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I am sad-voiced as the turtle
Go, let others praise the Chian !
This is rapid as his spring,
Very copious are my praises,
Drew the ghosts from every part,
And I think of those long mornings
Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek: Past the pane the mountain spreading, Swept the sheep's-bells tinkling noise, While a girlish voice was reading, Somewhat low for aus and ois.
Then, what golden hours were for us
Seemed to wave up a live air!
How the cothurns trod majestic
Curled like vapour over shrines :
Oh, our Eschylus, the thunderous,
Oh, our Sophocles, the royal,
Who was born to monarch's place, And who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace! Our Euripides, the human,
With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres ! Our Theocritus, our Bion,
And our Pindar's shining goals !—— These were cup-bearers undying,
Of the wine that 's meant for souls.
And my Plato, the divine one,
If men knew the gods aright
Who mouthed grandly the last Greek! Though the sponges on their hyssops Were distent with wine-too weak.
Yet your Chrysostom, you praised him
And your Basil, you upraised him
Who forged first his linked stories
And we both praised your Synesius
Though the Church was scarce propitious
For the fervid heart and speech :
Do you mind that deed of Atè
Which you bound me to so fast,—
From the first line to the last?
For we sometimes gently wrangled,
Since our thoughts were disentangled
For the rest—a mystic moaning,
Kept Cassandra at the gate,
Turned to ocean and the sun
And Medea we saw burning
At her nature's planted stake: And proud Edipus fate-scorning
While the cloud came on.to breakWhile the cloud came on slow, slower, Till he stood discrowned, resigned,But the reader's voice dropped lower When the poet called him BLIND.
Ah, my gossip! you were older,
Now Christ bless you with the one light
All your kindness, friend of mine,
So, to come back to the drinking
And whoever be the speaker,
None can murmur with a sigh That, in drinking from that beaker, I am sipping like a fly.
(THEOCRITUS, Idyll XI.)
AND so an easier life our Cyclops drew,
Adown his cheeks and darkened round his mouth.
Love made him mad: the whole world was neglected, The very sheep went backward to their closes
From out the fair green pastures, self-directed.
And singing Galatea, thus, he wore
The sunrise down along the weedy shore,
And pined alone, and felt the cruel wound
Beneath his heart, which Cypris' arrow bore, With a deep pang; but, so, the cure was found; And sitting on a lofty rock he cast
His eyes upon the sea, and sang at last :
"O whitest Galatea, can it be
That thou shouldst spurn me off who love thee so?
And with the fragrant sleep thou goest from me ;
Flies the grey wolf!-yet Love did overcome me, So long ;-I loved thee, maiden, first of all
When down the hills (my mother fast beside thee) I saw thee stray to pluck the summer-fall
Of hyacinth bells, and went myself to guide thee: And since my eyes have seen thee, they can leave thee
No more, from that day's light! But thou. . by Zeus,