I am sad-voiced as the turtle Wet her beak in cup of his, So, without a garland, surely may touch the brim of this. I Go,-let others praise the Chian! 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 Æschylus, 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 For the fire shot up his odes, Though the Church was scarce propitious Do you mind that deed of Atè Which you bound me to so fast,— Reading “ De Virginitate " From the first line to the last? How I said at ending, solemn As I turned and looked at you, 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 M 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. THE CYCLOPS. (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 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, |