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 Dryads 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-belled 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 un-mown grass with silver stars,

And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars.

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 counter-change.

And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, 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 seaward 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

Woos 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 daybreak, 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 weight 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 was 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 will'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 wain

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 maid 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.