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THEOCRITUS

_TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE_.

BY

C.S. CALVERLEY,

_LATE FELLOW OF CHRIST'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE_.

AUTHOR OF "FLY LEAVES," ETC.

THIRD EDITION.

PREFACE.

I had intended translating all or nearly all these Idylls into blank
verse, as the natural equivalent of Greek or of Latin hexameters; only
deviating into rhyme where occasion seemed to demand it. But I found
that other metres had their special advantages: the fourteen-syllable
line in particular has that, among others, of containing about the same
number of syllables as an ordinary line of Theocritus. And there is also
no doubt something gained by variety.

Several recent writers on the subject have laid down that every
translation of Greek poetry, especially bucolic poetry, must be in rhyme
of some sort. But they have seldom stated, and it is hard to see, why.
There is no rhyme in the original, and _prima facie_ should be none in
the translation. Professor Blackie has, it is true, pointed out the
"assonances, alliterations, and rhymes," which are found in more or less
abundance in Ionic Greek.[A] These may of course be purely accidental,
like the hexameters in Livy or the blank-verse lines in Mr. Dickens's
prose: but accidental or not (it may be said) they are there, and ought
to be recognised. May we not then recognise them by introducing similar
assonances, etc., here and there into the English version? or by
availing ourselves of what Professor Blackie again calls attention to,
the "compensating powers"[B] of English? I think with him that it was
hard to speak of our language as one which "transforms _boos megaloio
boeien_ into 'great ox's hide.'" Such phrases as 'The Lord is a man of
war,' 'The trumpet spake not to the armed throng,' are to my ear quite
as grand as Homer: and it would be equally fair to ask what we are to
make of a language which transforms Milton's line into [Greek: e
shalpigx ohy proshephe ton hoplismhenon hochlon.][C] But be this as it
may, these phenomena are surely too rare and too arbitrary to be
adequately represented by any regularly recurring rhyme: and the
question remains, what is there in the unrhymed original to which rhyme
answers?

To me its effect is to divide the verse into couplets, triplets, or (if
the word may include them all) _stanzas_ of some kind. Without rhyme we
have no apparent means of conveying the effect of stanzas. There are of
course devices such as repeating a line or part of a line at stated
intervals, as is done in 'Tears, idle tears' and elsewhere: but clearly
none of these would be available to a translator. Where therefore he has
to express stanzas, it is easy to see that rhyme may be admissible and
even necessary. Pope's couplet may (or may not) stand for elegiacs, and
the _In Memoriam_ stanza for some one of Horace's metres. Where the
heroes of Virgil's Eclogues sing alternately four lines each, Gray's
quatrain seems to suggest itself: and where a similar case occurs in
these Idylls (as for instance in the ninth) I thought it might be met by
taking whatever received English stanza was nearest the required length.
Pope's couplet again may possibly best convey the pomposity of some
Idylls and the point of others. And there may be divers considerations
of this kind. But, speaking generally, where the translator has not to
intimate stanzas--where he has on the contrary to intimate that there
are none--rhyme seems at first sight an intrusion and a _suggestio
falsi_.

No doubt (as has been observed) what 'Pastorals' we have are mostly
written in what is called the heroic measure. But the reason is, I
suppose, not far to seek. Dryden and Pope wrote 'heroics,' not from any
sense of their fitness for bucolic poetry, but from a sense of their
universal fitness: and their followers copied them. But probably no
scholar would affirm that any poem, original or translated, by Pope or
Dryden or any of their school, really resembles in any degree the
bucolic poetry of the Greeks. Mr. Morris, whose poems appear to me to
resemble it more almost than anything I have ever seen, of course writes
what is technically Pope's metre, and equally of course is not of Pope's
school. Whether or no Pope and Dryden _intended_ to resemble the old
bucolic poets in style is, to say the least, immaterial. If they did
not, there is no reason whatever why any of us who do should adopt
their metre: if they did and failed, there is every reason why we should
select a different one.

Professor Conington has adduced one cogent argument against blank verse:
that is, that hardly any of us can write it.[D] But if this is so--if
the 'blank verse' which we write is virtually prose in disguise--the
addition of rhyme would only make it rhymed prose, and we should be as
far as ever from "verse really deserving the name."[E] Unless (which I
can hardly imagine) the mere incident of 'terminal consonance' can
constitute that verse which would not be verse independently, this
argument is equally good against attempting verse of any kind: we should
still be writing disguised, and had better write undisguised, prose.
Prose translations are of course tenable, and are (I am told) advocated
by another very eminent critic. These considerations against them occur
to one: that, among the characteristics of his original which the
translator is bound to preserve, one is that he wrote metrically; and
that the prattle which passes muster, and sounds perhaps rather pretty
than otherwise, in metre, would in plain prose be insufferable. Very
likely some exceptional sort of prose may be meant, which would dispose
of all such difficulties: but this would be harder for an ordinary
writer to evolve out of his own brain, than to construct any species of
verse for which he has at least a model and a precedent.

These remarks are made to shew that my metres were not selected, as it
might appear, at hap-hazard. Metre is not so unimportant as to justify
that. For the rest, I have used Briggs's edition[F] (_Poetae Bucolici
Graeci_), and have never, that I am aware of, taken refuge in any various
reading where I could make any sense at all of the text as given by him.
Sometimes I have been content to put down what I felt was a wrong
rendering rather than omit; but only in cases where the original was
plainly corrupt, and all suggested emendations seemed to me hopelessly
wide of the mark. What, for instance, may be the true meaning of
[Greek: bolbhost tist kochlhiast] in the fourteenth Idyll I have no
idea. It is not very important. And no doubt the sense of the last two
lines of the "_Death of Adonis_" is very unlikely to be what I have made
it. But no suggestion that I met with seemed to me satisfactory or even
plausible: and in this and a few similar cases I have put down what
suited the context. Occasionally also, as in the Idyll here printed
last--the one lately discovered by Bergk, which I elucidated by the
light of Fritzsche's conjectures--I have availed myself of an opinion
which Professor Conington somewhere expresses, to the effect that, where
two interpretations are tenable, it is lawful to accept for the purposes
of translation the one you might reject as a commentator. [Greek:
tetootaiost] has I dare say nothing whatever to do with 'quartan fever.'

On one point, rather a minor one, I have ventured to dissent from
Professor Blackie and others: namely, in retaining the Greek, instead of
adopting the Roman, nomenclature. Professor Blackie says[G] that there
are some men by whom "it is esteemed a grave offence to call Jupiter
Jupiter," which begs the question: and that Jove "is much more musical"
than Zeus, which begs another. Granting (what might be questioned) that
_Zeus, Aphrodite_, and _Eros_ are as absolutely the same individuals
with _Jupiter, Venus_, and _Cupid_ as _Odysseus_ undoubtedly is with
_Ulysses_--still I cannot see why, in making a version of (say)
Theocritus, one should not use by way of preference those names by which
he invariably called them, and which are characteristic of him: why, in
turning a Greek author into English, we should begin by turning all the
proper names into Latin. Professor Blackie's authoritative statement[H]
that "there are whole idylls in Theocritus which would sound ridiculous
in any other language than that of Tam o' Shanter" I accept of course
unhesitatingly, and should like to see it acted upon by himself or any
competent person. But a translator is bound to interpret all as best he
may: and an attempt to write Tam o' Shanter's language by one who was
not Tam o' Shanter's countryman would, I fear, result in something more
ridiculous still.

C.S.C.

*** For Cometas, in Idyll V., read _Comatas_.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: BLACKIE'S _Homer_, Vol. I., pp. 413, 414.]

[Footnote B: _Ibid_., page 377, etc.]

[Footnote C: Professor Kingsley.]

[Footnote D: Preface to CONINGTON'S _AEneid_, page ix.]

[Footnote E: _Ibid_.]

[Footnote F: Since writing the above lines I have had the advantage of
seeing Mr. Paley's _Theocritus_, which was not out when I made my
version.]

[Footnote G: BLACKIE'S _Homer_, Preface, pp. xii., xiii.]

[Footnote H: BLACKIE'S _Homer_, Vol. I., page 384.]

CONTENTS.

IDYLL I.
THE DEATH OF DAPHNIS

IDYLL II.
THE SORCERESS

IDYLL III.
THE SERENADE

IDYLL IV.
THE HERDSMAN

IDYLL V.
THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS

IDYLL VI.
THE DRAWN BATTLE

IDYLL VII.
HARVEST-HOME

IDYLL VIII.
THE TRIUMPH OF DAPHNIS

IDYLL IX.
PASTORALS

IDYLL X.
THE TWO WORKMEN

IDYLL XI.
THE GIANT'S WOOING

IDYLL XII.
THE COMRADES

IDYLL XIII.
HYLAS

IDYLL XIV.
THE LOVE OF AESCHINES

IDYLL XV.
THE FESTIVAL OF ADONIS

IDYLL XVI.
THE VALUE OF SONG

IDYLL XVII.
THE PRAISE OF PTOLEMY

IDYLL XVIII.
THE BRIDAL OF HELEN

IDYLL XIX.
LOVE STEALING HONEY

IDYLL XX.
TOWN AND COUNTRY

IDYLL XXI.
THE FISHERMEN

IDYLL XXII.
THE SONS OF LEDA

IDYLL XXIII.
LOVE AVENGED

IDYLL XXIV.
THE INFANT HERACLES

IDYLL XXV.
HERACLES THE LION SLAYER

IDYLL XXVI.
THE BACCHANALS

IDYLL XXVII.
A COUNTRYMAN'S WOOING

IDYLL XXVIII.
THE DISTAFF

IDYLL XXIX.
LOVES

IDYLL XXX.
THE DEATH OF ADONIS

IDYLL XXXI.
LOVES

FRAGMENT FROM THE "BERENICE"

EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS:--

I.--VI.
VII.--FOR A STATUE OF AESCULAPIUS
VIII.--ORTHO'S EPITAPH
IX.--EPITAPH OF CLEONICUS
X.--FOR A STATUE OF THE MUSES
XI.--EPITAPH OF EUSTHENES
XII.--FOR A TRIPOD ERECTED BY DAMOTELES TO BACCHUS
XIII.--FOR A STATUE OF ANACREON
XIV.--EPITAPH OF EURYMEDON
XV.--ANOTHER
XVI.--FOR A STATUE OF THE HEAVENLY APHRODITE
XVII.--To EPICHARMUS
XVIII.--EPITAPH OF CLEITA, NURSE OF MEDEIUS
XIX.--TO ARCHILOCHUS
XX.--UNDER A STATUE OF PEISANDER
XXI.--EPITAPH OF HIPPONAX
XXII.--ON HIS OWN BOOK

IDYLL I.

The Death of Daphnis.

_THYRSIS. A GOATHERD._

THYRSIS.
Sweet are the whispers of yon pine that makes
Low music o'er the spring, and, Goatherd, sweet
Thy piping; second thou to Pan alone.
Is his the horned ram? then thine the goat.
Is his the goat? to thee shall fall the kid;
And toothsome is the flesh of unmilked kids.

GOATHERD.
Shepherd, thy lay is as the noise of streams
Falling and falling aye from yon tall crag.
If for their meed the Muses claim the ewe,
Be thine the stall-fed lamb; or if they choose
The lamb, take thou the scarce less-valued ewe.

THYRSIS.
Pray, by the Nymphs, pray, Goatherd, seat thee here
Against this hill-slope in the tamarisk shade,
And pipe me somewhat, while I guard thy goats.

GOATHERD.
I durst not, Shepherd, O I durst not pipe
At noontide; fearing Pan, who at that hour
Rests from the toils of hunting. Harsh is he;
Wrath at his nostrils aye sits sentinel.
But, Thyrsis, thou canst sing of Daphnis' woes;
High is thy name for woodland minstrelsy:
Then rest we in the shadow of the elm
Fronting Priapus and the Fountain-nymphs.
There, where the oaks are and the Shepherd's seat,
Sing as thou sang'st erewhile, when matched with him
Of Libya, Chromis; and I'll give thee, first,
To milk, ay thrice, a goat--she suckles twins,
Yet ne'ertheless can fill two milkpails full;--
Next, a deep drinking-cup, with sweet wax scoured,
Two-handled, newly-carven, smacking yet
0' the chisel. Ivy reaches up and climbs
About its lip, gilt here and there with sprays
Of woodbine, that enwreathed about it flaunts
Her saffron fruitage. Framed therein appears
A damsel ('tis a miracle of art)
In robe and snood: and suitors at her side
With locks fair-flowing, on her right and left,
Battle with words, that fail to reach her heart.
She, laughing, glances now on this, flings now
Her chance regards on that: they, all for love
Wearied and eye-swoln, find their labour lost.
Carven elsewhere an ancient fisher stands
On the rough rocks: thereto the old man with pains
Drags his great casting-net, as one that toils
Full stoutly: every fibre of his frame
Seems fishing; so about the gray-beard's neck
(In might a youngster yet) the sinews swell.
Hard by that wave-beat sire a vineyard bends
Beneath its graceful load of burnished grapes;
A boy sits on the rude fence watching them.
Near him two foxes: down the rows of grapes
One ranging steals the ripest; one assails
With wiles the poor lad's scrip, to leave him soon
Stranded and supperless. He plaits meanwhile
With ears of corn a right fine cricket-trap,
And fits it on a rush: for vines, for scrip,
Little he cares, enamoured of his toy.
The cup is hung all round with lissom briar,
Triumph of AEolian art, a wondrous sight.
It was a ferryman's of Calydon:
A goat it cost me, and a great white cheese.
Ne'er yet my lips came near it, virgin still
It stands. And welcome to such boon art thou,
If for my sake thou'lt sing that lay of lays.
I jest not: up, lad, sing: no songs thou'lt own
In the dim land where all things are forgot.

THYSIS [_sings_].
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
The voice of Thyrsis. AEtna's Thyrsis I.
Where were ye, Nymphs, oh where, while Daphnis pined?
In fair Peneus' or in Pindus' glens?
For great Anapus' stream was not your haunt,
Nor AEtna's cliff, nor Acis' sacred rill.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
O'er him the wolves, the jackals howled o'er him;
The lion in the oak-copse mourned his death.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
The kine and oxen stood around his feet,
The heifers and the calves wailed all for him.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
First from the mountain Hermes came, and said,
"Daphnis, who frets thee? Lad, whom lov'st thou so?"
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
Came herdsmen, shepherds came, and goatherds came;
All asked what ailed the lad. Priapus came
And said, "Why pine, poor Daphnis? while the maid
Foots it round every pool and every grove,
(_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_)
"O lack-love and perverse, in quest of thee;
Herdsman in name, but goatherd rightlier called.
With eyes that yearn the goatherd marks his kids
Run riot, for he fain would frisk as they:
(_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_):
"With eyes that yearn dost thou too mark the laugh
Of maidens, for thou may'st not share their glee."
Still naught the herdsman said: he drained alone
His bitter portion, till the fatal end.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
Came Aphrodite, smiles on her sweet face,
False smiles, for heavy was her heart, and spake:
"So, Daphnis, thou must try a fall with Love!
But stalwart Love hath won the fall of thee."
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
Then "Ruthless Aphrodite," Daphnis said,
"Accursed Aphrodite, foe to man!
Say'st thou mine hour is come, my sun hath set?
Dead as alive, shall Daphnis work Love woe."
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
"Fly to Mount Ida, where the swain (men say)
And Aphrodite--to Anchises fly:
There are oak-forests; here but galingale,
And bees that make a music round the hives.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
"Adonis owed his bloom to tending flocks
And smiting hares, and bringing wild beasts down.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
"Face once more Diomed: tell him 'I have slain
The herdsman Daphnis; now I challenge thee.'
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
"Farewell, wolf, jackal, mountain-prisoned bear!
Ye'll see no more by grove or glade or glen
Your herdsman Daphnis! Arethuse, farewell,
And the bright streams that pour down Thymbris' side.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
"I am that Daphnis, who lead here my kine,
Bring here to drink my oxen and my calves.
_Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song_.
"Pan, Pan, oh whether great Lyceum's crags
Thou haunt'st to-day, or mightier Maenalus,
Come to the Sicel isle! Abandon now
Rhium and Helice, and the mountain-cairn
(That e'en gods cherish) of Lycaon's son!
_Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song_.
"Come, king of song, o'er this my pipe, compact
With wax and honey-breathing, arch thy lip:
For surely I am torn from life by Love.
_Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song_.
"From thicket now and thorn let violets spring,
Now let white lilies drape the juniper,
And pines grow figs, and nature all go wrong:
For Daphnis dies. Let deer pursue the hounds,
And mountain-owls outsing the nightingale.
_Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song_."

So spake he, and he never spake again.
Fain Aphrodite would have raised his head;
But all his thread was spun. So down the stream
Went Daphnis: closed the waters o'er a head
Dear to the Nine, of nymphs not unbeloved.
Now give me goat and cup; that I may milk
The one, and pour the other to the Muse.
Fare ye well, Muses, o'er and o'er farewell!
I'll sing strains lovelier yet in days to be.

GOATHERD.
Thyrsis, let honey and the honeycomb
Fill thy sweet mouth, and figs of AEgilus:
For ne'er cicala trilled so sweet a song.
Here is the cup: mark, friend, how sweet it smells:
The Hours, thou'lt say, have washed it in their well.
Hither, Cissaetha! Thou, go milk her! Kids,
Be steady, or your pranks will rouse the ram.

IDYLL II.

The Sorceress.

Where are the bay-leaves, Thestylis, and the charms?
Fetch all; with fiery wool the caldron crown;
Let glamour win me back my false lord's heart!
Twelve days the wretch hath not come nigh to me,
Nor made enquiry if I die or live,
Nor clamoured (oh unkindness!) at my door.
Sure his swift fancy wanders otherwhere,
The slave of Aphrodite and of Love.
I'll off to Timagetus' wrestling-school
At dawn, that I may see him and denounce
His doings; but I'll charm him now with charms.
So shine out fair, O moon! To thee I sing
My soft low song: to thee and Hecate
The dweller in the shades, at whose approach
E'en the dogs quake, as on she moves through blood
And darkness and the barrows of the slain.
All hail, dread Hecate: companion me
Unto the end, and work me witcheries
Potent as Circe or Medea wrought,
Or Perimede of the golden hair!
_Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love_.
First we ignite the grain. Nay, pile it on:
Where are thy wits flown, timorous Thestylis?
Shall I be flouted, I, by such as thou?
Pile, and still say, 'This pile is of his bones.'
_Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love_.
Delphis racks me: I burn him in these bays.
As, flame-enkindled, they lift up their voice,
Blaze once, and not a trace is left behind:
So waste his flesh to powder in yon fire!
_Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love_.
E'en as I melt, not uninspired, the wax,
May Mindian Delphis melt this hour with love:
And, swiftly as this brazen wheel whirls round,
May Aphrodite whirl him to my door.
_Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love_.
Next burn the husks. Hell's adamantine floor
And aught that else stands firm can Artemis move.
Thestylis, the hounds bay up and down the town:
The goddess stands i' the crossroads: sound the gongs.
_Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love_.
Hushed are the voices of the winds and seas;
But O not hushed the voice of my despair.
He burns my being up, who left me here
No wife, no maiden, in my misery.
_Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love_.
Thrice I pour out; speak thrice, sweet mistress, thus:
"What face soe'er hangs o'er him be forgot
Clean as, in Dia, Theseus (legends say)
Forgat his Ariadne's locks of love."
_Turn, magic, wheel, draw homeward him I love_.
The coltsfoot grows in Arcady, the weed
That drives the mountain-colts and swift mares wild.
Like them may Delphis rave: so, maniac-wise,
Race from his burnished brethren home to me.
_Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love_.
He lost this tassel from his robe; which I
Shred thus, and cast it on the raging flames.
Ah baleful Love! why, like the marsh-born leech,
Cling to my flesh, and drain my dark veins dry?
_Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love_.
From a crushed eft tomorrow he shall drink
Death! But now, Thestylis, take these herbs and smear
That threshold o'er, whereto at heart I cling
Still, still--albeit he thinks scorn of me--
And spit, and say, ''Tis Delphis' bones I smear.'
_Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love_.

[_Exit Thestylis_.

Now, all alone, I'll weep a love whence sprung
When born? Who wrought my sorrow? Anaxo came,
Her basket in her hand, to Artemis' grove.
Bound for the festival, troops of forest beasts
Stood round, and in the midst a lioness.
_Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.
Theucharidas' slave, my Thracian nurse now dead
Then my near neighbour, prayed me and implored
To see the pageant: I, the poor doomed thing,
Went with her, trailing a fine silken train,
And gathering round me Clearista's robe.
_Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.
Now, the mid-highway reached by Lycon's farm,
Delphis and Eudamippus passed me by.
With beards as lustrous as the woodbine's gold
And breasts more sheeny than thyself, O Moon,
Fresh from the wrestler's glorious toil they came.
_Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.
I saw, I raved, smit (weakling) to my heart.
My beauty withered, and I cared no more
For all that pomp; and how I gained my home
I know not: some strange fever wasted me.
Ten nights and days I lay upon my bed.
_Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.
And wan became my flesh, as 't had been dyed,
And all my hair streamed off, and there was left
But bones and skin. Whose threshold crossed I not,
Or missed what grandam's hut who dealt in charms?
For no light thing was this, and time sped on.
_Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.
At last I spake the truth to that my maid:
"Seek, an thou canst, some cure for my sore pain.
Alas, I am all the Mindian's! But begone,
And watch by Timagetus' wrestling-school:
There doth he haunt, there soothly take his rest.
_Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.
"Find him alone: nod softly: say, 'she waits';
And bring him." So I spake: she went her way,
And brought the lustrous-limbed one to my roof.
And I, the instant I beheld him step
Lightfooted o'er the threshold of my door,
_(Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_,)
Became all cold like snow, and from my brow
Brake the damp dewdrops: utterance I had none,
Not e'en such utterance as a babe may make
That babbles to its mother in its dreams;
But all my fair frame stiffened into wax.
_Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.
He bent his pitiless eyes on me; looked down,
And sate him on my couch, and sitting, said:
"Thou hast gained on me, Simaetha, (e'en as I
Gained once on young Philinus in the race,)
Bidding me hither ere I came unasked.
_Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.
"For I had come, by Eros I had come,
This night, with comrades twain or may-be more,
The fruitage of the Wine-god in my robe,
And, wound about my brow with ribands red,
The silver leaves so dear to Heracles.
_Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.
"Had ye said 'Enter,' well: for 'mid my peers
High is my name for goodliness and speed:
I had kissed that sweet mouth once and gone my way.
But had the door been barred, and I thrust out,
With brand and axe would we have stormed ye then.
_Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.
"Now be my thanks recorded, first to Love,
Next to thee, maiden, who didst pluck me out,
A half-burned helpless creature, from the flames,
And badst me hither. It is Love that lights
A fire more fierce than his of Lipara;
_(Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love_.)
"Scares, mischief-mad, the maiden from her bower,
The bride from her warm couch." He spake: and I,
A willing listener, sat, my hand in his,
Among the cushions, and his cheek touched mine,
Each hotter than its wont, and we discoursed
In soft low language. Need I prate to thee,
Sweet Moon, of all we said and all we did?
Till yesterday he found no fault with me,
Nor I with him. But lo, to-day there came
Philista's mother--hers who flutes to me--
With her Melampo's; just when up the sky
Gallop the mares that chariot rose-limbed Dawn:
And divers tales she brought me, with the rest
How Delphis loved, she knew not rightly whom:
But this she knew; that of the rich wine, aye
He poured 'to Love;' and at the last had fled,
To line, she deemed, the fair one's hall with flowers.
Such was my visitor's tale, and it was true:
For thrice, nay four times, daily he would stroll
Hither, leave here full oft his Dorian flask:
Now--'tis a fortnight since I saw his face.
Doth he then treasure something sweet elsewhere?
Am I forgot? I'll charm him now with charms.
But let him try me more, and by the Fates
He'll soon be knocking at the gates of hell.
Spells of such power are in this chest of mine,
Learned, lady, from mine host in Palestine.

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