMER ACTO

Tuesday 16 June 2015

"The Ass and the Wolf" by Aesop (translated into English)

  An Ass feeding in a meadow saw a Wolf approaching to seize him, and immediately pretended to be lame. The Wolf, coming up, inquired the cause of his lameness. The Ass replied that passing through a hedge he had trod with his foot upon a sharp thorn. He requested that the Wolf pull it out, lest when he ate him it should injure his throat. The Wolf consented and lifted up the foot, and was giving his whole mind to the discovery of the thorn, when the Ass, with his heels, kicked his teeth into his mouth and galloped away. The Wolf, being thus fearfully mauled, said, "I am rightly served, for why did I attempt the art of healing, when my father only taught me the trade of a butcher?' 

Monday 15 June 2015

Sonnet by Alphonsus de Guimaraens (in Portuguese)

Desesperanças! réquiem tumultuário
Na abandonada igreja sem altares...
A noite é branca, o esquife é solitário,
E a cova, ao longe, espreita os meus pesares.

Sinos que dobram, dobras de sudário!
No silêncio das noites tumulares
Há de surgir o espectro funerário,
Cujos olhos sem luz não tem olhares.

Santo alívio de paz, consolo pio,
Fonte clara no meio do deserto,
Manto que cobre aqueles que têm frio!

Eis-me esperando o derradeiro trono:
Que a morte vem de manso, em dia incerto,
E fecha os olhos dos que têm mais sono...

Saturday 13 June 2015

Letter from St. John Bosco to Pope Pius IX (translated into Portuguese)

                                                                                                                      Turim, 10 de março 1861

Beatíssimo Padre,

    Aproveito a oportunidade favorável de que um zeloso cooperador do jornal “L'Armonia” vai a Roma para dirigir duas palavras a Vossa Santidade.
    Quantas coisas um pobre sacerdote quereria dizer ao chefe da Cristandade! Reduzamos tudo à máxima brevidade.
    Eu direi, entretanto, que após muitos distúrbios, no momento presente estamos em paz, fato que me permite trabalhar livremente em favor de meus jovens e pela impressão das “Leituras Católicas”.
    De um ano para cá, nossas escolas cresceram ao quádruplo. Atualmente, na nossa casa temos perto de quinhentos jovens, que dão boas esperanças e se preparam para o estado eclesiástico.
    Nosso clero até agora se mantém corajosamente firme; mas aproximam-se grandes provações, e se o Senhor não nos fortificar com sua graça eu temo algum naufrágio.
    Promessas, ameaças, pressões são os três inimigos que nos têm atacado; mas agora se avizinha o tempo da perseguição.
    Os fiéis são fervorosos; mas a cada dia um grande número passa da tibieza para um indiferentismo apático, que é a maior praga do catolicismo em nossos paíz.
    Porém, os tímidos baniram todo medo e mostram-se intrépidos em todo lugar onde seja necessário se revelar cristão.
    Pese a tudo, Beatíssimo Padre, fique tranquilo, porque aqui no Piemonte há um grande número de filhinhos unidos com o espírito do Senhor.
    Eles estão inteiramente prontos, se Deus quiser, a dar suas vidas e seus bens pela religião santíssima da qual Vós sois a cabeça visível sobre a [terra], enquanto Deus vos assiste desde o Céu.
    O fato que mais aflige nosso espírito são os desastres que acabrunham a Igreja universal.
    Coragem, Beatíssimo Padre, nós temos rezado e ainda hoje redobramos nossas orações pela conservação de Vossa sagrada pessoa.
    Um garotinho que há já alguns anos dá claros sinais [de] receber especiais luzes do Senhor, pronunciou várias vezes estas palavras:
        ‘Quantas tribulações contristarão o paterno coração de Pio IX. A Virgem Imaculada estende ao Santo Padre um grande maço de rosas, mas ele deve pegá-las pela parte onde há espinhos agudíssimos’.
    Uma outra pessoa é da opinião de que se o Senhor não muda seus desígnios. Vossa Santidade deverá mais uma vez abandonar Roma, o que será um grande bem em meio a tanto mal; pois povos inteiros acorrerão para venerá-la; milhões de homens abraçarão o catolicismo, movidos unicamente pela fortaleza nas tribulações do Vigário de Jesus Cristo, que por este meio iluminará muitas almas redimidas pelo próprio Salvador nosso.
    Em suma, aproximam-se acontecimentos espantosos, talvez inauditos na história das nações; mas Vossa Santidade obterá o mais glorioso triunfo sobre tudo e, após conflitos extremamente sanguinários, voltará a ser o dono tranquilo de seus Estados, acolhido pelo amor de seus povos, abençoado pelos Reis e pelas nações.
    Mas, e esses que reinam, esses que os acompanham e que são a causa de tantos males?
    Esses que são a causa desses males, ou que poderiam impedi-los e não os impedem, esses estão nas mãos de Deus como uma vara da qual Ele se serve para punir os delitos dos homens; depois a vara será feita em pedaços e jogada ao fogo.
    De qualquer modo, nós temos rezado e rezamos sempre a Deus misericordioso a fim de que conserve e proteja Seu Vigário; e conceda a paz à Sua Igreja. Vã é hoje qualquer esperança nos homens; só Deus pode nos ajudar.
    Vós, Beatíssimo Padre, me tendes feito muitos favores; agora aos outros acrescente este de compartir o modo certamente confidencial com que vos tenho escrito. Atribuí tudo à grande bondade de vosso coração e ao grande afeto que nutro por vossa venerada pessoa.
    Dignai-vos conceder, sobre mim e sobre meus rapazes, vossa santa benção apostólica enquanto eu me prostro humildemente

D. V. B.
Afetuosíssimo filho
Sac. Bosco Giovanni

Friday 12 June 2015

"Soneto Antigo" by Cecília Meireles (in Portuguese)

Responder a perguntas não respondo.
Perguntas impossíveis não pergunto.
Só do que sei de mim aos outros conto:
de mim, atravessada pelo mundo.

Toda a minha experiência, o meu estudo,
sou eu mesma que, em solidão paciente,
recolho do que em mim observo e escuto
muda lição, que ninguém mais entende.

O que sou vale mais do que o meu canto.
Apenas em linguagem vou dizendo
caminhos invisíveis por onde ando.

Tudo é secreto e de remoto exemplo.
Todos ouvimos, longe, o apelo do Anjo.
E todos somos pura flor de vento.

Thursday 11 June 2015

"Charmides" by Oscar Wilde (in English)

He was a Grecian lad, who coming home
With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily
Stood at his galley's prow, and let the foam
Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,
And holding wave and wind in boy's despite
Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night

Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear
Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,
And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,
And bade the pilot head her lustily
Against the nor'west gale, and all day long
Held on his way, and marked the rowers' time with measured song,

And when the faint Corinthian hills were red
Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,
And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,
And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,
And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold
Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,

And a rich robe stained with the fishes' juice
Which of some swarthy trader he had bought
Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,
And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,
And by the questioning merchants made his way
Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day

Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,
Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet
Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd
Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat
Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring
The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling

The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang
His studded crook against the temple wall
To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang
Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;
And then the clear-voiced maidens 'gan to sing,
And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,

A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,
A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery
Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb
Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee
Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil
Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked
spoil

Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid
To please Athena, and the dappled hide
Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade
Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,
And from the pillared precinct one by one
Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had
done.

And the old priest put out the waning fires
Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed
For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres
Came fainter on the wind, as down the road
In joyous dance these country folk did pass,
And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass.

Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,
And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,
And the rose-petals falling from the wreath
As the night breezes wandered through the shrine,
And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon
Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon

Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,
When from his nook upleapt the venturous lad,
And flinging wide the cedar-carven door
Beheld an awful image saffron-clad
And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared
From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared

Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled
The Gorgon's head its leaden eyeballs rolled,
And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield,
And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold
In passion impotent, while with blind gaze
The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze.

The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp
Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast
The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp
Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast
Divide the folded curtains of the night,
And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright.

And guilty lovers in their venery
Forgat a little while their stolen sweets,
Deeming they heard dread Dian's bitter cry;
And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats
Ran to their shields in haste precipitate,
Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet.

For round the temple rolled the clang of arms,
And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear,
And the air quaked with dissonant alarums
Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,
And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed,
And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade.

Ready for death with parted lips he stood,
And well content at such a price to see
That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,
The marvel of that pitiless chastity,
Ah! well content indeed, for never wight
Since Troy's young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a sight.

Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air
Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh,
And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair,
And from his limbs he threw the cloak away,
For whom would not such love make desperate,
And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands violate

Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,
And bared the breasts of polished ivory,
Till from the waist the peplos falling down
Left visible the secret mystery
Which to no lover will Athena show,
The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow.

Those who have never known a lover's sin
Let them not read my ditty, it will be
To their dull ears so musicless and thin
That they will have no joy of it, but ye
To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile,
Ye who have learned who Eros is,--O listen yet a-while.

A little space he let his greedy eyes
Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight
Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries,
And then his lips in hungering delight
Fed on her lips, and round the towered neck
He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion's will to check.

Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,
For all night long he murmured honeyed word,
And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed
Her pale and argent body undisturbed,
And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed
His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast.

It was as if Numidian javelins
Pierced through and through his wild and whirling brain,
And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins
In exquisite pulsation, and the pain
Was such sweet anguish that he never drew
His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew.

They who have never seen the daylight peer
Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain,
And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear
And worshipped body risen, they for certain
Will never know of what I try to sing,
How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering.

The moon was girdled with a crystal rim,
The sign which shipmen say is ominous
Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,
And the low lightening east was tremulous
With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn,
Ere from the silent sombre shrine this lover had withdrawn.

Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast
Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan,
And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed,
And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran
Like a young fawn unto an olive wood
Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood.

And sought a little stream, which well he knew,
For oftentimes with boyish careless shout
The green and crested grebe he would pursue,
Or snare in woven net the silver trout,
And down amid the startled reeds he lay
Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day.

On the green bank he lay, and let one hand
Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly,
And soon the breath of morning came and fanned
His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly
The tangled curls from off his forehead, while
He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile.

And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak
With his long crook undid the wattled cotes,
And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke
Curled through the air across the ripening oats,
And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed
As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed.

And when the light-foot mower went afield
Across the meadows laced with threaded dew,
And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,
And from its nest the waking corn-crake flew,
Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream
And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem,

Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said,
'It is young Hylas, that false runaway
Who with a Naiad now would make his bed
Forgetting Herakles,' but others, 'Nay,
It is Narcissus, his own paramour,
Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.'

And when they nearer came a third one cried,
'It is young Dionysos who has hid
His spear and fawnskin by the river side
Weary of hunting with the Bassarid,
And wise indeed were we away to fly
They live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.'

So turned they back, and feared to look behind,
And told the timid swain how they had seen
Amid the reeds some woodland God reclined,
And no man dared to cross the open green,
And on that day no olive-tree was slain,
Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain.

Save when the neat-herd's lad, his empty pail
Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound
Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail
Hoping that he some comrade new had found,
And gat no answer, and then half afraid
Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade

A little girl ran laughing from the farm
Not thinking of love's secret mysteries,
And when she saw the white and gleaming arm
And all his manlihood, with longing eyes
Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity
Watched him a-while, and then stole back sadly and wearily.

Far off he heard the city's hum and noise,
And now and then the shriller laughter where
The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys
Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air,
And now and then a little tinkling bell
As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well.

Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat,
The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree,
In sleek and oily coat the water-rat
Breasting the little ripples manfully
Made for the wild-duck's nest, from bough to bough
Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the slough.

On the faint wind floated the silky seeds,
As the bright scythe swept through the waving grass,
The ousel-cock splashed circles in the reeds
And flecked with silver whorls the forest's glass,
Which scarce had caught again its imagery
Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragonfly.

But little care had he for any thing
Though up and down the beech the squirrel played,
And from the copse the linnet 'gan to sing
To her brown mate her sweetest serenade,
Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen
The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen.

But when the herdsman called his straggling goats
With whistling pipe across the rocky road,
And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes
Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to bode
Of coming storm, and the belated crane
Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain

Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose,
And from the gloomy forest went his way
Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close,
And came at last unto a little quay,
And called his mates a-board, and took his seat
On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping
sheet,

And steered across the bay, and when nine suns
Passed down the long and laddered way of gold,
And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons
To the chaste stars their confessors, or told
Their dearest secret to the downy moth
That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging froth

Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes
And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked
As though the lading of three argosies
Were in the hold, and flapped its wings, and shrieked,
And darkness straightway stole across the deep,
Sheathed was Orion's sword, dread Mars himself fled down the steep,

And the moon hid behind a tawny mask
Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean's marge
Rose the red plume, the huge and hornèd casque,
The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe!
And clad in bright and burnished panoply
Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea!

To the dull sailors' sight her loosened locks
Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet
Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks,
And marking how the rising waters beat
Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried
To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side.

But he, the over-bold adulterer,
A dear profaner of great mysteries,
An ardent amorous idolater,
When he beheld those grand relentless eyes
Laughed loud for joy, and crying out 'I come'
Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.

Then fell from the high heaven one bright star,
One dancer left the circling galaxy,
And back to Athens on her clattering car
In all the pride of venged divinity
Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank,
And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank.

And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew
With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen,
And the old pilot bade the trembling crew
Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen
Close to the stern a dim and giant form,
And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm.

And no man dared to speak of Charmides
Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought,
And when they reached the strait Symplegades
They beached their galley on the shore, and sought
The toll-gate of the city hastily,
And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery.

II.
But some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare
The boy's drowned body back to Grecian land,
And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair
And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand,
Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,
And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.

And when he neared his old Athenian home,
A mighty billow rose up suddenly
Upon whose oily back the clotted foam
Lay diapered in some strange fantasy,
And clasping him unto its glassy breast,
Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest!

Now where Colonos leans unto the sea
There lies a long and level stretch of lawn,
The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee
For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun
Is not afraid, for never through the day
Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.

But often from the thorny labyrinth
And tangled branches of the circling wood
The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth
Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood
Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away,
Nor dares to wind his horn, or--else at the first break of day

The Dyrads come and throw the leathern ball
Along the reedy shore, and circumvent
Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal
For fear of bold Poseidon's ravishment,
And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes,
Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise.

On this side and on that a rocky cave,
Hung with the yellow-bell'd laburnum, stands,
Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave
Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,
As though it feared to be too soon forgot
By the green rush, its playfellow,--and yet, it is a spot

So small, that the inconstant butterfly
Could steal the hoarded honey from each flower
Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy
Its over-greedy love,--within an hour
A sailor boy, were he but rude enow
To land and pluck a garland for his galley's painted prow,

Would almost leave the little meadow bare,
For it knows nothing of great pageantry,
Only a few narcissi here and there
Stand separate in sweet austerity,
Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars,
And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimetars.

Hither the billow brought him, and was glad
Of such dear servitude, and where the land
Was virgin of all waters laid the lad
Upon the golden margent of the strand,
And like a lingering lover oft returned
To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned,

Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust,
That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,
Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost
Had withered up those lilies white and red
Which, while the boy would through the forest range,
Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counterchange.

And when at dawn the woodnymphs, hand-in-hand,
Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied
The boy's pale body stretched upon the sand,
And feared Poseidon's treachery, and cried,
And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade,
Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.

Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be
So dread a thing to feel a sea-god's arms
Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny,
And longed to listen to those subtle charms
Insidious lovers weave when they would win
Some fencèd fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin

To yield her treasure unto one so fair,
And lay beside him, thirsty with love's drouth,
Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair,
And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth
Afraid he might not wake, and then afraid
Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade,

Returned to fresh assault, and all day long
Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy,
And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song,
Then frowned to see how froward was the boy
Who would not with her maidenhood entwine,
Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine,

Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,
But said, 'He will awake, I know him well,
He will awake at evening when the sun
Hangs his red shield on Corinth's citadel,
This sleep is but a cruel treachery
To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea

Deeper than ever falls the fisher's line
Already a huge Triton blows his horn,
And weaves a garland from the crystalline
And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn
The emerald pillars of our bridal bed,
For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral-crownèd head,

We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,
And a blue wave will be our canopy,
And at our feet the water-snakes will curl
In all their amethystine panoply
Of diamonded mail, and we will mark
The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark,

Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold
Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep
His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,
And we will see the painted dolphins sleep
Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks
Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous flocks.

And tremulous opal-hued anemones
Will wave their purple fringes where we tread
Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies
Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread
The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck,
And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.'

But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun
With gaudy pennon flying passed away
Into his brazen House, and one by one
The little yellow stars began to stray
Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed
She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed,

And cried, 'Awake, already the pale moon
Washes the trees with silver, and the wave
Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune,
The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave
The night-jar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,
And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky
grass.

Nay, though thou art a God, be not so coy,
For in yon stream there is a little reed
That often whispers how a lovely boy
Lay with her once upon a grassy mead,
Who when his cruel pleasure he had done
Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun.

Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still
With great Apollo's kisses, and the fir
Whose clustering sisters fringe the sea-ward hill
Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher
Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen
The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar's silvery sheen.

Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,
And every morn a young and ruddy swain
Wooes me with apples and with locks of hair,
And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain
By all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love;
But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove

With little crimson feet, which with its store
Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad
Had stolen from the lofty sycamore
At day-break, when her amorous comrade had
Flown off in search of berried juniper
Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager

Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency
So constant as this simple shepherd-boy
For my poor lips, his joyous purity
And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy
A Dryad from her oath to Artemis;
For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss,

His argent forehead, like a rising moon
Over the dusky hills of meeting brows,
Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon
Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse
For Cytheræa, the first silky down
Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and
brown:

And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds
Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie,
And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds
Is in his homestead for the thievish fly
To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead
Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.

And yet I love him not, it was for thee
I kept my love, I knew that thou would'st come
To rid me of this pallid chastity;
Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam
Of all the wide Ægean, brightest star
Of ocean's azure heavens where the mirrored planets are!

I knew that thou would'st come, for when at first
The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of Spring
Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst
To myriad multitudinous blossoming
Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons
That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes' rapturous tunes

Startled the squirrel from its granary,
And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,
Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy
Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein
Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,
And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem's maidenhood.

The trooping fawns at evening came and laid
Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs
And on my topmost branch the blackbird made
A little nest of grasses for his spouse,
And now and then a twittering wren would light
On a thin twig which hardly bare the weigh of such delight.

I was the Attic shepherd's trysting place,
Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,
And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase
The timorous girl, till tired out with play
She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,
And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare.

Then come away unto my ambuscade
Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy
For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade
Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify
The dearest rites of love, there in the cool
And green recesses of its farthest depth there is a pool,

The ouzel's haunt, the wild bee's pasturage,
For round its rim great creamy lilies float
Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage,
Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat
Steered by a dragon-fly,--be not afraid
To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place were made

For lovers such as we, the Cyprian Queen,
One arm around her boyish paramour,
Strays often there at eve, and I have seen
The moon strip off her misty vestiture
For young Endymion's eyes, be not afraid,
The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.

Nay if thou wil'st, back to the beating brine,
Back to the boisterous billow let us go,
And walk all day beneath the hyaline
Huge vault of Neptune's watery portico,
And watch the purple monsters of the deep
Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.

For if my mistress find me lying here
She will not ruth or gentle pity show,
But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere
Relentless fingers string the cornel bow,
And draw the feathered notch against her breast,
And loose the archèd cord, ay, even now upon the quest

I hear her hurrying feet,--awake, awake,
Thou laggard in love's battle! once at least
Let me drink deep of passion's wine, and slake
My parchèd being with the nectarous feast
Which even Gods affect! O come Love come,
Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.'

Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees
Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air
Grew conscious of a God, and the grey seas
Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare
Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,
And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade.

And where the little flowers of her breast
Just brake into their milky blossoming,
This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,
Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,
And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,
And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart.

Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry
On the boy's body fell the Dryad maid,
Sobbing for incomplete virginity,
And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,
And all the pain of things unsatisfied,
And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing
side.

Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,
And very pitiful to see her die
Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known
The joy of passion, that dread mystery
Which not to know is not to live at all,
And yet to know is to be held in death's most deadly thrall.

But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,
Who with Adonis all night long had lain
Within some shepherd's hut in Arcady,
On team of silver doves and gilded wane
Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar
From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,

And when low down she spied the hapless pair,
And heard the Oread's faint despairing cry,
Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air
As though it were a viol, hastily
She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume,
And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous
doom.

For as a gardener turning back his head
To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows
With careless scythe too near some flower bed,
And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,
And with the flower's loosened loveliness
Strews the brown mould, or as some shepherd lad in wantonness

Driving his little flock along the mead
Treads down two daffodils which side by side
Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede
And made the gaudy moth forget its pride,
Treads down their brimming golden chalices
Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages,

Or as a schoolboy tired of his book
Flings himself down upon the reedy grass
And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,
And for a time forgets the hour glass,
Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,
And lets the hot sun kill them, even so these lovers lay.

And Venus cried, 'It is dread Artemis
Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,
Or else that mightier may whose care it is
To guard her strong and stainless majesty
Upon the hill Athenian,--alas!
That they who loved so well unloved into Death's house should pass.

So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl
In the great golden waggon tenderly,
Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl
Just threaded with a blue vein's tapestry
Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast
Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest.

And then each pigeon spread its milky van,
The bright car soared into the dawning sky,
And like a cloud the aerial caravan
Passed over the Ægean silently,
Till the faint air was troubled with the song
From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long.

But when the doves had reached their wonted goal
Where the wide stair of orbèd marble dips
Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul
Just shook the trembling petals of her lips
And passed into the void, and Venus knew
That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,

And bade her servants carve a cedar chest
With all the wonder of this history,
Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest
Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky
On the low hills of Paphos, and the faun
Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.

Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere
The morning bee had stung the daffodil
With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair
The waking stag had leapt across the rill
And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept
Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.

And when day brake, within that silver shrine
Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous,
Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine
That she whose beauty made Death amorous
Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,
And let Desire pass across dread Charon's icy ford.

III.
In melancholy moonless Acheron,
Far from the goodly earth and joyous day,
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,

There by a dim and dark Lethæan well
Young Charmides was lying, wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,
And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a
dream,

When as he gazed into the watery glass
And through his brown hair's curly tangles scanned
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass
Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh.

Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
And ever nigher still their faces came,
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast,

And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
And all her maidenhood was his to slay,
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned,--O why essay
To pipe again of love too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Erôs laughed upon that flowerless mead.

Too venturous poesy O why essay
To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings
O'er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre's silent strings,
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho's golden quill!

Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded,--ah! enough that once their lips could meet

In that wild throb when all existences
Seem narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.